#i love her gold digging tendencies

[liittleemiixeer]

[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

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Is it chilly in here? (and then the live studio audience laughs)

Barbie dolls: jegulus x gn!reader

Word: 7.3k (ish i just couldn’t shut up dude)

summary: James and regulus are ice skaters now and are in a competition you’re dating reg and after he and James train together some tensions arise reg makes rash descions at the competition

Warnings: no magic world heavily insinuated, inspired by the Olympics but it’s not the Olympics, you jokingly say you love reg’s feet BUT NOT LIKE THAT THEYRE METAPHORICAL, do whatever want tho suck toes in your free time idc,regulus is trans and skating prodigy, James is very giggily and flustered by the mere existence of regulus ngl, Sirius and you are kinda bitchy but like in a fun besties way if that makes sense, insinuated wolf star, mentions of the black family nasty, Sirius has a tendency to share childhood stories that do not lighten the mood, also I only found out that flips were illegal in ice skating competitions after I was 4 thousand words in so just pretend for me okay baby, mentions of transphobia, mention of prayer but it’s one sente about the possibility of someone maybe saying a prayer it’s not like “and then Y/N swung her beautiful religous hair over shoulder before praying to her one true god”, talks of perfectionsim and self doubt blah blah blah, sexual jokes oopsies, Sirius wears gold, ice skating written by someone whose hobby is writing (not a sport), allusion to autistic reg (if I'm autistic then reg can be too WHOS WITH ME), yadda yada

Regulus was beautiful. It was written into his DNA. His family was bred like dogs to find the perfect combination that created the perfect children. But with all said and done, with his mother’s image only ghosting his mirror on bad days, he was still gorgeous. Everyone knew it. Eyes would flock to him like starving coy fish in tourist attractions did to food. He was accustomed to them and ignored them perfectly. You knew it. He was gorgeous in the shower while you washed his hair. He was beautiful in the mornings when he pleaded with his pretty eyes for just five more minutes. He was pretty when your kisses made him flush. None of which could compare to the beauty of him on the ice.

Initially, you thought he was kidding when he told you he was a professional figure skater. Then he took you to the rink he most practiced at and found an entire glass case dedicated to him. Regulus Black was plastered over plaques, medals, and newspapers. A large frame had his glittery suit from one of the pictures on the front page of some newspaper. And when you asked if you could see, you were blown away. He moved his body in ways you didn’t know were possible. You felt like he was some kind of god that just so happened to fancy skating, and you.

According to him, all of his family members were prodigies in something. His mother was a painter, masterpieces hung over the fireplace and were comparable to the masters. His father was an amazing lawyer, getting high cases and winning every case he took. His brother was an amazing ballerina. They were both put into classes when they were little, excelling fast, but Sirius felt his mother’s nails digging into his shoulder every time he put on his pointe shoes. Regulus was pulled out of lessons when he was 14 after his parents learned of his trans identity. They said something about him getting ideas from all the tights or something.

Sirius stopped dancing and instead picked up a Chef’s hat. He excelled there too. He made more than his parents would’ve left him after learning about his queerness and started his own restaurant. He got deals up the wazzo. Sirius’ face was plastered on magazines, books, and TV shows. People interviewed him and apparently, he never missed an opportunity to mention his talented brother.

Regulus picked up skating after he was kicked out at 16. He became more accepting of himself while his parents’ hatred grew. Regulus stayed with Sirius. There was a small competition going on at the skating rink for a small cash prize but they were both struggling so Regulus thought, what else could I possibly have to lose? He stunned everyone there with his skills, including a random scout who saw potential in Regulus. Thus sparked him to become more and more famous and more and more skilled.

You massaged Regulus’ muscles when they were sore. You cheered at his competition. You brought him a warm lunch, even though he told you he packed it. You watched in awe at his practices, yelling encouragements when he fell. Even though you’d seen all the bruises and sores, proof that he was just human with great skills, he still felt unreal while he was in his skates.

You knew your way through the rink very well. You’d been there a million times, most to pick up Regulus and or bring him lunch. Today you were picking him to go get lunch together. He had a big competition coming up. In just a few months, he’d be bedazzled and performing in front of a panel of judges. You really just wanted to get him food and run him a warm bath, mayhaps even throw in a nice massage to relax his nerves more. His anxiety was making you anxious.

You could hear the music to his routine playing through the speakers as you opened the door. You could see the swirl of his black outfit as you peered through the plexiglass. You walked around the side of the rink, heading towards where Regulus always throws his jacket. You furrowed your eyebrows as you saw someone sitting a few seats away from the one with Regulus’ jacket thrown over the back. You watched the man sitting there, stare in awe at your boyfriend. You much preferred when people enjoyed his talent than his looks.

The man himself wasn’t hard on the eyes. He had black curls that were definitely messier than Regulus’ but you’d witnessed Regulus’ 27-step routine and precise plopping so you weren’t surprised. This man also appeared to be in a skating outfit, when working out it usually just looked like leggings and some shirt. Once you’ve seen it a million times, you kinda got the gist. His jaw was slack, staring at the ice. He ran his hands over his face before noticing you. You gave him a small smile before moving to the side of the small swinging door.

You looked out to watch Regulus spin so fast you almost couldn’t even recognize him. You let out a whistle and clapped your hands. Regulus’ spin lost momentum, he set his foot down so both skates were on the ice. Regulus shook his arms out before glancing up to smile at you. You waved and turned back to the other man just sitting there as Regulus started pacing. The man looked away from Regulus, pointing at him as he met your eyes.

“Do you know him?” He asked. You nodded. The man ran his hands down his face again. He muttered something that you assumed was a prayer or a curse. You tilted your head back looking at Regulus standing near another wall of the rink, apparently sizing up the ice. You looked back at the man.

“Are you okay?” You asked, getting a little worried about the amount of pain and stress this man was going through. He gave you a short smile.

“yeah, yeah, I just have this competition in a few months. I’m just a little worried I might not, you know, be good enough.” He said, wringing his hands. You cooed. This man seemed sweet, and he was hot.

“Oh my god in a few months? I think he’s in the same one.” You said. You jutted your thumb over your shoulder, pointing at Regulus. You were excited you got to meet someone else in the competition. What a small world. This news seems to worsen the man's mood, making him groan and clack his teeth.

“That’s what I was worried about. If he’s my competition, I’m not going anywhere.” He muttered. You shook your head, glancing back to see Regulus in the same spot. Calculations, probably.

“He’s a freak, He’s been doing this since he was like 16 he’s just like not a real person. Don’t think about him, you’re going to do just fine. Trust me.” You said. You hoped you were reassuring, but it’s a little hard to do when Regulus is his competition. It’s not like he’s getting first place, second maybe, but first is out of the question.

“Thanks that was kind of nice to hear. I’m James.” James said, giving you a small wave. You introduced yourself before quickly holding your finger up when you heard the familiar sound of Regulus setting his feet. James pulled himself out of his seat, moving to stand next to you. Regulus started quickly moving across the ice, if outside in the parking lot it’d be considered running. Before your brain could catch up, Regulus jumped and flipped. His legs were in the air, flat in a line. You screamed and cheered in response to seeing him flip. One of your personal favorite moves but you’d never tell him that. Regulus’ foot hit the ice again, facing the other direction than it started. Just as you thought he was going to stick the landing, he stumbled. Regulus crashed into the ice, making a loud thwack noise.

You winced as James hissed next to you. You cringed and hid behind the short wall before standing up and staring at Rgeulus lying flat on his stomach. James shook his hand out like he was the one hurt.

“Oh, damn. Come on, Reg! Get up!” You yelled, your voice hit the wall behind Regulus’ crumpled form and traveled back to you. James brought his fist to his mouth, sinking his teeth into his knuckles. Regulus’ head picked up off the ice and swung back to face you.

“Fuck off. Give me a second.” You and James reeled back as Regulus laid his head back down. James glanced at you.

“Oh, he’s lovely.” James muttered. You smiled happily, nodding aggressively.

“I know, right?” James glanced back out at Regulus lying on the ice. He slowly picked himself up, pausing to sit in a slumped position. You cooed at his sad form. Regulus got back onto his feet, making his way over to the swinging door you were waiting by. He looked mad. When he reached the door, You held it open for him. Regulus slowly walked onto the carpet, slumping into the chair with his jacket.

“You did good. You slipped, that’s no biggie. You’re on a big block of ice it’s almost guaranteed that you slip.” You said. Regulus glanced up at you through his hair as he pulled at his laces harder than he should. Regulus shook his head.

“I shouldn’t be slipping this close to competition,” Regulus muttered. You shook your head at him, incessant perfectionism. Regulus tugged at his laces, getting frustrated at the knot that wouldn’t come undone. He groaned and flung himself back in his chair, covering his face with his hand. You rolled your eyes at his dramatism. You crouched down and began unknotting his laces, you dropped a light kiss on his knee.

“You’re just fine, baby. Trust me.” You whispered, pulling his skate off and moving to the next one. Regulus let out a small sigh.

“Yeah, I think you did great,” James added, reminding you that he was there. Regulus unhid his face, looking over at James.

“Oh sorry, I’m James. Reg right?” James asked. You paused in untieing Regulus’ skates, to look back at James. Regulus dropped his hand into his lap. You both stared at him, trying to calculate where exactly he got the idea that he could use Regulus’ nickname. James looked between you and Regulus, noticing the change in the air. James dropped his outstretched hand, giving up on the handshake.

“Regulus.”

“oh, whoopsie.” You ignore James, turning back to Regulus’ skate.

“Sorry, who are you?” Regulus asked, a mean tone nipping at James’ hand. You smacked your lips, as you slipped off his last skate.

“Regulus.” You scolded, pulling his day-to-day shoes over towards you. Regulus looked down at you in question, wondering why you were scolding him.

“Oh, I’m a skater, too. Apparently, we’re in the same competition. You’re crazy good though, so doubt I’ll get anywhere on the podium.” James said. James apparently tended to down-talk his own skill, though that might just be the effect Regulus had on people. You pulled Regulus’ foot up to slip on his day-to-day shoes, you’re already down there might as well. Regulus’ eyes shot down to you. He shot forward in his chair, shooing your hands away.

“No. You did my skates, you’re not doing my shoes, too.” Regulus muttered as he pulled his shoes from your grip. You sighed and stood up, dusting your knees off. Regulus was so contrary. “It’s not like you saw me do anything good, I was fumbling all over the place. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” Regulus whispered as he pulled his shoes on.

“You need lunch, a massage, a good lay, a nice warm bath, and a lot of sleep. That’s just my personal opinion though.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest. James awkwardly glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. Regulus hummed.

“And from who exactly am I supposed to receive this ‘good lay’ from?” Regulus teased, looking up from his shoes to grin at you. You slumped, giving him a disappointed face.

“Oh, ha-ha.” You said, rolling your eyes. James changed the topic, most likely trying to get the image of naked Regulus out of his head.

“You’re really skilled though, and your…um- friend here told me that you’ve been competing since you were a teen?” James said, pointing at you. Maybe he couldn’t figure out how to put two and two together or maybe he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. You smiled at James, he was kind after all.

“Yeah, I’ve been fairly successful with my competitions.” Regulus mutered. You squinted at him as he finished tying his shoes. Regulus tended to talk down his skill, you suppose he and James had that in common. James pulled his shoulders up to his ears and fiddled with his hands.

“Not to be weird, and you can totally say no, but do you think maybe you could watch me practice really fast and then toss a couple of tips at me? It won’t take long, you’ll have plenty of time to go get lunch.” James said. Regulus sat up straight, resting his hands on his thigh. He looked over to you. Regulus was silently asking if you were okay with this happening. You shrugged, yeah it’s whatever.

“Yeah, I have time,” Regulus said. You could’ve sworn you heard James squeal before he ripped off his jacket and skated onto the ice. Regulus stood up, moving to lean against the wall. You joined him at his side, watching James intently through the plexiglass.

James was beautiful on the ice too. You could see the difference between James and Regulus. Regulus was precise. James was more focused on the big picture. James’ arms stuck a little more when he spun, grimaced more, and gave himself the space to make mistakes. Regulus would rather rip his hair out than make mistakes. After James did a few tricks that made you cheer and Regulus hum, James finished his routine and skated over to the door you and Regulus were loitering by.

“So?” James asked, a twinge of uneasiness making his eyes squint. Regulus hummed. He clicked his tongue before looking up to meet James’ eyes.

“Do you have a pen? I think I’ll write down some tips and my number so we can practice together. After the competition, I’ll have plenty of free time to help you train.” Regulus said, keeping a professional tone. You clapped your hands with a bright smile. You looked at James to see him a little sad.

“That means he sees potential in you. He wants to work with you more because he’d rather have you as a friend than an opponent.” You said, smiling at James. Your cheer spread to him, his smile reaching to the corner of his eyes.

“Yes, is that not what I said?” Regulus looked over at you, raising an eyebrow. James let out another squeal, pushing away from the wall to spin around in a circle. You smiled at him. Regulus tilted his head as he watched James. You pulled on his arm, knocking your cheek into his shoulder.

James returned to you two, smiling brightly. Regulus pulled away from you turning to his bag sitting on the floor next to his seat. While he dug through it, you gave James a few compliments. Your kind words made him giggle, covering his face with his hands. Regulus returned with his small notebook and pen, tearing a page out. He folded it before sticking it out to James. James thanked him greatly, securing the paper in his pocket.

“Right, well. James, you can message me and we can train later, but as of right now I need to take my lovely partner out to lunch.” Regulus said, swinging his bag over his shoulder before reaching out towards you. He intertwined his fingers with yours, pulling you closer to him. James nodded quickly, agreeing immediately.

Regulus pulled you away from the rink, starting your walk to the parking lot. When you let the rink door close behind you, you spoke up to Regulus.

“He was hot.” Regulus pounced when he heard you. His head spun around to face you.

“I know! I hope you don’t mind that I gave him my number, he really is talented. I think with enough training we could even enter a duo competition. I always wanted to do one of those.” Regulus said, glancing out the corner of his eye at you. You nodded and rubbed his arm lightly.

“I don’t care about you giving him your number. However, if you do want to make a romantic move, I’d like you to speak with me first. I feel like we should both move towards that if we want him to join our relationship.” Regulus hummed, agreeing with you. You started leading him to the car, fishing your keys out of your pocket.

“And vice versa, I’d like you to speak to me before you make a move on Hunksalot back there.” Regulus glanced back at the rink like he was hoping to catch another look at James. You snorted, lightly slapping Regulus’ forearm in a reprimanding manner. Regulus pressed his nose to your cheek before kissing your cheek again.

