#canary Coy

[satur1day]

I made a comic for my design class about my characters Canary and Cowboy and how Canary got her name(s). Please go read it it’s very short and I’m really happy with how it turn out!

If you’re a fan of space westerns, weirdness, and ambiguity you’ll love this 10 page 14 panel comic about religion and queerness.

[thatcoyperson]

I'm gonna say it

I'm not a fan of people saying that canary curse was passed onto Lizzie.

Jimmy's still the canary of the server. Maybe Lizzie's the miner who went ahead or maybe something else entirely. But Jimmy's still the canary, he still dies early on and it's only after he dies people are more like... Aware or alert of the danger. He dies as a warning that death will follow. I'm not the best with words but you get what I mean right? He's not free, it's just... Put on hold in a sense. ...I HAVE THOUGHTS IN MY BRAIN AND THEYRE HARD TO WORD BUT YKNOW

Also I want Lizzie to have her own thing. I just- I don't want her death to be tied to something unrelated to her. I can't explain why.

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[ellissay-morningstar]

DWC November 2023, Day 2,Success/Sin

Ellissay looked at the bottom of the once more empty glass. She wasn't drunk, but she could feel the effects of the alcohol as it made its way through her system. She rocked the glass back and forth in her hand as if more drink would magically appear if she stared at it long enough.

Finally, she sat the glass down and waved to the bartender, who raised an eyebrow at her, a woman drinking alone on a weeknight. But she didn't owe him or anyone else an explanation. It wasn't like she would pour out her soul to some random stranger who could probably care less.

Despite his seeming trepidation, the man made his way over and poured her more of the snowplum brandy. She swirled the liquid in the glass a few times, watching it spin, which ultimately made her a bit light-headed. Finally, she swallowed the brandy and sat the glass down before turning on her barstool to take in her surroundings.

Not much in the way of a crowd tonight. After all, it was a Monday evening, and most were probably home with their loved ones. She smirked to herself. She would be home, too, if she had a home. Instead, here she was at some dive working a case cause she had to somehow put food on the table and pay the rent for wherever her next job took her.

She heard the scrape of the door opening, and her eyes flickered to the guy who had walked into the room. She didn't have to be told that this was her target. Curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and a smile that wouldn't quit had been the description she had been given. They weren't lying. He swaggered in like he owned the place because, from her understanding, he did.

Also, from her understanding, he was using the joint as a front for something nefarious. If her intel was on point. He had become infamous in underground circles known as the heartbreaker. Though he seemed good at keeping his head down and hands clean. SI:7 hadn't found a stitch of evidence on him or his operation in the months they had been tracking him. The only reason she had put two and two together was that she knew a guy who knew a guy. But isn't that how it always goes? And hellfire, she could always be wrong.

She slips off the barstool, moves forward as if she doesn't see the man, and bumps straight into him. He seems for a moment that he will yell at her until his eyes graze over her features, and she sees them soften. "You alright?" he says instead of whatever harsh words had almost come out of his mouth.

Pretending to have slipped, she had grabbed his wrist, her nails biting into the skin, though he seemed not to notice. Ellissay pulled back, and for a moment, his eyes caught hers, and damn it, but she felt herself stare back. Immediately, she broke the stare, genuine heat coming to her cheeks. "My apologies. I should watch where I am going or perhaps have a little less to drink on an empty stomach." She lets herself chuckle slightly.

She straightens herself up, and her hands slip from his wrist, and his lips curl into a grin as if she were a canary and he was a cat. She might have enjoyed the attention any other time, but not tonight. Tonight, she had business to take care of. She composed herself and once more apologized, trying her best to play coy, which, truth be told, wasn't her strong suit. Thankfully, he seemed to be in a hurry and didn't seem to notice.

She realizes he is speaking to her. "You sure you are okay, miss? Can I call a taxi service for you?" Ellissay shakes her head and tells the man it won't be necessary, and he nods and bids her good evening. He is gone, disappearing down the stairs. Which is just as well. The poison from her nails would take hold in about five to ten minutes. The plan was to ensure he was in his office when it took effect and passed out.

She turns toward the bartender and feigns a bit of embarrassment. "Your restroom, please." He points downstairs and to the left. And just like that, she has a reason for going downstairs.

She makes her way down into the dimly lit hallway, but instead of turning left, she makes her way right, following a sliver of light shining from beneath a closed door. She takes a deep breath, calculates how much time has passed doing the mental math, and takes several deep breaths before she pushes the door open, hoping it is the right room.

And there he is, passed out in the big chair behind a rather large desk covered in papers. Ellissay rushes over to the desk and scans the documents. She wouldn't have much time. Either he would wake, or the bartender would get suspicious if she didn't return. She pulls a small camera from a bag at her side and starts taking picture after picture. She would have to review the documents later to see if any were useful.

He stirred, and she knew she was running out of time. For a moment, she feels guilty about drugging a man who may or may not be innocent of any wrongdoing. But she had at least succeeded in tonight's plan. Perhaps tonight would prove him innocent, or maybe it would condemn him of the sins he had committed. Either way, her job was done.

@daily-writing-challenge

[vullcanica]

plotted (??) started for @vilestblood

It's about half past an hour later than he should've been home that Nico's keys finally jingle outside of his apartment. Late, per usual, and that much noisier for it, it seems. He elbows his way in through the front door with the grace and silence of a rookie burglar, hands occupied by groceries, then toes it closed just as loud. Calls out "Home!" into the narrow echoey hallway while letting the overflowing plastic bags sag and spill out onto the floor. There's a fervency to his arrival that betrays how much he's itched to be home. Not for the cramped limewash walls, nor the sagging mattress, nor the mess of his humble apartment but wholly because of a week-long guest he'd waited eagerly to host all November. He's missed Antonín like a phantom limb. To have him back brings about a fullness that makes him more comfortable and eager to spend time on his ratty couch than ever before. It has him thinking of houses and homes and miscellany other stupid metaphors.

Beyond that, the apartment itself's begun looking better as well lately. Imperceptibly at first, as if he wouldn't notice. But the tile under his feet is spotless today and there's a small floor runner in front of the shoe cabinet. Someone's been hard at work around here..

Shoeless now, Nico crouches to gather two loose bags of flour from the floor and his wind-flushed cheeks dimple in a smile when he spots Antonín through the narrow vantage between hallway and parted living room door. He's sat on the couch, oh so prim and innocent. The TV isn't even on, else Nic'd hear it.

"Cat that ate the canary." he observes with a grin, prowling his way further inside idly. "So what did you do today?" Tone as coy as Antonín seems to want to play, Nico toes the door open fully and steps onto a plush six by six carpet he's entirely sure wasn't here this morning.

It takes him a moment to re-orient, all things considered. His creaky shit-brown floors are covered and the sad green lump leaning against the furthermost living room wall that he used to complain about is nowhere to be seen. In his place stands something actually worthy of being called a couch and there Antonín perches, sunken about an inch deep into the soft upholstery. Smiling.

"What-" he says in surprise and it staccatos it into a loud, sudden cackle. The flour hangs on for dear life in his loose grip. "What the hell?!" Whatever attention he's laser-focused onto the couch is quickly drawn away to the coffee table in front of it and the potted plant filling the corner next to them. There's more beyond that - shiny-brand-new fancy things or things that look new but have just been given a wash, all arranged into a space he only half-recognizes anymore and he's cackling in earnest now, realizing the sheer number and size of them all. He's only been gone for six hours.

"What did you DO?" Nico demands in the throes of laughter, already climbing to straddle Antonín's inviting lap and cup his stupid little smug face for a kiss. The couch is terribly soft under his knees so he's very well earned it.

[blessedlance]

better grade - pt. 2

✦ osamu miya x f!reader ✦ [wc:] 4k ✦ [playlist 🍙] ‼ haikyuu manga time-skip spoilers ‼

The fourth time you visit Miya Onigiri, Osamu nearly misses you.

It’s busy. Unusually so. The kind of busy that forces Osamu to remove his cap every so often to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The kind where, when Osamu does finally get off his feet and into his office’s desk chair at the end of the night, it takes all his strength to not succumb to blissful sleep right then and there.

But right now he’s at his station. Practiced fingers molding rice with a hastened precision. He hasn’t so much as looked up in nearly an hour and only does when he hears a familiar, insufferable voice calling his name.

“‘Samuuuuuu--”

He turns towards the curtain at the entrance, gray eyes meeting brown for an instant before something in his peripheral vision steals away his attention.

And there’s you. You--in that same bar seat as before, staring down at your phone on the counter. Has anyone taken your order yet? Is your drink topped off? Who did he wrong in a past life that you would come back tonight of all nights?

But then Atsumu shoves his big, stupid, faux-blonde head in the way and the spell is broken.

Osamu thinks he has never, ever in all his 27 years of living wanted to be a twin less than he does right now.

He sighs, his focus returning to work. “Kinda busy right now, ‘Tsumu.”

His blonde counterpart exhales--a big dramatic thing--and has the audacity to pull out the seat next to yours. One over from his usual spot right in front of Samu.

“Yeah, yeah, when’re ya not?” Atsumu mumbles, huffing. “Can’t even get VIP treatment at my own brother’s place.”

“Have‘ta be important for that.” Osamu retorts from under the safety of his hat.

The part-timer thanks a large group for coming behind you, both parties chiming their gratitude before Osamu notices the sudden drop in volume through the place. Atsumu’s a bastard, but he has impeccable timing with the rush finally dying down.

“You goin to ma’s tomorrow?” Atsumu asks, leaning over the counter and once again yanking Osamu from his thoughts.

“What day is tomorrow?”

“Saturday, Samu.”

He sighs, wiping wet hands on the towel tucked into the pocket of his lap apron. “Maybe. This week’s been crazy. ‘M beat”

“More than usual?”

“Way more. Never seen it like this.”

“Thassa good thing though, right?”

“I guess--” 

“Wait.” Your voice cuts through like a knife, the twins abruptly yanked from their back-and-forth. You twist in your seat, leaning toward them. “You haven’t seen it?”

“Seen what?” Osamu asks, nervously tugging at the brim of his hat--voice leveled as he wills himself to meet your gaze.

You laugh, the sound incredulous but good natured. “It’s better if I show you.” You’re already rising from your seat, wallet in hand. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” And you’re out the door, half empty drink and empty purse left at the bar seat while the curtain of the shop’s noren swings from your departure.

“Jesus, you really know how to pick ‘em.” Atsumu curses, shaking his head with a coy grin.

Rolling his eyes Osamu murmurs a quiet shut up under his breath, turning away. Figures his goddamn twin would see right through him.

“She a regular?”

Osamu rocks his head to the side. “Sort of.”

Atsumu hums, intrigued as his forearms pull him further over the bartop. “Ya talk to ‘er yet?”

“Quit leanin’ on the damn bar, ’s not that sturdy.” Osamu scolds, a failed attempt at changing the subject but Atsumu is not so easily deterred, leaning back into the bar seat and grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “And only business.” Osamu finishes, schooling his face into a neutral expression.

“Only business? C’mon man.”

There’s a beat of silence before Osamu turns away, refusing to face his brother while he pretends to occupy himself with something on the back counter.

The blonde huffs loudly, arms crossing over his chest. “If you blow this I will never speak to you again.”

“Good.” Osamu retorts. A noise of mock shock leaves his brother.

"Look, jus' don't want you gettin’ pissed when I shoot my shot--”

That lights a fire under Osamu’s ass. It’s subtle, the click in his jaw before he raises his voice to interrupt, “Gave me ‘er number a while back--”

“What?!” Atsumu exclaims, too loud for his own good, big palms slapping the countertop. The few patrons left turn their heads at the noise. “And ya haven’t so much as texted ‘er yet?!”

Osamu scowls, whipping back around to face the blonde menace. “Whaddaya want me to say?” He retorts through gritted teeth.

“Anything! How about ‘Hey thanks for coming by. Let me take you out to a real restaurant sometime?’”

Osamu glowers, tempted to grab his chef's knife and make himself an only child right then and there.

“Oh, please. You know I’m just givin’ you shit.” The blonde shrugs, sipping the Asahi Super Dry the part-timer slid his way earlier.

The bell rig chimes as you re-emerge from the entryway curtain, gaze locking with Osamu’s when he turns your way. He raises a brow at the feline smirk on your face as you slap down a magazine.

“The hell?” Atsumu bristles, sitting upright and staring at the glossy cover art. A picture perfect bowl of matcha bingsu features front and center with vibrant text about the newest elevated dessert joint in the area.

You roll your eyes, flipping through the pages hastily. When you find what you’re looking for, you pull the halves taut, laying the magazine down between the twins. Atsumu cranes his neck, the text facing Osamu as he squints, following the line of your guiding finger to a small article taking up a quarter of the page.

“Read this.”

Osamu stares, reading ahead with his eyes before he finally elects to read aloud, “Tucked away in the heart of Hyogo, Miya Onigiri is chef Osamu Miya's breakout restaurant…" He's silent for a while, eyes scanning the page as he reads ahead, but then he grins, continuing on. "Miya's mastery of flavors and quality ingredients brings new life to the classic onigiri, drawing a devoted crowd of locals and tourists alike…." He laughs a little under his breath. Something small and full of genuine mirth. It makes you grin in turn as he goes on, “Next time you find yourself in Hyogo, skip the Kobe beef and take a trip to Miya Onigiri. This author guarantees you won’t regret it.”

“Damn.” Atsumu says excitedly, reaching out to give his brother a hearty, friendly slap. “That’s big ‘Samu. Ya gotta tell Kita.”

“Kita?” you ask, curious.

“Old friend of ours. Rice comes from him.” Osamu answers, crossing his arms while he continues to stare at the printed words. It’s hard to not feel like you’re intruding, seeing the typically stoic handsome stranger grinning so candidly--like he just can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Ah. I’m sure he’ll be excited.” you grin. “Maybe you should reach out to the writer and see if they’ll mention him in the future.”

“Ohhh, good idea!” Atsumu turns to you. “How’d ya find this?” he asks, gesturing to the page.

“Oh--it’s just a local food magazine I pick up sometimes. They put them out front at the restaurants they endorse…” you laugh, fidgeting in your seat.

“Never woulda thought a critic’d come here.” Osamu laughs a little, disbelief plain in his voice.

“They always hide right under your nose, don’t they?” you joke and Osamu looks at you, huffing his amusement.

“That they do.”

“Ya gotta frame this, ‘Samu.” Atsumu declares, index finger harshly tapping at the page.

“Actually, they’ll send you a plaque since you were featured.” you add.

Osamu struggles to fight the grin spread across his reddened cheeks. “Yeah?”

You nod, meeting his eyes and smiling, thrilled at his mutual excitement.

