#i had no idea how to display these lmfao

[ariapsds]

*‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎this pack contains 6 simple icon borders of various sizes,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎all of which are seen below. *‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎the font used in all of these is arial,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎which should be included on all computers. *‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎i'll hopefully make more in the future,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎but for now,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎if you would like any quick icon size adjustments:‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎reach out via dm. *‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎download here,‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎this is free but please consider donating to care for gaza.

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[wheeboo]

tell me that you love me | joshua hong {part one}

SYNOPSIS. in which you and joshua are simply different in more ways than one, yet only seem to find a common ground in struggling to chase your dreams. so why does life keep throwing you two at each other, despite your different worlds, and why does it feel so terrifyingly right? PAIRING. musician!joshua hong x deaf-artist!reader (ft. cafe owner!jeonghan, musician!seokmin, best friend!seungkwan, best friend!wheein, producer!jihoon) GENRE. fluff, slice of life, kdrama romance-esque, mild angst, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn WARNINGS/TAGS. cursing, shua and reader has some self-doubt issues :(, someone makes insensitive comments about reader, mention of alcohol (beer), mention of cigarettes, everyone ships them, kissing, terms of endearment, Softie Domestic Joshua™, it conveniently rains when they're together, this is 85% fluff and 15% plot and the brainrot was giving me an existential crisis, honestly there's not much warnings it's just a love story <3 WORD COUNT (FOR PART ONE). 20k WORD COUNT (FOR FULL FIC). 37k

notes: after 7 months (minus the 2 months i lowkey abandoned this oop), it's done! this fic could have honestly been 20k words, but the brainrot refused to do so. inspired from the kdrama of the same name and the jdrama Aishiteiru to Itte Kure. any uses/descriptions of sign language (ASL) throughout the story is researched! expressing my love to all my mooties who suffered listening to me talk abt this fic. i hope this fic being long doesn't bore you all to death <3 funny enough, this was also supposed to be a very very very belated bday fic to @slytherinshua LMFAO. ty to @bananabubble for also helping me a lot with this fic too!

part one | part two

“Okay, so to recap: the espresso machines are on the right side of the counter, just next to the pastry display. You'll get familiar with them really easily. The barista station is behind them, where all the little doohickeys are, yaddi-yaddi-yadda…”

“Aren't you supposed to be teaching me where everything is?” Joshua asks in slight annoyance after securing the apron around his waist.

Jeonghan just chugs a wet, dripping rag in his direction, narrowly missing Joshua's head and landing with a damp plop on the counter. Then he wipes his hands on his apron, shooting a small wink at the other man. “Patience, grasshopper.”

“Why did you decide to hire me again?”

“So I can finally kick you out of my apartment," Jeonghan answers, a playful bite to his voice, and Joshua only rolls his own eyes. “in a non-violent way, of course.”

“You're actually an imbecile, Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Oh, but you love me.” Jeonghan smirks, plucking the wet rag from the counter and shoving it in Joshua's hand. “Chop-chop, grasshopper, you got a whole day ahead of you.”

Joshua Hong was never one to detest helping out a friend𑁋his best friend, to be specific. He knew Jeonghan was doing this in order to help him out as he had been living under the man's roof for the past two years, with the promise of finding a new place testing his patience. Even with his nightly gigs at the busking centre in the middle of town, having a day job to earn some extra money seemed like a very good idea. 

But he seriously doesn't understand how Jeonghan managed to open up his own café in the first place. It's remarkable, actually.

The day is surprisingly slow. Even with the café being in the mere heart of the city and amidst the morning and afternoon rush, barely any pastries were taken from the display. The only sounds come from the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the wall, and the obnoxious screech of the stool that Jeonghan sits on not that far away.

However after some time, the familiar, soft chime of the door echoes throughout the café, announcing the arrival of a customer. Joshua finds his head immediately snapping up after fumbling with the frother, a welcoming smile dawning across his face as he smooths his apron and takes his place at the register. 

The figure in front of him is momentarily enveloped by the sunlight that seeps through the large window panes. He waits for them to step fully into the warm glow of the café, his eyes drawn to the way they hold themselves𑁋shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked deep within the pockets of a lightweight jacket, and seemingly a book tucked under their shoulders. Their steps are slow, soft even as they approach the counter, and a smile, gentle and hesitant, plays on their lips.

“Hi, welcome in," Joshua greets politely. “What can I get for you today?”

You find yourself gazing at the unfamiliar barista in front of you with meticulous curiosity, before letting your eyes drift to the nametag on his shirt: Joshua. His eyes immediately dart down to your hands that you lifted up on instinct, then hesitation gnaws at you, and suddenly you drop your hands back to your sides again.

“Our menu is up here.” Joshua motions above his head. “and our pastries are over here, if you would like to take a look.”

You wave your hand dismissively, then fumble for your phone, showing him an order written on the screen.

hot vanilla latte - extra foam - name is y/n

“Hot vanilla latte, extra foam?” Joshua repeats, confirming the order with a friendly smile, and the response he gets is a pair of thumbs-up. “And the name is... Y/N?”

Your face lights up, feeling some heat threaten up your neck as you offer a small nod to confirm.

There's something endearing that blooms in Joshua's chest as he punches the order down on the register. The moment is stretched with long silence before he watches as you quickly turn around to head to the outdoor sitting of the café. He sees you place yourself down at one of the seats, back turned towards him, and all he could do is let his eyes linger for a beat longer before realising that he actually has to make your order.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as he sets to work. He fumbles slightly, steaming the milk for your latte and carefully (and clumsily) creating a cloud of airy foam.

When he places the mug on the counter, his eyes drift back to where you sat outside, the slight breeze and midday sun casting down on the patio. He notices that you're hunched over, seemingly concentrating on something, and he can't help but wonder what occupies your thoughts. With the latte in hand, he heads towards the door, the bell above the door softly chiming. 

The sun paints the city in dappled gold, and a light breeze sways through the air and catches a strand of your hair that floats like a wisp. It's a picture-perfect scene, and Joshua thinks you fit right into it, all while hunched over a small sketchbook and pencil in your hand flying across the page.

He hesitates right behind you, unsure how to get your attention without startling you. Every option that he mulls over seems intrusive and jarring.

In the end, Joshua decides on a gentle tap on your shoulder. As his fingers make contact with your shoulder, a sudden jolt runs through your body, and you visibly startle, your hand flinching involuntarily and coming in contact with the mug in Joshua's hand.

The glass mug slips from Joshua's grasp, crashing down to the floor in thousands of tiny shards. Hot coffee splashes, hitting the skin of both of your hands and splattering on your sketchbook. Gasps fly from both your lips, echoing throughout the quiet patio. You wince in your seat, nearly causing you to stumble off but you manage to catch yourself.

For a long moment, Joshua could only find himself frozen, yet when he notices the pained look on your face, he instinctively reaches out, grabbing your hand without thinking. Your fingers curl around his in a startled reflex, your skin warm against his own. He cradles your hand in his, pressing his palm against your skin, as if trying to shield you from the worst of the heat and the glass scattered around the two of you.

Adrenaline courses through him as he pulls your hand back, examining it frantically. A thin red line crosses near your thumb, a tiny bead of blood sprouting at its edge. Panic claws at his throat, but he forces himself to stay calm. You're watching him, eyes wide with a mix of shock and pain, and he sees his own fear reflected in your pupils.

“Crap, I-I'm so sorry!” he blurts out, voice rough with regret. “Are you okay? I shouldn't have... I should have been more careful…”

You watch as Joshua's eyes scan your hand, the features of his face noticeably soft and etched with concern. The warmth of his hand cradling yours sends a jolt through you, something unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.

When you look back up at him, he asks if you're okay again, your gaze focusing in on his lips then back up at his eyes. You can tell he's worried𑁋he even seems breathless from all the panic too. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you silently answer with a nod.

The air seems to thicken with awkwardness. Joshua's gaze lingers down on your hand cradled in his trembling ones, the sight of a tiny cut on the flesh between your thumb and index finger sending a fresh wave of shame to come crashing down on him.

When you both lock eyes once again, you feel a flutter in your stomach. Then Joshua clears his throat, a million apologies tumbling over each other in his mind.

“I, uh…” he begins, then stops, unsure how to proceed. “Does it hurt a lot?”

You realise he's asking about you, and you peer down at your hand, the sting of the burn momentarily forgotten in the face of his genuine worry. It's just a small red line, a minor burn that will fade in time, and a tiny cut where the glass had scratched. But the warmth radiating from his hand cupped over yours feels oddly... comforting.

You shake your head, then motion to his own hand, as if asking the same thing.

Joshua blinks in surprise. He examines it, a small line of red just starting to show from a small cut, and a tiny calloused area from the burn of the coffee. It was barely noticeable, and it admittedly stung with a dull ache, but he wouldn't acknowledge that𑁋he didn't want to make you worry. It's not that bad, he thinks, but his thoughts are instantly replaced with concern for you.

“Here, let me... I'll get some bandages for you.” He gently releases your hand, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary, and rises to his feet. “And a new drink, of course. On the house.”

Before you can give him a nod or anything, you watch him walk towards the café, the sunlight reflecting off his dark hair. He turns back once inside, and your eyes meet across the wall of glass. You offer a smile, and raise your hand in a small wave. He returns one sheepishly, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes just slightly, before disappearing to the side.

You stand up as well, shooting a glance down at your sketchbook, the brown splatter bleeding across a corner of the paper. It didn't look like a lot of it was damaged luckily𑁋you could probably incorporate it into the drawing somehow. The thought seems to soothe you.

Joshua mutters curses to himself as he struggles to find the first-aid kit underneath the counter in the employee's only restroom. He rummages through a drawer, tossing aside spare toilet paper rolls until he finally lays eyes on the small white box labeled First Aid.

“Knew you wouldn't be a great match for this,” Jeonghan's voice rings out suddenly as Joshua retrieves a few pieces of bandages, the man finally emerging after what seems like a long ass hour of a break.

“You finally regret hiring me now?” Joshua scoffs playfully, waving the bandages in front of Jeonghan's face. “They haven't spoken to me at all, so I have no idea if they're okay or not.”

Jeonghan lifts up an eyebrow. “They aren't speaking?" Some silence passes. "Is their name Y/N?”

Joshua looks back at him. “Yeah, why?”

“They come here a lot, like a regular, usually just drawing and stuff, I think,” Jeonghan points out, pursing his lips together. “and… they’re also deaf.” 

The age of seven was the last time you heard your voice.

You went to bed ill with a high fever that night, only to wake up the next morning in a muted world. The change wasn't a gradual muffling or a sudden pop like a balloon bursting. It was all simply... gone. You didn't hear the pitter-patter of the morning rain against the window, the rumble of the air conditioner, or even your own heart beating in your chest𑁋but you could feel it. 

At first, you thought it was a trick, perhaps a dream that had somehow bled into reality. You screamed, but no sound escaped your lips. You shook your parents awake, but their worried questions were met with your frustrated silence. Tears streamed down your face as they rushed you to the hospital. Then all the tests, scans, diagnoses𑁋they all came to the same the same result: a sudden, inexplicable loss of hearing.

Learning to navigate the world growing up without sound was a slow, exhausting process. You learned to read lips, got used to communicating with sign language, understand the subtle cues of body language, and rely on written words. Your world shrunk, confined to the walls of your home and studio, the familiar faces of your family, the lens of your camera, and the canvases that could speak for you.

You got used to this world of silence. You got used to the fact that you have to live in harmony with those around you, to put in that extra effort to understand them so you could simply be accepted and heard, for once. At a young age, you became adept at expressing yourself through art𑁋capturing the beauty of the silent world you inhabited, the emotions that flowed through your fingertips onto canvases and photographs.

Honestly, the world is so beautiful. Even though you can't hear the bustling city around you, the distant conversations, or the groans of traffic, you've learned to see and appreciate the world in a way others might overlook𑁋finding beauty in the stillness that surrounds you. The way sunlight dances on the leaves, the gentle sway of trees, the vibrant colours that paint the sky during sunset, the look of love between two lovers. 

The city is especially colourful at night. Neon store signs burning bright against the dark canvas of the evening sky, people around you moving in routine patterns, and cars flying down the streets. You've perfected the art of capturing these moments, freezing them in time with your camera, and bringing them to life with just a simple brushstroke.

You can't hear the laughter spilling from a nearby work dinner or the murmured conversation of a couple walking hand-in-hand, but you see it all in the tilt of their heads, the curve of their lips, the spark of their eyes. You watch the way their bodies move, the sway of their hips, the swing of their arms, and their stories unfold before you like a silent movie on a grand screen. And that in itself, is beautiful. 

You click through the photos you've taken throughout the day on your camera carefully, biting your bottom lip in concentration. There's a photo of a child chasing pigeons in the park, a flock of birds flying through the cloudless sky, a cat lounging in a window sill, and a smile breaks across your lips.

However, you find yourself accidentally bumping into something, or someone. Hastily, you bring your head up to the stranger to apologise, yet they walk away before you even could. Letting out a sigh, you bring your attention back to your surroundings, and your eyes widen to the crowd of people gathered in the small square you hadn't noticed before.

Your eyes dart around, trying to scan through the sea of faces while slowly pushing through the crowd as your curiosity gets the best of you. And when you get yourself to nearly the core of the crowd, you could only freeze to the sight in front of you.

There's a man perched on a wooden stool in the middle, a guitar entangled in his grasp and a microphone stand standing idle in front of him. You can hardly make out his face since you're standing to the side, but for some reason, all you can do is watch in awe.

You can't hear his words, of course. But you feel them. You feel them in the way his fingers dance across the strings, in the way his head dips with the melody, in the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. You see them in the way the light catches his hair, in the way the shadows dance on his face, in the way his eyes flutter open for a fleeting moment.

Then a sudden urge makes you reach for your camera, quickly turning it on and bringing it up to your eyes. And with a simple click of the shutter, you capture the moment in a perfect frame, before weaving through the crowd once more and back into the fresh air of the city.

You look down at the photo, and it tugs at your heartstrings. The nearby lighting catches his face just right, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the gentle curve of his smile. He's lost in the music, his skilled fingers dancing across the strings of his guitar, eyes closed as he seems to pour his soul into every note. You zoom in on the photo, admiring the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

He looks familiar, somehow. You rack your brain, trying to place him, but your mind draws a blank. You've stumbled into the busking area by accident countless times and captured endless moments through your lens, but this one feels different. 

The vending machine swallowed his dollar. Literally.

Joshua pounds his fist on the lousy machine a few times, wraps his arms around it like a koala hug and attempts to give it a few shakes, hoping that the drink would somehow drop to the bottom, but nothing happens. Letting out a groan, he takes a step back and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. Great.

He glances around the area, scanning to find some sort of alternative solution, and his eyes set on a convenience store just a few blocks down. He takes a few steps in the direction, before something brushes past him and causes him to stop.

“Hey, the vending machine doesn't work…” Yet when he turned his body around, he didn't expect to see you making your way to the machine, tapping on the keypad and inserting a dollar, all for the machine to spit out two cans of sodas.

Joshua watches as you bend down to retrieve the cans, peering down in confusion at the second one in your hand. Then when you straighten and look back up, the two of you suddenly meet eyes. 

There's a brief pause, and you can't really tell if Joshua is staring at you like you've grown a second head or something else. Then you glance down to the extra drink in your hand, and ah, it clicks.

Your lips move in a silent question, and Joshua realises you must be offering him the extra can. He waves his hand, signaling that it's okay, but you insist, gesturing for him to take it. With a grateful smile, he steps up to you and reaches out, accepting the cold can from you, his fingers brushing over yours briefly.

Joshua watches as you click open the can and take a sip. When you glance back at him, his lips part, then close again, his brow furrowing together like his mind is cluttered. You can't hear his thoughts, of course, but the way his eyes dart from your face to your hands and back again seems like he's trying to ask you something.

“Is your…” he starts to ask, pointing to your hand, noticing that your hand appeared bare of the bandages he gave you more than a week ago. “Is your hand feeling better now?”

You catch his words by reading his lips, and you nod with a reassuring smile. Relief washes over Joshua's features, his eyes softening, and he gestures again towards your hand as if to make sure it's healing alright.

“Wait, I... Sorry, let me start this over.” Joshua seems to mentally take a deep breath. “I'm Joshua, by the way. I should've introduced myself properly first.”

You know that already, but hearing him formally introduce himself ever since your little mishap at the café brings a strange flutter to your chest. You notice Joshua shift from foot to foot, the smile to his face faltering just slightly.

“Is it okay if I ask if you're…” Joshua motions to his ear, then shakes his head, seeing that it might come across as insensitive. Instead, he points to his own mouth and then makes a questioning gesture with his eyebrows, hoping you'll understand what he's trying to ask.

You nod, understanding his question perfectly, raising your hand and making a simple sign, tapping your ear and then shaking your head. You've had this conversation countless times before, with strangers and acquaintances alike. But there's something different about the way Joshua asks𑁋something softer, more genuine.

“I should've realised sooner,” Joshua says. "I'm sorry if that came off as rude.”

You wave your hand dismissively and tap your temple, then point to his mouth, conveying that you could read his lips just as you've been doing this entire time, and Joshua could only watch your movements carefully. Though relief mixes with a tinge of embarrassment in his limbs. He hadn't meant to pry, but curiosity had gotten the best of him, and he didn't want to make you uncomfortable by putting you on the spot like that. He could tell you've probably heard this conversation many times with other people, yet you seem to handle it with such patience.

With a wry smile, you secure your can of soda under your arm before bringing your hands up, signing heartedly, “It's okay,” and Joshua watches your movements with awe and also... a little confusion.

“Can I ask what that means?” he asks slowly, curiously.

You wave a dismissive hand in front of his face, pulling out your phone, quickly typing out something before showing it to him.

It means that it's okay

“Ah, I see,” Joshua responds with a sheepish smile, attempting to clumsily repeat the action with his own hands, but he quickly brings it back to his side. “If I'm speaking too fast, feel free to let me know. I'll try to slow down.”

You shake your head, typing on your phone once more.

Thank you, but you're doing just fine, I promise

A blush creeps onto Joshua's cheeks as he reads your message. He's relieved you're not bothered by his questions, but the awareness that you've been understanding him all along makes him feel a bit silly. In a good way, of course. He takes a hesitant sip of his soda, the silence between you stretching just a bit too long. He wants to talk to you, really talk, but he's unsure where to begin.

As you both stand there, with the city's sounds humming around, Joshua feels the nerves crawling up his skin. He gestures towards the convenience store nearby, silently asking if you need anything. You shake your head, indicating that you're good, but then motion down the road, pointing at something down the street.

“Are you heading somewhere?” Joshua asks, and he feels his heart jump once he sees you nod, feeling proud for understanding what you're trying to say.

You pull out your phone again, typing:

The museum

“The museum?” Joshua repeats, picking his head back up to squint down the street. He feels the hesitation at the tip of his tongue, as if considering something. But then, the intrusive action takes over, and he points in the same direction. “Would it be okay if I walk with you? The café is near there. I was about to head there myself.”

You notice the uncertainty in his eyes. Joshua watches your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. However, you simply offer a warm smile and a nod in response, which makes Joshua feel a surge of relief. A small smile plays on his lips, and he falls into step beside you as you both start walking towards the museum.

The late afternoon sun dips below the city skyline, casting long shadows across the pavement as you and Joshua walk side-by-side, your steps falling into sync. You steal glances at him every now and then, captivated by the way his hair catches the golden rays and how the lines of his face soften. He catches your eyes a few times, which makes you both look away at the same time. It's a bit awkward admittedly, yes, but there's a certain charm to it when he's right next to you.

Joshua tries to find ways to bridge the silence, but his words tangle in his throat.

Instead, he waves a hand in front of you, earning your attention back on him.

“Do you like art?” he asks. “Back at the café, I noticed... you were drawing?” Then he does a scribbling motion with his hand.

The question hangs in the air, and you find yourself pausing to consider it. A thoughtful expression settles on your face, and Joshua watches as you take a pause to grab something from out of your bag𑁋your sketchbook𑁋before handing it to him.

He shoots a brief glance at you, as if asking for permission, but your trusting gaze encourages him. He gently opens the sketchbook. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the first page.

It looks to be a sketch of the beach, capturing the vastness of the ocean, the setting sun in the horizon, and the small details of people walking across the sands. Joshua can almost feel the warm sand beneath his bare feet and the salty tang of the air on his tongue.

He flips through the next few pages. A bustling city street, a lone bird perched on a branch, its feathers so finely detailed they seem to shimmer in the sunlight, a child's laughter echoing through a park, portrayed in a burst of joyful strokes.

Joshua feels a lump rise in his throat. He looks up at you, eyes wide with admiration and something else he can't quite define.

“Wow, these are incredible,” he manages to say. “You're so talented.”

