#finest drawn women

[himemarcille]

Kris and Eden ❤️

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[romerona]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max.

You had long understood that the world bowed before beauty, that men and women alike were drawn to it as moths to a flame. The great halls of court had taught you this lesson well—whispered it into your ear before you were old enough to truly grasp its weight.

You had seen it in your sister, in the way lords and ladies alike marvelled at her Valyrian splendour, at the silver of her hair and the striking violet of her eyes. They spoke of Rhaenyra in hushed, adoring tones, weaving tales of how she would one day sit upon the throne, not merely as a ruler but as a queen of legend, a vision of Old Valyria made flesh.

And you had seen it in yourself.

At first, there had been nothing of note, nothing remarkable. You had been but a child, young and unformed, another girl in the shadow of a much-adored princess. But as the years passed and maidenhood crept upon you, your reflection began to… shift. The glances that once passed over you without care began to linger.

You had blossomed into something resplendent, something the court could no longer dismiss with fleeting glances and half-hearted courtesies. The whispers that once surrounded Rhaenyra now turned to you, their tones shifting from admiration to reverence, to awe.

They called you lovely, the fairest flower in the gardens of Westeros, the jewel of the realm. The most beautiful maiden the Seven Kingdoms had seen in an age.

Some likened you to your mother—a woman you hardly remember, yet whose beauty had been spoken of as though it were myth, a thing of legend. Others, in hushed reverence, murmured of Queen Alysanne, your grandmother, claiming you bore her grace, her quiet warmth, the effortless charm that had once soothed even the most unruly of lords and bent the hearts of the realm to her will.

The nobles adored you, vying for your favor as though your mere glance could bestow fortune. The smallfolk, too, had not been untouched by your radiance; they sang of you in the streets, wove your name into songs, whispered prayers for just a glimpse of you.

Wherever you walked, eyes followed. Some were filled with admiration, others with longing. They laid their devotion before you like an offering at a sacred altar—on silver platters and bent knees, eager, breathless, desperate to bask in your favour.

And you… well, you embraced it, even if you didn't ask for it because why wouldn’t you?

It was nice to be admired, to be adored and It was a power in its own right. Not in the brute force of a warrior, nor the sharp cunning of a schemer. No, yours was a power far more delicate, It required no steel, no whispered plots in darkened corridors. It was effortless. Natural. Expected.

And in a place like Westeros, where power was everything, you had come to understand, even at a young age, that even this—even beauty, even admiration, even the weight of lingering gazes—was a power worth holding. A power necessary to survive if it was ever to come to it.

So you gave them what they wished to see.

A princess draped in the finest silks, the blush of soft colours kissing the fabric, golden embroidery catching in the light like spun sunlight. Your silver hair fell in perfect waves, untouched by the wind, each curl arranged just so. You spoke with a voice as sweet as honeyed wine, each word measured, each tone effortless. You let your dragon blood come out just at the right moment. You laughed in melodies, a sound as light as birdsong, and you smiled—a smile that held no sharp edges, no shadows, no sorrow.

Lovely.

Good.

Perfect.

You were the ideal princess. The dream. The fantasy. A creature of spun gold and sunshine, a vision too beautiful to be touched, too radiant to be real and they loved you for it.

Well—most of them.

Queen Alicent’s gaze was always careful, always measured. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes, and her words were always polished to civility but never warmth. She did not say she disliked you—no, she was far too shrewd for such carelessness—but you knew. You could feel it in the way she watched you, in the way her hands curled just slightly too tight around the arms of her chair when your father doted on you without doing anyhting but exist.

And then there was him.

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Ever the quiet spectre at her side, ever the patient strategist. He regarded you not with admiration nor disdain, but calculation, as though you were a chess piece yet to be moved, a weapon yet to be wielded. You could almost see the gears turning behind his gaze, the careful consideration of what you were—what you could be.

But the rest of the court? They worshipped the very ground you walked upon, their devotion woven into every glance, every whispered word, every offering of favour.

And why shouldn’t they?

You were beautiful. You were charming. You were everything they wanted you to be.

No one truly knew you, of course. No one tried to, no one except your sister, Rhaenyra.

With her, the mask slipped—you let yourself breathe. With her, you were not the realm’s jewel, not the golden girl the court placed upon a pedestal. You were just a girl. Just her sister.

In the quiet of her chambers, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the court, you could shed the weight of their expectations. You could lean into her warmth, rest your head against her shoulder, and let the exhaustion settle into your bones without fear of judgment or the need to meet expectations.

Rhaenyra’s chambers were warm, the heavy scent of lavender oil and burning candle wax thick in the air. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering bands of gold and amber across the stone walls. Shadows swayed with each movement of the flame, stretching and shrinking like silent spectres.

Seated before the mirror, you slowly ran a silver comb through your hair, the polished metal catching the firelight, glinting as it passed through each curl. The rhythmic strokes were soothing, an idle task as your thoughts drifted.

"The lists have been finalized," you mused, your eyes flicking to the reflection of your sister as she poured herself a goblet of deep red wine. "I heard Lord Tyrell’s oldest son is to ride this time. Apparently, he fancies himself a true knight."

Rhaenyra snorted, lounging carelessly on the chaise, one arm draped over its cushioned edge, her every movement one of effortless confidence.

"He fancies himself much," she drawled, taking a slow sip of wine before tilting her head in amusement. "But Leanor says he rides like a green boy fresh to the lists—clumsy, over-eager, more bluster than skill."

You giggled, setting down your comb, twisting to face her properly. "Poor boy. The Reach lords are always so desperate to prove themselves at court. What do you think Father will say if Ser Harwin competes?"

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra’s lips, the kind that spoke of secrets unshared.

"He won't say anything because Ser Harwin is the strongest knight in the realm," She leaned back with a sigh, swirling the wine in her goblet, watching the liquid catch the light. "Besides, he has no reason to forbid it. He is my sworn shield."

Her words were casual, but the glint in her eyes was anything but.

You rolled your eyes, amusement dancing behind them, but before you could reply, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.

"Enter," Rhaenyra called, already setting her goblet aside, her posture shifting ever so slightly—relaxed yet expectant, as though she already knew who had come to seek her.

The door creaked open, candlelight spilling onto the figures standing beyond it. Two maids stepped in, their hands cradling the most precious of burdens.

"Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, my princess," one of them announced, her voice gentle, reverent.

Your heart soared.

Jace, a chubby little thing, toddled inside with an eager grin, his dark curls bouncing as he rushed toward his mother, his small boots tapping hurriedly against the stone floor. Behind him, one of the maids cradled Luke, still but a babe, his plump cheeks kissed with warmth, his tiny features relaxed in that drowsy way of infants just waking. His dark lashes fluttered as he squirmed in the nursemaid’s arms, little fingers flexing, reaching for something unseen.

You did not hesitate.

With a delighted gasp, you all but flew from your seat, reaching Jace before he could reach Rhaenyra, sweeping him up into your embrace. He squealed in laughter, arms wrapping around your neck as you spun him ever so slightly, the movement drawing another burst of giggles from his tiny frame.

"Oh, my sweet prince!" you cooed, pressing a flurry of kisses against his rosy cheeks. "You are growing so big, aren’t you?"

"‘M big!" Jace declared proudly, puffing his chest out as he beamed at you.

"Oh, you are," you agreed solemnly, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you gave him another affectionate squeeze before setting him gently back on his feet.

Then, without pause, your gaze shifted, softening as you turned toward the maid who held Luke.

"Come here, my darling boy," you murmured, your hands already reaching, waiting.

The nursemaid, knowing well this was a ritual repeated many times over, carefully placed the babe into your arms. The moment his small form settled against you, warmth bloomed in your chest, a fierce, unspoken devotion unfurling in your ribcage.

Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his little hand curling instinctively into the fabric of your gown, his fingers gripping tight even in his half-waking state. His tiny head lolled against you, his warmth soaking into your skin.

“Oh, sweet darlings,” you cooed, rocking him gently. “My perfect little dragons.”

Rhaenyra watched you with fond amusement, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act as though they are your own.”

"They are mine," you said without hesitation, your voice as certain as the rising of the sun. You continued to run a soothing hand over Lucerys’s tiny back, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against you. "At least half mine. My sweet nephews, the only men in this kingdom worth my love."

Jace wiggled happily in your grasp, seemingly pleased with your declaration, his little chest puffing out as if he understood the weight of your words. Against your heart, Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of your gown.

Rhaenyra shook her head, though her smile did not fade. "One day, you will have babes of your own, and then we shall see how much you dote on them."

You scoffed lightly, shifting Jace in your hold with practised ease so that you had one boy in each arm, their warmth pressing into you like a shield against the chill of the stone chamber.

"Perhaps," you allowed, though your tone was airy, unconvinced. "But for now, these two will suffice."

Rhaenyra only hummed, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something knowing. But she said nothing more, merely watching as you held her sons as if they were your own.

Jace wriggled in your arms as you settled onto a cushioned seat, his small hands reaching curiously for the delicate braids woven into your silver hair. He toyed with them absentmindedly, tiny fingers tugging at the strands as if they were ribbons to unravel, but you barely noticed. Your attention remained on Luke, rocking him gently as he nestled further into your embrace, his warm little body moulding against you, utterly at peace.

"You know," you murmured, absently smoothing a hand over Jace’s unruly curls, "I loathe that we must attend this wretched tournament."

Rhaenyra snorted, lifting her goblet to her lips, her expression one of lazy amusement. "It is for our father’s name day. You should at least pretend to enjoy it."

"I enjoy the feast," you corrected, pressing a light kiss to Luke’s downy curls. "The food, the music, the dancing—those are far more tolerable than watching grown men knock each other senseless for the sake of posturing."

Rhaenyra hummed knowingly, swirling the deep red wine in her goblet. "And yet, half the men in the realm will be there, hoping to impress you."

You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion in an exaggerated display of suffering. "Gods spare me."

Rhaenyra only laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief over the rim of her cup. "You say that," she teased, "but I know you will preen under all the attention."

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart in mock offense, eyes widening as if she had struck you. "You wound me, sister. Am I so vain?"

Rhaenyra said nothing. She merely looked at you, one brow arched, the corners of her lips twitching as though she were barely restraining another laugh.

You huffed, shifting Luke slightly in your arms, adjusting the soft blanket draped over him.

"I simply think," you continued airily, "that if I must be subjected to endless praise, I might as well enjoy it."

"And enjoy it you shall," Rhaenyra mused, her voice laced with amusement. "Almost the entire realm will be in attendance. The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Velaryons, the Hightowers, the Martells, the Arryns... the Starks—"

At that, you let out an exaggerated gagging noise, rolling your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "No. You jest."

"I do not," Rhaenyra said, her smirk widening in clear delight at your suffering. "Lord Rickon has sent word—he and his son are to attend."

You groaned again, this time with true despair, letting your head fall back against the cushions as though the weight of such a revelation had physically weakened you. "Must I suffer him again? Have I not endured enough in this life?"

Rhaenyra laughed outright at that, the rich sound filling the chamber as she stood, moving to take Jace from your arms. "Come now, sister. It has been some time since you last saw him."

"And that has been my greatest blessing," you muttered, shifting Luke carefully in your arms before placing him in his cradle. You took a moment to tuck the soft blanket around him, ensuring he was snug and warm before straightening with a huff.

"Oh, do not be so dramatic."

You turned to Rhaenyra, utterly aghast. "Dramatic? Dramatic? Rhaenyra, do you not remember what he did to me?"

She smirked, the expression infuriatingly amused. "Do you mean when you got lost in the woods after he left you there?"

Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "You know, most sisters would take my side."

"I am merely pointing it out," she said airily, adjusting Jace on her hip, "After all, you did set his hair aflame and burned his eyebrow off."

You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I did not do it—Drakaryon did. But nonetheless, he deserved it." Your voice grew hot with indignation. "Leaving a princess alone in the Wolfswood—he’s lucky Drakaryon didn’t burn more than just his eyebrow."

Rhaenyra chuckled, utterly unbothered. "I suppose you could have called him back before the poor boy lost half his face."

"A mercy he had a face left at all," you muttered darkly, tilting your chin up. "And yet, I am the one forced to endure his presence again. It is an injustice."

"Truly, sister," Rhaenyra teased, her smirk deepening, "your suffering knows no bounds."

You huffed dramatically, flopping into the nearest chair with all the grace of a fallen maiden in some tragic tale.“I care not for Lord Cregan Stark, nor his miserable presence. I shall simply focus on the feast.”

“Ah, yes,” Rhaenyra mused, leaning back into her chaise. “And your new gown?”

That brightened your mood considerably. “Oh! You must see it, Rhaenyra,” you gushed, your distaste for the tournament momentarily forgotten. “It is to be the softest red, with golden embroidery, delicate like the petals of a summer rose.”

Rhaenyra smirked, swirling the last remnants of wine in her goblet. "You shall outshine the Queen herself."

You grinned, tilting your chin with an air of playful vanity. "That would not be difficult."

Rhaenyra shot you a pointed look, one that might have been a scolding if not for the unmistakable glint of amusement in her violet gaze.

Days later, you found yourself—albeit reluctantly—surrounded by lords and ladies, exchanging pleasantries, smiling sweetly, and accepting compliments as though it were your very purpose in life.

And Harrenhal had never felt quite so alive.

The great fortress, with its looming, blackened towers and sprawling grounds, had become a city unto itself, thrumming with the restless energy of nobles gathered from every corner of Westeros. The tournament had drawn them all—lords and ladies, knights and squires, banners billowing in the crisp autumn air, their house colours bold against the dull grey of the ancient stones.

Tents stretched across the fields like a sea of silk, each vying for attention, for prominence. Servants bustled about, tending to their lords' demands, polishing armour, securing horses, and whispering the latest courtly gossip. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and fresh bread, mingling with the sharp tang of steel and the ever-present smoke curling from the distant kitchens.

They had come, of course, to honour your father, to swear their fealty, to witness the grand spectacle of knights clashing in his name.

And yet, for as much as they had come for glory, for sport, for politics—there was another reason they had come, one unspoken but well-understood.

They have come for you too.

As the second, almost of age, unwed daughter of the King, you were a prize yet unclaimed, a jewel unspoken for. The lords of Westeros—young and old, bold and timid, gallant and grasping—had gathered not just for sport, not merely for glory, but for you.

And they were eager to impress, to court favour, to steal a glance, a word, a moment in your presence.

The courtyard was alive with the hum of noble voices, the lilt of music weaving through the air, and laughter bubbling like the fountains that dotted the castle grounds. Beyond the merriment, the distant clang of steel rang out as knights prepared for the coming tourney, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves echoing from the lists.

"Princess, you must tell me who crafted your gown," Lady Floris Baratheon gushed, her brown eyes wide with admiration as she took in every detail, from the fine embroidery to the glistening pearls that crowned your head. "I have never seen anything so perfectly suited to a lady."

You smiled warmly, tilting your head just so, allowing the sunlight to catch upon the subtle shimmer of your lilac eyes.

"It is the work of the seamstresses in the Red Keep," you said graciously, "though I am certain they would craft something just as lovely for you, my Lady."

The young Baratheon flushed at your words, her pleasure evident, as though you had placed a crown upon her own head. "You are too kind, Princess."

"Kind and wise beyond measure," Lord Owen Fossoway added from your other side, his green-and-red doublet bright beneath the midday sun. "A Princess of grace, beauty, and wit—gods help the poor man who dares to seek your favour, for he shall find himself utterly undone."

"Oh, nonsense, Lord Fossoway," you said, your voice smooth as honey, warm and effortlessly graceful. With a delicate wave of your hand, you dismissed the flattery with modest ease, though the glint in your eyes betrayed your amusement. "I only hope my presence brings some small joy to such a grand occasion."

While some were more subtle, lingering at the edges of your sight, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to catch your eye, others came with bold declarations—sons of great houses bowing low before you, offering pretty words rehearsed in their fathers’ halls. Even older gentlemen, seasoned lords with silvering hair and knowing smiles, felt compelled to voice their admiration as if their years granted them wisdom or rather an audacity to appreciate beauty more than the young.

"Princess," Lord Lannister purred, stepping forward with effortless confidence, his golden curls gleaming under the afternoon sun. He bowed deeply before you, his crimson-and-gold doublet tailored to perfection, a lion in both bearing and name. "Your beauty shines brighter than the tourney itself."

You smiled sweetly, tilting your chin just so, letting the sunlight dance across your features as if you had been sculpted for admiration. "How kind, my lord."

Beside him, his younger brother, not to be outdone, stepped forward with eagerness, his voice laced with the ambition of youth. ""You need not win a tournament favour—every knight here would gladly fall upon his sword for you, as I would too, Your Highness.

You regarded him with gentle amusement, your expression as measured as it was warm yet inside you were rolling your eyes. “Then let us pray none are so foolish. The tourney would be quite dull if they all perished on my account.”

Laughter rippled around the noble folks around you, the lords and ladies utterly enchanted.

You did enjoy being admired.

You enjoyed the way courtiers flocked to you, their words dipped in honey, their eyes lingering upon you as though you hung the stars. You delighted in the way men stumbled over their words in their attempts to impress you, their practised lines unravelling beneath the weight of your gaze. You had long learned that a well-placed smile, a fleeting touch upon the arm, or a slight tilt of the chin could make even the most stubborn of lords melt like wax before a flame.

And yet—Gods, was it exhausting.

"Princess, your beauty outshines even the sun today," one of the young lords cooed, standing just a little too close for your liking.

You maintained your composure, offering him a smile as practised as it was charming, tilting your head ever so slightly. "How kind of you to say, my lord."

"Tell me, shall I ride in your honour, my princess?" another asked, his grin broad, his chest puffed in obvious arrogance, as though the mere suggestion of it was a gift beyond measure.

You had half a mind to tell him that if he were truly worthy of such an honour, he would not need to ask, but instead, you merely inclined your head with effortless grace.

"I would be honoured," you said sweetly, though in truth, you could not even recall his name.

As time flew by and more lords came and went, each eager to impress, their words blurring into the same predictable flattery, your thoughts began to wander.

Perhaps—just perhaps—you ought to grant your favour to one of them.

Not for love, nor duty, nor any deeper reason. Simply for the fun of it.

Let them fight over you—not for marriage, nor power, nor grand alliances, but for the mere pleasure of calling themselves your champion. Let them brandish their swords and crash upon the lists with reckless abandon, desperate for the honour of a token tied to their lance, for the whisper of your name upon the lips of the court.

The thought amused you greatly.

You had no real enjoyment for tourneys—the dust, the sweat, the men posturing like peacocks in steel—but this? This was entertainment.

To watch them scramble, to see them puff their chests and vie for your fleeting favour, all while knowing it meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.

The great hall of Harrenhal was alive with merriment, the air thick with laughter and music, the scent of roasted meats and Dornish wine curling through the space like a warm embrace. The flickering glow of torchlight caught on the polished silver goblets and golden embroidery, illuminating the lords and ladies who had gathered for the feast.

You had been seated for only a few moments, indulging in light conversation with your sulking younger brother, Aegon. He lounged beside you, slouched in his chair, silver hair tousled in careless waves, his lips twisted in that familiar pout, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, petulant.

"You’ve barely spoken to me all evening," he muttered. "Off flitting about with your admirers, leaving your poor brother to rot in solitude."

You arched a brow, amused but unimpressed. "Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Aegon."

"Dramatic?" he scoffed, placing a hand over his chest as though you had mortally wounded him. "I am your dearest brother, your favourite brother, and yet you abandon me to suffer alone in this dreadful tourney—"

"I spent the whole of yesterday with you."

"Yes," he muttered, eyes flicking to his untouched goblet, "and now it is today."

There was something else beneath his words, something thick and bitter, but you did not care to decipher it. You had long learned that Aegon’s moods were unpredictable, shifting as the wind did. And, you thought with mild exasperation, if he had something to say, he should say it.

Instead, you sighed, turning to him with a look of tired affection. "Go play with Helaena."

"Helaena is weird-- just as the words left his lips, the first lord approached. Aegon exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. "And so it begins."

"Princess," Lord Merryweather greeted smoothly, dipping into a low bow, his beard streaked with silver, his fine velvets hinting at wealth and experience. "Might I have the honour of a dance?"

You smiled, tilting your head in polite consideration before placing your hand in his. "It would be my pleasure, my lord."

The dance was light, effortless, and filled with easy conversation as he guided you across the floor, his steps practised, his hold gentle but assured. Around you, the great hall bustled with movement—the soft strains of the musicians, the rustle of silk skirts, the occasional murmur of courtiers watching from the edges of the dance floor, waiting for their turn to claim you.

"You must know," Lord Merryweather mused with a knowing smile, "many a man here wishes to claim your favour."

You laughed softly, allowing your lashes to flutter just enough, a practised movement that sent many lords into a flustered mess. "Then I hope they have good fortune in the lists, my lord. I would not wish to grant it to a man bested in the first tilt."

The old lord chuckled, evidently pleased with your answer, but as the song came to a close, another was already waiting to take his place.

Lord Tyrell stepped forward next, then Lord Frey, followed swiftly by Lord Bracken—one after another, young and old alike, each eager for a sliver of your attention, each with a well-practiced compliment upon his lips, wrapped in the polished charm of courtly men who had spent their lives perfecting the art of flattery.

"I daresay His Grace must be beset by betrothal offers, Princess," Lord Bracken remarked as he led you through a smooth turn, his grip firm yet respectful. "A beauty such as yours should not go unwed for long."

You met his gaze with a smile, your voice light, effortless. "It is not my father who drowns, my lord, but I. The offers come as swiftly as the tide, yet still, I stand before you—unclaimed."

His laughter was deep, knowing, the kind of sound that suggested he saw himself above the rest. "A grievous injustice, indeed. Perhaps I shall be the next to put quill to parchment and entreat His Grace for your hand."

Before you could grant him a reply, the song came to an end, sparing you the trouble. With practised grace, you curtsied, allowing him to lead you back toward your table, where the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats.

You had just reached for your goblet, eager for a moment’s reprieve, when another voice cut through the din of the hall.

"You have tired the poor girl, Lord Bracken," Lord Tully jested from his seat nearby, his round face flushed with wine, his voice rich with mirth. "One might think you seek to keep her for yourself."

Lord Bracken chuckled, shaking his head with feigned regret. "Ah, if only I were a younger man."

"Younger or not," Lord Wylde added with a knowing smirk, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, "I imagine His Grace will not be so quick to part with her. A rare jewel indeed."

"Quite rare," Lord Tully agreed, his eyes twinkling with desire as he glanced in your direction. "And a jewel should be placed in the hands of one who knows its worth."

The implication was clear and yet, you merely smiled, lifting your goblet gracefully to your lips, sipping your wine as if you had not heard them at all.

Thankfully, before another lord asks for a dance, your father’s voice rang through the hall, calling your name. You schooled your features into a look of effortless grace, excusing yourself with a polite smile before making your way toward him.

And you knew.

You knew exactly who would be standing at his side before you even laid eyes upon them.

The Starks.

Lord Rickon, solemn as ever, his presence a quiet force despite the grandeur of the occasion. And beside him—your greatest annoyance, your oldest grievance, your most persistent thorn—Cregan Stark.

Your pace did not falter, nor did your expression shift as you approached, though deep within, your irritation simmered.

As you came to a stop beside your father, he turned to you with a warm smile, his hand resting gently on your back. "Look who just arrived, my sweetling."

Lord Rickon, ever the picture of Northern honour, dipped his head in a respectful bow before speaking, his voice deep and steady. "Princess, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been some years, and I dare say time has only graced you with more beauty and charm."

It was a compliment, but one wrapped in the blunt honesty of a Northern lord. Unlike the courtiers who lavished you with flowery words, Lord Rickon spoke with simple reverence, neither seeking favor nor flattery—only truth as he saw it.

You smiled at him graciously, dipping your head in return. "You honour me with your words, my lord. The North is fortunate to have such a steadfast Warden."

Lord Rickon let out a quiet hum, something of approval, but before you could say more, another deep timbre of a familiar Northern accent reached your ears.

"Princess."

Cregan Stark bowed, and as he did, you could feel the weight of his gaze. You schooled your expression into something practiced, something sweet, but your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a petulant child.

When he straightened, when your lilac eyes locked onto the sharp, storm-grey of his—your stomach twisted.

Cregan Stark had grown.

The boy you had last seen, scowling and covered in soot, was gone.

In his place stood a man.

Taller, broader, his frame lean with the strength of a swordsman, his dark hair longer than you remembered, tied back in a simple leather thong. There was no trace of the sullen youth who had once left you in the Wolfswood, no awkwardness of a boy still finding his place in the world. No—this was a Lord who stood before you now, clad in black and grey, with the dire wolf of House Stark emblazoned upon his chest.

And yet, his eyes—those damnable, piercing Stark eyes—still held that same unwavering intensity, as though he could see straight through you, as though the years had done nothing to soften the way he looked at you.

You hated that he looked good.

You hated how the courtyard was lively, filled with the hum of noble chatter and the laughter of ladies, but none of it seemed to reach him.

Cregan Stark stood before you, rigid and composed, the very image of Northern stoicism. His grey eyes—sharp as steel, cold as winter—were unreadable as they met yours, though you could see the faintest flicker of something beneath them. Something restrained.

You hated that he was so unshakable. You lifted your chin, refusing to yield even an inch.

"Lord Stark," you returned sweetly, your voice smooth as silk, your expression the perfect mask of courtly grace—despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin.

And then you saw it.

The subtle way Lord Rickon nudged his son, a barely perceptible motion, yet it spoke volumes. Even the mighty Cregan Stark was not beyond his father’s quiet commands.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly before he stepped forward.

"May I have the honour of a dance, Your Highness," he asked, voice steady, measured, yet laced with something tight beneath the surface.

You glanced down at the hand he held out between you, large and calloused from years of sword work, and for a moment, the very idea of placing your own within it seemed unthinkable.

But then you smiled.

Not a soft smile, nor a warm one, but something playful, something teasing, something pointed.

"Why, Lord Stark," you murmured, placing your hand in his with deliberate slowness, "I thought you Northerners did not care for such frivolities."

His fingers closed around yours—warm, firm, unyielding.

"We do not," he said simply.

He led you onto the floor, the swell of music rising around you, the murmurs of the court fading into the background. Cregan’s grip was firm as he placed his hands on you, his posture stiff, too rigid—too uncomfortable.

It was amusing.

For all his confidence, all his unshakable Stark stoicism, the art of courtly dance was clearly not within his realm of expertise.

You could have teased him for it.

You should have.

But for once, you took pity, deciding instead to let the matter rest. Still, you could not resist tilting your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes as you let your amusement surface elsewhere.

"I must say, my lord," you mused, your voice as smooth as silk, "I am glad to see your hair has grown back. I was so very worried."

For the first time since he arrived, something flickered across his sharp features—just for a fraction of a second, just the barest hint of annoyance.

His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers flexing just a little where they held you. "I had nearly forgotten about that."

"Oh, had you?" you feigned innocence, fluttering your lashes just so, your smile deceptively sweet. "Strange, considering how livid you were when it happened. The smell of burnt hair is rather unforgettable, wouldn’t you agree?"

Cregan exhaled sharply through his nose, a poor attempt at masking his irritation as he spun you across the floor, his grip a touch tighter now.

"A bold jest, Princess," he finally said, his tone measured, controlled. But you caught it—the way his fingers flexed slightly against yours, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, as though he was calculating something.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "I see you are just the same childish princess—"

You nearly stumbled at the sheer audacity.

"How dare you? I am not childish!" you shot back, indignation flaring hot in your chest.

Cregan hummed, his smirk deepening just enough to be infuriating. "

That's right, forgive me, I forgot you are the jewel of the realm," he mused, voice laced with something unreadable. "Tales of your beauty even reach the North, you know."

He looked down at you then, those grey eyes sharp, assessing, amused in a way that made your blood simmer.

"If only they knew," he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips, "there's nothing much to you other than beauty."

The words struck like a blade, hidden beneath the guise of idle conversation, wrapped in the veneer of civility yet carrying the same weight as any insult flung in an open field of battle.

Your breath caught—just for a moment, just long enough for irritation to twist into something dangerous but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to you.

So instead, with all the grace of a perfect courtly lady, you smiled—sweetly, delicately—and in a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for a mere misstep, you stepped on his foot.

Firmly.

Cregan’s grip on you tightened, just briefly, as a sharp inhale passed through his nose, his jaw clenching in pain. When his storm-grey gaze flicked down at you, dark and dangerous, it sent something sharp curling in your belly.

"Careful, my lord," you murmured, your voice silken, teasing. "It would be quite tragic if the North’s greatest warrior were felled in the middle of a dance."

"Tragic, indeed," he bit out, though his voice had lost that obnoxious edge of amusement. It was lower now, rougher—strained in a way that sent a thrill up your spine. "But I expected no less from you."

"Why, Lord Stark," you mused, tilting your head just enough to let your breath ghost against the space between you, "it almost sounds as if you missed me."

His glare deepened, but you felt it—the way his fingers flexed against you, the way his breath hitched so subtly that only someone watching for it would have noticed.

"Do not flatter yourself," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "I only miss things worth missing."

"Then it is fortunate," you murmured, allowing your lips to curve into something knowing, something dangerous, "that I am not so easily forgotten."

"You test your limits, Princess," Cregan murmured, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for you.

"And you test your patience, my lord," you countered, a slow, deliberate smile curving your lips as you let the words settle between you like an unsheathed blade.

Just before the song reached its final note, before you could step away and claim victory in whatever battle you and Cregan had been waging, someone came to stand beside you—someone who made you forget all about Cregan Stark.

Prince Qyle Martell.

The golden-skinned Dornish prince had a grin in his eyes before it ever reached his lips, a kind of easy arrogance that was almost charming. You had met him once before, in passing, and you remembered his words as much as the way he had looked at you, like a man appraising something rare, something tempting.

"Princess," he greeted, his voice smooth as fine Dornish wine, dipping into a bow that was just a touch more theatrical than necessary. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I have suffered long enough watching you dance with such stiff company."

Your lips twitched, amused.

Cregan, however, stilled.

It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed slightly on your waist, the way his hold on you lingered before he very deliberately released you, stepping back. His expression was unreadable, his storm-grey eyes carefully blank, but you had spent years picking him apart, years unravelling the smallest cracks in his composure.

You knew the Prince being there bothered him.

"Prince Qyle," you greeted smoothly, offering him your hand. "A pleasure, as always."

"The pleasure is mine, sweet princess," Qyle purred, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, letting his gaze linger on yours, dark and unreadable. "Had I known you would be so generous with your time this evening, I would have claimed my dance much, much sooner."

Cregan scoffed softly, a barely-there sound, but you caught it and apparently so did Prince Qyle.

He turned to Cregan then, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, an arrogant grin curling at his lips. Despite being a head shorter than the Northern lord, he did not seem the least bit intimidated.

"Lord… Stark, is it?" There was something deliberate in the way he said it—drawn out as if he were tasting the name on his tongue and finding it unimpressive.

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a shift in the air, subtle, dangerous. "It is,"

"Ah, of course," Qyle hummed, giving a slow, exaggerated nod. "The Warden of the North in waiting, the Great Wolf of Winterfell. Forgive me, my lord, it is so rare that wolves crawl from their dens— I sometimes forget you exist at all."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and amusement at the sheer boldness of it.

Cregan, to his credit, did not react—not outwardly. But you saw it. The way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides before curling into a loose fist.

"And yet, here I am," he said, voice smooth as untouched ice. "Standing before you, plain as day. Strange, isn’t it, how even those you forget still seem to overshadow you?"

Qyle’s smirk sharpened. "Overshadow? My dear Stark, the sun casts no shadows in Dorne. Only heat." He leaned in just slightly, like a snake coiling before a strike. "Something, I imagine, you Northerners would not know even if it burned you alive."

You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing, the tension between them so thick it was nearly intoxicating.

Cregan's expression was carved from ice, his broad shoulders squared, his hands flexing at his sides as though he were resisting the urge to grip the hilt of a blade that was not there.

You had seen him angry before, felt the weight of his temper simmering beneath his quiet exterior, but this was something else.

And yet, before he could respond—before he could so much as breathe—Qyle squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him as though he had already dismissed Cregan entirely.

"Well then, my princess," Qyle purred, his voice warm, teasing, triumphant. "Shall we leave the Lord of Snow and Shadows to glower in peace?"

You allowed yourself the smallest, most delicate smirk, and let Qyle lead you away, though not before casting a final glance over your shoulder.

Cregan had not moved.

But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting storm-grey eyes—were locked onto you, burning with something neither of you dared to name.

A/N:

Helloooo ya'll I'm sorry it's been a while. I have just been busy, and I still am but I couldn't get this idea off my mind...

I just saw Wicked and loved it so if you see a resemblance between you and Glinda, no you didn't. Also, I can't for the life of me ever get any timeline right, and the timeline of HOD confuses me. So, if you are confused about where this fic aligns with the show, just know I'm just as confused as you but it's obviously before ep 6 obvs, please be patient with me.

Anywyasssssss I hope you enjoyed this one chapter. It is a part I because I just can't leave it like that and FYI I'm researching the shit out of tourneys because I have no clue of how they work in HOD universe and I refuse to read the book for my own well-being, like don't get me wrong I'm 100% sure GMM is an absolute machine of an author (obvs otherwise he wouldn't have TV show after TV show based on his books) but just most of the themes in his books are... not something I would willingly like to read. I'm rambling out of my ass, sorry.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

Tags:

r-3dlips

houseofyork2

itsaslaminak

a-song-of-fire-and-rain

jellyblogfish

aurora-starwars

edenexisting

squidscottjeans

princesssunderworld

xxxkat3xxx

horrorlover304

isansstuff

spicy30

roseloves2read

silverlightsaber

roseloves2read

wandazavision

aemondloverr

unlikelywolfenemy

butterfly101sworld

gul--aaab

Tell me if you want to be tagged.

[cheriecoke]

♰ his parliament's on fire — dazai osamu

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ KINKTOBER NO. 1 - nightclub owner!dazai

every man in yokohama has a long list of crimes they’d commit to be with you, but none quite as long as dazai’s.

contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, port mafia boss!dazai, port mafia member!reader, bsd typical blood / violence, unprotected sex, established relationship, takes place before doa, dazai & reader are a lil unhinged bc they're in love, praise, soft dazai, riding dazai, sub reader, v slight breeding kink oops — 10.1k

The music shook your chest as you watched people head to the front of the club for a dance, a combination of those that were regulars, and those who were just desperate to blow their money on an evening in one of the finest night clubs in the country.

It had grown hot in the club, even for an autumn evening in Yokohoma. There were more people filling the tables than usual, standing only to swing their partners around on the dancefloor. A woman sung sultrily to the crowd, a song that you hadn’t heard in ages. Even for a Saturday, it was crowded, the capacity met, and then surpassed, packed to the brim as a group of foreign billionaires weaseled their way in by paying twice the entry fee.

You swirled your glass, sitting alone at the bar with your legs crossed, the tight, red dress rising up on your thighs. Beside you, a man was puffing a cigar, blowing the smoke back in your face so frequently that it took all your effort not to cough. Still, he paid you little attention, too enraptured by a skinny young woman that giggled every time he touched her arm.

A few more individuals made their way to the dancefloor, tracking unaccompanied dancers like prey, hopeful that they could score a partner for the evening. It was amusing, really, how often you’d seen some of the same men come back. They’d throw stacks of money on the table in a desperation to acquaint themselves with beautiful, upper-class women, even if they’d go home unhappy and broke.

Ice clinked against the sides of your glass as the last drop disappeared down your throat, warming you up for the rest of the evening. Already, you had caught the glimpse of several men in the club. But those who knew who you were knew to keep their distance, and they never tried to sneak more than a subtle glance in your direction.

Those who didn’t usually noticed nothing but your striking beauty and the allure of darkness that seemed to follow you. They were drawn to you easily, smiling at you like they were entitled to gawk at your appearance, like it would be criminal for anyone so beautiful to shield herself away from the world.

Rarely did that ever end well for them.

You handed your empty glass off to the bartender—a dear friend that you’d convinced to work for you at the club—and made your way over to the dance floor. The crowd parted for you with quick glances and slackened jaws, stumbling on their own feet to get out of your way. Once you passed, the world seemed to resume itself. Everyone continued about their business, averted their gaze, even if they were careful not to get too close to you.

Something about that made you smile.

For a while, you danced on your own, grinning carelessly to yourself as you twisted your hips, unbound yourself to the music and the alcohol that ran through your veins. It was a different kind of freedom, and though you’d once been wary of the watchful eyes, they no longer bothered you. You loved losing yourself in the rhythm, loved feeling transported to another realm.

The setlist for the evening included a few of your favorites, and you carried on until there was sweat on your forehead, a single bead trickling down your temple, one that you hastily wiped off. Breaths came to you more stiflingly, heaving inhales and exhales that paired with your thirst.

Finally, the tempo of the music slowed, just enough to snap you back into the present, and the energy zapped out of you as your mood darkened. The time of the evening had passed when you realized that it was no longer fun to dance alone.

You sighed, and with a frown, let your gaze trail across the room to find the cool brown eyes that you loved more than the music you spun in circles to. But Dazai was already in a conversation with someone else, tapping slender fingers against his glass full of amber liquid. He listened intently to a conversation between two men twice his age.

Beside him, Chuuya stood at the edge of the table like a loyal bloodhound, his arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall. You caught his eye instead and smiled to him, though not a single muscle in his face twitched. It seemed as though he was intent on keeping up the charade for the evening.

As much as you wanted to smile even more sweetly and taunt him mercilessly, you didn’t let yourself get too distracted. Instead, you refocused your sights on your other goal.

The stocky, tall man was right where Dazai said he’d be, sitting with a couple woman and a few empty glasses in front of him. He had a neatly trimmed, graying beard, sporting a watch that was, at least, a couple million yen.

You caught him watching you over the edge of the table, his smile slow as you bat your eyelashes at him, sauntering past him with a perfectly coy expression. Eyes lingered on the curves of your hips; the smooth skin of your legs revealed by the dress. The lust came in near waves off of him, thick and heavy as they reached you.

It made your job easier, the obvious attraction that they never tried to hide from you. You smiled to yourself, and felt a sense of satisfaction, despite his disgraceful leering.

The seats at the bar had been filled up when you returned, leaving no room for you and your new companion to retreat.

A younger regular, one with an overabundance of nerves and an awkward smile, spoke in hushed whispers to his friend, one that was dressed in a suit far too cheap to be in this club.

You tapped him on the shoulder, smiling at him in the way that had everyone bending over backwards for you. “Excuse me?”

He looked over, irritated for a fleeting second before realizing who it was that had approached him. Immediately, he was to his feet, stammering over a greeting while his friend gawked at him with incredulity.

“Sorry to bother you,” you said, softening your voice. “I was wondering if I could have those seats. I hate to—”

“No, no,” he said, practically shoving the other man away, pushing him out of the chair while he sputtered confused nonsense. “Take them! We’ll be out of your hair.”

You thanked them before placing yourself neatly back onto the stool you’d occupied before. It was far too easy.

The bartender sent you a knowing look, all too familiar with your games, before going back to mixing a drink.

Moments later, you felt the presence of another behind you, an overwhelming smell of tobacco and pine assaulting your senses. He was taller up close, taller than Dazai, at least, and older than you’d originally thought. Deep wrinkles weathered his skin, his eyes, and though there was still a hint of black in his dark hair, it was slowly being overtaken by the signs of a life that was twice as long as yours.

“Pretty dress.” That was the first thing he said to you, letting his eyes wander over your chest, lips curling into an ugly smirk. “It suits you nicely.”

You wouldn’t be won over so easily, so you merely smiled at him, nodding in thanks. Though, that had him coming on twice as strong, as if the simple eye contact that you’d made earlier had been a full invitation to fuck you. He took the seat next to you, signaling the bartender over.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, and though it was a kind proposition, it always made you laugh. You received a million free drinks from strangers here.

Still, you shrugged and let him, unsurprised that he knew what you’d been drinking earlier. It was a clear sign that he’d been watching you since before you even got up to dance.

“What’s your name?” 

“Should I give it away that easily?” Your voice was silky in your response, unimpressed, but luring him in, nonetheless.

He laughed, and offered you his own instead, Tanaka, as if you didn’t already know it. You’d been planning on springing him into this trap since the moment he’d arrived that evening. It was a target and a plan that had been set in motion for days.

His grin was uncomfortable, but he thought so highly of the way his lips curled, seemingly luring you in.

In reality, you weren’t sure how any woman could stand to get down on her knees for that.

Half an hour passed as you talked with him, preening under his endless string of compliments, wishing that you could string him on for a little bit longer. You enjoyed the words well enough, just another thing to stroke your ego, but the minute he moved closer, you inched away, placing distance between you before he could touch you.

It was obvious it frustrated him, but one look at the flash in his irises had you knowing that he enjoyed the chase.

He droned on, careless conversation about hobbies you didn’t want to understand, and though you smiled, pretending to be interested, your focus drifted to the table where Dazai sat.

His conversation had shifted to Chuuya, the two other men from earlier gone. It seemed strained between them, sharp words spoken as they glared at one another, visibly at odds about something.

Despite the clear dispute, anger cleared away from their expressions within seconds, Chuuya straightening like a board beside his boss once again.

Dazai looked up; it was less than a second that your eyes met, but your knees had weakened, heart stuttering in your chest as it skipped a pulse.

A soft exhale left you, and you longed for Dazai, craved the feeling of his strong palm on your skin, the kiss of his lips on your neck. You had half a mind to say fuck the mission and walk right over to the table and plant yourself on his lap.

It would certainly cause a scene, especially when there were so many new customers there who knew about Dazai but didn’t know about you.

Still, you knew Dazai wouldn’t object. He’d merely smile into your hair and curl his hand around your hip, continuing on with his conversation like nothing was out of the ordinary.

You looked away. If you were to make it through the rest of the night, you couldn’t get distracted by the beautiful man just feet away from you. “Sorry,” you said, turning back to Tanaka. “What were you saying?”

His interest in conversation had already waned, and he faced Dazai, displeased by the uptick of fascination within your expression. “Found someone more interesting already?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you pressed your palms into your thighs. You may have longed for Dazai, been so desperate that you couldn’t spare him another glimpse, but you could still play this role well. There couldn’t be another slip, every move had to be precise.

“I’m just curious,” you said, puckering your lips in a pout. “He looks important.”

Tanaka took a sip of his drink as you spoke, nearly spitting it back out when your sentence concluded. His eyes were hard, narrowing at the sight of Dazai just meters away, surrounded by a security of sorts, “You don’t know him?” He coughed.

You frowned, tilting your head. “Should I?”

“That’s Dazai Osamu. He owns this place.”

There was room for a theatrical pause. You took that moment to pretend to think. “Oh, of course. What a silly question,” you said, humming, and set your chin down on your hand to glance back over at the table of Port Mafia personnel. “I hear he owns a lot of things.” You tilted your head, gauging the man with siren eyes. “Is that true?”

Tanaka huffed, but he didn’t deny it, looking down at his two-million-yen watch like it was nothing more than a trinket. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t worry about him.” He seemed irritated, though he didn’t let it show, his voice the only indicator that you had upset him. “But I can tell you it sure gets hard to run a business in Yokohama when the Port Mafia owns half the city.”

You widened your eyes, leaning forward. “You’re telling me the Port Mafia owns this place?”

Tanaka laughed, loud and haughty, looking at you like you were just a poor idiot from the countryside, even if the dress you wore cost just as much as his entire suit put together. “Oh, hon, if only you knew.”

The condescending tone sent a screech through your entire body, momentarily halting any proper responses in your current act. But he was unfazed, already moving onto the next topic of conversation, telling you all about the business dealings that you’d known about from the long list of jobs within his file.

There was, truly, nothing about him that you hadn’t already dug up. It was boring you immensely, but you smiled on, nodding enthusiastically as he spun the most lackluster story you’d ever heard.

Dazai, across the room, stared at you as you conversed, clenching his jaw at the way the man eyed you, the gaze that scoured your body like you were nothing more than a piece of meat.

Oh, he would certainly enjoy tearing him apart later, even if he would be too easy of a case to break.  

“When are we leaving?”

Chuuya’s voice snapped him out of his onlooking, and Dazai leaned back in the chair, shedding the tension in his shoulders to resume a comfortable position.

“Not until they’re both in the car and I can confirm with Tachihara and Gin that she’s safe,” Dazai said, crossing his arms over the table. He couldn’t forget that there were others around him, those who would never say a word to him, but knew who he was, knew what he stood for. Even here, he couldn’t let his guard down.

“Safe?” Chuuya laughed, though it was without any humor. His irises flashed dangerously, steely grey darkening into a deep silver. “You trust that idiot not to lay a hand on her? He’s undressing her with his eyes.”

Chuuya seemed intent on irritating him that evening, as usual.

“I don’t trust anyone who comes here.” Dazai scowled. “Don’t be a fool.”

