#happs to you dear

[chacerider]

for my dear friend @cubeee11, who hopefully now understands why I cackled when they told a different friend they wanted Belial to step on them for their birthday.

[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

[evilminji]

You ever fuck up so bad, you accidentally kidnap someone?

Imagine, if you will, the players of our scene. Young Justice. Perhaps the Teen Titans. It matters not, really, only that they are young. Too young, in fact, for the booze they have smuggled in, to celebrate still being ALIVE.

They didn't think they would be, approximately seven hours ago.

They didn't think ANYONE would be, by this time, seven hours later.

The world celebrates. Families hug, children cry and laugh, lovers desperately reunite. They did it. They saved the day. Survived.

With new wounds and some fresh new trauma to show for it, too. Perhaps... Perhaps it is that. And the looseness of alcohols effect on the tounge. Combined with their new closeness... that gets them talking. Sharing.

Talking of skills. Training. Histories normally not mentioned. Perhaps even bitching about this mentor or that old teacher, and OH, weren't they a NAG! "Fundamentals~!" The magic user mocks in drunkin parody of their old teacher. "it's all about the FUNDAMENTALS! Practice circles until you puke!"

But...

Oh? Oh DEAR~

Drunks have such POOR impulse control, don't they? The Speedster scoffs. He doesn't mean harm. Truely, he doesn't. But to him? It is a constant irritant against sore skin, that his team mates have access to such powerful and strange powers... yet choose not too study them at ALL! Ask questions. That they haven't considered the advancements humanity could make if they just TRIED.

Everything has an answer.

Just because you don't know what it IS yet, doesn't mean it doesn't EXSIST out there.

But this is an old argument. They ALSO a sore spot for the magic user and (by the many gods they know better then to swear by) they are SICK of it! You- *urk!* You think you can do BETTER? Explain it then, Mr. "Magic isn't real"!

And oh dear, oh dear~

The usual mitigator has already fallen asleep. Passed out, really, having amongst other things, texted their Ex and decided they NEEDED to dye their hair. Which leaves no one to stop what about to unfold. As the Speedster slams down his drink, his hyper accelerated metabolism leaving him, ironically, one of the LEAST drunk in the room.

But... sometimes all you NEED to royally fuck up?

Is to be just buzzed enough to ignore your better instincts.

And the argument kicks up. Again. Heats up. Again. But this time? Goes further. They are standing, yelling, in each other's faces. The Speedster certain they are just "making things up". The magic user hissing that the arcane is a field of STUDY. A SCIENCE and ART. Just because YOU don't-

But?

Well... One must ask. Have you ever FOUGHT a Speedster? Can you even conceive of what a pico-second FEELS like? What the Speedforce, once active, makes the world LOOK like? It is like statues. Silence. Calling a timeout on reality itself.

You can walk away.

No one can really stop you.

You can walk out the door, up the stairs, to your friends room, and grab books from their shelf. Sit and read them. ALL of them. The whole shelving unit. In the time it took a fraction of a second to pass. Then get up, put everything back, go back down stairs, search for supplies, find them, and return to your conversation. Having studied everything they have in the building.

And for them? It's like blinking. You just... have the supplies now. Air is displaced.

And you're ready to fuckin PROVE it.

You looked up all the symbols they used. So NOW? You can use nonsense. No chance that ANYTHING will happen, right? It's not "official magic"! He says, talking over a buzzed magic user. Who's staring at him blankly, mind churning as they try figure out why... why it sounds like he's saying he's about to do the One Thing they were... told.. to never...

Oh God.

WAIT!

DONT!

But it's too late. Our dear Speedster has made his "gibberish" circle. Chanted randomly strung together magically charged NONSENSE. Then? Let her rip! See? Nothing happ-

The world seems to suck in it's breath and wind up, as though preparing to PERSONALLY punish such hubris. The magic user us screaming. Back! Every GET BACK! Move, move, MOVE! Green hisses and crackles from the circle.

As.

Reality.

CRACKS.

!!!BOOM!!!

Glass shatters and electronics are beyond salvation. The couchs many dove behind are shredded, but hold. Sections of the ceiling and floor collapsing. The Radiation alarm deeper in the base kicks in with a clicking wail. There is SOMETHING casting a looming shadow... and it has a CROWN.

The air burns like arctic winter wind and ozone.

Before anyone can think of what to DO, a harsh golden light rips open reality and out steps most of JLA Dark. The are standing in front of the now completely trashed Zeta-tube. Which they could not USE. They do not look amused.

"What. Did you. DO!?" Snarls an exhausted John Constantine from the front of the line up, his normal rougish face is still half bruises and the cigarette he's holding looks like it's the only thing keeping him from strangling someone. "We could feel that from FUCKIN SPACE! We're you trying to blow up the PLANET?!"

"Good QUESTION!" snarls another voice, from the direction of where the circle should be "Here's another one! Where the HELL am I and who are you people?!"

Every spins to look.

There, floating above the green glowing circle, is a teen in a crown.

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @hdgnj @dcxdpdabbles @lolottes @mutable-manifestation @hdgnj @nerdpoe

[kdinjenzen]

Hi all! I have some unfortunate (but fortunate sort of) news to share.

I had just started my new job a few weeks ago but, unfortunately, I had to put in my two weeks notice last week due to being misgendered multiple times within the first two weeks of employment and many other large red flags.

The reply was "Nah, your last day is Friday" instead of honoring the two weeks notice.

This means I am back to being “out of work” for the time being and have already begun my hunt for a new job once again.

However, in the meantime that means we are back to MORE streams more regularly to help out with being out of work and also to enjoy more time with y’all.

That said, if you can donate to help us get through the month while I keep up the job hunt, it'd be very much appreciated!:

P@yPal: Paypal.me/kdinj Ca$hApp: $KdinJ Kofi: ko-fi.com/kdinjenzen

Peace and love today to you all my dears, darlings, and degenerates!

[miifu666]

you've seen me babble about Yan! Wukong... BUT THIS TIME ITS MACAQUE!! i know he has a big dick- I've always wanted to write abt Macaque, just never had the time to but now I do- hihihii thank you for those who asked for him ♡♡

⋆˙⟡ —CW: Yandere, ooc Macaque, noncon drugging, rough Macaque, insecurities mentioned, manipulative, art is oc x canon but drabble is canon x reader.

Yandere! Macaque

Imagining Yan! Macaque who knows which words to strike your insecurities, what sentences can fully make you dissociate in the middle of the day. To let him be the one who guides you while you're busy drowning in your self-doubt. His hands maneuvering itself to gently lay on your back, the other acting like a fence, making sure no one can bump into you. He coos about how unfortunate you are, poor little you. Yet, his smirk came forth as he looks back.

"Ohohoho! Look at how you're dressed, baby~ well … maybe this part is a little tight for you, don't you think?"

Macaque tasted the bitter end of the stick, while Wukong got to gloat about the honeyed drip he tasted. The dark simian makes sure you never see the good side of that sage, he'll inject every single downside of every trait you love about Wukong. Sometimes, he even uses your own words against you. Turning your friends and family against you for having the same traits as that monkey you adore. You think Wukong's empathetic? How does it feel to be fooled and scammed by your own friends? Wukong's ambitious? Oh but it eats you up doesn't it? You'll never be good enough for yourself. Macaque is observant, he lives in the shadow and he knows how to use your own surroundings to make you feel little.

"Well, im glad you've learned your lesson…i know its hard to accept that sometimes good things, aren't always good, sweetheart"

He remembers when Wukong was possessed by LBD, there was a sense of longing whenever he thought back to how he was also under her control. The images of you so pliant, harmless and a soft bundle of drug induced state inspires him to try and concoct his own drug. Maybe even steals one from a pharmaceutical, any drug will do. As long as it keeps you pliant and adorable, no horrible side effects, at least that's what he hoped for.

He'll study how much doses you need to ensure you're all hazy and high as a kite. Can't even reach the door to his dojo without stumbling and holding on. So cute, adorable, ugh what other words can he use? You're all helpless, who would make sure you dont stumble and hit your head now hmm? Don't worry, your dear boyfriend Macaque is here. Albeit seeing you like this strikes a sadistic side of him he didn't know of.

"Hey hey, where you going sweetheart? A drunken little thing like you shouldn't walk around without any help. What if some big bad guy takes advantage of you hmm? Poor thing"

Macaque knows what he's doing is wrong. Punishing you, keeping you hidden, heck he even silently drugged you without your knowledge just so he can fulfill his stupid fantasy. He's not delusional, there's guilt eating him up and the only way a traumatized simian can say sorry is through his actions and services. he's the best at handling things patiently with care, Macaque will take care of you in ways he knows best, and he's really good at it too.

"Ohoho what's this? You missed me this much? Hahaha so cute.. ill have a fun time ravishing you.. just lay down and let me do my thing"

Yan! Macaque who longs for someone to share the lonely nights with him, someone who he can cuddle with and talk about the stars and which stupid cat reactions you are. Its all he ever dreams of, all he longs for. Yan! Macaque understand every single insecurity you're going through, he knows how to handle it. He'll help you through it, He'll make sure you wont have lonely nights to cry yourself to sleep on. Maybe if you close your eyes hard enough, you can forget about the shackle on your leg and the bruising lovebites around your intimate areas.