You smile shyly, feeling the heat crawl up your cheeks as Joshua flips to the last page. In an instant, he feels his heart drop, but not in a bad way𑁋it's a page significant with the brown stain at the corner, but it's the way you seem to use the stain as a part of the sketch, blending it into the colours of the sky and the warm tones of the café.

“I was worried about your sketchbook,” he confesses, looking back at you. “I thought I would have to buy you a new one. But... I'm glad it's okay.”

He hands you back the sketchbook, his fingers brushing yours once again as the exchange is made, and you both continue your way down the sidewalk.

And then, you reach the museum.

Joshua turns towards you, and you're already looking at him. Then you pull out your phone once more, typing in a message, before showing it to him.

Thank you for walking with me

“It's𑁋You don't have to thank me,” Joshua acknowledges, his eyes reflecting sincerity. “I enjoyed it. Besides, it's the least I could do after the, uh... incident.”

You both stand a distance away from the museum entrance, knowing that you have to part ways, yet there's some hesitation in there. Joshua peers at the museum building, taking in its appearance, trying to ignore the bubbling reluctance in his chest.

“Maybe I can see you around…” But when Joshua brings his eyes back to you, you're already trailing towards the museum entrance. The embarrassment catches in his throat. He stands there for a moment with his gaze following you, clutching the can of soda, feeling the warmth radiating from it seeping into his palm.

Joshua sees you stop short in front of the entrance, turn back to him, and offer a small wave of your hand, your eyes locked with his for a brief moment. He reciprocates with a reluctant wave of his own, watching as you disappear into the museum.

He lets out a breath he didn't notice he was holding as he turns away, drinking the last sips of disappointment down his throat before throwing the empty can into a recycling bin nearby.

And while on his way to the café, the thought of you tugs at the corner of his lips.

Joshua pulls one more time on the door to the café, the keys dangling in his hand clinging loudly together as he makes sure it's all locked. When he does, he adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, letting out a deep exhale coming straight from the core of his chest. 

The sounds of fallen, dried-up leaves crunch below with every step he takes. Joshua wearily casts his eyes around, watching as surrounding local shops and other cafés switch their lights off for the night. A bus rushes past him as he continues walking down the street, bringing with it a gust of wind that ruffles his hair. The city is slowly settling into its nighttime rhythm, and Joshua can feel the shift in energy around him.

As he walks, his attention is drawn to a figure up ahead. It appears to be an elderly lady, a large box in her grasp, her movements slow and careful. The box looks heavy, with whatever inside threatening to spill over the top with every wobbling step she takes. Joshua quickens his pace immediately, concern knitting at his brows.

“Wait, ma’am! Let me help you.” Once he arrives at her side, he shifts his backpack down to the ground and reaches out to steady the box. The elderly lady looks up at him with surprise and relief. 

“Ah, thank you, young man,” she says, voice quivering slightly as Joshua hoists a hold of the entire box, a groan leaving him at the unexpected heaviness.

“Where are we heading to?” he asks.

“Just… into there.” The older lady motions with a slender finger to the tiny store tucked between a closed dry cleaner and a flower shop.

He can’t really see where he was going, but he hears the ding of a door opening and the old woman’s voice gently guiding him inside. He carefully navigates through the narrow doorway as the smell of old books, musty paper, and something faintly sweet hits him as soon as he steps inside. When he feels his foot seemingly hit the leg of a table, he cautiously sets the box on top of it, making sure it's stable before straightening back up.

“There we go,” he mutters, huffing out a tired breath. “Is there anything else that you need help with?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” The elderly woman shifts past him to examine the box, before reaching over for a pair of scissors to begin tearing into it. “These old bones can’t do much anymore these days.”

Joshua laughs faintly at that, setting his hands on his hips as he takes a look around the bookstore. It’s noticeably tiny, with only a few tall shelves taking up more than half of the space and a cluttered counter at the front with stacks of books waiting to be set out.

He swipes a random book off the shelf, some dust particles hitting his nose and causing him to sneeze. He chuckles softly, feeling a bit sheepish. The elderly lady looks up at him, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“Bless you,” she says kindly. “Not many people find their way here these days. It's nice to see a young face.”

“Really?” he questions. “It’s very vintage. I bet there’s a lot of history here.”

“For sure,” the lady responds wistfully. “You should head home now. Sleeping early is good for your health.”

Joshua places the book back on the shelf before heading his way back to the front. The elderly woman hands him back his backpack, wiping away some grime and dust that may have settled on it in the meantime. She continues to shower him with thanks even after he steps past the door. He bids her a wave and a good night before beginning to head his way back home. 

However, a sudden thought crosses his head, and he doesn’t give the way his feet turn back around much hesitation at all. 

He pushes the door open to the bookstore, swallows a lump in his throat, and lets his eyes meet back with the curious old lady. 

“Actually,” he starts, smiling somewhat bashfully. “Do you happen to have any books on sign language?”

“Did you finish totaling it up?”

“Hmm, yeah. Give me a second.” Joshua quickly flips through the bills in his hand, splitting it up as evenly as he could, before handing the rest to Seokmin. “294 dollars.”

Seokmin chuckles, grabbing the money from Joshua before unplugging the microphone. “Not too bad, to be honest, and it's on the worser days of the week.”

“It did help that you were here today. I owe you for that,” Joshua admits cheekily, packing up his guitar inside the case and zipping it up. “Got time for a meal later? My treat.”

Seokmin clicks his tongue, shaking his head while wrapping the microphone cord around the stand. “Maybe next time? I have plans.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow, picking his head up to look at Seokmin. Oh, he knows what's going on, and Seokmin isn't really the best at hiding his facial expressions, or anything really at all. The older man just rolls his eyes, chucking a small pebble in his direction, making Seokmin let out a loud yelp as he dodges it.

“Alright, alright. I get it. Go enjoy your date.”

Seokmin's face reddens, and he huffs, “It's not a date! We're just getting dinner, that's all.”

“Sure, sure,” Joshua continues to tease, standing up and slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. “Whatever you say, buttercup. Have fun, though.”

Seokmin just shoots him a playful glare, grabbing a bag of his own belongings and the microphone stand before heading off, promising another day to catch up, and leaving Joshua alone in the quiet square.

Letting out a sigh, Joshua glances down at his watch, noticing the late time displayed. He contemplates whether he should head back to the café to help Jeonghan with closing, head straight back to the apartment, or stop by somewhere to grab some food, and the thought of food makes his stomach rumble𑁋he decides on making a quick stop at a convenience store.

The convenience store is a familiar sight, one that he goes to often and tucked away in a quiet corner of the street, its bright lights illuminating the surroundings outside and the wet streets. There's a slight drizzle that starts as Joshua enters inside, the door letting out a soft chime. The cashier welcomes him with a nod as he starts to stroll through the aisles.

Joshua wanders through the narrow aisles, scanning the shelves for a quick bite to eat. His gaze lands on a shelf filled with instant noodles, and he grabs a couple of cup noodles (and a can of beer for good measure), figuring they would be enough for a simple dinner. As he makes his way to the cashier, the door rings once more, and he turns to spot a familiar face entering inside𑁋you.

Your eyes meet in an instant as Joshua fumbles with the stuff in his hands, the cup noodles and can of beer suddenly feeling heavier than a sack of bricks. His guitar nearly slides off his shoulder too.

You stare at him for a moment as if in confusion or contemplation. Joshua thinks he sees a flicker of recognition in your eyes. Then your lips curve into a hesitant smile, and the world seems to tilt on its axis. You hadn't expected to see him again, not so soon, but the sight of him fills you with a sense of... comfort, perhaps.

A bashful look washes over your face, and you offer a small wave, your fingers curling into a silent hello. Joshua returns the gesture, his own smile hesitant but clearly genuine.

The silence hangs between you, awkward but strangely filled with something, both of you seemingly unsure of what to say.

Joshua shuffles the abominable weight in his feet, the cup noodles in his grasp feeling like ridiculous boulders.

“Hey,” he mutters out, struggling for words, mentally slapping himself in the face. “I was just about to grab some dinner.”

You watch him, gaze tracing over the lines of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the nervous glint in his eyes. You feel a sudden urge to reach out and somehow wipe away the worry engraving his features, but your hands remain clasped at your side. 

He catches your gaze, and his cheeks flush with a faint blush.

“Would you like to join me?”

The offer floats in the air, hanging between the two of you like a question mark. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, and Joshua fidgets nervously, almost regretfully, while waiting for your response.

Yet unusually, there's something about this that feels... right. Perhaps it's the familiarity of his presence, or something else entirely. You've never really been asked this before, and it feels weird and a bit intimidating, but for some reason, you don't exactly want to step away. The thought of sharing a meal with someone𑁋with him𑁋shoots a bullet of curiosity through you.

Whatever it is, you want to trust it. 

Taking a deep breath, you raise your gaze to meet his. Then you give him a shy smile, one not quite reaching your eyes, and nod ever so slightly.

The cashier looks between the two of you as Joshua places the cup noodles and can of beer on the counter. The chime of the cash register rings out as he pays, and you soon follow after with your own food, placing your own items on the counter, then you both head towards a nearby seating area together.

A growing tapping of rain hits the earth outside as the two of you pick a spot in front of the windows. Joshua sets down his leather bag and guitar, and you place your own painter-splattered canvas tote right next to it.

Joshua feels a tap on his shoulder while aimlessly stirring through his ramen, and he watches as you sign him something with your hands. He doesn't entirely understand what you were signing, but he picks up the motion of a guitar, and he brightens up.

“Guitar?” He gestures to the guitar case nestled at his leg, and he watches as you nod and point at him. “Me? Guitar?”

You give a thumbs-up, and Joshua chuckles, feeling proud for picking up on your words.

“Yeah, I... I've been playing since I was young,” he answers, and you read his lips carefully. “Just as a hobby though, not professionally.”

Your mouth opens in awe, then you lift your hands up again, making a swinging motion with one arm and motioning at him, and Joshua tilts his head curiously.

“Book?” he questions, and you shake your head. He thinks again, repeating your movements. “Oh! Music? Do I make music?”

When you nod again, his heart flutters with victory.

“I play and sing sometimes. Just... small gigs and stuff, nothing too fancy,” he admits meekly. “I've written a few songs too. I guess it's a way to express myself, you know?”

You soak in his words, your eyes focusing on his lips and the subtle shifts in his facial expressions. Joshua swears he feels himself shrink under your gaze, but it feels almost relieving to tell this to you.

You bring your hands up, signing something, and Joshua watches intently, attempting to replicate your movements himself while trying to catch the meaning behind the gestures.

“You... like music?” he ventures, and you give him a small nod.

Joshua smiles at this, before it falters slightly. He opens his mouth up to speak, and you perk up, but then he closes it quickly. He feels the anxiety blooming within him, not knowing how to approach the question without making you uncomfortable.

“Can I…” he starts, feeling regretful already. “Can I ask... how do you…”

You notice the hesitation in Joshua's eyes, seeing how he's trying to ask as delicately as possible without crossing a line. But you already know what he's trying to ask, and you feel yourself willing to answer.

You reach for your phone, and Joshua observes as you type out your words, eyes lingering on the features of your side-profile for a few moments. You show him the message:

Sheet music, song lyrics, vibrations, chords, memories of sounds

“Vibrations, chords…” he leisurely reads out aloud to himself, feeling a mix of understanding and admiration course through him. And when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes widen and seem to burn brighter than the city lights outside. He understands. He gets it.

Silence stretches between you again, but it's no longer awkward; it's more comfortable now. Joshua finishes the rest of his ramen, his gaze occasionally darting towards you, and he catches the way you seem to be staring outside as the rain pours down.

He stares outside too, listening to the rain crashing loudly against the window and the occasional burst of thunder that rumbles in the distance. But then when he looks at you, all of those sounds seem to fade away.

He can't tell if you're lost in thought or simply taking in the scene, but there's a quiet comfort in your stillness that seems to draw him in.

As you watch the raindrops dance on the windowpane, a soft smile plays on your lips, and Joshua catches it. He watches you for a moment, then a sudden thought occurs to him. Slowly, he brings his hands up to his ears, covering them completely, and stares back outside. The muffled sounds of the rain and the faint hum of the convenience store fade into the distant background. It's more peaceful this way.

He likes this quietness, especially if it's with you. 

You face him, tapping lightly on his forearm. Joshua brings his arms down and veers his attention back to you as you draw your hands up, separate and curl your fingers like a claw, before doing a downward motion. He finds himself repeating it as well, head tilted slightly, and then it clicks.

“Rain?” he guesses, motioning to the rain outside before signing it again. “This means rain, right?”

Your eyes widen in victory, a grin curving at your lips, giving him an approving nod. Joshua feels something catch in his throat, but you turn back to the window before he can say anything.

“Rain,” he mutters to himself, unconsciously signing the word right next to you. Then he brings his hand up again, shooting a glance toward you𑁋you're still staring out the window, and the look of content on your face makes his heart flutter a bit more𑁋before slowly fanning his hand across his face, as if to sign the word, “Beautiful.”

“I've seen you do better than this.”

The look of disappointment to your art teacher's face is unchanging as he signs to you. You feel your hands mold into each other under the desk, fingers fidgeting as you try to process the criticism. The words bounce off the walls in your mind, and the weight of them settles in your chest. 

It's not that your painting is bad𑁋it's just not living up to the potential he knows you possess. The colours lack vibrancy, the brushstrokes lack emotion. He leans in, his face mere inches from the canvas, inspecting every detail.

“If you're ever going to put your work in an exhibition, it has to tell a story,” he assures sternly while continuing to sign. “Your art should speak, not just visually, but emotionally. I know you can do better.”

Taking a deep breath, you nod in understanding, though the disappointment lingers. You've been wrestling with this painting for weeks, trying to capture a fleeting emotion, a moment in time that you believed would speak to others, yet you realise you don't have a clear answer. He observes your reaction, and though his expression softens just the slightest, the expectation lingers.

“He’s probably just in a mood,” Wheein reassures you, hands flying in the air as she signs. “You know how he is with deadlines.”

“I can beat his ass for you,” Seungkwan chimes in, emphasizing a punching motion with his hands, which makes you let out a quiet laugh. 

Wheein playfully shoves the younger boy in the shoulders, before snatching away the cup of iced coffee in his hands.

Seungkwan pouts in mock disappointment as Wheein steals a sip of his coffee, but the playful banter manages to lighten the mood a bit.

Wheein hands back the coffee to Seungkwan and gives you a few pats on the back. “You'll get it right, you always do. Just take a step back, clear your mind, and try again, okay?”

Her words make you faintly smile. It's not a secret that you've been experiencing a lot of pressure for this upcoming exhibition competition at the museum, an opportunity for you to finally get your art out there in the world. But the thing is that there are plenty of other artists also fighting for the spot as well, and never in your life have you felt so stuck, so drained of inspiration, so dried out of colour. 

You feel a little lighter from the reassurance from your friends, but at the same time, you feel like it isn't quite enough. There's still a part of you that feels heavy inside𑁋what if you're not meant for exhibitions, if your art can't truly convey the emotions you want to express? What if you're just not meant for this? What if your art isn't enough to convey the emotions you want to share with the world?

The thought lingers as Wheein and Seungkwan dismiss themselves for the evening, and you're left alone roaming the quiet streets on your way back home. The city's lights begin to flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the dewy pavement, the streets a bit more barren than what you are used to. You try to shake off the doubt at the back of your mind, but it clings to you like the raindrops on the leaves.

As you stop at the pedestrian crossing, you shoot your eyes across the street.

A figure stands tall under the glow of a streetlamp, his features highlighted by the warm light. He's also looking across too in your direction, though it doesn't take long for his gaze to drift and land on you, and suddenly, he's waving at you.

It takes a moment for recognition to dawn on you, but when it does, time seems to stand still𑁋it's Joshua. He's standing there with his guitar case slung over his shoulder, waving at you. At first you look behind you to see if it was meant for someone else, but when you realise there's no one else around, you feel an odd pull tugging at your heart.

Because he looks... happy to see you. 

Hesitantly, you raise a hand and give him a small wave back. You notice some contemplation wash over his face, and then you observe as he brings his hands up.

“Nice to see you. How are you?” he signs, albeit clumsily and a bit slow, but the effort is cute, and you find yourself lowering your gaze for a moment to bite back a chuckle.

“Tired,” You sign in response, and mimic the gesture of rubbing your eyes, a small grin playing on your lips.

Joshua's eyes crinkle at the corners, and a soft chuckle escapes his mouth as he watches your playful sign. He follows suit, pretending to yawn and miming the act of stretching, exaggerating the movements comically. It's a simple exchange, but it breaks the ice, and you find yourself smiling more genuinely now.

He ushers a hand up to his cheek. “Home?”

When you give a nod, the signal light turns green, you make your way across the street, noticing Joshua waiting for you on the other side. As you approach him, you catch the nerves in his eyes. He shifts his guitar case on his shoulder, seemingly caught between wanting to say something and waiting for your lead.

With a small tilt of your head, you gesture down the road, asking if he's headed in the same direction as you. But he shakes his head apologetically, signaling that he's heading the opposite way. For a moment, you lift a brow in question, but then Joshua points to himself and then in the direction you're heading.

“Can I…” Your eyes focus on his hands and lips. “walk... you home?”

Your breath catches in your throat, but not from any fear or apprehension. A flutter of nerves dances in your stomach, but is quickly overshadowed by a warm feeling that spreads through you.

Hesitation lingers in the air for a moment, a tiny voice in the back of your mind reminding you of the uncertainties. You didn't want him to take a detour just to walk you home, especially since he was heading in the opposite direction. But then you see the nervous tremor in his hands that mirrors your own, and how his hopeful and vulnerable gaze holds yours as if afraid he had crossed a boundary, and the doubt seems to melt away.

And so, with a soft smile, you sign, “Okay.”

As the two of you set off, the silence that follows feels different than the heavy weight of earlier. It's comfortable, expectant, like a blank canvas waiting for the first splash of colour. You steal glances at him, admiring the way the dim streetlights play on his features, the gentle twinkle that shines in his eyes, how cutely comfortable he appears wearing an oversized jean jacket that almost seems to swallow him whole. And then your eyes set on his guitar case, and curiosity fills you.

You gesture a hand at his guitar, and Joshua raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I…” He lets out a nervous, airy laugh, fiddling with his hands as he attempts to sign and explain, “I had to get some guitar strings replaced. One of them snapped on me earlier, so I stopped by the repair shop.”

You flash him a worried look, motioning a finger at his skin.

Joshua just shakes his head, signing back comfortingly, “I'm okay.”

He watches as you tilt your head just slightly, as if in amusement, like you had caught him saying something suspicious.

You type out something on your phone before showing it to him.

The way you sign is funny

Joshua giggles quietly, and he playfully pouts, a small laugh escaping his lips. “That's mean.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest at his reaction, like a tiny seed of affection sprouting. It's almost like he's attempting to paint with his hands, and the shade isn't quite right, yet it blends in perfectly with just a few more strokes.

There are many people you’ve encountered in life who have communicated with you through sign language, and you noticed that they all have their own unique way of signing. Whether it was Seungkwan with his more expressive and sharp gestures, Wheein with her dainty and flowy style, or Joshua with his uncertain yet gentle movements, you liked they were all different. 

Not being able to hear doesn't bother you anymore, not like it used to when you were younger. It used to build walls around you and separate you from the world. Yet now, you've learned to read sounds with your eyes, hear the voices that emit from a simple smile, a frown, an arch of the brow, because there are a lot more people who can hear than those who can’t.

But out of all those people, someone was the one to wave first across the street.

Joshua finds himself staring up at the intimidating brick façade of your apartment building. When you turn back to him, you offer him a tentative smile, and there's something different about it that makes his chest tighten.

Finally, you muster the courage, your fingers slowly dancing in the air.

“Thank you,” You sign to him. 

He lets out a quiet chuckle, eyes softening. “How do I sign ‘goodnight?’”

You nearly hesitate for a second before bringing out both of your hands. You could feel Joshua watching you carefully at the way you bring your right hand up to your chin and then back down to meet the palm of your other hand, signing the word good. Then you flip your left hand so that it’s facing down, and your other hand brushes over it like the sun is setting over the horizon, signing the word night. 

Joshua watches at the way your hands move gracefully. He follows your movements carefully, a faint smile spreading across his face as he tries to mimic your gestures.

“Good... night,” he repeats slowly, the miniscule dust particles whirling around his fingers as he traces the air. His eyes meet yours, and he could possibly see the flicker of proudness in them. It's a simple exchange, but at this moment right now, it feels significant.

As you unlock the door to your apartment, you turn to look back at him, and he shoots you another wave. Joshua stands there for a moment, watching your door close, before taking in a deep breath to relax the racing of his heart.

Three years ago, Joshua Hong moved away from his family in the hopes of pursuing a music career. It most certainly wasn't an easy decision, leaving behind the familiarity of his hometown and the warmth of his loved ones.