After their first practice together, Regulus was ecstatic. He came home practically jumping off the walls. According to him, James was even better than he first appeared. Regulus was extremely excited to train with him. There was plenty Regulus could teach James and a few things Regulus wanted to learn from James. You silently hoped that James would rub off on Regulus to make him a little less rigid in his perfectionism.

James seemed to like you two as much as you two liked him. He started asking if you guys wanted to go eat lunch together after practices. Soon, your lunch dates with a party of 2 turned into a party of 3. You wanted to say that you three started officially dating but just as Regulus was weary of making mistakes he was also weary of confronting people. You didn’t want to make any kind of move without Regulus by your side, so you waited. Your relationship with James became unlabeled, you were dating but you couldn’t possibly imagine calling James your boyfriend, especially in front of other people. Not that you didn’t want to.

You didn’t want to add more stress to Regulus’ shoulders. With his fast-approaching competition, he was more jittery than ever. He was working himself harder, and you didn’t want him to work himself to the bone right before the competition so you started having to limit how long he was allowed to spend at the rink.

James was also anxious, you could tell because all his laughs stretched just a little too long. His jaw was constantly clenched and, much like Regulus’, his knee was constantly bouncing.

With their anxieties high, the competition arrived. In the blink of an eye, you were approaching a whole different rink. You said goodbye to Regulus with a good luck kiss before you settled for a small peck on the cheek for James. With them heading off to the locker room, you started for the stands. You scoured the rows of people for a good portion of time before you recognized the long, curly, and black hair of the one and only Sirius. He looked bored, pulling his fur coat tighter around himself. His hair was half up half down, the top pulled back into a bun pulled back by an elaborate pin. Sirius stared out at the rink watching nothing. He glanced up and smiled when he saw you. Sirius stood up and pulled you into a tight hug.

“It’s been so long. I missed your stupid face.” Sirius muttered next to your ear. You hummed, rubbing his back before pulling away. You patted his shoulder and gave him a small smile.

“I know. Let me see that hairpin.” Sirius obliged, turning his head. You stared at the beautiful piece of gold. It was in the shape of a tree branch with flowers sprouting along it. In the center of each flower were tiny shining gems. You gave the hairpin plenty of praise as Sirius turned back around. He smiled at you, rubbing his hands together.

“How are you and my jackass brother?” Sirius asked, flicking his hair over his shoulder to reveal dangling star earrings. You smiled at him.

“Good, one could even say splendid. Has he told you about James?” Sirius gave you a confused look before agreeing. You nodded.

“Yes, yes, the skater buff guy, right?” You patted his forearm, agreeing. He hummed.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re trying to add him to our relationship but Regulus is just so adamant on avoiding confrontation. We haven’t even taken the guy out on an actual date yet.” You missed gossiping with Sirius. He was such an active listener, and always knew all the juiciest drama around.

“You have to threaten him, it’s the only way to get Regulus to do anything. Once when we were little,” You took in a deep breath “We were playing tag in the gardens and Regulus wouldn’t stop trying to do arts and crafts with the neighbor's dog, so I stole his favorite stuffed animal and threatened to rip it’s entrails out and hang it on his bedroom door if he didn’t play with me. We played tag for hours after that.” Sirius said, laughing through his words like it was a funny story. You tried to smile through your grimace, but he could see the pain in your eyes.

“Right well, what’s new with you?” You asked, deciding you’d rather change the subject than unpack that. Sirius smiled, clapping his hands together.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve developed romantic feelings for one of my employees, more specifically one of my bartenders.” You gasped, excited to discuss this while waiting for your lovely boyfriend to get on the ice.

After Sirius went over every interaction he’s had with this bartender named Remus and you both debated the ethics of dating an employee, the competition finally began. You watched other people’s routines, whispering criticism and jokes to Sirius the whole time. Most along the lines of ‘Regulus can do that with his eyes closed’ and ‘they have nothing on Reg.’ Or ‘Well that was shit’. Just as another competitor finished, you leaned toward Sirius to insult the next person’s outfit only to gasp very loudly in his ear. You pulled away pointing at your lovely James. You looked back at Sirius to make sure he was looking. Sirius was pressing his hand to his ear and leaning away from you. You clapped and cheered, hoping James could hear you.

James’ outfit was all red, with yellow accents, and tracing the yellow lines were tiny sparkles. James was so pretty all the time, but right now with the sparkles and the red, he looked amazing. You just wanted to kiss him all over his pretty face. You watched James shake his hands out. He was anxious but you knew he had this in the bag. He let out a huff, staring down at the ice.

His song started, it was engraved in your head. You watched their practice so much you knew both their songs like the back of your hand. You saw James’ trips and frustration, and all the mistakes that made him want to drop out of the competition. Now that he was finally on the ice, finally just out there doing his routine, you couldn’t be more proud. You could see the influence Regulus had on him, he pulled some of Regulus’ favorite moves. He spun he jumped he skated, it was wild. The big finale came you could see the anxiety on James’ face, in the few glimpses you caught, he jumped into the air. James spun in the air, you held your breath. You’d seen him fall on this part a hundred times. He just couldn’t figure out how to land it. You reached back, gripping tightly onto SIrius’ arm. All within a millisecond, your fear blossomed into pure joy. James’ feet landed on the ice and he skated away from both your anxieties.

James landed his flying spin. You shot up from your seat, screaming your head off. Cheering until you were positive your throat would be sore in the morning. James’ routine finished, he saluted to the judges before skating away back towards the locker rooms. He smiled brightly, showing off his dimples and smile linsd up by his eyes. He glanced around at the stands. You waved your arms around as you continued to cheer, hoping he could see you through the glass. His eyes landed on you, and his smile brightened. James waved at you with both hands, his smile getting somehow brighter. You clapped as he left the ice. Once he was out of eyesight, you settled back into your seat.

Your cheeks felt sore from smiling as you looked back at Sirius. You tilted your head to the side at his raised eyebrow.

“You got it bad, baby. You need to jump his bones before you collapse your lungs from that screaming.” Sirius said, rubbing your arm reassuringly. You sighed before shrugging.

“I can’t support my friend?” You sent Sirius a wink before looking back at the rink to gaze upon the next atrocious outfit.

In your personal opinion, it took way too many people before it was time for Regulus’ routine. You waited and complained and waited and complained. Then finally after seeing the ugliest orange suit, there he was.

Regulus’ outfit was black from the waist to the legs and green from the neck to the waist. They met at a blended angular line. Along the black were swirly lines of black gems. The green had swirling lines of silver. Truly you weren't sure if you’ve ever wanted to rip off one of his suits more. You watched as Regulus death stared at the ice. You knew that was just his determined look but if it was directed at a person you’d be concerned for their health. He pulled his arms up behind his neck, staring down at the ground. He tapped his fingers on the back of his neck.

“Anxious stim, I don’t know why he’s worried. He’s going to be perfectly fine.” Sirius muttered. You nodded.

“He’s got all perfectionist brain. He’ll trip and he’s pissed for the rest of the day.” You said shaking your head. Sirius hummed, tapping his lips with his fingers.

“Regulus was like that as a kid, too. You know, once when we were kids-“ You pressed your finger to SIrius’ lips. Sirius made a disagreeing sound.

“He’s starting.” Regulus’ music started. He skated onto the ice, glancing over at the judges. Regulus set his jaw before moving into his routine. You squeezed Sirius’ hand tightly as you watched him fly through his routine like it was nothing. He was amazing it was like he was born with this talent. Even with all his practice it never looked hard for him. Regulus could glide like he was a gift straight from the stars. It was just that one jump. He worked so hard to figure out how to land his front flip. You watched him fall flat on his ass so many times. You kissed the bruises from his trips. You rubbed his back when the stress from this stupid flip manifested itself into muscle tension. Now finally you got to watch him on the big stage.

Regulus picked up speed before he pushed off the ice, head pointing towards the ground. You gripped Sirius’ hand tighter with both hands. Sirius held his breath, watching his brother fly in the air. Regulus’ legs pointed flat out. He tipped to the ground as you leaned forward in your seat. You and Sirius, both muttering praises. His foot landed and he skated away, effectively landing his flip. You squealed, shaking SIrius’ hand back and forth. You both looked at each other, almost knocking heads. Regulus wrapped up his routine with a classic Regulus move; a spin so fast you were sure he would vomit. He saluted to the judges before heading towards off the ice.

You and Sirius both stood up. You whistled loudly while Sirius cheered. You dropped Sirius’ hand to clap. Regulus looked up in your direction. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips before jutting both his hands out to you. You cheered again. Regulus waved at you both. He wasn’t exactly known for his bright smiles but you still saw the small, though slightly smothered, grin. Sirius screamed, making the people around you glance back.

“That’s my fucking boyfriend, dipshits! I suck his dick! I love you, sign my ass!” You screamed. Regulus shook his head, staring down at the ice. The people around you gave you disgusted looks, though some were amused. Sirius cheered again as Regulus fully left the rink. You sighed happily as you sat back down.

“That was great, I wanna go home now.” You said, smiling at Sirius. He hummed in agreement. After a few more contestants, a few more insults towards their routines, and a couple more laughs with Sirius, a judge clutching a microphone skated to the center of the rink. Four more people dressed in all black skated towards him, a giant podium held up between them. Each one gripping onto a corner. They settled it behind the judge, The judge glanced back at the podium, smiling at the crowd behind the glass.

“Well they were all stunning, but I’m here to announce the winners. Now every one of these people worked extremely hard for where they are today. With that in mind, here we go.” The judge reached into their pocket. They pulled out a piece of paper unfolding it. You leaned back towards Sirius.

“He’s fine right? We’re going to win? He’s totally got this.” You whispered. Sirius nodded, reaching for your hand and gripping it between the two of his.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. Totally fine.” Sirius said, sitting forward. With his grip on your hand, you could tell he was nervous too. Even though you both have seen Regulus win a million billion times. Even though you’ve seen him land jumps, perfect his routine, and stand up there on every podium he looks at, you are still worried for him. Judges can be harsh, harsher than Regulus is on himself. You just wanted him to be proud of himself. You wanted to see him up there on the first-place podium, holding his flowers and smiling with the power of a million suns.

“Alright, well, here it is. Taking home the bronze, in third place, is Yemima Cotterill.” The judge said, throwing one arm out towards the entrance. A gorgeous woman in a green and blue suit skated onto the rink, waving at the crowd. A ginormous smile, showing all her teeth. The four people in black suits helped her up onto the podium, standing on the shortest part. They then handed the judge the bronze medal. Yemima leaned down towards the judge. The judge pulled the medal over her head letting it settle on her chest. She smiled down at her medal. The judge then handed her a bouquet of sunflowers and blue baby’s breath. The the judge turned back around as Yemima looked down at her bouquet and medal.

“Alright, In second place, bringing home the silver, is James Potter.” The judge swung his arm back again. You shot up from your seat, cheering once again. You knew tomorrow you’d have to drink some hot tea before talking to Regulus. James skated towards the center, grinning from ear to ear. He waved towards the crowd as they screamed. James' eyes lingered in your direction, pulling up both hands to wave at you. He was helped up onto the other side of the podium. He leaned over as the judge pulled the silver medal over his head. James waved at Yemima. He started motioning with his hands, from what you could tell he was telling her how amazing she was. She laughed and made a motion to thank him. The judge then handed Jams a bouquet of lavender stock, lilacs, and a handful of roses. James cradled the bouquet to his chest as he stared down at his medal. He smiled brightly, he reached up and swiftly wiped at his eyes, grinning down at the bouquet. The judge turned back towards the crowd.

“Finally, in the first place, you’ve probably seen him in the newspaper. You’ve probably seen his plaques or medals in another rink, but right now you’re going to see him standing up there on the first-place podium.” You stayed standing up, holding Sirius’ arm to your chest. The judge gestured out to the entrance again.

“Regulus Black.” You screamed as your lovely boyfriend skated in towards the center. You quickly pulled Sirius in for a hug as you both cheered loudly. Regulus waved around, kissing to fingers and pointing them in your direction. The people in black suits helped him up to the top podium. He leaned down as the judge pulled his gold medal over his head. Regulus thanked him, pressing his hands together. Finally, the judge handed Regulus a bouquet of green hydrangea and roses. Regulus held it to his chest before leaning over to Yemima. He said something before sticking up a thumbs up. Yemima smiled, pressing a hand to her chest. James reached out and patted Regulus’ arm.

Regulus turned to face him. James said something that made Regulus smile. Regulus reached out and grabbed onto James’ medal. Regulus leaned down to admire James’ medal. You grinned, looking back at Sirius. You turned back to look at Regulus. He pulled on James’ medal before jerking forward. Your jaw dropped as you watched Regulus kiss James on the podiums. You pressed your hands to your cheeks, gasping loudly. James, leaned closer, standing up on his tippy toes to make up for the distance caused by the podium. You laughed as the photographer clicked away. Regulus pulled back and held his medal up in triumph. You cheered and shook Sirius’ arm. James held his flowers up, covering up his flustered grin. It was not often Regulus smiled. He grinned or grimaced. His lips would twinge sometimes. He’d have a soft smile that was more of just a flat line. But a flat-out, teeth and all-smile? It was uncommon.

Now with a flustered James next to him, a winner's bouquet in his arms, a medal around his neck, and a winner's check surely on his way, he was grinning with a good portion of his teeth. It’s the little things. He waverd around before leaning back towards James. Regulus whispered something towards him. James nodded, pulling the flowers away from his face. They both turned in the direction of your seats. Regulus and James pressed their fingers to their lips before sending their air kisses towards you. You pretended to catch the kisses.

After pictures were taken and most of the spectators left, Regulus met you and Sirius outside the rink. He had his duffle bag swung over his body and his bouquet still in his arms. You held your arms out once you saw him. Regulus picked up his pace just barely, making a weird run-walk to get to you. He wrapped his arms around you, the bouquet smacking your back. His weight crashing into you made you both rock back and forth. You muttered praises about how well he did in his ear. As he pulled back, Regulus pressed a kiss to your cheek. Sirius pulled him into a hug the second you weren’t holding onto Regulus. Sirius ruffled Regulus’ hair. Regulus groaned and pulled away, smacking Sirius on the arm.

“Lemme see the gold, you asswipe,” Sirius said. Regulus groaned throwing his head back. Regulus shoved his hand into his bag, retrieving the gold medal. He handed it to Sirius. Sirius cradled it in between his palms, smiling down at it.

“It’ll go perfectly over your favorite bookshelf,” Sirius said, sarcastically. Regulus snatched the medal away before sticking it out to you. It was heavier than you thought it would be but it still caught the setting sun. You handed it back to Regulus before looking over his shoulder.

“Where’s James?” You asked. Regulus’ face fell. He reached out towards you, grabbing onto your wrists.

