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thebest-medicine · 11 months ago

Text

Lustige Geschichten

..a Crit-mas Story for @amazingmsme for Squealing Santa 2k23!!

A/N: Happy Holidays, Merry Chrysler, and Happy Critmas to the amazing @amazingmsme!!!!!! I absolutely loved all your prompts so I tried to combine a few, I hope you enjoy this lovely holiday gift! 💚 (and shout-out to @hypahticklish for organizing and coordinating and presiding over this year’s @squealing-santa)

Critical Role - Mighty Nein - ticklish!Caleb, featuring an assortment of very mean, lovely friends (most of the Nein)

[AO3 Link]

Words: 6.8k

Summary: Jester enjoys a nice story time, and Caleb, despite himself, has a fun evening under the persistent affection of his friends. Errrrybody hops on the tickle-the-wizard-out-of-his-keen-mind train.

...

Caleb stretches his back a bit uncomfortably as he shifts in the wooden chair, having spent the last few hours in more or less the same spot —posture curled forward around the desk.

A cheerful, curious little ‘murrp’ catches his ear. He glances over to find one of the tower cats, Rudi, strolling toward him.

“Mm, guten Abend, Rudi.”

Rudi trots over and rubs up against his legs. His whiskers tickle at Caleb’s ankle.

He smiles, eyes still on his book.

The light, fluffy feeling trails away a few moments later when Rudi pads over to the nearby sofa in the study outside Caleb’s bedroom. Rudi circles a few times before plopping himself down comfortably on a cushion. He ‘mrrow’s and chirrups a few times, tail flicking impatiently as he looks over at the wizard.

“You know, if you wanted some attention you could go find Jester, you know how she loves to cuddle with you at night.”

Rudi meows and rolls over, rubbing his head into the couch cushions.

A few more minutes pass, not without an array of ‘meow’s calling to him, inviting him over.

Caleb exhales, blowing a loose wisp of hair out of his face. “Mmm. You are making it rather hard to concentrate.”

Rudi responds in kind with a trill, rolling back onto his belly. He stretches, then flops onto his other side again in a move to beckon the wizard over to the soft cushions next to him on the couch. He purrs loudly, and then lets out another trilling meow, looking expectantly at Caleb.

“Very well then.” Caleb sighs. “But I’m bringing my book.”

Rudi wiggles, baring his belly as Caleb sits down, a fair bit more comfortable than the wooden chair. Caleb holds up his book in one hand and pats Rudi with the other. He still often denies himself comfort and kindness out of habit — but, it can be nice to be pushed into it by friends (and cats) around you.

“Thank you for the company.” Rudi’s resonating purr sends a wave of calm through Caleb where the cat is pressed up to his hand and thigh.

“Hiiiii. You guys look cozy. Room for one more?” With a colorful blur and twirl around the corner into the doorway, Jester arrives on the scene, a cheerful smile apparent in her voice as she says. “Hey, Caleb.”

Caleb hums in acknowledgement, turning the page in his book. “Hallo, Jester.” He says it without looking up, a dusting of pink on his cheeks at his unexpected guest.

In a few strides, the blue figure in his peripheral gets closer until he feels the couch dip next to him on the opposite side of where Rudi is curled up. “What are you reading?”

“A book.”

Jester harrumphs, shouldering against him with a pout. “A book about what?”

Caleb fights off a smile. He is already thoroughly distracted —so he’s made peace with ending his studies early.

He pretends to turn the page and continue reading, and Jester lets out a whine in a pitch befitting Sprinkle.

He lets her fester a few moments longer before he answers, failing to fully fight off his smile. “Just some texts on Pre-Calamity Exandria I borrowed from Essek’s library— well, it delves into some history as well as specifics on the spells and magic of the time, the ideas behind it, and the history of uses within various schools of the arcane.”

“Oh..” She scrunches up her nose. “I wanted to see if I could read with you. But that sounds pret-ty bo-ring.”

He hums in acknowledgement.

Jester’s tail lashes side to side, impatient and bored —two qualities that, when found in her, tend to lead to an afternoon of mischief.

She sighs dramatically, leans her head on Caleb’s shoulder to look at the book.

Caleb hums again, turning the page.

“If I find you something more… fun to read… would you read it to me and Rudi?” She asks a few beats later.

Caleb’s eyes flick sideways to her, a soft smile on his lips. “Ja, sure, of course.” He turns the page. “None of your smut, though.” He adds, fighting down a smirk.

She sticks out her tongue, and he has the good graces not to call her on it.

Getting up and roaming about his bookshelves, she begins. “Okay, okay. What’s a good one— ummm.. Let me look!”

Caleb marks the page in his text as Jester fingers through his books.

“Oh how about this one! Look at this guy, he’s so scary!” She makes a face, holding up the book. There’s a tall figure with wild, wiry, mad-scientist looking hair sprouting in every direction from his head — his face outstretched in a foul scream. His fingernails are longer than his hands themselves, and scatter, crooked, every which way from his hands.

“Ah, that’s a Zemnian children’s classic.” Caleb sits fully upright on the couch, closing his book.

Jester laughs out loud at that. “This is for kids?”

He sets his book down on the table beside him. “Ja. Der Struwwelpeter.”

Jester bounds over with a giggle, repeating the title in a silly imitation of Caleb’s accent. She plops down and quickly snuggles into the corner of the couch, then turns to Caleb, making grabby hands in his direction.

His cheeks flush a little — as they always do in the face of such open affections — as he leans to sit closer to her on the couch. It’s not a moment before he feels her arm loop around his shoulders.

“Oh— hi, ok.” Caleb lets out a nervous little laugh as she draws him closer. Rudi stands with a stretch.

“I wanna see the pictures- here, like this!”

She shifts him, which he allows with a tired smile, until she’s laying against the arm of the couch and he is dragged back against her, back to chest, his legs over hers up on the couch cushions. Her head comes to rest gently on the mop of his orange hair.

“Perfect! Are you comfy?” Jester asks brightly.

Caleb snorts a little, settling in to his new position practically lying down on the couch. He pretends to be a bit put out, but sighs and stretches one leg out and it bumps into the other arm of the couch. He puts one ankle up on the arm and bends the other leg at the knee, getting comfortable. Rudi find himself a comfortable spot across Caleb’s thighs and plops down, continuing to purr.

“Alright, well let’s see,” he brushes off the cover. “‘Der Struwwelpeter, oder lustige Geschichten und drollige Bilder von Dr. Heinrich Hoffmann’ — this book is a compilation of funny children’s tales and illustrations.” He explains.

“Which word means ‘funny’?”

“It’s this word here, ‘lustig’.” Caleb points to the cover.

“Lustige,” she reads and then laughs.

He reads each of the two first pages in their original form, a cadence coming to his lips at the familiar text. She doesn’t understand what the words all mean, but it still sounds lovely, like an old song from far away.

Then, the story putters to a stop as he pauses to explain to her what it says.

He continues this way, reading, explaining, reading, explaining, holding up the book so Jester can look more closely at the pictures, scrutinizing.

A few pages deep, when he finishes the Zemnian, she suggests. “Hm.. When you tell me what it says… Can you do it in a silly voice?”

“Um-” Caleb is a master of changing many things, but his accent is not one of them. He laughs again, a little sheepish. “Okay…”

He clears his throat and then —in a terrible, silly imitation of Jester— he explains what the passage says in Common.

Jester laughs in delight and follows along.

She ooh’s and ahh’s as Caleb reads each of the next pages in Zemnian and then explains what it says in his decidedly silly voice.

Jester lets out a gasp at the next turn of the page. “Oohhhh my gosh, Caleb, it’s the guy from the front, look at his nails.” She grins, observing the full page of artwork depicting a large child —or, maybe, a small man— with wild hair that looked like it had just taken a bit too much lightning damage, and with fingernails grown out much longer than his fingers. They stretch wildly across the page.

Caleb huffs out a little laugh. “Mmhm.”

And then, because she is Jester, she continues. “Don’t you think they would be..” She brings her own nails up to trace gently along the shell of his ears. “Reaaaaally tickly?”

A shiver runs down his spine. “Heh- ja, yes.” Caleb shakes his head a little, brushing off the flutter in his chest and flare of embarrassment. He takes one of his hands off of the book to swat at her hands. “You would love them, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I really would…” She smiles and wiggles a bit. “I would use them for so many pranks.. ooh and tickle fights. Oh, I would win every time.”

Caleb’s hand has successfully deterred her fingers from his neck.

But, he notes with a shiver, she just reaches down to pinch at his sides a few times instead.

He squirms, readjusting. “You don’t need any extra help. You already do.” His elbows don’t quite clamp down to his sides, but come down enough to gently push her teasing fingers away.

Caleb feels the energy of the evening beginning to shift. There’s something flittering about inside him at that, but he presses on with the task, and the conversation, at hand.

But, a few more pokes and Caleb’s arms press down harder on instinct. “Jester— the book..” He reminds her, voice light with almost-laughter.

The cat shifts in his lap, giving Caleb a look that perhaps on a human would look annoyed.

Jester pulls her hands away from his sides, but quickly redoubles her efforts back up on the side of his neck, quick and gentle. “Mmm. Right, right. Tell me more about ‘dar Schtruvvelpater’.”

“Hey- ehe- hey.” He snorts again, scrunching his neck. “Would you stop it— I-I’m trying to read to you.” His voice is light, fluttering, and it cracks with a laugh around the words —it all comes out a little more high pitched than he intended.

Jester lets out a whine, clearly wanting to continue both. “You can keep reading!” She giggles, pinching down his shoulders and around to the backs of his armpits.

“But—” He pleads, but then Jester’s hands are down around the bottoms of his ribs again. “Ah! Je- Jester I can’t—” He chokes out, snickering and wobbling back and forth between her pokes on either side of his rib cage. His elbows squeeze against his sides, trying in vain to protect himself while maintaining his hold on the novel.

Rudi yowls at them, indignant, and turns to plop up onto the back of the couch, curling up in the middle.

“Oh sorry Rudi!” She chuckles. “But, seriously Caleb—it’s fine, I don’t mind if you laugh!” Jester adds, and wiggles her fingers around and over his stomach.

Laugh he does, pressing the book against his middle in a poor attempt at defense. His arms do their best to attempt to cover a few of his weak spots, but Jester doesn’t seem to mind the obstacle, easily finding others. She tuts at him and crawls her hands back up his sides.

Jester’s fingers work their way up and then jump to his neck again. Caleb clings to the book for dear life, pulling it up to cover his face as he fights a continuous, losing battle with the giggles that Jester is keen to draw out of him.

“Wait— hehe wait I- heh- I thought you wanted— aha- ah— y-you wanted me to read to you!” Laughter cracks through every word, climbing to the surface like weeds sprouting forth between the bricks of a worn path.

“Well I did—I do, but now—” She shifts her legs, wiggling to get them out from underneath Caleb and then wrapping them around his middle to block him in against her chest and the couch. “I thought of something else I wanna listen to.”

Caleb cackles when Jester scribbles, unexpected and intently, over his lowest ribs. “Sch-scheiße! Oh noho- ahaHA NAHA-NEIN JESTER!” He nearly squirms out of her grasp, giggling and chasing her hands with his elbows —but, he’s no match for her leg muscles —plus, he’s still trying to hold onto the book.

He just about jumps out of his skin when he suddenly picks up a green figure in his field of vision —Fjord, who somehow made it halfway across the room without Caleb’s notice. Shit.

Blushing further, the wizard closes his eyes and tries to hide his face between Jester’s shoulder and the couch. “No— don’t!” Caleb squeals between laughs as Fjord approaches.

“What are you two doing in here, hmm?” Fjord asks casually.

Caleb shivers, envisioning the grin on his face. He sucks in a breath and clamps his mouth shut, convinced that maybe he can avoid getting someone else involved if he holds it together—if he just doesn’t laugh again for the next few seconds.

“He’s reading me a story!” Jester responds, chipper.

“Oh, that sounds nice.” And then, closer. “Can I listen too? How can I help?”

Caleb’s heart spins in a swirl of excitement and giddiness and nerves. “Nooooohoho.” He responds, unable to hold back the giggles from his words.

“Shh— I wasn’t asking you.” Fjord scolds.

Caleb whines, a little indignant, with a laugh into the crook of his elbow.

“Oh I know!” Jester gathers excitedly, pointedly ignoring Caleb. “I’ll hold the book and turn the pages, and you can hold his hands because they are probably, like- so, so tired from holding the book up this whole time, hmm?” She nuzzles against Caleb’s ear then, teasing. “Right Caleb?”

Caleb squirms, his legs kicking against the couch. “Mmmmf nooooo—”

“Great idea, Jes.” Fjord answers just as Caleb chokes out another desperate little sound of protest as he breaks down into laughter.

“Here, give me this.” Jester commands, ceasing her light, tickling pokes and reaching to take the book from Caleb’s hands.

He shakes his head, curling his upper body inward protectively. “Nohohoo—” Caleb cries as she pokes at his neck with one finger, bringing his hands back in toward his face.

Fjord’s hands wrap —firm and unyielding as any proper sailor’s knot— around Caleb’s small wrists.

Caleb keens forward desperately with a high pitched laugh, and Jester pulls the book the rest of the way from his grip. “There we go! Okay, okay, now then...”

Jester holds the book up above them, flipping to the page they left off on. Meanwhile, Fjord, standing beside the couch, gently tows Caleb’s shaky arms up over red and blue mops of hair.

Caleb giggles, a few anxious little sounds of anticipation making their way out in between. He tugs weakly at his arms as he is brought back down against Jester’s chest. “Hnnnmf— Fjord,” His voice is light, nervous. “W-wait—”

“Can you see okay? Keep reading, keep reading, go on!” Jester draws the book in toward his face.

A few quick, giddy breaths, and then he manages to read the next line of text between little laughs, his voice shaky, before it’s cut off with a squeal. “und die —CH AHH AHA HAH— NEIN!” Jester has one hand off of the book and wiggles her fingers, close but not quite touching, just above his rib cage. He shakes his head. “Don’t- don’t tease! Bihihitte!”

“Ha!” Fjord laughs at that, squeezing at Caleb’s wrists gently in comfort. “Oh? You’re asking Jester? Not to tease?”

Caleb whimpers, shaking his head more. “I- I..”

Jester grins, pulling her hand even further away and dexterously wiggling her fingers at him. “If I was ‘dare Schtruvel Peter’ I could tickle you from all the way up here!”

“Jester—” Caleb sounds like he’s about to die, his voice strangled.

“Are you gonna keep reading or are we just gonna have to put the book down and focus on tickling you?” She asks, a faux impatience in her voice.

“No! HA NEIN DON’T! Please— I can’t!”

“Sure you can, go on then!” Jester teases, her fingers wiggling threateningly above his rib cage.

Caleb shrieks and hides his head against his shoulder again.

“Alright… well, I guess you’ll have to finish the story later, then.” Jester sighs. “Fjord, can you—” She moves the book up over Caleb’s head, wiggling it in the air.

“No wahahait! Wait—” Caleb shakes his head, trying to wriggle his arms free.

One of Caleb’s wrists is released so that Fjord can safely grab the old book and set it next to his other discarded pile on the table beside the couch. Immediately, the freed arm shoots down and presses against his side, blocking his ribs and armpit from Jester’s teasing. His hand then comes up to cover his red face.

“Oh no you dont.” Fjord says with a sternness as he grips Caleb’s wrist once again, gentle but strong, and pries it up away from his face.

Caleb struggles, he fights him on it with a smile on his face, despite his show of protest.

Well, he struggles for all of three seconds before Jester pinches at the soft spot just under his ribs twice and Caleb flails, melting, and his already limited strength is rendered useless. Fjord gets both arms comfortably back up and pinned and leans over, smirking down at them. “Does that book have any stories about……… tickle monsters?”

“Nein—” He snorts, giggles coming out faster as Jester wiggles both hands toward and away from his prone middle, never quite touching. “But I- I think I could heh—send in ideas for their nehehext publication.”

Fjord agrees with a hum. She is rather terrifying.

“What’s that called in Zemnian, hmm Caleb?” Fjord asks.

“Ehehe— what?”

“Yeah, yeah! How do you say ‘the tickle monster’!” Jester asks excitedly.

He thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. “Hehe it would.. it would be ‘das Kitzelmonster’—” He snickers as he says it, blushing a bit more.

“Aww, that’s so cute. ‘Das Kitz el Monstar’.” Jester pokes at his ribs, whispering a quick, teasing ‘kitz kitz kitz kitz’ with each poke.

As soon as she does this, Caleb jolts. He realizes, too late, that he’s just supplied a new and dangerous fuel for the already devastatingly effective teases they both are. His back rockets up and away from Jester, face flushing hot. “Staha- stop- no! N-HNN DOHOHON’T!” His legs kick up and in toward his middle, but are blocked by Jester’s legs wrapped around him.

With nowhere else to go, they start kicking wildly into the air and at the couch. “BITTE! Don’t— don’t say that!” His voice cracks on a loud laugh, neck and ears red hot with embarrassment.

Jester is known for her teasing and taking apart of defenses, and she’s unmistakably the resident tickle monster of the group. She’s tickled and teased Caleb more times than she can count. He is always a sucker for it —never fails to make things a little worse, a little more sensitive, a little more effective.

But, this time, she notices, he seems even more desperate to get away from the teasing. “Aww, I know how much you looooove it when we talk about how ticklish you are…”

“B-Bitte— HAHA DON’T— don’t!” Caleb wails.

“Is it even wooooorse when I say it in Zemnian? Heehee! What was it? Kitzelmonster? Kitzel? Aww are you too kitz-kitz-kitzel-ish Caleb?” She scratches gently at his sides.

Caleb does his best impression of a contortionist, wailing and struggling against her in a way that seems more keen to actually get away than just for show.

“Did the Kitzelmonster get ya?” She giggles.

He’s taken much harder — and much worse — tickling before, and never reacted quite so viscerally to teasing. Jester feels an evil, delighted little twist in her stomach at the knowledge.

“Eheehee no! HAHA JESTER— Please!! N-not that —don’t say it! Mist, stop it —please.”

“HMMMMmm.” She ponders loudly, gently fitting one unmoving fingertip after another into the grooves of his ribs. With his squirming, he’s essentially tickling himself at this point. “How about… if you ask me to tickle you, I’ll stop saying how cute and kitz kitz kitzel-ish you are!”

“NEIN!” Caleb shouts, indignant.

“I’ll even give you a little break first if you ask nice!” She offers with a laugh. “Because like, you kinda seem like you’re gonna die.”

He says nothing, just laughs and shakes his head.

“Okay then.” He feels her shrug underneath him. Her hands pull away from his ribs.

He takes a nervous, shaky breath —just in time for her fingers to walk up to Caleb’s rib cage under his shirt instead and start doing something very fast and very effective.

He shrieks and breaks into desperate cackles. His laughter pitches up to a scream —and, just as quickly, she pulls her hands back out from under his shirt.

“Now, wanna try that again?” She opens and closes her hands like little claws, a few inches above Caleb’s sides. “Or do you want me to keep talking about how kitz-kitz-kitzel-ish poor little ticklish kitzel-ish Caleb is?”

Caleb shakes his head with a surprising voracity, his body flailing and jolting. Fjord nearly loses his grip on Caleb’s wrists.

Still not touching him, she wiggles her fingers, and Caleb laughs as though her claws are already taking him apart.

“BITTE— NEIN!” He pleads. “AHA— STAHOP!”

She persists, voice dark and scary. “Oh nooooo, Caleb! The Kitzelmonster’s almost got you! And it brought its fri-ends!”

As she speaks, teasing and throwing in every silly variation she can of the word that she can think of.

Her voice gets quieter from Fjord’s perspective as she leans in close and continues, whispering into Caleb’s bright red ear.

Jester teases in a way that should be outlawed, truly a cruel and unusual punishment. It’s— he’s… laughing and squirming so hard already, and- and no one’s even tickling him right now.

Tears in his eyes, face red and blotchy, Caleb eventually whimpers out —his voice desperate, breathless, “Jester- enough, STOP stop- stop saying it, plehehehehease! Okay! Okay— ehehe! Stop!” He groans. “Just- just tickle meheHEHEEHEE—”

Her fingers zip in to do just that as Jester giggles triumphantly. “By the way, next time we do this, I’m gonna make you tell me how to ask for it in Zemnian.” She adds casually.

Through silly giggles, he asks. “NE-NEIN- Jester, ahaha, wh-why?” His eyes flutter shut.

Fjord laughs, the sound radiating warmth into Caleb’s skin. “She really is an evil little ‘Kitzelmonster’, isn’t she?”

“Fjord!” Jester scolds with a giggle as Caleb lets out a pathetic squeal in protest at his words.

Caleb’s legs fly into the air, kicking at imaginary targets yet too uncoordinated to hit even those. His laughter rings out loudly in the room as Jester pokes and scritches under his arms.

“You look like you’re ready to try out for the circus.”

The sudden appearance of Mollymauk’s voice sends a chill down Caleb’s spine.

His head snaps over to confirm that, yes, Molly is leaning casually in the doorway. Smile on his face. Mischief in his eyes. Fingers twitchy in a way he gets when he really wants something (and that ‘something’, often, is to draw lovely laughter from those close to him).

“But really, Caleb, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep floundering about like that.”

“Hi Molly! Oh, you’re right. I did say I’d give him a break,” Jester smiles, bringing her hands down to rest on his thighs, not tickling.

Caleb’s deep breath out is fizzling with anxious snickers. “Ehehehe M-Mollymauk.. Molly. Molly—” How long has he been standing there?

“Yes?” Molly purrs, drawing into the room.

Caleb looks up at the ceiling, whimpers. “Please,” a breath, “you’ll— ehe they’ll— you’re killing mehehehee.”

“I’m killing you? Ha. Well. It’s a good thing Jester’s close by.” Molly smirks, then, dramatically winces with a waiver of his hand. “Mm. Well, I bet Caduceus isn’t far anyway.”

“Hey! Rude!” Jester shifts to stick her tongue out at Molly. “Anyway. Don’t you think he’s had enough of a break? Go get his feet!”

“What? No wait! But you barely—” Caleb cries out, drawing his legs as close to his chest as possible.

“You bet-ter put those back down…” Jester threatens, tracing featherlight circles into the skin of his sides, just under his shirt.

“No!” Caleb wails in protest. His flailing kicks begin anew.

Well, if he’s going to be stubborn about it… Molly strolls to the other end of the couch, chuckles, and then, like a cat watching a flock of birds, begins batting at Caleb’s legs and dodging kicks, hunting for the perfect in.

Uncoordinated, tickled, and giddy with laughter, Caleb doesn’t make it long before Molly’s towing one of his ankles down to the end of the couch with a victorious snicker.

“Got one!”

His other leg keeps kicking wildly, still unclaimed.

There’s a mixture of Common and Zemnian (or at least an attempt at them) in between loud, boisterous, shrieking laughs as Molly swipes a finger up and down his sole.

Jester moves her fingers up, two on each side, scritching lightly into Caleb’s armpits.

Meanwhile, Molly fully disregards the free foot in order to devote his focus to holding down Caleb’s ankle and wiggling more fingers under scrunched toes.

Molly gets a claw under and between some just as Jester adds more fingers to his underarms, and Caleb makes a sound so loud and desperate that he’s glad —somewhere in his mind where he can remember to be— that they is in his tower and not in the middle of a tavern room, surrounded by other rooms, with people around.

In the moment, he fails to consider, however, that there are in fact still people in the tower.

Caleb’s not thinking about that, though. In fact, he’s not thinking about much at all right now, other than how badly this tickles.

“You have ten seconds to put your other leg down, or I’m gonna have Molly come up here and help me get your ribs.” Jester offers as a threat, pausing her tickling, as does Mollymauk.

A beat of silence aside from quavering laughter, then Caleb asks. “Wh-when… when did you become so evil?”

Jester giggles. “Always been!” And then she blows a raspberry on his neck.

“AAAII— OKAY!”

She stops —and then, denying his better instincts, Caleb brings his other leg down shakily. He allows Molly to wrap both ankles up in the crook of his elbow.

The free purple hand wiggles delightedly, a few inches away from the trapped soles before him. He looks back over his shoulder at Caleb —who looks absolutely lovely when he’s devastated in this way.

Caleb protests without any conviction. “This is— very unfair.”

Jester pokes down his rib cage and over to his tummy.

“Plehe— oh nohoh-AHA haha noooo—” Caleb squirms, his head rolling back with laughter.

Just then, she starts to lightly spider her fingers over his stomach, while Molly does the same technique, alternating over each foot. Fjord watches each of them fondly, Jester clearly having the time of her life — she really is a ‘Kitzelmonster’. They take turns, not wanting to completely overwhelm the tired, scrawny wizard, with Molly and Jester each watching the other and commenting on Caleb’s reactions.

When Caleb opens his blurry eyes again, a few minutes and endless laughs later, he sees Veth, looming over the back of the couch next to a curled up Rudi. She gives him a smug, knowing little smile. It can be intense, electric, unbearable at times —being tickled —but Caleb has confessed under the influence of alcohol and ticklish duress that he doesn’t hate — or even enjoys, much to his chagrin — the opportunities that come up in his life for his brain to slow down and fog up a little bit, til there is no room for guilt and worry. He is in (many) good hands, after all. But, it’s nice to know she knows, she’ll be there, she’ll help take him apart a little too, if she likes, and, eventually, she’ll help reign in the tieflings if he needs her to.

Caleb can’t hold her gaze for long, his eyes close just as Jester’s fingers start poking into his sides repeatedly.

A moment later he gasps, curling his head and neck sideways at the first flutter of a light, fluffy edge of a feather along the shell of his ear.

“Ehe- staha— Veheheheth!” Caleb stutters out through laughter. He attempts a peak at her and finds one of her feather-fall feathers held neatly in her mage hand, twirling about just beside his head. “Ahaha— nein!”

“What is this? You guys threw a wreck-the-wizard party without me?” Beau’s voice cuts through the already overwhelmed sensory input in Caleb’s brain.

His voice is shrill, desperate in response. “No— hehehe nononono— Beheheheaureagard! Aha gehehehet out of hehehere! NOHOHOHO!”

“Oh, please. Don’t bother.” Beau’s response is rippling with smug laughter as she waves dismissively at him.

Caleb soon becomes aware of a hand wrapping around his shins a few moments after she speaks. He curses between laughs and hopelessly tries again to kick his legs.

Beau moves one arm behind his legs and squeezes at his calf muscle once, twice, an attempted scolding for his jolts and kicks of protest. Caleb shrieks. Everyone freezes — it almost feels as though time stops for a moment.

Caleb yelps when she does it again, his breath sucking in a half-second later.

Jester peaks over Caleb’s shoulder. “Oooh, what did you do?” Her hands idle over Caleb’s sides.

Molly looks over his shoulder, smug and grinning. “Look— I knew your knees were bad… but.”

“Looks like someone’s a little ticklish here.” Beau smirks, letting out a little evil laugh. She squeezes the back of Caleb’s leg again, a few inches below his knee.

“No!” He cries out, laughing. “Dohohon’t—”

“Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it? Laugh?” Beau snickers and begins squeezing the back of each of his legs, up and down the calf muscles. She kneels down beside the couch, finding the perfect angle. Meanwhile, Molly keeps Caleb’s ankles locked up in a solid, tight hold, enjoying the show.

Caleb wails out a few more wheezy protests between cackles as Beau tickles up and down his legs. “Don’t! Beauhoho— hahaha stAHAHOP!”

Jester wriggles underneath him as she repositions and trails her hands down.. down.. down as far as she can, lightly tickling down his ribs and sides as she goes, squeezing his hips, past where her own legs are wrapped around his middle. She reaches out, grabbing in the air at Beau’s hands —fingers still a decent distance from tickling anywhere near his calves or knees. “Ha! You’re ticklish everywhere Caleb!” Jester giggles into his ear.

“Yeah, how’d you manage to hide this spot from us for so long?” Beau asks. “Are your legs this sensitive all the way up and down?” She pinches at the backs of his ankles all the way up to his knees, then continues up, squeezing around his thighs.

“Ehehe- no! Leheheheheave them alone!” Caleb cries.

“Not a chance, man- ha! They so are— look at you!” She pinches at a spot a few inches below his knee that gets him kicking — or, well, trying his best to. “You’re fucking ridiculous!” She laughs.

Caleb lets out a noise somewhere between a snort and a plea. His laughter and thrashing continue to grow frantic.

Beau leans against the couch and wraps Caleb’s knees up in one arm. She pinches and squeezes the backs of his calves with her free hand, a smug grin on her face.

Mollymauk’s tail joins her hand and tries to wiggle against the backs of his legs and knees. Meanwhile, his fingers keep up a quick tempo fluttering across Caleb’s wiggling feet.

“Eeheehee whahahahah-why are you tryhihing to kill mehehehee!?” Caleb cries out.

Jester watches delightedly as Beau and Molly drive him up the wall. She holds tight with her legs as he squirms and wriggles, desperate for escape.

“Aww, you say that like it’s a bad thing!” Jester answers him, wiggling her fingers in a tease a few inches above his armpits. “We wouldn’t do it if you weren’t having fun!”

Caleb turns somehow even more red at that and lets out a pathetic little peal of laughter in response to her teasing.

Veth’s mage hand moves down to start poking at his top rib just under his armpit on the side nearest the couch.

