#if you ever want a specific kind of story to read

[lilmisshellfireswritingblog]

The Prophecy Chapter 3: Please, I've Been on My Knees

Summary: Aurelia retreats to her private quarters after their wedding feast and Lucius visits.

A/N: Thank you everyone for taking this journey with me! This may be the shortest chapter of the series but who knows. I hope you keep enjoying this story! If you want any specific blurbs from this universe, I can take requests! ALSO, I started making a playlist for this story so, if you want it, let me know and I can share it. Warnings: 18+, arranged marriage, hint of marriage consummation, she's not excited about consummation but she consented, flashback, Geta being Geta, Lucius being an okay dude and not pressuring our girl.

Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.

Flashbacks are labeled as such.

Aurelia’s private quarters were dimly lit by a few flickering candles, their flames casting long shadows against the marble walls. The opulent chamber was still and quiet, far removed from the jubilant clamor of the banquet hall. Aurelia stepped inside, her crimson gown trailing behind her, her face drawn with exhaustion and a kind of quiet fury that had built throughout the evening.

She crossed the room with deliberate steps, her shoes clicking softly against the polished floor and came to a stop in front of the wide window, looking out at the twinkling lights of the city below. The moon hung high, casting a pale light over the Roman rooftops. It should have been a sight of beauty, but to her, it was just another reminder of the cold empire she was a part of—one that had stolen so much from her, including her peace.

Behind her, she heard the quiet rustling of fabric as Lucius Verus entered the room. She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. His presence was unmistakable, as it always was. He had been quieter tonight than she expected, but then again, he didn’t need to speak to make his presence known. His energy filled the room with a heavy tension, the kind that always lingered after a battle—an uneasy truce between two warriors who had fought their own wars, even if they had never met on the battlefield.

"I didn’t think you’d be here so soon," she said, her voice betraying the fatigue in her bones.

Lucius didn’t answer right away, and when she finally turned to face him, he was standing by the door, his posture rigid, as if he too were unsure of what to do with the space between them. He had removed his imperial cloak and his tunic, revealing the broad expanse of his shoulders and the hard lines of his body, still as striking as ever. But there was something else about him—something softer now, something that seemed less like an emperor and more like the boy he must have been in his faraway childhood, a time before all of this.

Aurelia felt a sudden pang of something she couldn’t name—a fleeting sympathy, perhaps?—but she quickly shoved it aside. She had learned long ago to bury her emotions, to guard her heart. There was no room for such weaknesses now.

Lucius’s piercing blue eyes met hers, searching, almost as if he were attempting to read her.

"Did you mean what you said?" he asked, his voice low, but the question hung in the air like a challenge.

Aurelia didn’t flinch. She wasn’t afraid of him, not in the way others were, not anymore. She had already seen what he was capable of—he was a gladiator, a killer, a man forged in the heat of battle. What could he possibly do now, except attempt to break her.

But she was already broken.

"I meant every word," she replied sharply, her voice gaining strength. "I will never love you, Lucius. I will never be your ally by choice. But I am here. I will play my part, for Rome and for the Empire."

Lucius didn’t react at first. He just stood there, watching her. His gaze was steady, unwavering, but there was something different in it now—less of the emperor’s cold authority and more of a man who had seen too much of life’s cruelty to believe in anything like love.

"You think I want your love?" His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper, but it carried a certain bitterness that made her pause. "You think I came into this marriage with the hope that we’d be some great power couple, ruling Rome with passion and glory? I have no illusions, Aurelia Carina Cassia."

The use of her full name—Aurelia Carina Cassia—felt like a weight, as though he were not just speaking to her, but to the very woman she had been before all of this. The name she had been born with, the name that had been tied to another life. A life that was no longer hers.

"Then why did you marry me?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She had asked herself the same question countless times, but hearing him speak so bluntly, without pretense, it made her want to understand.

Lucius's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if searching for the right words. "Because I had no choice," he said, his voice low but firm. "I couldn’t rule without legitimacy. I needed you to secure my claim. Your bloodline... the Empire needed to see me as the true heir."

Aurelia felt a sudden wave of disgust flood her, but she fought it back. She had known the truth from the moment she had been offered the choice: marry Lucius or die. There was no illusion of love here. No romance. Only survival.

"Just like me," she said bitterly, her eyes narrowing. "You needed my bloodline. I needed your power and protection."

Lucius’s eyes darkened slightly and he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them in a way that felt more predatory than protective. "We are not so different, are we?" His voice was softer now, tinged with something that felt like understanding—but whether it was real or just another layer of manipulation, she couldn’t tell.

Aurelia’s pulse quickened. She felt a strange mixture of irritation and something else—something she didn’t want to name—stir inside her. She had been in control of her emotions for so long, yet here he was, reminding her of everything she had tried to bury.

"Don’t mistake me for someone you can control, Lucius," she said, her voice suddenly cool and sharp. "I am not a prize to be claimed or a piece of property to be used. I may wear your crown, but I will never be your puppet."

Lucius didn’t flinch at her words. Instead, he stopped in front of her, his gaze locked on hers with that unnerving intensity. For a moment, there was silence, and the only sound in the room was the soft flicker of the candles.

"Who says you have to be?" he asked, his tone shifting again—this time with a flicker of something like respect, or perhaps understanding. "Maybe we don’t have to be anything to each other, Aurelia. Maybe we can just exist in this world, for whatever time we have left, without trying to change the other."

Aurelia swallowed, her chest tightening at his words. There was something in his eyes now that made her feel exposed, as if he could see through her carefully constructed walls.

For a moment, she considered saying something else—anything else—but she bit her lip and kept silent. She had no more words, no more energy to fight. This marriage, this empire—it was a cage, and they were both trapped inside it.

"Fine," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "We will exist. For as long as we must."

Lucius nodded, though his expression remained unreadable. He stepped back, giving her space, but the tension between them was still palpable, hanging thick in the air.

"I’ll leave you to rest," he said quietly, turning toward the door but before he could reach the threshold, Aurelia’s voice stopped him.

"Lucius," she said, her tone softer now, though no less guarded.

He paused, glancing back at her.

"For what it’s worth," she said, her words hesitant but true, "I don’t hate you. Not yet."

Lucius’s eyes flickered with something—maybe surprise, maybe something deeper—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he gave her a short, almost imperceptible nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Aurelia stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, her thoughts a swirling mass of anger, confusion, and something she was too afraid to admit.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her fingers curling around the fabric of her gown and let out a long, shuddering breath. In the Roman world of power and survival, love had no place. All she could do was endure.

And in the silence of the room, she realized that perhaps, in this strange marriage, endurance would be all they would ever have.

Flashback ~ Wedding Nights and Feasts

The grand hall of the imperial palace was alight with the glow of hundreds of candles, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the marble columns and golden tapestries. The air was thick with the sound of voices—nobles and senators, officials and soldiers—laughing, clinking goblets, and speaking in hushed tones of political matters, all the while pretending to enjoy the extravagance of the evening.

Aurelia sat at the center of the room, her back straight and her face a carefully composed mask of regal calm. The feast was elaborate, more lavish than any she had seen before, with tables laden with roasted meats, fresh fruits, pastries of all kinds, and goblets of wine that never seemed to empty. It was a celebration meant to mark the union of two powerful families, a political marriage cloaked in the facade of love and festivity.

Beside her, Geta sat in his place as Emperor, his posture rigid and his eyes scanning the room, his expression cool and detached. He rarely spoke to her, his lips pressed together in an unreadable line as he occasionally exchanged formal pleasantries with the dignitaries at his side. He did not look at her directly, but rather, his gaze seemed to skim over her, as though she were just another part of the evening’s decoration—a beautiful, silent accessory to a ceremony that had more to do with power than affection.

Aurelia shifted in her seat, the weight of her wedding gown pressing down on her shoulders. It felt heavier than she remembered, the delicate silk and embroidery stifling in the warmth of the hall. The wine, which she had sipped sparingly, made her head spin a little. The noise of the crowd seemed distant, like the murmur of waves crashing far away, while the tension in her chest built steadily. She wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere but beside Geta, who barely acknowledged her presence.

She glanced up at him, and for the first time that evening, their eyes met. His gaze lingered for a moment—barely a second—but in that moment, she saw something flicker behind his dark eyes. A glimmer of something unreadable.

It was not affection, but perhaps it was acknowledgment. Or perhaps it was just the weight of the situation bearing down on them both. He was the heir to the throne, but he was also, in some ways, as much a prisoner as she was. Aurelia quickly looked away, not wanting to read too deeply into it. They were both bound by duty. Perhaps that was all they ever would be.

"Empress Aurelia, it is a pleasure to finally see you in a laurel wreath. It suits you well," came a voice, pulling her from her thoughts. It was one of the senators, his smile oily and too wide. He was leaning in, his wine-stained breath making her skin crawl.

"Thank you," she replied coolly, offering a tight smile, but her attention was drawn back to Geta. The way his mouth tightened when his twin entered the room, or how his gaze flitted from guest to guest, never settling on her. He was far more interested in the politics of the evening than in the woman at his side.

The moments dragged on, the sound of clinking cutlery and polite laughter filling the air as the night deepened. Aurelia’s stomach twisted with the knowledge that she would spend many more nights like this, forced to sit at the table, to smile, to pretend that this was her choice.

Her fingers, which had been tightly gripping the edge of her goblet, tightened around the stem, her nails digging into the delicate glass.

Geta, still barely acknowledging her, looked up then, catching her eyes once again. This time, there was a flicker of something in his gaze—perhaps curiosity, or even frustration. But whatever it was, it was gone in a heartbeat. He turned his attention back to the men beside him, a conversation about military matters beginning to unfold.

The night wore on with little change. The banquet was lavish, yes, but it felt more like a gilded cage. The guests praised her beauty, complimented her elegance, but they never asked her what she thought. No one cared for her opinions, her desires. It was all about marriage. It was all about power. Duty.

After what seemed like an eternity, the music began to swell, signaling the end of the feast and the start of the traditional dances.

Aurelia had no choice but to follow. She was led away from her seat by a servant, her movements stiff and controlled. She did not look at Geta as she passed him, but she knew he would be at her side for the next dance.

As they joined the throng of dancers in the center of the room, Aurelia caught a glimpse of Geta moving toward her. His movements were slow, calculated—his posture never changing, even as he took her hand in his. His fingers were firm, but not gentle. There was no warmth in his touch, only the cold certainty of what was expected of him.

The music swelled around them, and they began to dance. The movements were practiced, each step a part of a ritual that had been passed down through the generations. But even as they moved together, Aurelia couldn’t help but feel a sharp sense of isolation. She was surrounded by the thrumming beat of the music, the eyes of the court watching their every move, but there was no connection. Nothing to bridge the distance between them. She felt as though she were dancing with a stranger.

Geta’s gaze remained distant, his eyes fixed somewhere far beyond her, as if he were looking at the empire rather than his bride. He did not seem to care for the spectacle, for the performance. He danced because he had to—because it was expected of him.

Her chest tightened, a lump forming in her throat, but she swallowed it down. This was her life now. A life of duty and silence, of rituals and politics.

When the dance ended, Geta offered her a curt nod, his hand slipping from hers with no more warmth than when it had first touched her. He turned and walked away, lost in the swirl of the crowd, leaving Aurelia to stand alone at the center of the hall, her heart heavy with the weight of it all.

Hours later, the imperial palace had quieted. The last of the guests had been sent away, and the halls were still. Aurelia had changed out of her wedding gown, donning a simple silk robe that was far more comfortable than the heavy dress she had worn for the ceremony and the feast. She had been bathed and prepared by her attendants though she felt no sense of relief. The ceremony was over, but the reality of her marriage had just begun.

Her chambers were vast, opulent and yet it still felt hollow, as though the walls themselves were closing in on her. Aurelia sat at the edge of her bed, the weight of the day’s events pressing down on her shoulders. The soft light of the moon filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Enter," she called out, her voice steady despite the apprehension twisting in her gut.

The door creaked open, and there he stood: Geta, dressed in a simple night tunic, his expression absolutely unreadable. He glanced at her briefly before stepping inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Aurelia stood, her heart pounding in her chest. This was the moment. The moment that would define their marriage, the moment that would bind them together—at least, in the eyes of the empire.

Geta didn’t speak at first, his eyes scanning the room with an almost clinical detachment. It was as though this was just another political alliance, another transaction. Not a marriage. Not an intimate bond.

Transactional.

The emperor walked toward the bed, his movements deliberate, but not rushed. He removed his shoes and sat at the edge, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension.

Aurelia swallowed hard, her mouth dry. She stood across from him, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her.

"Is it... time?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question feeling strange even to her.

Geta turned his head slightly to look at her, and for a fleeting moment, she saw something softer in his eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the cold, distant look she had grown quickly accustomed to.

“It is,” he replied, his voice steady, but there was no warmth there.

Aurelia’s heart sank as she stepped toward him, the enormity of what was to come hanging between them like a weight. This was not the passionate union she had imagined. This was not love. This was duty.

Geta reached for her, his touch firm but unfeeling, pulling her toward him. There was no tenderness in the way his hands gripped her, no gentleness in the way he kissed her. His lips were cold, mechanical, as though he were performing a duty rather than seeking a bond.

And how she hoped it could be something. She already felt so lonely.

Aurelia closed her eyes, feeling the disconnect between them. The weight of their marriage, the distance between them, settled deeper in her chest. She didn’t feel loved. She felt like a pawn in a larger game that she had no control in.

She had no choice. She could not pull away. This was her life now. No love. Only duty.

Please the Emperor. Give him heirs. Serve at his side.

As Geta’s hands moved with practiced efficiency, Aurelia stood still, her body stiff and her mind elsewhere - somewhere by the seaside. She felt the sting of loneliness in the marriage bed, the ache of emptiness that nothing could fill.

And when it was done, when he withdrew and settled beside her, there was nothing.

[leejeann]

Pls tell me/us about your Cinderella Boy AU úwù

Oh hi Anon, I am SO GLAD YOU ASKED :D. I was literally working on it when I got this ask, very nice timing, friend

(i will, uh, try not to make this an excessive amount of paragraphs but bare with me, I'm a yapper).

So, tl;dr Cinderella Boy College AU babyyyy. Chase is a first year music theater major (he started a year late), and Buddy is a second year creative writing major.

(I don't actually remember if they're canonically the same age, but they are in this)

(also Deacon is here too, he's just over in med school but him and Chase hang out on weekends)

They meet through an Intro to Literature class that Buddy takes for his major and Chase regrets choosing as an elective credit. Eventually Chase has to accept that he Sucks So Bad at literary analysis and really doesn't want to fail a course in his first semester of college, so he reluctantly asks mr writing major to help him. Buddy agrees, with the trade off being that he's writing an anthology of short stories for a future capstone project and Chase has to read them and give feedback.

(Buddy says it's because he's aiming for a younger audience with some of the stories and if an idiot like Chase can understand them so can a kid. Secretly he just....doesn't have anyone else to ask and kind of just really wants someone else to read them so he saw the opportunity and took it. But you didn't hear that from me!).

They agree to those terms and off we go! Shenanigans and angst and rivals-to-lovers nonsense (my beloved) ensues!

Aaaand because i have little self control when I'm excited about an idea but no one irl who knows what the hell a cinderella boy is to talk about it with: a much longer explanation of the exposition is below the cut!

OKAY SO BASICALLY I had this funny idea the other day of a college AU where like the Intro to Lit class is an in-person/online hybrid, i.e., all the lectures and materials are posted online so people can enrolled in it as either an online or in-person class. Chase takes it in-person while Buddy couldn't fit the timeslot into his schedule and takes it online.

And like any basic college course, it has *drumroll* Online Discussion Posts! Objectively one of the most tedious assignments in any college class, and this class does 2-3 a week. This professor decided to try a Fun New thing this year, where all the posts and replies are anonymous to the students (he can still see them so he knows who did the assignment, obvs). Something, something, he wants to promote discussions between classmates instead of people just only ever replying to their friends or something. Chase wants to keep up his Branding™ and sign off his posts with his little tagline, but after the first post his professor says that "defeats the whole purpose" and "looks unprofessional." Chase signs off with a little star instead, which the professor reluctantly lets him do. (A few other students actually start doing it to with their own little symbols or emojis.)

Two weeks into classes and Chase is being DRIVEN INSANE by these discussion posts. No, no, not by the monotony of them. No, not by his lack of skill with literary analysis. Rather, there's one student in particular who just keeps replying to his discussion posts specifically and ALWAYS seems to have something to disagree with. And they're so pretentious about it. Chase knows it's always the same person because no one else in this mostly-just-an-elective-credit class is using words like "insufferable" and "colloquialism" and "alas" in a discussion post.