“I’m so sorry for kissing him before talking to you. I got caught up in the adrenaline. I should’ve talked to you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Regulus said, staring at you with worried eyes. You’d compare him to a sad puppy but he was truly more cat-like. You smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Could not care less. It was hot-“

”Gross.” Sirius muttered.

“-and I’ve been waiting on you to be ready so we can make a move but this was the most dramatic way to confess. I suppose that’s what I get for dating a relative of Sirius.” You heard Sirius groan next to you.

“You guys are total bitches.” Sirius muttered. Regulus hummed, keeping his eyes on you.

“But yeah, James is calling his parents to let them know he got silver.” You nodded, glancing back at the door to see James jogging towards you guys. James was holding onto his bouquet with his medal around his neck. His duffle bag was swung around, bouncing against his back. He finally reached you guys, glancing at Sirius.

“Speak of the devil,” Regulus muttered. You quickly attacked James with a hug. He grunted, hugging you back. You pulled back.

“You did so amazing you have no idea, you were gorgeous out there.” You said, walking back to your spot. You reached out for Regulus’ hand, intertwining your fingers. James glanced down at your hands, an uncomfortable look gracing his face.

“I know I can’t believe I beat Yemima. She was spectacular. Do you see that jump she did? She was like flying.” James said. Sirius nodded.

“I agree, she was amazing.” James glanced at Sirius uncomfortably. Regulus sputtered, lurching forward to point at Sirius.

“Where are my manners? James this is Sirius, my brother. Sirius this is James, possibly the first person I think would actually have a shot at beating me.” Regulus gestured between the two of them. James awed, staring at Regulus.

“You think I could beat you?” James asked, sounding incredibly touched. Regulus shrugged.

“With some training and maybe if I broke something but yes,” Regulus said, making James snort.

“Nice to meet you, Sirius.” James stuck his hand out to Sirius. Sirius shook it. James gasped and turned to you.

“I had no idea Regulus was going to kiss me. I’m sure it meant nothing. I’m not a homewrecker I promise.” You snorted at James, resting your head on Regulus’ shoulder. James stared between the two of you with an awkward look.

“No need to sweat it James, we’ve been thinking of asking you to join our relationship for months. Reggie just has chilly feet.” You said, grinning at James. Regulus groaned, pulling his head away from you in disagreement. You pulled Regulus back to you, kissing his cheek.

“I love you and your chilly feet, even though you leave underwear on the bathroom floor.” Your words were smothered by the squishy skin of Regulus’ cheek.

“He still does that? I thought Mother beat it out of him at 7.” Sirius muttered, smacking your shoulder with the back of his hand in shock. Regulus shook his head.

“No she tried, but I just started bringing Creature more caramel candies,” Regulus said. James raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s Creature? Also, your mother hit you?” James asked looking between Sirius and Regulus.

“Creature was one of our butlers, he really liked caremal. Once when I was a teen, I hooked up with this guy in a guest room, we had like thirty so nobody would notice anyway, Creature totally caught him trying to sneak out so I bought him three full bags of camamel candies and it was never mentioned again.” Sirius said. Regulus gasped.

“Oh yeah, I remember that guy. He asked me if he could collect my fingernails when I was asleep.” Regulus pointed at Sirius as he shared another childhood story that made you concerned. Sirius grimaced.

“Yeah, he was weird,” Sirius muttered, shaking his head at the ground before shivering. You looked over at James to find him sunken in on himself, clutching his flowers closer.

“Oh, you guys are traumatizing James.” You said, pulling away from Regulus to hold onto James’ arm. You started leading James away towards the car. You three carpooled. Sirius drove on his own, he only trusted his own driving.

“Yeah, I wonder what it did to us,” Regulus muttered. After you all said your goodbyes, You, James, and Regulus headed out for a late dinner. Over your food, you discussed the future of your relationship and when it was finally time to decline dessert, you had all decided that you and Regulus were officially dating James. And vice versa. You drove James back home. Regulus lugged James’ heavy duffle inside while you kissed James goodnight. James held the door open for you as you stepped down to his front doorstep. You held your hand out for Regulus as he moved past James. Regulus leaned up, smacking a kiss on James’ cheek before grabbing onto your hand and walking toward the car with you. The second you two got home, you both collapsed face-first into the matress and silently decided to never ever leave the house again.

In the morning, after you bribed Regulus to get out of bed with coffee, you went out to get the mail. You picked up the newspaper off the driveway and headed back inside. While Regulus was making his coffee and starting breakfast, you pulled the rubber band off the newspaper. You pulled open the paper, scanning the headline. ’Ice Skating prodigy, Regulus Black caught cheating on the podium’ in big bold letters sprawled over the paper. You looked down at the image underneath. It was of Regulus and James kissing on the podium. You glanced over at Yemima noticing now that her mouth was covered by both her hands in shock. You looked back at the picture of your two boyfriends, wondering where you should frame this.

“Your ass photographs well, you could bounce a quarter off that thing.” You muttered. Regulus looked up from the pan he was making breakfast with.

“Hm?” You turned the paper around to show the headline. Regulus frowned, moving closer to investigate. He grumbled.

“They make it sound like I cheated in the competition in the headline. Not to mention I didn’t even cheat romantically. They’re just too ignorant to understand non-monogamy.” Regulus tossed the paper onto the table in frustration, turning back to the pan. You hummed, picking the paper back up again.

“Well I think it’s a very adorable picture, I kinda wanna frame it.” You turned the page, searching for a very specific section. Regulus grumpily hummed, sounding particularly peaved about the whole thing.

“Oh yes, we should take to the rink when we go with my medal. They can frame it next to my suit and first medal.” Regulus mocked sarcastically. You nodded, turning more pages.

“Yeah, see. You’re getting it now.” You mumbled before finally reaching the section you wanted; the funnies. A week later, You, James, and Regulus were all standing in front of the glass case at Regulus’ rink. His new medal was hung next to all the other ones while the new newspaper clipping was hung up next to his framed suit. It took a good amount of convincing and Regulus pulling the ‘Do you know who I am?’ Card which he was not happy about. Nonetheless, the beautiful headline and picture of your two boyfriends was there. James’ medal was hung up in his home but you doubted it couldn’t be too terribly long before he had his own glass case.

[izzythehutt]

I think it's hilarious that Rhett Butler is the model for every subsequent alpha male romance hero, because he's actually one of literature's most desperate simps. Rhett is only saved from the appearance of simp-hood because the woman he's simping for has the emotional intelligence of a potato.

Evidence!!!

Pays $150 (equivalent to $5.5k in today money) in gold to dance with object of affection he knows hates him. Implied he shells out more gold for subsequent dances. This is 1860s equivalent of OnlyFans subscriber behavior.

Stays in a dangerous war-zone purely to save object of affection/simp-hood from invading army in the hopes of a gratitude hookup. Risked life to steal a horse for her, only to get one brief make-out, a slap on the face and a death wish as reward.

Risks getting arrested by returning to city where he's just to see the chick who when he last saw her said she hoped a cannon ball fell on top of him. Upon seeing her is so desperate he nearly proposes marriage despite her clear gold-digging motives.

Only saved by sight of her need money gold-digging work hands, then is a sulky bitch about almost being honey-trapped. Can't resist asking if there are other backup men his goddess is about to con in place of him and even gives advice on how to trick them more effectively. PEAK SIMPING. Laughs it off two weeks later while also rushing to give her the money anyway!

Drives object of affection/simp-hood to and from dangerous job while she is married to/pregnant by another man!!! This is Richard Nixon driving Pat to and from dates with other men behavior!!!

Proposes marriage to object of simp-hood on day of her last husband's funeral, threatens to sing outside her window if she doesn't say yes. Bullies her into a yes, despite her pointing out she doesn't love him and is mostly agreeing to have access to his money.

Tries to play it cool but then passive-aggressively points out that she should at least pretend she loves him and, you know, say the words or whatever. Makes extremely pathetic joke about how "some wives falling in love with their husbands." RHETT. STWAP.

Tries to play the whole marriage proposal off like it's FWB/FB situation, as if he hasn't had a massive obvious crush on her for six years and doesn't have financial interest in a brothel and plenty of access to other women that he's not offering marriage to.

Builds her a tacky McMansion and enables all her worst tendencies of taste in the vain hope that NOW she'll love him.

When she's caught "cheating" on him finally gets so drunk that he can admit his own self-loathing at his simpitude and the weight of it breaks him free into true alpha status. Only saved from marital rape accusation by the fact that it's the one time his wife actually enjoys sex, probably because he's not simping for once!!! You should have tried this years ago Rhett!!!

Can't resist listing off his entire history of simping even when he's leaving her.

[saintsenara]

For the Love Your Fandom Asks 3 and 4 please!

thank you very much for the ask, anon. lovely choices from the love your fandom ask game...

3. who is a character that fandom has helped you appreciate?

sigh. i can hear @whinlatter cackling from here.

ginny weasley.

i've never found ginny a hugely interesting character in her canon form - nor hinny a hugely interesting canon ship - not because i think there's anything particularly wrong with either but because ginny feels so underdone within the narrative and i don't find the fact that all of her major character development happens offscreen particularly compelling.

and i've also always had a wee bit of beef with ginny's treatment in fan spaces - i don't like the way she's treated by lots of fics which want to break her and harry up [which just make her a sort of raving, gold-digging harpy], of course, but i also don't like the fact that so much writing about her turns her into either a #girlboss who hates her mam or into a bang-maid who exists only as a tool for harry's self-actualisation. but, y'know, in a twee way.

but there's - as there is with everyone in the books - some really interesting stuff which i have always been aware lurks in ginny's character arc - especially her slightly vindictive streak and, given my interests, what she actually thinks of tom riddle - but which i'd never taken the time to particularly care about.

enter whinlatter, who is a paid-up defender of ginny, but - crucially - a paid-up defender of ginny as a bit of a flop. her takes on her as a character - especially her inability to open up and her tendency to deflect questions about what she's feeling - and on her various relationships - especially the fact that she's one of the few hinny fans i've seen really dig into the fact that harry's "protection" of ginny isn't romantic but intensely paternalistic [and also her defence of the legend that is molly weasley] - are things i find really valuable to think and to talk about and to integrate into my own writing and worldbuilding.

she's also unfailingly generous intellectually - there's lots she and i continue to disagree on when it comes to her girl, but I've never found her anything other than delighted to bicker about these things - and i will never stop doing an evil little chuckle when i see myself quoted in the author's notes for beasts.

4. say something nice about a ship you don't ship

at their cores, every single ship - no matter how implausible; no matter how beholden to fanon; no matter how out-of-character - comes down to the same thing: that love [platonic or romantic] and desire [platonic or sexual] and human connection is strange and unpredictable, that it may look very different to very different people, and that it is universal.

i dislike numerous ships because i think they're rarely done in ways i find interesting - things like jegulus, wolfstar, dramione, and harmony chief among them - but i respect that they have this fundamental basis in the baffling power of love.

and that they also recognise that fandom is meant to be fun - and that making two hotties kiss in a way they wouldn't do in canon is a time-honoured way of having that fun. shipping really shouldn't be deep, and - despite the reputation the harry potter fandom has for endless beefing over shipping preferences - i am delighted by the sheer number of my fandom friends who think the same way.

[other answers from this ask game]

[shimmerbeasts]

cue the wounded puppy pout . his greedy fingers recoil , one by one , curling back into his palm with an eerie kind of grace , something vaguely inhuman and animalistic in the way he moves .

❝ i was just admiring it , don't be so grouhcy ... ❞ doubtful . he has a tendency to touch stuff he shouldn't . framing himself as the innocent victim , the drow pushes his elbow against the flat surface , leaning closer , the soft of his palm cushioning against his chin . ❝ ... please ? ❞ lashes bat coquettishly , and the softness which rounds in his mouth suggests he might as well be very used to getting what he wants with that simple , tiny littleword . ❝ the sounds you make are so lovely ... what i must i do to persuade you , mmm? ❞

Even though Felicitas had been raised a serf and thus was lower in the pecking order in drow culture, it was the ugly truth that even the lowest-ranking female serf would be above the highest-ranking drow male. The only reason the few male specimens of House Baenra could treat her as badly as the females was the fact that Minthara had drilled obedience into her head. Felicitas was to entertain. That was her sole purpose as a serf in this house.

"If you admired it", Felicitas chastised Vhaal, suddenly speaking with a bit more authority, though it was rather underplayed by her colourful bard's attire, "Then follow stripper rules: Look, but don't touch."

The drow gave a soft tsking sound, clearly not falling for Vhaal's attempts to make himself appear as an innocent, little baby boy. She had seen drow children beat their own siblings to death with rocks. Innocence might as well not exist in her culture. So this attempt to appeal to her was more duplicitous than anything else.

Though two could play this game. If Vhaal was so determined to get her to play him something on her flute, maybe she should indeed ask for payment. Though not in coin. They were all already scraping by, even with Felicitas spontaneously beginning to play in large crowds to earn them the additional gold pieces or two. No, Felicitas decided to have a bit of fun with Vhaal. Besides, it was washing day tomorrow. So why not kill two birds with one stone?

"Fine", Felicitas said, "I will play you a song of your choice, Vhaal. I might even dig up some of the songs I played at banquets for the entertainment of my house." She raised a finger. "But in exchange, you wash my part of the laundry during washing day. Do we have a deal?" She extended her hand towards the other drow.

@demonwebs cont. from here.

[mumms-the-word]

oh i'm so glad! I love learning about others' OCs so much and I'd love to do it more. I've been digging around in your Ardynn tag especially and i just love that elf already. Onto my horrible children :D I'll share about Tynera and Serket, since they are the most developed ones so far. Tynera is a drow cleric of Lathander who Tries Very Hard to be ever striving towards the light and new beginnings although she still holds some prejudices and wounds from her upbringing in the underdark. she hides those, pretending that she's left it all behind when she left her home. She's nonetheless a pretty positive person - very intense, optimistic, outspoken, empathetic. Aesthetic-wise, she's pretty high femme - lots of lace, highly decorated armour, gold and amethyst jewellery. I like to think that she's pretty short with a pear-shaped figure with both a warrior's muscles and a healthy layer of fat. Her lover is Lae'zel, and i like to think that they're pretty similar in their loyalty and determination - what they believe, they will see through, and who they love, they will protect.