“Ehe— no! Neihihein! Bitte!” He squirms to the side, only to meet Jester’s finger on the other side.

Molly and Beau pause to rearrange a bit, trying to figure out the best way to hold his legs while also watching his helpless little squirms.

Caleb sputters out giggles and half-worded pleas.

Jester ponders aloud. “I should probably call Yasha and Caduceus… I feel like they’re going to be preeeeeetty bummed if they miss this. I know I would be.”

“No— no!” Caleb squeaks.

Molly wiggles a finger up and down Caleb’s arch while Beau squeezes just above his knee.

“Ugh. You’re right, Caleb. There’s barely any room for us. You need to make the couch in here bigger next time you bring up the tower.” Jester chastises, poking at his side in light, random patterns. “There’s not enough room for everyone.”

Caleb whimpers into his bicep through laughter.

“I have an idea..” Fjord grins, transferring Caleb’s wrists to one hand and reaching down with the other to squeeze and tickle at both his and Jester’s sides below.

Caleb cackles with a renewed desperation, while Jester cries out. “Hehehee- hey! Hah-” She gasps in fake offense before breaking into giggles.

“Let’s move ‘im to the bed.” Fjord finishes his thought with a few pokes under Caleb’s arm.

“Mmmf— nooooo heh—” Caleb protests weakly, his face tingling with a happy, giddy silliness —sweet and warm under his skin like fresh honey.

Fjord releases his wrists and reaches down with both hands, and —easily besting the now flailing arms— hooks his hands underneath Caleb’s shoulders and around to his armpits. He lifts up. Caleb squeals. Fjord wiggles his fingers a bit. Caleb makes some kind of choked laugh.

Then Caleb is shaking his head more fervently as Beau reaches to lift him under his knees. Mollymauk releases his ankles with a grin.

“Bitte, you-you’ve had your fun! Y-you’re killing me! Mercy!” Caleb pleads, his eyes wide as Beau and Fjord make quick work of lifting him up.

He scrambles for any sort of anchor or purchase —a steady moore out in the sea of giddiness and laughter he’s found himself caught and floating in.

“Hey!” Almost on cue, a familiar sensation of Jester’s claws make their reappearance on his sides. “That’s mine! Give him back!” She scolds.

“NAHA— ehehehee, don’t!” Caleb can’t stop himself from squirming and flinching away as Jester’s fingers prod and tickle at the wizard above her.

She snickers, delighted, and her fingers follow along for as long as she can reach him. Noticing this, Fjord and Beau seem to take an extra long time moving him up and away from the couch —and out of tiefling range ��over to the bed.

Finally, he’s out of Jester’s range. His breath comes in shakily as they deposit him gently on his mattress. He’s red-faced, tears welling up in his eyes with a few running messily down his cheeks. His eyes are squeezed shut to hide from the scrutiny and knowing smiles of his companions above.

“Hee- oh nohoho—” Caleb whimpers with a smile. He reaches up with a shaky hand and grips one of his pillows, dragging it down over his head to shove his burning face into.

“Aww, Caleb! Are you hiding from us?” Jester’s voice alone draws an extra giggle from him behind his pillow.

Caleb shakes his head behind the pillow.

“Come onnnnn, where’s that smile?” The mattress sinks as she climbs onto it near him.

“Nooooooo..” Caleb whimpers, wrapping both arms around the pillow and smushing it tighter against his face. It doesn’t do much to muffle his anticipatory laughter.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Jester scoffs. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Caleb’s legs kick at that, drumming against the bed as it dips a few more times —Molly and Veth, he concludes, since Jester is already looming next to him and Fjord and Beau still have hands on his shoulders and knees.

“Alright, come on, let’s get him already!” Beau declares impatiently.

“Ah, I love the spirit, Beauregard, but it can be so much fun to drag it out —build him up, topple him over…” Molly traces a delicate nail down Caleb’s chest. Caleb shivers deliciously. The claw lifts away.

Jester snickers. “We already tickled him like soooo much on the couch, Molly, he’s already all mush-brain. Come on!”

“Oh alright —you’re right, you’re right.” Molly shrugs, crawling his way up to Caleb’s other side.

Caleb wails into the pillow when two sets of tiefling claws touch down gently over his midriff with purpose, leaving teasing trails down his sides and over his stomach and lowest ribs. “Mmpppph- n- nahaha- oh nohohoho— eheh oh dohohohon’t! Bitte! Mmmf-aha ahahaha! Please— please!”

Fjord leans down, taking Caleb’s hands with ease into his own and pulling them up over his head. He adjusts, laying on the bed while keeping Caleb’s arms trapped against the mattress. He shifts the pillow over and off of him so that he can get in close to Caleb’s pink face, then nuzzles into the side of his hair.

“Mmm. It’s too bad I can’t use my hands.”

Caleb feels some quiet relief at that. Maybe a little disappointment too, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to focus on that.

Still, some sliver of Caleb’s mind registers the rumbling chuckle Fjord gives as dangerous as he continues. “—I guess I’ll have to improvise, then.”

Caleb’s voice catches in his throat as Fjord’s words take on meaning just in time for lips and scruff to brush right up against Caleb’s ear.

“Eeheehee- ah! Yeehehehee- you— aha- no NO plehease!”

“Aww, he’s soooooo cute!” Jester squeaks with a few pinches to his ribs.

Caleb jolts under them with a whine. “Ha- aha I- noooo— I’m —ahahaha I’m not!”

“Yes! Yes you are!” She pinches his cheek just as Fjord sucks in a breath. Helpful little Kitzelmonster she is, Jester brushes Caleb’s hair away from the side of his neck.

“Nein!” Caleb cries as the breath comes out as a vibrating, ticklish, raspberry on his neck.

Caleb is soon lost to cackling laughter as Molly and Jester prod and tickle at his middle while Fjord mouths along his neck and ear. And it isn’t too long before he registers two sets of blunt nails —Beau and Veth, his mind helpfully provides— that have touched down on his feet. He doesn’t even try to kick beyond the instinctive flinching away —he knows he’s not going anywhere.

The feeling— a mindless bliss not unlike that of an evening spent polymorphed —builds slowly. But, soon enough, Caleb’s mind feels light, unbothered and untethered, as his thoughts swirl and spark with the ticklish input from what seemed like every nerve. There is a… a warmth that accompanies it, one that Caleb comfortably slips into with a strange familiarity as though it is where he had always belonged.

Jester’s voice cuts through the sound of Caleb’s laughter as she begins her sending spell. “Hey, Yasha? Are you with Caduceus—” Fjord briefly gets a panicked look in his eye as she starts, jerking his head back and realizing he can’t count her words out as easily. He taps his fingers into the skin of Caleb’s wrists one at a time in counting as she continues, “you guys should come up to Caleb’s room, we’re having a lot of fun! Hurry up you don’t wanna—”

Caleb feels Fjord’s fingers wiggle individually against the thin skin of his arms. They aren’t the only ones —all in all, he registers Jester’s fingers fluttering around under his arm and pinching at his lower ribs with her other hand, Molly’s claws spidering menacingly over his belly, Beau’s arm tight around his ankles, her fingers pulling back his big toes while Veth wiggles her nails all over his feet. His mind feels dizzy and fizzling —some kind of gelatinous consistency, perhaps.

One of Caleb’s last coherent thoughts is that it was at least a mercy (or… was it a tragedy?) that this hadn’t happened in Beau’s room, where he could have ended up having to watch this giggling, disheveled vision of himself taken apart in the mirror over her bed by his friends.

As it is, he simply closes his eyes and lets himself be lost, swimming safely in the sea of hands poking at him from every direction.

��

Zemnian (German) | English Translations: von - from bitte - please nein - no der Struwwelpeter - the ‘shock-haired’ Peter (book) lustige Geschichten - funny/amusing stories drollige Bilder - funny pictures Scheiße - shit Mist - crap/shit das Kitzelmonster - the tickle monster guten Abend - good evening Mm yeah ..and I’m just going…to include these… kitzeln - tickle (verb) kitzlig / kitzelig - ticklish das Kitzel/n - the tickle / the tickling (noun)

…

ADDITIONAL AUTHORS NOTES:

A/N: And now friends and readers who are still here, if you look to your…down — what you’ll see are some fun notes I did and things I learned while researching things for this story — also side note — it’s been about 10 years since, but I took 5 years of German from middle to high school, I’m not by any means fluent but I remember decent enough (and I had the power of the internet and search engines on my side)!!:

ANYWAY — I wanted to figure out some strange quirky little Deutsch storybook that I could have Caleb have in his library, something with a catchy (see also: silly) cover or title that would draw Jester’s eye..

Found this very quickly with a search for German children’s stories. <— yeah, my silly little lee brain was like “lol those nails” immediately — had to use.

Fic title was inspired from the book cover and title / description

Link to the book on Amazon 😆

Did a decent amount of skimming and looking over, I was immediately thinking German fairy tale / kids story, and they’re usually kind of brutal in Germany.

Did cross my mind to use der Katzenprinz or not go into as much detail on the book, or have her try to convince him to read Tusk Love… 😏 😈

Oh great! (affectionate) now am I gonna have to write that? (compulsive)

Yes!

I was conflicted on which translation to use to refer to Jester in ‘Zemnian’. I saw Hoffnar (court jester, king’s fool) , Narr/Närrin (fool, jester, joker), and Spaßmacher (joker, jester, clown) but literal translation of this one is fun-maker which I feel fits Jester very well. She makes fun, is fun, joke, jests, and is all around silly and teasy the whole fic so. Yes bby girl. In the end I ended up scrapping this longer title but it was essentially gonna be "Lustige Geschichten von der Spamacherin" but twas shortened.

Moving on from the language and literature … the em..um… erm.. position was inspired from this lovely video (also recently found out she’s very happily lee and I’m like YES GIRL. ITS SO MUCH MORE DJFJFJJG TO SEE AND KNOW THEY LOVE/HATE/LOVE IT hsjsjdkf. Truly inspiring. What good friends. Caleb deserves to be in her position.

List of some of the lovely prompts / ideas that inspired parts of the story - original prompts in green:

Critical Role c2

1. Caleb & anyone

2. Fjord & Jester

3. Caleb & Fjord

4. Essek & anyone

5. Any combo of the mighty nein you’d like

me: yess. yes. now that I’m making this I realize Essek isn’t there. (Neither are cad or yasha, they’re… meditating and drinking tea). Essek needs to have a turn helping them melt Caleb.

A has noticed that B is acting much sadder & moody than usual, little do they know that B is hamming it up in the hope of getting cheer up tickles. Whether the beans are spilled or not is up to you ;) (by beans I mean the fact they were trying to fake it)

me: I had a few ideas from various prompts floating around in my mind but also sometimes these fics just flow out of my brain — they go where they decide they’re gonna go! I’m sure you know! Anywho, it doesn’t exactly go into sad and moody but stoic and boring and drawing the silliness out of them.

We love a good flustered blushing silly Caleb, we also love a stubborn little journey to get there while slowly losing his composure.

I feel that Caleb knew what would happen as soon as Jester

a. sat on the couch with him

b. picked out the book

c. asked him to read to her, or

d. pranced into the room.

But either way he was #ready to be silly as soon as she came in - some serious #leebehavior immediately winding her up

A has really ticklish calves & B finds out while pinning them to tickle their feet, & they immediately switch targets

me: LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, A ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR OUR VERY OWN BEAUREGARD LIONETT PLEASE!!!

TICKLISH CALVES! TICKLISH LEGS! AHH!

I love this so much fr fr fr fr

See, but…. What if you have multiple friends and multiple hands… :D

A has been trying to get B’s attention when it becomes clear they’re deliberately being ignored.

me: love this trope so much

Caleb’s brain: I MUST ANTAGONIZE JESTER IMMEDIATELY. BUT SWEETLY.

Caleb’s brain: tells Jester how to say ‘tickle’ in his native tongue

Caleb’s brain a few min later: in turmoil over why he makes it soooooo much worse for himself — well for a few more minutes until he gets all wobbly and brain-buzzy

A either has something B wants or won’t do their job & need some convincing in the form of B’s tickling fingers

me: inner Jester monologue ‘Come on Caleb. Read the book. Read it. Do a silly voice. Read while I poke at your ribs. I don’t mind if you laugh. Come on keep trying. Okay I guess Fjord and I are just gonna drop the playful ruse. But you’re finishing that book for me later.’

Final Author's Note —

I hope this holiday gift pleases you, my dear @amazingmsme! Happiest Squealing Santa to Thee! 2023! I’m so happy I got you for the exchange and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season and new year!!!!!!!!!!

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ravendruid · 7 months ago

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Summer Storms

Summer Storms (699 words) by RavenDruid Chapters: 1/1 Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Keyleth/Vax'ildan (Critical Role) Characters: Keyleth (Critical Role), Vax'ildan (Critical Role)

Keyleth is like a husky who refuses to leave the snow. Except she finds thunderstorms safe, and Vax doesn't (until he does).

This drabble is part of a writing challenge with @ogdoadfates.

#mine #critical role #vox machina #cr fic #vaxleth #just a little something I did during my time away from tumblr. hope you enjoy it.#word count is very nice #I'll give a reward to the first person to find the angsty foreshadowing

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pyrosomatic-metamorphosis · 8 months ago

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genuine question but is there any fandom where a character is well written by the majority. im thinking about fandom culture and the spread of frustration when people dont write characters well but. honestly in all the fandoms ive been in there's only like, a Select number of authors who i trust to write Well, let alone write Well AND In Character. character analysis and writing and getting inside characters' heads are all separate skills (all of which are trained by roleplaying fyi can CONFIRM playing pretend with your friends is good for you). there's been more than once where I've disagreed with an interpretation that others agreed with, and then I turned out wrong. or i turned out right. like it doesnt matter WHO is right it just matters that differences in character analysis exist, so even if you DO write well AND write in character, your in character is still going to be someone else's out of character

there's this sort of. vibe. that to play in the sandbox you Need to be able to make a castle, and if you can't make a castle then you shouldn't bother, and it completely dismisses the idea that youre in that sandbox to PLAY in the first place. there's this Weight of disappointing someone if you can't build something that they like, but that forgets that you aren't there to build them a castle. like, be KIND. if you disagree with someone then please make an effort to do so kindly. i dont give a shit about fandom discourse but there is a reason kids get removed from sandboxes if they keep throwing sand in people's eyes. but if they don't like your misshapen sand pile, then youre not obligated to change it. even if you yourself end up hating that same sand pile later- youre not building a legacy. youre playing. and sometimes the result of that play is out of character drivel. theres a reason there are so many authors and so few who i like to consistently read and thats because everyone is Fucking Around in their hobby space. hash tag brag or whatever but i can build castles. ive built several that im v proud of. ive also dug holes in the sand for fun and then tripped on them when trying to get up. I often dug a hole and then got up and fucking- whoops, its a castle now, and i didn't realize i'd made something to be proud of until after the fact. the whole time while creating shit i was Convinced it was bullshit that didn't make sense. and then other times i was Convinced it was bullshit and then i was Right and i can look back and go. huh. ew. but it doesn't matter what the end result was, because i had fun playing in the sandbox

this wasn't meant to turn into a ramble but i have Feelings about bad art and art that's badly perceived and how public perception can screw with your head and how making art youre proud of is fucking. it's so difficult!!! it's hard!! it's really fun, which is why i try to make it, but i promise you it is Okay to not tryhard creativity. even if you CAN, it's okay not to do it all the time. or ever, even. fuck around find out have fun etc

#NOT a discourse post i am musing out loud #there's discourse goign around the dash rn or i wouldnt mention it #but the past few weeks ive seen a lot of “DONT fucking mischaracterize my guy my fuckign god”#which is one of the most frustrating pet peeve there is #but i think a lot too about little baby me #fresh on her writing journey #and how discouraged i would be if someone pointed out the mistakes id made #i made a Lot of fuckups #and i also think about this one fic where one of the characters was INCREDIBLY out of character #me today would not be able to stomach reading it #but baby me was so ENCHANTED #and it introduced to me the concept that you dont always know the reason someone does something #and it made me read even more #and because of that i eventually found Expert Skill level fics #which introduced me to MANY little tricks and fidgets ive tried to implement #there were so so many reviews on that fic that called it shit or complained about the bad characterization #but a decade later i still think about it #there were several very corny mine/craft horror fics i read #which back in the day would be called cringe #and those were what inspired me to write my first horror fic and now im Enchanted by the whole genre #theres a lot of stuff i dont like to read but i like that other people are enjoying themselves #i dont know how to be succinct i hope my point is coming across well #this ties into my thing where fiction is for you first others later #here are my credentials: bb/h fan since before the elections (hi i was the guy who noticed his lack of armour post elections)#and a cross-fandom comment trend of people going 'woa i can see this happening in canon'#im not talking out my ass i genuinely think its more important to have fun than to write accurate characterization #which. is a more 'duh' and clarifying thing than everything else ive written #but ah well c'est la vie #also also just realized this could be interpreted like that- NOT an attack on people who complain about mischaracterization either lmao #i do that too w friends. this is to reassure people who put pressure on themselves to create things Well all the time

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alixinwwonderland · 2 years ago

Note

Prompt: Lenny finds out Midge is a pirate

"There's no way I heard that right," Lenny's voice crackles down the phone line, and Midge mentally pats herself on the back for being able to shock the Lenny Bruce, however briefly.

"You did," she says primly.

"A pirate? Come on, Midge, you gotta be shitting me."

"With a pirate head and a pirate heart," she deadpans.

"I'm sorry, did you just quote Gilbert and Sullivan at me?"

"I'm sorry, did you just recognize Gilbert and Sullivan?"

"I am a man of many talents," Lenny protests.

"Now that I can attest to," Midge quips in return, and Lenny chuckles warmly.

"I just... I can't believe it," he says.

"What, that I'm a pirate? I'll have you know that I look absolutely darling with a feathered hat. The eye patch, maybe not so much."

"No, that's not it," Lenny says. "I'm just impressed — you got arrested for something I haven't."

#the marvelous mrs. maisel #midgelenny #midge maisel #lenny bruce #tmmm #tmmmfic #tv: the marvelous mrs maisel #ship: you're still staring #ch: midge maisel #ch: lenny bruce #mine #it's a silly little fic but i hope you enjoy!

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rocicrew · 2 years ago

Note

“Who hurt you?” With Holden and Amos pretty please 🥺👉👈

Angst/fluff Prompt List, accepting

Holden, still bleary-eyed and half asleep, made a beeline for the coffee machine. Had he had a cup first, he'd have probably noticed the large mechanic hunched over the table with a gel pack pressed on his cheekbone.

He still did. Just took a second longer. "Who hurt you?", he blurted out without thinking.

Then, he paused to study the extent of the injuries. Amos's knuckles were split. His right eye and the cheekbone below were red but they were starting to turn an ugly purple color, betraying the bruises that would form. Few on his arms, that if he had to guess continued underneath the short-sleeved pair of overalls he always wore across his torso.

He'd had quite the night, and Holden's hand twitched around his, so far, empty cup at the thought.

"What, you want a list or something?", Amos replied in his usual casual tone. "It's gonna be a long one, Cap."

"Amos-" Holden exhaled as if he'd said a bad joke, only it wasn't a joke in the slightest and that sat heavily in the captain's stomach.

"Don't worry, I didn't piss off Tycho security this time. You won't have any problems with Fred Johnson."

That was the least of Holden's worries. He knew the way to handle Fred. Amos was more of the issue right here. He could hear Naomi's voice in his ear explaining it to him gently, whenever he worried about Amos disappearing for a couple of days.

Amos needs this sometimes. It's how he copes. He'll come back to us.

Yeah well, as much as he respected that each one of their little family had their own past and their own ways to deal with it, it was never easy to see one of them black and blue. (It didn't register to him that it was hard for them to see him lose track of sleep and meals at his worst.)

Jim sighed-for the third time as Amos counted-but didn't move from his spot.

"They were bullies, Cap. Someone needed to teach them a lesson," Amos explained as if that would appeal to his morality but the only response he got was a-forth-sigh.

"Left them alive. 'Promise," Amos tried again, mistaking the cause of Holden's frustration.

"I don't give a shit about them, Amos," Holden snapped and winced immediately at his tone. He didn't mean to get so agitated but it bothered him that Amos thought he cared more about a couple assholes on Tycho than seeing his family beat up. He forced himself to take a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose to shake away any clouded thoughts.

It was only after that he spoke again, using a gentler tone. "I care about you."

Amos suddenly became more interested in the ice pack he'd removed from his cheek sometime during their talk and had placed it on the table.

Right.

It was easier to explain how he beat the shit out of someone than hear someone cared about him.

Holden knew that, of course. Which was why he usually refrained from saying so, despite often feeling it. But it still slipped out at times.

"It'll take a lot more than a couple punches to take me down, Cap."

He snapped his gaze back up at the sound of Amos' voice.

"I know," Holden said and wished he didn't. His heart squeezed whenever he thought about it too much. And that conviction didn't make any of this any easier.

Neither of them spoke for a while. That wasn't unusual for Amos, but it was for him. Every thought that came into his mind, every worry or explanation why this bothered him this much were things he couldn't and didn't want to say to Amos.

I wish you'd come to us instead. I wish I knew how to help you. I wish I could have protected you instead.

They were trained habits. To take on any problems his loved ones had and put them on himself. Try to fix them himself and be of use.

He tried to do the same for Naomi, every time she shared a little bit of her past.

But it wasn't fair to them, either of them. They didn't need fixing, or saving because that's all he knew how to do. Or at least, was raised to be supposed to be able to. (Jimmy, the fence needs mending again. Did you see the mistake in that court case? Jimmy, the farm-) To be the solution he'd always fail to be.

He was getting better, at least, at keeping those impulses to himself.

As he stood awkwardly by the coffee maker, he did think of one thing to do. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure."

He couldn't stop everything bad that had or would happen to them.

But he could be there for them after.

And as time would prove, that actually helped more. Because after they'd shared a cup of coffee, Amos would let him take him to the med-bay to check his injuries, despite his dislike of room to lessen his own worries. And the next time it happened, he'd find a warm coffee on the galley table for him before their joined trip to the med-bay.

It always felt good to be understood, but it felt better to be trusted this way, and to take care of his best friend and their little family.

#the expanse #james holden #amos burton #mine : fics.#this turned a little more holden centric than i first planned to #bc i got in my feels from the other day #hope you still enjoy it anon <3 #he's just a little guy that love his fambly

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maggacammara · 1 year ago

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Wyllvember, Day Two

II. Wyll and Your Tav

“I appreciate the offer, but—”

Before Wyll can finish, Rauva is sitting on one of the large, flat rocks by the shore, moonlight shimmering on her dusky skin as she stares out at the horizon. Wyll sighs inwardly and sits down next to her. The silence, soundtracked by waves breaking and the chatter of tieflings and adventurers getting drunk off ithbank, is welcome. Still, he doesn’t mind when Rauva finally speaks. “I would have spent the evening with Shadowheart.”

No elaboration. Wyll nods, musing. “Everything okay with you two?” he says, dropping into a more casual register than he typically uses with his companions. Maybe he’ll be able to pry some personal information out of the notoriously guarded drow. She nods, the gesture almost imperceptible. “I take it you don’t expect me to stand in for her regular duties.” This may be his first attempt at flirting with Rauva. He’s gotten to almost everyone else by now.

Rauva’s head turns sharply, her red eyes boring into him. At first, he thinks he’s upset her, but then he realizes—she’s flustered. Her skin, like his, is too dark to betray her flush of embarrassment, but he sees it in the tension she holds, the slightly widened eyes. “It’s not…” she trails off. For the first time since meeting her, Wyll actually sees Rauva’s thoughts telegraphed across her expression, no tadpole needed—it’s not like that. Well, it is. I don’t know. It’s complicated.

“I get it.” Wyll laughs. “Relationships aren’t easy for a hero.” Rauva opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off. “And don’t say you aren’t one! You may not see yourself that way, but the tieflings certainly do. Your actions matter far more than how you perceive yourself.”

Rauva nods again, that curt, dutiful nod. But he can tell she’s relaxed a bit now. “Are you holding out for anyone here?” she says. Her low voice seems huskier in the evening.

Wyll really thinks before he answers. The truth is no, he’s not quite that committed to anyone in their camp. However, this doesn’t mean he hasn’t considered a few of them, and he knows this is what Rauva is getting at. “I am offended that Astarion hasn’t asked to bite me yet, if that’s what you mean,” he says. Rauva laughs, which he considers a success—as well as an opportunity to be more vulnerable. “I’m holding out for something special. It may end up being someone here… I’m not sure yet.”

“I see,” Rauva says. She thinks for a moment, picks up a smooth stone and tosses it at the water. Rather than skipping across the surface, it sinks straight to the bottom without a splash. “I never thought I would grow close with someone like I have with Shadowheart. Not with my life how it was. Is.” The noise from the camp grows to a roar for a moment—laughter, cheers, Alfira’s smooth voice singing. When it quiets again, Rauva says, “She makes me feel I could change. Choose to change, even. Not because of a tadpole or a cult—but just because I want to.”

“You want to change,” Wyll muses. He almost adds something to the effect of, yet you’re already perfect, but he knows it’ll come off flirty, and this feels inappropriate after Rauva’s admission about Shadowheart. “I know the feeling. I wasn’t always the Blade of Frontiers. And I wasn’t always… well, you know.”

This coaxes a smile out of Rauva. “I do think they suit you,” she says, nodding toward the horns. Wyll still hasn’t quite grown used to their weight. “This coming from someone generally distrusted based on their appearance.”

“Ah,” Wyll says. “All my complaining—I never considered. I apologize.”

Rauva laughs a little, shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. I lived in Menzoberranzan for the first two-hundred years of my life. I remember the culture shock of suddenly being perceived as different. You’re going through the same thing.” She reaches out, a little awkwardly, and places a strong, calloused hand on Wyll’s shoulder. “Those whose opinion truly matters won’t care how you look. In fact, they will embrace it.”

Wyll looks down at his hands and smiles. It’s a fact he knows to be true, but it rings truer coming from someone like Rauva. He feels briefly embarrassed for having tried to flirt with her before. She’s well out of his league. “I’m lucky to have you as a friend,” he says, deeply earnest. Rauva just squeezes his shoulder and drops her hand, looking back out at the moonlit water.

Someone comes crashing through the brush behind them. “Come on, Rauva!” Karlach booms. Wyll doesn’t have to turn to recognize her voice. “I dared Gale to try cooking one of the artifacts before eating it, and the mad lad is actually going to do it!” Her crackling heat fills the small clearing as she steps closer. “You should come too, Wyll. I’ve got a pool going on whether he’ll love it or hurl.”

“Those are the only options?” Rauva muses, rising gracefully. She glances down at Wyll. He does feel better after talking to her, but he’s still not quite ready to go out and carouse. He waves nonchalantly at the two of them.

“Put me down for… ah, neither,” he says. “I don’t imagine he’ll enjoy it, though the man must have a strong stomach by now, eating all the orts Rauva drags back to camp for dinner.” Karlach bursts into laughter as they head back to the party.

“I’ll let him know what faith you have in him!” she calls.

Wyll smiles to himself and gazes back out at the water. He may not be in the mood for a celebration, but he won’t allow himself to sink into the pits of despair. Not yet.

#wyllweek #posting it all on here instead of linking to docs this time!#let me know which is better if you have an opinion #I know this will get a little less love because of the nature of original characters #but I really enjoy it so I hope at least a couple other people do too!#wyll #rauva #bg3 #fic #mine #my fic archive

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drrav3nb · 2 years ago

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GODDESS OF MINE

“How does it feel?”

Janet took her time to answer, allowing herself to become more comfortable and more at ease with the grandeur of his ship.

“Like I’m sitting on a throne,” she confessed before laughing to herself, sheepishly. “It’s silly, I know.”

“No,” he refuted, encouraging her notion, delighted by it. “No it’s not.”

OR: One night, among the many they had spent trapped in the Quantum Realm, Janet lets her fascination with Kang's ship lead her into investigating what it would feel like sitting inside such a grand vessel.

Read the fic here

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mercy-burning · 13 days ago

Text

…I Wonder

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Reader becomes a full-time nanny to three-year-old Benjamin, but what she doesn’t realize is just how hard the job will be— not because of the child, but rather her growing attraction to his father. Category: Mature (18+) Content: adults with age gap, drinking, dry humping, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, “little girl” nickname, cum play, praise Word Count: 11k (idk how this keeps happening lol)

MASTERLIST

NOTE: This fic is titled after and loosely inspired by "Pony" by Ashley Monroe. It's not required listening, but obviously I recommend the song. It's been a favorite of mine since I was a teenager obsessed with Dean Winchester, so... that probably explains a lot about why I am the way I am... LMAO anyway, enjoy <3 I had a blast writing this one!!

———

ACT I: If I Had A Baby...

The first job I ever had also happened to be the best job I ever had. I was twenty years old, and I found an ad in the paper searching for a full-time nanny to a little boy. I didn't think anything of it, other than I desperately needed the money and I didn't mind babysitting. A few years out of school with no plans to attend college and no solid idea of what I wanted to do with my life, I wasn't sure if I'd even get hired. I was almost certain that no one would want a college-aged kid with no stable ambitions or previous job experience, but I was desperate. And CPR-certified.

It was a start. A shot in the dark.

By some miracle, Spencer Reid apparently was also desperate enough to be willing to take a chance on me.