A moment of silence lapsed between them, and Dazai became sickened by the way the man was eyeing you. Though you took it all in stride, leaning just far enough away so his knee didn’t graze yours, and his palm didn’t brush against your own, it still lit a fire deep within him.

It was all the better, he supposed, to feel such deep hatred for his enemies. It made it easier to tear them apart without any guilt. 

“How long are you going to make her do this, huh?” Chuuya spoke up once more from beside him, his voice nothing more than a grumble as he whispered down to Dazai. “This charade you two are carrying on has lasted long enough. I mean, you’re whoring out your wife for fuck’s sake—”

Dazai reacted without a thought, despite not wanting to take his eyes off of you for even a second. He gritted his teeth and turned on Chuuya, his hand gripping the gun in his pocket, finger tight on the trigger. Enough of a warning for him to know how sincerely the simple comment irritated him.

“Don’t ever insinuate that I don’t love my wife, Chuuya, or it’ll be the last thing you ever say.” Dazai spat the words out carefully, just under his breath, holding Chuuya’s piercing gaze without blinking. “You may be a valuable asset to the Port Mafia, but I will not listen to your opinions on matters that don’t concern you.”

Chuuya stared, setting his jaw before turning away once more. The two of them looked back to where you were smiling, leading the other man out of the room, though still not touching, placing a respectable distance between you.

“I’m just surprised, Dazai.” Chuuya leaned back, crossing his arms as he titled his head, watching your figure fade into the shadows. “You love her so fiercely, and yet, you watch as this carries on time and time again. I don’t understand.”

Dazai stood from the booth, tucking the gun back into his waistbad, under his coat. He straightened his shoulders, inhaling deeply. “I think you’re underestimating her if you truly believe she doesn’t have a handle on the situation.” His hands slipped into his pockets as Chuuya followed, grumbling from just a few feet away. “Besides, I’ve never forced her into anything. It was her idea in the first place.”

“Why?”

Dazai sighed, though it was almost wistful, the mere thought of you enough to turn him into a lovesick fool. “Perhaps it is because there are many men that seem to think they can crawl into her bed so easily, and she enjoys their humiliation when they realize that they are so far beneath her.” Dazai shrugged, and smiled lightheartedly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Perhaps, she just wants to make everyone’s lives a little easier, including yours. You should thank her sometime.”

Tanaka sat beside you in the car, his hand lingering in the leather seat between his thigh and your own. Night had fallen deep across the city, the sky a navy through the haze of streetlights. Though it was nearing one o’clock in the morning, there were crowds of people out and about, lines at all of the much more affordable clubs in the area.

It hadn’t taken much to get him to come with you. You’d batted your eyelashes, smiled at him from under them, and told him you had a car waiting out back.

That was enough. When you’d pulled yourself down from the barstool, he’d followed after you, eyes blown wide as you’d begun leading him out of the room.

All it took was a dress that hugged your curves and a small grin, and he was in the car with a man that worked for you, heading to a building that your husband owned.

“Do you live far?” Tanaka asked, itching to put his hands on you, even though you’d convinced him to hold off until you got back to your room.

You placed your chin on the inside of your palm, glancing out the window at your own reflection. “Not too far.” You turned back to him, offering him a shy smile. “Why? Are you getting impatient?”

He grinned wolfishly. Your stomach churned anxiously at the sight of it, even when he was no match for you, nor all the other, powerful individuals that surrounded you. “I don’t think I need to answer that.”

Through the rearview mirror, Tachihara met your eyes, and they softened, just barely, silently showing his support from the front of the vehicle.

It was, in a way, a relief. You relaxed, regained a sense of composure, and let your ruby red lips spread over your teeth, cocking your head as Tanaka indulged himself in whatever fantasy was milling about in his mind. His eyes were cruel, though the darkness in them was nothing compared to what you were used to.

Idly, he made comments in your ear of all the things he wanted to do to you, his unpleasant breath tickling the skin there as you tried your best not to recoil. The smell of him was growing heavy in the car, overwhelming and nauseating. You sat even more stiffly, pressing Tanaka away with a palm to his chest as you giggled to yourself, pretending to enjoy his vulgar words.

Tachihara pulled the car around to the back of the building, letting the two of you out as he put it into park.

Any fool should’ve known where they were, what the dark building in the middle of the city stood for, but Tanaka was all too focused on you, intoxicated and inattentive. The mafia headquarters loomed overhead, dark, and unassuming, a triad of buildings stacked perfectly against one another.

“Thank you,” you said to Tachihara, winking at him as Tanaka turned his back, too disoriented to take in anything but the sight of you right before him.

The car drove away, then, and you were left to guide your guest into the building, towards the room that you had already planned to meet Dazai in. When you reached the elevator, Gin was waiting for you, dressed in female attire, this time, charading as a worker instead of the trained assassin that she truly was.

“Impressive building,” Tanaka said, as if not noticing all the obvious signs of the mafia base. “You must come from quite a wealthy family.”

You smiled at him over your shoulder, curious as to why he didn’t assume you’d come into the riches on your own. “I suppose you could say that.”

Gin opened the elevator, then began typing a message to her boss, alerting him of your arrival. Tachihara had taken the longest route back, giving Dazai just enough time to arrive home before you.

“Are you a renter?” he asked, staring as the numbers on the elevator increased, climbed higher while you went towards a floor that was only two below the penthouse.

“We own it.”

Tanaka turned towards you, eyes wide with surprise, perplexed even further by the alcohol running through his veins. “You didn’t say—”

Abruptly, he cut himself off. Whatever comment he was about to make was overshadowed by the fact that he’d met you at the Port Mafia’s night club. That was certainly no place for anyone that didn’t have a million yen to spare in their pockets.

Finally, the elevator dinged, and you relaxed at the sight of the familiar hall, the carpet that had recently been replaced, the paintings that you’d personally added, ones that had been purchased at an auction. There were traces of you everywhere, and though it belonged to many members of the mafia, it was, inherently, your home.

You grabbed Tanaka’s hand, realizing just how cold it was, wrinkled with calluses and dirtied nails. It took everything in you not to grimace as you pulled him towards the fourth door on the right, the one that had been used for every interrogation over the past two years.

It had become something of a holding cell for the mafia’s enemies, and most didn’t remain here long. You doubted that this man would be of any exception.

Tugging him along, you increased your speed, an invisible string guiding you right back to Dazai. He was your fiery beacon, and though you were still separated by walls, your heart thumped at being so near to him.

“Eager, are we?” Tanaka asked, and when he grinned in the lights, you realized how slimy it was, a hunger dripping off the edges of his yellowed teeth.

You smiled right back, but it was forceful, painful as it etched its way onto your cheeks. An itch started in the cracks of your palm, willing you to snatch it out of Tanaka’s hand and scrub it clean. Still, you held on, remembering that this was for the Port Mafia, this was for Dazai and everything you’d worked for over the years.Your determination increased tenfold. “It’s just around the corner.”

Finally, you reached the room where you knew Dazai would be waiting, and just like every other time you’d done this, every time you’d brought another willing victim into a den of wolves, you could finally relax.

You entered the room, not bothering to flip on any of the light switches. There was furniture, but it was dusty, bloody, and it would make it far too obvious that you were not leading Tanaka back to your bedroom. You didn’t want him turning tail too quickly, running when he discovered you had no intention of rolling around in the sheets with him.

He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, advancing on you like a hunter. It would’ve been threatening, intimidating perhaps, if you had not been able to sense Dazai on the other side of the wall. You knew that whatever control Tanaka thought he had on the situation had quickly evaporated, and it was only a false blanket of security that he’d wrapped himself up in.

“Can I get you anything? Maybe a drink?” you asked, stopping Tanaka with a flat palm to his chest, not allowing him to come any closer. “The alcohol in me is starting to wear off.”

He ignored your wishes entirely, upon you once more. One larger hand ripped yours from his chest, pulling you just another inch closer. “I’ve had enough tonight,” Tanaka said, teeth flashing in the dim starlight. “I’m dying to fuck you.”

You frowned, eyebrows wrinkling. “Well, I’d like a drink first.”

“I’m not in the mood.” He yanked on your hand again, and this time, you knew he’d kiss you, knew he’d plant the cracking pale lips of his own on yours. The thought of it made you ill.

Without thinking, you slung a fist across his face, a crunch sounding from his nose at the force of your hit. Blood trickled from one nostril, flowing in a fast stream over his lips, into his teeth.

He bent over, and you stood, straighter, staring over him as he cursed. The punch had been much more forceful than you’d intended.

“What the fuck.” He was angrier than before, and though his pain was immense, it did little to dissuade him. You kept your face hard, inching backwards as he stood tall, so much bigger than you’d remembered. It wouldn’t take much for him to lift you, throw you onto any surface he wanted.

You’d use your ability if you had to, kill the man if it was necessary, but that would mean the entire plan had gone to waste.

“You bitch—”

Without letting any fear cloud your face, you took a step back and bumped into something solid and warm. A cologne more familiar than Tanaka’s enveloped you in a safety net. 

The older man made it one step further, aggressively, before every ounce of determination waned from his eyes. He staggered, tripping over himself and stared back at the man that had slowly come up behind you. The one that was brushing soft fingertips between your shoulder blades, his steady breath tickling the crown of your head.

Dazai smiled, in a way that was so menacing that your heart thumped twice in its chest before resuming its natural melody. Tanaka took a step back, scrambling away, nearly tripping over himself in the process, eyes dilated in fear.

“You,” he breathed. “Dazai—” Tanaka didn’t finish his sentence, too stunned as he stared between the two of you. “What’s going on?”

Dazai stepped forward, letting his hands fall away from you as he cornered the newest addition to his long list of enemies. Already, you missed the warmth of Dazai’s touch, the security that came with his proximity.

Tanaka cowered before him, suddenly so small, weak under the breadth of Dazai’s power. A sense of twisted satisfaction curled within you, lightning up every pore under your cold skin.

“I believe you owe my wife an apology,” Dazai said, and his tone was even, hard, not a hint of amusement laced within the words. Tanaka’s eyes darted to you, where you stood with your arms loose at your sides, eyes softer, every inch of you more delicate now that Dazai was in the room. 

“Wife—” The word tumbled from his mouth before he could stop it, hesitant. “You said you didn’t know him. You asked me questions about him.”

You slid the ring back onto your finger, the one that you’d kept tucked away in the pocket of your bag. It glimmered in the beams of the moon, the diamond and rubies sparkling. “I can lie just as easily as a man can.” Crossing your arms, you sighed, and stared at Dazai’s taut back, the strained muscles in his shoulders as he stood over Tanaka. “You’re all so stupid sometimes. It only takes a simple question, and you never ask it. Anyone in that club could’ve told you who I am.”

He balked, considering his own ignorance, and followed your eyes back to Dazai, who had gone just a few steps behind you, to the small storage of top-shelf alcohol that you kept locked up in the room. “What is this about?” he asked, shaking his head to clear away his distress. “You’ve obviously brought me here for a reason. What is it?”

“I find it funny that you think you’re the one in control of the situation,” Dazai said, turning his back to fix himself a drink. He didn’t doubt that you would watch Tanaka for him with careful eyes. Even the smallest twitch of his eyebrows would be telling. “You don’t get to ask questions.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said, and though his voice was hard, there was underlying panic. “I’ve stayed well out of the Mafia’s business, as promised—”

“Perhaps.” Dazai interrupted smoothly, coolly. “Our agreement wasn’t broken, per se. I just happen to think that working with outsiders is an act of much higher treason.”

Tanaka blinked, faltering. His jaw went slack, a mere second ticking before he replied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t try to lie to me.” Dazai glanced over his shoulder, dark eyes narrowing. “I’m talking about Dostoevsky. The rats that are trying to take over my city.” He tsked, rolling the glass around on the counter, clinking it against the granite. Then, he popped a crystal bottle open, letting it fill a quarter of the glass.  “Such a shame. You’ve built quite a name for yourself in Yokohama. Is this really worth losing all that?”

Tanaka stuck both hands in his pocket, shaking his head vigorously. His fingers flexed against his sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know who that is, I’ve never crossed anyone by that name.”

Seeing an opportunity while Dazai’s back was turned, Tanaka began to pull out a pistol from his coat; one you had, stupidly, forgotten to check for. It seemed he doubted that you were a threat, and if he could just kill Dazai, you’d be an easy target.

You moved without thinking, making the single-step distance between you and Dazai. There was a gun relaxed at his waistband, and you stole it, knowing exactly where he kept it hidden. Before Tanaka could point his own at the head of your lover, you’d acted first, aiming Dazai’s gun, your jaw tense and back straight. “Put it down.”

Tanaka, caught off guard, locked his jaw, and his fingers twisted tighter around the handle of the gun, inching towards the trigger. For a moment, he contemplated, but even without knowing the thoughts in his mind, you could read his actions.

You wouldn’t give him the opportunity to do as he wanted. Instead, you fired your own gun, digging the bullet into his fingers, shattering them, blood spattering as Tanaka dropped the pistol to the floor in a ghoulish scream.

For a second more, he writhed in pain at your own hand, once again. You held your arm taut, before letting the gun drop to your side as Dazai hummed behind you. Tanaka had fallen to his knees, tears welling up, his vision glossy as he dropped the maimed hand to his thighs.

Dazai came up beside you, smiling at you, and brushed his fingers down your arm. Slowly, he took the gun, placing it back into his waistband, his touch electric on every centimeter of your skin. “You’ve handled it beautifully, my love.” Dazai squeezed your hand, tilting his head so dark hair cleared away from his eyes. “I can take it from here.”

You nodded, and though Dazai was, by no means, pushing you out of the room, he could see how exhausted you’d become by the whole ordeal. If you wanted to leave—and you did—he wouldn’t object.

“Will you be long?” you asked, just a whisper over Tanaka’s heavy breaths of pain.

Dazai laughed easily, his breath ghosting the bridge of your nose. “Akutagawa will be here soon.” A touch lingered on your hands for a minute longer before he pulled away completely. “Then, I’m yours for the rest of the night.”

It was already late, but you’d take whatever time you could get with Dazai, even if you were drained. You nodded, and he turned away, going back towards his enemy, pulling Tanaka up roughly by his collar. Dazai’s expression changed into a man you almost didn’t recognize, if it hadn’t been for the moments that you’d had to see him shift into the underworld’s fearsome demon.

You left the room, yawning, Dazai’s voice the last thing you heard before you shut the door silently.

“Now that you’ve learned your lesson, perhaps you’ll be more willing to tell me everything you know,” he said.

Despite Dazai promising to leave once Akutagawa arrived, he’d been gone for nearly two hours, with no indication that he’d be returning anytime soon.

You waited for him in the penthouse of the Port Mafia headquarters, the home you’d come to know well in the past few years. A glass of imported wine was beside you on the nightstand, resting between a book you’d been too tired to read before bed.

You sat up, unable to fall asleep, and chewed your lip thoughtfully. It seemed ridiculous, really, for you to already miss a man that you woke up next to and fell asleep beside every night.

Still, you couldn’t help the desperation in your chest, the need to see him, to brush the mask of the Port Mafia boss away so Osamu could take his place.  

You finished the wine, then headed towards the door. The room felt cold and lonely, and if Dazai wasn’t going to return soon, you’d just find someone else to bother on the lower levels of the building.

Though, just as you were about to slip on a pair of shoes, the door unlocked, swung on its hinges, and Dazai stepped through the threshold, a vision of gore and violence and every ounce the man you adored.

“Osamu,” you said, and even when you’d said his name a thousand times before, it still left your lips like a prayer. A smile formed, and you dropped your shoes, eyes sparkling, as you regarded the mess that he was in.

Dazai took one look at you and relaxed, shoulders falling as you closed the distance between the two of you. “Sorry it took so long, sweetheart,” he said, craning his taller frame down to kiss you.

You gripped the lapels of his coat, holding on tight as you pressed into him, deepening the kiss. Dazai’s bloody fingers cupped your cheeks, smearing red along your jaw, ruining your clean skin. Though, as you exhaled a sigh deep into his mouth, you couldn’t have cared less.

“I thought you said Akutagawa was going to take care of it?” you asked as Dazai released you, offering you a small, almost defeated smile.

He walked past you, towards the bathroom, feet dragging as he shrugged off his dark coat. Under the crisp top, his muscles were stiff, strained from all the stress. He wiped another hand over his face, doing little to clean up the mess of red that remained on his cheeks.

You followed him, trailing a few feet behind, feeling silly for wanting to cling to him so tightly. Yet, you couldn’t get enough of him, and you watched as Dazai remained silent, pausing in front of the mirror to regard his own appearance. He made a face in the glass as he gazed back into his own expression, sticking his hands under the faucet. The water ran in a steady stream, staining the sink a rose color as he scrubbed the blood from his fingers, his nails. There were parts of his bandages that had been soiled, and he ripped them right off, exposing pale wrists that hadn’t seen the sun in ages.

You mimicked his action, washing your hands in the second sink before scrubbing the blood from your face, clearing away the smear of maroon that he’d put there. The water shut off, briefly, and Dazai regarded you, frowning as you rid the evidence of his crime from yourself.

“I sent Akutagawa home.” Dazai finally answered your previous question and sighed, frustration evident. He stretched his hands over his head, the bones popping in one fell swoop. “Tanaka cracked right open; he really didn’t know anything.” He blinked at himself in the mirror once more, tidied his hair, then scowled. “He’s just a low man on the totem pole, and he paid for it with his life.”

Dazai seemed at odds with himself, and he drummed his nails against the countertop before patting his hands dry. The blood had been cleaned from his skin, and even though his hair was still unkempt, it was the only evidence that any wrongdoing had happened at all. Nothing but a speck of blood remained on his collar, the rest garnishing his coat instead.

You shifted, leaning against the counter. “Did you get anything out of him?”

“Names, a location.” Dazai clenched his jaw, fists tight at his sides. “He wasn’t lying, but who knows if they’re real or not. He could’ve been given fake locations. I’ve asked Ango to check on it.”

Dazai, once again, left you standing, contemplative, in the bathroom. You could hear him shuffle around in the other room; he released a small sound of relief as he stretched out his sore muscles.

When he’d finished moving around, you returned to the other room, and he was settled in the red armchair, legs spread out in front of him. Dazai rested his head against the back cushion, his eyes closed in serenity, a deep exhale expelling the tightness in his body.

It was almost a sight too serene to spoil.

“Do you want some space?” you asked, and though you’d always respect his wishes, that was the last thing you wanted to give him. You wanted to consume him completely, to press yourself against every crevice of his being and swallow him whole.

Dazai opened his eyes and blinked at you. Instead of replying, he smiled, slowly, and gestured to his thighs, sparing a glance at his knees.

Your heart pounded, launching its way up your throat, and you scrambled over yourself to crawl into his lap, straddling his thighs, the muscle strong beneath you.

Gently, he smiled at you, and brushed your hair over your shoulder to rub your neck. You let your arms rest on his shoulders, and slowly, you removed the bandage from his eye, hating whenever he tried to hide any part of himself from you.

You waited for him to protest, but he relented, and let you kiss his forehead, the very darkest parts of himself on display for you alone. It was hard not to collapse under the weight of your love for him.

You discarded the bandages, tossing them onto the table as Dazai tapped a pattern in the crevices of your skin.

For a moment, neither of you said a word. You noted every feature of his that you loved so dearly, and Dazai just watched you study him, tried hard not to smile against your lips when you kissed him.

If only he could see how beautiful he was, surely, he would understand that he deserved a life so much better than the one he’d been dealt. That someone with a smile brighter than a dying star shouldn’t have it taken away by years of endless anguish.

Finally, Dazai spoke, whispering your name in a tone he never used on any word but that one. “You don’t have to do this anymore if you don’t want to.”

“Hm?” you asked, tilting your head, so distracted by the endless galaxy within his eyes.

Dazai huffed, placing a possessive hand on your hip. His thumb grazed the bone and you shivered, smiling at him in confusion.

“Sweetheart, I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re obligated to do something just because you’re my wife.” He looked past you, an uncertainty beneath his words that he was ashamed of. “If you don’t want to take on any more assignments—"

“I told you already, Osamu,” you began, brushing the hair at the back of his neck that was hidden beneath the collar. “I don’t mind.”

“I know, but—” Dazai hesitated, his gaze steady on the doors behind you, the ones that led to your bedroom. Somehow, he seemed to think all the answers would be there, a script written out for him to recite to you. “Chuuya brought it up to me earlier. He said that I’m…” Dazai swallowed the words, shaking his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I just want you to promise me that you know if you want to stop, you can stop. Even if you wanted to quit the Port Mafia altogether, I’m happy to give you whatever you need.”

You smiled, kissing the wrinkle between his eyebrows in the hope that it would ease the anxiety in his expression. The tension was such an unusual thing for anyone but you to see, as Dazai had such trouble revealing his vulnerabilities to the world.

“I promise.” You swept your thumb over his lip, watching as it bounced right back into place, so soft and lovely. “I just don’t want to quit.” You leaned back on his lap, so you were able to see the entirety of his face.  

Dazai’s eyebrows drew together once more, putting that worry right back on his appearance, and a part of you hated that of all the things he had to be stressed about, it was something as silly as you not wanting to quit your job.

“Why?” Dazai asked, tilting his chin, searching the depths of your soul for an answer that would appease him. “I don’t understand. You hate them; you tell me you hate them every time they try and lay a finger on you.”

He wasn’t wrong, certainly not about something like that. You loathed that men looked at you like you were something that they could just steal away, like they were entitled to the subtle way that they brushed your hip in passing, caressed your back when they walked behind you.

You just didn’t hate everything about the work you’d been doing. After all, it was your idea.

“I just don’t want to,” you said, looking over his shoulder to the open curtains, the bright expanse of Yokohama laid out before you. Twinkling star lights from skyscrapers and the port in the distance. “It doesn’t matter.”

It was your home, your city, and it always would be. You wouldn’t let Dazai die, wouldn’t let anyone take him from you—including himself. You’d continue to do whatever it took to protect that. Whether or not you used your appearance to achieve those ends didn’t matter. When it was all said and done, Dazai’s enemies would be dead, and you’d still have him to come home to.

“It matters to me.”

You shook your head, chewing on your lip thoughtfully. There were a million different ways you could’ve explained it, but none that were intelligent. “It’s embarrassing, ‘samu.”

Dazai laughed, a genuine noise, and kissed your shoulder as you sighed, relaxing into him once more. “I can’t think of anything about you that could possibly be embarrassing.”

You held his gaze, wishing for him to relent, to just give up and let you have this one. Instead, he just smiled back patiently, hoping you’d reveal another part of yourself to him as he slowly traced your hard collarbone.

Those pools behind his eyes were too distracting, the thumb on your neck dangerously close to your throbbing pulse. You swallowed, letting him feel every movement as your throat bobbed up and down.

“I guess,” you said shyly, “I like it. I like leading on your enemies, letting them think that they could possibly have a chance with someone like me. I like the look on their faces when they realize they’ve been made a fool of, that the girl who they wanted so badly belongs so completely to the boss of the Port Mafia.”

Dazai studied you for a moment as you shrugged the revelation off, his deep brown eyes darting over every crevice of your face. “You want to make them jealous of me?”

“Maybe.” Your cheeks heated, and though you’d been together for years, loved him for even longer, you still shied under the weight of your own desire for him. “I don’t know. Maybe I just want them all to know that I’m as much the boss of the Port Mafia as you.” You wound your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him, the only person you’d ever need in the dangerous world. “They’re blind to their desire, and they refuse to see that I have complete control over them.” You smiled, lazily, fondly. “Don’t they know that this is my city, too?”

Dazai’s strength made an appearance then, and he gripped your cheeks, holding you with a spiraled mix of possession and affection. “It is,” he whispered, ghosting his lips across your own, “and I’d burn it all down before I let anyone take it from you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his deepened tone, the seriousness that drew on his normally playful inflection. You grew hot, and a twist of desire started deep within you, spreading down easily, slowly turning your thoughts into a muddled mess.

“I know,” you said, trying to keep your words steady as Dazai drew lazy circles up and down your sides. “Everyone knows.” You met his eyes, soft, yet dark, clouded with a longing you weren’t unfamiliar to. “The woman who brought them to their knees is still nothing more than a simple fool for Osamu Dazai.” You inhaled drawing your fingers to his open collar, the crisp bandages around his chest. “What could they ever do to deserve that kind of devotion?”

Dazai waited, watched your smaller hand run across his neck, his smirk slowly growing on his lips. “I’m a lucky man, indeed,” he said, drawing the words out slow and lazily. He tipped your chin down to him, his smile displaying the almost sharpened points of his canines. Slender fingers caressed your hipbone, pressing you farther down onto his thigh.

You let out a small sound, not taking your eyes off of his as his expression grew wily, and the slip you wore slowly began to rise up your thighs, exposing the softer skin of your leg.

“I admit, I can’t stand that everyone in this city wants you so fucking bad.” Dazai sunk his lips to your neck, kissing the space between your shoulder and jaw. “But I can’t blame them. My beautiful angel.” He smiled under your jaw, gripping your hips harder, forcing you to drag against his thigh. A puff of air left your throat as Dazai grinned, spiking your arousal. “It’s for the best, isn’t it? I’ve ruined you for anyone else.”

Your eyes flashed; Dazai bounched his leg, just once, his eyes shining, every move calculated. He’d always known exactly how to touch you, and he’d never forget, never stop enjoying the way you jerked so easily under his palm, the way you were already trying to rub yourself against him.

“Osamu,” you began, desperate for just a moment of friction, to feel his rigid muscle drag against your cunt. You wanted him so badly that your heart stumbled over itself, all the love you held, locked up there and looking for a way out.

He made a sound of disapproval, holding you still with a tight grip on your hips. His fingers dug into the bone, but it did little to ease your aching need for him.

“See?” Dazai’s kisses were light as he whispered against the shell of your ear, the sound nothing more than a breath of air. “I barely have to touch you and you’re a whimpering mess.”

You swallowed, tugging at the hair at the base of his scalp, trying to remain steady, if only for him to give you what you wanted.

Dazai seemed to be in a generous mood, worn from the previous mission, and he was grinning lazily, two fingers slipping under your dress.

His grip loosened, and you shifted, letting him pull on the strap of your panties, drag them down your thighs, over your knees, to discard beside the chair. Already, there was evidence of your desire, a spot of wetness obvious against the red satin.

He let the garment hang between his fingers before he looked back at you, watching as it softly fell to the floor. “If only they knew how easy it was to get you wet,” he said, shrewdly, “they’d want you twice as much as they did before.”

You let out a soft whimper, trying to direct his beautiful hands back between your thighs. Though, Dazai kept his fingers away, and in an act of desperation, you pressed your forehead to his, conveying every ounce of your affection for him.

“Osamu,” you breathed, blinking into his warm irises, a shade of brown that had easily become your favorite. “I’m so crazy about you.” You kissed his cheeks, smearing your lip gloss all over the skin he’d just wiped clean. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night. Everyone in Yokohama watches me, but I ache for you.”

His eyes flashed, pleased, and he relented, nudging his thumb to the inner most part of your thigh. The smile was still mocking, but he gave you at least some relief; Dazai let you sink back down on his thigh, the pressure just enough to have you clawing your nails into his chest.

He kissed your nose, but kept you where you were, perched on the middle of his leg and much too far from his cock. “What would you ever do if I wasn’t here to take care of you, hm, darling?"

You softened; even if his gaze was taunting, there was utter devotion between his dilated pupils.

All those men who fell for your act may have been complete fools, but Dazai was even worse off than them: he was a fool in love.

“It’s so hard not to crawl into your arms every time you’re around,” you admitted, grabbing the buckle of his belt to undo it with a clank. The mere sound, the feel of the leather between your fingers, nearly had you salivating. “I’m stronger than a lot of men in Yokohama.” Your features contorted then, eyes vulnerable as you looked up at him through delicate lashes, no longer a vision of authority, but of someone who desperately wanted to be taken care of. “Not you, though.”

Dazai’s grip on you relaxed, and something in his eyes shifted, lips parting as an exhale left them. He said nothing as you removed the belt, and instead, let himself sink deeper into the cushion, bearing your weight.

Hastily, you pulled down the zipper of his slacks. The weight of his heavy cock in your hands was so familiar. You stroked him gently, watching for any reaction, and while his face remained steady, you could sense the change in his heartbeat.

“I don’t need you to be strong around me,” Dazai said. His voice had deepened, your name leaving his lips, raspy by the end of his sentence. “You can fall apart if you want to, my love.” His erection grew slowly in your palm, and he brought you closer, your bare, soaked cunt dragging against his thigh. “I’ll always be here to put you back together.”

You smiled, flushing as he hardened, his breath growing uneven. When you had him leaking within your palm, you shifted forward on your knees, grinning at his reddened cheeks. Dazai’s eyes drifted towards your chest, just inches from his face.  

Uncertain, you hesitated, even though you wanted him, needed him with every fiber of your being. It was an unfamiliar position. He could take control of the situation at any moment, but you weren’t usually the one looming over him.

“Osamu—”

“What?” he released with a sigh, and in one swift motion, lifted your hips so he was positioned at your entrance. “You walk around my nightclub in those dresses I buy you, force those pretty tits into other men’s faces, but now you’re too shy to fuck your husband?”

You made a face, knowing he was just trying to get a rise out of you, and if only to prove a point, you sunk down on him, your folds slick. Dazai slid into you easily, a sinful noise breaking the silence between you as he grinned. “I’ll f-fuck you,” you stuttered, swallowing under the heat of his watchful eyes. “It’s just…” Your words failed again as his cock went deeper in you, your focus entirely on your own pleasure.

“Just what?” He stopped you for a moment, planting you on his thighs, his cock still straining, filling you. Glaring, vibrating with need, you opened your eyes, lips parting as he whispered against your mouth “Finish your sentence, sweetheart.”  

“It’s not my fault, Osamu,” you said, on the edge of a whine, squirming within his hold. “I can’t help that they stare.”

He laughed, then, and it was just a brush against your swollen mouth, the one he kept coming back to. “They can stare all they want,” Dazai said, tilting your chin up. “As long as they know who you belong to.”

Finally, he let you go, his hands tracing the edges of your knees, and you started a slow, steady pace, gasping as you held onto his neck tightly. He bowed his head into your collarbone, and kissed you once, before leaning back lazily, watching you take and take and take.

“Doing so good, angel,” he said, watching you with such a passion that it was distracting, as he let his palms rest simply on your thighs. “You always look so pretty stuffed full of my cock, don’t you?”

“Feels so good,” you muttered.

“I know.” Dazai seemed too devilish with his dark hair fanned out against the red chair, grinning in a way that twisted up your insides, sweat beading down your forehead as you tried to reach your orgasm.

You were hot with his piercing gaze upon you, but he didn’t bother to move his hands, did nothing to even pretend like he was fazed. You sunk down faster, heart racing, as the muscles of your hips strained, burned. Already, you were growing tired, sleepy from a full evening, but still so desperate to come around him.

You leaned forward, trying to angle your body, gain some relief from the position. Though it did little, and instead you were left sighing in frustration, wishing that he would do anything, instead of just look at you with a lust blown smile.

With every moment, the pain began to grow, the ache in your legs far too much to give way to pleasure. You started back at Dazai, frustrated, eyes glossy with need.

Dazai laughed at you then; it wasn’t quite mocking, but it wasn’t kind either. “Don’t tell me you’re already tired.”

Frustrated and impatient as you dripped down your own thighs, you grabbed his throat, thrusting his head into the back of the chair.

Dazai, eyes wide with surprise, stopped smiling as you curled your hand around his neck, his fingers digging into your thighs.

“Are you just going to sit there, Osamu?” you said, your words high-pitched and desperate. “Or are you going to—”

The end of your sentence was cut off by him gripping the back of your hair, smashing your lips into his own. The hand on his neck fell away, drifting to the lapels of his bloodstained collar, as he brought you down hard on his cock, hitting a place deep inside you that you hadn’t been able to reach with your own strength.

Dazai’s fingertips left bruises on your skin as he devoured the inside of your mouth, bringing you down over and over, stretching your walls with each movement.

“So pretty and desperate for me,” Dazai laughed, but he was breathless, his own tenacity crumbling from adoration. “Can’t do anything by yourself, can you, baby?” His kisses were sloppy as he dragged them across your neck, tongue grazing the sharp vein under your ear.

“No, but you said—” you were losing your breath and your words. “You said you’d take care of me. I don’t want to cum all on my own, ‘samu.”

Dazai groaned, his gaze drifting down to the space between your bodies, where you were sucking him back in, your own body aligned with your heart, never wanting to let him go.

“Fuck,” he said, slamming you back down on his thighs, his eyes hazy with love. “Of course I’ll take care of you.” One hand guided your hips as the other curled around your jaw, setting the pace with half his strength. “You’re my whole world.” His words stuttered, aching cock twitching inside you. “I’m nothing without you, understand?”

You nodded, but you weren’t quite thinking straight, the words a jumbled mess when they entered your mind. “I love you,” you said, gasping the end of his name. “I love you, Osamu, need more.”

Dazai breathed, just as heavily, softening as he regarded you. He’d always loved the look on your face as you came apart. “You take it so well,” he said eyelids fluttering over hazy eyes, and he kissed your forehead. You dragged your hands all over his chest, just wanting to touch any part of him. “Wish you could see yourself. You’re so beautiful.”

You groaned, pulling him closer, until there was nowhere left to go, surrounded completely by Dazai; the smell of him, the taste of him. “Say it back,” you muttered, “say you love me too.”

He choked on a laugh, and the lewd sounds of your wet arousal were loud as he came in and out of you. “I love you, angel, you know how much I love you.” Dazai kissed you, then, and your heart sped at how hoarse his voice had become, how easily it was for you to make the most powerful man in Yokohama fall apart at the seams. “You’ve got a pretty ring to prove it, don’t you? I don’t want anyone but you. I never will.”

“Come inside me.” Your eyes squeezed shut as his cock reached impossibly deep within you, stretching you, your legs shaking as you tried to ignore the dull ache within your tense muscles. Tears sprang to your eyes, coating your lashes; it was almost devastating how much you loved him. “Please. Feel so full, ‘samu.”

“Yeah?” He reached between you to play with your clit, and you were so close, crying out a broken moan as he touched you. “Need to remind everyone that you’re my girl, hm?” He knew just how you liked to be touched, how easy it was to get you to come when he fucked you like you needed. “Want me to put a baby in you next, sweetheart? Shit.” He curled his fingers, bruising your mouth as he stole the oxygen from your chest. “Everyone would know then, wouldn’t they? How could they doubt you’re mine when you’re carrying my child.”

You cried out, then, breaking, spasming around his cock as you fell onto his chest. Dazai said your name, kissed the top of your head, but you were too full of love for him. You breathed heavily as he brought you down once more, twitching against him from the ache in your sensitive cunt.

A moment later, Dazai jerked, then came inside you, spilling his warm cum against your folds, the white ropes dripping down your thighs, staining his dark, wrinkled slacks. Slowly, he pulled out of you, letting you rest on his chest as you breathed, your legs sore. A gentle touch ran up and down your spine as Dazai wrapped his arms tight around you, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“God, you’re perfect,” Dazai said, and his voice sounded almost broken, devastatingly emotional. “You can’t ever leave me, okay, angel? I need you right here by my side.” Lips grazed your temple, so sweetly, gently. “What’s the point of all this if I can’t share it with you?”

You smiled, resting your head in the crook of his neck, eyes full of tears as you kissed him. “I’m not going anywhere, Osamu. I promise.”

KINKTOBER 2023 MASTERLIST

tag list: @satohruu (hannah i planned this one bc of your tags on my last pm dazai fic HDSFHSFH) @cha0thicpisces

[cece693]

Here goes out the finest dilf of all time (or at least in the twilight universe)—Charlie swan!!! I couldn't stop thinking about writing something for him and this idea came suddenly to me. Never was a Renee fan so this is going to bash her character immensely. Hope you enjoy!

Day Before the Wedding

pairing: charlie swan x gender neutral reader tags: Renee is a dick, Bella and Charlie are awesome, you're a cullen, not specified if you're human or a vampire, but in my head you are a vamp, green doesn't look good on Renee, Charlie getting his happily ever after :)

It happens at twilight, that slow drift of evening light stretching across the sky as you linger in the living room of the Swan household. The final touches for tomorrow’s wedding are in place—flowers tucked into vases, rows of chairs set out in the backyard, and the delicate swirl of ribbons hanging from the porch. You’d expected a hush of satisfaction to fill the house, a sense of calm before the celebration. Instead, a quiet tension hangs in the air.

The source is no mystery: Renee.

She’d arrived in Forks only a few days prior. Though your instincts bristled at the idea—her history with Charlie is…complicated—you encouraged him to extend an invitation anyway. After all, she’s still Bella’s mother, and you wanted to show good will and maturity. We’re all family in some sense, you told yourself.

But over the last few days, you’ve seen that courtesy returned with thinly veiled resentment. Jealousy. She’s not only upset that Charlie found happiness without her; it stings her pride to see him with someone better, someone from the Cullen family—a name practically synonymous with wealth, good looks, and that uncanny aura of perfection. Bella’s acceptance of you (not minding the fact she was also dating one certain Cullen boy) only poured salt in the wound.

Now, on the last evening before your wedding, it’s come to a head.

You’re in the living room, adjusting a loose piece of ribbon on one of the floral arrangements, when you hear raised voices in the kitchen. “You just can’t wait to rub this in my face, can you? Inviting me here, of all places. Picturing me watching while you marry someone from that Cullen family—Bella’s been practically adopted by them!”

“Renee,” Charlie warned, trying to keep his voice calm. “I invited you here because you’re Bella’s mother and because, once long ago, I loved you. I want to share my happiness—”

“Oh, you’re happy, all right. Happier than you ever were with me! And I’m supposed to just smile?”

Bella’s voice, tense but controlled: “Mom, this is ridiculous.”

Renee’s voice, pitched higher: “You don’t get it, Bella. You never do.”

A muffled response, then the sound of something bumping—a chair or a cabinet. Concern prickles at your chest. Setting the ribbons aside, you hurry into the kitchen to find Charlie, his face drawn tight with worry, standing between Bella and Renee. The two women glare at each other as if the slightest spark would set them off. When Renee sees you in the doorway, her expression sours further, eyes flicking to the ring on your finger. “And here they come. Perfect.”

“Mom, stop acting like Dad meeting them”—Bella jerks her head toward you—“is some personal insult to you. It’s not. He’s happy. I’m happy for him.”

Renee’s mouth twists. “Yes, I see how happy you all are,” she says bitterly. “With your perfect house”—her gaze sweeps over the tastefully decorated living room—“and your perfect wedding. How wonderful that Charlie finally managed to find someone to spend his days with.”

Charlie stiffens, and Bella’s face contorts with anger, but you don’t let the words affect you. It’s clear Renee’s lashing out from a place of jealousy—her ex-husband is moving on, and her daughter is slipping further away from the role of caretaker she once played in Renee’s life. You pity the woman, but you also know stirring the pot will accomplish nothing. So, with a calm only a Cullen could possess, you step forward.

“Renee,” you say gently, “I’m sorry you’re upset. We wanted you here for Charlie’s sake, and for Bella’s. But if being here is hurting you—”

Renee cuts you off with a sharp laugh, though her eyes shine with something that looks far too raw to be mere anger. “Hurting me? The only thing hurting me is watching you all pretend I’m the bad guy for feeling left behind. I was his wife, I’m Bella’s mother—am I not allowed to be upset that I’ve been replaced?”

Bella bristles. “You haven’t been replaced,” she fires back, trying to keep her voice level. “You have a place in my life, Mom. No one’s trying to take that away from you. But you can’t expect Dad to stay single and miserable just to spare your feelings.”

Charlie steps in then, his voice quieter but full of resolve. “Renee, we’ve both moved on. It didn’t have to be ugly. I wanted you here because you’re still family—Bella’s family. But if you can’t be happy for us, maybe it’s best you go.”

A tension-filled silence takes hold for a moment. Renee’s eyes flick over each of you—lingering on you, with the ring on your finger and the subtle but elegant engagement band that Charlie gave you. There’s bitterness in her gaze, but you also sense her pain. She scoffs softly, turning away. “Fine,” she mutters. “I’ll go. I’m sure the Cullens can give Charlie everything I never could. Congratulations.”

“Mom,” Bella tries one more time, a tremor in her voice. “Please don’t be like this.”

Renee snatches her jacket from the back of a chair. “I’m heading back to the motel, and I’ll be on the first flight out in the morning.” She strides out, the front door slamming behind her. The echo of it reverberates through the house, leaving the three of you standing in silence. Outside, rain begins to patter against the windows, a soft drumming that underscores the hollow ache left behind.

Charlie exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, looking at you. “She didn’t have to speak to you that way.”

Bella’s eyes brim with frustration and sorrow. “If I’d known she was going to act like that, I wouldn’t have—” She cuts off, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry too. This was supposed to be a happy time.”

You let out a soft breath and wave your hand in dismissal, stepping forward to take each of their hands. “Don’t apologize. You wanted to include her because you care—and it was the right thing to do. It’s not your fault she decided to be upset instead of supportive.”

Bella’s lips tremble into a small, thankful smile. “Thanks for understanding,” she says, voice hushed.

Charlie squeezes your hand, gratitude shining in his eyes. “You could have fought back. She was practically begging for an argument.”

You shrug gently. “I won’t let her anger spoil tomorrow for us.” You pause, voice gentle but firm. “We love each other. Bella’s on our side. We have our family—Cullen and Swan both. That’s enough for me.” A wistful look crosses Charlie’s face, but he nods. He pulls you into an embrace, resting his chin atop your head. Bella steps closer, joining in—no words needed as the three of you stand together, finding warmth in each other’s presence. In twenty-four hours, you’ll be at the altar with Charlie, Bella by your side, and the Cullens in attendance—ready to begin a life built on love, acceptance, and hope. If Renee can’t be part of it…that’s her choice to bear.

[s-4pphics]

errrr……. hey…

uhhh this is awkward hey what do we do when we’re grieving? write ab arranged marriages slayyyyyy errrr yeah here’s that see yall next month or year or whatever

—

“I want a divorce.”

Your tone doesn’t waver nor break, voice engulfed in plainness.

It was one of the issues Ellie’s had since your marriage: an act to combine assets initiated by your parents. They never intended to have a daughter — you told Ellie the night of your honeymoon — but when your mother laid eyes on you, warming you with the skin of her chest for the first time, she painted your entire future in her mind. An object. The finest to be drenched and drowned in riches and diamonds, only living under multi-million dollar homes owned by your husband’s family name. Just as long as you played your role. A silent, unopinionated, docile baby-making machine.

Your parents nearly had a heart attack when they found one of your diaries filled with pictures of naked women, either hand drawn or torn from pages of your father’s filthy magazines. Your mother told you she should’ve aborted you, just when you thought you’d finally have a normal birthday party. The heavy breaths of your sobs extinguished the flame above your 18th candle.

But you’re 22 now; fabulously wealthy, married and…

Staring at your wife… plainly, even though the flames in your eyes rages war. The dining table is a battleground and a red dot punctures right through Ellie’s forehead. She’s not sure what you are.

Your marriage was not ideal. Not only was it forced and filled with shame, but Ellie grew resentful rather quickly. Towards the man that brought her into such a shrouded lifestyle, towards the heavens above for cursing her with life, but when she couldn’t attack, she brought it to your bedroom. You suffered, she’ll admit. It only took two weeks into your marriage for her to find an escape through other unassuming women while you laid in your shared bed with a tear-soaked pillow. You never knew when she’d come home, but when she did, she never failed to berate you. It carried on for months, the blame; blaming you for everything that’s happened to her thus far, despite her knowing that you’re a victim just as much as she is. You were her only emotional outlet. Or punching bag.

But despite every torment she threw your way, you never failed to smile at her the next morning with her coffee in your hands.

You always remained silent. Until now.

The delicious meal you prepared has soured on her tongue. All she can do is stare at you in disbelief.

She takes in the polite fold of your hands, 16 carat, rose gold, wedding band still on your ring finger. Her eyes rush over the plumpness of your lips, the delicate curve of your nose, the rise and fall of your chest… the way your breasts expand in your flowery dress with each breath.

Ellie swallows, nearly choking at the sudden dryness in her throat.

“… What?”

“I want a divorce.”

Your tone raises. Not aggressively; that wouldn’t fit you. You wanted her to hear you.

She huffs despite the burning tips of her ears. “I’m sure.” She mocks with a smirk.

Your eyes squint. “I’m not joking.”

“You know who else wasn’t?” She leans across the table, pinning you with her gaze, “Our parents. They don’t give a fuck about what we do and don’t want. We’re lucky they put us together.”

“I…”

Ellie flinches when your voice cracks to a whisper. Never once has the shell you mask yourself in cracked. Not once. Not in front of Ellie, your parents, her family, even strangers. You’ve never failed to put on a dazzling smile for the spectators.

“I want to be in love.” Tears free fall from your eyes and your chin trembles, “There’s no… I don’t have anyone. I never did.”