"I know… its hard, its tough but life happens and.. i know my little sweetheart can pull through.. you always do. Thats what i love about you.. haha even got me a little too obsessed"

Macaque is a good mate whether you admit it or not, his observant eyes and omniscient six ears focused solely on you. The slight sniff from your nose can be a sign of an oncoming sickness, within no time he'll be ready with the blankets, warm tea, tissues and medicine! You might think he's heartless, sure he locks you up whenever he goes out, talks you down every time you feel confident enough to leave him and yeah he might have a need to see you helpless without him But! But! He's not neglectful, maybe there are times where you feel like he's infantilizing you. Yet he swears it's just an instinct, he always makes sure you get your proper meals, he even watches cooking shows just to make sure you eat your flavourful food! Not those salt and pepper tasteless things.

"I made you something~ ...what? It tastes funny? Hmmm must be the new recipe im trying, im sure you're just not used to it, hun"

[elfven-blog]

Hi dear‹3

Imagine Leon teasing the reader while the poor reader tries to read some book (That they won't be able to read it anymore because our kennedy will have his mouth busy)

Hello anon! Hope you enjoy, I sure did. 🤭

Like the book

Summary: You aren't paying Leon enough attention while reading your book. Leon Kennedy xF!reader CW: MDNI, 18+ only, pussy eating, distractions, you ride leons face. Word count: 1.2K

Your hand came up to cover your mouth, breath shaky as you tried to focus on the words. A gasp slipped past your lips, stopping the words you were speaking in their path as Leon lay between your thighs his hand slowly massaging at the plush skin. You hadn’t expected him to come home early, but he had been able to finish his work and come home. Where he had caught you in the process of reading one of your new books, not that he knew what kind of book it was.

The part you had just come to was one that had been building up for the last few chapters between the two leads of the story. You bit your bottom lip as you continued reading and hoped Leon hadn’t heard the gasp leaving your mouth but of course he had, his attention had been on you the entire night. You were too busy focusing on that book to notice how needy your boyfriend was, and it was starting to grate on his nerves so while you had slipped away to go grab the food earlier he had spent some time reading.

And he had some kind of understanding of what you liked about the book. It was probably helpful when he was away on his long missions. But what was more Leon, who had been wanting your attention for the last few hours, had finally thought of a way to get it. He had read ahead to this scene you were reading; he knew exactly how it was going to play out and he was ready to use this to his advantage.

So, with the tv playing some stupid show that you had on to keep Leon distracted while you were buried deep in your book, Leon started following the actions of the male lead. His hand slowly drawing up your thigh, playing with the hem of your shorts as his fingers slip below the material. You are far too engrossed in your book to realise how far your partners hands have travelled. Brow scrunches as his fingers rub at the small wet spot from the slick that had gathered while you were reading. Your squirmed at the feeling before settling down to continue reading.

Leon’s eyes were focused on your face, his fingers moving to circle at your cloth covered clit and you let another gasp as your thighs tried to close around his hand but with the way his body lay, his broad shoulders stopped you from being able to move your legs. “W-what are you doing?” your voice was a whisper as you moved the book to look down at the grinning blonde. He only moved his other hand to push your book back up.

“Getting what I want, keep reading” his hands worked your shorts and panties down, and you lifted your hips to help him. Your focus shifting from the book to watch the blonde as his head dipped between your legs. His hands moving to place your thighs over his shoulders before they meld to the soft skin of your hips. “I said keep reading” his eyes met your own, blue nearly black as he pressed a kiss to your lips. Tongue slowly circling at your clit as he watched you, before pulling away when you didn’t go back to your book.

The sight had slick dripping from your clenching hole, and you go to protest as he pulls away, all he does is motion to the book and with an annoyed grunt you bring the book back up and try to focus on the words. Leon takes the opportunity to bury his face back into your cunt, tongue lapping at your dripping hole. His hand moves from its home on your hip to rest just above your pussy so his thumb can swirl at your sensitive nub.

“That’s a good girl, just read and enjoy” the words on the page are unfocused, one of your hands moving to grasp at his hair and your hips rolled up into his mouth allowing his tongue to lick deeper into you. Leon groaned at the taste as what happens in the book slips his mind and all he can think of is drawing more of those gasps and moans in that way that causes your thighs to shake and slick to soak his face.

His favourite position is underneath you like this, his tongue lapping at your cunt and his nose rubbing at your clit. You really do try to read the book but with his tongue spreading your lips, and fucking into your fluttering hole it falls to the floor with a soft thud. Both your hands moving to press his face further into your pussy before his hands remove yours and he sits up. “Gotta better idea pretty girl, need that pussy drowning me”.

Leon manoeuvres you with ease until your hovering above him, thighs either side of his head and his hands smoothing up your thighs and sides “fuck, might just be my favourite view. Such a pretty bunny above me”. You bit your lip as you looked down at him, he could see the apprehension in your eyes and his eyebrows pinched as he frowned. His fingers drew soothing circle into your skin, his attention pulled to the way your pussy glistened, wetness dripping down your thighs.

“I just…are you sure?” Leon groaned, eyes almost rolling before he reset his grip on your hips and pulled your weight down onto him. His lips pressing wet kisses to your pussy, your mouth falling open as your hands grasped the arm of the sofa. Leons eyes lighting up from your reaction as he drinks in the way your mouth is slack and your eyes are closed with your head lolling back.

He watches you for a moment before his tongue slowly swirls at your clit, whines slipping from you as he coaxes you to rest entirely on him, his hands holding keeping you there. It doesn’t take long for you to move your hips, and Leons eyes never stray from looking at you. His tongue moving to fuck into your cunt, warm and wet against the fluttering walls as you use your hands to keep you steady while you ride his face.

Leon groans at the taste on his tongue, enjoying every moment as he watches his wife enjoy herself. This is definitely his favourite view. His hands pull you closer, fingers digging into the plush of your ass as he watches your tits bounce. And he laps at your cunt like he’s starving, his tongue fucking into your dripping hole while his nose bumps into your clit. Leon has you seeing stars as you focus on the way he feels below you.

You feel the groans vibrate through you as he continues lapping at your pussy, hips rolling against his face faster as you feel your orgasming building up. His stubble scrapes at your skin lightly, his hands pushing you further as he watches the blissed look on your face and your whines muffled from the way your thighs pillow around his head. Broad hands knead at your ass and helps you rock on his face, his tongue drinking up your slick before your thighs squeeze around his head and you fall forward with a load moan. Leon helps steady you as your orgasm washes over, still moving your hips as you ride through it.

Your legs are shaky as Leon slides himself out from under you, before his arms sweep you up and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon pretty girl, need to take you apart in the bath and on the bed after that…never gonna need a book again”.

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

okay! here's the first poseidon 'snippet' . this takes place before and during this scene!

second snippet

there's a masterlist now!

hope you guys enjoy! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

*a few months after poseidon had left apollo’s infirmary finally all free of holes all healed up*

*up on olympus*

zeus: *bored outta his godly mind after 20 years of entertainment (especially those last 10 years)*

zeus: *suddenly struck with an idea*

zeus: *to no one in particular* i think i’m going to go pay my brother a visit… just to check on how he is…

zeus: *disappears in a flash of lightning*

hera: *entering the room*

hera: *stares at the scorch marks on the ground where zeus just was*

hera: *to herself* as long as its nothing to do with a woman or illegitimate child… then i don’t care.

*below the sea in poseidon’s palace*

*poseidon enjoying some peace and quiet; when in a flash, zeus on one of his very rare visits, appears in front of him*

zeus: *looking around the room* so… how are things?

poseidon:

poseidon: *sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose*

poseidon: what do you want zeus?

zeus: *ignoring poseidon’s question* where’s your queen?

poseidon: amphitrite is out visiting her sisters…wait never mind that-

poseidon: what do you want?

zeus: *now looking at poseidon* can’t i come see my big brother?

poseidon: you never bother, unless you want something.

poseidon: *anger now in his voice* so out with it.

zeus: *putting his hands up in front of him* whoa! no need to get angry…

zeus: *putting his hands down and a smirk appears* ...remember how that ended for you last time?

zeus: *smirk gets bigger* how you let odysseus beat you like that, i have no idea…

poseidon: *glaring at zeus* do not speak that name in my home

zeus: why my dear brother? are you perhaps… scared?

poseidon: *falling right into zeus provocations*

poseidon: i am NOT scared of that mons- mortal!

poseidon: he merely took advantage of my state after using a lot of my power!

zeus: *under his breath to himself* that power still didn’t kill him though, did it?

zeus: *to poseidon this time* but you’re not in that state now, are you? nor have you been since you left olympus… so what’s holding you back now?

poseidon: *raising an eyebrow at zeus* holding me back from what?

zeus: *knows he has poseidon hook, line and sinker*

zeus: i understand you can no longer hurt him or his family; unless you want to incur the wrath of my daughter… and i suppose even my wife

zeus: but you can make trouble for him still, can’t you?

poseidon:

zeus: *notices the slight hesitation*

zeus: or maybe you are truly fearful of him now? the mighty god of the seas, terrified of a mortal king.

poseidon: *blinks and then goes back to glaring at zeus*

poseidon: i told you i am not sca-

zeus: -then what’s stopping you?

poseidon: NOTH- *coughs* nothing.

poseidon: *crosses his arms and looks away from zeus*

zeus: *laughs knowing he’s done what he came here to do*

zeus: well, i shouldn’t stay too long away from olympus... enjoy the rest of your day brother.

zeus: *disappears in another flash of lightning*

poseidon: *looks at the scorch marks on his floor*

poseidon: he always leaves a mess…

poseidon: *thinking over the conversation again*

poseidon: i’ll show him who’s scared.