He explained over the phone that he was away more than he'd like to be, and even if he tried to work from home, doing FBI work and raising a toddler alone at the same time was nearly impossible. I agreed to an interview, absolutely elated that I had a foot in the door and the bright beacon of hope for some sort of routine. Something to occupy my time and something to care about, to care for.

I was expecting the work to be... not hard, necessarily, but I wasn't naive enough to believe that taking care of a child was a walk in the park. There would surely be tantrums or bouts of "I miss Daddy!" or refusal to eat what I made him for lunch... I knew going into these interviews that I would be signing up for a major responsibility that meant a lot, not only to Spencer but also to his child. I had to prove that I could do my job and do it well. That alone was a challenge, but one I was willing to work with. I was ready for it.

What I wasn't ready for, however, was the betrayal I felt when my brain failed to warn me of the possibility that he was not only a single father, but a hot one.

The second I showed up at his door and he opened the barrier between us, I swear it felt like the sun swallowed me whole and burnt me to a crisp. He smiled brightly and introduced himself, and I was done for.

"You must be Y/N! Hi, I'm Doctor Spencer Reid."

Doctor? So he was smart, then, too. Perfect. The Trifecta of Peak Hotness had been achieved. That instantly made this new job ten-times harder than I anticipated, and I hadn't even started yet.

I wasn't sure I could go through with it at first, but the more we talked, the more I relaxed, and I felt sympathy for him. He was a genuinely kind and loving parent who wanted the best for his son, a three-year-old named Benjamin who loved dinosaurs and airplanes and Cheeto Puffs. I didn't get to meet him that day, since he was with his Aunt JJ (who, the way Spencer told it, was most likely feeding his Cheeto Puff addiction as we spoke), but if the interview went well, I'd get to meet him in the next week.

I mulled over my options and almost decided not to show up for the next interview; to call and tell him I'd changed my mind or something, but it pained me to even imagine the disappointment in his voice had he asked me why. For whatever reason, the vivid image of a toddler pouting and crying to his father because he had to leave, and that no one wanted to care for him burned itself into my soul until I relented and just took the job anyway.

It was fair to at least meet the kid first, right?

Benny was insanely talkative— but not really conversational. Most of the time I tried to keep up, but his mouth was moving a mile a minute, and the conversation always ended up falling flat on my end, so I pretty quickly decided to give up and enthusiastically let him carry it.

He had his father's brains as well. For hours that first meeting, he sat there and read me passages of aircraft encyclopedias, and in between two random sections I politely requested that we move on to dinosaurs (which were infinitely cooler). And then, in that adorable toddler voice that made it impossible to be irritated, he looked up at me with wide eyes and said, "I read all my dinosaur books last week. This week is for airplanes."

Spencer looked like he was going to divert the conversation entirely, perhaps suggest that Benny do something else while we talked some more, but who was I to interrupt the kid's routine and crush his dreams? If I was going to be his nanny, then I was going to have to make him like me. Right?

So, I nodded like I'd never considered it and encouraged him to keep going. To which he did, very happily.

Spencer seemed happy, too. He was always delighted to see Benny when he came home from work, but there was something about the way he relaxed and perked up all the same at my first interactions with his son that twisted my gut. What that man was filled with at the sight of me wasn't just joy, but hope, too, and regardless of where that joy and hope came from, it was an incredibly dangerous thing to notice as a young woman.

It was way too easy to fall into daydream territory. I was alert and attentive when watching Benny, of course, but the second Spencer walked in and completely knocked the wind out of me with that joy and relief radiating from his perfect smile, it was like a screw came loose in my brain and turned me into a feral, horny beast. And then I would return home, alone with my thoughts, and I couldn't divert them from the wild direction they took.

At first it was just your standard wet dream, a girl lusting over the older man she nannied for. It was purely pornographic and provided nothing but short-term relief until I saw him in person again, which frustrated me.

I almost thought about quitting, or saying I was looking into schooling so I could cut down on my hours, but...

That wasn't fair to Benny. He and I had actually formed a pretty stellar routine, if I do say so myself.

And every time I thought about leaving, I couldn't help but think about what I would tell him. Would I even tell him anything at all, or would Spencer just omit me from his life completely and give him an explanation in my place? Who would watch over him after I left? Someone old and mean who made him eat vegetables instead of Cheeto Puffs, and demanded he read to them about dinosaurs instead of airplanes, not giving him the option to develop his curiosity in whatever way he chose? Who would tuck him into bed on the nights his father was late or out of town, and would they sleep on the couch soundly and happily like I did?

I hated even thinking about it.

And then there was the first paycheck.

Truth be told, I hadn't even thought about the money, not after I met the boys and introduced them into my daily routine. I remembered Spencer telling me after my first day alone with Benny that he wouldn't get a paycheck to me until the start of the next month, and I was okay with it. Really, I was just focusing on trying not to drool for the entire conversation, but I digress.

Payment completely slipped my mind.

And then I showed up to do my job, and Benny was nowhere in sight.

"Where's the little guy?" I inquired, looking around and hearing nothing either. "He's usually waiting at the door for me like a dog."

Spencer laughed and concealed something behind his back. "He does really enjoy his nights with you... He's actually staying with JJ and her kids tonight, though. Our schedules opened up and she offered to take him for the night. I was going to call and tell you, but I wanted to give you this, anyway."

He handed me an envelope, folded over but not sealed. I took it with an, "Oh," unsure of what it was until I saw the corner of the check. It felt rude somehow to open it in front of him, but his presence was so overwhelming anyway, especially being alone with him, that I needed something to occupy my hands and my thoughts and just about everything else I had in my possession.

At first, I thought it was a joke. A prank. It was too good to be true; He was just messing with me and would hand me a fifty-dollar bill on my way out for my trouble. Surely, if not that, then it was a mistake.

I didn't know how long I'd stood there, staring at the paper with whatever expression was all over my face, but it must have been too long and too concerning because Spencer sounded worried when he asked, "Is there something wrong?"

I blinked for a moment, then finally had the courage to look him in the eye, my mouth completely dry. "You are not giving me five-thousand dollars right now."

"Well... No, technically, I'm giving you a check for five-thousand dollars. What you do with it and when is completely up to you, but... You deserve it. Y/N, you've been a Godsend, and Benny and I are lucky to have you around. Thank you. Very much."

I didn't even think about it. It was an insanely kind gesture, and I was in such a state of shock and gratitude and mind-numbing attraction to him in that moment that I leapt forward and flung my arms around his neck, tears stinging my eyes.

He hugged me back tightly and laughed, allowing me to cry my thanks into his shoulder as we nearly tumbled into the coffee table.

ACT II: If I Was A Lady...

The months flew by, and before I knew it, it was Benny's fourth birthday.

Spencer and his friends heavily involved me in the planning process, a gesture that surprised me, but that I obviously would never be thankful enough for. It's not like I hadn't ever known a loving family or anything, but they were all so warm and welcoming; it was like I'd been friends with them my whole life. My chest bloomed brightly with every laugh and every hug, and I don't think I could have been any happier. I felt like I belonged there.

It was a day, and night, I would never forget.

Everyone had left, and Benny was fast asleep in his bed. Spencer and I looked down at him with smiles so bright, if they'd actually radiated any light the poor boy would have woken up.

"Ah, the cake coma," I laughed quietly, Spencer guiding me out of the bedroom. I couldn't stop giggling even as we walked—Admittedly, I was a little buzzed on champagne. Still, Spencer laughed with me, and we sat down on the couch. I could tell he was exhausted, but happy.

"I still have to clean all of this up..." It was more of an amused I'll-do-it-tomorrow statement, but I had this drunken simmering need to please him so badly that I shook my head and hit his arm.

"No. That's my job. I'll take care of it, you just take your beautiful ass right to bed, you hear me?"

He raised an eyebrow but laughed at me anyway, clearly amused by my banter. "Maybe I shouldn't have allowed the underage drinking after all..."

"Oh, please. I'm not even drunk, just a little loose. Besides, I'll be twenty-one in a couple of months anyway."

"Mmmm."

I hadn't realized how much closer we'd gotten until just then, when he hummed and looked me over. I could feel his breath on my face, and our limbs were just barely touching. Suddenly it was like my entire body was numb, sizzling everywhere we touched, and the champagne had become a part of my bloodstream. The fizz was all I knew, all I was.

Spencer's eyes found mine, and they didn't look away. They pulled me in slowly. I was powerless to stop it, not that I'd ever want to...

In fact, I very eagerly melted into him the second our lips found each other. My head swam, my fingers started tingling, and I was very aware of every movement we made. I straddled his lap, and he welcomed me with open arms, pulling me flush against him as his tongue darted out swiftly to taste mine.

I couldn't believe it was actually happening. Every few seconds I kept thinking to myself, this feels like a dream... It has to be a dream... Between the pent-up attraction I'd been accumulating for him over the last few months and the alcohol that loosened me up and dissolved any ounce of common sense I possessed, I felt like I was in a different world entirely.

He hardened underneath me and my nerves went nuclear, instinctively forcing my body to roll over his. I ground my hips, aching to feel that sweet friction that I'd only felt once before with another man— so long ago and so unbelievably dull in comparison to the sensations I was feeling in Spencer's lap. I was only barely experienced with sex, but I was experienced enough to know that I didn't have anything to be nervous about; This man would take good care of me. I felt it in my bones.

The thought alone sent my body into overdrive. I whined and rolled my hips relentlessly, wishing I was completely bare and feeling him so deep inside me that his absence would leave me haunted. I wanted to feel him forever. I wanted him to ruin my life and claim me as his own, until there was absolutely nothing left of me.

His hands cradled my head reverently as he continued to kiss me deep and slow, raising his hips up to meet mine and aid in getting me off. The gentle tugs of his fingers through my hair and the warm hums of encouragement he offered to my mouth as I climbed higher and higher towards that precipice of pleasure made me weak. I felt so fragile in his arms, like I was meant to be right there, allowing him to guide me wherever. I would have done anything for him, anything so long as he kept holding me and making me sigh—making me glow.

"Fuck—I'm gonna come," I exclaimed in a broken whisper, breaking apart from his mouth to bury my face in his hair. He brought his hands down to my hips then, groaning as quietly as he could into my neck as he helped me rock back and forth across his lap.

It wasn't an earth-shattering intense orgasm by any means; there wasn't nearly enough stimulation for that. But I was so wet and aroused that even the low, quick and burning pleasure that shot through my core for a few seconds was enough to satisfy me. I wasn't in any position to complain.

That was, of course, until I reached down to touch Spencer's belt, and he pushed me away. Not aggressively, but his hands—which had been so gentle and welcoming just moments before—had gone rigid. Frozen and firm, like he'd just been scared half to death.

He scrambled out from my reach and put so much distance between us that I went cold. My name tumbled from his lips in a regretful sigh, and it stung.

"We can't ever do that again."

"Okay," was all I could manage to say. I was still tingling all over, like my whole body had fallen numb and was now just warming up to the idea of having senses again.

"That was irresponsible. And I'm too old for you."

"M-hm," I agreed absentmindedly.

"You should go home."

"Okay."

"I'll call you a cab."

"Thank you."

I went home that night with a deep twist in my gut that wouldn't go away. The rejection hurt. It scared me, too, wondering if I'd still have a job when I woke up in the morning. Was that the last time I would ever see Spencer? And Benny? Had I really just screwed up the best thing that ever happened to me?

I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back on Spencer's couch, getting myself off in his lap and reveling in his embrace. I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, hating myself for being so reckless, and even more so for not regretting it a single bit.

After I was finally able to get a solid couple of hours of sleep, I had a text message from Spencer waiting for me when I woke up.

I sincerely apologize for last night. The job is still yours, but I also understand if you don't want it anymore. Take a few days, whatever time you need, and let me know.

I was relieved, of course, but also deeply curious to know how we would keep things professional after something like that. I guess I was just mostly surprised that he was willing to, considering he seemed pretty rattled by it.

Still, If he was willing to try, then so was I.

I'm sorry, too. I wouldn't give up you and Benjamin for the world. All is well?

He texted back almost immediately; All is well.

It only clicked into place a few months later, once the initial shock of our "escapade" had faded away and we could return to business as normal. Because, really, the truth was we couldn't return to business as normal. We tried, but he never looked me in the eye for longer than a second at a time, he refused to touch me in any way, careful not to even brush my hand as he handed me my monthly check, and his small talk was even more painful than it had been previously.

Still, I continued to be Benny's nanny—and best friend, according to Auntie Penelope, much to her dismay. I still loved that kid more than anything in the world, and I still, unfortunately, wanted his father to kiss me again.

I was willing to let it all go, though, to admit that it was a silly stupid crush that could never come to anything and just deal with it like an adult, and then I had to overhear the motherfucker when he came home one night. I was resting on the couch, about to open my eyes when I heard the door open, but then I heard a voice that wasn't Spencer's. It was his friend, Luke.

Spencer cut him off then. "Quiet, please."

There was shuffling, keys being set down, and then a small laugh as they got closer to me. I didn't move a muscle, focusing only on my breathing. "Right. Don't wake the hot nanny, got it."

"She's right there," Spencer hissed, and I tried not to laugh. My insides flared to life as he added, "And I asked you not to bring that up..."

"Oh, come on, Reid. You have the hots for her; big deal. It's normal."

"So? I'm... I'm technically her boss, and she's far too young for me. It's not right, and you know that."

"Whatever. You do what you think is right, man, but I'm telling you; Ignoring it is only going to make you more stressed."

Spencer mumbled something incoherent, and the two shuffled off into the kitchen for God-knows-what. All I could think about was that he wanted me. It was probably killing him just as badly as it was killing me not to give into each other again. My mind was racing, my heart beat violently in my chest, and I knew then that I had to pretend to wake up or else I'd sit there and burst into flames.

I had to leave. I had to do something; What, I didn't know, but this revelation had me reeling and feeling a myriad of things, and I needed to sit with them, preferably alone so I wasn't tempted to just jump him on the spot.

"Did we wake you? I'm sorry." Spencer's kind voice warmed me from the inside out as I shuffled into the kitchen to say goodbye.

I quickly gathered my things and avoided his gaze. "Oh. No, you didn't. If you're back for the night though, I'm gonna go home. I'm exhausted."

"Little guy was that rambunctious, huh?" Luke joked.

I smiled and gave him a wink. "Oh, no. He was an absolute angel, as always. His daddy raised him well. Goodnight. See you tomorrow, Doctor Reid?"

He cleared his throat, rasping out, "Yes, tomorrow. Goodnight."

"Night."

I tried not to run mischievously out the door, willing my legs to be normal. But the second there was a tangible barrier between us, I bolted to my car, high on adrenaline and unable to wipe the smile from my face; I was wide awake.

Eventually, though, I realized it would be absolutely stupid to do anything about it. Did it boost my ego and my mood? Absolutely. It also softened the blow of his avoidance and his initial rejection that night; All of his behavior made much more sense. Sure, I was a little disappointed that he wouldn't entertain our mutual desire, but as long as it was there... It couldn't be that bad, right?

Wrong.

I'd gotten a text from him earlier in the day, asking if I could come over last minute to watch Benny. I wasn't going to say no, obviously, but when I got there to see him dressed up, I shot up an eyebrow.

"A little fancy for work, yeah?" I told him, hanging my keys up and listening for Benny.

"Oh, I'm... not going to work, actually. I, uh... I have a date."

I froze. I panicked. I didn't know what to do, what to think, or how to react. Naturally my thoughts immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario—visions of Spencer sleeping with another woman, someone older and not a nanny. Someone who was distinguished and well-read and smart, someone like himself. Someone who was more inherently right for him. It... made me sad.

Admittedly, I felt stupid even thinking that way. It wasn't my right to dictate his dating life, no matter how badly I wanted him; I knew what he tasted like, knew how it felt to come undone in his embrace, and yet I wasn't entitled to him solely based on that.

Still. It doesn't mean I had to like it.

"Oh... Um... Good for you," I told him, nodding and turning away in case he tried to profile me. "Have fun."

He said goodbye to Benny a few minutes later, and then gave me a polite, transactional wave on his way out the door. It shut, and it felt like my chest was collapsing.

But I was only able to wallow for a few seconds. Benny tugged on my sleeve and looked up at me quizzically.

"Auntie Y/N, are you sad?"

His sweet face lifted my spirits like it always did, and I didn't have the energy to think about the other emotions that were swimming around in my chest anyway. So I smiled at him and picked him up, shaking my head. "Not anymore, kiddo; I get to hang out with my favorite person!"

We spent all night munching on Cheeto Puffs and building Lego sets, and it was unsurprising to me that by the time I'd finished one, Benny had finished three. Still, our sets combined to make a larger one, and then we were able to give the people names and backstories and adventures.

Either time passed very quickly, or Spencer didn't last very long on his date, because the front door opened and I was surprised he was home before I could put Benny to bed.

"Daddy!" he exclaimed, running and dropping his half-eaten Cheeto Puff in my lap. I laughed and tossed it in the trash can on my way to the door, greeting Spencer, who was hugging his son tightly and making him giggle profusely.

"You're home early," I observed as he set him down.

"Had to make it home before curfew, of course." A joke. He was deflecting. I kind of hated that I felt relief at the insinuation.

"Of course," I agreed.

"So, what did you guys do while I was gone?"

Benny jumped and grabbed his father's hand. "Auntie Y/N and I made a whole Lego village! It has a library!"

"It does?" Spencer asked bending down to his level and positively beaming. The sight made my chest tighten.

"It really does! Do you want to come see?"

"Oh, absolutely. I just have to talk to Auntie Y/N first, and I'll be right in, is that okay?" He nodded and Spencer ruffled his hair. "Okay. Say goodnight."

Benny turned and ran to me then, and I squatted down to hug him. "Goodnight, Auntie Y/N. Thank you for building with me."

"Oh, you're welcome, kiddo. You're an excellent building partner; The best in the business."

He laughed and scampered off to his bedroom, and as I stood up, I felt Spencer's eyes on me. I couldn't decipher what the feeling was on his end, but regardless, it burned a hole through me and made my heart pound in my ears.

"How'd it go?" I asked casually, dusting Cheeto off my jeans. Did you do it just to forget about how much you want me? Did it work?

He shrugged and leaned against the counter with a lazy smile. He almost looked exhausted. "I'd have much rather liked to be at home with my boy and his best friend to tell you the truth."

My heart was racing, and I couldn't help but wonder what he was getting at. Was he fucking with me? Or was he simply telling the honest, innocent truth, while I was letting my lust take the drivers' seat and go searching for some insane imaginary intention to help along my hot-single-father/nanny fantasy?

Suddenly, I was the one who felt exhausted, and Spencer could tell. He shifted and continued talking. "Thank you again for staying with him on such short notice."

"Oh, anytime. It's what I'm here for. In fact, feel free to go on all the bad dates you want."

I don't know why it came out of my mouth, but I was glad that Spencer laughed. Still, I scrambled to get my keys and walked past him to leave, kind of embarrassed by the verbalized impulsive thought regardless.

His hand grabbed my arm gently before I could leave, and my heart caught in my throat. I dared to look up at him and immediately felt that familiar heat return to my core, suddenly very fragile under the weight of his gaze.

He studied me for a moment before he let go of my arm and cleared his throat. "Goodnight."

I couldn't help the feeling that he wanted to tell me something else. He did say he wanted to talk to me before putting Benny to bed, after all... So, what? That was it?

It was stupid, and I should have just told him, "Goodnight," back, but those damned impulsive thoughts kept dancing on my tongue with reckless abandon, and I couldn't stop them from escaping. So, without another thought, I tilted my head and asked him instead, "Was she my age?"

Spencer stared at me, something darkening in his eyes when he responded, "No."

I threw back one of his considering hums, glancing down at his lips before looking him directly in the eye and giving him a firm, "Oh." There were plenty more things I could have told him, none of them appropriate. But I figured I'd already had enough pushing my luck for the night, and reached for the doorknob instead of dragging it out. The night would end like it always did, with a formal, professional farewell.

I was about to finally tell him, "Goodnight," but his hand came down very gently over mine and rendered me silent. Our eyes met once more, and a shiver ran down my spine.

"Even if she had been, she wouldn't have been you."

And then he opened the door for me, and I walked out without another word, my head spinning and my heart threatening to give out on me. He hadn't even kissed me, but he might as well have; I was just as breathless.

ACT III: He Is Nice, But He Looks So Mean.

I was actually littered with nerves walking in the door the next time I came over to watch Benny.

I hadn't heard anything from Spencer for a week, until he called and asked me to come over for the night to watch him while he went to work. I was going to do it with no questions asked, obviously, but because that insane confession was echoing in my mind on a continuous loop since it happened, I couldn't even bring myself to think about seeing him again and knowing... I had no idea what reaction my body was going to have to being in his presence again.

It scared me, but also deeply excited me.

Once my body had enough courage to step through the doorway, my heart rate sped up exponentially, and then upon seeing what was in front of me, it stuttered with a terrifying halt.

Warmth flooded my veins and brought a smile to my face when the four-year-old boy I nannied for and loved more than anything threw his hands in the air and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Happy Birthday!"

He ran up to me and nearly toppled me to the ground, and on instinct, my arms reached out to pick him up as he hugged my neck and listed off the things he did to celebrate.

"Daddy said your birthday was yesterday, but we wanted to give you a party just like you did for my birthday! So we went to the store and got you ingredients for your cake, and we made it just for you!"

"You did?" I exclaimed, setting him down and letting him lead me to the kitchen where the cake was sitting out on the table, clearly homemade by two boys who didn't know the first thing about baking or decorating anything. Spencer was standing across the kitchen table with a proud, albeit I-know-it's-not-much-to-look-at smile, but I barely had time to thank him before Benny told me about the process, step-by-step.

As he went on, I nodded and admired the cake, complimenting the purple and green swirls of frosting (his favorite color and mine, he explained), and the trail of assorted candies in the shape of a stegosaurus in the middle (my favorite dinosaur).

"Do you love it, Auntie Y/N?"

I hugged him again with tears in my eyes. I tried not to actually cry, but the tugging at the back of my throat and the blurring of my eyes was extremely difficult to push away. I realized then, as Spencer watched me with his son and looked like he might have been ready to cry himself, that it wasn't worth trying to hide. I was extremely moved and even happier in that moment than I think I'd ever been. I loved that man and his child more than anything I'd ever known.

So, I blinked hard and let the tears silently descend down my cheeks, kissing the side of Benny's head as I told him, "I love it so much. And I love you so much. Thank you."

I looked up at Spencer and said it again. "Thank you."

He nodded, reaching for the star-shaped candle next to the cake. "You're very welcome. Benny, do you want to help Auntie Y/N light the birthday candle?"

The boy squirmed in my arms and I let him down with a laugh as he excitedly reminded us, "That's my favorite part of birthdays!"

"I apologize if you find an eggshell," Spencer warned a few minutes later, slicing the cake after the song had been sung and the candle had been blown out. He slid my plate over and handed me a fork. "Benny and I did our best to fish them all out, but it's... surprisingly harder than it looks."

As Benny nodded in agreement, I looked down at him and took a forkful of cake. "Oh, I don't have anything to worry about. I'm sure you two are excellent eggshell fishermen."

The four-year-old giggled, but his father sighed as if to say, Don't say I didn't warn you...

To no one's surprise but Spencer's, the cake was delicious. I may have played it up for dramatic effect, putting on a whole show as I chewed and considered every bite, playing as if I was unsure and really critiquing the dessert. I set my fork down and looked at Spencer with squinted eyes, then slowly to his son. The suspense was obviously killing him, his small limbs bouncing with anticipation and a smile that suggested he was going to urge the verdict out of me if I didn't announce it very soon.

I decided to spare him the wait.

"Benjamin Reid... That might just be the best cake I've ever had."

"Really? No eggshells?"

I laughed, reaching to give him a high-five as he beamed up at me with sparkling eyes and a wide-open smile. "Not a single one. You should be very proud of yourself. You and your dad, both."

Benny hugged me again, and I glanced over to Spencer, who was slicing another piece of cake and staring at me with that intense look in his eyes, a satisfied half-smile adorning his face. A rush of heat came surging through my bloodstream like a tidal wave, and I had to look away from him or I was afraid I'd collapse on the spot.

Benny didn't know it, but he was saving my life in that very moment, as the three of us ate cake together. I refused to look at his father. I needed literally anything else to keep me from even glancing his way, and my four-year-old best friend's rambling habits were the perfect focus.

He told me more about his process for decorating the cake, and while I was genuinely a little surprised at how much thought there really could have been with the task, with an ever-moving mind like Benny's, it was actually quite clear by the end of it. It charmed me to no end and filled me with pride to know that I'd had enough of an impact on him to trigger this level of detail and consideration. Again, it's not like I'd never had people who cared about me before, but when it came to the Reids, my heart sang a tune I'd never heard, and it was the most beautiful, brightly vivid sound I'd ever had the pleasure to hear—to feel.

I was thinking too much about it, letting the song swallow me whole as tears stung in the back of my eyes and threatened to fall again, when Spencer's phone buzzed on the table. The sound grounded and intrigued me, even more so when he glanced up at me for a moment, right before directing his words to his son.

"Benny, Uncle Will is outside. Is your bag ready?"

He jumped from his seat and nodded. "In my room."

"Okay. Before you grab it, say goodnight to Auntie Y/N."

I felt the toddler's arms hugging my legs, and turned all my attention to him, refusing once again to look at the man whose eyes I could feel burning me alive with something deeply ravenous, begging to be unfettered. I had a feeling, creeping over my senses like a thick blanket of ivy, that I wasn't making it up and letting my desire for him take the wheel, either; Just as the loving, family-friendly song in my heart had been—bright and vivid—this feeling was just as much the same in its intensity, only echoed with a sound that felt very much like those dark, low hums Spencer always emitted alone in my presence. I felt it all around me and hoped to God that I wasn't about to leave this place feeling like a hopeful, stupid idiot.

"Goodnight, Auntie Y/N. Did you like your birthday?"

"I did, Benny," I answered in earnest, ruffling his hair. "You're very thoughtful and kind. Thank you so much."

"I love you, Auntie Y/N."

I squeezed him tight and made sure he understood every word as truth when I told him, "I love you, too."

ACT IV: When I Grow Up, I Wanna Be Your Girl.

The apartment was quiet when Spencer took Benny outside to meet with Will. I did my best to keep myself busy, cleaning up forks and plates, and wiping down the counter tops while simultaneously ignoring the hammering of my heart against my chest. The organ wouldn't calm down, even as I hummed to myself. It's like those nerves that I had walking through the front door that night never actually went away— only subsided for a little while in favor of wholesome celebration.

Part of me wanted to flee, but I knew it wasn't an option. Not really. I had to at least talk to Spencer and thank him for the effort. Perhaps I was good enough of an actress that I could pretend to have been ignorant of his glances all night, or at least that they didn't affect me like he maybe wanted them to.

Catching myself in the act of overthinking again, I grunted and slammed a glass of water, willing the fresh liquid to wash away any insanity. There was no use going through all the possible scenarios in my head, not when there wasn't much time before Spencer returned. No matter what happened, I wasn't going to be prepared for it.

I certainly wasn't prepared for the way my heart practically leapt out of my chest when he returned, softly opening and closing the door. It took everything I had not to turn around and allow him to see how nervous I was. I kept my back turned, hoping and praying I wasn't visibly shaking as heavily as I felt. I was warm all over.

His presence behind me was dense and ever-present― almost suffocating. I took my time drying off the plates and forks I'd washed while he was away, hearing him rustle around without a word or acknowledgement of me, and then he finally spoke. I almost dropped a fork.

"Why are you doing my dishes, Birthday Girl?"

"My birthday was yesterday..."

He laughed and came up behind me, a gentle hand on my lower back as the other reached around and took the silverware from my grip. I relented, feeling myself numb at his touch and trying to steady my breathing.

"Yes, but we're celebrating today. In my household at least, that means you're not allowed to do any work."

I turned around to face him as he set the fork down on the counter, his other hand still hovering over my back. It returned to his side, disappearing into the pocket of his pants as I crossed my arms and looked up at him. Thankfully, despite the constant whirring of nerves and desire coursing through my entire being, I was able to hold a conversation without hesitation.

"You're not my dad."

Another amused grin. "No, I'm not. But I am your boss. And as your boss, I'm asking you to take the night off and enjoy yourself."

The way he was staring down at me seemingly punctuated his words with a gentle seduction that made me ache with need. I was getting stronger and bolder by the second, leaning forward just enough to be toe-to-toe with him.

"Okay, then, Boss... Tell me, are there any restrictions to enjoying myself in your household? Because..."

The second I heard that familiar hum rumble from his chest, I knew I was in danger― glorious, beautiful danger. His eyes glanced down at my mouth for a second before returning to my own, his body leaning into mine and his free hand reaching out to trap me against the counter.

I tilted my head and brought my fingers up to toy with the tie hanging from his neck. "I am all grown up now, after all..."

"And I suppose you know exactly what you want..."

"Mm-hmm," I drawled, pulling him in closer by the tie. Our lips were barely touching by that point, and I felt my head start to pulse with anticipation as he urged me to go on.

"Well?"

"I want to be yours."

He hummed again, pushing his body to mine and bringing the pocketed hand up to hold the side of my head. "Mmm, Darling, you always have been."

And then he kissed me.