Serket is a Tiefling Monk. In-game, I have them as a Way of The Shadow monk, but in my headcanon they follow the Way of Mercy. They grew up in a monastery that served Naralis Analor, a god of healing and death. Generally, they are a pretty serene, even-tempered person. Their best skill is their empathy and leadership - understanding people and helping them work together. On the flip side, they have some dishonest and manipulative tendencies that come with that, and carry a lot of (survivor's) guilt for ~reasons~ related to their backstory. They romanced Astarion, and while they appear the more put together of the pair, they grow a lot through his influence - they are not nearly as able to fight for what they want as he is, and they profit very much from him calling them out on their bullshit. As for appereance, they are pretty tall and lanky, with functional muscle built up over a life of discipline and deep connection with their own body. That's also reflected in how they carry themselves - they move with purpose and a measured elegance. I'm so curious to hear how your Tavs might connect or not with them! this is so fun, thank you :D

Just now getting to this!! I love that you love Ardynn! I have a couple of oneshots I need to finish and add to her list....

Dani would vibe really well with both of them, but she'd be buddies with Tynera quicker, I think. Dani is also a pretty positive person and would think that Tynera is just BEAUTIFUL. Although, then again, if a cleric of Lathander who is all lace and gemstones walked up to her, Dani would be half-tempted to bob a curtsy and be like "milady?" and then be slightly jealous that she's got all this fancy stuff. But don't worry, Dani doesn't steal from her friends. With Serket, first of all, she would be ECSTATIC that someone is dating her best friend Astarion and support them 100% of the way. Second, she wouldn't even bat an eye at Serket's manipulation tactics or dishonesty. She's used to that. She's a good deceiver too. She would just hope that Serket would eventually become comfortable enough to be honest with her. She would also absolutely be okay with Serket being in charge. She's flexible about leading.

Ardynn would like them both but vibe with Serket more. Tynera seems flashy and seems to know a lot about civilized life both in the Underdark and topside, and Ardynn is...not that. She appreciates a good cleric of Lathander and would be relieved that SOMEONE other than her (and Wyll, and Karlach, and Halsin) is trying to be 100% good all the time. Ardynn would probably have a lot of questions (like how does a drow because a cleric of Lathander) but view Tynera as a good leader to follow. With Serket, I feel like she would let herself get closer to them a little quicker than with Tynera. She's a bit of an herbalist and death is nothing shocking for her, since she's a huntress, and she appreciates an even-headed person. She'd trust them almost instantly and offer her help in whatever way she can. She might even develop a little crush, but she wouldn't necessarily act on it. She's nothing if not a slow burn girlie.

Freyr....oof lol. Freyr would arch a WHOLE eyebrow at Tynera claiming to be a cleric of Lathander when she's a drow but he would feel like he doesn't know enough to really comment. He'd ask Minthara about it later and whatever she says about it he'd take as his opinion too (he doesn't always do this, but when it comes to Drow Stuff, absolutely). So you better hope Minthara likes Tynera. He would find her slightly grating if she's really chatty about being a do-gooder, but if she's good in a fight and she doesn't complain too much about the fact that he's going to do Dubious and Evil Things, she's welcome to stick around. She can pitch her tent by Gale. As for Serket, he'd probably respect them a bit more. He'd be curious how to push Serket's buttons to get them to snap, but that might just be the Durge talking. He appreciates someone who is willing to hone their skills in battle and he's not averse to level-headedness or empathy. He would expect Serket to pull their weight, though, and probably encourage some of their darker tendencies.

Invi would find both of them fascinating and end up being drawn to Serket more. With Tynera, she would find her femme optimistic exuberance a little amusing but acknowledge the ways it uplifts everyone's spirits (which is more than she can say about herself). Every team needs a cheerleader, and Invi is not that. She would be fascinated to talk with Tynera about how she came to be a drow cleric of Lathander, because Invi is also invested in her own personal growth...she just doesn't quite know where to start. She would be drawn to Serket for some of the same reasons. Serket and Invi's aura/vibes are pretty similar, and I can just picture them standing off to the side at camp together, engrossed in a discussion that has them going for hours and forgetting the time. (She would also understand their interest in Astarion, as she has an interest in him too. But she would probably let Serket have him, in part because she spends a lot of the timeline of the game trying to figure out who she is and what she wants). I think with both, Invi would be invested in helping them on their journeys, she would just talk to Serket a lot more.

Thanks for the ask!! I love doing these!

[prcphesieslie]

Look who just woke up- is that MATT LANTER? No, I must have been mistaken, that’s DANIEL JACKSON from STARGATE: SG-1. I heard he is 42 and stuck here just like everyone else. Even in the 20’s, they still give off a GOLD RIMMED GLASSES LIGHTLY COATED IN DIRT FROM AN ARCHEOLOGICAL DIG, PASSIONATE RANTS ABOUT EXCITING NEW FINDS, BICKERING WITH HIS BEST FRIEND impression. They’re known to be quite CURIOUS, but have a tendency to be HYPERFOCUSED on their bad days. 

Gender/Pronouns ::

Cis Man ; he/him

How long have they been in Sydney? 

Two Years

Which suburb do they live in? 

Tbd 

Personality description :  

Strangers :: Daniel is very friendly, but he can come off as a bit of a know it all and definitely a huge nerd. however, what most people don't realize is that if he's rambling about something, he definitely knows it all. he works too much to have much contact with strangers, but he's a sweetheart that doesn't usually jump to conclusions about people unless they've given him a reason to.

Friends :: Friends get to see the more sarcastic side of Daniel and get to see that isn't just the huge nerd that strangers think he is. they get to see his more reckless side that doesn't always think before he acts, especially when someone he loves is in danger or he thinks he's getting close to figuring something out. but they definitely see even more just how much he works.

Family/Close Friends :: The people closest to Daniel get to be on the receiving end of his recklessness. They are the ones he's willing to put himself in danger for. they are also the ones that get to see that he doesn't always act as smart as he is as well. sometimes, you wouldn't know he's a genius if you didn't know him so well.

Memories of their real life : 

Daniel is an Archaeologist Linguist, who was recruited for the Stargate mission in 1996 by Catherine Langford. He helped unlock the Stargate portal and traveled to the planet of Abydos with a team of Airmen where he decided to stay after meeting his wife. However, a year later in 1997, the Stargate team returned to Abydos to help the people there only for Daniel's wife to be captured by the Goa'uld. He returned to Earth so he could assist in getting her back. Joining the SG-1 team, he traveled the stars, befriend aliens, and studied the alien cultures and languages. Daniel ended up staying on the team until 2009 where his memories end.

If you want to read more, you can check out his wiki page here!

What was their fake life like? 

Daniel was placed into foster after losing his parents when 8 just like in his real life. However, this time, he traveled to Sydney after getting an opportunity to work at the museum and teach specialty classes at the university. He has been here ever since.

Label :: Disney Princess of Aliens  

Location they work in : Atlantis

Wanted Connections ::

Other professors from when he worked at the university

Coworkers from the museum

Other members of the Stargate program

Younger/Older siblings from his fake life

Coworkers from Atlantis

Former Students from when he was a professor

Former Foster Siblings

[medowlarken]

hey! totally optional for you to answer this/write this but i was wondering if you could write a jean x reader fic based on the song golden hour by JVKE please? i love your writing

again, completely okay for you to not write this!

love<3

((this kind of turned into a school caste au? anyway, i hope this is what you meant! i actually hadn’t listened to the song before but i thought it fit a high school romance really well. tw// for some makeouts but nothing too explicit))

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Jean glanced up from the chiming phone clutched in his hand. 

You were stretched out across the passenger seat with your bare feet propped up on the dash. You’d tipped your head back against the headrest in a way that showed off your jaw and pretty collarbones-- the setting sun cast golden rays of light across your skin.

Jean swallowed at the sight. God, you were pretty.

When he didn’t respond right away, you raised an eyebrow and repeated the question. He quickly cleared his throat.

“It’s nothing,” he said, “I’ll just call her back later.”

Once the phone stopped ringing, he sent a quick text to his mom to say he was busy. He set it to silent before she could send him her usual tidal wave of irritated texts, then deposited it into the cupholder.

You reached over the console to poke him in the shoulder. “Don’t be mean to your mom, Jeanbo. She's probably wondering where her car is.”

Jean scoffed and caught your wrist. “We can drive back and give it to her if you want.” He brought the palm of your hand up to his mouth and rested his lips against the warm skin there. He regarded you with sharp eyes, challenging. 

But it was a challenge you were happy to lose. You sighed and shifted in your seat to slide your legs off the dashboard. The worn upholstery rubbed against your back as you moved to cup the side of his face. “Not yet,” you said, “I want to watch the sunset first.”

The lookout point was a well-known secret among the locals of your small town. The parking spot itself wasn’t anything special--just a patch of dirt surrounded by shrubs and pine trees--but the view was spectacular. The entire valley was spread out below you like a patchwork quilt. Twinkling streetlights dotted the darkening terrain as the sun sank below the horizon. 

The fading sunlight was gold-- it caught the rearview mirror and projected glowing shapes against the station wagon’s time-worn ceiling. It was Mrs. Kirstein’s car, technically. Jean had a tendency to borrow it without asking her first, especially on Saturday nights after you’d finished your shift at the local diner. You got on his case about it often-- his mom was a sweet woman and he could be a bit of a shithead. But it was also one of the only times you two could truly be alone, without the prying eyes of your nosey classmates or overbearing families. 

And you didn’t plan on wasting it-- you dragged your thumb against his cheekbone before leaning forward to press your lips together. The kiss was soft and slow, savory, and you felt the center console dig into your stomach as you chased the feeling. 

Jean hummed and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. The tip of his tongue traced the seam of your lips before curling inside, and your heartrate spiked. You could smell the pomade in his hair, and feel the crunch of it when you moved to clutch at the strands near the back of his head. 

Later, he would sip his teeth and complain about you messing it up. But for now all he did was groan and tug you even closer.

After another minute or two of unhurried kissing, Jean pulled back enough to speak. “C’mere,” he murmured, rubbing your noses together. He tugged at the sleeve of your work shirt to get his point across. 

You didn’t need to be told twice-- you clamored over the center console and slid into his lap, taking care not to knock into the steering wheel. 

The changed position allowed you to peer down at him from a new angle. His letterman jacket hung off his shoulders and the white t-shirt underneath had been rumpled by your wandering hands. A bright blush stained his cheeks and his eyes were hazy with desire-- a desire for you, which was something that you still had trouble wrapping your head around. 

Jean Kirstein was known as the resident bad boy of your high school. His reputation was defined by a penchant for trouble making and skirt chasing, two traits that’d made you keep your distance when you’d transferred during junior year. 

That hadn’t stopped him from noticing you, though. He’d thrown some snide comments Armin’s way during lunch break one day, and you’d immediately came to your new friend’s defense. You were quick-witted and almost as petty as he was--at least in that moment--and Jean had immediately found himself drawn to you.

His pursuit of you was subtle but persistent-- annoying, especially at first, but never uncomfortable or inappropriate. If you’d told him to fuck off he would have. But you didn’t, and after a year of casual conversations and flirting he finally asked you out on a proper date. And to everyone’s surprise, you’d said yes.

Because over the course of that year, you’d come to realize something: that the Jean who picked fights with Eren was the same Jean who defended book-loving Marco from bullies. The Jean who teased Connie for being an airhead would also drop everything to comfort him during a bad acid trip, even when the poor guy pissed himself in the backseat of his car. And the Jean who bragged about pulling girls still waited until your third date before asking if it was ok to kiss you.

You’d been officially together for months. But as you sat perched in his lap inside his mom’s beaten up station wagon, your head spun, and not from just the lack of oxygen. Golden sun rays warmed the skin on the back of your neck, and you stared down at this beautiful, complex boy underneath you.

Jean’s grin was lopsided. “Oi,” he said, “are you just gunna keep gawking at me, or...?”

“I’m in love with you.”  

Jean blinked, expression going slack.

You felt your entire face light up with a molten-hot blush. That was almost breathtakingly untactful, even for you, but you didn’t dare break eye contact. It was the truth. And if there was one thing that you knew Jean appreciated, it was honesty.

After a moment, Jean swallowed hard and brushed some fallen strands of hair out of your face. The look in his eyes was unreadable. “Say it again,” he asked, so quiet that you thought you misheard him at first.

Your brows drew together. That wasn’t the response you were expecting. “What?”

“Just do it. Please.” The sun made his brown eyes light up gold. “Say it again.”

You studied him for a moment. After a beat of silence you spoke. “I love you.”

He released a shuddering exhale, blunt nails digging into you hips. “Again.”

“I’m in love with you, Jean,” you said, confused and slightly amused by his insistence. “I can write it down too, if you want.”

But that wouldn’t be necessary-- the moment the quip left your lips Jean was claiming them as his own again, rough and desperate. You gasped at the abruptness and he took the opportunity to flick his tongue against the roof of your mouth. 

You groaned at the sensation and shifted forward to press yourself fully against his front, bringing your bodies flush together. Your hazy mind vaguely registered the song playing on the radio, but it was background noise. Both of your attentions were elsewhere. 

Teeth scrapped against the hinge of your jaw and you tilted your head to allow Jean access to your neck. Soft gasps escaped you as he dived right in-- sucking a dark mark just behind your ear so that your hair could hide it. Your vision swam and the sensation made you squirm. Outside the window, dusk cast long shadows among the pine trees.

“Damn,” you panted, “we missed the sunset.”

Jean hummed and released the patch of flesh between his lips with a wet sound, before moving on to another one. “We’ll catch the next one,” he murmured. The hot puffs of his breath made goosebumps erupt along your spine.

“Hmm,” you agreed, closing your eyes and gripping his hair tighter. A flash of light caught your attention and you looked down. The screen of Jean’s cellphone was bright in the dim interior of the station wagon. It showed multiple notifications, all unread, and you were just able to make out the most recent one.

“If you don’t call your mom back in two minutes she’s going to call the cops,” you relayed to him, “and ground you for at least six months.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jean hissed. His irritation was palatable-- he reluctantly drew his face from the crook of your neck and reached for his phone. You watched him angerly scroll through his deluge of text notifications. He scowled and the arm he had wrapped around your waist squeezed tighter. 

“Should we head back now?” you asked.

“Yeah, probably,” he grumbled without looking up from the screen, “she’s threatening to get your mom involved this time.”

You gulped and slid off Jean’s lap without protest, settling back into the passenger seat. If there was something scarier than one pissed off mom, it was two.

After you both strapped your seatbelts on, Jean started the car and began backing up out of the parking lot. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other pressing his phone up to his ear. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Sorry,” he said. It was subtle, but you could tell he was embarrassed. “Next time will be better. I’ll just block her or something.”

“Jean,” you chastised him, “don’t be a dick. It’s fine. Besides, graduation’s just around the corner, right? Once summer comes we’ll have all the time in the world.”

Some of the tension drained out of his shoulders. He shot you a small smile. “Yeah. We will.” You smiled back, and his face softened. “I, uh, love you, too. By the way.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach, but your reply was cut off by angry shouting coming from Jean’s phone. It was so loud even you could hear it.

