#everyone should go read her page
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prettiestlovergirl · 9 months ago
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stoppppp ilysm angel đŸ€­
DON'T STOP
tw: MDNI; fem!reader; semi-public; teasing; oral (f. receiving); light dacryphilia; established relationship; mean! mattheo; hickeys; pushing the french-speaking-mattheo agenda, but be warned my french is shit, they don't exactly teach you pet names in high school french class lol.
concept: you n mattheo are studying in the common room when he gets bored and comes up with a more interesting way to study.
a/n: this idea came to me when i was studying for my lab exam and thinking 'wow, this would be so much more fun with a mean curly haired man absolutely wrecking me' n so, here you go! enjoy, my lovelies! 𓆩♥đ“†Ș
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you had been studying in the common room for what felt like hours now, really cramming for this godawful history of magic test. you were stressed out of your mind, but you couldn't risk missing a thing.
you were sitting up on the couch well into the night, your legs curled up underneath you as you continued to take notes in the silence, occasionally making a comment to yourself out loud while you worked.
you'd been so in the zone; you hadn't even noticed the second body entering into the room until you heard that familiar, deep voice in your ear.
"princesse, mon amour, (princess, my love,) what are you still doing up?" he asked, his voice a bit husky from sleep. you'd have been a bit turned on if you hadn't been so startled.
"bloody hell! you can't just sneak up on a girl like that." you hissed, setting your textbook down onto your lap while he chuckled at your startled reaction, waiting for you to go on.
"i'm still up because i have to study for this bloody test." you huffed, following him with your eyes as he walked around the couch, giving you the wonderful and incredibly distracting view of your boyfriend in those damned gray sweatpants.
"let me help." mattheo hummed, a wicked smirk growing on his face as he got himself situated on his knees in front of you. "need to get some studying in anyways." he stated, his hand gripping your ankle and tugging your forward.
"no, mattheo, stop. really, i need to study!" you whined, biting your lip as he tugged your legs out from under you. "we are gonna study, i'm just an active learner." he smirked, pressing a kiss to your ankle. "read the textbook out loud."
"mattheo..." you complained, huffing a bit as his started to kiss his way slowly up your leg. you shivered lightly, the view of him on his knees in front of you never failed to make your brain go a little fuzzy.
"c'mon princesse, (princess) need you to help me study. you don't want me to fail, do you?" he asked, giving you a fake pout as his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your shorts.
finally, you relented, just like he knew you would, and lifted your hips up for him. "bien, mon Ăąme." (good, my soul) he smirked, sliding the fabric down your thighs and tossing it off to the armchair behind him.
if there was one thing mattheo loved, it was getting you to break so he could bury himself between your thighs. if you'd let him, he'd probably stay there forever, living in permanent pussy drunk bliss.
"start reading, princesse. (princess) thought you said you really had to study." he hummed, teasing you with his words and his fingers as he started to rub soft circles on your increasingly dampening panties.
it was sososo hard to focus with his hand on your clothed pussy, but still, you did as told and picked the textbook back up, starting to read aloud from where you left off.
you did your best to speak as clearly as possible, but it was almost impossible when his fingers pressed harshly against your covered clit.
he started rubbing the fabric into your skin, getting your panties soaked in your own arousal as your grip on the book tightened. "f-fuck!" you gasped.
"mm, don't recall fuck being in this history book, weird." he murmured, his lips pressing warm kisses along your thighs, lazily marking you all over as you let out an indignant little whine.
you glared down at him, but went back to reading aloud, doing your best to keep going through your uneven breaths. once he was perfectly satisfied with the number of marks on your thighs, he used his thumb to pull your panties to the side.
he groaned softly to himself, his tongue running along his lower lip as he admired your glistening pussy. you squirmed a bit, the cool air hitting your warm core making you stutter a bit as you went on.
"i-in the en-end, he was, uhm, unable to come out v-victorious" you stated, your voice breathy before your pretty lashes fluttered shut when his free thumb made contact with your bare clit.
"ah, ah, ah." he chided, pausing his actions but keeping his thumb pressed against the swollen nub. "can't touch you if you aren't reading, princesse. (princess) how are you gonna learn if your eyes are closed?"
"so mean..." you grumbled before letting out a gasp as he shoved two of his fingers into your pussy quickly, your eyes immediately opening again. "'m sorry, what was that?" he asked, curling his fingers up inside of you
"n-nothing! nothing, 'm sorry, nothing!" you moaned, his fingers immediately getting drenched in your arousal. "that's what i thought." he smirked, waiting for you to start reading again before thrusting them in and out.
"he had to... to f-flee━ oh fuck ━ civilization." you stuttered, your brain getting hazy again as he attached his lips to your puffy clit, happily gliding his tongue over it again and again. "from th- there, he h-had to be-become a stowaway."
he fucking loved how hard you were working, seeing how much effort it took you to get each word out only seemed to spur him on, making him speed up his fingers n suck a bit harder. "need you to speak up, princesse. (princess) really want to make sure i understand everything."
you let out a louder whine, sticking your lips out in a pout as you shook your head, your eyelids getting heavy n your breath getting all shallow. "fuck, fuck, fuck, i can't, please, i can't!" you whimpered, batting your lashes rapidly to blink away the budding tears.
mattheo let go of your clit with a wet pop, looking up at you intently while he curled his fingers up a second time. "aw look at you 'bout to cry." he mocked in faux sympathy as you looked down at him "you can and you will." he stated.
a sob finally broke past your lips as his tongue found its way back to your clit, your hips bucking and your hands tightening around the textbook.
your vision blurred, but you did your best to keep reading, your body slumped against the cushions as his tongue and fingers worked in sync to bring you closer and closer to the edge.
mattheo honestly could have stayed here forever, just devouring your messy cunt as you soaked his chin and fingers in your arousal. he lived for the way you whined and sobbed above him, loving your broken sentences.
this went on and on until finally you finished the chapter, another sob of relief escaping you as your back arched. "fuck, please, please mattheo i need to cum so fucking bad, please!" you begged, eyes squeezing shut.
"did so good f'me, princesse. (princess) so good, cum f'me." he hummed, sending vibrations onto your clit that finally pushed you over the edge, your cunt fluttering around his fingers while your mouth fell open in a silent moan.
your juices soaked him completely as he continued to suck your clit, going until you started to whine and beg him to stop, trying to squirm away from his eager lips.
"jesus..." you panted, placing a hand over your chest to feel your racing heart as you came down from your high.
"mon amour, (my love) jesus had nothing to do with your cum on my lips. credit's all mine." mattheo chuckled, that same devilish smirk on his lips.
"now, i think we should go over it one more time. just to make sure you've really got it memorized..."
á”ˆâ±á”›â±á”ˆá”‰Êł ᔐᔃᔈᔉ ᔇʞ @á”á”˜Êłá”˜á¶ á¶ â±âż
tags: @bratetteprincess , (gasp, dove reveal??? so soon??)
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narutomaki · 1 year ago
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I always get self conscious when people talk about the amount of thought the goes/went into their art because there is.
there is no upper processing happening when I'm designing a character or background. my hand starts moving and my brain shuts off. I recognize there was probably a point in my life where this WASN'T the case but. like. it's why my art is like. mostly flat and lifeless. my art is never intended to tell a story because when I intend to I get angry/frustrated to the point of wanting to break shit because it's not going right. and I've tried to tell stories with my art both comics and stand alone pieces and it all feels fake or flat or.
idk.
I've TRIED to start and finish a piece where I've made conscious choices beyond "does this look good/right" and "am I being offensive in ways I'm aware of with anything here" but it just. makes me want to scream.
I learned people told stories with their art and I tried to and I stopped drawing for 5 years despite having. before that point been doing art studies for 8 to 10 hours a day for. 2 years.
I mostly just think it's because I have nothing to. say.
I can't add anymore tags to this post??? homophobia.
any way this post is useless idk I'm just sad because people do this thing so easily and enjoy it when it makes me break down crying. I don't get it. every person I've known regardless of neurodivergency has been able to do this consciously to some degree and enjoy it and meanwhile my stupid ass is asked how/why i chose something and I just. shrug. idk
looked nice?
#idk i probably say a lot UNintentionally#but like.#idk i feel like im just being. like. whining. for no reason. like boo hoo no one cares grow up if art makes you thay mad just stop drawing#like. man i WANT to think i WANT to tell stories i intend to tell along with the things i dont pick up on but.#i also mean like. if someone looked at a piece they could pick it apart comprehensively. like#but its like. idk. im like. i think im just to stupid for it.#im the same way with media analysis to be fair. which isnt like great but like.#why did someone choose this lighting? i dont know they thought it looked good ?#i have gotten 90-100% on every single analysis and opinion piece i ever submitted in HS for English#the only time i DIDNT get over 89% on an opinipn piece is when i tried to articulate my actual feelings on a topic to go along w researc#THAT got me pulled aside and told what i had written about was inappropriate and that i should think twice#before submitting a paper with that kond of content in the future#ao i did :^) and went back to bullshitting every single thing!#the curtains were blue in this scene to indicate not sadness but instead her deep love for uhhh fuck. flips through reading material and#lands on a random page. her dog buddy who is depcited in chapter (x) seeing as buddy is usually a male dogs name we can extrapolate and say#she chose these curtain colours after his death to remind her of the dog she had lost Ă·#end sentence end oaragraph submit paper withoit a secondary proof reading and lie and say i left the roigh draft at home. walk away#how did i get high grades. dude. like everyone says teachers know when a kids bullshitting but like#the teachers ATE MY SHIT UP 😑 i got used as an example of comprehensive stucture and analysis on more than one occasion#this is not me bragging this is me saying i never actually learned how to domthis stuff because i was supported in faking it#some people can do analysis like yhis on their first read through like. and remember it. how? how??? what???#whay do you mean its because you read mote than thee sparknotes and random chapters because the book didnt interest you.#'we know when you dont actually read the book?' why did you compliment me on my comprehensive opinons of the parts i didnt readm#'We know when you write it the night before?' why did you laude me as an example of dedication put into an essay when i fucked around every#single in class wotk session past the first one and frantically typed and printed that in the computer lab before class 20 minutes ago?#why!! like DUDE#its like when they say they can tell when you use wikipedia to soirce things and then lie about it#and then compliment ur sources when youbl just used wikipedias sources. witout reading them urself.#which i also did#and when they tell you not to just use google translate because they can tell. when i did and then edited a LITTLE to catch names.
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nondivisable · 5 months ago
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I need to say something and I need y'all to be calm
if it isn't actively bad or harmful, no representation should be called "too simple" or "too surface level"
I have a whole argument for this about the barbie movie but today I wanna talk about a show called "the babysitters club" on Netflix
(obligatory disclaimer that I watched only two episodes of this show so if it's super problematic I'm sorry) (yes. I know it's based on a book, this is about the show)
this is a silly 8+ show that my 9 year old sister is watching and it manages to tackle so many complex topics in such an easy way. basic premise is these 13 year old girls have a babysitting agency.
in one episode, a girl babysits this transfem kid. the approach is super simple, with the kid saying stuff like "oh no, those are my old boy clothes, these are my girl clothes". they have to go to the doctor and everyone is calling the kid by her dead name and using he/him and this 13 year old snaps at like a group of doctors and they all listen to her. it's pure fantasy and any person versed in trans theory would point out a bunch of mistakes.
but after watching this episode, my little sister started switching to my name instead of my dead name and intercalating he/him pronouns when talking about me.
one of the 13 years old is a diabetic and sometimes her whole personality is taken over by that. but she has this episode where she pushes herself to her limit and passes out and talks about being in a coma for a while because of not recognizing the limits of her disability.
and this allowed my 9 year old sister to understand me better when I say "I really want to play with you but right now my body physically can't do that" (I'm disabled). she has even asked me why I'm pushing myself, why I'm not using my crutches when I complain about pain.
my mom is 50 years old and watching this show with my sister. she said the episode about the diabetic girl helped her understand me and my disability better. she grew up disabled as well, but she was taught to shut up and power through.
yes, silly simple representation can annoy you if you've read thousands of pages about queer liberation or disability radical thought, but sometimes things are not for you.
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cloudybarnes · 1 year ago
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Secret Admirer
Pairing: slytherin boys x reader
Summary: you never get mail in the morning, not until one day you receive a letter from an anonymous sender, a secret admirer. From that day forward, you’ve been getting letters, poems, and cute little notes each morning at breakfast. His words were sweet, and as you began to fall for them, your quest of figuring out who sent them only grew.
Word Count: 4.1k+
Masterlist
note: trying something new! basically I dont wanna spoil who her secret admirer is, so I’m gonna call it slytherin boys x reader hehe guess you’ll have to read til the end to see who sent her the letters ;)
✰  ✰  ✰
“Theodore Nott, I’m gonna kick your sorry ass!” You shouted. 
You reached across the table in the great hall where Theo sat directly in front of you. He had stolen all of the bacon off of your breakfast plate and refused to give it up. Mornings were always quite hectic at the slytherin table, but this was downright unacceptable.
“Nope,” he smirked as he popped a piece into his mouth, “they were all out when I went up for breakfast. This bacon is mine now, sweetheart.”
You huffed, and sat back down in your seat. “You’re ridiculous. If you weren’t so damn late all the time, maybe you would have had some bacon of your own.”
“Here (Y/N),” Enzo smiled from his seat right next to you. “You can have some of my bacon.” He picked the best looking pieces and put them on your plate. 
“Aw, Enzo!” You grinned as you picked a piece up and ate it happily. “This is why you're my best friend.”
“Hey!” Pansy shouted from the other side of you. “Thought I was your best friend.”
“You didn’t give up a piece of bacon for her,” Draco smirked, “you’ve been demoted.”
Mattheo gruffed. “Enzo, you’re kind of mean, you know that? (Y/N) complains she’s all out of bacon and you jump to give her a piece, but when I say I need someone to do my charms homework for me, you don’t even try to lift a finger.”
“Mattheo, how many times do I have to tell you,” Enzo said, “I’m never gonna do your homework. And it’s not fair to compare that to giving up a piece of bacon! I don't even like bacon all that much!”
“Dude!” Blaise gasped from next to Draco, “if you don’t like bacon you should have passed that down this way a long time ago.”
Pansy scoffed and shook her head. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
“Hey,” you whined as you ate another piece of bacon, “I’m the least idiot of the bunch, right Pans?”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, (Y/N/N).”
You grinned, about to rebuttal when the morning owl dropped an envelope in front of you.
“What’s this?” You questioned as you picked it up. 
“Uh, I think it’s quite obviously a letter, (Y/N/N).” Mattheo said as he stuffed his mouth full of bacon. “And, to think, you were trying to say you’re the least idiot of us.” He laughed.
“Oi,” Theo knocked his shoulder against Mattheo’s. “Leave her be. I’ve never seen her get a letter before, I’m curious.”
Draco shifted slightly in his seat. “Who’s it from, (Y/N/N)?”
“Nevermind who it’s from,” Blaise chuckled, “I wanna know what it says.”
“Why would you wanna know what it says and not know who it’s from?” Enzo asked, “That's like half the fun.”
You shrugged as you tore open the envelope. Opening the folds of the letter, your cheeks started to warm as you read what was inside. 
“What is it?” Pansy asked as she leaned closer, trying to catch a glimpse. 
“It says, uh,” you cleared your throat, a little bit flustered. “It says ‘people love to stare up at the stars, glimmering as they might in the night sky, yet everyone is too scared to enjoy the beauty that is the sun. you are my sun, and I would willingly go blind to catch even just a glimpse of you each day.’”
You friends all stared at you in shock. Draco, Blaise and Mattheo had their mouths hung open in shock. Enzo blushed a little bit, Theo had his eyebrows raised like he appreciated the words written on the page, and Pansy all but squealed as you read the letter. 
“Oh my god, I think I’m going to combust,” Pansy swooned. 
“Who’s it from?” Theo asked.
You shrugged, “I don’t know.” You flipped the letter to the back to see if it was signed at all. “It’s only signed with a heart.”
“That is so romantic!” Pansy squealed as she clasped her hands around your arm. “Our sweet (Y/N) has a secret admirer!”
“Wonder who it could be,” Draco said as he flicked his fingers in motion to hand him the letter. 
You complied, and passed the note to him. 
“I don’t know,” he said as he flipped it all around. “The handwriting sort of looks familiar.”
“Maybe it’s someone you know?” Theo suggested as he grabbed the letter from Draco’s hands. He took it upon himself to check it out a time or two before passing it to Mattheo’s eager grasp.
“I think it’s kind of funny,” Mattheo chuckled. “What if it’s some first year trying to make their move on you?”
You shuttered. “Merlin, I sure hope not. I honestly don’t think a first year would be able to write something so beautiful.”
“Yeah, no way,” Pansy shook her head. “Mattheo, you’re just jealous you weren’t the one who sent (Y/N) this letter. Maybe she’d give you a chance if you did something romantic, or just not annoying for once.”
“First,” Mattheo said, “ouch. Second, who says I’m not the one who wrote (Y/N) this love letter?”
“Mattheo, you wouldn’t know romance if it hit you with a ten foot pole.” Pansy said. 
“Hey!” Mattheo complained. “Someone tell her I’m romantic.”
“Hell no,” Draco scoffed. “You’re ‘bout as romantic as bloody boil, mate.” 
You laughed as Mattheo scrunched his face up. The bells chimed signaling the end of breakfast and the start of first class. 
“I’m not too worried about it,” you said as you stood and started packing your stuff up. “It’s just a little letter. No harm in it.”
“But you don’t want to know who sent it?” Pansy asked as she grabbed her belongings as well. 
You shrugged, “I don’t know yet. I’m not silly enough to expect something to come from this; it’s just a note. It could be a prank for all we know.” 
“No one who writes like that is doing it as a prank,” Theo remarked. 
“Well, still, whatever the reason may be, I’m not gonna go out looking for this person. No matter how sweet the words are.” You smiled, “I’m gonna head to class, bye guys.”
On your way to class, you couldn’t help but recite the words written in the letter. They had made your heart flutter, as stupid as that sounds. You slightly resented the way it made you feel as it was only a few measly words on paper, but the romantic part of you couldn’t help but want to know who was behind them. 
✰  ✰  ✰
In your last class of the day, you finally were able to see your good friend Luna Lovegood. You had been waiting all morning to have class with her so you can inform her of the letter you received that morning. 
“And it was just so poetic, Luna. No one has ever said anything like that about me before.”
She smiled at you as you mindlessly drew on your assignment. “I think it sounds quite lovely. Do you have any idea who it may be from?”
You shook your head. “No idea. I don’t even think I know anyone who writes, well, anything.” 
“What about that boy Enzo you always hang out with?” Luna suggested. “I’ve got him in my literature class, he’s very talented.”
You thought to yourself for a second. Could it be possible Enzo was your secret admirer? You’d been friends for so long, and he’d always be especially kind to you.
Well, he’s especially kind to everyone, now that you think about it. 
“I don’t know,” you honestly replied. “I guess I just never would have expected it to be one of my friends, let alone Enzo.”
“I wouldn’t rule out your group of friends,” Luna said with a smile, “it could really be any one of them.” 
“You think so?” 
“Well, maybe not all of them, but I think it could be a good place to start if you were wanting to figure out who it is.”
As you pondered over Luna’s words, Slughorn made it a point to reiterate there was no talking allowed during the assignment. 
You rolled your eyes and got back to work, waiting for this class to be over so you could finally figure out who wrote you the letter. 
✰  ✰  ✰
Back in the common room you saw Pansy, Draco, and Enzo sitting on the couches. 
“Hey, (Y/N/N)!” Pansy smiled as she scooted over and patted the spot next to her. “Find out anything new about your secret admirer?”
You smiled with a roll of your eyes as you sat with her. You kicked your shoes off and folded your legs under your body. “No, but I think I’ve got an idea brewing of how to find them.”
“Oh,” Draco smirked from the couch across from you. He folded his arms over his chest, “do tell, (Y/N), I’m very curious to see who it could be.” 
You shook your head, teasingly, “not a chance, Malfoy. I’m not giving up my secrets til I get to the bottom of this thing.” 
Draco raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, doll, if you wanna be secretive about your already secret admirer, I respect it.”
Enzo shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably. “It’s kind of strange though that they went out of their way to write something to you but kept it a secret. It just makes me a little apprehensive.”
“Oh, chill out, scaredy cat,” Pansy said. “(Y/N) will be fine, and if it’s someone weird at least she’s got us to look out for her.”
You grinned and wrapped your arms around Pansy’s neck. “Quit getting all sweet on me, Pans.”
She chuckled and playfully pushed you away. “Yeah, yeah. I’m not getting sweet, don’t get it twisted.”
You chuckled. “I think I’m gonna head up, got lots of scheming to get to,” you teased with a wiggle of your eyebrows. 
You stood up from the couch and Pansy stood with you. “Farewell, boys, it’s been awful as usual.” She said with a smirk. 
“Thank Salazar you’re leaving,” Draco said to her. “Your presence was such a nuisance.” 
Pansy snarled at him and dramatically turned away to head up the stairs. You and Enzo shared a short laugh before you followed her up the stairs to your shared bedroom. 
✰  ✰  ✰
The next morning, you were last to the dining hall for breakfast. 
“Finally, she makes it,” Mattheo called out before taking a swig of his orange juice. 
You huff and settle into your seat between Enzo and Pansy. “I know, I overslept something horrible this morning.”
Since you were so late, the kitchen staff had already stopped serving breakfast meaning you were going without this morning. 
Theo glanced at you from across the table and pushed his plate towards you. “Here,” he said, “take anything you want.”
You looked down at saw scrambled eggs, french toast, and sausage links on his plate. 
“Really?” You grinned as you grabbed a sausage link from his plate. 
Theo nodded, “yeah, can’t have you go without eating. Lord only knows what a monster you can be without food.” He teased with a small smirk. 
You crinkled your nose up at his and grabbed a piece of french toast as well. “I’m gonna let that slide since you were nice enough to give up your breakfast. Don’t make me regret my kindness.”
Theo chuckled and pulled his plate back to him, glancing up at you before delving back into his plate. 
Mattheo tried to reach his hand over to Theo’s plate but was met with a slap on the wrist. 
“Ow!” Mattheo said as he cradled his wrist in fake hurt. “Theo, how could you? I thought we had something special.”
Theo rolled his eyes. “You got more food on your plate then the rest of us combined. I think you’ll be alright.”
You chuckled, but a thought crept into your mind. “Hey, guys, uh, did the post come today?” You asked. 
Draco raised his eyebrow with a smirk. “Waiting for another letter, are we?”
Your face burned as you shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know. I kinda wanna get to the bottom of who it is.” 