Almost three years later, he might have realised how damn stupid of a choice that might have been.

It's a bit lonely, to put it lightly.

The gigs are sparse, the pay is minimal, and the dreams he once held so tightly in his grasp seem to be slowly slipping away as the days pass.

The journey has been anything but smooth, filled with constant rejections, financial struggles, and moments of self-doubt; and lately these lows seem to be overpowering the highs more than ever. Yet, despite all this, he still chooses to cling to this passion as if it's the air he breathes, because it's something that he loves to do.

Music is the voice he uses when his own isn't enough. He's constantly surrounded by noise, whether it's from the strumming of his own guitar, the sounds of the bustling city, or conversations from strangers that he accidentally overhears when crossing the street.

But then there's the silence𑁋the kind that settles in the spaces between chords, in the moments when he puts the instrument down and the world seems to hum a little quieter. It's in these moments that the loneliness can be deafening.

And then there was you.

The melody playing in his mind for the past week is... hesitant, unsure, much like his own feelings. He isn't sure what it is yet𑁋this feeling that tugs at his chest and paints his cheeks with a faint blush. He only knows that it's connected to you, to the way your eyes narrow in focus when your fingers dance so graciously in the air, and the warmth that spread through him when you thanked him for walking you home the other night.

It was just a simple offer to walk you home, why is it playing on repeat in his mind?

A sigh leaves him as he runs a loose hand through his hair. He tosses away the dirty rag in his hand and stores the cafe's cleaning supplies back and under the counter. The colours of the sun setting outside filters through the large windows, casting orange and red hues on the wooden tables and floor of the empty café.

“You look like you need a drink,” Jeonghan's voice rings out teasingly, and Joshua could only scoff. “You still got that gig later this weekend, right?”

Joshua nips at his bottom lip, releasing a sigh. “I've been feeling a little under the weather, honestly, and I don't really have anything prepared.” I feel like I'm losing my touch.

Jeonghan arches a knowing brow. “Since when do you back down from a gig? Just go up there and pour your heart out. It's what you do best.”

“I'm just not feeling it right now, I guess,” Joshua replies with a half-hearted smile, shoulders only taking on a shrug. He pushes himself away from the counter, and just as Jeonghan is about to crawl under his skin, the bell above the door chimes. “Welcome in…”

He should really learn how to control his stomach from flipping when seeing you𑁋the familiar sight of your paint-smudged canvas tote, the comfort you seem to radiate𑁋but it's not just you alone. There's a girl who he doesn't recognise there too, with her arm linked with yours, and another boy he swears he's seen a few times... Seungkyung? Seungwan? Seungkwan?

Joshua lets his gaze drift to you, and there's a gloom to your face that he can't quite decipher, a certain apprehension that he notices when your eyes make the smallest of contact. He attempts to get your attention by bringing one of his hands up, and you catch sight of it.

“Same?” he signs, as if asking if you want to order the usual drink that you get.

You meet his eyes, and despite the lingering doubts that have been plaguing you, there's a sense of comfort in the familiarity of him. You nod, and that's all it takes for him to brighten up, his smile breaking through the clouds that seem to hang in the air. He watches as you exchange a few words in sign language with Wheein and Seungkwan, then Seungkwan comes over to the counter to place the order.

Maybe he's just seeing things, or maybe it's his mind overthinking for him𑁋there's an undeniable shadow around your eyes that he notices when he brings a tray full of fruit smoothies and iced teas to your table. He sets the drinks down carefully, unable to ignore the way your gaze seems to linger on him for a fraction of a second before flitting away again.

You don't seem to be entirely present in conversation, often drifting off before Wheein or Seungkwan would have to nudge you back into reality. Then a ghost of a smile would draw over your lips, attempting to engage in the conversation with your hands, but all the words seem to disintegrate into ashes.

Another tap at your wrist makes you blink, and you turn to see both Seungkwan and Wheein peering at you with worried expressions on their faces.

“Are you okay?” Wheein mouths quietly, signing lightly with her hands.

Seungkwan turns his head slightly, eyeing something behind him, a scowl to his expression before it curves into a slight smirk; his back was facing where Joshua stood behind the counter, taking in orders for another group of people.

“Café boy?” he mouths to you.

You follow Seungkwan's line of sight, and sure enough, Joshua is there behind the counter𑁋mop of dark hair falling in his eyes, a polite smile playing on his lips𑁋taking and preparing orders with casual ease. You feel a gentle tug in your chest, and for a moment, your gaze locks with his. There's a flicker of concern in his eyes as he watches you, before the corners of his mouth tugs upwards, and you quickly avert your gaze, fingers playing with the straw in your drink.

“He's cuter than I thought,” Seungkwan signs jokingly to you, lifting a teasing brow. “I'd have a crush on him too𑁋ow!”

He's met with Wheein's sharp elbow to his side, making him let out a squeaky wince that might have gained the attention of the entire café, and she scolds him with a shake of her head and a finger to her lips, but it manages to crack a small smile to your face. Seungkwan only grins in victory, tapping his wrist against his heart and giving a thumbs-up as if satisfied with the response he got out of you. 

Ah, the benefits of sign language and being friends with two absolute idiots... No one really knows what the hell you're talking about. 

“You do think he's cute though, right?” Wheein scrunches up her face cheekily, and you could only let a finger drift across the icy surface of your cup, the cold offering little comfort against the sudden warmth blooming in your cheeks to her words.

You roll your eyes, though your face seems to betray you even more. 

“You're not denying it,” Seungkwan adds in, narrowing his eyes at you in a smirk. “Just say you have a crush on him.”

You form a mock-scissor gesture with your fingers, and the threat earns a burst of laughter to leave Seungkwan. The playful jab cuts through the tension, but the truth is, your heart aches a little at his words.

Crush? The word felt alien, yet somehow, it fits. The way your heart skips a beat whenever his gaze met yours, the way his smile warms you from the inside out, the way his clumsy attempts at sign language makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time𑁋these were all signs of something, weren't they?

The atmosphere at the table lightens a bit. It feels nice, spending time with your friends and momentarily pushing aside the doubts of your artistic soul and worries of everything else that have been flying in and out of your head. 

Eventually, the rest of the afternoon wears on, and you somehow manage to survive through Seungkwan and Wheein's (mainly Seungkwan though, unsurprisingly) overbearing and teasing attempts to get you to spill your thoughts on café boy. They give up by the end of it, saying their goodbyes with a tight squeeze of a hug and urging you to keep your chin up. Seriously, you wouldn't know where you would be right now if it weren't for them.

At the back, when Joshua steps out of the restroom, a sudden slap at the wall next to his head startles him back.

“So I see.” Jeonghan circles a finger in front of his face. “You're feeling under the weather, aren't you?”

Joshua groans. “Don't you say it𑁋”

“Under the weather of love𑁋”

“You're having more customers than before because of me. Don't ruin that.”

“Then stop looking like a lovesick puppy and ask them out already, idiot.” Jeonghan shoves the boy forward with a not-so-gentle push to the back. “or at least invite them to your gig. Maybe you won't feel under the weather then.”

Joshua opens his mouth to retort. “Dude, I can't just𑁋”

But before he can finish his sentence, Jeonghan has already disappeared in the back, leaving Joshua standing there in a puddle of embarrassment. He glances towards the table where you were sitting earlier, seeing that you and your friends have already left, and panic shoots through him.

He's never been good at taking risks, but maybe, just maybe, it's time to change that.

Racing out the door, the cool evening air greets Joshua as he steps outside, quickly scanning the surroundings for a glimpse of your familiar figure. He spots you not too far away, heading down the sidewalk, before quickening his strides. He doesn't know what's driving him, but there's a sudden urgency to catch up with you𑁋to not let you slip away just this once. 

And when he finally manages to catch up to you approaching the pedestrian light, he finds himself breathless in front of you, heart pounding in his chest and cheeks flushed, still wearing the café apron around his body. When he looks up to you, clearly startled by his sudden appearance, he feels the heat crawl up his neck. 

“I, um…” he starts, voice coming out way more flat to his ears. Then you watch as he brings his hands up to sign. “Question?”

You feel your heart pick up its pace. He ran all the way out here to ask you a question?

“I have a performance…" His face lights up when he signs the right word. Cute. "...this weekend. I was wondering if you’d like to watch it?” 

You swear you can see the city lights blinking in anticipation around you, your own eyes fluttering in surprise to his question. He's... inviting you to watch him perform? He knows you won't be able to fully understand him, to hear him, yet he's offering you anyway?

Part of you wants to immediately say yes. The thought of watching him sends a wave of thrills through you, a glimmer of excitement warming the chill wrapped around your heart since leaving the café. But the other part𑁋the cautious and guarded part that has learned to retreat behind walls of silence𑁋is reluctant.

Hesitation flickers across your features, and Joshua's hands fly in apology.

“You don't𑁋if you're uncomfortable or if you have plans, it's okay," Joshua reassures quickly, speaking almost too fast for you to catch everything tumbling off his lips. “I could give you my number and text the details if you decide to come. Just... think about it, okay?”

The streetlight casts a soft glow on Joshua's features as he waits for your response. You glance up to the pedestrian signal, noticing that time is ticking down before you would have to leave, before bringing your gaze back to him.

You swallow a lump down your throat, and give a nod. A faint grin breaks across his face. Joshua fumbles with his phone, pulling it out of his pocket and offering it to you. You swiftly type in your phone number, then hand the phone back to him, and then the pedestrian signal switches to green. It's your time to go. Each footstep you take feels heavier and heavier. 

Joshua watches you go, but not before you both exchange your habitual waves to each other.

He can get used to that, he thinks.

The colours on your palette just look absolutely wrong. 

It may just be the lighting playing tricks on your eyes and the exhaustion hanging on your eyelids, but it all looks slightly off-shade, the teeniest tiniest bit cooler or warmer. You frown, dipping your brush into the paint, attempting to mix them until they match the image you have in your mind. But it's like trying to catch sunlight with your bare hands𑁋the more you try, the more it slips away.

You let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in your chair, and your gaze wanders to the canvas. The painting stares back at you tauntingly. It's like a stranger's work, not your own. A sense of defeat washes over you.

Groaning, you hop to your feet, untangling the apron around your waist and letting it fall to the ground before taking your paint brushes to the sink in your bathroom. You wash off the paint with a bit too much force, the bristles scraping against the porcelain, almost as if you were trying to scrub away your own frustration. The paint swirls down the drain, the colours blending together into an ugly, murky green before ultimately disappearing. 

You chug down an entire glass of water from your kitchen, then shut off the light hanging above your canvas. Sprawling on top of your bed, you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that the walls could cave in and swallow you whole, if only for a moment.

When you reach behind to fish for your phone annoyedly, your eyes nearly bulge out of its skull. 

You don’t even have to read out the entire message for you to jump up from your bed. Your eyes dart from the time displayed at the top of your phone, and to the words jumping at you from the screen.

[06:26PM | joshua hong] Hey it's Joshua! Sorry I know it's a bit last minute, but my performance is supposed to start in about 15 [06:29PM | joshua hong] But I totally understand if you aren't able to attend. It's no problem at all :) 

And perhaps it's the adrenaline from reading the message knowing it’s from Joshua, because you’re suddenly standing up and racing to the bathroom. You don’t understand how you look more disheveled than before, and you can hardly do much to touch yourself up before you’re shrugging, grabbing a jacket, and leaving. 

You nearly trip on the way out the door, and you could already feel the multitude of curses echoing through your head. 

Gosh, you can hardly believe how much time has slipped away from you. The stress coming from painting and deadlines has been gnawing at you day by day. It’s been the only thing pulling you back from doing anything else. Yet with every stroke you bring to the canvas, it feels empty. You feel empty. 

The streets of the city feel busier than usual, the air thick of your already deteriorating patience, and an unnerving anxiety gnaws at your insides. 

You don't have to attend𑁋you know it's a choice you could make, but why does the thought of not seeing him perform make your heart clench? Why does the thought of simply not seeing him make your steps quicken even more?

The doors to the bus ahead slam shut the second you stride up to it, and your hand comes up to pound at the heavy metal surface in anger. With a huff, you step back from the edge of the street, ignoring the stares being shot towards you by passersby while watching as the bus pulls away, leaving you standing uselessly on the sidewalk.

A person almost bumps into you once you turn around. Every taxi that you attempt to grab is immediately taken. You blink back some heat in your eyes, arms wrapping around your body as if trying to mask away the sinking feeling at the pit of your stomach. You brush past a sea of shoulders and weave through the bustling streets of the city. Seriously, why the hell is it so busy right now? 

But even as you continue to float your way through the crowded streets, you could feel all the hope at getting to Joshua’s performance deflate. The day really wasn’t all on your side right now, and it all seems to rain down weights at your feet, slowing you down with every step you take. 

Why does it matter? You ask yourself inwardly, skepticism knitting at your brows. Why does his performance matter so much? 

A sharp nudge at your shoulder blade makes you wince. And when you bring your eyes back up, you suddenly realise you’re the only one left standing at the pedestrian light, watching as the sea of people ahead of you cross without any worry. The other side seems so close yet so far. 

Your gaze flickers up at the seconds counting down, your thoughts thinking back to Joshua, and you suddenly find yourself darting across the street.

Joshua's brow twitches faintly when his calloused fingers strum at his guitar strings. 

It’s a bit warmer this evening, the air feeling strangely muggier than usual. The note that leaves his guitar sounds slightly off-tune, but he doesn’t get himself to fix it. Instead, he hunches over to aimlessly grab at his guitar case right at his feet, snatching the coins he may have missed picking up before beginning to pack everything up. 

Joshua glances around the beautifully lit-up busking area, eyes scanning over the dwindling crowd. It’s a relatively small, circular area making up the heart of a tiny social sphere surrounded by local markets and restaurants. Despite that, there’s an emptiness lingering around him, one that feels awfully familiar yet more noticeable than ever before. He gazes back down and pockets the coins with a practiced shrug, a movement that barely hides the disappointment nagging at him.

When a coin slips out of his grasp, he bends down to retrieve it. But as he’s about to come back up, a shadow seems to loom above him, and the outsole of a shoe nearly steps on his fingers. 

Joshua picks his head back up, half-expecting for it to be a complete stranger and totally not half-hoping that it would be… you, hunched over and out of breath.

“Y/N?” he asks, swiftly putting the coin away. “You came.” 

You only give an imperceptible, apologetic nod at his words. Joshua glances around for a moment, before looking down at his guitar, and back to you.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “You just missed it.”

A thin line forms at your lips as you sign, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry.” Joshua waves dismissively with his hands in a slight panic. “You must have been busy, right?”

You smile faintly at that, nodding once more, before taking out your phone to type:

I wanted to come

Once Joshua reads it, you see the way his eyes widen ever so slightly. “You did?”

The curve at your lips lifts even more, but just barely. Joshua’s head falls down for a minute as he peers down at his feet, attempting to hide away a grin threatening at his own face, before looking back up at you and clearing basically nothing in his throat. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“I’m glad you came,” he says, a sweet, appreciative tone to his words. You can’t hear it but you can see it in the way his eyes seem to smile as wide as his lips. “I was… kind of hoping you would show up. Not… not in a weird way or anything! I just𑁋I think I would have felt a little more confident if you were here. A face that I know.” 

Your face scrunches together in a bit of worry and a pinch of surprise, but Joshua just shakes his head and chuckles it off. 

The two of you stand there for a few moments. It’s really your first time being right in the centre of the busking square. Fairy lights hang on the few trees that dot around the area. You could see some small and large groups of people huddling nearby, presumably watching other performers performing, but you and Joshua just stood adrift in your own little bubble, like two stars separate from their own galaxies. 

The fairy lights cast a warm glow on Joshua's face, highlighting his hair that was floofed out in soft wisps around his forehead. You watch the way he runs his hand through it before taking a deep breath and returning to packing up his guitar. You casually wander close, looming over as you observe him in curiosity. 

Once Joshua slings his guitar back over his shoulder, he turns back to you. 

“Are you…” he starts to ask while signing. “...going back home now?”

You glance down at the time on your phone, pursing your lips together lousily. You should probably head home to start back on your painting, but that’s not what your thoughts are telling you to do, nor your heart. Or maybe your entire body, in fact. 

“If you are,” Joshua’s hands catch your attention again, then you focus in on his lips. “can I walk you home again? Like last time? It’s the least I could do since you ran all the way here. I have to give some worth to your effort, right?” 

You almost swear you could read the playfulness on his features, like the way his eyes crinkle subtly at the corners, or even in the way his head is tilted unnoticeably.

You can get used to that side of him, possibly.

You only abruptly turn around, leaving Joshua puzzled for a second, before he’s snatching the rest of his belongings and jogging to catch up to you. Then the two of you are walking side by side just as all the times before, the distance between you closing naturally. 

The world you’re used to is already quiet, silent even, but it’s different now. Joshua’s presence is loud, not in sound, but in the way it seems to comfortably fill the space around you. You don’t really know how to describe it without sounding awfully obvious that… you like when he’s around you; or, you like when you’re around him. 

His guitar case occasionally bumps your hip at his side, and his every attempt to create more space only seems to bring him back to the tiny amount of distance between you two anyway. Then Joshua switches carrying the case from one shoulder to the other, and as he does, his free hand briefly brushes against yours. The touch is fleeting, but enough to send a jump to your stomach. He quickly looks at you with a sheepish grin, muttering an apology that you can't hear but can easily read in his expression. 

The night air is cooler now, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead and causing them to fall to the ground like feathers at your feet. 

Joshua feels a light tap at his arm, and he turns to see you showing him a message on your phone.

Did your performance go well? 

He smiles nimbly at that, but you can tell in the way his eyes seem to cast a shadow over his face that he's not entirely satisfied. He only nods slightly, a noncommittal gesture. 

“It was alright,” he says while signing, fingers moving reluctantly. “The crowd was small, and I wasn’t at my best. But it’s okay.” 

You frown a little, and the way he casts his head down to the ground makes your chest squeeze. 

“Maybe it was good that you didn’t come,” Joshua mumbles under his breath, and you hardly catch what he was saying, but you could sense the diffidence emitting from him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you either.” 

Both of your footsteps slow down ever so slightly as you approach a familiar street corner, the dim glow of a lamppost shining down on the two of you. Joshua notices the pensive expression to your features as your fingers dance across your phone screen. 

You hesitate for a moment before showing him. 

You tried your best. That’s all that matters

Then you’re abrupt to take your phone away before Joshua could process your words, typing something else again before flipping your phone around for him to read.

You wouldn’t have disappointed me

Joshua stares at the simple message. A hearty sound seems to bubble out of his chest, then another, and another, before it turns into a brief fit of coughs and a mix of laughter altogether. You can’t help but giggle at his reaction. It's light and airy, like wind chimes dancing in the breeze, and it feels like breaking a sound barrier you didn't even know existed between the two of you.

When he returns his gaze to you, he grins again, beaming even, a sliver of teeth expressing relief and a newfound confidence. 

“Thank you,” he tells you. “That means a lot to me.” 

You nod your head coyly, and before Joshua can say anything else, you’re already turning around and beginning to walk. Yet just after the first few steps, a boom of thunder echoes in the distance, and a raindrop lands at the top of your head. 

You stop and turn to see Joshua racing after you, and he stops right next to you. 

“Rain,” he simply signs. “It’s raining.”

And then, the two of you don’t even have to say anything before you’re running through the incoming rain together. You try to run as fast as you can without looking back because you know that Joshua is behind you, the rain beginning to fall down heavier and heavier as you dart through the streets and into the area where your apartment is located. 

Joshua stops right at the entrance, the same place where he had stopped last time. He watches as you continue to dash away from him, before coming to a halt, and turning around to notice him standing there under the pouring rain. 

Raindrops plaster in your hair and clothes as you face Joshua standing at the entrance of your apartment building. His hair is damp and matted to his forehead, damp clothes clinging to his frame as the rain running in rivulets down his face. Despite the downpour, his eyes meet yours with an unwavering gaze.

“Are you alright?” he signs nearly frantically, and you squint your eyes to be able to see him more clearly. 

While catching your breath, you motion for Joshua to come closer, shielding yourself under the small awning of your apartment building. He hesitates for a moment, glancing around as if assessing the situation, but then he’s jogging up to you, joining you under the small shelter of your building that could probably only fit two people. 

Both of you stand there as you watch the rain pour down to the earth in front of you. Then you glance at Joshua, and then at your apartment, then back outside again. He can’t go home in this rain right now without a singular bit of protection.

A tug at Joshua’s sleeves makes him turn to face you, softening at the way you look so concerned yet… cute in your own little way.  

Without any thinking, you gesture towards your apartment, as if silently offering him an invitation.