He tasted like sugar, but his intentions were anything but sweet. His mouth devoured mine with a fire that threatened to turn me to ash. Every sense I had was alight, engulfing me in a heat so intense that it was all I was sure to know for the rest of my life. It's all I wanted and all I needed.

I met his intensity with eager hands, exploring the planes of his body as his tongue did wicked things to my own. This time I didn't even need the champagne; I was dizzy on Spencer alone. The fizz boiled me from the inside out and urged my limbs to cling to him like it was my life's purpose. Hell, for all I knew, it was my life's purpose― to burn for him and let him consume me. To revel in his dancing flame and allow it to become my life force. I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything.

And I was sure to let him know that, too, refusing to hold back the string of whines and moans that escaped me every now and again. The hand that had been resting on the counter behind me came down to grip and hike up my thigh, our hips colliding just as beautifully this time as they had the last. The memory caused another wanton sound to tumble from my mouth, and Spencer caught it greedily, pulling back for air long enough to squeeze my thigh and sing me a praise of his own.

"God, I love the sounds you make..."

His lips were on mine again before I could respond, but I didn't even need to. Not verbally, anyway; I guided his hand down the side of my face and over my chest, pushing my body into him and feeling his fingers tighten. His kisses grew hungrier, and suddenly I was starving.

I was finally able to break away from his mouth in favor of tasting the skin and stubble along his jaw. Then, I buried my face in his neck and reached for his belt, praying he wouldn't jump away like last time.

Thankfully, he didn't. His grip on both my breast and my thigh tightened again, but he didn't pull away from me. His breath didn't even hitch.

I took that as a good sign and slowly undid his belt. The sound alone was enough to send a jolt of excitement between my thighs, though the visions dancing behind my eyelids of what I planned to do in just a few moments helped my pleasure immensely. I dragged my tongue softly along Spencer's neck before freeing the belt and sinking to the ground alongside it. His hands fell away from my body and chose to root in my hair instead. The gentle tugging at my scalp admittedly made me stumble, but not out of discomfort; I was actually quite surprised at how much I liked the feeling.

Spencer noticed, humming again with amusement as I went back to tugging down his pants. Still, he said nothing, instead watching me intently as I continued my journey.

I didn't hide the desire I felt as I palmed the length of him through his underwear. In fact, I couldn't decide if I wanted to keep my sight leveled or to angle it up at him, because it was a damn good sight either way; The sensual nature of my fingers gently caressing him, knowing what was resting beyond that thin layer of fabric and imagining how it probably felt to him, or the thick and domineering air between his face and mine, his gaze committing every movement I made to wicked memory...

With a sigh, I opted to lean forward, ignoring the sharp bruising on my knees and putting all my focus into the task at large.

Spencer seemed to tell I was thinking too much, gently massaging my scalp and cooing, "Have you ever done this before?"

Yes, but... "Not with anyone I've actually wanted this badly..."

"Mmm, that does make a difference..." he observed. "Whatever it is that you need to be comfortable, Y/N― tell me. Okay? Promise me you won't hurt yourself in any way just to please me."

A surge of heat exploded through me at the intensity of it all. He was sincere, and by the sound of things, sympathetic to my overthinking. It was another show of just how much I wanted him to guide me, to hold me in his comforting, knowing embrace and show me exactly how life should be lived. Every life experience there was to know, I wanted to know it with him.

"I promise," I told him firmly, not breaking eye contact as I tugged at the cotton between us.

His eyes struggled to stay open when I finally gripped his cock, feeling the weight of it in my hand and bringing it to my mouth. I glanced down then, taking in every ridge as it disappeared slowly down the length of my tongue. I reveled in the taste, in the fullness I felt the deeper it went, and once it hit the back of my throat and caused me to choke and pull back, I angled my eyes back up at his face to find the most heavenly sight I'd ever seen.

Spencer watched me all the time. I was no stranger to his intense gazes. But when I looked up at him that time, his mouth open and eyes so deeply darkened with need that they could have drowned me, I truly thought I might have died and entered the afterlife. Perhaps that was dramatic, but there was no other possible way for me to describe the feeling that coursed through me in that moment. Suddenly I was chasing it, longing to be in that state of euphoria forever, and my mouth eagerly went to work in pursuit of it.

I took my time, exploring the ways he could fit in my mouth and the ways my tongue could cover the length of him. I went in search of any pleasure point I could find, occasionally looking up to gauge his reaction and finding nothing but those beautiful, salacious pools of liquid gold.

Eventually, I was brave enough to take him to the back of the throat again, holding him there and seeing how long it would take before I felt the air leave my lungs. I repeated the process a few times, stroking him with my hand in between gasps of air and shivering at the way he tugged my hair. My vision was starting to blur, but I persisted, aching to know what he tasted like as he came undone.

Unfortunately, it wasn't in the cards for me to find out that night.

I whined as he held my head away from him, praying he wasn't backing out.

"Stand up, please," he asked softly. It sounded like he'd been breathless, and maybe he had. The thought that I had that effect on him calmed my nerves and made me dizzy as I stood, and his hands cradled my head once again.

"You are so good," he whispered, kissing me deeply. I melted into him, only for him to pull back and continue his praises. "So beautiful..." Another toe-curling kiss, and then, "So perfect."

My eyes fluttered shut as his mouth moved over my jaw and to my pulse-point. "My good, sweet girl," he murmured, and the words caused me to clench around nothing.

"Please."

The word fell out of me with a whimper and at its urgency, Spencer's mouth attacked my neck with a gentle, hungry bite that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Follow me."

And I did. I always would.

As much as I would have loved the opportunity to look around his bedroom and make banter about what I discovered on any normal day, my brain was so overwhelmed and numb with desire that the thought hadn't even crossed my mind.

Not that I would have had the time to think about it anyway; He was on me the moment my legs touched the edge of the bed, devouring my mouth once more and pulling me into his atmosphere with fervor. Willing myself to get even closer to him, I brought my fingers up to thread through his hair and was rewarded with another gentle tug of my own.

Suddenly I was extremely hot, squirmy and anxious to break free from the confines of clothing, and Spencer could tell.

He broke apart with a laugh, bringing a hand down to trace the collar of my shirt. "Have you no patience?"

"You're the one sucking my face like it's the end of the fucking world," I breathed when he shifted the collar and exposed more of my skin to the air, earning me another low grumble of a laugh.

"You're not complaining are you?"

"God, no."

"Mmm, good," he hummed into my cheek, reaching down and tugging my shirt over my head. The fabric caught on his nose for a second, bringing a laugh to the surface of my tongue before he swallowed it with another kiss and tossed the shirt to the ground.

Warm, nimble fingers spanned my bare stomach and thoroughly explored the surface area of me, up and up until they slipped under the backside of my bra.

"Is this okay?"

I pushed myself into him and nipped at his bottom lip. "Yes, Doctor."

Goosebumps littered my arms as he deftly unhooked the bra and slid it off my body, and I barely had time to take a breath before he was kissing me again, pawing at my chest and slipping me his eager tongue. My senses were on overload, that hot pang of need pulsating between my legs as I then fell backwards, letting him lay me down and settle himself between them. His kisses traveled lower, tongue darting out to flick over my peaked nipple, and I involuntarily arched up into him.

No one had ever paid this much careful attention to my body before—It was always a quick pleasantry to get out of the way before the main course. But the way Spencer held and touched and tasted me felt like a crash course in intimacy. He was still hungry for me, obviously, but he made it feel like it wasn't just about the destination. He savored each and every second of the moment in all its pent-up, beautiful glory.

Which is why, when he finally slipped a hand down the front of my pants, he seemed delighted to find that I was practically soaked through my panties already.

His middle finger pressed firmly at my clothed heat, and I sighed into his mouth.

"Look at what I've done to you... Poor thing. You're just aching to be filled, aren't you?"

My head had no choice but to arch backwards as I moaned into the open air at his words, my legs clamping around his hand. "God, Spencer, please..."

"So I'm not wrong, then?" he mused, teasing me some more and just barely pushing the fabric aside. I squirmed and lifted my hips, trying to guide him in the right place, but he pulled away from me then, leaving me cold.

Only a second later did the heat return; Spencer stood at the foot of the bed and gently helped me scoot to the edge. He removed the rest of my clothes and stared down at my bare figure as he unbuttoned his shirt, debauchery settling in his eyes as they raked over me. With careful consideration, once his shirt was on the floor with the rest of my clothes, he came down and caressed my inner thigh, slowly spreading my legs apart.

"You're so wet and needy, I'm willing to bet you don't even need me to prep you..."

All it took was one lithe finger to prove his theory correct. It slid into me with ease, and I whined out at the contact. One finger swiftly became two, and after a few slow pumps with no resistance, he seemed satisfied. "Mmm, that's what I thought... You've been ready for me for a long time, haven't you?"

"Uh-huh," was all I could manage under the circumstances. Every word and every touch was rendering me incapable of anything more complex.

He removed his fingers from me then, and leaned down to nudge my nose with his own. "How are you feeling?" he asked me in a whisper, fluttering a gentle kiss over my lips as his cock barely teased my entrance. It was such a simple question, but it only deepened the desire I felt for him— It was gentle and attentive and intimate...

"Never better," I responded earnestly.

"Yeah?" he cooed. He pushed into me slowly then, and I gasped at the pressure. "Are you ready to take it?"

"Uh-huh," I stuttered once more, crying out silently when he finally bottomed out and ground his hips in a slow circle against my own.

"Tell me what you want, little girl," he begged sweetly against my lips. "Please, I need to hear you say it."

I gripped his shoulders and pulled back a little to hold his gaze, almost gasping out again at the way his hips pinned me down. It was difficult to form the perfect sentence, but I figured I didn't really need to say much at all― only the whimper-y, pathetic truth, which was, "I want you so bad..."

"As you wish."

The words barely left his lips before he began to move, hooking my legs around his forearms and spreading me apart further. He fucked me deeply, and with a steady pace that knocked the wind from my lungs and already had me seeing stars. That had never happened before.

Spencer could tell, a grin forming on his face as he freed one of his hands and softly traced my jaw. "Better than you thought?"

Absolutely. But there was something about that cocky grin on his face and the lilt in his voice that made me want to be difficult. I struggled to talk through heavy breathing, but I managed to choke out, "Don't... flatter yourself."

I don't quite know what I expected, but it was a bit of a shock to me when he hooked his thumb into my mouth and pressed down gently on my tongue, quickening his pace inside me and making me gasp out again.

"Aw... Are you not enjoying yourself?" he pouted without a single hint of sincerity; He knew I was.

I cried out and involuntarily closed my mouth around his thumb, my insides burning alive at all the sensations coursing through me. My cunt clenched around him, and he cried out himself, laughing softly as he did so. "That's what I thought..."

I wanted to watch him the way he watched me, to study his features and his movements and take it all in with reverence, but he was too fucking good at this. He was so skilled in the art of rendering me senseless, all I could do was lay there and take it. He gave himself to me in the most intimate, soul-crushing way, and I wanted to bask in it forever.

His other hand snaked along the inside of my thigh and held me open for him as he looked down, watching himself fuck me. I barely caught glimpses of his wandering gaze, wondering how he could be so focused when it was taking everything I had to stay cognizant. I blamed it on my lack of experience with good sex, and silently vowed to myself that one day I would return the favor.

Until then, I would lay at Spencer's mercy and take pleasure in the simple fact that he was willing to give me this― to give me a piece of himself that would no doubt ruin any other partner. He was setting the standard and exceeding it simultaneously. He was kind and caring and considerate. He was thorough and thoughtful.

And he was making me come. Hard.

The orgasm hit me out of nowhere, my body stuttering in quick, pulsing flashes of pleasure that got stronger and stronger each second. Spencer fucked me through it with ease, never missing a beat. His thumb slid out from my mouth and down my chin, allowing me to cry out for him all I wanted, which, seemingly was his goal.

"That's my good girl," he breathed, his voice tight. Perhaps he wasn't as put together as I thought. "Let it all out for me... Please..."

Please... God, that word sounded so good falling from his lips. It echoed in my mind as I gave him what he wanted, though not from choice. It was like his movements and his words were designed specifically to draw the sounds from my body. I would have given them to him anyway, but I didn't have to try, and that was the magic of it all. He knew exactly what would keep me mewling through the most intense pleasure of my life, and I was more than happy to allow him the pleasantry.

His orgasm came at the tail-end of mine, and though I was steadily growing tired at the exertion, I found the strength to clench around him again, recalling how he'd reacted before. I reached for his hand and allowed him to lace our fingers together as he came with a loud shuddering sigh.

Finally, I was able to focus, another chill running its course through my nervous system as Spencer pulsated inside me. His movements faltered as he spilled over, filling me so deep that I had no choice but to gasp again. My name sounded heavenly on his tongue as it danced in the air behind curses and sighs, and suddenly I understood why he enjoyed hearing my sounds so much. The warmth that bloomed in my chest as I watched and felt and heard him come undone above me delivered me to the most prideful of feelings.

I watched as his face relaxed, felt as his body eased and fell away from mine, and before I had time to even think of what to say, he was moving, kneeling at the end of the bed and spreading my legs again.

Oh, my God...

I couldn't even tell if I said the expression out loud, but I certainly felt its gravity in my bones, low and reverberating as Spencer inspected his work.

His fingers barely caught what had leaked out, and then his tongue followed suit, licking a gentle hot stripe up the seam of me. My fingers clutched at the comforter underneath me, searching for any sign of stability as my senses started to lose control once more.

"Darling," he praised, kissing the inside of my thigh, "you took me so well..."

I was halfway through telling him, "Thank you," when he started licking at my clit, making me stutter. He took his time, tasting me thoroughly while filling me with his fingers. Between drowning in the residual pleasure of my previous orgasm and also in the sounds he was making below me, it wasn't long before another one approached. It was sharp and quick, making my back arch up off the mattress as Spencer sucked my clit into oblivion.

Rather than incoherent cries of pleasure, the only thing that dared to leave my mouth at the sensation was a very loud, very appropriate, "Fuck!" to the evening air.

The curse tumbled out over and over again as the orgasm rocked through me, and he pulled himself away from me at the end of it with a shit-eating grin. "Such a dirty mouth..."

It took me a few seconds to catch my breath, shivering as he climbed back up on the bed and laid beside me. "You're one to talk, Doctor."

"I guess I'm a poor influence. Sorry."

It was mostly a joke, but I could tell that he believed there was some truth to his words. I did my best to reassure him, not only because he was my boss and I needed to reinstate the idea that we both made the decision to sleep together, not just him, but also because I secretly hoped he wouldn't regret the decision at all— regret me. Selfishly, I wanted to know if he'd consider keeping me around as more than just a nanny. I wanted to know if there was even a slight chance that this wouldn't end in total emotional disaster.

"You have nothing to be sorry for... Nothing..."

Spencer studied me for a moment, something settling in his eyes that I couldn't quite place, but it felt... warm. It was a different warmth than the searing heat that his gazes had radiated before. Perhaps it was wishful, foolish thinking, but I almost imagined it feeling akin to the realization that you were falling in love— the type of warmth that terrified yet excited you all the same, that triggered your nerves and also gave you hope.

It reminded me of that dangerous, beautiful hope that lingered in his smile every time he'd come home from a long day at work to see me and Benny safe and sound in the comfort of his home.

His hand gently brushed mine, I laced our fingers together, and that's when he finally responded.

"Neither do you, you know... I meant what I said. Every word." His fingers tightened in mine, and I felt myself become breathless again. "You're perfect. And I'm lucky to have you."

"You're just saying that because it's my birthday," I joked, trying to keep myself from crying in front of him. I didn't know why that was so important to me, especially considering just a few hours ago I'd decided not to hide the truth from him, no matter how emotional and teary of a truth it was.

Spencer pressed his forehead to mine, sighing my name through a smile. "You are... the best thing that has happened to me since Benny. I was afraid to admit it at the start, but... You're so good to him, and so good to me... I genuinely don't ever want to know what life would be like without you."

I couldn't help it then. My vision was suddenly obscured by tears, and I was blinking them away, letting him capture my lips in a tender kiss that rivaled any other.

I prayed in that very moment that there would be more like them in the future.

CODA: All My Rings Will Be Made of Gold.

Turns out, there had been plenty more, and then some.

It's hard to choose a favorite, though obviously I'm quite biased when it comes to my boys. So, I suppose it's easy for me to recall the night I got engaged as my favorite.

I wasn't nannying for Benny anymore; He was in school during the day (Kindergarten! I cried dropping him off on his first day, and Spencer had to console me with kisses and ice cream), and by that point I'd been moved into the apartment for almost a year.

I was out grocery shopping, and when I came home, there were flowers all over the floor, bright colors scattered in an obvious trail that led to the bedrooms. I didn't quite understand what was happening, but my heart still hammered in my chest, unable to shake that feeling of warmth and hope.

"Boys? What are you up to?" I called, dropping the bags off in the kitchen and following the flowers.

They were both kneeling on the floor of Benny's bedroom, Spencer with an open ring box in his hand, and Benny with a piece of paper in his.

"Will you be my mom?"

Really, how could I have said no? There isn't a world in which I ever would have, but even still. Benny was unable to sit still, waiting for me to answer him, and I remembered the night they presented me with that first birthday cake of many for years to come. He was the same way then, happier than ever to surprise me, and meanwhile all I wanted to do was burst into tears over how much love I was feeling.

Unlike that night, however, I was simply unable to tease him with the anticipation of an answer. I couldn't even pretend to consider it, not for a moment. It was the easiest answer I'd ever given. To this day, it still is.

Benny ran up and hugged me the tightest he ever had before, and Spencer got up from the ground to meet us, slipping a thin gold band on my finger as I repeated the word to him through the tenderest of kisses.

"Yes."

THE END.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader smut #mercy after hours

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domjaehyun · 4 months ago

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the boy is mine (l.dh) — part one

PAIRING. haechan x fem!reader (also jeno x reader) GENRES. smut, angst WORD COUNT. 19k CONTENTS. infidelity, alcohol & weed consumption (MC is a non-smoker if that matters to you), explicit smut (dirty talk, fingering, finger sucking, oral (receiving), rimming (receiving), groping/frottage, marking, spit play, (brief) ear play, breast play, creampies/unprotected sex (if you explicitly need me, a stranger on the internet, to tell you not to fuck raw, you are not responsible enough to be reading this. move along now), snowballing, public sex, car sex, riding, bratty dom-leaning switch!haechan, bratty sub-leaning switch!reader, sweet dom!jeno, face riding, handjob, overstimulation (receiving), praise kink (receiving), light degradation kink (giving), mating press, morning sex) NOTES. welcome back to meeeeeeee!!! i hope you enjoy this fic because i worked very hard on it!! please leave feedback if you liked it :) i would also greatly appreciate tips if you really liked it :3 THANK YOU LIKE THE HUUUUUGEST THANK YOU TO BRI (@jalitepng) FOR BETA READING THIS BIG OL FIC :D PLAYLIST. the boy is mine - ariana grande // fantasize - ariana grande (unreleased) // lowkey (feat. erykah badu) - teyana taylor // agora hills - doja cat // pussy is mine - miguel // softest touch - khalid // cut - tori kelly // seatbelt - josh levi // often - doja cat // surrender - nbdy

how can it be you and me? might be meant to be, can’t unsee it but i don’t wanna cause no scene i’m usually so unproblematic, so independent, tell me why ‘cause the boy is mine.

You suppose your fate was sealed from the beginning.

Even as you’re riding in the passenger seat of Yunjin’s car as she speeds down the freeway, your heart filled with a relief and fulfillment you haven’t had for the past six months, you can’t help but feel like something’s… lacking.

“So, spill,” you hear Seulgi pipe up from the backseat. “How many little British boy hearts did you break on your little Oxford trip?”

“Who says I broke any hearts?!” you exclaim with an incredulous laugh, and everyone in the car turns and gives you the same unimpressed look. “Oh, that was creepy. Did y’all plan that?”

“You were gone for six whole months and you want us to believe you got up to no romantic shenanigans? Hm?” Seulgi asks, narrowing her eyes at you, and you narrow yours right back.

“I didn’t break any hearts!” you defend yourself, and Chaewon sighs.

“Did you stow away a cute British boy in your carry-on?” she asks, and you make a face.

“Certainly not.”

“Then there’s a broken heart floating around in Oxford as we speak!” Chaewon insists, and you scowl.

“Let me out right here.” you mutter, turning to open the door on the freeway, laughing as the other inhabitants of the car gasp and shriek in alarm. “I’m joking!”

“You’re crazy, that's what you are.” Yunjin clarifies, and you giggle.

“I was having a laugh.” you say unapologetically. “Anyway, I didn’t really get up to too much in Oxford, really. I was focused on studying, I guess.”

“Oh, lame!” Seulgi boos, and you roll your eyes.

“I’m here now, though, so the hot girl spring and summer can commence!” you say happily, and your friends cheer.

“Winter just texted asking if we got you off the plane okay,” Chaewon announces, and you shake your head.

“Tell her my seatbelt got stuck and wouldn’t let me out and so they took me back to England.” you suggest, and Yunjin snickers.

“Tell her the pilot got confused and took her to the wrong New York. If she asks what other New York, just be like, ‘the other one?’” she adds on, and Chaewon snorts.

“You’re both terrible.” she laughs as she types in a response.

“What’d you tell her?” Seulgi asks.

“That she got held back for getting her bag searched and they found five kilos of cocaine. So they took her out back and made her snort all of it as punishment and now she’s running amok in the city like Cocaine Bear. She’ll beat us back to the house.”

“And we’re terrible?!” you exclaim indignantly.

“Well, yes.” Chaewon replies calmly. “Mine is obviously a lie.”

“Wh— My seatbelt getting stuck isn’t an obvious lie?” you splutter.

“Well, that could actually happen!” she defends, and you blink at her incredulously.

“I didn’t expect the lesbian to forget that scissors exist.”

Chaewon’s jaw drops and she jabs a finger in your direction. “Homophobe!” She turns to Seulgi for support, but Seulgi just shakes her head.

“You’re alone in this one, Chae,” Seulgi giggles. “I laughed, I’m sorry.”

“Man, this is some bullshit.” Chaewon grumbles. “You’re supposed to have my back! We’re… we’re sapphic sistren!”

“You actually did not just say that.” Seulgi marvels. “Sapphic sistren is crazy.”

“I had to pull the gay card to win.” Chaewon says with a shrug. “I’m not sorry.”

“Can we get back on topic, please?” Yunjin laughs incredulously. “Jesus, it’s like if you put squirrels on a podcast.”

“We should make a podcast, actually.” Seulgi suggests, and you nod.

“We could call it ‘That’s Nuts,’” you say excitedly.

Chaewon snorts. “I’m in.”

Yunjin beeps her horn loudly, garnering all of your attention as you all jump in surprise. “We’re outside all spring and summer, right?”

“Well, after work, yeah.” you agree, and she smiles, nodding.

“I don’t want to hear you missed out on a fun fling or opportunity because you were busy working.” Yunjin jabs her finger at you accusingly, and your hands fly up defensively.

“In my defense, doing my job is way less risky than taking chances romantically.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Yunjin complains. “Live, girl!”

“There are gonna be cute guys at the party, obviously. So I will live!” you insist, and Yunjin nods.

“That’s more like it.”

Returning to your thoughts for a moment, it dawns on you that romantic excitement is exactly what you’re lacking. You want to love; you want to love someone and be loved by that someone and for that love to be something beautiful and consuming, and you’re not sure how much longer you’re going to have to wait.

You’re in the middle of making a mental pact with yourself to be just a bit more daring, a tad more forward and bold when it comes to love, when Seulgi and Chaewon laugh loudly at something on one of their phones, snapping you out of your internal monologue, and you shift in your seat, turning to face them.

“I can’t believe you guys left your whole apartment unattended during a house party just to welcome me home,” you sniff dramatically, and Seulgi snorts.

“Anything for you, my friend.” she replies with a playful crinkle of her nose, and you reach out to pinch it lightly.

“Besides, it’s not like it’s completely unattended! Winter’s there.” Chaewon points out, and you raise your eyebrows skeptically.

“Right… what is her non-confrontational ass gonna do if something goes wrong?” you ask, and Seulgi winces.

“Good point. Maybe step on it, Yunjin.”

“I’m already going twenty over the speed limit!” she exclaims defensively.

“You’re not even exaggerating,” Chaewon half-gasps, half-laughs as she leans forward to look at the speedometer. “We might make it there quicker, but we might not make it there safely.”

“We are here for a good time!” Yunjin yells, whipping her hair around excitedly. “Not a long time!”

“Deeply concerning words coming from our driver.” Seulgi snickers quietly, and you nod, turning back to sit in your seat properly. “So…”

You peer at her through the rearview mirror curiously. “So?”

“I’m just imagining Jeno’s reaction when he sees you again for the first time.” She shrugs with a faint teasing smile, and you can feel your cheeks warming as a small smile starts to tug at your lips.

Jeno’s had a thing for you for the past… year and a half—at least, that you’re aware of—and you won’t lie, he’s definitely easy on the eyes and a sweetheart to top it all off. Before you went away to Oxford, you two had built up a bit of a flirtationship that neither of you tried to push further because of your study abroad trip you had planned.

Now, however, you’re back, and you’re admittedly excited to see if it leads to something worthwhile.

“He’ll probably do that little crescent-eyed smile he always does when you spare him a crumb of attention.” Chaewon supplies as you’re lost in thought, and you roll your eyes as Yunjin nods knowingly.

“I’m willing to bet he’s gonna try to be glued to your side all night.” she adds, and you sigh loudly and dramatically.

“You guys are really something else, you know that?”

“You love it!” Chaewon says confidently, and you can’t help but smile fondly, nodding in agreement.

“I kinda do.”

Yunjin spares you a sideways glance that lingers for suspiciously long on your frame, and you raise an eyebrow.

“My eyes are up here.” you joke, waving a hand in her line of sight, “and, more importantly, the road is over there.” She chuckles and relents, refocusing her attention on the road, but she has that telltale look on her face that usually means she has something on her mind. “What are you thinking about?”

“Well—not that I’m judging at all, because, you know… live your life, girl.” Yunjin pipes up, and you turn to look at her, curiously awaiting the rest of her thought. “But are you gonna wear that to the party?”

You look down at your comfortable sweats and hoodie, perfect airport attire, and look back up at Yunjin with a playful frown. “What, is this not cute enough?”

“Well…” she trails off, and Seulgi pops her head forward between the front two car seats.

“No! It’s not a good enough outfit! You’re the guest of honor at your own welcome home party, and you have to come harder than some cozy gray sweats with a hole by the ankle.” Seulgi scolds, and you roll your eyes with an amused smile.

“Obviously I’m not going to wear this to the party, girl.” you laugh, and Seulgi sighs in relief. “I was just messing with you.”

“Well, cut it out! You know I’m gullible.” She frowns, and you reach into the backseat to pat her hand comfortingly.

“All the more reason to mess with you, my love.” you reply with a deceptively innocent smile. “Anyway, when we get back home, I have to shower and freshen up and change into my actual outfit. I also have to sort out the presents I brought back for everyone and make sure Jeno’s cake is still in good shape.”

“I still can’t believe you baked him a cake,” Chaewon marvels. “It’s giving domestic. Housewife, even.”

“Martha Stewart found jobless,” Seulgi adds, and you snort.

“I know this is his favorite type of cake, so I just… thought I’d make it for him.” you mumble quietly with a small, dismissive shrug.

“That is very cute to me,” Yunjin says reassuringly before punching the horn roughly and making the rest of the three of you jump in surprise. “Stupid fucker doesn’t know how to use his turn signal?!”

“Yunjin, calm down,” you advise, patting her knee gently.

“I am calm,” she replies, her tone level, and you pull your hand back, still eying her suspiciously. Sure enough, as she drives by the driver that failed to use his turn signal, she rolls her window down and yells out a string of expletives that makes Chaewon gasp in horror.

As Yunjin rolls her window back up and turns the radio up, you sit back and smile, thinking about how happy you are to be back at home.

You get home an entire eight minutes before your initial ETA, making Yunjin grin proudly when you make the announcement.

After your friends help you bring your luggage up to your apartment, you go into the bathroom to freshen up. After the extensive process that was showering, brushing your teeth, reapplying your skincare and makeup, and applying lotion and getting dressed, you emerge, fresh-faced and victorious, into your living room where your friends lie sprawled on your couch as they wait for you. The only eyesore about your appearance is the large sack you’re carrying of presents you brought back for your friends.

“I’m ready!” you chirp happily, and Yunjin is the first to look up from her phone at you, eyes taking in your casual and comfortable yet cute attire before she nods appreciatively.

“It’s giving Santa Claus,” Seulgi chuckles, gesturing at your large bag slung over your shoulder.

“Ho, ho, ho,” you drawl with an amused roll of your eyes.

“Stop it, Seulgi,” Chaewon scolds before focusing her gaze on you. “You look cute! Bet you-know-who’s gonna be all over you.” she says with a teasing grin, and you roll your eyes despite smiling before you set the bag down and set about getting out your gifts for your friends that are present.

You hand Yunjin a wrapped box of gorgeous shoes from an England-exclusive boutique and she sets about unwrapping it, her eyes widening with excitement as she reveals the present inside.

“Holy shit?” she gasps, gaping at the shoes. “These are perfect!”

“They’re so you,” you agree with a proud nod. “I saw them one day through a window while I was walking down the street and had to stop in and get them for you.”