“You’ll find ‘em, (Y/N/N),” Pansy said, “even if I have to interrogate everyone we know. We’ll get down to the bottom of it.” 
Just as she said that, the morning owl came swooping down towards you and dropped a small slip of paper in front of you. 
Draco smirked, “Looks like someone really wants your attention, (Y/N/N).”
You tried to hold back your smile as you unfolded the small post it note. 
You couldn’t help the smile on your face as you read out to them, “'I love to see you smile, especially when you’re smiling at me.’ Aw, that’s kind of sweet, actually.”
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to get sweet for this mystery man,” Blaise interrupts. 
You shrug as you fold the note back up. “I don’t know, it is pretty sweet, no? And this must mean it’s someone I know personally because they said I smile at them.”
“Oh Godric,” Mattheo grinned, “you’ve fallen for a mystery man.”
“No I haven’t!” You protest. “I just think it’s sweet and now I know it’s someone I’m friends with and not some creepy first year.” 
“Wait,” Theo said, “how do you know it’s someone you’re friends with?”
“Because it says I smile at them,” you said obviously. “Who else do I smile at?”
“(Y/N), I hate to break it to you,” Pansy said as she placed a hand on your shoulder, “but you’re the most smiley slytherin I’ve ever met.”
You shrugged off her hand with a fake glare. “Hey! Give me some credit, I can be bad sometimes.”
Enzo chuckled, this is the first time he spoke all conversation. “You’re too sweet to be bad, (Y/N/N).”
You grinned and playfully bumped your shoulder against his. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I just know it’s someone I know. I can feel it. It’s not some random person, it can’t be.” 
The bell rang, signaling the end of breakfast. You and your friends stood up to leave. You couldn’t help but think about the notes you received, pondering on who it could possibly be. 
✰  ✰  ✰
“Post is running late this morning,” Draco noted as the clock struck 8:26 with no sight of the morning owl. 
You were a tad disappointed. You had pondered all day yesterday about who it could be. You’ve narrowed it down quite a bit, and you think Luna may be on to something. While you don’t exactly think for sure that it’s Enzo, you do think you’ve narrowed it down to your group of close friends. 
You really just can’t see anyone else knowing you well enough to be this fascinated with you. The only one out of your friend group that you completely had ruled out is Blaise. 
Blaise was definitely out because out of the whole friend group, he was the least close with you. Frankly, you guys just don’t talk nearly as much as you talk to the rest of them. 
“Great,” Mattheo gruffed, “how will I be entertained this morning without (Y/N)‘s secret stalker and his confession of love.”
Okay, maybe Mattheo was out too. 
“Oi,” Theo piped up. “Don’t knock it too hard, (Y/N) seems to be enjoying herself with the letters.” 
You blushed a little as you shrugged. “I don’t want to seem weird by how invested I am in it, but I just think it’s sweet. No one’s ever really expressed this kind of feeling for me, so
 you know,” you shrugged awkwardly, your face definitely beet red by now. 
“Well I for one am extremely invested in this,” Pansy said. “I’m lowkey jealous that I’m not the one with a secret admirer. What I wouldn’t give for someone to think of me that way.” 
“Maybe someday someone will like you, Pansy,” Enzo said reassuringly. 
“We might all be dead by the time that happens, but who knows, it might happen,” Mattheo said. 
Pansy gasped with a glare. “Wow what crawled up your ass this morning?”
Mattheo shrugged and focused his attention back to his breakfast plate. 
“Anyway,” Draco said, “I’m intrigued as well. I think I’ve got an idea who it could be, but I'm not quite positive.” 
You parked up at that. “Really? Who’s your guess?”
Draco smirked, “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He teased. 
You glared at him, “Malfoy, if you know who it is you better spill.”
“I’m not saying I know who it is, I’m just saying I have a hunch at who it may be.”
“Oh!” Enzo exclaims as he points up in the air, “here comes the owl.”
You grin in anticipation as the owl drops a little note down in front of you. It was a larger note than yesterday, but this time it didn’t have something sweet written on it. 
It had a clue. 
“It just says ‘being your friend is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, though I’d be lying if I said i didn’t want to be more.’” You read. 
“So it is one of you!” Pansy shouted as she pointed her finger towards everyone at the table. 
Draco smirked, “that was my hunch. ‘Had a feeling it was one of these blokes.”
“And who says it’s not you, Malfoy?” Mattheo questioned with a raise of his brow. 
“Please,” Draco scoffed, “if I wanted to woo (Y/N) she’d be mine by now.” 
“Oh big talk from down that end,” Pansy rolled her eyes. 
“I could get anyone I want,” Draco puffed his chest. “I don’t need to be anonymous to do so.” 
“Hey, don’t hate on my letters, Draco.” You complained. “Least they got the balls to say something.” 
“Barely counts as having balls when they won’t even say who they are.” Mattheo countered. 
You huffed as your table fell into somewhat of a silence. Conversations picked up without you as your thoughts trailed off. 
Theo had been extremely quiet this entire time. While he was never the chatter bug, it was odd having gone almost the entire breakfast without hearing from him. 
As everyone else was engaged in conversation, you stared at the boy sitting across from you. His head was down as he played with his breakfast, pushing it around with his fork. 
You lightly kicked his leg under the table. 
Theo’s head perked up. His eyes stared into yours, and for a moment, you couldn’t remember what you wanted to say to the boy. 
His eyebrow raised in question as a small smirk glazed his lips. 
You blushed a little. “I-uh just wanted to see if you were alright. You didn’t really say too much the whole time we’ve been here.”
Theo shrugged as his smile dropped. “yeah, just don’t got too much input.” 
Your heart swelled. You really had turned each morning to revolve around you and your secret pen pal. 
“Sorry, Theo. I didn't mean to annoy you with all my talk of the letters.”
He shook his head. “You could never annoy me, doll.” 
Your heart beat like crazy. 
“Still, though, I feel bad about how much I’ve put into this. Let’s talk about something else.” You offered, “how’s class going?”
Theo chuckled and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Shit. I’m drowning in assignments and got two quizzes coming up that I’m just not ready for.” 
The bell rang. 
Theo groaned. “Got one next class. I think I might skip, though. Give myself some more time to prepare for it.”
As everyone started walking out of the dining hall, you grabbed Theo’s arm and pulled him back. 
His eyes widened slightly, but quickly reverted back to normal. 
“Maybe I‘ll skip with you,” you said, “if you’ll have me, that is. I can help you study. What class is it?”
Theo hesitated. “It’s, uh, herbology. ‘m not very good with plants and all that.”
You grinned, “I can help! I’m not too bad with flowers and plants.”
Theo nodded, “yeah, I could really use the help.”
“Okay, you wanna go to the library then?”
Theo shook his head. “I’ve got a good spot. Come on.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you with him. 
You followed him all the way out to the courtyard towards the opposite end of the school. You walked until you reach a large bench with intricate designs on the backing and arm rests. 
Theo took a seat. “Figured this would be good as any. Least now we can look at some plants up close, eh?”
You chuckled and took a seat next to him. “Yeah, sounds great, Theo. You got your textbook?”
He nodded and dug through his bag to pull it out. Once he handed it to you, you started flipping through the pages to get to the important material. 
“I’ve got the herbology exam 4th period, so I can help you study and it’ll help me study too! Win, win.”
Theo grinned and ran a hand through his hair. “Sounds good, doll.”
Your cheeks blushed. You couldn’t help the smile that graced your face. “I like when you call me doll.”
Your smile dropped. “Oh, geez, I did not mean to say that out loud.”
Theo’s face remained blank. That just made you more nervous. 
“Great, now I’ve weirded you out.” You exasperated. “I’m really sorry, Theo, I didn’t mean to-“
“I’m not weirded out, doll.” He cut you off. “Was just a little stunned is all. Didn’t expect you to say something like that.”
You thought your face couldn’t get any hotter than it already was, but somehow it did. 
“Well, still,” you mumbled as you looked down at the textbook again, “sorry.”
Theo sat for a minute, watching as you flipped through the book. Your eyebrows furrowed a little in aggravation. You were annoyed at yourself for how stupid you were being. It was Theo for Salazar sake. 
Though, you couldn’t help but admire the boy. He was gorgeous, for one, but he was also charming and witty. He was sweet and generous. You couldn’t deny you were attracted to him, but you had never thought he would see you in the same light. 
“(Y/N)?” Theo called. 
You looked up into his eyes. 
Theo stared at you, taking in each one of your features. Your eyes, your lips, your nose. You shifted a little, way too aware of his gaze on you. 
“Theo?” You called back. His gaze shifted back to your eyes. 
Before you could say anything, he softly spoke, “I’m the one sending you those letters, (Y/N/N).” 
You stared at him in shock. 
No way. 
“Y-you’re the one who wrote me the letters?” 
He slowly nodded his head. Theo’s lip was drawn in between his teeth. “Is, uh, are you disappointed?”
“What?” you exclaimed. 
He shrugged, “I mean, you just really seemed to like the letters, and I know you wanted to know who it was, so I just hope I haven’t disappointed you in the revelation.”
You shook your head. “Actually, it’s quite the opposite.”
Theo’s head shot up to look at you. “Really?”
You smiled and nodded. “Mhm, I like you Theo. I have for a while now, actually, I just thought you’d never give a chance.”
He laughed. “You thought I’d never give you a chance? I thought you’d never give me a chance.”
You laughed loudly together. When it finally subsided to quiet chuckles, you said,  “I really like you, Theo.”
Theo’s smile grew. In a quick moment, he grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you in for a kiss. 
You gasped against his lips, and wrapped your arms around his neck as you kissed him back. His textbook fell off your lap as he pulled you closer by the waist. 
You kissed him until you couldn’t kiss anymore. Finally pulling back, Theo’s grin was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, even with his lips a little puffy from your kiss. 
“I really like you, Theodore.”
He grinned, “I really like you, more (Y/N).”
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lynxgriffin · 2 months ago
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Eldritchrune - Kris's Birthday
Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost
Close to the end of their journey, Kris has a small celebration with the beasts, and reflects some on both their past with their brother, and the light world ahead.
(Reminder that I draw these scenes out of chronological order!)
YAY managed to get another part done! This one won the poll, so had to go with it first! At least Kris finally gets a nice, happy moment with all the beasts they've recruited!
Alt text under the read more:
Page 1
Panel 1 - Wide opening shot. Kris sits facing Ralsei, with the rest of the Fun Gang surrounding them. The Gang now consists of Susie, Noelle, Lancer, Berdly, Catti and Jockington, and Monster Kid. The Fun Gang have set up camp in a hollow crater, the landscape around them rocky and barren. Everyone is lit solely by the glow of a campfire in the center of the crater. Ralsei addresses Kris: “Get plenty of rest, Kris.”
Panel 2 - Medium shot of Kris and Ralsei, still across from each other with the fire between them. Ralsei continues, “Tomorrow we face the last bound god before the Dark Fountain
it’ll be our toughest fight yet!” Kris responds, “Yes. I understand.” They stare into the fire.
Panel 3 - Closeup on a happy Ralsei as he holds up one claw. “And since we’re so close to the end
”
Panel 4 - “...I thought I’d conjure up a special surprise for you!” Ralsei moves his claws, and magically congeals a plate, food and frosting all together in a swirling center.
Panel 5 - Ralsei holds up the finished object in front of the fire: a small frosted cake, topped with strawberries. “SURPRISE! Happy birthday, Kris!” he declares with a broad smile.
Page 2
Panel 1 - Ralsei holds the cake up in the foreground. Kris looks at it in surprise. Behind them, Susie and Noelle look on with interest. “Wow! Is today really your birthday, Kris?” Noelle asks.
Panel 2 - Closeup on Kris. They scratch at their head in confusion, and respond, “I
 Is it? I’ve lost track of the days since arriving here
”
Panel 3 - Medium shot as Ralsei happily hands the cake to Kris, who takes it. He says, “Well, I’m not sure if it’s exactly today. But by my estimates you should have had one by now! So now is as good a time as any!”
Panel 4 - A wider upshot as Kris takes the cake, and the beasts watch. Berdly leans in closer, curious, and asks, “What do you humans do on these ‘birth-days,’ as you call them?”
Kris replies, “Well, typically
you eat cake, or some other sweet treat, and you spend time with your friends and family.”
Panel 5 - Kris stares into the fire again, and continues, “And usually, they also give you gifts.” Behind them, as if in abstract shadow, is an image of a younger Kris surrounded by the other Dreemurrs, all smiling. It seems to be a memory of a past birthday.
Page 3
Panel 1 - Closeup of Kris still looking into the fire, their eyes hidden by their hair. A shadow seems to fall over them. The memories of happier times still hurt.
Panel 2 - Lancer pipes up: “Ya got the cake and friends part right here!” Kris turns to see Lancer and Susie smiling at them, and gives a small smile back.
Panel 3 - Noelle leans in over Kris as well, her head taking up most of the panel. She says, “Sorry, we don’t have any gifts for you
but two out of three isn’t bad, right?”
Kris’s smile broadens a little, and they reply, “No, it is not.”
Panel 4 - Kris pulls out a smaller knife

Panel 5 - And in a shot focused on the cake, begins to slice the cake into equal pieces with the knife.
Panel 6 - Kris offers a piece to Catti, who happily licks it up. “Tasty.”
Panel 7 - Kris tosses a piece across the fire to Berdly, who catches it in his mouth. “Thanks, Kris!”
Panel 8 - Kris turns around and tosses another piece into Susie’s open jaws. “Hell yeah, cake!” she says, excited.
Page 4
Panel 1 - A wide shot as the whole Fun Gang sit around the fire, enjoying their cake slices, small as they are. Kris works on eating their own slice. Noelle says, “That was good! 
Do you think there’ll be lots more cake in the light world?”
Panel 2 - Medium shot of Kris, who turns to look up at Noelle. “Yes, there are. But I would have thought you’d be interested in the humans more,” they say around a mouthful of cake.
Panel 3 - Noelle looks off to the right, and responds, “Sure, I’ll have some, if they’re soft
 I don’t like the hard bits, like armor and bones.”
Panel 4 - Wider shot as Noelle leans back against Susie, snuggling into her side. “I mostly want to get to the Light World and quiet this feeling in my mind
once I do that, I’ll be happy,” She says.
Susie grins, and says, “More for me, then! I can’t wait to get to the Light World and all that food
”
Page 5
Panel 1 - Susie rests her head on the ground, and continues, “I’m gonna eat up all those humans and finally feel full!” She smiles and licks her lips at the thought. Lancer sits just nearby.
Panel 2 - Wider shot of all the beasts around the fire. Across from Susie, sitting in a loaf, Catti says “Greedy.”
“Oh come on, like you aren’t excited for the food!” Susie responds with an annoyed look.
Panel 3 - Medium shot as Catti looks up towards the dark clouds above them, grinning broadly. Behind her, Jockington also looks Skyward, his body wiggly. Catti says, “Not just that. Open skies. Sun. Fresh smells. New magic.” Jockington adds, “It’s been, way too long since we, learned a new technique!”
Catti reiterates: “Lots of things. Looking forward to them.”
Panel 4 - Wider shot as Kris turns to Monster Kid, who’s been quiet this whole time. They’re mostly buried underground, but their tail is currently out of their mouth. Kris asks them, “You’re looking forward to leaving the Dark World, too?” They reply, “Y-yeah, Kris! I wanna eat some humans too, but
also wanna be someplace niver, y’know?”
Panel 5 - Closeup on Monster Kid’s face as they continue: “Here it’s really hard to find food. And it’s so dark and cold, and e-everyone’s trying to fight each other
 I hate it, yo.”
Page 6 
Panel 1 - Wide downshot of the whole Fun Gang huddled together in the empty crater. The barred landscape stretches out around them. Berdly looks to the skies, and says, “Yes, it’s true. The terrain here is so bleak and devoid of sidequests.”
Panel 2 - Closeup on Berdly as he smiles, looking excited and proud. “But if the Light World has as many humans as you say, I’ll be able to max out my volume in no time!”
Panel 3 - Susie looks away and sticks out her tongue, clearly annoyed at the prospect. “Oh goody, we’re aaaall excited for that
”
Berdly, not picking up on her sarcasm, just continues to beam proudly. “And rightfully so!”
Panel 4 - Noelle nudges her enormous nose against Kris’s back, and says, “We’re all really excited to see the Light World with you, Kris.”
Kris turns back towards her slightly, and smiles. “Me too.”
Panel 5 - Kris reaches around the fire to hand the now empty plate back to Ralsei, who takes it.
Panel 6 - Ralsei makes the plate vanish into shards of nothing with a wave of his claws. “Then let’s get some rest!” he says, satisfied.
Panel 7 - The small campfire is now extinguished. Only a thin wisp of leftover smoke rises from the blackened wood and coals.
Page 7
Panel 1 - A wide shot of the crater, still at night. With the campfire out, all of the eldritch beasts are now asleep. Monster Kid is buried underground. Catti is sleeping as a loaf, with Jockington resting on her back. Berdly sleeps with his head tucked under one wing. Susie and Noelle sleep snuggled up together, with Susie’s long tail curled around them. Kris lays nestled between them, long hair and shaggy fur serving as a makeshift bed. Ralsei stands off to the side.
Panel 2 - Medium shot of Kris. They lay awake between the two beasts, staring up at the sky. They look pensive.
Panel 3 - Slightly closer, Kris looks down and to their right. Ralsei asks from offscreen: “Kris! Are you feeling all right?”
Panel 4 - Downshot of Ralsei as he looks up towards Kris. He spreads his arms out in a hopeful gesture. “I know perhaps this isn’t the sort of birthday you would have had back home, but I was hoping I did okay on such short notice
”
Panel 5 - Closeup on Kris as they close their eyes. “I just
” They take a deep sigh.
Panel 6 - Kris looks up from the makeshift bed, looking sad. “I can’t remember the first birthday I had with mom and dad and Azzy anymore.”
Page 8 
Panel 1 - Shot of the dark skies above. Thick clouds silently roll across a starless expanse. “The whole day feels like it’s completely gone.”
Panel 2 - Wider shot, with Ralsei in the foreground. He still watches Kris carefully. “Oh, I see. I suppose Seam has asked for quite a few payments from you during your time here
perhaps you sold the memory?”
Panel 3 - Closeup on Kris as they squeeze their eyes shut, trying to block out budding tears.
Panel 4 - “Yes. Likely,” they say. Kris sadly holds up their left hand above their head. Their hand is missing the pinkie finger
another payment to Seam.
Panel 5 - Closeup on Ralsei as he looks downward. “I’m sorry, Kris.”
Panel 6 - Medium shot as Kris hugs themself, still nestled in the hair and fur. “Asriel would usually get me a book he thought I’d like, and I’d complain about it, but then read it cover to cover in one night. Once I learned how to read, anyway,” they say with a small smile.
Panel 7 - Low angle shot as Kris continues to reminisce, watching the dark clouds above. “Mom and dad also always got me a square of chocolate. I don’t know how they afforded it.”
Page 9
Panel 1 - In a flashback panel, Asriel and Kris sit across from each other outdoors, each leaning against trees. Simple woods surrounded them, and a lazy river rolls by just past them. Beyond the river are a few small homes and farms from the town. Kris holds an apple, while Asriel has a book and feather pen. Both are talking, looking happy. 
Kris speaks over the flashback: “Azzy and I would go and sit by the river in the summer, and he’d point out plants and animals and tell me to give them science names. Even when I said crass or foolish ones, he wrote them down and said he would petition to get the names changed.”
Panel 2 - Closeup on Kris as they look away, the memory still feeling a bit sad to them.
Panel 3 - Closeup on Ralsei, interested and responding to the stories. “Your brother sounds like a generous soul.”
Panel 4 - Kris looks down, still sad and reminiscing. “He didn’t have to be so nice to me. Everyone said he’d leave town and go do great things.”
Panel 5 - Another flashback panel, this time in Azzy and Kris’s shared room. It looks similar to their room in canon, but much older and more bare-bones, with simple wood walls. Kris sits on the edge of their bed, listening. Asriel sits on the edge of the bed, looking pensive, his cheek resting against his hand. 
Kris continues over the flashback: “But he
he told me that he didn’t like that pressure. That I was more fun to hang around than whatever great thing the town expected him to do.”
Page 10
Panel 1 - Closeup on Ralsei. He looks on, his tattered scarf flowing behind him. A curious smile crosses his face. “The way you have spoken about him, all this time
I am so curious to meet him.”
Panel 2 - Kris nestles down into the bed of fur and hair, and shuts their eyes, drifting off to sleep at last. They mumble, “Maybe
maybe soon.”
Panel 3 - Wide shot of all the beasts, asleep in the crater. Kris finally sleeps as well, tucked between Susie and Noelle. It’s dark, and quiet. In the foreground, Ralsei remains awake and watching, his back to the camera. It’s unknown what he’s thinking.  
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soaps-mohawk · 10 months ago
Text
Cherry Red, Crimson Blood
Chapter 6: One Step Closer
Summary: You're all trying to adjust to the changes happening between you and the members of your pack.
Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, some Price x Gaz
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, suggestive content, handjobs, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, language
A/N: I'm not entirely happy with this one and might come back when I feel better and do some changes, but for now, it's fine. Mostly just a filler chapter more than anything. Some sweet moments, some maybe steamy...Building up for some more exciting things coming in the next parts. Also I just wanted to clear something up, pretty much everyone in this universe is at least a little bisexual. That will make sense once you read the chapter.
MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->
(Gif found on Google)
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He curses the click of the door as it opens, making sure to go slowly so it doesn’t squeak as it’s prone to when it rains. His lips turn up in a smile as he catches a glimpse at the sight on the couch, no more than half a moment before Price’s honed senses cause him to wake at the change in atmosphere. 
He blinks tired eyes at Gaz, head lifting from where it had drooped to his chest in his sleep. He adjusts his hold on you, still asleep and unaware in the safety of your alpha’s arms. 
“Sleeping in your office again, sir?” Gaz says quietly, stepping closer to the couch. 
Price grunts quietly, shifting his hold on you so he can lift a hand to rub at his eyes. His voice is thick and gravelly with sleep as he answers. “Didn’t mean to.” 
Gaz hums, running a hand through Price’s hair as the air between them changes from Captain and Sergeant to alpha and beta. “Should get you both to bed.” 
“You take her.” Price murmurs. “She’ll forgive you easier for invading her space.” 
Gaz knows he’s right. He’d already been invited in once. His scent in your space would be less jarring than Price’s. Price carefully unravels your arms from around his neck, letting Gaz slip his arms under you to lift you off his lap. You stir slightly at the movement, letting out a quiet grumble. 
“Shh pretty girl.” Gaz shushes you, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “Just taking you to bed.” 