Something something, Chase does some sleuthing and figures out it must be one of the online students, which is annoying because he has no way to figure out who they are so he can tell them to lay off and chill the hell out. Until! Midterms roll around and some random new guy is just in the class for the test. Oh, it's just an online student who didn't want to deal with one of those stupid virtual proctor websites, and since he lives on campus anyway he asked if he could just take it in-person. Yeah, that's fair. But then the new guy says something (idk what yet) and the phrasing of it makes it click in Chase's head that Oh my god that HAS to be Buddy holy shit

(sidenote, in this story the name "Buddy" comes from Chase ranting to Deacon about the random anon student and sarcastically calling them Buddy as a joke. But then that nickname just sticks because when you're pissed off and ranting "Buddy" is so much faster to say that "that anonymous asshole from my intro to lit class" ya know? So like, save for Chase saying it in an angry reply to the anon student once or twice, he hasn't directly called Buddy, Buddy before until like he confronts him after midterms).

I haven't quite figured out the interim of how they go from "Oh my god that's the annoying anonymous dude" and Buddy not even realizing Chase is the Star-kid (.....ha) in those discussion posts–

((sidenote 2, electric boogaloo, the reason Buddy is so snarky on the discussion posts is because, naturally, he thinks literature is Very Important and that it's annoying how obvious it is that most of this class is just taking it as an elective so they aren't putting in any real effort to learning anything. The discussion posts are all literary analysis on short passages and his classmates do, like, the bare minimum for it. He doesn't just respond to Chase's posts in a snarky tone, but most of the students fully ignore his responses and do not improve and he decides they're a lost cause. Chase is also a lost cause, but sometimes Chase argues back and okay fine Buddy has to admit that's kind of entertaining. So Buddy always makes sure to respond to the one with the stupid little star at the bottom. As a treat))

–and to them being like, civil enough that Chase finally caves and asks Buddy to tutor him, but eventually they get there. And that's how we get to the rest of that tl;dr! Chase asks for help in class, Buddy agrees as long as Chase helps him with his creative writing projects, they start meeting up to work on classwork regularly and once a week or so Buddy brings a print-out of another short story for Chase to take with him after. And Chase does his best to return it with some amount of helpful annotations.

(I totally forgot until after I came up with that idea, but I actually kind of did that once in college. Except I wasn't a creative writing major, one of my good friends was. I was entering a short story in a competition once so I gave him a printed copy of it and he gave it back a few days later covered in annotations lol)

And I DO plan to include Buddy's short stories as their own things! I have a few ideas for them already, basically I'm going to write a few original short stories that I can insert as their own little in-between chapters whenever Buddy gives Chase a new one to read. They'd probably be posted at the same time as either the chapter before or chapter after it, depending on which chapter would make more sense to pair it with narratively.

I think the first will be some parody of Cinderella, because duh. But like less of a "Cinderella, but in a new setting" thing and more like from the pov of a totally different character, where the actual Cinderella plot is lowkey almost just in the background. Idk it seems fun and like something Creative-Writing-Major-Buddy would write. Or maybe I'm projecting because I just think it sounds fun to write. Or maybe both!

One specifically that's a minorly pivotal moment for them is actually just a short-story-ified version of a poem I wrote years ago, and the moment in the story is basically just Buddy felt it was an optimistic story, whereas Chase felt like it was really sad, and both are incredibly thrown off by the dissonance that realization creates.

Which is also kind of from personal experience actually! Small tangent, but that happened with the poem back when I first wrote it too. To me, it was a melancholy but overall optimistic poem about life. I shared it with some people and seemingly all of them thought it felt sad and almost hopeless. I was SO thrown off! Because I really felt like it was hopeful, not hopeless, but it felt like I was the only person who saw it like that. As silly as it sounds, that (plus a couple other personal reasons) made me struggle with writing anything for a long time because I was a little afraid of feeling so isolated by my own work again.

(In hindsight, I can see how it came across like that to them. It still remains one of my favorites that I've written though. I actually completely rewrote it to enter in a contest just a few months ago! The newer version is much better, and I think actually gets across the intended mood a lot more)

*ahem* So, uh, anyway! I amp all that up a bit in the story for the sake of ~drama~ of course, but that's where the general idea for that scene comes from. I've already written the scene actually! I just don't know how far into the story it'll happen yet.

I'm also still on the fence about how to include the keyple we know about in canon. I can't decide if I want to just make them like other students and/or friends who appear in the story, or if I just want to like really allude to them. Leave references in the stories Buddy writes or classwork they do or stuff like that, etc.

And I'm also-also on the fence about if I should give Buddy a fake name for sake of the plot. If I do, I'm definitely going to swap it for his real name once that's properly revealed. On one hand, being in a college setting it would make a lot more sense for Chase to find out his actual name early on, even if he still calls him Buddy to be annoying. But on the other hand, Buddy totally would refuse to tell Chase his name, also to be annoying, if doing that annoys Chase more than the nickname annoys him. But on a secret, third hand, it feels so weird to give Buddy a fake name lol. Like even if I wasn't a fast-passer I think it'd still feel weird.

Then again, depending on how slow I end up writing this, the free episodes might catch up to fast pass before I even need to worry about that and I can just use his actual name from the get-go.

Phew! That sure was fun to talk about! *scrolls back through this post* oh yikes, uh, well you asked for it anon! If you actually read this far down, thank you, bless, I warned you that I yap but I appreciate your fortitude very much lol

I have no idea when I'll start posting the fic bc I worry about like getting through a couple chapters, posting them immediately, then losing steam and just....dropping it or taking forever to update after. So I want to get at least a few chapters written before I start posting any, ya know? But I've been wanting to get back into creative writing for a LONG time so I'm really going to try to stick with it! Just, bare with me if it takes a while lol

[daisywords]

thinking about this post but also it's more than that. do you ever think about how stories starring men are allowed to be about humanity but stories starring women have to be about Womanhood

[hopefulqueer]

I'm starting to think the reason I'm not as good of a writer as I want to be is because I like writing more than I like reading.

[xhda1449x]

ok apparently 30 tags is the limit on tumblr and I'm putting it here because I couldn't put it in the tags

for my own curiosity, because my tragedy enjoying boggles the minds of a bunch of my irl social circle.

[ambrosiagourmet]

I love Izutsumi. She's got a great design, she's a fun addition to the main party, she adds some new tension, and she's honestly one of the reasons I read dungeon meshi in the first place. I mean, "the most cat to ever girl" is an extremely appealing hook to anyone who loves cats and girls (me, I love cats and girls).

However, while I have always liked Izutsumi, I finished the story kind of feeling like I didn't really get her. I felt like I had a decent grasp on her character an character arc (she's a traumatized teen given space to feel safe and open up, and because of that she realizes that she can't grow without letting go of the coping mechanisms she once needed). But I didn't feel like I really understood her role in the story as a whole.

She follows the group of her own accord, after a coincidental meeting and a misunderstanding of what they can do for her. She's never super invested in saving Falin, at least not compared to the rest of the group. Though they do help her escape Maizuru's shackles, and are clearly good for her in general, she doesn't really have a healing Moment with the group the way that Senshi does with the hippogriff soup.

And yet, she gets an entire chapter, the third-to-last chapter, dedicated to exploring her growth and future. She's the one who frames much of the falling action, who lets us check in with everyone. She's the one who helps talk Laios into accepting his role as king. She may join the story part way through, but she is there for most of it. So Izutsumi! What's your deal!?

Well, I think I've come up with an answer, at least for myself, that I really like. Two of them, even! Though they both really work together to form the overall point - Izutsumi is the character that most helps the story face towards the future. Here's why I think that.

So the first of these "ah-ha" moments was when I realized that Izutsumi really is the best supporting evidence for Laios' point about the good things that wouldn't have happened if Falin hadn't died.

If Falin hadn't been eaten by the dragon, Izutsumi probably would still be a slave. It was because of Shuro and Laios' parties both being in the dungeon to rescue Falin, as well as Marcille's use of ancient magic in the resurrection, that she got the chance to escape. None of that would have been the case if Falin hadn't died. Shuro wouldn't have separated from the group and joined up with his retainers, Marcille wouldn't have revealed her knowledge of ancient magic, and Izutsumi never would have even met any of them. They are only part of her life because of Falin's death.

Though this isn't explicitly pointed out by Laios or Izutsumi in the scene, I do think you can very much feel the presence of it. For one, when Marcille reflects on the journey and how much it made her realize she didn't want to lose everyone, her relationship with Izutsumi is prominent:

It's the main original group at the top and center, but when you read it right to left, it’s Izutsumi and Marcille who might catch your eye first. And it's specifically Marcille and Izutsumi's relationship on display here, not just Izutsumi's presence in the group in general.

Also, after Laios' statement about how none of their adventure would have happened without Falin dying, it is Izutsumi who gets the final word:

Izutsumi is also the one here who is the most forward-facing. Chilchuck is trying to correct Laios, Senshi is focused on the immediate future, and Izutsumi is talking about her new goal.

And I want to talk about that goal in general as well, because it’s also interesting how it comes up. In that moment, everyone is trying to remind Marcille of her less destructive desires - to eat food, to share it with them, and to meet Chilchuck's family. All of which are previously established, existing desires. When prompted by Chilchuck to join in, however, Izutsumi offers something new:

That's interesting, isn't it? It's kind of funny, of course, to see her rambling on about a completely new thing, her own personal motive, in the middle of everyone working together to reach out to Marcille. Izutsumi doesn't even know who Yaad is! But at the same time, it’s kind of meaningful. Amidst the focus on desires that everyone already had, she adds a completely new one to the mix. It’s even the final bridge that lets Laios reach Marcille.

It is, in fact, even an idea that comes back later to help out another lord of the dungeon. The idea of finding new goals and feeling new desires... this is exactly how Kabru reaches out to Mithrun, after the Winged Lion is gone

So yeah, Izutsumi's presence here, both in what she's actively choosing to say as well as what she represents of the consequences of Falin's death, supports the story's ideas of moving forward. Of accepting the past, and finding new reasons to live.

Which is all really good, and that alone works pretty well as an answer to what Izutsumi's role in the story is.

But oh, oh. There's more. Something I realized after having thought of all this, because I still couldn't let go of the feeling that there was still something I was missing.

And as I reviewed the things I loved about Izutsumi - her sometimes unhealthy ways of coping with trauma, her struggles with isolation, her skill with fighting, her selfishness contrasted with the ways she grows to care for and protect the group, her perpetually guarded nature, born from the seeming impossibility of ever fitting in or finding a safe place to just be herself - I realized something.

Izutsumi...

is a foil to Falin.

Where Falin copes with isolation and trauma by being eternally caring and struggling to say no to people, Izutsumi copes by constantly saying no to everything she can. Falin is often considered selfless, but does have selfish desires that she can’t easily express until a moment of crisis. Izutsumi is delightfully selfish, but chooses to stick by her friends when they need her. They are both transformed, against their will, into partly monstrous hybrids, and they both will have to live with that - there is no undoing what has been done to them.

Falin anchors the group in the past. Izutsumi pulls them towards the future. Neither would find freedom without the other - it is Falin's death that leads to Izutsumi joining the party, and likewise, it is Izutsumi who inspires the realization of how they can save Falin.

And Falin is her future, as much as Izutsumi is Falin's. Both learn to be a little more like each other, even though they never meet. Falin gets a little more selfish. Izutsumi gets a little more willing to bend.

In this context, I feel like I have finally started to understand just how important Izutsumi is to the story. She is a proof that they cannot just go back, and she is a clawed, happy-to-scratch-anyone-who-pisses-her-off reminder, at that. In any conversation about what the group wishes would have happened with Falin, she cannot be ignored or brushed aside.

She is a reminder that, even in the midst of a tragedy so big it feels like a shadow you will never escape, you have yet to met all the people you will love. Hell, some of those people might even be catgirls. We should all be so lucky.

[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

[kiwriteswords]

Hello could I please request a fic where maybe the team doesnt like reader at first?

Winning Over the Kids [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 4.5k|| AN: Thank you for the request; I love seeing all of them come in <3 Feedback is also always welcomed! xx

Tags/Warnings: implied age-gap, reader is a forensic psychologist, no use of y/n, secret relationship, team dislikes reader at first, protective Hotch, no mention of Jack--so up to you if he exists or not lol, mirroring the Lo-Fi vibes with Kate Joyner/Hotch/Team, canon-typical themes, some fluff, team dynamics, established relationship

Sypnosis: When Erin Strauss contracts a forensic psychologist to work with the BAU Team, Aaron Hotchner isn't sure if he is more frustrated with the fact that they dislike you as their newest team member or as his secret girlfriend.

Aaron Hotchner had spent years mastering the art of control. His team relied on him to remain composed under pressure, a steady anchor in chaos. But when Erin Strauss informed him that she was contracting a forensic psychologist to assist the BAU, he felt his resolve stretch thin. Not because he doubted the decision—he knew you were exceptional—but because the team didn’t know the full story.

You were brilliant, sharp, and confident. You had risen through the ranks faster than most, your reputation built on precision and expertise. Yet, whispers of you being a “workaholic” and “cutthroat” followed you, a product of stereotypes surrounding young, successful women in high-stakes fields. Aaron had seen it before, but it infuriated him nonetheless, especially now that you were his… well, not officially, but close enough to feel the sting of those judgments on your behalf.

At the morning briefing, he broke the news. “The Bureau has decided to bring in a forensic psychologist to collaborate with us on our cases. She’ll be joining us starting tomorrow.”

Predictably, the room bristled.

“A shrink? Really?” Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “No offense, Hotch, but we kind of know how to read people.”

Emily Prentiss folded her arms. “Isn’t that the point of profiling? What does Strauss think we’ve been doing all this time?”

JJ added carefully, “Is this about our mental health? Are we supposed to… talk to her?”

Spencer Reid, ever the analyst, frowned. “I’ve read that forensic psychologists in consulting roles often critique operational dynamics. Could this be Strauss trying to monitor us?”

Aaron kept his face neutral, though he wanted to correct them all. You were nothing like what they imagined. “This isn’t about our capabilities. The psychologist has specific expertise in complex cases involving psychological manipulation. Her role is to supplement our efforts, not replace them.”

“Yeah, until she starts picking apart everything we do,” Derek muttered.

Aaron resisted the urge to snap. They didn’t know you yet. They didn’t see the meticulous care you put into every decision, or the softer moments when you let your guard down with him.

The next day, you arrived at Quantico with a polished confidence that turned heads. Ready to take on the next case, which was local to the BAU. 

You greeted the team with a professional demeanor, offering a firm handshake and an easy smile. But the tension was palpable. The team’s skepticism hung in the air like a storm cloud, and Aaron felt his jaw tighten as he observed their guarded reactions.

Derek kept his distance, observing you with a critical eye. Emily was polite but cool, and even JJ seemed uncertain about how to approach you. Spencer avoided eye contact altogether. Rossi…well, Rossi seemed to sit back and take it all in. 

“Let’s get to work,” Aaron said, more curtly than he intended, leading the group into the roundtable room.

You took a seat beside him, your notebook open and pen poised. “I’ve reviewed the case files,” you began, your voice steady and self-assured. “The unsub’s behavior suggests a deep-seated fear of abandonment, likely rooted in childhood trauma. But the escalation pattern indicates recent stressors. Have you explored potential triggers within the last six months?”

Reid blinked, clearly taken aback. “We—uh, we considered family dynamics, but we didn’t narrow the timeline that specifically.”

Your sharp gaze turned to him, not unkindly. “It’s worth revisiting. The timeline could give us a better idea of who influenced him most recently.”

Aaron noticed the way Reid shifted uncomfortably, and it grated on him. You were offering valuable insights, yet the team’s resistance was evident.

After the briefing, Derek muttered to Emily, loud enough for Aaron to hear, “Well, she doesn’t waste time, does she?”

Aaron’s patience wore thin. “Morgan, a word,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

In his office, Aaron shut the door and faced Derek. “What’s your problem with her?”

Derek raised his hands defensively. “Hey, I didn’t say anything she didn’t earn. She walks in here acting like she knows everything. What do you expect us to do—roll out the red carpet?”

“I expect you to treat her with the same respect you’d give any other professional,” Aaron snapped. “She’s here because she’s the best at what she does, and we need her expertise. Whatever preconceived notions you have, leave them at the door.”

Derek frowned but nodded. “Got it, Hotch.”

Aaron exhaled slowly after Derek left. He knew he couldn’t shield you completely, but it infuriated him that he had to watch you navigate the team’s cold reception.

That evening, after everyone had gone home, you found Aaron in his office. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, crossing your arms. “So, how bad was it?”

He looked up from his desk, his expression softening. “They’ll come around.”

You smirked, though your eyes held a flicker of vulnerability. “I’m not holding my breath.”

Aaron stood and walked over to you, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to prove yourself to them. I know who you are, and eventually, they will too.”

You tilted your head, a teasing smile breaking through. “Is that your way of saying you’re proud of me, Agent Hotchner?”

He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Always.”

For a moment, the weight of the day lifted. Here, behind closed doors, you didn’t have to be the prodigy or the psychologist with a reputation. You were just you, and Aaron was fiercely determined to make sure the team saw that too—someday.

The next morning, as Aaron walked into Quantico, he noticed a huddle forming near Penelope’s desk. Derek, Emily, Spencer, JJ, and Penelope stood together, their voices low but animated. He had planned to keep walking, but a snippet of their conversation caught his attention.