*outside the shores of ithaca*

poseidon: *looking the nice clear weather and seeing the merchant ships coming to and from ithaca*

poseidon: it would be a shame if something disrupted this...

poseidon: *smirks* *summons his trident & lifts it to the sky*

*the wind picks up and storm clouds quickly start forming*

poseidon: *can hear distant shouts of mortals reacting to the sudden storm*

poseidon: *laughs to himself* perfect.

poseidon: well, i guess i’ll leave this to brew. i’ll check back later to see what damage has happe-

poseidon: *a full body shiver comes over him out of nowhere*

poseidon: *turns to look at the ithacan docks where he can see..a mortal?*

poseidon: why i am i bothered by that mo-

poseidon: *sees deep red eyes and realises who the mortal is*

poseidon: -oh no.

*the king of ithaca odysseus stands there, glaring into the storm*

odysseus: *in a cold voice* I am going sailing with my son. There will be no issues, is that understood?

poseidon: *even though he knows odysseus can’t hear him* aye aye captain!

poseidon: *with a whimper calls off the storm immediately and quickly dives back under the water*

poseidon: *before he can completely leave, he can hear the voice of odysseus saying “good.”*

poseidon: *about to head straight back home but pauses*

poseidon: *remembers odysseus said he was going sailing with his son*

poseidon: *knows he may be god of the sea, but he can’t always be there to control what the residents of said sea get up too*

poseidon: maybe i should just make sure there’s nothing to make him angrier at me

poseidon: *secretly follows & stays near odysseus’ and telemachus’ ship*

[rileyglas]

okay here me out… what about alastor, Lucifer and Adam and their s/o meeting their fandom counterparts cat alastor, cat luci, and tiny Adam? Just a thought have a good day! 👍😁

Love this! Thank you for my first ever request!

Meeting their Fandom Counterparts Alastor, Lucifer, and Adam x gn!reader

Cat Alastor

“Ew - what the actual fuck is that?” you ask, looking cautiously over the shoulder of the Radio Demon. A small red thing stared up at you with a smile that looked eerily similar to your husbands. “I - I think it’s a cat, my dear. He followed me home from Rosie’s and I just couldn’t help but feel attached.” Alastor hums in amusement, bending down to pick it up. The cat blinks each eye separately before nuzzling into his coat. “Uhm - I don’t think you should -” you try to warn but the cat hisses with a hint of audible static. A few tentacles burst from its back and flailed in a show of anger. 

“Oh wow…that’s….that’s somethin’.” Angel Dust chimes in from the couch. Alastor gives a few soft pats on the cat's head, carefully minding the tiny antlers between its ears. “Now, now, be nice. They will learn to love you just as much as I have already. Oh you are just the most darling thing aren’t you!?” Alastor coos and mumbles. The sight is enough to make even the cutest of demons nauseous. 

You and Angel look at eachother with matching faces of disgust and apprehension. He shrugs, “Hey, s’long as I don’t have to sleep with that thing, do whatever you please.” Angel walks over and places a hand of pity on your shoulder, “Good luck with that toots.”

Back in your shared room you kick off your shoes and attempt to plop onto the bed. Before your butt hits the mattress a loud yelp makes you jump back to your feet. There’s that damned cat again and this time, it’s four times its normal length, stretched out over your side of the bed. “Hey shoo - fuckin’ menace!” Your attempts go ignored much to Alastor’s delight. You shoot him a glare, “Your cat, deal with it.” 

Alastor rubs the cat's stomach, “Awe dear don’t be jealous. He just wants some cuddles.” The cat purrs and shrinks back to its usual small size. It jumps down and hides under the bed. You huff, “I’m going to go take a shower.”

Mid way through your shower, a scream of pure terror interrupts your peace. You run out in a towel to see what all the noise was about. “Hey I heard a scream, what happ - Unholy fuck WHY DOES HE HAVE A KNIFE?” you yell to Alastor who sits smugly on the edge of the bed. 

The red cat sat next to him with a knife in its mouth. Head cocked to the side with the same smug grin your husband doted. Alastor chuckles, obviously very happy with himself, “I sent him down to see Lucifer. Sweet music to my ears. I think this cat is a wonderful addition to the hotel.”

Still dripping wet you roll your eyes, “Uhg whatever, just don’t let him keep the knife.” you mumble before returning to the shower. 

Cat Lucifer

You sit in the lobby of the hotel with a small white cat in your lap. It purred loud enough even Husk could hear it from the bar, “You gonna try and keep that thing?” he asks. You pat the cat's head, “Of course! I think he looks just like Lucifer! Don’t you?” Husk rolls his eyes at your cutesy voice, knowing damn well your boyfriend wasn’t going to buy it. 

When Lucifer returns from his tower he greets you then freezes seeing the cat, “My love…w-what do you have there?” his face twists in a look of repulsion. You dangle the cat in front of his face, “THIS is Luci - isn’t he adorable! He looks just like you!” The cat stares at Lucifer but its eyes look empty as some drool dribbles down it’s chin

“Eh are you sure he’s…uh - a good fit for us?” He takes a step away from you, “Look I know I’ve been working a lot but getting a cat might not -” the cat jumps from your arms onto the top of his hat, playfully pawing at the snake wrapping around the base. Cute chirps leave its mouth making Lucifer melt. “Aweee I guess he is just a cute little thing isn’t he?”

You gracefully remove the cat from his hat, rubbing its belly in your arms, “Soooooo can we keep him?” you continue to pat his belly and hit a spot that causes the cat to sprout six tiny red wings. “Oh my!! Look dear!! He even has adorable angel wings! We HAVE to keep him now.”

Lucifer glares at the cat, its eyes still empty as if not a thought was behind them. He sighs in defeat when he sees how happy you are. “Alright. You can keep him on one condition, you have to change his name.” 

You squeeze the cat tightly in excitement, “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!” As you rush up the stairs Lucifer turns to Husk, “That thing looks nothing like me…right?” his voice drips with desperation for an answer. Husk looks at him with a cocked eyebrow, “Do ya really want me to answer or would ya rather just pretend I did?” 

Little Adam

Adam’s office was a spacious one. Large enough you were able to have your own couch to lounge on and read while he did his work. It was a usual afternoon of quiet reading and listening to him mumble to himself when Lute knocked on his door. 

“Sir there’s a situation.” she announces. Before Adam can stand something small darts in under Lute’s legs. You leap back onto the couch and scream, “Jesus Mary Joseph it’s a rat!!!” Adam swiftly bends down and picks it up, “Holy shit! It’s a little me!” he exclaims with more excitement than expected. 

“Hey hon maybe we should be cautious with this - thing.” you try to reason with him. Lute looks to you with an agreeing side eye, “Sir he has been causing complete chaos. Would you like me to ‘take care’ of him?”

Adam coddles the thing in his hands, gasping at the idea, “What!? Get rid of this handsome little shit? Absolutely not! I’m going to keep him as my own little dude. Aren’t I Little Adam?” Little Adam squeaks incomprehensible nonsense and gives a tiny fist bump before taking a seat on the real Adam’s shoulder like a picturesque angel. 

Lute scoffs, more than annoyed, “I don’t think you understand sir, he tried stabbing St. Peter before hiding in Sera’s dress like a roach. It would be best if -” 

“Bitch keep your hands off him!” Adam yells, holding a protective hand over his shoulder. “He has feelings too…I mean - I think?” He looks questioningly to Little Adam who crosses his arms and nods smugly. “See!! Now leave us. I’ve got…big…important angel..shit to do or whatever.” he waves her away without another look.

“Good luck!” Lute growls to you. She slams the door on the way out. You walk over to the desk where both Adams now sat reeling over paperwork. Little Adam looks up to you and begins making obscene gestures, humping the air, and flicking his tongue. “Uhg - he IS NOT coming home with us.” you recoil in disgust. Adam raises an eyebrow, “Awe common sugar, he’s adorable. Just like me! You can’t say no to that face!” 

You roll your eyes, “Nope. Not a chance. He stays here. I’ll go get him a hamster cage or something.” 

[le-monchou]

special stars for a special day || trey clover

a birthday was a big deal; the end of a year and the start of another one in your life; but somehow, you'd always disliked the excessive fanfare and pompadour that accompanied it. you appreciated the few texts and calls, and sometims the occasional surprise birthday cake, but any expectations of that had long since tapered off. that was, until trey clover entered the picture.

you sat outside in the mazelike garden of heartslabyul, scrolling away on the third-rate phone you'd received from crowley on the special occasion that is today, my dear prefect! and you'd hoped that no one would come up with some awkward and elaborate party for you. well, you were alone, until you heard the crunching of grass under shoes and a familiar mop of green hair makes itself known.

"there you are." if you didn't know better, you'd think relief was mixed into his soft tone. "i've been looking for you." you raise an eyebrow as he smiles, but that smile doesn't make you feel any better, considering the date. "walk with me for a bit, will you?"

"'kay." you murmured as you stood up and slipped the phone into your pocket, following trey through the maze towards a secluded area filled with cosmos flowers of all colours, and the little knowledge of flowers burst out. "cosmos flowers for an october birthday." trey nods as he extends a gloved hand towards you, and you take it as he guides you up a very easy hill (did he just want to hold hands? you think to yourself).

at the very top of the hill, hidden between the flowers, was a soft blanket with all your favourite foods and pastries laid out like a mini buffet, arranged to perfection. "do you like it?" trey whispers, though there was no one to overhear the two of you. "i figured a quieter birthday would work for you, considering the noise you deal with everyday. of course, there's nothing against the party they might be planning, but hey."