Price follows behind him as he carries you through the halls to your room. You’re asleep by the time he reaches your door, Price opening it for him. Gaz slips in, carrying you to your bed. He makes sure you’re comfortable, tucking the blanket around you before leaning down to kiss your forehead. 
He spares one last glance at you fast asleep before he closes the door, turning to Price. “Your turn.” 
“You gonna carry me too?” Price asks, a playful glint shining in his eyes despite the obvious exhaustion. 
Gaz huffs out a laugh. “You wish.” He puts a hand on his back, guiding Price down to his door, closest to the entry to the barracks. 
He follows the alpha into his space, meticulously clean and tidy as usual. They both blink against the harsh overhead light, Gaz leaning against the door as Price begins emptying his pockets, getting settled in his space. 
“She knelt for me tonight.” Price says as he sits at his desk to unlace his boots. 
“She’s making headway.” Gaz replies, surprised that you asked to kneel so soon. He knows how meaningful kneeling is to both alpha and omega, how intense it can be, how much trust there is involved. 
Price hums, standing to remove his pants. “I fear Laswell was right. She’s turning out to be a good fit.” 
“She’s already got Simon worked up.” Gaz smiles, moving to the dresser to fish out clean sleep clothes. “I fear she may be taking a page out of Johnny’s book.” 
“Well, if it gets him to stop torturing himself, then I can’t say I’ll complain.” Price says, pulling his shirt over his head. “You know how he is.” 
“I know.” Gaz says, holding out the clean shirt and sweatpants. “Can’t say I blame him entirely. Not after what he’s been through.” 
Price slips on the clean clothes, stepping closer to Gaz. “He’ll warm up to our girl eventually.” 
“‘Our girl?’” Gaz’s eyebrows lift as Price steps in even closer, their noses brushing. “That’s quite the jump.” 
“She’s been our girl from the start. As soon as those papers were finalized, there was no sending her back.” Price says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Gaz’s lips. “I wouldn’t put her through that. Not after everything.” 
Gaz pulls back, Staring at Price’s face. “You know something.” 
“I wouldn’t say I know anything, but I have my suspicions.” He moves past Gaz, turning off the overhead light. “I know we all do.” 
“You think she’ll tell us?” 
“I think she will, with time. I don’t want to push her into too much too soon.” He pats Gaz on the ass. “Come on, in bed.” 
“Sir, yes sir.” Gaz smirks, Price giving him a look as the beta pulls down the covers, crawling into the bed. 
Price groans internally, trying to calm the twitch in his pants at the mental picture of you, those big puppy eyes shining playfully as you saluted him. The small spark of excitement every time you call him “sir.” How easily you relaxed for him while you knelt, giving over complete trust and control to him for an hour. 
He crawls under the covers, tossing an arm over Gaz, trying to block out all the mental images flashing through his head. 
“Forget something in your pocket, sir?” Gaz says, the smirk evident in his voice.
“Shut it, Garrick.” 
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You’re jarred awake by the sound of movement in the hallway. You let out a quiet noise of indignation, letting your eyes close again. It’s too early, around the time the boys leave to go workout. You’ve been graciously given a couple days off to rest and recover, likely Price’s recommendation. You knew if it were up to Ghost, he’d force you to work through the pain. You’re glad for the break, though, and you would be even if you weren’t horribly sore. 
Your head is still spinning a bit from last night. You’re not quite sure how you made it to bed, but the faint scent of clean linen and the sea gives you an idea. You bury your face in your pillow, letting out a groan. You knelt for Price last night. You opened yourself up to that vulnerability, and he had graciously guided and supported you through it. He didn’t scruff you, even though he could have, nor was there any demand for control in his grasp, he could have easily taken it. 
He’d been a good alpha, helping you relax and destress. You feel lighter for the first time in weeks, since you found out where you were going and who your new pack was going to be. You feel lighter than you have in your entire time on this base, though that could just be the endorphins still flowing a bit from kneeling for your alpha. 
It’ll be easier to come down from it once you’re bonded, you know that. Once there’s that connection between you, and you’re around him all the time. You’ll be moving into his room, or at least you’ll spend most of your time in there. You’ll sleep in his bed with him. You wonder if he’s a cuddler, or if he prefers personal space. Would Gaz join you sometimes? You can practically feel the warmth of being sandwiched between them, battle hardened hands trailing along your bare body because you’ll be naked and well bonded with both of them. 
You bury your burning face in your pillow letting out a muffled, quiet scream at the thoughts your mind is conjuring. You feel hot, warmth pooling in your stomach. There’s no going back to sleep now, you know that. 
You get up, rushing to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face and erase the thoughts in your head. It’s entirely natural, having these thoughts. You will get to that place, very soon, with Price. The others could pursue that sort of relationship with you as well, if they wanted to. It will likely happen naturally with Gaz, given his bond with Price, and after your kiss with Soap...
You’re not sure if it would happen with Ghost, or if he would allow it. You can’t help but think about yesterday, how easily he had overpowered you with just his scent. You had been scared, as it was your nature to be when an alpha was posing a direct threat to you, but the way he had looked hovering over you, the feeling of him pressed against you when he’d pinned you to the floor. How easily he got you into that position. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of him pinning you down like that, or better, pinning you against Soap, his hand on the back of your neck. 
You splash cold water on your face, holding your breath until your lower body stops pulsing in time with your heart. You let out a quiet curse, focusing on getting ready for the day before grabbing your book and heading for the rec room to try and calm yourself. 
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“You’re up early, love.” 
You jump at the voice, lowering your book as you look up from your spot stretched out on the couch. Gaz is standing there, skin dewy with sweat. They must have just returned from their morning workout, heading in to shower and get ready for the day. Gaz must have noticed your scent and followed it. 
“Couldn’t get back to sleep.” You explain as he moves closer to the couch. “Gaz!” You shriek as he crawls over you, dropping his body on top of yours. “You’re all sweaty!” 
“You can shower later.” He says, resting his face against your chest, his elbows pressed into the cushions so he’s not completely squishing you with his weight. 
“You should be showering now.” You say, trying not to breathe in too much of his scent. It’s heavily tainted with the scent of sweat and musk. 
“Then we can shower together.” He murmurs, nuzzling his face further into your chest. 
Your face warms, your heart rate picking up at his teasing. The thought of being enclosed in the shower with him, such a small space, packed in together. Skin to skin, bare before each other. You might implode beneath him, warmth beginning to travel down your spine after your thoughts earlier. 
“Relax.” He murmurs with a grin, obviously picking up the quickening of your heart rate and the change in your scent. “I’m teasing.” 
He’s just as bad as Soap, but not quite as blatant with it. While Soap would tease at any open opportunity, Gaz tended to choose his moments wisely, slipping some teasing remark in when you least expected it. 
Gaz goes quiet as he lays there, his breathing steady. You mark your page before reaching up to set the book on the arm of the couch. You can’t help yourself as you run your fingers through his short cropped, damp curls, gently scratching at his scalp. He makes a quiet noise, his body getting heavier. 
“Gaz?” You murmur, earning a grunt in response. “Are you falling asleep?” 
“Can’t help it.” He murmurs. “So comfy.” 
Your cheeks warm as he nuzzles into your chest, letting out a content sigh. You fight the urge to release one of your own, feeling warm and content even pressed against the lumpy cushions of the couch. How easy it is to find comfort even in the most uncomfortable places. 
It doesn’t have to be uncomfortable. 
Your heart rate kicks up again, hand stilling where it had been scratching Gaz’s scalp. You’re allowed to want. You asked yesterday and nothing bad happened. 
“Gaz?” You murmur, trying to fight the nervous twisting of your stomach. “Would you...if I wanted something, would you get it for me, even if it’s stupid?” 
Gaz shifts on top of you, knees pressing into the couch as he pushes himself higher so you’re face to face. One of his legs is between yours, holding him up so he doesn’t squish you under his weight. 
He stares down at you, blinking the haze of sleep from his dark eyes. “Babygirl, I’d take over the world for you if that’s what you wanted.” 
Your lips part in surprise at his answer. You’re not entirely sure he’s allowed to say something like that, even as a joke. The sentiment of it is not lost on you, and you find tears prickling the backs of your eyes. 
His arms shift beneath you, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Tell me what you want.” 
You stare up into those big, sweet, dark eyes. Gaz radiates a kindness and calmness like you haven’t felt in a long time. Not that the others aren’t kind, even in Ghost and his aggressiveness, you’ve felt the protective drive within him. It wasn’t based on any claim or sense of ownership, even a sense of duty couldn’t bring forward that kind of reaction. But Gaz...there’s just something so soft and gentle despite the danger he could pose. 
“Kiss me.” You blurt out, realizing you’ve been staring for far too long. 
Gaz stares down at you, a grin slowly spreading on his lips. “Just that? Here I thought you were gonna say something impossible like world domination.” 
“Well, if you’re offering...” You shrug. 
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Probably shouldn’t be making those jokes.” He leans down closer. “Though, if you asked nicely...” 
You let out a quiet sound as his lips press against yours. They’re just as soft as they look, pressing against yours so gently and softly. Your arms lift to his shoulders, curling into the fabric of his shirt. He coaxes your lips to move with his, copying his movements as he tilts his head slightly. 
Warmth blooms beneath your skin as he kisses you, your head spinning. His scent invades your nose, seeping into your very being. You want to curl up in it, let it surround you like a warm blanket. You catch the whiff of something deeper, the scent of damp earth. Price. You have a sudden urge to pull his shirt collar to the side, to stare at the mark that decorates his scent gland at the base of his throat, a mirror of the one you’ll carry in a few short weeks. 
“Ye didnae tell me ye were startin’ a cuddle pile!” 
An excited voice causes you both to separate, Gaz barely managing to lift himself up enough so that you don’t get squished when Soap practically jumps on his back. 
“Bloody hell, mate,” Gaz grunts. “Tryna squish our poor omega?” 
The weight above you shifts before Soap’s head appears over Gaz’s shoulder, a wide grin on his face. “Mornin’ hen!” 
“For someone so small, you weigh a ton.” Gaz says with a strain to his voice as sweat breaks out across his forehead from keeping his weight and Soap's off of you.
“I'm no that small.” Soap says, an offended tone to his voice as he goes limp on top of Gaz. 
You can't help but giggle at their antics, especially as Gaz pushes himself up to a kneeling position, nearly sending Soap rolling to the floor. Your face is warm from your giggling as they both stand, playfully pushing each other. 
“Alright, enough you two.” Price's voice cuts through their playful arguing, amusement shining in his eyes as he leans on the doorframe. “Almost time for breakfast.”
“Come on.” Gaz says, taking your hands and helping you up. “Let's get some pancakes in you before you turn into one.”
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“You should try courting her.” Kyle says, scrolling through his phone as he lounges on John's bed. “Like old-fashioned courting.”
“What are you on about?” John grumbles, drying his face with a towel. 
“Our little omega. You should try courting her.” Kyle repeats, looking over his phone at John. 
John tosses his towel into his hamper before approaching the bed. Kyle lets his eyes rake over his form, his strong arms and soft stomach, thick, strong thighs and the prominent bulge at the front of his briefs. 
“It would be worth a try.” Kyle continues, letting John pull the phone from his hands. “Omegas love that shit.” 
“And what prompted this thought?” John asks, laying down on his side next to Kyle, pulling the younger man closer. 
“She's getting all worked up by us now.” He says, biting back a groan as John trails a hand over his side. “She's kissed Soap and I so far. Got all worked up when I teased her about showering together this morning.” His hand trails through John's short hair as John licks at his throat. “I think she'd enjoy a little attention from her alpha.”
“What do you have in mind?” John murmurs before sinking his teeth into the soft skin of Kyle's throat. 
Kyle shrugs, letting out a gasp as John bites at his throat. “Take her out for dinner? Buy her some things for her room? Give in to those alpha cravings a bit.”
John lets out a low growl, pinning Kyle on the bed beneath him. Kyle's lips lift in a smirk, fingers lifting to run through John's beard. His thumb drags across John's lower lip, gaze soft as he stares up at the alpha. 
“You won't ruin anything by doing it. There's only so much time until her heat. If I were an alpha, I'd want her to be as comfortable as possible before then. Makes the shift into bonded pack life much easier.” Kyle says. 
John leans down until their noses brush, groaning softly as Kyle digs his fingers into his shoulders. He knows Kyle is right. He should make an effort with you, at least try to ensure you're as comfortable around him as possible before he claims you. Most alphas wouldn't have waited for the first heat, wouldn't have even waited a week before claiming, before taking their omega to bed. He doesn't want to be like those alphas. He doesn't want to force you into more than you already have been, more than you will be. 
He wants things to happen as naturally as possible, but that doesn't mean he can't try. 
Kyle leans up, closing the distance between them and kissing him. He presses his beta back into the mattress, nipping harshly at his lips. Their tongues tangle together, tasting like peppermint toothpaste and something distinctly alpha and beta. 
John presses his body closer to Kyle's groaning as his half hard cock drags against Kyle's. Kyle moans into his mouth as John begins grinding against him. Their bodies move together, a familiar dance they've both memorized the steps to. 
John groans as Kyle's fingers trail down his back, blunt nails biting into the skin. Breathy moans slip from kiss-bruised plump lips as John kisses down Kyle's throat. Calloused fingers slip under the waistband of John's briefs, teasing the soft supple skin beneath. John grinds down against him harder, dragging his leaking cock against Kyle's twitching one. 
“Fuck, Cap.” Kyle groans, bucking up against his alpha. “Lemme feel you.”
John wraps his arms around Kyle, flipping them over so he's on top. Kyle makes quick work of his boxers, tugging John's briefs down roughly. He groans, licking his lips at the sight of his alpha's leaking cock. 
“Like what you see, pup?” John asks, lips lifting in a smirk. 
“Fuck yes.” Kyle breathes, settling himself on John's thighs. 
He leans down, wrapping a hand around both his and John's cocks. John groans as Kyle begins stroking them both, his cock twitching as more precum slips from his tip. He's close, the pent up frustrations from the last couple days along with the tantalizing scent of omega driving him to near insanity. 
He feels like he might pop a knot as Kyle picks up the pace, one hand braced against his chest, his hips rocking in short thrusts. His head falls back as his orgasm slams into him, hit cum spurting across his stomach. Kyle groans loudly, frantically pumping his own cock as he reaches his peak, spurting his spend across his alpha's stomach too. 
“Made quite the mess, Sergeant.” John says, trailing his fingers through the mix of cum on his stomach. 
“Would you like me to clean it up, sir?” Kyle smirks, opening his mouth to allow John's fingers to push in. 
His tongue swirls around his thick fingers, lapping them clean. Kyle shifts on top of him, bending down and trailing his tongue across John's stomach, licking up their mess. 
“Good boy.” John hums, gently cradling the back of Kyle's neck. 
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The sky is dark as you make your way from your room. Gaz and Price are nowhere to be found, your cheeks warming at the thought of where they could be and what they could be up to. You take a breath to steady yourself, and your scent, before you head into the rec room. Soap and Ghost are there, Soap on the opposite end of the couch as usual, and Ghost in the chair next to the couch that faces the door. 
He sees you first, his shoulders squaring just a bit. Soap turns to the doorway, a typical grin splitting his face when he sees you. It’s been a while since you’ve seen anyone be happy to see you, and you can’t deny that Soap’s joy is a bit contagious. He’s like an excited puppy. You can imagine if he had a tail, it would be wagging non-stop. 
“Come tae join us, hen?” He asks, holding out a hand. 
Ghost’s eyes are sharp as they stare at you, the silent warning not lost. You’re infringing on their space, infringing on his protective circle around his beta. You’re pushing a boundary and that could be dangerous. 
It could be. 
You move forward, taking Soap’s hand, letting him tug you down next to him on the couch. You ignore the eyes burning into you, boring holes into your skin as you settle in as close to Soap as you can. You almost smile in victory as Soap drapes his arm across the back of the couch, your attention turning to whatever is playing on the TV. 
Ghost and Soap continue their conversation, Soap's fingers brushing your arm every so often. You can feel every time Ghost's burning gaze turns to you, every time he glowers at you for being so close to his beta. You can't help but wonder what's going through his mind, what he's thinking, what he's imagining. 
You'll pay for this later. 
You can only imagine how he'll punish you in your training for boldly breaching such an obvious boundary. 
Soap doesn't seem to notice, or perhaps he simply doesn't care. It's not like you're not allowed to be close to Soap. As a member of your new pack, he had every right to pursue a bond with you if he wanted, regardless of how Ghost felt. Even though they're bonded, Soap is still his own person. 
It's almost ironic. 
You're starting to feel the exhaustion of your early morning as the night drags on, your head getting heavier and heavier. Ghost's need to glower at you has lessened a bit, his eyes only on you whenever you shift or move. Your head has drooped onto Soap's shoulder, an idea forming in your mind. You're sure it's the exhaustion making you so bold, or perhaps your new belief that the only way you'll even stand a chance at getting through to Ghost is to push those boundaries and stand up to him.
You lift your head, shifting your body until you're laying on the couch, resting your head on Soap's thigh. You watch Ghost's hands curl into fists where they rest on his lap, his eyes burning through your head as you make yourself comfortable. Soap's hand sinks into your hair, massaging your scalp as you lay there, your lips curling into a content smile. 
You know it has to be eating at him just a little. A content beta and a preening omega, an image of what he could have if he simply got over whatever is keeping him from accepting you. 
“Tired, lass?” Soap's gentle voice pulls you from your thoughts. Your mind had started to doze a bit, trailing off with your thoughts. 
You make a quiet noise in agreement, nuzzling against his thigh. 
“Let's get ye tae bed.” He says, squeezing your arm. 
You're not expecting Ghost to follow as Soap leads you from the rec room, your fingers entwined with his. Even in your tired state you can feel the icy stare at your back, the looming presence of the alpha behind you as Soap walks you to your door. 
“Night, hen.” Soap murmurs softly. 
You're sure it's the exhaustion making you delirious as you stand on your toes, pressing your lips to his in a soft kiss. Soap hums against your lips, bending down to follow you as you go to pull away. You ignore the tickling at the back of your neck as he presses another kiss to your lips, your hand reaching for your doorknob and the security of your room. 
“Night, Soap.” You murmur, slipping into your room before Ghost makes a rash decision. 
You're going to regret it later, but you certainly don't at this moment. 
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The fabric isn’t as soft as it used to be. It’s been worn too much, washed too many times. You’ve stitched the ripped seam back together, a bit sloppy but you can hardly tell thanks to the luck of finding thread the same color as the sweatshirt. You hold it in your hands, staring at the frayed edges, the loose strings. Well loved, some might call it. Garbage, others might think. 
“Finally fixing the holes?” 
The voice cutting through the silence makes you jump, your head whipping around to the door. Price is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. 
“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He says. 
“It’s alright, sir.” You say, calming your racing heart. You hadn’t even heard him approach. “I thought you were all at training.” 
“I had a call I had to take.” He says, entering the room now that you’ve calmed. “Was heading back out when I caught a whiff of your scent.” He lowers himself onto the couch with a quiet groan, staring softly at you. 
“I know it’s stupid, holding onto it when I could just ask for a new one.” You say, staring down at the sweatshirt in your hands. 
“But it’s more than just a sweatshirt.” He says, tone soft and understanding. 
You sink your teeth into your lip, fingers curling into the fabric in your hands. “One of the omegas at the institute gave it to me.” You say, holding the sweatshirt to your chest. “We were the same age so we were grouped together a lot and we got really close. She gave it to me when we reached selection age, since we both knew we were likely to get chosen fast and she wanted to give me something to remember her by. It’s a good thing she did too, because she did get chosen almost immediately.” You let out a quiet laugh, blinking back tears. “I’ve held on to it ever since. It doesn't even smell like her anymore. Hasn’t for a long time.” 
Price is quiet for a few moments, his eyes on your face. You can’t look at him, your gaze on the sweatshirt in your lap. “You loved her.” He finally says, his tone not accusing or even disgusted. 
It’s understanding. Knowing.
You take a shaky breath, hands closing into nervous fists around the sweatshirt. “Institutes try everything they can to prevent omegas from bonding with each other. Makes it too hard to separate us once we come of age. Alphas don’t want a distressed, unhappy omega, they’re expecting an eager, willing addition to their pack. It’s hard though, when you spend literal years together experiencing the same thing to not form bonds with each other.”
 Price huffs quietly. “My grandfather used to tell me about the traditional pack boom after World War 2. When militaries across the world began to forbid bonding and pack formation within ranks. They were spending more time and money on preventing it from happening than anything else. It didn’t take them long to realize it was easier to allow the organic bonds to form. It made soldiers stronger, gave them purpose. It’s easier to look away than to fight what nature intends sometimes.” He smiles at you, stretching his arm across the back of the couch. “We are the last people that will judge you for it.”
You know that. You've known that from the start. The way their scents mingle, their bonds. They're a bonded pack for a reason. 
“She never knew. Or, I never told her. I don't know where she ended up or where she is now.” You shrug, letting out a sardonic huff. “It's a lonely existence sometimes, being an omega.”
“I can only imagine.” Price says, giving you a sad smile. 
“I suppose I should just get rid of it.” You say, staring at the sweatshirt. “No use holding onto something that could have never been.” 
Price squeezes your shoulder gently. “Wait here.” 
He gets up, leaving you alone in the rec room. You wait patiently for him to return, growing a bit nervous. What was he doing? Was he telling someone about your confession? Was he going to send you back because of it? You know your worries are unwarranted, but you can't stop them. 
He returns a few moments later, a sweatshirt in his hands. “Here.” He says, holding it out to you. “They're standard issue, but I've never been one for sweatshirts. It's just been sitting in my closet.”
You take the sweatshirt, soft and new in your hands. It hardly smells like him, only the light residual scent from being in his room. “Thank you, sir.” You say, rubbing the fabric against your cheek. 
He nods at your old sweatshirt. “This way you can save that one, and start picking this one apart.” 
Your face warms at his cheeky comment, your head turning down bashfully. “It means a lot, sir. Really.” 
“You'll get better use of it than I did.” He glances at his watch. “I best be getting back to the boys. We'll be back before dinner.”
“Wait-” You get up before he can leave, slowly approaching him with the sweatshirt in hand. Your face is burning as he stares down at you, eyebrows raised in waiting. “Will you...scent it?” You hold the sweatshirt out to him.
He looks surprised for a moment before he takes the fabric, rubbing his face and neck against it. He coats the sweatshirt in his scent, the smell of trees and petrichor filling your nose as you watch him. The back of your neck begins to prickle, the desire to roll in his scent getting stronger. 