“My turn, my turn!” Chaewon exclaims eagerly, bouncing in place as you root through your large sack and pull out a small wrapped box, which you hand to Chaewon carefully. She squeals in excitement once she’s opened the present, leaping up and engulfing you in a tight hug. “My perfume! I thought they discontinued it!”

“They stopped selling it in the States, but I managed to track down a store that still had some in stock, so I got you a couple—y’know, so you wouldn’t run out.” you say, smiling, and she beams at you.

“You’re the best.” she says seriously, looking you directly in the eyes to drive home her sincerity.

“I try,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug before reaching into the bag once more and pulling out one last present for Seulgi, wiggling the box at her invitingly.

“For moi?” she asks with feigned surprise, a hand to her chest.

“Indeed,” you confirm with a grin, and she sits forward, taking the gift from your hand and opening it up.

“Oh, my God.” she exhales in shock, staring down at the designer earrings and bracelet set. “These look expensive as fuck.”

“They kinda were,” you admit sheepishly. “All of your gifts were a pretty penny, actually, but you guys definitely deserve them. Those really spoke to me, and I thought they’d look gorgeous on you.”

“Thank you, my love,” Seulgi coos affectionately, standing up to engulf you in a hug. Yunjin and Chaewon join in a brief moment after, the four of you hugging tightly for a lingering, blissful moment.

“You’re all very welcome. Are we ready to go now?” you say, changing the subject with ease even as your voice is muffled into Seulgi’s shoulder, and Seulgi pulls back immediately with an emphatic nod.

“Ready as ever! Our fridge has snacks that are calling to me from over here.”

“You’re such a drama queen.” you scoff in amusement as you all head to your front door and file out after each other.

“Must have gotten it from hanging out around you.” she replies with playfully narrowed eyes in your direction.

“Oh, really?” you challenge, biting back a laugh, and she nods, puffing out her chest comically as she chest-bumps you on purpose. “Assaulting me in the middle of my apartment complex is actually wild and unheard of, and you will be hearing from my attorney.”

“Bring it on, baby!” she urges, and Yunjin rolls her eyes in poorly concealed amusement as you two start to giggle at your antics, the sounds of mirth ringing out in the lobby as you exit the elevator.

“You two are so strange,” she remarks in wonder. “But later for that. Onto more pressing matters!”

“Such as?” you question, holding the door open for Chaewon to follow behind you into the street.

“How long will it take us to get from our house to yours?” Yunjin asks, pulling out her phone to search for it, but Chaewon seems to be one step ahead, already focused on her phone screen.

“The travel time from here to our house,” she announces loudly, squinting at her phone momentarily, “is roughly twenty minutes.” You all stand around Yunjin’s car at your respective doors, waiting for Yunjin to unlock the car so you can get in.

“Hm, yeah? Why so long?” Yunjin asks curiously as she moves to look over Chaewon’s shoulder. “Traffic, huh? …I bet I can shave that time down to fifteen minutes.” Her eyes glint with excitement as she presses her car door remote, the sudden and loud beep-beep of the doors unlocking making you and Seulgi flinch for a moment.

“Dear Lord, help us all,” Seulgi mumbles as you all climb into Yunjin’s car, strapping in before she peels out of her parking space and zooms into the night.

True to her word, Yunjin precariously shaves six minutes off your travel time and you pull up to Chaewon’s and Seulgi’s apartment earlier than anticipated, exhilarated and pumped full of adrenaline.

“Are you excited to be back at La Casa Payasa?” Seulgi asks with a smile, and you nod with a relieved sigh.

“It’s just like I remember it.” you hum fondly as you head up to their door and bring your fist to the door, only getting to knock once before the door swings open and Mark throws himself at you for a hug.

You catch him with a surprised laugh, stumbling back from the impact slightly but returning the tight hug nonetheless. He tucks his face into your neck and mumbles something that you can’t hear, prompting you to pull back slightly.

“I didn’t hear a word you said,” you chuckle, and he pulls back as well so you can see his bright smile.

“I missed you so much,” he repeats, and you coo fondly, pulling him back into the hug.

“I missed you, too!” you chirp warmly, squeezing him in the hug for good measure. When you two pull apart, Chenle’s standing beside Mark and grinning at you. “Hey, Chenle!”

“Hey, stranger,” he teases, pulling you into a hug of his own. “Long time, huh? Let’s hear that British accent you developed over there.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” you reply in your best British impression, and he bursts out laughing.

“Man, that’s good stuff,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “We missed you over here!” he complains, moving to swat you on the arm. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll do my best to stick around.” you assure him, and he smiles and nods, content.

“Now what’s with this big ass bag you’re carrying, huh? Did you stow away some British goodies for us?” Chenle asks curiously, pinching the fabric of the sack over your shoulder.

“Something like that,” you say slowly before you set it down and reach inside, handing Chenle and Mark their respective gifts. As they open them, Mark being considerably more careful than Chenle, you wait, hands clasped behind your back and rocking back and forth on your heels.

“How the hell did you get a signed Steph Curry jersey?” Chenle questions, baffled and thrilled, and you shrug with a secretive smile.

“I have my ways.”

“Never mind that—how did you get Frank Ocean himself to sign this album?” Mark asks, downright bewildered, and you shrug again.

“Ways that I have… that are mine.”

“You’re so silly, but this is amazing,” Chenle laughs, hugging you. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” you lilt sweetly, and Mark looks up from the Frank Ocean vinyl again to meet your inquisitive gaze with wide, awestruck eyes.

“You’re incredible. Genuinely.” he stammers, and you smile widely as he pulls you into a hug as well once Chenle’s released you.

“I do my best,” you reply happily.

“Wait, also, how was your flight? Anything crazy happen?” Chenle asks curiously, and you pause as you think back.

“Actually, yeah; these two guys got into a verbal argument and then one of ‘em was like, ‘I’ll beat everyone’s ass right now!’ Which, objectively, is a crazy thing to say, but crazier to insist when you’re in a metal contraption thousands of feet in the air.” you start explaining, and Chenle’s eyes widen.

“No way,” he mumbles. “Then what?”

“Then he started threatening the flight crew, and I’m pretty sure he got placed on the no-fly list.” you finish with a solemn nod, and Mark gasps.

“I could never imagine never being able to fly again.” he mutters in awe, and you nod in agreement.

“I know, right? He had it coming, though.” you say, and they shrug, nodding in agreement.

“I guess so,” Mark agrees before his face lights up as he seems to remember something. “Hey, where’s Jeno? He’s been waiting for you to show up.”

“I think he’s with Winter and Haechan right now,” Chenle answers, and you scrunch your face up in confusion.

“Who’s Haechan?” you ask, baffled, before it dawns on you. “Oh, wait, that’s Winter’s new boyfriend?” you ask, and they nod. “I see… well, can’t wait to meet him, I guess.” You shrug indifferently, now craning your head to look around for Jeno.

You spot him before he spots you, the male standing alone texting on his phone by the couch. As if he can sense you looking, he looks up and his eyes lock on yours a moment later, his entire face brightening up as he starts to make his way over to where you’re standing.

By the time he’s where you are, you’re both sporting excited yet shy smiles as he opens his arms for a hug and you step into it. His arms drop to your waist and you wrap yours around his middle as he squeezes you gently.

“Hey,” he mumbles into the embrace, a smile audible in his voice.

“Hey, there.” you greet.

“Welcome back.”

“Good to be back,” you reply with a little grin.

“Did you have a good flight?” he asks curiously, and you nod.

“Minus a crazy guy on the plane, but it all ended fine,” you assure him, and he looks momentarily bewildered but manages to rein in his reaction.

“That’s good, I think… what seat did you get?” he questions, leaving you somewhat touched by his thoughtful questions.

“I got a window seat,” you answer with a smile, and he nods in approval.

“I love a good window seat,” he hums. “Did you watch a movie or nap or something?”

“I napped for a bit, yeah,” you chuckle, suddenly remembering how you’d had a bit of drool dried on your cheek earlier. Subconsciously wiping at the spot, you smile up at him casually. “I’m still a little tired, though.”

He frowns sympathetically before a little hopeful smile appears on his face. “Well, I hope you’re not too tired, because I wanted to give you something.”

Your eyes widen. “You got me something?”

He nods shyly. “I got you something. It’s in my car, though, and I parked kinda far, so I have to go get it. Come find me later when I come back so I can give it to you.”

“You got it,” you say with a smile. “I’ll come find you for sure. I actually have something for you, too, so we can trade.”

“Oh, no way! You’re the best.” He beams, squeezing your waist, at which point you realize you two never let go from the hug. Your cheeks on fire, you withdraw your arms from his middle and he does the same to you with an amused chuckle.

“I’m actually gonna go grab something from the kitchen,” you say, jerking a thumb in the direction of the hallway. “You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna run to the bathroom, actually.” he answers, and you nod before you two go your separate ways. You turn back at the sound of your name to see Jeno looking at you with a soft gaze and an even softer smile that makes you feel like you’re a giggly school girl all over again.

“It’s really good to have you back. It really wasn’t the same without you. Seeing all your Instagram stories gave me a crazy sense of FOMO, and our little phone calls here and there really made me miss you even more,” he says sincerely, and you place a hand over your heart, touched.

“I’m really happy to be back,” you assure him. “I missed you.” His brows flick upwards in surprise at your somewhat bold admission, and you blink twice in mild alarm before continuing in a slight rush with, “I—well, like, I missed you, and Yunjin, and Chae—I missed you all, y’know? The story posts were so you wouldn’t forget about little ol’ me. I loved our phone calls, but it’s so much better getting to talk to you in person.”

He laughs lightheartedly and nods, waving you off reassuringly. “I get you. Go get yourself some snacks! We didn’t stock up on your favorites for some random people to eat it all up before you get any.”

“Copy that,” you say with an emphatic nod, saluting him jokingly before heading to the kitchen.

As you’re making your way to the snacks, you catch the eye of a very handsome stranger leaning against the wall in your hallway talking to one of your friends from work. To your surprise, he doesn’t look away from you as you approach, even going so far as to turn his head as you walk by to keep staring at you.

You’re not sure if you’re more intrigued by him than by the challenge he’s posed, but you keep eye contact until you get to your kitchen and round the corner to find yourself a snack.

Moments after you’ve entered the room, you feel someone enter behind you, a smile coming to your lips as you realize who it most likely is.

When you turn to face the newcomer, he’s standing surprisingly close to you, his eyes scanning your face with an intrigue and intensity that leaves both of you a little breathless.

“Hi.” the handsome stranger says as his lips curl into a grin.

“Hi, there,” you echo, smiling back at him. ”Did you follow me in here?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was fate?”

You pretend to think about it. “By the way you watched me walk in here… no.”

He chuckles. “Fair. I had to ask you a question.”

“Luckily for you, I love questions.” you hum, placing both hands on the counter behind you and leaning against it in a silent invitation not only to ask his question, but also to approach.

Thankfully for you, he does both, stepping closer with a small chuckle and asking, “I was wondering if you believe in love at first sight.”

“Oh, brother—” you start to laugh, and he joins you before waving his hands to get you to stop.

“Hear me out!”

“My listening ears are on,” you reply with a smile and coy tilt of your head that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed, based on the way his already probing gaze intensifies.

“Do you?” he asks again, and you think about it for a moment.

“Not really,” you admit, letting out a small giggle at the disapproving look he gives you. “But maybe I can be convinced.”

He smiles widely, looking so bright that it truly dazzles you before continuing on to say, “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Why?” you ask. “Do you?”

“I don’t think I did,” he answers carefully, “until I saw you just now.”

“Oh, brother!” you burst out laughing—half from surprise and half from being flustered by how surprisingly sincere he sounded. In your attempt to recover from your outburst, you catch a glimpse of him to see that he’s gazing at you openly with a fond look in his eyes. “You are really something, you know that?”

He steps closer to you with a heat in his eyes, a glowing ember of intensity burning as he asks, “Something good or something bad?”

You shrug playfully and lean closer, wanting him nearer to you. “Jury’s still out on that part.”

He chuckles and wets his lips before his gaze drops to yours. “Can I present some new evidence?” he murmurs, and you tilt your head to the side as you pretend to think it over. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s really cute when you do that?”

“Of course,” you snicker. “Why do you think I do it?”

“So you’re turning up the charm right now, but you don’t believe in love at first sight?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Is it love at first sight or attraction, sir?”

He grins and steps even closer, dangerously close to touching you. “So you’re attracted to me.”

You look around, confused. “Now who said all that?”

“You just did.”

”I most certainly did not.”

He half-scoffs, half-laughs in disbelief and points at you accusingly. “I heard you.”

“You heard wrong, I guess,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug before patting his chest twice. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and you both hesitate, neither of you wanting to exit the intimate moment. However, when it buzzes a second time, then a third, you decide to give up and pull your phone from your pocket to check it.

jeno [23:04] hey i’m back

jeno [23:04] i have your surprise :)

jeno [23:05] let me know where to find you

You lock your phone and look up at the handsome stranger with a small frown. “Anyway, this was great, but I have to go find someone.”

He frowns deeply and catches your hand as it leaves his chest, lacing his fingers with yours and looking up at you. “Do you actually have to leave or am I making you nervous?”

“I told my friend I’d find him later, and it’s officially later,” you explain truthfully, and he seems to hear the sincerity in your voice, because he relaxes visibly. “Maybe I’ll find you after?” you offer, and he perks up, gently squeezing your hand.

“I’d like that.”

“Can I get a name? So I know who I’m looking for later?” you ask.

He smiles, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you when you find me later.”

You pout, and he smiles fondly at you. “I guess.” you relent, grabbing the soda and snacks you came to get off of the counter and heading towards the kitchen exit. “See you later?”

He nods resolutely. “See you later.”

You exit the kitchen with a small smile that threatens to take over your whole face if you don’t calm your spirits as you begin your second search of the night for Jeno.

After grabbing the presents you got for him from where you’d stashed them in Chaewon’s room, it doesn’t take you long at all to find him, the male still lingering by the entrance when you spot him. You sneak around a small group of people and pop up beside him, making him jolt in surprise and clutch his chest.

“Hi,” you giggle, and Jeno slumps with relief when his eyes lock on you, a warm smile coming to his face.

“Hey,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

“So… how do you want to do this?” you ask curiously. “I can go first if you want?”

“No, I want to go first for sure,” he replies with a sureness in his voice that leaves you a little surprised and mildly impressed.

You gesture for him to start, still holding your present for him behind your back, and he retrieves two small, rectangular boxes from inside his jacket pocket.

“That looks expensive,” you say worriedly, and he chuckles fondly before waving a hand dismissively.

“It wasn’t too bad, don’t worry.” he replies reassuringly as he hands you the small boxes.

You gesture awkwardly with your hands still behind your back, trying your best to indicate that your hands are currently out of commission, and his eyes light up with understanding before he’s gingerly opening one of the navy blue boxes.

You gasp once you’ve peered into the box, your eyes wide as you look up at him in surprise. ”Jeno.”

“Is it too much? Oh, God, you hate it. I’m sorry–” he starts to worry aloud.

“Wait—Jeno—”

“I can take it back, maybe, and you can pick out something you’d like more—”

“Jeno?”

“I should have thought it through more carefully—”

”Jeno!” your voice is gentle in tone but loud enough to catch his attention, his worried eyes locking in on yours. “Please relax.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles embarrassedly, looking down at the floor.

“I was going to say that I genuinely love them. The necklace and the earrings are stunning, and they’re exactly my style.” you say sincerely, in awe as you stare down at the beautiful pieces of jewelry Jeno bought you. The necklace is a silver choker, a paperclip-like link type chain with a diamond-encrusted butterfly in the center. The earrings are matching silver hoops with butterflies adorned along the rings of metal, and your jaw drops slightly as you take in the beauty of Jeno’s present.

“You really like it?” he asks excitedly, a hint of worry still in his voice, but when you nod, his brows unfurrow and he smiles widely, relieved. “I saw the set and it reminded me of you. It’s beautiful, classy, and fun.”

You can’t help but smile. “You think I’m classy and fun?”

“Of course,” he answers instantly, and your smile widens as you step closer to him curiously.

“You think I’m beautiful?” you ask with your eyebrows raised, and Jeno visibly swallows.

“I do,” he bashfully agrees, and you coo fondly, wanting nothing more than to set his present down and wrap him in a tight hug. “I really do.”

“Jeno,” you tease playfully, “I’m kinda dying to know what’s in the other box.”

“Oh, yeah!” he exclaims, closing the first box and opening the second as he explains, “I just got them in gold and silver because I know you tend to wear both depending on your mood and your outfit, so I gave you options.”

“Jeno, that is so thoughtful.” you gush appreciatively, and he blushes immediately, cheeks pinking along with the tips of his ears. “I absolutely love them,” you say gratefully, a warm smile curling your lips.

“Thank God,” he sighs with a laugh that you join him in.

“Okay, so… don’t know how I’m gonna top that,” you joke, “but it’s my turn now.”

“You have my undivided attention,” he assures you, and you can’t help but bat your lashes at him slightly.

“I like the idea of that.” you say flirtatiously, and he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. “Okay, here, we’ll trade and you’ll open.”

“Deal,” he agrees, swapping presents with you. You watch nervously as he unties the ribbon on the white box and lifts the lid. “This looks delicious, holy shit.”

“I made it myself,” you say carefully.

He looks up at you in surprise. “From scratch?”

You nod. “From scratch.”

“That’s amazing,” Jeno marvels. “Isn’t Victoria sponge cake hard to make?”

“Baking is only hard if you can’t follow instructions.” you say with a resolute nod, and Jeno snickers.

“I never thought of you as a rule-follower, if I’m being honest,” he admits.

You shrug. “Rules and instructions are very different to me, but I can be very obedient when I want to be.”

Jeno pauses at that, eyeing you suspiciously. “Oh, yeah? Like when?”

“In the bedroom.” you answer without hesitation, smiling in amusement as Jeno’s eyes widen slightly.

“You never gave off ‘obedient,’ y’know.” Jeno informs you.

“If I can tell you know what you’re doing, I’ll listen to you.” you reply with a nonchalant shrug.

“Yeah? Would you listen to me?” Jeno asks, voice quieter and, if you’re not mistaken, lower than before. There’s a suggestive edge to his voice, playful and flirtatious, but in the way that very much indicates that he’d stop joking in a minute if you were into it.

“Depends,” you answer, smiling up at him. “Do you know what you’re doing in there?”

His responding chuckle is significantly deeper than the ones before it, the sound undeniably attractive as he regards you carefully. “Absolutely.”

“Is that so?” you muse softly, watching him intently. “And I’m supposed to go off of your word?”

“You don’t trust me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and you shrug.

“I just tend to learn better from experience.” you reply with a small flirtatious smile that threatens to overtake your whole face.

“Maybe we can arrange that.” he says with a playful grin.

“I’ll keep my schedule open.” you say with a curt nod, and he snorts in amusement.

“Perfect.” he agrees before focusing his attention on the smaller box in his arms. He sets the cake box down on the table by the entryway and unwraps the other, cube-shaped box, his eyes widening with excitement when its contents are revealed to him.

“No way!” he gasps, turning the Big Ben snow globe this way and that.

“I remembered you have a snow globe collection and I thought I could help you add to it.” you explain, and Jeno looks up at you, eyes bright.

“You’re amazing. Thank you so much.” he gushes happily, and you beam at him before waving him off.

“Of course, Jeno. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you while I was gone.” you say sweetly, and he grins before opening his arms for a hug,

You step into his embrace readily and wrap your arms around his middle, the two of you squeezing each other tightly. When you pull back slightly, you realize Jeno still hasn’t let you go, his arms still securely wrapped around your waist.

“I really missed you, y’know.” Jeno says softly, and your heart warms.

“I missed you too, Jeno. It’s good to be back.” you echo, and he smiles before gently releasing you, his reluctance apparent in the way his fingers linger as they pull away from you. “Oh!” you say, remembering something out of nowhere. “I actually still have to give Winter her present, so I’m gonna track her down and do that.”

“Oh, of course, yeah, go for it. Thank you again—I’m gonna demolish this cake later.” Jeno says, finishing his sentence in a conspiratorial whisper, and you giggle.

“I’m glad. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?” You reach up and pinch his chin gently, smiling wider when his blush from earlier returns in full force.

Jeno nods shyly, and you release him before venturing further into the party in search of Winter.

Finally spotting Winter across the room on her phone, you cross the living room and tap her shoulder from behind, smiling widely when she turns around.

“Hey!” she greets excitedly, wrapping you in a hug. You two rock from side to side for a moment, hearts full, before you release each other. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to give you your present,” you say with a small shrug and a smile, and her eyes widen. “It’s nothing crazy!” you warn her, waving your hands dismissively, and she shrugs, reaching out for the gift bag in your hand with opening and closing fists.

“I wanna see! Can I see, please?” Winter pleads, and you give in with a fond laugh, handing over the gift bag.

You wait with bated breath as she opens the present, her eyes softening fondly as she gazes down at the stuffed plushie in her hand.

“It’s so cute! How’d you even find a desert fox plushie?” she asks, in awe as she turns it this way and that.

“I had it commissioned from a toy store boutique only in England,” you explain, and she smiles widely, wrapping you in another tight hug.

“Thank you so much,” she gushes, pulling back from the embrace to clutch her plushie to her chest tightly. “I gotta come up with a name for you, little guy!”

“You do that,” you laugh, moving a stray curl out of her face. “I’m gonna keep making my way through the party.”

“Okay,” she sing-songs. “See you later!”

“See you, babe!” you chirp, waving goodbye before heading back the way you came, deciding to take a detour into the kitchen for more snacks.

You’re barely in there for five minutes, munching happily on salty and sweet snacks alike, before you exit and run almost directly into the chest of someone; the only thing stopping the collision are their quick reflexes as they steady you in place.

“Sorry!” you apologize, stepping back and looking up to your victim before you stop short and a pleased smile curls your lips.

“Hey, you. Was wondering where you’d run off to.” the handsome stranger from earlier says, smiling at you.

“Oh, y’know. Making the rounds, saying hi to everyone. It is my party, after all.” you reply with a secretive smile, and he steps closer with raised eyebrows of intrigue.

“Is that so?” he asks, and you nod, stepping a bit closer to hear him better.

“Mm, yeah,” you hum. “You know what’s weird?”

“What is it?”

“This party is for me, and yet there are people here I’ve never met before,” you muse. “Like you.”

“Maybe it’s a sign you're meant to get to know me.” he suggests with a wry grin, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

“Good one.” you reply playfully. “So what should we do to get to know each other?” you ask with a playful lilt and feigned curiosity.

“Mm, you could start by telling me more about yourself.” he replies, and you raise your brows.

“‘Myself’ is a very broad topic,” you point out, and he snorts. “Be more specific.”

“Fair, fair.” he agrees with a chuckle. “What are…” he trails off thoughtfully before he perks up again, “your love languages?”

“I feel like this is an unfair advantage sort of question,” you reply with a small pout. (You do not miss the way his gaze softens fondly. Or the way it drops to your lips.) “So, I’ll only answer if you do, too.”

“That’s fair,” he agrees with a smile. “You first, though.”

“Mine are,” you say as you try to recall what the quiz results said the last time you took it, “acts of service, physical touch, and quality time. What about you?”

“Wait, let’s unpack yours first—”

“No, you say yours, then we’ll unpack mine. Fess up, bucko.” you press, poking him gently in the chest.

He laughs at your poke and mini outburst before obliging. “Physical touch,” he murmurs, leaning into your space and smirking slightly when you half-step, half-stumble back, “words of affirmation,” he straightens up and gestures between the two of you casually with a cheeky grin before finishing with, “and quality time.”

“You’re so smooth,” you gush sarcastically, and he snickers.

“Why, thank you. I’d say I try, but then I’d be lying.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, he shrugs. “My bad.”

“As long as you know.” you reply with a sweet smile, and his gaze softens. “What?”

“You’ve got a beautiful smile, you know that?” he murmurs, and your cheeks warm.

“Thanks,” you mumble bashfully, and he coos fondly at you.

“So cute,” he fawns.

You glower at him. “I’m out of here,” you mutter, undeniably flustered and embarrassed about it.

“Aw, come back, cutie—” he slips his fingers around your wrist gently and tugs you closer, smiling when there’s virtually no resistance from your end. “I didn’t mean to make you all nervous,” he apologizes with a playful, teasing lilt that tells you he might not actually be all that sorry.

Turning your nose up, you look away from him even as his hand slips down to let his thumb stroke gently at the back of your hand. At your small intake of breath, he smiles and tugs you even closer—dangerously close, actually—before moving to wrap his hand around the small of your back.

It’s almost as if the Fates themselves decided to intervene, the divine timing is that impeccable.

His phone pings, and he frowns before pulling it out of his back pocket and checking the screen. His face falls visibly and so drastically that it actually hurts you to see for a moment, leading you to avert your gaze politely.

His hand slowly retreats from its original path, and you’re shocked to find that you’re a bit disappointed.

“Do me a small favor? Schedule some time for me later before your busy, busy party ends? I’ll be back.” he says hopefully, squeezing your hand gently before shooting you an apologetic smile and turning to weave between a couple of people before disappearing into the hallway.

You try not to look as disappointed as you feel, but apparently you fail because Seulgi’s by your side moments later from out of virtually nowhere.

“I saw you pouting from all the way across the room,” she chuckles fondly as she strokes your back gently. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not pouting,” you mumble, and Seulgi raises an eyebrow.

“Tell that to your bottom lip,” she points out, and you tuck it back in with an air of defeat. “Exactly. Now what’s wrong?”

“I was talking to this really cute guy earlier,” you admit with a slowly deepening frown, “but he had to leave really suddenly.”

Seulgi makes a sympathetic hum. “Did you get his name?”

“No!” you complain, and she nods in understanding.

“Well, even if he had to leave, he might come to another party in the future—because he clearly knows someone here, you know?”

“What’s wrong?” Chaewon asks, a tipsy Winter in tow.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” you ask, confused.

“You’re pouting,” Chaewon points out, and you splutter, bewildered.

“I’m not!” you exclaim defensively, and Winter winces sympathetically.

“You are.” she confirms, reaching out and unceremoniously poking your bottom lip before giggling to herself.

“She’s mad her party crush pulled a Cinderella and dipped on her,” Seulgi explains.

“Ah,” Chaewon and Winter both say sympathetically.

“That sucks,” Winter sighs. “Speaking of cute guys disappearing—has anyone seen my boyfriend anywhere?”

“What’s he wearing?” you ask, and Winter moves to answer before Chaewon unknowingly cuts her off.

“It’s so weird that you and Haechan have been at this party for so long and have yet to run into each other.” Chaewon marvels aloud, and you shrug casually.

“I probably walked by him or something and just didn’t know,” you brush it off, and Chaewon nods thoughtfully.

“Walked by who and didn’t know?” Yunjin asks from behind you, and when you turn to face her, she frowns. “Why are you pouting?”

“Mother of God—” you huff, crossing your arms, and Yunjin winces.

“Jeez, tough crowd.” she chuckles. “Walked by who and didn’t know?” she presses.

“Haechan,” you explain, and her brows furrow together in confusion, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” is all she says after a moment. “Wait, can you, um, come help me with something in the bathroom?” she asks you, eyes concerningly piercing.

“Sure,” you mumble, definitely confused but picking up on her sense of urgency.

“We’ll be right back,” Yunjin explains, tugging you away. “Roommate problems!” she calls over her shoulder, and you grimace to really sell the direness of the situation.

You let her tug you into the bathroom towards the back of the apartment by Seulgi’s and Chaewon’s bedrooms, and she sits you down on the toilet before taking a deep breath.

“I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but I was trying to find you earlier before this spiraled out of control.” she starts.

“You’re scaring me,” you complain, and she shushes you as she unlocks her phone and starts searching for something.

“You did meet Haechan, actually, but I have a feeling no one told you that you met Haechan.” Yunjin says finally, and you think back to the very small amount of people you met for the first time today, pondering over who it might be before Yunjin turns her phone to show you the screen, and—

“Fuck.” you mumble hoarsely, and Yunjin nods slightly before closing her phone on the screen she’s just showed you of a photo of your friend group, presumably from when you were abroad, where Winter is sitting happily on the lap of— “that’s the stranger I was talking to.” you say sadly. “My party crush.”

“Did he ever say his name?” she asks, and you think back, growing increasingly more irritated when you realize—

“No,” you mutter bitterly, “he must have conveniently forgotten to share that part.”

“Can I say something?” Yunjin says carefully, and you nod solemnly. “I saw you two staring at each other before he followed you into the kitchen.” Your blood runs cold, and it must show on your face, because she quickly adds, “I’m not mad at you, and I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m just gonna warn you, because that staring contest was intense, and I don’t know what happened in that kitchen—I don’t want to!” she says suddenly, putting her hand up to silence you as you move to speak before slowly continuing with, “I just know none of that can happen in front of Winter, so it shouldn’t happen at all.”

“Agreed.” you sigh sadly. “Yeah. I mean, I’m pissed as hell, and I might maim him the next time I see him, but other than that, I guess I’m fine.”

“I mean. yeah. Definitely agree with maiming him, actually.” she agrees after a moment of thought. “Just do something subtle and easy to explain away.”

You smile at her, your spirits lifted slightly. “You’re the best.”