The surprise on Joshua's face is clear. His eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth falls open slightly. He glances back at the downpouring rain, then back at you with uncertainty. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

You nod again, even opening the door for him and waiting for him to step inside. He hesitates again, but the apparent adamancy on your features brings some warmth to blossom through his chest. He fixes his guitar case on his shoulder and steps past you into the dry hallway, water from his hair and clothes dripping down to the ground. 

Joshua follows you down the narrow hallway toward your apartment door, his shoes squeaking slightly on the tiled floor below, a slip of nervousness with every step he takes. The hallway is dimly lit, with a faint aroma of incense lingering in the air. You unlock the door and hold it open for him, gesturing for him to enter first. And as he steps past you, he’s immediately greeted with the warmth of your place.

You take off your own shoes right after him as he stands somewhat awkwardly in the middle of your apartment. It’s smaller than he imagined, but it’s enough for him to recognise glimpses of your personality scattered around. It’s cozy, minimalist, yet it’s home to you, and that’s all that matters to him. 

You appear back in front of him with a towel in your hands, and you hold it out to Joshua, who takes it from your grasp gratefully. He starts to dry his hair and face, the towel absorbing the rainwater and providing some warmth against his skin. As he does so, he steals glances around your apartment, catching sight of an easel holding up a large canvas. 

There are other paintings on your walls too. He smiles to himself as he steps closer towards the canvas, the painting appearing unfinished and a bit weathered with all of its strokes, but nevertheless eye-catching, filling him with wonder about what the finished product may look like. 

You emerge from your bedroom and scan around the room, and when your eyes land on Joshua, you find him peering down at your unfinished painting, a thoughtful expression on his face as he cards through his hair with the towel. He turns to you, eyes widening at the sight of you in a set of new, dry clothes, then shifts his gaze to what you're holding.

It’s an oversized, grey hoodie, and it proudly displays the name of the museum that you frequent. You hold it out to Joshua with a shy look. He sets the towel aside and takes the hoodie from your hands. Immediately, you take a deep breath and face yourself away to let him change, and Joshua watches as you disappear into the small kitchen area, giving him a moment of privacy.

After propping his guitar case next to your easel, he strips off his wet shirt, replacing it with the dry, oversized hoodie. It’s warm and extremely comfortable, smelling like it’s been freshly washed with a scent hinting at lavender, and instantly offers the relief he needed after running through the rain earlier.

Then Joshua gazes around your apartment again. There’s a bookshelf lined with art books and tiny succulents, a small couch with a knitted blanket draped over its arm, and a table with a collection of paintbrushes, unused palettes, and an endless collection of bottles of paint. It’s a different sight than what he’s used to, that’s for certain𑁋he’s used to microphone chords being tangled together, the worn leather of his guitar case at his fingertips, and the hum of music drifting through his life. 

The sound of your footsteps echoes softly from the kitchen, drawing Joshua's attention away from his thoughts. You're holding two mugs in your hands, steam curling up from the brims, and the scent of herbal tea wafts through the air. You carefully hand one to him, before settling on the couch, snugly tucking your legs underneath yourself. Joshua follows suit right after, sitting down right next to you while taking a steady sip from the warm tea. He feels the warmth seep into his fingers as he cradles the mug in his hands. 

He glances at you, noticing how relaxed you seem all curled up on the couch, the soft light casting a gentle glow on your face.

Joshua leans down to set the mug back on the table, catching your attention. 

“Thank you,” he mouths quietly, signing to you. 

You offer a small nod in response, then take out your phone to type:

Is it still raining hard outside? 

Joshua leans back on the couch to listen, narrowing his eyes intently. He still hears the rain outside, but it seems to have calmed down quite a bit. Yet the thought of him staying longer in your place makes his ears burn hotter than the steaming cup of tea in his hands.

He turns back at you and nods his head, knowing it’s a bit of a white lie but deciding that it’s worth staying just a little longer with you. He watches the way your face shifts into a contemplative look. 

Your fingers dance along with your screen once more. 

You can stay until it stops

“Are you sure?” Joshua questions incredulously. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.” 

You shake your head firmly, the smile playing on your lips widening just a touch. It's clear in your eyes that you’re genuinely telling him it’s okay, and that assurance softens something in Joshua's chest. He glances down at his mug on the table, staring at the way the steam curls up into the air like delicate wisps.

It feels almost natural to do this𑁋to sit here under the excuse of sheltering away from the rain, but really, it's a bit more than that, more obvious than what you both assume. For some reason, it’s easier to be around each other than sitting alone in your separate worlds of sound and art. 

When Joshua drinks the rest of his tea, he catches a glimpse of his guitar case standing right next to your easel, and a light flickers on his head. 

“Since you missed my performance,” he starts to say, signing a bit flimsily and unconfidently. “I was wondering if I could… maybe sing for you?” 

You cock your head to the side, curiosity piqued. “Sing?”

“Sing.” Joshua copies right after you. He remembers when you mentioned that even though you can’t hear, you can still feel the vibrations, read the chords and lyrics, and enjoy the music like others.

And while he feels nervous, the way his heart flutters at the thought of you listening to him sing makes him feel a bit… hopeful, confident, like he told you before. He likes to think that your presence alone is much more comforting and reassuring than a group of strangers gathered around him in the busking area. 

Joshua takes a deep breath, before standing up and fetching his guitar gently from its case, resting the instrument on his knee. The rich scent of wood fills the air as he tunes it, deftly plucking each string with practiced fingers until it comes to the correct note. You could only watch in awe, glancing between the guitar and his focused expression. His brows knit together tightly and his eyes come to a close for a few moments𑁋you can’t seem to tear your own gaze off him. 

When he finishes tuning, he opens his eyes, seemingly noticing how attentive you’re to his every move. A faint blush creeps up his neck, and he casts his eyes down for a moment before meeting yours again. He clears his throat awkwardly, adjusting the guitar strap on his shoulder.

“Can I…” he begins to ask, holding out his hand towards you. You peer down at it, noticing how it hovers expectantly between you. 

As your hand is about to brush against his, Joshua gently takes your hand with his own, his calloused fingertips meeting your soft ones briefly. He guides your hand on the body of his guitar. Your fingers rest lightly against the smooth wood, feeling the vibrations as he strums a few chords softly. 

Your eyes widen as you look back up at him, surprised at how vivid the sensation is right at the ends of your fingers. 

“You can read my lips too.” Then he pauses, before continuing, “if you want to, at least.” 

With that, he plays a few chords, the vibrations running through the guitar and to your hand, even down your body. And when his lips start to move, you try to focus on his every word, watching the shape of his mouth as he sings. 

For years, you’re used to reading sound with your eyes. Sure, you’ve touched instruments, like the piano in the music room during elementary school or the drumset you would see backstage before a school concert. But no one ever played them𑁋nobody ever played for you. 

So when you read from your eyes, there’s always that second of disconnect when you blink, and the inner anxiety that you could miss even the tiniest detail of the music. However, everytime you blink now, you could feel Joshua singing and playing right at the ends of your fingertips, as if he was telling you that it’s okay to keep your eyes closed without worrying, simply because he was right there. 

This is what passion looks like on someone else, and for some reason seeing all that unfold before you makes it all more beautiful. 

You notice Joshua closes his eyes or peers down sometimes when he gets more focused, yet it doesn’t take anything away from his singing. The way his fingers effortlessly glide over the strings of his guitar, or the subtle lift to his lips when he’s singing𑁋you know that his heart is completely in it. 

It’s beautiful. He’s… beautiful.

The song ends before you hardly notice. You keep your hand resting on the guitar, the vibrations still buzzing ever so slightly on your fingertips after Joshua strums the final set of chords. 

Joshua shifts uncomfortably for a moment, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the guitar in his lap. He scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. 

“Did you... like it?” he asks tentatively while searching your face, signing the words as he speaks.

You merely blink up at him too, as if you’re still stuck processing everything and nothing all at once, before nodding reassuringly. 

Joshua's expression softens with relief, his shoulders relaxing visibly as he lets out a quiet sigh. He glances down at your hand still resting on his guitar, a certain warmth spreading through his chest at the way you're looking at him.

“You felt it, didn't you?” he asks quietly. “The vibrations?”

You consider nodding again, but instead, you reach back for your phone to type.

It was beautiful. I haven’t felt music like that in a long time

Joshua can’t help but smile to himself, and there’s no point in trying to hide it anymore when he does. He likes knowing that he’s happy around you, likes feeling himself be happy around you. It’s a feeling that feels easy, natural, like he doesn't have to try too hard. 

He gently places his guitar back in its case, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet room. You notice his fingers linger on the case for a moment, before he turns back to you.

“I think that I was right about what I said earlier,” he affirms, and there seems to be content hinting on his features. “about feeling more confident… when you’re around. I just wanted to thank you for that.”

Of course, he was nervous, anxious if anything𑁋but in between all that nerves was the comfort of someone who listened to him more intently than any audience ever could. 

Joshua clears his throat and peers around after setting his case back down, trying to brush off the fact that you’re sitting way more closer to him than before. You’re typing something on your phone again, the bright screen emitting on your face and making you bat your eyelashes together. 

You lightly tap on his shoulder to get his attention, showing your message:

You can always practice here, if you want

“Practice? Here? You want𑁋I can practice here?” The disbelief in his face makes you purse your lips together endearingly. “I hardly ever have the chance to practice because Jeonghan𑁋my roommate𑁋is sick of me being loud, at this point. I’ve been saving up to move out, but it’s been hard.”

When he realises how fast he spoke and the way you’re watching him closely, all he does is smile faintly.

“I’ll be sure to use the opportunity wisely,” he assures you, and there’s that lightheartedness back on his face again.

Your knee rubs against his when you stand up to put away the empty mugs back in the kitchen. It gives Joshua the chance to look around your place again, and his eyes settle on your unfinished painting on the other side of the room. 

“Could you…” he starts to ask once you’re walking back to the couch, his fingers moving unsurely in the air. “Could you tell me about your paintings?” 

At first, there’s a bit of hesitancy in your movements. But the genuinity you see in his gaze seems to tug at your heartstrings more than ever. You show him a message on your phone:

As long as you tell me about your songs

Joshua’s eyes light up at your message, a grin spreading across his face. 

“It’s a deal,” he says.

You could probably count the individual dust specks floating in the sunbeams pouring inside the classroom. 

Warm water trickles down your hands and into the sink below as you rinse off some paint brushes, before placing them in a discoloured, paint-covered bucket right beside you.

The museum has a variety of art classes, mostly for people who aspire to get their artwork shown in exhibitions. You aren’t any different from them𑁋you all seek the same goal, which is to be heard and recognised for your work; this small inkling to be known or even vaguely known by someone.

Once you finish cleaning up, you dry your hands on a rag and take a moment to look around the desolate classroom. The smell of paint and the sight of easels and canvases everywhere feels like home, but lately you’ve been questioning if it’s actually home, or just a temporary refuge. The question nags at you as you gather your belongings to put in your worn-out tote bag.

Stepping out of the classroom, you start to walk through the nearly empty museum, passing by hallways with art ranging from contemporary, to modern, to as far back as the classics. You’ve probably been through these halls a countless number of times𑁋retaining everything from the title of the piece to the artist’s name and technique𑁋and you would still be in utter awe. 

However, just as you reach the main area of the museum, a figure peering up at a painting catches your eyes. The guitar case that hung on his shoulder stuck out like a sore thumb among every other person in the room, and the sight makes you chuckle to yourself because you recognise Joshua instantly. 

You stand there for a moment, observing him from a distance as he studies the painting with a thoughtful expression. His fingers tap lightly against the strap of his guitar case, and you feel like if you focus even more, you could possibly see the thoughts wrapping around his head. 

Joshua glances at his phone for a millisecond before turning around, abruptly stopping when he sees the sight of you standing not that far away from him. The corners of his lips lift into a gentle smile upon seeing you, or his face seems to almost brighten up entirely, you can hardly tell. He brushes a hand through his hair before offering you a small wave, which you reciprocate back with one of your own without any hesitation. 

There’s a rush of warmth that flows through you as he approaches up to you.

You stare at him quizzically as you lift your hands up to sign, “What are you doing here?” 

Joshua shoots a bashful look down at his own feet before picking himself back up. 

“I wanted to see you,” he says quietly while signing, and his hand movements are as shy as his words. 

His words hardly process for a few moments, and Joshua thinks he might have overstepped. The hopeful glint in his eyes dims subtly, replaced by a shy apology already forming in his hands at the shock to your features. Maybe wanting to see you was a bit too forward of him. 

But it’s the way your hands nearly come in contact with his own to dismiss his worries that stops him mid-apology. You shake your head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

“I…” You start, then pause, because Joshua’s focused, unwavering, yet patient gaze tugs at something inside of you. Gathering your thoughts, you continue signing slowly, “I thought about seeing you too.” 

A surprised, somewhat choked laugh escapes Joshua's lips, a sound as light and unexpected as what you just said. Relief washes over him, clear as the day outside and the sunlight streaming through the museum windows. He seems to hold his breath for a moment before a grin splits his face apart. 

“Really?” he signs back, and it’s cute seeing how expressive he is when he’s surprised. 

“Yes,” You reply back firmly, hopefully being able to emphasize it enough with your fisted hand.

Joshua rubs at his nose nervously, and even the gesture being so small feels charming somehow. The weight of your art supplies feels lighter in your bag than they have in a while. 

“I have some time before practice though,” he shares, pondering lightly. “Would you like to grab a bite to eat first?”

Your lips lift at the offer, and you scramble a hand in your bag to retrieve your phone. But your fingers fumble, encountering only paint brushes and sketchbooks. Panic starts to rise in your chest as you frantically dig deeper within your bag. Your phone. It's not there. It’s probably back in the classroom.

You shoot an innocent look at Joshua, catching sight of his worried, furrowed brows. You try to explain to him with your hands, but your movements are hurried and you could tell he didn’t entirely understand. So you settle with a helpless shrug and a motion towards a deeper part of the museum, and he seems to catch on. 

Joshua feels the hesitation in his step when he sees you turn around and begin walking away. Considering for a second, he catches up to you quickly, the sounds of his shoes bouncing off the museum floors. 

He follows right next to you quietly, taking in the museum’s atmosphere as you navigate through the familiar halls. When the two of you reach a room, you hold the door open for him, and Joshua swears he hasn’t really seen anything like this before. 

The room is large and very open, the natural lighting from the outside flowing in from the windows. Unused easels and canvases stood at the corners of the room. There’s a long, wooden table perched in the middle of the room, and a whiteboard that takes up a small portion of the wall. Joshua takes the time to look around as you dash to the cleaning station where you were putting up the supplies, and there was your phone𑁋sitting idly with a few drops of water on its screen that you wipe away.

Joshua is standing with his arms crossed at the whiteboard, eyes squinting as if he was trying to discern the faded markings. You stand right next to him once you come up, bringing your gaze also to the whiteboard. 

He turns to you, seemingly inquisitive. “Is this an art class?”

You manage a nod. But you feel like it isn’t enough of an answer and decide to pull out your phone instead. 

It’s an art class for the deaf, and for those who want to show their work in the exhibitions here

Joshua’s mouth opens in awe as he reads the words on your screen. A flicker of understanding lights up his eyes as he processes the information.

“That's amazing,” he tells you while signing back, expression visibly softening. “I had no idea they had classes like this here. How long have you been coming?”

He watches as you look back down to type on your phone, taking the few seconds as a chance for his eyes to drift over your features, silently taking in the concentration etched on your face. When you finish typing, you show him the screen. 

Just for the past year. There’s only a few of us in the class. Sometimes I’m the only person who shows up though

“Ah,” Joshua only hums contemplatively. He glances around once more, as if trying to see the room through your perspective. “That must feel lonely sometimes.”

You nod, letting out a low sigh as you type out your next message:

It can be. But it's also peaceful. Gives me time to think and create without any distractions

“I get it.” Joshua nods with a small smile. “You’re dedicated. I admire that.” 

Your heart swells a little at his words. It's always a vulnerable thing𑁋sharing a piece of your world with someone else, but Joshua’s presence seems to make it all a little less daunting, a little more comfortable. 

Joshua’s eyes settle on a corner where a few canvases lean against the wall, seemingly forgotten or awaiting their turn under someone’s hand. He steps closer to it, running his fingers lightly over the rough edges of one of the frames, then turns back to you.

“Do you have any of your work shown here in the museum?” he asks curiously. 

A rush of emotions floods through you, a frown caressing your face—pride sprinkled with uncertainty, hope clouded by doubt. You've always dreamed of showcasing your work, to be recognised and understood through your art. However, you feel a twinge of self-consciousness creeping in, because the dream of one day having your work displayed alongside the masterpieces lining the museum walls feels both distant and impossibly close at the same time.

Sensing your shift in mood, Joshua raises his eyebrows in question. You fumble with your phone again, typing out a response and showing it to him. 

I’m not sure if my work is good enough for that

Joshua's expression softens even further. “But you wouldn't keep creating it if you didn't believe in it, would you?”

Oh, he’s got you there, you think. A certain warmth starts to spread through you at his perceptiveness, a twitch at your lips from a suppressed smile trying to break free.

“And even if you don’t believe in it right now,” Joshua starts, placing himself right next to you gazing down at the empty canvases waiting to be touched. “I believe in you. I mean it.”

You exhale softly, a weight lifting off your shoulders as you absorb his words. For the first time in a while, you begin to see your art through a different lens—not just as smears on a canvas, but as a reminder that this is something you love.

It’s been a while since someone’s said that they believe in you, and it hits you right in the heart. 

“Is the painting in your place the one you want to finish for the museum?”

You nod in response to that, though the sullen look to your face doesn’t seem to exactly agree. 

There’s an exhibition being held just a few weeks from now, which is also the deadline for submitting your painting, which was being judged. The pressure has been getting to you, admittedly, and it feels like time is slipping away faster than you can paint. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll get back home later today and pick up your paint brush without it feeling like a burden to hold. 

Joshua says something you don’t catch quick enough when you face back to him, and you tilt your head in question.

“I’m not sure if I did the sign right.” And then he brings his hands up, signing to you, “Good luck.” 

Heat crawls up your neck to his words, and a smile fights its way through the lingering uncertainties and stretches shamelessly across your face. 

His hand comes awfully close to yours when he brings them down to the side. 

You draw yourself away when you feel your phone vibrate in your hand, only seeing that it was some useless notification. Joshua fixes himself up as well, turning to you fully, and you both exchange shy grins.

“Food?” He brings his hand up to his mouth, almost mimicking like he was putting a piece of food there. 

You adjust the strap of your bag and double-check to make sure you have your phone with you, before nodding. The two of you head out of the classroom together.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re both basically dating.” 

The way your face scrunches up in visible disgust to Seungkwan’s words has Wheein shoving the younger boy with a daggered stare, nearly making the stick of tanghulu fall from his grasp. 

“You can’t just claim that,” Wheein retorts back.

“He walks Y/N home! He’s been inside their place! He wants to see them! Y/N doesn’t even let us come inside their place these days and yet here’s this guy waltzing his way into their heart!” 

“I can’t tell if you’re insulting him or thanking him,” Wheein points out playfully, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. 

“I'm not doing either,” Seungkwan protests, feigning a snarky look. “I'm just stating the facts. If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a duck.”

At this point, your friends are speaking almost too fast for you to catch everything being said, but all you could do is bring your head down and gaze to your footsteps, a subtle, amused grin playing to your lips. They’re arguing about your life, and yet it makes you feel… acknowledged, seen, heard, because your world before seemed to revolve solely around you and your art only for the longest you can recall. 

An adamant tap lands on your shoulder, and you bring your head back up to face Wheein. 

“Isn’t the exhibition next week?” she asks, signing with a sense of urgency in her expression.

Your face falls a little, and the thought of the deadline and exhibition seems to loom over you like a dark storm cloud. It feels like yesterday you were just staring at a blank canvas, and now every inch of it is covered in a mess of colours that is undeniably far from what you can consider a masterpiece.

Wheein and Seungkwan could already tell by the weak nod that you give that you’re feeling the pressure of it all. The two of them exchange a knowing look with each other, and it isn’t long before you feel another tap at your shoulder. Wheein motions to something up ahead, and as you face forward in order to see what it was, a hand grabs at your sleeve and you find yourself being dragged forward by your two best friends.

You can hardly control where your feet are landing in front of you, and the only thing you could catch ahead is a crowd and the familiar sight of what appears to be the busking centre. There must be some kind of performance going on, and it peaks your interest. 

The faces surrounding you are all bleeding out enjoyment, with their wide eyes and mouths blossomed into large grins. Their hands are all clapping in unison, some even mouthing the words to lyrics you can hardly make out.

You don’t recognise the small band that’s performing. But then you imagine Joshua being the one at the centre of the crowd, playing his heart out, captivating the audience just like how he captivated you, and the disappointment melts away. 