“Thank you, sir.” You say as he hands the sweatshirt back to you. “I'd...I'd also like to kneel again tonight, if that's alright.”
He smiles softly down at you. “Of course. I'll come and get you when I'm ready.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to your head before he takes his leave. 
You pull on Price's sweatshirt, burying your nose in his scent for a moment. A smile pulls at your lips as you grab your old sweatshirt, making for your room.
You can't wait for tonight. 
NEXT ->
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sunnami · 5 months ago
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❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞
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[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!
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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 confrÚre 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 tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘtes 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.) 
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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 soirĂ©e 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.
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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 LĂ©o Delibes’s Valse. CoppĂ©lia, 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, outrĂ© 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 CoppĂ©lia’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 glacĂ© 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?
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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 ingĂ©nue 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 nĂ©e 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.
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a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA
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marvelwitchergilmore · 3 months ago
Text
Surprise Marriage
Summary: Logan x Fe!Reader -> When you and Logan receive some...surprising news, it leads to a lot of unanswered questions.
Disclaimer: One or two swear words here and there. Mostly fluff, chaos, little angst, yearning, kissing and a happy ending. Not Proof Read.
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The morning, so far, had been slow for Logan. 
Which, thankfully, due to the last couple of years, wasn’t out of the ordinary. Sure, a kid or two might forget to have done their homework or the coffee filter hadn’t been changed. But other than the small, common, everyday mishaps, everything had been pretty normal. 
But somehow, when Logan woke up, something felt off. 
Maybe it was the quiet hallways, maybe it was the fact he hadn’t seen any other professors in the break room or around the school, or maybe it was the fact that when he walked into the Professor's office, everyone looked at him with
worry. 
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Logan, I think it’s best if you sit down.”
Logan looked around everybody and they all looked worried, too. Not “someone’s dead” worried, but worried enough to make him feel uneasy. 
“What’s going on?”
“Have you seen Y/n today?”
Logan shook his head. “She had a late night. She’s probably still sleeping.”
Professor X looked at Storm. “Go and get her for me, please.”
Storm nodded and made her way out of the door and towards your bedroom. Meanwhile, Logan was still confused. 
“Charles, what’s going on?”
The man took a small sigh and looked at the papers on his desk before looking back up to Logan. 
“Come on, clearly everyone else knows. What is it?”
The Professor went back and forth with himself for a minute before finally looking back up. “I suppose I should tell you. You’re married, Logan.”
Logan laughed. “Excuse me?”
“I received these papers this morning from a law firm in Oklahoma. It seems it took them a while to find an address for you both.”
“Both? What?”
“Here, take a look for yourself.” The Professor pushed the papers to the edge of his desk where Logan took them with caution and a lot of confusion. 
“What the hell? When were these even..drawn up? Better yet, who’s my wife?”
“Well, that would be the other question except-”
Just as the Professor was about to finish his sentence, the door to his office opened and Storm walked in with you not far behind. Everyone looked at you
worriedly. Like they knew something you didn’t. 
Logan looked annoyed as he flipped through a couple sheets of paper but when he saw you, he held the same expression but only for a minute then it turned into
into something else. Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 
Then you remembered. 
It had been laundry day. 
And you wore one of his shirts to bed. 
Standing in his t-shirt and some plaid pyjama shorts that you found in the back of your wardrobe, your hair down and slightly messy from having only just woken up, you looked around everyone. 
“What’s going on?”
“Well, Y/n-”
“Take a look at this.” Logan handed you the pile of paper he had been reading, and with a slightly tired and confused look, you read through it. 
What was it meant to be? A news article? A government contract? A kid’s essay who’s handwriting they couldn’t read
again?
But no. 
It was anything but. 
Well, maybe a government contract
of sorts. 
“This is a marriage licence.” You spoke aloud. “Logan, why am I looking at a marriage licence at eight in the morning? Oh my god, are Jean and Scott finally getting hitched. About time.”
“No,” Logan said. “It’s ours.”
“What?”
“It’s ours. We’re married.”
You stopped reading. Even if you had pretended to do so, all the words on the page suddenly became blocks of ink that you couldn’t make out. 
“What?”
Then the Professor started to explain. “We were hoping one of you could explain this to us, though if neither of you wish to, that’s completely fine. What happens between a husband and wife is none of our-”
“When did this even happen?” You asked Logan. 
“I don’t know.”
“A law firm in Oklahoma sent it over. Apparently it’s taken them a while to find your address.”
You thought for a moment. Yourself and Logan hadn’t been in Oklahoma for nearly ten months. And you certainly didn’t get married. At least, not from memory. 
“I need to sit down.”
Logan pushed out the chair beside him with his foot and you fell into the softer leather. You had just woken up and all of a sudden you felt like you wanted to sleep for at least a month. 
“We’re married? Are you sure it’s ours? Maybe they got the addresses mixed up and
I don’t know. Got it wrong?”
Logan leaned back and pressed his hand to the side of his face. “Flipped to the back page.”
And so you did. 
There was your name. And Logan’s. Signed and dated. 
You were married to Logan. 
Logan had become your husband as of ten months ago. 
You had become Logan’s wife. 
“I think I’m gonna puke.”
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Scott said. Jean hit him on the arm. “What?”
“Hard to not be a little offended at that.” Logan said, half under his breath, half to you. 
“Do either of you know when this happened?”
You shook your head, still trying to read the pieces of paper in front of you. When could this have-
“The library.”
“What?” 
Logan sat up. “We signed for a package. What kind of delivery company has us sign a marriage contract instead?”
“I don’t know but it had to be there. That’s the only time we ever
wrote our names, signed a piece of paper. It could have been this.”
“We would have noticed if it said “MARRIAGE LICENCE” at the top of the page.”
Then the bell rang. 
“We
should pick this up later. For now, let's just try and go about today as normal.”
You could only nod in agreement. And as everyone left, the Professor turned to both you and Logan who were sitting facing each other in your chairs. 
“I’ll give you both some time.”
Logan nodded a small thank you and waited until the door closed behind Xavier before he spoke. 
You were silent. Still processing. Your heart was like rapid fire against your chest and your vision was slowly losing focus on the paper in front of you. 
Logan pulled the paper from your hands and placed it on the desk before shuffling closer and holding onto both of your hands. 
“Hey, hey, look at me.” One of Logan’s hands came to rest by the side of your face. “Just breathe. I can hear your heartbeat from here. Just
take a deep breath.”
“We’re married, Logan.” Your voice was quieter than usual. 
“I know.”
“We’re married.”
Logan nodded. “I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“That one I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
You shrugged. “What are we meant to do? By all technicality
we’re married. Husband and Wife. According to this piece of paper, I’ve been a fraud to the government by not going by Howlett.”
“So we
we get a divorce?”
“How? Don’t there have to be
grounds for getting divorced?”
“So, we tell them it was a mistake.” Logan offered. “I’m sure we’ll be divorced as quick as we found out we were- are married.”
You could only nod. 
Logan rubbed a thumb over each of your knuckles. “Hey, we’ll be okay. It’ll all be fine. Hey, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I woke up and found out I’m a wife with a husband. That’s what’s going on. Jesus, are the lights always this bright in here?”
You covered your closed eyes with one hand, trying your best to stop the pounding in your head. 
“How can you be so calm about this?”
Logan shrugged. “Figure you’re freaking out enough for the both of us.”
That made you laugh a little. 
“Come on, we need to get to class. And you need to get dressed. Unless you want to teach in your pyjamas.”
You looked down at yourself. “Oh, yeah. Sorry about using your t-shirt. Laundry day.”
Logan smiled. “It’s okay. Keep it. It looks better on you anyway.”
Hours later, you found yourself in a pair of jeans you fished from the bottom of your semi-fresh clothes pile and decided to keep Logan’s t-shirt on. A, because it’s one of the most comfortable things you’ve worn, and B, it was the only clean top you had. 
And after spending all day teaching classes, you found yourself going through each of your dirty items and throwing them into the washing machine, being careful to make sure there were no sneaky bright or dark colours that made their way into a wash they shouldn’t have been in. 
“Hey.”
You turned to find Storm waiting by the door before walking inside. 
“Hey.”
“How are you feeling?”
“After teaching a bunch of teenagers all day? Exhausted.” You said with a small laugh. And Storm chuckled for a moment before walking around you and leaning on the wall so she was facing you as you unloaded your dirty laundry into the machine. 
“I know that feeling but that wasn’t why I was asking.”
You nodded. You knew that. “I don’t know. It’s just
new information.”
“Have you seen Logan today?”
You shook your head. “Not since this morning. Though he did leave a coffee on my desk when I got back to my classroom after lunch.”
Storm smiled. Between herself and the others (including the kids - though they were yet to find out) Storm thought the best thing to happen was for yourself and Logan to get married. Okay, maybe not in the way it happened. But it was a positive thing. 
They had been watching you and Logan for years, becoming friends, becoming teammates, trusting each other, finding your own
ways together. Like with the coffee. Logan only did that with you. Or how, despite only knowing him a week, seemed to know more about him than anyone else did. 
You were both so close with each other than some of the kids in the school had questioned your relationship status with each other. 
“Have you talked about what you’re going to do?”
“What can we do? The most reasonable, and sensible, thing to do is get a divorce.”
Storm crossed her arms. “Have you talked about maybe
staying together?”
“What?”
Storm shrugged. “It’s an idea. Maybe this is a sign telling you both that there’s something more than just friendship. I mean, going off what you’re currently wearing
that is his, isn’t it?”
You looked down. 
“It’s laundry day. He let me wear it.”
“And are you going to give it back, or did he tell you to keep it?”
You were silent and Storm watched as small patches of blush warmed your cheeks. She had her answer. 
“Look, all I’m saying is, maybe this is a sign. Maybe this is your chance to see if there is something more between you and Logan.”
“If there was, something would have happened by now.”
Oh, how Storm wished that was true. 
But sometimes it was agony watching you both together. Like how at Christmas, you fell asleep against him by the fire and Logan smiled. It wasn’t a big grin, but he smiled. Or how you were the only one Logan would let near him when he had been impaled in his shoulder by a six foot rod. Or how you looked at him. And how he looked at you right back. 
There was more than just friendship. A lot more. 
“Just think about it.”
And with that she left. And you were left wondering. 
What the hell was there to think about? You and Logan were friends, sure, but
more? Sure, when you first met him, it felt instant. Instant likeness, instant trust. And that never came easy for you. Or Logan for that matter. And, yeah, maybe once or twice you had thought something could have happened. 
Like the night in the motel room, funnily enough, in Oklahoma. 
It had been one bed and you had both woken up and turned to face each other. You had both been talking for a good twenty minutes when the conversation lulled and you were both there. You felt something. You couldn’t put your finger on it but you felt something. But everything was cut short when the owner of the Motel came to knock on the door so he could fix the leaky tap in the bathroom. 
Or like the night when you all went camping with the kids. 
Somehow, you had found yourself sharing a tent with Logan even though it had been planned for you and Storm to bunk. 
You teased Logan on how happy he was to be bunked with you and not Scott. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw him blush. Though it was probably out of embarrassment of your teasing. 
But that couldn’t have been something. It couldn’t have meant anything, could it?
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Logan turned and found the last person he expected to be standing by the door. 
“Scott?”
“Figured you’d still be awake and lo and behold, I was right.”
Logan watched as he walked inside and sat across from him. “Have you come to say something, or just be a dick the whole time?”
Scott chuckled, “Maybe a bit of both.”
Logan raised his eyebrows and took another drink. 
“Have you talked to her?” Logan knew exactly who he was talking about. But he shook his head. 
“Not since this morning.”
“Have you talked about what you’re going to do?”
“What do you want, pal?”
Well, he wasn’t being Logan if he didn’t want to skip the pleasantries. 
“I think you and Y/n should give this thing a chance.”
“Excuse me?”
Scott smirked a little. “Come on, you can’t tell me you’ve not thought about it with her. How close you two are, how you both seem to know what the other does before they even do it. And call it what you want, I think this is the perfect excuse.”
“Perfect excuse?”
“To see if something can actually happen between you two.”
“And why should it?”
“Because you’re in love with her.”
For some reason, that felt like a punch to the gut to Logan. 
“Look, bub, I know-”
“Logan, the way you look at her isn’t the way a friend looks at another friend. I’ve seen the way you look at her. We all have. From day one, that girl has been something else for you, and even if you don’t know it, the rest of us do. You’re in love with her. You always have been.”
“No, I’m-”
“You can’t deny it, Logan.” Scott told him. “Eventually something is going to snap and it might be too late. So, you’ve done the whole relationship a little backwards. So what? You’d only get divorced anyway if it doesn’t work out. But you need to do something about your feelings, Logan.”
Logan had to laugh. “I think I’d know if I was in love with someone.”
Scott sighed. Did he seriously have to paint Logan a fucking picture. 
“You make her coffee every day. You bring her lunch and sit with her every day. She is the first person you go to when you finally want to ask someone for help. And I know for a fact she is the first person you tell anything to. She knows more about you than anyone else in this building does, and that is down to you and everything you have shared with her. Anytime anyone looks in her direction, you aren’t too far behind her.”
“I saw you, that day, when the Mayor and his brother turned up at the school.” Scott continued. “The way his brother was looking her up and down
Logan you were by her side in less than ten seconds and we all saw the look you gave him. That man left the Professor’s office trembling. He also never looked in y/n’s direction again.”
“What’s your point?”
“That you were jealous, Logan. And that, for as much as you can and probably will try and deny it. You love her.”
The conversation lulled for a moment. 
“All I’m saying is at least think about it. We’ve all seen you together. Maybe it’s time you finally noticed yourself.”
Logan didn’t see you until the next day when he caught you folding laundry in your room. 
“Want some help?”
You turned around and saw him. “Sure. You can start with that pile.”
Logan entered your room, a little more awkward than usual, and started folding clothes. 
“How are you
how are you feeling?”
You shrugged. “Like normal, I guess. What about you?”
“Yeah, fine.”
IT was a slight struggle after that but conversation flowed a little easier eventually. 
That was something Logan always loved when it came to being around you. He wasn’t the biggest one for talking to people but with you, it was easy. Probably helped by the fact you could somehow change topics at lightning speed. 
Conversations with you were never, ever boring. 
Even when they were probably meant to be. 
And it wasn’t long before your fear surrounding being married
faded. 
Around a week later, a leak had sprung on one side of the school which meant having to bunk rooms for a while. Of course, all the kids went with their friends. 
But it also meant you had to bunk with someone too. 
“You can bunk with me.” Logan told you. 
You nodded. “Finally sharing a room. Wow, we’re really moving generations in this relationship.”
“After you, wife.”
This became a common theme, until the weight of the words settled down on both of you once more. 
A divorce lawyer had picked up your case. 
It would take a couple of weeks to get all the papers sorted, but yourself and Logan would be divorced by the middle of the following month. 
Like nothing had ever happened. 
Except, it just so happened, that was when something did happen. 
Scott and Storms’s words had been playing on Logan’s mind and yours. Not helped by the fact it wasn’t the last time someone held that kind of conversation with either of you. 
You found yourself in a similar conversation with Scott, whilst Logan had a similar conversation with Jean. 
And then the Professor approached you both, without the other one knowing. 
Except he hadn’t been to sit down and talk to you about it. He just made small comments in passing that left you both questioning more and more about your true feelings. 
And then Logan found you in the library one night. 
“Here you are. You didn’t come to bed so
what are you doing?”
Standing close to the top of the book ladder, you were scanning through different books with a flashlight.
“The main light is too big and the fire’s light doesn’t reach this far back.”
Logan blinked. “That
still didn’t answer my question.”
“I’ve got a new semester of lessons set out. I wanted to get a head start on finding the books needed.”
Logan looked around. “You got a list?”
You looked at him. “Logan, it’s past midnight. Go to bed.”
“That’s not what I asked. Where’s your list? I know you’ve got one.”
Sighing, you reached into your back pocket and held it out. He walked over and plucked it from your fingers. 
“There’s twenty six books on this list.”
“And I currently have three. If you still want to help, any that you find, just place them on the table behind the sofa.”
And so he did. 
By two in the morning, you’d both found twenty three books in total. Just three more left. 
“Is this the right edition?”
“Let me see.”
Logan walked over to where you were still standing on the ladder and handed it up to you. You flipped through a couple of the first pages as you slowly climbed backwards down the stairs. 
“Yeah, this is the right one. The last two should be on a lower shelf.”
As you finally reached the last few steps, you felt your foot slip and your knees crashed against the bars. Except, instead of falling backwards, or rolling with the ladder itself, Logan’s hands steadied you. 
“You alright?”
You took a second to breathe. Having your life flash before your eyes for a couple of seconds really knocks the wind out of you. 
“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed a little. “I’m fine.”
You turned in Logan’s arms and was met with his broad and solid chest as his hands held you at your waist. 
“Good,” Logan laughed a little, too. 
The sound of your life had always been like music to his ears. 
A comfort, even when the moment hadn’t been all that comfortable beforehand. 
And for that moment, time seemed to still. Any silence that had been in the room was slowly becoming defending, until your hearing focused on his breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest and the quickening of your own heartbeat. 
The flashlight that you had held in your hands had rolled somewhere onto the floor when you slipped on the ladder. 
But you had never seen Logan so
clearly. 
You had known him for so long and had even spent nights and mornings in the same bed together. But for the first time, you were committing him to memory. Part of you felt like these moments would go, once the papers came through. That even if neither of you wanted it, something would inherently change between you both once the papers were signed and delivered. 
But something in that moment was changing too. 
Like how you were realising you never wanted to be away from him. That the best place on this earth was right where you were. In his arms, his eyes on you, and yours on him. 
You found yourself leaning in forward, almost as if, if you didn’t get closer to him, he might disappear. 
And he was doing the same. 
One of his hands came up to your face as he rubbed a couple of strands of your hair between his fingers before he slowly pushed it back and let his gaze wash over you. 
He was committing you to memory, too. 
His eyes locked on yours once more, just as his other hand trailed down your waist and to your hip. 
You fell closer to him. 
Or maybe he pulled you closer. 
Either way, you never wanted to be without his touch. 
What felt like an eternity later, you finally felt his lips against yours and yours against his. 
It started off slow. This was new territory for you both when it came to the other. It was slow, full of mixed feelings and
something else. 
Then it snapped. 
Logan pushed a little harder and you felt your legs hit the back of the book ladder just as his hand and arm snaked around and up your back, holding you flush against him as your own arms pulled him closer to you. 
Logan braced the hand that had been by your face, by the side of your head, holding onto the book ladder, keeping you both steady. 
And he felt your breath hitch as he stepped into you. 
Before you knew it, you were braced against one of the bars on the ladder as Logan’s lips went from yours, across your jaw and down the column of your neck. A small grunt escaped him as your own fingers scratched through the back of his hair and down the back of his neck. 
However, just as his lips returned to yours and his hands slipped under the hem of your t-shirt– his t-shirt, as your own started reaching for the hem of his
a clock went off. 
“W-w-w-w-w-wait. Wait. Stop.”
“Is everything okay?”
You swallowed. “Yes
no. I don’t know. We shouldn’t be doing this.”
Logan wanted to ask “Why? Why shouldn't we?”. But instead, lowered his head. He knew why. 
“You’re right
you’re right.”
Your own temple came to rest against his for a few moments, neither of you wishing to leave the moment just yet. 
“We should go
before someone comes in.”
“It’s two in the morning, who is going to come in?”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t.”
You stayed quiet for a long time, feeling Logan’s fingers draw circles over your skin. Eventually, the only sound you heard was his heartbeat and his breath, slowly matching your own. 
But no matter how much of you told you to stay, you tried your best to fight it. 
You and Logan were friends. Friends who were about to get a divorce from a marriage neither of you could remember fully consenting to. 
“Goodnight, Logan.”
Reluctantly, you stepped out of his arms, his light grip on your hand not letting go until you were both too far apart to hold on any longer, and made your way through the school until you came across an empty room. 
It was the smaller quiet space that overlooked the back of the school. Perfect for the nights when too much noise was keeping you up at night. 
Except, it wasn’t noise keeping you awake. 
It was your own mind, relieving the one thing you thought you would never do with Logan. The one thing you wanted most to keep going. The one thing you would never forget. 
When Logan woke the next day, part of him thought it was all a dream. But even he couldn’t have dreamed up anything from the night before and have it still feel so real in the morning. 
Then he didn’t see you for three days. 
Save for one moment when he brought a box of your things from his room, to yours. You opened the door, wearing another one of his t-shirts. One that went missing months ago. One that he had seen on your at least a dozen times since. One that he felt he was truly seeing for the first time, on you. 
The exchange, coming from the both of you together, couldn’t have felt anything more than awkward. 
And then another moment hit. 
You didn’t close the door. 
He didn’t know what to say. 
All he knew was that he wished he was back with you, in the library. 
And you were wishing the same thing right back. 
“I should-”
“You should-”
A small, awkward laugh came from both of you before eventually you shut the door, wishing you had enough confidence to open it back up and call after him. 
Two days later, Logan hadn’t seen you at all. 
And a morning meeting, with Storm going to get you from your bed, led to Logan realising why he hadn’t seen you. 
“She’s not there?”
Logan turned immediately. “What?”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She’s not in her room or any other place she usually is this early in the morning.”
“Doesn’t she have classes to teach?” Scott asked. 
“She doesn’t teach Wednesday and Thursday.” Logan told him. 
And it wasn’t long before Logan heard his name being called behind him by Xavier as he marched his way out of the office and to every room he could think you would be. 
You were nowhere to be found. It was almost like you hadn’t been there for weeks. The books you had taken out – the ones Logan had helped you find – were piled neatly in your bedroom. On your desk, you had a small wicker basket filled with letters and postcards, all arranged in date order, the newest ones being at the front. 
The pictures you had on your windowsill displayed all the people you loved the most. And included a picture from when you had ambushed him on his birthday. He rarely, if ever, took a photo. 
But he smiled, albeit a little awkwardly, with you. 
“Where could she have gone?”
Logan looked around your room. You wouldn’t have just gotten up and left for good. You loved teaching your kids too much, despite whatever else had happened. 
Then Logan saw the framed pictures on the wall, just across from your bed. 
“I’ll check with Cyerbro. She couldn’t have gone far.”
“She could be half way across the world by now!”
Logan shook his head. “But she’s not.”
A lot of them were confused, but Xavier watched Logan for a moment. 
“Do you know where she is?”
“I have an idea.”
With that, Logan reached for the wall and pulled down one of the smaller frames and carried it out with him.
“Hold on, I’m coming with you.” Storm called out to him. 
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Logan, you look like you’re just about ready to punch a bull. I know, right now, even if you are the last person she wants to see, you are the first person she needs. But that also means I know what you’re going to do and, love you or not, Y/n wouldn’t want you to hurt someone or even yourself to find her.”