“I thought we could… at least be friends. I know you didn’t want this, I know — b-but… I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m dying—“

Ellie knows you’re talking about her, and guilt swallows her whole. It’s a shame, really; you’re gorgeous when you cry. Why’s her heart pounding this madly?

“I want someone to treat me like I-I’m alive, no one sees me, I d — don’t feel real —“

Ellie stands when your often assembled appearance begins to crumble. She’s never seen you so shattered, gasping for air like it’s limited. She recognizes this. You’re breaking, just like she did the night before she signed her life over to your family.

“Hey—“

Your seat goes flying back when your heeled feet plant on the marble floor, manicured nails clutching at the skin of your chest raw. She rushes over when your sobs crack, desperately trying to get air in your lungs with pleading and fearful eyes.

“Hey, hey, look at me, c’mon—“

Your fists pound against her chest in between wails, makeup streaking down your face, clumping your fluttery lashes. She calls out to you with hands on your soaked cheeks, tells you to count, to spell your name for her, but you can’t hear. You can’t function. Have you ever been this close?

Ellie curses before her hand flies into the jug filled with sphered ice cubes, shoving them into the side of your neck. They melt instantly from the heat of your skin, but you gasp and flinch from the cold.

“Yeah, feel that? Feels nice? Focus on that.”

Her hand delves into the jug until your jerky breaths calm into spluttered exhales. She’s sure she’s frost bitten.

You’re quiet again. Docile again. Anxious. Embarrassed. Heartbroken. And so fucking angry. Ellie’s getting whiplash looking into your eyes. They’re speckled with gold and… something foreign. She can’t place it. The hand on your cheek swiftly falls to her side.

“You—“ she clears her throat when you wobble, vibrating form pushing up against her, nose almost brushing hers, “You alright?”

But you say nothing, eyes distant. You simply step out of your heels with tightly clenched fists and jostled hair before walking towards the staircase.

“I’m very tired.” You say plainly over your shoulder before trekking up the steps. She watches cautiously until a door slams shut. She, after minutes of gawking at the staircase, takes in the scenery around her. Everything is where it should be… minus your plate is cold and untouched. But your wine glass is empty. She's not sure where the bottle is. Since when do you drink?

Her mind is unsettled and there’s a stutter in her chest. Your home is silent. A heaviness that weighs her down.

She assumed that the uncomfortable twist in her gut was from her own wrongdoings since your marriage.

Not at all.

Ellie’s concerned. There’s something off about you.

More off than usual.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Knight König who, after bravelly defending the castle alone and saving all the beautiful young maidens, is now *gasp* alone with them!! You and the rest of the young ladies are not even married yet and this whole horror of a siege came :(( you had to be locked inside the maiden tower with the other ladies, praying to the gods that someone strong would defend you, and here he was!! The giant knight from the north from whom you were always herded away 'because a brute like him has no business with fine young ladies like yourselves' :((

Imagine König who is for the time being the only male in the small castle, the foe has been defeated but any kind of help will take days to arrive :( During the fighting his mind was on slaying all the enemies to defend the flock of the frightened ladies but now...??

He's the only male among a dozen of maidens!! And these poor does are so scared in their tower on comfy beds of furs with all the supplies...so many warm, soft bodies to keep him warm and 'aid him to help his wounds', so many broad hips and breasts to grab and squeeze for comfort...oh and they are so ready to share all the supplies with him!!

I mean...who's to say that a war hero doesn't deserve something good too? :D

GFDFSSSS first I was like "gangbang medieval style yeehaw let's gooo" but then I had another quick idea (in all honesty writing gangbangs make me blush furiously lmao I'm weak!)

CW: Fear of SA, mention of blood, boners galore, dubcon groping, period typical attitudes, gender roles etc.

Knight!König asking you to wash him (because he was seated next to you at this one feast and now he's obsessed...)

König, who never had time for women because he was always on duty, whose best chances for a wife were an old widow or some soiled woman, whatever that meant... Probably some lowly lady, for a lowly knight like him. His family must hate him because they keep him from having even that: instead, he gets shipped off to this outpost of a castle that houses hundreds of soldiers and only a few women. Even they are kept under lock and key most of the time, and it's no wonder... A man like him shouldn't even be dreaming of dipping his dick in the pretty soft things of the Maiden’s tower.

König, who even to his own surprise, finds himself victorious after weeks of siege. Who's left completely unchecked and alone with a flock of scared fawns, poor does who are now gathering together for warmth and safety. They only have tiny daggers and iron scissors as their weapons against an armed knight, knowing they’re not always safe even from their own men – especially after a battle.

Even the strongest, most valiant knights get tired during a siege, turning into starved animals after a few weeks. A soldier fresh from war is the worst thing, having his cock up after bloodying his sword, they usually need to have a woman as soon as possible. A victorious knight, finding himself winning against all the odds, would surely prefer to fuck every single one of the soft cunts locked up in the women's tower...

So König, who batters the door and orders the frightened women to lift the baulk, only gets screams as an answer. They finally open it when he says he's tired after a fight and only wants to rest for a bit, puts on his most charming smile as the huge wooden door creaks open, and meets the ladies with a wide grin despite having blood all over him, stands proudly in his full height with his sword still drawn, a path of entrails and cut limbs behind him – why are they still screaming? He saved them! He should be given a royal welcome!

König, who finally gets the women to calm down a little when they notice he is not about to rape them on sight, who wipes his sword with one of their finest, freshly dyed wools (rude!). Who sheathes his weapon and smiles again, suggesting that they help him out of his plate and give him a wash – he’s earned that much, no?

König, who eats from their bowls as if he has never even seen food, who gawks at their tapestries with curiosity, who tries to stare down their necklines and catch a sight of those beautiful, round, plush tits. Most women quickly rush to heat the water to escape the possible groping about to ensue, while you are left with the task of getting him out of his armor.

The straps are small and endless, the armor consists of dozens of different parts, and he just keeps on grinning widely while you’re at it, giving you odd compliments and passages of courtly love with his mouth full of food. Some of his ramblings are straight out of a troubadour’s song, but you don’t believe a word he says, especially when his heated stare is fixed on your exposed neck, the collarbones so frail, the cascading wool that reveals your wrists as you try to pry your way under the heavy, bloodied pauldron.

Of course he remembers you, down to the minutest detail because he got to feed and take care of you at last winter's great feast... Someone had fucked up and seated you next to him in their error, and he heedily took advantage of the situation. He even managed to have a grope at you when the lords and ladies weren’t watching because they were so drunk.

He was drunk too, intoxicated by the strong ale and the shy stares you granted him. You didn’t do a thing when he pulled you closer and practically fed you some deer off your shared plate, tried if you'd fancy a date or a sip of wine while keeping you tightly tucked in his lap. He couldn’t get enough of you: your tiny gasp when you felt him grow hard, your whimper when he stole a soft squeeze of your tit… Your shy ghost of a smile as you demurely called him “Sir” and told him to stop before he gets you both into trouble. 

Ever since that night, he has dreamed of you when pulling out his leaking cock. Sinned until he felt embarrassed to go to the chapel and yet again confess that he has defiled himself with his hand and thoughts of you. Ever since that night, he has wondered whether you are giving those whimpers to someone else nowadays…

But here you are, in the tower, taking off his plates and using all your strength to get him out of his chainmail. Why haven’t you been married off yet? Why aren't you making blankets and throws at some fancy lord's castle by now? You have the perfect hips for delivery, it's practically a sin to keep a woman like you locked up in a military fortress…

And polite curtsies and shy, downcast eyes won't save you now, you know that.

How can you say no to a knight, ordering you to give him a wash? “Do him the honor,” he says, while anyone can see he’s already hard.

There’s nothing the others can do but put up a curtain and leave you two to your featherlight privacy. He doesn’t even bother to undress behind it, simply flaunts that monstrous thing between his legs for everyone to see before giving you the honor of strolling to the steaming bath. A soft silence fills the tower as the knight, tall as a legend, hairy as a beast, climbs into the small wooden tub with a grunted sigh.

You, the maiden he picked, can only look in horror as he grows even harder under the hot water. The thick erection soon juts above the surface, the dark curls framing the base of his cock now floating lusciously underwater, the dark hair covering his full balls, too. Either he's just big everywhere or then he's been too busy during the weeks of the siege... The amount of times you've seen him abstain from meat in this castle is ridiculous, and you always wondered if he ate fish because he liked it or because he had defiled himself in his lust.

He's an animal, but having a woman is not a sin as foul as throwing his seed on the ground... And here he is, strong thighs spreading as far as they can go to give room to the astounding erection he’s having just from the prospect of your touch.

The knight leans back in the tub, looks at you with a drowsy, soft smile, and tells you not to be afraid. The thick, throaty voice leaves your knees completely weak.

“Ach so... Have you ever touched one of these before?”

[gardenladysworld]

Starbound Hearts

Status: I'm working on it

Pairings: Neteyam x human!f!reader

Aged up characters!

Genre/Warnings: fluff, slow burn, oblivious characters, light angst, hurt/comfort, pining, NSFW, human x Na'vi, size difference

Summary: In the breathtaking, untamed beauty of Pandora, two souls from different worlds find themselves drawn together against all odds. Neteyam, the dutiful future olo'eyktan of the Omaticaya clan, is bound by the expectations of his people and the traditions of his ancestors. She, a human scientist with a love for Pandora’s wonders, sees herself as an outsider, unworthy of the connection she craves.

Tags: @nerdylawyerbanditprofessor-blog, @ratchetprime211, @poppyseed1031, @redflashoftheleaf, @nikipuppeteer@eliankm, @quintessences0posts, @minjianhyung, @bkell2929, @erenjaegerwifee, @angelita-uchiha, @wherethefuckiskathmandu, @cutmyeyepurple

Part 20: To suffer

Part 21: To expect

Neteyam barely heard them anymore.

The elders sat in a semi-circle before him, their voices rising and falling in measured, persuasive tones, each argument laced with expectation. Words like duty, legacy, and strength of the People filled the air, weaving a net meant to ensnare him, to box him into the future they had so carefully constructed.

And yet, all he could think about was you.

Last night, you had fallen asleep against him, your smaller frame curled so perfectly against his, your fingers tangled loosely around some of his braids. You had traced over each before exhaustion claimed you.

“Neteyam.”

His name was spoken with quiet authority, cutting through his thoughts like the edge of a blade. Mo’at’s gaze settled on him, unreadable yet heavy with knowing.

“You have not spoken.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curling into his thighs where he sat. His posture remained relaxed, his expression carefully neutral, but the tension coiled beneath his skin was suffocating.

“I have heard you,” he said finally, voice even.

One of the older warriors, a man who had fought beside his father in the Great War, leaned forward. “Then you must see reason. It is time to choose, Neteyam. Your kelku is built. The People look to you as the next Olo’eyktan. You cannot delay this any longer.”

Neteyam forced himself not to react. This had become a routine—a ceaseless, unrelenting campaign to bend him to their will. Every day, they came with new arguments, new pressures, reminding him that his time to choose had come.

And today, they had escalated their efforts.

Three women stood to the side, poised and expectant. The finest choices, they had said. The strongest, the most skilled, the worthiest of standing at his side.

He had barely looked at them.

It wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful—they were. Any other warrior in the clan would have been honored, humbled, to have even one of them presented as a potential mate. But Neteyam felt nothing. Not even curiosity.

He could feel them watching him, waiting. He knew their names. K’shi, a fierce huntress with a sharp mind and sharper aim. Tey’ra, graceful and cunning, with a voice that could command a room. Sa’nari, a skilled healer, gentle yet strong.

All three of them were worthy. But they were not you.

He clenched his jaw as Mo’at spoke again, her voice softer now, but no less firm. “You must consider, ma‘itan.”

There was something different in her tone—something only he recognized. He had told her, or rather, she had seen the truth in him, and yet here she was, pushing like the rest of them.

And yet—

Neteyam felt nothing. The elders spoke in turns, their voices a steady hum of tradition and expectation. They listed the virtues of the women before him, the strengths they carried, the ways they could serve as his equal.

“…would provide you with strong heirs, as the bloodline demands.” “…a union of two powerful lines would strengthen the People.” “…each of them would stand proudly at your side.”

The words twisted in his gut like a blade. He could feel their eyes on him—the women, the elders. Even his father, who stood near the back of the gathering, arms crossed, his silence more damning than any words.

It had been this way for weeks now.

Since their argument, the rift between them had only deepened. It was in the way Jake’s jaw tightened whenever their gazes met. In the way his voice was sharp when he addressed him. In the way he never truly looked at him anymore—only past him, through him, as if he were a problem to be solved, a puzzle piece forced into the wrong shape.

Neteyam felt the weight of it with every step he took in the village.

And yet, he endured. He endured because at night, when the sky stretched endless above him, when the stars blinked down like silent witnesses, he could return to you.

To the stolen moments in his kelku or in the outpost, where you curled against him, where your fingers traced absentminded patterns over his chest, where your voice—soft, teasing, grounding—brought him back to himself.

He endured because when you looked at him, you did not see what the elders did. You did not see duty or legacy or a symbol of what he should be. You only saw him.

And that was the only place where he could breathe. But here, in the suffocating air of the council space, surrounded by the weight of expectation, there was no air left for him. He clenched his jaw.

The women before him stood tall, waiting, their gazes steady. He felt no anger toward them. They were not at fault. They had not asked for this any more than he had. But they were waiting for him to choose. And he already had. Neteyam took a slow breath, steadying himself. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin, and met the eyes of the eldest council member.

“I will not choose.”

Silence.

The air shifted.

One of the younger elders flinched, as if he had just spat in their faces. Others narrowed their eyes, their expressions darkening like a storm rolling in over the plains.

Jake let out a slow, sharp exhale.

Neteyam did not look at him. Instead, he held his ground, his golden eyes unwavering.

The oldest among them, a man who had served under his grandfather’s rule, let out a heavy sigh. His expression was unreadable, but Neteyam could see it—the quiet resignation beneath his weathered gaze. “The blood of Toruk Makto runs through your veins,” the elder murmured. “You cannot run from what is expected of you.”

Neteyam inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of every word.

“I am not running,” he said.

He just refused to be caged. The air crackled with tension. Jake’s voice cut through it like a blade. “This isn’t just about you, Neteyam.”

And there it was.

Neteyam finally turned to face him.

His father’s expression was unreadable, but his stance—the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his hands clenched at his sides—said enough.

“This is about the clan,” Jake continued, his voice controlled, measured, but laced with something simmering beneath the surface. “About what’s best for the People.”

Neteyam’s throat tightened. “Do you truly believe that I am what’s best for the People?”

Something flickered in Jake’s gaze—too fast to catch. But Neteyam saw it. The hesitation. The doubt. He had felt it his entire life.

He clenched his fists. “You have always wanted me to be more, to be better,” he said, his voice quieter now, but firm. “To be the leader they need.”

His golden eyes darkened. “Then why do you not trust me to decide what that means?”

Silence.

Jake’s jaw tightened.

Neteyam exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He had nothing left to say. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away. Away from the elders. Away from their expectations. Away from his father’s cold, lingering glare.

The path beneath his feet was damp from the early morning rain, the thick jungle around him still whispering with the fading breath of a storm. The village behind him buzzed faintly—low voices, the rustle of woven fibers, the steady hum of disappointment pressing against his back like weight.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. He had enough.

He had stood there and listened to their names, watched them stand in a line like he was expected to pick one and say, this one, this will be my life. Like they knew him better than he did. Like they had already carved out his future and all he had to do was nod.

Neteyam walked fast, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead, his tail flicked harshly from side to side. He just wanted to go home. Not the kelku he was raised in. Not the space he shared with his siblings. That place no longer felt like his.

His home was the one he built with his own hands—up in the high trees, away from the clan’s watchful eyes. The one that smelled of you. He was almost to the base of the tree when he heard it—his father’s voice.

“Neteyam.”

He didn’t answer.

“Neteyam, stop.”

Still, he kept walking.

Jake’s footsteps quickened behind him. “We need to talk.”

“No,” Neteyam muttered, eyes narrowing. “We don’t.”

Jake finally caught up, stepping in front of him to block the path. Neteyam stopped sharply, chest rising and falling as he stared at his father—unflinching. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Jake’s eyes searched his face, but whatever he was looking for, Neteyam didn’t give it to him. “You’ve been different,” Jake said, voice lower now, controlled. “For weeks.”

Neteyam’s response was quiet, clipped. “I’ve been doing what’s expected of me.”

Jake frowned. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Then say what you mean.” The air between them was tense, sharp as a blade. Insects buzzed in the trees above, the only sound in the silence that stretched between father and son.

Jake exhaled through his nose. “You barely speak to me unless it’s about duties. Orders. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “I speak when necessary.”

“Necessary?” Jake echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Since when do we only talk when it’s necessary?”

Neteyam laughed under his breath, bitter and tired. “Since you made it clear that’s all I am to you—a necessity.”

Jake flinched, barely perceptible, but Neteyam saw it. His father tried to speak, but Neteyam cut in. “You want me to be Olo’eyktan,” he said, voice low, controlled. “You want me to follow your path. Your rules. You want me to make the choices you would make.” His gaze hardened. “Even when it’s about my life.”

Jake straightened, crossing his arms. “Is this about today? About the women?”

Neteyam stepped to the side, trying to move past. “I’m going home.”

Jake moved again, blocking him. “Not until you tell me why you built your own kelku.”

Neteyam’s breath caught.

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “You never did it after your dream hunt. You stayed. Even when you had the right. But a month ago—suddenly, you move out. No explanation. Just gone. You built your own space like—like you were starting a new life.”

“I am,” Neteyam snapped, sharper than he meant to. “And I didn’t owe you an explanation.”

Jake’s voice turned colder. “That’s not how this works. You’re still part of this family.”

Neteyam’s eyes flashed. “Then why don’t you treat me like it?”

Jake’s mouth opened, but no words came. Neteyam stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me now? Since that argument? You glare. You judge. Every decision I make, you question. I used to come to you with everything, and all I got back was silence—or orders.”

Jake’s expression tightened, guilt flickering behind his eyes. “I never meant to push you away.”

“But you did,” Neteyam said, quieter now. “And now you want to know why I left?”

His golden eyes locked with Jake’s, hard and unflinching.

Neteyam crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you. I needed space.”

“Bullshit,” Jake snapped, the word sharp in the quiet jungle air.

The tension crackled like dry leaves underfoot. Neteyam’s voice dropped. Cold. Controlled. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a soldier.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Then stop acting like one.”

The silence that followed was thick—heavy enough to choke on. Jake stepped closer. “What’s really going on with you, Neteyam?”

Neteyam let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Now you care?”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “You think I don’t care?”

Neteyam's eyes flashed, his voice sharp. “You care when I disobey. When I don’t act how you expect. That’s when you speak. That’s when you look at me.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Neteyam hissed, stepping forward now. “When was the last time we spoke about anything that wasn’t duty? Orders? What the clan needs? You’ve barely looked at me since I said no to the elders’ match moons ago.”

Jake didn’t respond.

Neteyam shook his head. “You want me to pick someone.” Neteyam’s throat tightened. He looked away, jaw clenching.

Jake’s voice was firmer now. “You’re acting like I did something wrong.”

Neteyam let out a breath through his nose, low and sharp. “You mean besides putting three women in front of me like I’m choosing a hunting bow?”

Jake’s eyes darkened. “You know that’s not what this is—”

“No?” Neteyam cut in, voice low, sharp. “Then tell me, why do I have to choose someone you think is good for me? Someone the elders think is good for me? Someone Mother thinks is good for me?”

Jake was silent. His voice rose, heated now. “But you—you got to choose. You got to choose her,” Neteyam said, quieter now but still burning, his voice raw. “You weren’t born here. You weren’t even one of us. But you still got to choose mother.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “That was different.”

“Why?” Neteyam demanded, his chest heaving. “Tell me. Why was it different for you?”

Jake didn’t answer.

Neteyam’s voice wavered just once—but he forced it steady again. “So why is it that I don’t get to choose for myself?”

Silence.

Jake took a slow breath, as if to respond—but Neteyam cut him off before he could.

“I already—” Neteyam bit the words down, his mouth snapping shut mid-sentence. His jaw tensed, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, something shifting in his expression. “You already what?”

Neteyam didn’t answer.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see through the cracks. “Are you hiding something?”

Neteyam didn’t answer. Wouldn’t answer. Not now. Not like this. Instead, he turned his back and started climbing, toward the only place that felt like home anymore.

Jake’s voice followed him—low, heavy with warning. “If there’s something I need to know—”

“You’ll be the last to hear it,” Neteyam shot over his shoulder. And then he was gone, vanishing into his kelku, leaving his father behind in the quiet.

The inside of Neteyam’s kelku was quiet—too quiet. The hum of the forest beyond its walls barely touched him, muffled by the storm brewing behind his temples. He sat cross-legged near the far edge of the woven platform, a small collection of arrow shafts and stone fragments laid out before him in neat, precise rows. His hands moved over them with muscle memory alone—select, carve, shape—but the focus wasn’t there.

His thoughts kept slipping. His jaw clenched every time he remembered the look on his father’s face. The suspicion. The calculation.

He had almost said it. Almost.

His fingers stilled over the half-shaped arrowhead. His breath caught in his throat.

He’d almost told his father about you.

Neteyam swore under his breath, sharp and low, tossing the unfinished tip aside. It clattered against the floor of the kelku, the sound far too loud in the silence. He sat back, running a hand down his face.

Skxawng.

He shouldn’t have let it get to that point. He knew how his father operated—slow, probing, never missing an opening. And Neteyam had just… given him one. He exhaled, long and shaky, his fingers curling into his palms. He had chosen distance.

Not just for himself. For you.

Because this kelku—this place in the trees, quiet and separate from the rest of the village—was the only place he could be with you without fear. Without someone seeing. Without the elders whispering, or his father ordering.

Neteyam lowered his hands, staring up at the ceiling of his kelku. He had made it strong. Private. Secluded. But not strong enough to keep his guilt out. He knew what you risked every time you came here. You weren’t just his. You were a scientist. A human. One of the few allowed to stay in the forest at all.

Only because his father had allowed it.

After the war. After the bloodshed. After the Na’vi won. The peace between the Omatikaya and the humans at the outpost was fragile. It was a line drawn in the dirt—thin, easily swept away.

If that line was crossed… If the clan ever saw humans as a threat—if you became the reason the Omatikaya turned on the outpost…

They’d be sent away by the RDA.

Bridgehead.

He wouldn’t see you again. Not ever. Neteyam’s fists clenched. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

If they knew—if the wrong person found out what you meant to him—Neteyam didn’t know what might happen.

And the forest. Eywa, the forest. It was everything to you.

You were never happier than when you were out there—among the plants, the wildlife, your datapad in one hand and a stupid grin on your face as you tried to explain something far too complicated for him to follow. You were a scientist, but more than that— you belonged to the forest, just as much as he did. It gave you joy, purpose. It was where you thrived.

He wouldn’t risk that. Not for anything. Not even for the truth.

The door flap rustled. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Kiri slipped inside silently, her feet light on the woven floor. She paused, taking in the scattered pieces of arrow-making, the tension radiating off her brother like heat from a fire.

“You know, you’re not exactly subtle when you’re brooding,” she said, dropping down beside him.

He didn’t answer. Just picked up a shaft, turned it over, then set it back down.

Kiri tilted her head. “So… that bad?”

Neteyam scoffed softly through his nose. “What do you think?”

“I think Dad came back looking like someone kicked him,” she muttered. “And you’re in here throwing your work around like it insulted you.”

“I almost said it,” he said quietly, his voice flat. “I almost told him.”

Kiri went still.

Neteyam didn’t have to clarify. She knew exactly what it was. “I didn’t,” he added. “But I wanted to.”

Kiri’s gaze softened, her hand reaching over to rest lightly on his shoulder. “You were angry.”

“I’m always angry now.”

Kiri’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know.”

She let the silence stretch for a bit before speaking again. “You know they talk about you, right? Mom and Dad.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Kiri said. “But sometimes I don’t have a choice. I still live there, remember?”

Neteyam closed his eyes.

“They’re… confused,” Kiri went on. “Hurt, I think. But mostly just afraid. You’re their first son. Their perfect son. You always did everything they asked, everything they wanted. Now they don’t understand why you’re—”

“Choosing for myself?” he cut in, sharp.

Kiri hesitated. “Yes.”

Neteyam exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “They want me to pick someone from the clan. Settle. Lead. Be a good little Olo’eyktan-in-training.”

Kiri watched him. Her voice lowered. “They think you’re hiding something.”

Neteyam looked back down at the arrowhead. “Are they wrong?”

She smiled faintly. “No.”

Silence stretched between them for a beat, the fire crackling quietly. Then, Kiri’s voice turned soft. Knowing. “You’re being too obvious.”

He froze.

“You used to be more careful,” she went on. “Slipping out at night, keeping the visits short. Covering your tracks. Staying with her at the outpost.”

Neteyam stayed still. Said nothing.

“But now?” she sighed. “You bring her here. You keep her here. You look at her like… like you don’t care who sees it.”

His grip tightened on the stone.

Kiri leaned forward, voice quiet and serious. “I love her too. You know that. But you both are idiots.”

“I know,” he muttered.

Kiri’s brow furrowed. “Then why are you doing this?”

“Because I love her,” he said, before he could stop it.

Kiri didn’t flinch. She just nodded. “I know.”

Neteyam finally looked up at her. “You don’t understand, Kiri. She’s happiest here. In the forest. When she’s working with the plants, or cataloging things I don’t even have a name for. She lights up. The forest feeds her.” His throat tightened. “If something happened… if the clan forced the humans out, she’d have to go. Bridgehead’s not the forest. She wouldn’t last there.”

Kiri’s expression softened. “You’re trying to protect her.”

“I have to protect her.” His voice cracked on it, and he looked away, swallowing hard. “Even if that means never telling anyone. Even if that means letting the whole clan think I’m stalling or disrespecting tradition.”

Kiri was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You’re not going to be able to keep her a secret forever.”

Neteyam knew that. The way you smiled at him. The way he looked at you. The way he reached for you without thinking, how he softened at your voice, how your scent lingered on his skin when you stayed the night.

Someone would notice. It wouldn’t stay in the dark forever. He exhaled slowly. “I know.”

Kiri leaned forward, placing her hand on his. “I don’t think you’re wrong for choosing her,” she said gently. “But if you’re going to keep doing this… you need to be ready.”

Neteyam looked at her, golden eyes heavy with a thousand things he wasn’t allowed to say. “I already chose,” he said softly. “I just haven’t told anyone.”

Kiri squeezed his hand, her voice low. “Maybe it’s time you did.” Kiri didn’t press. She didn’t have to. “I get it,” she murmured. “You want to tell the truth. You want to stop hiding her.”

His breath caught at the word.

You.

Kiri knew exactly what he felt.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t have to.

Kiri smiled faintly. “She’s one of my best friends, skxawng. I see the way she looks at you. Like you hung the stars. Like there’s no one else in the world but you.”

Neteyam let out a slow, aching breath. “And I keep her hidden like a secret.”

“She understands,” Kiri said gently. “She always has.”

He swallowed hard, guilt thick in his throat.

“She would never ask me to choose,” he whispered. “Not once has she ever asked me to risk this. But I would.”

Kiri’s smile faded. She shifted closer, her hand brushing his. “You don’t have to risk it alone.”

Neteyam looked at her, surprised. “Kiri—”

“I want to help you,” she said firmly. “We want to help you.”

He blinked. “We?”

Kiri’s gaze softened, a quiet gleam of pride behind her eyes. “Grandmother knows.”

Neteyam exhaled, nodding. “Of course she did.”

“She knows��� and she wants to help you.”

That made him freeze. He turned sharply to look at Kiri, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Kiri smiled. “She says you have your mother’s heart. That she’s seen this before. She said… if the girl is going to be your mate one day, then she should start learning how to live among us. Not as an outsider. But as one of us.”

Neteyam stared at her, stunned into silence.

“She spoke to me about it days ago,” Kiri continued. “She said your human is curious, respectful. That she’s always wanted to learn the healing ways. So… she’s giving her the chance. She’ll teach her, alongside me.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Mo’at. The Tsahik. His grandmother. He wasn’t surprised that their grandmother knew. She was Tsahik. She saw what others missed, heard what was left unsaid. And he had already told her—maybe not in so many words, but in ways she would understand.

She didn’t just know—she was protecting them.

Kiri reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “This means she can come to the village more. During the day too. No more waiting for the other scientist to come here. No more sneaking around at night, not if there’s a reason for her to be here. No more slipping out like a thief to see her.”

Neteyam’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “She would do that? Grandmother?”

Kiri nodded. “She already has.”

His throat tightened. It was the first time since their relationship had started that the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

Kiri’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You need to tell her.”

Neteyam exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She still has her work at the outpost. The RDA expects her to do her job…”

“I know,” Kiri said. “But if she learns under Mo’at, she won’t have to make excuses every time she’s here. At least not for Dad and Mom. No one will question why she spends so much time in the village.”

Neteyam pressed his lips together. She was right. As usual. He leaned back against the wooden frame of his kelku, running a hand over his face before looking at Kiri again. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Kiri smiled. “Of course.”

She stood, stretching. “Just don’t be stupid about it, alright?”

Neteyam smirked, shaking his head. “No promises.”

Kiri groaned, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

But there was affection in her voice. She turned to leave but paused at the entrance, glancing back at him. “Tell her soon, ma’tsmukan.”

Neteyam nodded. And as Kiri disappeared into the night, he let out a slow breath. He would tell her. Because now, for the first time, there was hope.

The woven walls of the Tsahik’s tent glowed faintly with the warm orange light of the setting sun, the last fingers of daylight slipping through cracks in the canopy. Herbs hung in bundles above the fire pit, their soft, earthy scent curling in the air. Kiri sat cross-legged near one of the low tables, quietly grinding dried roots into powder with a practiced hand. Neteyam stood near the entrance, posture tense but respectful, as Mo’at finished arranging several clay bowls in a careful line before her.

She didn’t look up as she spoke.

“I wondered how long it would take you to come.”

Neteyam exhaled slowly, stepping fully inside. “I needed time. To think.”

Mo’at hummed, a soft, noncommittal sound. “You have always taken too much time when it comes to the things you feel most deeply.”

Neteyam didn’t argue. He stepped forward, lowering himself onto the woven mat beside Kiri. Mo’at turned her gaze on him then—sharp, steady, ancient.

“You wish to speak about the girl.”

He nodded once. “You said… you would teach her.”

“I will,” Mo’at replied simply. “If that is what she wants.”

“I know she does.” Neteyam’s voice was soft, but certain. “More than anything.”

Mo’at inclined her head. “Good.” Silence settled over them for a beat, broken only by the soft scrape of Kiri’s pestle against stone. Mo’at’s eyes didn’t waver from Neteyam’s. “I know you will not choose anyone else.”

The words landed with quiet weight. Final. True. Neteyam’s throat tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I already have.”

“I know,” Mo’at said, voice lower now, tinged with something almost gentle. “And so your mate should be taught as one of us. She must understand our ways. Our stories. Our healing. Our balance with Eywa. If she is to stand beside you—truly stand there—then she must know everything.”

Neteyam’s voice was firm. “You’ll see. She’ll learn it all. She’s… she’s smart. She understands the forest better than most of the People I know.”

Mo’at nodded once, as if that had already been obvious. “I believe that. And I believe she will listen. She does not treat our ways like science in a book—she treats them like something sacred.” Her lips curled, just slightly. “That is rare.”

Kiri glanced up from her work then, offering her brother a faint, knowing smile. “She already pays attention better than half the young healers in training.”

Mo’at made a soft sound of agreement.

“I can help you,” she said, reaching for a bowl of herbs. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, slow and precise. “For now. She will begin learning under me. That gives her a reason to be in the village. Eyes will not question what has an answer.”

Neteyam felt some of the tension bleed from his shoulders, his chest rising and falling with something like relief. “Thank you.”

“But,” Mo’at said sharply, her gaze pinning him in place, “do not mistake help for protection.”

He stilled.

“I am old,” she said, voice even. “And wise. But I am not all-seeing. And your mother and father—” she let the pause hang “—are not stupid.”

Kiri winced softly, but said nothing. Mo’at leaned forward, her tone gentler now. “This will not be a secret forever, ma Neteyam. And it should not be. If she is to be your mate, then in time, the truth must be shown.”

“I know,” Neteyam murmured. “I just… I don’t want her hurt.”

“She will be,” Mo’at said plainly. “Love always brings pain. But hiding her does not protect her. It only delays what must come.”

Neteyam nodded slowly, gaze dropping to the woven floor. Mo’at’s voice softened again, her words careful. “For now, this path gives you both time. Use it well. Teach her. Help her understand what it means to live as one of us. And prepare yourself—because this path is not easy. But it is yours.”

She reached for a bundle of dried leaves, tying them with a thin cord. “Tell her to come soon. She will begin with small tasks. Preparation. Observation. Watching the balance of life and decay. If she can learn the rhythm of Eywa, she can learn anything.”

Neteyam’s chest swelled, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “She can.”

Mo’at smiled then—soft and brief, the way moonlight breaks through trees. “Then we begin.”

The outpost was quiet at this hour. Neteyam knew it would be. Most of the humans had gone to bed hours ago, but he knew you wouldn’t be asleep. You never were.

It was nearly midnight when he reached the airlock, moving swiftly through the shadows, his steps soundless as he crouched by the console. His fingers moved with practiced ease, pressing the override sequence you had shown him long ago. The hiss of the decompression chamber barely registered as he stepped inside.

This place had become so familiar. He had been here more times than he could count, slipping into the outpost long after dark, drawn to you like a moth to flame.

Usually, he would find you hunched over a workbench, hovering over some plant samples, your face illuminated by the glow of your holo-screens as you scribbled notes for your research.

But tonight, the lab was empty. Neteyam frowned, his ears flicking as he listened for any sign of you. Then he turned down the hallway, his long strides carrying him toward your quarters.

The door wasn’t locked. It never was when you expected him.

He pushed the button to open it without a sound, stepping inside—and the sight before him made his lips twitch in amusement.

You were sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed, a towel draped over your shoulders, damp hair spilling down as you slowly brushed through it. Your gaze was fixed on the holoscreen mounted on the wall, some human movie playing in muted colors.

You didn’t even glance at the door when you spoke.

“No, Kate, I won’t give you my shampoo.”

Neteyam snorted.

Your hand froze mid-brush. He watched the way your shoulders tensed, how you whipped around so fast you nearly toppled over—only to find him standing there, his three-meter-tall frame barely fitting through the doorway, his golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

A slow smile curled his lips. “Not Kate,” he murmured, amusement dancing in his golden eyes.

You exhaled a sharp breath, pressing a hand against your chest. “Eywa, you scared me!”

Neteyam chuckled, stepping further inside. “You should be more aware of your surroundings, yawne.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but the wide grin on your face betrayed your amusement. You reached for him, motioning him closer with both hands. “Come here.”

Neteyam didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in two strides, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring the way your expression softened as he lowered himself into a crouch before your bed. Even like this, he was still so much bigger than you.

Your small hand reached out, brushing over his cheek, tracing the strong lines of his jaw. “Give me kisses,” you murmured, grinning.

Neteyam huffed a soft laugh, tilting his head. “So demanding.”

You beamed. “And you love it.”

Eywa help him, he did. His large hand reached up, thumb grazing over the smooth curve of your cheek. You leaned into his touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second before you met his gaze again.

Your warmth. Your scent. The way your small fingers curled over his wrist, holding him there.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his nose grazing against yours, teasing. “Neteyam,” you murmured, impatient.

He smirked. “What is it, sweet girl?”

You groaned, your fingers tightening behind his neck. “Stop teasing and kiss me.”

He let out a low chuckle, but obeyed. He leaned in, closing the distance, his nose brushing against yours as his breath ghosted over your lips.

You sighed, tilting your head up, your fingers sliding into his braids, tugging him closer. Neteyam’s restraint snapped. He kissed you—slow and deep—his lips pressing against yours with the kind of longing that had built over days apart.

You melted into him immediately, your body shifting forward, hands gripping his shoulders, pulling yourself closer. Neteyam groaned, his other hand finding your waist, his fingers splaying over the soft curve of your hip.

The kiss was warm and unhurried, but it was filled with all the words you hadn’t spoken. He poured everything into it—how much he wanted you, how much he needed you.

And you gave it all back. Your breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to taste you more fully, to savor the way you clung to him like he was something you couldn’t bear to let go of.

His chest rumbled with a low, satisfied sound as he pulled back just enough to press another lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another along your jaw.

You were breathless, your forehead resting against his as you smiled. “Damn,” you whispered. “You always kiss me like you’re never going to see me again.”

Neteyam’s throat tightened, his grip on your waist subconsciously tightening. Because the truth was… that fear was always there. He let out a quiet breath, pressing one last kiss to your lips before murmuring— “That’s because I never know how much time we have.”

Your eyes flickered with something unreadable. But you didn’t argue.

You just kissed him again.

You moved around the small room with practiced ease, pulling extra blankets and pillows from a storage crate, arranging them on the floor without hesitation. Neteyam watched you, his golden eyes tracing the way you worked—quick, efficient, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t even ask if he wanted to sleep here. You just knew. Like always.

The floor was littered with spare blankets, pillows, and a couple of folded sheets you had tugged from your storage bins without a second thought—just like last time.

The moment you had seen him duck into your room, towering over you in the soft glow of your holoscreen, you’d lit up. And without needing to say anything, you had dropped to the floor and started making the bed. It was a quiet, practiced routine now—one born out of familiarity and stolen nights together.

Neteyam didn’t say a word. He just watched you with that half-smile, that softened look he reserved only for you.

Later, the only sounds were your mingled breaths, the gentle hum of the outpost’s low-power systems, and the distant jungle outside. The two of you lay side by side, bare skin tangled together in the soft nest you’d built. Your head rested against his chest, arm draped over his ribs, your legs tangled beneath the blankets.

His fingers traced lazy circles across your back—absent, distracted.

You shifted, propping your chin on his chest, your still-damp hair spilling over his collarbone as you looked at him with that playful, knowing expression.

Your voice came soft, teasing. “What is it?”

He blinked. “Hm?”

“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured, your finger lightly trailing along the stripes painted across his chest. “Where you stare at the ceiling like it’s gonna give you answers to the universe.”

His lips quirked.

You tilted your head, studying him more closely. “You look all lost in your thoughts.” Then, quieter—hesitant, your voice turning sheepish as your eyes flicked away. “You’re quiet.”

He blinked, glancing down at you. Your face was flushed, lips still kiss-bitten, your bare shoulders dotted with the fading evidence of his mouth. He could see the way you bit your bottom lip like you weren’t sure if you wanted to say what came next, but then—

“…Was I not good?”

His ears twitched. His brows furrowed. And then he looked at you like you had just grown a second head.  “What?”

You immediately looked away, trying—and failing—not to flush deeper. “You’ve just been lying here staring at the ceiling like you’re about to enter your ‘suffering warrior’ era, and I thought maybe—”

“Kehe,” he said sharply, cutting you off. “No. Don’t say that.”

His voice was low, a soft reprimand—but the kind that curled around your ribs and made you feel warm.

You blinked. “I was just kidding—”

Neteyam exhaled, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “No, you weren’t.”

He rolled onto his side, turning to face you fully. “You think I would be quiet because you weren’t good?” His eyes scanned you slowly, purposefully. “You think I would be silent because you, the only person who makes me feel like I can actually breathe, weren’t enough?”

You bit your lip. Your blush was impossible to miss now.

Neteyam’s hand cupped your jaw, firm and steady. “You are everything.”

Your breath caught.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, brushing his forehead against yours. “And tonight, like every other time, you were perfect. So perfect it makes me ache.”

Your cheeks bloomed crimson, and you buried your face into his chest to escape the look in his eyes. He chuckled softly, running his fingers through your damp hair. “There you are.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, lips parting slightly—and Eywa, how he loved watching you bloom like that, all soft surprise and bashful joy, like you didn’t know the effect you had on him. Your voice was quiet. “That was really sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he replied. “It’s just the truth.”

You smiled at him, and Neteyam leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. Your fingers curled against his chest again, but the tension was gone now—melted under the weight of his honesty.

For a while, you just lay there. Breathing together. But the peace didn’t last forever. Not tonight. You lifted your head again, brows furrowed.  “…But something is bothering you.”

He was quiet for a long moment. He didn’t answer right away. But then, he let out a breath and murmured, “The elders cornered me again today.”

Your body went very still.

“They… they called three of them this time,” he continued, voice neutral but bitter around the edges. “Three women. All lined up like they were part of some… ceremony. Like they thought I was just going to look at them and suddenly forget everything I want.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your entire body tensed against him.

“I was supposed to pick one.”

Silence stretched between you. You didn’t say anything at first. Just lay there, still and stiff in his arms, your breath coming a little quicker than before.

Neteyam looked down, watching the way your eyes had dulled slightly, the corners of your mouth pulling tight. “…Hey.” He ran a thumb gently over your lower back. “Look at me.”

You didn’t. But your voice came small and broken. His arm tightened around you, but your muscles stayed taut. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “That you have to keep doing this. Sneaking around. Because of me.”

“Don’t—”

You shook your head, eyes shining as you kept talking, even if your voice wavered. “If I weren’t human, if things were different—if I was Na’vi—they wouldn’t ask you to do this. And you wouldn’t have to choose between what they want and what you want. I wouldn’t be…” Your words caught in your throat. You looked down. “If you ever get tired of it,” you said softly. “Of the hiding. The lying. Of me… I’ll understand.”

Neteyam sat up in a fluid motion, pulling you with him, his large hands cradling your waist as he looked down at you with something fierce in his gaze. “I will never be tired of you,” he said, voice low but unyielding. “Never.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Neteyam’s hands slid to your cheeks, holding you still, making you look at him. “I would rather lie every day for the rest of my life,” he whispered, “than ever lie to myself about you.”

You stared at him. Wide-eyed. Stunned.

“And you—” he leaned in, brushing his nose gently against yours, “you are not something I carry in secret out of shame.” He kissed you once. Tender. Steady. He didn’t pull back far. Just far enough to whisper, voice full of quiet truth— “You are my mate.”

You froze. Your breath caught. And finally, your gaze snapped up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. Neteyam held you there, steady and certain, golden eyes locked onto yours.

“I chose you,” he said, softer now. “Long ago.”

You swallowed, lips parting. “Neteyam…”

“I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what the clan wants. Or what my father expects. I don’t care that you’re human.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “You are mine,” he whispered. “And I am yours.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but your smile—gods, your smile—was like starlight. Warm. Soft. Terrifyingly beautiful. “Okay,” you whispered back, voice trembling.

Neteyam closed his eyes, pulling you against his chest once more as the tension in his body finally started to unravel.

You were warm and tangled together, limbs loose under the patchwork of blankets. The quiet hum of the outpost filtered softly through the room—the low thrum of machinery, distant footsteps of late-night technicians, the soft chirp of life outside the walls.

Neteyam’s breathing had slowed, deep and steady beneath your cheek. His arm was draped protectively over your back, his hand idly resting against the dip of your spine. Your fingers traced slow circles against his chest, and your eyes were just starting to drift shut, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Until you spoke—softly, barely louder than a breath.

“Honestly… Jake could be scary,” you whispered with a small, mischievous giggle. “But he’s not the one I’m afraid of.”

Neteyam cracked one eye open, peeking down at you. “No?”

You tilted your head, grinning sleepily. “Nope. I’d bet anything your Mother would want to skin me alive if she ever found out.” Your voice was teasing, but there was a flicker of nervous truth in your eyes. “I mean, can you imagine? Me?” You snorted. “Some disgusting little pest under Eywa’s eye, trying to corrupt her perfect, golden firstborn son.”

Neteyam huffed a laugh, his fingers gently sliding up your back to comb through your hair. “You’re not a pest.”

You raised a brow. “You sure about that? I’ve seen the way she looks at me when I’m in the village.” You put on a mock-impression of Neytiri’s stern expression, voice deep and unimpressed. “‘Why is the tawtute always near my son?’”

Neteyam chuckled again, nose brushing the crown of your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m realistic,” you shot back, but your smile was fond, if a little nervous. “She’d never forgive me.”

He didn’t argue. He knew his mother’s views were harsh, especially when it came to the Sky People. She had softened toward a few of them—Norm, Max, a few other scientists… But this?

This would push the limits of that tolerance. Still, he didn’t let it show. He hummed in thought. “She’s… protective.”

“That’s one word for it,” you muttered.

Neteyam was quiet for a moment, his hand trailing up your back and then resting just between your shoulder blades. “But… not everyone wants to chase you away,” he murmured.

You blinked and looked up at him, your cheek still resting against his chest. “What do you mean?”

He shifted slightly, leaning up just enough to meet your eyes. “Grandmother.” His voice was soft. “She wants to teach you.”

Your brow furrowed. “Mo’at?”

Neteyam nodded. “She knows about us.”

That made you sit up slightly, startled. “Wait—what?”