"they're planning a birthday party?" you blink as trey blinks back before flushing a glorious red. "wow, trey, can't believe you spoilt that for them." you chuckle at his continued mortification before resting a hand on his shoulder to snap him out of it. "it's fine, i can pretend i love it. i mean, i do, depending on who arranged it. spill the beans, will you?" you add as you pick a sandwich to munch on as you wait. trey sighs, before launching into a detailed explanation about the entire affair.

"so, grim and jack asked leona to fund the entire thing, and he is, albeit begrudingly, and now, he's also being used as free labour as epel grills meat as payment." you snort at that as you pick at another sandwich. "he's also picked 13 fights with malleus over decorations, and his expertise is quote-unquote, a child's birthday, and malleus has zero experience with birthday parties beyond his own, so he should again, quote-unquote, fuck off."

"it's the stupidest thing i've ever seen." you sigh as you pick one of the smaller pastries next. "what's this?" trey leans over to inspect the pastry and you try to hide the light shudder that goes down your spine as you hear his voice and feel his breath near your ear. "it's a choclate pastry with cosmos flowers as decorations. i thought it would be appropriate, given its your birthday." you nod seriously as you pick a flower of your favourite colour and smile. "say ahh, trey."

you smile as he bites the flower and roll your eyes at him when, just to be spiteful or something extra, he licks the rest of the cream off of your fingers. "happy birthday, my dearest."

happ day of birth @fungifanart have your second husband || word count: 646 words

[chrystal-ink]

Shadow x GN Reader

Held

Content warning: reader is having a mental breakdown, some self loathing, holding unrealistic standards for themselves and as a result being unkind to themselves is involved. Shadow is there to comfort you. Hurt/comfort if you wish to skip to the comfort look for the ❤️. See my reblog for more notes

Your legs felt heavy with each step you took as the rain pounded against your umbrella.

The day had dragged on particularly long today, you were exhausted both physically and emotionally. You were finding it harder and harder to put on your usual happy face, the same one that kept others at bay, that made them think that you're okay, that nothing was wrong.

It wasn't any particular thing that made you feel like this, you suppose it was just something that had been built up over time. The world threw One thing at you, and another, and another until finally it had become too much to bear.

You had to keep going, no matter what. You didn't have time to cry, you couldn't let others see it, then they would know.

They would know that you weren't okay. That you were broken, and they'd hate you for it.

"This wasn't you. " They'd say. " You are a happy person, your joyful demeanor makes us feel better. How could you betray us like this? We need you to be happy. So be fucking happy damnit!"

The thoughts swirled around your head making you dizzy, you needed to get home as soon as possible so you could be alone.

You picked up the pace only focused on the path ahead of you, the one that would lead you home. There you could take off your mask, there you could be sad, or angry, feel all of those ugly emotions and no one else could see it. You were safe from the world and it's prying eyes.

You were so focused on getting home that you didn't notice that Shadow was in your path. Before you could even register what was happening you bumped into him.

"Hey, watch where you're going y/n you could have gotten hurt"

A soft "sorry" escaped you're lips.

Of course you ran into him now, right when you were on the edge. He was going to hate you now wasn't he, or worse pity you. you refused to look him in the eye, you knew that once you did it would all be over, he could see right through you, he would know that you were a liar, that behind you're cheerful facade you were just a sad pathetic child crying over nothing and you needed to suck it up.

"Hey. what's wrong?" Shadow asked with a gentle tone.

"nothing, I'm fine." You responded.

"No you're not, I can see it in your face, tell me."

"No."

"Did someone hurt you?"

"No"

"Did I do something to upset you?"

"No"

"Did something happ-"

Tears started to form in the corners of your eyes stinging you with their saltines. A lump grew in you throat that you tried to swallow down to no avail.

"NO, JUST STOP OKAY, NOTHING IS WRONG I'M FI- ...I'm fine."

❤️

Shadow reached out his had and held your cheek lifting your face to meet his. His crimson eyes staring deep into yours full of worry.

That was all it took for the dam to break. Tears flowed out of your eyes cascading down your face your breath hitched as you began to shake abandoning your umbrella. Your knees gave out, Shadow catching you before you could hit the ground wrapping you in a tight embrace before gently lowering you down.

Shadow's arms were tight around you refusing to let you go as you cried into him your tears wetting his ebony fur.

Finally giving into him you wrapped your arms around him and clung to him for dear life. His embrace was warm and tender as he rubbed small circles into your back, he rested his head on top of your's protecting you from the rain as you cried.

You could feel the strength of his arms around you as he pulled you in closer. He didn't say anything, he didn't pull away he just held you as you finally released the emotions that had been building up for months. The two of you sat intertwined for what felt like an hour, only when you were ready did he even consider releasing you from his arms.

You let go cool air entering your lungs as you took your first breath away from Shadow. Looking around you noticed that at some point Shadow had chaos controlled the two of you into your room giving you some much needed privacy as well as getting you two out of the inclement weather.

Your face felt hot and swollen, your mouth felt dry as thick saliva clung to the back of your throat. Your exhaustion grew deeper as you came out of your breakdown.

Shadow stood up grabbing a throw blanket and your favorite plushie that he insisted you were "too old for". He wrapped you up in the blanket and handed you the beloved stuffie.

"hold this I'll be back in a minute" his tone of voice was so gentle that if you hadn't seen the words coming out of his mouth, you would have sworn it was someone else.

He left you alone in your room just you and your thoughts, or at least would be your thoughts. Your breakdown had taken away your ability to think clearly, the only thing that could really register now were your senses, the warmth of the blanket around you, the way the plush toy squished in your arms, the smell of your room, the sound of rain pattering against the window. the way the carpet felt against your legs.

Shadow quickly returned with a glass of water, a wet washcloth, an ice pack wrapped in a towel, and a box of tissues. Handing you the glass he ordered you to drink which you happily complied, the water cooled your throat and brought you some much needed hydration. He then proceeded to wipe your face with the cloth the cold water felt refreshing as he cleaned off the your face wiping away any remaining tears. He pressed the ice pack against your cheeks the cold instantly relieving the discomfort around your eyes.

You had finally gotten up the strength to reach for a tissue and clear your sinuses, taking a deep breath you began to feel a sort of calmness rush over you.

Shadow sat next to you wrapping his arm around your shoulder pulling you to lean on him. Shadow finally broke the silence.

"Whatever it is that's bothering you, you can tell me. Do it in your own time if you'd like and know that there isn't a single side of you that's too dark or terrible for me to love. I love you for all of you not just the good parts. Don't think you're burdening me with anything, I want to know your problems I want to share the pain with you. You've helped me through so much it's my turn to help you with whatever you're dealing with."

You felt relieved at Shadow's statement, knowing he wouldn't lie to you to keep you pacified. His actions spoke for themselves and they showed that he truly cared and he wanted to help in any way he could.

You weren't ready to voice your feelings just yet but you knew he would be patient with you.

You were able to manage a quiet "Thank you" for now.

"Of course my love anything for you"

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 3, Unbidden - Pt. 3*

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of violence/killing, mildly predatory!Bucky (but Dear Reader is INTO it), poorly translated Russian, mentions of past trauma, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT -Minors: GTFO; I don’t serve your kind here- (fingering, protected PIV), bad jokes (it's me, okay?) As always, if I missed something, please let me know.

Word Count: 2.9k

Previously On...: You woke the morning after the party to find Bucky had already left for his first Avengers mission. However, he's left you a note promising to tell you something very important when he comes home.

A/N: WARNING! SMUT! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! The entire part is smut and I am not sorry.

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @jmeelee @cazellen @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21 @buckybarnessimpp @mrsbuckybarnes1917

The mission was only supposed to last a handful days, a week, tops, but he'd been gone for close to two weeks, and you hated it. He was with Steve and Sam, off to God only knew where, doing God only knew what, and as there was no need for your tech skills, you'd been left behind. It was almost disconcerting how difficult it had been to be sleeping on your own again, and you found yourself sneaking into his room late at night after you'd been tossing and turning for hours, just to hold onto his pillow and inhale the familiar scent of cedar and leather.

On the thirteenth night, you were lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling. A glance at your clock told you it was almost 2am. You were debating whether or not you should go across the hall to Bucky's room to try to steal a few hours of sleep there so you wouldn't be completely useless tomorrow when there was a knock on your door. You bolted upright-- no good news came at 2am, and especially not in person.

You quickly padded to the door on bare feet, heart pounding and mind reeling at the thought of what could possibly be waiting on the other side-- had the mission gone horribly wrong? Had something happened to Bucky? God, you didn't even know what you would do with yourself if something bad had happened to him... The last thing you were expecting to find on the other side was the man, himself, leaning on the door frame, breathing heavily, tac-suit disheveled and bloodied.

You flung the door wide. "Buck?" you whispered. "What happ--" With a single step forward and without a word, his mouth was on yours, hands grasping your face and pulling you toward him in desperation. There was nothing gentle or romantic about the kiss-- it was ravenous and frantic, as though your lips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

You gasped against his mouth and pulled away, stumbling back a few steps to put some distance between you as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. He was staring at you with an intensity that made you feel the urge to squeeze your thighs together. There was a hunger in his eyes you had never seen before, and it was directed at you.

"Bucky," you breathed as his eyes roved over your body from head to toe and back again.