And Storm was right. 
And she was right to tag along. 
Because just five hours later, Logan had pulled up outside a local pharmacy. They had received a call on the way; they were heading in the right direction, but they needed to go into the town first. Any chance of finding where she was in the mountains lay where she had been all day. 
And it wasn’t long before Storm had to step in to stop Logan from almost killing the cashier. 
He had been dancing around the question, leading them all on different tangents of conversation about the town and the people in it before finally he got to his answer.
The cashier nodded. “I don’t know where she lives, but Connie might. She knows everything in the town.”
“Where is Connie?”
The cashier pointed out of the door. “In the bakery, across the street.”
“Thank you,” Logan told him, swiping the picture back up from the counter and walking outside. Storm stopped short behind Logan when she saw he wasn’t moving off the sidewalk. 
Then she saw. 
You had just left the building and climbed inside your beaten up, old Jeep Wrangler. You pulled out of your parking spot and drove off down the street. 
And Logan followed. 
However, halfway up the road, he started to recognise the place. He’d been here before, except he was going up the way he would come down and out of the cabin. 
So, he took a turn. 
He was at your cabin ten minutes before you were. Storm had stayed behind in the town to call the others and let them know what was going on. 
“You fixed her up well.”
You jumped at his voice and threw a can of pumpkin puree at his head. Though he managed to catch it before his head made a dent in the can. 
“Jesus, Logan.” Then you realised. “How did you find me?”
“You forget that I know you. The pictures on your wall. They’re a lot more recent.”
You didn’t know what else to say so you turned back to your front door and pushed it open, Logan hurrying after you. 
“Why did you leave?” He called out, placing the can on the side. 
“I didn’t leave.” You called back as you unpacked some of your groceries. 
“You disappeared into thin air but you weren’t abducted. I’d call that leaving.”
“I needed a break, Logan. I needed
time.”
“Time from what?”
“From everything. From you, from marriage, from the school, from the library. It’s like I woke up one morning and, quite literally, everything had changed. One day we were- we were teachers and friends
we were us, Logan. And then
we kissed and
I don’t know what we’re meant to do, Logan.” You dropped your head as you pressed your palms onto the kitchen counter.
“Maybe we’re meant to do nothing.” Logan walked towards you. “Maybe we keep things as they are.”
“What? Single and married?”
Logan shook his head, bringing his hand to pull yours to look at him. 
“Married and together.”
Your lips parted for a moment, your eyes scanning his face, waiting for the joke to have its punchline. 
“So, we did everything a little backwards?” Logan shrugged. “So what.”
“Logan
”
“I love you, y/n.” Logan told you, nothing but seriousness and truth in his eyes. “And I think you love me, too. But you’re scared. And so am I. Do you love me, y/n?”
You were trying your hardest to keep your emotions inside you, but something was failing. “Of course I do.”
“Then we start here, just you and me.”
“If something goes wrong, I can’t lose you. You mean too much to me, Logan.”
Logan smirked. “Good job I can regenerate.”
You scoffed and hit him in the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”
Logan nodded, a faint smile on his face. “I know. You’re not going to lose me, Y/n. You couldn’t ever.”
“Promise me.”
Logan nodded. “I promise. Can I kiss you now?”
Logan didn’t have time to finish his question before your lips met his in a searing kiss, your hands pulling him closer to you whilst his own arms wrapped around you. 
Maybe you had done the whole relationship thing backwards, but that didn’t matter. Not anymore.
Not when you finally had each other for life. 
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aces-and-angels · 4 months ago
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artwork by raghad qanou follow: @rhq2744 verified ✔: no. 221 on el-shab-hussein/nabulsi's sheet
dear moots/lovely lurkers- please read đŸ–€
raghad has finally reached the very first milestone in her fundraiser! that's right gang, thanks to the continuous support of friends/strangers alike, raghad's family has raised a whopping ✹£5,095✹as promised, here is another beautiful original by miss raghad herself đŸ–€
for those who haven't gotten a chance to meet her yet, please allow raghad to introduce herself in her own words:
Hello everyone, I am Raghad Qanou, a second-year human medicine student at Al-Azhar University in Gaza, or rather, I was like that, before I lost everything, literally everything... Before the 7th of October, me and my family [8 members] were living in our cute house in the Shujaiya neighborhood in Gaza, after huge suffering to repair it and return to living in it after it was destroyed in the 2014 war on Gaza. My family and I were forced to leave our home and forcibly move under fire 7 times so far! All this to escape death and hold on to the last shred of hope for a decent life! excerpt from raghad's gfm campaign page (read full story here)
i first met raghad sometime in june after she messaged me here on tumblr. one of the first things she shared with me (besides her name lol) was this piece:
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title: waiting for a ceasefire "only hope and art keep us alive here in gaza ...." -raghad qanou
since then, we've been able to chat a handful of times-- i told her how much i loved her artwork and she excitedly shared even more of her work with me
raghad is a talented artist- a loving sister- a diligent student- a wonderful daughter- and someone who deserves a chance to live a life worth living. her whole family does
they continue to suffer through horrific living conditions and rely on y'all to help carry their burden. to reveal yourself so vulnerably to the world is far from easy. so often, we are told to grit our teeth and push through whatever ails us in silence. but this is a type of pain that cannot and should not be felt alone. and it will take everyone to band together so we can begin to heal
raghad's campaign still has a long way to go. to help things move along, i am proposing another art reveal ✹
if we can get raghad to ÂŁ15K- i will unveil another beautiful piece from her collection of artwork!
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as of posting, raghad's family has raised £5,095 / £55,000.
for those able, please consider donating by clicking the link below + share this post so others may get the chance to help out too đŸ–€
tags for reach below cut (note: sorry gang, ik we're not really moots. if you're here- it's cause i pulled people from a post that promoted a gfm in the past. please let me know if you do not wish to be tagged in future posts. no hard feelings, truly đŸ–€)
@juneybug @kodigobacktosleep @apocalyptic-dancehall @imnotthepersonyouseek @toonirl 
@kingofthebookcase @kazehita @yonch @pinkdreamscape1 
@king-dail @caseys-soup-corner @shoogachi @killy @missusmousse 
@j0ckhead @whoopsiedaisy20 @squidie-tittie @dreamingamongthestars @trexpel 
@mischief16 @foulharbor @draginfyre16 @tangerinesteve @3amsnow 
@fruitpuddle @wallsong @selkiesmile @suzakus-canon-wife @turquoisewavesstitch
@loutrem @thatlethalsoul @visemes @orange-coloredsky @dweamdoodles
@just-a-girl-0001 @samrobotize @aunty-matter @gamelpar 
@roachie-paradise @queruloustea @ehjane @firebird963 @butchdykekondraki 
@dinofur @cthulhu-with-a-fez @purplenickel @ysngie @paper-mario-wiki
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inkskinned · 8 months ago
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okay if you're really cool about things, i can be honest with you. before you read further, decide if you're a girl's girl. if you're cool and actually cool or like not cool.
men don't talk in my book because i was fuckken tired of the way they're the center of every fucking story. i was tired of how every story takes a moment to let them talk. men can shut up for literally one fucking book.
unfortunately not everyone is cool. professionally what i usually say is i didn't want to add violence to the world. the only men in my book are abusers, so they don't get to talk. they don't get to take up space. they ruined my life, they don't get to have their words echo anymore.
because like, yeah! you find practically any story about a person surviving trauma and... there's a man at the center. men are often rescuing us from these things. a "good man" is always standing around, being a good man, proving to the victim that good men are the real men. that her experience was unique rather than universal.
the redacted text has not been taken well by all of my early readers. there is this weird, crouching growl that keeps occurring with men-of-a-certain-age. why don't we hear his side of the story?
when i sat down to write everything that happened to me, i couldn't look at the frank brutality of my abuser's words on a page and think to myself: i actually let him speak like that. i had to redact his words from the manuscript. i then left it redacted. no victim is going to read this book and hear the person who hurt them. it is a book for the victims to speak. abusers shut up challenge, forever. for eternity.
my father once told me, chuckling, i should just have a page of redaction where i let the man just finally talk. it is funny to joke about how we should make a whole page in my book about a man that hurt me. this was not the only time someone commented - it feels like you're hiding things. how do i know you're actually a victim if he doesn't get to speak?
there are books where women aren't even present. i even genuinely like some of those books. like, who doesn't like the hobbit?
i keep running into people defending this imaginary man. the default narrative is so true to some people that they will defend any man, just by virtue of the assumption - "if he's acting like that, you had to push him." certain people need definitive proof that you didn't accidentally make your partner into an abuser. they need to decide if you deserved it, because they want to be able to judge you.
which makes sense, i guess, from a hind brain perspective. if you can figure out "why" someone was cruel, you can protect yourself against it. if you defend the bully, the bully might side with you. i don't really know their explanation for feeling this about a character in a book. trust me, i wrote the guy. he is not going to protect you.
i guess i just - there was a time in my life where i desperately wanted anyone to defend me. where i could have really used someone saying holy shit are you okay instead of what did you say to make him act like that to you.
instead, over dinner, a friend-of-a-friend i just met is pouring herself wine. i heard you wrote a book, she says. she gives me the kind of chilly smile i associate with knives. i heard it's unfair to men.
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viennakarma · 9 months ago
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Something you paid for
Fernando Alonso x Reader
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Summary: Two years into the best relationship of your life, you find out that Fernando thinks you don't love him. But it get worse and you realize the whole world think of you as gold digger.
Word count: 5.7k
Tags: female!reader, established relationship, slut shaming, reader is confused, fernando is even more confused, miscommunication, cursing, a bit angsty, hurt/comfort, soft smut (almost not there), happy ending, not beta read
Relationship: Fernando Alonso x Reader
Note: I'm honestly not 100% sure about this story, a had another ending planned but I wanted it to be HEA. I don't know. :(
I'm sorry if it's rushed or full of mistakes. Feedback and opinions are appreciated xx
Find me on Twitter!
It was supposed to be just a pause in your studies. Something quick since your brain was already mushy from studying and writing your research for too long.
So when you picked up your phone, to aimlessly scroll through social media, you didn’t expect to see a new, sudden rush of comments on your instagram page. There were thousands of comments in your last post, calling you a gold digger, and much, much worse. Ever since you started dating Fernando, you had been getting these comments, and in the beginning they were worse but slowed down with time. Now they were on a new high again. Confused more than anything, you went on to try and find out what happened for this to happen all of a sudden. You and Fernando hadn’t gone out together for more than two weeks and you hadn’t been to a race week for a month.
After digging you eventually found out what happened. Deuxmoi posted something that made everyone quickly think it was you.
A lady who’s 12 years younger than her famous Spanish Formula One driver boyfriend, is known for being with him for his money. Many tried to warn him, but it seems like he doesn’t believe or doesn’t care.
Confused, you stared at the post, scrolling through hundreds of nasty, poisonous comments. That wasn’t true. Fernando did give you lots of presents and spoiled you a lot but he did this out of his own want, not because you asked for or demanded it. He was constantly giving you things, especially clothes, shoes and bags, and loved seeing you wearing them. He also gave you an Aston Martin car on your last birthday. He even went as far as getting you a credit card attached to his, for whenever you needed to buy books or go on a shopping spree. You never minded it because you knew he liked it, instead of refusing you were just grateful for his generosity.
You wondered if you should talk about it with him, but deep down you knew Fernando was never one to care for gossip of any kind. And this probably wasn’t even true to begin with, just someone trying to stir the pot. So you just limited the comments in your posts and went on about your day.
A week later you went to the race, it was Silverstone, and the last before summer break. You decided to dress your best, wearing clothes that were pretty and elegant and had been given to you by Fernando.
He always treated you like a princess, he was kind and patient, and always found a way to align your schedules to spend time together. He liked taking you on trips during summer break and to ski trips during winter break. Fernando adored having you around in race weeks, you could see in his face that he was radiant with your presence. And you loved all the gifts and the trips but you especially loved staying home with him, lazing around, making love on the sofa and taking walks hand in hand in his hometown. You loved helping him cook, trying your best to follow his orders and not mess up his recipes. 
You walked into the paddock hand in hand, and you kept him company whenever you could. He would keep you around the most, only letting you go when he had meetings or media duties. During that time, you would go back to his room and do a little more of your research, writing your thesis.
You left his room so you could grab a snack and a coffee at the hospitality, but as you passed by a hallway, you heard someone saying your name in conversation. You stopped, leaning against the wall to hear, with a glance, you saw two mechanics talking.
“Seems like everyone tried to warn him, man. But it’s like he doesn’t mind dating a gold digger.”
“Is she a gold digger, really?”
“Man, she doesn’t do anything! She doesn't even work.”
“Has anyone warned Fernando?”
“Everyone.”
You went back inside his driver’s room, sitting down, completely shocked. So that’s what people thought of you? You knew people on the internet talked about it, but they were strangers so you wouldn’t allow yourself to mind because those people didn’t know you. But the people in the garage? They’ve known you for almost two years now, you were always kind and polite to them, even going as far as bringing them cookies and donuts as thank you for welcoming you so well.
You avoided crying, it would ruin your makeup, and Fernando would notice it very quickly. So you just sat there, numb. Thinking about how everyone believed you were with Fernando because of his money and nothing else.
When Fernando found you again, before he had to go get ready for the race, he noticed you were a little down.
“You should not study so hard on the weekends, princesa.” He muttered, hugging you from behind and leaving a gentle kiss to your neck. Of course, he would think you were just tired.
“You are absolutely right, mi amor,” you smiled a little, turning around so you could hug him properly, “do you have time for a little kiss?”
“Even two,” he joked.
You ended up sitting on his lap, making out like two teenagers, until someone knocked on the door, calling Fernando to go get ready.
“Hey, good luck, yeah?” You said, kissing him one more time then kissing the back of his hand, “I love you.”
You watched the race from the garage, feeling self conscious now that it seemed like everyone thought you were leeching off of Fernando.
In the end, Fernando got P3 which was a great result and you celebrated wildly, proudly watching him get on the podium.
After his post race meetings, you met him in his room.
“Let’s go out to celebrate! Dinner is on me!” You hugged him, mood better now than before.
You and him ended up going out for dinner, at a high end restaurant, dressed to the nines. It was fun, you listened to Fernando talking about the race, then he asked you what you thought about the race.
Before dessert, you went into the bathroom to retouch your makeup and freshen up. When you came back, your tiramisu was already there. You and Fernando shared the dessert, laughing to each other.
When the waitress came, you picked the opportunity.
“Dear, can we get the tab please?”
“It’s already taken care of, Madam.”
Your smile faltered, and you looked at Fernando as she left. He was smiling like he couldn’t hold it in.
“Fernando! I said dinner was on me!”
“Why would I let you pay, princesa?”
“Because you got a podium today! As a celebration!” You whined, upset. Fernando pulled your chair, until you were right beside him and he kissed your cheek.
“I like paying for you, Hermosa,” Fernando stood up, offering you a hand, “come on, you can treat me right in our hotel room, what about that?”
You smiled as he pulled you away, but something still nagged at your brain.
You and Fernando took the private plane back to Madrid after the date, because he had sponsor meetings over the week, and you honestly wanted to sleep in your bed. The trip was quick, and while Fernando took a nap, you tried studying, but your mind kept going back to being called a gold digger.
Deep down, you really wanted to talk to Fernando about it, but you were unsure if he could fix this in any way. What could he do? Make a post on instagram saying hey, my girlfriend isn’t leeching off of me as most you think!? You did live with Fernando, for six months now, and he paid all the bills and the house was his. But he also gave you many many gifts.
When you got home, putting your bags inside the closet, you two just changed into sleepwear, ready to doze off.
Then Fernando opened his bag and grabbed a small box.
“Oh, I had forgotten! Got you a present last week in Austria!”
He handed you the box, and with your heart beating fast, you opened it to a beautiful vintage watch. It was gold, delicate with a beautiful bracelet. There was a lump in your throat as you stared at the piece.
“You didn’t like it? It’s ok, princesa, I’ll get you another one,” he said, with a gentle smile.
“I don’t need another watch, Nando. You gave me this one not even a month ago,” you raised your wrist, showing him the brand new one he gave you.
“I want to give it to you. It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged.
“And I don’t want it,” god, you didn’t want to sound so ungrateful, but how could you tell him that his presents felt like something else now? “You have to stop giving me so many presents,” you said, trying to put into words what you were feeling.
“But that’s how I won you over, why would you refuse my presents now?”
Something about the nonchalance in his voice made you stop, stomach dropping. That’s how I won you over? That’s how he believed your relationship came to be? That’s why he thought you were together?
“What did you say?” You paused, suddenly turning to him, it felt like a punch to the throat, “You- you believe I’m a gold digger? You believe it?”
Fernando walked up to you, putting both hands on your waist, a soft smile gracing his face.
“Amor, you know I don’t mind spending my money on you. Quite the opposite, I love to spoil you.”
You stood there, speechless for a couple of seconds. Then you snapped out of it, pushing his hands off you.
“That’s not what I asked!” Your voice sounded louder, you tried to regain your composure, “people talk a lot, the press too, but you know the truth, right?!”
“I’m a rich man, I like providing you with the luxurious lifestyle you lead. I don’t care that you enjoy my money.”
His words made it so much worse. It made you nauseous, the idea that all this time, he’s been thinking of you as a gold digger, as someone who’s only with him for his money and for what he could provide for you.
“No, Fernando- no!” Your voice wavered, “that’s not true! I love you, you know that right?”
“Why are you so caught up in some silly rumor?
“You know right? You know I love you.” You pressed further waiting for an answer. Hoping against hope that he knew it deep down, that he could acknowledge that you harbored love for him.
“Amor, we have such a great dynamic like this. I don’t need your love, just your loyalty and for you to be my pretty girl.”
He was so calm and reassuring, like he had made peace with the fact that you didn’t love him. Like he wasn’t bothered at all by the fact that you were supposedly a gold digger. His dismissal broke something inside you.
“So you don’t- you don’t believe I love you?”
You felt pathetic and helpless, repeating the same words again and again, hoping and praying for a different answer from Fernando.
“Come on, I’m really tired, can we go to sleep?
“Fernando.”
“I’m going to wait for you in bed,” was all he said, dismissing you completely.
You walked out of the room at the same time he went into the bathroom, you held your head up until you softly closed the door behind you, then finally the tears spilled. You went to the bathroom downstairs, the farthest you could go away from him as the sobs broke from your throat violently.
Sliding down on the floor you wondered if everything was lie. You knew it wasn’t but the fact that he thought you were only there for the money was completely wrong. How long had he been thinking that? How many times had he heard you say “I love you” and thought it wasn’t true? You didn’t even know what to do or what to feel. How could you feel if this whole time while you were pouring your heart into this relationship he thought you were just leeching off of him? How can you love someone so deeply and still live with the fact they think of you as a freeloader? Did he joke with his friends like yeah, she’s a gold digger but at least she’s loyal and fucks me well? 
Your chest hurt and you felt repulsive, making your way to the living room, opening a bottle of his whiskey, not bothering with a glass, just sipping it straight from the bottle.
What could you do now? Talk to him? Tell him you’re not with him for his money? After two whole years accepting his every gift with open arms? After getting a fortune worth of presents? After letting him pay for your books, textbooks, new laptop? After letting him pay for dates, trips, clothes, accessories, shoes and jewelry?
You hated yourself for it now. For taking it just because you thought it was his love language, not because deep down he was trying to keep you, buying your affection.
After spending the whole night awake, nursing a bottle and with only your repulsive thoughts as company, you watched as the sun rose from the big living room window.
It was time to fix it.
Fernando was an early riser almost every morning, so after the sun fully rose in the sky, you went in the kitchen and prepared coffee, to cut the effect of the alcohol. You weren’t drunk, really.
“Morning, bebĂ©! You woke up earlier than me today?” He said, passing you with a kiss to your cheek, then going to the cabinet for a mug. He was so unbothered by your argument last night it was pissing you off.
“I didn’t sleep.”
He paused, looking at your face.
“We should talk.” You readied yourself. Fernando stopped in front of you, attentive. “I’ve been hearing a lot this past week that I’m a gold digger, this has been making me feel some kind of way, and I wanted to address this with you. Last night you were tired and we probably misunderstood each other
”
“Where are you going with this, corazón?” He asked, confused.
“I’m not with you for your money, Fernando. Do you understand that?”
He stood silent, which only made you feel worse.
“I want you to stop giving me presents without a proper occasion. And I want you to stop paying stuff for me. And we’re going to share house bills.” You laid it all out, after thinking hard all throughout the night.
“What are you talking about? No, I don’t accept it.” He frowned, “that wasn’t the deal when we moved in together.”
“Because I didn’t know everything back then. I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of you, and I don’t live at your cost like this.”
“No, Y/N.” He took a step back, shaking his head as if you had said the most stupid thing he had ever heard.
“I’m serious, Fernando.”
“No, I’m not negotiating this. I pay for everything. That’s how it’s been and that’s how it will be.”
“I just want to show you that I’m not with you for the money! I’m not what they’re calling me! No more presents, Fernando.”
“You took them.”
“Because I thought you wanted me to have them!”
“I wanted you to have them so you would want to stay with me!”
You gasped, hearing it from his mouth finally. The tears finally started flowing, and you swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady even with the tempest happening inside your chest, staining the beautiful story of your relationship. Well, what you thought was a beautiful relationship.
“You’re just like them, right?” You said, defeated, “you think of me as a gold digging whore. You probably never defended me when they called me that.”
“I gave you all this stuff because I didn’t want you to leave!”
“It was never about the fucking money! And guess what? You lost me anyway!” You marched to the bedroom, Fernando hot on your heels.
“Don’t. Don’t leave.” He said, following you. “I did everything for you to never leave!”
“Everything but loving me! I don’t fucking care!” You unlatched your necklace, putting it on the table, “I don’t care about your money and the jewelry and the clothes and the bags!” You put down your watch and earrings too. Everything he had given you not because he wanted you or loved you, but because he thought they were the price to pay to keep you around.
“Fuck, I love you!” You shouted, feeling desperate and lost, “And all you see me as is something you paid for. A toy you can parade around and look pretty in your arm! You don’t even love me, Fernando. I could write a list about everything I love about you, and none of it would be your stupid money!”
In the closet, you picked a bag, and started putting your clothes inside. Then you noticed how most of them were gifts from him. So you put it back, taking only what you had bought yourself. Fernando stood there, helpless as you packed, putting clothes and a few shoes in a couple of baggage. You also took your study material and laptop, which he had gifted you, but you knew you’d refund him.
