#i am the worst ever at titles

[incorrectpizza]

Hehehe know how I said literally 72 hours ago that I wouldn't be posting anything for @sabezraweek because of my concussion and general life chaos?

Fic also available under the cut for anyone who would prefer to read here on Tumblr. :)

Ezra’s cleaning up the tower when he finds the holoprojector. 

He’s halfway through a drawer of seemingly sentimental junk - an old comm of his, one of Ursa’s hair clips, Sabine’s own paint sprayer - when he spies a puck he doesn’t recognize. Curious, he flicks it on

He’s greeted by a younger Sabine, not much older than when he’d left. Her hair is the same dull dark purple as when he’d left with Thrawn all those years ago. It’s a bit longer though. Sabine sighs and runs a hand through it.

“So, it’s been a while since I’ve dyed my hair. I haven’t been able to since- since you and Kanan. But, well, things go on. I hoped you would be back by now but still no leads. So, I decided today would be the day.” Holo-Sabine holds up a can, shaking it. Then the image flickers and she returns with flaming pink hair. “Not bad for my first dye job in a year.”

Ezra’s eyebrows scrunch A year ? Sabine Wren, Mandalorian artist extraordinaire who dyed her hair at least once every six months, if not more, had been so out of sorts she hadn’t dyed her hair for a year ? 

In their brief reunion, he’d gotten the sense she’d missed him a lot. But not dying her hair?

Before his brain could come to any dramatic conclusions, the hologram glitched, faded, and returned. Sabine’s hair, a solid, shimmering lilac shifts into a gradient, the tips darkening to indigo. She tilts her head and spins to show all the angles before disappearing.

Holo-Sabine reappears with a full head of indigo holding a hair tie, a single odd lilac strand hanging down. A padawan braid?

“So, it’s been two years.”

She gathers her hair together as she speaks, knot nearly reaching the nape of her neck.

“I decided after the last dye job to let it grow out a bit. What do you think?”

Holo-Sabine smiles, but the expression is hollow. 

“So much has happened. Hopefully you’ll be able to come see yourself soon.”

The image fades and for a few seconds there’s nothing before Indigo Sabine reappears.

“I’m going to try something new. I’ve never done any sort of red hair because I dyed Tristan’s red once and he looked hideous. It doesn’t mesh well with the Wren complexion, but I’m feeling creative and I think this shade might be just the ticket.”

She pulls out a box of chestnut dye and sits it directly in front of the holoprojector. 

When she pulls it away, her hair is an odd shade of red slightly akin to the sky on Atollon.

“That was a very bad mistake.”  She shakes her hair out of the ponytail.

“Unfortunately, I can’t fix it for at least a week, and there’s a big banquet coming up soon.”

A static image displays next. Red brick haired Sabine in a floor length gown unlike anything Ezra had ever seen her wear. 

A meow from Murley alerts him to the fact his jaw is no longer aligned with the rest of his face. He clamps it shut, quickly, biting his lip in the process.

“Lesson learned.” A blissfully dark haired Sabine says. Hair the color of caf dangles past her chin, brushing against her shoulders, a few strands hitting her collarbone. “Worst two weeks of my life so far. I am never dying my hair anything close to red again."

The image shifts to Sabine sitting with a towel wrapped around her hair.

“I wish you were here.” 

Sabine closes her eyes and yawns, leaning her head back against the back of the coach.

“Force, Ezra. I just don’t know what to do without you around sometimes. I don’t see much of Hera or Zeb these days, which doesn’t help. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.

“I guess I have to, though. I can’t go anywhere or do anything until this dye is done. And there’s still so much to do here on Lothal.”

The hologram pauses and skips forward to Sabine unwrapping her freshly-dyed hair. It’s a damp teal blue fading into white. 

The next image to appear is not Sabine, but Jacen. The little boy’s face takes up the entire span of the hologram, one lock of green hair brushing against the recorder for a moment before Sabine yanks him back. 

“I told you to be careful, Jacen.” She scolds, teasingly, setting him on his lap.

“Do you want to tell your big brother what you did?”