“I’m telling you, I heard she’s impossible to work with,” Penelope whispered, her usual warmth absent.

“Yeah, and she’s already showing it,” Derek added. “Control issues, first day on the job.”

“So far, It’s just one case,” Emily said, though her tone was skeptical. “But she’s definitely… intense.”

“We don’t need someone analyzing us while we’re trying to profile an unsub,” JJ muttered.

“I don’t think she’s here for that,” Reid said hesitantly. “But… yeah, I’ve heard the whispers too.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened as he listened. He wanted to intervene, to defend you, but he bit his tongue. This wasn’t the time. Instead, he walked away, the sting of their words lingering. He felt almost betrayed. His team was usually better than this. They prided themselves on fairness, on seeing beyond the surface. But in this case, they were clinging to gossip and prejudice, and it hurt more than he wanted to admit.

When you arrived, you carried yourself with the same poise and determination Aaron admired. You greeted the team briefly, your no-nonsense demeanor firmly in place. “Let’s get to work,” you said, spreading the case files across the conference table.

Your approach was methodical and efficient, and though Aaron knew it was how you operated, he could see how it rubbed the team the wrong way. They weren’t used to outsiders, especially not ones who came in with your level of authority and expertise. But they were professionals, and they pushed their reservations aside as the case progressed.

Aaron watched you closely throughout the day. You were unflinching in your analysis, your insights sharp and accurate. When you spoke, your voice carried confidence, but he could sense the subtle edge in your tone—a shield you had learned to wield over years of proving yourself.

After the case briefing wrapped up, Aaron found you in one of the quieter corners of the office. You were reviewing your notes, your expression focused but unreadable.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice low.

You glanced up, a small smile playing at your lips. “I’m fine, Aaron. It’s not my first rodeo.”

He stepped closer, his brows furrowing. “I’ve heard some of the things they’ve said,” he admitted. “They don’t know you, and they’re wrong. I’m sorry for how unwelcoming they’ve been.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You don’t have to apologize for them. I get it. They’re protective of their team, and I’m an outsider. It’ll take time.”

“It shouldn’t have to,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended. He softened, adding, “You shouldn’t have to prove yourself to them.”

Your smile widened, though there was a flicker of something softer in your eyes. “I’ve been proving myself my whole life, Aaron. This is nothing new. Besides, I’ve got you in my corner, right?”

“Always,” he said without hesitation.

For a moment, the weight of the day lifted, and he allowed himself to take comfort in your resilience. But as he returned to the team, he resolved to address their behavior. They needed to see you for who you truly were—and he wouldn’t rest until they did.

During the next case you assisted on, the tension had been simmering all day, and Aaron could feel it building like a storm. You had just delivered a sharp, insightful breakdown of the unsub’s likely behavior patterns, pointing out inconsistencies in the case file that had gone unnoticed. It was the kind of analysis that would have earned respect from anyone else, but not today. Not from this team, not yet.

The briefing room was quiet for a moment after you finished speaking. Emily exchanged a glance with Derek, and JJ tapped her pen against the table, her lips pressed into a thin line. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating.

“That’s… an interesting perspective,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair. His tone was polite, but Aaron caught the subtle edge, the unspoken doubt.

You didn’t falter. “It’s not just a perspective,” you replied, your voice calm and measured. “The data supports it. If you cross-reference the victimology with the geographic profile—”

“We get it,” Emily interrupted, her tone sharper than usual. “But we’ve been doing this a long time. We know how to read behavior.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened. He glanced at you, but your expression remained composed, even as he could see the faint tension in your posture. You nodded slightly, as if conceding the point, and continued reviewing the case files without another word.

The meeting wrapped soon after, but Aaron lingered behind, pretending to organize his notes. That’s when he heard it.

“I don’t know how much longer I can deal with her,” Emily muttered as the others gathered near the coffee station. “She’s so… clinical. It’s like she doesn’t even care about the victims, just the data.”

“She’s got control issues, for sure,” Derek added. “Like she’s got something to prove.”

JJ sighed. “Maybe Strauss sent her to micromanage us. I mean, why else would she be here? We’re already the best at what we do.”

Aaron slammed his folder shut, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room. The team froze, turning to see him standing there, his expression dark and unreadable.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low but laced with unmistakable anger. He stepped toward them, his gaze sweeping over each of them. “I don’t know what’s more disappointing--your lack of professionalism or your willingness to tear someone down based on assumptions and gossip.”

The team exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke.

“You think she’s here to micromanage you? She’s here to help. And the fact that you can’t see the value in her insights says more about your egos than it does about her methods.”

“Hotch, we didn’t mean—” JJ started, but he cut her off.

“No,” he said firmly. “You did mean it. And if you spent half as much energy working with her as you do undermining her, we’d be a hell of a lot closer to catching this unsub.”

The room fell silent. Aaron rarely raised his voice, and when he did, it carried the weight of finality. He let the silence hang for a moment before he continued.

“She’s not here to prove herself to you. She’s already proven herself, time and time again. It’s time for you to rise to her level, not drag her down to yours.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he’d have to address this further later, but for now, he needed to find you. He wanted to make sure you were okay to remind you, in whatever small way he could, that he was still in your corner. Always.

Aaron Hotchner found you where he expected to: in one of the unused offices, deep in thought over the case files. You were perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through pages with a sharp focus that never failed to impress him. The tension he’d carried since leaving the briefing room eased slightly when he saw how calm you were.

You didn’t even look up when he stepped inside. “Didn’t expect you to find me so quickly,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Aaron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I needed to check in. The team…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “They were out of line.”

That made you pause. You glanced up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Aaron, it’s fine,” you said, setting the file down. “I’ve been in this position before. People don’t like change, and they don’t like outsiders. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” he replied, his voice firmer than he intended. “It’s not fair, and it’s not professional.”

You tilted your head, studying him in that way you always did when you were about to cut through the noise. “They don’t know, Aaron. About us.” Your tone was even, but there was a hint of something deeper there--not accusation, just acknowledgment.

He stiffened slightly, but nodded. “They don’t. And I’d prefer to keep it that way. For now.”

You let out a quiet hum, leaning back on your hands. “For now, sure. But you should think about it. They’re already questioning why you’re defending me. If they find out later that it’s because we’re involved, it won’t sit well with them. They’ll feel like you’ve been hiding something important.”

“They’ll feel betrayed,” Aaron said, the weight of the truth settling over him.

You nodded, a small, knowing smile on your face. “Exactly. Look, I can handle their doubts, their gossip, whatever they want to throw at me. But you need to decide how long you want to keep this a secret. They’re your team. They’re loyal to you. But they also need to trust you.”

Aaron stepped further into the room, his expression softening as he regarded you. “You don’t care what they think of you, do you?”

“Not even a little,” you said with a shrug, your confidence steady. “I’ve spent years dealing with this kind of thing. It’s not new, and it doesn’t bother me. What does bother me,” you added, meeting his eyes, “is the idea of this coming out later and making things harder for you. Or for us.”

Aaron let out a slow breath, running a hand over the back of his neck. You were right, of course. You always were. He couldn’t keep this from his team forever, and things with you had grown too serious for him to pretend otherwise. He had never been one to let his personal life interfere with his work, but this was different. You were different.

“This is serious,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You arched a brow, a teasing smile breaking through. “Wow, Aaron. Way to make a girl feel special.”

He stepped closer, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “You know what I mean. Things are serious between us. You’re not going anywhere, and neither is the team. I need to find a way to make this work.”

You softened, your hand brushing against his as he stood next to you. “You will. They’ll come around, Aaron. And if they don’t, well…” You shrugged, the corner of your mouth lifting in a smirk. “I’m not going anywhere either.”

Aaron felt a warmth spread through him, a rare sense of peace in the midst of the chaos. You were right, as always. He would figure it out--not just because he had to, but because you were worth it.

And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that it would all work out.

Aaron Hotchner had always believed in leading by example. Transparency, fairness, and honesty were core tenets of how he ran his team, and they had rewarded him with loyalty and mutual respect. But as he stood in the conference room, waiting for his team to gather for an unscheduled meeting, he knew he had failed to uphold one of those principles.

The team filtered in, curiosity and unease written across their faces. JJ and Emily exchanged glances, Reid clutched his ever-present notebook, and Derek leaned against the edge of the table with his arms crossed. Penelope, usually lighthearted, looked slightly nervous. Rossi lingered at the back, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in thought.

When the door closed, Aaron cleared his throat and took a steadying breath. “I asked you all here because there’s something I need to address—something I should have told you from the beginning.”

The team straightened, their collective focus sharpening. Aaron had their attention.

“You’ve all expressed concerns about having a forensic psychologist embedded in the team,” he began, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve questioned her presence, her methods, and, frankly, her character. Some of those comments have been professional disagreements, but others have crossed the line. I’ve let it continue longer than I should have, and for that, I take responsibility.”

Emily shifted uncomfortably while Morgan frowned. Reid’s brow furrowed in confusion, his pen tapping lightly against his notebook. Rossi, though silent, tilted his head slightly, a knowing look flickering across his face.

Aaron met each of their gazes in turn, his tone unwavering. “The reason I know she’s good at her job—why I trust her, and why I know she’s not here to spy on us or undermine our work—is because I’ve been seeing her outside of work. For a while now.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Reid blinked rapidly, his pen freezing mid-air. JJ’s mouth opened slightly as if to speak, and Penelope let out a small, involuntary gasp. Derek sat up straighter, his brows furrowed in disbelief. Emily’s eyes widened, but she quickly masked her surprise. Rossi, however, didn’t look shocked at all. Instead, his lips quirked into the faintest of smirks, as though confirming a suspicion.

“I had no say in her placement on this team,” Aaron continued, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. “Strauss made the decision, and she made it clear that the reason is simple: she’s the best. You’ve seen it for yourselves, even if you haven’t wanted to admit it. Her insights have already helped move this case forward. She is not your enemy, nor is she here to judge you.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “I didn’t disclose our relationship because I wanted to keep our personal lives separate from our professional ones. But as your Unit Chief and as her partner, I will not tolerate disrespect toward her—whether it’s behind her back or to her face.”

Reid, finally finding his voice, asked hesitantly, “Does she…know about us? I mean, our dynamics, our methods? Or does she see us as part of the problem?”

Aaron’s expression softened slightly as he addressed the question. “She knows exactly who you are and how good you are at what you do. She’s here to help you do your jobs better, not to interfere. But she also deserves the same respect you’d give any other member of this team.”

Rossi finally spoke, his tone measured. “And you think telling us this now is going to smooth things over?” His words weren’t accusatory, but they carried weight.

“I think,” Aaron replied, meeting Rossi’s gaze, “that you deserved to know the truth. And I think it’s time we focus on the job at hand rather than creating divisions that don’t need to exist.”

The silence lingered until Derek broke it. “Hotch, we didn’t mean to—”

Aaron held up a hand. “I know you didn’t mean harm, but intentions don’t erase the impact. This team works because we trust each other. That trust goes both ways. If there’s something you need to say, say it to me or to her directly. Gossip and disrespect have no place here.”

JJ nodded, her expression softening. “You’re right. We were out of line. I think…I think we just felt blindsided.”

Aaron’s tone eased, though it remained firm. “I understand. Change isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. You’ll see soon enough why she’s here. Until then, I need your cooperation.”

Emily exchanged a glance with Morgan, then nodded. “We’ll work on it. I promise.”

Rossi gave a small nod of approval, his smirk gone but his understanding clear. “She’s good, Aaron. I’ve seen it. Let’s make sure the rest of the team sees it too.”

Reid looked thoughtful, his pen tapping rhythmically again. “I think we can…adjust. If she’s here to make us better, that’s not a bad thing.”

Aaron gave a single nod, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Good. That’s all I wanted to say. Dismissed.”

As the team filed out, murmuring quietly among themselves, Rossi lingered behind. “You know,” he said, crossing his arms, “you could’ve just told me this a week ago.”

Aaron allowed himself the faintest smile. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Probably not,” Rossi said with a shrug, “but it would’ve saved you the speech.” With that, he left, leaving Aaron alone to gather his thoughts.

For now, he had taken the first step. And he could only hope it was enough.

Over the next few days, Aaron began to notice subtle shifts in his team’s behavior toward you. It wasn’t immediate, nor was it dramatic, but the signs were there. During case briefings, they no longer exchanged skeptical glances when you spoke. Instead, they began nodding along or even asking follow-up questions. Derek, who had been one of the most vocal skeptics, offered a rare compliment about your interrogation technique after a successful suspect interview.

“She’s got a way of getting under people’s skin,” Morgan admitted to Rossi when he thought Aaron wasn’t listening. “In a good way, I guess.”

Aaron didn’t respond, but he tucked the comment away, feeling an unspoken sense of satisfaction.

Even Reid, who had initially kept his distance, began peppering you with questions about your graduate work. You seemed to enjoy indulging him, discussing obscure psychological theories with the same enthusiasm he brought to the conversation. JJ and Emily followed suit, no longer as guarded, and Penelope—while still wary—had gone out of her way to show you how to use the BAU’s internal systems.

Aaron observed it all with quiet pride. His team was warming up to you, just as he had hoped, and it wasn’t because he’d told them to—it was because of you. Your intelligence, your confidence, and your ability to adapt were slowly breaking down the barriers they’d put up.

That evening, as the two of you wrapped up some paperwork in his office, you leaned back in your chair and smirked at him. “You know,” you said, your voice light with amusement, “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Aaron looked up from his file, one brow raised. “Enjoying what?”

“You’re like the team dad,” you teased, crossing your arms. “All broody and protective, wanting the stepmom to be liked by the kids.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, low and rich. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” you shot back, grinning. “Because I think you’ve been paying more attention to their approval ratings for me than I have.”

He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head but still smiling. “Maybe. But only because I know how much they mean to you—and how much you mean to me. I want this to work.”

Your expression softened, and for a moment, the teasing dropped. “It already is, Aaron. You don’t have to worry.”

His smile lingered as he looked at you, the tension that had been weighing on him for weeks finally starting to lift.

The real sign of progress came at the end of the week. The team had just wrapped up a grueling case, and as everyone packed up their things, Derek clapped his hands together.

“Alright, we’re going out. Drinks, food, and maybe a little dancing. Who’s in?”

JJ and Emily immediately agreed, and Reid nodded hesitantly, though he muttered something about “just one drink.” Rossi chuckled but offered a quick “Count me in.” Penelope looked around, her bright demeanor back in full force. “Where are we going? And more importantly, is there karaoke?”

Derek laughed. “No promises, Garcia.”

Then, almost casually, JJ turned to you. “You should come,” she said, her tone friendly and genuine. “You’ve had a long week too. You deserve to relax a little.”

Aaron didn’t miss the slight hesitation in your posture before you smiled. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” JJ said, already texting someone. “It’ll be fun.”

Aaron stayed silent, watching the moment unfold. The invitation wasn’t forced or reluctant—it was sincere. It was an olive branch, extended without fanfare, and he could tell by the look on your face that you recognized it for what it was.

As the team began filing out, chatting about where to go, you lingered by his desk. “That was unexpected,” you said quietly, glancing at him with a small smile.

“They’re coming around,” Aaron replied, his voice equally soft. “I told you they would.”

You smirked. “Well, Dad, looks like the kids like the stepmom after all.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he stood. “Let’s just hope I can keep them from embarrassing us tonight.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” you teased, grabbing your bag. “Now, come on. You’ve got to show me if Unit Chief Hotchner can actually let loose.”

As you both headed out to join the others, Aaron felt a rare lightness in his chest. Things were falling into place—his team, you, everything. And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to enjoy it. 

Tag List:

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@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

@person-005

[pearlessance]

A Dance In The Dark

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Joel has always taken care of you. Always been your kind, attentive protector. And that doesn’t change, even when you read a scene from a dark romance novel and discover your tastes may be a bit more sordid than you once thought. But even in this he wants to grant you your every wish—and when he offers to put on a mask and chase you through the woods, the opportunity is just too wicked to pass up.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content MDNI, feelings of embarrassment and shame, established relationship, Joel ties readers hands with his belt, knife play, BDSM undertones (primal play specifically), sexual aggression, degradation, fingering, p in v, hair pulling, shameless smut this is basically just pure filth

NOTE: this is a cowrite i did with joelmillersgirlfriend! we busted this out in less than two days because i was bound and determined to get this published on the best holiday of the year! please check out her stuff over on AO3 where we have several other cowrites because i love her 🩷

happy halloween my loves 🩷

Read on AO3!

MASTERLIST

You don’t tell him right away. Don’t tell him at all, really. 

Joel discovers your peculiar fascination all on his own.

He’s late coming home from work. His dinner sits on a plate in the microwave, leftovers packaged and put in the fridge for his lunch tomorrow. His lack of punctuality is nothing new, but you’ve always been good at filling the time and finding a distraction while you wait for him. 

On this particular night, you’ve changed out of your clothes and into one of his T-shirts, nestled into a soft cocoon on his side of the bed, book in hand. The tea in your mug on your nightstand has gone tepid, too lost between the pages to consume anything but the content in a timely manner. 