“Love you, girl.” she says sincerely, bending down to hug you before helping you to your feet. “I got your back.”

You head back out there with no pout in sight, only a deceptive smile as you plan your revenge.

It’s not long before the not-so-mysterious stranger comes back around, by which time you’ve fully worked yourself up into a huff about the situation once more, crossing your arms, leaning against the wall, and eyeing him disapprovingly as he approaches.

“Why so serious?” he jokes, and you raise an eyebrow.

“At what point were you going to tell me you’re dating Winter?” you ask, deciding to get right to the point, and he freezes, shock on his face. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

“For what?” you test him, and he frowns deeply.

“For hiding that from you.” he sighs, and you huff as he continues, “I just really wanted to get to know you, and I felt like I had to hide that because you knowing would ruin it!”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised pointedly. “And what would you call this?”

His frown turns to a petulant pout. “Ruined?” he asks.

“Ding, ding, ding,” you say sarcastically before turning to leave.

“Wait, I’m— I’m really sorry,” he pleads, catching your hand before you can slip away. “Can we start over a little bit?”

“How are we gonna start over a little bit?” you ask skeptically, and he stands up straighter, tugging you a bit closer before smiling hopefully and releasing your hand to wave in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Haechan, Winter’s boyfriend,” he introduces himself as he offers his hand to shake. As you take it, he gently urges you closer with a testing tug before adding, “and I think you’re beautiful.”

“Haechan!” you whisper, half-laughing in surprise, and he shrugs with a sheepish grin.

“Figured I’d lay all my cards out on the table this time.”

“Kinda ballsy, no?” you raise your eyebrows, crossing your arms, and he chuckles.

“I’m a pretty ballsy guy.”

You eye him up and down before tilting your head to the side and saying, “I’m sure.”

“So am I forgiven?” he asks hopefully.

“For now,” you reply after a moment of thinking, and continue at the sight of his excited smile, “but I’m watching you.”

“I’d be upset if you weren’t.” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

It doesn’t take long for your one-sided animosity to dissipate as you and Haechan manage to fall into a normal enough conversation about your activities in Oxford. At one point, the familiar but unpleasant smell of weed filters into your senses, making you subconsciously wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Haechan raises an eyebrow, amused. “You alright?”

“You don’t smell that?” you ask, and he sniffs the air before he chuckles.

“I’m guessing you’re not much of a smoker?” he speculates.

You shake your head, tipping your head back to swallow the rest of your drink. “Definitely not.” You lick your lips to clean up the remnants of your drink, and barely stifle the laugh that bubbles up when you notice Haechan watching your mouth with both entirely rapt attention and a slightly dazed expression. “See something you like?”

“Sure do,” he breathes, and you yelp, swatting his arm lightly. “You asked!”

“As a joke!”

“Well, sorry for failing to read the room properly. I was a little, um, distracted.”

“Haechan.”

“Hm?”

“Stop staring at my lips.”

“What if I don’t?” he asks, stepping closer to you slowly. “Hm?”

“You’re awfully bold for a guy who’s dating one of my friends.” you murmur back, and he shrugs, smiling flirtatiously.

“I know what I want.” he answers casually, and the resolve in his voice takes you by surprise, leaving you to swallow a growing lump in your throat.

“I’m, uh,” you stammer, looking around for something, anything, that can save you from his intense attention. “I’m gonna go see if they want snacks,” you finally answer pathetically, and he doesn’t buy it for a minute, a smug grin curling his lips before he nods, seemingly complying.

He waits for you to move past him, staying perfectly still and therefore forcing you to squeeze between him and the counter, and head towards the living room before he’s so close behind you that he’s practically on you and only then does he reply, a smile audible in his voice as he murmurs, “Let’s go, then.”

“Hi, my dear friends. Are we having a good time?” you ask as you re-enter the living room and scan over each of your friends, all sitting in a circle with Yunjin’s infamous hot pink bong placed carefully in her lap. The party continues on around them, people only sparing cursory glances at the very occupied couch and nearby seating of Seulgi’s and Chaewon’s living room, but you couldn’t care less about the other guests, instead focusing your attention on your seven cross-faded friends.

Yunjin, ever the lightweight, looks up at you with red-rimmed, half-lidded eyes and a dopey smile. “Never better.”

“I actually just want to say that I missed you so much,” Chaewon sniffles, hurriedly wiping away a tear before looking up at you earnestly. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

“I missed you, too!” you reply, touched, and she sniffles loudly, the tip of her nose pinking in that signature way that lets you know more tears are en route whether she likes it or not.

“I’m not gonna lie, yo,” Mark mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face and looking over at you. “I’m about to be starving.”

“‘About to be starving’ is crazy, actually.” you snicker, and Mark joins in your laughter, his laugh bubbling up inside of him almost uncontrollably.

“Well, you know how it goes; we smoke, we get high, we get the munchies.” Mark explains, and you nod in understanding.

“Mark… I went to England for a study abroad program… not to get a lobotomy.” you say slowly, and he snorts loudly in surprise and amusement. “I remember what happens when y’all get high.” you remind him, and he lifts his hands up in surrender, nodding back at you with a grin. “Do you guys want food from the deli down the block?”

“Yes!” The resounding chorus of assent from all your high friends actually takes you by surprise, sending you stepping back in shock only to stumble directly into Haechan’s chest. He steadies you instantly, hands gripping your shoulders securely, and quietly double-checks with you to make sure you’re actually sturdy before releasing you.

You hate that you found his touch comforting for even a second, trying your best internally to squash the initial attraction you had to him as you attempt to focus on the task at hand.

“Okay, sounds good to me. Can y’all just type your names and what you want in my Notes app?” you ask, unlocking your phone, opening the Notes app, and passing your phone to Yunjin. As your phone makes its way around the circle, you turn slightly to face Haechan, who’s already watching you with an unnerving level of intensity.

“Haechan, why don’t you go with her?” Seulgi suggests, completely missing the warning glare you send her way. “She can’t carry all of that by herself.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” he agrees easily, and you purse your lips for a moment, breathing in deeply before turning fully so you’re face-to-face with Haechan. “Looks like we’re gonna spend some more one-on-one time together.” he says with a secretive smile, and you swallow hard, not knowing what to expect from this little excursion.

Your phone eventually makes its way back to you and you look over the orders before putting your phone in your back pocket and heading to grab your coat, Haechan following diligently behind you.

“Okay, we’ll be back soon! Try to hang in there, guys.” you announce, stepping out of the apartment and holding the door open for Haechan, who exits and shuts it behind himself.

As you two make your way down the hall to the elevator, he speeds up slightly so he’s walking in front of you before turning fully around to face you, taking smooth backwards strides down the hall.

“Can I help you with something?” you ask, confused, and he shakes his head with a smile.

“Don’t mind me.” he replies, and you snort in amusement.

“Kinda hard not to mind you when you seem hellbent on staring holes into my face.” you mutter as you press the elevator button.

“Not my fault you’re nice to look at.” he defends himself, and you look over at him instantly, shock written all over your face. “What’s wrong? Surely you’ve heard that about yourself before.”

“I sure have,” you agree readily, sighing in relief when the elevator door opens. Stepping in, you add, “I just haven’t heard it from the mouth of my friend’s boyfriend.”

“Ah, well.” He follows you into the elevator and shrugs with a “what can you do?” type of smile, making you narrow your eyes. “First time for everything, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you reply slowly, regarding him suspiciously. “Let’s try and make that first time the last time, okay?”

“No promises.” he murmurs, a smile audible in his voice. When you look over at him, he winks at you so quickly you almost think you imagined it, and you jolt, making a noise of bewilderment that sounds embarrassingly close to a mix of a squawk or squeak before turning to face forward again.

The weather actually feels quite nice, you realize when you both get outside, a light, cool breeze filtering through the trees, and you and Haechan walk alongside each other for the first two, maybe three minutes in silence before he breaks it.

“Can I ask you a question?” Haechan asks, looking over at you as you two walk to the deli.

“Depends… is it weird?” you return his question with another question, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay, then shoot.”

“I noticed your reaction to the smell of the weed smoke earlier,” he recalls, and you hum in acknowledgement. “Do you not smoke?”

“Not at all,” you reply, and he nods in understanding. “I don’t do any drugs.”

“Me either,” he replies, and a mildly surprised smile makes its way to your lips. “Can I ask if you have a reason for never wanting to try anything?”

You’re silent for a moment as you attempt to find the right words to explain yourself and Haechan waits patiently, the two of you walking in a comfortable silence before you break it. “I don’t like the feeling of not being in control of myself.” you say carefully, and he gives you an emphatic nod that piques your curiosity. “You too?”

“Somewhat, yeah, but I was mainly nodding because I completely get it. For me, I don’t like moving any slower than usual or feeling restricted in any way.”

“That makes perfect sense, too.” you say, giving him a firm, approving nod of your own, and he chuckles quietly. “I’ve always wondered about what it might be like to just… mellow out and calm down, y’know?”

“Definitely,” he agrees. “They usually get so… happy.”

“Exactly! Well, except for when Chaewon starts crying out of nowhere.” you add.

Haechan laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know what that’s about.”

“That’s another thing, too.” you say, starting to feel more comfortable talking about it to someone who understands. “I feel like some drugs—especially, like, weed, LSD, acid, shrooms, and stuff like that—they tend to bring out, like, parts of your subconscious that are typically hidden away.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that and I’ve definitely seen it happen,” Haechan says, sounding surprisingly solemn.

“Yeah, so… whatever’s going on under the surface in here,” you say, tapping your temple, “is none of my business.” you finish with a resolute nod, making Haechan snicker. “I will simply continue raw-dogging life on this bitch of an earth.”

“That’s so real.” Haechan says through his laughter, making you smile.

“Thank you!” you chirp. “Also, when you say you don’t like moving slower or feeling restricted, do you mean in a physical or mental sense? Or is it both?”

“Hmm,” Haechan hums thoughtfully. “Definitely both. I just feel like… I would describe myself and my lifestyle as somewhat fast-paced, y’know? Like, not really very sedentary, I’m always on the move, and if I’m high off of, like, weed or something, I feel like all I’d be able to do is… vegetate… and I hate the thought of that.”

“That’s so real,” you say, echoing Haechan’s earlier statement. “Well, you know, if you want to move faster, there’s always cocaine,” you joke, and he snorts loudly, clearly not expecting your comment.

“I definitely wouldn’t try cocaine,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I can just imagine my poor mom if I came to visit her one day and I was all strung out and tweaking.”

“Aw, are you a mama’s boy?” you ask teasingly, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Maybe a little bit, yeah,” he admits with a shy smile, and you grin.

“That’s sweet.” you assure him, and he visibly relaxes, laughing with an air of bashfulness. “We’re here, by the way!” you point out, gesturing to the deli less than thirty feet away at the end of the block.

Haechan jogs slightly ahead of you, opening the door and holding it for you to enter.

“Thank you,” you say with a grateful smile as you step inside. The smell of the deli is delicious, the scents of various foods being cooked wafting through the air, and for a moment you half-expect to start floating involuntarily towards the tastiest smelling dish.

“Okay, let’s get these orders in,” you mutter to yourself before making your way over to where the grill cooks are stationed. “Hi, how are you feeling tonight?” you greet politely, exchanging brief pleasantries before continuing on with, “I actually have a pretty big order I’d like to place with sandwiches and sides, but I don’t mind waiting if I have to!”

“Go ahead, miss,” one of the cooks says, and you look down at your phone before starting to read off the orders.

Haechan stands off to the side and watches on as you rattle off the nine different sandwich and side order combos to the cooks, who nod and start to prepare them. When you’re finished, you turn to face Haechan and smile sweetly before leading him towards the drinks and snacks.

“Okay, can you help me carry these to the front?” you ask Haechan.

“Of course, yeah,” he answers, and you start to hand him various drinks and snacks off of the note everyone wrote in.

“Okay, a raspberry peach Snapple for me… a Redbull for you—wait, Haechan, you like Redbull but you won’t try cocaine…? Seems fake,” you comment, and Haechan lets out a shocked laugh before raising his hands—well, he’s holding a drink in each hand, so fists—in surrender.

“Take it easy on me!” he begs jokingly, and you pretend to think about it before relenting with a smile and continuing to collect the drinks.

“Mountain Dew for Seulgi… Sprite for Jeno… oop, and a Sprite for Chenle, too… root beer for Winter… blue Gatorade for Mark… Arizona raspberry iced tea for Yunjin, and finally, that XXX Vitamin Water that Chaewon’s always raving about.” You close the refrigerator door with your hip, the two of you carefully carrying your armfuls of beverages to the counter.

“I never got the Vitamin Water hype.” Haechan admits.

“It’s essentially juice, but like water with a splash of juice, maybe two if you’re lucky.” you say. “At least, that’s what I think, but some of them do actually taste pretty good, too.”

“Hm,” he remarks thoughtfully. “I don’t know, I just never got into it.”

“You got into that Redbull pretty easily though, huh?” you tease, and he laughs, his cheeks pinking ever so slightly, and you’re glad he’s looking away so he can’t see how blatantly you paused to look at him.

“Miss, some of your order is ready!” One of the cooks calls out to you, and you shoot them a thumbs up as they bring two sandwiches and a couple of trays to the counter for you. “Do you want to pay now or when we’re finished preparing everything?”

“Oh, I can pay now! Just let me go get the chips and stuff.” you say before whizzing off to where the snacks are, returning shortly after with Seulgi’s Takis and Chenle’s red Doritos and placing them on the counter triumphantly.

The worker manning the register rings your stuff up and reads you out the total, to which you respond by pulling out your phone to tap the card reader, but Haechan calls your name before you can complete the transaction, making you look over at him in confusion.

“I got it,” he offers, reaching for the card reader with his own phone only for you to shoot him a funny look and nudge his phone out of the way to finish paying with your own phone.

“You didn’t have to pay for it, Haechan,” you assure him. “Think of it as the small fee I had to pay for disappearing from the country for about half of a year.”

“Yeah, but I was being a gentleman.” he protests with a frown.

“It’s okay! Be a gentleman to your girlfriend—not me.” you say with expectantly raised brows.

“I’m trying to impress you, though,” he points out, and you roll your eyes.

“Read the room, maybe?” you chuckle, and he scrunches his nose up in distaste. “Something wrong?”

“I’m not much of a reader.” he replies with a dismissive shrug, and you raise your eyebrows.

“I’m a librarian.” you remind him. “My job is literally all about reading.”

“On second thought,” Haechan blurts out, “I literally read every day, all the time.” When you snicker in amusement, he grins and continues with, “I’m being so serious. I’ve read every bottle of shampoo and body wash in my shower front to back!” he presses, and you burst into laughter.

“You’re ridiculous.” you giggle as you recover from your laughing fit, and he grins shamelessly.

“I made you laugh, though,” he points out with a smug little grin. “So you kinda like it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie with a sniff, looking away.

“You think I’m funny,” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he gets closer. “And if earlier was any indication, you think I’m attractive.”

“Where are you going with this?” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“You like me.” he replies simply, and you choke on your spit.

“Two fairly objective observations are not an indication of me liking you.” you splutter indignantly, and Haechan raises his brow.

“Being attractive is objective now?” he asks skeptically, and you glare at him, turning to the row of deli cooks pretending not to be watching your conversation intently.

“Is he a handsome guy?” you ask them, and they all look between each other with confusion and mild discomfort. “Literally no homo. Please relax. Is he a handsome guy or is he an uggo?” you emphasize, and one of them snorts.

“He’s definitely not ugly, no,” one of the cooks pipes up, and they all nod in agreement. “Handsome guy, actually.”

“Good bone structure,” the cook beside him adds, and you could swear Haechan starts to blush. “Yeah, he’s a good looking dude.”

“Sí, muy guapo.” A cook you can’t even see chimes in, and you and Haechan look at each other, bewildered.

“How many of you are back there?” Haechan asks as he chuckles nervously.

“No te preocupes, amigo.” the same cook says, still concealed from view. “Eres guapísimo.”

“Thank you, guys.” you reply gratefully before turning to stick your tongue out at Haechan triumphantly.

To your surprise, his gaze darkens. “Do that again.”

“No, I’m good.” you reply immediately, fixing your face and turning away from him. “Little freak.”

“Mm, maybe a little bit.” he hums, and you grimace.

“Yuck.” you mutter, narrowing your eyes in his direction. “Get a grip. As I was saying, me finding you funny or attractive has nothing to do with liking you.”

“Why wouldn’t you, though?” he presses, and you let out an exasperated sigh before turning fully to face him.

“You have a girlfriend!” you whisper-shout, confused even further by the way he looks at you, smug and unimpressed.

“So that’s the only thing stopping you?” he says slowly, and you pause as you realize what you’ve admitted to.

“It’s the only thing that matters.” you huff with an air of finality, and Haechan just chuckles, stepping closer.

“Not this? Hm? Not how good—no—how right this feels?” he murmurs suggestively, and you shake your head firmly.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” you mutter, and he scoffs in disbelief.

“Are you really gonna keep playing dumb?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sing-song, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sure.” he murmurs, amused.

Desperate to change the topic, you look around, your eyes landing on the bags of food on the countertop.

“Man, those fries smell so good,” you groan, staring enviously at the bag containing Winter’s order of curly fries.

“Mm, yeah?” Haechan hums, looking from the bag to you. He puts a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture and pops open the plastic container. He pulls out a small handful of Winter’s curly fries, about as much as he can fit between his thumb and forefinger, and grins at you, winking before popping one in his mouth.

He reaches his hand out, offering you one of his stolen goods, and you hesitate for a second before deciding to reach forward and take the proffered curly fry. As you chew it, your eyes roll back into your head in ecstasy, the fried good the perfect amount of salty, crunchy, and warm.

“Thank you,” you say gratefully, and he waves you off dismissively.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “It’s our little secret, okay?”

“Jeez, I just met you tonight and you’re already trusting me with secrets?” you chuckle, and he shrugs.

“Well, should I not trust you?” he asks curiously, and you shake your head instantly in disagreement.

“You can trust me, don’t worry.” you assure him, and he smiles widely, nodding slowly in understanding.

“Great.”

“The real question is if I can trust you,” you continue, and he chuckles.

“You can,” he says confidently, and you raise your eyebrows skeptically.

“How do I know I can trust that?” you ask, and he laughs, rolling his eyes slightly as he leans closer to you conspiratorially.

“That’s just a risk you’re gonna have to take.”

“No, thanks. I’m not big on risks.” you admit.

Haechan tilts his head to the side curiously. “You don’t take any risks?”

You pause to think about it, thoughts racing back to earlier when you made the mental pact with yourself to be more daring and take more risks. “Not really, no. Unless you count letting Yunjin drive.”

He snorts. “I’m talking big risks.”

You stare at him blankly. “Have you ever been in the car with Yunjin?”

Chuckling and shaking his head slightly, he says, “I have.”

“It’s pretty risky.”

“I’m talking about different risks, though. Think harder.” he presses.

You sigh loudly but oblige, thinking about it again. “I guess studying abroad in Oxford felt pretty risky… I was essentially all alone on the other side of the world.”

He shakes his head. “Bigger,” he explains. “I’m talking about something that,” his gaze slowly falls to your lips and he continues, “could go really wrong.”

It feels like he’s hinting at something, and you’re not sure you want to find out.

“Truthfully, I don’t get why I would take risks like those.” you say with a pensive frown, and he smiles, eyes still trained on your mouth with an unmistakable fascination as he steps closer to you, practically cornering you against the snack rack behind you, and if he hears your squeak of alarm, he chooses not to comment.

“It’s about the reward,” he murmurs, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips slowly. “People take risks because they think that the reward is worth it in comparison to what could go wrong.”

“Well, I don’t think most risks I can think of off of the top of my head are worth it,” you say with a stumped pout.

“I can think of one I wanna take right now,” he hums softly, reaching up to rest one hand on the rack behind you, and you balk, finally starting to understand what he’s been hinting at.

“I, um, think that might be too risky.” you reply cautiously, and he chuckles quietly.

“I disagree,” he says plainly. “I think it’d be so worth it.” he breathes out, his gentle breath fanning over your lips, the minty scent tempting you more than you’d like to admit.

“If you try and kiss me right now,” you say quietly, “I will bite your lip until it bleeds.”

He snickers and nods in understanding. “Understood.”

“Is that risk worth it now?” you ask wryly, and he bites back a laugh.

“I don’t know, let me find out.” he says, leaning in closer, and you yelp, pushing his chest reflexively and, when he barely budges, clapping a hand over your mouth and glaring at him as he laughs loudly. “Man, you’re cute.”

“Shut up,” you mutter contritely, moving your hand away when he relents and steps back. “Let’s not ask why I don’t feel comfortable taking risks and ask, instead, why you—” you poke his chest accusingly, “feel so comfortable being so reckless.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, explaining, “I don’t think it’s that I’m reckless—”

“Yeah, right.” you mutter.

He ignores you. “I think it’s that I want to know what it feels like to truly live.” he finishes, and you pause at that, genuinely taking in his words. “Life is too short to be scared to indulge, you know?”

“Well,” you say slowly, thoughtfully, “I guess that makes sense.”

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe I could stand to live a little more,” you ponder, noticing the way his eyes drift down to your lips once more and quickly adding, “but that doesn’t mean you can kiss me. I’ll still bite you.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks softly, teasingly, and you nod. “What if I said I kinda like it a little rough?”

“I’d say you’re in the wrong relationship.” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, and Haechan’s eyes widen as he points at you with a bright, triumphant grin. “I’m joking! I’m joking.”

“I don’t think you are.” he replies smugly.

“Oh, brother.”

“You think I’m in the wrong relationship?” he presses, and you shake your head vehemently, desperately trying to cover your tracks.

“Only because Winter is not a ‘likes it a little rough’ kind of girl,” you explain quickly.

He nods in agreement. “This is true.” he admits, and you relax slightly, glad he gets your point. “So, who would be the right relationship for me, hm?” he teases, and you groan loudly, tipping your head back in exasperation. “Got any ideas?”

“Nope.” you answer flatly.

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, leaning closer. “You sure about that?”

“Miss, the rest of your order is ready!” One of the cooks calls out, and you pounce on the interruption eagerly.

“Thank you!” you call back to the cooks before turning to Haechan with a relieved smile. “You know what? We’d better go back before they put out a Missing Persons report for us.” you dodge his taunting question from earlier and carefully remove yourself from your very compromising position, walking towards the counter of the bodega to collect the bags of food. “Are you coming or what?” you huff, attempting to conceal how flustered his previous line of questioning has left you by placing a hand on your hip impatiently.

He shakes his head with a chuckle, but meets you by the door, slipping his fingers in the loops of the numerous bags weighing down your index and middle fingers to relieve you of the burden. He leans forward, opening the door for you and gesturing for you to exit first. “You’re lucky I don’t want to hear any of them complain about their food being cold, because I could do this—” he gestures between the two of you, “all night and then some.”

“That’s great, Casanova,” you drawl, pointing ahead of you down the street towards where you’re heading. “Now walk.”

As you two walk back from the bodega, you can’t help but notice that Haechan’s path keeps veering slightly off-course, the male repeatedly bumping into you as you two walk.

“You good?” you ask finally after what must be the eighth mini-collision, and Haechan chuckles, albeit somewhat sheepishly as he brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Is there a reason why you keep bumping into me? Are the bags throwing you off-balance or something?”

“Would you, uh, believe me if I said that I just like you and want to be close to you?” he answers, and you stop short, blinking at him impassively which causes him to stop walking as well.

“Bold words for someone with a whole girlfriend back at the party.” you reply with a dismissive snort, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what it is,” he says as you two slowly fall back into a comfortable pace. “I think we’d be good together.”

“Haechan,” you warn.

“You fascinate me,” he admits plainly, staring at your face openly. “I wanna get to know you better.”

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” you say apprehensively.

“I’m gonna learn about you eventually, because I’m not going anywhere.” he replies confidently. “I’m gonna learn everything about you—your hopes, your dreams, your fears—” he leans closer so his breath hits your cheek and continues, “what makes you tick.”

“Well, you wanna know something?” you offer, and he nods instantly, leaning towards you in anticipation. “Something that makes me tick is when guys with girlfriends hit on me very blatantly.”

“Ah, I see,” Haechan remarks thoughtfully. “So I should be more subtle.”

“I—well—no, that’s not really what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean?”

“Stop saying flirtatious things!”

“So you want me to stop saying flirtatious things—”

”Yes, that’s quite literally what I just said—”

“—and start doing flirtatious things.”

Your mouth snaps shut and you stare at him incredulously. “Not even remotely what I meant.”

“No, I think that’s what you were hinting at.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’d better believe it, baby.”

“Calling me ‘baby’ when you have a whole girlfriend is crazy, by the way.”

“Maybe I’m crazy. Did you think about that?”

“Clearly. I’ll let Winter know her boyfriend is actually an escapee from the insane asylum and she’ll just dump you.”

“So you can have me all to yourself… I like it.” He grins, and you open and close your mouth repeatedly, at a loss for words.

“Where are you hearing these things? Haechan, do you often hear things other people don’t?” you ask with patronizing concern, and he bursts out laughing. “It’s not funny, actually! Maybe I will tell Winter after all.”

“She won’t do anything,” he replies through his laughter.

“You’re right.” you agree in disappointment. “Poor girl. She’d probably think she can fix you.”

“I know what could fix me,” he says, fixing you in place with a serious stare.

“Haechan, you’re kinda scaring me.”

“Relax, it’s nothing crazy.”

“You’re not exactly what I’d consider a good judge of what’s crazy or not.”

“I just want your number, God.”

“Oh!” you reply, relieved, and an equally relieved smile appears on his face. “You’re not getting that.”

“Aw, come on!” he whines, leaning on you dramatically. “How am I supposed to get to know you?”

“Through speaking to me in person?”

“So you wanna see me… in person…” he trails off with a suggestive lilt to his voice, wiggling his eyebrows, and you suck your teeth. “If you like me, you can just say that, you know. I won’t tell.”

“You really are crazy.” you marvel, and he grins over at you.

“Is that… intrigue I detect in your voice?” he teases, and you balk.

“No?” you reply a bit too quickly, and his eyes light up.

“You’re intrigued by me!”

“I just wanna know how and where Winter found your crazy ass!”

“So you can go there and get yourself another me?” he replies, and you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Hate to break it to you, princess, but there’s only one of me.”

“Thank God for that.” you mutter under your breath. “So, do you have, like, a mute button or something?”

“I’ll shut up for the rest of the walk back if you give me your number.” he says with a mischievous smile, and you roll your eyes, Haechan’s ever-so-keen eyes noticing your hesitation. “You’re totally thinking about it.”

“I really want you to stop before you get one or both of us in trouble.”

“I will be as quiet as a street rat if you give me your number and don’t block me before I can text you.”

“Damn, how’d you know I was gonna do that?”

“I know the signs of someone playing hard to get.” he says proudly, and you snort.

“I’m not playing hard to get, Haechan. You’re playing hard to get rid of.”

“And I’m gonna play until I win. Now—your number, please.” He smiles dazzlingly at you, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and handing it to you.

You stare at his unlocked phone then at his twinkling, hopeful eyes before sighing in defeat and taking the phone from his hand to enter your number.

“Hell yeah!” Haechan cheers, and you shoot him a judgmental stare.

“Ground rules.” you say plainly, and he nods, instantly attentive. He is cute, you think reluctantly, especially like this as he hangs on your every word like a puppy. “No texting me suggestive photos.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep the texts harmless.” you warn him, and he nods in agreement.

“You got it.”

“And don’t call or FaceTime unless it’s an absolute emergency.” you finish, and he scrunches his face up in confusion.

“What if the emergency is that I want to see you or hear your voice?”

“Absolutely bonkers thing to say with a girlfriend, by the way.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I have Instagram… just look at my pictures or something, I don’t know.”

“What if I want to see you right then exactly how you are?”

“That’s too bad.”

“Fine,” he huffs, and you already know this is going to be a bad decision. “What exactly constitutes an emergency?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. If you were injured or in danger or something and no one else was picking up?”

“Okay…” he trails off skeptically.

“Even then, though, I think you should just call emergency services.”

“You’re brutal,” Haechan remarks in awe. “I like it.”

“Watch it!”

“Watching,” he replies smoothly, grinning in your direction, and you turn to face forward quickly, hoping he didn’t catch your smile. “I saw that.”

“You saw nothing.”

“You smiled. You like me—at least a little bit!”

“First you’re hearing things, and now you’re seeing things? Maybe we should get you checked out.”

“…We?” he points out with a sly smirk, and you roll your eyes as you trudge ahead and up to the apartment building, repeatedly (and with an air of impatience) buzzing the intercom to be let in.

“Thank God we’re back.”

“Since when was the museum so damn expensive?” Chenle mutters in awe as he forks over the thirty dollars for the admission fee.

“It’s the price of knowledge,” Yunjin sighs with a shrug as she takes Chenle’s place at the ticket till and hands the attendant three $10 bills.

“Psst,” Haechan whispers to get your attention, and you turn your head slightly to see he’s leaning towards you. “This is enough to radicalize me,” Haechan huffs bitterly before releasing Winter’s hand and stepping forward to pay. You notice with a curious tilt of your head that he’s taken longer than the rest of your friends so far, despite using Apple Pay, but you don’t think much of it until he’s walked away with Winter and it’s your turn at the register, where the attendant hands you a ticket with a smile.