You find yourself standing at almost the core of the crowd, with Wheein and Seungkwan clapping and cheering animatedly on either side of you. In an odd way, this position feels familiar, as if you’ve stood from this exact same angle before.

You're close enough to see the raw energy pouring off the musicians, the way their instruments become extensions of themselves𑁋the same as Joshua sitting across from you on the couch with his guitar in lap, eyes closed in concentration, and fingers dancing effortlessly along the strings. The memory of that night floods your mind, and you can almost feel the vibrations of his music under your fingertips once again.

It all brings a smile to your face. 

As the music surrounds you, you can see the passion radiating from each band member’s face, carrying away the weight of the upcoming exhibition and the pressures you've been feeling. In this moment of respite, it's just you, your friends, and the music.

When you get back home to your apartment that night, you find yourself focusing on clicking through the photos on your camera roll, almost like you were searching for a particular one. 

And then you find it𑁋the photo you took at the busking square all those weeks ago, the photo you took of that man singing and strumming along his guitar…

…the photo that you took of Joshua Hong, where you didn’t know his name at the time. And now, he’s standing in the middle of your thoughts, and singing directly to your heart. 

It’s almost suffocating to be sitting in this chair right now. Your posture is stiff as a rock, legs shaking underneath your hands that were folded on your lap, other people𑁋other artists just like you𑁋surrounding you like flies. 

You feel excruciatingly hot in your outfit, a formal one that you picked from the depths of your wardrobe that still somehow fits your body still. It’s been a while since you put this much effort into your appearance𑁋you can hardly remember the last time you dressed up like this, honestly𑁋and the unfamiliarity of it all prickles at your skin. 

The day of the exhibition is more chaotic than you expected for it to be. It’s practically held to the public, where almost anyone can walk in and watch the event for themselves. 

Across the vast room, you catch glimpses of other artists, seeing their diverse styles of clothing. There’s a woman with a shaved head and a tattoo snaking down her arm; at the far end, a man in a crisp suit, frown etched at his face, large glasses, with a neatly trimmed beard.

The walls are covered with various works of art, each piece representing the countless hours of dedication and passion of the artists. It’s a grand showcase, bigger than any small ones you’ve seen. The large hall that you’re standing in has been temporarily transformed into a visual showcase where curators and critics would walk around and judge the pieces. By the end of the night, only about half of the submissions would be considered to be permanently displayed in the museum. The thought makes your stomach churn with anxiety.

Joshua had sent you a simple Good luck! You’ll do amazing :) text before you arrived at the museum. It comforts you a little bit, but not entirely𑁋you feel like you’d feel better if he could be here with you in person. He couldn’t come because he had to look after the café. Wheein was also here somewhere too participating in the exhibition, clearly not anywhere near where you were placed in the vast hall. 

The exhibition begins with a formal speech from the museum's director, who talks about the importance of art in society and how this exhibition aims to bring fresh perspectives to the world. As the speech concludes, curators and critics start moving around the large room, closely examining each piece and approaching all the other artists. 

Your eyes follow a few as they approach your painting. They stand before it, whispering among themselves, their expressions indecipherable. You wish you could hear their thoughts, but instead, you focus on their body language𑁋the subtle nods, the thoughtful gazes. Some of them barely have their lips moving for you to be able to read them, while others are simply not speaking at all. At the corner of your eyes, you’re able to make out a few artists speaking with confidence to the curators, explaining their creative process and the message behind their pieces. Disappointment claws anxiously at your chest. 

The sign language interpreter that is supposed to accompany you doesn’t show up until after a few crucial moments with curators have passed. By the time she arrives, introducing herself and quickly apologising for the long delay, you’re already feeling a sense of defeat settling in, struggling to muster the enthusiasm in your hands as you greet her back.

You have a hard time connecting with some of the visitors who stop by, heart sinking even more when they pass by your painting without pausing. Their attention is clearly drawn elsewhere𑁋that’s all you can think about as you watch them move on; their indifference is practically slicing through the air like a knife. 

It’s like you’re invisible. 

In the back of your mind, you figured this would happen. It wasn’t entirely your best work, or the best you’ve put your efforts in. For some reason painting didn’t come as naturally to you as it did before. If anything, it felt forced. The pressure to create something worthy had left you with a piece that felt uninspiring, meaningless. 

You aren’t meant for this. This grand exhibition hall, the feeling of being judged𑁋it all felt like a journey’s away from the joy you used to find in simply creating. The other artists around you seem to belong in this environment more than you do. They stood proudly beside their work, and all you could do right now was let the lump in your throat tighten even more. 

You aren’t meant for this. 

By the time the big announcement comes, you catch a glimpse of the evening sky outside the large windows of the museum. A hush falls over the room as the museum director steps back forward. Even as you let your eyes drift between the director and your interpreter right next to you, you already knew deep within you that the night wasn’t ending in your favour. 

“We congratulate all the artists whose works have been chosen,” the director says warmly, listing off names that resonate through the hall. Each name being called is met with applause and cheers.

Your name isn't called. You would know if it was if the expression on your interpreter’s face wasn’t so solemn, the meek curve at her lips that she wears doing hardly anything to ease you. Despite the sinking feeling, you send her a small, acknowledging nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. 

Wheein finds you when the evening starts winding down and the museum begins to clear away. She taps lightly at your shoulder as you’re packing your belongings, yet the eager look on her face is quick to fade once she sees the dejection painted all over yours. 

“You’re not going to stay for a while?” Wheein asks, signing with concern, her brows furrowing as she watches you continue to pack your things. “I heard there’s an after dinner event later on, and they’re letting anyone join. Maybe you could meet some of the other artists!”

Letting out a quiet exhale, you shake your head, the movement small and defeated as you sign back, “Going to head home. Tired.”

“Are you sure?” Wheein insists. “I was planning to introduce you to some people𑁋”

“It’s okay,” You sign quickly, interjecting her words. But the pout and puppy-eyes that she gives makes you roll your eyes. “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.” 

A grin is swift to cross her face, and a few seconds later she’s wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. You return the hug back, feeling a bit of your disappointment melt away in the face of your genuine happiness. 

“I'll text you later,” Wheein signs after pulling back. “Please get home safe, okay? I love you!”

The dramatic kisses she blows in your direction make you laugh despite yourself, and you nod, giving her a small wave as you head out of the museum.

The cool night air nips at your cheek when you step outside, and you feel way less constricted in your clothes than being inside the museum. As you walk briskly down the street, you let the night clear away your muddled thoughts. Your feet seem to guide you, almost on autopilot, not quite ready to head home and face the solitude that’s waiting for you.

You pass by a few late-night cafés, convenience stores, and small shops, their warm lights spilling out onto the pavement. 

The sight reminds you of Joshua. 

And for some reason, that’s all it takes for your feet to pick up its pace. There’s almost determination you can feel in each step that you take, the thoughts of the exhibition pressing farther and farther into the back of your mind. If there’s anything that could make you forget everything that has happened today, it’s just seeing him for a moment. A singular moment. 

The lights of the café switch off when you’re coming up to it. You come to a halt in your tracks, and your gaze lands on a lone figure stepping outside with its back turned towards you.

After a minute or two, the figure turns slowly, and you recognise Joshua's face illuminated by the fading light of the café's sign. There's a moment of hesitation before he notices you standing there just a couple of steps away, and when he does, his features seem to light up even brighter than the flickering stars above. But it’s quick to melt away when he watches the way you’re trudging up to him.

His eyes flicker over your face for a moment. “What happened?” 

You could see the worry in the way he signs to you, his eyes searching your tired ones. He peers at you so softly that it nearly makes your heart ache. But there’s a comfort there that you desperately find yourself wanting to cling to.

Without a word, you simply lean your body forward, letting your head fall onto Joshua’s shoulder. His presence emits a warmth that brings you back from the high of cloudy thoughts and back down to the surface of safety.

Joshua’s eyes widen imperceptibly for a second, before a quiet understanding washes over his face. His arms twitch at the weight of you leaning on him, and then almost hesitantly, he slowly wraps them around you, fingers brushing against the small of your back tentatively, delicately, as if unsure its welcome. 

His warmth seeps through your clothes and settles comfortably within the hollow spaces of your chest. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, against your ribs, and smell the lingering scent of coffee on his shirt. A sigh escapes your lips, a soft exhale that contains the tension and worries accumulated throughout the day.

Joshua doesn’t press you. He can feel everything you feel in his embrace, everything you wish to let out. He can feel your dejection, your disappointment, knowing that your efforts, all the blood, sweat, and tears you put into your art had fallen short of your dreams. But he doesn’t pry or question. He simply holds you, and perhaps that’s all that matters right now𑁋he can’t let you fall apart. Not in his arms, anyway. 

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there, right under the dim café light that casts down on your figures. When Joshua feels you shift in his hold, he loosens his grip ever so slightly, gaze caressing over your face for a few moments. His eyes hold a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

There’s a reluctance in your movements as you start to peel yourself away from him. Joshua slowly lets his arms unfold from around you, but his hands linger for a moment, as if hesitant to fully let you go just yet. His expression remains gentle, silently asking if you’re okay; if there’s anything more he can do. 

“It didn’t go well, did it?” Joshua asks warily. “The exhibition?”

All you do is shake your head, and a small resigned sigh tumbles out of you. 

Joshua purses his lips together, brows knitting together in worry. He knows the sting of rejection all too well and how deep it could cut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly, fingers moving with a grace through the air that matches the empathy in his eyes. He’s been getting more confident recently in his signing. “But it doesn’t mean your art isn’t worth anything. You tried your best, and maybe that’s what matters. Remember what I told you before?”

You tilt your head in question, waiting for him to continue. 

Then, all Joshua does is smile faintly, before picking his hands up to sign. He starts by putting his hand in a fist and sticking his pinky finger upward. Then he points his index finger to his forehead, before bringing it down into his open hand. Next he fixes his right hand downward, forming the other one into a cup shape, and dips the fingers of his right hand into it. 

And finally, he points to you. 

“I believe in you.” 

The words fly off his fingers and wrap around you like a blanket. The proud look that he captures on his face is washed away in a fit of timidity, and you can’t help but chuckle, a genuine, warm sound that fills the night air, even if you didn’t notice how loud it is. It's the first real laugh you've had all night. And when Joshua hears it, a blush creeps up his neck, reaching to his cheeks. A relieved smile spreads across his lips. 

When you gaze back up at him, the weight of the day feels a little lighter. Slowly, you lift your hands up to sign, ensuring each movement is clear and deliberate. 

“I missed you.”

Joshua’s expression softens even further. He watches your hands, then meets your eyes, understanding completely. He lifts his hands to respond, fingers moving tenderly through the air, and responding with his voice,

“I missed you too.”

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@lullips

[deadsetobsessions]

As the girl who came up with the Triplet! Tim AU PLEASSEEEEE continue it!!!!! I NEED to see Bruce who thought he had one robin finding out he actually has three separate completely different ones

I gotchu lmfao I think I’ll get to Bruce later? I’m really happy you liked it omg like that idea is so good

——

Their plan was perfect! It would have been perfect, had it not been for Dick Grayson and his nosy face!

Batman might not have known his identity, but Dick Grayson did. He promised to keep it from Batman, but Tim hadn’t exactly thought about his secret identity when he showed up to harass the man into being Robin again.

And now, they’re paying for it.

Tim leaned back and crossed his arms as he watched Dick cradle his head in his hands, looking half a short breath away from a mental breakdown.

“Are you telling me… there’s three of you?”

“Yes, Dick.” Tim sighed, having answered this exact question ten times in the past two minutes.

Dick lifted his head, wide eyes looking a little feverish… no, looking a little manic.

“Tim. Your name is Tim, right? I’m not-”

“Yes, my name is Tim. Technically, so are the others. But the one here with us is Lionel.”

“No, wait, Tim, you understand how this is- insane, right? It’s not even remotely in the realm of mentally healthy.” Dick paused. “Wait, are you skipping school right now?!?”

“Has anyone ever told you your priorities are screwed up, Dick?” Lionel-Tim walked back into the room, hands full of snacks and, most importantly, Dick’s emergency marshmallow bag. Dick turned to Lionel, eyes full of guilt, and grabbed the bag of marshmallows like a dehydrated man in the middle of a desert who’s only couple of feet away from an oasis that he’s been looking for for days.

“Oh my god. I’ve had three younger brothers and I thought they were all the same kid!” Dick wailed, grabbing a handful of marshmallows and stress cramming it into his mouth. Tim threw him a disgusted look.

“To be fair, we made sure to train to act like each other from a really early age,” Tim said, snatching the bag of chips that Lionel chucked at his head. His snack laden triplet plonked himself on the plush spinning chair, shoving a hand inside the bag of gummy worms and cramming it down his throat as he spun around.

“I can’t believe I’ve never even checked up on you at your place!! If I did, I would have noticed it way earlier!”

“Probably not,” Lionel mumbled through his mouthful of colorful gummy worms. “You only caught us because Tim got beat half to death by an edgy crime lord teenager.”

Dick hunched into himself, a myriad of complicated emotions- largely, guilt and fury and heartbreak- wormed its way past his face. Tim glared and threw a chip at his triplet.

“It’s fine, Dick. Lionel’s just being an asshole. We’re taking care of it. Revenge prank.” Tim explained.

“He wouldn’t have caught us and you know it.” Lionel grumbled.

“I’ll help.” Dick mumbled dejectedly.

“You’ll have to get in line, Wing,” Tim went back to his laptop. “My thirds got first dibs, and I’m not planning on staying still either. I’m gonna mess with Jason’s slush funds.”

“He’s got a stash of cash locked up in the fourth safe house, but that’s not interesting. Look!” Lionel proudly displayed a duffle bag- from where he got it from, Dick had no clue- and unzipped it to show batteries, lightbulbs, and random bits and bobs.

“What is that?” Dick asked.

“That’s the second lightbulb in his bathroom light! This is the left battery in his TV remote! And this is half of his back up boot laces. I took all of his 10 mm sockets! And the specialized socket he got for his bike! And this,” Lionel grinned, lifting up a piece of fabric. “Is his pillow case!”

“Niceee.” Tim whistled. He tossed a piece of tech at Lionel. “Sneak back into his house and put that in between his pillows. It’ll keep both sides uncomfortably warm.”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Is… this revenge for almost killing you?” Dick asked.

“It’s either this or complete and total financial ruin, social death, and then actual death.” Tim tapped away at his laptop.

“You’re kind of scary, you know that?”

“We know!” Lionel chirped.

“Base, come in.”

“Base,” Tim quickly replied, laser focused on Archy’s call. Lionel and Dick quieted.

“Hood’s lurking outside the school like a creep,” Archy muttered into the comm, papers rustling behind him.

Dick tensed, upset making itself visible once more.

“You still have the container I gave you this morning in your pocket?”

“Yes.”

Tim smirked in a way that made Dick suddenly have a horrible need to shake and lecture him on the moralities of not becoming a villain. “It’s glitter. Purple and pinks.”

“…Ah.”

“Godspeed, Archy!” Lionel chirped again, sounding slightly more demented.

A moment of silence before-

“Oof!” A puff. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry, mister!”

On the other end of the comm, the gruff voice of a beefy teenager spluttered, “What- why do you- egh- my mouth! The glitter went into- pleh, pleh! What the fuck, kid?!”

“I’m so sorry! It was supposed to be for a project! I worked so hard to mix the colors right! Wait, stay still, mister! I’ll help!”

Archy, eyes wide and innocent, patted some more glitter onto the vigilante.

“No, stop! Stop! You’re getting it on my bike!”

“It’s a pretty color- oh hey, this is open-”

“No! That’s the fuel tank!”

“Oh! Whoops! Sorry!”

As chaos spread on the other side of the comms, Tim and Lionel burst into cackles. Dick choked on the marshmallows, helplessly shaking with laughter.

Lionel whacked at Dick’s back, hysterically giggling.

“That’s- that’s Archy?”

“Archy pretending to be Lionel pretending to be me yeah. I hope he got glitter in the fuel tank.” Tim grinned.

“Want me to patrol tonight to see if he got the glitter out of his bike?”

Lionel jabbed his pointy elbows onto Dick’s shoulders. “Absolutely. Distract him, too! I gotta mess with his safe houses. He’ll never feel comfortable in a safe house ever again.”

“Don’t go overboard, Lionel.” Tim looked up. “But also, I changed his WiFi passwords to 123456, so do with that what you will.”

Lionel grinned. Dick mustered up a smile in response, pushing the guilt away. He had a lot to make up to his little brothers, and if terrorizing Jason was how he was going to accomplish that… well, Dick’s not feeling too nice about Jason right now.

——

Batman squinted suspiciously at a humming Nightwing.

“Something happen?” He managed to ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, I got some nice pictures.”

“…I see.”

Batman, regardless of what his history might suggest, knew how to pick his battles. This? This thing that brought Nightwing’s murder smile? This was one battle he was willing to walk away from.

“Hey, B, you ever think about adopting more kids?”

Batman choked and promptly grappled away. Nightwing cackled.

“You can’t escape the question!”

Batman ran faster.

[mooniemilkieway]

Laughing Jack Headcanons Part 2

this is literally my character app lmfao I've been coming up with ideas about him since I started fangirling (badly) for him again so let's go.

* . °•★|•°∵ ∵°•|☆•° . *

(gif/animation by @/ijustwannahavefun)

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

★。＼｜／。★

⛧ Laughing Jack is essentially corrupted by Lucifer to be used as a weapon to obtain his vengeance on God for casting him out. When an angel was traveling the Jack-in-the-Box to Isaac, Lucifer sent one of his demons to attack the angel and put a "curse" on the box. This could explain why Laughing Jack-even before Isaac abandoned him-seemed to be murderous as he mutilated a cat when him and Isaac were playing outside.

⛧ LJ does have more of an "virtuous" voice. He has a gentle, almost father like, voice. It's usually for when he wants engage with someone he genuinely likes or if he wants to calm someone down. However, don't let this deceive you as it could be because of manipulation. Once he starts showing his true motives, his voice would become more sinister.

(His "innocent" voice headcanon that being Sebastian Michaelis: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgBWOTtTp4Q)

(His "malicious" voice headcanon that being Alex Brightman's Beetlejuice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMrt9demNeA)

⛧ He takes interest in porcelain harlequin dolls. He was first introduced into making them around the late 1900s when he was targeting one of his victims and their brother was a merchant for harlequin dolls. Obviously LJ killed his victim and the brother because they were scamming and being evil by abusing their nephews and based on his new hobby, he captured their souls and sealed them in two porcelain harlequin dolls he created. They are both in a small, glass display in on of LJ's carnival tents.

⛧ Relating back to the previous one, Laughing Jack doesn't kill innocent children or people for that matter. Sure, he may scare or tease you, but he would never lay a finger on you unless if you are that of vile soul. Especially if you abuse children.

⛧ Laughing Jack loves studying astronomy. Whenever he walks outside on a full moon with stars aligned in the night sky, he would always wonder what it'll be like to travel across the galaxy. He even thought about if there's other life forms on different planets. This can explain why he is more stronger magic wise during the full moon period.

⛧ He is also a writer. When he began writing was as the same time Isaac was still being homeschooled. He learned how to do cursive writing. He would definitely write letters either warning someone about the dangers that lie ahead of them or would write a threatening one to his victim.

⛧ Laughing Jack has photophobia or has sun-sensitive eyes. This is most likely because he has been stuck in a dark, enclosed area for almost 13 years. He can technically be in sunlight but he'll have discomfort. So if you want to get away from him just shine a really bright flashlight in his eyes. One of the people Laughing Jack was protecting noticed this and offered him a pair of their old glasses because they had the same condition. LJ does wear them but only when no one can see his as he doesn't want to seem "vulnerable."

⛧ He is also very...old fashion. He prefers listening to music by a vinyl and a record player and doesn't understand the concept of technology or what the new generation is into. He is also very concerned about the "Get Alpha" slang...

⛧ If Laughing Jack gets stabbed or has one of his limbs cut off he could easily attach it back by sewing that area with just needle and thread and wrap it with his iconic bandages and it'll function like normal.

⛧ He loves the snow. Especially when it's at night. He finds it very magical and would take someone out with him to a snowy forest so they could have a walk and talk to each other about their deepest feelings.

⛧ His scent is that of a victoria sponge cake. It is actually a strong smell that you probably wouldn't even think it came from him.

⛧ For funnies, yes Laughing Jack does know all of the Sanrio characters.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖꩜

[twilghtkoo]

summary. haechan is capturing everything he loves and cherishes on his new camera and it’s mostly you filling up his sd card

pairings. haechan x reader (f)

genre. fluff, established relationship

warnings. mentions of photography/videography during sex

note. this is inspired by haechan’s recent bubble message TT he recently got a camera and he‘s been taking pictures with it a lot and even of his family ;-; also didn’t know how to end this lmfao but enjoy anyway !!