“Oh shit. Yer official now, ‘Samu. It’d better get here before Ojiro and Rin visit so you can show it off.” The brothers share a laugh, their previous bickering now but a memory. Atsumu’s attention turns back to you before he speaks. “How'd ya know all this?”

You fluster a little, struggling to meet his eye. “I dunno. Good food is just… a hobby of mine, I guess. If you can call it that.”

“You can.” Osamu agrees, gray eyes looking only at you.

You suddenly feel far too overdressed, the heat inside the restaurant stifling your breath. Sweaty palms slide over the fabric covering your legs nervously. “Well… I’ve gotta support my new favorite spot when I can.” you shrug, a little shy at the attention.

“‘Samu.” The blonde cuts in, his tone stern. “We need celebratory drinks.”

Osamu rolls his eyes but the good-natured smirk never leaves his face. “Fine, fine… You want another one?” He gestures at your glass, nearly empty. You turn to look, almost having forgotten your original reason for being here entirely. “Oh, I--” your gaze spans the tables behind you, finding that the few lingering patrons have left since your return. The part timer is occupying himself with stacking chairs on freshly wiped tables. “If you’re closing up I don’t want to intrude.”

“My favorite customer is never intruding.” Osamu retorts, already pulling three tall cans of your usual from the fridge. You have to remind yourself to shut your agape mouth, face burning at his casual confidence. A hand reflexively fiddles with your hair while you try to maintain your cool. It’s easy to get lost in the excitement, in the what-ifs, but you begrudgingly remind yourself that Osamu never did end up messaging you. He’s not necessarily flirting.

“If you’re sure.” You reply a little quieter, shrinking into yourself.

“Hey, pour one for your staff!” Atsumu argues. The part timer crosses behind the main counter, chuckling quietly and shaking his head.

“He can’t drink yet, ya idiot.” Osamu sneers, cracking the lip of some colorfully labeled drink that fizzes when he pours it into a fourth glass. Atsumu impatiently tugs one of the glasses of beer toward himself and raises it. “Cheers, then.”

Osamu slides a full glass your way carefully and you nod your thanks before lifting it beside Atsumu’s in the air. “Congratulations!”

Osamu and the part timer join with their respective glasses, all four gently clinking against one another before you all collectively drink.

Your fingers slide over the sweating glass when you set it back down. The pleasant burn of liquid confidence urges you onward. “You know,” you’re the first to speak. “You have to post that to your social media.”

Osamu shakes his head, “Don’t have any.”

“What?” Your shock speaks for itself. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been telling 'em!” Atsumu agrees with you fervently. “Gotta advertise.”

Osamu rolls his eyes, “For the last time, I’m not puttin’ up a damn cardboard cutout of you.”

There’s no stopping the full-bodied laugh that tumbles out of you and Osamu grins smugly against his glass. “I’m not sayin’ just that, ‘Samu.” Atsumu pouts, good-naturedly flipping off his twin across the counter.

“He’s not entirely wrong.” You add, taking pity on the blonde. “I know you have some devoted locals and regulars, but look at the influx just from this feature--and those all have to be people who actually read the magazine. Imagine the reach you would have on social media.”

Osamu sighs, swallowing another sip of his beer. Your eyes flit to his adam's apple as it bobs before your brain can correct its course.

“Don’t have time for all that.” He shrugs.

You bite your lip. You shouldn’t say anything. It could have repercussions. It could be seen as a conflict of interest. It could--

“I could manage it for you.”

… Shit.

Osamu’s dark gray eyes meet yours and he stares for a moment, wordless. “You’d do that?”

Your mouth opens and shuts again uselessly like a damn koi fish. “I--I mean.” Lips squeeze shut, voice soft. “Yeah.”

“That's perfect! No more excuses, Samu.” Atsumu laughs, casually resting a big palm on your far shoulder to bring you in closer to the both of them. “Now you’re part of the Miya fam. No take backs.”

Osamu stares pointedly and his expression quickly sours. But if the blonde notices or even gives a shit he certainly doesn’t let on. Laughing and carefree with his arm around you. But the warmth of the setter’s careful touch is gone before you know it and you lean back, readjusting in your seat before your gaze returns to Osamu.

“I’m no expert by any means.” You laugh. “But I know a photographer I can get some tips from. We can take some in-progress shots, post you with the plaque when it comes... Maybe I can get somebody in marketing to help me with a feature--”

“Whaddya do for work, anyway?” The boisterous blonde interrupts your ramblings and your entire body freezes. There’s a beat of silence before you’re able to face him and respond.

“I’m a writer.” You say, smiling casually.

“Oh, cool. Like freelance or--”

“You don’t have to do all that.” Osamu cuts in--something you’re silently thankful for before noticing the way his eyebrows crease in concern. “Really. ‘M sure you’re busy enough.”

Your gaze hardens, shoulders squared and you meet his eye. “I want to.”

Osamu stares back, expression soft and wide in surprise before he tugs down the lid of his hat--something you’re realizing is a nervous habit of his--and he smiles. “Alright… But your food’s on the house.” He finally turns his head up, facing you with a grin, as big arms cross over the impressive expanse of his chest. Your eyes greedily drink in the movement.

“What the hell?!” Atsumu shrieks. “Ya don’t even comp my shit! Yer own brother!”

Gray eyes roll into the back of Osamu’s head and he takes a long swig from his glass. “Ya don’t work for me.”

Atsumu tosses his hands up in frustration. “Whatever. Not my fault ’m not a pretty girl…” He mumbles and you choke mid-drink. The blonde laughs, softly clapping you on the back again as you cough and he apologizes. Only after you’ve caught your breath and wiped away the wetness from your eyes are you able to look up. The flustered expression on Osamu’s face gives you pause, cheeks rosy but his nostrils flared and gray eyes turned dark. It shames you to admit it, but a thrill runs down your spine at the sight. The thought of his flushed face and the focus of that darkness falling on you…

Yet there is something more there now, something almost murderous as he looks upon his brother.

You think if looks could kill, Atsumu Miya would be a dead man.

- - -

A chill runs over your skin when you all finally step outside some time later, Osamu’s strong arm extended, holding the curtain and door aside for you to step through.

"Sure ya don't want me to walk you to the station?" Atsumu asks again, eyebrows creased with worry. The tips of his ears and cheeks are pink, though whether it's from the alcohol, the cold, or both, you couldn't say.

You wave a dismissive hand nonchalantly. "I'm ok! I usually walk from here, anyway."

"Do you live very far?" Osamu asks, hands shoved in his pockets in an effort to conserve body heat. The nights still carry the bite of winter this time of year while lady spring drags her feet to arrive. "If you can wait a bit for me to lock up, I'll walk with ya."

"Damn 'Samu, take 'er on a date first."

Osamu sucker punches the bicep of Atsumu's arm, hard.

"OW, man what the hell. That's my livelihood ya know." Atsumu protests, rubbing the site of impact.

"Shuddup ya pervert."

You laugh at their exchange, breaking the tension. “I do actually live close by. But you’ve been stuck here long enough tonight because of me. I’ll be fine.”

Atsumu claps his brother on the shoulder--probably a bit harder than strictly necessary. “Ah, he’ll be fine. ‘Samu’s big ‘n strong. He’ll walk ya home.”

Your eyes flit to Osamu’s face, but his reaction surprises you. Where before you would expect stormy rage now you find his expression flustered, gaze turned to the side and strong jaw clenched. He’s embarrassed. Something in your chest flips.

The smile that spreads itself across your face is feline in nature, entirely too smug for the situation at hand. You bite your lip to suppress it but there’s no stopping the way your lashes flutter a little when you pointedly look up to catch Osamu’s eye. Quietly, you concede. “If you insist.”

Osamu swallows and nods, his eyes dancing across your face. “Gimme 5 minutes.” He murmurs, racing back inside the shop,

Atsumu smirks, shoving a hand into the pocket of his coat while the other clutches a bag of onigiri to-go Osamu had wordlessly handed him earlier.

“‘Samu means well, y’know.” He says, quietly sidling up next to you.

“What do you mean?”

Atsumu hums. “‘Samu is…” He considers his words carefully. “He keeps himself busy, yaknow? Cares a lot about this place. Maybe too much, but I’m in no position to judge.”

The two of you share a laugh.

“He works hard. So hard he kinda… isolates himself sometimes, and ‘e doesn’t warm to new people easily.” He grins playfully, turning your way. “But I think he likes you.”

It’s said so casually--Atsumu’s tone is so nonchalant, you do not dare let your thoughts linger on the insinuation. Instead, you turn your focus to the restaurant’s closed door.

“He’s… always very nice.” You comment so quietly, Atsumu wonders if you meant to say it out loud, but he nods anyway. “I think that’s why this place works so well, y’know? You feel the care he puts into everything he makes.” There’s more you want to say; more that you’ve silently noticed about Osamu over the weeks. Watching his mannerisms with customers. The controlled, precise movements of his fingers. His face when he thinks no one’s looking. Your hopeless heart harboring and nourishing the crush like a flower in the garden. If your captive audience happened to be anyone but his twin, you might even argue the statement, because you think the very opposite is true of Osamu. He’s not isolated when he stands behind that wooden bar. He shares a small piece of himself with every customer. Gives every single order, every person the same care, the same devotion, the same thanks for choosing to spend their time and money on his passion.

Atsumu’s gaze softens and he grins. “Ya should try tellin’ him that.”

The door reopens and Osamu flicks the last main light off as he moves through the walkway, turning to lock up behind him.

“‘K.” he breathes,turning to step toward the two of you. “Ready?”

“You’re really sure?” You ask again, grinning.

“Yes,” He replies emphatically, head tilting toward with a smile.

“”M gonna go too before I freeze my ass off.” Atsumu agrees, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “See ya at ma’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Osamu shrugs, slapping the same bicep he’d pommeled only moments earlier. Atsumu grunts through clenched teeth.

“Nice to meet you.” You add softly and Atsumu smirks, nodding his mutual farewell before heading toward the station.

The steady beat of Atsumu’s retreating footsteps is the only sound along the street; night's chill has already ushered most people into their warm homes by this hour.

Osamu clears his throat. "Which, uh, way?"

"Oh!" you laugh, quickly apologizing before turning on a heel. "Just a few blocks down, actually."

He hums as the two of you walk. "... Ya move here recently?"

"Around when I started coming to the shop, yeah."

Osamu thinks back, realizing it's been something like 3 months since your first appearance--toward the start of the year.

"For work, or…?"

"I'm remote, so more for me than anything." You smile wistfully. "I just needed some distance from downtown to clear my mind a little. Figure out what I really wanted. What I really cared about, y'know?"

And he does. Just as keenly as anyone. He remembers how he used to envy Kita. Told him once, too. How he thought there was such beauty, such profound peace and room for creativity in simplicity. And Kita encouraged him, in that way only a captain can. The next day he started planning the concept, the story he wanted to serve at Miya Onigiri, and Osamu catches himself smiling fondly at the rumination. "Yeah. I do."

An awkward silence hangs. You resist the urge to question him incessantly for fear of coming on too strong. He’s just doing a nice thing, walking you home. Just being a good neighbor by keeping himself on the side closest to the street. Just a nice guy that walks girls home without a thought for how far he may have to travel to his own home afterward. You exhale a little, willing your cartwheeling heart to settle, but the sudden sound of his voice again nearly makes you jump out of your skin.

“Did you really mean that earlier? About the… social media… stuff?”

You turn to watch his face for a moment, trying to glean anything you can from his expression. If he’s regretful of bringing it up or hesitant or eager. But there is only soft, genuine curiosity painted across Osamu's features while he awaits your answer. A small vulnerability to him that thrills you to see.

You nod with certainty. “Yeah. I know how and… I like this place. If you’re OK with it, I’d be happy to.”

He tugs at the brim of his hat a little before deciding to remove it altogether. Fingers tousle his hair, airing out the messy, slightly damp stands in the late-winter breeze. That same cold biting at the skin of his face, cheeks turning pink. “Alright. I’ll take ya up on that then.” He extends a hand and you stare a moment too long before clasping it, firmly. It's impossible to stifle the giggle that bubbles up in your chest at the awkward formality.

"Yes, sir." You nod curtly, giving your best impression of an over-eager salaryman, and Osamu flashes a crooked smile, teeth peeking through when he laughs quietly.

"Well," you adjust the weight of the bag on your shoulder, "You have my number if you need me."

The color drains from his face, gray eyes going wide for an instant before turning downward to his feet. Nonstick shoes scuff the concrete. "That I do…" He mumbles, sounding every bit as sheepish as he looks. Embarrassed, even.

Oh, God, you shouldn't have said it like that. You've made him feel like a fool. There was a reason he never texted and you can't say shit like that to someone you plan on working with. Especially when you--

"I, uh." his voice interrupts, "I meant to text ya. Just didn't… work up the nerve, I guess." He murmurs, eyes looking everywhere but your face.

Oh.

Oh.

You fight off the shock, laughing a little, trying to return levity to the conversation. "It's no big deal. I just worried I might have made you uncomfortable." You admit, perhaps more transparent with your own feelings than you’d like to be. But there's something about Osamu. A feeling of comfort that lowers your inhibitions. You want him to feel the same, to share with you more and more.

Finally, gray eyes meet yours, their smokey depths blown wide in surprise. "Not at all…!" His body shifts forward, like he wants to step to you. To get closer. "No, I…" a wistful look flashes across his face. "Well, you heard Tsumu. I'm always makin' excuses."

“It’s really fine. I figure you’re probably busy all the time running things, anyway.”

Osamu gives a noncommittal shrug, too humble to admit the truth.

“But you have it, and you can text me anytime. Really.”

He seems contemplative for a moment and your feet slow as you finally approach the outside of your apartment building. “This is me.”

“What if it’s not work-related?” Osamu asks, gaze slowly rising from the pavement of the street to meet your own. “Can I still bug you then?” It shocks you, and for a moment you are at a loss for words.

“I… yeah. You can.” You whisper, smiling softly. “I’d like that, actually.”

“Me, too.” He says, returning the smile--the most confident you’ve seen him all night.

An exhale of pleased disbelief leaves you. “Well. I’ll look forward to it, then. Thank you for walking me home. I hope you don’t live too far from here.”

“Not at all, it’s fine. I couldn’t just subject you to ‘Tsumu, either.”

“You realize you’re twins, right?”

“... Touché.”

You both laugh, something real and full of mirth.

“Text me when you get home.” You say, finally turning to go inside. “So I know you got there safe.”

“I will.” Osamu waves. “See ya ‘round.”

“Talk to you later.” You linger at the door, body stuck halfway through as you smile and watch Osamu, waiting for him to turn to leave. But he seems just as determined to wait for you in-turn, staring right back. Your gazes meet again, realizing you both wanted the same thing and you laugh.