You’d found it in the horror section, a book written by a name you’d never heard of, a story of a young woman’s abduction with overarching themes of perseverance and self-discovery. You find it a bit graphic from time to time, the details of her torment vivid and lifelike. But that’s to be expected in a horror novel and doesn’t surprise you.

The part that does surprise you, however, is the romantic undercurrent between the woman and her captor. He makes declarations of love, fully admitting his obsession with the young woman, claiming to want nothing from her but her own empowerment.

It’s an even bigger surprise when you reach the halfway point and discover that your horror novel is also an erotica. And the text is well-written, pulling you into its depths, and you think it might be the craziest yet best book you’ve ever read if for nothing else than the way it makes your heart race behind your ribcage.

“Is it that good?”

His voice startles you so badly the book falls from your hands and into your lap. “What?”

Joel laughs, a soft sound of amusement. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, toeing off his shoes. He leans over the edge of the bed to press his lips to your forehead, and you find yourself swimming in the subtle affection.

And you know it’s because you’ve been reading smut for the last three hours straight, but the feel of his lips against your skin is heavenly. You abandon the book, tucking the edge of the dust jacket inside the pages to mark your place and discarding it onto the nightstand. It’s second nature as you twist your hands into the soft fabric of his flannel and pull him close.

He smells like pine and sawdust and sweat. His hands are rough and calloused as he cradles your face, lips turning upwards against yours. When you deepen the kiss, sliding your soft tongue against his, Joel laughs again, a little darker this time. He pulls away and the loss makes you whimper because you need him. And the bastard knows it. Because when his gaze roams over your face, lingering on your lips, there’s a heavy undertone of lust behind the playfulness. “S’alright, sweet girl,” he says gently. “None of that whinin’. M’gonna take care of you like I always do. Just wanna know what’s brought this on is all.”

You’re not sure you can admit the truth to him. And even more than that, you don’t have the words to explain that what’s got you so worked up is a scene in your book where the main character is being chased through the woods, her captor wearing a Halloween mask, under the pretense that if he catches her, he’s going to fuck her. Your cheeks warm at just the idea of such an admission, so instead you say, “I just missed you is all.”

Joel doesn’t believe it for a second. He knows you like the back of his hand and sees easily through the lie. And when he glances at your book on the nightstand twice, you know you’ve been caught before he even says a word. “Thought that was one of those scary books you like.”

“It is,” you tell him. Because, technically, it’s the truth.

He narrows his eyes at you, that all-knowing smirk still plastered on his face. “Yeah? Bein’ scared’s what’s got you all squirmy like this?”

As much as you’d like to deny it, to argue his assessment, Joel leans over a little further and his weight on top of you, heavy and sure and safe, makes your breath catch in your lungs. Warmth pools low in your belly and that low, husky tone in his voice only makes matters worse. 

“Think whatever’s in that book’s got you all worked up. What’s it about, baby? Hm?” Joel shoves the blanket out of the way and slides his hand between your body and his. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling of his hands on you, the contrast of his roughness against all your softest parts. It’s like the first time every time, and you can feel the steady thump of your heart as it hammers behind your sternum.

Heat rises up your chest when his hand touches your favorite spot, already knowing what he’s going to say. You’re drenched, the insides of your thighs slick with excitement. Joel breathes out a tell-tale hiss at the feeling, pulling back to glance down at you. Humor is suddenly nowhere to be found on his face, no smirks or teasing words. Just dark, hot lust, turning Joel’s eyes black.

“Christ,” Joel groans, continuing to explore between your legs. 

You don’t want to tell him what the book’s about, and thankfully he seems to forget he’d asked the question as his long fingers find their place, curling inside of you. 

Joel keeps his promise. He takes care of the ache for you like he always does. He makes you finish on his fingers and his tongue and when he finally sinks deep inside you it feels like relief. You warm up leftovers for him afterward, and he doesn’t pressure you about talking about your book. Instead, he tells you about his day while the two of you sit at the kitchen table and the light of his love fills you from the inside out.

You finish the book in less than two days, but its content lives in your head for far longer. 

Showering, cooking, running errands - you find yourself thinking about that scene in the woods so often you begin to wonder if it’s altered your brain chemistry.

That weekend you go out for drinks with a couple of girlfriends, letting Joel know you’ll likely be late coming home. He makes you promise to call him if you need a ride and says he’s going to invite Tommy over to watch the game.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Joel’s little brother practically lived with the two of you until Maria stepped into the picture, and you pinky swear to call if you need him.

You don’t, though. You spend more time gossiping and laughing and catching up than you do drinking. But it’s dark when you pull into the driveway, and though you don’t see Tommy’s truck you assume Joel might have picked him up and you fully expect to see him standing in your kitchen with a hand in the fridge grabbing another beer. 

Tommy’s nowhere to be found, though. And there’s no referee calling shots on the flat screen. There’s no sound at all, in fact. At first, it alarms you. But then you see Joel sprawled out on the couch in sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt with a book in his hand.

He glances up from the pages only long enough to smile up at you and say, “Hey, sweetheart. Have a good time?”

You hesitate, watching him from where you stand at the doorway. Joel read occasionally, but only if he needed to. If he wanted to learn a new song on guitar, if he had taken on a new car project and had to teach himself how to repair it. He didn’t read for luxury.

“Yeah, it was nice. What about you? Where’s Tommy?” you questioned, tiptoeing over to where Joel was spread out. The book was positioned in a way that didn’t allow you to see its cover, but it most definitely wasn’t one of Joel’s manuals. 

Joel turned to grin at you, his eyes scanning your body, stopping to look at the frown on your lips. 

“He canceled, ditched me to hang out with Maria,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. Your frown deepened as you moved closer to Joel, still eyeing the book in his hand that was conveniently covered by his large palms. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come back sooner,” you said, reaching down to run your palm through his gray-streaked hair. You had convinced him to stop touching up his roots, some sick part of you loving how mature he looked. 

“I didn’t wanna interrupt. ‘Sides, I wanted to see what got you all worked up the other night,” Joel explained casually, finally exposing the book he was holding. All of the colors left your face as you processed what was happening, that he was more than halfway done with the story. Joel was well into reading the disturbing erotica, but somehow still hadn’t put it down. 

“This is some dark stuff. You’re telling me that this is what had you drippin’? Had you clenched around me, legs shaking?” Joel asked, breaking heavy eye contact with you to go back to reading.

“Come on, Joel. Give it back,” you whined, reaching down to pull it out of his hands. The word embarrassed didn’t cover how you truly felt. Mortified was a better fit.

He wrestled around in your hold, turning his back to you and shielding the book with his body. “Not yet, I’m just about to reach the good part. I wanna know what happens when he catches her.”

Maybe not mortified. You were fucking humiliated. Tears threatened to spill as you reached down, pawing at Joel’s arms to grab the book. “Stop it. It’s just a stupid fantasy, I know it’s dumb.”

Joel glanced back to see the wetness filling your eyes, instantly releasing his grip so you could take the book back. His large palm reached up to cradle your face, to comfort you.

“Hey now, I never said it was dumb. I didn’t mean to upset you. I guess I never really knew you were into that kind of stuff. Nothing’s wrong with it.”

His words are sincere and make you feel a little bit better, but you still feel ashamed that Joel had read the book. You know he’d never judge you, but it feels like your closest kept secret has been thrust into the light without your permission. Warmth spreads over your face, down your neck, twisting your stomach into knots. “I know but I…I just didn’t expect you to read it.”

“Then I won’t,” he says quickly, pushing himself up off the couch. He places a warm hand on the side of your neck and says again, “I won’t. I promise. No tears baby, alright?”

You nod and sniffle, trusting him, knowing that his words hold sincerity. Exhaling a long breath, you try to shove the mortification away and focus instead on this man before you who loves you enough to learn everything about you, even the things best kept hidden. 

Joel gives you the book and you shove it in the back of your side of the closet, hidden beneath a shoe box. He helps you out of your dress and showers with you, washing your hair while you tell him all about girls’ night and the newest gossip.

After, when you’re both cozy in bed, wrapped up tight in his strong arms, stealing his warmth with your cold feet against his legs, you think maybe you might’ve overreacted about the book. You know Joel would never judge you, not even about this. You think maybe the embarrassment comes from somewhere within, that maybe it’s more like insecurity than shame. And so you say, “I’m sorry about earlier. You can finish the story if you want.”

Joel presses a kiss into your hair. “Not really my type of book, anyhow.”

Even though he says it mostly to comfort you, the words make you laugh. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and can feel the vibration of his amusement as he shares the moment with you.

And when you both settle enough to speak again, his voice is a little quieter as he asks, “You want me to do that to you?”

This time you fight your shame. Wrap it up tight and store it away for something else, something more worthy than a peculiar taste. You think about yourself in place of the main character, running between thick tree trunks with dead leaves crunching beneath your feet. 

You think of Joel in place of the woman’s captor, mask over his face, presence dark and looming as he seeks you out. A shiver runs down your spine, so sharp and demanding that your body trembles in his hold. 

“S’okay if you do,” he murmurs. You can feel each word through his chest, a delicious tremor against your suddenly too-hot skin. Joel lifts his hand and brushes your hair gently away from your face, thumb tracing the outline of your lips. “Know it did somethin’ to you. Turned you real greedy the other day. Hm?”

Arousal pools low in your belly, and you can hear your heart in your ears. You think he could convince you to do anything when he talks like that, voice low and gravelly. “Maybe,” you say. “I don’t know.”

“Read another part,” he whispers. His thumb travels slowly down your chin, over the curve of your jaw, down the column of your throat. “He’s got that switchblade in his hand. Touches her real nice, all sweet and loving. But he keeps that blade right…” Joel drags his index finger slowly across your neck. “ Here .”

The sound that escapes you is more than need, it’s something else entirely; more like desperation. You didn’t think it was possible to want him any more than you already do but this Joel who strikes just the right amount of fear in you? He makes your mouth water, makes you tremble and shake with just the caress of a single touch.

He grips the back of your thigh with his free hand, pulling you close, pressing you tight against the growing erection behind the cotton fabric of his boxers. Joel’s always been insatiable for you, sometimes getting worked up just from staring at you too long. But you begin to wonder if this is something he wants, too. “Should take you out someplace real nice,” he mutters. “Get all dressed up. You can wear that pretty pink sundress I like. Take you out to a nice dinner, treat you so fuckin’ good…an’ when the sun sets, I’d drive you someplace real dark. Let you loose.” 

Even though he’s barely touching you, thumb stroking the skin of your hip gently, your clit pulses between your legs, hips shifting against him of their own accord. Your breath comes fast and labored and you think you’ve never been this fucking wet before—never wanted him so bad . It feels like you can’t think, can’t breathe without it, without Joel . 

“Give you a head start,” he continues. “Long enough for me to put a mask on. Wouldn’t even let you see it ‘til I catch you…An’ I will catch you, sweet girl…but you’d have no way of knowin’ who it was. Could be me. Could be anyone.”

The idea is filthy and disgusting but your body doesn’t seem to mind. Your spine arches, breasts pressing up against his chest. Joel lays there stone still, holding you, letting you rut against him like a woman starved. “ Please ,” is all you manage to choke out. He hardly acknowledges the word, but you can feel the smirk form on his lips against the shell of your ear. 

“I’d fuck the good girl right out of you,” he says. “Fuck you ‘til you’re nothin’ but a dumb little slut.”

“Jesus— Joel .” He's degraded you before, but it’s never been like this, never felt like this. You reach between your bodies and palm his cock in your hand, and a dark laugh leaves him as he helps you. 

In a few quick movements, he pulls himself out of his boxers, shoves your panties to the side, and sinks his cock inside of you, filling you so full it hurts . But you don’t care, because there’s nothing more you need than this, and thankfully he understands. Like he always does . 

Joel fucks you right then and there, whispering filthy things all the while, and you think he’s always understood you. Maybe even more than you’re able to understand yourself. Older and wiser and gracious—always giving you exactly what you need, exactly what you want. 

Before you fall asleep that night, he kisses you softly and asks, “Do you want me to tell you before it happens? To warn you?”

You’re not sure how to answer at first. Because the concept as a whole terrifies you; it’s new and foreign and dangerous. And you think you might need the warning to calm yourself enough to enjoy it. 

But you trust Joel. More than anyone else in the world, you know he’ll always keep you safe. You know he’d never do anything to hurt you. 

And so, you pull the blankets tighter around your shoulders and say, “No. I want it to be a surprise.”

That night, you dream about a man chasing you through darkness whose hands feel more familiar than your own. You think about it for the next week. Daydreaming at work, while you’re making dinner, while you’re driving to run errands. It’s all you can think about, the only thing that fills the gaps of silence in your day-to-day life. 

You wait. And wait. And wait . 

Joel tells you Friday night that he’ll have to work overtime this weekend to make up for a lost part shipment. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. Saturday morning he encourages you to sleep in, kisses your forehead before he leaves, tells you he loves you. And despite no inclination from him, you have a feeling that today is the day. 

When you wake up a little while later, the sun casts shadows through the blinds, and you notice that Joel’s placed that pink sundress on his side of the bed. Laid it out for you. 

You shower and groom yourself, mentally preparing for the moment it finally happens. It has to be today. And if Joel is lucky and planned it out right, he’d find out that you opted out of wearing panties underneath the sundress. He’d find you slick, shaved, aching in anticipation. 

He notices your nervous excitement when he comes home from work, late and covered in sweat from a long day. You’re practically bouncing on your heels, having spent the entire day filling the time, waiting for his arrival. The sun had already started to set in the distance - you probably only had about an hour left of the day. 

Please, God, let it be today .

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart. Had an electrician cancel last minute, left me scramblin’ to get the project covered. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he muttered into your lips as he greeted you. His arms wrapped around you, his body warm and hot against the thin fabric of your dress.

“That’s okay,” you say. “Everything go to plan other than that?”

“Sure did. Finally finished up that warehouse over on Cherry Street. Figured I’d go out and celebrate.”

You find yourself deflating at the words. Because, usually, Joel celebrating the end of a big project means the involvement of Tommy, too. And if Tommy’s there, then tonight is decidedly not the night.

Joel seems to notice the change in your demeanor. He places his hand on the side of your face and drags his thumb down your jutting bottom lip, releasing it with a wet pop . “Wouldn’t be a celebration unless I had a pretty little girl to buy a drink, now would it?”

Either way, even if it’s not tonight, you know you’ll enjoy the time with him like you always do. So you shelve your disappointment and timidly ask, “Will it be…just the two of us? Did you want to invite anyone else?”

He shakes his head, a playful spark glinting in his warm eyes. “Nah. Just wanna take my baby out. Give me a minute to change and we’ll head out. Sound good?”

You know your nod of approval probably looks too hopeful, too excited, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not with this golden excitement fills you to the brim, the anticipation making your hands tingle. 

It only takes Joel ten minutes to change out of his work clothes and into a nice pair of jeans and a flannel, but it feels like forever. He asks you about your day while he drives to your favorite restaurant, and listens intently even though you have nothing interesting to say other than the fact that you’ve changed the curtain on the window above the dining room table.

He opens the car door for you and holds your hand as he directs you through the crowd at the restaurant, and orders for you when the waiter comes over. Even though you get the same thing every time, the gesture makes you feel small and safe and cared for.

You drink a glass of wine, and he tries out some sort of hoppy beer. Joel tells you about a song he heard on the radio that he wants to learn on guitar, but while you try to listen all you can think about is what comes after this.

A million thoughts run rampant through your head. He hasn’t said anything about it, hasn’t given you any hints besides laying the sundress out for you, but the rush of it all weighs heavy on your chest. Paired with the lowered inhibitions from the wine and you interrupt him to say, “Joel. Can you just…can you tell me? I changed my mind. I want to know so bad.”

That playfulness returns to his eyes. He tilts his head the smallest bit and leans over the table to hear your whispered words. “Tell you what?”

“You know ,” you insist. “Don’t make me say it here.” Despite the embarrassment that climbs your cheeks as you listen to the chatter around you, you can’t wipe the grin from your face. You try to hide it behind your hand instead. 

“Can’t say I know what you’re gettin’ at here, girl,” he says. But that knowing smirk says otherwise. You can see the challenge in his eyes, the push for you to ask the question you’ve been swallowing down all night. 

Folding your arms on the edge of the table, you lean in as close as you can and ask so softly, “Are you taking me to the woods tonight?”

He smiles—a big, toothy show of enjoyment, and leans back in the booth. Joel’s big, you’ve always known it…but seeing him now, shoulders broad and rugged, arms straining beneath the cotton sleeves of his flannel… God , he makes you weak. You can feel yourself flush beneath his scrutinization. Can feel the familiar stickiness of your arousal begin to gather between your legs, too. “An’ why would I do that, sweetheart? Ain’t nothin’ out there for a little thing like you.”

The wine is sweet on your tongue as you take the last sip and shrug casually, pretending as if your hands don’t tremble with anticipation. You try to put on a show of confidence. “Never know,” you say. “Could be a big, bad wolf out there that needs hunting down.”