Jean’s expression morphed faster than you could blink, now beet red for an entirely different reason. “Wha-- not you, woman! My phone died, and we-- yes, I’m bringing the damn car back now, don’t have a fuckin’ aneurysm over it--” 

You laughed, bright and fond, and cracked the passenger side window open. Jean continued to argue into the phone, turning onto the main road, and you inhaled a lungful of cool night air-- summer was just around the corner.

((i dont have an official policy for requests, but if theres something yall want me to write a drabble for dont hesitate to send it in! jeanbo related or otherwise))

[livingalifeofasimp]

Incurable Love

《♚ SLIGHT YANDERE / POSSESSIVE Zhongli X Reader ♚》

➳ Dynasty Au

➳ Warning : This content contains Yandere themes if you are sensitive please refrain yourself from reading it. This is purely for entertainment purpose, arts and pictures are not mine credits to respective owners, only the content is mine.

❖ You leap through the time to some dynasty and found yourself in the dark forest sunlight scatting through the leaves, on waking up you saw yourself surrounded by some men, the look on their faces made you feel some kind of outsider. They were dressed in traditional wear layers of clothes warped around them secured with leather belts, long hairs, head decorated with pretty accessories.

❖A man came forward glaring, your clothing style made them even more suspicious of you " What is your name? Who sent you here?", Starling you with his strict voice pointing a beautifully crafted weapon yet deadly in your direction that you assumed was sword. "Is this some kind of sick joke, some social experiment Hahah I ain't falling for this", you shouted looking around you for hidden cameras where are they? Other than that, it's illegal to bring people without their consent.  

❖"Stop fooling around answer or die" something in his voice told you this all wasn't a joke as he put his sword near your neck. You cut your skin slightly in the attempts to push the sword away realizing it's not a play. "Do you wanna die so much?, General she doesn't look like an assassin", a young looking guy came forward, "Suspicious, everything about her is suspicious, her words, her clothes, her etiquettes, which country are you from?", Everything felt wrong you took a step back ready to run for your life while they argued with each other.

❖Your heartbeat accelerated as you ran faster than anything to save your ownself, curiously you turned your head and saw an arrow shooted towards you, subconsciously a scream left your mouth before you were pinned by the sharped arrow on the woods. "How bold are you?", General guy mocked you already on his way to grab your neck.

❖"Stop what's is this chaos for?", A deep commanding voice stopped him, he kneel down and bowed followed by all the other guys. "A sceptical girl has appeared, your majesty", he reported to the tall man dressed in all the luxury who made eye contact with yours, you adverted your eyes not wanting to offend these dangerous men after glaring at him. "Is this?", The man bend down and grabbed your chin to get a full view of your face, to find out from where you are.

"I believe people don't want to die unreasonable deaths I will ask you once where are you from?",

 "I am from South",

❖You lied through your teeth making an innocent face these sharp men, hopping to not get caughted by them, his face held a cold expression clearly not showing whatever is going in his mind. "South? From felecoia island?, You hurriedly nodded your head after all you wanted was to get away from them and find your way back. "Why are you here?", "Work I need money to eat", you babbled out anything that could at least save you from his threatening presence. He was surprised, your clothing did amused him, even tho your speaking lacked manners according to the era.

——————————————————————

❖You were forced on Emperor Zhongli's laps reminiscing, if you would have not said the things that you said would you be somewhere else in life, why did it ended up like this?. "What are you thinking about? Today is my birthday, you should be enjoying", he said playing with your silky hair,  you looked at the other side of the hall court officials drinking wine, enjoying, young girls dancing who were selected by the empress dowager so that Emperor Zhongli could choose one of them to be his wife or concubines on his birthday as gift, girls of powerful and influence families, beautiful and perfect in literature were dressed in a seductive way to win Emperor's heart but here he is looking at you with his heart eyes demanding your affection.

❖His face buried in your shoulders leaving kisses and smelling your intoxicating smell that always manages to calm him down, as you try pushing his body away with your hands that he took in his slowly intertwing, pulling your form closer, his left hands encircled your waist as he deepens the kiss running with passion as if he wants you to feel all his love towards you, his overwhelming love and desire that he can't hold back. Noble women looks at you with envy warning you to not get closer to the guy that they love.

❖Zhongli holds your hand to make you walk along side with him which was not done by any other Emperor before. Zhongli knows its wrong but he wants you to love him, piecing pain passes through his heart whenever you say you won't love him, leaving him at the verse of crying. Sometimes his love, loneliness, caring and gentle personality towards you melts your heart but his tendency to get jealous easily in small things makes you think otherwise seeing you pet an animal, he pushes it way and put his head in your lap asking you to caress his hair instead, trying to keep you closer to him all time and hugs you without your consent, making you think maybe it's a good choice to stay with him since you are not able to find your way back home.

❖Whenever you mention your timeline he holds you tight in his embrace afraid to let go so that you won't disappear. Zhongli do not show you his darker side, killing officials or their daughters and maids who plot against you on the spot, cutting their wives, husbands, concubines, sons and daughters' tongue but he isn't afraid to show you his clingingness, holding you down in his bed with him and making you his hugging pillow, trying to win your affection by showing you his pityfull and pathetic, lonely self. Surprising you that the most powerful Emperor who won each battles and states kneel infront of you begs and threatens you to love him.

❖You remember the time when you said, you liked cherry blossoms in one of your friendly lunches with Emperor, the next day you saw your backyard filled with exotic beautiful cherry blossoms trees making your jaw drop, unbelievable how did he managed to do such thing. 

❖"My lady do you like it?, it's specially designed for you, each patterns are threaded perfectly, Royal tailors had spent sleepless nights to make this masterpiece asked by the Emperor", a representative tailor girl said as she carefully put the luxurious red robe around you looking for some mistaken errors trying not to displease the ruthless Emperor. Suddenly guards announced his arrival which caused head maids to retreat back, bow down and leave the chamber immediately as Zhongli springed towards you, trapping you in a hug.

❖"You look so beautiful my Empress, this should be enough", you tried to moved away from him "Empress who?, I am not any Empress", Zhongli poked your cheeks "Quit joking my love", he walked around you and stopped behind you causing you to be nervous who knows what he is planning?, Zhongli caressed your back or rather the pattern design, thread made of gold, it's Dragon's symbol which symbolizes protection, power, luck and wisdom most importantly possession of Emperor, with this on, no one will dare to come closer to you or lay their eyes on you and disrespecting you would be equal to violating Emperor's order, the punishment served will be execution, it's a simple warning to everyone.

❖Zhongli's touch caused you to jump and due to reflex you turned around to look at him, just what is this man thinking?. Zhongli grabbed your right wrist and pulled you to him making you clash against his hard toned chest, he affectionately caressed your left cheeks too drunk in your view to realize your struggles and kissed your right cheek lovingly before whispering in your ears with his deep husky voice a templating offer, "Be mine, let me love you and I will give everything you want, you are the only one I need, I am not asking much, my Goddess please be kind to me, grant me the chance to get your love, your precious than any treasure I own", before enveloping you in a desperate hug.

❖When he hugs you so affectionately but securely telling you how much he loves you that he can kill anyone, forcing you to promise that you will never leave his side whenever he finds out about your escape attempts from the shadow guards, dangerous then any other trained soldier who were assigned to guard you more like to prevent you from escaping, no wonder you always get caughted some or the other way each time you try.

❖You where gazing at all the other princes ( Emperor's brothers) gathered in imperial garden who knew they looked so handsome when Zhongli turned your face towards him by holding your chin with his index fingers " Your Highness.....what?", his angry face scared you after all he can execute anyone he wants "Go inside and wait for me", stealing a delicious view away from you "But", "Show her way inside", he commanded your maids who draged you inside.

"You should be my concubine"

"No way I will never share my husband with anyone I want to be his only wife and him to be my only husband".

❖You smiled to yourself satisfyingly he got no chance other than to leave you but instead of seeing a disappointed Zhongli you saw a blushing Zhongli, his Chief assistant was shocked who immediately turned his head in some other direction to not get his eyes plug out by the tyrant.

❖"How can I be so stupid, you shall be my only wife and be mine forever I shall be yours forever my dear wife", Zhongli said taking your left hand in his long pretty muscular hands and kissed your ring finger as your smile disappeared realizing that you digged your own grave.

[thegreyj]

My sweet little fireheart

Rowaelin month day one : Songfic @rowaelinscourt Based on the song My Little Girl by Tim McGraw

CW: some fluff, major tissue warning, loss/grief, a little angst that is not really angst?

Enjoy!

**

My sweet little fireheart

“I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride,” the woman officiating the wedding said with a broad smile on her face. Rowan looked at Aelin with deep devotion, then his eye twinkled with mirth. He pulled her closer and slowly dipped her as his lips bestowed upon hers. Everyone around them laughed at their antics. Aelin giggled too, still attached to her husband’s lips. Then a very unusual laugh came out of Rowan, who almost never showed his glee when around people. I suppose love brings out different sides of people. Then again, Aelin had always seen this side of Rowan – it was just everyone else who thought he was a grumpy, silent man.

“Okay, okay, we get it, you’re in love. Now break it up and let’s go party!” Of course you could count on Fenrys being the one with unusually awful timing and a tendency to bring the attention to a party. Rowan and Aelin had decided to have their wedding ceremony at a beautiful outdoor area near the Galathynius mansion, and the party following their ceremony inside the mansion.

After Fenrys’ exclamation, wedding guests along with the bride and groom migrated towards the feast for speeches and dancing. And food, you could never forget food when Aelin was around.

Everything inside and around the mansion was decorated in fall colours, with splashes of gold bringing a level of fancy to the event. Kingsflames were spread around everywhere including Aelin’s bouquet as well as Rowan’s lapel. This was a Galathynius wedding, and some of the specifically selected pictures would be in the media the following day. Aelin was the heiress to the Galathynius fortune, and as such her private life was rarely private. But her now-husband Rowan had always been a private man, who just happened to fall for the one woman who would bring attention to him. As long as he could be with Aelin, he didn’t mind the paparazzi following him, or the random articles online going into detail on how he had managed to get such perfect muscles.

“Are you happy?” Aelin brought his attention to her. Rowan frowned for a moment before kissing his wife on the forehead.

“Oh, fireheart. I could not possibly be any happier. You make me happy. And I’m so, so happy you are now my wife,” he said with such genuine emotion, it brought Aelin to tears.

“No! No tears before the speeches!” Evalin Galathynius screeched from the other side of the room. How she even saw that happening from so far away was a mystery to all.

“Well, mom. Maybe we should get to the speeches then? But food first. I’m starving,” Aelin stated making those who heard her laugh. You could always be sure Aelin Galathynius – sorry, Galathynius-Whitethorn – would prioritise food over all else. Except maybe her husband. But just maybe.

**

After everyone had gotten their drinks and food in front of them, and began digging in, it was time for the fun yet often emotional part. The speeches. Maybe some weddings food would be served after the fun, but this was Aelin’s wedding, so food would be a part of the fun.

Lorcan, as Rowan’s bestman, gave a short heartfelt speech that for once did not insult Aelin. He did mention at the end that this would be the only time she got a reprieve from his negative comments. Rowan’s eyes glistened with tears, but none fell. Many people chuckled at Lorcan’s comment at the end. His inventive nicknames for Aelin were legendary, so people found him hilarious – even if he didn’t try to be.

Lysandra was Aelin’s maid of honor, and her speech was something very much only she would be able to come up with. Many, many innuendos were heard, a few jokes and some dirty stories about Aelin and Rowan getting it on in random places and being caught. Some of the elder guest were horrified, when Aelin and her friends cackled at the speech. Even Rowan laughed with no restraint.

Then Rowan’s father, Evan, gave his speech. He spoke how Rowan had a bright future ahead with Aelin and hoped for many, many grandbabies. He cracked a few jokes, making everyone wonder how Rowan was so different from him when it came to personalities.

The last speech was to be given by Evalin.

Or so the married couple thought, along with most of the guests.

“Hello everyone. As the mother of the bride, I was asked to give a speech at this wedding. And while I could speak directly from my heart and tell you all about Aelin’s first steps and her first kiss, and the moment when she finally had the guts to tell us about Rowan… I think this speech should be given by someone else. Aedion, if you may?” Evalin gestured to Aedion.

Everyone expected Aedion to take the microphone, but he moved to a laptop hidden in the corner, where a slideshow of Aelin and Rowan was projected onto the wall. He clicked a few buttons and suddenly a video began playing.

Aelin let out a sob when she saw her father’s smiling, teary face.

Then he started to speak.

“My sweet little fireheart. Oh, how much I wish I could be there on your special day. But you know, sometimes life works in funny ways, and I can’t physically be there. Just know I am watching over you always.

I remember when you were born. You were just this tiny little pink bundle, always needing attention and love. And you were mine to take care of. My precious little baby angel. You had me wrapped around your finger from the first time I laid eyes on you.

When you were young, you used to get into trouble a lot – such a mischievous, clever little girl. I tried to be stern, but you would just look straight into my soul with that smile of yours and my heart just melted. I never could be mad at you. Even when you broke the window to my study. And the television twice. And accidentally crashed my car. And dropped the antique vase on the floor. Every single one of those moments I’ve cherished in my heart, because you were such an adventurous girl and you always, always admitted when you did something wrong.

Some of my favorite memories, however, were of me tucking you in at night. I’d tell you I love you, give you a goodnight kiss, then hear you say you loved me more.  But no one can ever love you more than I do, my sweet fireheart.

Not even Rowan, and he’s the half that makes you whole. I always thought I’d say no to anyone who asked for your hand in marriage, because no one was worthy enough to get you. But Rowan is the only one for you and anyone could see that. He has a clever mind, just like you, and his heart is that of a man who will love you enough for both him and me.

You’re so beautiful, fireheart. Inside and out. And I just know that on this special day you will be radiant, so beautiful no one ever will compare.

As you and Rowan build your life together, don’t be afraid to chase your dreams. Follow them to the ends of the world.

So, go on. Take on the world. Keep dreaming big like you always have. Reach for the stars.

Just remember; no matter where you end up going and who you end up being…

To me, you will always be my little girl. I love you, fireheart.”

Rhoe Galathynius had recorded that video almost a year prior to the wedding. He had always imagined himself walking Aelin down the aisle and giving a wonderful speech at her wedding. Because life had first taken his health, Rhoe had wanted to make sure that even if he couldn’t walk his precious daughter down the aisle, he would give the speech she deserved.

Aelin was sobbing into her husband’s neck, holding onto him for dear life. She had not expected to see or hear from her dad ever again, so this beautiful video message was the best wedding present she could have. It hurt so much, but at the same time she felt a little closure as well. Aelin had lost her father so suddenly and hadn’t been able to say goodbye properly. Aelin felt a warm breeze around her as her sobs began to subside.