“She figured it out weeks ago,” he said simply, brushing a stray lock of hair off your face. “I didn’t have to say much. She knew. And… she wants to help.”

You stared at him like he’d just told you the sky had turned purple. “Mo’at… wants to help us?”

He smiled faintly. “Surprised me, too.”

You were still processing, eyes wide. “And how exactly does she plan to help us? Offer me a head start before Neytiri hunts me down?”

Neteyam snorted. “No. She said… you’ve always wanted to learn from the Omatikaya. From her.”

“I—” you paused, then nodded slowly. “I mean… yeah. I’ve been obsessed with Na’vi healing since forever.”

“She thinks that’s the answer,” he said. “If you’re her apprentice—or… in training, or whatever you call it—it gives you a reason to be in the village. Regularly. No more sneaking.”

You blinked. And then, your expression cracked into a slow, delighted smile. “Wait… really?”

“If that’s something you want,” he added carefully. “Only if you want it.”

There was no hesitation. You nodded eagerly, your eyes shining. “Yes. Eywa, yes. If it means I can stay with you more—be closer to you—yes.”

Neteyam exhaled softly, a rush of warmth tightening in his chest.

“But,” you added after a beat, your tone a little sheepish now, “I can’t be there all the time. As much as I want to, I’ve still got a job here. If I suddenly go full Na’vi and start skipping my xenobotany shifts, Norm will kick my ass.”

Neteyam was quiet, his breath slow and even beneath your ear, just as you started lazily tracing the soft, glowing stripe that ran down the center of his chest. Your fingers followed it like it was a path made for you and you alone—like his body had been carved by Eywa.

The room was dim, bathed in a soft glow from your holoscreen still humming faintly on the wall, casting flickering light over tangled blankets and bare skin. He felt your lips curve against his skin even before you spoke. “At least if I’m in the village,” you murmured slyly, voice light, “I’ll get to watch the other women try so hard to get my man’s attention.”

Neteyam blinked, caught off guard by how casually you said it—like it was just a simple truth of life. His golden eyes cut down to look at you, still perched on his chest, now drawing invisible shapes across his skin with all the smug confidence of someone who had just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

You didn’t even pause, trailing your fingers lower, brushing along the dip beneath his collarbone. “I bet they’re going to try so hard,” you continued, voice full of fake pity, “like, really put in the effort to win the affection of the next Olo’eyktan.” You glanced up at him, eyebrows raised, “And the whole time, they won’t even realize they’ve already lost.”

Neteyam just stared at you. Completely silent. Expression unreadable.

Your smug grin only grew wider. “What? Don’t give me that look. You know I’m right.”

He blinked again, and then the corner of his mouth twitched. Slowly, his face broke into a grin—eyes shining with pure amusement. “Eywa,” he muttered, reaching up to brush his thumb across your cheek. “You are so—”

“Correct?” you supplied helpfully.

“I was going to say ridiculous,” he said, voice warm and fond.

You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse you. I’m confident. There's a difference.”

Neteyam let out a quiet chuckle, the sound deep in his chest, and you smirked as if you’d just scored another point. He watched you settle in again like you belonged there—which you did—your chin perched on his chest, arms curled up around his sides like he was your favorite pillow.

And maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you didn’t realize that when you said my man, something in his chest tightened. That when you smiled at him like that, so smug, so proud—he didn’t see arrogance.

He saw devotion. A wild, quiet kind of love that you barely even had to say out loud, because he felt it in every word, every little brush of your fingers.

Neteyam’s gaze softened, his large hand coming up to cradle the back of your head gently, like you were something delicate—even though he knew you were stronger than you thought. His fingers sifted through your still-damp hair, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, and he exhaled slowly, content.

Eywa had given him many things.

But you?

You were his greatest gift. His anchor. His calm. His maddening, brilliant, beautiful little human who didn’t seem to realize you had become his entire world.

And the most dangerous part?

You still looked at him like he was the one worth chasing.

Neteyam leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there for a long, silent beat. Your fingers stilled on his chest, and you let out a soft hum, eyes closing briefly.

“I see you,” he murmured, so low it was almost a breath, like the words were sacred.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinking up at him. You were chaos and comfort, firelight and soft moss beneath his hands. And Eywa, how he loved you.

“You know,” he said quietly, brushing a hand along the curve of your spine, “I don’t even look at them.”

You glanced up, eyes warm. “Not even a peek?”

Neteyam leaned in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “No one’s ever made me look away from you.”

Your breath caught for half a second, but you masked it with another smirk. “Good,” you whispered. Then you flicked your eyes up at him, all faux innocence, your chin propped on his chest. “What?”

“You…” Neteyam’s voice came out in a quiet breath, half laughter, half disbelief. “You are evil.”

You beamed. “Thank you.”

He reached up, cupped your face with one large hand, and just stared at you—like you had personally knocked the air from his lungs. Here you were. His tiny, fearless human, lying in his arms completely naked, grinning like you were the goddess of smug victory, talking about him like he wasn’t right there beneath you.

Talking about him like he belonged to you. And he did.

You had no idea just how completely, utterly his heart had folded itself around you. How, without even trying, you had wrapped him around your tiny, delicate fingers and then held him there like it was nothing.

And Eywa, did he love it.

The way you puffed up like a little viperwolf, all possessive and proud—like you could take on the entire clan for the right to stay at his side. You didn’t even realize that to him, you already were everything.

His whole world. His only peace. The gift that Eywa had carved from the stars and placed directly in his path when he didn’t even know he was looking. Neteyam laughed under his breath, shaking his head in awe. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “it’s a little terrifying how smug you are.”

You grinned wider, not the least bit apologetic. “I’m just saying, I am the dark horse in this weird little mating game, and I already won.”

His hand slid behind your neck, pulling you down so he could press a kiss to your lips, slow and deep. When he pulled back, his golden eyes were soft, full of something deeper, something raw and worshipful.

“You didn’t win, syulang.” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “You never had to race.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity.

Neteyam smiled, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “You were always the answer.”

You blinked faster, lashes fluttering, your smugness suddenly cracking at the edges. “…Okay,” you whispered, dazed. “That was… unfairly romantic.”

He chuckled, pulling you tighter against his chest as you buried your face into the curve of his shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed. He let you hide there, let you melt against him like you always did.

And as his arms wrapped fully around you, Neteyam thought—not for the first time—that no title, no duty, no burden could ever come close to the way he loved you. No matter what the clan expected of him. You were his.

And he would be yours, in every life Eywa allowed him.

The hunting party had returned just before eclipse. Their kills were modest, but clean—four yeriks, three syils, a teylu nest, and a cluster of ripe seedfruit found along the river path. It should have been an easy run.

Should have.

Neteyam’s left bicep burned, the gash already crusted with dried blood and mud from the shallow stream he’d fallen into. It wasn’t deep—no torn muscle, no puncture—but it was messy. Ugly. The sort of thing that could fester fast if left unchecked.

The jungle air was thick with humidity, the scent of rain still lingering after the morning storm. Neteyam ducked into the Tsahik’s tent with a low grunt, blood trailing lazily from a long gash across his bicep. The wound wasn’t deep, but it stung like fire every time he moved.

He winced as the flap closed behind him, brushing damp hair from his brow with his uninjured hand. “Grandmother—”

His voice faltered.

You were there.

Kneeling beside Mo’at, your exo-mask fogged slightly from the humidity, a small woven pouch of dried herbs in your lap. Your hands froze mid-motion, and your eyes widened the moment they landed on him.

Neteyam blinked, caught somewhere between surprise and awe. “You’re here.”

You swallowed. “You’re hurt.”

Mo’at didn’t even glance up from the bundle of leaves she was preparing. “He’ll live. It is not deep.”

Neteyam huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer, his golden eyes never leaving yours. “Could have fooled me. Feels like a viperwolf tried to take my arm.”

Mo’at raised an unimpressed brow. “Because you threw yourself into its path like a fool.”

“I had to pull Ateyo out,” he muttered. “He froze. He would’ve been mauled.”

“You could have done that without getting yourself sliced.”

“Maybe.”

Mo’at clicked her tongue and gestured toward the center of the tent, where a woven mat was laid out. “Sit. And take that nonsense bravado with you.”

Neteyam chuckled under his breath, easing down onto the mat, gritting his teeth when his arm brushed his side. You were still frozen, eyes flicking between him and the salve Mo’at had been preparing. You hadn’t expected him—no warning, no time to prepare, and Eywa, why did it have to be him of all people when you were finally allowed to start learning how to help?

You turned toward Mo’at, who remained calm, composed, as always. Her voice didn’t waver as she handed you the bowl of thick yellow paste. “Use what I taught you today. Clean it. Apply the salve.”

You blinked at her, stunned. “I—I can’t. I haven’t—I'm not—he's—”

“Wounded,” Mo’at cut in, gaze steady. “And in need of healing. You know what to do.”

Your breath hitched. “But I haven’t done it myself. What if I get it wrong? I’ve only watched you do it once. I—I’m not ready. I can’t—” Your eyes shot to Neteyam, who was sitting so casually, so confidently, watching you with quiet amusement despite the blood still dripping down his arm.

Mo’at turned to him, her tone dry. “Does this one complain this much in your bed as well?”

Your eyes exploded wide. “Mo’at!”

Neteyam choked on a laugh, ears twitching as he bit back a grin. “Only sometimes.”

Mo’at didn’t smirk, but the corner of her mouth definitely twitched. “Then she is capable of handling discomfort. Good. She will need that.”

You were too flustered to speak, your fingers tightening around the bowl in your hands as your mask hissed softly with your shallow breaths.

Neteyam tilted his head toward you, eyes warm, voice low. “Hey. Come here.”

You hesitated.

“I trust you,” he said softly.

You blinked.

“I trust you more than anyone.” His voice held no hesitation. “You’ve got this.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you stood, crossing the tent with careful steps, kneeling beside him. Your eyes flicked down to the cut—it was ugly. Angry red, a jagged slash across his bicep, already swelling at the edges. You reached for a clean cloth, dipping it into the water basin beside you.

Neteyam watched as you started to clean the wound, your hands shaking ever so slightly as the cloth pressed against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I might hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he said gently. “You never could.”

You bit your lip and kept going, your brows furrowed in intense concentration. Neteyam stayed perfectly still, golden eyes watching you like you were the only thing in the room.

“You’re doing well,” Mo’at said from behind you, tone calm. “You listened. You remembered.”

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally relaxing a little. You reached for the salve, scooping a bit of the cool paste with your fingers. You hesitated—then, carefully, you smoothed it across the wound.

Neteyam hissed once through his teeth—but said nothing else. His jaw stayed tight, but his gaze never wavered from you.

You finished the application with slow precision, spreading the salve evenly, wiping your fingers with the cloth before glancing up. “Done,” you whispered, barely able to believe it.

Mo’at nodded. “It will sting for a while. That means it is working. The poultice is strong.”

You looked at Neteyam, still uncertain. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” he said, smiling. “But it’s better now.”

You blinked at him. “You're just saying that.”

“No,” he murmured. “You helped. And you did it right. I told you.”

You looked down at your hands, still faintly green-stained from the salve, and something in your chest fluttered—uncertain and proud, nervous and warmed. “You’ll be a good healer,” Mo’at said, her voice quiet but firm. “You learn with your heart. That is the first lesson. The rest will follow.”

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat, and Neteyam reached out—his large hand closing over yours, grounding you. You didn’t look at Mo’at, but you nodded once. A quiet promise.

Neteyam gave your fingers a soft squeeze. And for the first time, you believed it, too.

The soft glow of bioluminescent fungus lit the edges of the woven tent, casting gentle shadows over the space as night settled fully over the forest. The buzz of the village had died down after the evening meal—voices had quieted, laughter dimmed, fires low. It was a time of rest, of quiet.

Neteyam stepped through the flap with practiced ease, his long silhouette framed briefly by the night beyond. And there you were—exactly where he knew you’d be.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor and your datapad balanced on your lap, fingers tapping away with quiet focus. Your hair was tied back messily, a smear of dried salve still faintly visible on your wrist from earlier that day. You were muttering softly to yourself as you typed—something about alkaloids, solvent extraction, ratios of paste-to-pulp consistency.

Neteyam’s lips curved into a slow smile.

“You’re late,” you murmured, smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

Neteyam let out a soft, amused breath. “I brought you the last of the sweetroot from dinner. You’re welcome.”

That made you glance up, grin widening behind your mask. “You know your way to a girl’s heart.”

Neteyam crouched beside you, setting the little leaf-wrapped bundle at your side before lowering himself fully onto the floor. His eyes flicked to your datapad, where a sketched drawing of a jungle root was labeled in three languages.

“You always do that,” he murmured, stepping closer.

You looked up, blinking in surprise. Then you smiled, warmth blooming behind your mask. “Do what?”

His golden eyes glinting in the low light. “Write everything down the second you learn it. Even before it’s over.”

You lifted your datapad a little, gesturing at it like it explained everything. “If I don’t, I’ll forget the phrasing. And sometimes Mo’at says things and I don’t know what they mean until later—but if I don’t write it down right then, I can’t ask the right questions next time. Mo’at showed me the base tonight—how it reacts to heat. I think it might be a form of thermogenic compound? It’s… it’s fascinating.”

Neteyam rested his elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his hand as he watched you. “You get that look in your eyes when you talk about this.”

You blinked. “What look?”

“Like you’ve fallen in love with the plants instead of me.”

You snorted. “Well, the plants don’t make me risk suffocating every time I kiss them.”

Neteyam’s grin widened. “Mmm. But do they make you tremble like I do?”

“Neteyam,” you warned with a blush.

He just laughed, soft and warm. Neteyam tilted his head slightly, watching you. “You always talk like you have to prove something.”

Your fingers paused mid-tap. You swallowed once, then shrugged. “Maybe I do.”

He didn’t argue. Just quietly reached forward and gently plucked the datapad from your lap, setting it carefully aside.

You blinked. “Hey—”

“You can study tomorrow, syulang,” he murmured. “It’s time to rest.”

You gave a soft huff, but your body already leaned into him without thinking. “You sound like Mo’at now.”

He chuckled. “She’s not wrong.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his—and the warmth faded just slightly. Like a quiet thought had passed behind them. He saw it.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low.

You hesitated. “Just to know I have to leave in the morning.”

Neteyam blinked. “Leave?”

You nodded, your fingers brushing his where they rested beside you on the floor. “The outpost got a transmission. From Bridgehead.”

His entire posture changed—subtle, but clear. More alert. More guarded. “What kind of transmission?” he asked carefully.

“Nothing bad,” you said quickly, soothing. “Just orders. A directive. We’re being sent to check on the last abandoned mining site. The one near Hell’s Gate.”

Neteyam’s brow furrowed. “That far?”

You nodded. “It’s mostly to monitor fauna recovery. Study how the forest is reclaiming the damage. Norm’s team has been petitioning for months to get clearance. Bridgehead finally approved it.”

His jaw ticked slightly. “You’ll be near the old RDA operations. The dead zones.”

“I know.”

His golden eyes searched your face, and you felt the air shift—he didn’t like it. Didn’t like that you were going somewhere that even the Na’vi still spoke of with quiet disgust. You tried to soften your voice. “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be with Norm and Max, and a few assistants. We’ll be cautious.”

He didn’t speak right away.

You reached for his hand. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will,” he said finally, voice quieter than before. “But I still don’t like it.”

You smiled gently. “You don’t like anything that keeps me away from you.”

He muttered. “You’re learning.”

You laughed, low and soft. Then you leaned in, brushing your mask against his cheek in that way you always did when you wanted to kiss him but couldn’t. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” you whispered. “And I’ll be annoying again. I’ll make you let me practice wrapping splints and mixing salve.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not annoying.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No.” His voice was steady. “You are the only part of my day that feels like mine.”

Your breath caught.

Before you could respond, Neteyam stood, offering you his hand. “Come,” he said, a glint in his eye. “You’re not sleeping at the outpost tonight.”

You blinked. “I’m not?”

He leaned down, voice lower now, a soft rumble that curled against your ribs. “No. You’re mine tonight. You leave tomorrow—so you sleep where you belong.”

In his kelku. In his arms. In the quiet place only the two of you had carved out together. You swallowed thickly, your fingers sliding into his palm, letting him pull you up to your feet.

“I always belong with you,” you whispered.

And Neteyam didn’t say it back. He didn’t need to. He just held your hand a little tighter and led you into the forest, back to the only place he called home.

The heat between you was thick, heady, the kind that curled around your spine and sank into your skin like honey. Your thighs trembled where they framed his hips, your body aching, burning with the effort of taking all of him — and still, you wanted more.

You were above him, and Eywa, how he loved the sight of you like this — flushed, breathless, your lips parted as you panted softly through your mask. You were already stretched to your limit, your tight walls wrapping around him with every slow, needy roll of your hips.

You whimpered as you sank down again, your fingers digging into his chest, trembling from the effort, nails leaving faint little crescents in his skin, from the ache, from the desperation curling deep in your belly. You gasped as you bottomed out once more, your body clenching around him, chasing something more — even when you were already full to bursting.

“Kì'ong nekll, ma’yawne,” [Slow down.] Neteyam breathed, voice low, thick with awe. His hands gripped your waist, steadying you as you tried to push harder. “You’re going to break yourself.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — more whimper than word — and he felt it, the way you fluttered around him, how your body responded just from the sound of his voice.

Eywa.

You were soaked, stretched, taking every inch of him despite the way you trembled. Your brows were furrowed, lips slick from where you’d bitten them raw, your voice broken and needy—

“Neteyam, please—”

It was the sound of it—like a prayer, like a plea—that undid him.

He groaned, eyes slowly shut for a beat before they snapped open again, locking on you.

And Eywa.

You looked so pretty like this.

Hair damp and sticking to your temple. Eyes glassy behind your mask. Your lips parted around a mewl as you bounced, your body pushing past its own limits to take him deeper, harder, faster—even when he filled you to your very edge. Neteyam growled softly beneath you, one big hand tightening at your hip, the other sliding up to press flat over your lower belly—feeling how deep he was inside you.

“Easy,” he hushed, voice low and thick. He growled low in his throat, hands slide to gripping your waist to still you—just for a second—as he sat up beneath you.

You gasped, your hands flying up to steady yourself, wrapping around his neck instinctively as he pulled you flush to his chest, caging you in his lap. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, kissing just under your jaw before trailing lower, teeth grazing over your pulse.

You were being so loud—soft cries, broken whines, panting breaths against the humid air. His ears twitched, eyes flicking toward the flap of the kelku, ever-aware of the village just beyond the trees.

“Shh,” he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other curling behind your neck. “The whole clan doesn’t need to hear how sweet you sound.”

His mouth found your neck—hot kisses pressed to the racing pulse there, tongue tasting the salt of your skin as he breathed you in. Scented you like you were already his mate, his mouth moving over your throat, jaw, shoulder—leaving invisible marks of ownership in every pass of his lips.

You gasped, hips stuttering as he kissed the spot just below your ear—the one that always made you melt.

“Nga kalin, txanew hì'i 'u…” [You sweet, greedy little thing.] he whispered, and you gasped.

Your whole body shuddered at his words, your movements turning frantic now, desperate for more. For everything. And he let you have it. Let you ride that wave as he tilted his head to bite lightly at your neck—just enough to make your breath catch.

His voice was ragged, full of heat and love and awe. “You’re doing so well,” he groaned.

You cried out, your walls clenching down so hard he hissed through his teeth.

“Eywa, you’re close,” he breathed. “You’ve been so good — let me feel it.”

You shattered.

Your body clenched, trembling violently as the climax ripped through you—waves of heat and pleasure crashing over your skin, your voice muffled in his neck as your nails scraped down his back. You rode it out in his lap, your body moving on instinct, chasing every last flicker of sensation.

And Neteyam couldn’t hold back anymore.

With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside you, his arms locking around your waist, his mouth on your shoulder, fangs grazing but never biting. His whole body tensed beneath you, holding you tight as his hips jerked once, twice—and then stilled.

The only sound was your shared breathing.

Ragged. Slow.

You slumped against him with a breathless giggle, your arms wrapping lazily around his neck as you tried to catch your breath. Your body was still twitching slightly, nerves alight, but the smile on your face was soft and glowing.

You looked… blissed out. Completely wrecked. Sweetly high on pleasure, cheeks flushed and hair damp where it stuck to your temples. You met his gaze, wide-eyed and breathless, and grinned. “I think…” you whispered, voice still shaky and slurred with heat, “I think I saw Eywa.”

He huffed a laugh, chest shaking beneath you. “Did she say anything?”

You grinned, nuzzling closer, soft and breathless.

“She said I should do that again.”

Neteyam groaned, resting his forehead against your mask, his hands still gripping your hips like he never planned to let go. “Evil little thing,” he whispered.

“I feel like honey,” you murmured, humming softly. “Everything’s warm.”

He chuckled—quiet and full of awe—and kissed your temple. And even though your body was still trembling from aftershocks, you grinned up at him like the stars themselves had kissed your skin.

And as you curled into his chest, still smiling, still giggling softly in the afterglow, Neteyam held you like you were his whole world.

Because you were.

The quiet between you had settled like mist—warm, still, sacred.

Your bare legs were tangled across his lap, your chest pressed to his as you both came down slowly from the high. His breathing had begun to steady, a low hum in his chest beneath your ear. You hadn’t moved—not really. You didn’t want to. Not when your skin still buzzed with aftershocks, not when you could still feel his heartbeat echoing against your own.

Neteyam’s head rested back against the woven wall of the kelku, eyes half-lidded, his expression soft in a way he only ever gave to you. His tails slowly swaying side to side on the kelku’s floor. He looked calm. Unguarded.

And so heartbreakingly beautiful.

You didn’t realize you were staring at first. Your fingers moved on instinct—delicate and reverent—as you lifted one hand to gently brush his hairline, fingertips barely ghosting over his skin. Your thumb found the first stripe above his brow, that soft curve of dark blue that branched like a river over his forehead.

He blinked, eyes flicking open just enough to meet yours. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You traced the stripe slowly, following its arc across his temple, then down to the bridge of his nose. Your touch was feather-light, like you were afraid to disturb something sacred.

“You always look at me like I’m something more,” you whispered.

His brows pulled together slightly, confused.

But you smiled, and your touch never faltered as you caressed the other line that curved down the edge of his jaw, then brushed over his cheekbone. You were studying him—memorizing him. Like he was a story you never wanted to forget. “Like I’m something rare. Something important.”

Neteyam’s throat worked, but he still said nothing.

Your smile turned softer. Sadder. More full. “But have you ever seen yourself?”

His lips parted. You shifted, curling in closer, your fingers sliding down to rest just above his chest where his heart still beat, steady and strong. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whispered. “In every way.”

His hand moved to cover yours, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles. But you kept speaking—quietly, with something like awe.

“Not just your face. Not just your body.” Your voice was barely breath now. “But your heart. Your soul. The way you fight for everyone, even when it tears you apart. The way you carry the weight of the world and still make room for me.”

His eyes shimmered faintly in the dim light.

And then you said it.

Soft. Sacred.

“I see you.”

The words came like a breath between heartbeats. But they struck something deep—something rooted in spirit, not flesh.

Neteyam froze.

His fingers stilled over yours. His eyes widened just slightly, and for the first time since he was a boy, the world seemed to stop moving around him.

Because you’d said it before—kaltxì, oel ngati kameie, the way the Na’vi did to greet strangers. To show respect.

But never like this. Not in the way that meant I see all of you. Who you are. Who you choose to be. And I love it.

Your thumb brushed beneath his eye. “I see you,” you whispered again. “All of you. And I’ve never loved anything more.”

Neteyam leaned forward slowly, forehead pressing to the glass of your mask, his breath trembling. His hands cupped your face with a gentleness that stole your breath, his eyes locked to yours like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear those words from your lips.

And maybe he had.

You felt him exhale shakily against your skin. His hands trembled just slightly—so strong, but so vulnerable in that moment. “I see you,” he whispered back, his voice cracked and raw.

The fire crackled low in the center of the kelku, its soft amber glow casting shadows across the curved walls of woven reeds and bark. The night outside whispered in hushed tones—leaves rustling in the canopy, distant birds calling out to no one.

You were asleep.

Curled under the furs where he had left you, your breath even and slow, your hand still resting where it had fallen from his chest, fingers curled loosely as if still reaching for him. Your face was peaceful, the lines of tension smoothed away, your mask humming gently with its quiet pulse of oxygen.

Neteyam stood for a long moment, just watching you.

Then he turned, padded silently across the floor, and knelt at the fire pit. He picked up one of the thick logs from the stack near the wall and placed it gently onto the glowing embers. Sparks danced up, licking at the wood, catching quickly. The fire grew brighter, casting warm light over his face, over the hard line of his jaw and the quiet shadow in his eyes.

He sat back on his heels, hands resting loosely over his thighs, and stared into the flames. His mind wandered, unbidden.

Always the first. The first child. The first to walk. The first to hunt. The first to bleed.

Born with duty written into his bones before he could speak. Before he could even understand what it meant.

He had been the oldest, and that had never been a title—it had been an expectation.

He remembered being a boy, barely taller than his father’s thigh, holding Kiri’s hand in the dark when she cried at night, whispering stories to her to make her feel safe. He remembered covering for Lo’ak when he broke something—or said something—when he acted out in frustration, and their parents’ patience ran thin.

Neteyam had always stepped in.

Because someone had to. Because Jake would look at him with that look, the one that said, handle it. Fix it. Keep things from falling apart.

He remembered the first time he’d taken a blame that wasn’t his. He had only been nine. He had stood there with his jaw tight and his head held high while Jake yelled—not at Lo’ak, but at him. Because it was his job to keep his brother in line.

Not because it was right. Not because it helped. Because it was expected.

The firstborn of the Olo’eyktan. Lead by example.  Be strong.  Do what is needed, not what is easy. He had tried. He still tried.

But the older he grew, the heavier it became. The weight of it didn’t rest—it shifted. Grew. Like vines wrapping tighter around his chest with each passing season.

At first it was his siblings. Then it was the training. The war games. The expectations.

And now…

Now it was the clan. The future. The legacy. Mating, ruling, choosing.

But no one had asked what he wanted. Not really. They saw his shoulders and thought, strong enough to carry it all. They saw his silence and thought, he must agree. They saw his father in his face and thought, he will follow in his footsteps.

But sometimes—sitting like this, in the silence of his own home—Neteyam wondered if they truly saw him at all. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, golden eyes reflecting the firelight. “I’m tired,” he whispered to no one. And in the stillness, only the fire answered.

The fire popped softly, casting ribbons of orange and gold that danced across the woven walls. The warmth seeped into his skin, but it didn’t reach the weight in his chest. Neteyam’s eyes stayed on the flame, but his thoughts were far away—drifting, quiet, old.

He had never seen himself as rebellious. That was Lo’ak’s title. The loud one. The reckless one. The one always on the edge of another scolding, another lecture, another disappointment. The one who never walked the path the way he was told to.

But Lo’ak… Neteyam understood him.

His little brother’s defiance wasn’t born of disrespect—it was desperation. It was a boy trying to prove that, despite the demon blood in his veins, he was still Na’vi. Still worthy. Still seen. He wanted to be a warrior. A protector. A son his father could be proud of.

Neteyam had seen it in the way Lo’ak squared his shoulders after every mistake. In the way he held his chin high even after he’d been punished, even when his voice shook. Always looking for his place, and never quite finding it.

He understood that it was hard. Because Neteyam had done the opposite.

He had obeyed. He had done everything right. Every time. Never argued. Never questioned. Never wondered.

If his father said jump, he did. If his mother said protect, he would bleed for it. If the clan needed him, he would carry it, even if it broke him in the process.

He had never considered a different path.

Not until you.

You, who had once been just a sky demon to him. Just another outsider, wide-eyed and dangerous, stepping into a world you didn’t understand. You, who should have been part of the threat—should have been cold and calculating and indifferent like so many others.

But you weren’t. You asked questions—not to challenge, not to pry—but to understand. You didn’t just see the forest. You listened to it. You watched him, but not with fear or awe or expectations. You watched like you were trying to piece him together—slowly, gently, with care.

And the first time you asked him—

“Do you ever get tired of being responsible for everyone?”

—he hadn’t known what to say.

No one had ever asked that. No one had ever thought to. Not his father. Not his mother. Not even Kiri, who knew him better than anyone.

But you… You asked soft questions. Like—

“Do you ever wonder what your life could’ve been, if you got to choose?”

And you hadn’t asked it with judgment. You weren’t trying to plant rebellion. You weren’t trying to pull him away from his people, or his duty, or the threads of legacy that bound him so tightly.

You were just trying to see him. Really see him. You had looked at him like he was more than a role to fill. More than a name. More than the sum of someone else’s expectations.

And that had changed something in him. You had asked him things no one else ever did. “What do you want, Neteyam? Not your father. Not the clan. You.”

The first time he heard it, it hurt. Like being cracked open. Because he had never thought he was allowed to want anything.

He had been born into duty. Into obedience. And yet… you made him wonder.

You followed him, three years ago, with your datapad in hand and a thousand questions in your eyes, trailing him through the jungle when he didn’t want you there. You were persistent. Relentless. Never malicious. Just curious.

You had never asked anything of him except that he be honest. You had respected his silence. But you were never afraid to speak.

And he had hated it. The way you didn’t back down. The way you were never afraid to meet his gaze, even when his words were sharp and his patience thin. You didn’t cower. You didn’t stop.

You just… kept looking at him like he was more than a warrior.

And now?

Now, Neteyam was grateful for that.

For you.

The first time he realized it, it terrified him. Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like freedom. Not for him. It was supposed to be chosen for him. Arranged, appointed, assigned—just another duty.

Because you were the first one to see the cracks beneath the surface—and not try to fix them. Not patch them over or tell him to be strong. You just saw. And you stayed. With you, it had been something he wanted.

Something he claimed.

And no one—not the clan, not the elders, not even his father—could take that from him now. You had never begged for his love. Never demanded it. You just looked at him like he was already enough. And for the first time in his life, Neteyam thought— Maybe he was.

Maybe… he could be.

And over the years, somehow, without ever asking for anything in return, you became the only thing in his life that felt light.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, staring deeper into the fire as it popped and shifted.

Others looked at his life and called him lucky. The firstborn of Toruk Makto. The golden heir.

But you—you saw the weight of it. The ache in his shoulders. The silence behind his smile. The way he moved like someone who never had the luxury of stumbling. You saw that he was struggling.

And somehow… despite everything—despite being so different—you understood. You made it worth it. And he knew it was selfish.

Knew it deep in his bones, the way a warrior knows the limits of his bow. He knew he was choosing you even when the world told him he couldn’t.  He chose you anyway. Because over the years, you became his reason. The reason he kept carrying the weight. The reason he endured.

And he couldn’t give that up.

Not even if it cost him everything.

Not even if it made him the rebel he had never allowed himself to be.

He wasn’t a fool.

Neteyam knew that choosing you would never be easy.

Loving you… that was the easy part. That had come quickly, without question—like breathing. Like waking up and finding the forest already alive with sound and light and the thrum of Eywa’s presence. But being with you—keeping you—that was different.

That was war in a thousand small moments. He knew what the world would say. What his clan expected. What the blood in his veins whispered when the elders spoke of legacy and duty and the line he was meant to continue.

And yet…

Here he was.

Alone in the soft glow of his fire, watching it flicker and spit embers into the dark, and thinking of you.

He rubbed a hand over his chest—right over his heart—and closed his eyes. You were human. And he was Na’vi. That truth never left him.

It lived in the quiet way your breath rasped through your mask when you were sleeping. It lived in the shape of your hands, so small compared to his. It lived in the subtle hesitation behind your jokes, the way you sometimes paused—like you were waiting to be told you didn’t belong.

And that truth followed him. Even now.

He had spent the last week preparing for the next hunt, memorizing strategy, planning routes—training with warriors who spoke of strength and bloodlines and the need for a future mate who could bear children, who could lead beside him.

They didn’t say it, but they all looked at him the same way now.

They didn’t know that he was clinging to the only thing that ever felt like his.

Because what he had with you wasn’t easy. And it would never be.

Neteyam opened his eyes again, gaze distant, the fire dancing in his golden irises. He thought of that night. The night he almost lost you.

-

You had fallen asleep beside him like you always did—soft and warm, curled under his arm, your body so small against his side. You had returned late, after another long day shadowing Mo’at, your satchel tossed carelessly to the corner the moment you stepped inside.

And then, hours later—just as the forest had fallen into its deepest silence—

You jolted upright. At first, he thought it was a dream. But the look on your face—

Your mask was fogging fast, your breath shallow and rasping, and your hands were already fumbling at the seal.

“Hey,” he’d said, sitting up, still groggy. “What’s—”

You didn’t answer. You were already moving—crawling across the woven floor, dragging your satchel toward you in a panic. He followed, heart hammering, helpless as you tore through it—your fingers shaking too hard to grip.

Your breathing was worsening. Your shoulders trembled, and your lips were parting in these desperate, silent gasps, as if your lungs couldn’t catch anything at all.

Neteyam couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The old mask hissed as you yanked it free—just as your vision blurred, your knees buckling. You slammed the new one onto your face, hands trembling as you sealed it and sucked in one long, ragged breath.

It filled the air like thunder. And he still hadn’t moved.

Only watched.

Helpless.

Afraid.

-

Now, sitting in front of the fire, Neteyam clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists. He had watched you nearly die in front of him—and there had been nothing he could do.

No fighting. No strength. No amount of warrior’s instinct could save you from a malfunctioning piece of tech. A stupid, fragile mask that stood between life and death every day.

You had recovered quickly—brushed it off with your usual bravado, even made a joke about needing a “cooler-looking death” if you were going to go out in the kelku of the Olo’eyktan’s son.

But Neteyam hadn’t slept that night. Not really.

He had lain awake with you cradled to his chest, listening to every breath. Terrified that if he blinked, you’d go still. That if he closed his eyes, he’d wake to a body instead of a heartbeat. And it wasn’t the first time. He knew how fragile you were.

He’d seen you scrape your knees in the jungle and wince harder than he ever would. Seen you pull back from a branch with a thin cut and apologize for the blood, even as you tried to laugh.

You were strong—stronger than most of the warriors he trained beside. But your body… Your body wasn’t made for his world. And Eywa help him, that truth was carved into him now. Deeper than any scar.

He could make you his in every way that mattered—choose you, claim you, protect you—but he could never have everything. Never all of it. He couldn’t make tsaheylu with you.

He couldn’t feel your soul pressed against his, braided and bound and blessed by the Great Mother. And fuck, did he want to.

Sometimes, when you lay in his arms and whispered soft things against his skin, he’d look at your scalp, at the base of your neck, and ache. Not because he needed to prove anything. Not because he thought you weren’t enough. But because he wanted it.

Wanted you so completely that it felt like a blade to the ribs knowing there would always be a barrier between what he longed for and what he was allowed to have.

He couldn’t mate you before Eywa—not in the sacred way. Not the way his people understood. Not in a way that made the elders nod and his mother finally look at you without suspicion.

He couldn’t have children with you. No heir. No legacy. No bloodline to pass down.

Only this. Only stolen nights, secret lessons, whispered promises behind closed flaps and moonlit touches. Only you.

And still— He wanted it all. Still, he would take this. Even if it broke every rule. Even if it meant giving up the path that had been laid out for him before he ever took his first breath.

Because you were worth it. He could spend his life learning how to be smarter, how to fight harder, how to plan for every threat that might touch you—but the truth would never change: His world was not built for you.

But he would carve you a place in it anyway. Even if it took everything he had. Even if the forest never stopped reminding him how delicate you were. Even if it meant watching you pull oxygen into your lungs like a warrior drawing breath on a battlefield.

He would choose you. And he would keep choosing you.

Again. And again. And again.

Until the day Eywa took him home.

And even then—

He’d still find a way back to you.

Even after that night—especially after that night— you hadn’t wanted to go.

You had insisted you were fine. That the malfunction was rare. That it was just a faulty pressure seal. You’d fixed the issue before he even fully understood what had happened, your hands still shaking as you clipped the emergency mask into place. You’d made light of it the next day.

You hadn’t even hesitated. Not once. You never hesitated when it came to him.

But he had. He was the one who told you to go back to the outpost at the morning.

Not because he wanted you gone—Eywa, never that. The moment he realized just how close he came to losing you. Because it hadn’t been a near-miss. It hadn’t been a scratch, or a scare, or a mistake you could laugh about later.

It was ice-cold fear. The kind that settled into his bones. That clawed at his ribs. That gripped the back of his neck like death breathing down his spine.

You had suffocated in his arms. And the worst part? He hadn’t even noticed at first. You hadn’t made a sound.

One moment you were sleeping—peaceful, warm, curled against his chest like you always did—and the next, you were gone. Sitting up. Pale. Gasping. Fingers clawing at your own mask like it had turned against you.

And he’d just watched you.

Frozen.

That… that’s what scared him most. Because if you hadn’t woken up— If you’d kept sleeping— If your body had just slowly stopped pulling in air while he held you, arms around you, heart so full of love and trust— He wouldn’t have noticed.

Not until morning. Not until your chest was still and cold and the mask stayed silent with nothing behind it.

Neteyam closed his eyes. He could see it. The shape of you still tangled in the furs, face slack, lips parted in sleep. His arms still wrapped around your body, thinking you were resting—when you were already gone.

He could have lost you without ever knowing it. And that... That was a fear he had never known before. Not even in battle. Not when arrows flew and blood spilled. This was different. This was worse. Because you were safe in his arms. You were home. And still, death had almost taken you from him in the dark.

So he’d told you to go.

He made it sound gentle. Soft. Logical. That it would be easier to rest at the outpost, safer while he was away with the hunting party. He’d promised it was temporary. That he just wanted you to be comfortable. That he needed time to prepare the kelku more, now that you were staying longer, staying more often.

But it was a lie. He just couldn’t risk it again. Couldn’t wake to silence and realize the worst thing imaginable had happened right under his hands.

He hated it. He hated that your world needed tech to keep you breathing.

That no matter how strong you were, how clever, how brave—you were still breakable. Still reliant on a machine strapped to your face to keep the most basic part of you alive.

And the truth?

He couldn’t protect you from that. Not with a bow. Not with his strength. Not even with love. And maybe that was the part that gutted him the most. That even after everything he had become—warrior, protector, heir—he still couldn’t guard the person he loved most from the simple cruelty of a failing seal.

So he’d let you go. Not because he wanted to. But because he was terrified that next time, he wouldn’t wake up in time.

And maybe… maybe a little distance, just for a while, would keep you alive. Even if it meant his nights were colder. Even if it meant the fire didn’t burn as bright. Even if it meant missing the sound of your breathing more than he could admit.

Because if something happened to you in his arms again, and he wasn’t fast enough…

Neteyam wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

He still saw it when he closed his eyes. The way your fingers had trembled. The way your face had gone pale, like the color had drained from your very soul. The way you’d gasped—not for breath, but for life.

And still, despite it all—despite the fear that coiled in his chest like smoke—he wanted you back.

Eywa help him, he needed you back.

It had only been three days since you’d returned to the outpost, and already the silence pressed in like a weight. His kelku was colder without you. Emptier. It didn’t matter that he still had the scent of your skin clinging to the furs, or that your little datapad was still tucked into a corner where you’d forgotten it. The walls felt hollow. The sky less bright.

He felt… incomplete. And he hated himself for that. Hated that even knowing the danger—even knowing how easily he could lose you—he still wanted you back in his arms. Back in his home. Back where you were never truly safe.

It was selfish. He knew it. But he couldn’t stop. Because you were his sun.

His light. His warmth. The thing that pulled him forward when the path ahead blurred, when the pressure became too much, when his duty threatened to choke him.

You were joy in a world that asked so much of him. So he did what he could.

He went to Norm. Quietly. No questions, no explanations. Just asked for a few spare exomasks. Said it was for emergencies, just in case.

Norm didn’t press. Just handed over the pack with a knowing look, and Neteyam took it like it was sacred. He stored them in his kelku. Carefully. Hidden, but within reach. One beside the furs. One near the door. One tucked behind the basket where you kept your salve notes. Just in case.

It helped, a little. Made the nights less sharp around the edges.

But he still missed you. And when he saw you again, a few days later—gathering samples with your team just north of the village, crouched over a cluster of yellow-rooted moss with your datapad balanced on your knee—it felt like he could breathe again for the first time since you’d left.

You didn’t see him at first. You were laughing—light and sweet, head tilted back as you teased Max about something. The sound of it cut through the canopy like birdsong. You were sunlit. Alive. Whole.

And he just stood there, watching. Letting the ache ease. Letting the tightness in his chest loosen, even if just for a moment. Then your eyes found him.

And everything shifted. Your smile didn’t falter—not even a little. It bloomed wider. Warmer. Like seeing him was the best thing that had happened all day.

And Eywa, how that undid him. You practically launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his waist your face pressing against his stomach with a soft thud of your mask against his skin. “Neteyam!” you gasped, laughter in your voice. “I didn’t think I’d see you until we were done with the whole ridge!”

He wrapped his arms around you without hesitation, leaning over and burying his face in your hair, his breath catching in his throat. “I had to check,” he murmured, quietly. “Make sure you were okay.”

You tilted your head up, beaming behind the glass of your mask. “I’m great. You won’t believe what I found—look!” You turned without waiting, grabbing the satchel from your hip and pulling out a carefully wrapped sample. “It’s the climbing root I told you about—the one that only blooms once every few cycles. Look—see the way the pollen stains like this?”

You talked fast, gesturing animatedly, your eyes shining. And Neteyam just… listened.

Watched.

Breathed.

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

Because you were talking like always—fast, excited, half to yourself—but your hands were on him, and your eyes were bright, and the tremble in his chest that had haunted him for days finally started to fade.

Neteyam knew he was selfish.

He’d known it from the moment you first touched his hand and didn’t pull away. From the moment he first let your fingers linger too long, from the first time he kissed you, knowing what it meant—what it could cost.

You didn’t belong in the forest. Not truly. Not in the way he did. Out here, everything breathed danger. Everything had sharp teeth, thorns, shadows. And you—gods, you—were soft. Fragile in the ways that made him ache. Breakable.

But still, you came. Not because it was safe. Not because it was easy. You came because you wanted to. And he couldn’t stop you.

You liked to say it in that soft, teasing way of yours—that you were addicted to the forest, to the way the sun dappled through the leaves, to the soft soil under your boots and the sound of insects that only sang at twilight. That you loved being in his kelku, nestled against him after long days, listening to his voice as he murmured stories about the stars or the spirits of the trees.

You lived for those fragments of time.

To brush your fingers against his hand in secret. To kiss him when no one was watching. To sit beside him at the edge of the fire and pretend, even for a heartbeat, that your world and his were the same.

You never asked him for more than that. Never demanded anything he couldn’t give.

You already had your place at the outpost. You were a respected scientist, one of the few humans trusted to work inside Omatikaya territory. You had your own future—clear, structured, safe.

And yet… you still balanced between those two worlds. Somehow, impossibly, you walked both.

By day, you stood beside Norm, recording data, documenting regrowth in places scarred by war. By night, you crawled into his arms and breathed your love into his skin.

Like both lives were yours. Like both homes were real.

And Neteyam… Eywa, he didn’t know what he had done to deserve that.

You were light, and laughter, and stubborn devotion. You were mud on your knees and ink on your hands, bruises on your shins from clumsy climbing and joy in your voice as you pointed out new plants like they were treasures.

You thrived in the forest, more alive out here than anywhere else. You looked at the wild and saw wonder, not fear. And he couldn’t stop wanting you near. Even knowing the danger. Even knowing that the village still wasn’t safe, that his people still didn’t understand.

He should have pushed you away. Should have told you to stay where it was safe. But when he saw you sitting beside Mo’at, eyes wide as you learned the old healing ways… when you looked up at him with your mask fogged and your smile shy and glowing, like he was the reason you wanted to understand Na’vi things at all—

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let go. Because somehow, you had chosen him.

Despite everything. Despite the risks, the divide, the impossibility of it all—you had chosen him. And every single day that you kept choosing him, even for a moment, even in secret…

He would protect you. He would carve out space in this world for you with his bare hands if he had to. He would fight back every whisper, every order, every ancient law that told him you were not his.

Until you told him to stop. Until you stopped choosing him. And Eywa help him… he prayed that day would never come.

Because when you were near—when your laughter echoed through his kelku, when your hands found his in the dark—he didn’t feel like the son of Toruk Makto. Or the future Olo’eyktan. Or the warrior who could never stumble.

He just felt like a man in love.

And for the first time in his life, that felt like enough.

The fire cracked softly as Neteyam exhaled, the sound low and tired through his nose. His shoulders slowly eased as he let the weight of his thoughts fall with the sparks, drifting upward to the woven roof of the kelku like prayers he couldn't quite voice.

His gaze shifted to the edge of the firelight—to the furs. And there you were.

His breath caught. You were curled tightly beneath the pelts, a small shape barely visible in the gentle dark. Your mask hummed faintly in the low light. One of your hands had slipped free of the blankets, twitching every so slightly in your sleep—restless, like you were dreaming.