“I’ll see ya.” Osamu says resolutely, nodding a little and you watch him turn to go--broad back even wider with the padded winter coat he wears.

It isn’t until after you get inside, take the elevator up, and close the front door behind you that you realize you’re still smiling.

You float through your usual nightly routine, head in the clouds. As you prepare to finally ground yourself to bed your phone buzzes in your hand.

> Home

[seancekitsch]

In My Dreams (You don’t want what's best for me): Part of the Prize Buck Series

warnings: very mildly dark! ish, willing cheating,  light manipulation, smutty smut smut, mentioned relapsing but not actually describing it. 3.1k

“You’ll always find me, you will,” you had said with so much confidence, “I mean, you always have, right?”

You were right, he knows that as he tries to remember what the feeling of your hand on his cheek was like.

Klaus just was under the impression you would have waited for him in this timeline.

But how could you have? He literally didn't exist, he wasn't supposed to be here. You did though, and he knew exactly how to find you.

It was by chance, really, that Klaus had picked up a newspaper left at the Hotel Obsidian bar by a patron who had long since gone. On the sixth page he saw a picture that made him stop his loud flipping of the paper.

Doctor and Mrs. Booth. Doctor and Mrs. Booth. Doctor and Mrs. Booth.

There you are, done up to look oh so pretty but in the way you think a floral arrangement is pretty, or a wallpaper. The look on your face makes you look like Joan of Arc at the fucking stake and your husband is holding the first torch.

In his timeline you were a doctor too. You got your doctorate and you were published and you looked so much better than just an accessory for your husband. He was the same douchebag that you were engaged to before you met Klaus in his universe.

You look miserable in that picture.

You look miserable in person too, he thinks, as he grips the champagne flute in his fist. You’re wearing a boring sweater and skirt, beige and shapeless and hiding your figure. This is the fifth drink he's watched you down, sighing into the glass as you continue to sit alone.

Fuck it, he thinks, and heads over to the corner of the bar that youre at. He’s happy his siblings are all off doing other things because they probably would have tried to stop him. 

“Hey doc— miss, hey miss,” Klaus fumbles, putting the champagne flute down on the counter a little too hard, “Can’t help but notice you’re here alone.”

You scoff, eyebrows raising as you lift the last of your drink to your lips, plain brownish beige lipstick marking the glass. Klaus always preferred the weird plum you wore and let him borrow all the time. You wave your left hand at him, making sure the pathetic little diamond catches the light. He’s a doctor and couldn’t even get you a big ass rock to put on that hand? Awful. Klaus hates this man even in this timeline. 

“Well where is he then?” He doesn’t intend his tone to be so sassy, but it seems to work because you soften. 

You laugh a little.

“Honestly? I can't even answer that.”

Damn, you must look pathetic. Trying to get yourself drunk on your own anniversary and you don't even know where your husband is.

“Ditch him, babes, you’re way too pretty for someone to let you get drunk alone,” Klaus flirts lazily.

“And do what, ride away into the sunset with you?”

There’s that snark he missed you.

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea, doc,” He smiles at you like the cat that caught the canary, all teeth and smugness.

Why is he calling you that?

“Sure, right, I can uproot my life for a handsome stranger that hasn’t even told me his name.”

“It's Klaus,” he says, but he wants to shout you know my name, you know me, you know me so well, we even live together.

“Klaus,” you repeat, and fuck, his name feels good to say. It’s a good name that feels like you could say it a billion times and never get tired of it.

“I’m Y/n,” you say, quieter like its a secret.

“My Y/n, Will you run away with me?” Klaus asks, really laying it on thick but he knows that this works with you. You're still you, still sarcastic, a little sad, so you must be you no matter what. You giggle, that stupid little giggle where your nose scrunches up adorably when youre trying to play coy with him but he knows better.

“Oh but where would we go?” you join in on the joke, “We’re already where everyone goes when they don't want to be found.”

“Hollywood, darling, or Paris, somewhere everyone can see you on my arm and gawk and go ‘oh that Klaus, he’s so lucky look at who he bagged’ or something like that,” he finishes by fluttering his fingers in the air and miming the twinkling lights of the city.

“Are you sure it’s me they'd be gawking at? What about this My Own Private Idaho look you've got going on?” You tug gently on the sleeve of his button up, very haphazardly buttoned on his way down here. He’s actually happy it was so easy to find you. Klaus honestly was debating checking out the clinic he met you at, if fate would land you in there like it did in his timeline, he would get himself landed in there as well. Fuck the kugelblitz, he would suffer through NA meetings again with you in a heartbeat.

“Oh, did you land that husband of yours by referencing gay cinema?” he snarls, all bark and no bite. You force back a laugh, trying to finish your drink before it spills out of your mouth. Your hand slaps his bicep, your nails gently scratching against his shirt. He missed that feeling, even if it's your hand with the wedding ring.

He orders another round of drinks for you and him, and then another, and then you order the last one.

“Come upstairs with me,” he slurs as his arm rests heavy on the back of your chair.

“Have you forgotten I’m married?” you ask, but you're smiling and leaning into his touch.

“Have you?” he pulls you in closer, and you fall tipsy into his chest, warm face brushing against part of his bare chest.

“No… yes, a little.” you laugh, and pull your glass back over to you, it's mostly ice now, but it's still something for you to nurse.

“We don't have to do anything that’ll break those vows,” he reassures, but he knows better. He knows you'll make the first move; that you’ll be all over him before the elevator doors even close. You can never keep your hands off him, and he figures it's no different in this timeline.

Upstairs? You couldn't cheat on Daniel, you couldn't, not even with handsome Klaus that feels like an extension of yourself. That twin flame feeling you'd read about from that one book you bought at the metaphysical shop that Daniel threw out when he found it… you felt it with Klaus. A twin flame found; an intense soul connection with someone’s other half. The idea that sometimes one soul gets split into two bodies; something you wanted to feel when you kissed Daniel on your wedding day, instead of feeling like an object he had won.

You take the time to look over Klaus again, from his scuffed boots, his impossibly tight pants, that loose open shirt, his curls. You shouldn't be doing this, but you are.

Klaus was right, by the way, about you making the first move. It starts not with a kiss, but with you clumsily unbuttoning his shirt while you wait in the elevator to take you to his floor. You're giggling as your hands catch on the buttons and his warm hands feel amazing as they rub tender circles into your shoulders. It's only when the elevator dings that you shyly press a kiss to the underside of his jaw before breaking apart from him entirely. Tipsy or not, Klaus thinks this is the best he’s ever felt in his life.

You're sobering up quickly, he notices. You must have to do this often, keeping up appearances with your husband. It's clear to Klaus you don't love him, you're more his trophy than his partner. He wonders if often you try to get yourself blind drunk and then snap yourself out of it for Daniel’s little conferences or fancy dinners. You don't even stumble on the way to his room and he admires your composure, even if it makes him pity you as well.

He unlocks the door with ease, gently guiding you by the hips into the dark room.

You kick off your cheap boots as he nods towards the top bunk.

“After you, doc,” gestures with his hands up the ladder. You want to question why he’s called you that three times now, but you only grab the top rung of the little wooden ladder and put your sock covered foot on the first one.

Klaus slaps your ass as you climb the rungs shakily, careful not to miss one or have your socks slip you off of them.

He’s right behind you, chasing you up the bed and turning you to lightly throw you the rest of the way to the pillows. He misses.

“Fuck,” you hiss, as your head hits the wooden railing of his bunk, Klaus not slowing his pace, just shushing you as he smooths down your hair near where your head made contact. He pulls you down to the pillows as his mouth reattaches to that part of your neck that makes you scream. He knows your body so well for a stranger, so familiar, but you've definitely never met him. No, you haven't, have you? Klaus feels like someone you know, every touch and kiss and movement comes natural to you, falling into an easy rhythm. Its like something from a dream, a hazy memory of curly hair and his sharp hips and the smell of weed and neroli oil and the way he hums against the column of your throat and… the feeling of hospital socks. And home. He feels like home.

He silences all of your thoughts with a sharp bite to your collarbone that you're sure will bruise, but you couldn't care less. Daniel doesn't care about hiding the lipstick on his collar, or the way his student lab assistant looks disheveled more often than not. You arch up into his touch, and he pulls the thin white bralette down for better access to your chest, hands massaging up your sides and cupping your chest fondly. He doesn't squeeze, not roughly, he just holds them carefully like they could fade away at any moment.

“You're not gonna break me,” you sigh, itching for him to do more, go further.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, eyes soft even in the darkness of the moonlight. He backs off, leaning back to sit up and he stops touching you entirely.

“I feel like at this point I need it,” you huff out, a frustrated laugh stuck in your throat, “I want you, Klaus.”

Thats all the encouragement he needs, diving back in to kiss down your chest and stomach, trailing hot wet lips across your skin. You moan at his touch, hands immediately finding their way to his messy hair and pulling gently.

 “Oh don't drive me wild, babe,” he moans against your hip, before pulling your heavy skirt down from your body, his fingers catching the waistband of your underwear as well. He yanks them down your legs and is very careful getting the garments off your feet and throws it down onto the floor. He hears the soft thud of fabric on hardwood and continues his kissing, all the way down to the apex of your thighs. He presses a gentle kiss before looking up to you, an encouraging nod all he needs to continue. 

“Oh, fraulein, so wet,” he moans, his hand gathering the wetness dripping from you, “This for your husband?”

“All for- fuck, all for you,” you moan, already so reactive to his touch. He rewards you by pressing two fingers into you slowly, all the way to the hilt.

He thrusts slowly, steadily, building up his rhythm that will no doubt speed up as he crooks his fingers inside you. Your back arches off the bed, fist curling in his hair and pulling harshly against his scalp. He groans and flattens his tongue against your clit, swiping up against the bundle of nerves.

You're practically shaking already under him, so sensitive and reactive to his every move. It’s been ages since you’ve been touched like this. Sure, your husband has sex with you twice a week on schedule, but it hasn’t been since before the wedding that someone actually took the time to touch you like they care about you. Klaus touches you like he loves you, like he cares, like he wants this to feel good for you.

Klaus moves back up to kiss you and he ruts himself against your thigh, his lips tasting of you and his weight deliciously pressed onto you. Dreams of divorce papers dance through your head like sugarplum faeries and you think you really could run away with Klaus, maybe in some different life.

Your hands move from his hair to his hips, guiding his thrusts against your bare thigh, pulling him in as closely as possible.

“Fuck me,” you moan against his skin, not quite begging but the desperation is not lost on your voice. He loves that sound, and how can he deny you?

He tries as hard as he can to keep his fingers inside you as he fumbles with his pants, but ultimately he has to pull them out of you as you whimper at the loss of contact. Even in the dark you can see him wink as he takes his middle and ring finger into his mouth to lick them clean. Fuck, he’s gonna ruin you.

“You sure?” he asks, still taking off his pants. He just wants to make sure this is absolutely what you want. Out of everyone to ever exist, he wants to upset you the least.

“I need you to stop asking that,” you're almost pleading with him at this point.

You need him to just fuck you, you need him to take you and make you his and pretend your life didnt turn out the way it did. Sometimes you just dream of meeting someone so similar to you, of working a fun job and coming home to them, getting clean and taking care of each other. Not… whatever you have. Boring and sad. Klaus is the opposite of that.

He wiggles the rest of the way out of his tight pants, not caring where they fall, and carefully realigns himself at your entrance, pushing in slowly like hes trying to memorize how you feel. In his mind, he is.

He sheaths himself fully, so deeply inside you can feel all of him, and your head falls back. Your mouth open in a silent moan. This is what you needed. Klaus picks up the pace quickly, not needing to be told what you need; fucking you exactly how you want him to. He’s fast, and hard, but he takes the time to kiss you, to focus on you and not him, to hold you like a person and not an object, to worship you.

“Give me your hand,” he commands, but then he grabs your left hand. He sinks your ring finger into his mouth all the way to the knuckle, his gag reflex not engaging the whole time. He sucks at your finger, making you gasp at the sensations. And then you feel his teeth; they catch on your wedding ring and he pulls to off with his teeth, taking extra time to flick the tip of your finger with his tongue.

He releases your finger with a pop of his lips, and then smiles that cat-and-canary smile again.

And then he spits your wedding ring out onto the floor in the darkness.

“Good luck finding that,” he jokes, and you couldn’t fucking care less about the metal and stone.

You laugh as you pull him back down for a kiss, bucking your hips against him so he continues on his pace.

You're already so sensitive, you can't imagine yourself lasting long, but you want him to keep going, you want to feel everything he can give you. He picks up, thrusting in with wanton abandon, hard and fast and not giving a fuck about gentleness or niceness; but the way he does it is so careful at the same time. He thrusts without care, but the way he holds you is so loving and perfect. Its incongruous in the most beautiful way, his lips attached to you, whispers of praise, but the most brutal fucking of your life. Heat builds in you like one of those tesla coils, more and more stimulation heating you up to critical level.

His hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you snap, fireworks behind your eyes as you shake and clench under him, your whole body going rigid. Klaus holds you tightly, not holding back until you're coming down from your high and then finally letting you relax, pliant between him and the shitty hard mattress.

He keeps thrusting, albeit slower now, knowingly prepared for your sensitivity and letting you relax and adjust to him, but he doesn't stop.  

“That's right, all for me, babe,” he sighs, pressing his face into your neck.

“I’m so glad we found each other,” he moans, reaching his high just as quickly. He fucks like a man who hasnt felt care in a while, seeking out your embrace more than he does a warm hole. You recognized this early on, and you're only happy to give him the intimacy he craves.

You hook your legs around him, not really caring if he finishes inside you. You're not on the pill, but thats at the back of your mind as you want him, all of him inside you; you realize this as you dig your heels into his back to hold him close.

He comes with a moan of your name, wild and loud and unexpected on both your ends.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I meant to-”

“I loved it, shut up,” you shush him with another kiss, and gently push him out of you, only to grab the thin ass sheets of his bed to cover you.

“Don't you have to go home?” he asks, not forgetting about Daniel.

“Who gives a fuck?” you ask, sounding happier than you did all night. Klaus nuzzles into you even closer, holding you like he wants the two of you to become one.

“Stay with me,” Klaus begs, actually begs.

“And do what?”

“Who cares, the world ends in five days,” Klaus says with such finality you have to believe it. 

“You want to die with me?” you ask.

“Only you.”

How can you deny him that? Especially if he's right and your husband is on a ‘business trip’ or something.

And then the lights turn on.

“What the fuck?” you whisper, trying to pull the covers over your head.

“Uh, Hey, guys!” Klaus offers weakly, and then a voice says

“Y/n?”