“I helped Aunt ‘Bine dye her hair!” Jacen giggles, hands gathering some of her hair and tossing it in front of the projector. Her brilliant green hair. Then he scampers down to go find Murley.

“Don’t worry. It’s temporary,” Sabine laughs and tosses it around, too. 

Her hair is blonde next - kriff , it looks so weird on her - and then purple again. She doesn’t say anything in these brief clips; Murley’s in the second one, playing with her padawan braid. 

Then a Sabine with a purple and pink gradient comes into view.

“It’s been five years now.” She sighs, and Ezra can practically hear the weight she’s carrying. He has some idea what she was going to say next, from what first Sabine herself and then Hera had told him about what happened. It doesn’t make it any easier. 

“The Empire’s gone. So that’s nice. Well, almost gone. A few stragglers but Hera and Zeb’s recruits will finish them off soon enough. And Jacen, if he has his way.” She smiles, slightly. 

The fond expression quickly disappears and as she turns her head slightly Ezra notices her padawan braid is conspicuously absent. 

“But the Empire struck one last blow. A retaliation against random worlds. Hera says one of the defectors called it Operation Cinder.

“They bombed Mandalore.”

“I haven’t heard anything from Krownest. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. But still, millions. I wasn’t- I couldn’t save them. My people.”

The transmission cut out and stayed quiet for several seconds. 

Sabine reappears with jet black hair, pinned up in a bun with the Clan Wren clip Ezra found earlier. 

“Krownest’s gone.” She sniffles, wipes her nose on the back of her orange shirt. “Mom. Dad. Tristan.”

“I wish you were here. I don’t know- I don’t know how you did it.”

Seven more hairstyles appear in rapid succession, solid pictures, flicks of hair. Black with pink tips. Black with green tips. Black with blonde tips. Brown, the color of her brother’s hair. Her natural color? Ezra wonders, absently. The same brown, but faded into pale pink. Then a whole head of pink, slightly darker. Pink into orange. 

And then purple faded into white, the reverse of the dye job she’d done after Malachor. The one she’d let him pick, that day she forced him to snap out of his trance with Maul and be himself again, if only for a few hours. It’s braided up into a severe bun, almost like the one Ezra remembers her mother wearing all those ages ago. 

This Sabine sits still in front of the camera for a few seconds, then speaks.

“Ten years.” She said. “What are you like now, Ezra? Have you changed your hair at all? Does the Chimaera have any razors or do you have a scraggly beard?” Ezra scratches his chin, fingers deep in his magnificent beard, and he scoffs slightly at Sabine’s lack of faith in his ability to grow facial hair. 

“I miss you.”

Then she shakes her head, letting it out. Hair spills past her shoulders, past her elbows, almost to her waist. Ezra gasps. Murley opens one eye and looks over at him, annoyed. 

Ezra doesn’t care. 

He’s transfixed, wondering what it would have been like to run his fingers through Sabine's long hair, and how much she’d experimented with that much canvas. 

He doesn’t have to wonder long.

Sabine appears again with hair dyed four different colors: Orange into yellow into pink into purple.

“Pretty cool, huh?” She asks. “I think it’s getting a little too long, though.”

She chops it off, live, on screen. She doesn’t say much - just a bit about how she misses even Chopper but doesn’t get to see any of the old crew often. 

“I miss you the most, though.” She confesses. “Hera told me that maybe recording would help, and I think it has. But I’m ready to start looking for you. Really looking. Not just researching and waiting on Ahsoka or Hera to find a lead.”

She finishes with her hair still well past her shoulders. 

“Not yet, though. I still have a piece of artwork to finish.”

One last Sabine pops up, with freshly dyed purple-pink-orange hair. “Almost done.” She says.

Then a much more familiar Sabine pops up - shortly cropped, dark purple hair. A bit of makeup. And armor. 

“It’s time. Ahsoka found something, just after I finished my mural in Capital City. I can't wait to bring you home."

The holo goes still, fades, and Ezra's sure it's done. 