Neteyam's lips curved into the softest smile.

So small. Sometimes he forgot just how tiny you were next to him. Until he looked at you like this, swallowed up in his bedding, only a tuft of messy hair and the soft hum of your breathing visible above the furs.

His girl.

His weakness.

His fierce, stubborn, brilliant little sky girl who didn't seem to understand the kind of power she had over him. Or maybe you did. Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing every time you leaned into his side and whispered his name like a secret only you were allowed to keep.

He huffed softly, fondness bleeding through his weariness. You were dangerous. Not because you posed any threat to him—no. But because you could get whatever you wanted from him, and you knew it. With one look. One word. One little pout. And he would crumble. Every time.

He could walk into battle with death on his heels and never flinch—but one crook of your finger, one sleepy smile, and he was at your feet. Entirely undone.

And you knew it.

You used that knowledge with terrifying precision—but never cruelly. Never to hurt.

You used it to kiss him when he was trying to be serious. To pull him down into the blankets when he was about to leave for patrol.

To pout and tilt your head and whisper his name in that soft, pleading voice when you wanted him to lift you effortlessly from the ground, wrap his arms around you, press his lips to the crown of your head.

To tug on his arm and ask, quietly, "Will you bring me the red fruit if your patrol takes you near the northern ridge? The one you said tastes like sugarwater?"

He’d roll his eyes—every time—and grumble about long patrols and hard terrain. But if he was near that place again, of course he’d bring it back. And you’d light up like it was a gift from Eywa herself.

Or to climb into his lap like you belonged there. Or to tuck your face into his neck and whisper, “You smell nice,” knowing he’d melt like wax in your hands.

As if he’d ever say no to that. You didn’t ask for much. Just the small things. But to you, they weren’t small.

You cherished every touch. Every moment he was close. Every time he leaned down to brush your hair behind your ear, or picked you up without a word just to hear your delighted little gasp.

He didn’t understand how someone so clever, so capable, could still look at him like he was the miracle. But you did.

A soft sound pulled him from his thoughts.

You stirred.

The shift was small at first. A faint twitch of your hand, a subtle ripple in the furs. Then you sighed softly and blinked your eyes open, the dim glow of the fire dancing across your faceplate as you blinked sleepily into the dark.

Your head turned—and when you found the space beside you empty, your eyes immediately scanned the kelku. It didn’t take long for you to find him.

Crouched near the fire, golden eyes aglow, a soft, tired smile already tugging at the edge of his mouth as he watched you rise on wobbly limbs, still wrapped in a blanket like a sleepy spirit of the woods.

You padded across the floor, quiet as the night breeze, and without a word, you circled behind him and slipped your arms around his shoulders—wrapping yourself around his back and pressing your masked cheek to the warm skin of his neck.

“Why don’t you sleep?” you murmured against his skin, voice still thick with dreams.

Neteyam closed his eyes for a moment, his hands finding yours where they lay over his collarbones. His heart stuttered in his chest. “Couldn’t,” he said softly. “Not while the fire was low.”

You hummed, clearly not buying it.

But you didn’t press. You just held him, body soft against his back, the scent of the forest still clinging to your skin. After a long moment, you leaned in close against the shell of his ear. “Come on,” you whispered. “Come back to bed, mighty warrior. You need your rest.”

His lips curved. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” You leaned in further, voice lower now, full of teasing. “How else will you endure all those women at your feet when I’m not here?”

Neteyam stiffened, but you only giggled, pressing your face to his neck through the mask.

“You know… the elder’s favorites,” you added, feigning innocence. “The ones who suddenly take long walks past your kelku? Or ask to train with you even though they’re already expert warriors?” You squeezed your arms tighter around him.

Neteyam huffed a laugh, finally standing, and you squeaked slightly as he rose—your arms still around his neck, feet leaving the floor as he pulled you up effortlessly clinging on his back. You wrapped your legs around his waist, giggling as he carried you back toward the furs.

“They’ve been relentless,” you teased again. “Kiri said Sa’nari asked if your kelku needed ‘a woman’s touch.’ I don’t know what that means but I don’t like it.”

“She meant cleaning,” he said dryly.

“She meant her,” you muttered.

Neteyam chuckled, low and warm in his chest. “Are you jealous, syulang?”

You grinned against his skin. “I don’t have time to be jealous. I’m too busy being in love with you.”

That made him stop—just for a beat. His palms tightened around your arm, just a little.

“Now come back to bed. Let me have you while I can.”

And that—that—was what undid him. Because you didn’t say before I leave or before I go home.

You said while I can. As if you knew this time—these nights—might not last forever. But still, you wanted them. Still, you wanted him. “You know,” you whispered, as he set you gently back down onto the pelts, “for someone raised to be a leader, you’re very easy to boss around.”

“Only for you,” he murmured.

And then he curled around you beneath the furs, his forehead pressed to your mask, your heartbeat whispering against his chest.

He was your warrior.

And no matter how many women the clan placed at his feet— You were the only one he would ever kneel for.

Soon Neytiri will find out what's happening, and the RDA will fuck everything up. :')

*

I'm going to die in the next two months because I'm taking exams. I'm trying to move on with the next chapter. Wish me luck... :')

Part 22: To lost

[messyhairedhazeleyeddude]

┊┊ཻུ۪۪♡ ͎. Aϝϝliƈƚiσɳ ┊┊ཻུ۪۪

彡 A Yandere!Gojo Satoru x Cursed!Male!Reader | SMUT 彡

＊ Contents ; Obsession, stalking, masturbation, masochism, kind of non-con sleep blowjob, rough sex, murder, handjobs, and worshipping.

＊ Dynamic ; Soft Yandere/Admirer to Lover

＊ Sexual Dynamic ; Sub!Gojo Satoru | Dom!Male!Reader

＊ P.O.V ; Third

＊ Age Range ; 18+ (This is younger Gojo by the way.)

＊ Music suggestion ;

┌──────── • ✧ • ────────┐

Satoru was a man of many. Intelligent, charming, unserious, and funny; he had no problem with meeting people outside and inside of school. Rather, he had quite a bit of friends, set up the day he was born with everything he needed for a social life. Handsome, strong, and labeled better than everyone else. That was him. And he knew this very well.

It was no secret that he took advantage of it. In his spare time, Gojo was known for hooking up with various women and men like it was some sort of fun game where he needed to collect as many bodies as he could. Just to be on top of the ‘Who’s most fuckable pyramid?’. It was his thing. He was number one. He needed to have everything. Just, because, he was Gojo Satoru.

Many spread the word on how he was in those behind-the-scenes exchanges, his fucking skills not short from all his other accomplishments, perfection at its finest. And one thing that was the most mentioned about the sorceror was how no one… NO ONE… could get him to fall for them. No matter how many times they gave him gifts, no matter how much they followed him, he never looked their way once after they got alone for a simple bang.

Instead, they’d be the ones to fall head over heels and never got over the rejection. That was his specialty. The reason why he gained a fan base. And he was flattered by it. Amused even. But, it never convinced him to get with any single one of them. That would never happen in a million years.

After many shunned attempts from his classmates, old friends, and one night stands to get with him on a relationship level, they assumed that Satoru was full-on Aromantic. That the man loved himself too much to get something like a crush. Or he was in a completely different world than them because of his power.

Those weren’t the real reasons as to why Gojo wasn’t interested in them, however. He just didn’t feel drawn to that vulnerability. How they were so easy to figure out with a simple look from him. Knowing everything like this was the biggest challenge for him. He was stuck, endlessly bored because all of his options were predictable, and not one of them entertaining enough. No threat. That’s how it was.

Until sophomore year of the Jujutsu college was when he came across someone out of the ordinary in the school hallway. He happened to be a new student, transferring from a completely different part of the world, and the amount of cursed energy leaking from his aura made the sorcerer stop in his tracks.

When the man turned to look down directly into Satoru’s eyes as he walked past him, it sent shockwaves through his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. For the first time in his life, he found somebody that he was unable to read.

At first, he was in denial about it. He couldn’t understand why one person would be different from the rest when it came to his perception. So, to figure it out, he began to follow the guy around.

Don’t ask why he didn’t approach him first, he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t. His heart would beat irregularly and he’d start to sweat, his entire chest and face heating up if they locked eyes at all. Maybe it was because his [E/C] orbs were intimidating or because he was extremely fucking good-looking. Maybe both. All he knew was that he never experienced it before and that was terrifying.

He started with small stares from afar, prop up near the places he would spot him and watch what he would do for several minutes. Waiting until he left to walk right behind him and see where else he would go.

So far, he was about as normal as anyone else in routine. He’d walk to his classes, do his work, and focus hard on his studies throughout lunch. Burying his nose in books upon books that the white-haired man would never pick up. Yet, what he found intriguing was his lack of interest in others.

The man didn’t socialize, ever. He would get up from his seats and tables whenever somebody would sit next to him. If they tried to talk to him, they were ignored like they were a wall. He’d ignore them, throw their notes to him in the trash, and any project he was assigned to was made for him to be alone. It was almost near impossible to grab a name. Thankfully, the system needed it to enroll and that was easy to get to.

Now, he knew that it was wrong of him to invade his personal space and illegal. But, Gojo had a severe problem with boundaries and it didn’t help that he could get away with it by teleporting. Also, he just didn’t care. A little curiosity never hurt him.

Eventually, he got to rummaging through the school records in the late hours of night, finding a file containing a name he didn’t recognize, ‘[L/N] [F/N]’. Pulling it out of its box, he opened it to check the picture and came face-to-face with a question mark box in place of it. His eyebrows furrowed and he scanned through the rest of what was listed about him.

The description of his features and classes were all there, things that he already knew, the basic stuff. But, this confirmed that [F/N] was his name and that’s all that mattered. Satoru was about to close the document and put it back before he glanced down at a small paragraph that read:

‘[L/N] is reserved to be under tight supervision and security conditions. He shall never be allowed to leave the city or Jujutsu without permission. If it falters, we will initiate our final plan.’

He narrowed his glowing blue eyes at the ominous writing, thumbing over the edges of the page while he thought to himself quietly, ‘I wonder… Is he as good as me?’ That idea crossed his mind and didn’t leave him alone. ‘Someone stronger than me… Is that possible?’ His fingers folded the paper back to where it belonged while trying to ignore himself, tucking it safely, and closing the drawer to make it look like nothing was tampered with. Then he turned around to get to heading out, not seeing the large figure looming in the shadows behind him.

It was by the time Gojo hopped out of the window he used to break into the room, that he realized [F/N] was plaguing every corner of his brain. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. Like his face was burned into his memory.

His gloomy, [E/C] eyes that bore a hole through him whenever he caught his attention. That sharp nose that gave him an edge, scrunched up at anyone that passed by. Plump, pouty lips that would frown as soon as he was being bothered. God, and that soft red tone resting in the middle of them, it made him think of the worst perverted things he could possibly come up with.

Satoru was tripping over his feet trying to get back to his dorm room, using the roofs of buildings, and traveling at a rate he could when dealing with a boner this bad.

Finally, right as he stumbled into his place, he began unbuckling his belt and sliding it off to throw it loosely onto the floor somewhere. He got most of his clothes off of him and left his boxers to be the last thing pulled off, his dick springing free and brushing over his lower stomach before he wrapped his slender hand around the base.

He played with his tip for a minute, beads of pre-cum sliding down and coating his fingers. Letting him cover his shaft the more he pumped. It was throbbing, blushing pink like cotton candy, and glistened in the moonlight of his room. And oddly enough, all of this was being done to a fantasy of sucking [F/N] off.

Gojo had never touched himself to someone individually before. Especially to someone he hadn’t hooked up with. And not in a way where they were on top or it wasn’t solely based on sex.

This was new to him and he was losing himself to it, badly. His hips thrusted upwards into his hand, the other one reaching up to his mouth so he could suck on his fingers and coat them with spit. Finishing getting them wet, he positioned two of them against his hole and slowly forced it inside.

He closed his eyes and imagined it was [F/N]’s, groaning at the abnormal feeling of being finger-fucked but enjoying it more than anything else. It barely took a couple of times of ramming them in before his cum began to spurt out in huge amounts. Decorating both his stomach and his hand in a stringy design.

After that night, Satoru came to a conclusion on how he felt about the [H/C]-haired man. This proved to be very, very frustrating.

The urge to see [F/N] was constant. It got so bad that he was leaving zero to little time for his friends, spending most of it on lingering near his newfound crush and drooling over any tiny thing he would do. And this went on for weeks.

Until one day, his obsession hit an all-time high. He was following him into the locker rooms like usual, having memorized this to be his routine whenever he was going to get ready for training. Although, to his disappointment, the guy would use his shirt and towel to cover himself when he changed. So he never even got a single peek.

But, today seemed to be different because [F/N] didn’t head toward his locker. He went in the direction of the showers, carrying a couple of items with him that looked like clothes and necessities. Excitement and nervousness rushed through Satoru. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was going to get to see the man in all of his glory.

To keep himself from being detected, he was suspended in the air near the ceiling in a sitting position, patiently watching him arrange the shampoo and conditioner bottles before gripping the hem of his black fitted shirt.

[F/N] stripped it off of him, going at a slow pace that was teasing the hell out of him. Gojo was on the edge of his seat as he took in every bit, biting his bottom lip when he got to his pants and slipped them off of his slim waist. His build was impressive and so was his stature, enough to make Satoru draw blood from how hard he was digging his teeth in.

It wasn’t surprising that the white-haired man went straight to unbuttoning his pants and pulling his hard-on into view. Watching how he washed his body and cleaned his hair, struggling to hold in his moans while getting off to the sight. He barely got past five minutes before he was cumming mid-air, the droplets landing in the corner and making a bit of noise, causing Gojo to abruptly rush out of there as soon as he saw him turning his head.

His back was pressed against the wall on the other side of the showers, his chest moving up and down, the butterflies in his stomach swarming. He reached down to tuck his dick back in and zip it up, glancing at his hands that were dirtied with his jizz. Satoru sighed, in disbelief at his own actions before he went for the nearby sinks to wash them off.

Just as he did that, the shower was turned off and out stepped [F/N] a minute later. He passed by him while he was drying his hands off, causing Gojo to tense. His beating heart hadn’t even calmed from what happened not too long ago, he couldn’t handle this. So, he spun around and bolted for the door faster than the two of them could speak.

A small smirk quirked up the side of the [H/C]-haired man’s mouth, his gaze drifting toward the disappearing back of him, smug with a glint in his eyes.

Eventually, days had passed and Satoru was still in the same routine with chasing around his crush everywhere. Except it spread to him casually visiting his place in the middle of night to spend the rest of it either watching him sleep or pleasing himself outside of his window.

There would be times where he would break in and take his things to use like boxers and lotion. But, he tried to make it unnoticeable. He cared about stealth. That was until one of those nights, [F/N] decided to wear nothing but underwear.

Gojo’s blue eyes were glued on his figure, feeling like it was his lucky day to get to see something as rare as this. He was used to him wearing tank tops and basketball shorts, a small peep of his waistband was the most action he’d get if the man happened to move. Getting too excited, he was already sliding his sweatpants to his knees, shoving a hand in to get to jerking off for the millionth time. He couldn’t get tired of it when it came to him.

But before Satoru started, he realized that the window had been cracked open slightly. It was left open. Open…

He stopped what he was doing to push the rest of it upward, climbing inside of the tidy room and shutting it right after. The warmth and the quiet atmosphere invited him in, making him almost feel at home. That wasn’t wrong considering he was found in this place daily, scouring and finding out any thing that he had in this room. Which wasn’t much. Only thing that he was interested in was the locked box under his bed. Though, he couldn’t bust it no matter how hard he tried.

Looking down at the peaceful, sleeping [F/N] made his mind wander to a darker side of lust, his orbs brightening like diamonds as he let his sweats drop to the floor along with his boxers. He stepped out of them and lifted himself using his ‘Infinity’, hovering over him and getting the real picture of their size difference.

Gojo steadied his breathing as best as he could while flicking his eyes over his boxers, peeling them off bit by bit. He had to be extremely slow, careful than ever. Because if he woke up, who knows what would happen to him? And that risky feeling was more than enough fuel for the sex-crazed man.

Once [F/N]’s dick was exposed, Satoru had expected to see it flaccid, but it was already halfway hard. ‘Hm? Is he having a wet dream?’ He came to that conclusion. His excitement worsening because of the assumption and ended in him jumping the gun. He lowered down to where his tip was, giving a small kitten lick and watching his expression to see what would happen.

He knew it was a terrible idea to do what he was planning on. But, he didn’t want to stop what he was doing either. Actually, the fantasy of him finding out was really hot to him. What would he do? Would he get upset? Degrade him a bit? He was sure he could get off to that too.

[F/N] furrowed his brows a little and a noise similar to a grunt came from him, letting Gojo have the clear to go further. He placed his entire tongue on it, swirling around the head of his dick at a medium pace, and tasting his salty pre-cum with a satisfied look on his face. God, how long had he wanted to do this? He couldn’t keep track. It wasn’t that long of a wait but to him, it was like he served decades in prison, being teased with the keys in the cell next to him.

More grunts slipped past [F/N]’s pretty lips, falling onto his ears, and encouraging him to take more into his mouth. He hollowed out his cheeks while bobbing his head up and down to give the finishing touch, pulling out his phone at some point to snap a thirty second video of what he was doing for safekeeping. Every sound of his was making his own cock leak with arousal, dripping onto his bed, and reminding him that he needed attention too.

He dropped the device to move his hand back down, stroking his shaft and playing with the slit on his tip, muffling his moans on [F/N] and getting dirtier with the blowjob. His spit was running down the sides of him, messy and spreading around his mouth. The bobbing turned into a circle motion and he progressively got faster and faster. Feeling his dick twitching once he deepthroated.

The [H/C]-haired man’s legs lifted slightly, bending his knees while he thrusted upward. His eyebrows completely knitted together and his noises only sounding more intense. He was nearing his end, Satoru could tell. And it was then that he popped his mouth off, gasping for air, making his other hand wrap around to jack him off at a speed so quick that there was no time lost.

He stuck out his tongue and pressed it right against the landing zone, an odd euphoric look to his eyes as he soaked in the moment like it was his biggest achievement yet. That was until he saw those [E/C] ones piercing right back at him, the color of them being replaced with a… glowing, dark purple? What?

In an instant, Gojo’s hair was swept through and grabbed into a fistful, lifted off of him and thrown into the wall next to them with a force strong enough to cause him to go through it. His eyes went wide, staring directly at the frightened face of one of his classmates who was awoken by the loud impact and flying drywall. Barely a second into the exchange of words through looks with the girl, he was yanked back into the room, and the men rolled together onto the ground.

[F/N]’s palm slapped across his mouth, digging his thumb and all of his fingers into both of Satoru’s cheeks; turning him around to face towards his chest so he could pin him down better. His other hand was locked tightly in a grip around his wrists, both of his knees underneath his legs, his usual cold stare replaced by rage. And what he was hoping earlier felt heard all of a sudden.

There, he got to meet his crush for the first time and have that closeness he’d been hoping to get. Or just a simple word back. Something. He craved for his attention so bad that he could threaten him and it’d still satisfy his desire.

Gojo’s surprise slowly shifted into a wide smile, his eyes having a crazier spark to them while he giggled, figuring out what [F/N] had done. It was a trap.

The sound of a concerned voice interrupted before he could speak, “Gojo-kun? Are you okay?” Satoru mentally sighed, his expression dropping to half-lidded annoyed glare. He heard a brief slip of a laugh from [F/N] and raised his brows in shock, thinking he was amused by his face until he felt something pushing against his lower body, entering right inside of his hole.

No, he wasn’t laughing at that. He was laughing because he was enjoying the fact he was going to be exposed. Satoru should’ve been turned off by that, but rather he was loving it himself. He didn’t know why. This was so unlike the upcoming head of the Gojo clan. Although, he lost it already once [F/N] buried most of his thick length inside of him. His soul looked like it was being possessed, a purple glazing over his blue eyes.

Thankfully, he was stretched out by his fingers previously because the width of his cock was big enough to still make it feel uncomfortable. His thrusts rough as soon as he got most of it in. He didn’t think it would hurt this much, feel this amazing too. The combining sensations fucking with his brain and making him melt into the powerful man’s hold.

[F/N] was inside of his head. Literally. He could hear him whispering things in there through his technique, “You’re mine, Six Eyes. All of that cursed energy… It’s mine now.” Mind manipulation. That was his technique. He figured it out.

No wonder he couldn’t understand what it was at first. It was one of the main attributes of the special grade cursed object, ‘[M/N]’s Needles’. That means that the small marks on his forehead weren’t birthmarks, it was needles, deep into his own skull.

A smirk grew on the side of [F/N]’s mouth when he saw the ‘Aha!’ look across Gojo’s face, an extremely low, nerve-wracking voice coming out of him as he leaned right next to the white-haired male’s ear to remind him, “You’re not winning anything. I think I’d like to take your offer up on making you my new fuck toy.”

Then the aggressive fucking from before turned into straight abuse on him, Satoru’s expression twinging through a mixture of exasperation and pure bliss. Locking eyes with the same girl he’d been stressing about when his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. She choked up and took a step back, watching her peer get destroyed. But not for much longer because she mysteriously got warped into space, disappearing from the room without any explanation.

Gojo peeked back at [F/N], psychotically smirking and letting out a string of loud, slutty moans and groans. Not holding back because he knew that nobody could stop them. Especially with such a strong curse at his side. Despite his knowledge on what he was doing to him, he also made sure he could take control of the situation too. And what that means is he formed a pact.

The young sorcerer leaned forward, summoning most of his strength to give him a kiss, struggling to keep his eyes open anyway. [F/N] didn’t kiss back, knowing what he was up to the second he heard the thought from Satoru. But, he kept insisting, pushing his lips harder and harder against his.

There was several attempts at rejecting him, but it didn’t matter. Even as [F/N] gripped his ass harshly with both hands, dug all of his nails in, and tore his bottom lip up more. He continued to plant the same kiss, going so far and desperate that he started making out with him. It didn’t matter if he responded to it because Satoru wasn’t just doing it out of tricking him into this pact. This was love. Twisted, fucked up, love.

[F/N] pulled away for the twelfth time, panting and surprised that he was holding on for this amount of time. By now, they’d be falling apart and passing out. And he had even switched it to his most effective position. Gojo’s back was pressed up on the wall, arched and his legs wrapped around his waist, struggling to hold on from him being quite tall. His hand was wrapped around his neck, squeezing hard to the point where he was coughing, making sure that he didn’t lift himself to kiss him anymore.

“Do you want to get yourself killed? Or do you want to cum and survive, asshole?” [F/N] spat, getting up to his face in a threatening manner. Satoru smiled back at him once again, managing to choke a sentence out, “I want both… please!” He was teasing him even in this situation. The grip on his soul never wavering yet he talked back. This pissed him the hell off.

Every ounce of his strength raged into Gojo immediately after that, the wall caving in on them, and the sheer volume of both of their techniques fighting one another in the midst of their exchange. His crystal blues spaced out and tilted up, staring off as he fell limp in [F/N]’s arms, his forehead pressing against his to give one last attempt.

The [E/C]-eyed man couldn’t resist the temptation. He didn’t know why. He didn’t think about it. He just did it. His lips smashed onto Satoru’s expecting him to be drained of anything that he could use against him. But, he was wrong. Dead wrong. If anything, the fate had been sealed right then and there from that action.

A knot was forming in [F/N]’s and his stomach as he panicked about the failure when feeling his power fade along with Gojo’s, the smile from before planting against his face right in the kiss they had. He tricked him into it. He fucking cheated.

So much anger was rammed into Satoru for the next few hours even after [F/N] and him finished at the same pace. His guts practically being filled with his seed over and over, then rapidly having it fucked in until it couldn’t escape. He paid him back for what he did. For ruining everything he had by tying a commitment to him he didn’t want. Although, for some reason, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Possibly looking forward to their time together.

|| Extra ||

Satoru weakly smiled at Geto and shook his head, answering his question on where he’s been the last couple of months with a soft sigh, “I’ve been getting around a lot. When you have this many fans, it’s hard to keep up.” The black-haired man looked at him, unamused; poking at his noodles. His baggy eyes seemed to be getting worse. Shoko chimed in a smart comment, “Is that why you’re getting hickeys now? You letting someone top you?”

Gojo froze and snapped his head at her, his serious face causing her to began laughing like crazy and exclaim out loud, “No way! So, it’s true! You are being bottom!” He raised his hands in the air at her and waved them around while denying it profusely, “You think someone can get one over me? Gojo! Satoru! Do you not know my name? What kind of crazy lady are you, huh?!”

They bickered back and forth until Geto split the two of them up and decided it was time for all of them to go their separate ways. He waved ‘Goodbye’ as he walked away, slipping his hands in both of his pockets before turning his head to look in an alleyway that he was barely about to pass. For a split second, he was sure he caught a glance of purple eyes peering back at him, but when he checked again; there was nothing.

He looked at the dark midsection of the buildings, waiting to see if something else would happen, and then walked on as soon as it appeared to be his mind playing tricks on him.

Little did he know, that later on in that same alleyway, after Shoko left Gojo alone. He was being fondled by the curse he now claims as his forever boyfriend and ‘fuck buddy’ who stood there, eavesdropping on him the entire day.

They switch roles in following each other. Happening to be [F/N]’s day. And they both couldn’t hold back the urge of wanting to fuck the shit out of the other all the time. Satoru never reluctant to letting the man have his way. And as he let the blue-eyed man finish from his hand, he dug his teeth into his shoulder blade, mentally shouting at him in his head, “Who’s on top again, pretty boy?! What did you say to them again?” His cum spurted everywhere onto the floor and his fingers, those eyes rolling back like usual while he muttered, “You, sir…. Only, you.”

[muiitoloko]

Cinderella

Summary: She came to witness the grandeur of Versailles but left with the Sun King’s undivided attention—a dangerous prize for a girl who never meant to be noticed.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: none

Author's Notes: This isn’t canon at all; I just watched an anime scene and got inspired to write this 😅

Also read on Ao3

The Palace of Versailles loomed before you, its golden gates thrown open in a rare display of generosity—or, more likely, vanity. King Louis XIV had decreed that for the first time in years, the common folk were permitted entry to his grand ball, an unprecedented spectacle that had set the entire city abuzz. Some whispered that the Sun King merely wanted to flaunt his magnificence to those who could never hope to touch it. Others claimed it was a ploy to find a new queen, though it was baffling why he would look among the rabble when he had mistresses aplenty.

You, however, cared little for the king’s intentions. This was your one chance to see Versailles from within, to walk its mirrored halls, to breathe the air of those whose lives were spun from silk and gold. The palace had always been a distant wonder, admired from the fields where you and your brother toiled. But tonight, dressed in your finest—though still a poor imitation of true nobility—you would see it up close.

Your brother, standing beside you, adjusted the fraying cuffs of his borrowed coat, his expression a mix of wariness and reluctant excitement. “If we get thrown out, I’m blaming you,” he muttered under his breath.

You rolled your eyes. “Then don’t get caught staring at the food like a starving dog, and we might just pass for something other than beggars.”

He snorted but said nothing more as the two of you stepped through the towering entrance, swallowed whole by the sheer opulence of it all.

The Hall of Mirrors glittered like a dream, candlelight bouncing off its endless reflections, making it appear as though a thousand ghosts waltzed through its gilded expanse. The air was thick with perfume and intrigue, nobles eyeing the unexpected presence of peasants with barely veiled contempt. Though none dared openly sneer—the king had, after all, extended the invitation—there was no mistaking the lines drawn between silk and linen, lace and coarse wool.

You had never seen such extravagance—tables overflowing with delicacies you had only heard of in passing, strings of pearls glinting on the necks of women who seemed more like dolls than real flesh and blood, musicians playing a waltz so hauntingly beautiful that it made your chest ache. It was all too much, too magnificent, and for a moment, you simply stood there, drinking it all in.

Then, the room fell silent.

A shift in the air. A moment of stillness, as though the palace itself held its breath.

King Louis XIV had arrived.

He moved through the hall with measured grace, the embodiment of power and opulence, his black wig framing sharp features, his hazel eyes heavy with the weight of a kingdom. Without a word, he ascended the stairs to his throne and, in an almost lazy gesture, sat down. That was all it took—the ball resumed, conversations picking up in hushed tones, musicians finding their rhythm again, and couples sweeping back onto the dance floor as though nothing had happened.

You, however, could not look away.

Your gaze locked onto the Sun King, the man whose whims dictated the fate of France. He lounged upon his throne with the air of a man who had seen it all, who had nothing left to be impressed by. He watched the dancing figures before him with mild detachment, fingers resting against his knee, expression unreadable.

A nudge against your ribs startled you.

"Stop staring," your brother murmured, his tone both amused and exasperated.

Blinking, you turned to him, only to notice the women kneeling in perfect formation at the foot of the king’s elevated throne. They were beautiful, pristine in their silks and satins, their heads bowed slightly as they remained poised in eerie patience.

"What are they doing?" you whispered, frowning.

Your brother shrugged. "Noblewomen, I suppose. Perhaps they wait for an invitation to dance with the king."

The idea of it—women reduced to mere ornaments, kneeling in silent hope for a glance, a gesture—made something in you burn. It was foolish, wasn’t it? To expect anything different. This was the way of things. And yet, when your gaze drifted back to the king, when you saw the boredom in his eyes, the utter indifference with which he sat above it all, something inside you snapped.

Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the fabric of your dress, lifting the hem just enough to move freely, and marched forward.

You heard your brother’s breath hitch. "What are you doing?" he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

You ignored him.

The music, the dancing, the laughter—it all became background noise as you moved through the crowd, dodging twirling figures, brushing past the heavy perfumes and the lace-trimmed sleeves. You stopped at the foot of the stairs, between the bowing ladies.

And then, in a single bold motion, you extended your hand.

An invitation. No—a challenge.

The silence that followed was deafening.

All around, the ball came to a halt once more. The musicians faltered, the dancers froze, and a collective breath was held as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward you.

King Louis XIV regarded you with the slow, calculating gaze of a man unaccustomed to surprises. His hazel eyes flickered with something—curiosity, amusement, irritation? It was impossible to say.

For a terrible moment, you thought he might laugh, might cast you aside with nothing more than a smirk. But then, without a word, the king rose from his throne.

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

He descended the stairs, step by deliberate step, until he stood before you.

You had to fight not to flinch when he reached out, taking your outstretched hand in his own. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and before you could fully process what had just happened, he was leading you onto the dance floor.

The nobles moved aside as though the sea itself was parting.

The musicians scrambled to recover, launching into a waltz fit for royalty.

And there you were, in the arms of the king, your feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music, your body following his lead as if drawn by invisible strings.

The two of you danced in silence.

Despite the music swelling around you, despite the fact that the King of France held you in his grasp, you felt your confidence waver. It was one thing to challenge him, to throw yourself into the center of the Sun King’s world with reckless abandon, but it was another to stand in the middle of his court, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand whispered judgments.

You could hear them—murmurs behind delicate lace fans, the barely concealed sneers of noblemen whose powdered faces betrayed their disdain. A peasant, in the arms of their king. A girl in linen and borrowed silk, daring to stand where only those with titles and fortunes belonged.

Your face burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. The sheer absurdity of what you had done crashed down on you like an avalanche, and your grip on the king's hand faltered. What were you thinking? What madness had possessed you to reach for something so unattainable?

You were just a girl from the fields. He was Louis XIV.

Your breath quickened, and your eyes darted around the glittering ballroom, searching for your brother, searching for an escape, anything to ground you. But then—

"Look at me."

The words were sharp, quiet, yet laced with undeniable command.

Your body stiffened.

His grip on your waist tightened, steadying you as he turned you in a slow, deliberate motion, drawing your gaze back to him. His hazel eyes burned with something you couldn’t place—something piercing, unyielding.

"Not at them. At me."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. You had broken so many unspoken rules already, but this? To meet the king’s eyes, to hold his gaze—this was defiance. This was treasonous audacity.

And yet, you obeyed.

Your eyes lifted, locking onto his.

His face was unreadable, carved from stone, regal and imposing beneath the candlelight. The powdered curls of his black wig framed his angular features, a stark contrast to the graying hair hidden beneath. His baritone voice had left no room for disobedience, and something inside you bristled at that—the way he wielded power so effortlessly, so completely, as though the world bent to his will.

Because it did.

Who was he, really, behind the embroidered silks and golden halls? A pompous man with too much power. A king who wore his arrogance like a crown.

And yet, as you stared into those hazel eyes, as he led you through the waltz with perfect, calculated ease, you saw something else flicker behind them—something tired, something worn. The Sun King, basking in his own light, surrounded by beauty and decadence, but impossibly alone.

You didn’t know whether to pity him or despise him.

So you did neither.

You simply danced.

The whispers faded, the watching eyes blurred into nothing. The music carried you both, and for a moment, just a fleeting moment, it was as though there were only the two of you, moving through the golden halls of Versailles.

When the final notes of the waltz faded into the gilded air, applause rippled through the ballroom like a distant thunderclap. You stepped back, bowing respectfully, your fingers slipping from the king’s grasp as propriety dictated. Louis XIV did not bow in return—kings did not bow—but he inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that carried the weight of acknowledgment.

Yet his hazel eyes never left you.

Your dress, though the finest you owned, was a poor imitation of the elaborate silks that swirled around the room. It was the single thing that betrayed you, that made it clear to him—you were no noblewoman, no courtly lady maneuvering through the hierarchy of Versailles with polished ease. You were a bold peasant, a reckless girl who had dared to reach beyond her station, and yet… you had danced as though you belonged.

Louis reached for your hand once more, his fingers warm as they wrapped around yours, anchoring you in place. A slow smirk played at the corner of his lips, something unreadable glinting in his gaze as he tilted his head, studying you like one might study an anomaly.

"Your name," he demanded, his baritone voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

You hesitated, your pulse hammering against your ribs. A foolish part of you wanted to refuse—to remind him that peasants owed kings nothing, least of all their names. But before you could decide whether to answer, a flutter of silken skirts interrupted, breaking the spell between you.

"Your Majesty," a woman’s voice chimed, honeyed and lilting. Another followed, then another. A small group of noblewomen, perfect in their powdered grace, had approached, their faces carefully arranged in expressions of expectation and adoration. Each one curtsied with delicate precision, their gazes flickering briefly to you before dismissing you altogether.

"Will you dance with us, Sire?" one of them asked, batting her lashes in a way that made your stomach turn.

Louis turned his head, his gaze shifting to them, and just like that, your hand slipped from his grasp.

He did not notice at first. He was the Sun King, after all, and the world revolved around him. Women bowed, men whispered, and the court ebbed and flowed to his whims like the tides obeying the moon. Why should he expect that anyone—especially a girl of no name, no title—would simply walk away?

But that was exactly what you did.

You turned, slipping through the crowd before he could realize his mistake, before he could demand that you stay. Your heart pounded as you navigated through the sea of nobility, ignoring the curious glances, the whispers that trailed in your wake. Your brother was nowhere in sight—perhaps he had already escaped, perhaps he was still lingering in the ballroom, watching in horror as you committed what was surely a dangerous act of defiance.

You did not wait to find out.

Your feet carried you faster now, urgency threading through your veins. The gilded halls blurred around you, the chandeliers above casting fractured reflections along the polished floors, but you did not stop. You did not stop until you reached the grand entrance, the towering doors that had once seemed impossibly distant.

Then, with a final push, you burst through them.

The cold night air hit you like a slap, stealing the breath from your lungs. You stumbled, your legs trembling, but you did not slow. Versailles, with all its gold and grandeur, loomed behind you like a dream you never should have stepped into.

A foolish, reckless dream.

You ran.

And inside the palace, Louis XIV lifted his gaze just in time to see the great doors swing open. Just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of you, disappearing into the night like a phantom. His expression did not change, but something in him shifted—something sharp, something that burned just beneath the surface.

Like Cinderella, you had fled from the ball.

Except it was not yet midnight.

And you had left nothing behind. No glass slipper for him to chase.

Only the echo of your defiance.

And for the first time in a long, long while, the Sun King felt the sting of being denied.

[testrella]

bottle services ceo! g.satoru x waitress! reader ๋࣭ ⭑

synopsis: in which satoru finds himself requesting the same waitress for bottle service. his eyes are on you, and only you. fandom: jujutsu kaisen ⌗ rich / ceo / playboy g.satoru x waitress reader ⌗ modern au content warnings: mild cursing (like one curse word), drinking, usage of alcohol, mentions of age gap, SFW.

as bright colored lights shined all over the place, painting a vivid and lucid vision on the club’s tile floors, gojo is surrounded by his elite associates in the VIP booth. with only the snap of his hand, the waiters immediately send out bottles of the finest champagne in japan along with beautiful chiseled ice.

“i have to say gojo, going out with you is like entering a new world. you’re almost like the modern day gatsby!”

the men surrounding him all chuckle in agreement with the man. it was the pure truth. anyone who partied with gojo or attended one of his many events, left with a new perspective, a new meaning of life, and as changed person.

he poured himself a glass in the dimly lit room, and watched the golden bubbles form to the top. with the flashing lights and the bass banging in his ear, his eyes finally met yours.

gojo’s gaze was drawn to you the moment you entered with more champagne. he watched as you balanced two bottles of champagne and multiple glasses on one tray with ease.

your name was y/n, he knew that already. he knew that you worked within the bottle services and has sought after your service anytime he visited the club. it wasn’t out of the ordinary for high elites to request for attractive women to attend them, it was nothing you hadn’t seen before.

for you, it was normal. for gojo, it was an attempt to make a lasting impression on you.

“miss. y/n! it’s so lovely to see you again, how are you doing?” gojo smiled with a very wide, toothy grin. it was clear he was one bottle of champagne deep.

“i’m doing great, how are you doing?”

you placed down the tray and watched as all the men gathered to get their greedy hands on the drinks.

“i’m ok, i’ll feel better if you accompany me tonight. c’mon y/n, spend the rest of your shift with me.”

“i’m flattered mr. gojo but i do have a job to do.”

he watched as your figure turned and walked away from his booth. disappointment creeps onto him as he realized you once again rejected his advances.

as the night unfolded, gojo found himself stealing glances at you whenever you passed by his booth. he’d smile your way, waving slightly, like a child would do to a kind stranger. when you smiled and waved back, his face was full of joy and he’d giggle alongside his associates.

“she’s a fine piece of work. you’ve got great taste in women.”

“i agree but she’s a little young for all of us no?”

gojo was only a few years older than you unlike his elite associates. they continue to banter about you and their interest become stronger.

“how long is it going to take gojo to realize that she’s just another club crush that comes and goes?” one said.

with a nervous pit in his stomach, he mustered the courage to call you over again. gojo watches you summon your presence with a hesitate smile.

“y/nnnnn, h-how about i get your numberrrr and we can talk when i’m not s-shit faced?” his words were slurred and fumbled a bit.

gojo wanted to prove a point to not only his friends but to himself. to prove that something good can actually happen between the two of you.

your eyes widen and taken aback from his sudden request as your cheeks were tainted with a pinkish undertone. you glance back at your manager who was standing behind the bar. the constant flickered lights and the loud music echoing in your ears made it worse for you to think about it.

“gojo i.. i really appreciate the offer, really! but..” you started with a gentle and apologetic tone. “but don’t you think it’s a little unprofessional? i shouldn’t be giving my number out to customers, i hope you understand.”

gojo felt his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. a wave of nausea made its way into his mouth while a disappointed expression formed on his face.

he offers a polite smile before speaking, “no yeah, i understand. i was just hoping we could keep in touch outside of the club.”

suddenly the infamous playboy and CEO of the gojo company had felt shame rise in him. all the kind words and playful conversations between the two of you was simply you trying to do your job. he continues the night drinking his feelings away.

despite the rejection and trying to keep up your professionalism, you found yourself unable to shake the conversation out your head. gojo satoru was a loyal client of yours who always requested your presence. it was obvious to anybody that he was simply another client who crushed on the kind waitress.

yet you found yourself making a bold decision. with your heart beating out your chest and a tingling feeling inside your stomach, you smiled softly at gojo. you disappeared behind the bar before finding a pen and paper.

you were given the chance to give your number to one of japan’s most sought after bachelors. who were you to say no?

your pulse raced as you found the opportunity to slip the note into his jacket without anybody’s knowledge. it was an opportunity of a lifetime.

later that night, gojo found himself alone in a hotel room. his head was spinning and regretting drinking that much in the first place. he reached into his pocket to take out his phone only to find a pleasant surprise.

a small piece of paper.

gojo unfolded the unexpected piece of paper curiously, revealing your handwritten phone number on the note.

a smile quickly spread across gojo’s face once he realized he got what he wanted. with a rush of adrenaline going through his body, he quickly texts the number.

+81 ## ### ### hey it’s satoru are you free next weekend?

author's note; reuploaded bc it flopped the first time..

[tiredfox64]

Let’s Keep This a Secret

Prior notes: I like my men a little scary. He got me giggling, kissing my feet, and crying in horror. Also I just really wanted to post something of mine and change it up.

Pairing: Reiko x Afab reader

Warnings ‼️: Do you fear skin to skin contact?

You were only a baby when your mom married General Shao. You never viewed him as your stepfather, he was always your father. He raised you as if you were blood related to him. He promised to protect you and love you as his own.

And protect he did, from any and everything. Especially boys.

The older you got, the more attention you attracted. Not only were you the general’s daughter but you had your mother’s beauty. Many men wanted to get with you for the fact that you were pretty and they wanted the general’s admiration. That never happened. Shao would never allow a boy to step close to you at all. The only one who would ever get close was Reiko. Yet even Reiko had a hard time getting to know you.

When you both were young he rarely cared about getting to know you. He was an orphan who lost his parents to the war. All he cared about was what General Shao had to say to him. He listened well to every order he gave. After a while Shao almost started to see him like a son. Still not a good enough position to let near his daughter.

In fact, Shao thought you shouldn’t be seeing the grueling and harsh conditions it takes to be part of his army. It’s better that you don’t know. But you did want to know. You have the right to know. Plus you wanted to know a thing or two since Shao didn’t want to teach you anything. He said he would protect you, he meant it. Why do you need to know how to protect yourself when you got him. It just pushed you away from Reiko even more.

You would find reasons to go over though. Every time you would come around to the training grounds you would always look for Reiko. At this point he was the lieutenant to your dad’s army. How could you not be drawn to a man with power and authority. When he was the only man in your life that your dad somewhat let you close to, you started to be attracted to him. Seeing those milky white eyes take a glance at you made you excited. However, no matter how old you got your father would not allow you anywhere near.

You had to take matters into your own hands. You went out with friends one night. As you were out you realized no one would be able to stop you from talking to any boys. The only person who could stop you was yourself, and you did stop yourself. You were too nervous to be around other guys or even say a word to them. Shao was to blame for your lack of social skills when it came to men. The only person who you could fathom talking to was…Reiko! Of course! Why didn’t you think of him before? You should go see if he is anywhere around.

Your friends were not too keen on sticking around and running to the training grounds. They didn’t want to get in trouble and they were actually scared of Reiko. Not many women go after him believe it or not. They begged you not to go but you were determined. You walked off on your own, your heart pumping with nervousness and excitement. As you expected you saw Reiko at the training grounds. Lucky you.

You hid behind a tree, not wanting to disturb his training. You looked with curious eyes as you watched him get some extra training in. His shurikens would strike the wooden dummy. His aim was precise. Every time he would fling them he would let out a grunt that made your stomach do twirls. The way the sweat on his muscles glistened in the moonlight and how his hair slightly blew in the light breeze made you think you were looking at nature’s finest specimen. You didn’t realize you were being drawn towards him in that moment and you stepped over a stick. It snapped and Reiko’s head snapped towards your direction. You gasp as you went back to hiding behind the tree. You were worried you had ruined everything. Closer and closer you heard him make his way towards you in a quick pace. Then there was silence. In one fell swoop he turned the corner and was right in front of you, pushing you against the tree. His knife was out but once he realized it was you he made sure not to have it too close.

“Oh, it’s just the general’s daughter. Why are you out here so late?” He spoke to you in his usual gruff voice.

You couldn’t say anything since you were so excited that he actually spoke to you. You stared up at him all stupid-like but with eyes filled with awe. Reiko was very confused but he backed away from you once he realized he was way too close. He put his knife away and was thinking of just leaving you be before thinking for a second. If somehow you got hurt while out here alone his ass could be on the line. The last thing he wants is for the general to see that his daughter got hurt and find out that his loyal lieutenant let her walk away all alone in the night. Yeah, no, not willing to risk it.

“Come on, let me get you back home. Your father won’t like this.” He warned you but you didn’t care.

He yanked on your arm and dragged you away, gently though cause he can’t hurt you in the slightest. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his arm. He flinched and was about to push you away but he stopped himself.

Don’t hurt the general’s daughter. Don’t hurt the general’s daughter.