"Is that my shirt?" The corner of his mouth rose in a smirk. You looked down. You were wearing one of his shirts, having gone and pulled it out of his dresser one night when you were sick with missing him. Unfortunately, it was all you were wearing. You certainly hadn't gone to bed expecting post-midnight visitors.

"Yes?" you managed to squeak out. He stepped further into your room and, without even turning around, kicked your door shut in one fluid motion.

"Pocket," he practically growled --and dear God, why was the sound of his voice making you wet?-- "I missed you. So. fucking. much. You have no idea." He was on you again, this time his hands going under your ass and hoisting you up as he kissed you.

This is a bad idea, you thought as you found yourself kissing him back, opening your mouth to let in his tongue. This is a terrible, very bad idea. Yet you wrapped your legs around his waist and carded your hands through his hair as he walked you back to the bed. Future!Pocket can deal with the fallout tomorrow was your last cognizant thought before you let yourself give in fully to the sensation of your best friend's lips on yours.

When he got you to your bed, he laid you down, so gently you could scarcely breathe. He rested his body next to you, eyes never leaving yours as his hands gently stroked your face, your arms, your sides.

"Bucky," you moaned as his hands found their way under the hem of your shirt to caress your hipbone, "what is this?"

He leaned down, trailing feather-light kisses along your jawline, your neck, your collarbone. "Two weeks," he murmured in between kissing you. "Two weeks without touching you, feeling how soft you are. All I could think about was how you danced, with Sam's hands all over you. Thought I was going to go crazy. And then all that violence. Killing bad guys is still killing, and I still hate it. Needed to come home and feel something good. Needed to feel you." You felt him slide his hands under the waistband of your panties, skimming his way across your pubic bone until he was cupping your mound. You hitched a breath at the contact, hips inadvertently pressing up against his palm on their own accord.

"We're friends, Buck." You let out a low moan as his fingers began inching slowly lower, toward your center, just out of reach of where you were surprised to find you wanted him to be. You knew if you told him to stop, he'd do so in an instant, but the look of wanting in his eyes, of the absolute need he had for you had short circuited your brain, and you were willing to give him anything he asked for in that moment.

"Mmmm," he hummed as he slipped a single finger between your folds, teasing you, testing you, seeing how far you were willing to let him go as you squirmed beneath him. "Best friends. And we can still be best friends in the morning, but I need this now, Pocket. Pozhaluysta."

It was the please that did you in. There was something about the vulnerability in his voice, the desperation, that had you opening your legs to him, a silent invitation.

He smiled at you, so beautiful and pure, that you couldn't resist leaning up to kiss him again, and as you did, he ran a finger through your slick, coating himself in you, before plunging it inside you up to his knuckle.

You gasped at the unexpected intrusion, arching your back and pressing your chest against his. The feeling of his thick finger inside of you was exquisite. The number of times you had been intimate with someone simply because you wanted to be, and not because you were forced to, were few and far between, and if you were being honest with yourself, if you could have picked an ideal partner, it would have been Bucky.

"You're already so wet, doll," he whispered, nibbling on the soft skin of your neck, just at your pulse point. He was going to leave a mark, but it felt so good that you couldn't care. Yet, the feeling of having his finger inside of you paled in comparison to when he began pumping that finger, strokes long and slow, the palm of his hand grinding on your clit as he worked you. After a moment, a second finger joined the first, and then a third, and he curled them as he stretched you, hitting that soft, spongy part of you that had you seeing stars.

"Bucky," you panted, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him closer as you gasped for air. "I'm-- I'm--"

"That's alright, doll," he whispered, the pace of his thrusting increasing as he brought you closer to the edge. "I want you to come for me, okay? Can you do that? Can you come around my fingers? God, you look so beautiful. Prosto otpusti menya, kukolka." Just let go for me, doll.

You couldn't even form a coherent word for him right now if you tried, in any language, so you just moaned and writhed, letting your body speak for you until you were coiling, coiling, coiling-- snapping and breaking, falling apart into a million pieces of light, internal walls fluttering around his fingers as a wave of euphoria washed over you, pulsating through every inch of your being with a ferocious intensity.

He kept working you through your release, prolonging the sensations, drawing out your whimpers and moans as your limbs shook with the aftershock.

"Good girl," he whispered, standing up, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. "Such a good girl for me, and so pretty when you come, too."

You laid there, motionless as you tried to catch your breath. Did that really just happen? Did you seriously just get off on Bucky's fingers?

Propping yourself up onto your elbows, you opened your mouth to ask Bucky what this was going to mean for your friendship, but before you could get a word out, you were struck dumb by the sight of him before you. He had stripped himself of his tac-suit and was standing on the side of the bed in just his boxer briefs. You'd seen him shirtless before, he'd slept in only sweats often enough, but this was an entirely different level. The man was built like a marble sculpture. Even the jagged scars on his shoulder where flesh met metal were beautiful.

Bucky seemed to be moving in slow motion, and you weren't sure if he was being deliberate in his movements, or if you were just so rattled by the orgasm he had given you that time had become distorted, but you watched as he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulled them down over his thick thighs, until he was stepping out of them.

Your eyes followed his hand as it came back up and took a hold of his shaft, giving it one, two, three long, strong strokes.

"Yebena mat'," you whispered-- holy shit-- and he smirked at you; he always loved it when you spoke Russian to him. You'd always guessed Bucky was fairly well endowed, but you never imagined anything like this. He was long and thick, with a prominent vein snaking up the underside of the hard length of him as his hand traveled from base to tip, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum behind. His size alone was enough to make you shudder with need, and that combined with the way he moved around it -- like he knew exactly what he was doing and who he was doing it for -- made you feel as if you'd been thrown right back into that place of euphoria all over again.

Bucky closed the distance between you, his breath hot against your skin as he loomed over you. Your heart raced, anticipation coursing through your veins as he gazed down at you with intense desire in his eyes. You lifted yourself up, eager to explore every inch of his sculpted body with your hands and lips. As his hand ran along his length, you couldn't help but bite your lip in anticipation. "I don't know whether to be scared or excited," you whispered, aching for him in a way you'd never known.

With a soft smile, Bucky kissed the tip of your nose before retrieving a condom from your bedside drawer-- how did he even know where you kept them?-- and rolling it on his length. "There's nothing to be scared of," he reassured you in a low voice. "I promise, Pocket, I'm going to make you feel so good." And with that, he entered you, filling you completely and igniting a fire within you until you were begging to burn. His movements were skillful and deliberate, each thrust pushing you closer to an edge of ecstasy that seemed perpetually out of reach. With every stroke, he broke down your barriers until you were grinding against him in pure bliss, lost in a world of pleasure you could never have imagined he would create for you.

"You take me so damned well," Bucky grunted into your ear. "The perfect little Pocket for my cock to sit in."

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, pounding into you relentlessly, pushing past all your reservations and making you beg him for more. You never knew you could crave someone like this until now, and it was intoxicating. Pleasure coursed through your body as he took you to new heights, and you couldn't help but scream his name as he took you to the brink of ecstasy over and over again.

He kept thrusting until the very last wave of his own release was complete, before collapsing beside you. You laid there, breathless and panting, your head spinning with a million different thoughts and feelings. You couldn't believe that you'd just had sex with Bucky Barnes. You'd just had sex with your best friend.

Bucky shifted so that he was lying beside you, resting his head on the swell of your chest. "You okay, Pocket?"

You nodded, unable to muster up the words to express what you were feeling. Hell, you could barely process what had just happened between you.

"We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to," he said, pressing a kiss to your clavicle. "But I... Just... Thank you, Pocket. You have no idea how much I needed that. How much it means to me."

"We should talk about it, though," you said softly, almost regretting it as soon as the words left your mouth. But when it came to physical intimacy, you had too much emotional baggage to just act like this was nothing.

Bucky held perfectly still at your words. He wasn't looking at you, so you had no way of knowing what he was thinking, but you needed to be honest with him.

"That was..." you blew out a breath, "amazing. Seriously, well done. Five stars." You felt, rather than heard, him chuckle against your skin, and some of the post-coital tension between you dissipated. "But, I need to know what your expectations are going forward, Buck."

He tilted his head up to look at you, his eyes wide and open. "I don't have any expectations of you, Pocket. This can be a one-time thing, and we can pretend it never happened, or we can explore it. See where it goes. Whatever you want."

Whatever you wanted. What did you want? You loved Bucky with your whole heart. Probably more than you'd ever loved anyone, but did you love him like that? You'd never even stopped to consider it. You were attracted to him, obviously. You weren't blind, after all. But you were so damaged. You'd spent your entire adult life divorcing sex from your emotions, building a wall between the two. What if you tried this, and in the process, destroyed the best thing you'd ever had?

"I don't know how to do this, Buck," you whispered, and you knew he understood. Though your traumas weren't identical, they shared a foundation: forced into submission as your bodies were used for the whims and desires of others, against your will.

"Hey," he crawled back up to your face, planting small kisses along the tear stains on your cheeks. Shit. When had you started crying? "It's just you and me, okay? Just us. This," he motioned between your two bodies, "is something extra, a bonus. You told me a long time ago what your limits were, and I respect them. I understand them, and I'm not trying to make you go past them. We can have... what did Sam call it? A friends-with-insurance situation."

A snort escaped you as you swatted at him, relief washing over you at the knowledge that he knew you so well, that he wasn't pushing for more than you could give him right now. "It's 'friends with benefits,' you geriatric stooge." And then it hit you and you started to laugh.

"What?" Bucky asked suspiciously, propping himself up onto his metal elbow to look down at you.