You throw the blankets off of your head, just to meet a man built like an action figure, a knock-off spy character, and a child.

“How do they know my name?” you ask Klaus.

Fuck. Everything just blew up in Klaus’ face for the second time this week. 

[mustardpacketpoetry]

this is my song of solomon

-

she tilts her head up to see me.

her chin rests easy on the smooth skin of my stomach,

fingers brushing careless circles

running down my ribs

smoothing over the ink ripples

her eyes are always a kind of bright ive never seen before

they glow like the sun does when you look up at it while you’re underwater

and all the blues and browns and greens come alive like the rivers and the streams and the ponds and the seas

when her eyes are on me.

she tilts her head to my left her right and her shimmering eyes ask in as many blinks as words in a louder voice than her own tongue could produce:

“what are you thinking about?”

what am i thinking about.

if my hands are covering my mouth it’s only to sober a smile and if my eyes seem incredulous and oh so wide it’s because my brain is running a minute a mile

what am i thinking about.

i’m thinking about how all my senses come onto me slower

when i’ve taken the steps to get higher

and as the smoke rising up through the room starts to filter and your darling wide eyes continue to glimmer it’s this flame of wonder that flickers

and i take inventory of what your tide has left me with

when it slipped away

all too soon

and in the same way it arrived

smellsoundtastetouchsight

smell.

marijuana floats in cartoonish wafts under my nose and i turn my head towards her trail. then there’s your shampoo, and the fog of your presence draws nearer and it’s not just your shampoo

it’s the coy, soft, and secure guarantee in your cologne that smells the way lips smile and say

“baby please”

but it’s under that

it’s the hard, clear, deliberate smell of your sweat that assures itself of its dedication

and last comes to me the scent of the nicotine candy fresh from your breath

as smoke curls out the sides of your upturned lips

i drink in your scent like a strawberry sweetwine.

sound.

my breathing is what i hear first. those shallow, young breaths. they sound like purity and purring.

the canary’s feathers are stuck in my teeth.

the glowing power plant hum of the television fizzles and pops into existence as my brain finally tunes in to an actual station and not just the ecstatic static leftover from a power surge.

her voice. hm. her voice.

i swear she doesn’t even talk to me her tongue pens love notes and presses them to my ear with a kiss

i know the words, they are Love’s words, and lovers from every place that there is love know what that means, and hears me as clearly as they hear the voice of their own personal beloved.

Love whispers in a low rumble that’s happy it is hoarse if i enjoined myself

as if i could enjoy anything more than her self

as if she had left that option on the table and not blown it out with a puff of breath like hair before your eyes.

she asks how im feeling

and i say this.

taste.

my breath is stale of her kisses and quick to pull in air for my ever expanding lungs and it calls to me the flavors of the afterglow

my tongue faintly recalls the sweet melon candy i didn’t have earlier - only a trick,

smoke sans mirror.

and the flavor native to her lips and her lips alone that i can’t ever recall and that never leaves my mind is notable only in its absence

i wonder if my throat is sore from the weed or from the sounds her fingers made from me, pulled from me, callous on string, playing me for a chord. beating my pulse to her tempo.

i remember her fingers from when they were in my mouth, i remember their salt and the wandering route they took when slowly they slid farther south

i remember tasting the air that first gasp inhaling the moment

exhaling her name

touch.

the physicality of it all

touch , what am i touching, jesus what aren’t i touching, what isn’t touching me

in this momentary unrefined and perfect clarity of sense

the feeling of her weight on the inside of my legs is soothing

the way her shoulders jostle into the softened and sensitive nerves mapped out under my thighs

i don’t need an ink pad to prove to me every person has a different fingerprint

i believe it easier than i’ve believed anything else and this is because:

if all i had to go off was the brush of her hand in a dark and crowded room for less than the lessor of a second–

–i’d know which was her hand on my wrist.

i’d know those fingerprints if they’d been pressed to concrete twenty years ago

i’d know those hands with their veins and the silver around her second smallest finger even if i had to feel them through a window pane or the shitty quality of my phone’s cracked screen

they’re rough from the work it takes to survive and the much harder work it takes to make art

her breath is a stormcloud of wild horses running up from the opal piercing my skin to wash over my chest

her hair is soft and her body warm and all of the expected amazing things but it’s also heavy in it’s expected way and that secures and grounds me, my obsidian anchor.

my hips ache from my knees bent underneath her but they’re not begging for release they’re begging for me to listen to the pain and know what it’s saying.

and i know what it’s saying.

sight.

god. would you just look at her. would you just- would you?

would i, god, would i.

[silvcrignis]

Sleepover || Claude & Missy

@muutos​ con’t from {x}

she's grinning like a minx from the moment she enters the room. her crawl a dance of seduction, and a perfect dash of goofy flare. one knee in front of the other, her blown out hair flutters across clothed shoulders as she crawls on all fours. like the cat who caught the canary. never having expected to be as taken with the man as she had become. a funny little turn of events, yet despite the fact remains that he creates a little glimmer in her eye. a vessel for her endless entertainment, always playing right into her hand. the perfect little trophy for her shelf. she could spend all day pinching his cheeks and kissing his nose, like he's a little puppy dog.

she cannot help but to chuckle gently when he speaks... freezing in her tracks, as her hand lifts. ruby nails tucking a lock of styled hair behind her ear with an amused cringe, when claude turns around. though it only makes her chuckle more hearty & genuine. her pretty face alight with the width of her grin, & the pureness of her excitement. again, he's so cute when he's flustered. worth the effort, every time. her head tilting at the way his nostrils flare. her own eyebrows raising in coy anticipation, when she realizes that he was contemplating his next move.

piss to being a gentleman, indeed...

though her teeth part when he grips her thigh, just suppressing a noise as he manhandles her close to him. her hands land on his shoulders, while she prettily allows herself to be manipulated. batting her lashes at him, as her form relaxes in his hold. she likes him flustered, sure.. yet she cannot find it within herself to complain at this kind of treatment. a simple woman, at the end of the day. a breathy giggle releasing, as she rises & falls over his lap. tugging her arms a little tighter around his neck. "howdy, baby." she drawls. tongue touches her teeth, nodding against his own ear. "i just wanted ta' see ya'..." she giggles against his skin, her nails scraping his scalp as fingers slide into grey hair. "i missed you."

missy for: i want you to pay attention to me, pretty boy.

A blonde eyebrow was already HITCHING upwards in response to her presence & her reasoning for... SWINGING by & while he was PERFECTLY capable of reading between the lines (he WAS a defence lawyer after all) of what she was saying that was NOT what he desired to hear from her. Not while she was lounging in his LAP the way she was with NO respectable distance between them while her hands were gilding into his hair.

For all intents & purposes he had been given the WRONG answer. Claude Frollo did NOT indulge the cat & mouse game during these moments & he was wholly INSUFFERABLE when he did not get EXACTLY what he wanted. He supposed she would have to find THAT facet of his personality out the HARD way.

He chuckled quietly, his breath warm AGAINST her neck before he leaned up SOME, his slightly pointed nails suddenly relinquishing their GRIP on her thigh, his tone shifting so QUICKLY Missy would have been forgiven for experiencing the side effects of whiplash from it as his voice became his default measured deadpan.

“Well. Your goal of merely SEEING me has been accomplished, Miss Brooks. Bride of Chucky is on I suppose I would not mind watching it with a GUEST,” he replied with a HAPHAZARD shrug of his large shoulders.

It wasn’t a cheeky short lived BLUFF either, his attention entirely shifted back onto the television, his pale eyes once more FOCUSED Tiffany’s unfortunate death in a bathtub.

“God I wish that were ME,” he snorted.

[faebhaal]

❛ i don’t know how you’ve bewitched me, but it needs to stop. ❜ // from gortash!!

@powerfought | Gortash

The laugh that slips from her lips is soft, melodic --- like wind chimes in spring.

"Is that flattery or are you being serious?" There's a certain twinkle in her eye as she grins like cat that's got the canary. "Honestly, I promise I've not used any charm spell on you." The table that separates the two of them does little to stop her from getting as close to him as possible when she leans across it; practically nose to nose with him.

"Though I can't help that I'm naturally charming." Fey blood tends to do that in a lot of cases. She gives a coy bat of her lashes, nibbling on her bottom lip. "If it's such an issue what solution do you propose? Are you suggesting we dissolve this project and our alliance?"

[satur1day]

Here’s a very self indulgent piece about my oc Cowboy getting to be happy travel partner canary because he’s never really happy in canon

[wyrmhaven]

Session #18

July 5th, 2023

White reports to an unknown entity about his time at Wyrm Academy He mentions the ongoing preparations, and expresses his concern that the entity in the shadows hasn't made any recent moves He comments about the necessity of secrets, and asks if the entity has any questions The entity does not, and tells White that he's free to go Meanwhile, the Angels have a discussion amongst themselves Angelika is fuming that Zoey chose to perform with Carmilla and Doya instead of them They agree that Zoey cannot win They decide to enlist Chadriz's help, and Angelique goes to speak with him The following day, our group play MASH with Larksann and Quentillius Antiphiun Melentor III Carmilla and Zoey get bad results, Quentillius and White get decent results, Larksann gets great results Doya asks what social clique Quentillius is part of Quentillius assures her that he's a social chameleon, and can play whatever role he needs to Zoey goes to sit with the angels as class begins Later that day, White goes to the Firejolt Cafe to get some coffee He is approached by Nicollin, who asks to speak to him Nicollin is unsure what to order White suggests tea, and orders extra coffee for himself Nicollin tells White that he's noticed how people speak to White voluntarily, and asks why White asks if they can speak in private Elina doubles on that request to get Nicollin away from the main counter Nicollin and White go sit in a booth Nicollin asks what White's secret is White explains that he's less social than he looks, but he makes a point to get to know people Nicollin admits that he's already asked Carmilla for help about socializing, but didn't get many results He mentions that he's making an effort to listen to people more, but nothing has improved He wants to change how he interacts with people He asks White what would happen if he were to talk about minute details about Mage Tower White explains that he would try to steer the conversation he is interested in, and if not likely leave Nicollin asks how to find a subject people would like White suggests asking them, or discussing things that people broadly like Nicollin wonders what to do if wants to talk about something no one cares about White suggests that he be a writer, and that the Wyrm Watcher has open position Nicollin comments that he was playing coy about his drink order, thanks White, and leaves Carmilla is approached by a student who gives her a signed picture of Angel d'Amour That night, Carmilla sneaks out, and goes to speak to the people that Ramon recommend They give her information about a job, and tell her that Don will be happy She tries to break into a store, but gets spotted by a canary and then a bystander as she leaves She hides, and sees the store's owner argue with the bystander The guards are called and arrest the bystander She returns to her employers, who tell her that she won't get to speak to the Don and that she now owes them 100GP Carmilla is more miserable than usual the next few days Aurora notices, and asks what's happening Carmilla states that she messed up in a major way When pressed, she explains the situation She asks what to do Aurora doesn't know She asks if Carmilla's tried Rin's blood She adds that that she did, and that it tasted weird The two discuss how to drink Rin's blood, and how Zoey might react to Carmilla drinking someone else's blood The two agree to get Nicollin and finally talk to the nurses Aurora asks why Carmilla hangs out with him so much Carmilla explains that she finds him funny They find him, and head to the nurse's office

Carmilla offers the two friendship bracelets as they walk They find Nurse DeSantis Carmilla delivers a prepared statement about their situation The Nurse asks about how much it hurts Nicollin is difficult about that The Nurse explains that she can't do much to help, but can offer some pain medication She also gives them forms that she can present to Archjusticar Yasha about adding some exceptions to the ward for them She writes down the name of a magic item that could help, but her handwriting is illegible Meanwhile, Rin notices that Ethel seems extra irritable He sees her trying to set up some pranks, but failing He spots Chadriz and his friends trying to shove her into a lock He intervenes and tells them to stop They say no Rin asks if Chadriz is too weak to take him on Chadriz asks if he's going to just tattle to Nadia again He asks why Rin cares, and if Ethel is Rin's friend Ethel says no Rin says yes Chadriz asks how someone like him got into the school Rin counters that he doesn't know how someone with Chadriz's lack of talent got in Chadriz decides to fall back, but assures Rin that next time he sees Rin, Rin is dead Rin helps Ethel out of the locker Ethel asks why he helped her He assures her that he couldn't let them treat her like that Ethel storms off Rin follows Ethel asks why he's following Rin explains that he wants to help her Ethel points out that associating with her will put a target on both of them Rin counters that they'll get bullied either way He explains that growing up with his siblings taught him how to stand up for himself Ethel asks about his ice magic, and if he's used it against Chadriz She explains that she has a plan for a prank against Chadriz, but she needs help and Vladimir was unwilling to help her The two scheme their revenge against Chadriz as Rin escorts Ethel to her room He finds out that Prism is her roommate Prism wants in on the prank The next day, they meet up outside the boy's locker room Rin sneaks in, and waits for Chadriz to be alone in the showers He signals Ethel to come in, and freezes the water As Chadriz reacts, Ethel yells at him and casts Darkness on him The two laugh as Chadriz slips and slides in the darkness The continue to laugh as their flee Ethel asks how Rin casted the spell silently Rin admits that he's actually a sorcerer, and asks her to keep it a secret Ethel asks how much he's willing to pay to keep his secret Rin wets her pants instead She wets his pants in return She agrees to keep his secret and train him as a sorcerer if he helps her prank people He agrees Meanwhile, the Angels talk to Zoey They ask about her performance and what she had planned Zoey admits that she didn't have an outfit planned The Angels allow her to use some of their old clothes for the performance Zoey accepts, thanks them, and goes to show Carmilla and Doya Carmilla refuses the offer Doya has conflicting feelings but accepts Anji's outfit The three agree to coordinate around Zoey's outfit from them The day of the festival comes, and our group go towards the Rose Theater along with Dawn They discuss what Dawn and White have planed The two keep their secrets They enter the packed theater, and find seats near Pain's group Professor Totsky speaks up, introduces herself and the show, and asks that the students get ready She introduces the judges for the show: Herself, Professor Auron, a dwarven Lorehold professor named Ghostforge, and an elven Prismari professor named Cecil Rin explains to our group that Cecil was also a friend of his brother Professor Totsky concludes her speech, and the show begins! There a lot of various acts, some good and some bad As Missing Peace get ready, Zoey notices Larksann wandering off She approaches, and asks what's wrong Larksann explains that she's nervous about the audience Zoey asks that she not look at the audience , but her instruments and the band She assures Larksann that the audience will be barely visible, and it'll be like she's just at practice Larksann thanks her, and goes to rejoin Missing Peace