He bends down to pet Murley and nearly falls over when Sabine's voice came back a solid thirty seconds later.  He scrambles back to his feet, grabbing the counter to pull himself up. He found himself staring right into Holo-Sabine’s eyes.

“If you’re seeing this, I guess I’m not there to hit pause and I owe you an explanation.

“I knew you were counting on me, and I knew you needed to come home. There’s so much in the galaxy you need to catch up on. And you have a little brother to meet.” Sabine smiles, a hint of sorrow lacing her expression.

“But most of all, I needed you. Whatever it took. If I’m not here…I don’t have any regrets. I’m just glad you’re home.”

She pauses a moment, runs a hand through her too-short hair, lets out a shaky breath.

“Ni kar’taylir darasuum, Ezra Bridger.”

Ni kar’taylir darasuum ?

Ezra furrows his brow as he pulls out a datapad and types in the best approximation of Sabine’s words. Murley jumps up and meows, and Ezra pushes him aside gently to reveal the confirmation of the hunch he's had she held him on Peridea like she never wanted to let him go.

“I hold you in my heart forever,” literally.

Or, in plain Galactic Basic, “I love you.”

[beescake]

are you secretly the CEO of solkat

solkat r the ceos of me. actually

[lovesickeros]

lord its so dark in here the sahara desert of tsaritsa content you are like a shining oasis. your characterisation of her compels me & mihoyo would be hard pressed to top it imo.!! caaaaan i humbly request yr thoughts on her first meeting w a reader of any kind, or maybe even multiple kinds (sagau, sagau god au, isekai, etc) if you so desire...

it really is like a desert here. being the fan of a character we aren't getting until the last damn nation is driving me up a wall but i will persevere bc if nothing else i support morally bankrupt women in media. we r in a severe drought over here but i do my best. unfortunately nothing i say is ever coherent so pull out your translation notes its abt 2 be messy

also this got out of hand but thats bc first meetings w the tsaritsa are tricky to write + a LOT of her characterization lies in deeper exploration then just surface level yknow...NOT A DIG AT YOU this is just my excuse for rambling. gently pats the tsaritsa she can hold so much complexity i do not have the word count to delve into it completely :]

gonna talk cult au for a bit here though because that's 99% of my content. and honestly? she thrives in sub au's of the cult au like villain au + imposter au. it's basically made for her. i mean, early days, the imposter au had been going around for a little while but one of the first few ideas was the Fatui taking reader in so like. it kinda technically actually was. pretty sure cult au Tsaritsa popped up because of the imposter au. a lot of it's writers kinda left though which. man am i getting old or.

anyway.

there isn't much of a chance her first impression is all that positive. at best it's usually neutral, imo, but rarely if ever positive. specifically because i view the Tsaritsa as someone who isn't as fanatical as most of the acolytes typically are towards the creator. she's not exactly going to worship the ground you walk on unlike a certain geo lizard. which is partially why i think she thrives in the sub au's i mentioned.

imposter au, for example. she meets you at your lowest. there's no gaudy extravagance or pampering from the acolytes waiting for you because your own acolytes have turned on you. for all intents and purposes you aren't a "god" at all. which is why i don't think she meshes well with normal cult au reader. the Fatui are made up of outcasts, basically, and imposter au slots right in just perfectly. you're weak, at your lowest, when you meet the Fatui in the imposter au. and the Fatui can help you, too.

a mutual exchange, really. the Tsaritsa sees a tool she can use to one up the rest of the nations and especially Archons, and she has no qualms about you using her and the Fatui in turn. you both want something out of it, after all. whether you just want to be safe from the rest of the acolytes, or you want revenge, or whatever else..she'll give you the power to fulfill it, and she gains the strongest piece on the chessboard when all is said and done.

the best way i can describe the first meeting is "practical", i suppose. she sees an opportunity in you. the ultimate gamble. because if she "saves" you, and you dont trust anyone else because they tried to kill you, well..she holds all the cards, doesn't she?

but the Tsaritsa, imo, is just as capable of being just as fanatical towards you as anyone else. she just won't worship you as the creator. but as yourself? clawing your way back to your divine power and taking back what belongs to you? the Tsaritsa is, to me, a character who's character flourishes in long-term fics more because she changes a LOT between "just met reader" and after having been with reader for some time. she's practically apathetic at the beginning but a lot of her character, in my characterization, shines through LONG after the first meeting.