—

you are sitting backstage at the boys’ concert tonight, watching as staff frantically waking back and forth and making sure everything is going smoothly before it’s time. some of the boys are sitting down on their phone while some of the others are getting their makeup done.

haechan is one of them, sitting on a chair as the makeup artist is doing her thing. he’s on his phone as well, watching tiktoks and sending the funny ones to you even though you’re on the couch behind him. when he sends them he watches you through the mirror to see your reaction and wait for you to laugh.

jungwoo sits next to you, hair, makeup and already changed, pops his head over your shoulder. “what’s so funny?”

you show him the tiktok haechan has sent you, the short clip of a dog with a wig on and a random song playing even makes jungwoo blurt out laughing.

haechan is finished with his make up and hair, you’re helping him get changed as instructed by the stylists. you usually help the staff if they ask you to, not wanting to bother their flow or overstep, but the staff welcome you and are very kind to you.

haechan giggles. “your tongue really does stick out when you’re concentrating.” he points out.

you pause your hands, fixing the collar of his jacket carefully. “stop staring.” you try to tell him sternly, your hands moving down to his pants. making sure they sit on him right, your fingers occasionally grazing the area below his belly button that is covered by his shirt.

haechan is aware of your fingers innocently yet dangerously touching his waist, his heart reacting only for you as it beats louder than the fans that are screaming out there right now. only you have this affect on him.

“cant help that my girl is gorgeous.” he teases, biting down on his lower lip.

you scoff, patting his butt softly. “you’re all good superstar.”

“can you take a picture with me?” he asks, out of the blue. reaching for your hand to pull you back closer to him.

you tilt your head, scrunching your eyebrows. “right now?”

he nods, happily. “with my camera.”

you give in. you can’t say no when he’s looking so good in front of you and his eyes look like that. it’s the same look he gives you when he asks anything from you. whether it be to shower with him, watch a new show with him, to go check out this store he saw that had a sweater he really liked with him.

haechan recently bought a camera, an idea you suggested to him a long time ago but he claimed he wasn’t really good at taking pictures. but now he’s learning and he’s enjoying it so much. he’s been taking lots of photos of his members, concerts, family and you. capturing fond, silly memories and candids.

not sure why he wants to take a picture with you at this moment. you didn’t really dress up, only came prepared with your hair down and your makeup done. you are cladded in the boys’ tour shirt that’s a bit oversized on you, just how you like it with jeans.

“mark!– no wait, i don’t trust him. hyung!” he calls out to johnny.

“can you take a few pictures of us please?” haechan hands over his camera to johnny before pulling you to his side, his hand slipping behind you to sit on your waist, gently squeezing it affectionately.

“okay, newly wedded couple, smile for me!” johnny jokes, making you and haechan roll eyes before you slip your hand behind haechan to rest your hand on his waist. your head naturally leaning closer to him and you feel him rest his head on top of yours, warm smiles displayed.

“three..two..one!” flash.

“another one, kiss for the camera.” johnny orders jokingly, yet you both know he’s being serious.

haechan throws his fist in the air, triumphantly. “yes!” and he takes your face in one hand, placing his wet lips on the side of your face.

“perfect! three, two, one..” flash.

“yah! what kind of kiss was that?” you exclaim, wiping off the saliva with the back of your hand.

haechan looks offended, his lips turned downward in a frown. “yah, don’t wipe my kiss away.”

you fight back a smile. “well kiss me the right way fool.”

“let’s get some action,” johnny teases once again, preparing to snap the photo of the century.

one of his hands are lazily on your hips, and the other cups your cheek as the pad of his thumb is gently rubbing your skin. his eyes follow from yours down to your soft, plump lips.

your eyes meet his again, he wiggles his eyebrows making you giggle.

his warm, soft lips connect with yours in a lingering kiss.

“okay lovers, ready, three..two..one..” your eyes flutter shut the minute his lips touch yours, your hand that was on his waist now clutching onto the fabric of his jacket.

“ok i’m getting sick, take your camera.” johnny pushes his camera in between you two, both of you giggling and blushing as johnny leaves you two alone.

-

it’s early in the morning as you’re in the kitchen preparing yourself a small breakfast and your regular coffee. you’re not really a breakfast person, sometimes opting for a bowl of oatmeal or a breakfast bar. you have a class in two hours, your boyfriend is still sound asleep in your room softly snoring away. the lewd events of last night shoves it’s way into your thoughts, making you smile like a weirdo in front of your coffee machine. you take your breakfast and your hot mug alone with you towards your patio. it’s cool outside and the sun is slowly rising from its slumber.

you don’t often eat breakfast outside on your patio, you think you’ve only stepped out here about a few times since you moved in. but your thought process thinks that this is a very therapeutic way to start the day.

“good morning, beautiful.” a familiar voice spoke up from behind you. when you turn around to face haechan, the breakfast bar in your mouth still when he caught you off guard from taking a bite.

the sight of you sitting outside on the patio chair with your legs resting on the small round table, his shirt from last night riding up your thighs, exposing your bare thighs and the swelling of your breasts poking through the thin fabric indicating you’re not wearing a bra. you look the most beautiful like this, he thinks.

he’s leaning against the door frame that separates the inside of your home and the outside.

you smiled, “good morning,” your voice sounding muffled from the bite you just took.

“wait!” he exclaimed, turning around and rushing back towards your bedroom. you go back to enjoying your small, quick, breakfast and your cup of coffee, patiently waiting for him to return.

haechan comes back, his hair still disheveled and still shirtless. his sweatpants he had slept in are hanging dangerously low on his hips, occupying the empty chair beside you. and you don’t miss the reddish/purplish marks that adorn his neck collarbone and chest.

“what’s the camera for?” you quirked an eyebrow.

he smirks, “let me take a photo of you right now.”

you blink, “like, right now?”

he nods. “can you imagine waking up to look for your girlfriend and you find her in her own little word looking the prettiest in nothing but my shirt in front of a sunrise?”

scoffing and turning your head away to take another sip of your coffee to hide your face before offering him your cup, in which he gratefully takes.

“i probably have drool on my face.” you joke, but you haven’t looked in the mirror so you cringe to yourself.

“so what? you’re still beautiful.”

“okay fine, if you say so.” you respond with a shrug, acting as if his words don’t affect you.

he grins, giving you back your mug before he sets up his camera and holds it in front of his face.

you suddenly pretend to find interest at the skyline, holding your mug with both your hands. not sure how to act in front of a camera so you just sit still and take sips from your cup.

you hear multiple snaps from his camera. not sure why he’s taking so many but you don’t question him.

“can you look at me now,”

assuming he’s done taking pictures you look at him expectantly, wanting to look at the photos he’s taken of you.

snap.

“what the,” you blurt out.

he chuckles. “sorry princess, can you smile for me?” he pleads.

you sigh, but does as he says, yet immediately feeling self-conscious. “this feels weird,” you burst out laughing with your hands covering your face.

“no, no, babyyy, you look so pretty. i want to take a picture of my pretty girl.” his camera now in his lap as he reaches to grab both your wrists to pull away from your face. an idea pops into his head, his fingers still wrapped around your wrists, pulling you towards him so you’re straddling his lap, he swiftly saves his camera from you sitting on it. he spreads his legs a bit farther apart so you can sit comfortably, basically manspreading.

he leans back with a wide smile, pointing his camera at you. “how about now?”

tilting your head back as you laugh, using his chest to support your hands. “you are so slick.” not even realizing he’s capturing you in a state he often experiences when he’s with you.

feeling playful all of a sudden, you start holding up your hand, doing multiple poses. a peace sign next to your eyes as you wink to the camera. blowing multiple kisses to the camera. your wrists jointing together hold your face as if you were a flower.

and the one behind the camera was enjoying this too much.

“did you get your fix of me now?”

he hums, as he scrolls through the collection of photos of you.

you hesitate for a moment before asking, “let me take a few of you. please.” you shyly ask.

there have been times where you’re behind the camera. sometimes you’ll take photos of him and his members when haechan asks you to, or that time when you came along with him and his family for his little brother’s entrance ceremony. quickly capturing multiple family photos of him with his parents and siblings. then haechan asks a stranger to capture a family photo, this time with you in the picture.

he doesn’t refuse, handing you his camera and his hands now taking their place on your bare thighs.

you want to capture the marks you created on his skin from last night, zooming in carefully, just like he taught you.

“it’s kinda hot that you’re taking pictures of the hickeys you gave me.” he admits, biting his lower lip as he stares at your concentrated face.

“what do you think about photography and videography during sex?” he asks slowly.

you glance down at him then back at the camera. “i wouldn’t mind, i don’t know about filming though.” you honestly say.

he was shocked at your answer, thinking you would be scared with taking photos and videos and thinking the government would manage to get their hands on it. but your answer excites him.

as he’s imagining taking photos of you in an intimate situation, you sprawled out in front of him, naked, posing for his camera. god, he’d pick you up right now and continue round three from last night. but he knows you have class in an hour.

your fits of giggles snap him out of his daydreaming. “so this is that stare that johnny was talking about..god, you’re so fucking cute.” too absorbed with how handsome and cute your boyfriend is.

“so you up to a round three when you get back from class?”

[admiral-mason]

Ultra-Impact Part 4

Idea based on @valeriele3's Live Stream post

0-3 0-4 << YOU ARE HERE 0-5

PRELUDE /// FOURTH CLAIR DE ÉTOILES

TWO SUPREME MACHINES INFORM YOU OF THE CURRENT SITUATION.

You turned your body to face the red V-model machine, looking as if they had never fought V1 in the first place. Holding out its Knuckleblaster, V2 gestured to you for a handshake and you accepted it, feeling its three slightly sharp fingers in the process.

"You're here too?" You asked the robot as you finished up your handshake. "Indeed so. And it appears that I have the glory of the first of being able to talk with the godfather of this world."

V2's voice possessed a deep tone stronger than Capitano's voice you heard in the 5.1 Update's cutscenes on YouTube. They- or rather he- sounded cold and calculating, almost akin to a mafia boss or skilled hitman.

(A/N: V2's voice, in this case, sounds like the security units from The Callisto Protocol; the voice in question is Type 1 in the video.)

V1 then walked over to you two and the blue war robot pointed a middle finger at the red peacekeeping robot with its right arm while having its left arm on its hips.

"Hey, it's not my problem that the terminal procured my voice box faster than yours." V2 then looked towards the terminal before walking up to it. You followed closely out of curiosity. "Speaking of that, are you done procuring V1's voice box?"

The terminal's screen displayed a singular word: "YES." Meanwhile, you could see your Twitch chat fill up with messages on V2.

quantoom: Bro V1 and now V2??

johnifer donated $20.00 "OH MY GOD IT'S V2 AWOOGAH ARF ARFARFARF BARKBARKBARKBARKRBARKABRKABRAKR"

Mike: wtf

feetusdeletussthenyeetus donated $33.00 "Calm down bitch."

johnifer donated $69.00 "nuh uh"

feetusdeletussthenyeetus donated $69.00 "yuh huh"

NaviaLover291: Holy shot!

benjaminfan: do we just let them fight or

3929: Just lettem fight lmfao

As the two donators kept fighting with their wallets, V2's right arm suddenly had an object materialize in his left hand as his arm moved back into its original position. The object in question had a box-like shape with a speaker and some widgets and tidbits on its sides- it's likely V1's voice box, considering the "01" on the top of it.

You were kinda spooked out by this but didn't bother questioning it.

(A/N: this refers to how when you buy a weapon in Ultrakill, it kinda just materializes in your hand with no explanation; obviously this is simply for gameplay but my story does utilize some gameplay tidbits lmfao)

V2 then walked over to V1, whose animated movements made it feel giddy. The red machine then proceeded to place (it looked like a slap though with how the way the V-models place items) the voice box on V1's torso. The box disappeared with no trace of it but as usual, you didn't question it.

"Ah. Aaaah."

Now this had you raising an eyebrow because V1 picked a female's voice instead of the Microsoft SAM voice you've heard in all the videos.

(A/N: I imagine V1's voice sounds like this.)

(A/N: Do not question why the fuck I chose that in particular or I will eat all of your cookies)

"Oh, uh, hello, godfather! I can verbally communicate with you now!" V1 said, striding it- herself over to you. "And before you ask 'I thought your voice would be Microsoft SAM,' I'm a robot with no voice by default and as such there is nothing wrong with me being a girly girl~!"

You just stared at her with a blank expression. "O...kaaay, V1. It's just different, that's all."

"Any problems with that?"

"Nope."

"Alright cool!"

V2 then looked at the both of you. "Alright. Since our dear godfather just recently arrived, let me catch you up." He then looked at the terminal and pointed to it. "See that terminal over there? It tried warning you on that neck section of that 1000-THR Earthmover in Hell's Violence layer. To not touch the lands ruled by the seven gods... or what you know as Teyvat."

V2 then looked down. "As much as I would blame your curiosity, you would only have delayed the inevitable. I won't sugarcoat it: Hell is controlling Teyvat and its people in an attempt to kill you."

Your expression grew mortified, bewildered, and lost simultaneously. "Whoa whoa wait what?? Hell itself took over fucking Genshin??"

He looked back up at you, radiating serious yet somber energy despite his camera head only granting so much expression. "Unfortunately so. When you made your way to Teyvat, you inadvertently opened a backdoor for Hell to enter. It took over under the guise of those 'SAGAU Impostor AUs' on that Tumblr section or something."

"...Is that why all those Knights of Favonius have red eyes?" V2 nodded. "They're being utilized as puppets; just like the Mannequins. With little to no control, they're forced to simply attack anything they see."

Hearing all this left you with a question: "But why me? I mean, not to be self-degrading, but I'm just a dumbass who plays games on a camera for a buncha people!"

The machine's next words somehow ended up just as, if not more mortifying than his last ones. "True. But that's not Hell's plan. See, once you die, you'll be dead in the real world. And the organism of suffering will utilize your computer to attempt to manifest itself into the real world."

"But that's not gonna happen!" V1 interjected, her voice still chippy as her previous sentence. "You got not one, but two supreme machines perfectly capable of taking on the entirety of Hell here to help you out of this shitfest. I still have my arsenal, and I helped V2 gain equivalent weapons thanks to that terminal that tried to warn you. And that brings us to your arsenal!"

She then dragged you to the terminal before selecting a gun icon in the top left corner, which pulled up a tab titled "WEAPONS." It was like Ultrakill's weapon screen, currently only with the revolvers. Except, you noticed that the revolvers were different from the base game.

Your default revolver- or better said revolvers- were the Dual Wield revolvers. Their icon was two blue revolvers, one placed upon the other. They costed zero points to buy, so you decided to click on them.

(A/N: Look here and set the video to 0:43 seconds and then peek at the bottom left corner)

Suddenly, your arms briefly clipped downwards before two revolvers appeared in your hands and you cautiously looked at them. They both resembled the Piercer Revolver, but this time, they had what looked to be a "12" in the display section where the battery should be.

A tutorial box then popped up in your vision.

DUAL REVOLVERS: CHOOSE TO ATTACK A SINGULAR TARGET OR TWO TARGETS SIMULTANEOUSLY. LIMITED AMMO; SHOOT WISELY.

This meant that the display was likely for ammo.

"Ooh! You got double the firepower!" V1 excitedly said, already peeking at your revolvers. "Now can I have my Sharpshooter revolver back now?" You remembered that you still had it in your pocket and you nodded. V1 took her revolver from your pocket before saying a quick "thank you~!"

V2 looked at your new weapons and nodded. "You do indeed, godfather. Perhaps we should teach you some-" Suddenly, the sky flashed a bloody red and he stopped speaking.

"Shit... it seems that Hell finally caught up to us." He then walked up to the terminal and pushed a hidden button on its left side; this output a device akin to a phone and shut the terminal down. V2 grabbed it and hastily put it in your pocket.

"I'll explain later, godfather! Follow us!" You followed the two machines out of the forest, but once you did so...

...the three of you were met with a large force of fleshy figures in the distance. "It's sending husks after us..." V1 remarked. "Well, godfather, I hope you're ready for a true trial by fire, because I SURE AM CRAVING SOME BLOOD RIGHT NOW!"

You simply stared at the army of sinners as you held up your revolvers, still a little panicked. However, upon seeing V1 and V2 prepare for combat, you decided that at that moment, if Hell wanted to kill you, it would not do so without a fight.

Taglist: @valeriele3, @bunniotomia, @feetusdeletussthenyeetus, @quantoom

[partycatty]

Hear me out bi han with a figure skating reader?..

YAS i actually have two other requests for the same thing! u guys r so cute i love ur lil ideas :))

bi-han > foolish

how it goes when you're an elegant skater and he's a stoic ninja!

warnings: u almost die, controversial bi-han character writing?

notes: this reads like a barbie movie it's a little corny, also i imagine his frost/ice shoots out like elsa LMFAO like all beautiful n shit when he's not trying to spear someone w an icicle

masterlist <3

•when i say bi-han is absolutely horrible at verbalizing his romantic thoughts, i promise with my entire being that i mean it.

•so it comes to nobody's surprise when all bi-han can do is watch you as you glide across the ice like a gorgeous fairy, eyes closed and completely encapsulated in the movement. he was supposed to be scouring the land for raiden and kung lao to confirm their whereabouts, but he stopped when he heard your pretty humming and scraping of ice. all he could do was stand atop a roof and observe you quietly, suddenly feeling a little warm, which was completely out of character for the cryomancer.

•your skates were handmade and your movements weren't professional. you learned through VHS tapes and magazines growing up, and you wanted nothing more than to leave fengjian and make it big in the olympics.

•each time he returns to fengjian to spy on the farmers and report back to liu kang, he's sure to stray from the path when nobody is looking, and checks on the frozen pond to see if you're skating. something about it entrances him. perhaps it's because he uses his ice for dominance and strength, while you submit your entire life to the deadly pond in such a beautiful display of grace.

•it takes him several visits to actually approach you, and it was entirely unintentional. you had actually fallen into a thin patch of ice, your leg trapped in a jagged part and effectively sucking your leg into the freezing water. he leapt from the rooftop and revealed himself to you. while he may not be the best at encouraging words, he's great at barking commands. so, in his all-ice-knowing voice, he tells you how to save yourself step by step, since you seemed entirely clueless about this incredibly important survival skill.

•your nerves got the better of you as you cry out and squirm, and the ice cracked even more. bi-han let out a growl of frustration with the situation before stomping across the ice to you. you wanted to shout out and tell him to stand back or he'd make it worse, but the words get caught in your throat when, with each step, his footsteps spawned large swirling waves of frosty ice, effectively repairing the cracks around you.

•bi-han doesn't outstretch an arm, he just stands menacingly - and silently - over you as you whimper in pain. saving yourself, you use his thick arm as leverage and hoist yourself out of the water, and he barely flinches at your soggy weight.

•"you... you did that," you say incredulously and out of breath, pointing at the intricate patterns along the ice top. bi-han's eyes follow your point and he exhales before turning back to you. "with the ice... how?"

•"you were foolish," he replies coldly, though you sense a morbidly caring tone in his voice. "stay near the shore. you'll lose that leg if you're not careful. no more skating then."

•your hand is on his chest as you regain your balance, and your eyes fall to the emblem on his uniform.

•"how did you know i was skating?" you ask, with a smirk teasing your lips. bi-han tenses up at your question, looking away momentarily. he would literally rather die than admit he was staring at you, and you sense that, so you move back to the emblem.

•"you are in a clan," you mutter, reaching to trace it. "what are ninjas doing in fengjian?"

•instinctively, he snatches up your wrist and holds it in the air, warning you silently not to touch it. but even so, bi-han's lips part for a moment, his eagerness to speak to you overtaking his stoicism. he covers his mouth and furrows his brows. something about your gentleness, your kindness, causes him to desire to match it. your sweet eyes looking into his, you tilt your head and he nearly collapses.

•he decides not to answer your question, and you assume whatever it is is a private matter. perhaps the whispers in madam bo's restaurant might offer an explanation later.

•"well... thank you," you thank him gently, with your arm still in his grip. it's evident that... he doesn't scare you. in fact, you're fascinated by this man. everyone knows everyone, so who could this big yummy scoop of ice cream be??

•"don't thank me yet," he replies, eyes looking down at the ice and back to the shore. "with me. come."

•you do an awkward combination of skating and walking beside bi-han as he leads you back to the snowy shore. his hand rests on your back, full palm taking up a great amount of space on your back. you shudder at the thought.

•"may i thank you now?" you ask with gentle playfulness, smiling up at the ninja before bowing out of respect. "you saved my life, sir. the least you can do is tell me your name."

•"bi-han," he finally replies, his lips in a firm line. "don't make me save you again. be smart. be vigilant."