Missing Peace is up next, and they performs a song written by Larksann Greta performs a bunch of weightlifting, ending with lifting Rampart in full armor Cad does some standup, and makes jokes about a wife Urzmaktok does a dance of his people with illusory orcs while scantily clad Larine does a water dance routine in a pool that is conjured for her Javenesh and Jooli perform a fake fight scene where Javenesh breaks various objects Rosimy and the LARP club do a physical comedy adventure Drazhomir reads a moving poem Rubina, Shuvadri, and Tilana perform an acapella song Egao and Haru perform a Yumikuni song with traditional instruments and fans Dawn and White go next White explains that they will be painting something, and encourages the audience to guess what they're making Dawn creates a massive three-dimensional canvas The two paint a massive golden creature, which is revealed to be a sphinx! Sunny performs a song with a spectral band He thanks his family as he leaves Carmilla panics at the thought of his family being there Nicollin delivers a monologue that puts most people to sleep Quentillius puts on a one-man play Carmilla, Doya, and Zoey go behind stage to prepare Zoey asks if Carmilla needs blood Carmilla assures her that she does not They are interrupted by the Angels, who wish Zoey the best As the three go on stage, Anji kisses Doya Doya walks on stage with her halo floating and her wings out Carmilla sees Sunny's parents, and panics more Zoey introduces the group to the audience as the Rainbow Rebels The three begin to perform a song! Rin and White spot Chadriz in the rafters above Doya He casts Catapult and flings one of Doya's energy drinks at him Chadriz and the drink and knocked over and fall elsewhere in the rafters The Rebels finish their performance, and go backstage They return to their seats as the Angels being their performance The performance has three parts; a song for each Angel Anji's part features all three songs with twintails and puffy skirts, purple lightning, and vines that lift Anji above the audience Angelique's part features the three in suits, Angelique singing as the other two follow her around, and Angelique acting romantic to the other two as she sings Angelika's part features the three in tap dance shoes, and a music number that features Angelika opening her wings Doya gets a perfect picture of Angelika They get a standing ovation as the performance ends Doya stops the Angels as they return to their seats Angelika tells her that she's welcome for the picture Doya tells Anji that she should be cheer captain Doya tells Angelique that she… had a nice song As the girls return to their seats, the Losers and the tiefling twins hand out the tomato bags White gives his to Chadriz, who gladly accepts it Pain walks on stage with his team, and introduces his team as Violent Tendencies He explains that he's going to play a song about how all the bad things add up He begins to sing a very suggestive song while occasionally looking at Doya Professors Auron and Ghostforge get up to try to stop the show Carmilla sends Nandor to invisibly distract one of them Doya convinces Maxwell to give her chicken feed to put on the ground to make them trip She then sics Nicollin on one of them Puff investigates the pyrotechnics, catches on fire, and explodes Vladimir casts Wall of Force to protect them from the professors As all the chaos ensues, some of the props back stage shamble forward, animated by black ooze The crowd begins to panic! Some of the students go to stop some of them, as our group goes to stop some others: An otyugh, an owlbear, and a slaad! FIGHT!

[inun4ki]

" I know it's you who ate my chocolate! " { Gojo! lolll }

"And where's your proof, seeeeenpai?" Kaede jeered playfully, fingers knitting together under his chin. He batted his lashes, played innocent and coy, as if there hadn't been a few chocolates safely tucked into his desk drawer - as if he hadn't in fact, snagged them right out from under Satoru's nose when he wasn't paying attention. He even tucked a lock of hair behind an ear to really lay his composure on thick, a feignt sweetness to his grin.

Satoru'd met his match when it came to chocolates - Kaede could be ever so sneaky about them, especially the dark kind. Besides, he'd brought many a box of assorted chocolates back from his missions and shared them with him; It was only fair Satoru reciprocate, right? Kaede tilted his head and crossed his legs at the ankle under his desk, slyly sticking his tongue out.

"Of course I did, senpai. What're you gonna do about it?" he teased, his grin turning smug - he was far too much like the cat that ate the canary, self-satisfied and mischievous at once. He wasn't going to give Satoru the last of his chocolates back. He'd much rather hoard them, along with his favorite chocolate oranges, and get boba with him instead.

"Maybe your chocolates wouldn't go missing if you hid them from your kouhai more effectively!" The chirp is syrupy sweet, but teasing all the same, a soft chuckle escaping him.

[hallownoxie]

Chapter 6

Alabasta Pt. 4

Canary had to hand it to Baroque Works for being seasoned enough to notice their target wasn't among them.

Tugging off her cloak, Canary gave a coy smirk as their identities were revealed.

"Too Bad." She said in unison with the others.

"Ok Zoro you get it over with!" Nami said from where she stood with the ducks.

"You keep quiet!" He roared back at her as Canary huffed in amusement.

"Are you sure you can fight? You haven't really recovered from the Rainbase." At the question, Canary looked at Zoro in surprise.

"I…" she trailed off before she could produce a lie, he wasn't wrong per say, she had been tortured for hours before they came.

Sure she rested on the journey here, but not enough to get a second wind for a real battle per say. This time she didn't even have that womanizer to save her if she got hit with fatigue again.

"I'm not in the best of health, but I can at least defend." She spoke as he nodded at her.

"Right, then you take Nami, run and hide." He said.

This was the last time she would listen to Roronoa Zoro as Mr. 1 and Ms. Doublefinger chased her and Nami down. Especially considering the damn swordsman had a bad sense of direction!

She was pushing her energy into her exhausted legs as Nami followed. Canary cursed when she looked back at the two as they followed without losing a breath.

Canary felt Nami slow down and halted herself, cursing as fatigue snuck up on her quickly.

"Nami we can't stop!" She told the girl as she gripped her hand, Canary hated to admit it but she was at her damn limit!

They both bolted with a burst of energy and the agent felt a shiver go up her spine. She dropped down to the ground as fast as she could while Nami was dragged down beside her as Zoro blocked Mr. 1's attack with his blade.

The pillar before them broke easily, like slicing a loaf of bread with a knife.

Canary groaned when she realized they were facing a devil fruit user, while haki will be able to defeat him it required a lot of stamina and energy.

Already she was seeing stars in her vision, Canary didn't even fight as Nami dragged her away.

Once behind a few crates the girl knew she wouldn't be able to get up.

"Hey I think we bought sometime, maybe you can do that thing you did with the Bananagator? You can take her down easily- Canary?" Nami shook her shoulder.

"Haki? I mean yeah but I don't have the energy." Canary slurred out, the air was dry and hot and it was pulling her into the dreamworld.

"You can't sleep now! We're in serious danger!" Nami yelled out.

"Sorry… Crocodile really did me good.." Canary was struggling to focus on the girl as her eyes drooped. "Just… just gotta rest my eyes.."

"Canary? Canary!" Nami shook her shoulder as hard as she could, the girl was completely out of it and the red head was freaking out.

All the while Canary lulled into a dream of being six again, tiny pudgy hands gripping onto fur as the rumbling purrs vibrated and soothed her.

Nami knew the other was running on fumes due to how battered up she looked, Chopper wasn't able to look at her properly. Nami was floored that the reporter had lasted this long.

Yet now the lavender haired girl looked so relax as she rested, similar to a child running themselves down and was settling for an afternoon nap.

Canary barely looked older than Luffy from her looks alone.

Nami shifted and looked at her baton, the same one Usopp made her and she managed to find the instructions.

Protectiveness filled her as she glanced at the exhausted girl beside her. Did Nojiko feel like this whenever she looked at Nami?

It wasn't as if Nami could ask her, considering how far they were in the Grandline.

Nami didn't even know Canary that well, they had only met five hours ago. Yet Luffy barely knew her and still welcomed Nami with open arms.

Canary didn't know Luffy yet she still rescued him from the underwater trap.

"It's gonna be ok, Canary." She said to the sleeping girl, she managed to hide her in some shade before sneaking away just in case Ms. Doublefinger went after the vulnerable girl.

Nami didn't know how she did it, but Ms. Doublefinger was defeated.

"Canary! Canary I did it! We're safe!" She said with excitement as she found the sleeping girl and checked her over. "Ok, I'll be back, my crew needs me and it's gonna be dangerous but I'll come back for you I promise!"

Nami hid her well before running off down the streets of Alubarna to find and aid her crew and Vivi.

—

Canary woke up to the sound of rain hitting the window, she yawned and rubbed her eye. Sitting up the girl expected to see her room, Water 7 out her window.

Of course… that wasn't the case as she stared at the snoring face of Monkey D Luffy laying on a bed next to her bandaged up like a mummy. Amusement bubbled in her chest as she reached out to run her finger along the funny scar under his eye as light as she could.

"Good job." She whispered to him.

The girl snapped her head up to the stare from Princess Vivi across the room.

"How long was I out?" She asked.

"A long while, you slept through most of the fight from what Nami explained when she gave us directions to find you." Vivi said. "I want to thank you for ignoring your mission to help us."

Canary knew certain people would know who she was, what she worked for.

"If it makes you feel better, I honestly was kidnapped by Crocodile." Canary said.

"I believe you, I just… stay away from the Strawhats, they have nothing to do with you or them." The Princess said with a determined glare.

"I understand." Canary said.

By the next morning Canary was eating, being checked over by the doctors the reporter smiled when the pirates spoke with her.

"You are a lot stronger than I thought." Canary complimented Nami when the girl explained about her fight. "I am sorry I was useless."

"No no! You were also exhausted from everything!" Nami firmly spoke back.

Chopper was being praised by the Alabasta physician while he worked. Canary fell into a loud laugh when the reindeer responded with harsh words.

By the third day the King had asked for her to talk in private, naturally the girl inclined considering he was royalty.

What they spoke about was how long she would be staying and how much she would tell her superiors'.

"Everything." Had been her simple answer.

"Everything? Even if the newspaper states a marine took down Crocodile?" He asked.

"I only speak the truth, it's my job."

Canary suspected after that she was being treated similar to the plague, servants still tended to her but only the Strawhats seemed at ease with her.

She couldn't do much when they seeked her out, especially Nami or Usopp. Canary knew the Princess wasn't too happy about it, but the girl didn't hold it against her.

Naturally of course when Luffy woke up everything became brighter.

"Canary!" She looked over from staring out the window to see the pirate running towards her with a big grin.

"Hey Monkey, I'm glad you're finally awake!" She confessed with a smile.

"Thanks, I'm happy you're ok too! We're just about to go get some food!" Luffy responded.

"I see, well don't let me keep you!" She waved him away, only to blink when his hand gripped it.

"What are you talking about? We're going together!" Luffy pouted.

"Oh Monkey." She sighed and smiled at him, reaching out with her free hand to stroke the scar under his eye. "I'm leaving Alabasta today."

"No you're not." Came a simple response.

"Uh I'm pretty sure I am." She said, still smiling.

"But I'm inviting you." He said with a frown.

"I reject your invitation." She snorts out.

"Well I reject your rejection, now let's go!" Luffy tugged her along before she could argue, her cheeks warmed up in surprise as she followed the pirate to the dining hall.

Canary was situated between Luffy and the king on the table, witnessing the chaos of how quickly the boy beside her inhaled his food.

She of course was sipping her drink and soup as best as she could while stray flecks of food flew everywhere.

A few times she used a haki coated hand to slap wandering hands from grabbing her food, even so she couldn't help but inwardly coo at how cute Luffy looked.

"Would you care for some more?" A servant offered when she managed to down her soup.

"No thank you, my stomach is pretty full." She said.

"Wuz yew me-" a muffled sentence came from the living black hole.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." She cut off Luffy with a vicious tone.

"Ehm not ta'kin wif my mou-" came his muffled response before he blew out fire from Usopp lacing a dish with hot sauce as a lesson for stealing other people's food.

They laughed and celebrated for a while, her face hurt so much from smiling when Usopp, Chopper and Luffy danced on the table.

Canary sighed later on when she sunk into the hot water after she briskly cleaned herself off, not minding as Vivi and Nami talked.

"Hey what are you guys doing?!" Vivi's yell made her look up to see the men peeking over at them.

"Those guys." Nami sighed out as Canary stood up to attack them.

"Happiness punch, that'll be 100,000 berries each~." The redhead said as Vivi and Canary balked at her while the men dropped like flies.

"Hey it worked." She said as Vivi rounded to her.

"You're no better!" The blue haired girl shrieked at seeing her standing nude in the water.

"Oh yeah…" Canary hummed out as she looked down at her body before sitting back down.

"You got so many scars." Nami noted as the two joined her in the bath.

"It happens when you live on the grandline and travel constantly." She said as Vivi sighed at the hot water.

"You were born here?!" Nami blinked in surprise.

"Sure was! My father and I lived in Water 7 until I decided to travel as a reporter." Canary said with a smile.

"What's it like?" Nami asked.

"Water 7 is the base for all the best shipwrights, you can never find a better place to repair or find a ship to sail these harsh waters." Canary said.

"That's very true, we even requested ships from them before." Vivi said.

"My father got work there after my mother died, if anyone can help you it's his team!" Canary said.

"Thank you for telling me this, I'll keep it in mind since we're thinking about leaving tonight." Nami said.

"What! You are?!" The princess exclaimed.

"I was gonna leave today but your Captain manhandled me to join you guys for food." Canary said.

"Well we have no reason to stay here now that Luffy is up and about and the Navy is gathering near the port, we'll be in danger if we hang around." Nami explained to Vivi. "That sounds just like Luffy."

When they left the bath dry and clean, Canary moved to head towards her room, only to stop when a hand grabbed her own.

Looking back she looked surprised as Nami smiled at her.

"Come hang with us for a bit?" She asked.

The girl sighed and nodded with a smile, following the red head they settled in the big room where the rest of the crew was.

Canary stood beside Nami where the girl curled up in the chair, she waved at Chopper who happily waved back.

It was a surprise when someone named Bon-chan said he had their ship, even more when he claimed they were friends.

"Is he?" She asked Sanji and the blond glanced at her.

"Definitely not." Sanji answered.

"Hes stuck, his big boss is gone and he has the navy slowly surrounding him, hes basically going for the strongest crew to get a ride out." Canary explained.

"That could be it." Zoro said, nodding at her suggestion.

"I owe you guys a solid for getting me free from Croccy, besides I hid my boat around there." Canary said with a smile.

"Really you'd help us?" Chopper asked.

"Of course friend!" Canary said. "Its the least I can do for the world's cutest doctor!"

"Oh shaddup! Dont say anymore!" Chopper squeaked out.

Canary was silent as she packed up her things while Nami gave the Princess an ultimatum, the agent paused when a the girl shuffled over.

"Can we talk?" The girl asked.

"Of course your Highness." Canary said as she finished tying the bag and following Vivi somewhere more private.

"What did you want to talk about?" She asked while Vivi bit her bottom lip.