“Oh, I didn’t pay yet—”

“The gentleman before you paid for your ticket,” she explains with a small nod, and you pause, mentally buffering before smiling at the attendant, taking the ticket, and walking to join your group.

When you meet up with them, Haechan already has his eyes trained in your direction, his left eyelid dropping down into a secretive wink before he grins at you.

“You’re too much,” you mouth at him, walking up beside him to nudge him with your shoulder surreptitiously. He lets out a small chuckle and shrugs as casually as he can before he tickles the palm of your hand with his fingers in a gesture that has you wondering if he plans to hold both your hand and his girlfriend’s. Before the thought can gain much traction, however, the tour guide for your group appears and introduces herself as she passes out museum maps to everyone in your party.

After introducing herself, she takes you through a corridor to the Egyptian art section, walking you by a preserved tomb and detailing funeral processions and Egyptian customs. The guide herself is very engaging and the artwork is fascinating, but you actually came on a mission to see certain wings of the museum. As she walks you through the Egyptian art wing, you consult your map, trying to see if there’s a point coming up where you can casually separate from the group.

Initially, you were following after the tour guide, but now you’re admittedly starting to fall towards the back of the group due to your lack of interest in this particular time period, when the exhibit at the end of the hallway you just passed catches your eye.

You look around you to see if anyone in your tour group is around, observing that the coast is clear before you attempt to break off from your group and do your own thing.

“And where are you sneaking off to?” Haechan’s voice appears out of seemingly nowhere, making you gasp as you whip your head around to look at him.

“Why?” you ask, furrowing your brows. “Are you gonna snitch on me for leaving?”

“I’m not snitching,” he promises you, and you relax slightly before he continues with, “I’m coming.”

You stop short and look at him like he’s grown a second head. “You seem to be mistaken.”

“Definitely not that,” Haechan assures you, and you roll your eyes before quickly turning to leave. He catches up with you easily, making you huff quietly in frustration, and continues to attempt to persuade you, saying, “You need someone with you in case you get lost.”

“Haechan, if I’m with someone and I’m lost, then I’m pretty sure they’re as good as lost too.” you explain slowly, and Haechan pauses to think, leaving you the open opportunity to slip away from him yet again.

He manages to find you yet again, grinning triumphantly when he does, and argues, “I think you should travel with someone—like me—who has a map.”

“Haechan, I am quite literally holding the map they just gave me.” you remind him, and he seems to buffer in real-time, lips parting to form a shocked little “O” shape that is, for all its silliness, stupidly attractive on him.

You’ll give it to him; he’s definitely not lacking in the looks department.

“Well—haven’t you ever heard of the buddy system? There’s safety in numbers, y’know.” Haechan catches up with you once more as you speed walk down a mostly empty hallway.

“Oh, my God, fine.” you whisper-yell exasperatedly. “Fine, you can come with me.”

He perks up immediately, smiling brightly and you can see his body relax as you gradually slow your pace into a comfortable stroll so he can fall into stride with you.

“Great,” he says happily. “Where are we going first?”

“Well, I really want to see the Greek sculptures…” you half-say, half-suggest hopefully.

“Okay, sounds great; let’s go!”

“Haechan.”

“Mhm?”

“Can you walk faster, please? I’m not trying to lose a whole person in the Met.” you complain, stopping in your tracks and turning around to let Haechan catch up to you. The section you’re passing through is packed, the room filled with the din of various animated conversations all overlapping one another.

“Sorry, I’m just taking in all the art in front of me,” he replies, and your expression softens as you remember that this is, in fact, a museum exhibit you’re standing in and not merely a hallway to where you want to go.

“Yeah, the paintings are beautiful,” you agree, and he looks over at you with a confused look.

“Oh—yeah, the paintings are cool, too.” he answers unconvincingly, and you stare at him expressionlessly.

“What were you looking at if not the paintings?” you ask, confused, and he looks you up and down pointedly as if to answer your question. “You’re ridiculous,” you groan, turning to walk away.

“Oh, come on, you can’t blame me! You in that outfit is a goddamn masterpiece.” he defends himself, and you just sigh loudly as you keep walking.

“Keep up!” you quip, and he catches up to you, leaning down slightly so his lips are by your ear.

“Don’t even get me started on this cute little skirt you’ve got on,” he murmurs suggestively, and an involuntary shudder travels down your spine from the ticklish sensation of his breath on the hair on the back of your neck. “Kinda driving me crazy,” he half-mumbles, half-chuckles.

“It can’t be that hard to drive you crazy,” you point out. “You already live on the corner of Bonkers Boulevard and Delulu Drive.”

“Wow, and you call me a menace?” he snorts in amusement, reaching over to pinch your side in retaliation and laughing when you dance away with a giggle. “Come back, I thought we had to stick together,” he complains.

You roll your eyes but stop just ahead of him, hands placed on your hips as you wait for him to catch up.

“That’s better,” he finally says when he’s beside you once more. “You know, maybe we should hold hands.” he suggests, smiling wider and nodding vigorously in an attempt to convince you when you look over at him with a “no” already on the tip of your tongue.

“And why would we do that?” you ask, tilting your head to the side in a patronizing act of confusion.

“It’s crowded. What if someone walks between us and you turn to enter an exhibit but I don’t see where you went?” He frowns petulantly, and you scoff dismissively.

“You can hold my purse,” you offer, holding it out to him.

“How is that gonna help me stay close to you?” he asks with a frown, and you shoot him a look.

“It’ll help me stay close to you,” you clarify. “All my stuff is in there, so I’m not going anywhere that bag’s not going.”

“Hm. I’d rather hold your hand but I guess this will do.” he sighs dramatically, and you snicker.

“Keep wishing.” you reply casually.

“Oh, I will. Got any loose eyelashes I can wish on and blow away?”

“No.”

“Lucky pennies?”

“I don’t have change. Does the universe take Apple Pay?” you reply in a bored tone, and he snorts loudly in amusement.

“Man, gorgeous and funny,” he sighs contentedly, and it’s your turn to exhale in amusement. “Fine. I’ll wait until 11:11 to make the wish.”

“You know that because you told me what you’re gonna wish for, it’s not gonna come true now, right?” you remind him with a teasing smile, and his eyes widen comically.

“I’ll wish for something different.” he relents, and you can’t help but frown slightly at the crestfallen look on his face. You look around to see if anyone you know is nearby and, seeing no one, let out a defeated yet amused sigh before reaching out and linking your fingers with his. “I knew you liked me,” he remarks with an air of smug satisfaction, and you scowl at him before ripping your fingers from his.

“...And you’re done.”

“Nope, too late,” he replies with a wide grin as he links his fingers with yours again, either oblivious to the fight you’re putting up or simply unfazed. “We’re locked in now.” he teases, and you raise your brows in a silent challenge.

“Oh, yeah? Should I call you something cutesy like—oh,” you say, stopping mid-sentence and turning to look at him with a slowly growing mischievous smile. “What was that name Winter called you on the way here?”

“Oh, please don’t.”

“Was it Snookums?” you think aloud, and he groans, tossing his head back dramatically.

“Please?”

“Cuddlebug?”

“No—”

“Oh!” you exclaim, snapping your fingers and pointing at him. “Pookie Bear.” you say triumphantly, and the grimace on his face is beyond rewarding.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Haechan says hurriedly. “In fact, I’d rather you not—”

“But I love calling you Pookie Bear, Pookie Bear.” you coo affectionately, putting extra emphasis on the embarrassing pet name to leave it dripping with saccharine sweetness.

“You know what’s kind of crazy?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“Besides you? No.”

“Ha, ha.” he drawls. “What’s crazy is that it’s kinda hot the way you say it.” he points out, and you whine loudly in protest.

“I can’t have anything, man! I get to torment you back for less than two minutes, and your freaky little self likes it?” you gripe under your breath as you pull him towards the large sign indicating the doorway to the beginning of the Greek sculptures exhibit. “We’re here!” you announce happily.

“Anything I should know before we enter this section?” he asks curiously, and you think for a moment before nodding.

“Most, if not all, of these statues have micropenises.” you warn him, and roll your eyes instantly at the immediate amusement on his face. “Keep the dick jokes to a minimum.”

“You got it, princess.” he agrees, nodding cooperatively, and you whirl around to look at him.

“Princess?!”

“You call me Pookie Bear, I call you princess.” he says with a nonchalant shrug, and you narrow your eyes at him in a silent staredown. “It’ll grow on you,” he says confidently as he starts walking into the exhibit.

And as you’re tugged along after him, protesting all the while that “it most certainly will not,” you can’t help but feel like it already has—that is, if the sensation you’re feeling of a lone butterfly fluttering around your stomach has anything to do with it.

“Haechan,” you whisper urgently, shaking your linked hands to get his attention.

He looks over at you curiously, eyebrows raised expectantly, and you point towards a sign in the corridor. “What is it?” he asks. “The café?”

You nod. “I’m hungry.”

“Honestly, I could eat,” he agrees, and you beam up at him, tugging him towards the entrance to the café.

The café is lovely, with a fairly large selection of ready-to-eat foods, and you and Haechan walk around the tables of food before you spot one in the distance and slip your hand out of his to go check it out.

No less than a moment after you’ve let go of Haechan, he practically snatches your hand back up, stubbornly linking his fingers with yours once more.

When you shoot him a look, he just stares at you with a challenge in his eyes, daring you to let go again.

“You’re something else.” you laugh, and he shrugs.

“Give a guy a warning next time,” he replies. “I wasn’t ready to let go.”

“Warning: I’m about to let go,” you say patronizingly, and he just shakes his head. “Wh—no? What do you mean, no?”

”No, you’re not.” he says simply.

“I literally am,” you let out a laugh of disbelief before attempting to tug your fingers from his again. “Haechan, quit being a brat!”

“It’s in my DNA,” he replies with a dismissive shrug. “I like holding hands.”

“Hold your own hand, then.” you snicker, and he shakes his head decisively.

“Like holding your hand better.” he coos fondly, and you roll your eyes. “Just take me with you to check out the food, princess.”

“I’m ignoring that,” you huff, but lead him to the sushi rolls you were staring at nonetheless. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled,” he confirms as he smiles over at you, and you bite down on your lip to hide the smile that threatens to greet him. “What are you gonna get?”

“Nothing crazy,” you muse, picking up a tray and inspecting the rolls inside. “Maybe just this and a drink.”

“Which one’s that?” Haechan asks curiously, peering over your shoulder.

“California roll,” you answer with a smile before reaching into the refrigerated drink section and grabbing an organic peach soda.

Haechan follows your lead, picking up a sushi roll container and snagging a Dr. Pepper from the drink area before you two make your way to the cashier to pay.

The cashier greets you both with a friendly smile and rings you up first. When you’re about to pay, Haechan grips the back of your cardigan and firmly but gently pulls you away from the counter before tapping his phone to the payment screen.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you huff with a frown, and he just smiles as the receipt comes out.

“I’m a gentleman,” he replies simply as the cashier rings him up, and you snort in amusement.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” you ask dryly, and he narrows his eyes at you. When it’s his turn to pay, you inch closer to the payment screen in the hopes to return the favor, but Haechan is one step ahead of you, plucking your phone from your hand with ease and pocketing it before tapping his phone to the screen again.

“Yeah, it is,” he replies with a cheery grin, smugness laced in his voice. “Come on, let’s eat.”

You two thank the cashier before heading towards the back of the café, where you sit at the corner table, Haechan sliding in beside you.

“You couldn’t sit over there?” you ask flatly, gesturing to the empty spot in front of you, and he shakes his head with a teasing smile. “Of course not.” you sigh in defeat, instead opening your California roll tray and breaking the wooden chopsticks to start eating. “What’d you get?”

Haechan pauses to look at the label on his container before opening it. “Seaside salmon roll,” he replies, snapping his chopsticks neatly into two before picking up a piece of sushi from the carefully composed roll.

“Ooh, yum,” you say before placing a piece of your own roll into your mouth and chewing, your eyes sliding shut in bliss. “God, that’s good.”

“This sushi tastes like heaven,” Haechan groans happily, and you giggle, your mood lifting with some good food entering your system.

“Hey,” you say as you pick up your next piece, “I just realized; what if they want to get food after this?” you ask, and he shrugs.

“Either we’re not hungry, or we get something small.” he suggests, and you nod in agreement before eating the next piece of sushi.

“Are you gonna be sneaky and pay for that, too?” you ask, unamused, and he nods proudly. “I can pay for my own food, you know; my librarian job makes decent pay.”

“Yeah, well, I can pay, too. My job definitely pays decently.” Haechan replies stubbornly.

“Oh, yeah? And what do you do?” you question.

“I’m a wine sommelier for a high-end restaurant downtown.” he answers proudly, and you purse your lips in quiet defeat.

“That actually does sound like a decent-paying job.” you admit, and he nods confidently. “Well, hey, did you know they sell wine here?”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, looking around for the wine menu and relaxing once you point it out to him.

“Yep. So tell me, Mr. Sommelier, which wine would go best with my California roll?” you quiz him, and his lips quirk up into a smile.

“What’s the taste like?” he asks, and you pick up a piece and put it on his tray, signaling for him to try it. “Without tasting it, I’d say a nice… light, fruity wine would be good for this.” he suggests before placing the piece of sushi in his mouth. As he chews, his smile widens and he nods in confirmation, adding, “I’d definitely say a nice Pinot Grigio would go great with this. The sweet and light notes of the Pinot Grigio would go really well with the flavors here.”

You’re not going to lie to yourself; it’s a little attractive to see him talk about something he knows so much about.

“Yeah?” you hum. “What about yours?”

“Oh, Pinot Noir, for sure. It’s sharp enough to match the heaviness of the salmon, but not too sweet where it takes away from the overall flavor.”

You nod, taking in the information and secretly composing yourself as your insides squeal girlishly at his confident explanation.

“That’s pretty cool, Haechan,” you remark, impressed, and he smiles in satisfaction.

“Isn’t it? You know, we should go on a wine tasting date some time.” he suggests, and you shoot him a suspicious side glance.

“A wine tasting what?” you press.

“Did I say date?” Haechan asks with a chuckle, and you nod slowly, still regarding him carefully. “I meant outing. A wine tasting outing.”

“Nice save,” you snort, and he huffs petulantly.

“It’s not my fault,” he defends himself. ‘I was distracted.”

You raise an eyebrow skeptically. “Distracted?” you ask, and he nods firmly.

“Yeah, your little skirt is messing with my head.” Haechan grunts, and you look down at your lap with a bewildered questioning noise.

To be fair, it is a cute skirt; your beige and black plaid pleated skirt was carefully selected from your closet earlier and clearly must have been a flattering choice, given that Haechan literally can’t keep his eyes off of you.

“Then look up and not at my legs, silly.”

“But if I look up, I see—” he starts to complain but stops as he does just that, looking up from his—well, your—lap and trailing off slowly as he gazes at you.

You’re pretty sure you don’t need to hear what he was going to say, because his face reads loud and clear; there’s desire swimming clearly in his gaze and his lips are parted ever so slightly as he spaces out staring back and forth from your lips to your eyes.

“If you look up, you see… my face?” you supply in an attempt to help him regain his sensibility, and his lips part more as he struggles to find the right words. “I mean, yeah, and my shirt? Well, it’s a white tank—like, yeah, it’s a little short, but—and this is just a beige cardigan, so it’s not as distracting if you look up instead—”

“If I look up,” Haechan says carefully, “I see you.”

For a moment, you’re rendered speechless as the implications of his words sink in.

Looking at him again, you realize there’s an awe in his eyes as he watches you, an adoration almost, and the context of him seeing you sets in. His eyes rove over your face with an almost greed, darting around rapidly as he frantically takes in every detail he can manage to commit to memory.

He’s not looking at you like he’s undressing you, like he’s groping you with a glance; he’s looking at you like you’re one of the seven wonders of the world—like he can’t quite contemplate everything he’s seeing, but he’s damn sure going to try. His gaze caresses you like you’re an antique artifact at the museum that could break if you so much as stare at it too hard.

Observing the way he looks at you is the closest you’ve come yet to understanding how and why the eyes have been referred to as the windows to the soul. His gaze is so open, so vulnerable and wondrous that you have to ponder, for a moment, if this is what it looks like to fall in love.

You push the thought from your head as soon as it emerges, not willing to give it any space in your mind, but you can’t shake the way his gaze completely unravels you.

He watches you like he can see every complexity of your personality in your pores; like he can see your unspoken words reflected in the gloss on your lips—like your eyes hold the manuscript of your hopes and dreams and he’s about to pore over it, memorizing it down to the letter.

He looks at you like he’s dangerously close to seeing you; you, past your barriers and caution tape; you, with all your intricacies and contradictions; and you, with all the hope and yearning and vulnerability you’ve had since your youth that you’ve been trying to convince everyone is no longer around.

You’re utterly overwhelmed with all the thoughts swimming in your brain at the moment, and one thought swims up to the forefront, displaying itself loud and clear and unignorable.

He looks at you like he’s falling in love.

“Haechan, please stop looking at me like that,” you beg in a whisper, scared to speak any louder in case your voice trembles. Something about the intensity of his gaze is beautiful and terrifying all at once, and you’re not ready for him to see you unraveled like this.

Haechan must be able to sense the panic in your voice, your underlying fear of being truly seen and known undoubtedly ringing out in the silence between you two, because he smiles reassuringly and relents, softening the intensity of his gaze until he’s displaying nothing more than mild curiosity and fascination.

“Thanks.” you mutter shyly, averting your gaze to inspect your cuticles in a feeble attempt to act natural.

“No problem. Can I say something, though?” he asks, and you nod, internally bracing yourself. “Have you heard of twin flames?”

“Yeah, isn’t that like soulmates, kinda?” you reply.

something about him was made for somebody like me baby, come over, come over and god knows i’m trying, but there’s just no use in denying

“Kinda,” he says slowly. “Some people call them ‘mirror souls,’” he explains. “Essentially, they’re two people with an intense soul connection that makes them complete when they’re together.”

You pout thoughtfully. “Like two halves of a whole?”

“Something like that, yeah,” he agrees. “The term ‘mirror souls’ is a bit more fitting, because they complement each other; they’re opposites in crucial ways, but in ways that could either ruin things or make them work really well together.”

”Okay,” you say carefully. “Well, thanks for the mini lesson. Why’d you bring that up?”

“I feel drawn to you.” he explains in a rush, almost like he’s been waiting for the opportunity to say it. “Like, I can’t explain it, but when I first met you, I felt—I don’t know—something.”

“I’d wager that the something you felt was just the blood rushing down to your d—” you remark dryly, but he cuts you off, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t.” he insists. “I felt a connection. And you felt it too—remember?”

“No,” you lie. You remember all too well, actually.

“You flirted with me.” he reminds you with a triumphant grin, and you frown.

“That was before I found out you were dating my friend!”

“So the connection magically went away? Hm? The initial attraction you had to me just vanished into thin air?” he presses.

“I locked it in a closet.” you admit. “It can’t come out.”

“Well, unlock it.”

“I have swallowed the key.” you reply stubbornly.

“Well, I’m picking the lock.” he counters, and you gape at him indignantly.

“You can’t do that!”

“And why not?”

“You have a girlfriend.” you remind him, and he has the audacity to scoff and roll his eyes, making you gasp in horror. “Ooh, I’m telling.”

“Who cares about that?” he asks, waving a hand dismissively.

“Um, gee, I would wager that your girlfriend does.” you reply sarcastically. “And you should care, too.”

“All that yapping—”

“I know this boy did not just say I’m yapping—”

“—and you still didn’t say that you care.” he finishes, and you stop short, blinking at him in surprise. “Gotcha.”

“Oh, shut up,” you groan. “I’m not your girlfriend, you know—I don’t have to put up with this.”

“Do you want to be her?” he asks, and you freeze, staring at him incredulously.

“No? I barely know you, and from what I do know, you like stepping out on your girlfriend.”

“False. I don’t like to step out on my girlfriend,” he corrects you, and you roll your eyes. “I just like you.”

“Stop saying that.” you warn.

“I mean it.” he says simply.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble if you keep talking like that.” you reply nervously.

“The risk is so worth it though, don’t you think?” he murmurs conspiratorially, and you stare at him blankly.

”No.” you reply flatly, entirely unamused.

Haechan pouts—somehow handsomely—and nudges you with his shoulder, saying, “Come on… try living a little.”

“No.”

”You know you want to.” he coaxes, and you grumble unintelligibly under your breath.

”What I want is for you to drop the subject,” you say, batting your lashes at him for the effect. “Pretty please?”

His gaze darkens slightly. “Beg again.”

“I didn’t beg!” you splutter, both indignant and flustered by the shift in the air. “I requested politely.”

“Well, request politely again. You’re really cute when you do that, you know.”

”And on that note, this conversation is over. Now,” you say slowly, patting your lap and nudging him with your shoulder. “I think we should probably get back. Y’know… before they notice we went missing.”

“I guess you’re right,” Haechan agrees with a reluctant sigh, gathering your and his food containers and standing up. “Lead the way, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper loudly, and he grins cheekily as you two make your way to exit the museum café.

“Stop liking it and I’ll stop doing it.” He retorts, stopping in front of you suddenly so you bump into him.

“Haechan!” you can’t help but laugh at his refreshingly playful nature, and he looks over at you with a twinkle in his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of a brat?”

“Yes, actually.” he replies thoughtfully. “But it takes one to know one.”

You stop short and he turns back to look at you curiously. “Are you calling me a brat?”

“Yes,” he replies easily with a smile. “Yes, I am.” And before you can retaliate, he’s speed walking towards the garbage to throw out your waste, stopping just in front of the exit to wait for you. When you get closer, still staring at him with narrowed eyes, he shoots you a dazzling smile and opens the door, holding it for you.

”Ladies first.”

“Oh, now you’re a gentleman.”

“What do you mean, ‘now?’” Haechan replies, shocked. “I let you sit first, I held the door for you, I threw out your garbage for you and paid—”

“Which you definitely shouldn’t have done, by the way.” you interject, and he stares blankly at you. “Don’t get me wrong, my wallet and I appreciate you greatly, but I was more than capable of paying for myself.”

“It’s okay,” he muses lightheartedly, shrugging. “You can just make it up to me sometime.”

You pause, staring at him suspiciously. “And how would I do that?”

“I’ll come up with something,” he replies with a small secretive smile.

“I don’t like the sound of that.” you say slowly, and he laughs, throwing his arm around your shoulders goodnaturedly.

“It won’t be anything drastic,” he assures you. “Just something like… a kiss.”

“A kiss?” you splutter, and he grins, nodding. “You’d better be joking.”

He turns his head towards you, tightening his grip around your neck not enough to be overbearing but just enough to prevent you from turning your face away. “And what if I’m not?” His voice softens as he continues, “Hm?”

A long silence passes between you two—far longer than socially acceptable—during which Haechan stares pointedly at your mouth and you attempt to avoid doing the same. After what feels like ages, you break the tension-laden quiet by clearing your throat and walking forward and out of his embrace.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” you say over your shoulder, and Haechan chuckles as he catches up to you.

“I do.” he replies simply, and you snort. He leans over, bringing his lips to your ear, and murmurs, “And I think you like it.”

TA DA!!!!! i hope you enjoyed your read! the second part will be up in exactly two weeks! reminder that (only if you’re able) tips are very much appreciated, as is positive feedback! if you’d like to be added to the taglist, just shoot me an ask and please make sure your privacy settings are updated accordingly!

ORRRRRR you could sub to my patreon, where the whole fic is already posted in full!! (

LINKS: KO-FI // VENMO // CASHAPP // AMAZON WISHLIST // (if you’d like to support via paypal, let me know off anon!!)

#haechan smut #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #lee haechan smut #donghyuck smut #lee donghyuck smut #will be making a masterlist !!!!!!!! and tagging ppl in the reblog!!#haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader

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sunnami · 5 months ago

Text

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

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

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

You want to go to sleep already.

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

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

You miss your cat.

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

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

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

“Daphne!”

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!”

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

But there is nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms.

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

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

You are tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

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

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

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

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

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

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window.

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

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

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent.

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

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

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

To do what is right.

To endure.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!”

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

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insufferablelust · 4 months ago

Text

GEVĪ [BEAUTIFUL] Aemond Targaryen x F!Sister!Reader

This work contains mature acts, Minors DNI. 18+ Only.

Two dragons, hatched from the same womb, nurtured by the same hands, yet bestowed with different fates— how do you, rekindle your love for Aemond after he has left you to pursue your mother and brother’s wishes? well he will show you how.

Words counted: 7.2k

Content include: 18+ MDNI! Targcest (canon incest practice of the Targaryen house), Smut, Sex, Oral sex (F receiving), Heavy corruption kink, breeding kink, Slight exhibitionism (Sex next to window), Choking, Claiming of maidenhood, Manhandling, Slight degradation, Reader has the attributes of the Targaryens (silver hair, purple eyes etc), Mention of blood (nothing graphic), Slight angst (mention of fidelity and arguments nothing heavy), Mention of usurping the throne (half-canon), LOTS of pet names (i’m a sucker for those).

Hello! this is my second HOTD character fic, yes this one is smutty too lol, its a filler i wish to post before posting the completed requests, this is NOT BETA’d, because i’m slammed with work so I apologize, however, a friend of mine will try to beta this soon (so it’ll be revised). Remember that english is not my native language so bear with me. My request is always open for HOTD characters. Enjoy and let me know what you think! thank you my loves.

Masterlist

The soft pitter patter sound of your nieces and nephews makes you giggle in delight, their tiny puffy hands clutching the dragon figure, making gestures of flying them around, as they make sounds to imitate the giant beasts. Jaeherys and Jaehaera were playing on your personal chambers, as you hand invited your older sister, Helaena, to have a chat. You have always try and take care of Helaena, even when she is the older one, you hold a strong contentment to make sure she is alright, especially knowing her hardened path with that of your older brother, the King himself.

“Do you have a name for this one, sweet Prince?” You tenderly asked Jaehaerys, taking one of the dragons on the soft fur carpet up ahead of his line of sight, “Sunwyre!” Jaehaerys exclaimed excitedly, making you throw your head back and laugh softly, his mispronunciation have always warmed your heart, the innocent nature of children, their pure conscience, not yet tainted by royally duties, nor know the taste of power, their world filled with imaginary tales, and make-do creatures.

“Your father’s dragon hm? and what about… this one?” You hold another dragon figure now, a bigger one than the last, this one has the color of dark green, oddly reminding you of a certain someone’s dragon. Ah. “Vhagaw!” it was Jaehaera’s turn to answer, a shy quiet little girl just like you once were, but bright and intelligent nonetheless. Your lips curled into a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the adoration of your niece and nephew. You had hopes for them, even through this impossible times, that they uphold the values of their mother, Helaena, more than they do that of your older brother, Aegon.

“Vhagar? uncle Aemond’s dr—“

“Hm, the most powerful one, isn’t that right, Jaehaera?”

Your head snapped backwards as you heard his velvety voice, gulping quickly at the moment you caught sight of his figure, standing tall, leaning against the entryway of your chambers, head tilted, eyes darted to you, and lips stretched in a knowing grin.

“Aemond…”

It has been awhile since you saw him last, having been too angry to bid him farewell when he went on his way to propose a marriage deal between he and one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters. He sought you out for hours leading up to his leave and the days afterwards, yet you always manage to elude him, breaking your regular routine of breaking your fast with him, and retreating to your chambers at the earliest convenience, even strictly telling the guards stationed at your door to never let anyone in, even the Prince himself, not that they can say much if he insisted, but you know if he heard of your hardened resentment, he would never push you. No, not his little sweet sister, the delight of his days, the beacon of his visions, the only decadent part left from his viscous life.

You had spent your days crying inside your chambers, for you know it was selfish of you to be mad at him for doing his duty, but the pain had eaten its way through your heart, gnawing ever so brazenly through your sanity. You had refused to talk to your mother, only limiting few chosen ladies of your maids to be of assistance to you— once telling Alicent that you have no desire with entangling yourself in her business to Aegon’s crowning.

You see, Aemond and you were always inseparable, from the day you were born, he had been so infatuated by the small babe cradled by his mother, someone other than Helaena that he saw his mother doted on, he admitted that he was jealous of the treatment both you and Daeron received, something he never felt from his own mother, but alas your soft velvet nature is incredibly difficult to resist, not by his mother and well, certainly not him. A pretty little thing you are. Always so gentle, docile, never fuss much even as an infant. He would always play with your babbling lips when you talked about your lessons, or how you have dreamed on claiming a dragon of your own.

Your silver locks of hair as the curtain to your beautiful supple face, eyes alike his— lilac with tinges softer, your pink dewy lips… oh the stuff of dreams to him, curve of your neck which usually adorned by the various jewels your mother sought out for you, your enticing figure— growing into a grown Princess that bewitched him beyond belief. You are the epitome of everything he was not and never will be, an angelic dew scented nymph, to his raging soulless dragon.

Growing up with you alongside him was what made his life bearable, even through all the bullying he has suffered by the hands of his own brother, and nephews as well as the petulant ignorance of both of your parents, you made it all somehow possible. You would tend to him, fill his days with the stories and knowledge you have learnt from your Septa, blabbering about the story of the Conquerer’s war in the Dornish region, and fluttering his heart when you speak of your pious upbringing, obviously influenced by his mother.