He groaned but kept walking while you clung onto him. You kept staring up at him all starry eyed. He looks even more handsome up close. He felt your eyes on him and he had no idea what was up with you. Actually everyone’s eyes were on him and you. The general’s daughter was clinging onto a man? Impossible! Reiko was letting a woman cling onto him? That’s even more impossible! It was so frustrating to him to be in this position but he had a task and he had to finish it.

The moment he brought you to the door of your home and the door opened you were off him immediately. That dazed expression was gone and you looked focused as you looked up at your dad. Reiko was confused but carried on as he explained that he was just bringing you home. Shao thanked Reiko for bringing you back home safe and before he could scold you, you gave him those sad puppy dog eyes that get you out of most situations. And then the excuses came about how you lost track of time, you got separated from your friends, some of them bailed on you, blah, blah, blah. Shao just took all that you said as a fact. His sweet girl could never do wrong. You walked inside your home, giving Reiko a wave goodbye before closing the door. That smile on your face was full of joy. You were up in your room kicking your feet and thinking about your moment with Reiko. You’re definitely doing this again.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

It’s like every week at this point. You go out with friends, you sneak off to see Reiko training, he catches you and brings you home, you make up your excuses, rinse and repeat.

Reiko caught on that this was definitely intentional. He started letting you stay with him for a bit, not wanting to cut his training time just for you. Then y’all started talking. You talked about your home life, what you like to do, your hobbies, your friends, etcétera etcétera. He first ignored you but the moment you seemed hurt by the fact he wasn’t listening he got his act together and started listening. Once he did he realized you weren’t that bad. You weren’t annoying or stupid. In fact you were even kind of cute when you told him about your life. Woah, did he just find someone cute?

He started opening up to you, speaking about his past and his present. It actually made him feel better to have someone listen to what happened to him other than Shao. He was surprised that even when he said something negative about your dad you wouldn’t judge him or having him punished for speaking his mind. Even he who is loyal to Shao can get upset by the things he does.

You and Reiko grew closer and closer to the point you guys would forget how late it was getting. He would immediately rush you home, holding your hand to guide you back. At this point Shao was getting highly suspicious of you. Why were you coming back so late and never coming back with your friends? You just shrugged it off and told him he was getting too worked up. You pushed your way inside and the moment your dad turned his back to you, you swiftly turned around, grabbed Reiko’s face, and placed a light kiss on his lips. He was stunned but couldn’t say anything in that moment. You just waved goodbye like usual and closed the door. So you just gonna leave a man hanging like that?

Alright clearly there was much more going on between you two. You made it clear to Reiko that you wanted to be something more. That explained your strange behavior from the beginning. You just had a mega crush on him. You got him hooked he won’t deny that. He’s never loved someone and he didn’t know how. All he knows is fighting and war. But you can teach him, and teach him you did. You both were learning and you found out what felt right for you two. The kissing, the touching, the love language. It slowly became clearer and you two were compatible. You were over the moon. Finally, you had a boyfriend. A man you can trust and felt safe with. Hopefully whenever your dad finds out he won’t kill Reiko. He can’t kill his best lieutenant, right?

Oh just remembering it all gives you butterflies. Sigh

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

Did you have a good time going down memory lane? Good! Cause someone is knocking on your window. Go open it!

You yank the curtains away and see Reiko at your windowsill. You quickly open the window and he leaps in. You are surprise by the fact he managed to climb all that way up to your window just to see you again. It was risky since you should be asleep at this time but you were up thinking about Reiko nonstop.

“What are you doing here? I thought you would have already left.” You whisper to him.

“How could I stay away from my woman. We just can’t get caught.” He picks you up in his strong arms and starts to kiss you.

He was much more rough in every sort of way. That means his kisses are too. You don’t mind at all. You like it. You like how rough he can get considering you were always treated so delicately.

Your legs wrap around his waist and your arms wrap around his neck while you two keep kissing. Your hands hold his face, letting your fingers feel his stubble. He walks over to your bed and places you down on it. You look up at him with the same sense of awe you got when you first saw him training.

“I think I’ll stay for the night. I did put in the effort to sneak in here, I think I deserve to stay.” He whispers in your ear.

You don’t say anything, you just smile and nod your head frantically to say yes. You two have done this before but you always get super happy to get the chance to have him sleep in your bed.

You know what makes it even better? Skin to skin contact!

He starts to take his armor off and places it down gently on the floor. Too much metal on there, it’s gonna freaking wake up your parents if it hits the floor. You take off your clothes as well. You thought you would be more nervous to get naked in front of somebody. You can’t even talk to other guys how are you gonna strip in front of them. But seeing how Reiko shows off his body with little shame since his armor exposes him quite a bit you felt that there was nothing to be worried about. If guys can have their chest out why can’t girls? Same thing, different structure.

Once you two were both naked you guys got into your bed, the sheets being the only thing to cover you both. He brings you in closer, his rough skin contrasting with your soft skin. His hands wander as he goes back to kissing you. Your hands went up to his head let down his hair. Your fingers rake through the thick strands. You wish he could always have his hair down. He looks so hot when he has it down.

You spend the rest of the time talking to each other, whispering to prevent anyone from hearing you. The close contact combined with the loving eye contact made you realize how lucky you are. Though Reiko is not perfect when it comes to love he does his best for you.

At the end of the night you two slowly succumb to the tiredness. He holds you close to him while he lays his head on your chest. It’s like his own personal pillow. He listens to your heartbeat as it slows down. Your arms are wrapped around his head as you caress him to sleep. Before you fall asleep yourself you have one more thing to say to him.

“I love you.” One more kiss to his forehead and you’re out like a light.

After notes: I want that man. I want that scary man. I wanna lick him. My fiancé pointed out that his nipples are too dark I don’t know why he ever pointed that out. It sent me into a spiral and I asked him who else got dark nipples and he said all of them. Fucking…really?! Anyways yeah I just wanted to switch it up cause I was doing SO MUCH when it came to the Lin Kuei brothers. I have no issue writing for them but it’s like I gotta do something else or I’ll start hating it. Not anyone’s fault that’s just how I am. Hope y’all can enjoy this. Adiós!

[lucky-clover-gazette]

kings rising highlights & annotations

chapters 16, 17, 18, & 19

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

Now those sentries flanked them. They were a permanent independent military garrison, the finest chosen from each of the provinces with scrupulous neutrality to serve a two-year term. They lived in the complex of supporting outbuildings, filling the barracks and the gymnasiums, where they slept and woke and trained with immaculate discipline. It was a soldier’s greatest honour to compete in the yearly games and be chosen from the best to serve here, to uphold the strict laws.

this feels like a parallel to akielion slavery, in a way? these are supposed to be some of the most honorable and strong people in the society, yet they’re subjugated in much the same way as slaves

‘You were jealous.’ ‘My father said that I had to learn to lead, not to follow.’

ongoing “kingdom or this” theme, choosing between being a indomitable ruler and being a vulnerable human person. damen has been on both extremes, a prince and a slave, and he needs to find something in the middle.

‘That’s Kydippe, she was Queen before Euandros. She took the throne from King Treus and averted civil war.’

hooray for women!

‘He looks like you.’ Thestos was carved in outline, holding a giant piece of masonry aloft. Laurent touched his bicep, then touched Damen’s. Damen let out a breath.

laurent is treasuring the last few moments he has with damen :(

‘These petulant remarks have never suited you. The mannerisms of a boy sit so unattractively on a man.’

not going to be a lot of analysis here. we all know how fucked up this guy is. in a way, the regent is the simplest character in the entire series.

‘You know, Nicaise really thought you would help him. He didn’t know your nature, that you’d abandon a boy to treason and death out of petty spite. Or was there some other reason you killed him?’

says the regent, who killed nicaise

'After all, you are an Akielon. There must be satisfaction to be had in getting the Prince of Vere under you. He is unpleasant, but that would barely register when you are rutting.'

“you like it simple” weaponized against damen

“you like it simple” weaponized against damen ‘He has freed Jokaste, because he knows that I would never trade a tactical advantage for a whore.'

there’s that misogyny we heard about

'And he has come here to give himself up for the child. He doesn’t even care whose child it is. He just knows it’s in danger,'

nicaise. just nicaise

‘He has knelt for me.’ The Regent said it in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, so that it didn’t penetrate at first. It was just a collection of words.

“it was just a collection of words” i have a feeling that this is how damen has avoided figuring it out sooner. intentionally not making inferences or connections, even if the words are being said. it’s similar to the way he probably suspected laurent of knowing the truth about him, but disregarded indicative phrases or foreshadowing. but now he has no choice but to understand.

In the panting silence of the hall, one of the kneeling sentries rose and began to speak. ‘You have drawn your sword in the Kingsmeet.’ Damen’s eyes locked on the Regent’s. Nothing mattered but a promise. ‘I’m going to kill you.’ ‘You have broken the peace of the hall.’ Damen said, ‘The moment you laid your hands on him, you were dead.’ ‘The laws of the Kingsmeet are sacred.’ Damen said, ‘I will be the last thing that you see. You will go to the ground with my blade in your flesh.’ ‘Your life is forfeit to the King,’ said the sentry.

really good writing here. love how it alternates between damen’s single-minded anger and the situation around him, using only the dialogue instead of environmental or emotional prose

Unlike Damen, it had only taken one of the Kingsmeet soldiers to restrain Laurent, his arms forced behind his back, his breathing shallow.

“the weaker man”

‘No,’ said Damen. ‘You heard what he did.’ Roughened, it came out of him. ‘You all heard him, are you going to let him do this?’

i think it’s really interesting and ironic that the people enabling this are supposedly the most honorable in the country. damen has given vere so much shit for its debauchery throughout the series and has regarded akielos as morally pure because it “treats its slaves well.” he’s figured out that he was wrong about most of this already, but this might put the final nail in the coffin. the worst thing imaginable, to the point that damen actively avoided entertaining the notion of it, is not condemned by the akielon justice system. the law protects the regent and punishes damen here, even though the regent is a terrible person and damen is doing the right thing. also cool how this foreshadows attorney damen.

‘Come, nephew,’ said the Regent. They went.

don’t need to analyze laurent here. i’ve already done it in chapters that foreshadow this moment. just going to quarantine it to the page and move on

‘I know you felt something for him. If you are going to be sick, do it quickly. We have to go. There will already be men coming to find us.’

shut the fuck up nikandros

Through the haze he heard Jord’s voice. ‘You left him? You saved your own life and left him with his uncle?’

shut the fuck up jord

Jord said, ‘You coward, you left him to—’ The words were abruptly cut off as Nikandros took hold of Jord and slammed him back against the wagon. ‘You will not speak that way to our King.’

shut the fuck up nikandros and jord

Released, Jord was panting slightly. ‘He wouldn’t have come back alone. If you think that, you don’t know him.’

damen never said that he did

What would Laurent do? He knew what Laurent would do. Stupid, mad Laurent had sacrificed himself. He had used the last piece of leverage he had: his own life. But Damen’s life was valueless to the Regent.

and laurent’s life is valueless to laurent. but clearly not to jord or damen or paschal or loyse or the soldiers or victims whose lives he has protected

He felt the limits of his own nature, which too easily swung to anger, and the need—stymied by circumstance—to bring about the Regent’s death. All he wanted was to take up his sword and cut a path into Ios.

he likes it simple. this isn’t simple. so what’s the opposite of simple, then? what would laurent do? what is the approach that ISN’T just ripping the grate out of the wall? guess we're about to see.

‘He thinks he’s alone,’ he said.

for a long time, yeah. until he got stuck with you. which he hated at first, because he felt an irrepressible connection to his worst enemy (the mutual moral arbitration and “yes and”ing of books 1 & 2), but ended up treasuring your connection so deeply that he made himself alone again to save you.

It was what he liked, public humiliation coupled with private chastisement, his reality validated by all those around him.

1) parallel to kastor sending damen to be a slave 2) akielion slavery except it’s seen as honorable which is somehow even more humiliating than forced submission, and there’s nothing to chastise bc they’re groomed to not have opinions. but spot on with “reality validated by all those around him”—the strong over the weak, as a sign of status and power. it’s all the same.

‘You’re right, I can’t fight my way in.’ From the beginning he had been a tool, a weapon to be used against Laurent. The Regent had used him to hurt, to unsettle, to shake Laurent’s control; and finally, to destroy him. ‘I know what I have to do,’ he said.

damen is going to play this veretian game of mock trial and win

He expected to be challenged at the outer gates by soldiers warned and wary, on the lookout for him. But perhaps they were on the lookout for Damianos, the arrogant young King at the head of his army, not a single man in an old worn cloak, a hood that came down over his face, and sleeves to hide his arms. No one stopped him.

this entire thing is a long-awaited subversion of damen to be more like laurent. all the things he hated about laurent, claimed not to understand in previous books, he’s now embodying in this plan, because he understands laurent and why he’s developed these mechanisms in the first place. and he can finally see how coming at issues with this sort of deceptive, restrained, and calculated approach can be extremely effective, especially when everyone—including laurent—expects the opposite from him.

laurent, despite everything, does not expect damen to be able to solve this problem. he can’t just throw a sword at it or rip it out of a wall. damen likes it simple. but what laurent doesn’t understand is that damen loves laurent more than he likes it simple, and that means he’s willing to endure complication in order to protect him. something that laurent has gotten very good at doing for others, but wishes for no one to return. it’s a good thing, then, that damen has never done the things laurent has wished for him to do.

And when he turned the first corner, he saw the palace as everyone saw it: disorientingly, from the outside. There, small as specks, were the high open windows and long marble balconies that invited the sea air in during the evening to cool the baking stone. To the east was the long, columned hall and airy upper quarters. To the north, the King’s quarters, and the high-walled gardens, with their shallow steps and winding paths and the myrtle trees planted for his mother. Memory was sudden; long days training on the sawdust, evenings in the hall, his father presiding from the throne, himself walking those marble halls with surety and unconcern, an unreal former self, who spent evenings in the great hall laughing with friends, being served as he wished by slaves.

he is finally approaching his home as a man and not a king, and understanding how the privilege he’s always felt was an entitlement resting on the backs of people subjugated to maintain it

A yapping dog cut across his path. A woman with a parcel under her arm jostled him, then shouted at him in southern dialect to watch where he was going.

dogs don’t care that you’re the prince. an oblivious random person running an errand doesn’t care that you’re the prince. no wonder laurent mainly has gotten along with animals and oblivious random people in these books. both damen and laurent have been held captive by their own roles as people in power, and they can free each other by unifying the kingdoms and changing what being a person in power MEANS.

He kept walking. He passed the outer homes, with their small windows of differently sized rectangles and squares. He passed the outer storehouses, the granaries, a stone revolving on a millbase, pushed by oxen. He passed the shouts of a dozen market stalls that were all selling fish, pulled from the ocean in the pre-dawn. He passed the traitor’s walk, thick with flies. He scanned the tops of the spikes, but the dead were all dark-haired. A burst of a cavalcade came trotting out on horses. He stepped to the side; they trotted past him, red-cloaked and regimented, without a second glance. It was all uphill in the city, because the palace was built on the peak, with the sea at its back. He realised as he walked that he had never done this on foot before. When he reached the palace square, a feeling of disorientation came over him again, because he only knew the square from the opposite angle: as a view from the white balcony, where his father used to emerge sometimes to raise a hand and address the crowd.

after a lifetime of limiting his own perspective to maintain systems of power and his illusion of personal peace, damen finally watches the road. and the palace—literally held above the rest of akielos to be his home as rightful king—doesn’t feel like home anymore.

‘Halt,’ said the guard. ‘State your business, traveller.’ He waited, until he had the eyes of everyone near the gate on him, then he let the hood of his cloak fall back. He heard the shocked murmurs, the outbreak of sound as he spoke, his words, clear and unmistakable. ‘I am Damianos of Akielos, and I surrender to my brother.’

starting out the laurentian problem solving speedrun by literally doing what laurent did with the regent (kastor is thematically damen’s regent). honestly genius, both on damen’s part and pacat’s.

If it worked, if he was in time—how long could a trial last? How long could Laurent stall for time?

damen assuming that laurent would even bother to stall… i don’t think that’s how laurent works, given his internal narrative during the torture scene. in that scene, he persisted because he knew that the survival and victory of people he cared about hinged on his survival. in this scene, laurent believes that the survival and victory of people he cares about hinges on his death, so it’s pointless to put up a fight. (“objection!” says damen)

He needed them to take him into the hall to face Kastor. He had given up his freedom for that single chance, gambling everything.

kastor, who had made damen a slave in the first place. damen understands the exact kind of cruelty kastor is capable of, his overwhelming desire to make himself the stronger man over damen. he finally accepts that this cruelty and victimhood exist because he saw it in the regent and laurent. even if he’s unwilling to admit it about kastor and himself, he knows. and that’s why he came up with this plan in the first place.

He sat under guard on one of the low seats and didn’t scream in frustration, as time passed, and then more time.

classic damen understatement <3

One was an officer. Another carried irons. He stopped dead when he saw Damen. ‘Cuff him,’ said the officer.

buddy i think there’s one in the way

The soldier holding the irons didn’t move, his wide eyes staring at Damen. ‘Do it,’ came the order. ‘Do it, soldier,’ said Damen.

this is a big moment, i think, relating to the “honor in submission” theme. the intentional appearance of submission in order for damen to reclaim his power. i said this maaaany annotations ago, but damen and laurent’s experiences with trauma in these books are on different timelines. laurent is nursing years of trauma, and knows how to use the appearance of his victimhood to his own advantage. but damen’s trauma is extremely fresh, and thus far he’s only been able to deny it, become disoriented by it, or lose himself in it. but now, almost like an echo of a younger laurent biding his time and committing to the bit in the regent’s court, damen is figuring out how to let his trauma work for HIM.

This was a complex political proposition for the soldiers.

i guess they like it simple (i'm never letting that line go)

The first person to recognise him was a household official carrying a vase which smashed, dropping from his hands.

okay, dramatic.

A slave, caught in a crisis of etiquette, fell half to his knees and then stopped, agonisingly uncertain whether he should complete his prostration.

i adore this subtle moment of a slave seeing royalty in a position like theirs and reconsidering whether they actually need to kneel in the first place

And there wasn’t one throne on the dais, there were two. Kastor and the Regent sat side by side, presiding over the hall.

wrong unification!

It was strange—he had waited for so long to face Kastor, and now he found him simply extraneous. The Regent was the sole intrusion, the sole threat. Kastor looked satisfied. He didn’t see the danger. He didn’t understand what he had let into Akielos.

of course, damen still can’t Notice everything quite yet. but he’ll get it eventually

Alive, alive, Laurent was alive. Damen’s heart leapt, and for a moment he just stood and drank the sight in, giddy with relief.

how far we’ve come :’)

He was still wearing the short Akielon chiton that he had worn to the Kingsmeet, but it was dirty and ripped. Skimpy and showing the signs of rough wear, it was a humiliating garment for him to stand in before the Council.

obvious, but this is a foil to his veretian clothing which signified confidence and invulnerability

Like Damen, he had his hands chained behind his back.

are they both double-cuffed on one wrist

The physical act of standing for hours in irons must be taking its toll, the sheer ache of muscle exhaustion, the rough treatment, and the examination itself, the Regent’s questions, and Laurent’s steady, determined answers.

i think damen’s projecting here. when he was in this position, he had given steady determined answers. he had experienced and withstood exhaustion rough treatment and examination. the sympathy he feels towards laurent at this moment is really sympathy he hasn’t been able to fully give himself, because he has always been unable and unwilling to truly accept himself as a victim.

But he wore the clothes and the chains with disregard, his posture, as ever, coolly untouchable. His expression could not be read, except for, if you knew him, the courage that he sustained though he was alone, and tired, and without friends, and he must know that it was close to the end.

but this is how laurent differs from how damen perceives himself, in this position. laurent’s pride means nothing to him, as long as his submission means that the people he cares for are saved. damen’s pride means everything to him, and i think even now he’d say so. but the thing is, that we saw how damen was just as willing to lower himself to protect the akielion slaves in book 1. damen is so fascinating as a narrator because he does not understand himself at all, but we as the reader can understand him perfectly based on the things he chooses to acknowledge or ignore. frustrating to read at times, but the exact narrator this series needs. these books would not work nearly as well with laurent as full-time narrator.

It was clear from the open look of horrified recognition on Laurent’s face that he had not expected Damen—that he had not expected anyone.

laurent’s not stalling, the regent is dragging this out to torture him

On the dais, Kastor made a small gesture to the Regent, as if to say, You see? I have had him brought for you.

the only thing kastor can actually get credit for doing independently in this entire series was making damen a slave and sending him to vere, and i’m pretty sure that was jokaste’s idea in the first place

(edit from future sam: i know he also killed the king. it comes up later)

‘No,’ said Laurent, swinging his gaze back to his uncle. ‘You promised.’

laurent immediately assumes that the regent somehow made this happen, rather than damen doing it of his own free will. ow.

‘This is Damianos of Akielos. He was captured at the gates this morning. He’s the man responsible for the death of King Theomedes, and for my nephew’s treason. He is my nephew’s lover.’

of course the regent (and kastor) took advantage of damen’s “weakness” and spun it to make themselves look powerful, which puts damen in the perfect place to turn the tables. damen didn’t even really intend for this to happen, consciously i think he surrendered out of desperation more than any rational plan, but SUBconsciously this was literally the perfect move. and we’re about to see damen slowly realize this, and pick up steam as he figures out exactly how he can leverage and subvert this perceived weakness to get what he wants. just like laurent!!!

He had not been brought here to face Kastor or to answer for their father’s death. He had been brought here as a final piece of evidence in Laurent’s trial.

the first time the regent used a captive damen against laurent, damen refused to play along. this was an unexpected response by both the regent and laurent, and it bought d&l necessary time to become stronger in each other’s company.

now, the regent is once again using a captive damen against laurent. but this time, damen decides to play the game too. his willing cooperation in the trial the regent has created is within itself unexpected defiance, and that’s why we love damianos of akielos both as a person and as a really fucking well-written character. he has grown and changed in so many satisfying ways throughout the series, but the defining strengths of his character—willful and defiant integrity—have always been consistent. “i speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart.” = “i’ll cooperate in the trial you’ve rigged to your own advantage, and i’ll win.”

Mathe gestured to Damen. ‘Now we see the proof of all these claims. Damianos, the prince-killer, is here, giving the lie to all the Prince has been saying—proving once and for all that they are in league. Our Prince lies in the depraved embrace of his brother’s killer.’

sounds like mathe didn’t put in the effort and/or critical thinking to properly understand the captive prince series by cs pacat

He was suddenly an exhibit, a kind of proof none of them had imagined: Damianos of Akielos, captured and bound.

full circle babyyyy

‘Nephew, Damianos is restrained. You can speak honestly. You are safe from harm.’ Laurent weathered the slow, caring touch, as the Regent said, gently, ‘Is there some explanation? Perhaps you were not willing? Perhaps he forced you?’ Laurent’s eyes met his uncle’s. Laurent’s chest rose and fell shallowly under the thin white fabric of the chiton. ‘He didn’t force me,’ said Laurent. ‘I lay with him because I wanted to.’

BIG LAURENT MOMENT!!!! “i am not a victim! i did this by choice because i wanted to do it, and i will not lie even if the truth makes me look weak!”

we can see exactly how damen has influenced laurent in this moment. there is no strategic advantage to being honest or blunt here. in fact it invites the very things laurent fears—perceived weakness, shame, uncertainty. the regent is giving him a chance to perhaps save himself, by blaming damen and seeing him punished instead—an option laurent did not think was previously available to him. but laurent does not consider this for a second, and instead does the exact opposite of what his uncle truly wants and expects him to do: he KEEPS IT SIMPLE. laurent cooperates with the image the regent is creating of him, and both we and laurent know that IS defiance. because for maybe the first time ever, laurent knows without a doubt that the image the regent portrays of him isn’t fucking true. he knows that with damen, unlike the regent, he wasn’t a victim. he was willing, he was not forced, and unlike his early stunts in vere, he is not allowing the implication that damen assaulted him to stand. he isn’t hiding or lying or restraining himself. he's not using the way people perceive him as weak to his advantage. laurent has committed to many bits in his life, and when convenient those bits have been some complicated semblance of reality. but this is the first time that laurent simply commits to the TRUTH.

(i love this scene so much. it’s all synthesized so well. it’s a perfect demonstration of how damen and laurent have have changed themselves and each other for the better. i have complaints about this book more than the others, but the trial is fantastic.)

Damen could feel it: in a day’s worth of questioning, this was the first admission.

THAT’S WHAT I JUST SAID!!

‘You don’t have to lie for him, Laurent,’ said the Regent. ‘You can tell the truth.’

even if laurent doesn’t know it yet, he isn’t just doing this for damen—he’s doing it for himself!

‘I don’t lie. We lay together,’ said Laurent, ‘at my behest. I ordered him to my bed. Damianos is innocent of all the charges brought against me. He suffered my company only under force. He is a good man, who has never acted against his own country.’

the self loathing runs deep but still this is a laurent w!!!! the truth is that he hates himself, but at least he’s owning it, and specifying that his self-hatred has fuckall to do with the dumb bullshit the regent is accusing him of. all while being a better version of himself, defending damen in a situation where he had perviously maligned him, which he would not have grown enough to do without damen’s company!!!

‘And what am I accused of? That I have lain with Laurent of Vere?’ Damen’s eyes raked the Council. ‘I have. I found him honest and true. He stands before you wrongly accused. And if this is a fair trial, you will hear me.’

perfect. he knows it isn’t a fair trial, just as he knew it wasn’t fair for him to be punished instead of the regent at the kings meet, just as he now understands that the slavery system in akielos is neither fair nor just. the “good vs nice” theme has finished marinating, and now damen is using the false niceties of his society to do good, basically calling the regent and kastor’s bluff. “IF this is a fair trial, you will hear me.” = “in order for you to maintain the power you’ve been given by the system, you will have to let me to use the system to challenge your power”

‘You will hear me,’ said Damen. ‘You will hear me, and if when you have heard me you still find him guilty, then I will meet my fate alongside him. Or does the Council fear the truth?’

this is his true calling. let’s be so fucking real. i’ve never even jokingly called damen a himbo for a reason, and that reason is that he’s extremely good at thinking critically and constructing compelling arguments if he just lets himself acknowledge reality.

The Regent said, ‘By all means, speak.’ It was a challenge. To have Laurent’s lover in his power pleased the Regent, as a demonstration of his larger power. Damen could feel that. The Regent wanted Damen to entangle himself, wanted a victory over Laurent that was total. Damen drew in a breath. He knew the stakes. He knew that if he failed, he would die alongside Laurent, and the Regent would rule in Vere and in Akielos. He would have given over his life and his kingdom. He looked around at the columned hall. It was his home, his birthright, and his legacy, more precious to him than anything. And Laurent had given him the means to secure it. At the Kingsmeet he could have left Laurent to his fate and ridden back to Karthas and his army. He was undefeated on the field, and not even the Regent would have been able to stand against him. Even now, all he had to do was denounce Laurent and he could face Kastor with a real chance of taking back his throne.

every time damen has had a moment like this, his integrity and honor have prevailed. even when he HATED laurent and would have benefited directly from his assassination, he had intervened because he thought it was a dishonorable attempt on laurent’s life. and then he’d left against his own instincts, because he did not respect or know laurent and laurent did not respect or know him. in book 2 he had many moments like this, and had all but admitted to himself that he was not willing or able to take them. even when they were divorced in the first part of this book, when laurent was actively antagonizing him out of spite, damen never let nikandros or anyone else intervene.

now, after everything they’ve been though? this isn’t even a fucking question. if it’s damen we’re talking about, when it really comes down to this question, it never really has been.

But he had asked himself the question in Ravenel, and now he knew the answer. A kingdom, or this.

committing to the bit, once and for all.

‘I met the Prince in Vere. I thought as you did. I didn’t know his heart.’ It was Laurent who said, ‘No.’ ‘I came to learn it slowly.’ ‘Damen, don’t do this.’ ‘I came to learn his honesty, his integrity, his strength of mind.’ ‘Damen—’ Of course Laurent wanted everything done his own way. But today it was going to be different.

their conflict is their love!!!!!!!! they challenge each other to be better, and the world becomes a better place because of it!!!!!!!!

‘I was a fool, blinded by prejudice. I didn’t understand that he was fighting alone, that he had been fighting alone for a very long time. ‘And then I saw the men he commanded, disciplined and loyal. I saw the way his household loved him, because he knew their concerns, cared for their lives. I saw him protect slaves. ‘And when I left him, drugged and without friends after an attack on his life, I saw him stand up in front of his uncle and argue to save my life because he felt he owed me a debt. ‘He knew that it might cost him his life. He knew he’d be sent to the border, to ride into the very same plot to kill him. And he still argued for me. He did it because it was owed, because in the very private code with which he ran his life, it was right.’ He looked at Laurent, and he understood now what he had not understood then: that Laurent had known who he was that night.

you should try re-reading the series damen, it’s craaaaaazy when you know the twist

Laurent had known who he was and had still protected him, out of a sense of fairness that had somehow survived what had happened to him.

damen and laurent have different traumas, but this description applies to both of them perfectly. from the moment they met each other, they were no longer suffering alone. even if they hated that fact sooooo bad.

‘That is the man you face. He has more honour and integrity than any man I have ever met. He is dedicated to his people and his country. And I am proud to have been his lover.’

Damen said it with his eyes on Laurent, willing him to know how much he meant it, and for a moment Laurent just gazed back at him, his eyes blue and wide.

just had to get a “he gazed” in there. wouldn’t be lamen without it

The Regent’s voice interrupted. ‘A heartfelt declaration is not evidence. I am afraid to say that there is nothing here to change the Council’s decision. You offered no proof, only accusations of an unlikely plot against Laurent, with no hint as to who the architect of it might be.’ ‘You are the architect,’ said Damen, lifting his eyes to the Regent, ‘and I do have proof.’

LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOO!!!!!

‘I call Guion of Fortaine to speak.’

obsessed with how damen just immediately launched into defense attorney mode. did he do like mock trial as a teenager.

‘Very well,’ the Regent said, leaning back in his seat and gesturing to the Council. Then they had to wait, while runners were sent to the place on the outskirts of the city where Damen had told his men to camp. The Councillors got to sit down, and so did the Regent and Kastor. Lucky them.

oh that “lucky them” is so telling. damen is PISSED. we know this because he’s usually the king of understatement and underreaction in his narration, but is being salty about this minor inconvenience. imagine how he’s going to be with the the regent, if inconvenience gets such a reaction

Not only Guion, but all the members of Damen’s party: Guion’s wife, Loyse, looking white-faced, the physician Paschal, Nikandros and his men, even Jord and Lazar. It meant something to Damen that he had given each of them the option to leave, and they had chosen to stay with him. He knew what they risked. Their loyalty touched him.

except you, guion.

He knew that Laurent didn’t like it. Laurent wanted to do everything alone. But it wasn’t going to be like that.

lamen truly is the love story for me. it’s not enough for a romantic interest to be like “you’re not alone uwu <3” with such gentle softness that their partner finally believes it. it’s gotta be like “i’m not going to let you believe that you’re alone just so you can reinforce your own self-protective/destructive trauma responses. you’re loved, i brought receipts, deal with it” to truly hit

(which is interesting, esp with the series’s themes of coercion and free will! in a lot of ways it is a relief for someone to ignore your protests and boundaries, when they truly do mean well and want to help you and know what’s good for you. it’s just that most people who are forceful and coercive don’t have those intentions, or don’t actually know what they’re talking about. but this is a rare but earned moment where we know that damen is right, that laurent’s beliefs about himself should be challenged, and that they both will be better for it. they’ve always challenged each other in many ways, and throughout the series they’ve been making their way to being truly balanced in terms of power dynamics. laurent knew that damen had killed his brother the whole time he was antagonizing damen, but they still weren’t on even footing. damen eventually learned the truth about laurent’s awareness of his identity, but they still weren’t on even footing until they actually dealt with the baggage involved. in that one sex scene where damen took total control, i commented on how it felt like laurent wasn’t really letting himself be present, and damen lost himself in something that wasn’t there. but then in the following sex scene, laurent made SURE to be present. it's always been slightly uneven with them, up to the point where laurent freed jokaste and gave himself up to the regent. he's always had a lie of some kind to hide himself behind, to isolate himself with. but not now. he's not alone, and damen is not going to let laurent tell himself that he is. damen pushes past laurent's boundaries and within this narrative it's a good thing, and that is a huge part of the fantasy of captive prince and lamen's relationship. because we know that damen truly loves and cares for laurent and is doing this for his sake, and the core of their relationship is willingly challenging each other and allowing themselves to be challenged.)

Mathe resumed his role as questioner as the spectators craned their necks, disliking the columns because they obstructed the view.

‘Laurent of Vere is guilty of every charge brought against him,’ said Guion.

raise your hand if you’re surprised. nobody but damen should have a hand raised rn

‘You swore to tell the truth,’ said Damen. No one was listening to him.

two steps forward one step back with damen thinking the best of people who don’t deserve it. although i guess that’s what made lamen possible, because most people would not have reconsidered laurent after the shit he pulled in book 1. i say again, this series would not work with a non-damen protagonist

‘He tried to coerce me to lie for him. He threatened to kill me. He threatened to kill my wife. He threatened to kill my sons. He slaughtered his own people at Ravenel. I would vote him guilty myself, if I were still a member of the Council.’

guion you got your son killed, after inviting the regent to [redacted] him. sit down.

It had a symbolic power, the six of them standing on one side of the hall, and Laurent—in his thin, tattered Akielon clothing held in the grip of his uncle’s soldiers—on the other. Laurent spoke. ‘No final advice? No uncle’s kiss of affection?’ ‘You had so much promise, Laurent,’ said the Regent. ‘I regret what you became more than you do.’ ‘You mean that I’m on your conscience?’ said Laurent. ‘It hurts me,’ said the Regent, ‘that you feel such animosity towards me, even now. That you tried to undermine me with accusations, when I have only ever wanted the best for you.’ He spoke in a saddened voice. ‘You should have known better than to bring Guion to testify against me.’ Laurent met the Regent’s eyes, standing alone before the Council. ‘But uncle,’ said Laurent, ‘Guion isn’t who I brought.’

it’s like we’re in book 1 again. ahem. laurent: have you had your fun? don’t you want to taunt me one more time? regent: you already hate yourself more than i ever could. if you had just submitted to me, things would be better for us both. laurent: you’re the reason i hate myself. you did this to me. regent: if you understand the power i have over you, you really should have known better than to fight against me alone. laurent: i’m not fighting alone.

as always, i don’t remember exactly how much of this has been intentional on laurent’s part. had he counted on damen bringing loyse? i don’t think so, right? he really had meant to die, but now that the game has changed (damen is here, he’s brought the squad) laurent is back to planning, and has been since the moment their involvement was accepted. he even had time to think it through, which is like the most dangerous resource to give laurent!

‘He brought me,’ said Guion’s wife Loyse, stepping forward.

fucking GENIUS on cs pacat’s part. i wrote a long post months ago about women in capri, but like the gist of it was that there are normal rational compassionate people, women and otherwise, in this world, but we just haven’t gotten to be around them. because most of the people in power, and therefore the ones featured most prominently, are corrupt out-of-touch assholes. and the members of this series’s cast who don’t fall under this description exist to supplement damen and laurent’s insane dynamic. so it is genius to pull in this seemingly insignificant grieving woman whose motivations and emotions are simple, raw, understandable, and thematically linked to laurent and damen’s experiences with the regent as the person who ultimate seals the textually misogynistic regent’s fate. it’s not just about gender, or even primarily about gender—it’s about empowering the disempowered.

‘I have something to say. It’s about my husband, and this man, the Regent, who has brought my family into ruin, and who ended the life of my youngest son, Aimeric.’

YES.

‘Loyse, what are you doing?’ said Guion, as all of the hall’s attention riveted on Loyse. She paid him no attention, but continued to walk forward until she stood alongside Damen, addressing her words to the Counci

YEESSSSSS!

‘In the year after Marlas, the Regent visited my family in Fortaine,’ said Loyse. ‘And my husband, who is ambitious, gave him leave to enter the bedroom of our youngest son.’

the amount of contempt in “my husband, who is ambitious”…

Guion was looking from Loyse to the Council, and he gave a laugh, braying and too loud. ‘You can’t be giving credence to any of this.’

a foil to damen and laurent in this setting. immediately dismissing the testimony of his partner in favor of his own pride and status. stay classy, guion

No one answered, the silence uncomfortable. Councillor Chelaut’s gaze shifted for a moment to the young boy sitting beside the Regent, his fingers sticky with powdered sugar from the sweetmeats.

the poetic irony of this normalized part of the regent’s court turning the court against him when viewed in a new light, or just called out at all, especially by a woman whose son he abused!!!

‘I know that no one here cares about Aimeric,’ said Loyse. ‘No one cares that he killed himself at Ravenel because he couldn’t live with what he had done.'

parallel to damen defending laurent, except she does think he was alone. which is so deeply sad, and pretty much true.

‘So let me tell you instead about what Aimeric died for—a plot between the Regent and Kastor to kill King Theomedes and then to take his country.’

the truth is terrible, but it also empowers loyse to enact change. things can’t be better until we see them for what they really are. i’d say that’s a major series theme when it comes to relationships and politics.

‘These are lies,’ Kastor said in Akielon, and then he said it again in thickly accented Veretian. ‘Arrest her.’

seems like damen speaks better veretian than kastor, if kastor’s is deeply accented. kastor stays losing!

It was plain from Kastor’s face that he had realised for the first time that he was not in control of the hall.

shifts of power truly are the powerhouse of the captive prince series. both in a narrative way and a horny way

‘Arrest me, but not before you’ve seen the proof.’ Loyse was pulling a ring on a chain from her gown; it was a signet ring, ruby or garnet, and on it was the royal crest of Vere. ‘My husband brokered the deal. Kastor assassinated his own father in exchange for the Veretian troops you see here today. The troops he needed to take Ios.’

i’m going to be so real, it’s been months since i read prince’s gambit, but i’m pretty sure the signet ring was foreshadowed. which… holy shit. laurent hadn’t expected all the damen stuff to happen, but i’m pretty sure he had been priming this piece of ammo against the regent the entire time. he’d just thought that he’d lost the opportunity to use it when giving himself up, or had given up sooner than that. or had he only learned this from loyse after aimeric’s death?? idk maybe the book will tell me now. i hope it does bc i do not feel like digging back for foreshadowing i’ve been doing this for hours

wait no FUCK the ring was for nikandros!!! right???? yes it has to be. it couldn’t have been both things at once, and loyse telling laurent only makes sense after aimeric’s death. so yes the signet was foreshadowed, but it was a different use of it. although i guess the existence of a signet ring holding significance was foreshadowed partially so it would work again here.

‘She’s not a traitor. She’s just confused. She’s been deceived, and coached, she’s been upset since Aimeric died. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s being manipulated by these people.’

“she doesn’t know what she’s doing. she’s being forced. she’s a victim, because we’ve made her a victim.” FUCK NO!!! we’re not doing that anymore!!!!

Herode and Chelaut wore expressions of repressed distaste, even revulsion. Damen saw suddenly that the obscene youth of the Regent’s lovers had always been repellent to these men, and the idea that the son of a councillor had been used in this way was disturbing to them beyond measure.

could have been way more disturbing way sooner, but better late than never ig

But they were political men, and the Regent was their master.

POWER SHIFTS! POWER RESTING ON THE SUBJUGATED CAN BE TOPPLED AT ITS FOUNDATIONS!

He was right, Damen realised. Laurent hadn’t brought Loyse to clear his own name, but to clear Damen’s. There was no proof that would clear Laurent’s name. The Regent had been too thorough. The palace assassins were dead. The assassins from the road were dead. Even Govart was dead, cursing boy pets and physicians.

maybe. just maybe. you both are good and both deserve to be happy. at the same time. your names can both be cleared. we are so close.

“boy pets and physicians” ironically the two things that end up getting the regent convicted

They were connected in some way. He was suddenly sure of it. Whatever Govart had known, Nicaise had known it too, and the Regent had killed him for it. And that meant— Damen was pushing himself up abruptly.

i LOVE how damen pieces this together. it wasn’t a laurent machination, the laurent machination had been to save damen alone. but damen said “no, laurent needs to be saved too.” and figures out a convoluted thing that even laurent hadn’t clocked, which just happens to involve nicaise, who deserved better, just like laurent deserves better, just like everyone under the regent’s power deserves better, except guion.

‘No,’ said Paschal. ‘He died because of this.’ He took from the folds of his clothes a bundle of papers, tied with string.

does he always just like carry that around?? i guess it makes sense if it’s like dangerously sensitive information, and also from his dead brother

‘The last words of my brother, the archer Langren, carried by the soldier called Govart, and stolen by the Regent’s pet, Nicaise, who was killed for it. This is the testimony of the dead.’

okay yeah he kept it on him bc it got stolen once and the person who stole it got killed about it. that tracks. also tracks why he hadn’t spoken up sooner.

‘I am Paschal, a palace physician. And I have a story to tell about Marlas.'

LOVE how it’s marlas

‘Diplomacy failed. The talks fell through. Theomedes wanted land, not peace. He sent away the Veretian emissaries without hearing them.'

not surprised

For the first time, he wondered what had happened behind Veretian lines to cause it. He thought of a King convinced it was the best way of protecting his people.

love this subtle damen character development moment

‘Instead, Veretians fell. I was nearby when the word came that Auguste was dead. In grief, the King pulled off his helm. He was careless. I think in his mind, he had no reason left to be careful.’

so the regent was the reason both auguste and the king died. they went out there on bad advice because they were desperate to protect their people. and damen thought they were cowards, and believed that his killing of auguste was honorable and fair.

damn.

He began to untie the string, drawing it away and opening the papers. They were covered in writing. ‘Nicaise gave it to me for safekeeping. He had stolen it from Govart, and he was scared. I opened it, never expecting what I would find. In fact, the letter was to me, though Nicaise didn’t know it. It was a confession, in my brother’s handwriting.’

i’m glad that nicaise has a part in this, even if he isn’t here to see it.

And then Damen looked at Laurent. Laurent’s face was completely devoid of colour. It was not an idea that Laurent had entertained before, that much was clear. Laurent had his own blind spot when it came to his uncle. I didn’t think he’d really try to kill me. After everything . . . even after everything.

just like his father and brother—a bleeding heart. but that gives him power, just as much as it makes him vulnerable. all of the people rallying around him, dead and alive, are proof of that.

Damen thought of his father struggling to breathe in his sickbed

it’s so funny to know that yet another Thing kastor did was someone else’s idea first. come on, dude.

‘You can’t believe this? The lies of a physician and a boy whore?’ Guion’s voice was jarring in the silence. Damen looked to the Council, where the oldest of the Councillors, Herode, was looking up from the papers. ‘Nicaise had more nobility in him than you,’ said Herode. ‘He was more loyal to the Crown than the Council, in the end.’

‘The Council has been deceived into treason,’ said the Regent, calmly. ‘Take them.’ There was a pause, in which his order ought to have been followed, but wasn’t. The Regent turned. The hall was thick with his soldiers, the Regent’s Guard, trained to his orders, and brought here to do his bidding. None of them moved. In the strange silence, a soldier stepped forward. ‘You’re not my King,’ he said. Pulling the Regent’s insignia from his shoulder, he dropped it at the Regent’s feet.

this is the most devastating defeat possible for the regent. for reasons i think i’ve already explained.

Then he crossed the hall as the Council had done, to stand beside Laurent.

okay actually THIS is the most devastating defeat for the regent. lol

His movement was the first drop that became a trickle, then a flow, as another soldier pulled his insignia from his shoulder and crossed, and another, and another, until the hall was loud with the sound of armoured feet, the hail of badges hitting the ground. Like the tide drawing away from a rock, the Veretians crossed the hall, until the Regent stood alone. And Laurent stood facing him, with an army at his back.

‘Herode,’ said the Regent. ‘This is the boy who has shirked his duties, who has never worked for anything in his life, who is in every way unfit to rule the country.’ Herode said, ‘He is our King.’ ‘He’s not a king. He’s no more than a—’ ‘You’ve lost.’ Laurent’s calm words cut across his uncle’s. He stood free. His uncle’s soldiers had released him, striking the irons from his wrists. Across from him, the Regent stood exposed, a middle-aged man used to commanding public spectacle, now with it turned against him.

He took the black square of cloth from the slave who had carried it, and placed it over the head of the sceptre. ‘This is absurd,’ said the Regent.

“from the slave who had carried it”

‘You think you can defy me?’ the Regent said to Laurent. ‘You think you can rule Vere? You?’ Laurent said, ‘I’m not a boy anymore.’

And he saw that Laurent understood, that Laurent knew, somehow, about the scrap of paper that Damen had found that morning in the empty wagon in their camp, its door standing open. That he had carried it in careful fingers on the long walk to the city. The child was never yours, but he is safe. In another life, he would have been a king.   I remember the way you looked at me, the day we met. Perhaps that, too, in another life.   Jokaste

okay uh sure. cool. wasn’t really worried about that with everything else going on but good to know i guess. anyway

(i'm still murky on how much of this laurent had anticipated, vs what damen thinks laurent anticipated because damen thinks laurent knows everything, vs what neither of them anticipated. it's fine.)