"Should I go with them?" Vivi asked, Canary blinked a few times as she milled over the question.

"Why ask me?" She eventually asked slowly.

"You, whether I like it or not is a neutral party." Vivi said.

"Its a decision I can't decide for you Princess." Canary said.

"Yet you wor-" she was cut off by a hand on her mouth, Canary giving her a dark glare.

"I would suggest keeping your mouth shut on things that shouldn't be spoken about." Canary hissed out.

They remained quiet for a few minutes and Canary sighed as she pulled her hand away.

"I personally would always focus on my duty, because they would count on me… After so many years why abandon them after you saved them?" She said.

Canary left to allow Vivi time to contemplate the heavy decision, while she herself did like the pirates it wasn't ideal for her to stick around them.

---

Canary blanched when Luffy accepted Bon-chan so easily for saving the Merry, it was a nice ship she would admit.

"Oi did you forget hes using you to get a ride out of here?" She asked, coating her fingers in haki she pinched Luffy's cheek and pulls it.

"Ow ow ow ow how are you able to hurt me like Gramps's fist of love?!" Luffy hissed in pain as he faced her fully.

"Look I get if you are all for accepting friendship or allies but you gotta be careful, someone might take advantage of that and stab you in the back." She warned the boy.

Luffy blinked at her before tilting his head.

"You seem to know a lot." He said.

"Well of course! Im a reporter, its something I need to always remember!" She huffed and let go of his cheek, smiling as it snapped back into place.

"Heh! So you know the grandline pretty well?" He asked.

"I travel it well enough." She giggled out.

"I like you, you should join my crew!" The captain offered.

"Hell no." Was her response immediately.

"That was quick and cruel!" Usopp gasped out in shock.

"Im a reporter, I don't need to become a criminal." She said before turning to look at her boat floating tied to the shore.

"At least let us escort you out and away from the ships." Luffy offered.

"If they see me with you, its a risk." She rejected the offer again as she walked over, ignoring the boy following behind.

"Really, we can keep you out of sight!" The pirate said.

"Your a sweetheart but no." She said, turning she witness a rare Sandoran catfish suddenly surface and consume her boat in one bite.

"My…" she whimpered out as Luffy stared in pure shock. "MY SOUVENIRES!"

She immediately burst into tears as she watched her trinkets disappear forever in the belly of the fish, collapsing into the sand to sob after it.

After a few minutes of grieving she slowly looked up at Luffy hiccupping.

"I'll take you up on your offer…" she whimpers out.

[trathaomochp]

Lịch sử của chuối

Chuối là quả của acuminata Musa. Acuminata có nghĩa là nhọn dài hoặc thuôn nhọn, tuy nhiên từ này không dùng để miêu tả quả mà dùng để miêu tả hình dáng của hoa. Antonius Musa là bác sĩ riêng của hoàng đế La Mã Octavius Augustus, và chính ông là người đã thúc đẩy việc trồng loại trái cây khác thường ở châu Phi từ năm 63 đến năm 14 trước Công nguyên. Các thủy thủ Bồ Đào Nha đã mang chuối đến châu Âu từ Tây Phi vào đầu thế kỷ XV.

Tên tiếng Guinea của loại trái cây này là banema, trong tiếng Anh là banana, lần đầu tiên được tìm thấy trên báo in vào thế kỷ XVII. Chuối ban đầu đã được trồng và tiêu thụ từ thời cổ đại, thậm chí trước cả việc trồng lúa. Mặc dù chuối phát triển mạnh ở Châu Phi, nguồn gốc của loại cây này được cho là ở Đông Á và Châu Đại Dương. Các thủy thủ mang chuối đến Quần đảo Canary và Tây Ấn, cuối cùng chuối đến Bắc Mỹ do một nhà truyền giáo người Tây Ban Nha tên là Friar Tomas de Berlanga. Đọc tiếp: Lịch sử của các món ăn làm từ cà chua

Có thể bạn chưa biết: Các loại chuối hiện nay có vị ngọt vì đã được gây đột biến

Những loại chuối được nhắc đến trong bài này không phải là chuối vỏ vàng và có vị ngọt mà chúng ta biết ngày nay, mà là giống có màu đỏ và xanh, thường được dùng để nấu ăn, ngày nay thường chúng ta thường gọi là chuối rừng để phân biệt với loại chuối ngọt. Chuối ngọt vàng là một dòng đột biến của chuối dùng để nấu, được phát hiện vào năm 1836 bởi Jean Francois Poujot, người Jamaica, ông đã phát hiện một trong những cây chuối trong đồn điền của mình ra quả màu vàng thay vì màu xanh hoặc đỏ. Khi nếm thử phát hiện mới, anh ấy thấy loại chuối này ngọt ở trạng thái mà không cần nấu chín. Anh nhanh chóng bắt tay vào trồng giống ngọt này. Chẳng mấy chốc, chúng được nhập khẩu từ vùng Caribe đến New Orleans, Boston và New York, và được coi là một món ăn độc đáo, ban đầu người ta thưởng thức loại trái cây độc lạ này bằng cách đặt lên dĩa sau đó dùng nĩa và muỗng. Chuối ngọt đã trở thành xu hướng tại Triển lãm trăm năm Philadelphia năm 1876, được bán với giá 10 xu mỗi quả. Read the full article

[sombreboy]

the alpha⇢hybrid!pjm

⤍18+ ⤍pairing: wolf!hybrid Jimin x human!female reader ⤍genre: pwp smut, hybrid, stranger fuck ⤍word count: 8.5k ⤍warnings: sub!y/n, dom!pjm, profanity, drinking, blowjob, jimin’s compliment kink knows no bounds, he calls you little lamb a lot, degdrading names, unprotected sex, creampie/knotting, light impreg kink, mating, rough fucking, licking, torrential downpour of cum.

A/N: Co-written with lovely @ppersonna​ as an rp. ♡

So why were you dressed up like a bitch in heat, entering the exact club you tried so hard to avoid? Because, deep down, it’s all you wanted. You knew that deep down you desired someone strong and powerful, someone superior to you, to take and claim you as their own—their plaything.

The city never sleeps. A saying that has been true for the past century, and it remains true til this day, where humans and hybrids now coexist as equals. Well, as equal as it gets. Hybrids were a superior species with their mixed genetics, gaining attributes from said animals that they have in them. Whether it be stronger bodies, beautiful patterns and physical alterations– they were seen as the greater species. But yet humans managed to keep up, somewhat. It wasn’t that much different. Park Jimin is one of those hybrids. His genetics were intertwined with that of a white wolf, giving his hair a bright blonde color. However, he had it dyed not too long ago, so the color was instead a washed out purple mixed into his blonde curls. His irises were a bright orange, pupils as black as the leather jacket and pants he wore. One wouldn’t think he looked terribly intimidating at a first glance, but his stare could make anybody feel a shiver run down their spine from the sheer intensity of it.

He was the alpha, after all.

Jimin spent every single night at a nightclub that was famous specifically for being dominated by the predatory hybrids. Lions, tigers, snakes, foxes… Wolves. Jimin’s pack was the hybrids that people came for most of the time.For what, you may ask? To get thoroughly fucked without mercy, of course. But that was only possible if you caught their interest, or you’d have to settle for the snake.

Jimin’s pack consisted of three other wolf hybrids… Hoseok, the beta. Which practically means he’s one rank below Jimin, who is the leader. The other two hybrids are Namjoon and Yoongi, who are one rank below Hoseok, making them the deltas. They don’t care, they are content to just follow along with what their leader says, but are often given their own choice to do however they please either way. Together, they form quite the diverse group, and they were notorious and alluring for newcomers and common faces.

Jimin loved it, the dark, crowded underground venue, flashing lights, alcohol… And humans. More often than not, only hybrid women came by. Rich ones. Easy to spot. But what truly had the wolf riled up, was when a human would stumble in. Their scent was an entirely different game. He allowed his pack to separate, but never going too far as they headed to find their own prey for the night, while Jimin himself remained still, leaning against the bar counter with a pink, sugary drink in his hand, straw tightly pressed between his plushy, glossy lips.

It was time to hunt.

~

You weren’t sure what came over you—what drew you to the idea of leaving your cozy and safe, structured life and entering the dark unknown. The nightclub was somewhere you previously steered clear of, even crossed the street to avoid being next to it when walking by. It was decidedly not your scene, and the idea of the strong, intuitive hybrids sent a chill down your spine.

So why were you dressed up like a bitch in heat, entering the exact club you tried so hard to avoid? Because, deep down, it’s all you wanted. You stayed away from it like a drug. You knew the moment you gave in, you’d sink down the black hole into utter depravity. You knew that deep down you desired someone strong and powerful, someone superior to you, to take and claim you as their own—their plaything. It was hard to be confident in such a stifling environment. Your tight little crop top covered only the barest of your modesty, and the tight skirt accentuated your curves. The confidence you felt in the mirror of your apartment soon dissipated as you walked into the loud club. You could feel the hungry stares, the intense eyes of all the men and women in the place.

You didn’t know who or what you were looking for—rather, hoping they would find you instead. You craved the idea of giving up your power, your control to someone who could hold it over you and force you into submission. The thought made your core burn with need. The bartender slid your simple cocktail towards you with a wink as you settled into the stool awkwardly, trying to appear much stronger than the scared little human you were. You knew they all could smell it on you—the mixture of fear and arousal. So many of them approached you, attempted to charm their way inside you, but none of them felt right. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe you should have stayed home. You can’t help but feel a burn of shame and disappointment as you chug your drink as quickly as you can to make a desperate dash towards the door.

Your nervous eyes skittered around the room, watched as each ravenous alpha eye-fucked you. It was terrifying, intimidating. It cemented just how wrong you were to come here, until— he came into view. Your breath nearly collapsed in your lungs as you took in the vision of the lavender haired man. He was gorgeous. Not just attractive but ethereal in his visage. Your pupils dilated, heart rate increased as you stared at him. You were blatant in your gaze, unable to wrench your eyes elsewhere. He was simply the most captivating man you’ve ever seen in your life, and your body burned with desperate need for him. After moments of desperate staring, you finally shake yourself off and peer down at your empty drink. Was it him? What was so magnetic about the lithe man? Could he be the one to finally claim what you needed to give up? Your cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and need, hoping that he didn’t notice your blatant ogling. Fuck.

Jimin’s fiery gaze flickered to meet yours the very second he felt your eyes on him, straw still tightly sucked between his lips. He crooked a coy eyebrow at you as he pushed himself up from his leaning position to stand upright, no hesitation in his bones in the way he slowly sauntered over to you. His hips swayed in a light strut, mesmerizing in every sense of the word; the predatory genes within giving him these very traits to be alluring for it’s prey. And it seemed to be working, with the way your eyes were glued on him. He stopped when he was right in front of you, giving just enough space for him to be able to observe your fit from top to bottom, but close enough for you to smell his distinct scent. Sweet, calming– arousing. His natural pheromones didn’t leave anybody unaffected, even turning heads on his way, eyes wide with both surprise and envy that the alpha had approached… well, you. “How refreshing with a new face.” Jimin’s canary voice was sweet, yet it had an undertone of a light growl. His canines poked out as he smiled, plush upper lip curling up to showcase his pearly whites further.

Your blush furthered a deeper shade of rose as he approached. Fuck. He definitely saw you staring. The power in his gaze and strut over to you screamed alpha. Hopefully he wasn’t the kind to bite and then ask questions. You’d unfortunately run into that type before.

The blood in your veins pulsed hard, skyrocketing your nerves. He looked so good. It was almost unfair that someone so fucking beautiful existed. You felt small and plain in comparison to the gorgeous man. His whole being exuded sultry command. You nibbled at your bottom lip as he sauntered up to you. Your body was reacting already to his presence, his voice. The entire club was staring at you, curious of the exchange that would happen between the exquisite man and you, the nervous little human. “I-,” you struggled to answer. If he wasn’t aware of how nervous you were before, he would be now—surely. “I don’t really come to these types of places.”

Try as you might, you couldn’t stop staring at the man’s gorgeous pout and terrifyingly attractive teeth. Your heart beat pounded hard in your head, overpowering the loud beat of music.

“D-do you come here often?” You asked, hoping to be polite despite the pooling arousal and growing fear.

Jimin’s smile slowly morphed into a wolfish grin, the apple of his cheeks puffing up until his eyes were shaped like small crescent moons. He almost looked harmless and inviting. “Cute…” he mused under his breath before he took a daring step closer to you, his hand reaching out to gently run his fingers through the piece of stray hair that had fallen forward over your face. He brought the locks to his nose, inhaling deeply. A low rumble vibrated in his chest.. You smelled divine. Even through the shampoo and possible product, he could smell your scent behind it all. “Yeah, I come here, every. single. night…” Jimin winked before withdrawing his hand to let it settle on his hip, his stance powerful and graceful. His dark pupils quivered when he raked down your body for a second time, the wolf ears sticking out from his hair flickering with curiosity. “Why are you here, little lamb?” He cooes at you, licking his upper teeth as he steps closer. He had no problem hearing you through the booming music, but how would you know? It gave him more of an excuse to get closer. “Looking like that?” Of course he knew why. He could smell why. But it was of no news that Jimin loved to play with his prey, ramp up the anxiety until he could practically taste it on his tongue.

Your heart thumped so loud in your chest you were sure all of the club could hear it. If they couldn’t, they definitely could smell the thrum of anxiety pulsing through you. His voice sizzled in your veins, erupting into flames as it enveloped you. Then, he touched you. The simple act of moving your hair had your mind reeling. You could smell him—he was so close you wanted to bury your face in his chest and breathe deeply. His question caught you off guard. Why were you here? Did you even know the answer to that? Your cherry cheeks flushed and you ducked your head, trying to avoid his sultry and tempting gaze. He continued to get closer and it made you tremble with a mix of fright and need. His power was overwhelming, and all you wanted to do was kneel for him.

“I’m—…not quite sure,” you spoke truthfully as you took another sip of your rapidly melting drink. “I’ve never been here before. I think I wanted something… scary.” Your big doe eyes sought out his, so mystifying with their exotic color and shape. He was truly so gorgeous it made your mouth salivate. You squirmed in your seat, suddenly feeling self conscious of your outfit. “My friend told me I should wear something sexy.” Your cheeks were so hot, so embarrassed by how easily you wanted to give into the terrifyingly attractive alpha. “I’m wondering if maybe this was a bad idea…”

 Although the music around them was blaring, it felt like a long moment of silence dragged on between the two when Jimin didn’t answer for a hot second. He kept his stare fixed on your face, the small expressions of embarrassment, curiosity, and purity drew him in. He’s truly never encountered a human like you before. One that dared to come here despite being so… weak. It was like you were begging to be eaten, dangling like a fresh piece of the finest meat in front of all these hungry predators. Jimin could hear it, the rumbling growls and groans of men in the room, hoping that the alpha wolf would lose interest and leave a piece for them to get a taste.