•his lecture halts when he hears his brothers call for his name in the echoey distance. he shares one last glance with you before walking off into the village alleys, and you're utterly dumbfounded. did that actually happen, or was that a weird hypothermic hallucination? do those even happen?

•before the lin kuei end their exploration of your village, bi-han decides to leave one last lesson for you at your doorstep. how he even knew where you lived baffled you. but, the uneasiness went away when you opened the hastily put together box, and see a brand new pair of ice skates, the blades frosted with the same beautiful pattern you saw on the ice that day.

•never again did you get near the thin points of the icy pond. and, every winter after that, you can't help but feel a pair of eyes on you in the distance as you improve your flips and pivots using your gorgeous skates. and you're pretty sure the lin kuei's business in the village ended quite some time ago...

[magicxc]

Pillow Talk

Pairings: Survey Corps x Black Reader - Things They Say In Bed

Word Count: 640

Warnings: just a tad bit of FUCKING

A/N: I’ve been directly inspired by the girlies and their idea of what these 2D men be saying in bed. I wanted to create my own version of that, but it turned out totally different than what I was going for; and for good reason too - cause this was so much fun!! Who had your favorite saying?

Headcannons Masterlist

Eren  - “a relationship should be 50/50. I give you my last name and you scream my first.”

You were praying to the high heavens that this wasnt your proposal. Knees touching your shoulders, Eren had the tendency to get lost in the sauce; uttering things he surely didn't mean, like the time he promised to bring you back the moon and the stars from outer space. 

Levi - “when did you realise the y in ‘your girl’ is silent?”

Eyes brimmed over with tears and mascara running, Levi couldn't have found you prettier than in this very moment. It's something about the drool slathered across your chin and your messy hair that looked so raw, so authentically pleasing. His dick slid past your lips once more, your cheeks hallowed and tongue flat. The bright light of the flash signaled that he was indeed recording; sending the video straight to Kenny you assumed. But you couldn’t be bothered to care. This can either go terribly wrong or terribly right. 

Erwin - “the baby factory is about to get its first employee.”

Hips tilted on pillows and legs wrapped around his waist, Erwin holds you like that for a little while longer trying his best to make sure that his seed takes. Small kisses get placed on your cheek, lips, and neck. Heavily sighing in content, it dawns on you that you could absolutely fall asleep like this. 

Connie - “if hot women are going to lie, it should at least be on top of me.”

Lmfao he's so damn dramatic. All this because girls night went a little longer than expected. You’d promise Connie a movie together when you came home, but things took a little longer than expected and it was too late. All he had the energy for now was cuddles; unable to fall asleep unless half your body was draped over his. 

Jean - “I've never kissed under the cameltoe or whatever it is that Santa said.”

On bended knee, Jean’s face stood eye to eye with your kitty cat. Mahogany legs on full display as you adorned his favorite black chemise set, he couldn't help but beg for a taste before you headed to bed for the night. You knew you’d be a bit of a tease wearing this to sleep, but the set was sexy and you really wanted the chance to enjoy your lingerie without having it ripped off of you. Just a taste though, you thought. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. But you knew better! Because although that's how it always started, that’s rarely where it ended. 

Onyankopon - “the only thing another nigga can take from me is notes.” 

His calloused palm pressed harder into your ass cheek, your face smushed deep into the pillows. The relentless driving of Ony’s hips into yours is another stark reminder that you were his and only his. This is surely the last time you’d ever dream of entertaining another man. 

Reiner - “if you dont have my children can you still be my mommy?”

Mommy kink alert!! Who would've thought that Reiner had a mommy kink? Who would’ve thought that it’d turn you on? Either way, the driving of his fingers into your cunt just got drenched in your approval. 

Armin - “we can watch the movie or make a movie.”

Is this not the meaning of Netflix and chill? Armin considers himself intelligent, but he couldnt have felt slower in this moment. Thankfully your endless cackling had put him to ease. However, his question did get you thinking. 

Floch - “my ears are always sore because your absence is so loud.”

Wrapped tightly in his arms, Floch languidly thrusts into you; his lips touching the shell of your ear as he professes his love. While this had started out as a fling, suddenly he was becoming too much to resist.

[angelismmm]

𝄞 — zhongli (gn!reader) — ❝ two is better than one! ❞

summary: your calm, sensible, and handsome boyfriend wants to take your relationship to the next level, ready for slow intimate moments together, but what would you think if you saw what double digits he had like down under!

a/n: saw a lovely fanart of zhongli, gave me big idea for a fic and i love zhongli so much :)!

warnings: nsfw, mentions of double dick zhongli (LMAO), riding, doggy style(?), dom!zhongli, sub!reader this time, don't know what else, enjoy though!

You and ZHONGLI have been dating for a bit, slowly and surely you both grow more deeply in love than before, Hu Tao mentions how horrifyingly you both looked like a cheesy teen couple in highschool on their first date.

Shopping, or getting some coffins from imported land with you and ZHONGLI is a nightmare, Hu Tao quoted. Both of you often glancing at each other and growing red, then looking away from each other once more, all wanted is for you both to just get the damn coffins into the carriage and back to home sweet home!!

Although this may have ticked Hu Tao off about how cheesy it all was, and as much as it is cheesy, it's nice seeing you, her close friend, finally getting along with your obvious crush for a bit now, aka ZHONGLI.

Finally putting the coffins back into the parlor, and in display, you both finally get "kicked out for being too cheesy", aka Hu Tao saying enjoy your date tonight!

Strolling through the streets of Liyue, small stares at each stall. You both fonally decided on just a small snack at Third Round Knockout to end off the day. ZHONGLI surprisingly paid this time though (must be a special night hmmm?)

Finally crashing down on the bed in ZHONGLI's home. Lying down, so tired from everything (eating and putting a coffin in a stroller and arranging it for display) that happened today. "Beloved, today I would like to.." he clears his throat, "Take our relationship to another level. "-We've been together for quite some time, and we both know we can't spend eternity with each other forever." You sat up looking confused, "So, what's the surprise, sweetheart?" you asked.

He pins you down with his geo-scattered hands onto the bed frame. "I would like to be intimate with you, at least just once, if you would allow it my love?" He said, breathing a bit heavy, not so hard to carry though. "Sure, what could go wrong, right?" You giggled. ZHONGLI's breath slowly getting closer to your neck, biting it, marking you as his.

You moaned slightly, whimpering at the sudden bites, "Mmm, your neck is sensitive isn't it, honey?" he said muffled, but understandable, you nod in a bit of excitement. He bites a bit more and let's go. ZHONGLI lies himself down and lets you hover on top of him. (ok u both are naked at this point dont ask how) You turn your head to see his cock(s) (LMFAO), dripping with precum. "O-oh.. I kinda see you only wanna do this just now.." "You never fail to amuse me, love"

Inserting one of them up your hole, you whine as it struggled to fit. slowly riding him, you both moan out each other's names. hours go by, many rounds have taken place, you both are a mess, he has you hands pinned to the bedframe, fucking you senseless, slowly noticing the belly bulge forming in your stomach. "Feel that, babe? That's the mark. The mark that shows my ownership over you, got it?" Your fucked dumb hazy expression was enough for him, fucking into you more, "s' close again 'li, just a lil' m-more.." you moaned out about to cum for the last time, this time with ZHONGLI.

"Me too, honey. Just- haah.. just wait a little long- haah! longer baby." Hard thrusts went in and out, each getting harsher and faster. Both of you finally came, feeling his hot cum shoot up inside you. savoring this little intimate moments together.

"two is always better than one, no?"

i live and breathe for this man 🥰‼️

[gaybd1]

So my favorite character in The Brothers Sun is Taiwan. Like yeah Taiwan has its own shows and movies but it just feels Different to see Taiwan in a big international/American show! It’s SO cool actually and so um here are some thoughts I had and things I Noticed about different Taiwan scenes and things in the show idk

Episode 1

the opening shot of Taipei tells us this is a Thursday- the top of 101 is green and is a different color every day of the week

that corkscrew-shaped apartment building we see Charles living in is kind of an urban legend here in Taipei. They say it’s the most expensive place to live in the city, that each apartment has its own swimming pool, and that there’s an elevator specifically to bring cars up to display in your living room. No idea if the interiors look like that for real though

I was gonna say it’s pretty crazy he has an American-style oven in Taipei bc nobody does but actually in that apartment… yeah he probably would

afaik there’s not a way to (“legally”/officially) stream any of those famous British baking shows here rip

I do wonder if they actually filmed the opening scene in the corkscrew building or if they just really pay attention to detail because the skyline seen out the window matches up to what it would really look like from that part of the city

the shoes, I mean we all know about shoes-off houses but yeah

豆漿. Soy milk. Yeah

They definitely eat Hi-chews in one of these scenes

Episode 2

It makes way more sense for the guys to have snuck out for shaved ice as kids than youtiao… I’m just saying… like would *I* do that yes but it’s usually just like. A thing you eat with soup or breakfast

Episode 3

“Are you sure you can handle-“ “the heat? I’m from Taiwan.” lmfao BITCH Taiwan has some of the blandest cuisine I’ve ever tasted (he does think it’s too spicy tho lol)

“Keelung. A fishing village just north of Taipei.” Okay like I can see how the older generation would call it that but it’s actually a whole ass city…

Episode 5

Not a Taiwan thing but the Maotai made me laugh. It’s like the Coca Cola of Chinese baijiu and imho it’s just as awful as every other brand

Episode 6

ok the episode that made me want to make this list

the Costco shit IS funny because vitamins, baby formula, that’s all the good stuff you want to bring back from abroad BUT actually we have Costco in Taiwan and can easily get a lot of that stuff? This concept imo would fit a lot better for China than Taiwan. It’s still very much a thing to load your suitcase up with baby formula on the way home to China, and there’s actually a huge smuggling business bringing it in through Hong Kong but I digress

Idk why I’m happy to hear Changhua and Douliu mentioned in an American TV show… Seriously, I don’t know. They’re kind of like nowhere places I’ve never even been. I just feel like everyone’s grandparents live there.

Even the way they film Mama Sun on the plane. Like the Mandarin music in the background with the announcement for Taoyuan airport… to me it feels specifically like a transpacific flight to Taiwan lolol but that’s definitely like a bias probably

Okay not to be SO nitpicky but so when she looks out the window on the plane to see Taipei 101 etc I’m not sure about that? The airport is actually in another city and I feel like I usually come in around and over the ocean or something?

But WOW the taxi scene my favorite scene it’s SO visceral and SO Taiwan… the street, the lights, the Cosmed/Mos Burger/7-Eleven, the street noises, like I can FEEL Taiwan through the screen and HER FACE taking it all in I WANT TO SOB

The temple, beautiful like this episode makes me believe Michelle Yeoh is Taiwanese lol

I appreciate the viscerality of the night market shots too but it seemed a bit empty

Okay so Mama Sun’s mom is super rich too based on where she lives which I guess it makes sense. But what I am curious about is the story about why they’re speaking Cantonese because Taiwan has a lot of languages but that’s not one of them like officially at all. I wonder if there’s a character backstory there or they just like. Didn’t want to bother teaching Michelle how to speak Minnan or something

The cemetery too is so fancy, I mean it fits but wow that’s expensive real estate

In the hospital scene, Taipei 101 is lit blue out the window, making it a Friday. Has everything in the show so far happened in only 8 days?

Episode 7

“Last night the Boxers made their move” 101 says it’s Tuesday for anyone keeping track

I LOST it at the Foodpanda driver assassin the first time I saw this… So Taiwan

Big fancy church in Taipei? I know they exist but I’ve never seen one in person (like 2%? of the country is Christian)

A mom bringing back tea as a souvenir from Taiwan? 100% real

Episode 8

RAW is a real restaurant in Taipei. It’s very fancy and very expensive and had I think two Michelin stars. I don’t know ANYONE who’s actually been there lol

[quiet-saint]

sᴛʀᴇᴀᴍᴇʀ!ɴᴇʀᴏ ʜᴄs

✮

With just a splash of Nero/gn!reader

Cw: slight nsfw/suggestive. Nothing serious just a toy is mentioned near the end.

A/n: Might be ooc as this is the first time I'm writing anything for Nero. Purely self-indulgent ngl. Already working on a pt 2 ft more nero/reader tbh, I just really like this idea. +18 pls.

✮

• Not a huge streamer but still pretty popular. Has been streaming on and off for like, four years before he got popular.

• There's definitely a compilation out there of his funniest gamer rage moments. The majority of the time Nero isn't even mad at the game, Nico purposefully annoys him whenever they play together. People love their dynamic.

• Has kicked her from the group but then she'll just watch the stream and irritate him in the chat. It's pretty pointless to kick Nico from the group though because she can and has come down to his room just to pop up in his live irl. Anytime this happens chat starts a 'Nico Nation' chain and Nero jokingly threatens to end the stream.

• People bring up his "pretty boy phase" constantly in which Nero's hair was longer and he wore jewelery, saying they miss it and he should bring it back. Nero's a little shy/embarrassed when people bring up his early streaming days but he is in the process of growing his hair out. You were the one to fully convince him.

• Loves interacting with his audience even though they're a little outta pocket sometimes. "Chat who the hell said they only watch my streams for Nico? Dude your name is literally–" squints his eyes in confusion and disbelief "Nerofeetpicswhen oh my gOD!"

• Plays more light-hearted, easy games most of the time. Plays fortnite but not often. Teams up on overwatch with Nico, V, and You (Nero gives mercy main energy don't ask me why)

• Will play horror games but gets jumpscared super easy. Curses a lot during those streams. Damn near shatters eardrums with his shouting.

• His favorite streams are when he has one of his friends there with him at home. Especially if it's you.

• Will do a stream as an excuse to have you over. "Dude I spent the weekend at your house just last week?" "Aw c'mon it'll be fun!" As if you really needed any persuading. It's nice to hear him beg though, isn't it?

• Gets so excited to tweet about it too. Lowkey giddy about it.

• Will be the type to say "can't end on a loss guys." Even though his rank is dropping.

• Everyone loves his wii-sports streams. Nero once broke his tv on live because he didn't use the wii strap while playing baseball. People still bring it up and he gets embarrassed because just moments before it happened chat was warning him.

• Had V over for the weekend once and they were playing wii tennis in his room but there wasn't enough space. As a result Nero ended up swinging hard and clocking V in the face, giving him a bloody nose. He still feels so bad for it. Especially because Nero gets tagged in videos titled "Nero hits V on stream NOT CLICKBAIT" V thinks it's funny.

• Nero gets so happy to do fanmail livestreams. Loves opening all the things fans send him. Displays art proudly on his walls as well as all the plushies and figures people send. By the end of the fanmail streams Nero is wearing a different, clashing outfit because of the clothing he receives.

• Although sometimes the packages are a little inappropriate.

• Nico once went through the trouble of ordering and sending a ridiculously huge dildo. He felt the weight and shape through the packaging and, due to the note left with the gift, Nero knew it was her immediately. It's still sitting in his closet in the corner because he doesn't know how to get rid of it.

✮ random bonus hc ✮

Nero drinks Monster. His top two choices are Pipeline punch or Ultra blue. If he drinks one on stream he'll say "monster sponsor me" lmfao

[vinetae]

Only fans jk x y/n ( f ) with twt link

Ooooo, first time with a porno themed smut!

______________________________________________________________

Peaches and Cream - (M)

Genre: Pornstar/onlyfans amateur!Jungkook x Professional Pornstar/onlyfans!Reader

Summary: Jungkook got the chance of a lifetime to hang out with the whole reason he even got into the por- 'content creator' industry in the first place.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: Handjobs, blowjobs, MOMMY KINK, Subby!Jungkook, Dom!Reader, mommyfigure!Reader (Literally I want her as my mommy but not mom ya feel me?)

A/N: This didn't really take long. The tittle will make sense later on (was originally gonna be Jungkook's OF username but I think that idea's already taken. well, what's not lmfao.)

Had to listen to some HARD Doja Cat during all of this.

Might feel a little rushed but it's 3am guys-

Recommended song for this little drabble:

Naked - Doja Cat

Options (feat.JID) - Doja Cat

Freaky Deaky - Doja Cat

(and ofc) - Blood, Sweat, and Tears - BTS

______________________________________________________________

His hand reaches out to adjust the camera. Clicking all kinds of buttons and switches to make sure the shots would be perfect. His arms flex, showing off each and every inch of his tattoo sleeve. Just when he's about to start the shoot, a notification pops up in the bottom of his screen. Clicking on the little squared box, his set upon his favorite 'content creator' wearing a black, lacy set. The fabric wraps around each and every one of her curves, dipping in the middle to show a peak of her cleanly kept bits.

He lets out a low groan, hand unconsciously sliding into the set boxer-briefs he'd slipped on prior to his own shoot. His palm wraps around the length of his cock, making a few drawn out stokes just to tease himself a bit. His thumb brushes over the slit of his tip, a chill sends up his spine at the feeling. His free hands reaches out, clicking on the 'start' button to film. He's quick to pan the camera even lower, revealing the casual-classic black set briefs he'd displayed. His screen's split into two, each one with it's own purpose.

Much like his hands right now.

"Mmm, fuck" He groans, hips rising up to meet his palm. The elastic of his boxers had been lowered just enough to show the base of his cock to tease the fans. He sets his voice to a deep, grunt-filled tone to please his audience.

"Mmmm fuckk. Oh yeaahh." His voice strains the best of his register, really wanting to go for that gruff and cold tone.

Curtains have to match the drapes, as they say.

His eyes flash towards the camera reading the comments.

'OMGGGGG how the fuck is this man's dick so pretty-'

'fuck me daddy 😵'

'I wish i was thereeee'

'fuck he's so pretty-'

'@Alicasheangel you can't even see his fucking face lmfao'

'@banshesthewoman idfk i just know he's beautiful'

'Siiiiimmmmmppppp'

'daddy?sorry. daddy? sorry. daddy? sorry-'

He silently chuckles to himself. His small fandom had always been horny crackheads but- damn.

His free hand reaches upwards, carding his finger through the sweaty locks of his hair. By that, the chat comments go off. It looked to be more than 1,000 comments coming in at once. He barely had any time to catch them.

'I WANNA MARRY UR DICK MY GOOD SIR-'

Jungkook accidentally lets out a small laugh, making his fans go crazy over the little clench his abdomen does. Comments flew left and right and if Jungkook was being honest, it had made his head a little dizzy to try and read.

His voice registers low, trying to maintain the sexy and alluring aura he'd try putting out. "Do I need a top hat?" He teases. The chat's soon filled with just hearts, fire emojis and winky/kissy faces.

'THIS MAN IS A DOM AND NOBODY CAN TELL ME OTHERWISE'

'LITERALLYLYYYYYYY AHH HE'S GONNA FUCKING KILL ME'

'this man can run me over, take both my kidneys, douse me in gasoline and set me on fire, and step on my nipple and I'd say thank you'

'@Tommysheaintit LMFAO GIRL WUT-

'@Busan-sbadest97 Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease'

He felt the base of his cock starting to twitch. More pre-cum leaking out of his slit. He prepares what he'd referred to as the 'c-hum bucket'. It had just been a little dollar-store purchase for his load hold.

His hips stagger with instability. Rising off the edge of his bed, he's quick to make a few body roll against his palm before a string of hot cum trails down the entirety of his softening cock. He reaches for the off-set towel he'd prepared earlier, wiping his hands clean of the warm substance. Before turning the live off, he decides to raise one of his sticky fingers, sucking on the lengthy digit between his two plush lips. He bends over just so that the camera can pick up the sight of his finger sucking and nothing more.

After let the commenters roll out, he shuts down the camera, unplugging it completely before falling backwards into his bed. Reaching for his phone, he scrolls through his other notifications before the same girl's from before had popped up.

XPeachyPrincessX: What's better than pet-play? Pet-slay. Check out my new posts here - Onlyfans.com/xpeachyprincess//new-sets-by-peachy

Jungkook clicks on the link, checking out his favorite creator's new uploads. The photos take a hot minute to load -courtesy of his wifi- but once they load, his mouth drops at the sight. She'd been doing a lot of Lolita themes so far, but this had been something completely different. Her ass had been stuck in the air, a fluffy little bunny tail had been strapped around her waist. The matching bunny ears tuck behind her cute -real- ears.

His thumb hovers over the message button.

Would she even be interested in him? She probably had a million hotter guys fucking her all of the time.

If Jungkook was being honest, Peachy had been his first motive -and really, only- to starting his own Only Fans. He saw how good the pay was, and he'd always been told how good-looking he was from people on the streets. As well as being blessed with a exponentially large dick for his ahem-

Stereotype.

He sucks in a breath, thumb still stuck in the air right above the 'message' icon. He thinks for a few seconds, before deciding to go for it. After a few -20- minutes of typing out his carefully crafted message, he'd sent it.

Now to just wait.

He throws his phone to the side, letting out a drawn out sigh. He knew she's a busy woman. With all of the spam messaging, DMs and comments she gets she'll probably ignore him comple-

Ding.