Joel laughs at that, but he’s waving down the next waiter he sees for the check.

When you leave the restaurant, you realize now the sun has fully set and the darkness has descended. The moon hands high in the sky, the only illumination granted apart from the headlight of Joel’s truck. He helps you into the passenger side and buckles you in, hands gentle and caring, always taking care of you. 

Pressing a kiss to your shoulder, he asks a single-word question. One you know is likely equally for his comfort as it is yours. “Okay?”

You are. Despite the fear that begins to rise in your chest, knowing the impending events likely to unfold, despite the shadows and the traversing of the unknown, you know that you’ll always be safe with Joel. “I’m good,” you promise.

He drives for far longer than you expect. Past every stoplight, outside of the city limits, weaving through the backroads until you’re well and truly lost. Every time you pass a wooded area you think he’ll slow to a stop, but he doesn’t. And every moment fuels the adrenaline coursing through you, ratcheting both your panic and excitement to immeasurable heights.

When he does finally stop, pulling off to the side of a road you swear you’ve never been down before, your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears. 

He pulls the key from the ignition and the lights cut out, wrapping the both of you in complete darkness. You can make him out just enough, though. Enough to see the predatory look on his face, enough to sense the danger you’ve placed yourself in.

Your mouth goes dry and your brain goes fuzzy as you watch Joel reach into his pants pocket, pulling out a switchblade that glimmers in the moonlight. The small knife makes a snapping noise when it opens, gleaming, taunting you. Excitement buzzed through your body, a nagging voice in the back of your head screaming to run. 

“Better get a move on,” Joel whispers, his face shadowed and lips pressed into a grim line. The energy had shifted so quickly that you were uncertain what to do. Even if you did try to run, you doubted that your shaking body would make it very far. 

A brooding intensity surrounded Joel, and even though he barely moved to reach back and grab something out of the back seat, the air still felt tense with a silent warning. In his free hand was a gas mask, worn and frayed. The round, glass eye lenses were clouded, displaying its years of disuse. He reached up with one hand to slip the mask down his face, leaving only his eyes revealed.

The white-hot heat that was burning through your veins somehow ignited even further when he finally locked eyes with you. Joel’s eyes were narrowed, carrying a different energy behind them; one that was full of mischief and lust. The moment lasted for a couple of beats…

One, two, three…

And then Joel’s hand snapped out, reaching rapidly to lock around your wrist. Thinking, breathing; none of it mattered. The only thing on your mind was running, some animalistic survival instinct that you didn’t know still existed within you taking over. Your wrist easily slipped out of his grip as you flung open the car door, escaping Joel and running into the dark forest.

There was a chill in the air that made your breath fan out in front of you while you ran, your heavy footsteps practically echoing through the woods. Every couple of moments you would stop and glance around, attempting to see through the endless rows of trees. You didn’t see anything and only heard the sound of your own breathing.

Joel could be scary when he wanted to. Like that one time, a couple weeks into knowing him. Some asshole had followed you around the grocery store late one evening, trailing behind aisle after aisle until your hands were shaking in fear. Joel was one of the only people you had befriended in town since you were new to the area. 

He’d showed up five minutes after you’d called him, despite the fact that you knew he lived over ten minutes away. Joel approached the man, and you were grateful that you weren’t the one he was speaking to. Despite not hearing his words from where you were standing, you could see the dark anger on his face, a look that made your blood run cold. 

The guy who was following you left immediately after, scurrying off with his tail between his legs. Joel followed you home in his truck even though your apartment was on the other side of town. He’d never been scary to you .

Until now. 

Joel’s body came out of nowhere, grabbing you and yanking you against him. The switchblade pressed onto your throat, your heartbeat pounding against the cold metal. You couldn’t see Joel since his vice-grip had your back pushed on his chest. 

“You call that running?” he asked, letting his fingers skate down the skin of your thigh, just under the low cut of your sundress. His calloused fingertips caught against your soft skin,  raising higher and higher.

“I think you wanted me to catch you. Here you are, lettin’ me rub on you like the little slut I knew you were. I haven’t even properly touched you yet, but you’re already spreading your legs for me.”

Your face warmed at his degrading words. He was right. The excitement of the story wasn’t only the anticipation, but it was the thrill of the hunt. As much as you wanted Joel to touch you, to make your vision blur just from using his fingers, you knew you couldn’t give in so easily. 

With all of your strength, you push away both of his hands, ripping out of his grip. He reached down to grab you but you snatched his shirt instead, pulling at it fiercely in an attempt to dodge under him. You heard the fabric rip, but you were too afraid to really acknowledge it. 

You took it as an opportunity to escape, dodging Joel’s grasp. You wasted no time in steadying yourself before sprinting away, only sparing a quick glance back to see Joel. His shirt was half ripped, the gas mask blocking any form of expression on his face. 

“Damn, baby,” Joel spoke. He stood, shrugging off his flannel before using the switchblade to finish ripping the fabric of his shirt. “If you wanted me to get naked, you should’ve just said so.”

As much as you wanted to watch the way Joel’s chest flexed in the moonlight, you couldn’t handle any distractions. You had to run.

And you did run for what felt like hours. By the time you stopped for a moment, your heartbeat was in your throat and you could feel a slick mess building between your thighs. Your legs were speckled with dirt and pieces of leaves from the way you were kneeling on the ground, searching for Joel. 

You didn’t see anything extraordinary through the branches of the forest, but you heard something. A snap.

It was enough to get you back on your feet in an attempt to flee.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. Though your eyes betrayed you, you could sense his closeness, could sense the space between you lessening with each passing moment. Sweat beads at your hairline and your panting echoes between the trees.

The cracking sound of wood beneath his heavy work boots cuts through the deafening silence, and you turn abruptly and throw yourself in the opposite direction. But Joel’s fast, too fast . 

He catches up to you in a second, and you know you won’t get lucky twice, yet still you try. You push your legs as hard as you can, running as fast as you can, trying to navigate the uneven terrain.

Joel’s fingertips grasp your shoulder, and you pull away from him so violently you lose your balance, scraping your knees against the rough forest floor.

You quickly turn onto your back, kicking yourself away from him, trying to see through the thick fog of terror in your mind. His slow breaths sound mechanical through the gas mask’s respirator. He looms over you menacingly, looking every bit the wicked man you know he can be.

His shoulders rise and fall slowly, his breaths even while you struggle to catch yours. He tilts his head, a predator indulging in the chase.

And you know right then that you’ve been caught. Stuck in the spider’s web with no hope of extraction. Your voice shakes when you speak. “Joel?”

There’s no softness in him now. None of that gentle ease he always has with you. He lowers himself to the ground, knees on either side of your hips, and grabs for your hands.

You struggle against his hold, even knowing it’s useless. He wraps a calloused palm around your wrists and squeezes tight, and when you buck your hips up against him, trying to wiggle out from beneath his heavy weight, it serves no purpose but to further diminish the little energy remaining in your weary limbs. 

Joel raises your arms above your head, pushing your too-sensitive skin deep into the earth, trapping you in place. You can hear the clicking of his tongue behind the mask. “Stupid little girl,” he says. “Never had a chance. Did you?”

His voice is muffled, deeper. You know it’s Joel. Behind the fear, behind the adrenaline, you know it’s him. But it doesn’t sound like him, not in the way you’re so accustomed to, and it sends a chill down your spine.

He adjusts his position, sliding down your legs just enough to grip the bottom of your dirt-stained sundress and rip it upwards. The air feels like ice against your center, slick with your arousal. You clit pulses with need, despite the way you still fight him, struggling nonsensically in his tight hold. “Look at how fuckin’ wet you are, baby,” he says. “Haven’t even touched you yet an’ that pretty pussy’s just fuckin’ crying for it, ain’t she?”

Your spine bends, arching off the ground. The sounds that leave your mouth are animalistic, a desperate whimpering, a wanton need.

And then suddenly his hand is tangled in your hair, pulling hard at the roots, holding your head up just enough to witness your exposure. “I said look ,” Joel grits out. “Want you to watch just how fuckin’ selfish she is. You listenin’ to me?”

“Yes— yes, ” you choke out. The muscles in your neck strain to keep your head held high enough to see the moment he lets go of your hair. But you heard him loud and clear, and you do just as he says.

His hand slips between your legs, and you fight the urge to let squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers slide over your clit. He circles it roughly and you can feel yourself clench around nothing, your body begging to be filled, begging for Joel . He uses the perfect amount of pressure, deft fingers moving fast, and it takes less than a minute before that familiar warmth begins to trickle in. 

But you want more, you always want more, and so you find yourself lifting your hips upwards, trying to shift his hand lower, trying to let him know right where you need him most. 

Joel laughs. A sick, maniacal sound that sends a cold flood of terror through you. “See? What’d I say? Fuckin’ greedy ,” he says. You know it’s meant to be an insult, but there’s a strange fondness as he says it. An undertone of worship.

You sigh out his name, unable to form another word, forgetting all else that came before this moment, disregarding all things that may come after. All that matters is this, all that matters is him . 

“She wants it so bad,” he murmurs. “An’ I’m gonna give it to her.” His movements are cruel and almost painful as he turns you over, pulling your hips out from under him. Joel shifts your wrists to his other hand and sets them against the small of your back, using his free hand to force your head down. The earthy smell of decaying leaves greets you, and you greedily suck in cold breaths of air, trying to will your heart to slow its racing. 

You can’t see his movements but you can feel him shift behind you, and a second later can hear the familiar clink of his belt buckle and the swish as he rips it from the loops of his jeans. The bite of leather is harsh as he winds it around your wrists, tightening it in a familiar, practiced way.

“Joel,” you breathe out. It sounds like a plea in your ears, and maybe it is. Because everything is too much, too intense . You need all of him, you think. Need the wickedness, that dark thing he’s been hiding all this time. But you need your Joel, too. The one who buckles you in, who kisses your forehead before he leaves for work in the morning. The one you know will always keep you safe, even when he defiles you. “ Joel ,” you say again. 

His hands freeze on your hips, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin as he leans over and presses his cheek to yours. He waits for you to speak, giving you as long as you need to sort through the heightened emotions. 

Your brain feels like mush and you struggle to form a coherent thought that’s more than one or two words strung together. You know you’re terrified. But you know, too, that you don’t want him to stop. And so all you manage to say is a barely audible, “I love you.”

He cradles your head in his hand, thumb stroking gently over your temple. And then he runs his nose over the curve of your jaw, and though he doesn’t say it, doesn’t break the spell he’s so carefully created in order to indulge your wildest fantasies, you know that no one has ever loved anyone the way that Joel Miller loves you. 

But just as quickly as that gentleness appeared, it vanishes into nothing like the fog of your breath in the cold air.

“Gonna show you what happens when little girls roam into the woods,” he says. You can feel his erection as he presses it against you, heavier and harder than you think it’s ever been before. “Can try an’ hunt down the big bad wolf all you want. But if he catches you …”

You’re a trembling mess in his strong hands. His words are the only beacon keeping you grounded, you’re certain of it. 

The metal teeth of his zipper grate as he pulls it down and undoes the button of his jeans, pulling his cock out. He slides the head through your arousal, coating himself in your slick. “Just know, whatever he decides to do with you is gonna hurt .”

And then he’s pushing his length into you in one smooth movement, leaving you no time to adjust to the size of him. The stretch is painful and foreboding, every muscle in your body tensing up at the impact. “ Fuck— oh my God —”

“Can pray all you want, but there’s no one out here to save you,” he spits. Joel doesn’t give you a single second to breathe before he’s rocking his hips into you, setting a punishing pace. You can feel his cock throb inside you, can feel that he’s enjoying this just as much as you are. 

You grit your teeth against the pain of it, fingers flexing in his grip. “ Joel —I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can, baby,” he says, voice low and echoing. “I know you can. So shut up and fuckin’ take it.” He leans over you, pressing the side of your face into the ground. You can taste moss and earth but with each thrust, the pain is quickly subsiding, replaced instead with a blinding pleasure. 

That warmth builds again, coiling around your spine. Pressure builds quickly and you can feel yourself dripping around him, making a mess of the coarse hair above his cock. “Joel— fuck .”

He reaches on hand around your hip, easily finding your clit and strumming it with swift, practiced movements. You clench around him and he lets out a deep groan in response. When he leans forward and tells you, “Open your mouth,” you do so immediately, brain fuzzy and overstimulated, unwilling to do anything unless he tells you to. 

Joel slides two of his fingers into your mouth and shoves them so far down you nearly choke. It’s instinctual when you close your swollen lips around him and suck. 

You can hear the smile in his words as he speaks. “There you go,” he mutters. “Told you how this would go, didn’t I? Told you what would happen. Nothin’ but a dumb little slut for me now, baby, hm? Yeah?” 

All you can do is nod, unable to form a single coherent thought. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, almost unexpected. It washes through you, electricity dancing beneath your prickling skin. Your moans reverberate through the trees, and you’re suddenly glad he’s driven you so far out so no one can hear you. 

“Oh, she likes that ,” Joel says, talking you through it, circling your clit and fucking into you a little harder. “Likes the way it feels to be all full’a me, hm? Yeah, there you go. Gonna give this pretty pussy just what she needs.” 

His rhythm falters, staggering just the smallest bit. And while he’s just given you the best orgasm of your fucking life, there’s something about this that makes you feel finally satisfied, full in a way you’ve never been before.

The moment he bottoms out inside of you, Joel turns you on your back and pulls the mask off of his face. His cheeks are flushed and rosy, but there’s a sense of completion in his eyes that you’re sure is mirrored in your own. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, the bridge of your nose. 

And all you can say is, “Oh my God.”

Joel laughs. It’s one of those full, good-natured belly laughs. Your favorite kind. “Well? Was I better than your book?”

You cover your face with your hands, muffling your giggles between your fingers. “Much better.”

[ink-and-dagger]

do you have any silco x reader fic recs? both on ao3 and tumblr?

Oh boy do I.

I have zero time for reading these days (sob sob) so I'm sadly not at all familiar with any new fics post S2 being aired. But let me lay before you a sumptuous feast; lovingly prepared by the old guard of the Silco fucker society.

Reader's responsibility applies - please check tags etc etc..

Flawless - @a-gal-with-taste

An apt title, for Gal's writing is, indeed, flawless. Silco x Sex Worker!Reader. Absolutely brutal and beautiful - to me, Gal is the Angela Carter of the Silco fandom.

Here be Dragons // Hic Sunt Dracones - @sherwood-forests

This will always be one of my top recommends for a Silco x Reader fic. It's unlike anything else that I've seen in the fandom, and it reminds me of one of my favourite books Uprooted by Naomi Novik. Gives me the cosy feels.

Penance - @astudyincontrasts

Hands down the hottest, sexiest Silco fic in my opinion. If you enjoyed Fleabag or want to bang that priest from Midnight Mass then you need to get on this fic ASAP. To this day I cannot set foot in a church without getting horny. Thanks Study.

Secret Ingredient - @sweatandwoe

This is the Silco fic that made me want to write my own. DWM exists because of Sweaty. Domestic romance and drama of the absolute best kind.

Come Morning - @chickenparm

Parm has so many Silco fics and they are all incredible and required reading for the fandom. But I've chosen this one because it's so incredibly real and human, and will rip your heart to shreds.

Swapped - @silcoitus

I love seeing my blorbos in Situations™ and this is one hell of a Situation™ to find oneself in. Fun, funny, and full of tension. I get the pleasure of beta-reading this one, and I always have the best time squawking at Coi in the comments bar on google docs.

Go, Team! - @vasiktomis

This is actually Marcus x Reader x Silco and it's fucking genius. Vas is a genius and a pervert and I love them and they're my role model. Everyone absolutely has the right not to engage with content that they're not interested in but also if you don't read this fic then you're a coward.

Bend But Not Break - @constantfragmentation

This is a Jane Eyre retelling in the form of a Silco x Reader fic. Yeah that's right. Regency Silco. Emotional constipation cranked up to the max and coats with tails? Yes please. Ensure that you're near a fainting couch whilst reading because you will swoon.

Art in the Heart - @juniper-sunny

Juni was out here giving Young Revolutionary Silco his time in the spotlight long before he was ever animated. If you're a new to the fandom and have come here specifically because of young Silco then AITH is required reading. Head over to Juni's you'll be fed good.

To The Depths - @cognacandlilac

Full disclosure, I haven't actually had the chance to read this fic yet. But it has been on my TBR for an embarrassingly long time and every time I see a snippet I'm like "hot damn I need to get on this pronto" because I just know I'm going to be totally obsessed and consumed by it.

I've only picked one fic for each of the above but I would honestly recommend just tearing through the entirety of their fic lists because there are some absolute masterpieces in there. This is also far from an extensive list - there are so many incredible writers in the fandom and I'm so sorry for anyone I've missed off. I say this with my whole heart - the Silco fandom is easily one of the most talented and skilled corners of the internet. We may be fairly small in numbers compared to other characters/fandoms, but by God the art and stories we have are platinum quality.