“Scary?” He suddenly chirped, his smile more of a smirk at this point as he placed his drink on the bar counter, ice jumping in the glass from the harsh clonk. He bent forward to shamelessly brush his cheek against yours, a subtle way of rubbing his scent off on your skin, knowing it’d avert some of the attention around him– he’s already begun to claim you for himself. His hot breath fanned your ear as he spoke.

“I can smell your lust for fear, little lamb… Do I scare you?” Jimin’s hand softly snaked down the curve of your hip, smoothing his ring-clad fingers down your thigh until he was greeted by your scorching skin. He squeezed the flesh between his digits, cold rings digging into your thigh as he exhaled another hot, quivering breath against your neck, loving the way your scent was slowly mixing with his own.

The man’s simple action of brushing his cheek against your own had your body seizing up. You could smell him as he rubbed his soft skin on yours—a heady mix of something fruity and something naturally luscious. It embarrassed you to know how arousing his simple act had been. You chided yourself internally for feeling your body heat at his gentle action. You licked your lips as he whispered hot words into your ear, making a tingle travel down your spine.

“Y-yes,” you murmured. “You scare me more than anyone h-here.” His hands gripping your thigh made a quiet moan escape your lips. It was desperate. You felt overstimulated and yet so desperate to be touched by the terrifying alpha. Suddenly feeling emboldened, your hands gripped at his sides, slipping under his expensive shirt to touch at the toned skin of his obliques and anchoring yourself to him there.

Jimin’s hand flew down to wrap his fingers around your small wrist, blunt nails digging into your soft skin. His hand on your thigh swiftly withdrew, and the loss of his warmth had you internally whining for more. “Did I say you could touch me?” His voice wasn’t hostile, yet it oozed with the asserting of his dominance. “You’re a daring girl.” He smiles at you, the contrast between his hungry gaze and his softly curved lips was confusing to say the least– but there was no doubt that he was not the kind to simply allow anything without permission.

The alpha’s sudden movement and grip on your hand made you squeal with fright—eyes widening and heart stopping its beat in your chest. Your mouth ran dry. Your terror coursed through you with the distinct tang of need. His dominance made you even more desperate. “I’m sorry,” you peeped quietly, itching to move your fingers away in case it angered him further but also needing to feel his tender skin underneath you once more. “I didn’t mean—..” you stuttered as you felt brave enough to peer up in his enchanting eyes. His smile was comforting but the hungry gaze in his stare had you trembling. Jimin cupped your cheek, hushing you with reassurance– although he seemed way too amused with the way you were practically shaking underneath his touch.

“Breathe. We’re all here to have a good time.” He smoothed the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, noting just how dry it had become. He decided to order another set of drinks, handing one to you that was the same pink shade as the one he got for himself. “Drink.” He didn’t ask, but he commanded you to accept his offer.

You were powerless to deny any demand the man made. Even if he had asked, you’d still be eating out of the palm of his hand like a terrified and starved pet. His thumb on your lips made you ache to open and accept his digit in your mouth, swirl your tongue around it teasingly. Your eyes sought his—hoping you could portray some of the arousal you felt over your innocent fright. You took a sip—a large one in hopes of lowering your frightened inhibitions to open up more to the beautiful man. “Mmm—,” you hummed as your eyes fluttered to close. “This is delicious.” It was sweet on your tongue, but not cloyingly. It warmed you and made your body loose.

“It’s my favorite.” Jimin agreed, already half way through his own. The entire time he kept his eyes trained on your lips, the darkening color on your cheeks from the heat that both alcohol and his proximity provided. When finished, he stretched his back with a light pop, the shirt he’s wearing underneath the jacket lifting just enough for the prominent V-line that snaked down his pants teasingly on display. His visuals were unmatched. He took off his jacket, leaving it unattended by the counter. No one would dare to touch it anyway, the leather oozing of his distinct scent. Only somebody with a death wish would. He combed his fingers through his hair, licking his lower lip clean form the residue sugar from this drink. His ears perked up when the lights dimmed further, and a new song came into play, booming through the speakers that caused a pleasant vibration to pulse through the building.

“I love this song.” Jimin reached for your arm to tug you out of the chair with him towards the crowded dance floor. As per usual, there was no question of whether you wanted to or not, but with a few drinks, and his intoxicating presence, it didn’t seem too bad. For Jimin, this was just part of his foreplay. He brought you into the crowd, tightly packed with all kinds of scents and musks. But the only one he could smell was yours, slowly morphing with his own as he placed his hands on your hips from behind, nose brushing against your neck as he inhaled. “Feel that? The beat?” He growled into your ear, swaying his hips along with the way he moved yours back and forth.

The music, once quiet and unassuming to you, now became loud and matched the beat of your heart. The alpha was dragging you towards the dance floor and in the midst of the hungry crowd, staring at you from where they rubbed up against each other. Just as you were trying to understand where to move, how to adjust your body to the dance, he pressed himself up behind you and gripped your hips. You could feel your pulse running through your veins and the way his touch electrified your skin. “Y-yeah,” you murmured as your hips began to move without thought. They easily swayed with the man’s guidance and you shivered as his nose pressed into your neck. It was like he couldn’t get enough of your scent, your being. The man’s hyper fixation on you had your core drenched—and you knew he could likely smell just how aroused for him you were. You let your eyes close and follow his guiding hold on your body, your ass pressing back against him to rub and grind along his length. It seemed the alphas drink was bringing you ever so gently out of your shell. “Mmm, I feel the beat right here.”

“Fuck, you smell good…” Jimin growled into your ear, his claw-like grip on your hips tightening to keep you in place as he pressed his hips right back against your ass, his cock prominent through the thin layer of his leather pants. It pulsed with every beat of his heart, it was driving him near insanity to practically taste your arousal on his tongue along with the overwhelming smell. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?” He huffed, tastefully biting your earlobe as one hand smoothed down your thigh to tug at the hem of your dress, unbothered to the fact that other hybrids were spying on them. He wanted them to see the way he got to have you, and they don’t. The way you were oozing with lust for the alpha, the pungent arousal of yours surely drove not just Jimin feral, but every single hybrid in the venue. And no one could say a fucking thing.

It was hard to hold back the peeps of surprise and arousal as you felt the alpha’s growing cock against you. Your body instinctively continued to rub and further agitate the hardening length to fully erect. When you felt his hands on you, your body reacted. You knew your cunt was oozing, likely soaking the satin panties underneath your tight skirt and soon to drip down your leg in a sign of utter submission and need to the alpha behind you. “Y-yes,” you whined. “I n-need you.” The admittance was shameless–the alcohol and lowered inhibitions making it easier for you to admit your desires to the man without regret. You could sense that he was showing you off and you complied, allowed the man to present you to everyone in the club who stared with bloodlust for you. “Please,” you gasped, not quite sure of what you were asking for other than him–more him. “Please, take me.”

Jimins wolfish grin grew against your skin before he swiftly grabbed you by your wrist to pull you with him, guiding the two of you towards privacy. Normally, he’d take his prey to the back, or even home… but there was an urgency within him that was too strong to ignore, there was no time– he needed to claim you now. So he pulled you into the bathroom close by, slamming your back against the wall with a thud the moment the door closed behind you. His heavy breaths were laced with small grunts as he crashed his pillowy lips against yours, hands greedily peeling the skirt of your dress up to expose your ass for him to harshly grab onto, squeezing the soft flesh between his ring clad fingers until it protruded between his digits, sharp nails digging into your delicate skin. “Fuck, you drive me crazy, little lamb.” Jimin hisses between hot kisses, the vibrating growl in his chest growing louder as he bites down on your lower lip to draw more innocent whines from your sweet throat. “Every single male in there wishes they could mate with you, shit… the male pheromones were off the roof, they’re all gonna jerk off to the memory of this–” one of his hands cupped your pussy through your soaked panties, dragging his palm to feel the damp fabric stain his skin. “Of how delicious your cunt smells… it’s like a fucking drug.”

Your eyes widened as the strong and sensual man dragged you from the dance floor to the bathroom. The same terror that once pulled through you now flooded every sense. Had you done something wrong? Was he going to harm you? Your worries were sucked up the second he pressed his lips to yours hungrily. Kissing him was like standing too close to a fire. He was hot, so hot, and before you knew it, you’d be engulfed in his hot, licking flames. His hands felt like palpable sin in your flesh and you needed more. “Please,” you whimpered as his hands cupped at your core. You knew you were a mess—dripping with shameless need for the alpha. The kisses turned deeper as you allowed his tongue entrance into your mouth and sought purchase in his own. Your hands stayed by your sides, itching to touch him but remembering his previous warning. “Please, let me touch you. Anywhere.” It felt like you were dying and the only cure was him—any bit of him on you and underneath your fingertips. “Ahh—,” you whined as his hand continued his assault on your cunt. “It’s a-all for you. I don’t want anyone else, only you.”

Jimin’s auburn gaze glowed as he pulled back from the kiss, his pointy canines poking out as he smiled. “You want to touch me?” He purred as he pressed your body harder back against the wall with his own, gliding the pads of his fingers up and down your clothed slit until he feels the swell of your clit through your panties, only to give it extra attention by circling his digits with just enough pressure. Not enough to satisfy, but not enough to not drive you crazy. “You don’t get to touch me until I say so… But don’t worry, good behavior will be rewarded.” Jimin added with his lighter tone of voice, leaning in to nudge your chin to the side with his nose– like a dog would. He softly grazes the skin of your neck with his nose, lips; a deep inhale through his nostrils triggered a vibrating rumble in his throat, and a prominent, heavy throb in his pants. “We’re not in a rush.” He whispered against your neck before placing open mouthed kisses down your skin until he reached the slope of your neck, feeling as his cock grew harder– the more aggressive his kisses became. From soft pecks, to messy sucking, surely painting your delicate skin with splashes of purple.

Feeling the man all over your body and being denied to touch was maddening, but deliciously so. His fingers dipped into your slit and teased so delicately that you thought you might cry if he didn’t give you something soon. Your moans turned into desperate whines and gasps as you allowed him to continue his thorough torture of your clit. Kissing him felt like sin, like heaven and hell. He was everything you wanted—everything you sought after when you stepped foot into the very club you now were being thoroughly debauched in. His cock felt heavy and thick against you and it made you whisper against his lips in arousal and desperation. He trailed down your body and you let out a shaky moan as you felt his sharp incisors suckle and nip at the delicate skin. “Use me,” you begged gently. “P-Please, make me yours.”

Your hips ground against his, rubbing against his hardened length as much as you could to alleviate the burn between your thighs. “Fuck, I want you so bad, please sir.”

“Such a good girl, asking so nicely.” Jimin’s low voice resembled a mix between his natural voice and a growl, the raspyness of it forcing a chill running down your spine, reminding you that he was indeed not human, but a hungry predator. Which is exactly what he was– well, it’s a part of him he only indulges in on nights like these, in a place like this. Who he was outside of these walls, nobody truly knew. His fingers curled around the fabrics of your panties to swiftly rip them off, carelessly discarding them to the dirty floor. Now exposed, your scent was stronger than ever. He shamelessly inhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering in pleasure, feeling the droplets of precum staining his swollen tip underneath the restraining pants.

“Still reconsidering whether coming here was a good or bad idea?” He asks through his breathy voice as he pulled back to look at your needy expression, all while his hands casually reach down to undo his pants, slowly peeling the leather down his hips. His cock sprung up proudly, drooling with arousal down his glistening skin, a content sigh pushing past his plushy lips. “Hm? You like it?” Jimin’s piercing gaze flickered between his cock and your face, grabbing the shaft with his hand. “Want a taste? All you have to do is drop to your knees on the filthy floor…”

Everything about the man radiated power. He mystified you. He even looked beautiful, gorgeous rather, under the harsh fluorescent lights. You were sure you would follow him off the edge of a cliff if he told you to. You didn’t know his name but you didn’t need to, he had you between his delicate fingers. Your breath hitched as he ripped your soaked panties off your body. The cool air of the bathroom was startling against your heated cunt. It made you gasp out loud. “I-I think it was a good idea,” you gulped. Your eyes were big, pleading and needy as you peered into his own. He had you completely under his spell.

Your mouth watered as the man pushed his skintight pants down and exposed his length to you. It was perfect. Thick and long and curved just right that made your core ache for him. You dropped to your knees without hesitation, ignoring the way the wet floor felt against your body. The floor was disgusting but nothing would stop you from pleasing the alpha. You shimmied your skirt up your body, allowing your bare ass and cunt to be exposed to the open air as you knelt before him.

“Please.” The word was becoming your prayer, repeated to the god above you to grant you your blessings. You opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue—an obedient little dog in heat. You wanted nothing more than to take him in your mouth without warning but you knew now to wait. You wanted to please the alpha so badly.

Jimin’s eyes darkened immensely at the gorgeous view beneath him, the fiery color of his irises barely visible for they were practically blackened out. If there was something the alpha adored, it was to look down on his prey, being begged to use them as he pleased. You were the perfect plaything for him. “So pretty.” He cooed, a small smile curling up on his upper lip to expose his pointy teeth. He gave his cock a few lazy strokes, his other hand gently combing through your hair before he abruptly curls his fingers to tug at it. He drew you in closer to his red, dripping length as he kept stroking it, eyes not even blinking once as he stared down at you. “Can’t wait to pump you full of my cum… Fuck, such a slut for my cock already.” His words grew filthier the more aroused he became. His patience ran low, so he guided the tip of his drooling cock to your lips, tugging your hair to draw you even closer to take his length down your throat. “Only good girls can take it all. You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Come on…”

The intensity of the alphas gaze made you shiver on the sodden ground and you could tell your cunt was dripping, likely even dripping down onto the very same floor. The bite of pain in your hair stung as he gripped you, but it sizzled and burned until it added to the overall sensation and made your nipples harden in delight. You breathed in deep, steeling yourself as his length came closer. His salacious words made you tremble and ooze with excitement. You wanted nothing more than to be a vessel, a hole for him to wrench pleasure from. His length was warm and dripping with precum. It felt so thick and heavy on your tongue as he continued to push it in. You audibly moaned as you felt it push past your uvula. He was so thick and tasted like salt and sweetness. You let your lips close and wrap around him as you took him to the hilt. You flicked your eyes up to him, shining with tears of strain from the thickness choking your throat. You wanted to prove how good you were, how well you could take him.