‘What’s happening?’ said a young voice. Damen turned. The eleven-year-old boy who had been sitting beside the Regent’s throne had pushed up out of his chair and was staring, confusion in his wide brown eyes. ‘What’s happening? You said we’d go riding after. I don’t understand.’ He was trying now to go to the soldiers who were holding the Regent down. ‘Stop it, you’re hurting him. You’re hurting him. Let him go.’ A soldier was holding him back, and the boy was fighting him.

fuuuuuuuck. breaking the cycle, but still. breaking.

Laurent looked at the boy, and in his eyes was the knowledge that some things couldn’t be fixed.

nicaise. closure, self-forgiveness, grief as fuel for a better future. sad and real and finished.

He said, ‘Get that boy out of here.’

the most merciful thing laurent could do: protect the boy from seeing this

It was a single clean stroke. Laurent’s face didn’t change.

interesting to compare this to nicaise’s beheading. “damen saw laurent react, then make himself not react.”

i find this to be a very satisfying way for the regent to die: killed by a coalition of the people he had crushed on his way to power, by the same means he had used to kill nicaise. and for once, laurent did not have to get his own hands dirty to see justice done.

‘Put his body on the gates. Fly my flag on the walls. Let all my people know of my ascension.’ He lifted his eyes, and met Damen’s gaze across the length of the hall. ‘And unchain the King of Akielos.’

sounds like the kings have risinged

‘You came,’ said Laurent. ‘You knew I would,’ said Damen.

... but did he, though? maybe he thought you'd come to defeat kastor, but i don't think laurent thought he (laurent) was going to survive this.

‘If you need an army to take your capital,’ said Laurent, ‘I seem to have one.’

yeah laurent does not agree. damen you’re still maybe a little off the mark here, but that’s okay, it’s good to encourage laurent to value himself and trust in his community. i just hope that your idealistic misjudgments of character don’t end up getting you stabbed in the next chapter when you expect your murderous brother to act honorably

Even men fighting for their lives could not overcome a lifetime of observance and directly strike against their Prince. He had a clear path.

i really like how this chapter is placed after the very optimistic and empowering trial sequence. because there is still so much cynicism to the monarchy, to these systems of power, to people like kastor who don’t take chances that are given to them, and those things can still cause harm. they can especially endanger people like damen, whose greatest strength and weakness is his stubborn determination to live in a world that is good. and where laurent benefitted from learning from damen in the last sequence, and his cynicism was ultimately proven wrong, damen is proven wrong in this one. kastor does try to kill him when he shows mercy, the system is still being observed in ways that resemble the past. but damen isn’t alone, and laurent is there for him when he miscalculates—unlike jokaste or any of his other allies when kastor stripped him of his dignity and sent him to vere as a slave. and together they’re going to do their best to change the world for the better, even though the world is complicated and sometimes cynical. that, to me, is the most empowering way this story could possibly end.

He turned left. Instead of heading towards the main doors, he made his way to the viewing hall, where slaves were displayed for their royal masters. He turned into the narrow corridors along which he’d been taken on that long ago night, the fighting becoming distant shouts and clangs behind him, the sounds growing muffled as he ran. And from there, he descended down into the slave baths.

the trauma speedrun…

His body reacted, his chest constricting, his pulse kicking hard. For a moment, he was hanging suspended from those chains again, and Jokaste was coming towards him across the marble.

damen ptsd hasn’t magically healed. fits well with previous annotation about this final scene and why it works

All he could do was wait for Kastor to appear at the top of the stairs. Damen stood, his sword in his hands, and tried not to feel small, like a younger brother.

stronger man on top, etc

Kastor came in alone, without even an honour guard. When he saw Damen, he gave a low laugh, as though Damen’s presence satisfied in him some sense of the inevitable.

kastor: disney villain damen: he can’t be that bad

He thought of everything that Kastor had done—the long, slow poisoning of their father, the massacre of his household, the brutality of his own enslavement—and he tried to understand that these things had not been done by another person, but by this one, his brother. But when he looked at Kastor all he could remember was that Kastor had taught him how to hold a spear, that he had sat with him when his first pony had broken its leg and had to be put down, that after his first okton Kastor had ruffled his hair and told him that he had done well.

see previous recent annotations about damen seeing the best in people being a double edged sword (literally)

Why did you deserve it more than I did? Because you were better at fighting? What does wielding a sword have to do with kingship?’ ‘I would have fought for you,’ said Damen. ‘I would have died for you. I would have been loyal—would have had you by my side.’

i love how damen answers the question without even meaning to answer it. damen is more honorable than kastor not because of his lineage or skills, but because he acts honorably. if kinghood is meant for the honorable (which uhhhh personally i’m not a big fan of royalty stuff bc i think that’s lame but we’re staying within the narrative and kastor’s logic rn), then that is why damen deserves to be king while kastor does not

He made himself stop before he gave voice to the words that he had never let himself speak: I loved you, but you wanted a throne more than you wanted a brother.

a kingdom or this, and kastor chose a kingdom. and didn’t even get it. lol

‘You know I can’t beat you in a fair fight.’

the narrative knows that there is no such thing as a fair fight, but damen fundamentally will always believe that there should be.

‘I didn’t want you made a slave. When the Regent asked for you, I refused. It was Jokaste. She convinced me to send you to Vere.’ ‘Yes,’ said Damen. ‘I’m beginning to understand that she did.’

damen knows that’s a lie, and that the regent happily accepted damen as a slave as a gift from kastor so he could torture laurent. he also knows for a fact now that jokaste had been trying to protect him—from kastor.

I’m your brother.’ Kastor said it, as Damen took another step, and then another. ‘Damen, it’s a terrible thing to kill your own family.’ ‘You’re troubled by what you’ve done? It gives you a moment’s pause?’

kastor going into damage control mode because he thinks damen is going to actually do it. fucking coward

Kastor lifted his head and looked at him, and Damen saw a thousand unspoken words in his brother’s black eyes. ‘Thank you,’ said Kastor, ‘brother.’ And he drew a knife from his belt, and ran it straight through Damen’s unprotected body.

the paradox of a better world, as experienced and perpetuated by damen: have to believe in it for it to exist, but you’re going to experience pain and suffering because of that belief

‘There can’t be two Kings of Akielos.’ Kastor was coming down the steps towards him. ‘You should have stayed a slave in Vere.’

there actually can be two kings, but they’re named damen and laurent. hope that helps.

A shocked, familiar voice to his left. He and Kastor both turned their heads. Laurent was standing in the open archway, white-faced. Laurent must have followed him from the great hall. He was unarmed and still wearing that ridiculous chiton. He needed to tell Laurent to get out, to run, but Laurent was already on his knees beside him. Laurent’s hand was passing over his body. Laurent said, in an oddly detached voice, ‘You have a knife wound. You have to staunch the blood until I can call for a physician. Press here. Like this.’ He lifted Damen’s left hand to press against his stomach.

laurent is here for damen because damen believed in a better world, and tried to see the best in laurent. if he hadn’t done that, he would bleed out and die right now. ultimately it is damen’s way of thinking that prevails, and that’s why he’s our protagonist.

Then he took Damen’s other hand in his own, clasping their fingers together and holding his hand like it was the most important thing in the world. Damen thought that if Laurent was holding his hand, he must be dying.

god they’re so.

There was a snick as Laurent locked Damen’s gold cuff to one of the slave chains scattered over the floor. Damen looked at his newly chained wrist, not comprehending. Then Laurent rose, his hand closing around the hilt of Damen’s sword. ‘He won’t kill you,’ said Laurent. ‘But I will.’

SEE RECENT ANNOTATIONS.

also wow, i am a SUCKER for unfathomably soft treatment of the person a character loves, and then resolute violence towards the people who hurt them. which is like laurent’s whole thing. they’ve both changed, but some things are always going to be the same.

and of course, the continuing use of the cuffs and chains. in the same way that damen didn’t give laurent a choice but to believe that he wasn’t alone, laurent isn’t giving damen a choice but to survive this encounter with kastor.

Kastor had reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m going to kill your lover,’ he said to Damen, ‘and then I’m going to kill you.’ Laurent stood in his way, a slender figure with a sword that was too big for him, and Damen thought of a thirteen-year-old boy with his life about to change, standing on the battlefield with determination in his eyes.

kastor you have no idea how cunty laurent is with a sword

Damen had seen Laurent fight before. He had seen the spare, precise style that he used on the field. He had seen the different, highly intellectual way that he approached a duel. He knew Laurent as an accomplished swordsman, a master even, of his own style. Kastor was better.

okay fine whatever.

Kastor, at thirty-five,

kastor you cannot be acting this way at age thirty fucking five.

Kastor lifted his sword. Damen tugged uselessly on the chain as Kastor advanced. It was like watching a former self, unable to stop his own actions.

damen is SO convinced that kastor is going to win this, because he won in marlas against auguste. and then beat laurent when they fought. buuuuut

And then Kastor attacked, and Damen saw what a lifetime of single-minded dedication had forged in Laurent.

damen is often wrong, especially about laurent. and kastor isn’t damen.

Years of training, of pushing a body never intended for martial pursuits to its limit in hours of ceaseless practice. Laurent knew how to fight a stronger opponent, how to counter a longer reach. He knew the Akielon style—more than that. He knew exact move sets, lines of attack taught to Kastor by the royal trainers that he could not have learned from his own sword masters, but only by watching Damen with meticulous attention as he trained, and cataloguing each movement, preparing for the day that they would fight.

and laurent had LEARNED from damen.

And because Laurent’s life had been dragged from its course, because he was not the sweet, bookish youth he might have been, but instead was hard and dangerous as cut glass, Laurent was going to take on Kastor’s best sword work, and force it back.

laurent, specifically as a character with trauma, means so much to me. sometimes people push back against the idea that trauma makes you stronger, because it’s often used as an apologetic platitude: “you experienced bad things, but it’s okay because you’re stronger.” i disagree with that implication wholeheartedly. but personally, i do think that trauma made me stronger, simply because it forced me to adapt in ways i would not have otherwise figured out. and to me this is a neutral fact, not a tragedy or uplifting platitude. trauma made me stronger, whether i like it or not. the uplifting part, for me, comes in the ways i can use that strength to fight for a better life and a better world. and that feels very close to the ethos of laurent’s character, and the captive prince series as a whole.

It was a simple misjudgement on Laurent’s part: a dip in the marble altered his footing and affected his line, his blade cutting too far to the left. He wouldn’t have misjudged if he hadn’t been tired. The same had been true for Auguste, fighting for hours on the front. His eyes flying to Kastor, Laurent tried to correct the mistake, close the gap into which a man could drive his sword if he was ruthless, and willing to kill. ‘No,’ said Damen, who had lived this, too, jerking hard on his restraints, ignoring the pain in his side as Kastor took the opening, moving with merciless speed to cut Laurent down. Death and life; past and future; Akielos and Vere. Kastor let out a choked sound, his eyes shocked and wide. Because Laurent wasn’t Auguste. And the stumble wasn’t a mistake, it was a feint. Laurent’s sword met Kastor’s, forcing it up, and then, with a neat, minimal motion of the wrist, driving forward into Kastor’s chest.

damen is always going to miss things, about laurent and everything else in the world. this often means he is blindsided in upsetting ways.

but sometimes he misses things like this. and it’s good, once in a while, for him be proven wrong :)

(as i’ve said, that’s the core of lamen. endless power shifts. and i love it.)

Laurent was already turning, already at Damen’s side, on his knees, his hands firm and strong on Damen’s body as though he had never left.

“anyway”

Kastor’s death he felt as the death of a man he had not known, or understood. Losing his brother—that had happened a long time ago, like the loss of another self who had not grasped the flawed nature of the world. Later, he would face that.

“another self who had not grasped the flawed nature of the world” damen if you want to know more about that guy you can read my bazillion annotations of your narration

Later they would lay Kastor out, taking him on the long walk, inter him, where he should be, with their father. Later he would mourn, for the man Kastor was, for the man he might have been, for a hundred different pasts and might-have-beens. Now, Laurent was beside him. Aloof, untouchable Laurent was beside him, kneeling on the wet marble hundreds of miles from home, with nothing in his eyes but Damen. ‘There’s a lot of blood,’ said Laurent. ‘Luckily,’ said Damen, ‘I brought a physician.’

‘I killed your brother.’ ‘I know.’

would have been a useful conversation to have three books ago, but i’m not complaining about what we got instead

Damen said it, and felt a strange empathy pass between them, as if they knew each other for the first time. He looked into Laurent’s eyes and felt himself understood, even as he understood Laurent. They were both orphans now, without family. The symmetry that ruled both their lives had brought them here, at the end of their journey.

okay sorry to criticize right before this wraps up but this paragraph wasn’t necessary

‘It was one kingdom, once.’ Laurent wasn’t looking at him when he said it, and it was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Damen’s waiting ones, and Damen’s breath caught at what he saw there, the odd shyness of it, as though Laurent was asking instead of answering. ‘Yes,’ said Damen, feeling light-headed at the question.

that was literally a marriage proposal, right???

(interesting how we never get “i love you”s. although i think we have gotten many of them, just not in so many words. and those words being what They Are is very specific to our real-life culture and media.)

‘No, don’t move,’ said Laurent, when Damen pushed up onto an elbow, and then, ‘Idiot,’ when Damen kissed him.

i’d be lying if i said this didn’t immediately make me think of catradora

He pushed Damen firmly back. Damen let him. His stomach hurt.

damen bringing us home with one last understatement

It was not a mortal wound, but it was nice to have Laurent fuss over him.

The thought of days of bed rest and physicians was made sweeter by the thought of Laurent alongside him, making barbed remarks in public, and in private, newly tender. He thought, Laurent alongside him for all the span of his days. He lifted his fingers to touch Laurent’s face.

“my husband is a bitch and i love him so much”

‘You know, you’re going to have to unchain me at some point,’ said Damen. Laurent’s hair was soft. ‘I will. At some point. What’s that sound?’

never really letting each other go

He could hear it even in the slave baths, muffled but audible, the sound ringing out from the highest peak, a peal of notes, proclaiming a new king. ‘Bells,’ said Damen.

i know a lot of people really love this conclusion, and while i don’t dislike it, it doesn’t feel like it hits as hard as it could. when exactly have we heard bells before? i just scanned the prologue of book 1 and didn’t see them. i get the themes of kings rising (obviously) and the future, but i’m also wondering if there’s some obvious thing i’m missing that really makes this HIT. like, “he was watching the road” kind of hit. which i’ll be reading too, by the way. so it’s not quite over yet :)

final thoughts: see the past three books of annotations. i’m really happy i did this, and i'm so thankful for everyone who followed along with me. looking forward to the short stories, which i actually haven’t read except for the summer palace. let me know your recommended order, if you want!

[wildemaven]

1000 kisses to you and here's my 2 prompt picks for the drabble thingie: 4 and 15 with Javier

Can't wait to see what it leads to 😘

call me javi | javier peña

pairing: javier peña x reader word count: 651 content warning: mentions of alcohol and cigarettes, dancing, fluff, javier being protective and sweet, I don’t think there’s anything else note: sorry it took me so long to get to this!! I hope this works okay 💕 thanks for sending in your ask and for you support

“You're not as bad as everyone says you are.” You say loudly rather close to his ear, hoping he can hear over the booming music and crowded bar. 

It was a slow week at the embassy, which meant the DEA’s finest had a chance to let loose and enjoy themselves for once. 

Drinks flowing. Bodies grinding in tune with each song the DJ throws out, keeping the energy circulating throughout the small bar you all frequent regularly. 

Tonight would be like any other Friday with your fellow Agents, except this evening you find yourself drawn to one Agent in particular. 

His body has been firmly against yours for the better part of the evening, front and back. Hands holding you close no matter the pace of the song, selfishly worried you might drift away or find yourself in the arms of someone else. 

You lost count at the amount of times his lips brushed over your own ears. His constant need to check in with you had your chest tight and stomach full of fluttering desire. 

There was a small part of you that was feeling he might even like you. More than just a crush born from an evening of close proximity. There was never a thought that he would be, not with all the beautiful women constantly in his arms in all the years you’ve known him. 

With the way his warm brown eyes are so fixated on you says otherwise. His expression exchanged for something a little less brooding and a little more alluring. Hands still finding purchase by any means as you lean against the wall while his body shields you from onlookers. The dimly lit hallway near the back of the bar adds another layer of privacy. 

“Who’s everyone?” Javier’s voice is laced with a nervousness you’ve never heard before. The stoic demeanor he wears regularly now hangs up alongside his worn-in leather jacket. 

There’s a raspiness brought on by the pack of cigarettes he most likely blew through leading up to showing up here, even though he said he had other plans.

“Who do you think?” You smirk playfully at him, your fingers playing with the damp curls at the base of his neck. 

“Steve?” There was no need to even ask, he already knew how protective Steve was, rightfully so. Didn’t mean he still didn’t find his overbearing partner to be a pain in his ass, especially when it came to you. 

You nod in agreement, desperately trying to contain the laughter bubbling up as he huffs out  dramatically, shaking his head. The annoyance doesn’t last long though. The corners of his mouth lifting, revealing one of his best features. His smile makes you instantly weak and it has you prematurely looking forward to being on the receiving end of it forever. 

“Are you going to kiss me, Javier?” The prospect of his lips on you, in any capacity, had been overwhelming your every thought since he saddled up next to you at the beginning of the night.

Watching the way his lips formed every word he spoke. Cradling the edge of his glass on his plush lower lip as he sipped on his dry whiskey. Contorting in such a delicate way with each drag he pulled from his cigarette. 

They’re the softest lips you’ve ever had the pleasure of kissing. Excruciatingly blissful, deliberately encompassing your own, as your brain silently screams for more. 

“Javi.” Javi. It rolls off his tongue like a sweet springtime honey. Each letter electric as he says it, leaving your mouth tingling as it brands itself to your soul. 

“Hmm?” Too consumed by him to form words. 

“You can call me Javi from now on.” There’s a permanence in the way he says it, something you both have to discuss once the hangovers have worn off tomorrow. 

“Kiss me again— Javi.” And he does well into the next morning. 

[johannestevans]

A Clean Pig

Erotic short. DI Phil Hutchinson tries to get in close with the son of a criminal. 

Detective Inspector Phil Hutchinson, following up a last-ditch lead on an anonymous and impossible-to-locate narcotics distributor, attempts to get close enough to surveil her son, a young man called Adrian Gillespie, who uses a wheelchair. He gets closer than he intended, and is rewarded — and punished — as per. 

13.6k, rated E, cis M/trans M. Written for a commission. Both parties are adults (49 & 27) and fully consenting throughout. Contains degradation and humiliation, age gap, dom/sub dynamics with the younger trans man dominating, mild cock & ball torture, sadomasochism, dirty talk, obedience & discipline, self-bukkake, mild drunkenness. 

CWs for mild homophobia and transphobia, mild ableism, referenced drug use, self-esteem & identity issues. Adrian is an ambulatory wheelchair user and also uses a cane and other mobility & assistive devices — note references throughout to his own disability, bodily scarring, and chronic pain, from Phil’s limited POV only. 

Set in London in the 2020s. Set in my Magic Beholden universe, readable completely standalone. Phil Hutchinson is non-magical, but it is implied in several places that Adrian and his family are magical themselves.

Also on Medium / / Also on Patreon / / Also on Ao3.

“The two of us have some time to kill, it seems, whilst my housekeeper gets her pacemaker double-checked. How would you like us to spend that time together, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?”

Phil swallows, his mouth feeling dry, and he stares into Gillespie’s eyes, feeling rooted to the spot, feeling paralysed in some way.

“I’m not gay,” is what he says, which is fucking embarrassing, because he could have said fucking anything, or at least thought about what he was going to say.

“That’s alright,” Gillespie says softly. “Nor am I.”

He leans forward again and Phil automatically closes his eyes, realises he’s bracing himself for what Gillespie is going to taste like, for the taste of whatever allergen-free lip gloss he wears, for whatever he’s been drinking, bubble tea or coffee or whatever else—

---

It’s not that Phil has an issue with queers – he doesn’t.

There’s queers on the force these days, not so much of the lisping, mincing sort he remembers on TV growing up, except maybe behind the desks in the office typing up notes and keeping track of memos and appointments in between looking at drag videos on their phones, but real men who happen to take it up the arse, or give it – not counting the lesbians, who have been halfway openly in the force since they let women join up.

He doesn’t see the point in all this LGBTQRSTUVW shit, doesn’t see what the fuck “inclusion” has to do with anything – it’s all very well hiring a copper who takes it up the bum or wears a dress on his nights off, but it seems the next step is hiring ones with one leg or are blind or whatever fucking else, and he does think a line has to be drawn somewhere – but he doesn’t actually have a problem with queers. He’s put his cock in the mouth of pretty boys happily enough, as much as he has a pretty girl. He wouldn’t consider himself bisexual – he doesn’t really put up with this guff about identity, in general – but he can appreciate a good-looking man. 

No, he wouldn’t want to sit next to a very obvious out gay on the bus, if he ever took the bus, and he doesn’t like touching the ones he’s cuffing, but it’s not because they’re queer, he doesn’t especially like cuffing any man – or woman, for that manner. Criminals are criminals: they’re generally filthy, or sick, or ODed, or something fucking like it. No matter how big a woman’s tits are or how pretty she might usually be, she’s usually less so in the course of an arrest, covered in spit or shit or vomit, sweating her clothes off, shaking, sobbing; the same might be said of a particularly handsome man. Even the finest arse in the world is less appealing when it stinks of piss and cannabis smoke.

He's been through a few of that sort, of recent – they shut down a brothel operating on the westside, all London girls done up with cheap make-up like they were putting it on with fucking cement trowels, what tits they had pushed to the ceiling out of their blouses, in ripped tights and short skirts. Cheap girls – properly cheap girls, stupid and cheap as chips, riddled with any and all diseases, most of them bruised like apples from one man or another, one pimp or another.

Brothels, Phil doesn’t like, and whores he likes even less – it’s difficult to feel sympathy for the stupid bints when they just make the same stupid fucking decisions that bring them back to the same fucking place again and again. There’s always a tragic hooker on TV – these girls are too thick to really be worth extending sympathy toward, although there was at least one enterprising member of the bunch.

Cheryl has zipped off now with her cash in the bag, but apparently she was not selling what the other girls was selling, or at the very least, was offering a host of other goods in conjunction with the old reliable, and it’s because of her Phil has a headache from six overlapping clouds of cheap perfume interviewing these idiots about who she was, what she looked like, where she was from.

Cheap whores in a house, unfortunately, are much like cats locked up together – no matter all the videos you see of them acting sweet together online, when the cameras are off they’re clawing each other’s eyes out and swiping off each other’s plates. Most of today he’s learned very little about Cheryl, and far too much about how Tamzin stole Chelsea’s boyfriend and her car and her fucking Nintendo DSi, whatever the fuck that is.

“I hope you didn’t want to go home,” says Baz as Phil leans back in his seat, making the cheap plastic creak under his weight, and Phil gives him a foul look.

“Oh, fuck off,” he groans. “I’ve wasted enough of my fucking time today—”

“You’ll like this one,” Baz says, almost sing-song. “No perfume in sight – our boy’s allergic.”

“Allergic?”

“Adrian Gillespie,” says Baz, holding up one of the little sheets they write tips on, and Phil blinks at him, but holds out his hand for the sheet and scans it, holding it by the mark from the paperclip. Okay, allergic makes sense there – that boy is allergic to damn near fucking everything.

It’s just an extra detail from someone else the lads brought in earlier – part of the reason they were chasing up Cheryl Casey (or Canton, or Cheese, or Elias) is because some of the harder stuff she was peddling had come from a rather familiar batch of coke, and Cheryl would potentially be a lead to her boss, who they’d taken to calling Frances Pinard, after the winery that her operation seemed to do a lot of its imports through.

They didn’t know much about her, except that at one time – some twenty-something years ago – her name had been Catherine Priscilla Alnwick, and that at that back then she had given birth to Adrian Gillespie. They were fairly certain she was still in contact with him even though he’d been raised by his father, although beyond that, it was anybody’s fucking guess.

The lad went abroad regularly, but swapped around between planes and friends’ boats and the ferry and the train depending on what he felt like, and his flat had proved somewhat difficult to do any fucking reconnaissance on, owing to the fact that he was some sort of tech fanatic and had cyber security out the fucking wazoo, not to mention tinting and mood lighting on all his windows, and soundproofing, and whatever the fuck else.

They were fairly certain he wasn’t involved in his mother’s drug trade – for fuck’s sake, the little prick was in a wheelchair – but he was still a valuable connection, and according to a GP nurse Jez and Presley had been interviewing earlier because her boss was embezzling, he had a physio appointment tonight, eight o’clock. She’d mentioned it in the interview because Gillespie’s appointments were always at odd times in odd places, but had explained to the cops that she was reasonably certain that had nothing to do with her boss robbing money off of private patients. None of Gillespie’s cheques ever went anywhere funny and none of his accounts were on the locked server – he was just a bit paranoid on top of being eccentric, so they just set up the appointments wherever he pleased.

“Well, at least all that coke Jez snorts hasn’t completely burnt a hole in his brain,” says Phil as he slides his jacket on. “If he remembered Gillespie’s name.”

“I think it was Presley that remembered it,” Bav says. “Or at least, it was Presley that wrote it down – I don’t remember what his handwriting was like before the coke, but I certainly can’t fucking read Jez’ writing now.”

“I’ll nip over and see what’s what,” Phil says. “But if I don’t find anything good, I’m fucking going home, Sarge.”

“Go with God, mate,” Bav says with more of a wave than a salute, and Phil huffs out an amused sound under his breath as he shoves his keys and his wallet into his pockets.

See, Bav’s a queer, according to talk around the place, and Phil has nothing against him – nothing against, as it happens, Adrian Gillespie, who wears pastel blues and pinks and lavenders, and dyes his hair the same colours, and has fucking stickers on his wheelchair and wears a sunflower lanyard, and whatever the fuck else. He doesn’t know if Gillespie fucks, and if he fucks, if they’re hes, shes, theys, its, or something new they’ve not started putting in the hate crime slideshows yet, but if not a homo in action, he’s certainly a homo in spirit.

No, it’s not queers he has an issue with, or slags wanting to charge admission, or even drugs. Phil can laugh with queers and slags, so long as they’re recently washed and not too drunk, and fuck it, he likes drugs himself.

It’s fucking crime that he has a problem with – the people it hurts, the messes it causes, the messes he has to fucking clean up, and worse than that, fill out paperwork for afterwards.

Adrian Gillespie, pretty homo in a chair he may be, is at least not much of a mess in himself – the value in this young man is in his connections, and subtly trying to feel them out without setting off his paranoia or perhaps tipping off his mother has been a fucking challenge so far. He has a driver who takes him places, a man in his forties they’ve not been able to find a legal name for who goes by Laborious King, who comes from up north near Scarborough way, and an assistant called Hanzalah from fucking Bangladesh, who they’ve not been able to find much by way of background on either.

Laborious is in his forties, and Hanzalah is about the same, Phil would guess – they’ve only been able to find what must be his dad’s records, who entered the UK in 1972 and by now should be nearly fucking ninety, though they’ve seen no particular sign of him.

Frustratingly, both King and Hanzalah live in the same fancy house that Gillespie does – same as his gardener and housekeeper, a lesbian couple. It’d be a Hell of a time sink for someone who’s not actually suspected of any criminal activity themselves, trying to get somebody undercover into Gillespie’s household, but it’s not been an option from the beginning, because his four people have worked for him and his father since the place was built when Gillespie was a young lad, and they’ve not had any staff changeover since, except for Gillespie’s father’s assistant going with him when he moved back up north once Gillespie was old enough to look after himself.

Gillespie lives in a wheelchair-accessible manse in Chislehurst with a nice, fancy vegetable garden, and most of his friends come to visit him there rather than his going out to meet them. He goes out to pride events here and there or occasional drag shows and the like, but he doesn’t go to any regular events that would make him easy to track and surveil, although at least with his having a driver and a car, a tail doesn’t generally have to worry about losing him on the Tube.

Hanzalah and King go to the same mosque and go to a few regular events in the city, mostly Muslim charity things and occasional social nights; the Quayles go to a regular fresh grocer’s market and Andreca, the housekeeper, goes to an AA meeting most Tuesdays, but none of them ever discuss their work, let alone any specifics of who they work for and what he gets up to when he’s out of sight and out of earshot of any interested parties.

This address is for a fancy little dancing studio two streets removed from Piccadilly Circus, and when Phil drives past he doesn’t see Gillespie’s red V-Class on the street, but that’s no surprise, with parking in London the way it fucking is, King could have put the car fucking anywhere.

King and Hanzalah are visible in a coffee shop on the corner overlooking the studio, looking for all the world like two men having a regular old chat, a set of coffee cups between them, but they’re still looking into the streets, both of them, Hanzalah looking down one street and King keeping an eye on the other side.

The studio’s hours online are listed as closed from noon on Thursdays, but Phil gets into the building from the fire exit shared with the bookshop downstairs, and he’s quiet and careful about ascending the stairs up to the studio. It’s a big, fancy space, all wide fucking windows as if anyone would to enjoy the fucking view from here.

He steps down the corridor and goes past two empty studios with the lights off, including the biggest ballet one that overlooks the street – Gillespie and his physio are in one of the smaller classrooms, and Gillespie’s wheelchair is just outside of the room beside the door, him and his physio in the middle of the place under the bright lights.

Gillespie is taking a break, his surprisingly toned forearms braced on a central bar and his head forward – sweat glistens on his body, and his blond and lavender hair, pushed back from his face with a pink headband, looks slightly damp as well. He’s in black leggings and a soft cream jersey shirt that hugs tight to his chest, fuck, but he’s not as skinny as Phil expected. He’s been deceptively muscular under that tie-dye denim jacket and those ripped pink-dyed jeans.

It’s automatic, the glance down to his crotch – people do it even with dogs, he hears, glance at their dicks – and he’s surprised at how little of a bulge he sees, wonders if this kid fucking tucks for his dance classes.

As he watches, Gillespie stands up straight again, keeping his hands on the bar in front of him, and then he straightens his back and brings up one of his knees, extending it outward in a dancer’s kick before bringing it down again.

He’s surprised. He’d thought he was fucking wheelchair-bound, that he was a paraplegic, didn’t realise he could actually stand and walk, let alone dance like this. Sure, his legs are unsteady in places, and now and then his physio puts out an arm for him to steady himself on the bigger dancer’s weight, but he has genuine, real strength here, or at least, he used to, and genuine skill.

Phil looks to Gillespie’s chair, which has a pastel blue gym bag resting open on the seat, a towel and jacket slung over the back handles, and he leans forward and slips his hand into the pocket, feeling for Gillespie’s phone and pointedly not picking it out. What with this kid’s sense of security, he knows it’ll probably be primed to take a picture of anyone who tries to unlock it that isn’t Gillespie himself, so he reaches for Gillespie’s wallet instead – or, more accurately, his fucking purse, which is the same lavender as his hair, and he takes a quick few pictures of each card inside. His debit cards, his fucking Clubcard, a few cards for different coffee shops, a gay bookshop in Soho, a few sex clubs—

“You ever miss bacon, Laborious?” asks a voice behind him, and Phil whips around, straightening up to stare at both men. Neither King nor Hanzalah are particularly tall, both a little shorter than Phil himself, but they’re both decently beefy, and they fill the corridor, standing shoulder to shoulder like they are.

“You know, Hanz, I don’t,” says King. “Even the stink of pork, I’ve come to really dislike. Makes me sick.”

“Me too, actually,” says Hanzalah. “Let’s air this corridor out, why don’t we?”

Phil stiffens, tossing Gillespie’s wallet aside and stiffening, standing up straight.

The door opens sharply, and the physio, tall, aggressively handsome cunt that he is, looks furious, but Gillespie lays a hand on his muscular chest before he can say a thing.

“This is a private session, sir,” he says softly, his accent faintly Scottish, most of the Edinburgh poshness worn down by all the years he’s spent in London. “And this studio is technically supposed to be closed.”

“Sorry for not knocking to let you know I was here, Mr Gillespie,” Phil says. “I’m Detective Inspector Phil Hutchinson, I just wanted a word with you. Wanted to let you finish your physio session before I interrupted.”

“How’d you get in?” demands the physio. “What, you get in the backway?”

“Don’t be so judgemental, Charlie,” says Gillespie, not breaking eye contact with Phil. He must be wearing contacts – Phil never realised before, his but eyes are the same fucking lavender his hair is dyed, a wholly unnatural colour, but very pretty. “Who amongst us doesn’t enjoy going in through the back, from time to time?”

“You want us to take him out, Adrian?” Hanzalah asks, and Gillespie looks Phil up and down.

“Look,” Phil says, but Gillespie talks over him.

“Please, Hanz, if you would. Wrap him up to go for me, would you?”

Wrap him up?

The fuck does—

There’s a sudden explosion of rainbows before his eyes, brighter in colour than the pastel colours Gillespie’s denim jacket is tie-dyed, and then there’s a wave of blackness over it, and he’s slipping, or falling, or—

Something.

* * *

When Phil wakes up, it’s in a dangerously plush, comfortable armchair. His arms have been harnessed behind his back with surprisingly comfortable rope, and most of his clothes have been stripped off him – he’s only in his boxers and vest, and when he looks to the side he sees that his trousers and shirt are folded neatly on top of one another, his boots beneath the chair they’re folded on, his coat hung over the back of it.

Adrian Gillespie is sitting back in one of those fucking roller chairs that videogame people use, although it doesn’t have the stink of weed and bollocksweat and spilt cider Phil is used to them coming with – this one is cream and pink with a cat’s face and ears detailed into the top part of the seat, and Gillespie is sitting back in it with one leg crossed over the other, buffing his nails.

“What exactly is wrong with you?” Phil asks, his voice slightly hoarse, and Gillespie’s perfectly threaded blond eyebrows raise in concern.

“Oh, Detective Inspector, you sound positively parched,” he says, and uncrossing his legs he rolls his chair across the room, picking up a metal cup with a straw and rolling it over to him. He doesn’t wear any kind of perfume, but he must have showered in the time Phil’s been out of it, because he doesn’t smell of sweat – only smells faintly of vanilla and something floral, whatever his shampoo must be scented with.

Phil doesn’t see any reason not to, and his throat is fucking sore, so he wraps his lips around the straw (Jesus…) and takes a sip. The water is ice-cold but sparkling, and he grunts in distaste and surprise, but swallows, and doesn’t cough.

“If you would clarify the question for me,” Gillespie says, almost sweetly, batting his eyelashes, which are a bit darker than the blond of his eyebrows, making them look longer than they otherwise would. He has a button nose and very pink lips that must be glossed, and he’s painted on fake freckles on each of his cheeks, three on each side in a perfect little triangle. He hasn’t shaved today – there’s a bit of dark blond peach fuzz under his neck and around his throat.

“I assumed you were a paraplegic,” says Phil.

“Oh, did you?” Gillespie asks, tilting his head. “Easy enough mistake. I have a heart condition, you do know that?”

“Yeah. It’s why you moved down to London in the first place, innit, to be closer to the hospital?”

“That’s right,” Gillespie says – Phil knows there’s no point lying about it, no point trying to fucking hide it, and in any case, the boy is smiling now like the intel that’s been gathered on him is somehow complimentary toward him, his head tilted slightly to the side as though he’s a princess in a movie receiving a very nice compliment. “I had to have several surgeries when I was younger, to repair some congenital issues, but I still have a syndrome that causes recurring tachycardia.”

Phil blinks. “PoTS?”

“No, actually, SVT, but my episodes are worsened by fatigue, and given that I have chronic insomnia, asthma, and a compromised immune system that makes me rather prone to one infection or another, I’m almost always fatigued.”

“And that’s why you have the chair? Keep you from falling if you have an episode?”

Gillespie’s elbow is rested on the arm of his chair, his chin on his palm, and he has one foot on the ground and the other curled beneath him now, spinning idly back and forth, back and forth. “No,” he murmurs. “Or, yes, but not only that. I’m prone to subluxations and dislocations, very prone, and I have to be very careful about how and where I move – at a certain point, Detective Inspector, it’s safer to just use the wheelchair than to try to go without.”

“Subluxation,” Phil repeats, trying to keep the conversation going even as he scans the room – the curtains are closed, but they’re not very thick, and the light they’re letting in is too yellow and too dim to be sunlight, must be from a streetlamp, or maybe one of the lamps on Gillespie’s garden property. Would he do that? Just have his lads chuck Phil in the trunk of the Mercedes-Benz and bring him all the way back home? “What is that, like, half a dislocation?”

This is an office, he thinks, or a library, or a lounge, whatever the fuck some young lad like Gillespie would call it – there are plush blue sofas along with the armchair Phil’s in, and pink hearts on the wallpaper and a furry rug on the ground that’s black and white like a cow, covering the dark wood flooring, and dominating a whole corner of the room is Gillespie’s absurd computer display with eight monitors and multiple towers, big fancy speakers and rainbow lights and little fucking figurines of anime girls (or boys? Who can tell?) and Pokémon and whatever else.

“Partial dislocation, yes,” Gillespie says. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Detective Inspector?”

“Shoot,” says Phil, trying to keep his voice even, friendly, almost. He expects, “Why were you following me?” or “Why were you going through my wallet?” or “Don’t you know who my mother is?” or something like that.

Gillespie asks, “Would you mind if I slapped you?”

Phil stares at him, and wonders for a second if he’s misheard, because Gillespie’s big lavender eyes look innocent as anything, his lips pressed primly together, his seat still swinging gently from one side to the other.

“Slapped me?” Phil repeats.

“You look like you’d enjoy it so terribly much,” Gillespie says, and then drops his voice, drops his eyes at the same time so he’s looking up at Phil through his eyelashes, surprisingly coquettish for a man. “And I’d enjoy you enjoying it myself.”

“The fuck do you—”

The pain is sudden and sharp and burning, wet heat across his cheek as Phil’s head snaps to the side – for a fucking twink who picks his colours off the Lovehearts packaging and has a tattoo of Bagpuss on his ankle, he can really put some power behind a slap, and Phil is surprised by the guttural noise that comes out of his throat. Heat sinks down through his body, and it’s not the cold blood that comes with panic or the adrenaline rush that comes with the urgency of needing to get out of a situation like this – this, this is arousal.

Okay.

Okay.

Fuck.

“Did you like that, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?” Gillespie asks softly.

“That why you brought me here? To slap me around?”

“No, no,” Gillespie says, abruptly stopping his swinging movements from side to side and looking at Phil straight on, his expression abruptly flat and serious. “I wanted to ask you about the Greenman Group.”

Phil stops breathing.

“Mm, yes,” Gillespie says sympathetically. “I thought it might be a touchy subject.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Let’s not insult one another, Detective Inspector,” Gillespie says, beginning to swing from side to side again, leaning his cheek into his hand. He hasn’t got the headband he’d on in the dance studio now, and the shift in position causes a few top strands of dye-tipped hair to fall to the side, hanging over the side of his temple, the lavender hair in line with his lavender eyes. There’s something hypnotising about it, about how carefully cultivated his colour palette is, the pinks and lavenders and blues, the powder pastels. Like a sort of camouflage for… something. But what? “Let’s jump from the denial stage and get onto your justification.”

“I don’t need any justification,” Phil says immediately, trying to convince his lungs they don’t need to speed up like that, and hoping his heartbeat will get the fucking hint and all. “It’s just a private pension fund, it’s not illegal. Loads of people with public pensions pay into private pensions as well.”

“Mmm, that’s true,” says Gillespie. “It’s more about who else is paying into your private pension, isn’t it? I’m informed that a Mr Chapman, whose son was brought in on some rather nasty possession charges, paid in,” he makes a show of glancing down at his phone, then drops his jaw, “Goodness, twenty-three thousand pounds into this shared scheme? That’s rather a lot of money, Detective Inspector. Not exactly pocket change.”

“I don’t know anything about who invests in the scheme, I just—”

“You must know something about it, Detective Inspector – you dropped the charges against his son just after the transfer went through.”

“We didn’t have sufficient evidence to convict, happens all the time, it—”

“Detective Inspector,” Gillespie says, pouting out his pretty lips, and Phil stares back at him, feeling the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck, on his cheeks, on his neck.

“You’re not going to ask why I was in that studio, looking in on your physio appointment?”

“A man can have a crush, dear, even a police inspector. Who am I to judge?”

Phil huffs out an amused noise, though he’s sweating too much and it doesn’t come out as haughty as he’d like, and he thinks about the fact that if Gillespie were to slap him again it would be a little more damp with sweat this time, even though his stubble would provide enough friction to make the blow land loud in the room.

“I don’t need to ask why you were looking in on me in the studio,” Gillespie says mildly. “I’m a very private man, Detective Inspector, and I am informed I am not easy to spy on. You’ve some interest in my business, I presume as an extension of someone else’s business – my father’s? My mother’s?”

Phil doesn’t say anything, looking straight at him, and Gillespie shakes his head and clucks his tongue in a disapproving manner.

“I hardly fault you for wanting an edge in, Detective Inspector, but you won’t get that edge with me, and if I find you following me about again, I think you’ll find that Greenman business will be making some rather powerful headlines. The satisfaction you might get in chasing down your target on this case won’t make up for your coworkers’ disappointment – if not reprisal – for fucking them and you out of this rather deep retirement pot, and all the bribes that have gone therein. I might even out you as a nasty little addict on top, just as a little cherry on the pie. Capisci?”

He says it like an Italian would say it, with the -i sound on the end instead of with an -iche ending like the Yanks in movies, and Phil wonders if he speaks Italian, if there’s Italian in him, but unfortunately what he’s thinking about is the threat inherent in the words, and more than that, he’s thinking about the way Gillespie’s posh Scottish accent clips around the words nasty little addict, how filthy those words make him feel, and how they go straight to his fucking cock in the same way the slap had.

“Would you like me to slap you again, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?” asks Gillespie.

Phil doesn’t actually nod. His head shifts forward by maybe an inch or half an inch, and it’s just because he’s breathing in, not because he’s fucking saying yes, not because he’s asking for it.

Gillespie uses the other hand this time and slaps the other side, and Phil heaves in a sharp gasp of breath, fills his lungs and tastes the sweet heat as it burns across his cheek and across his face, the steaming warmth of it and more than that, the ever-so-slight numbness that follows the blow, the ringing in his ears. His cock aches as it strains to actually harden under his trousers, below and under the buckle of his belt, and Gillespie laughs softly, then pushes back on the floor and picks up a landline phone from his desk, beside his myriad of screens.

It’s an old-fashioned rotary telephone in robin’s egg blue, the intercom it’s connected to hidden artfully hidden in a compartment at the back of the desk – Phil can just see the red light flashing as he dials an internal line. Makes sense, from a security standpoint, using an internal line in the house instead of texting, no matter how good the encryption is… or maybe the kid’s fingers just get sore. He’s certainly got a bunch of different keyboards, a bunch of them hanging from the wall in the way a lot of people might hang a collection of guitars, and they have different shapes to them, only two or three of them the rectangular shape of the QWERTY keyboard Phil’s used to in the office, the rest in weird shapes or with balls or handholds or whatever else.

“Hi, Andreca, are Hanz and Laborious still in bed? No, that’s fine, let them get the sleep they need, they’ll be up for suhoor any minute now, or at least, Laborious will be. Hanz might well go without again and starve, you know how he is about his sleep. Just tell them our guest can be returned to the pigpen whenever they’re up and ready.” He swings idly from side to side, the wire of the phone curled around two of his fingers as he cradles the receiver against his elbow, his lips loosely pressed together. “Mmm hmm. She’s otherwise alright, though, no fever, no nausea? No, I think it’s better to be safe than sorry – do you want to wake them up? Please, Andy, I could handle him even if my arms were tied behind my back. Have them drive you over, drop off Ysbal and you as well, if you want to… Well, what do I need you for? I’m a grown man, don’t you know?” He huffs out a soft laugh, and looks over at Phil. “Once they’re back, they can put him back in the boot and cart him home.”

“I was in the boot?” Phil asks, and Gillespie pouts at him and releases a sharp, disapproving click of sound, waggling a finger at him to be quiet.

“Thank you, dear, just let me know once you’re off and have them let me know once they’re back.”

He drops the receiver back into the cradle, and he turns to Phil again, resting his hands between his knees.

Phil arches his eyebrows in expectation, feeling calmer right about now and looking calmer too, he’s pretty sure, leaning back in his seat. “Mrs Quayle’s chest is acting up again?”

“It really does wound you, doesn’t it?” Gillespie asks pleasantly as he rolls forward again. “You’ve done such a lot of careful research, and yet here you are, in the middle of my home, with no opportunity to dig your little snout about in the dirt, sniff about for evidence.”