[daydreamerdrew]

Spicy Tales (1988) #17, reprinting a story from the October 1938 issue of Spicy Adventure

[valeriehalla]

I have gotten a lot of messages saying that they really love the presentation of CURSE/KISS/CUTE. Often the commenter in question can’t say what exactly it is about the formatting that they appreciate, but that it just reads well and looks good. Well!!! Allow me to bare my wealth of secret knowledge for you once and for all:

I sorta just did some research into book typography...?

Here’s something you should know about web development, alright: typography on the web is really, really bad. The tools we have at our disposal—HTML and CSS—are incredibly powerful, but they are set up to fight you every step of the way towards Good Typography. When you know what you’re looking for, you can fix all the common issues quickly and easily. But it’s not easy to know what to look for, because

problematic typography is overwhelmingly the norm on the web, and

good typography is invisible.

Here’s a screenshot from CURSE/KISS/CUTE episode 0:

Now, I don’t want this post to come across as prescriptive. It is not my intention to tell you, “This is what good typography looks like, so follow my lead exactly.” I made a lot of choices with the typography of my web novel: many of those choices would not make sense in other contexts. What I want to convey to you is what those choices are, so that you will know they’re available to be made.

I mentioned that the web “fights you” when it comes to good typography. What do I mean by that? Well, check this out:

This is how that passage of text renders “by default.” In other words, this is how a web browser would render that text without any input from me about what styles to apply. It kind of sucks ass! But it also looks pretty familiar, right? This is not that far off from how a lot of websites—even websites full of prose (looking at you, AO3)—render text.

I think the most illustrative thing to do here would be to walk you through my thought process and show you, step by step, what decisions I made to turn this unstyled text into the styled version you see in the novel.

So, first things first:

1. We have got to shrink that text column.

Computer monitors... are wide. They are wider than they are tall. They are so wide, and they have so many pixels. This means you can fit a lot of characters on them. If you wanted, you could just have a wall of characters from the left side of the screen all the way to the right side. Talk about efficient!!

You should never, ever, ever do this.

This is one choice that I actually will make a prescriptive statement about, because it’s supported by quite a lot of research: fairly narrow text columns are more legible. Specifically, research seems to support the idea that a width in the range of 50 to 70 characters per line is the most comfortable for people to read*. Every font is different, so it takes a little doing to turn that “characters” figure into a pixel measurement; I went with 512 CSS pixels for the maximum width of my text column:

Isn’t that just so much nicer to read already?

*A commenter reminds me that I’d be remiss not to point out that the research on column width legibility isn’t completely conclusive. You do want to limit the width of your text columns, but going over the 70 character-per-line recommendation isn’t necessarily the end of the world, and you might have good reasons to do so. I did not: as mentioned, one of my goals was to mimic book-style typography, and books by nature have fairly restrained column widths, on account of they’re books.

2. Picking a font.

I’m not going to give you the blow-by-blow on how I decided what font to use. The short story is that I asked some designers, and one of the recommendations I got was the free font Crimson Pro, which I took a liking to immediately:

It’s just an all-around attractive serif font, but one thing I really like about it for use in a novel is its highly-visible quotation marks. They’re just kinda jumbo! They’re real big! Easy to see! In a novel, those things aren’t just ornamentation. It makes a great deal of practical sense for them to stand out just a bit. It also has a fairly large x-height, unlike a lot of the more traditional options, which is good for legibility on a computer screen.

3. Adjusting the line-height

Web browsers default to a line-height of about 1.2em, which, as you can probably tell, is quite cramped. If you go and Google “optimal line height for legibility”, you’ll get a number of results right off the bat suggesting 1.5em. Sounds good! Let’s do that:

Well... hmm. That’s definitely an improvement, but between you and me, it actually looks a bit too spacey to my eyes. I wonder why?

I’ll cut to the chase: the 1.5em recommendation makes some assumptions about the font you’re using. In Arial, the letter “A” is about 0.6em tall; in Crimson Pro, it’s about 0.5em. That means that there’s no one-size-fits-all solution to spacing your lines, because different fonts have different amounts of empty space baked in. How annoying!

Let me tell you something about the kind of nerd I am. When I had this realization, I grabbed some books off my shelf and pulled out a literal micrometer. I started measuring the line-heights against various font features to see if there were any patterns I could spot in professional typesetting. Here’s what I found:

Almost every book on my shelf spaces lines such that the distance between one baseline and the next is about three times the x-height. How cool is that? I clapped my hands like a seal when I put this together.

Adjusting the line-height to match what I observed in the wild gives us this:

It’s a subtle difference, but to my eyes it feels just right. It’s almost like magic!

4. Paragraph spacing...

Let’s address the elephant in the room. Probably the most controversial choice I made with CURSE/KISS/CUTE’s typography was to opt for book-style paragraph indentation rather than web-style paragraph spacing—like so:

I did this for a few reasons:

It’s what I’m used to. I’ve read a lot of books, and this is just the way that books are formatted. I think for something aspiring to the title of “novel”, there’s value in making it look the way a reader probably expects a novel to look.

A novel has a lot of paragraph breaks in it. A paragraph in, say, an encyclopedia entry might go on for half a page or more; whereas it is unusual for a paragraph in a modern work of narrative prose to run for more than a handful of sentences, especially in any scene with dialogue. Because paragraph breaks are so common, spacing between paragraphs in a novel results in a lot of wasted space. Also, subjectively speaking, the additional space seems to me to lend an undue amount of weight to paragraph breaks. I’m just starting a new thought; there’s no need for a 21-gun salute, you know?

Having said that, here are some good reasons you might decide not to do paragraph indentation anyway:

Doing it right requires a bit of extra legwork. Notice how the very first paragraph in the image above has no indentation. That’s because it’s the start of a new section, and the first paragraph in a section traditionally goes unindented. This is an easy detail to miss, and it can be difficult to wrangle CSS into doing it for you automatically.

Web users don’t expect it. For the first decade of the web’s existence, there was no good way to do paragraph indentation; by the time CSS rolled around and made it easy, paragraph spacing had already become the norm. And while CURSE/KISS/CUTE may be a novel, it is also, specifically, a web novel!

But it’s my house and I get to make the rules, so I went with indentation. Incidentally, there seems to be a dire lack of research into the question of whether indentation or spacing is more legible for readers—but the data that does exist appears inconclusive at best. So, the choice really does come down to vibes.

5. The tragedy of justification.

You’ll note that one way in which I did not make my web novel look like a paper novel is the text alignment. It’s un-justified: the right margin is ripsaw-ragged.

This is because it is not possible to justify text on the web.

Oh, you can try. Look right here: there’s a CSS property for it and everything. Just turn on “text-align: justify” and...

Nightmare! The interword spacing on that first line is almost as wide as the indentation!

Reader, I’m afraid that your web browser is simply too dumb. That’s not the browser’s fault: robust algorithms for justifying text without creating these distractingly huge gaps between words have existed for many decades, and modern computers are powerful enough to run them in real time with little performance impact. It’s just, uh—nobody has ever bothered to implement them into web browsers. It is the damnedest thing.

I tried, I really did. You can mitigate this problem a bit if you enable automatic hyphenation, but browsers are unfortunately also kind of dumb at hyphenating. Firefox, for example, will refuse to hyphenate any word containing a capital letter, so any sentence with a lot of proper nouns in it is a lost cause. I tried manually inserting soft hyphens with a text preprocessor I wrote myself, but still these overjustified lines plagued me: when the text column narrows, for example on a phone, even hyphens can’t save you. The line-breaking algorithm is simply too naïve to optimize for well-justified text, and that’s not something you can fix as a web developer.

As a result, my heavy-hearted recommendation is to never use text justification. It’s just too distracting.

6. And then some extra stuff just for me

I added drop-caps because it looks neat and I made the ellipses spacier because I think it looks good when it, uh, when they are spacier. I think that looks pretty good that’s just my opinion though.

That’s all! Hope you learned something bye!!!

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 12: The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy

I realized the other day that, even though I like to bounce around from place to place in the Lukola timeline, I probably needed to start tightening things up on the ship if I ever wanted to get to the end of the story. And, yes, dammit, this story better have a finale at some point because there’s nothing more annoying than an open-ended ending, particularly in the romance genre.

Today we’re going to take a quick jaunt over to Italy because –

NO! Not because Luke is allegedly filming there. If you’re into real-time stalking, you’re in the wrong blog. But, I’m sure there’s a Discord for that.

It’s because I’ve had several people ask for my opinion about the change in behavior between Luke and Nicola during their Day 1 interviews there. Wait – people are interested in my thoughts? Wow, that’s actually kind of nice. Thank you! Okay, back to what I was saying –

Was there a change in behavior when Luke and Nicola reached Italy? Yeah, actually, there kind of was.

By May 9, we had been gifted with a slew of material from Luke, Nicola, and the Bridgerton cast and, I must admit, those early interviews are some of the most entertaining of the tour. In the very beginning, Nicola appeared as the utmost professional – charming, intelligent, and witty at the right moments – and Luke played her likeable counterpart to “Book Colin” perfection – bouncing between being awkwardly boyish and wickedly roguish, all while looking at Nicola like she had just served him homemade peanut butter crumble.

The two of them together, playing off each other, in my opinion, was better than Bridgerton Season 3 (you cannot beat the World Tour being 99% Luke and Nicola, with only a few random side characters taking up screentime). There was some major “Electric Love” radiating from those two throughout the tour, but it seemed very much heightened in the beginning (probably because they hadn’t yet answered the same question 67 times). By the way, if you haven’t heard that song by Børns, go have a listen. It will, at the very least – hopefully – put you in an upbeat mood for the day.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes – was there a change in behavior between Luke and Nicola when they reached Italy?

Absolutely.

Do I know why?

Absolutely not.

Perhaps Luke was bent because someone spilled his coffee, or Nicola was upset because her stylist made her to wear that little silver bow in her hair. In my opinion, the most intriguing part of Day 1 of the Italy press junket was that Luke and Nicola struggled with answering the question, “What is love?” I swear they both babbled on like two kids in debate class who hadn’t bothered to read the material given to them before taking their respective podiums. They finally seemed to settle on Luke’s “Maybe it’s, like, connection.” Well, they seemed to be missing the “connection” that day.

Honestly, no one can explain their “don’t stand so close to me” vibe during those first day interviews except Luke and Nicola. But, we can at least have some fun and speculate about it with a bird’s eye view. At this point, you should know that I love spreading the puzzle pieces out and seeing how they might all connect. Most people – when putting a puzzle together – start with the side pieces, right? You’ll get my joke in a moment (I hope).

In March 2024 – I don’t know the specific date because my timeline is rather murky going back that far (I was unaware Lukola even existed!) – Luke traveled to Los Angeles for a photo spread with InStyle magazine. I’ve heard two versions of this story. The first being that Luke traveled to Los Angeles with Antonia alone; the second being that he traveled to Los Angeles with his friend group, which included Antonia. I couldn’t tell you which is true, and it really doesn’t matter because it doesn’t necessarily add or take away from today’s story.

Before I get started, I wanted to give a “hurrah” to The-One-Whose-Group-Chat-Fills-in-Lots-of-Missing-Bits-for-Me-Including-the-Part-Where-Video-Footage-of-Antonia-in-Los-Angeles-Seemed-to-Indicate-a-Celebrity-Was-Not-the-Videographer-and-There-Were-So-Many-British-Accents-in-the-Background-One-Would-Fancy-a-Guess-She-was-Traveling-with-a-Group.

Moving along…

On April 7, 2024, Antonia posted a series of photographs and clips to her Instagram grid indicating she had been in Los Angeles, including one where she was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory and one where she was sitting at a table marked with the number “95.” On April 14, she posted a second set of photographs, tagging her location as Beverly Hills, California and using “End of Beginning” as her audio (yes, I side-eyed this choice of music so don’t feel bad if you did as well). The second photo dump included her lounging on a rooftop.

I’m not going to delve into posts made by Luke and Nicola during that timeframe. I mean, I’m sure Nicola’s comment, “’Friends’…sure Jan,” on Luke’s April 11 reshared post about Bridgerton Season 3 was only meant to be applicable to Polin. And, if Luke wanted to use yellow and black hearts to represent the colors Nicola and he were wearing in his April 12 post, that’s cool, too. And, I am definitely not going to speculate on Nicola’s April 15 post (for Big Mood) that Luke liked, and she captioned, “I will bite off anything that dangles.”

By April 21, Luke and Nicola were in Australia at the World Premiere of Bridgerton. I am only going to provide a quick overview of Australia instead of a full-fledged recital because, at some point, I will almost certainly dedicate an entry to this country. Let’s start with Luke pulling off the hottest walk-up in Netflix human history (I mean, have you watched it in slow motion?). Then, we had the hard launch of the handholding business (because why again?). And, we had Luke tripping over his words, “We’re very, like, giving…I’m not talking about those scenes…” Oh, and Nicola telling an interviewer that, “[y]ou can’t keep a good girl down,” and, in response, Luke’s lips curling into a wicked-ass Cheshire cat's. We had them in the garden, with Nicola bending down to hug Luke after she had scratched/hit/petted his head. Perhaps I should not mention the possibility of a man’s shirt being visible on a bed behind Nicola (I said possibility not that it was). And, Nicola telling Luke, “You’re the funnier one,” when he was concerned that perhaps Benedict was funnier than Colin. Then we had the “Nicola-in-the-green-dress” day where, as they were going down the steps, Luke seemed to instinctively reach for Nicola’s hand, but she played it cool and took his arm instead. Oh, and that entire “green dress” day in general (I mean, there was so much shit going on that day). And, best we do not forget Nicola saying, “the best foundation for love is friendship,” which mirrored the bracelet “someone…in Australia” gave Luke that read, “Do you believe the best foundation for love is friendship?” Because that’s not suspicious at all. Alright, let’s get the fuck out of Australia – but not before I mention Nicola commenting on Luke’s April 27 Instagram post with “Ready for the next?” and Luke replying, “Absolutely.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, their shenanigans in Australia expanded the USS Lukola tenfold.

Oh, also, let me throw this in here because, if you are a “ring truther,” this fact plays a significant role in the Lukola timeline. If you do not know what a “ring truther” is, that’s perfectly fine. You can catch up by reading Entry 6 (The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad) of my blog. I mentioned in Entry 6 that some Lukola sleuths have stated the metadata they pulled from the sketches of the Claddagh ring uploaded by Chupi indicate they were done as early as April 26. In other words, it means the Claddagh was likely commissioned between Australia and Italy. In fact, if we are to believe Chupi when it said it took four weeks to make the ring, then it had to have been commissioned by May 9, 2024, at the latest. Oh, lookie there, that’s Day 1 of the Italy interviews.

But, before we get to May 9, let’s pause on April 29. That was the day Luke’s InStyle spread was published – yes, the one I mentioned earlier. Luke has pictures from this photoshoot still on his Instagram grid – in fact, Nicola commented, “Yess dude!!” on them – but those aren’t the pictures I want to talk about. No, I want to talk about the pictures InStyle posted on its Instagram grid that day. These photographs came directly from Luke, which was confirmed by the InStyle article when it said, “…the actor delighted the InStyle team by delivering the polaroid photos he’d taken for this story tucked oh-so-carefully in a little brown bag for safekeeping.” The pictures Luke provided, among others, included one where he was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles; one where he was sitting at a table marked with the number “95;” and one where he is sitting in a lounge chair on a rooftop. If you want to see the pictures, InStyle still has them available – you just need to go through hundreds of posts to find them. Luke did not like this InStyle post, which was kind of odd because he was tagged in it, and they were reportedly his pictures.

Why did these InStyle polaroids seem so familiar?

Oh, that’s right, because they were.

Remember that April 7 post of Antonia’s I mentioned a bit ago? Yeah, the one where Antonia posted a bunch of random pictures from Los Angeles and – only after InStyle posted Luke’s polaroids – fans realized Antonia had preemptively posted her version of some of Luke’s polaroids.

I am not going to speculate too much about these pictures or their implications in this blog post, but these pictures may resurface in future posts because I find myself side-eyeing the fact they even exist. And, we should probably accept that Luke was aware of them before his pictures came out on April 29 because he threw a like on Antonia’s April 7 post. Could it have been a “blind” like? Sure, I guess, but the logical side of my brain says he probably looked through them at the time she posted. Let’s not worry too much about it right now, though.

After trying to write out my “general” opinion about the pictures several times, I finally decided that the best way I could articulate my thoughts was through the conversation I had with my father. Yes, Dear Dad returns again for another insightful Q&A.

I started by showing Luke and Antonia’s three “matchy” pictures to my dad and then asked him to compare them. To be clear, the pictures were their respective Griffith Observatory, Table 95, and Rooftop Lounging pictures.

Me: “So what do you think?”

Dad: “About what?”

Me: “Ugh! Why did Antonia take those pictures?”

Dad: “Well, to show she’s part of the ‘in’ crowd. The only reason I can see them being taken is if she was going to put them on the Internet.”

Me: “Uhh, as a matter of fact, she did put them on the Internet! Approximately three weeks before Luke’s were published.”