After a moment of holding his length as deep as it could go, you pulled back slightly to begin a bobbing motion as you sucked greedily on his cock. Saliva pooled around your lips as you drew him in and out, and the sounds you made sucking could be heard over the thumping of the bar music. You wanted to prove yourself to the alpha, show him you could be more than just a one time type of girl. You wanted him to claim you forever.

“Oh, fuck yes…” Jimin’s pillowy lips parted in initial surprise, but quickly he bit back his low groan as it rumbled in his chest. He knew you were needy, but he didn’t expect you to be so greedy to suck him off. And being so good at it on top of being eager to please– it was oddly new. Normally, every past experience of his was not like this, but more like him doing every piece of the work for a ragdoll, so watching you work his cock so willingly, attentive to his own reactions and pleasure in a different way…. It hit something in him that only riled him up further than anybody had ever done previously.

“Deeper. Gag on it, make it messy.” His chest heaved up and down heavily, deep huffs through his nose displaying just how good he feels in between the low moans, no shame in showcasing how good it feels. He presses his back against the wall, craning his neck to get a good look of the way your lips stretched around his thick shaft. “I can hear your cunt dripping… Can scent it, god, it smells divine. Your insides must be aching for me.” He murmurs as he drives his hips forward a bit rougher to meet your movements, eager to feel your throat constrict around him when he hits too far down your throat. “Coat your fingers in your juices, little lamb. Show me.”

The praise made you preen, and even more desperate to prove your worth to the man. His cock was so big inside your mouth it was hard to keep yourself from gagging, but you worked against it and continued to suck and slurp down his length. You obeyed every order, and slicked him up until your mouth was squelching with saliva around him and it dripped from your face like a tap. You whined around his length as you obeyed, keeping up a pace as you buried a hand down to your exposed core. You nearly gasped at the feeling. You were absolutely soaked and dripping with anticipation. Your fingers swirled in the wetness and coated you easily. You desperately wanted to touch your clit and play with yourself to bring you to your own end but you knew now it was better to wait for his instruction.

While maintaining your eager pace and swirling tongue, you lifted your dripping fingers from your cunt and presented them to the man above you, eyes still trained on his own in utter submission.

Jimin’s eyes quivered at the sight, pupils shrinking as he zeroes in on the glossy sheen on your fingers. His cock twitched in your mouth once, twice before he decided that he’d been patient enough… He could not wait any longer to claim you as his own. He pushed his palm against your forehead until his length was ripped from your throat, drool and precum dribbling down your chin. A long string of the juices seeped down his cock, another piece of it connected to your lips. It was an absolute mess, just the way he liked it.

“Up.” He growled, but before you were even able to obey his orders on your own, he pulled you up by your wrist, bringing the very coated fingers of yours into his mouth. All while maintaining eye contact, his swollen, pink lips eagerly sucked your arousal clean from your digits, swirling his skillful, rough tongue. Around, in between… He refused to let a single drop go to waste. “Mm..” he hummed when he let go of your fingers with a pop of his lips, the small smirk in the corners of his mouth widening. A light thudding sound caught your attention from behind him, his fluffy, white tail wagging in excitement, hitting the wall with every whip. “It’s a bit hot… Take my jacket off.” He suddenly asks, but his sweet tone was deceptive with the underlying command luring in his predatory gaze. He turns around, lowering his shoulders to allow you to easily slide the leather off, his tail playfully brushing against your thighs.

You nearly whined as Jimin forced you away from his cock—not wanting to remove yourself from the thick length that fit so perfectly in your drooling mouth. But the whine is cut short by his demand to stand and as he sucks your fingers into his mouth you nearly forget everything else around you. “A-ah, fuck,” you breathed—pupils dilating at the sight of the gorgeous man sucking your juices off your delicate fingers. Your cunt pulsated around nothing, so desperate for his thick cock now that the arousal has dripped down the insides of your thighs. “Yes sir,” you whispered as your fingers found the edges of his jacket and pulled it off his body. His tail makes your eyes widen as the soft fur brushes against your legs. You’ve never been with a hybrid before, never been with an alpha hybrid at that, and you’re eager to learn just how he differs in other ways. You couldn’t help but marvel at the muscles on the lithe man. He’s thin, but built and you found you’re desperate to lick up the defined lines of his abs. “You’re so p-pretty,” you whispered without knowing it escaped you, marveling at the gorgeous man.

Jimin’s tail trembled with more excitement at the praise, oddly enough. He’s been called many things. Sexy, scary, hot, alluring… Pretty? He liked it.

“Yeah?” he breathes out a small chuckle through his nose, pressing his lips together in thought. He shook his head to get rid of his mind wandering too far, instead back to indulging in the moment– focused on the aching throb between his legs. Jimin pulls his shirt over his head to expose his full torso, the tattoo on his ribs on clear display along with the faded, scattered scars adorning his skin in the form of striped, claw like patterns. Now with his body freed from the cage that is fabrics, he didn’t waste another second to grab you by the hips, turn you around to face away from him, and immediately push you forward to force you to use the sink as leverage. The large, dirty mirror on the wall stared back at you, clear enough for you to see the two of you in this sinful moment.

“You’re pretty too. A pretty slut, about to get her pretty little cunt stretched so bad you’ll be ruined for any other male.” Jimin’s canine adorned smile grew as he stared you down through the reflection in the mirror, grasp on your hips moving to the flesh of your ass. His foot kicks your feet apart, forcing you to stand wider and spread for him. A quick glance down and he already sees just how wet and dripping your cunt was. He pushed the head of his cock against your slit, coating it with your juices before gently rocking forward, not going inside, instead just rubbing between your swollen lips.

“So pretty,” you murmured as your eyes washed over him. Your mouth ran dry as he pulled his shirt off and exposed himself to the hard light of the bathroom. He looked like sin incarnate and your body ached to touch. Your fingertips lightly trailed the skin of his abs, grazing over the tattoo with the faintest touch. The cold sink countertop felt like ice against your chest, still heaving with need as the man prepped your body for his entrance. “Please ruin me, alpha,” you begged, peering into his own gaze through the reflection of the mirror. Your knees and legs trembled as he teased his cock against your desperate slit. “Mark me as yours, please. I only want you.” His cock felt so thick even at the entrance, prodding and poking through your sodden folds. A moan wrenched through your lips as it pushed against your clit and slicked with your own arousal.

“Fuck me, please!” The teasing was near torture and you were desperate, pushing your hips back lightly to encourage the man to slip in and ruin you completely.

With lips closed, he smiled, eyebrows raising your desperation. It was almost mocking, yet pleased with just how desperate you were for him. Your initial fear seemed replaced with utter submission and desire to be his. “We’ve only been in here for minutes and you’re already pathetically wet.” As he spoke, his hips snapped forward to grant your one and only wish, filling your soppy hole with his fleshy, rigid cock. He had no desire to ease you into the stretch from his generous girth, immediately pulling back until merely the tip was engulfed by your cunt before drilling back into you with another squelching thrust. “Tight… no other cock must have ever stretched you this well, huh? Fuck..” He bites down his abused lower lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he had to gather himself. The scent you emitted was incredibly strong, intoxicating to his mind. It was like a high he’s never experienced before, and he knew he was already a lost cause to the addiction that is you.

The feeling of the alpha’s cock filling you completely was unparalleled. You’d never felt something within you so deep, never been stretched so far past your breaking point—and unable to care about the tearing pain. The pleasure outweighed the sizzling burn of pain. He was merciless and your whimpering moans echoed around the damp bathroom. “I—ohhhh fuck,” you gasped as he pushed into you yet again, spearing you nearly in half. It was as if you could feel him deep in your stomach, and you never wanted him to leave your soaked cunt. He was claiming his territory with each torturous thrust inside you that made your throat burn for more. “Only you,” you whimpered as his thrusts became merciless and powerful. “All y-yours now. Oh, god, so good,” you praised. You learned the beautiful man thrived on praise as much as you did on the dominant commands. Your hips moved in time with his powerful purses and the sound of skin slapping on skin filled the small room. “Oh my god, sir,” you cried as fat tears of pleasure rolled down your cheeks. “You make me feel so good. I only want your c-cock inside me forever.” You knew now you would be hopelessly tied to the man, and you desperately ached for him to claim you as his own. “P-please, mark me as yours, alpha.”

The low, vibrating growl that rumbled throughout Jimin’s body would have anybody’s fight or flight instincts kicking in– the latter the most logical response from anyone within their right mind. His powerful thrusts were beyond that of what a human was capable of, the skin on your ass bruising with every loud, harsh collision of your bodies. “Only me?” he snarled through a wolfish grin, lips parting in a moan when your cunt clenched around his length. His sharp, claw like nails drew blood as they dug deep into the fleshy part of your waistline, moving your body like a ragdoll to meet his thrusts, your own attempts at doing so barely noticeable. “You want to be my little cockwhore?” Jimin leaned forward, hovering above you as he pressed his chest against your back, the grip on your waist moving to wrap around your torso with one arm, the other clawing at your jaw, forcing you to stare into the reflection in front of you. He keeps you tightly in place, feeling the way your body jiggles and jolts while he fucked into you with insatiable greed. “The alpha’s bitch?” His fiery eyes meet yours through the reflection, his toothy smile growing. He inches closer to drag his flattened tongue up your cheek, a coating of messy saliva dripping down your sweaty skin. Claiming you in every sense of the word.

The man claimed you roughly, making your throat rip with a desperate and wanton moan. His cock was pushing into your cunt deeper than anyone’s ever gone before, harder and with purpose. It was as if the man wanted to fuse your bodies together, become one. You certainly wanted it. His hands on your skin felt hot, feverish. You wanted him to touch you everywhere, at any time he could. You were hopeless addicted now. “Please,” you cried as the tears of pleasure poured from your face. “Claim this cunt as yours. I’m only yours!” You could feel your bliss piquing, building up to the impossible precipice. You whined as you watched your reflection. Your makeup smeared down your face with your sweat and tears. His fingers held your jaw tightly and your cunt pulsed around his heavy cock at the sight. You could see his heavy and thick length spearing into you and retracting smeared in your juices. Something inside you tells you it’s what you want to see for the rest of your life—only his cock ruining you and coaxing torrential orgasms out of you. “Yes! Breed me like the bitch in heat I am!” You cried out loud, no longer caring about your volume. Everyone in the bar could hear your desperate screams for the alpha and it only made you wetter, more aching for the man. “Fill me up with your seed, alpha! I need it, please! Cum inside me!”

The perked wolf ears adorning Jimin’s head flickered with his excitement, pointed forward to make sure he soaks up every little sound you make for him. You were so loud, shamelessly letting every hybrid in the building know just how good the alpha makes you feel. ‘Breed me.’ The words stuck to him, replaying in his mind whilst stuffing you with his cock over and over, the mix of your arousal and his precum dripping down into a puddle at the filthy bathroom floor. He wrapped his arms around your torso, holding you close as his thrusts changed pace. Still filled with greed and force, but no longer pulling back as much, instead keeping his cock lodged deep inside of you whilst prodding as deep inside of you as he possibly can. Jimin’s cock was on the verge of bursting inside of you, and instinctively he possessively sunk his teeth into the tender skin of your shoulder, shutting his eyes harshly. But just as quickly, his eyes opened back up, staring with wide eyes into the mirror when something he did not expect happened. He knew this was it, there was no going back. With one last, harsh thrust, he stilled his movements abruptly, heavy breathing down your neck as he kept you tightly in place– in case you would panic. “Gonna fill you up with my cum.. Put my little pups inside of you- fuck…” He growled into your skin, gnashing his teeth together. His cock grew inside of you, and he was physically unable to remove himself.

Whether it was intentional or not.. His body had chosen to breed you– to mate with you. “Mine.” He whined, and with that, his cock began to desperately pulsate inside of you as he disposed of his warm cum in heavy, pattern-like gushes. Like a volcano erupting, it didn’t stop, but he kept cumming, holding his hands on your stomach as he felt it start to lightly bulge from the amounts he was able to offer. “Gah…. shit… Look at you.” He could barely hold his voice stable, legs quivering, body twitching with every throb of his rigid length, still snugly wrapped by your cum-stuffed flesh.

Nothing in the world, in your life, has ever felt better than the way the alpha felt as he fucked into you. You barely knew the man, and yet you wanted nothing more than to give yourself over to him for as long as he wanted. You found yourself wanting to surrender your life to him. You felt safe in the security of his arms. As if you were always meant to find him, to be here with him. It didn’t matter that he had you in a damp bathroom, you would have him anyway and place. Your orgasm quickly approached, winding up and throttling you over the edge as your cunt convulsed around him. Your channels tightened and milked him, and you sobbed at the wave of pleasure creating over you.

“Yours,” you whined as your bodies stilled. His cock enlarged inside you, making your eyes widen and whimper as your hands clutched at his arms wrapped around you. You needed to touch him, stabilize yourself as your core widens to accept him and your tummy bulges from the amount of cum he pulses into you. It’s hot, and warm and you can feel it coating your walls thick. Your breathing was rapid, coming down from your high and the minor fright from having his cock widen and remain locked within you as he came.

“So big,” you whispered as a tear rolled down your cheek. “H-hurts… But I can take it. I’ll take it for you.” Your head lolls back and rests on his shoulder, allowing your body to relax around the feeling of his swollen knot. “Anything for you,” you murmured, as if you were in a daze. Your hands held on to his slender arms for support and reassurance, hoping desperately you pleased the alpha enough to keep you forever. “D-did I do okay?” You asked once, quiet as a mouse. Your confidence was quickly diminishing now that your orgasm subsided and your anxieties returned.

Jimin takes a long moment to catch his breath and collect himself, still holding you in his arms as if he never wanted to let you go in the first place. And truthfully, he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t have to…

“You did so well, little lamb.” He purrs as he places a, surprisingly, gentle kiss with his pillowy lips against your clammy temple. His hands roam down to smooth his palms over the swell of your stomach, reassuring you that this indeed did please him to the max.

After another few minutes, his length finally went back to its original size, immediately feeling his cum seep out your hole. He pulls out, and the flood of his cum splattered against the floor. But it didn’t seem to faze him at all, instead his attention was set on you, feeling your stomach deflate with each passing second. He turned you around to face him, brushing the damp strand of hair away from your eyes as his features seemed to display nothing but gentle affection, his eyes almost disappearing into thin slits as he smiled. His tail wagged happily, and he decided to bring you in for a chaste kiss on the lips.

“My mate.” he breathes out as if it was a relief to finally have you. And it was, he’d been looking for somebody that would be his true mate for life, but believed he would simply be a lone wolf for eternity. But then you came along, as if destiny had thrown you (or rather, your friend threw you) into this place at this time, like a piece of meat for the alpha to claim.

© sombreboy 2020. Do not repost, edit or translate.