[starbuck]

riding a wave of depression to the end of the worst year of my life and realizing that there’s not really anyone i feel safe confiding in… cool, cool, very cool…

[alexjcrowley]

Just saw the F1 (Brad Pitt) movie trailer thanks I hate it

[ozlices]

im like sincerely so sorry bc my most shameful flaw is that envy is one of my favorite characters in the entirety of fma which is like. listen it's genuinely irredeemable but she knew exactly what she was doing when she made envy the pinnacle of gender envy bc my non-binary ass is NOT immune to feeling the gender envy to the highest degree for that little freak

[gattmammon]

SOMERTON SAID WHAT ABOUT ITALY????

[theblehthatbloos]

I'm going rabid right now, someone please freaking help me.

I've been trying to find a reaction image for the whole hour to no avail. The two people that I've explained this to have no idea what I'm talking about and said I'm insane.

I'm looking for the picture where a rat(mouse?) person says "Hey, you're funny." and sits on a rabbit person's lap. There on a couch and it's done as, like, a comic?

This thing:

Please help me

[darabeatha]

[nightrae13]

lol, look what nostalgia I rediscovered online.  

~ Enomoto siblings being a mess in the Ima Suki ni Naru arc~

[gobbluthbutagirl]

there are two wolves inside of me and one has a massive superiority complex and the other has a massive inferiority complex and one day they will bite each other’s dicks off and bleed out but until that day comes i just have to suffer and so does everybody who reads my posts

[storiedhistories]

THEY’RE A 10 BUT… // Accepting

@missallanea asked: [ THEY’RE A 10 BUT … ] he continues to try and argue about himself being the better shot. You can say it until you're blue in the face, darling, it won't become true. / vex for percy uwu

"I'm only the better distance shot," he amends, glancing over at her with something of a smile. "You're far more accurate than I am, especially when my guns blow up in my face."

[the-kipsabian]

okay. i need to talk about this otherwise it will drive me insane. that gif set i tagged you in. in like almost all of the gifs, oc's injured hand doesn't move. which makes sense if it's hurt and all. but then when he says he'll fight for the international title, he moves his injured hand. idk if he's just trying to fight through the pain or his body is just reacting automatically to the idea of fighting while injured. with the belt corruption, it's pretty obvious it's pushing him past his previously assumed breaking point, so could it be the belt, trying to push oc more and more past limits he thought he had, even through physical injuries? idk idk. i just found that so fascinating and it probably won't mean anything on TV, but in our AU... that could mean so many fucking things

(post in question) (gif credit @/hoodyhoo, tumblr search didnt show it to me)

i just. love the body language in this whole thing so much honestly. you can see he really doesnt use the hand this entire time while talking, but he talks most with his face and hes clearly moving the rest of his body to get the point across

but when it comes to this, everything else in him tenses up while he moves that hand, clearly signaling pain. like look at that face. he looks so stoic like hes trying to hide the pain, only slightly blinking (which also. thats the one part he blinks in this. just. you know)

like cassidy is already stoic as fuck character, but this is like. man doesnt even show pain normally. hes clearly pushing through it tho, the hints are so small and subtle, but they are there. but also this aint normal for even him. especially if you consider the lengths he went to literally SCREAM during the match about his pain like. i understand hiding your pain and broken bones cause this is still a competitive sport and with someone constantly on the hunt for their victims weaknesses as house of black is, yeah, it makes sense

but him keeping up with character up until the point he is forced out of his zone? THATS INTERESTING

this is such a short clip but its a perfect build up to everything. im just intrigued now knowing that best friends are in action on friday, cassidy will most likely be there, aussie open has plenty of potential backup to show up to show off to him... how is that still clearly fucked up hand gonna play into all of that, and against who? how much more of this are we going to get?