Dad: “See! I’m not as dumb as you think.”

Me: “Whatever. So, you really believe that? She took them to show people that she was, like, there?”

Dad: “Yeah. Why else would she take them? They’re not the kind of photos you’d take normally. What’s she going to do, put them in an album and show her friends in five years and say, ‘Look, I sat in Luke’s chair?’ Who does that? Nobody. Plus, Luke’s pictures look like they were taken with a polaroid camera and Antonia took hers with, I guess, a phone. Why use two different cameras? Again, it doesn’t make sense. Seems to me like she knew what pictures he was taking, and she was trying to copy them so she could put them on the Internet.”

Thanks, Dad.

You do not have to accept my father’s thoughts on the photographs. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. However, I think we can meet in the middle and opine that, at a minimum, Antonia’s pictures caused the weak Lukolas to jump overboard; at most, they gave some people stalker vibes; and somewhere in between, they introduced Antonia's negative influence over the fandom and what some may consider trolling behavior (even if it wasn’t recognized then).

Now, before we land in Italy on May 9, let’s summarize what has happened during the preceding two months.

First, we had Luke traveling to Los Angeles in March with Antonia, either alone or as part of a friend group. Luke had pictures of himself taken while there.

Second, we had Antonia posting pictures in early April that would be linked directly to Luke’s pictures by the end of the month.

Third, throughout the month of April, we had Luke and Nicola traveling together for the World Tour. We have all seen these interviews, and we have all formed independent opinions about them.

Fourth, based on Chupi’s own words, we know the Claddagh ring must have been commissioned no later than May 9.

Okay, now we’ve reached May 9, Day 1 of the Italy press junket.

Besides the press interviews, what happened on that day?

Well, Antonia reposted Luke singing Coldplay’s “Yellow” to her TikTok account.

Uhh… Huh. Interesting.

I mean, it’s possible that this was just a coincidence and she just liked Luke’s version of it. Or, it’s possible Antonia knew that “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song and she anticipated trolling Nicola and/or the fandom with it. But, if we believe she knew “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song, that means either Luke told her, or someone with that knowledge told her (i.e., someone from Luke’s team or family/friend group). We also know that Luke mentioned this song in the May 16, 2022 Netflix Tudum article when Nicola and he were asked about their song choices for Season 3. Luke stated his frontrunner was “Yellow” by Coldplay “because of Penelope’s dresses.” Regardless of why Antonia posted the song, I find it hard to imagine Netflix, Bridgerton, Shondaland, Nicola, or Luke were too impressed by Antonia resharing it on TikTok. I mean, at this point, Netflix & Co. would surely have been aware that Antonia’s “copycat post” went over with the fandom like a wet blanket in December in Canada. I imagine some questions were being asked and Luke may very well have received a hand slap from Corporate – and maybe even from Nicola.

But, that’s not the only thing that happened on May 9.

Luke posted his Homme magazine spread to his Instagram grid on that day, too. He captioned the post, “Chatting through all things S3 with @hommeplusmag [o]ut next week x.” Nicola commented, “Yessss,” and Luke tagged his post with the location of Hackney, London. That last part – about Luke tagging the location in Hackney – apparently sent the fandom into a deep-dive of…Nicola’s backyard. Why? Because Nicola lives in Hackney (Nicola herself confirmed she lived in Hackney in a March 18, 2024 interview with Derry Now), and rumors started to circulate that Luke’s pictures were taken at her home.

Hmm, I didn’t realize May 9 was such a busy day, did you?

So, which came first – the chicken or the egg? Did Antonia repost “Yellow” to her TikTok before Luke posted his Homme in Hackney images to Instagram, or vice versa? I’m sure someone out there has this information. The answer might help shine some light as to why Luke and Nicola seemed “off” in the early part of their Day 1 Italy interviews. But, then again, does the order really matter? Regardless of who posted first, it would seem to me that “Yellow” was a very possible culprit for the different energy on set that day.

That, or Luke really was peeved over someone spilling his coffee.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Could we please get Feyd x reader where they have an arranged marriage with feyd and the House Harkonnen expects her to be replused by him . But instead reader is completely obsessed with him and finds him so hot because he is lol and he can do no wrong. LOVE YOUR FEYD STORIES 💌

Unexpected

Feyd-Rautha x Reader

Notes/Warnings: None, i think. I mean, arranged marriages? That's not really a warning though. Anyway, i fear this kind of sucks. My writing has been messed up lately. Hopefully, you guys still enjoy it anyway.

Words: 2100

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

They’ve been chattering for what has felt like hours—going on about dresses and parties, servant boys they find particularly interesting—and at some point, your mind could no longer take the dull droning, and so you drifted onto thoughts of him. 

You know everything about him, read everything about his family. You saw his face in an updated textbook about the Great Houses, drawn in what you hope is a perfect likeness, because if it is, then he’s absolutely stunning. You’ve never seen anything like the Harkonnens, but then again, they look like no one else. They’re wholly unique and you want everything to do with them—well, specifically, everything to do with Feyd-Rautha. 

“I can’t believe they’re marrying you off to him,” one of your friends—the daughter of House Wallach—says.

You snap out of your thoughts, wondering when the conversation turned toward you and your soon-to-be husband. You hum in question, needing more time to provide an answer that won’t induce raised brows and dropped jaws. 

“Yes,” the other says—Duke Leto’s daughter, whose bedroom balcony you’re currently sitting on. “How can they do that to you? You’re their only daughter and they are giving you to a murderous House.”

“We’re all murderous Houses,” you quickly say, and from receiving the blank stares you’d hoped to avoid, raise your teacup to your lips to hide your blush. You take a sip, then continue. “What I mean is, history states we’ve all dealt with bloody hands. That’s how our families are where they are.”

“Well, the rest of us don’t kill anymore. Our families are praised, worshipped.”

“So are the Harkonnens.”

“Out of fear,” Wallach reminds you. “The Baron is vile, as if you don’t know, and he trained Feyd-Rautha to be just as insane.”

Insane. That word has been used a lot lately. Your mother shouts it at your father for his willing agreement with the Baron. Your servants whisper it amongst themselves when they think you cannot hear them. That boy is insane, they say. She’s doomed, they say. But you don’t see it that way. You’re not scared of Feyd-Rautha. You’ll admit you don’t so much care for the Baron, but that’s because you’ve heard of his treatment of your future husband.

People claim Feyd-Rautha’s a lapdog—you don’t believe that. From what you’ve learned, you see no puppy in Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. You see a lion on the prowl, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike from below. You see a man hunting his dinner. You hope upon meeting, he gobbles you up as well. 

“Aren’t you terrified?” Atreides asks. “Don’t you think about your first night with him?”

You certainly do. Another sip of tea hides another blush. “I’m not worried.”

Wallach blows out a huff of breath. “Maybe you’re as insane as he is.”

Yes, you think maybe you are. 

—

Your mother struggles to hand you over. You’re the one who has to pry her gripping fingers from your arm so you can step forward and bow to the Baron. When you rise, you sneak a peek at Feyd-Rautha just to his uncle’s right. He’s as beautiful as his picture depicted. His eyes are just as glazed over with steel as you imagined. He looks at you, and the steel melts ever so slightly. His brow pinches. He swallows hard. 

“I trust my daughter will be well taken care of,” your father says, a puff expanding his chest. It makes him look no more menacing than he is. 

The Baron chuckles. “In the hands of my nephew, you can expect no less.”

You know it’s a lie. One corner of Feyd-Rautha’s lips quirks upward. He has plans for you—good. You like plans. You have plans of your own. 

He steps down the staircase that has held him above you and your family and takes your hand in his. He presses his lips to your knuckles. Your blood zings throughout your veins. If this is all it takes for you to feel this way, you can’t imagine what more will do to you. The thought of his lips in new places, his tongue in new places, makes your eyelids flutter. 

“My Lady,” he says. His voice is intoxicatingly low. 

“My Lord,” you say back to him. 

When you smile at him, the smirk drops from his face and his head jerks back. Cold, blue eyes scan your features for falsities, as if you wear a mask he can remove to reveal a frown. He watches that frown fall into place only when your mother comes up behind you. 

“Oh, my sweet daughter,” she cries, whipping your body around so she can properly hug you goodbye. “Don’t let them change you,” she whispers in your ear. “You’re too lovely for them.”

“I’ll be fine,” you tell her. You’ll be more than fine. This is the most excited you’ve been in years. And you knew it would be. That’s what he brings out of you…already. 

—

He likes you. Well, he likes you in a way—he likes the look of you—but it’s hard to say if he likes the rest of you yet. He sneaks glances where he can, but he doesn’t often allow you to be in his presence for long. He removes you from his training sessions when you peek in to watch. He leaves once you join for dinner, which you’re less than a fan of, considering it leaves you to his brother and uncle’s company. He does not come find you to say goodnight. 

Don’t you have better things to do, he’s often snipped at you when he finds you close by. You’ve assumed he means in preparation for the wedding in a week, but you told your new servants and planners to do whatever they want. You don’t care what the damn wedding will look like. You don’t care what you’ll look like. You just want him. You want to be around him. Watch him fight. Watch his muscles tense and shift and strain in the war of death. You want to see his body shine with sweat and his eyes harden with a murderous glare. But he won’t let you.

The closest you’ve been able to get to what you want is by sitting in the stands of the arena, where you have to observe his skills from a decent distance. And while it is wildly exciting to see the man you’re going to marry covered in the blood of enemies, you wish you could be closer. You wish you were close enough so he could grin at you as men’s bodies fall off of his blade. You wish he wanted you close to him because it’s killing you to be so far away. 

After days, you still don’t understand the separation. You figured your smiles at him would be enough to get the message across that if he likes you in any sense of the word, then he should be going for you as much as you would him if he’d permit it, but no. He keeps his space between you. Unfortunately for him, you’re sick of it. 

—

“I’m tired of you avoiding me,” you call as you chase after him down the darkened hallway. You’d been waiting outside his training room for hours, hoping his keen senses couldn't pick up your unsteady breathing as you prepared yourself for this exact confrontation. 

His steps stutter at your words and he pauses. He turns on his heel, and with narrowed eyes, advances on you. His form towers over yours, and in any other situation, you might detest the abuse of power, but here, now, you feel a sharp thrill. You try not to let his lack of shirt affect what more you intend to say, but it’s hard. You’re already swallowing saliva. You’re core is already throbbing. 

“Do you have a moment?” you ask.

Feyd’s muscles tighten and bulge as his arms cross over his chest. He huffs. “I don’t understand you. You’re like a little rodent, you know,” he says. “Following me around as if I drop crumbs for you.”

A lump catches in your throat. He hasn’t spoken much to you since your arrival on Giedi Prime, and you know cruelty runs through the Harkonnen bloodline, but you didn’t know he could cut so deeply with words. “I’m not a rodent.”

“You’re as annoying as one.”

“Because I want to be around you?” you ask. “Because I like you–”

His arms fall away from his chest and your head flinches back from the finger pointed at your nose. “You do not like me,” he snaps.

His voice, though low, bounces off the walls of the hall, an echoey repeating of those words that you almost can’t believe you’re having to hear. You’ve not given any indication that what you’re telling him could possibly be a lie, so you don’t see how he could come to that conclusion. Unless there are whispers in his ear. 

“Yes, I do,” you say. “I’m marrying you. I want to marry you.”

“You are not supposed to want that,” he spits.

“Well, I do!” you spit back. 

“Then you don’t make sense!”

You don’t know what that means, so you just stand there, staring at one another as you wait for him to explain further. He doesn’t, and you tire of the waiting, so instead, you take a risk by stepping closer, and with cautious fingers, you raise your hand to his chest. Your palm plants firmly against his skin, and then you feel it. His heart beating rapidly. For a second you think it’s from the training. But then you look up at him, at how his jaw clenches and how he struggles to meet your eyes. And now you understand.

“I like what you are,” you tell him. “I like that you’re strong. I don’t care that you kill. I don’t care that you crave the feeling it gives you.”

“You should care,” he says, still avoiding your gaze. “You’re meant to be a precious little Lady. That’s what I was promised.”

“And that is what you wanted for a wife?” He doesn’t give you an answer. “I’m sorry if you’re disappointed–” he snorts, irritating you further. “I’m sorry if that ruins whatever fun you intended to have with me. I know the Baron has been eager to see what you’ll do to me once we’re married.”

His head swivels back to yours. “He found enjoyment from the idea that you’d be repulsed by me,” he says. “And so did I. So you shouldn’t feel so comfortable.” He latches his fingers to your wrist and jerks your hand away from his body. His hand leaves yours. It falls back to your side and you instantly feel a chill without him. It won’t do. You see a glimpse of your marriage—a loneliness, a cold side of your bed. He begins to turn away from you. 

“You don’t now?”

He stops. “What?”

“You said you did find enjoyment in it,” you repeat. “Do you still?”

You can see his teeth grinding with the shifting of his jaw as he contemplates continuing this conversation. “They said you wouldn’t like me,” he finally tells you. 

“But I do,” you say. “I read about you. I liked you before I met you.”

He groans. His hand runs down his face. He steps back to you, an iciness penetrating your stare. “I had plans for you. Ones you weren’t going to enjoy.”

A smirk curls your lips. “I had plans for you, too. Ones I fully intended to enjoy.”

He sucks in a breath, his chest puffing. His eyes narrow as if searching for your lies. 

Without another thought, you reach up again and, placing your palms on his cheeks, raise onto your toes to press your lips to his. It might be idiotic of you. It might be the stupidest move you could make. He might gut you for the act, marriage alliance be damned. But the only interest you have is in getting your point across. 

His lips are soft—probably one of the few soft spots on him—and they taste of salt from the sweat of his training. He’s frozen for a few agonizing beats, but then nails are digging into the skin of your hips, the fabric of your dress doing nothing to keep the sharp sting at bay. Lips move in tune with yours. You’re pushed backward. You hit the wall, trapped between hard surfaces of stone and body. 

You ache for the man you’ve felt you’ve known for longer than you have. You ache for the heat of him. You knew it would feel like this. 

When the kiss breaks, you smile. “You’ll like me,” you tell him. “I promise.”

He sighs in defeat and says, “I know.”

[astraystayyh]

An eye for an eye.

assassin!hyunjin x journalist!yn. slow burn. suggestive and angsty at times. she/her pronouns. 7.4k.

it is perhaps the most decisive night of your life. what are the odds that at the same time and place, it happens to be hyunjin’s too?

warnings: mention of alcohol, guns, bruises and injuries. brief talks of grief.

a.n: this is prompted by how hot villain hyunjin looks in the ate era 😭 it was supposed to be a drabble and i didn’t plan on it to be this long.. but i hope you’ll enjoy reading tehee it’s different from anything i’ve ever written so please feedback would be so appreciated,, muah muah 😘❣️

A ruby red lipstick. 

Your first childhood dream was to become a journalist, but not the complacent, obedient kind. You wanted to shed light on uncovered events, dig into the raw truth with your claws, and hold it up for the entire world to witness. You craved justice. You never believed in letting things flow their way, like a current that morphs into a torrent, destroying everything in its path.

No, you were a dam, forcing the water to change its trajectory. After all, you have always believed that all it took for change to happen was a trigger, a single flicker that would in turn burst into flames.

You wished to be it.

It was hard to grow into this specific kind of journalist, though. Not because you lacked drive, passion, or discipline. Especially not because you weren’t curious enough, brave enough. You were Seoul Press’s youngest and brightest reporter, after all.

But in a highly competitive field, you still needed your big story, your breakthrough which would put you on the radar of esteemed awards that all journalists venerate. Though you deemed it much easier to obtain a Pulitzer than to squelch your heart’s quest for truth, justice, and most importantly, in an unpredictable curb that life threw at you— revenge.

Your second childhood dream was to put on ruby red lipstick. Your thirteen-year-old self deemed it the ultimate show of power and confidence, each time you saw your aunt wearing one to her most important meetings. You dreamed of the day you could put it on as well, on your way to uncover the truth. 

And tonight, as you applied your ruby lipstick precisely, gliding the vibrant color across your lips, you felt nerves tighten like thorny vines in your stomach, puncturing your tender skin and leaving you a bloodied mess from within. 

Tonight, in your black gown and your ruby lipstick, in San Heo’s mansion, your country’s most prominent presidential candidate, and the man who ruined your life, it seemed like you were about to achieve both dreams at once.

… 

The clock hand points nine on Hyunjin’s Tank Louis Cartier watch. He throws a fleeting glance at the Victorian watch, before eyeing the people mingling at San Heo’s party. 

He knows all of the guests, memorized their faces and their habits. He knows the school where they drop off their kids and what bar they frequent every Sunday. He memorized their mannerisms and antics, knows what set them off and what did not.

This is the fruit of two years of work, after all.

He knows exactly why everyone is here, tonight particularly. Three politicians’ families and friends gathered as a show of power, to prove that they weren’t afraid of whoever’s been forcing politicians to come clean about their crimes for the past three months.

In the least glamorous manner, at that too, to put it delicately—ten bloodied tapes sent to the country’s most prominent media channels, where ministers and heads of multinationals are bound by ropes to a chair, recalling their most heinous crimes: money laundering and embezzlement for most, theft and murder for some.