He rushes to open the app, seeing one new notification.

From: XPeachyPrincessX

Oh, hey I know you! My follows were wanting us to collab for a while now. Had to look you up but I'll say, B. You're impressive. I like the aesthetics you go for. So, when would you want to meet up?

He couldn't believe it. The woman he'd been dying to meet, was offering a collaboration. No, not like the ones YouTubers do.

But you could already figure that out.

He jumps off, carding his hands through his hair so roughly, he's afraid he might go bald sooner than he's thought. He takes in a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart as he types back.

____________________________________________________________

After a few weeks of going back and forth with details, locations, and dates, Jungkook had finally arrived. The place had been hidden in the shadows of two taller buildings to keep it nice and secluded. He takes in a deep breath before opening the door.

His eyes follow upon all different kinds of sets. A little police station tucked in the corner, a woman with barely anything but handcuffs around her hands had been pressed up against the wall by a tall, brooding man. He too, had almost nothing to cloth himself with.

"Hey, B!" A voice becks him over. He flashes a long smile, watching as the woman comes jogging up to meet him. She too has an adorable smile.

How he's never seen it? Well, this wasn't a Only Smiles company.

"Nice to finally meet you, B." His eyebrow quirks at the name. "B?" She smiles, nodding.

"Can't risk using our real names here. Ya know, safety and shit. They usually call me Peaches, so you can too if you want. Or something else if you'd prefer." He nods, watching the cute little dimples dip onto her cheeks, making her appear even more youthful.

His eyes flash up, seeing a woman following behind Peaches, a large makeup bag carried in her other arm. Peaches apologizes, allowing the small woman to finish doing her cute, doll-like makeup. The woman's gaze focuses on his.

"Come." She motions him over to sit in the setup chair. He takes a seat, watching as Peaches makes her way over to the spotlights to talk with the director for a few moments.

After his makeup had been complete, the woman offers a mirror. He nods, admiring her excellent skills in cosmetics. Peaches returns, a shoulder peaks out from her silky black robe. Jungkook's throat tightens at the sight. Of course he'd been naked on camera before, but they had always been solo acts.

"Alright- woah.." She stops, eyes widening at his harsh look.

"Is..is it bad?" He questions, already reaching for the little makeup wipes on the table. She chuckles, head shaking from left to right.

"No, looks amazing. Hot for sure. Alrighty," She comments, the tint on Jungkook's cheeks flush even deeper. She turns her phone's screen, showing him all of the ropes.

As they make their way through the doors, his eyes set upon the most erotic and sensual set he's ever seen. A light pink backdrop had been laid out, a mini-fridge sat upon a small block to rise the little, barbie sized cooler about a foot up or two.

"So, as you could already tell, the theme's Peaches and Cream." He nods, eyes taking in all of the colorful sights to admire. She slides her phone into her purse off set before hearing the director yelling something. A bell rings, as someone comes up behind Jungkook, removing his clothes quickly.

He felt very bare and awkward, but Peach's extended hand made a warm sensation bubble in his stomach, settling his nerves.

They direct him over to her bent over figure. Her ass teasing his hardening cock on sight. She'd bent over as instructed, pretending to reach for a little thing inside the mini-fridge, a shocked expression plasters her doll-like features. They guide Jungkook behind her, shooting a short little video for a cover.

He leans over as well, not really sure of what to do.

"Back hug me." She says through her shocked face. He's quick to follow They pan the camera down to catch her face.

After a few takes, they switch positions. The director had told her to lay between his legs, an exaggerated, shocked expression once again paints her features.

Her hands brush the sides of his knees, making his thigh tense from sensitivity. A cute giggle exits from her plump lips.

"Cold?" She glances back, questioning with a soft look. He shakes his head. She leans back a bit, whispering into his ear.

"Peaches and cream, get it?" Jungkook laughs at the dirty play-on-words, nodding.

"Great shoot guys!" Jungkook sighs, taking a seat down next to the staff's food table. The ton all start clapping, rolling out the cameras and mics to protect their pricings. She'd been talking to the director for the past ten minutes now. His all-too-close touches never go unnoticed by Jungkook's green eyes.

Yes, he has brown.

He reaches out, trying to grab a little rice cake before the platter's snatched away. He lets out a sigh, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. She had looked so calm and professional.

He probably looked so stupid.

He goes to stand up, making his way to the door before a sweet voice calls out to beck him over. "Ju- B! Where you going?" He shrugs, fainting a little cute smile. She pouts, arms crossing at his obvious forced smile.

"I'm kinda tired." She holds out a little pastry, his face imminently lighting up at the sight. He grabs the little dessert, taking a large bite. That puts a smile on her face.

"I'm sorry for the staff.. They're kinda harsh on newcomers." He nods, holding a thumbs up. She chuckles, brushing her fingertip over the stickiness of his bangs.

"You still tired?" She questions, a little smirk toys the corner of her lip. He shakes his head.

"Why?"

___________

"Oh wow.." He gawks, admiring her large, and pristine apartment complex. She giggles, pressing the remote, the curtains drawing close to block the sunset's final good-bye.

"Woah!" His eyes widen like saucers, acting like a little kid at a amusement park for the first time.

She sets the remote down, shrugging the robe off her shoulders, stepping out of her little fluffy, hot pink laced set she'd worn for the shoot.

"They don't have these back where I li-" His jaw drops at the sight. The hot pink two-piece lays lifelessly on the floor, circling her high-heeled soles. A smirk presses her smooth lips.

"Bet they don't have this either." She teases, striding over to where he stood. She pushes lightly against his chest, making him fall backwards onto the pristine white of her sectional. She kneels down, hands toying with the zipper of his jeans.

"Wait wait wait-" He grabs her hands, stopping her motions. Her eyebrow quirks at the halt.

"What's wrong?" His throat dries at the scene. His all-time favorite content creator had been kneeled between his thighs, willingly wanting to suck his dick-

"I just- are you comfortable?" His question makes a smile appear on her face.

"Wow.." She chuckles. Jungkook swears he could see a tomato-tint creep up on her caked on cheeks.

"Nobody really asks that anymore.." His head tilts in concern. "Well- it's just the respectable thing to do." She nods, unbuttoning the clasp on his pants once more.

"That makes me wanna suck you off even more." His eyes widen, hands trying to stop her. "Wait- Peaches uh-"

She licks her lips, watching the length of his cock bob up to rest in mid-air.

"It's Y/n." She coos before wrapping her lips around the tip of his cock. He groans, knuckles fisting white as his mouth parts.

"Y-Y/n.." She smirks, bobbing her head at a quicker rate. The rest she couldn't fit in the space of her mouth, she wrapped her palm around his base to jerk the rest off. His hips rise up, meeting her bobs in unison. She chuckles, using one free hand to rub gentle circles into his thick thighs. She releases, popping off as a string of saliva and pre-cum bridges from his tip to her lips.

"Shhh, it's okay Kook." He moans out, abdomen clenching at her soothing voice.

"K-Kook?" She nods, applying kitten-like licks to his squishy tip.

"Jungkook. It's shorter." Her voice lowers a few registers as a smirk teases her lips.

"Easier to moan."

His head lulls back, mouth dropping at the amazing feeling. His legs spread wider unconsciously, as her hand comes to cup his balls, massaging them gently. His hand reaches out, pulling and pushing forwards, debating on whether if it was okay for him to touch her.

She smiles, guiding his hand to the crown of her head. "You can grip me if you want, baby." He nods, hands taking no hesitation in gripping at her dyed roots. His moans grow in volume, hips rising more as he feels his high creeping up like a car to a stoplight.

"Y/n- I-" She nods, moving her closed hand along the length of his throbbing cock. "Use your words, sweetie. Tell mommy what you need."

His chest pants heavily, thighs tensing from holding back the release he so wanted. "I- cum-"

She squishes his tip, watching as a little bit more of his sticky pre-cum drips from his slit. "You what?"

"Mommy please- Please let me cum- oh fuck.." She grins, engulfing his entire cock in one go. He cries out, throwing himself against the couch's end. Hand gripping tightly at her roots, as if he was holding on for dear life. The pace her hands had been going at went ten times faster, as the coil snapped inside stomach. Beads of hot cum shoot out onto the dips and creases of her face. Some, getting in her line of sight.

"Oh- oh fuck wait-" He stands up, rushing to find anything to clean her up with. He grab a few dry paper towels, wiping the sticky substance from her entire face.

"Mmm, such a gentleman, Kookie." He blushes, wiping the last bit of his juices from her face. She flashes him an adorable smile, making his own return once more.

"I'm sorry.." He apologizes profusely. She chuckles, shaking her head. "For what? You were the kindest guy I've fucked so far."

"Really?" She nods, making Jungkook's heart ache a twinge.

"That's just common courtesy.." She sits down on the couch, leaning back in exhaustion.

"Common courtesy, not so common."

The two both laugh at that, ending the night with two hot chocolates and a whole bunch of industry gossip.

______________________________________________________________

Okay I'm considering making a part two because I thought I didn't like the mommy kink but- oh God..

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! DM me for more requests (Please ask nicely.)

[edwardseymour]

People trying to say Jane Seymour wasn’t fashionable - I might be wrong but don’t inventories show her wardrobe was full of a large number of clothes (especially considering how short her time as queen ended up being) in loads of different colours, and with lots of jewels?

✨ terfs/zionists fuck off ✨

i love when my anons get petty lmfao

yes. she seems to have had a wider range of pieces in her wardrobe than catherine of aragon: “her wardrobe included a wider range of garments to those found in catherine of aragon’s wardrobe. jane’s clothes were also made from a larger range of colours but a similar range of fabrics” (hayward) — no small feat considering the brevity of jane’s reign. likewise, she seems to have had a considerable jewellery collection: “with a total of 508 pieces, jane seymour’s collection was significantly larger than that of either of her successors” (tallis).

as far as i can tell, there’s no reason to believe jane wasn’t fashionable. she was a lady of the court, had been for years (and, if one accepts anne boleyn was fashionable… well. jane was a member of anne boleyn’s household. it does not follow that anne could be fashion forward, with a fashion forward household, and jane somehow not be). i think maria hayward has the right of it: “the use of dress by henry’s wives was also a means of establishing their own identity at court, and for his english brides, not born and reared to be queen, to establish their position as queen. [...] the evidence of [jane’s] wardrobe indicates that she used it to define her role as queen”.

if nothing else, being visually appealing was part of a lady’s — and more significantly a queen’s — job. queens should look beautiful. on that point, we have evidence for jane cultivating certain fashion standards.

maria hayward has found evidence of fashion dolls (or ‘babies’) in jane’s inventory: “the idea of using dolls [referred to as ‘babies’] dressed in new styles to promote new styles originated in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries”, and at least three existed in jane's wardrobe, with similarities between the clothing worn by these fashion dolls, and items in jane's wardrobe: “there were parallels between the dress of the first doll and jane seymour’s gowns, in particular the aglets on the sleeves”. sleeves, trims, and aglets make up the bulk of jane's wardrobe, with forty-nine pairs of sleeves decorate with pairs of golden aglets per sleeve. “sleeves provided an excellent means of display” (hayward), as they provided jane an opportunity to show off her embroidery skills — which were apparently exceptional— as well as her wealth — which, as queen, certainly was. she even had sleeves decorated with h’s, that matched a set owned by henry decorated in emeralds and pearl i’s: “oone peir of slevis of crymsen satten thowtesides of either of them sett with iiij .h. of golde and in every h. ix peerles”.

we also know a little about jane’s household requirements with regards to fashion — she preferred her ladies wear english fashions, and specifically preferred anne bassett wear “a bonnet and frontlet of velvet”. she also made stipulations about the value and quality of their clothing, instructing anne to provide “a gown of black satin, and another of velvet” for “there is fault founden that their smocks are too coarse”. i already talked about this here.

i have to wonder what people expect of a royal power dresser if not using that power to enforce dress standards. this was jane doing her job as queen — fashion was a tool for constructing and projecting an image of conservative queenship, to challenge the “pride, envy, indignation and mocking, scorning and derision” of court. cultivating an image of dignified magnificence and modesty is not surprising; she became queen following the condemnation of her predecessor for loose morals, which invariably impacted the respectability of the queen’s household. her ladies were a visual representation of her, and their appearance emphasised the queen’s; likewise she, as their mistress, had a duty of care to protect their reputations and honour.

the brevity of her time as queen, and her having significantly reduced ceremonial opportunities to be seen (such as having no coronation) did limit her ability to stamp much of an impact on fashions, but i think it is therefore worth acknowledging how considerable her wardrobe and fashion choices were in spite of those limitations. her gown and jewellery in her holbein portrait is beautiful, and i see no logical reason to assume she was not otherwise fashionable. it seems frankly dishonest to pretend that a queen enforcing standards of fashion is not to be expected, and to deny the evidence left to us pertaining to jane’s relationship with fashion.

[sunlightfeeling]

“See You There” Concert Experience

2024.11.24 @ Port Messe in Nagoya

okay so firstly: i genuinely dont have any pictures or videos; guidelines were VERY strict to not do that and i didn’t want to play with fire even though I technically saw one person sneak at least one photo lmfao

except for this:

: )

+ map of the venue the “x” is approx. where i was sitting - i was an aisle seat; seventh row back from the front right-side; the black line in the middle represents the center stage runway thing

(it was assigned seating - I had no clue where I sitting until receiving the ticket from staff - and I have no idea how/when the seating is decided)

also idk if it really needs to be said but im not gonna do like a song play-by-play or write this in any sort of actual organized fashion

also I’ll probably need to make more of these because of flaky memory and horrendously long and yadda yadda yadda im v sorry lol

(i don’t wanna draft these too long and beautify/nitpick them too much so all spelling/grammar issues don’t exist and if you notice them fixed.. they were always like that 😇)

okay with thaaaat out of the way~

I can’t describe the feeling seeing him when he got out on stage like…..he just looked unreal

like not just drop dead beautiful but like a feeling of “holy fuck this dude actually exists” lmfao 😭

it’s just very bewildering after watching so many things with him behind a camera to now being within your own personal presence

I really don’t have an ego or whatever and even the times where im like “d-did he just look at me there?” it kind of feels like a joke but….i like to pretend that he did at least at some point (to which I immediately deny and it and pretty much say “no … lol~ 🤭”)

there are two..three moments that really make me wonder tho like genuinely/actually/not me being big headed lmao

smap songs were “One Chance” which is a solo so really only half-smap 😔; “ダイナマイト”; and “KANSHA して”

he did two (I’m pretty sure it was two lmao 😭) rounds going on the trolley thingie for a few songs to go around the perimeter, and he swung one of his legs over the cage and just let it dangle to show how bendy he still is at least twice

Both rounds included the smap songs (One Chance on the first, other two were back-to-back on the second) which kind of felt really special??? Like……it just made me remember the smap cons that I’ve watched (and tsuyoshi perpetually getting himself into precarious situations on the stupid things 😭 [i knowwww 😒 {affectionate/lighthearted}])

something that will probably live in my head rent-free (that I HOPE he does in the actual filmed con footage not only for everyone to SEE it but because I already can’t accurately visualize it 😭) is that in Crazy Party when he says “sexy” he made THE MOST absurd and hysterical expression like making himself bug-eyed and just a very not calm/cool/demure face that matches his voice (omfg that voice…..wakes up sorry)

He made himself cross-eyed three times at the very least - probably more tho

I really tried to look AT him as much as possible but there were moments where I really just COULD NOT see him or it was just…more incentivizing? to look at the front display..

(ie when he would pop his fucking jacket open and just….expose arm (we love arm) which he did WAY TOO MANY FUCKING TIMES)

..but I did stare at his back quite a bit 😗

His outfit around when he did “No Night, No Starlight” was my ultimate fave which absolutely shouldn’t be surprising and I think it’ll be everyone’s too

which is why I won’t spoil what it looks like (it’s PEAK peak tho im virtually pinkie-promising all of you)

After NoLiNoStar, he did an MC where I think (mostly going off of his mannerisms and understanding v select words so 🙃) he talks about the difficulty of the choreo for this song and like….idk probably that he’s getting too old for this shit

personally I think he should have done a backflip and he probably CAN still do one but hey! that’s just me…… 😔

sorry to spoil but yeah there is no backflip revival I know it was on all (my) of our (my) mind 😔😔

okay there’s def going to be a part 2 but I’ll write more later waaaaah byeeeee 😭😭😭

[3terna15unshin3]

HERES A SNIPPET OF SOMETHING IM WORKING ON☝️(even tho nobody asked) it’s gonna be a childhood best friends to lovers / right person wrong time / normal people (ish) & invisible string inspired matty fic. reader is a photographer and it takes place before and through self titled era!

plsssss let me know what u think of the idea, give me all the good and bad i want to know!!!! i’m so iffy about everything i’ve written so far after how many people liked my first fic LMFAO which sounds stupid but i’m Fr scared of sophomore slump💔

and as always my ask box is always open for suggestions or ideas or requests 🥰🥰🥰 anyway here u go!

—

“This area’s too dry. Grass looks like hay. It’ll look rubbish to set all the mic stands on it,” You argue.

Matty sighs in defeat. “You never like my ideas,” he whines sarcastically, rolling his eyes in the process.

Your elbow juts into his side, making him groan and then laugh. It’s your turn for an eye roll.

“Do you want my help or not?” You challenge, “I don’t have much experience with music videos, to be fair, so if you’d rather empty your pockets and hire someone professional—“

“Okay, okay, okay. Shut up. Let’s keep moving.” He interrupts.

You both continue on your path, scoping out locations for a video that the boys want to film later in the week. There are plenty of spots Matty suggests, stopping repeatedly to ask you to capture a certain frame. Although, as he had complained, none of them have been up to your standards.

By now, you’re used to his constantly fleeting and sometimes messy creativity. You find comfort in it, actually, and feel the most empowered in your own strength as an artist when Matty’s there. Your camera seems the strongest in your hands when it’s pointed at him.

He nudges you to point out one last possible shot. The trees hang hauntingly low and its branches are frail, almost skimming the tops of your heads. Your feet tread over the now slightly greener grass as you come closer and look around in awe. Matty’s right, for one of the few times today.

“Now we’re talking,” you whisper in satisfaction, raising your Nikon to your eye out of instinct.

You back away slightly to get him in frame. From behind, the last hour of daylight shines through the kinks of Matty’s hair, backlighting him. It accentuates the slope of his nose as he turns to the side and looks up at the tree above him. His side profile is one of your favourite things about photographing Matty. It’s strong, but gentle.

He glances back at you after hearing a few clicks of the camera’s shutter. The sun that lights his silhouette, contrastingly shines directly onto your face—since you face him—painting an orange glow across your skin.

There’s something that makes you feel like he’s staring. And you’re right, because he is, but it’s a stare that felt good. Not exposing, or perceptive in a way that usually made your heart drop. You almost want to look behind you to see if maybe he was looking at something else.

It’s sort of how he always looks at you, though. Maybe that’s how he looks at everyone, you think, but part of you hopes it wasn’t. That you were an exception. Something outstanding.

You gasp when Matty suddenly lunges to steal your camera from your grip.

“Gimme this for a sec,” he mumbles. He’s lucky it isn’t hung round your neck as it usually was.

Embarrassment immediately creeps up your neck as he points it at you. You habitually block his view of your face with your hands, and insist, “Stop it!”

“The lighting’s nice!” Matty protests, pushing your hands away.

You replace them quickly to prevent any photo opportunities. “I don’t have the space on my memory card for you to fool around, Healy.”

He rolls his eyes, turning the lens back onto himself to take a horrendously close-up picture of his own face. You giggle at the way his wrinkled skin was on display from the weird expression he pulled and the odd angle he held your camera.

“This is literally our last location. Relax.” Matty points out.

He’s aware of your fear of being in photographs instead of taking them, so it’s not your first time in this situation and he lets down after pulling your leg a bit. It’s the way you’ve been since he can remember; always groaning and uncomfortable to be in a group photo at school or denying his requests to pose for his camera every once in a while. He grows frustrated with you sometimes, since it’s hard for him to grasp what you could possibly be insecure about. The idea that most of your memories held in the thousands of pictures that span over the years you’d grown up together—showed everyone else’s faces and not yours—made him even angrier. But that’s how you wanted them, after all.

This attribute of yours is one of the things most different between you and Matty. He loves having eyes on him—craved it, even. Wants to be seen and understood.

But you’re an observer, on the other hand. The world is fascinating to you, lighting your urge to preserve and savour its meticulosity. It explains your addiction to capturing it all on your Nikon.

The difference makes you two a great team. Though you regret your commitments in moments like these.

“I’m actually glad it is. Getting sick of you by the minute,” You snicker, stealing your camera back and giving Matty a shove. He stumbles over with a chuckle and the two of you bee-line for where his car was parked.