“Never known a guy to hide so much about his fucking life without having a reason to hide,” Phil says, and Gillespie laughs faintly, tapping his thumb against his lower lip.

“That any creeping, cocaine-snorting piglet might wish to rifle through my records and my things is reason enough to prioritise my privacy, dear,” Gillespie retorts, and Phil feels his lip curl slightly, but doesn’t immediately make a reply. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, Detective Inspector?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have little to no oversight in your profession, Detective Inspector. In my line of work, every single thing I do is to be combed over, scrutinised, rewritten, recoded, re-encrypted, shared, and modified. Much of what I do ends up publicly accessible to some degree or other – and rightly so. The same can’t be said for your actions in the course of a day or night. If you suspected criminal activity within these walls, you might obtain a warrant – you do not, in fact, and you have not. What you crave to do is within the bounds of the law, I suppose, to creep about me and my staff and see who we talk to and what we talk about, but it’s hardly required by law that I should make my private life accessible to you.”

Phil breathes in as Gillespie’s chair rolls closer, and he smells the sweetness of his shampoo, stares into Gillespie’s eyes as he leans over Phil’s body in the armchair, rests his hands not on Phil’s knees or his thighs but on the arms of the chair. Phil tries to lean forward and grunts when he finds that the harness tying his arms together is somehow clipped to something behind the chair, keeping him pinned in place and stopping him from leaning forward to meet Gillespie’s forward motion.

“The two of us have some time to kill, it seems, whilst my housekeeper gets her pacemaker double-checked. How would you like us to spend that time together, Detective Inspector Hutchinson?”

Phil swallows, his mouth feeling dry, and he stares into Gillespie’s eyes, feeling rooted to the spot, feeling paralysed in some way.

“I’m not gay,” is what he says, which is fucking embarrassing, because he could have said fucking anything, or at least thought about what he was going to say.

“That’s alright,” Gillespie says softly. “Nor am I.”

He leans forward again and Phil automatically closes his eyes, realises he’s bracing himself for what Gillespie is going to taste like, for the taste of whatever allergen-free lip gloss he wears, for whatever he’s been drinking, bubble tea or coffee or whatever else—

It doesn’t come.

What he experiences instead is overwhelming blackness, the same as he did before he woke up here in Gillespie’s house, and he wakes up again in his own fucking bed, a glass of water on the night stand, his phone on charge beside him.

“Fuck’s sake,” he groans, and nearly smashes his beeping alarm clock into pieces.

* * *

Phil means to leave it be.

Honestly, Gillespie is just one fucking thread leading back to his mother, and even having been in the kid’s house, “met” his staff, seen his PC set-up… There hadn’t been a single picture of his mother or any other family member, and when he’d mentioned it to Phil, he’d asked like he didn’t know – like he didn’t even care – if it was his father or his mother Phil might be chasing up.

It's easy to say, “Chasing it up was a bust,” to Baz. “Watched him do stretches in this fucking ballet room, get back in his chair, then his guys drove him straight back home. No records on site, either, not for him, and his physio guy barely seemed to know anything about him.”

Baz shrugs his shoulders. “We knew it was a long shot,” he says mildly. “C’est la vie, Philly.”

And Gillespie goes back to being almost nothing, barely even a person of interest – someone people note down when his name crops up or when he wheels into one event or other, but that’s pretty much it. It’s not like he’s a criminal himself, not like he’s dangerous.

Not that they know, anyway.

Phil tries to put it from his mind, tries to commit himself to that. Liking to play with a lad’s cock from time to time, wet his prick in an asshole instead of a cunt, that’s one thing, but this lad, that’s… Something else. He’s something else.

Phil thinks about it, thinks about sitting back in that fucking chair and feeling the burning heat of Gillespie’s palm having smacked across the side of his face, thinks about how it had felt when he’d called Phil a nasty little addict, the burn under his skin, the prickling want in his veins and his twitching, aching cock. It’s best to put all of that shit out of his fucking mind, same as he pushes the unpleasant shit out, the dirt and the filth and the stench of the day.

He goes out for pints here and there, watches some shitty thrillers at home, goes out for Baz’s birthday and snorts a few lines in the bathroom in between throwing axes at light-up targets, laughs when his boyfriend does a lap dance for him but is too drunk off shots to stay upright. Phil carries Ricky to their Uber when Baz is struggling to stay upright himself, and laughs as he pours both of them in.

He's drunk, he’s high, he’s buzzing. His thumb shakes as he taps on his phone, and he ends up in his photo gallery instead of his Uber app, a few pages up – and he sees it, the picture of the inside of Gillespie’s wallet, the one he genuinely had forgotten about, not the same as his trying to forget Gillespie.

Phil reads through the cards – different sex clubs and shops, most of which he recognises. Two are members-only, ones he only knows of from higher-profile hookers getting brought in, but one is open to anybody who pays in on a Friday night, and hey, fuck it.

Tonight is Friday.

He gets the Uber there instead.

It’s twenty quid in – fucking bullshit – and Phil walks in with his hands in his pockets, looks with disinterest at the different booths of people selling shit – harnesses and leather panties and chainmail bras, dildos and buttplugs, earrings and necklaces that say shit like DADDY’S GIRL and SPANK ME HARDER and FUCK THE TORIES, which seems a little irrelevant unless they mean literally fucking them, but what the fuck does Phil know about it?

They’re doing a demonstration up on the stage, a guy up on stage bent over and groaning as wax drips over his bare-cheeked ass, down his thighs, the backs of his knees.

Phil is almost surprised they let him in, given how drunk he is, how unstable he is on his feet, but he tries to hide it as best he can as he moves through the crowds of kinksters and perverts buying their wares, moves past an array of spanking paddles and whips and crops and into the other room. They do this for birthdays and shit normally, but when they’re doing their kink nights they put out gym mats on the floor and put out some dividers.

Phil glances at the sign that reminds people not to film or get their phones out, that food and drink aren’t allowed in the drinks area, to be careful of one’s shoes on the mats.

“Detective Inspector Hutchinson,” says a voice to his right, and immediately Phil turns to look down at Gillespie, who is sitting back in his wheelchair, a fleece blanket decorated with old-fashioned Victorian sweets over his lap, a very fluffy pink jumper worn over the top of his white collared shirt. Phil is momentarily distracted by the jumper’s angora wool, thinking of how soft and silky it would feel under his fingers, and his mind quickly hops to the thought of Gillespie’s pinned back hair, which might be even softer, even silkier. His hands twitch at his sides. “Whatever are you doing here, you naughty, naughty boy?”

In another club, a real night club, not a fetish night, there’d be pounding music playing and drowning out some of his speech, or at least, the particulars of his tone, but that’s not the case here. The music is background noise, only just enough to overwhelm the drone of other people’s chatter, barring the occasional laughs or louder sounds like moans or cries of pain – Phil hears every single semitone of Gillespie’s words, reads them on his lips at the same time he hears them, hears how he draws out the vowel sounds in the last words, hears the emphasis he puts on the Ts and the B.

“You’re a cop?” asks one of the two women beside him – both of them are supernaturally tall, one with her hair worn in a long braid down her back and wearing an incredibly ugly fucking jumper that has some kind of anime nun knitted into the front of it; the one speaking is more muscular, wearing a tank top that shows off the tone of her shoulders and upper arms, a few chains worn around her neck. Her hair is thick and curly, bounces whenever she moves her head, and her fingers keep twitching with want toward the vape pen sticking out of her front jeans pocket.

“That a problem?” Phil asks, and the girls look at each other and laugh.

“Cringe,” says the girl in the nun jumper.

“Why are you even here?” asks the first one. “Couldn’t find enough victims to rape at work?”

“The fuck is that supposed to—”

“Now now, Detective Inspector,” says Gillespie sharply, and he extends one leg outward, pushing him with his thighs back from the girls when Phil’d barely even stepped forward. “Let’s behave, why don’t we?”

Phil has to focus to keep his feet, and he feels the alcohol swirling inside his skull as he stares down at Gillespie, breathing in through his nose.

“In fact,” Gillespie says slowly, keeping his eyes on Phil’s face, “I am feeling the chill a bit, I probably do want to get home. Sorry to love you and leave you, Star, Aspen.”

“No worries,” says the curly-haired girl. “You taking him with you?”

“Certainly, I am,” Gillespie says. “Detective Inspector, push my chair for me. We’re going out through the side way, down the ramp.”

“’Kay,” Phil mutters, because he’s embarrassed and his hackles are up, but there’s no way he can start a fucking fight with two big women in the middle of a space like this, people tying each other up, spanking each other. Even if it wasn’t in the papers, the lads at the office would take the ever-loving piss out of him – and besides, he’s not supposed to be here.

He hisses when he initially puts his hands on what he expects to be the handles of Gillespie’s chair and instead touches fucking spikes, and Gillespie pulls a lever on the side of the chair and makes the spikes retract, folding down so that Phil has space to put his hands on the handles. They’re not that sharp, haven’t even broken skin, but he still mutters, “Fucking boobytraps,” under his breath as he pushes Gillespie’s chair for him through the crowd, down the narrow corridor and out through the open fire door, where the security on duty says a cheerful, “Good to see you, Adrian, safe home!” and doesn’t acknowledge Phil at all.

King pulls up, and it’s only Hanzalah that gets out of the front seat, glowering at Phil as he pulls himself to his full height, which isn’t very tall at all.

“It’s alright, Hanz, I’m bringing him home.”

“Takeaway bacon stinks out the car,” Hanzalah mutters as he hands Gillespie a cane and opens the door, and Gillespie laughs quietly.

“Open the windows, then,” he advises, and supports himself with the cane to climb into the backseat, sliding across to the one on the far side, and Hanzalah passes him his bag and his blanket before folding up his chair to put into the generous boot space – no wonder they stuck Phil in there so easily, if that’s really what they did. “Come on, Detective Inspector, in you get.”

He shouldn’t, obviously.

He does.

The backseats are laid out like a posh taxi cab, two facing forward and two facing back, each with a small table between them, and Phil sees the extendable ramp on one side and the way that one of the seats has more wear on the underside – that’s the one that they slide out when they don’t fold the wheelchair down, when Gillespie just rolls in and puts on the brakes.

Phil sits across from Gillespie, facing the back, and he watches Hanzalah close the boot and then walk back around, sliding into the front seat beside King before – with what seems to Phil to be a lot of fucking emphasis – closing the glass frame that separates the two front seats from the back. Unlike in a taxi cab, this separator doesn’t have a little hatch to put money through or talk to the driver – as soon as it closes shut, Phil can’t hear anything from the front seats, even though he can see King laughing and smacking his hand against the steering wheel as Hanzalah snaps something at him and makes a dismissive wave of one hand.

“Seems like your bodyguard doesn’t approve,” says Phil, watching Gillespie spread his blanket out across his lap, and Gillespie smiles thinly at him.

“No,” he agrees. “But I believe I gave you very specific instructions, Detective Inspector. I don’t exactly approve of your disobedience either.”

Phil feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck even as the rest of him feels suddenly drenched in hot, steaming water. King has pulled out, and Phil closes his eyes at the wave of mild motion sickness that overtakes him, abruptly regretting sitting backwards in the car.

“Water, Detective Inspector,” Gillespie says sharply, and Phil opens his eyes as the bottle presses at his hands, so he opens it and takes a few swigs, swallowing hard and hearing the gulp in his ears.

“Your friends didn’t like cops,” he says.

“No one likes cops, dear,” Gillespie says. “I doubt even your own mother likes you.”

Phil releases a low, gruff laugh, because yeah, the lad has fucking got him there. “She didn’t like me even before I was police,” he mutters, and takes another swallow from the water, glancing at the label and then looking down to the cupholders, almost surprised Gillespie’s given him still water this time instead of sparkling. “What do you fucking think, I walk the streets all day bashing in civilian brains and kicking puppies? That what you kids think police do? This isn’t fucking Yankland, it’s not like I’m shooting bullets.”

“Sorry, Detective Inspector, I’m hardly a staunch abolitionist, but it’s not the guns that trouble us so much as the leverage of power against the powerless.”

“The fuck would you know about powerless, a kid like you with more money than God?”

“Philip, I’m in a wheelchair,” Gillespie says, sounding so genuinely wounded that for a second Phil stumbles over his own breaths, over his own fucking thoughts, partly because Gillespie’s outplayed him so well and so fucking deftly, and partly because Gillespie just called him Philip instead of Detective Inspector.

“You can fucking walk,” mutters Phil.

“Sometimes,” Gillespie allows, tilting his head slightly to one side and looking out of the window as they move slowly out of the city. “What sort of consequence were you hoping for, Detective Inspector, looking for me in public like that? Do you want to lose that little retirement fund?”

Phil doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t know how to say out loud that he had been thinking as little as possible about the potential consequences, same as he’d been thinking as little as possible about Gillespie himself until he’d taken the plunge and let himself fucking go for it.

“Have you been into a club like that before, Detective Inspector?”

“Of course.”

“Ever partaken?”

“I seem like the type?” Phil asks, the question sort of fucking genuine, because of all the sex in his life, he’s never been slapped like Gillespie slapped him two weeks ago – he’s fucked women, mostly, fucked a few young men here and there, tends to prefer lads on the slimmer side, generally less muscular than Gillespie is, even as unreliable as that muscle may be.

“Oh, yes,” says Gillespie.

“Wha—”

“Ah ah,” Gillespie says. “No talking now – be quiet, drink your water. Sober up.”

Phil clenches his teeth together, but despite the fact that his head is spinning as the car drives on, he drinks the water, and he doesn’t talk. They sit in the quiet for the whole drive back to Gillespie’s, and Phil can almost feel the alcohol evaporating out of his veins the longer he sits in place.

* * *

When they get back to Gillespie’s, Hanzalah watches Phil like a fucking hawk as they get out in the garage, Phil obediently pushing Gillespie up the ramp and through the corridors as he’s directed, until they end up not in Gillespie’s colourfully lit office as they were before, but in a bedroom.

The bedroom is not decorated in pastels, but in deep and luscious reds – there’s red silk with gold brocade on the bed, a golden tone to the carpet, and the papered half of the walls are decorated in a gold brocade pattern that glitters, the lower half sided in dark wood board made to match the legs of the bed, the wooden ottoman at the foot of it, the wood of the wardrobe, drawers, cabinets, bookshelves. These bookshelves host a variety of books, a mix of what look like computer textbooks and leather-bound antique books of fiction, and there are no photographs in here, either. On one wall, over the desk – this is a small thing like you might expect in a Victorian schoolhouse, has a sloped top with storage underneath, and no computer – is a painted portrait, but it’s not Gillespie’s dad, and he doesn’t think it’s his mother either.

As Gillespie wheels in and parks his chair beside the bench at the foot of the bed, barely even standing before he sits again – and with a wince that Phil can see, his teeth clenching and his eyes narrowing for a second – Phil steps forward to look at it.

In an old-fashioned bed, one with four posts and red silk canopies, lies a man with dark blond hair and a golden crown on his head, various blankets of different colours and patterns layered over his body. He looks perfectly at peace, and kneeling beside the bed, clasping one of his relaxed hands in both of his own, kneels what Phil initially thinks is a woman in green robes, her long, black hair covering most of her back, her head bowed towards the sleeping man’s hand – it’s here that Phil sees the kneeling man’s beard and his angular features, the expression of quiet grief on his face.

Hanzalah moves through the room with quiet ease, flicking on the light over the bed and turning on the light in the bathroom before going about with other tasks – setting two fresh towels over what Phil guesses is a warming rail, turning on an electric blanket, removing a can of peach-flavoured pop from a mini-fridge and also a jug of water with lemon. He seems disdainful about pulling out two glasses to go with the latter.

“You want me to run you a bath?” he asks – he doesn’t so much as glance at Phil, directing the question wholly to Gillespie, who has removed his fluffy jumper and the shirt underneath, and is buttoning up a silky pyjama shirt over his muscular chest. Said chest, Phil realises, is a mess of fucking scars – horizontal ones under his pecs that form a cross with the central scar down the centre of his sternum, more across his belly. They’re all old scars, for the most part, but many of them are raised and thick in places, keloid scarring – Phil guesses that’s to do with one of his myriad health conditions.

“No, thank you, not tonight,” Gillespie says quietly. “Could someone make up the guest bedroom for DI Hutchinson, please? And something cold to eat – would crackers and cheese be alright?”

“Can do,” Hanzalah says. “Those grapes want eating as well, I’ll bring those in. You.” He whirls on Phil so fast Phil thinks Hanzalah is gonna fucking hit him, then demands, “Any allergies?”

“What?” Phil asks, and then says, “Uh, shellfish. That’s all.”

“Right,” says Hanzalah, then, “Take those fucking boots off.”

He disappears out into the corridor, and Phil sinks into the stool in front of Gillespie’s desk and unlaces his boots, which are fucking clean, thanks, regardless of the foul look Hanzalah had shot them.

When he looks up again, Gillespie has changed fully into a set of pink satin pyjamas with black edging, and Phil can’t help but stare at the way the fabric clings to his thighs and his arse even as he limps across the room, depending heavily on a cane, to pick up his can, and then sigh.

“Open this, please,” he says, holding it out to Phil, and Phil almost thinks he’s taking the piss as he takes the can to flick open the tab, but then he sees how bad Gillespie’s hand is shaking.

“You want me to pour it?”

“Oh, yes, that would be splendid.”

Phil’s hands aren’t the steadiest themselves, right about now, but he mostly doesn’t spill the pink soda as he pours it into a glass, only halfway full to make it harder to spill, and Gillespie hobbles back to his bench again and sits, taking a sip and exhaling in obvious relief.

“Pain bad today?” Phil asks.

“Very,” Gillespie murmurs, reaching up and pinching between his eyebrows, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Always so many smells in that place, the HEPA filters do help and there’s good ventilation, but even if I wear a mask, the different scents do my fucking head in.”

Hanzalah comes in at the same time as one of the Mrs Quayles, Ysbal, and set out a folding table across from Gillespie’s bench. Phil expects it to be all fancy, the way you might see it done on Downton, but they haven’t chopped the cheeses up all fancy or anything – the grapes are in a bowl, the different crackers are still in their wrappers, and the cheeses have dedicated knives in each of their labelled Tupperware containers.

As Ysbal puts the jug of water and their glasses on the cup, she gives Phil a circumspective look. “L, XL,” she muses aloud, and fuck, but her accent is strong, a lot stronger than Gillespie’s is. “What are you around the waist, a 36? 30 for the inseam?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Phil, and Ysbal Quayle disappears into the corridor as Hanzalah gets behind Phil and physically wrestles his coat off him before sweeping away with that, Phil’s shoes, and Gillespie’s, too.

Phil slides the stool across from the fold-out table, and Gillespie looks at him amusedly as he puts a slice of brie shakingly over a cracker.

“You’re not lactose intolerant?” Phil asks.

“I take a supplement to help me digest it,” Gillespie says. “Eat. You’ll feel the worse tomorrow if you don’t.”

Phil is initially surprised when he picks up the knife for the cheddar and feels how fucking heavy it is with a thick weighted handle, but then he sees Gillespie slicing through the brie and how much the weight helps even out the trembling of his hands. He wonders how many things in this house are made for that, things he’d notice and things he wouldn’t, things that he’s paid for just to even out the pain or the symptoms or whatever the fuck else.

After he’s eaten two crackers, one with a slice of brie and the other with a slice of spiced Caerphilly, Gillespie flicks open a pillbox and shakes out the handful of pills in Friday’s compartment, swallowing six or seven pills in between bites of his supper and sips either of water or his peach pop.

“How old are you, Detective Inspector?” Gillespie asks.

“Forty-nine,” says Phil, because it doesn’t occur to him not to answer.

What the fuck is he doing here?

The drink is starting to ease off, sobriety kicking in, and there’s a sinking feeling deep inside him as he considers what he’s done and where he is – that he’s here in Gillespie’s fucking house, no eyes on him, no one knowing where he is, that just because they have no evidence that Gillespie is a criminal doesn’t mean he isn’t fucking dangerous; that he’s sitting here having let his dick fucking lead him to that club and into Gillespie’s car and now into Gillespie’s house; that he’s sitting here across from a twenty-seven-year-old with pastel-dyed hair and a haughty attitude and it’s making his heart skip fucking beats, even when he knows damn well that twenty-seven-year-old has blackmail material on him and who knows what other fucking intel.

He eats a grape, eats a few more crackers, and when they finish, Hanzalah and Ysbal come in to take the table away and then Hanzalah helps him back into his chair.

Phil gets to his feet as Hanzalah leaves the room, and then says, “Uh, I should go h—”

“Detective Inspector Hutchinson, you aren’t going anywhere,” Gillespie interrupts him, sharp and cool, and Phil presses his lips together.

“I made a mistake,” he mutters, “coming to find you in that club, I was just drunk, I didn’t mean—”

“It wasn’t work: it was personal,” Gillespie interrupts him again. “You hardly want professional consequences for a personal indiscretion, I understand.” His smile is sly and his lavender eyes are cold as he shifts in his wheelchair and nods across the room. “Go ahead of me into the bathroom, please, Detective Inspector.”

Phil’s stomach drops. “Huh?” he hears himself ask.

“Chop chop,” Gillespie says, a note of challenge in his voice. “No need to keep a cripple waiting.”

“You can’t make me,” Phil hears himself say, and Gillespie laughs, an airy sound.

“I suppose I can’t,” he agrees. “Look at me, a trembling bag of bones and muscle in a wheelchair, aching in every limb, pretty to look at, but rather mangled. Physically, it’s not as though I can force you to do anything. Consider how oh-so-satisfying it is for me, then, that you will do as I say of your own accord, twisted little pervert that you are.”

The fuck is he meant to say? That he’s not a pervert, that he’s not twisted? He’s here, isn’t he?

Phil’s mouth is dry but blood is rushing downward as he takes slow, socked steps toward the bathroom, where the light is already on and a little brighter than the dimmer lights in the bedroom. It’s a big fucking room, as big as the bedroom in Phil’s shitty little maisonette in Plumstead, and through one glass door is a contained shower room with benches against two of the walls – or maybe it’s a fucking sauna? – and out here, in the bathroom proper, there’s a large bath with jets inside and one of those walk-in doors, a large stained glass window that’s decorated with a scaly white dragon against a golden background, with thick leathery wings and claws, done in a medieval style. The rest of the bathroom isn’t so aggressive about its colour scheme as the rest of the house that Phil’s seen, is just done in beiges and dark woods, the tiled floor black and white.

There are two sinks, a smaller one right beside the door on a regular height mini counter, and then a larger sink with more counter space at wheelchair height, various hair products and soaps and make-up products in pull-out organisers on wheels, all at easy height to reach from Gillespie’s chair.

Gillespie pushes the door closed, and Phil is painfully aware of the quiet of the room they’re in and the echo of the ceiling, the tiled floor and walls. He can hear himself breathing, can hear Gillespie breathing.

“Unbuckle your belt,” Gillespie orders.

Phil’s hands go slowly to his belt, a little clumsy still, and he faces away from Gillespie as he slides the tongue of the belt out of its loops and then the buckle, then slides the whole thing free.

“Hang it up,” Gillespie says, and when Phil turns to glance at him he sees the hooks on one wall, over top of two stacked shower chairs with pink plastic seats and pink rubber ends on their legs, and he hangs his belt up. “Shirt now. Fold it neatly and set it on the seat.”

Phil pulls his rugby shirt up and over his head, folds it as neatly as he fucking can – the fuck does neatly even mean for a shitty shirt like this one? – and puts it down. He goes for the vest he’s wearing underneath before Gillespie gives the order, and Gillespie nods his head in approval as Phil lifts it over his head, folds it too, sets it down – reaches for his jeans, and Gillespie says, “Ah ah. Empty your pockets.”

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and slowly walks over to Gillespie in his chair, puts it down on the counter, the one at Gillespie’s height. Gillespie’s looking up at him from his place in his chair, his pretty hands folded in his lap, one pink satin-clad leg crossed over the other.

From the other pocket he pulls out his housekeys and a few coins, setting them on the counter in a loose pile beside his wallet.

Gillespie reaches forward and pats him down, and Phil abruptly straightens up as Gillespie’s fingers pat down his back pockets and then his front ones. Lips pressed together, he slides two fingers into the coin pocket of his jeans and removes the baggie of coke folded into quarters with about half a gram left inside, and he sets that aside with the coins.

“Anything concealed on your person?” Gillespie asks, looking up at him with his lavender eyes unspeakably cold, and Phil stares down at him, feeling rooted to the spot for reasons he doesn’t think he could explain, if asked, can’t explain to himself in his own fucking head. His cock is aching in his boxers, his skin prickling with heat and want and feverish need. “Anything in your socks, concealed in your waistband?”

“No,” Phil says.

“Good,” Gillespie says. “The rest off. I want you naked.”

“What happens then?” Phil asks.

It’s a stupid fucking question, and Gillespie treats it as one, not giving him an answer. He sits there with his hands folded on one pretty knee, his expression cold and unmoving, lips pressed loosely together, his lavender eyes unblinking.

Phil takes off his jeans and folds them into a square on top of his shirt and vest. He takes off his socks next, his feet bare on the tiled floor, and then slides off his underwear and folds them too, puts them on top of the pile. The floor isn’t as cold under his soles as he expected, and he can feel ghosts of warmth here and there – not a full heated floor, but the pipes definitely run under the tile.

His cock is halfway hard and standing up, and he’s abruptly painfully, scorchingly grateful that the only mirror in this room is the one over the wheelchair-height counter, that it’s off toward the corner, that he doesn’t have to fucking look at himself because the glass walls of the shower room are so well-polished you can look right through them, because what the fuck is he to look at? Five ten, not fat but certainly stocky, sagging at the belly and the bollocks, hair patchy on his thighs and his chest and his back, and when he shags a woman from time to time, it’s normally in the dark and under the covers and he keeps his fucking socks on, not like this, under bathroom lighting with a boy in customised pyjamas (as well as the black edging, they have calligraphic As embroidered on the breast pockets, for fuck’s sake) looking at him.

“Turn around, face away from me,” says Gillespie softly, and yet the two words are achingly loud against the bathroom walls.

Phil does, stares at the chair his clothes are folded on, his belt hanging from the wall.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

Phil hesitates.

“You heard me,” Gillespie says, and Phil swallows, feeling humiliated, his cock giving an approving, eager lurch like a dog that’s heard the word “dinner”, bobbing between his legs. The rush of pleasure that runs down his spine is fucking awful and also, exquisite. What happens next? he’d asked. What do you fucking think?

Phil slowly bends over and reaches to touch his toes, having to rock a little just to skim the tops of them with his fingertips.

“Do you understand why I’m telling you to do this, Detective Inspector?” Gillespie asks.

“That a rhetorical question?” Phil retorts, his voice slightly strained from the position.

Gillespie laughs quietly, and then orders in a crisp, clear voice, “Now cough.”

Phil is up and whirling around on the lad in less than a fucking heartbeat, his bare feet making almost no noise on the floor as he advances on him, and he shoves down the part of himself that tells him he can’t fucking go up to a boy in a wheelchair like this, no matter that there aren’t any fucking witnesses.

“Is that what this fucking is to you?” he demands, and he winces at the volume of his own voice against the glass and the tile and the too-high ceiling. “A fucking joke, am I a fucking joke?” He’s spitting, can feel the froth of saliva in his mouth, and Gillespie’s expression does not change, stays cold and distant. Phil’s cock is the hardest it’s been and at the same time he’s fucking humiliated, and this isn’t the sexy degradation, not this, this is something else, something else spotlit and vulnerable. “Am I a fucking joke to you, boy?” he demands, and he reaches out and doesn’t even know where he’s going to put his hands, if he’s going to grab his shoulders, his pretty wavy hair, his throat.

Gillespie grabs him first, grabs him by the bollocks, and twists.

Phil’s knees go weak and he yelps, feeling his legs half-collapse underneath him, grabbing at the counter to keep from falling all the way to the floor, because Gillespie isn’t just twisting but squeezing, and for all his shakes, he’s got a Hell of a lot of fucking strength in those pretty fingers.

“Please—!” he wheezes, and he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, exactly, because the searing pain that bursts through his body, behind his fucking eyes, is the most extreme sensation he’s ever fucking experienced, and at the same time, he doesn’t know if he wants for it to stop, if he’d be able to take it stopping. His fingertips are digging into the polished wood countertop and his eyes are watering, and when it stops, it crashes over him like a cold fucking wave, and he heaves a gasp into his aching, empty lungs.

“Let’s be on thee and thou terms, you and I,” says Gillespie, and he’s smiling now, a knife edge of a smile as Phil tries to get his breath back, clutching at his sweat-soaked chest. No other aspect of his expression has changed – his eyes remain cold and hard, his expression severe, but now his thin pink lips are cut into a dangerous smile. “I will call you Philip, and you might call me Adrian. You will do as I tell you, and you will enjoy the fruits of that obedience.”

Phil, breathing heavy and with tears staining his cheeks, stares down at him, at the younger man’s cold eyes and knife-edge smile, and asks in a voice he doesn’t mean to have quaver, but does quaver, “This whole thing a statement on fucking… On police procedure?”

He’s so cool and so distant and so impossibly, impossibly beautiful as he shrugs his shoulders, his waves of hair shifting slightly as he does so. “The difference here is that you’re obeying because you wish to, because it excites you. Your detainees have no such luxury.”

“Some of them do fucking like it,” Phil mutters, “and in any case, that’s not the fucking point, they’re fucking criminals, they—”

“It was an invitation to call me by my forename, Philip, not to decry my commitment to police abolition,” Gillespie – Adrian – says in cool, calculating tones. “Would you like to continue?”

“What next?” Phil asks, feeling the relief of the cool wood under his forearm. “Cavity search?”

“I’m satisfied you aren’t carrying anything illicit,” Adrian says with obvious amusement. “Now shower.”

The shower proceeds in much the same way his stripping had done – “Turn on the water, soak yourself. Water off. Shampoo your hair. Soap your body – torso first. Armpits, arms. Belly, back. Thighs. Your calves, your feet. Shower on, rinse. Conditioner. Cock, behind your bollocks, your hole. Rinse.”

Adrian watches him unblinkingly as he soaps himself with thick, white suds all over, all through the patchy hair on his body and the rest of his balder flesh, and he watches the water rinse it off, too. Phil watches the soap suds swirl in the water under his feet – the tiles in the shower all have a bobbled texture to them, the sort you get in the showers in leisure centres and gyms to avoid having fucking mats, and the water drains into a gutter and then dribbles away.

Phil turns off the water and hangs the shower head on the rung it had been on, the lowest on – Gillespie is about the same height as Phil, when standing, but the rungs for the shower head go much higher that, would allow for someone six and a half feet tall to have the shower head comfortably over their head. Phil wonders who Gillespie has in this room with him, in his bedroom with him – those fucking Amazonians in stupid clothing he saw at the club? Big, muscle men, giant strongmen?

Other pathetic cops like him?

“You are so compellingly pitiable,” says Adrian, leaning his chin on his hand and bouncing one of his feet, and Phil stares at it, the graceful arch of it and his pink-painted toenails, and then he looks back up to Adrian’s face. “Are you pleased to be in this position, Philip, deplorable and disgusting thing that you are? Naked of every thread so that I might scrutinise each and every part of you that pleases me – degrade you too, hm? Tell you what, exactly, that you’re worthless, scum, a filthy pervert, little more than dirt to be trod under my heel?”

Each last insult shocks him like a bolt, and his cock aches it’s now so hard, his slit winking as his foreskin rolls back a little bit, a little pre shining around the head. Phil grips at the nearest fucking support bar – at least there’s no end to those in this fucking bathroom – and breathes deeply, as if deep breaths are going to make him any less fucking dizzy.

“Do you know wat pleases me, Philip, about what an odious and wretched creature that you are?” Adrian asks, and Phil groans quietly aloud, his chest aching at the way his heart is pounding hard and fast in his chest, and Adrian makes a single motion with his index finger. Phil damn near throws himself to the black and white tile, almost fucking grateful for the stability of his hands and knees – at least he can’t collapse so far to the ground, now he’s not on his feet. He turns his hand over, and instead of making a motion downward, he makes a beckoning motion with his finger instead, and Phil crawls closer. The nobbled texture of the tiles hurts his aching fucking knees. “I doubt you’ve even considered what you might do if I let you touch me. You know, deep down inside that stupid, filthy pig’s head of yours that you don’t deserve to touch me, and your subconscious won’t even let you visualise it.”

The noise Phil lets out is agonising, wheezed and whimpering, and hands and knees or no, his knees go out from under him, and he’s flat on the fucking floor with his dick dragging on the wet, rough tile and it hurts. Adrian Gillespie is the size of a titan when he’s on his belly on the floor like this, looking up at him with his tearing eyes. He’s close to Adrian’s pretty, painted toes like this – fucking prettier than he’d have thought, he must not have been able to do ballet much in his life or his feet would be fucked, from what Phil’s seen on ex-ballet dancers who strip or do trade – and he almost feels dizzy at the view of his creamy white ankles under the silk-satin of his pyjama trousers as he uncrosses his legs.

Phil stares up at him between Adrian’s parted knees, up to his heavily-lidded eyes and smirking lips, haughty and god-like so far above Phil’s shoulders, deified and not easy to think of as in a fucking wheelchair – it’s like he’s in a fucking throne, and Phil is just fucking… What do they call it?

“Supplication,” Adrian supplies, as if reading his fucking mind, and Phil keens breathlessly. “You can think to do that, at least. But what else, Philip? How would you touch me, if I deigned to permit it?”

Phil moans in the helpless, aimless way of a man offered the world without being able to conceive of it – he feels like a pint that’s been overpoured, the tap left on and gushing and creating a waterfall of fucking cider, or beer, or whatever the fuck else, and that’s him. That’s him with want or desire or blood or need or the universe, and all he can do, flat on the tile and looking up at Adrian like a man “supplicating”, all that comes out of him is helpless, hopeless gibbering.

“K—” he tries, starts, but it comes out more as a G because his mouth is full up with fucking saliva and his nose is threatening to run. “K’ss you—”

“Kiss me?” Adrian repeats in sharp, mocking tones, and he laughs and it’s an awful sound that goes right into Phil’s bones and threatens to make its home there, inside his bones, in his heart, in the very core of him, his cock straining against the warm rough tile, and he knows that he’ll never be able to come again in his life without thinking of Adrian Gillespie laughing at him just like this. “Oh, will you kiss me, will you, Philip? Not on the mouth, I suppose?”

“Your… you… feet? N—neck? Cock?”

Adrian laughs at him some more, and Phil, sweating and tearful and wet and aching, looks between Adrian’s lean but muscular thighs, at the pink satin that covers his crotch. He can’t see Adrian’s cock bulging out the silk – is he even fucking hard? Is he even aroused by Phil at all? The thought that he isn’t, that he’s doing this just to laugh at how pathetic he is, shoots through him with the force of a lightning bolt and his whole body shudders hard.

“Please,” he moans. He’d been sobering up, but he feels fucking drunk now, feels drunker than he’s ever been and yet still been fully conscious, without the coke giving him a window through it. His whole skin feels as if it’s being seared from the inside, his pulse something he can feel through his prick, and he crawls forward, desperate, needful, makes to put his mouth against one of Adrian’s ankles and receives a foot on the throat for his troubles.

He doesn’t resist it as Adrian nudges him to collapse on his back on the floor, his hips thrusting uselessly against the air.

“Sit up,” Adrian orders, and as Phil sits up, Adrian rolls forward and grips the back of his neck in a tight, painful grip, and at the same time, leans over Phil’s body. He’s still damp from the shower, damp and shivering not from the cold, his arse against the warm tiled floor – he can feel the satin of Adrian’s pyjama bottoms, feel the cooler material of his pyjama shirt buttons, as the younger man kicks the brake on his chair to keep it in place and leans right over him, feel the beautiful warmth of his body and smell his shampoo – not the same shampoo Phil’s just used, which is odourless, had clear labelling about its lack of allergens. Adrian keeps one hand tightly – painfully, wonderfully painfully – gripping the back of Phil’s neck and steadying himself by it whilst with the other hand he grasps hold of Phil’s cock.

“Tight,” Phil whines.

“Quite,” Adrian agrees, and grips him even tighter – it hurts, it hurts even before Adrian twists his wrist slightly and puts friction on the damp, sensitive flesh around his shaft, and that’s it, that’s everything, his cork is fucking popped.

As his cock pulses and his orgasm hits him like a fucking punch to the jaw, it’s not the only thing that hits him in the jaw – Adrian uses his grip on Phil’s neck to shove his face forward and into the path of his pumping prick so that his own come hits him in the face, spatters over his cheek, the underside of his nose, into his fucking mouth.

Phil feels it quake through his body, doesn’t know when he’s last had an orgasm as intense as this one, as powerful as this one, hitting him so hard he wonders for a second if he’s gonna go fucking blind. He sits there, breathing heavily, tears on his cheeks falling down them and mixing with his own fucking come, and Adrian pats him idly, thoughtlessly, on the head.

“Wash that off and then come brush your teeth,” he orders, pulling up his chair brake and wheeling back. “Spare toothbrushes are in the tall counter.”

Phil takes a minute to get his breath and his brain back before he crawls into the shower to obey.

The evening is a sleepy blur from then.

* * *

When the morning light begins to shine through the curtained windows into Adrian’s bedroom, Phil is scantly awake, his face mashed into the pillow that Ysbal had brought in for him at the same time she’d brought in a pair of black satin pyjamas matched to Adrian’s own, with pink edging and buttons, and nothing embroidered on the breast pocket. They’re in his size, fit him perfectly, and it had been humiliating, last night, distantly humiliating as he put on these fucking women’s pyjamas and felt how soft they were, how cool the fabric was.

He'd not been able to make eye contact with Adrian as he’d put them on, had kept his gaze instead on the portrait of the sleeping king and his boyfriend, servant, whatever, on the wall.

Adrian had followed his gaze and said, “Oh, well, I’m not much of a royalist, but… What am I saying? Do you even know who those men are?”

“Uh, no,” Phil had said.

“King Arthur Pendragon, asleep beneath the mountain.”

Sleepily, his eyes barely opening, Phil looks over at the portrait now, notices for the first time that the fancy four-poster bed with its canopy isn’t in a bedroom or a castle hall but in some kind of fucking cave, a shallow stream running from the background to the foreground barely lit by wax candles that illuminate the scene and melt directly into the outcrops of stone they’re rested on. His boyfriend’s skirts are wet from kneeling in it.

“You know how I am about strays, Mum,” he hears Adrian say, and a part of him wants to wake up, wants to wake up and fucking listen – Mum? Mum!? – but he’s too comfortably settled into his doze.

He's not very hungover at all, in the scheme of things, has slept really fucking well – slept at Adrian Gillespie’s feet, horizontal at the foot of the bed like a dog. Now, Adrian is sitting cross-legged beside him, wrapped in blankets and leaning against pillows, and he’s stroking his fingers absent-mindedly through Phil’s short-cropped hair.

“I think I’ll have him grow it out, he’s got that awful bristly look for now – far too military for my liking. Clean-shaven is fine, but I’ll perhaps try him with a beard.” Adrian grips Phil’s chin, turning Phil’s head toward him and looking at him thoughtfully, analytically, before nudging Phil’s head away again and running his fingernails over his hair and fuck, but it feels nice, feels good. “No, never hurts to have another on the payroll, even if this one doesn’t need paying in the… traditional sense.”

Phil closes his eyes and waits for the shame to hit him, the disgust at the idea of his being corrupted in precisely this way, not paid money but led by his cock and collared and, what, pampered in a rich boy’s fucking bed?

The shame doesn’t come, though.

This moment simply feels too good to let it.

FIN.

---

Thank you so much for reading! Interested in commissioning me yourself? More info is available here.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Would That I

Pairing: Otto Hightower x f!reader Warnings: Smut, age gap, keeping it in the family. Word count: ~1.1k Summary: Otto makes sure his pretty, young wife has absolutely everything she desires. Based on this request.

She is smitten with Otto the moment she lays eyes on him. Arriving in King’s Landing she anticipates a week of uninteresting jousts and tedious formalities, but as she sits in the stands, thoroughly uninterested by the spectacle of the two knights charging towards each other on horseback, her eye is drawn to the Hand of the King. He is older than her by at least three decades, but he is refined, tall and ruggedly handsome. While the potential suitors within the capital are seemingly endless, none of them compare to Otto Hightower

Using every excuse within her arsenal over the coming days, she seizes all opportunities to see and speak to him, and is delighted to find he is every bit as charming as he is handsome. He titters at her jokes and she is enamoured by the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, the green of his iris appearing to sparkle as he does so. His voice is deep, yet velvety smooth and she hangs on his every word. He is intelligent, diplomatic and sharp as Valyrian steel.

Her desire for him intensifies as the days press on, and emboldened by one too many cups of Dornish red following a feast one evening, she leans forward and presses her lips to his, her heart fluttering as she feels the warmth of his large palm cup her cheek as he returns the gesture.

“I have not felt like this about a woman in years,” He tells her.

She smiles at his words. She has not felt like this about a man ever.

There is no need for her to leave come the end of the week, King’s Landing is now her home, and after a hastily put together ceremony in the Sept, Otto Hightower is her husband.

He surprises her with his virility on their wedding night, wringing peak after peak from her pliant body, leaving her exhausted but with a satisfying ache between her thighs the following morning. Otto spoils her beyond comprehension, she wants for nothing and has the finest of everything; jewels from Lys, gowns of Myrish silk and lace, wines from the Arbor. He is diligent in keeping her sated in every aspect of their marriage.

It is obvious his daughter, Alicent, does not approve, though she does not say it, and who can blame her? She has to admit that she’d be annoyed too if her father chose to marry someone younger than his own daughter.

It is not Alicent’s silent disapproval that bothers her, however, it is how the ladies of the court love to gossip. It is not unusual in Westeros for men to wed women much younger than themselves, yet she finds herself at the center of all manner of prying questions regarding the nature of her marriage to Otto. She supposes it is because of the responsibility he holds as the King’s Hand.

“What is it you see in him?” One bold lady dares to ask.

She bites her lip, considering her answer. She longs to say that it sends a thrill through her body to wait upon her knees for him, gazing up at him as he presses the head of himself past her lips. Such talk would cause a scandal, however, so she gives a tight smile and says that he is tall.

“Surely that can’t be all?”

“No, he is handsome too,” She says wistfully, thinking about how he gazes up at her from between her thighs, the softness of his beard tickling her soft flesh, the sensation causing her to clench around nothing.

“Is he kind to you?”

“Oh, yes, Otto is extraordinarily generous!” There is a particular necklace that Otto insists she wears, with nothing else to accompany it, whenever they are alone in their marital chambers. It sits tight against her throat, adorned with emeralds that gleam in the same shade of green as the Hightower house colours. It likely cost a small fortune, but in his eyes nothing is too good for her, not when he is buried to the hilt inside of her.

“Is that your favourite quality of his?”

“No,” She muses. “I adore his dedication to his family.”

The combined heat from the fireplace and lit candles that sit upon every surface of the bedchamber make the room stiflingly hot. She feels sweat trickle down her neck, disappearing beneath the emerald choker that sits snugly around her neck, every green gemstone glittering in the dim light as she rolls her hips against Otto’s.

His grip on her waist is vice-like, every sensation heightened by warmth, as the length of him nudges against a spot inside of her that makes her tense with every undulation of her body. She feels taut, pulled tighter than a bow string until it eventually snaps, sending her headlong into oblivion, waves of ecstasy rolling through her as she collapses against her husband’s chest, triggering his own release.

His fingers stroke gently over her dampened skin as he holds her close. Already, renewed desire throbs between her legs.

“Are you satisfied, my dear?” Otto asks softly.

“I will never have enough of you, my love,” Comes her playful response.

“That is not quite what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” She lifts her head, eyeing him curiously.

“I have seen the way that you and Aemond look at each other, I am no fool.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “It is nothing, I can assure you.”

“I do not mind,” He rises from the bed, pulling on a robe. “I wish for my darling wife to be satisfied, to have everything she desires, so I shall make it so.”

He opens the chamber door, uttering “you can come in now” and her eyes widen in disbelief when she sees Otto’s second oldest grandson hovering in the doorway. It seems outrageous to her that he would suggest such a thing, yet she cannot deny the way it makes her pulse race.

“I shall be back in an hour.” Otto informs them both, before leaving.

She is too stunned to speak at first as she takes in the sight of Aemond. He seems stoic and unaffected in his demeanour, until she studies him more carefully. She takes in how his pupil is dilated with lust, the prominent bulge that presses against the lacings of his trousers, and the slight parting of his lips as he struggles to control his excited breaths.

Arranging herself atop the bedspread, she relaxes knowing that he desires her just as much as she desires him. She beckons him to her with a crook of her finger. “Come now, don’t be shy.” He goes to her eagerly.

It is just one of the many perks of being Otto Hightower’s wife. He is nothing if not generous in every aspect of their marriage, and so dedicated to his family.

Read on AO3

More Otto fics