“Stop, no,” Fernando tried to stop you as went into the garage, “I do, I love you.”
“You don’t, Fernando. You’re not even sure of that.” You shook your head, putting the bags inside the car. The Aston Martin he had given you, “you have to think. If you really love me as you say, then why do you love me? Because I’m eye candy you can take to galas? Because I’m a good fuck? Because I stand there and look pretty when you have to kiss those old men’s asses?”
You didn’t give him a second, getting in the car and starting the engine.
“This is so messed up, oh my god, how could I let myself believe this for two entire years?” You whispered to yourself, accelerating the car and driving off. 
Through the rear view, you could see Fernando standing there, doing nothing.
You drove and wiped the tears away, breathing in. When you moved in with Fernando, you hadn’t been able to get out of the lease of your flat because you still had a few months on your renting contract. Now it felt like luck that you had a place to stay. Despite getting your doctorate degree, you didn’t have any friends in the city, only a few acquaintances here and there.
You got to the apartament, not bothering to unpack your bags, only leaving it on the bedroom floor. You took your study material and with your phone in hand, you sent Fernando via transfer a total 4000 euros, for what you hoped covered the “laptop and books expenses” as you wrote in the little note.
Then you laid on the bed, crying yourself to sleep.
You woke up and it was getting dark, the sun setting outside. Checking your phone, there were fourteen missed calls from Fernando, and a notification, showing that he had returned the money to you, with additional 30000 euros and only “no” written on the little note. Huffing, you sent the whole amount back and blocked him, so he couldn’t transfer any more money to you.
He still had not realized what was wrong, he was still thinking money was your motivation.
The next few days felt like a haze, you were barely getting any sleep, only eating and writing your research, which ultimately reminded you of Fernando, since it was a study on aerodynamics. You couldn’t lie to yourself, thinking of how many times you stared at the door, waiting and hoping he would understand and come after you.
-
Fernando had work commitments in England, and going back to Madrid, he ended up giving George and his girlfriend a lift. Fernando was visibly not himself as soon as George saw him.
“How’s Y/N doing?” George asked, casually. But from the way Fernando’s face dropped, he could tell something was wrong, “trouble with the missus?” He joked, tried to lighten the mood.
“She- uh, she left.” Fernando muttered.
“What do you mean, she left?” Carmen joined the conversation, “She’s traveling?”
“No- no- I guess we broke up.”
“You guess?!” George’s voice went a little high pitched out of nervousness.
“Fernando, what happened?” Carmen tried to understand. 
Despite not being exactly best friends, you and her were pretty close, always spending time together whenever both of you were on race weekends. The fact that you’re both engaged academics was also a common topic between you.
“You know about the rumors, right?” Fernando started, hesitating.
“What rumors?” George paused.
“That she’s only with me for the money,” Fernando muttered.
“All girlfriends of drivers are accused of that at some point, what’s new?” George pushed.
“I might have implied that I agree with that.”
“Oh, my god,” Carmen covered her mouth, absolutely shocked, “What?”
“Fernando, respectfully- Are you fucking insane?!” George exclaimed, jaw slack, “she looks at you all lovey-dovey, like- like- you’re the only person in the entire earth and you think she’s with you for the money?”
“She would never be like that! She’s so smart and kind,” Carmen added.
“I know- I just- I don’t know! Maybe I let the rumors get to my head!” he ran both hands over his face, exasperated, “And she always lets me pay, and she always takes the presents, I don’t know!”
Then, Fernando explained about how you tried to pay for dinner, and you refused his gift, he told them about the argument and how you wanted to set boundaries about money and gifts.
“She was trying to prove to you that she’s not a freeloader. She was trying to show that the money didn’t matter, and what did you do? You pushed more money on her!” George practically spat the words in Fernando’s face.
“Eres muy estĂșpido, Fernando. Te lo digo como tu amiga.” Carmen muttered.
“I don’t know what she said but I heard the word stupid, and I agree.” George backed her up, “Go talk to her, apologize and fix it.”
“That is,” Carmen interrupted, face serious, “If you really love her. Otherwise, better let her go find someone who can really love her, it’s what she deserves. Love and happiness.”
Fernando swallowed, his chest constricting with the mere thought of you moving on, of someone else having you in their arms.
Getting back home without you there felt like a thick fog day, cold and empty and he missed you, he missed his sun. He missed you jumping into his arms as soon as he opened the door. He missed the smell of the candles you always lit while studying. He even missed the little mess of textbooks, colorful highlighters and notes scattered around.
Home didn’t feel like home without you.
In the middle of the living room, there were big cardboard boxes, as he opened, he noticed they were full of clothes, shoes and bags he had gifted you throughout your relationship. In a smaller box, all the jewelry he had given you, even anniversary gifts. Even the beauty products he had given you like perfumes, makeup products, and face creams.
You had returned every single thing.
And on the coffee table, your keys to the house and the keys of your Aston Martin DB12.
It seemed like you had returned everything that could tie you to him, everything that made him wrongly call you a gold digger. And it felt painfully like a goodbye.
-
While mixing your homemade coffee, your eyes flicked to the door, then to your phone on the table, facing up. Despite the searing pain in your chest, and the sorrowful hole in your heart, maybe it was time to start to move on. It had been more than a week, if he wanted to come back to you, he would’ve come by now.
You got ready to meet with your advisor, and she brought up a topic that had been common now, about you taking a position as a professor for a couple of Engineering subjects. She said it’d be good for you to work in your area while on the last few months before getting your doctorate degree. You had mostly denied the other times she offered the position, because you wanted more time with Fernando, because you wanted the freedom to fly around the world following him to his races.
Now- now you had more bills to pay and no boyfriend to follow. You also had more free time, a broken heart and a vacant mind. 
“I’m considering the position. I believe it could do me good right now.” You said to her, thoughtful, “can I confirm with you tomorrow?”
After going through the meeting and getting a review on your thesis, you went back to your flat, taking a long shower. You had just dressed in pajamas when the doorbell rang. With long strides, you were faced with Carmen, and not Fernando as you expected.
“From your face I take it he hasn’t spoken to you, yes?” Carmen muttered, seeing the visible disappointment in your face.
“I’m sorry, please come in,” you opened the door wider, forcing a smile. Carmen had a couple of bags that she set on a nearby table.
“He told us what happened, I’m so sorry,” Carmen hugged you and you immediately started crying, since you had no one to talk about the past few days, “I brought chocolates and wine, so we can talk.”
Over chocolates and a bottle of Merlot, you told her everything, starting at the deuxmoi rumor. She looked horrified when you said word for word what had transpired the last time you spoke with him.
“I just don’t understand why he didn’t come talk to you yet,” Carmen added, at some point.
“Because he won’t, at all.” You say with your voice shaky from crying so much the past hour.
“Don’t say that. He loves you.” Carmen said.
“I’m not entirely sure about that,” you shrugged, pretending it didn’t hurt as much as it did, “He’ll find another one, someone who can enjoy his money since it seems like it’s all that matters to him.”
Carmen didn’t say anything to that and you knew she couldn’t argue with the facts. Later, George dropped by to get her, going up to your flat so he could hug you quickly and mutter “I’m sorry”.
With a heavy heart, you slowly rebuild a healthy routine again, doing grocery shopping, cooking meals, going to the gym, studying and everything.
One day, you went back home after going on a shopping spree, and as you got into the hall, Fernando was there, standing in your hall, waiting by the door. You stopped, almost losing the timing to leave the elevator. When you walked closer, he noticed you. Meeting his eyes was different this time, uncertain and a little distant.
“What do you want?” You asked, you hoped your voice would come out harsh, but it only sounded defeated.
“Can we talk?” He asked, and you nodded, opening the door and letting him in.
There was a moment of awkward silence as you put the shopping bags down. After doing that, you crossed your arms and stood against a side table, waiting quietly.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, for not fully believing your love, I guess I was so focused in protecting myself, that I ended up hurting you, and it was never my intention,” Fernando stood just two steps away from you, his eyes holding such pain and fear, that it made you crumble, he didn’t look like he’d been sleeping well, “I love you, I really do. For who you are and nothing else.”
You wanted to give in so bad, you wanted to run into his arms and never let go, but you also didn’t want to suffer again.
“How do you know? You never knew that for two years, how would you know it now?” You shook your head, tears starting to fill your eyes again.
“Because it is hard being without you,” he said, like he was trying to find the right words, “I can’t sleep without you. My life is miserable without you around.”
You only nodded, covering your lips with a hand. You wanted to tell him that you had not gotten proper sleep without him, that your life feels empty, that not knowing about him everyday was painful. But you needed more. You needed something you could hold onto, and maybe, just maybe take another chance at the two of you.
“I- I made a list. Like you said,” his voice failed, and you noticed his hand was shaking a little as he held the paper, “I love you. I love coming home to you every time and feel our house so lived in. I love how you always hug me first thing after I’m back home. I love the silly texts you send me randomly throughout the day talking about your day. I love the selfies with your tongue out too,” that made you two chuckle, and the movement made your tears fall, so you wiped them, staring at him intently, “I love that you’re always the smartest person in any room we’re in. I love that you’re humble, never showing off or being a smartass. I love how cheeky and witty you are. I love that you talk in your sleep. I love that scar in your knee, because it shows you were always a little naughty, even as a kid. I love that there’s always fresh flowers at home. I love that you love kids. I love that you get along well with my family. I love that you-”
He didn’t finish, as you closed the distance and launched yourself at him, hugging him tight. Fernando held you close, pressing you into him, inhaling your perfume, feeling like he was at home again.
“I’m so sorry, princesa. So so sorry. I missed you so much,” he whispered against your cheek, kissing it softly.
“I missed you too, Nando” you said, eyes closed and allowing yourself to just feel him again, “I love you so much.”
You let go, holding his face with both hands, looking into his eyes before kissing him softly. He, on the other hand, held the back of your neck firmly, licking your mouth open, until he had tasted your mouth, leaving you breathless.
“Come back home with me, princesa.”
At that, you took a step back.
“I- I can’t, Nando. I got a new job at the university.”
“What?”
“I thought you weren’t coming back to me,” you muttered, and your words made him wince, “I needed something to hold on to.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he ran a hand over his face, looking embarrassed for taking so long to come after you.
“I believe we should- we should take a step back, rethink a bit about our dynamic,” you told him, hesitant of his reaction.
“Are you unsure about us?” He asked, visibly worried.
“No, no- I love you- I do-” You started, taking his hand, holding it firmly against yours, “I just think we should rewind a bit. Have my own place and pay my own bills, I just don’t want to feel like that again, I need to regain my dignity in this.”
He kept quiet, because he knew deep down you were right. He felt awful about all the misunderstandings, but he knew you probably felt much, much worse. He should just get on his knees and be thankful you still loved him and still wanted him. He’d take all your conditions to get back with him.
And deep down both of you knew it was for the best. Moving out and living alone, working and seeing him occasionally as a boyfriend. 
Holding your face, he kissed you, leaving little pecks on your lips, your cheeks, your chin, your forehead. You closed your eyes, letting him kiss you, and he muttered how much loved you and how much he missed you, kissing down the side of your neck. He walked you inside and let him, feeling his hands quickly peeling your clothes off, leaving a trail of clothes from the living room to your bedroom.
You parted so you could undress him, pulling at his jacket and the t-shirt.
“I love you, I love you so much,” he mumbled into a kiss, laying you down in bed.
You laid on the bed and he hugged him, making space for him between your legs. He held you, touching your nose with his gently.
“I missed you, princesa,” he kissed your cheek, “I promise I’ll do better from now on.”
“I know you will, baby.” You kissed him again, running your hand down his back, “make love to me now.”
He filled you up at once, and you groaned into his mouth, scratching your nails down his back as you cunt welcomed him. As he fucked into you, slowly at first then picking up pace, he muttered how much he loved you and how sorry he was, over and over.
As you cuddled after, quietly enjoying each other’s company. 
“What do we do about all your gifts?”
“Give them away,” you shrugged.
“Can I convince you to take it back?”
“Not if you still want me in your life,” you muttered. He nodded, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder.
“You know how I know I love you?” Fernando asked, drawing invisible patterns on your back, “there’s an engagement ring in the third drawer of my bedside table.”
You hesitated for a second, but he knew you well. Better than anyone else.
“I know what you said, I just wanted to let you know. I bought it a week after you moved in with me. I know we’re rewinding a little bit for now, but you’ll be my wife one day.”
“And what if I refuse when you propose?” You smirked, and he pulled your leg over his waist.
“You won’t.”
Note: UGH IDK GUYS :(
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helluvapoison · 10 months ago
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jealousy, jealousy
˚✧₊⁎ The Vees ⁎âșËłâœ§àŒš
warnings: violence, off page murdah, suggestive themes, possessive behavior
18+ only
watch out for red flags in real life and read at your own discretion ♡
Ê•â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ•â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ•â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ•â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ•â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ•â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”â€ąÌ«ÍĄâ€ąÊ”
˚✧₊⁎ Vox ⁎âșËłâœ§àŒš
‱ The least jealous of the three, but that doesn’t say much, does it?
‱ Running an enterprise goes hand in hand with being an Overlord. Vox prides himself on being everywhere at once but he knows his limits. If wants to keep this cushy life he built, and you safe, he can’t spread himself too thin. That means occasionally cutting back on distractions
‱ So go out, have your fun— playtoys even! He’s not worried. Vox has literal eyes on you 24/7, access to your phone and all its contents, your lifeline is constantly synced to his peripherals. Really! He’s not worried!
‱ The problem arises when Vox feels threatened or undermined. If he’s in the same room, no one should even be looking at you! And if some sorry soul dared to touch you!? That’d be the last time they have hands
‱ “I’ve been looking for you!” He says from behind as his claws creep around your shoulders. He’ll ignore the Sinner, bringing your attention to him as security drags them away. You don’t need to know how jealous he can get
˚✧₊⁎ Velvette ⁎âșËłâœ§àŒš
‱ Sharing, shockingly, is not in her vocabulary! Not outfits, not credit, not the spotlight and fucking especially not you
‱ You’re her favorite project, she so lovingly calls you, which is a giant compliment. She dresses you every day so if— for some hellish reason— you left her side, she knows she has a visual claim on you. Vel quickly snaps and posts a pic of the two of you together before you go, just to remind her audience the fact you’re spoken for! Don’t you feel safe? And stylish?
‱ Unlike her partners, Velvette can multitask so having you around the studio can be an everyday treat! Unfortunately she has to split her focus, occasionally crashing the conversation to a stop so she can snap at someone
‱ Her eyes are sharp, they pick up on every little detail and seldom miss a thing. No one in her workshop would even think about approaching you, unless Vel asked, so it was all too easy to spot that new-nobody-model break his neck to check you out
‱ You’ve seen Velvette reduce even the oldest, most thick skinned to a puddle of piss in the street with her words. She doesn’t give anyone the chance to touch what’s hers. She’s shameless and loud, stopping the inappropriate behavior from across the room if she has to, “Oy! You! You’re fuckin’ fired, get the fuck out of here ‘fore I set you on fire!”
‱ As they run for the elevator, she debates if the clothes they’re wearing are worth keeping or not. With a glowing finger she swipes them off the model anyways, stripping them of her brand
 and their dignity
‱ Velvette marks the occasion with a kiss to your cheek, stained with black lipstick, and another posted picture with a clever caption
˚✧₊⁎ Valentino ⁎âșËłâœ§àŒš
‱ Val invented jealousy
‱ He handles it as well as everyone expects
‱ It’s not limited to you, either! Business partners, employees, friends (if he has any left), play things, he’ll be up and arms about anything that belongs to him. There’s only one way to cut the cord tethered to him, and he’s always the one to decide how and when
‱ Val may have a lot of toys but you’re not one of them. You’re special— precious, actually!
‱ He has tabs on you at all times. Tracker in your phone, jewelry with his name on it, a bodyguard if he’s feeling particularly paranoid that day!
‱ Val also loves showing you off. Love bites are his favorite mark of ownership, he’ll show off wherever is most recent so be prepared to swat his hands away. Everyone can look, but only he can touch. He has four hands, one of them is on you at all times in public
‱ No one should manage to get in spitting distance of you— but if somehow they did and had the gall to talk to you
 he’ll break their nose on the spot. He’d make quicker work with a gun, but then he’d get blood on you and he doesn’t want that
‱ “You’re so fuckin’ hot tonight, baby, look how clumsy you’ve made this idiot!” Val cackles, poorly masking his rage, “Seriously, I think you’re trying to get me riled up.” You open your mouth to deny it but he laughs again, carefully pulling you closer with both pairs of arms, “I’m only teasing!”
‱ Looming over you, Val shoots said idiot a murderous glare that gives them a five second head start. He’s yet to lose this game of chase. He always returns, clean as a crappy soap ad, to shower you in gifts in lieu of an apology for disappearing
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jessica-problems · 6 months ago
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Seeing @thydungeongal constantly wrestling with people interpreting her posts about D&D in ways that seem completely alien to me has convinced me that there are actually multiple completely distinct activities both being referred to as "playing D&D" Before we begin, I want to stress that I'm not saying one of these groups is Playing The Game Wrong or anything, but there seems to be a lot of confusion and conflict caused by people not being aware of the distinction. In fact, either one works just fine if everyone's on the same page. So far, I think I've identified at least two main groups. And nobody seems to realize the distinction between these groups even exists. The first group of people think of "Playing D&D" as, well, more or less like any other board game. Players read the whole rulebook all the way through, all the players follow the instructions, and the gameplay experience is determined by what the rules tell each player to do. This group thinks of the mechanics as, not exactly the *whole* game, but certainly the fundamental skeleton that everything else is built on top of. People in the second group think of "Playing D&D" as referring to, hanging out with their friends, collaboratively telling a story inspired by some of the elements in the rulebooks, maybe rolling some dice to see what happens when they can't decide. This group thinks of the mechanics of the game as, like... a spice to sprinkle on top of the story to mix things up. (if you belong to this second group, and think I'm explaining it poorly, please let me know, because I'm kind of piecing things together from other people saying things I don't understand and trying to reverse engineer how they seem to be approaching things.) I think this confusion is exacerbated by the fact that Wizards of the Coast markets D&D as if these are the same thing. They emphatically are not. the specific rules laid out of the D&D rulebooks actually direct players to tell a very specific kind of story. You can tell other stories if you ignore those rules (which still counts as "playing D&D" under the second definition, but doesn't under the first)And I think people in both groups are getting mad because they assume that everyone is also using their definition. For example, there's a common argument that I've seen play out many times that goes something like this:
A: "How do I mod D&D to do [insert theme here]?" B: "D&D is really not built for that, you should play [other TTRPG] that's designed for it instead" A: "But I don't want to learn a whole new game system!" B: "It will be easier to just learn a whole new system than mod D&D to do that." A: "whatever, I'll just mod D&D on my own" And I think where this argument comes from is the two groups described above completely talking past each other. No one understands what the other person is trying to say. From A's perspective, as a person in the second group, it sounds like A: "Anyone have some fun inspirations for telling stories about [insert theme here]?" B: "You can't sit around a table with your friends and tell a story about that theme! That's illegal." A: "But we want to tell a story about this theme!" B: "It's literally impossible to do that and you're a dumb idiot baby for even thinking about it." A: "whatever, jerk, I'll figure it out on my own."
--- Whereas, from B's perspective, the conversation sounds like A: "How do I change the rules of poker to be chess, and not be poker?" B: "uhhh, just play chess?" A: "But I already know how to player poker! I want to play poker, but also have it be chess!" B: "what the hell are you talking about? What does that even mean. They're completely different games." A: "I'm going to frankenstein these rules together into some kind of unplayably complex monster and you can't stop me!" ---
So both people end up coming away from the conversation thinking the other person is an idiot. And really, depending on how you concieve of what it means to "play D&D" what is being asked changes considerably. If you're only planning to look through the books for cool story inspiration, maybe borrow a cool little self contained sub-system here or there, then yeah, it's very possible to steal inspiration for your collaborative story from basically anywhere. Maybe some genres are kind of an awkward fit together, but you can make anything work with a little creativity.
If, however, you are thinking of the question in terms of frankensteining two entire board games together, then it becomes a massively difficult or even outright nonsensical idea. For example, for skill checks, the game Shadowrun has players roll a pool of several d6 at once, then count up how many rolled above a target value to see how well a character succeeded at a task. The whole game is full of specific rules about adding or removing dice from the pool, effects happening if you roll doubles, rerolling only some of the dice, and all sorts of other things that simply do not translate to rolling a single d20 for skill checks. On a basic level, the rules of the games work very differently. Trying to make them compatible would be much harder than just learning a new game from scratch. Now, neither of these approaches is exactly *wrong*, I guess, but personally, I find the rules of TTRPGs to be fascinating and worth taking the time to engage with all the weird little nuances and seeing what shakes out. Also, the first group, "TTRPG as fancy board game" is definitely the older and more widespread one. I kind of get the impression that the second group largely got into D&D through actual play podcasts, but I don't have any actual data to back that up. So, if you're in the second group, who thinks of D&D as basically a context for collaborative storytelling first and a game second, please let me know if I'm wildly misunderstanding how you approach D&D. Because I'm pretty sure it would save us a whole lot of stupid misunderstandings.
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multiverse-menagerie · 1 year ago
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Perhaps could I request the bg3 companions going through Tav's sketchbook and finding that it's riddled with drawings of each companion, but especially them. Maybe it's the early stages of a romance or smthn?
I’ve been slowly spinning this around in my head, yessss
Gale
At first, Gale thinks journal is a book you’ve left for him. He’s not really one to go through your personal belongings after all. But upon opening the journal and finding swaths of drawings of your party and him, he’s thrown a little off kilter
He returns it to you immediately (read as: he fights with himself for a good ten minutes to stop looking at the sketches of himself and return the book to you) but asks you about your hobby
Listens very intently to however much you’re willing to tell him. Gale would ask, “are those me? or do you know some other roguishly handsome wizard with a penchant for fancy robes?”