“I love you too, Daddy.”

--

Tags:

@rowanaelinn | @morganofthewildfire | @tomtenadia | @leiawritesstories​ | @aelinchocolatelover​ | Tagged those on my other fic’s taglist. Let me know if you want to be on my general Rowaelin taglist.

[tchallasbabymama]

Don't Forget About Us

Hello, my lovelies. Here’s my contribution to @nahimjustfeelingit-writes smut challenge (the prompt is in bold!) Let’s see what Erik’s up to now, shall we?

Don’t forget to check out my masterlist to read my other stories and oneshots. Your comments and reblogs mean the world to me, so make sure to let me know what you think! And let me know if you want to be tagged in any of my writing. Enjoy😘

Word count: 5,595

CW: smut...duh.

“So, what do you do for a living?”

Kayla sighed internally at the question and took a sip of her Pinot Grigio. She hated first dates with a burning passion, but unfortunately, that was the only way to find a man around here. She went through the motions of politely answering his questions, barely asking any of her own. She didn’t care. Even just fifteen minutes in, Kayla could tell he didn’t excite her, and she lamented the waste of a good outfit as she listened to him drone on about his life. Every now and then, he’d stop and ask a question about her, but she could tell he was only asking so he could talk more about himself.

How many siblings do you have?

What’s your sign?

Why did your last relationship end?

Her mind traveled to her ex-boyfriend, Erik Stevens. They had spent six blissful years together, and Kayla thought he was the one. She wanted them to get married and start a family, and she thought he did, too, but every time she brought it up, he’d find some excuse to change the subject. At thirty years old, Kayla wasn’t getting any younger, so she grew tired of his avoidance and eventually cut him loose. She needed more out of life, but the guy currently sitting across from her certainly wasn’t it.

“We wanted different things,” she answered vaguely and took another sip. It would be a long night with what’s-his-name. David? Devon? Whatever. At least he had money and took her to a nice restaurant.

Darryl took the opportunity to bore her with the details of his job, which Kayla already knew. He was a colleague of her best friend, Carina’s husband. They worked at the same law firm, and Carina decided to hook them up after tiring of hearing Kayla complain about dating apps. As much as Kayla hated Tinder, she would’ve much rather been at home on her couch swiping left on the cesspool of single men Oakland had to offer. Every few dozen swipes or so, she’d find a cutie, but his bio would be abysmal, or his conversation skills would fall flat.

Despite the fact that their relationship just couldn’t make it, Kayla still thought of Erik as the gold standard. Just thinking about his dimples and his struggle beard made her smile dreamily. His big, strong arms would wrap around her and hold her tight at night, and she’d trace her fingers over the intentionally placed keloid scars that held his darkest secrets. She missed retwisting his locs and the way he always smelled like sandalwood and warm vanilla. Kayla didn’t want to admit it, but she still loved him. No man could compare to her Erik.

“Hello? Kayla?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Can you repeat that last part?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. What’s got you so distracted, babygirl?”

Kayla fought the bile rising in her throat. She wasn’t his babygirl. It didn’t even sound right coming from his mouth. Maybe it was the thinness of his lips. They weren’t “white man” thin, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the juicy pussy pleasers she had grown accustomed to.

“Nothing, just thought I saw somebody I know. You were saying?”

“Just that you look beautiful tonight,” Damon attempted to flirt with her.

Kayla wanted to roll her eyes but thanked him instead and smiled politely again. Of course she looked beautiful; she had pulled out all the stops for what she had hoped would be a good night out. Kayla had squeezed her thickness into a lavender satin dress. The way the dress’s skirt cinched on the side kept it snug around her plush waist, but the high slit that traveled up her thigh was the main attraction. The strappy silver heels on her feet showed off her matching pedicure that contrasted beautifully with her glistening brown skin, and her makeup was flawless. Her outerwear for the night, a cropped fur jacket that had found its way to the coat check when they arrived, was the icing on the cake. Her outfit deserved the appreciation, just not from Deshawn.

The waiter saved her from having to focus on her date when she brought out the food they had ordered. Since Kayla knew Derek had money, she had ordered the whole lobster, and she fought her mouth from drooling too much as the waiter set it down in front of her. It laid on a bed of forbidden rice, and the side of roasted brussels sprouts and cremini mushrooms looked heavenly. The ramekin of drawn butter off to the side tempted her as it sat next to the minuscule seafood fork. She may not enjoy her company for the evening, but Kayla damn sure was going to enjoy her meal.

“Looks good,” Dominic called from the other side of the table, breaking Kayla from her trance as he cut into his wagyu beef.

“Sure does.” Kayla wasted no time before digging into her meal. Not only was it the perfect excuse to avoid conversation, but it was perfect, period.

A slight chill permeated the air as the door swung open and the crisp January air entered the small restaurant. Kayla shivered as she complained internally about being forced to sit near the door, but that shiver intensified as she heard a voice. His voice.

“Reservation for Stevens, please.”

Kayla stilled.

“Of course. Right this way, sir,” the maitre d’ responded, and Kayla heard three sets of footsteps coming her way.

--------

“Babe, let’s go!”

“Yell at me one more time, woman,” Erik warned as he came around the corner into the living room, fastening his watch.

“I swear, you take more time getting ready than I do.”

“Whatever, Mo. You ready?”

“Nigga, I been ready!”

Erik rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys. It would be a rough night, and things were already starting off on a bad foot. He and Monique had been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and he’d finally reached his limit. She was overbearing, rude, and just after him for his money, but he hated being alone, so he put up with her bullshit. His cousin, T’Challa, had tried to hook him up with a few ladies back in Wakanda when he went to visit after his breakup, but nothing stuck. Almost immediately after coming back to the states, Erik met Monique at a charity event for the Outreach Center. She had the singing voice of an angel and had been booked as the entertainment for the evening. Erik was drawn to her like a sailor to a siren, and she immediately sank her teeth into him. Past her vocal talents, Monique wasn’t really anything special. Her personality left a lot to be desired, she wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box, and she just wasn’t her.

The moment Kayla ended their relationship a year ago, Erik’s whole world shattered. He had lived a life full of pain and loss, but Kayla had been his lifeline. She pulled him out of the dark and made him revel in the sunshine. Hell, she was the sunshine, but now he had settled for a UV lamp at best. Kayla had wanted a life that Erik was too scared to give her, but that fear became his downfall. He still missed her most nights. He was lonely, and Monique was there to keep him company, but that wasn’t enough for him anymore. Erik craved a connection that Monique just couldn’t provide. So he decided he had to break it off and figured that doing so in a public place would probably be best. She had a tendency to throw things when she got angry.

The car ride to Chez Martine was tense. Monique had been angry all day because Erik had taken back his credit card even though she wanted to buy a new dress for their date. Her lousy mood almost made him dump her back at his condo, but Erik kept a cool head and stayed focused on the plan. He ignored the way Monique complained the entire time she got ready, reluctantly putting on a dress he had seen her wear before. It didn’t matter to him; he knew what the night held.

When they walked into the restaurant, Erik’s heart dropped into his stomach. He’d recognize that shoulder blade tattoo anywhere. She had cut off all her hair and lost a few pounds, but he knew for sure that he was looking at Kayla. His Kayla. He forced himself to look straight ahead as they passed her table and prayed that the maitre d’ didn’t sit them where she could see him. Unfortunately, he had no such luck because the only open table for two was directly within her line of sight. He prayed again that Monique would sit on the far side of the table, but Bast ignored his pleas once more. He had to sit facing her, and as soon as he got comfortable in his chair, her gaze slyly trailed over to him. They locked eyes across the room, and Erik’s heart stopped. She was just as beautiful as the last time he saw her all those months ago, but who the fuck was that sitting across from her?

“What are you looking at?” Monique’s abrasive voice cut through his eardrums.

“Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I know, that’s all.”

She cut her eyes at him and turned around to look as he buried his face in the menu.

“Quit being nosy,” he complained.

“I just wanna see who’s got your attention, that’s all.” Monique turned back around with a sour look on her face. “It’s probably that fat girl with her cleavage all out.”

“Mo, just look at the fucking menu and act like you got some sense.”

“Fine.”

Monique pouted until the waiter showed up, but she plastered a fake smile on her face as he took their order. As usual, she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, and it bothered him to no end that she was hellbent on spending all of his money. Of course, he had plenty, but she felt entitled to it. Kayla never cared about him being rich. Hell, when they got together, she didn’t even know he was a prince, but he loved to spoil her nonetheless. He loved the look on her face when he’d buy her things or take her on the expensive trips that she more than deserved. Kayla appreciated everything he did for her with all her heart, but she’d say the same thing every time.

“Thank you, baby, but you’re all I need.”

Erik smiled fondly at the memory of when he bought her a diamond tennis bracelet from Wakanda for their second anniversary. She was so excited to have diamonds that weren’t marred by exploited labor that she damn near dropped the box when she saw what was inside. It had been a rough year for them, what with him disappearing for a couple of months to seize the Wakandan throne and all. She certainly had plenty of colorful words for him when he came back. He’ll never forget the look on her face when he showed up at her door. He had brought T’Challa for backup just in case, but she looked right past the king as tears welled up in her eyes at seeing her Erik, alive and well.

Erik’s eyes started to get misty as he thought about the way she kissed him with so much emotion...then slapped him across the face for leaving. His gaze wandered back over to Kayla and he noticed the light bounce off of something on her arm. She was wearing the bracelet.

As if she felt his glare, Kayla shifted uncomfortably in her seat, so he averted his eyes back to Monique, who had caught him staring again.

“Why don’t you go say hi?” she asked sarcastically, making him roll his eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

--------

Erik Stevens. Here, of all places. He just had to be here.

Kayla noticed that he didn’t seem to be enjoying his modelesque date’s company any more than she was enjoying Darwin’s, and the pang of jealousy she felt at seeing him with another woman went away. She knew she had no right to feel any kind of way about it, especially since she was the one that broke things off. That didn’t make it any easier, though.

Dylan was too wrapped up in his steak to notice her wandering eye, but it seemed that Erik’s food was as uninteresting as the woman across from him. Kayla watched as he half-heartedly pushed it around his plate, but he certainly kept his favorite whiskey coming. She wanted to chuckle but didn’t want Daniel to think he had anything to do with her levity. They were both drowning their dissatisfactions in their alcohols of choice, and Kayla got a phantom taste of Uncle Nearest 1856 on her lips as she watched him take a sip. When he set the glass down and licked his lips, Kayla felt flush. She missed those lips…

“So, how about dessert?” Damien asked as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. “I hear their creme brulee is amazing.”

“Uh, sure, why not?”

“You know,” he began as he leaned in and reached for her hands. She allowed him to take them, but the softness of his hands disgusted her. No callouses, no roughness, not even a firm grip. “I’ve had a great night. I’d love to see you again.”

Kayla chuckled nervously, unsure of how to proceed.

“What are you doing next-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

A shrill voice pierced the air as Erik’s date bolted up from her seat. Desmond, and the whole restaurant, turned around to see what was going on, and Kayla took the opportunity to remove her hands from his.

“Keep your voice down,” Erik sneered through his teeth. “We’re in public.”

“So?! You bring me out here just to dump me? To dump this?!” she gestured at her slim figure, and he rolled his eyes.

“You ain’t even all that,” he waved her off. He was tired of playing nice, and Kayla could see the exasperation written all over his face.

“Excuse me, miss-” the waiter attempted to calm her down, but the crazed woman cut him off.

“Stay out of this!”

“I’m so sorry,” Erik mouthed to the poor man who would absolutely be getting a monstrous tip later.

“Oh, you’re sorry for him, but not for me?”

“Mo, just sit down. We can finish our meal like adults-”

“Fuck you, Erik.” She threw her dirty martini at him, soaking the front of his all-black ensemble.

Kayla could damn near see the steam coming out of his ears as his apparent ex stormed out of the restaurant. Erik locked eyes with her across the room, and when he saw the concern written all over her face, his softened.

“Whew, poor fella,” Dexter commented as he turned back around. “Where was I? Oh-”

“Excuse me, where’s your restroom?” Kayla interrupted him as their waiter walked by.

“Right down there.” She pointed at a set of stairs off to the side, and Kayla thanked her as she slid out of her seat.

“I’ll be back, Darius.”

“It’s Denzel.” He deflated.

“Fuck,” she froze. She had been sure it was Darius. “Still, I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here,” he responded, obviously upset by her slip-up.

Kayla hurried off down the stairs and leaned against the wall as she waited for either of the single-use restrooms to open up. She took a deep breath and opened her clutch, reaching in to pull out her phone with a shaky hand and typing in his number. It was one of the few she had memorized, just in case.

“You ok?”

Her thumb hovered over the send button, but she couldn’t press it. Her heart nearly thumped out of her chest at the thought of starting a conversation with him, but something within her said that she should. It would be weird not to say anything after all that, right?

“Hey-”

“Shit!” Kayla dropped her phone when his silky baritone graced her ears.

“My fault, ma.” Erik leaned over and picked the phone off the floor, checking it for cracks. He saw she had typed a message out to him and smirked before handing it back to her.

“T-thanks.”

“No problem. And, yeah, I’m ok.”

“Huh?”

Erik pointed at her phone screen.

“Oh! Right. Um, well, that’s good to hear.” Kayla attempted to push her hair behind her ear out of habit, forgetting she had just cut it all off a week ago.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ok? You don’t seem to into ole dude out there.”

Kayla sighed and rolled her eyes, “Oh, him.”

“Damn, it’s like that?” Erik laughed, and she slapped his arm. That slight contact was enough to spark a flame in them both, and Erik’s face turned serious. “For real, though, not going well?”

“Better than you, it seems,” she quipped as she eyed his wet shirt. That was a bad idea because his first three buttons were undone, and she caught a peek of the raised scars that she missed so much. And that broad chest, and the chain with his father’s ring that he always wore. He’d let her wear it from time to time, and she always felt like it was such an honor. He trusted her enough to let her wear it. He loved her enough to-

Kayla pried her eyes away and made yet another mistake: she looked up at him. Those eyes still looked like sweet, sweet molasses, and even though his locs were braided back, she could tell he was letting them grow out. She momentarily wondered who was retwisting them nowadays, but her train of thought was cut short by the scent of sandalwood and vanilla. Kayla’s mind went blank as she inhaled slowly.

“Heh, yeah. That was...that was pretty embarrassing. Not even gonna lie.” Erik looked away shyly, unable to hold her gaze.

“I guess you’ll need to find a new date spot, huh?”

“Nah, I think I’m good on dating for a while.”

“Same,” Kayla sighed. “Dating sucks.”