"I just fucked a centenarian. Is that considered elder abuse?"

"I'm pretty sure I was the one doing all the pounding, so I think you're safe on that front," he said with a laugh.

That sound. God, you loved that sound. It was like a weight being lifted from your chest. You turned into him, resting your head against the hard planes of his chest.

"I don't want to ruin what we have, Buck," you confessed, your voice small and scared. "You're the most important thing in my life, and if I fuck up our friendship, I don't know what I would do."

He took a finger and placed it under your chin, tilting your face up until he met your eyes. "We're not going to fuck anything up, Pocket, I promise. This can be just sex, just another way for us to make each other happy." He ran his hand through your hair, cupping the back of your skull. "You always do such a good job of taking care of me, of making me feel good. Let me return the favor." He leaned down and kissed you again.

This kiss was softer, without the hunger he'd poured into the first time he kissed you, but no less consuming. You felt his tongue brush along the seam of your lips, so you opened your mouth, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He tasted like wintergreen gum.

"Just making each other happy," you whispered when you separated for air. "I can do that."

And in that moment, you actually believed it.

<- Previous Part / Next Chapter ->

[yoonyeon0]

Omggee congratulations on 50+ followers yooo

Could I request a fluffy gaolang x reader where reader tries their darndest to get gaolang to paint his nails pink for valentines day

🙏🙏🙏🙏 thank youu🙇🙇🙇

PINK MANICURES W/ GAOLANG

DAY ONE - PAINTING YOUR NAILS AND BEGGING GAOLANG TO JOIN!

NOT PROOFREAD; word count : 928

masterlist - oh gee!

it was a fairly chilly day, most people deciding to stay inside because of it. you were one of those people, staying inside and doing most household chores and entertaining yourself since your husband had gone to work hours prior.

while watching boring documentaries and skipping past channels for anything interesting your eyes were also getting very distracted by your nails. you sat there, staring at your nails for a fairly long time, inspecting the natural beauty of them before getting the best idea - why don’t you paint them?

it was 5:28 pm and you were looking around the house for any decor you could put on your boring nails until you found it. a beauty baby pink nail polish. it was perfect! valentines was coming up anyway so why not?

you sat down quickly and got to work. quickly preparing your nails for the polish by cutting your cuticles and putting on a base peeling coat.

hours passed like minutes and every second that passed made you visibly wanna cry. why did you suddenly decide to make these simple nails so much harder? adding gems and designs should be left to the professionals but apparently you were one as well!

you were too busy working on your last nail to notice the sound of the door opening and closing behind you and shoes clacking off until the deep voice of your husband sounded behind you accompanied by a kiss to your cheek.

“hi dear. how was your day?”

you turned your head and smiled upon realizing who was looking at you now - your sweet loving husband.

“it was soo boring. you know, you really shouldn’t have left me, your beautiful, amazing, and angelic wife here alone.” you said sarcastically.

“i know. im sorry love, i promise ill stay here with you more okay?”

“kaolang i was being sarcastic about that. enough about me, how was your day?”

he heaved out a sigh and avoided your gaze a little before muttering a simple “it was like normal”

obviously something had happened but you couldn’t decipher what. you wanted to pesk him about it and ask why he was feeling so tense but he had already walked away. you stared at your husband as he slowly walked to your shared bedroom to change. you gave a small frown, a little sad that your large husband was stressed about something and you couldn’t reallly do anything about it.

until you remembered your pink nails. you could paint gaolang’s nails! i mean, matching is so adorable and he wouldn’t mind right?

you got up from the chair you were seated on to your shared bedroom where gaolang was currently changing.

“honey, do you want me to do your nails?”

gaolong’s shirt was halfway off and he was now looking at you with a surprised look (which was really just his eyes widening.) his shock seemed to disappear immediately as he finished taking off his shirt to approach you.

“my nails? what brought this on?”

“oh nothing! i just wanted us to match for valentines!”

you could tell he was debating on how to tell you no in the kindest way he could but you couldn’t decipher also tell that he immediately gave up.

“of course dear.”

╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚

you were seated in front of kaolong, watching him look intently at the baby pink polish you put on his nails. you giggled slightly, catching his attention.

“what’s funny?”

“your reaction! you need to calm down - im the one doing this so you are in good hands.”

he gave a small chuckle before deciding to let his body go a little less tense than it was already. you noticed this and smiled. now that he was clearly calmer, you decided to take the initiative to ask what happened at work today.

”hey honey, what happened at work today? you seem more tense than usually.”

he obviously didn’t wanna talk about what happened to avoid adding more on your plate to stress about so as usual he thought about if he should tell you before giving in.

“one of my opponents had made a nasty comment on you and it really pissed me off. maybe that’s what has me so tense.”

you let out light chuckles before exhaling with a big smile on your smile on your face.

“you know gaolong, you’re adorable.”

that one remark made gaolong blush in shock. he put his head down in order to hide his blush a bit but you stopped him by taking your hand to cup your cheek and slowly caress it.

“you’re getting all worked up over a little stupid remark. next time if they have something to say about me, tell them to come and say it to my face.”

he was shocked at the words coming out of your mouth but pleased that you weren’t scared to defend yourself.

“okay love. ill try.”

“enough about all of that sad and sappy shit. look at your nails! they’re so cute and we match!”

you put both of your hands on gaolong’s rough and beaten hands, feeling the dedication to his craft residing within them. you smiled as your hands were obviously softer than his rough hands. you saw how much he does for you to live a comfortable life and it made you smile. you quickly stopped daydreaming as you saw him tilting his head in confusion as you were staring at him and not the nails.

“we should post these on insta! hold on, let me get my phone!”

erm guys i don’t like this - probably butchered this SO bad but we persevere 😓

𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙤𝙣! 𝘿𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙮 𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠.

[jordanstrophe]

Can we pretty please get a part 3 to the abandoned whumpee story pleeeeease????

(Only if you want to though!!)

Yes yes you may ^^ Edit: I had no idea how much fun it is letting personalities of a cocky whumper and whumpee clash

[Previous] - [Masterlist] - [Next]

CW: Defiant whumpee, taken captive, whumper having to caretake, abandoned whumpee, manhandled, blood loss

Whumper held both of whumpee's arms trying to wrangle them still. They fought hard as whumper could barely keep them in their arms.

"Let go of me!" Whumpee shouted. Whumper motioned for their team as two grabbed whumpee and pried them apart.

"Be gentle with them; we're keeping this one alive." Whumper huffed, fixing their jacket.

"This is all that's left?" One of the team members asked.

"No, most of them got away. This is what was sacrificed." Whumper cupped whumpee's chin and tilted their head up.

"You're not understanding it was willingly." Whumpee retorted back.

"Willing or no, it looks like your team didn't feel you were worth fighting for." Whumper spoke lightly, thumbing their cheek. Whumpee winced and twisted their face out of whumper's hand. "Regardless, we're taking them back with us." Whumper announced.

The team all groaned in unison.

"Whhhyy, let's just kill them and get it over with! What if they run?" Someone argued.

"Then make sure they don't! Killing them now would be a waste, wouldn't it?" They turned around and gave whumpee a smile.

"How's that going to work for you?" Whumpee spat, squirming in the guards hold.

"You have information; intel I would love to have my hands on." Whumper's eyes trailed down and they noticed blood starting to soak through whumpee's clothing.

"And you think because they, -Oh what was it you said-... Abandoned me, that I would give them up? That I'll roll over and join you?" Whumpee retorted. "That won't happen. It'll never happe-

"Stop. Shh sh sh sh, stop arguing with me, you're making yourself bleed out. Easy now." Whumper folded a cloth and pressed it against the blood as whumpee gasped in shock.

"We've stalled enough. Let's get you home before you bleed to death. And whumpee dear," Whumper tethered the bandage to their side and gripped their shoulder.

"I would never abandon you. Unlike someone we all know..." They fluttered their fingers.

"I'd actually rather you would." Whumpee cocked their head to the side. 

"No you rather wouldn't." Whumper's eyes flicked up. "You're stranded far from help, I presume your team -that left you behind- also took the transportation you came in on, so you would wander around until you start suffering from blood loss until you crawled around in vain. Then, you get to be the sacrifice you always wanted to be."

Whumper bent on their knees to whumpee's level with a smug smile waiting for their bite back. 

Whumpee's face was blank. They didn't have one. 

"Mmm.  .... That's what I thought. Now, let's go home, shall we?" 

[Previous] - [Masterlist] - [Next]

[amphibiahawks321]

M!Reader : MAKI WHERE ARE YOU!?

Maki : Y/N OVER HERE!

[He quickly goes to where her voice comes from]

M!Reader : MAKI?!

[Sees her figure from behind]

M!Reader : Oh thank goodness you're alive! I was so worried like hel-......

Maki :

M!Reader : w-what happe-

Maki : Jogo....

M!Reader : H-how did you survive the-

Maki : I didn't... Yuta uses his reverse cursed technique on me

M!Reader : Jeez Jogo really gave you the business

Maki : [sighs] But unfortunately it can't heal the scars

M!Reader : I don't care about that! I'm glad your alive!

[Hugs her very tightly]

Maki : N-not so hard I did just fight-

[Release her from the hug]

M!Reader : O-oh! Right right sorry

Maki : I hope you're ok with me having these massive scars....

M!Reader : ......