[yuumei-art]

Unreachable

Wandering mind, full of creation

Meandering lines, lost in elation 

Each stroke, I broke a little inside

Each fate, I hate. My will defied

I painted this in Feb 2022 about what it's like to be an artist with repetitive strain injury. In 2008, When I was 18, I made my first comic titled 1000 Words, it was about an artist helping a little girl with a broken family similar to my own. It received such positive feedback that I changed my Environmental Science major at UCBerkeley to Art major. Ever since then, my goal has been to tell stories with my art. Stories that are important to me. My next comic, Knite, was about a boy who wants to put the stars back into the polluted skies of China, my homeland. The comic after that, Fisheye Placebo, is a cyberpunk story about living in the age of technology, about fighting censorship and propaganda.

Unfortunately, I never got to finish Knite nor Fisheye Placebo. By the time I was 24, I was drawing day and night with no regards to my health. Not only did I get repetitive strain injury in my drawing hand, but my entire health suffered. My roommates had to rush me to the ER after fainting one night. I remember looking at my swollen right hand, my fingers like sausages, not even able to hold a pen, and just cry.

I've gone to the doctors and physical therapists. One told me I have Lupus (I do not), and another told me to put ice on it. More recently, I met a friend who happens to an amazing physical therapist and he was able to help me regain a lot of use of my hand. At my worst, I could only draw an hour a week, but now I am able to draw 2 hours a day. My hand is unlikely to fully heal, but I'm so grateful to regain what I have.

To my fellow artists who suffers the same, please know you're not alone. I can't promise that it'll get better, and it's cliche to say don't give up, but I want to keep hoping that no matter what the world throws at us, we will continue to make art.

[liinos]

i could never be one of those kpop reaction youtubers i'd be killed on the spot 😭

[sunnami]

the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.

summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.

pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.

wc. 4.1k

tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.

cws: brief mention of violence and blood.

note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.

i. 

SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.

After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.) 

He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them. 

He wanted—

He did not know what he wanted. 

For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks. 

Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays. 

No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you. 

“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.” 

He thought so, too. 

“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.” 

You had not replied. 

Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you. 

(But you had done so first.) 

When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.

It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you. 

It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.) 

But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love. 

ii. 

JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.) 

The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive. 

But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it. 

No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”) 

What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb? 

It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”

It was a plea this time.

He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you. 

Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”) 

In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded. 

“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed. 

But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you. 

Make no mistake about that.

Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.

 (But not to love.) 

“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe. 

(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.) 

He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you. 

James did not love you. 

But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you? 

Not. Love. 

iii. 

REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No. 

Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that. 

“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain. 

He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones. 

“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.” 

One question lingered in your eyes: Why? 

Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.” 

But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone. 

“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms. 

Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)

“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return. 

“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”

They all would.

But not because they loved you. 

It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile. 

It was the least he could do. 

For failing to protect you. 

But that was not love. 

(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)

iv. 

LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered. 

And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before. 

This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better. 

“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .” 

Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you. 

She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”) 

And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)

Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight. 

“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily. 

And that was that. 

Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side. 

“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much. 

“Is that. . .?” you croaked. 

Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—” 

One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever. 

Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.” 

Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence. 

For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?

But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.

(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)

v. 

YOU did not love them, either. 

The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know. 

Because you did not love them. 

Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love. 

Surely not. 

Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend. 

The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny. 

Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel? 

Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows. 

Was love that unkind? That merciless? 

Then, you did not want to love at all. 

Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish. 

You were no different. 

You wanted. 

Oh, how you yearned. 

“I LOVE YOU.” 

You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts. 

“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?” 

“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.” 

He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.” 

–

“I love you.” 

In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him. 

And you had loved him fiercely for that. 

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.” 

-

“I love you.” 

“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice. 

“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch. 

You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” 

And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.

“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” 

–

“I love you.” 

Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.” 

You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.” 

“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.” 

“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.” 

“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread. 

“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.” 

“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”

“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.” 

And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.

You loved them. 

And they loved you. 

a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!