“Yeah…”

One of the bathroom doors unlocked, and a middle-aged white man stepped out and passed them on the way up the stairs.

“Well, I should-”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Kayla walked towards the bathroom, but before she could reach the door, she felt a light tug on her wrist. His touch still gave her goosebumps, and he noticed her raised skin as she turned to face him.

“I just, uh...it was nice seeing you, Kay-kay.” Erik smiled at her, and she nearly melted. She missed when he called her that, too. “You look good.”

“Thanks, E.” She smiled back. “So do you.”

He let her go, and Kayla disappeared into the bathroom. When she closed the door behind her, she took a deep breath to center herself. After all these months, Erik still took her breath away. He clouded her senses and scrambled her mind. Even as she took care of business, her brain replayed their short interaction on a loop.

Kayla locked eyes with her reflection as she dried her hands. How could she go back up there to- what’s his name? Oh, yeah, Da- Denzel. That’s it, Denzel. How could she go back up there to his mediocre company when the man she still loved had made her feel so alive with just one touch. That was the magic of Erik, his magnetism. When they were together, she couldn’t help but be drawn to him, even when she wanted to slap him across his beautiful face. Those were some of the best times, though. If she was angry at him, he knew exactly what to do to calm her down. To put her in her place. To remind her-

Kayla’s daydreaming was cut short by a knock at the door.

“Occupied!”

It came again.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

She reached for another paper towel to dab off the sweat that had started to pool on her skin at the thought of Erik’s dominance when the door opened.

“What the f- Erik?!”

He pushed inside the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

“You need to start locking doors, Kay.”

“I- what do you want?”

“I want to talk to you,” he spoke as he moved closer to her.

“Here?!”

“Yeah, here,” he chuckled.

Kayla rolled her eyes and tried to push past him.

“Now is not the time or place-”

“When is?” he blocked her exit, and she crossed her arms in defeat, looking up at him through her lashes as she leaned against the sink. “Look, I just need to say something real quick.”

“Fine,” Kayla sighed and gestured for him to continue. She knew there was no use fighting him. She wasn’t leaving that bathroom until he was good and ready.

“Kay,” his voice softened, and she looked away only to have her face pulled back in his direction. “Kay-kay, look at me.”

She made the mistake of doing just that, getting lost in his eyes again.

“I miss you,” Erik murmured.

“Erik-”

“Look, I know, ok? I know. And I’m sorry, Kay. I really am- no, look at me. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you...but I miss you, girl.”

Kayla’s eyes welled up with tears that she tried her hardest to blink away, but one had the nerve to fall. Erik wiped it away, and the next one, and the next one. A sob wracked Kayla’s body, and he wrapped his arms around her body.

“Don’t cry, babygirl. I know you worked hard on your makeup.”

Kayla laughed through her tears, but the emotions washed back over her, and she buried her face into his chest. It was already soaked with gin, so what harm would a few tears do?

He held her and rocked her softly from side to side as she cried, and after a couple of minutes, she found the will to look up at him again. His cheeks were wet, so she reached up and swiped her thumbs over them as she held his face in her small hands. He nuzzled into them and kissed her wrists.

“I miss you, too, E,” she croaked.

“I know, babygirl.”

He leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she closed her eyes as his soft lips caressed her skin. They stayed intertwined for who knows how long until Erik felt Kayla begin to pull back. He looked down at her, and the two of them locked eyes. Before they knew it, their lips had met in the middle in a passionate embrace. They got lost in each other for a moment until common sense returned to Kayla, and she pushed him off.

“We can’t-”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

“Because what, Kay?” Erik’s voice rumbled as he closed what little gap was between their bodies. He left soft kisses on her temples before working down to her cheeks, then her jawline, and eventually the column of her neck. She let out a soft whimper when his teeth grazed the crook of her neck but pushed him back again before he could continue any further.

“Erik, I...I still love you, and-”

He attacked her lips with his, hands feverishly gripping her waist as he pushed her further into the sink. She had nowhere to go, and she was ok with that.

“I...love you...too...babygirl,” he whispered between kisses.

Kayla’s mind went blank as he lifted her up on the counter and pressed himself between her legs. She could feel him, all of him, and damn did she miss that monster between his legs.

“Erik,” she moaned as he nipped at her earlobe. He still knew how to play her body like a violin.

“Mmm, say it again.”

“Erik!” she squeaked as she felt his strong hands grip her thighs.

“Just like that,” he groaned, and she flooded her already wet panties.

“Baby-”

He connected his forehead to hers and stared deep into her eyes. “You miss me?”

“Mhm,” Kayla nodded with her lip between her teeth.

“I miss you, too, baby. I think about you all the time. Every day,” he pecked her lips, “every night. I miss everything about you, Kay-kay. Your off-key singing, your horrible cooking-”

“Shut up,” Kayla giggled as his hands traveled up her dress.

“Your body…fuck I miss this body. I miss how you smell, how you taste...how that tight little pussy feels wrapped around my dick.”

Kayla widened her legs for him as his fingers found their way to the seat of her panties, stroking up and down her slit. Erik kissed his way back down her face and over to her ear, his warm breath sending chills down her spine.

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself? Because I do. You’re all I see when I stroke my dick...wishing it was your hand...your lips...this fucking pussy.”

Erik pushed her panties to the side, and his nimble fingers circled her clit. Kayla let out a small moan that was music to his ears, making fingers move faster and her breath grow shallower with each rotation.

“Answer me.”

“Mhm.”

“Come on, babygirl, you can do better than that. You think about me when you play in your pussy? This pussy right here?” he asked as he slapped her vulva, her wetness sticking to his hand.

“Y-yes, baby-”

“Uh-uh, you know who I am. Say it,” Erik commanded as he snuck three fingers inside her wetness, making her moan loudly in his ear. “Shhh, you gotta be quiet, babygirl. You don’t want people out there knowing how much of a slut you are, right?”

Kayla shook her head no.

“That’s what I thought. Now, I asked you a question, Kayla,” he reminded her. His gruff voice made her weak, and the fingers that were steadily speeding up inside her certainly didn’t help. “Answer me. Who am I, babygirl?”

Kayla tried to hold out as much as she could. She didn’t want to say it, too proud to give in, but the way he was currently stretching out her pussy and curling his fingers inside her made her cling to his shoulders. The bastard knew what he was doing, and she didn’t want to let him win. But then, he played dirty and bit down on her neck. She cried out, and when he pulled back to look at her, the ferocity in his eyes drove her up the wall.

“I said, who the fuck am I, Kayla?” Erik growled. His hand sped up, making her weak with every thrust. She couldn’t hold it anymore and came undone around him, her mouth betraying her as his name fell from her lips.

“Daddy!” she gasped as her pussy spasmed, and he chuckled darkly.

“Damn right I am,” he kissed her lips, “now gimme that pussy. Daddy missed his pussy.”

Kayla heard a rip and felt the cool air between her legs as he tore through her panties to get to her treasure trove. She reached down between them and grabbed his clothed erection in her hand, making him groan as he bit down on his luscious bottom lip. She undid his belt buckle and slowly unzipped his pants before reaching in and pulling out his throbbing dick.

The longing in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, so he pushed her legs back and tapped his head on her clit.

“You want daddy’s dick in you?”

“Mhm,” she whimpered.

“Good.”

He pushed in and groaned at the feeling of her pussy walls gripping him as he sheathed himself inside her.

“Fuck, you feel like home.”

Kayla moaned into his neck in response and wound her hips against him, meeting him thrust for thrust as he stroked into her slow and deep. She couldn’t form words. He felt so damn good inside her that Kayla’s brain had short-circuited. Erik’s dick hit spots that she could never find herself no matter how hard she tried. Even in her dreams, he drove her body wild. She had spent the last year trying to find somebody, anybody who could make her feel that way, but nobody could compare to Erik Stevens.

Erik and Kayla panted heavily into each others’ mouths as he made love to her body, and as soon as Kayla started to tense up, his thrusts grew harder.

“I-I-”

“I know, babygirl. Daddy feels it,” he groaned as he nipped at her bottom lip. “Cum on my dick like a good girl.”

His words sent Kayla into overdrive, and her body shook as she spilled over him. Her spasming walls hugged him tight, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, begging him with her eyes.

“You feel amazing,” she moaned.

“Mhm. I know them other niggas wasn’t hitting it like this. I just know it. Look at you, cumming all over daddy’s dick. Look at it!” He grabbed her chin and made her look down at her throbbing pussy as his dick slid in and out of her.

“We look so good, daddy!”

Erik slammed into her, and she bit into his shoulder to keep from screaming. He gave her his all over and over, rocking the countertop in the process.

“We’ll look even better if you let me cum in this pussy. Mix my cum with yours-”

“Yes!”

“Yes?” He chuckled. “You want it that bad, huh? Nasty ass, in here getting fucked while that bum ass nigga’s waiting for you upstairs.”

“Mmm, I want it.”

“Want what, babygirl?” Erik teased as he brought his thumb to her clit, strumming it slowly as he thrust into her.

“You. I want you to cum deep in me.”

“Shit,” Erik groaned. “You want it deep in there?”

“Mhm. Put it where it belongs, daddy.” Kayla licked up the side of his neck, making his knees buckle. “Cum in your pussy.”

Erik lost all sense of control and pounded into her tight pussy, somehow getting even deeper in preparation for his release. Kayla held on tight as she felt him begin to spasm inside her, and she released around him again as his deep moans tickled her ear. Erik thrust extra deep and held his dick in place as he emptied his balls into her warmth, whimpering lightly as she rubbed his back to soothe him and bring him back down.

“I missed you, babygirl.”

“I missed you, too, daddy.”

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other until their breathing slowed. Erik was the first to move, slowly pulling himself out of Kayla as she whined at the loss of contact. He kissed all over her face before planting a slow, sweet kiss on her lips.

“I can’t let you go again, Kay-kay,” his voice cracked as tears threatened to fall from his eyes again.

Kayla pulled him back in and kissed him so deeply that she nearly lost herself in him again, but he pulled away and looked her in her eyes.

“I’m serious, girl. I’ll do anything. I’ll marry you, give you as many big-headed babies as you want. Just, please, Kay-” she cut him off with another kiss to shut him up.

“We should go back to my place and talk,” she whispered, and Erik’s face lit up. Something about the way she said it, the way she kissed him, the way her body still responded to his...it gave him hope. Kayla smiled at him and pecked his lips once more before hopping off of the sink. He had to catch her because her legs were wobbly, and she stumbled a little in her heels.

“You aight?” he laughed.

“No, nigga,” she slapped his chest, and the two of them got caught in a laughing fit. They had really just fucked in the bathroom at Chez Martine. Kayla was on cloud nine until a thought occurred to her, and her face fell flat. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Erik’s face turned serious, and his eyes scanned over her body, looking for whatever the problem was.

Kayla started giggling again, and he looked confused.

“What is it?” he asked, barely able to keep a straight face. Her laugh was always so infectious…

“Demetrius.”

“Who?!”

“My date.”

“Girl, don’t worry about him. He probably thinks you dipped out anyway.”

Kayla shrugged and fixed her dress as Erik stuffed his shirt back in his pants. They checked their reflections in the mirror, and Kayla was pleasantly surprised that her makeup was still intact thanks to that setting spray she had splurged on the other day.

“Ready?” Erik asked as he admired her beauty. Kayla nodded, and he unlocked the door, opening it to find Duncan leaning against the wall with a sour look on his face. Kayla’s eyes blew wide as she tried to figure out what to say to her date for the evening.

“Heyyy, um…”

“Denzel,” he seethed.

“Yeah, sorry. So, um, we’re-”

“Sorry, bruh,” Erik clapped him on the shoulder, “but we heading out. Bathroom’s all yours, though.”

Erik pulled Kayla along, and she sent Deion an apologetic glance before following Erik up the stairs. It seemed the whole restaurant knew what had occurred, but neither one of them cared. They were just happy to be around each other again. It had been entirely too long.

Taglist: @ladymac82, @kitesatforestp, @harleycativy, @raysunshine78, @maddeningmayhem, @theblulife, @motheroffae, @love-mesome-me,@toni9, @bribrisback, @impremenior, @blacklytical, @uzumaki-rebellion, @honeyandpeaches, @cecereads209, @wakandama2,

[homosociallyyours]

hi this is kinda random but i just wanted to share my piece on this and i’ve seen you talk about it before so i thought this would be a good place. i’ve been seeing so much blatant misogyny and ageism around here lately and it’s really taken a toll on me. like no matter how much you try to justify it as a moral thing, if you spend your days calling olivia wilde a cunt, narcissistic asshole, bitch, and talking shit about her age you ARE being misogynist. you’re not obligated to like her. i personally am not the biggest olivia wilde fan. a little background story, i was obsessed with booksmart when it came out, so as we often do with micro obsessions i deep dived into all things involving the movie, and that of course included olivia. i watched all the press interviews, read all the print ones, and i thought she was awesome. but as a trans lesbian, i always tend to search for celebrities’ stances on those issues before i start to actively support them and their work. not because i want or need celebrities to be activists, i just need to know they’re not assholes about things that are important to me. and that was when i found olivia’s comments about considering considered “a soft kind of lesbian relationship, just gentle kissing and scissoring” when she was lonely after the end of her first marriage, and not using too much make up because she can easily “go tranny” and the overall brand of trans-exclusionary and overly simplistic white feminism she stands for, and that of course was really hurtful and disappointing to me at the time. but still, i will NEVER ever sit around calling her names and talk about her with so much vitriol like most people around here do while intentionally digging up things from her past to try and make that behaviour somehow justifiable because people don’t want to admit how misogynistic and hateful they really are. but just an fyi, we can see right through it and not only is your deep rooted hatred for women crystal clear, but this rage against beards also makes you look str*ight lmao

Hello nonny!! As you may or may not know I'm a big fan of tea and this is like a steaming pot of Yorkshire Gold, so thank you♡

I know that posting this might upset some friends and mutuals, but i think everything you've said is so important and should be heard. I love everyone i follow, even if i don't agree with their stances on everything, and am not shy about having direct conversations about a thing that bothers me instead of indirecting folks or sending anons, so hopefully anyone who disagrees here will do the same.

I think in particular i really feel you on talking about Olivia's particular brand of white feminism, in large part bc it's one of the more common reasons given by people talking about how much they hate her. Your statements are accurate; she has said some things that lead me to mistrust her politically and that feel very deeply entrenched in cis white privilege. She also seems to vibe pretty hard with a lot of pretentious white male auteurs (she recently reposted stuff about John Cassavetes, for example), and in my experience i just. Don't gel with people who do that.