M!Reader : If I'm being brutally honest you look hotter then you usually are because those scars look really..... Badass •///////•

Maki : ........[sighs then chuckles] I'm flattered dear

[demonshauntingthedoves]

Right of the first night - providing to the lord to have sexual relations with any female subject, particularly on her wedding night.

Pairing: Lord Jungkook x florist reader

Timeline: medieval period (inspo french revolution)

Warning: yandere, dubious consent, power disparity, peasantry, feudal system, sexual acts.

Explained : when a peasant (especially women) migrated from one town to another, it was seen as a loss of workers in that town under that lord, the worker was indebted and had to compensate for that loss, in a way the lord demanded, which in case of women was mostly sex.

a part of my Debt series (maknae line)

--------------

"You look so radiant!"

One of your cousins remarked, your eyes fluttered down in shyness. The giggling sisters circled your chair, one interlaced white flowers in the braids of your hair, the other one patted blush on your face.

The house was full. Filled with clutter of relatives and their chatters. The groom was yet to arrive. The cousins kept teasing you to contain yourself. And it was true, you couldn't contain yourself, eager and nervous. Your heart thrummed and your face glowed.

Your groom came from a family of bakers, but they weren't like commoners, despite coming from the lower societal tier, they'd prospered. He was from the other town. You were favoured to become a wife to such a gentleman, who'd even agreed to wed you, knowing you didn't come from money but a poor florist family, you were grateful to him.

Amidst the thought, you didn't realise the house had suddenly quietened down.

"I think your groom is here." Your sister shrieked, running to open the door to get a glimpse. Your heart lurched for a second. It was finally happening. You were going to be wed.

Your father entered the room and looked at you, his face adrift. He chased all your cousins out and cleared his throat. Your smile faltered as you stood, concerned at your father's rigid countenance and asked,

"What's wrong, father?"

You saw him blink at you and hung his head low, in shame and defeat. A sigh shuddered out of him as he squeezed his eyes with his fingers.

You neared him and asked again,

"I'm sorry, dear."

"Wha-why are you apologising?"

"I'm sorry, I couldn't become a good father to you, I couldn't give you a better life, I'm so sorry you had to be born in this low life peasantry." Tears lined your eyes hearing your father so vulnerable.

"Father, I don't understand. Why are you apologising. What has happened? Please tell me."

He cupped your cheeks and gave you a wounded stare,  "I feel so much rage right now, but I cannot do anything, nothing, I'm so helpless dear."

"What happe-"

"You are told to sleep with Lord Jeon's son before the wedding begins." The single statement sucked all your breath out.

"What?"

"I had dreaded this but I-I cannot do anything. The noble threatened me if I refused, he'll wreck us, he'll leave us with nothing and I owe him so much money, he said he'll take this as repayment. I'm burning with anger but I can do nothing." Your father cried in frustration and anger. 

"Tell me what I should've done? Tell me? I'd better die than see you get raped by someone. This vile society and these vile noblemen have no mercy for us. They're monsters."  You hugged your father and wailed in his arms. You knew nothing could save you from this doom. Nothing could. Because if you refused, everything would crumble.

"I-I will do it." Your father's hands tightened around you as his chest rumbled with his cries.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know how I'll live with this guilt. I'll die before that."

She pulled away, eyes watering more.

"No, you won't. You know I'll do anything for you. I cannot ever see you hung your head low. I will do this, if it saves us then I will do this." She breathed in, hardening her eyes to seem stronger, even if her body trembled with a cold fear of what was to happen.

Your father stared at you for a long time, before giving a sigh of surrender and  leaving the room.

--------------------

It was minutes after your father left, did the door creak open and shut. You felt goosebumps rising on your skin, hearing the thumps of shoes approaching where you sat on the edge of the bed. The man loomed over you but you kept staring down at your clasped hands that were shivering badly.

You yelped, when your jaw was clutched with rough fingers and pulled upwards. It was then Jungkook's eyes withheld yours, stricken with lust.

"You are more beautiful this close."

Jeon Jungkook. The son of the town's man. He would frequent the inn across the seller's streets where you sold flowers. He and his acquaintance sat in the large balcony of the inn and did what the nobles did, drink and debate, exploit their noble rights.

You had always wondered why he'd preferred to visit this old inn over other ones, with a bizarre street front at that. Now you're scared that you know the reason why.

" Such a pity." He clicked his tongue and licked his lips. He withdrew his hands and stepped away from you and breathed in dramatically as if to control himself.

"Stand up"

At his demand, you stood up and stared at him with a film of tears in your eyes as his eyes wrecked over your whole body.

" You know, you should be obliged to me?"

You gulped and nodded, your legs trembled feeling his intimidating stare. Your breath shuddered when the tip of his finger trailed down your neck towards your cleavage. "Because if not for my pity, you were to lay down with my father."

" You should feel honoured because it is me who is going to shed your white gown."

Shameful tears trailed down your face as he dragged the neckline of your dress down.

" And lay with you." He grumbled hungrily at the reveal of your chest.

"Please, don't do this sir." You gripped his wrist in resistance and begged him. "My groom will not accept me after this. No one would want to wed me. Please show mercy, sir."

His moves faltered and he nodded his head as if he understood your turmoil.

You were wrong to think he would reconsider, because after the halt, he smirked and leaned closer to whisper to you,

"But that's what I want to do, darling." 

his breath draped over yours, eyes intense with conviction,

"To ruin you for others."

Your eyes widened in horror at his claim.

A helpless "no" left past your trembling lips, as the sleeves of your dress were lowered, revealing more expanse of your pale skin. 

"You owe me, remember."

You were doomed. You did nothing, but turn your head away and cover your mouth, to silence the aggressive sobs that erupted in you.

| park jimin |

[poisonlove]

Miss Ortega | j.o

part 7

—The cell is made up of the nucleus and the cytoplasm and is enclosed by the cell membrane, which regulates passage in and out. The nucleus contains chromosomes, the cell's genetic material, and the nucleolus, which produces ribosomes. My eyes shift to Olivia, who was jotting down my words in her notebook.

In the late afternoon, I was at Olivia's house to help her study science, primarily about what a cell is and its functions. Olivia nods, giving me a nervous smile.

—One last question... what's cell division?— She puts the tip of her pen between her teeth, thoughtful.

—Cell division is the process by which a cell multiplies, splitting into two. In prokaryotes, it happens through binary fission (DNA filament duplication and subsequent division into two identical new individuals). In eukaryotes, it occurs through mitosis and, in reproductive cells, meiosis.— I say, shrugging casually.

Olivia writes it all down and then closes her notebook with a soft thud, sighing with satisfaction and tiredness.

—We're done,— she murmurs weakly, looking at me with a smile on her lips.

—We're done,— I repeat, and she stretches, slightly tense from maintaining an uncomfortable position for a long time.

—I'm not surprised you never get a failing grade, you're a book,— she says as she gets up from her desk, flopping onto her bed's mattress.

—Don't exaggerate...— I chuckle and give her a playful look. —Now... will you let me hear something you've written?— I nervously bite my lip, accepting the invitation to sit beside her on the bed.

Olivia sighs and reluctantly agrees to my request, blushing as she looks at me. —Wait,— she murmurs softly, leaning towards the edge of the bed, picking up a guitar case from the floor. Olivia glances at me sideways, holding the guitar in her hands.

—I'll sing you a little snippet of the song, okay? Also... I haven't finished it yet,— she says, toying with the guitar strings, likely tuning it.

I gaze in awe at her profile. Olivia had her head tilted down, holding the guitar in her lap. Her eyes briefly meet mine for a split second before she looks away with flushed cheeks.

Taking a breath, she closes her eyes, focusing.

—And I won't fight for love if you won't meet me halfway...— she begins to sing. And I say that I'm through but this song's still for you–

Her voice sounds angelic, surprising me with her talent. Olivia glances at me briefly, giving me a small smile.

—All I want is love that lasts— her eyes glisten, still looking at me.

—Is all I want too much to ask?— her fingers pause, interrupting the sweet melody. Olivia sets the guitar aside and looks at me with embarrassment, accepting my applause.

—Oh my god... you have an amazing voice,— I admit, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, staring at a fixed point on her lap. —Thank you,— she offers a shy smile, and I reciprocate.

A knock on the door draws our attention to the entrance of her room. Olivia's mother, Emma, is standing there with a smile on her lips.

—T/N, dear, why don't you stay for dinner with us?— Mrs. Rodrigo suggests.

With a smile, I look at Olivia's reaction. She's looking at me with bright eyes and a smile, nodding enthusiastically.

—That would be fantastic,— I reply, and immediately, two arms wrap around my neck, hugging me. The force makes me lie back on the bed, and amid laughter, I return the hug, smiling shyly at Emma, who watches us with tenderness as I hold Olivia in my arms.

(...) —So... how's it going with the girl you like?— Enid asks, hugging a pillow in her arms.

After helping Olivia study, I received an invitation from Enid to have a pajama party at her house, inviting Olivia as well since she was with me. The blonde only knew that I liked someone, but she didn't know who, and for obvious reasons, she was really mad at me. I know she's my best friend, but I still couldn't tell her that I was in love with Professor Ortega.

—Actually, it's all going wrong... she said it's better if I forget what happened,— I lower my head towards my lap, sadly biting my lower lip. —Well, what a jerk...— Enid makes a face. —If only I knew who she was, I would have given her a piece of my mind,— she says absentmindedly, pulling at the corners of the pillow in her hands.

—You tried your best,— I smile sideways, and Enid throws the pillow at my face, messing up my hair. I chuckle slightly and wink at her.