He’s trying Very Hard to downplay his feelings about the whole matter. He’s not used to being the admired one
but he’s certainly not complaining
Shadowheart
As she hopes everyone will respect her need for privacy, Shadowheart strives to do the same for others. Despite many opportunities to peak at your journal, she resists and eventually asks you about it directly, but with no pressure
shy!Tav, nervously showing off the sketches and trying to gloss over how many of these drawings are of Shadowheart - after a deep breath, Shadowheart ignores the blush rising on her skin and asks about some of the other drawings
Confident!Tav, flipping through the sketches and happily showing off the images of Shadowheart especially - Shadowheart flusters, sputters out a near incomprehensible jumble of words and rushes off
Either way, the moment lives Rent Free(tm) in her head and she hopes you’ll show her the journal again
Astarion
STUNNED. like, almost drops your sketch in surprise bc wait. Holy shit. Is that him??
recovers smoothly, plays down the way his adrenaline has spiked
It does not matter how good the portraits of him are, sketches or fully finished drawings, he is Memorizing those pages
If you draw him with any soft expression, he’ll point out that image to you and be like “I think you’ve messed up on that particular reaction, dear” (that’s how he looks at you, shh don’t tell him)
Wyll
He spots you watching him one day as he’s training, your eyes flipping between him and the journal in front of you. Eventually he gives in and wanders over, inquiring about what you’re up to
when you show him the spread, sketches of him doing swordplay (and a few close headshots) - Wyll is both very impressed and very flustered
He compliments your skills, though jokingly questions the subject of your drawings. Certainly someone else would make a more attractive drawing, he says, gesturing vaguely to his mismatched eyes and newly acquired horns
Is surprised by the fierce frown you give him, the disapproval in your voice at his suggestion. You’re drawing him for a reason. Thoroughly chastised and a little embarrassed, Wyll thanks you (he doesn’t elaborate beyond that but you get the idea)
Karlach
Karlach is too afraid to touch anything that seems even vaguely flammable, but she’s seen you scribbling into your journal on many an occasion. Eventually her curiosity gets the better of her and she asks you about it
If you’re hesitant to show her, she’ll back off
but kind of pout like a little kid. Not in an attempt to make you feel bad but just bc that’s who she is. If and when you decide to show her the sketches, she’s super hyped
Jaw on the floor. She’s not got the patience or skills for drawing, not really, but your talent blows her away. And then she sees the drawings of her and she’s like - mouth open, heart eyes
jokes about how you’ve drawn her, with a huge grin on her face the whole time “how long have you been staring at my thighs to get the drawing this accurate? should I get a new outfit for your next page?”
Lae’zel
She’s never really cared much for her appearance - don’t get me wrong, she thinks she looks great but she’s never really been the one to stare at her reflection or anything
But Lae’zel sees herself in your sketches, drawings of her in softer states, in relaxation, and shes
surprised
Part of her bristles - she’s a strong warrior on a mission, she doesn’t need you seeing her as soft. But a different part of her
eases. Relaxes. You see her as an individual worth affection.
Lae’zel wouldn’t comment much about the drawings, but she would ask to sit and watch you draw, if it wouldn’t bother you. Your skilled hands, the way your brow furrows as you draw. Yes. She likes that.
Halsin
At first, Halsin is simply impressed by your talents. Artistry has always been something he’s enjoyed, no matter the form, so he’s happy to get to see your work
When he comes across the pages devoted to him, he’s thrown off a little. He’s used to being admired, if we’re being honest. As long as he’s lived and as many people he’s been with, it happens. But he’s not used to
this. Being part of the art but without any expectation of him.
Traces a finger over the lines of his face - somehow you’ve captured a look that makes him seem so
heroic. Is that how you see him? Warmth feels his chest and he goes to seek you out
You don’t get much of an answer, when you ask why he’s scooped you and paying you extra attention, nuzzling his face into your hair
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covenofagatha · 9 days ago
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Two professors and a student (Part 3)
Word count: 2700
Warnings: phone sex (kinda?), smut, masturbation, sex
Tumblr media
It’s the first Monday of your winter break, and you’re back on campus. Rio had sent out an email to everyone in the course saying that if anyone wanted, she would be in her office all day so you could look at your graded exams. She hadn’t put the grades into your student portal yet, so your heart is pounding as you climb up the stairs to the science building. 
From nerves, yes, but also at the prospect of seeing Rio again. 
You hadn’t heard from her since the text Saturday morning, and yet, you had been able to think of little else. Thoughts of her and Agatha had plagued your mind all weekend and now you weren’t sure how to interact with Rio in an educational setting. 
Should you bring up the dinner tomorrow night? Or just pretend that you were her student and nothing more? 
What if there were other students from your class in her office right now? You sort of hope that’s the case and then you won’t have to stress about it. 
But of course, when you knock on her office door and then push it open, it’s only Rio. 
She’s sitting at her desk, looking expectantly at you, like she knew you would be coming. 
“Hey,” you say, voice sounding more shaky than you intended. 
“Y/n, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She asks, tone silky and suggestive. You gulp and take a few more steps in the office, not missing the way the door clicks shut behind you. 
“I wanted to see my exam?” It comes out as a question instead of a statement. God, it’s almost embarrassing how much this woman affects you, especially after the other night. 
“Of course you did,” Rio says smugly and stands up. She moves some papers around on her desk. Once she finds it, she holds it out to you so you’re forced to close the distance and take it from her. 
Inhaling deeply, you chance a peek at the top and are pleasantly surprised to find a 97% scribbled on the paper. You exhale slowly and you can almost feel the tension seeping out of your body. All the effort you had put in had paid off. 
You flip through the pages of the exam to see where you messed up. You’re so focused on reading her feedback that you don’t notice Rio has moved right behind you until you feel her hot breath on your neck. 
You stiffen and you can feel goosebumps creep up your body. 
“You did so well,” she says, practically whispering it into your ear. “Your attention to detail, the amount of care you put into your work, it’s impressive.” 
“Thank you,” you manage to squeak, hands wrinkling the paper from how tight you’re holding onto it. Her fingers come up to lightly play with your hair and you’re having trouble reading the words on the paper. All you can think about is Rio. 
“What do you think about going to Herb’s tomorrow night?” She murmurs. Herb’s is probably the fanciest steakhouse in town. You whirl around, startling when you realize just how close she actually is to you. Her lips (not that you’re looking) are probably three inches from yours. You can see the little specks of gold in her dark eyes. 
“I couldn’t, that’s too much,” you protest, but she puts a finger to your mouth. You freeze. 
“Agatha and I want to reward you for being such a good girl for us,” she says and a thrill runs through you. “That’s who you are, right?” 
You think you’ve forgotten how to breathe. You nod ever so slightly, afraid to move too much since her finger still hasn’t left your mouth. 
And then she grabs your chin with her hand, causing you to gasp at the sudden roughness, her thumb coming to stroke lightly at your bottom lip. You part your lips reflexively and she smirks, delighting in the obvious effect she has on you. 
“Say it,” she urges. 
“I’m your good girl,” you rasp, heat now flaring in your stomach. Her eyes are locked on yours and you can see desire clouding in them. You’re positive yours look the exact same. Her thumb swipes against your lip again, and this time, you flick your tongue out to brush against it. Her eyes flash and she opens her mouth to say something but there’s a knock on the door and you jump back from her. 
Rio chuckles sardonically, tongue pushing against her inner cheek, and calls out, “Come in!” 
A kid you’ve only seen once or twice in the entire semester pushes open the door and walks in. 
“Um, well, thanks for this,” you say, flustered more than you’ve ever been in your life, and hand the test back to Rio. 
“Professor Harkness is in her office, if you want to stop by and say hi,” she says casually and you don’t know how she is so composed. Is she telling you to go see her? Did Agatha ask to see you? 
You wouldn’t be surprised now if they were counting on you coming to see Rio to see your test. If this whole thing had been planned. 
But if anything, you feel like this is confirmation that they want you too. 
“Okay,” you say, still a little breathless. 
You take a moment to collect yourself once in the hallway again and then in almost a daze, walk to Agatha’s office. 
You had spent so much time there in the semester earlier that you could map it with your eyes closed. And even now, when you haven’t been there in months, it still looks the exact same when you finally arrive and go inside. 
Sitting at her desk, Agatha looks positively ecstatic that you’re there. 
“Rio said–” you begin, but trail off because you’re not sure how to explain what just happened. You’re not sure if Agatha will be jealous. You awkwardly walk over and sit on the couch where you spent so many afternoons. 
“How’d you do on her exam?” She asks, but from her grin, she clearly already knows. 
“Really good,” you say. “I think better than I did on your final.” 
Agatha pouts mockingly. “Trying harder to impress her more than me?” 
“No! I don’t – no – that’s not –” 
She laughs. “Sweetheart, I’m teasing.” She stands up and comes around to sit next to you on the couch. Her body is tilted towards you and her legs come up so her thigh is against yours. You bite back a gasp at the contact. “Did Rio talk to you about dinner tomorrow?” 
You nod and try to contain the blush that is surely spreading on your face, but the memory of Rio calling you a good girl and tasting her thumb on your tongue makes that impossible. “Herb’s?” 
“Have you been?” She perches her elbow on the side of the couch and rests her head in her hand, leaning in closer. 
“No. It’s too fancy for a broke college student like me,” you answer in a lame attempt at a joke. “You guys really don’t have to take me there.” 
Agatha’s other hand comes up to cup your cheek and rub her thumb against it. “Hon, you are so much more than that. And yes, we do. We want to. It’s been awhile since someone has caught our attention like this.” 
Your breath hitches. “Like what?” You dare to whisper. You find yourself also leaning in closer and can’t help from glancing down at her lips. 
She smirks. “Like this.” 
And then she closes the gap and your eyes close in anticipation. But her lips stop when they’re a breath away from yours, maybe just to make sure you want this too. You want this more than life at this point, so you’re the one who makes the first real move and you kiss her. It’s featherlight, just a ghost of a kiss lasting mere seconds, but when you pull back, her normally-blue eyes are dark and hooded. 
Her hand on your cheek tangles itself in your hair and she pulls you in to crash your mouths together in a bruising kiss. 
You moan into her open mouth when her tongue parts your lips and licks against yours. Her fingers move to scrapple at your hips and you figure out what she wants so you maneuver yourself into her lap without breaking the kiss. Her hands slide under your shirt and just rest against your skin, but you have to pull away to throw your head back and moan at the hot contact. Agatha doesn’t hesitate before kissing down the side of your face and then down your neck. She sucks a bite into the juncture of your neck and shoulder and your hips cant in her lap. 
“Fuck,” you gasp and her nails dig into your back. You drag her mouth back to yours, panting into the kiss. You can feel her losing composure as well when her teeth nip aggressively at your lower lip. It turns you on beyond words that you’re having this kind of effect on her. 
“Well, would you look at this?” A voice says from the doorway and you jerk back so hard that you topple off Agatha’s lap and onto the couch. Fear spikes through your body as you look and–
–it’s Rio. 
Part of you is relieved that it wasn’t anyone else, but then again, you were just caught making out with her girlfriend. Agatha doesn’t look worried at all, though. If anything, she looks proud of herself. 
“I didn’t realize when I told you to come here I was giving you permission to whore yourself out,” Rio says cooly as she walks over to the couch. 
“I’m sorry,” you whisper and you scramble off the couch, smoothing your shirt down from where it had ridden up. Agatha rolls her eyes amusedly. “I’ll, um, see you guys tomorrow night?” 
“Six pm, don’t be late,” Rio says, eyes burning into you as you scurry out of the office. 
Your plan is to get to your dorm as fast as possible so you can touch yourself to the memory of the kiss, desperately needing to relieve the ache that has built up in you.  
You haven’t even left the building though when your phone rings. You pull it out of your pocket and, much to your surprise, it’s Rio. Is she calling you to tell you to come back? To scold you?
You swipe to answer it and hesitantly lift your phone to your ear. “Hello?” 
At first, you don’t hear anything specific, just some muffled sounds. You say something again, but you don’t hear either of them. Did Rio butt-dial you?
You’re about to hang up when you finally hear Rio. But she’s not talking to you. 
“How was it?” She says. Her voice sounds far away. Is she asking about you?
“Fuck, Rio, it was so hot,” Agatha says. Your entire body tenses. They’re talking about you. 
Your head starts to spin and you frantically look around for somewhere you can go. 
“Yeah? It looked hot. She looked so good with her tongue in your mouth, Aggie.” 
There’s a bathroom a few yards away. You duck into it and lock yourself in a stall. You’re not sure you could hold the phone any closer to your ear. 
“I thought you were going to kiss her, too,” Agatha admits. “I wanted to watch.” Someone scoffs and you think it might be Rio. 
“I would’ve earlier if one of my idiot students hadn’t interrupted. You should’ve seen her, so desperate for it.” 
“Oh, I think I know what desperation looks like on her.” You can practically hear the smirk in Agatha’s voice and you blush. “And I know what it looks like on you, too.” 
Another huff. There’s silence for a moment and you strain your ears so you don’t miss anything. And then there’s the faintest of sounds, almost like a smacking noise. Your eyes widen. Are they kissing?
“Can you taste her on me?” You hear Agatha mutter between breaths and you think you’re about to combust on the spot. You can’t resist from sliding a hand down your shorts and you gasp at how wet you are. 
The sounds continue and you hear soft moaning, but you’re unable to distinguish who they’re coming from. 
And then: “Get on the desk,” Agatha orders roughly. “I never thanked you properly for Saturday morning.” Rio chuckles breathlessly and you can hear things being cleared off the space. 
You are completely overwhelmed now, by the knowledge that Rio had fucked her the morning after you had seen them (was the dinner invitation before or after?) and now Agatha’s about to return the favor. 
And you are listening. 
“Are you going to tell her about your dream?” Rio asks. You hear the sound of a belt buckle and a zipper. 
“Should I?” Agatha retorts. “Do you think she could handle knowing I had such a good dream about the three of us that you had to take care of me in my sleep?” 
You moan involuntarily and clamp a hand over your mouth. If they catch you listening there’s a chance they’ll hang up and you cannot take that risk. 
“I think she could,” Rio says, words turning into a groan at the end of the sentence. You wonder if Agatha is touching her now. “I saw how much she needed you just now. I think she’d be a good girl and let us do whatever we wanted to her.” 
You nod enthusiastically like they can see you. 
“Fuck, Agatha,” Rio gasps and you think if you listen closely enough, you can hear her wetness. You slide a finger into yourself and mirror what you’re imagining Agatha doing. 
“She is our good girl, isn’t she,” Agatha muses conversationally. You have to bite down your lip so you don’t make any other noises. “Can you picture her doing this to you? Making you feel good with her fingers?” 
Your ring finger joins your middle finger to thrust into you and your thumb rubs at your clit. You are embarrassingly close after making out with Agatha and now this. 
It seems like Rio is, too. “Yes, fuck, I want you both.” You can hear her breaths coming out short and fast and Agatha laughs. 
“You both are so desperate. What am I going to do with you? I have some ideas.” 
You almost beg to hear them. But Rio has that covered for you. 
“Oh yeah?” She whimpers. 
“I’m going to teach her how you like to be eaten out. How you like to be fucked. And then we’ll see if she’s as good of a learner in bed as she is in the classroom.” Rio’s moan is so loud it cuts out the next thing Agatha says. You can’t be mad though because her sounds are just as hot as Agatha’s words. “And then we’ll fuck her. She’ll look so pretty stretched around your fingers. With my tongue in her pussy.” 
You taste blood from how hard you bite your lip after she says that. Your hips stutter and you are so close. 
“Fuck, Agatha,” Rio swears. “I’m going to cum.” 
“Yeah? Cum for me, Rio. And you too, sweetheart.” You can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips when you register that Agatha is talking to you and hearing her say that sends you over the edge. Rio as well, from the sounds of it. Your orgasm is explosive, even though you’re fucking yourself in a college bathroom stall. You pant and rest your head against the wall, thoroughly ruined. 
Your cheeks are flushed at being played like a fool. Of course they didn’t accidentally call you right before they just happened to have sex. 
There’s movement from Rio and Agatha’s side and then Agatha’s voice close to the speaker. “You okay, honey?” 
You cough to clear your throat. “Yeah,” you say weakly and they both chuckle. 
“We’ll see you tomorrow night,” Rio says. “Wear something pretty for us.” And the call disconnects. 
You laugh in disbelief. Fuck. 
735 notes · View notes
munariplans · 10 months ago
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welcome home, red | natasha romanoff
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synopsis: natasha knew going on a mission where you were deliberately left out was a bad idea. going on a mission tracking down your ex-girlfriend was even worse; for natasha finally learns how jealous she can get.
natasha romanoff x reader | felicia hardy x reader
word count: 6.7k words
a/n: i see your requests for jealous!natasha with spidey!reader, and i got you :) hope you enjoy!
masterlist
BREAKING NEWS: CURIOSITY KILLS THE CAT? you know what they say, strike when the iron is hot! well, the black cat, infamous for her string of break-ins and robberies, may have struck the iron and burned herself. stealing a prized necklace from the wife of new york’s biggest crime boss, the black cat has certainly outdone herself this time, because silvio manfredi is out for her head, and everyone else’s too! read more on page 6 of this exclusive piece. 
perplexed expressions, furrowed eyebrows, sighs of frustration. everyone was on edge, at the threat of the manfredi family wanting to blow up entire parts of new york in order to find the black cat. villains were so dramatic, natasha thought. in no universe would she have ever wanted to threaten to kill entire cities for the love of her life, if one even existed. 
but then her phone chimed in with a notification from you, sending a photo of her favourite animal that you spotted on your mission, and she knew she would be retracting her words. even in life-threatening, death-defying missions that you were on, you never forgot to see her everywhere you went. stupid feelings, and stupid crushes, natasha shut her eyes, fighting the urge to giggle at a text from the person she was head over heels for. 
“natasha?”
she looked up from her phone, to realise she was the only one still in a half-positive mood. everyone else was biting their lips in worry. she regained her composure, and answered fury, “yeah?”
“you heard me? we’re not leaking this information to her. she won’t be a part of this mission at all.”
the look of confusion on her face gave her away. clint, maria, and fury answered her at the same time. 
“your little crush.”
“your wife that you claim isn’t.”
“the person you’re smiling at your phone like an idiot at.”
she glared at clint for the last remark. 
“...is there a reason why?” the mission had seemed almost perfectly suited to your skillset. 
fury merely shrugged. “no reason. it should just be you three that are privy to this information, that’s all. find the black cat, find the necklace, use it to rope manfredi in, and one less crime boss off the streets.”
even then, she had a nagging feeling that he had not been telling the truth.
– 
you ended your latest mission with a bang; quite literally. being flung about fifty metres into the air from a bomb explosion in the middle of the ocean, you would hardly call the mission a failure. no civilians were injured, you had killed the maker of the bomb along with it, and you were not dead, at least. 
washing up on shore unconscious and with water in your lungs? a concussion that would have sent any regular person into a permanent coma? being found by villagers and rushed to the medical wing of the avengers tower within a span of a few hours? almost pronounced dead on arrival? sure, you were all of those, but not dead. 
honestly, you would have given very little regard for your own life being lost in that mission if not for one person. the one person who stayed with you until the very last minute for her own mission. 
“i need to stop welcoming you back in a hospital bed, you know,” natasha grumbled into your neck, hugging you bone-crushingly when you awoke and smiled at her. 
she looked mad, but you knew she was just thankful you were home. you wrapped your arms around her waist and brought her to lie down on top of you. she was reluctant to crush your already broken ribs, but you were insistent. “i missed you too. and if i hadn’t been blown up, i had planned to bring back a souvenir from the airport for you.”
“you coming back is enough for me,” she mumbled. you knew she was never this vulnerable with anyone else. the words of because i love you were begging to roll off her tongue, but natasha knew she wasn’t strong enough for that. yet.
you let her ignore the first call for her to assemble at the loading zone, then the second, by the third, your hand had tapped her waist and she had groaned into you once more. “i don’t want to go.”
“what’s this mission about, anyway? nobody’s told me about it since i got here.”
natasha considered her choice of words for a moment, considering whether she should, when fury’s own warnings came back to her. she was never one to break promises. “just some
thing. about retrieving something and using it to lure a criminal.”
you chuckled. “seems like more of a police case than an avenger’s one. or one for a friendly neighbourhood spider.”
“well, the friendly neighbourhood spider looks like a mummy right now, so i don’t think so,” she had reluctantly got up, gathering her things, “i’ll see you in a few days?”
you let her hug you goodbye. “by then, i’ll be fit enough to welcome you home. properly.”
–
natasha once again found it hard to understand why fury hadn’t just waited for you to get slightly better, and go for this mission yourself, because the black cat’s tricks and games were definitely something you could have handled better than anyone he had assigned on the current team. she struggled to even catch up with the woman, and clint’s arrows often couldn’t squeeze deep enough into the slips and cracks she was slipping through. maria couldn’t even get a shot or trap clear to get to her. it would all have been solved so quickly with your webs zipping and getting to her; not to mention your ability to soar through the skies like she could. 
this was in addition to the fact that she was adamantly denying having the necklace with her. 
with another hit to the face, she was shouting to natasha, “i don’t have what you’re looking for!”
natasha swallowed the blood gathering in her mouth. the woman could throw a punch. “then why are you running?” black cat cornered her this time, slamming her against the wall as her breath mixed with natasha’s. immediately, it was too close, far too close. the grin that the enemy was sporting for her was glinting with mischief, and a trace of attraction. “...if someone as pretty as you were chasing me, with those fiery eyes and red hair of yours, who wouldn’t?” 
she was gone before natasha could catch her next breath, handcuffing the black widow to the pipe next to her. she had come so close. natasha knew the black cat was at her wit’s end as well; there was only so far she could run from the avengers.
–
however, one thing the woman had failed to consider, was how suspicious you found the entire operation being. rarely had natasha refused to tell you about the missions she was going on, and rarely did fury put so much emphasis in hiding it from you either. 
you weren’t in favour of stalking them, per se, but what were you supposed to do? the hospital wing was boring, and you were (almost) ready to go back to full, operational missions. the broken rib was only hurting a little bit, by that point. 
you watched maria through the tracker in her suit, flipping through yet another string of messages natasha had left unanswered. she never failed to reply to you, at least not beyond a day or two. 
sighing, you put your mask back on, and dived down the building to begin your chase. the team wasn’t far away. 
–
“we got her. hill should be able to lure her into the construction site.” clint’s comms crackled in natasha’s ear, and she set herself into position. finally, one of the traps maria had set worked. minimal casualties, a faraway location. the team should be able to interrogate her there.
natasha finally caught up. the black cat, panting and looking slightly less composed, had nowhere to run. she knew clint was on the roof, and maria was nearby. there was only the waters behind her to escape to. 
she aimed her gun, then, “let’s make this a lot easier for all of us. you hand us the necklace, you’re looking at a shorter jail term. months, maybe.”
the black cat only returned with another smart retort, before trying to take aim at maria above. she cursed and flinched when the agent successfully dodged. natasha, i am letting the arrow fly if she tries to get any closer to you, clint declared in her comms. natasha agreed. 
the woman took one step closer, natasha clicked her gun. 
“you have to let me go,” she explained, “they want me as bad as you do.”