It was you who cleaned his wounds when Aegon had pushed him too far, it was you who always listened to his heart’s content— during his darkest depleted epoch, it was you who wiped his tears after he was presented with a pig by his brother and nephew, sweet you— who have claimed yourself a dragon, one gentle hatchling when an egg was placed on your cradle. He was wary then, that you too, would cast him away, make him feel small— but alas he had judged you too quickly, for you never do any of his blackest imaginations, instead you would warm him up to your little dragon, a gesture which granted him confidence to later tame the beast herself, Vhagar.

But he had left you. For some other Baratheon girl. He left you to crawl into your hole of despair and insecurities. Damning yourself on what had you done for fate to be so cruel to you. What had you done for the Gods to banish his hands away from your own.

“Sister…”

His tone had been gentle, you looked away as you could not even peer into his eyes for you know he would be able to see the looming tears on your gentle violet eyes, one he had seen in his dreams each night since his return back to the Keep.

“Here, Jaehaerys, how about you play with Sunfyre, hm?” Your voice was shaky, eyes fleeting everywhere but at him, you are desperate to run away, anywhere but here, “Jaehaera, come, accompany your brother with Vhagar, yes?”

“Yes, auntie.”

“Good girl, Jaehaera, my sweet princess.” You kissed her temple lovingly, feeling saddened that you had to pry away from your niece and nephew so soon, but you had to go away, “Helaena, I must go, I shall catch you later during supper, yes?” Your eyes met that of your older sister’s distant ones, who just hummed, as she continued to draw some sketches on her brown paper. You were always grateful for her inquisitive mind, now more-so. Pecking a small kiss to her temple before standing up.

“Little one wait—“ You felt his hands graze the peeking flesh underneath the slit of your gown, the touch was— exhilarating, igniting that dragon fire inside of you once more, yet you paid it no mind, not now, you thought. Heels walking past him, making a beeline towards your reading chamber, the only place where you can escape.

Sighing softly, your eyes shut tight, the memory of his voice, his touch, his look, and even the feeling of his breath so close yet so far away, it makes you shudder. Gods, you think. Even after leaving you astray for days, he still leaves such an imprint on you, as if he had claimed you from inside out, and you have naught but a small grasp on your will to deny him.

You moved aside, setting yourself beside the door as you slowly drop to your knees, head thrown back against the wall— heart beating way too quick for your own comfort, what in the Seven hells—

“I thought I’d find you here…” You jumped slightly at the sound of your chamber doors opening as well as the sound of his voice again, of course he’d find you here, you thought, he was the one that had begged your mother to designated this place to become your safe haven in the first place, he always found your love for Old Valyrian literature to be as magnificent as you are, and had wished to accommodate you with all there is to know— a tutor, the ancient tomes, and the room itself.

“I do not wish to see you.” You stilled your gaze to the balcony far ahead of you, distracting yourself from his overwhelming presence— his voice, his tall lean figure, his musky smell that strongly resembles home for you, and his oh so devoted attention. “You do not mean that…” There’s a pang of guilt when you heard the softness of his voice, yet you ought to scoff and bit your lip instead.

“You know nothing of my wants or desires, brother.” You cringed at the shakiness of your own tone, scolding yourself at your constant reverie of him, making you lost inside your own thoughts, with tongue too numb, and throat too tight, “Why don’t you fly back to your Baratheon girl on Storms End? you ought to be excited to wed her, are you not?” Venom laced your voice, nails digging onto the soft lilac ensemble you had worn today. He chuckled.

How dare he.

“Little one…” He trailed, crouching down beside you, his thumb and index finger reach out to grip your chin softly yet demandingly all the same, you struggled against him, “Ah ah, do not fuss now.”

“Let me go.”

“Look at me, sweet girl, please?”

Sometimes you wish that the Seven could just curse your brother out for a bit, so that you do not have to be subjected to your own weak will against his own domineering charm, you looked up at him albeit reluctantly, oh how have you torn him to pieces with that look alone.

Your eyes are glistened with unshed tears, lips flushed and slightly pouty just as you used to do when you were a child— begging him to stop studying history and to play with you instead, Aemond does not know how does one capable to hold his life in the gentle crook of their palm, but here you are… his precious little sister, the core of his being.

“There you are, pretty princess..” He gently trace his knuckles across your cheek, then down your jaw, neck, and move to tuck strands of your silver locks behind your ears, softly caressing your hair, “What is it that makes you so restless, hm?” You scoffed at his pathetic attempt to sound dumb to your dilemma, knowing he is far too smart to not know.

“You left me, lēkia.” Brother. Your eyes darted away again before he tuts and tugs at your chin once more, “You know I only do what is asked of me, gevī, to help Aegon secure his throne…” Beautiful.

“Yet, you could not have proposed a better deal?” Your gaze sharpened at him, heart tugging tight at your ribcage, suddenly remembering his promise to you when you were once only seven, and then again during every single one of your name day.

I will never leave you, dōnus ñuhys, you are destined to be my queen, for all the Seven can never deny us.

“Tis’ my duty, sweetling, you know I—“ You rolled your eyes at that, tugging your chin free from his hold but remain your gaze at his own, “So it seems that you have chosen your duty over me then, brother, I should have known I was never more than a vessel to fill your desires with.”

“Left you for a few days, and you run your tongue as you please hm?” You shivered, flush heat spreading through your skin, down to the apex of your thigh, Gods, “Do you deny it, Aemond?” You gulped down your nerves, eyes finding his lips tilted in amusement, his little endeavor has left his sweet girl went feral, it seems.

“A vessel for my desires, you say… little one, how can you be just that when you have me wrapped around your little fingers—“ You were about to retort back, “Ah ah, let me speak.” He grabbed your fingers in his, tilting his head like how he did when you were kids. “All of this, I do for you, as to keep you safe, if that takes me to wed some girl to put you on the throne as My Queen, then tis’ a sacrifice worth my lifetime.”

“How come you do this for me if we shall never be together?” A tear fell from your eyes at last, unable to form other ways to express your distress, “If it is the throne that takes you away from me, I never want it.” You averted your gaze for you know that your brother has always desired Aegon’s throne even before it was bestowed upon the eldest, and he will do whatever it takes go get it as it was his birthright.

“Pretty girl with such pure wishes, you are.” He mused, both hands come up to cusp your jaw, directing your eyes back at him, clicking his tongue, “I will not let you get any less than what you deserve, the realm at our feet with you by my side.” For sure you could never conclude which is sharper, his stare that makes your spine tingle, or his words— full of high promises, one that is dangerous to talk aloud, one that would grant him a harsh slap on the cheek from Mother, one that can cost him his tongue.

“But… Aeg—“

“Do not let that worry your pretty head, little one, just trust me like you always have hm?” His promises were too sweet to resist, the temptation to breach what is beyond the comprehension of your family is too ripe for the taking, you are sure that if either your grandsire or mother have heard of this, you both will never set foot in King’s Landing again, but alas your childhood fairytale always clung to him, his words are inescapable… and well, if he will be damned as the consequences, then you may as well join him, for the world is a dull one without his devotion.

You crack out a tiny smile, one he always cherishes, once it was the center of his boyish infatuation, then it became the only thing other than Vhagar rumble or the promise of the cold hilt of Blackfyre that enlighten his youth, then it became his end goal, your smile— your beautiful oh so sweet saccharine smile. Fuck.

“You know I will always tru—mm!”

The declaration has yet to leave your lips, barely through your tongue when suddenly his breathing fawns over your cupid’s bow, the feeling was exhilarating, his lips—warm lips engulfing your own, gentle at first, like how he had kiss you once, twice, thrice when you were younger— the last one being the night before your sire had died, a day before he set out his proposal to the Baratheons, oh how you’ve missed this— him.

His palm hold a strong grip on the side of your neck, making you gasp and bringing you back slightly down to earth, you didn’t even realize you were floating in the bliss this whole time, “Aem—“ Your sweet voice, he thinks, so soft whimpering his name that the sound is enough to make his breech tighten. Aemond cuts you off by kissing you harder this time, tongue prodding against your lips so you may grant him an entrance to your wet cavern.

When you showed a little resistance through your teasing giggle he bit the bottom of your lip— now red and raw from his ministrations, you mewl deliciously, as he takes his chance to slip his tongue inside, oh, you think, the pressure is so immense, the swirl of his tongue tangling with your own overwhelms you. Aemond explores every inch of you, his thumb grazing at the pulse point on your neck, making you shudder and slightly arch your back to reach out for him, before he parted you both.

“Uh what—“

“Stand up, Princess.” He commanded, holding his hand out to help you up, you tried to stand as steady as you could but there is no mistaking the way your knees wobbled ever so slightly— damn him for making you so weak, Gods.

He spared you no time to muddle with your thoughts before pressing you to the wall beside the door, you whimpered at the sudden force, but he is careful on placing his palm behind your neck to protect your delicate head from the intrusion with the wall. “Aemond, what are we doing?” You asked, eyes glimmering with adoration, admiration, love, lust, fear, anticipation, and everything in between.

He smiled at you, scorching hot sent right to the core on the apex of your thighs, his eye flutter shut before pressing his forehead against yours, his nose also nudged into your own, lips flushed against your quivering one, “What we should have done a long time ago, sweetling.” Aemond moved his fingers to graze against the column of your neck, “Making you mine, in every sense there is, wholly.”

You trembled at that, if it weren’t for his strong grip on your hips and neck, your knees would have buckled and fell then on, you take a deep breath— closing your eyes before entangling your hands around his neck, pressing your lips back to his awaiting red, now tongue and teeth battling in the midst of pure pleasure, hot white whines, and mewls escaped your throat.

Aemond’s arms slipped from his grip on both your neck and hips, crouching down slightly— lips still interlocking with yours ferociously, he hooked them up under the back of your knee before pulling you towards his hips, you moaned through his lips, “Ah!” Wrapping your legs around his back, he effortlessly carry you to the nearby table— places you on top of it, one that so conveniently sat beside the oh so grand window overlooking the surrounding area of smallfolks outside the Keep.

“I have waited years to do this, riñītsos.” He grunts against your lips, you claw at his neck seeking him closer and closer to you, for any space between you felt like a void of infinity— fearing that it, too, will take him away from you again, “to devour you as I please…” He trailed, lips canvassing your skin with heated marks, first the corner of your lips, then to your jaw— oh and your most sensitive part, on the column of your neck. You shivered and let out a wanton whine. Little girl.

“To take you as I want to…” His teeth graze against your pulse as you arch your back, eyes sewn shut, pretty girlish pink lips parted with melodic whimpers escaping them, your skin heated— hands grabby for him, “To make you mine, my little petal.” You gasped as he bites down at the exposed skin, “Aemond!” Your cunt is surely drenching your smallclothes by now, but you spared it no thoughts, for you are too meddled in your blissful paradise.

“When the time comes,” After making his mark, albeit the color is a gentler one than he’d hoped, he grazes his fingers along the silk of your white dress, right atop of where the fabric seal the supple flesh of your breasts, the delectable bud that begs to be caressed, sucked, and worshipped, “Will you let me, hāedar?” His eye glinted at you, so gentle yet ravenous all the same, “Kessa, lēkia.” Yes, brother.

He passionately grunted, pressing his forehead against yours as his nimble fingers unlaced the intricate details of your dress, you are glad that you wore a rather relaxing dress today, for it is not so hard for him to loosen the laces and let it gently fall from your body— the silk pooling at your thigh against the desk, “Gevī.” He muttered as his eyes scanned through your ever so soft skin, from the way your neck is slightly arched backwards from your heavy breathing, your exposed collarbone, to the oh so mouthwatering swell of your breasts. He can feel his breeches tightening to the point of painful tugs, not that he cares much. Beautiful.

“Kostilus, Aemond…” You whimpered when his lips ghosted over your collarbone, “Ah ah, quiet, Princess.” His deep amber voice rattles your spine like no other, “Let me taste you.” He whispered, fingers moving to tug a gentle grip at the reddened and darkened bud on your breasts, “Mmnh!” You moaned delicately, arching your back with your palm flat against the desk behind you, your figure enticing and inviting him even closer. Please.

You bit your lips hard— harder than you should when Aemond engulfed the blood filled buds up to his lips, he goes gentle at first, suckling like small babe would but then he grows ferocious— “Gods!” You yelped as he bit at the hardened flesh, causing you to shiver once more, bucking your hips to try and assuage the building pressure at your cunt, now wet and weeping to be filled. Him… by him.

Aemond did not dare stopping his ministrations, one hand tugging on the other one as he continues to suckle on your nipples greedily, your nails dug through the hard material of the desk but you have naught care to it, for your brother is keeping your nerve ends alive— lit with fire and blood.

“Your purity has always been mine to corrupt, little one…” He trails as he moved to crouch down, his lips also trailing a soft kisses path down your tummy, to your navel before tugging at your dress a tad bit forcefully, as it fell to the floor below, he makes a quick move to release you of your smallclothes, wasting no time to stare intensely at your now exposed fluttery soaked cunt, “My my, Princess… look at you…” He groaned, making you mewl.

“S-stop looking at… me like that.” Your hand moved downward in a shy attempt at covering your now exposed flushed mound, which he clicked his tongue at— as if he is scolding you, and grip your wrist tightly, “You will not deprive me of seeing what is mine, sweetling…” He keeps a hold of your wrist, as you wiggle about, “Your cunt is mine, to taste, fuck…”

“Aemond…” You can no longer hold the wanton sounds originating from your bewildered state, body so flushed with heat and desire that your mind has reduced to blank fuzzy space of just him, him, him.

“Mine to own.” His other thumb move closer to your heat before pressing it softly against the throbbing bud that is your pearl, “I— ah! w-what…” Mix of confusion, thrilling pleasure, and indescribable rush flows through you when you feel the blissful pain from his fingers that had pinched your pearl, you desperately try to keep your moans and tears at bay, however, that proves to be fruitless when Aemond decided to replace his fingers with his mouth. You were done for.

“Slow down! mmnh!” You writhe in his hold, feeling his tongue slide from the fluttering of the silky entrance of your cunt and drags your sweet nectar up against your pearl, the bud thrumming in attention, relishing in the licks and suckle of his sinful lips, “Seven hells, riñītsos…” He let out an sadistic chuckle against your dripping petal, making you shudder, “You open up so beautifully… for me, tastes better than any Westerosi wine.” You clench tightly on nothing, he hummed at the sight. Little girl.

“Please please!” You begged, your body folding, grasping his silky locks on your hand, Aemond looks up at you with so much vigor as he continue working his tongue and lips on your cunt, the constant ah-ah-ah leaves your mouth, filling his ears. Aemond pushes a finger past your flushed opening, “Relax, sweetling, let me in.” He said with faux gentleness.

“I—oh!” Your peachy lips drops and your tongue lolls out at the intrusion of his index finger, curling it up as he inches in, your cunt is tight, tighter than anything— and you are not just any maiden, he thought, you are his sweet little maiden of a sister, “Syz riña.” He hummed against your nub, continuing his earlier work of suckling on your pearl as his finger eases in and out of you. Good girl.

You can only gasp and let out strings of mewls at the feeling, it’s so good, you think, so so so good— it feels better than being intoxicated in goblets of wine, it feels better than any gifts you have ever been given as a Princess of the realm, it feels better because it is given by Aemond, you concluded.

Your lips curled in pleasurable tandem, feeling your cunt clench like blooming flower around him, his lips leave you no choice but to submit to both him, and your upcoming peak. There is a strange yet powerful tugging at the base of your tummy, something about to snap— “Aemond.. I.. Gods, I think—“ You mewled desperately.

He looked up to you then, smiled and chuckled deeply, “Tis’ okay, little one, peak for me.” He urged you, mouth suckling around your peal, biting at the nub almost mockingly, combining with how the tip of his finger right on the spongy part inside you, curling them with purposeful jabs— your only response is a high pitched scream of his name followed by strings of girlish pet-like mewls as your cunt gush around his fingers.

“Good girl, my good Princess.” Aemond cooed, his tongue greedily lapping up the sweet saccharine nectar from the now fluttering oversensitive tightness of your cunt, “Mmh.. c-can’t..” You wiggle from his hold, shaking your head as your body shake with the aftershocks of your heightened pleasures— the feeling is akin to that of when you rode your dragon, Valyx, the majestic red winged creature that bonded with you.

“Shh, I know, too much hm?” Aemond hummed, releasing his finger out of you as your opening winked at him— what a petal of a slut you are, made just for him, pure and ever so decadent—“What did.. what happened, Aemond?” Oh you looked at him so so softly, demure and skittish, shy. Just like a kitten would. He suppressed the way his cock is begging for release just at the sight of your corrupted flushed face, and shivering body.

“You peaked, sweetling.” His voice deepened considerably, as does his lilac eyes, “Peaked? oh… like..” Your hands went to cover your face as you heated up, only for him to click his tongue and grip your wrist tightly, “Ah-ah, no need to be shy, little one. It felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yes but—“

“But no, Princess, from now on you should expect to feel like that from me, understand?” His voice is soft, although strained by lust and his desire to just fuck you then and there, he had to wait though, anything to make you feel more at ease with your body and the pleasure he brings to you. His innocent little sister.

“I suppose that’s okay…” You whispered timidly, which causes his heart to flutter, Gods, he will give you the fucking moon and rebuild Old Valyria from its ashes if it so pleases you, “Did you— did you do that to Floris too?” You asked, eyes are darted to anywhere but him.

He sighed, “Poppet, what are you talking about hm?” You shrugged, oh his sweet angel, always such a possessive little thing you are, knowing what you want yet restricted by your gentle nature, “I have not and shall never give that to anyone but you, my sweet, t’was a deal I myself never planned on following through.” He said, looking up at you— his eyes glinted with nothing but honesty and love for you, you’d know because of the numerous time he had lied on not being in pain after the torment he had suffered at the hands of your own brother and nephews.

“But what about Aegon, and mother?” You whispered, now looking at him, “Won’t they be furious if they knew? wouldn’t it be… treason?” The word leave an acid feeling on your tongue, it feels like you’re accusing him, Aemond knows you better than anyone else though, he knows you mean no foul— it showed you care for him.

“They can voice out their complaints to me when I am King, little one, it matters not.” Your wyes widened at his implication, excitement and thrill oddly runs through your blood at his declaration, Gods, you have no more care for formalities or ideals, not when he is here— not when this is what you can have.

“Brother…” Both of your palms come up to cusp his face, your finger gently peel the eye patch he wears— the movement has his eye fluttering, yet he bears no resentment to your action, only affection, “I want you, take me as you wish.” You are many things, hesitant in your steps— that innocence shines through most of the time, but none came when you said that, only truth and love. Solely devout to him.

Something animalistic flashes through the glint of his eyes, something feral, so driven by passionate affection, devotion, and lust—eternally for you, “As my Princess’s wish.” He muttered before standing up fully to his height, making you crane your head up to look at him. You watched as he tugs his coat and sleeves off, your eyes danced on his pale skin— his sapphire that taunts you with promise of unnerving fealty, and overwhelming dominance.

Exposing his upper body to you, your finger trail a feather light touches to his skin, a tad of your innocence apparent in the way you felt him yet you’re also teasing him with how you press on certain spots, in which he only smiled and chuckled at you—his wanton little slut wrapped in a saint goddess bodice of a Princess— admiring the way his muscles tense, the way his masculine musk penetrated your senses— so his, so so his.

Aemond then tugs his breech loose, letting it drop to the stone floor below— there he is, permeated by the sun shining through the slit of window, all in his naked glory— so enticing, your mouth waters as you gazed him fully— mouth agape, a loud gasp slipped from your mouth as your eyes focuses on the throbbing length of his cock, oh you almost cooed, he is hard—length so full with blood and tension, it looked like it was going to burst, the veins protruding on his shaft, darkened and angry, his tip is flushed a reddish color— thick and inviting, with the opening dripping with his arousal— oh how you would so easily taste him.

Your fingers swiftly went down to grasp his length, thumb about to swipe away the spend on his tip before he holds your wrist—you looked up at him like a child would, he was vastly reminded of a face you’d make as a little girl when he had taken away your lemon cakes just for fun— oh your pouty raw and bitten lips, your puffed out cheeks, your eyes that radiates want want want, silently begging him, Gods, you’d be the death of him.

“Aem—“ You whined like a spoiled little brat you are, oh he’d have so much fun taming the living soul out of you, later though, he thought, “You will get your taste later, little one—“

“But!” You and your stubbornness, he thought, oh but he’ll relinquish in the joy and thrill to break you fully— mould you just for him, “Ah ah no, behave, sweetling. Pouty mannered little girls will not get anything other than denied of their peaks, you do not wish for that, do you? hm?” Your spine shivered at the tone he used, so mocking, making you so small, especially with his fingers on your wrist and the other on your chin— scolding a child—yet the only sound that escaped your pouty lips are soft desperate mewl and whine.

You are so fucking sweet, he was ready to come then and there.

“N-no Aemond… I will be good for you.” You whispered, eyes glassy, lips trembling, he breathes heavily, “Oh sweet dove, shh you will get what you want.” He hummed, moving his fingers to gently run through your luscious silver hair, lips leaving an oh so sweet peck to the crown of your head.

When you nod to his words, he leaned in to kiss you ferociously, his palm move to your hips, bringing you to the edge of the desk as your tongue dances in a fiery battle— well less of a battle when you consider that he dominates you— “Uh!” You moaned as his thick shaft touches the soft pulsing wet folds of your cunt, you’re incredibly soaking the table beneath you by now.

Aemond groaned at the way your cunt is opening up to him, fluttering around the very top of his tip as if inviting— daring him to just slide in, though he restrains himself because this is your first time, he will go gentle, there’re plenty of times to break you later, he mused. “Syz, riñītsos.” Aemond purred deeply, “Ready?” He sweetly gaze down at you and your quivering form, pressing a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose. Good, little girl.

“Mhm.” You nodded, voice naught but a small whimper, one of Aemond’s palm reach down to grasp yours in his, intertwining your fingers to his— his other hand grip the base of his throbbing length—You let out a loud gasp as you feel him breaching your wet entrance with a swift motion, the tip is in and you cried.

“I-it hurts…” Tears dropped down from your eyes, “Shh, doing so well for me, sweetling.” Aemond cooed gently at you, holding him back from indulging in the feeling of your unimaginably tight tight tight warm wet flowery cunt grasping the tip of his cock— Gods has to reward him for his resilience for he can wait little longed than to come right then and there, you’re intoxicating, too sweet for him and way too fucking tight.

The Prince kissed your lips gently, lovingly as if to ground both you and him, the softness of his lips bringing you back to earth slightly— but mayhaps it was to distract you for what comes next, you wailed loudly as he pushed in more of his length, your cheeks now drenched with tears, chest heaving, and cunt clenching around him ever so torturously, both of your fluids mixing below you, feeling the wetness help him to push in yet more inches, filling you to the brim.

“Full Aem… so full, too big…” You truly ought to send him to an early grave, he thought, “You can take it, my sweet girl taking her brother’s cock like the perfect girl she is.” Aemond cooed against your ear, the praises consuming you whole, the pain from your core gradually subsides as you feel him waiting— you heart warmed at the gesture— he’s waiting for you to be comfortable.

“Please… please continue.” You whimpered, craning your head backwards as he pressed his thumb against your swollen pearl to relieve the pain, “I-ah! fuck me, Aemond.” Your comment might’ve been brazen but he doesn’t miss the way your body shivered at your eyes drooped, lips curled just as you did whenever you revert back to your girlish demure self. Oh his sweet little girl, being brave just for him, his little dragon.

He shushes you all at once, both palms on the either side of your hips as he slowly experimenting by moving his hips backward so that only half of his length is inside of your tight haven, before thrusting back in, deep deep deeply, you both moaned loudly at that, the feeling of his cock in and out, in and out, in and out of you is heightened— you can feel his veins against your walls, clenching tightly— holding him in a vice grip.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Aemond grunted, his hips faltering a bit but keeping a nice steady pace as you mewl, cunt gushing his cock with the pain now dulled and replaced by pure white pleasure, you swear you can feel your ear rings, “Perfect little cunt for a perfect little girl.”

“For you! ah!” The plethora of moans and whiny gasps that left your lips has his head spinning, “Gods made you for me, to be mine.” He possessively growled, increasing the pace of his thrusts as he leaned down to capture the sensitive part of your skin just below your ear and leave a reddish purplish mark.

You can do naught but to take the way he thrusts thrusts thrusts in and out of you, his curved tip always hitting that spongy spot inside you, making you dizzy and drunk— cockdrunk and dumb on him, your lips agape as he continue to nibble marks on your skin, you could care less on how you will conceal that later, too wrapped up in bliss of his grunts and the feeling of his cock inside of you.

“One day you will bear me an—fuck! heir, you hear me little girl?” His thrusts are borderline mean now, hips rutting inside you as if you’re his drug and he cannot deprive himself from your sweet intoxicating cunt, “Yes! Gods yes! as many as you want.”

The sound of the skin slapping inside the room will for sure frighten anyone, especially guards outside the door, but you had hoped that mayhaps someone from the council might able to hear, so that they know Aemond is irrevocably yours— and so that they know you will bear his babes, heirs— none of that arranged marriages for political gains, just you and him, thrumming with the strong bond of Old Valyria, the dragon’s blood danced and merged.

Aemond pulled away from your neck as he looked at you with eye full of love love love, lust lust lust, and adoration, like he would worship the ground you walked upon, and even you knew he would if you asked. At one of your loud mewl, he bring his thumb to rub harsh circles on your pearl making you grip him as you soak him and your thighs even more.

“Mmh Aemond…”

“I know, close aren’t you, Princess?” He taunts you, all the while you do not have the strength anymore to care, for you are so so so close to reaching your peak, utterly desperate for it, “Uh huh, please please please.” Oh you sweet sweet dove, begging him like that, how can he ever refuse you? his beautiful little sister? he might be mean but not so mean to deny you of your peak.

“Shh, little one, I know what you need, you trust me don’t you?” His tone is sickly sweet, mocking and genuine at the same time— your mind having been too fuzzy to comprehend it only let out a muffled whimper, “Mmhm..” He laughed at that, finding you so unbearably cute, just his little dragon wanting to come so bad, it makes him wanna fuck his seed into you more.

“C’mon my sweet, i know you can do it.” He urged you, all of it— the hot breath against your skin, the nibbling, the way he circled your pearl so sinfully, the way his cock impaled you open— all of it is just too much, addictive. “Peak for me like the good little whore you are, hm?” His voice is rough, hips faltering in his pace— obviously holding himself back from releasing into your womb.

“Nnmh, not a- not a whore.” You hiccuped in a high pitch, oh his sweet little girl, he chuckled at you— looking at your pathetic teary eye, cheeks drained— as drained as your cunt is soaking his length, “My little princess, the purest of maidens, the finest of whores, mine, nobody else’s.”

“I- ah ah ah! Aemond!” You clenched your cunt so tight around him as something snap inside of you, the dam broke and once more you can feel yourself hitting that plethora of pleasures— brain fuzzy, only Aemond, only him him him. You peaked— body trashing, and flushed all over for you are unable to control the movement of your limbs and muscles anymore— too drunk on his cock.

“Good girl, shit, my good fucking girl.” Aemond cooed but the harshness of his voice indicates that he, too, is close, “Gonna come too now hm? want that little one? my seed inside you?”

“Yes yes yes, uh huh, give it to me please.” You begged him so sweetly, how can he refuse? after all you’re his little sister, his Princess, he never gave you less than what you deserve, even that one time when you asked to take the remaining berry tart that he wanted so bad yet he let you have it, or that one time you begged him to show you the tunnels inside the paintings, the one that holds Balerion’s skull knowing he’d have to evade Ser Cole, or that last time you asked him to kiss you before he went to Storms-end, anything for you. Everything for his Queen.

“Fuck! Gods you’re perfect, going to make you my fucking wife, I swear it.” He possessively muttered, or more like babbling now— too obsessed with the way you hug him so tight like he’d disappear, or the way your cunt clutch him in a come come come motion. “Give it t’me.” You pleaded, voice so soft it makes his head heady— He simply can’t resist you, “Seven fucking hells.”

Aemond shuddered as he released his spend inside of you, the tip of his cock right against the opening of your cervix, enough to make itself known but not enough to hurt you, never to hurt you, not when it does not bring you pleasure. “Thank you thank you thank you…” Your voice is barely a whimper now, your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth parted with your lips lolling out. Sight to behold indeed.

“Shh good girl, my good little girl.” He hummed against you, looking at you with adoration as he slides out slowly— you whined at the loss, already accustomed to being stretched by him, he shushes you one more time as he hold you— seems like you’re a bit gone inside your fuzzy little head.

“My little dragon, so good for me, hm?” He cooed at you, one hand holding you close to him, as his other palm cups your cheek, rocking you slightly, “Come back to me, little one, c’mon, I’m right here.” He whispered, grounding you back down as you hiccuped slowly.

“Aem…” Your voice is barely there but its there, it’s you, and Aemond smiled knowing you are alright, “Here, Princess, did so good f’r me.” He kisses all over your face, making soft pecking noises that has you giggling softly and make an attempt on nudging him away, “Stop.” You whined adorably like a little cat, which he laughed at, “There’s my girl.”

By the way you smiled and blinked at him, he just know that he would give you all 7 realms if you asked, make you his Queen, and demolish all your enemies, so that you shall rule with him— as it always meant to be. The dragons that lived through the dance.

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