—What do you think about Olivia, though?— she suddenly asks, lying down on the bed. I turn toward the door, relieved when I see that the subject of conversation is still downstairs preparing popcorn for the movie.

—Are you crazy? She's here...— I whisper, and she rolls her eyes at my comment.

—I don't see her,— Enid turns toward me, focusing her attention on me.

I sigh and shake my head. —She's nice...— I shrug indifferently, smiling at the blonde. Enid raises an eyebrow and gives me a smile, silently asking me to tell her more.

—She's beautiful... there's no doubt... but you know I'm in love with someone else,— I play with my fingers, embarrassed by the situation.

—She'd be perfect for you, you know? Plus... she really likes you,— Enid confesses. She adjusts her pajamas and gets under the covers, getting ready to watch the movie on her room's TV.

—I know... but for now... I only see her as a friend,— I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and look confused at Enid's reaction, who is looking with panic over my shoulder.

I turn to her line of sight and pale when I see Olivia near the door. The brunette awkwardly leaves the popcorn bowl on the shelf and, with tears in her eyes, looks at me, shaking her head with regret. I stand up and bite my lips, mentally scolding myself for being so stupid.

I close the door behind me.

—Liv, wait,— I quickly descend the stairs, trying to catch up with Olivia. The brunette ignores me and walks toward the couches, searching for her jacket. I quicken my pace and grab her wrist. Olivia turns around and looks at me with tear-streaked cheeks, making me feel guilty.

—What do you want? You've said enough,— she says with venom, clenching her jaw.

—Liv...— I whisper, and her eyes glisten. Her shoulders relax, and she tentatively shuffles in place, wanting to hear what I have to say.

—Tell me...— her voice tone is clearly broken, showing that my confession has hurt her. I step closer, placing my hands around her face, wiping away some tears. Her eyes look at me sweetly despite the pain she's feeling. She places a hand against mine, giving me a comforting squeeze.

—Right now... I'm in love with someone else,— she nods, with bitterness in her mouth. —But it doesn't mean that in the future, I can't be with you... if you heard the whole conversation... and I'm pretty sure you did... I said that for now, I see you as a friend,— I smile sidelong, stroking her cheek. Olivia tilts her chin up and licks her lips, looking at me seriously. Suddenly, we're at the same height level since she's on tiptoes. My breath catches in my throat, and I timidly observe what the brunette wants to do.

—Kiss me...— she whispers, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. —I just want to kiss you... at least once,— she confesses, making my chest tighten. I remove one hand from her face and trail it down her back, stopping at her waist, pulling Olivia closer to me.

—This...— I swallow, nervous due to the proximity. —This I can do— I lean toward her face and close the minimal distance between our lips. The kiss is sweet and at the same time salty from her tears. Olivia wraps her arms around my neck, sighing against my lips, receiving the long-desired kiss. The rhythm of the kiss is slow; we're simply enjoying the contact between our mouths. Olivia taps her tongue against my lower lip, asking for permission to enter. I part my lips, and our tongues meet, tentatively exploring each other's mouths.

I press my forehead against hers after ending the kiss. The brunette has a smile on her lips, looking at me with shining eyes of happiness. She leans in and briefly connects our lips for a split second before pulling away.

—That was... wow,— I admit, and she nods, completely agreeing.

I have to admit that the kiss was beautiful, I really enjoyed it. Her lips were sweet, inviting in a different way from Jenna's. Just mentioning the brunette makes me grimace, and I try to erase the image of her eyes from my mind so as not to ruin the moment. Olivia looks at me smiling, happy about what just happened.

—So... shall we go upstairs to watch the movie?— I suggest, and she nods slowly, starting to climb the stairs, our hands still intertwined.

—So... can you wait? I know it sounds horrible to ask, but I want to know, I want to find out if it's truly over with... the other person. I swear, if she's convinced that our... relationship? I don't know what to call it... is completely over... I'll give myself a chance to be with you,— I timidly ask, nervous about making this proposition. Olivia sighs and nods her head with both sadness and excitement at having a chance with me.

—Yes... you're... you're right, you know? I understand... it's not easy to choose between two girls you like... I'll wait... and if you choose me... I promise I'll never leave, T/N,— she admits, making me shiver slightly at the intensity of her gaze. I blush.

—Alright... because I was already getting ready to chase after you to talk,— I joke, and she chuckles softly, tilting her head back.

Her fingers tighten around my hand, stroking the back of my hand with her thumb.

—I wouldn't have gone anywhere... not in pajamas, obviously,— she raises her head with pride, and I burst out laughing at the expression on her face.

—Well... now let's go watch the movie? Enid's waiting for us,— I suggest, and she nods, starting to climb the stairs while still holding my hand, our fingers entwined.

It was late, but I was still awake, studying for the English literature exam I had the next day. The words on the pages were blurry, and I was unsure if I'd remember half of what I was reading due to how tired I was. But I had to keep going to be able to say that I had at least tried.

The vibration of the phone on the desk pulled my attention away from the book. With a sigh of relief, I picked up the device, thanking my lucky stars for the break. I looked at the screen, puzzled, when I saw that both Olivia and Jenna had messaged me.

I decided to read Olivia's message first.

Liv: heyyy (1:13 AM)

Damn, was it already one in the morning?

                                                        Yo: Hey Liv!

Liv: Are you done studying?

I furrowed my brows and nervously bit my lower lip.

                                           Yo: Not really.

                Yo: But if you need help, I'm here.

Liv: Great! Actually, you'd do me a huge favor if you could open the window.

I closed the chat and walked over to a corner of my room, spotting Olivia in front of my house, holding her phone. I opened the window and leaned out, smiling at the girl standing on the street.

—What are you doing here?— I whispered, not wanting to wake up the rest of my family.

Olivia looked up from her phone and smiled at me.

As a response, she moved closer to stand right beneath my window, gazing up at the tree near my house. With a swift but careful movement, she started climbing its branches, eventually reaching out to touch the edge of my window with her fingertips.

—Are you crazy or something?— I looked at my friend with concern.

—If you help me, you'd be doing me a favor,— she panted, not being able to hold on much longer.

I extended my hand and grabbed hers, helping her into my room. With a little jump, she made it all the way in, looking at me with a nervous smile.

—So, spill it,— I absentmindedly stared at the lamp light that was focused on the book on my desk. I sighed in frustration.

—In a few days, there's the end-of-semester dance... you know, the start of the Christmas break...— she put her hands in her pockets, blushing as she looked at me.

Oh... I knew where this was going.

—T/N... would you like to come to the dance with me?— she asked, sounding hopeful.

I opened my mouth in surprise and remained silent for a few seconds, wanting to think about her proposal. In reality... I wasn't even sure if I wanted to go, as I didn't want to be a third wheel between Enid and Ajax... but if I had to choose someone to go with... besides Jenna, of course... it would definitely be Olivia Rodrigo.

—Yes...— I whispered, and she leaned slightly forward, not having heard my response. I widened my eyes when I saw the living room light shining through my slightly open door. Quickly, I grabbed Olivia by the shoulders and motioned for her to move towards the window, needing to get out of here immediately. Olivia placed a foot on a tree branch before turning back in my direction.

—So? — my eyes darted towards the door as I used my hands to urge Olivia. I looked at her with wide eyes before nodding repeatedly. —Yes?— she asked, with a smile on her lips.

—Yes! Now go before you get caught— I muttered under my breath, looking at Olivia. She nodded and leaned towards my face, briefly connecting our lips for a split second. I looked at her in surprise but didn't say anything, watching closely as she jumped down from the tree, landing on her feet.

—Goodnight— she smiled at me, waving her hand, and ran down the sidewalk towards her house on the other side of the neighborhood.

With a yawn, I returned to my desk, picked up my phone, turned off the lamp, and collapsed onto my bed. A sigh of relief escaped my mouth as I heard the sound of the toilet flushing.

Well, it was just a bathroom break.

I turned on my phone and went on WhatsApp, reading Jenna's message. I couldn't deny that I was quite nervous; I didn't expect her to message me after days... maybe a week or two without hearing from her.

Ortega: Are you awake?

                                                            Yo: Yes.

Jenna's smile appeared on my screen, and I responded to her call with confusion.

—Hello?— I asked, hearing a breath on the other end. Jenna remained silent for a few seconds before speaking.

—Is it true?— she asked, leaving me completely stunned. I got under the covers, trying to figure out what to say.

—What?— I inquired, not exactly sure what she was talking about. She sighed in frustration before gritting her teeth.

—There are rumors at school that you and Rodrigo are together... is it true?— she muttered, sounding both annoyed and curious.

—Excuse me?— I was rather incredulous, not being able to believe what I was hearing. Jenna Ortega had called me in the middle of the night to ask me something like this.

—Is it true or not? ANSWER— she raised her voice, noticeably angry. I could hear her heavy breathing, making me feel uncomfortable and slightly afraid.

—No... We're not together... we're just getting to know each other... that's it,— I confessed, nervously biting my lower lip. —But anyway, isn't it none of your business who I'm dating? After all, you were the one who wanted distance a few days ago,— I retorted, annoyed by her attitude.

Jenna sighed loudly and ended the call, leaving me feeling both triumphant and confused. Whatever had gotten into her, I didn't know, but in any case, she had no right to treat me like this, especially after she wanted to pull away.

I placed the phone on the bedside shelf and closed my eyes, trying to fall asleep. The ghost of Olivia's kiss lingered on my lips, while Jenna's voice echoed in my head.

To say that I'm confused is an understatement.