“you’d rather come with us, or die with them?”
black cat sighed irritatedly. she darted her eyes once more, and the moment she spotted something in the sky, the ground beneath natasha suddenly shook. 
she could only see clint’s arrow fly at the corner of her vision; maria ducking down after something hit her, and then, her own gun flying out of her hands. natasha hit the ground right after, rolling away consciously to avoid whatever had caused the interruption. 
the second she gathered her bearings, however, it felt like time had stopped. her heart began beating rapidly, and she knew she should have just bypassed fury’s advice right away then. if she had, she wouldn’t be dealing with this right now. 
for if she had, natasha wouldn’t be staring down at you, standing in front of the black cat protectively, glaring at the three of them, and their weapons confiscated and broken into pieces right at your feet. 
–
you had never looked more angry. in fact, natasha had never even seen you this angry before. fists clenched, your stance was protective, the eye lenses narrowed and squinting down at her in rage. she had never been subject to even an ounce of irritation from you before. natasha was almost afraid of what would happen. 
thankfully, clint and maria had come down from where they were, clint with considerably more caution in his step than he had been much earlier.
he called your name, and, “i need you to calm down. we–”
“–i don’t need to hear an explanation.” you cut him off. behind you, the black cat grinned, and came a little closer. you seemed to pay her no mind.
“we couldn’t tell you,” maria tried helping him, but the glare you shot at her wasn’t much better.
“you absolutely could,” then, your eyes met natasha’s, and she wanted to crumble under your gaze, “you absolutely could.”
clint pointed out it wasn’t fair, that you knew how these things went, and then, in a lower tone, “she doesn’t know. let it go.”
“why were you chasing her?” you only replied, shielding the black cat when maria tried aiming her spare gun as the woman came to your side, “we had a deal.”
“our deal didn’t involve her stealing a necklace that could wreck cities. you’ve already seen the bombings down in harlem and hell’s kitchen, do you still want to protect her for this one?” 
your facade cracked in the slightest bit. only natasha noticed, but your eyes had gone slightly wider, a questioning look sent to the woman behind you. with your stance a little more tense, you were about to lower the hand protecting her, when natasha quickly realised that your confrontation had bought her just enough time.
the black cat slung her arms around your torso, and pressed a kiss to your cheek before whispering, “my hero, my spider. always coming to save me.” 
all natasha saw was blind rage before the tear gas that black cat had thrown shrouded everything else in pain and smoke. she could hear clint screaming in frustration of just what it meant.
by the time the team had torn through the gas, you and her were gone.
–
clint had exactly three seconds to register the mad woman storming towards him, before he was slammed against the wall with natasha’s face up in his. he breathed heavily, the air still thick from the gas, but natasha’s fists were enough to ground him back to reality.
“alright, enough games. i was kind then, i’m not feeling so kind now. who. exactly. is. this. black. cat?” she gritted her teeth saying the last few words, the searing memory of seeing another press her lips against you still fresh in her mind.
if he wasn’t so afraid for his life, clint would almost have found the jealousy and possessiveness natasha claimed she never had over you quite funny. 
but her hands were almost choking him by then, the anger coursing through her veins and the hurt of you keeping such a huge secret from her fuelling only her rage.
had she been a fool for trusting that you would stay loyal in your pure, unbridled love for her all this while? perhaps not. perhaps you, like everyone else, got tired of waiting for her to be ready, too. perhaps you weren’t what she thought you were after all. 
when it was clear the archer couldn’t find the words to tell her, maria answered for him. she pulled natasha away, and forced her to think clearly again.
finally, when she was calm enough to hear the both of them out, maria announced that the black cat, felicia hardy, had been your ex-girlfriend.
–
while felicia was more than happy to be swinging through the city in your arms again, you were getting more and more anxious; what clint had said still ringing in your ears. surely, felicia wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t risk her life, and so many others’, like that. surely, she wasn’t so stupid.
you landed abruptly through her apartment window, shattering the glass to her kitchen and throwing the both of you on the ground. felicia groaned at the rough landing, and you had half a mind to apologise for getting distracted and missing the window, but you remembered that you should be even angrier at her.
“what the hell were you doing?” you interrogated, and when it appeared that felicia was keen on escaping, your webs were binding her to the dining room chair. “stealing a necklace, i don’t care. but stealing manfredi’s wife’s necklace!”
“aw, so you do still care about me, spider,” felicia cooed as you took off your mask and sat across from her. you had wanted to shake her in frustration, to give you answers instead of flirting with you once again.
you held your hands out in front of her, and she continued, “bringing me home, swinging through the city, just like we used to. bailing me out from your stupid friends, trying to save the world. you’ve always been a romantic.”
“they’re my colleagues. and my family now too. you
felicia
why?” you still couldn’t wrap your head around why she had decided to steal that necklace, of all things. it was not like she needed the cash, and if she had wanted to find a way to fuck around and feed her kleptomania, there were so many other necklaces that were beautiful, worthy of stealing. surely not manfredi’s.
she shot you a dopey smile, and you sighed in frustration. there was always back and forth with felicia. “spider, spider
”
you stood to clear your head before you would resort to punching her, time being of the essence with so many parts of new york being bombed and her being her usual self around you. heading to her sink, you let the water run; you couldn’t hurt felicia even if you tried. damn yourself for never being able to do so.
but then, her voice was softer, kinder. “...you never considered if what your friends are saying is the truth?”
head hung low, you gazed up to her. the webs were gone, and she was standing over you, though keeping a safe distance. she knew you were still fuming, and confused, and feeling so many things at once. she continued, “you never considered the fact that maybe, just maybe, i didn’t steal the necklace? you blindly trust your friends, just like that?”
your spider senses weren’t tingling. she was being honest. switching off the tap, you turned to face her, and she took off her own goggles, letting her hair down. this was her best attempt at being vulnerable. but you weren’t so quick to fall for it; she had gotten past your defences before. “they’re better at being honest than you are.”
you missed the hurt look that flashed on her face momentarily. then, you stood straighter, a hand gripping the counter as you steadied yourself and what you were about to say. 
shaking your head, you faced felicia with, “this, this, is why we broke up. because you can’t stop lying, and you can’t keep the life of crime behind you. even when i told you i can’t stay with you because of it, even when i told you that
if you gave it all up, i would have done anything, anything, to provide for the both of us. i would’ve even left SHIELD, the avengers, everything, for you.”
felicia bit her lip then, crossing over the threshold between the living room and kitchen, standing before you. you weren’t on your guard anymore. she put up a hand to your cheek, the sharp claws slowly running through soft skin. she could have scratched a permanent scar there and you would have let her.
she could have let her emotions run, but felicia was always better than you were at keeping matters close to her heart guarded. instead, she scoffed, and said, “the red one. out of your friends earlier. i’ve never seen her before.”
“she’s
newer.”
“she’s pretty. smart, capable, quick on her feet.” felicia pointed out. you nodded your head, the thought of natasha being mad, and confused, suddenly sending a wave of guilt through your heart. you shouldn’t have gotten so angry with her. she didn’t know.
“she was also green with jealousy when i kissed you on the cheek,” felicia giggled, and you looked up sharply. she nodded, and continued, “are you and red together now?”
you blinked, almost letting your guard down, almost telling felicia everything. that you wished you were together with red, that you loved red more than you loved anything else, that red was all that you ever wanted. and that red, mostly, was not ready for it all, but you would gladly wait for red until she was. that you would do anything for red. that–
“don’t touch her.” you warned, voice suddenly serious. the hand on your face was removed, a death grip with your own. felicia smiled. 
“so protective, spider. i miss when you were that protective over me.”
she removed her hand from your own, and walked to her bathroom, before bringing out her first-aid kit. clint had shot an arrow that managed to slice past her thigh. you watched as she nursed herself back to health, not flinching even as she invited you to come over to help. 
felicia could tell you had a lot on your mind. bringing up natasha was probably not a good choice. but felicia still cared for you, at the very least, and helped put you out of your misery by saying, later on, “i didn’t steal the necklace, you know. i’m telling the truth.”
your eyes were still fixed on her from where you were in the kitchen. she sighed. “the avengers, and practically everybody else, think it’s me. and of course, i fit the description, i fit the motive, everything. it was so easy to pin it on me and let everyone chase after me. but i didn’t steal the fucking necklace. i found out about it being gone and me being a thief the same time you all did.”
“...then why did you run?”
she scoffed, as if you had just said the stupidest thing in the world. “because they were threatening to kill me, spider. i have the whole world against me. and
and i didn’t have you to come rescue me anymore, i thought. i had to run.”
“when you were innocent?”
“better than being killed by fucking gangsters, right?”
“you could’ve called me.”
she looked up at you. you had sat down in front of her, inspecting the bandages she had wrapped around her thigh. when you slowly unwrapped them to help put them on tighter for her, felicia asked, “...would you have come?”
you didn’t make eye contact with her. but the hand on her thigh was enough reassurance. “you know i would’ve.”
sixty seconds was not a long time. but to felicia, sixty seconds of her own contemplation, her going against her own head and morals, of thinking if it was worth what would come after what she was going to do, felt like forever. she was breathing heavily in the cold night air, your eyes were transfixed on the bandages before you, hand not moving an inch, and she didn’t know what else she was supposed to do. what else she could do. 
so after those sixty seconds, felicia leaned in and kissed you. again. again and again, just like old times, just like all those heists and burglaries you had rescued her from before. your lips tasted the same, the arms around her felt as safe as ever, and when she pushed you into her bedroom and began undressing the both of you, the look of longing, and betrayed love you gave her was one she knew all too well. 
her hips moved against yours that night, hands thrashing and fingers finding their way into each other’s hair, and for a while, felicia knew she was safe again. for a while, the avengers, manfredi and his stupid goons, everyone else, was drowned out by the sound of your moans and cries, and felicia could let go. she finally reunited with her spider, even if just for a night, and what a reunion it fucking was for her.
– 
the next morning, however, you were dressed before she could even lift her head off of the pillow, shaking your head and muttering, “i have to go back. i have to go back. they’ll be looking for me.”
she could tell you were surprised by her interruption of, “and what if they do?”
“they’ll think i’m working with you. and i can’t be seen working with you.”
it felt almost cathartic to say, “fuck you.”
you then turned, a sympathetic look on your face and an apology leaving your lips in the next second. “you know what i mean, felicia.”
“you don’t think i’m telling the truth? that i didn’t steal the fucking necklace?”
you were silent for a while. your hand was crushing the shirt you were holding, deep in thought. if it weren’t for your spider senses, you would have almost missed catching the pillow felicia had thrown at you.
putting the pillow down, you then turned to her again, and said, “i’m giving you the opportunity to prove you’re telling the truth. come back to the avengers tower and work with us on finding the real thief.”
–
natasha couldn’t believe that you thought bringing felicia back was a good idea. that you thought any part of your plan was a good idea at all. 
it was one of the rare few times that she had voiced out what she thought was a stupid plan; tapping into the black cat’s skills and intel, and trusting her with information, to draw out the real thief of the necklace. it was one of the rare few times she was arguing with you. 
there had been more you’re putting all of us at risk and i don’t see a better solution exchanges between the both of you, each one escalating in intensity. the rest of the team were equally on natasha’s side, with the exception of fury, who had been brought in to weigh in on the situation. you had spent another hour convincing him earlier not to turn felicia in himself.
in the end, he stepped in, and natasha was bound to follow his directions. that didn’t stop her from sporting the most irritated, annoyed look on her face, however, as she brusquely brushed past you and felicia, who looked more than smug that she was temporarily welcomed back to the team. you were about to give chase, when fury instructed you not to. it was best to let natasha calm down first.
“pissed off red to bring me in,” felicia caressed your face then, causing you to bite your lip in annoyance as well, “i’m honoured, spider.”
–
she could feel herself sinking in jealousy; watching the way you and felicia interacted. 
you helping felicia to put on the comms in her ear and the bulletproof linings in her suit; you used to help natasha with that. even when she had gotten more accustomed to the avengers, even when she could put it on herself by then.
you letting felicia take the seat beside yours in the quinjet. it clearly was natasha’s, it even had her fucking initials carved into the armrest on it, when she was bored on a flight once. truth be damned that fury had requested you to keep felicia on a tight leash, but the seat beside yours? really? it hurt more than it should have, as natasha forced herself to avoid eye contact with you right as she stormed past you. you only realised your mistake a second or two later, seeing her angry charge to the very back of the jet, and you were just about to ask felicia to move the seat in front of yours when natasha had told you to save whatever you wanted to say to her. 
felicia could almost laugh at how nervous, and guilty, you looked all throughout the flight. if she wasn’t so on edge from the mission requirements and having to work in a team herself, she could almost feel a tinge of jealousy that you were treating your new girl better than you had ever treated her, even. red must have been special, she thought, as you finally unbuckled your seatbelt and made the journey to the back when the flight stabilised.
“nat,” you called her uncertainly, fingers digging into your palms as you waited patiently for her to finish chewing out a younger agent to look at you. then, she made eye contact with you, standing by her seat and eyes insecure, and she hated herself for not being able to stay mad at you for long.
still, she had a facade to keep. “what?”
you let out a smile when she came back to your side, gratefully taking the seat beside hers. “i’m sorry.”
“for what?”
“i don’t know,” you had an inkling that you knew what, but you continued, “you’re mad at me. and i’m sorry for the disagreement earlier. i just
i have a plan, alright? and i’m sure it’s going to work, so
i wanted to defend myself. i’m sorry if it made you upset.”
she huffed, rolling her eyes. out of the corner of her eye, however, she could spot you looking even more guilty, and she relented. “you did make me mad.”
“i really am–”
“–but work is work, i know. and i trust your capabilities. you better bring the thief back with a plan, because it’s going to be a lot of paperwork and answering to board members if this doesn’t work out. and i’m not staying up late for all the nights you’re going to do that with you.”
she thought it was stupid how her heart managed to beat impossibly faster as your smile grew, nodding gratefully. “thank you for trusting me.”
then, the both of you spotted felicia unbuckling her seatbelt too, and approaching maria upfront. you made the decision to let the agent handle her for a while, returning your gaze to natasha.
somehow, the both of you managed to blurt out felicia’s name at the same time, both raising the other’s eyebrows. 
“you go first,” natasha declared. you nodded.
“are you okay with her? i know
that you’re not so comfortable working with the enemy. i’ll keep her by my side for the whole mission, and we’ll stay away, so you don’t get bothered so much.”
natasha thought it was amazing how oblivious you were; that the problem was you being too close to felicia, and not close enough to her. that she didn’t want you sticking by felicia’s side, because she was scared she was going to lose you to her instead.
“i
” before she could finish her sentence, however, maria was screaming for you, for felicia had finally annoyed her enough to warrant a restrain back to her seat. that, coupled with the fact that she had stolen maria’s watch without her looking even back at the construction site, and she had finally noticed.
i wish i didn’t have to share you with her, was what natasha wanted to say, as felicia giggled at your rough handling of her back to her seat, attempting to squirm out of your grasp. 
–
the mole had been from SHIELD; as felicia’s expertise let on. she had data from all around new york, obtained less than illegally, and with the technological expertise from maria, the team managed to crack down just who had been plotting for the downfall of manfredi, and collaterally, new york, all along.
the jet made a ninety degree return after wasting time chasing a lead that had previously run dry, and you  were at the other end of a phone call receiving fury’s wrath at the discovery of there being a mole from SHIELD. you had wanted to tell him it wasn’t so surprising, with the onslaught of rapid new hires, but decided to hold your tongue. 
it was you who finally proved that having felicia onboard was a good idea. coming up with a plan in a span of a few minutes, it was so well thought-out and elaborate, maximising everyone’s skills and covering every single possible outcome for capturing the thief, natasha found herself incredibly endeared with your cleverness; hanging on to your every word as you explained the details to the team gathered around you. 
in fact, her dopey look directed at you was what prompted felicia to snicker, and blurt, “so smitten with our spider now are we, red? earlier you looked like you wanted to bite her head off when she was fighting for me.”
to natasha’s surprise, it was you who stepped in first, “enough, felicia. focus.”
it was all the more attractive, and endearing, when she caught you preventing felicia from leaving later, warning her with a “don’t touch her” again, whatever it meant. natasha had wanted to throw her arms around you and kiss you right in that moment.
–
with felicia on her right, and you close behind her, natasha was chasing the thief, almost expertly slipping in and out, zigzagging through the maze of buildings surrounding the area. but you knew that the road would end at an intersection, and natasha and felicia would inevitably have to split to take a chance on where the thief would go. 
and while natasha had hoped wholeheartedly that you would take her side, and trust her instincts, her movements faltered when she snuck a look behind to find you gone. in the next second, you were by felicia’s side, helping her whizz through the crowds and getting even closer to the thief as you flew. 
heart beating fast in her chest, she hadn’t noticed how much it hurt to even see you choose someone else, even for a brief moment. you had made the decision that would best benefit the team, she knew, but professionalism didn’t count for the ache in her heart then, as she picked up her pace again and unwillingly round the corner in hopes of cutting off the culprit. 
–
it was felicia that landed the final blow; catching the thief with a taser sharp enough for you to stop him mid-air, and pinning him to the ground. and after some struggle and maria finally arriving with backup, you were finally relieved of your sudden duties to go on a mission so soon.
catching your breath, you didn’t realise how much your ribs were actually hurting until then. maybe minding your own business the next time wasn’t such a bad idea. 
but then, felicia was by your side, providing a shoulder for you to hold on to for support, as you heaved and pressed your arms against your ribs in an effort to stop it from hurting when you breathed too hard. it was one of the few kind things she had done; the least she could do for you after you’ve helped to clear her name, once again.
you leaned into her support, and upon sensing that her job, and temporary alliance with the avengers, was done, she whisked you away briefly to discuss her options before the actual avengers took matters into their own hands. 
natasha watched from a distance as you walked away in felicia’s arms; understanding how betrayed you could have felt with the avengers, and how painful it must have been to find a mole in the very organisation you had worked for for so long. what she couldn’t understand was how you could possibly be leaving her, when you would be taking her whole heart with you if you left, as well. 
if natasha had more courage, she would have at least tried to stopping you. but she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ever want to force you to stay. even if it was possibly the last time she was seeing you, even if it meant the possibility of you leaving before she has the chance to tell you she loves you.
her chest was closing in on her, breaths short and restrictive, and natasha knew she had to get away before the world caved in on her.
–
felicia led you into a clearing, and you forced yourself to let go of her to lean against a wall. you could tell she was looking at you with pity, and bit your lip at the foul taste it left in your mouth. 
“compromised intelligence, your friends at each others’ throats, your own boss not trusting you enough to see me again,” she pointed out, hiding a teasing smirk, “your future’s looking bright, spider.”
“thanks.”
she watched you slide down the wall, the pain exploding on your side. you hated that she sunk to your level, and reached out for your hand. you didn’t know why you let her. her fingers were cold as she held your own. 
“give it up, then. there’s no hope staying now, right?”
you let out a sneer. “then where would i go?”
“with me. come with me. would you be able to do it? give all this up for me now?”
you realised that felicia had suddenly grown more vulnerable; her eyes a little teary and her lip between her teeth. her other hand was helping you hold on to your injury, her touch cold and unsure. a sigh left your lips, knowing her usual teasing glint was gone. this was the felicia you loved most in the past.
but it was not felicia you loved, not anymore. and while you were thankful for the opportunity to love her, and that you didn’t regret what you had with her, you knew your heart was with someone else now. someone who was waiting for you to return home to her, someone who loved you more than you knew of it yourself. 
you slowly removed the hand that was holding your injury, smiling at felicia. she knew.
“red?”
“i have red now. and you and i are better off apart, you know this, felicia,” you held her face in your hands then, tone comforting, “you know i care about you, always have, always will. and thank you, for loving me, and helping us for this mission. but i’m not going anywhere without natasha.”
her claws withdrawn, felicia nodded understandingly. you continued, “keep your head low for a while. manfredi will still be looking for you, so will the police. i’ll try to cover up for you as much as i can, but don’t get into too much trouble. there’s only so much i can do.”
she laughed, getting up as she heard the police sirens approaching. she was sure you had picked up on it much earlier. 
“red really is special, huh?” you nodded at her question, smiling at the thought of going back to natasha later on. 
“bye for now then, spider,” her hair blowing in the wind, felicia almost looked finally at peace. 
“take care, felicia.”
you informed the police officers that you saw the black cat disappear from your sight just seconds before you arrived.
–
natasha was lying alone in bed by the time the other avengers returned. having left early, her room was dark and silent; the only sounds of her chest heaving quickly and her cracked sobs filling the air. 
there was a knock on the door from maria, calling out for her, but natasha ignored her subsequent knocks after telling her to go away from the first one. 
but then an hour later, there were two signature knocks on her door, following by you keying in the passcode to her room that she had only told you, and natasha’s attention was suddenly rapt.
she realised she probably looked a mess, and pathetic, for sobbing her eyes at out at the mere possibility of you leaving. but in her defence, she didn’t know, and you mattered too much to her for her to see you leave right in front of her eyes. 
“don’t switch on the light,” she warned, and your hand retracted from the light switch. you were about to ask her why, when she continued, “just
come here. come here and hold me, please.”
you were more than happy to oblige, sliding between the sheets and having your arms find themselves around her shivering body. she naturally leaned back into you, and natasha wondered if your senses were more elevated than she thought they could be, as your hands came up to wipe the tears she didn’t want you to see.
at the comfort of your touch, she could only ask, “...are you leaving me? for
the black cat?” 
she could feel you smile behind her, and your head resting at the space between her neck and shoulder. instead of replying, you said, “i actually went out to get you some donuts, and a few movies for us to watch, you know. i finally get to welcome you home, properly.”
natasha feels like her heart is going to burst. you chose her.
“but of course
just being with you is enough. just us, staying like this, is enough.”
natasha finally turned, seeing that you were still injured, but you reassured her by slowly massaging the frown and worry lines off her face. 
she pouted. “she’s pretty.”
you brought her to a sitting position, letting her on top as you rubbed your hands over her back. “you’re prettier.”
“has nice blue eyes.”
you kissed her, softly, slowly. “mhmm, i prefer green eyes.”
“i bet you looked good with her.” she could only imagine how powerful the two of you looked; the spider and the black cat swinging through new york city. it was definitely a force to be reckoned with.
you let her see the selection of donuts you had bought; each spelling out a letter in welcome home. “i feel better when i’m with you.”
natasha finally looks back up at you, and she understands. you never had the intention of leaving. you belonged to her, right from the start.
that night, when you had fallen asleep, one arm slung around her protectively, natasha finally has the courage to tell you what she has always felt.
“i love you,” she says, before amassing all her love into the kiss she landed on your lips.
in your slumber, you smiled, and the redness didn’t leave her cheeks, even until the morning. 
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