HOWEVER the thing that always gets me is that Harry presents some of the very same white feminist tendencies, albeit, frankly, worse than Olivia? I love him, but he repeats earnest yet empty platitudes about not letting anyone tell you what to do with your body and donates $. It's nothing award worthy, and although i do appreciate that he wants to be careful what he puts his voice behind, it means that he actually says/boosts very little.

I know people dismiss it as performative activism, but i do actually think that celebrities sharing links to resources can be really helpful. Just to use the most current thing that comes to mind, Harry sharing a link to abortion funds (as Olivia did) would've gotten a message about their existence to a lot of people. A message of support isn't nothing, but it's certainly not evidence of top tier feminism.

I think if i saw more critique of Harry's (or any 1D member's) politics from the "i hate her for her white feminism" crowd, i would feel differently. But as it is, it appears that women are held to a high standard while men get the bar set on the ground and a medal if they trip over it 😬

Also, I wish more people understood that you don't actually have to give reasons for disliking someone! Olivia doesn't have to be a narcissist or have terrible politics for you to hate her. It's fine to just... Not like her. And then maybe not talk about her? Not joke about her violent death. Not make fun of the way she looks (she's ugly because she's a bad person/she's way too old to wear/do that thing so I'm gonna laugh at her).

Set misogyny aside for a second if you've got to-- it's just a horrible way to behave toward anyone, and the target (Olivia) is too distant to be hit by the negativity anyway. Instead those comments can end up hurting the people who read them and making them self conscious. For what?

It's not a popular opinion, but i personally view the beards in a generally positive way at the moment. I choose to believe that Harry and Louis have talked through what they want and made some decisions about how to handle their images. This isn't 2014/15 anymore, and the young men who I think did very much want to come out back then are in massively different places in their careers. There's no road map for an ex-boybander coming out and being successful. There are very few examples of successful solo artists who came out early in their careers and continued to find success afterwards. Harry and Louis are navigating an extremely difficult path, whether they're working toward coming out or not. I don't envy that aspect of their lives.

I think it's likely that the women who Harry and Louis are seen with were chosen (by them!) for reasons that i can't or won't be able to see/understand right now. And as I've said before, there is literally no woman in existence who could be liked as a beard in this fandom. No set of behaviors will lead to people not critiquing these women, and that's evidenced by searching tags on some of the blogs who talk loudest about the beards. (Spoiler alert: not one of them has been palatable if she stuck around for more than a couple days!)

And that's the real sign to me that unfortunately this is misogyny at work. If you can name more women associated with 1D who you hate/dislike than women associated with 1D you do like, why is that? How do you feel about it? Is that reflected in your other social circles or interests? Jamila Jameel asked a similar question on her Instagram a few years back and absolutely changed my perspective on misogyny. Would love it if that could happen throughout this fandom.

[solar-pxwered]

If you know me at all, you know I'm cynical of real life romance but I'm a SUCKER for fictional romances...especially slow burns and friends to lovers or enemies to lovers.

That being said, it was only a matter of time before I started having shippy feels while watching the great adventure that is One Piece.

That brings me to my current top ship (which I doubt will ever NOT be top ship): Sanji and Nami.

I know, I know, Oda has stated many times that this isn't a story about romance and that this is about friendship and adventure and family. But, hear me out...why do those two things need to be separated? The answer is...they don't. The perfect example of this is the TV show, Friends. Romances bloom and die and finalize over the entirety of this show, and the friendships, although tested, do not fail and the family dynamic remains all the way through.

Many people tell me that the superior ship for Nami is with Luffy but I can't help but get the Joey and Rachel vibes when I think of it. They WORK, sure, and it's even really cute and funny...but they just don't...have the momentum to push past that friendship vibe into something else (I'm only in the Skypiea Arc so maybe my thoughts will adapt on this). Sanji and Nami give me Chandler snd Monica vibes (she's strict, he's a known womanizer, she doubts his genuine affection, but he IS capable of faithfulness, it's a slow and satisfying burn). Long thought short: Romance and friendship can and should go hand in hand without interrupting the plot of a story or drastically changing the dynamics of a group.

One Piece EXCELLS at this, in my opinion, with Sanji and Nami.

My observations supporting them are as follows:

1. Started out as comedy, but is slowly and steadily progressing to just plain endearing. I find myself less and less amused and much more happy about their interactions.

2. Sanji IS a gentleman in spite of his tendency towards being an irrepressible horn dog. More often than not, that chivalry is directed towards Nami (and every woman) but extends to his entire circle of people. He DOES have that Chandler Bing type potential to be domestic and loyal, he just needs someone to take him seriously. He's not simply trying to impress the ladies, he TRULY means to protect them and treat them well and it shows because he can and does back up his protectiveness.

3. Nami, for all her money lust, does genuinely care for her crewmates, complaining over and over about how much of a failure everything was since they got no treasure or money for their deeds. However, she ALWAYS chooses her crew in the end. Nami isn't just bossy or gold digging!

4. The. Honorifics. Used. In. The. Original. Japanese.

I'm gonna expand on this point specifically because when I noticed this, it actually changed me from a casual "aw, cute" shipper to a "Okay, this HAS to be endgame" shipper.

Honorifics in Japanese are very deliberate and each one means something very specific. The way these honorifics are used could be (and I hope, are) little sprinkles of foreshadowing because Sensei Oda loves to do that.

Chan - an honorific used in a cutesy, casual, playful way more often than not. It's often attached to a name of someone younger, someone you consider cute or endearing.

Kun - an honorific similar to chan but more commonly used for males. But when used by a female to a male, it can and often does signify a strong emotional attachment and familiarity.

San- an honorific that is still casual, but denotes respect and equality.

Here is how I noticed these being used by Sanji and Nami.

Chan: This is the most commonly used by Sanji. EVERY girl he meets is "Name-chan" squealed and gushed in all manner of wackiness. He genuinely does mean it when he says every girl is cute and endearing.

San: Nami-san. It's ALWAYS Nami-san. As of right now in my watch through, I have not heard Sanji call any other woman by this term (if he did, then please correct me). But even so, this basically means "Nami, who I respect and hold in higher regard than anyone around us including myself". He does mix this up and make it cutesy by using Nami-SWAN sometimes when he's less serious, but he RARELY ever says her name without adding the honorific of respect.

Kun- As far as I remember again, Nami exclusively uses this honorific with Sanji. At first it started as her way of using him for whatever she needed, her over dramatic way of dragging it out or saying it sweetly always got him running to do what she asked (he always does anyway, but whatever). But now, the addition is constant. "Sanji-kun" is her go to, almost always now, and it no longer holds that fake sweetness, it's just...natural to her.

I have heard told that very recently in the newest episodes Sanji has called Nami "MY Nami-San" which apparently he has never said before so that's cool but I haven't got there so I can't read into it too much yet.

Theese are details dub only watchers might miss!

There's a LOT more to unpack about them and why them getting together WOULD work and not disrupt the dynamic one bit. However...my hope is that thing continue like they are, small details that grow and change with them so you hardly even notice until you do, and then at the VERY end either they're confirmed or a very solid promise of confirmation is given. Slow burns are always the best.

Anyway....they're cute, I ship it hard, let my Strawhat babies be a family no matter that looks like ❤️

(This "little" observation got way longer than I intended...)

[deadendtracks]

I always hear this very *sexist* take about how Lizzie was "obsessed" with Tommy when that’s not even the true. Lizzie was minding her own business in S1 doing her job and from S2 finale to S3 she was on her own relationship, alright, dating a member of a rival gang wasn’t smart but she wasn’t thinking of Tommy at all. Let’s talk instated about Tommy's obsession WITH LIZZIE. Lizzie was going to marry John on S1 – he offered and it was probably the best choice for her to get out of that work situation. It was Tommy that had to insert himself in the situation and ruin it for her. The reason as to why he did that are unclear to me. He didn’t want his brother to marry the prostitute he was seeing? He wanted control? He didn’t want Lizzie to stop sleeping with him? All of the above? We will never know. The Angel situation escalated because of John's weird protective behavior towards Lizzie that was later encouraged by Tommy. It has been obviously clear that Tommy always looked at Lizzie for sex, not the other way around, it was mutual. Even on the time skip between S3 and S4 it was clear that they weren’t sleeping together and he was hiring other women for it. It was him that initiated their fwb behavior again. It wasn’t Lizzie pursuing him in an obsessive behavior. The only instance when she might have got a bit too far was the whole May interaction and still it wasn’t that serious. An episode prior Tommy himself was gently kissing her and maybe getting her hopes up. She got jealous and lashed out, that’s normal. Tommy has been petty in multiple occasions too. His possessive behavior on S5 as well because I don’t think he would’ve gotten this petty if Mosley didn’t bring out the fact that he might or might have not slept with Lizzie before. He needed to "lay his claim" with Lizzie because of his own paranoid tendencies which is exactly what he did with Campbell – calling him to let him know he was sleeping with Grace again out of pettiness.

It’s so weird when people label Lizzie’s love for Tommy as obsessive when it has never been that way. She loved him (more than he probably deserved) but she always stood clear in what exactly their relationship was about. The whole "she got pregnant just to trape him" it’s like so wrong in who Lizzie is as a character. She knows Tommy more than anyone (even sometimes Polly). She might have let herself hope for a happy life with Tommy but she has never been manipulative and Tommy knows this about her.

I don't think Lizzie is obsessed with Tommy, and agree with you that there are some very sexist takes on her out there. At the same time, I do think Lizzie was in love with him for a long time despite the fact that he was not in love with her, and there are some interesting comments from Natasha O'Keeffe in the Peaky Blinders book about Lizzie's motivations, which have a lot to do with survival. Of course portions of fandom twist this to make her out to be some kind of gold-digging harpy, but I don't see it that way at all. From their interactions in s2 I do think a big part of it was probably that Tommy was kinder to her than other Johns (not excusing Tommy's behavior at all, but you get the sense that they were on pretty friendly terms by s2).

Where I very much disagree with you is that I don't think Tommy was obsessed with Lizzie at all.

Tommy's motivations for steering John away from marrying Lizzie had nothing to do with his own relationship with Lizzie, imo, and more to do with a) the fact that it was pretty clear John couldn't deal with her past given his reaction to the idea of people calling her a whore -- and this is probably more about the idea of John fighting anyone who looked at Lizzie askance and having to deal with the problems that would create rather than Lizzie's sake and b) he'd already come up with the plan to seal an alliance with the Lees via marriage. It was fairly obvious that what John was looking for was a wife to take care of his children more than any one person in particular -- in other words, he didn't really care that much about Lizzie herself.

So yeah, I actually think Tommy's reasons are pretty clear in context, and have nothing to do with whatever he feels about Lizzie in s1, which I doubt is much.

Tommy didn't encourage John's jealousy about Lizzie, what Tommy did was come down hard on the Changrettas in order to snuff out what he sees as rebellion against Shelby power. He says so, in the scene with John and Polly and Arthur. Again, it has nothing to do with Lizzie herself and everything to do with having to deal with the consequences of what John had done. This plan backfired tragically on him, but his motivation was to end the war John had provoked, not support John's jealous pursuit of Angel.

I do think we can't downplay Lizzie's jealousy over May, though. Yeah, parts of fandom will be dicks about it, but it's an important part of her character. I don't think this makes her obsessive; but it is a sign of how her feelings have been impacted by Tommy's on again-off again attitude towards her. And I don't really think Tommy had ever made her any promises (at the time) beyond fucking, so this is a hope Lizzie is bringing to the situation. Tommy appears fairly oblivious to how she feels about him for a lot of the series so I don't think he had the intention to hurt her -- but he doesn't particularly take her feelings into consideration either. Again, this doesn't excuse him; he definitely feels that because she was a sex worker in the past he doesn't have to treat her with the circumspect care he would a Grace or May, where protecting her reputation/propriety is something he takes seriously.

But yeah I agree with you that her jealousy there was normal given the situation. And I agree that Tommy himself has a petty streak, though I'm not sure it's about jealousy really.

And I definitely don't think she got pregnant to trap him (another misogynistic trope) though I do think she had a hope that when she told him about it he would ask her to marry him, rather than tell her he'd pay for an abortion or buy her a house. She did appear to be disappointed there, but I think this is because at the time she was still in love with him.

I don't think she's been manipulative ever, but I do think her line about how you have to take what you want is very important to her character arc -- and I think it's something she learned from Tommy, which makes it interesting, because what she wanted and took was the sort of life that he could give her, despite the fact she knew he would never be 'in love' with her in the storybook way I think she'd hoped for earlier on in their relationship. The thing is I do think he loved her, just not in a romantic way

[demonprincezeldris]

Zeldris decided to pose as Meliodas' pet raven for a time, refusing to speak in complicated sentences for a time. It was something the two had come up with due to the fact that, as a demon, people wouldn't be thrilled to have Meliosas near. One encounter with a group of demon hunters was more than enough for the prince turned bird, and he would rather avoid seeing his little brother so injured even with the curse. When they ran into Ellie, Zeldris kept to this ruse until the day Elizabeth remembered.

Meliodas had an important question for her once he saw both eyes glowing gold, but... he was scared to ask. Over time he's come to accept that Zeldris truly was his brother and that his overprotective tendencies, while still creepy to him, were done from a place of love. But despite Zeldris trying to help him through his existential crisis upon learning the truth, there was one insecurity he couldn't shake. Was his best friend, his sister in all but blood, the woman whom shares this curse with him... part of her mother's plan? Was Elizabeth... lying to him all this time!?

So he asks her. He explains in detail how he'd found Zeldris and what Zel had told him, how the two had gotten close over the years between when he had last seen her first reincarnation, and how he was still confused and upset over the lies he'd been given. Then he asks her,

"Elizabeth, please I need to know. Did... were you... did you know!? What your mother did? What the Arch Angels tried to do!?"

Elizabeth is quiet for a long time, taking in the expression of both demon and bird. Meliodas' eyes are puffy and his cheeks tears stained from the breakdown he'd had when explaining how he'd found his brother, and Zeldris' feathers were puffed up on alarm.

"I... I did. Or at least I learned about it at a later poin, Meliodas."

"W-why didn't you tell me!?" Meliodas chokes out, fresh tears pooling in his eyes. Zeldris let's out a displeased hiss at the knowledge that Elizabeth and knows. The reborn goddess for her part just gives him a sad smile in return,

"Do you remember the day I convinced you to join Stigma with me?"

"Wha? What does that have to do with... with everything!"

"Because I wanted to help you." Elizabeth explained, "I'd hoped that getting you away from the Celestial Realm would help you come across the truth on your own. Mother... she'd casted a spell to prevent any goddess from digging the truth, making it so that i couldn't tell you when I myself learned the truth."

Meliodas feels hurt. He feels betrayed by what his cousin just told him. She knew all along that he was the prince of the Demon Realm, and that his brother was looking for him all this time!