The latter is Jung Cho’s case, San’s most successful competitor for the presidency, who has also mysteriously vanished from the police’s grasp since the release of his tape. No one can get a hold of poor Jung Cho anymore. 

Hyunjin smirks lightly to himself. His knuckles seem to have healed well since he last dislocated Jung Cho’s jaw. Well, that was before he shot him through the roof of his mouth.

The golden cuffs of Hyunjin’s Versace blazer reflect the light of the dangling crystal chandeliers, and he runs a weary hand through his black locks. He never chose to gel them back; he wasn’t one for structure, preferring the feeling of his silky strands brushing against his fingers. 

His eyes catch those of San’s across the room, who tips his glass of whiskey towards Hyunjin—a job well done, he reads in San’s stare. Hyunjin raises his red wine back, before settling it across the table once more.

It is a boring half an hour that awaits Hyunjin.

That is until he sees you.

You weren’t here two minutes ago, Hyunjin is sure of this. And, judging by the way you are leisurely sipping your sparkling water, your eyes gliding across the room in search of someone in particular, you had just stepped foot into the party.

Fashionably late, if he were to add.

But that is none of Hyunjin’s concern. What intrigues him the most is that your face isn’t familiar to him. That isn’t normal.

You weren’t supposed to be here, then.

Who are you?

As if hearing his question, your gaze locks onto his. He cocks an eyebrow at you; you mirror the gesture like clockwork.

Thus ensues an intense game of eye contact. You don’t break away from his gaze until two minutes later, a light scoff escaping your lips that he can discern even from afar. You then turn to look at San, your eyes morphing into something fiercer, more determined— a sniper finally locking eyes on its target.

Hyunjin feels a slight headache growing at the base of his temple. He downs his drink, before taking long strides towards you.

It’s official, you’re going to be his nuisance for the night.

27 minutes.

“Care to dance?” Hyunjin inquires as he materializes before you, a hand extended towards your body.

“Pardon?”

“A dance? To the lovely music we are hearing right now?” 

“I know what you mean,” you roll your eyes, leaning your body against the chair right next to you. Hyunjin’s eyes glaze over your legs peeking through the high slit of your dress. Had it been another setting, the sight of your black sheer tights would have made this night turn much differently.

Your voice dispels his thoughts like morning fog. “I mean why are you asking me?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“How flattering,” you grin sarcastically and Hyunjin feels the smallest urge to return your smile, although he knows it isn’t genuine.

“I know. Shall we?”

Your gaze flees to San once again, seemingly debating something in your head before finally sighing.

In the few seconds of scrutiny you consecrate to his boss, Hyunjin’s gaze lingers on your bright red lipstick, and the way you tuck your lip slightly into your mouth as you ponder.

A beautiful nuisance, he corrects himself.

“Fine,” You place your manicured hand in his in response.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as he settles one hand atop your waist. The fabric of your black dress is too thin, he can feel the heat emanating from your body seeping through his palm.

Focus. You need to discover who she is.

“Julia,” your hand settles atop his shoulder, while the other entwines with his. “And you?”

“Sam. What are you doing here?” he quickly inquires.

You shake your head slightly, gliding your hand from the base of his neck to the end of his shoulder.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask you a question?”

Hyunjin tilts his head curiously at you, before smirking slightly— “Yes ma’am.”

“What do you work for?”

“I’m Mr. Heo’s political adviser.”

“You’re quite young, though,” you note.

“I know.”

“And I don’t see you by his side a lot.”

“I work in the background, mostly. I don’t do well with the cameras.” He spins you around, picking up speed as the orchestra picks up the violin. “How do you know Mr. Heo?”

“I’m Kang’s niece, you know, Mr. Heo’s economic adviser? Uncle Kang is ill, and my father is out of the country so both of them chose not to come.”

Hyunjin’s memory faintly brushes off Kang’s single niece, completing her architectural studies in Paris’ Sorbonne. 

“C’est beau à Paris?” Is it beautiful in Paris?

You don’t even blink— “Même magnifique, tu devrais visiter.” Marvelous even, you should visit. 

Checks out.

“I’ll hold you on to that offer,” he says, before spinning you around, your chest settling across his back. Hyunjin ignores how his heart skips a singular beat at your proximity.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asks, his lips tantalizingly close to the shell of your ear. He watches as your chest rises once before your airy voice floods his ear.

“Networking, though you didn’t quite allow me to speak to anyone but you,” you tease slightly.

“I fail to see what an architect has to do with politicians,” he muses, as he sways you gently from left to right.

“I want to oversee the building of Jamsil Sports Complex.”

“So you’re using your father for work connections?” he taunts and you swivel around, placing both your hands on his shoulders before interlinking your fingers behind his neck, caging him within the notes of your perfume.

“Is it a crime?” your voice is airy, too airy, everything you say sounds rehearsed, you don’t seem intimidated by him, by this setting, as opposed to how a newly graduated student, one who grew up away from her father’s world should.

“Depends on your definition,” he counters.

“Do you regard it as such?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flickers all over yours. He senses something urgent in your gaze, as if you are pushing for more, beyond what this simple question entails.

When he remains quiet for a tad too long, you let your hands drop by your body, taking a step away from him.

“I need to go,” you say. He grabs your wrist instantly. “Where to?”

“Bathroom.” And with that, you quickly turn around and walk away, leaving behind notes of your floral perfume and ghosts of your ruby lips.

Hyunjin steals a glance at his clock. 09:13 p.m.

He drags a hand across his forehead wearily. He won’t let you ruin this night.

17 minutes. 

You are washing your hands obsessively in the bathroom, lost in thought as you gaze at your reflection, all blurry from your unfocused eyes. You only turn off the water once your skin starts to sting from the force of your touch. 

The orange-scented soap doesn’t seem to get rid of the stench of blood. 

A week ago. 

“I don't understand your obsession with Mr. Heo,” Christopher Bang calmly removed his glasses, placing them next to the shiny placate reading ‘Editor in Chief of Seoul Press’.

“He is corrupt.”

“As all politicians are,” he spoke matter of factly, and it angered you how unfazed he seemed before your, you admit, far-fetched request. 

“You don’t understand, sir. He’s different.”

“Did he do something to you?” Chris asked, leaning back against his chair. You felt exposed all of a sudden, like a flower left bare without its stem. 

“Would my answer change anything?” You inquired tentatively. 

“It would explain many things, yes actually,” he got up from his chair, before sitting on the one right across from you. “You are a talented journalist, Yn.”

“Thank you—“

“But you are utilizing the company’s resources to conduct your personal investigation on San Heo.” 

He knew. 

“You’ve been working on his case from the day you joined our media. Which was exactly 389 days ago. I know that you’ve managed to uncover quite some dirt, one that would make an explosive case if you get more information. That’s why I turned a blind eye to everything you did because I trust your skills and integrity.” 

You remained silent.

“But now, you’re asking me to completely disregard my deontology by finding a way for you to break into Mr. Heo’s mansion. That is a crime.”

“Not break in. I want an invite to his party, it is the first time he organized one in his home, probably the last time, it is my only chance to—”

“Details,” he waves a hand disinterestedly in the air, cutting you off. “Your intentions aren’t to mingle with politicians, it is to dig in his office and find something of substance. While I admire the lengths of what you want to go through, I must stop you here.” He leveled his eyes with yours. “This can land you in jail, he is the most important man in our country right now.”

“What if I tell you he did something to me, that he ruined my life? Would you help me then?” your voice was hoarse, tears pricked your eyes as you tried your best not to avert your gaze. You hated displays of weakness, despised them even more in professional settings. 

“What did he do?” 

You bristled at the question, ugly memories flashing before your eyes like a blinding light, your body begging you to flee away from this question and the heavy response it entailed.

Still, you spoke. 

Christopher remained silent as you recalled what happened on your doomsday, the night in which your world ceased to spin, and simultaneously, the reason why you joined his company, to begin with. When your sniffles subsided a few minutes later, he gently handed you a napkin, a silent invitation to wipe away the tears that had escaped.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his weary face before finally speaking. 

“I’ll give you the invite tomorrow. Say that you are Kang’s niece, her name is Julia. She went to Paris for architectural studies, and that you are back for a vacation. Kang is ill these days, he won’t attend the party, and his brother is out of the country, no one will question you.”

“How do you know this?” 

“Because I know them,” he toyed with his lower lip lightly before a tiny smile drew upon it. “An eye for an eye, right? I’m Kang’s cousin. I changed my last name because I didn’t wish to deal with them anymore.” 

“So Bhang isn’t your real last name?”

“No.” He ran his thumb across his lower lip, seemingly debating adding something. “San’s office is on the far end of the third floor.” 

You heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

13 minutes. 

It was one thing to stare at photographs of San seared behind your reddened eyelids or to stand at the far end of his press conferences. It was another to step foot into his mansion, to stand amidst powerful people who are capable of ruining your life had they known of your motives. 

But you didn’t have time to dwell on your personal feelings. Fear, nerves, all of those feeble emotions pale before the chance you have today. So, you nod at your reflection in the mirror, count to three in your head, and finally head out of the bathroom. 

“Five minutes, were you crying?” Sam’s bored voice startles you as soon as you set foot outside. He’s leaning on the wall across from the door, hands deep into the pockets of his suit.

Not again. 

“I know that I’m very pretty but don’t you have better things to do than to follow me?” you ask, pausing right in front of him. 

“I’m not following you, I just happen to be particularly fond of the architecture of this corridor,” he jokes and you ignore his words, walking past him with a renowned determination. He pushes himself off the wall, only to grasp your wrist once again, spinning you around until you’re facing him. 

He chuckles softly, tilting his head to the side. His icy blue contacts pierce through your skin like a puncture needle.  “You know, I’m curious, Julia. You seemed very eager to get away from me.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. “Have you considered that I found your company utterly boring?”

“You wound me,” he places a hand on his heart, any trace of humor absent from his voice. His grip tightens on your wrist for a millisecond. A warning. “I need you to leave.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I’m serious. You shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“And why should I listen to you?” you challenge and his eyes darken further. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then let me go,” you mutter, slipping your hand away from his grasp. 

“Julia,” he says sternly, pulling you back till your back is against the wall, his hands rooted on either side of your body. 

It is a dimly lit hallway, and the sound of the orchestra barely reaches you. Your worry intermingles with a new kind of nerves, all orchestrated by his proximity, and the way his gaze brushes against your body like a skilled painter. 

“I’m not joking, leave.” His voice is much softer when he adds, “It’s for your own good. What will happen later doesn’t concern you.”

He knows something that you don’t know, something that, from his tone, none of the guests are aware of. You see something human in his eyes, in the slight crease doting his eyebrows. He seems genuinely worried for the innocent civilian he thinks you are. 

Your eyes turn to look at his hand near your head, only to notice his faintly bruised knuckles, shades of purple and green doting a delicate porcelain skin. They have healed well, then. 

Should you unearth the memory from two weeks ago— pleas for mercy, a deafening gunshot, and an excruciating silence afterward, the quiet after the murder that you remember most? 

Then, another scene rings in your head like bells of an ancient church— a bruised hand brushing against your own in an art gallery from two days ago, raven locks, and familiar, melancholy-tinted eyes. 

Could it be? 

Your voice turns sweet, tender, “should I trust you for the night?” your thumb brushes against the skin underneath his eye, wiping away the concealer you knew you spotted.

There it is, the eye mole you thought he covered. 

It clicks in your mind in an instant, pieces of a puzzle falling into place, there are still a few missing but you manage to grasp the bigger picture.

If he’s not letting you go then he could be of good use. 

What other choice do you have but to gamble with a killer? 

Your sharp nails drag across the nape of his neck, before settling right beneath his jaw. You mimic a gun, his eyes narrow in response.

“Is this how you killed Jung Cho, Hyunjin?” 

You feel a cold barrel instantly press against your stomach. “Police officer?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Journalist ?”

“Yes,” you slowly mutter.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t wish to tell you.” The gun only presses further onto your skin. You feel a cold bead of sweat roll down your exposed spine. 

Breathe. 

“It’s Yn.”

“What do you know?”

“It’d be easier for me to talk if you removed the gun,” you smile lightly and Hyunjin only leans further, a distance as thin as a blade between you both.

“Speak.”

“You killed the only candidate that stood a chance in front of San. You drove him to the empty deposit near Inwangsan Mountain, tortured him for three days, filmed his confessions, and then sent them to many media outlets. Ours included. I know it because I followed you.” 

“Why did you follow me?” he questions. Your eyes flee to the end of the corridor where an impossible staircase sits. You are wasting your time. 

“Because I am investigating San. And through following him I ended up getting to know you. You are different from everyone he meets. Very secretive. So I figured it’d be worth a shot following you too,” you explain as calmly as you can. You’re sure the barrel of the gun will leave a bruise on your skin. 

“And why didn’t you write a piece about me? Everyone is dying to know who I am.”

“I have, I just haven’t released it. If I don’t come back home in an hour my head chef will post the video of you murdering Mr. Cho on every SNS. The public loves you for what you’re doing. But the politicians will come together to kill you. They have a price on your head. You are threatening everything they ever built.” 

Hyunjin drags his gun up your stomach slowly, trails it across your collarbones before it settles on your jaw. 

“I could kill you too, right now.” His tone is cold, evil. Very different from the man who asked you to dance. You know that I can.” 

“My death would only sign yours.”

Hyunjin’s forehead rests on the wall right next to your head. You can hear him inhale deeply, hear the gears turning in his head. “Fuck, you are driving me crazy.”

He drops the gun and takes a step back. “Why didn’t you expose me?”

“You are not the one that matters to me.” 

“What do you want from me then?” 

“Three minutes. Open San’s office, and then I’ll go. No one will ever know of your identity.” 

He remains silent. 

“Hyunjin, please.” 

“Fuck, fine. But whatever happens next you’ll have to trust me, okay?” his hands settle on your shoulder, his eyes leveling with yours, “if you’re not leaving then you’ll have to trust me enough, for tonight.” 

8 minutes. 

“After you,” Hyunjin bows slightly as he opens the door to Heo’s office. You step in first, and he steals a quick glance behind him—no one’s here, for now.

“That saved me the hassle of breaking the door.”

“You know how to do that?” he asks, slightly impressed.

“One of my hobbies,” you shrug before walking directly to the desk. Hyunjin leans against the wall, watching as you lift your dress slightly, revealing a small packet tucked into your garter. The sight drives Hyunjin a little crazy, and he closes his eyes for a second.

He really, really wishes he hadn’t met you here tonight.

You take out a listening device, tapping the bottom of the desk until you find a suitable spot, and then you stick it in place.

“Another one of your hobbies?” he smirks.

You giggle. “Mm, aren’t I the most fun?”

“You are,” his eyes drag across your figure, and he notices a slight falter in your posture, “the most beautiful too.”

You blink, and he’s suddenly in front of you, trapping you between the auburn desk and his toned body. You don’t seem intimidated, placing a palm on his chest as you tilt your head to the side. 

“Aren’t you curious why I’m going after San?”

“No, he angers a lot of people.” His thumb caresses your cheek, a touch so soft in contrast to his next words. “A lot of people fantasize about his death.”

“Are you one of them?” you question, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Right now, all I’m fantasizing about is you.” His voice is husky, and he finds it comes out much easier when he actually likes the person he’s attempting to seduce. 

It takes you a few seconds to speak again. “Is that so?”

“Mm, let’s dance.”

“Didn’t we dance downstairs?”

“That was Sam and Julia dancing,” he says as he entwines his fingers with yours. “You see, Hyunjin is a different kind of dancer.” His hand presses against your back, snaking against your bare skin. “Can I pull you closer?” he asks, and you simply nod, eyes fleeting widely all over his face. 

His chest presses to yours, so close he’s sure your hearts are syncing with one another, his inhales alternating with your exhales. 

“Yn,” he whispers your name, as you look up at him through the curve of your eyelashes.  

“Yes, Hyunjin?” His name sounds soft as it stumbles from your ruby lips, innocent from all the blood that drenches his soul.

“I like the way you say my name.” He glances at his watch above your head. 9:57.

“Hyunjin,” you repeat, as your hand drags up his neck, grabbing a fistful of his hair and gently dragging it backward, exposing his enticing neck to you. “You are always looking at your watch, what are you waiting for?”

He chuckles faintly, grabbing both your hands and spinning you around till his chin rests on the small of your shoulder. “You’re perceptive,” he mutters, as his fingers drag down your bare arms. “But so am I,” he says coldly as he grabs both your hands, bringing them behind your back. “Look, your hands are shaking just from my proximity. I don’t think you have it in you to film me killing Jung Cho. I don’t think you have it in you to watch me torture someone for three days.”

Click. Cold metal wraps around your wrist in an instant, handcuffing you to the leg of the table before which you’re standing. 

“I think you lied to me, Yn. I don’t like being lied to.”

“What are you doing?” you ask disoriented, panic spilling from your being like an overflowing cup.

Hyunjin pays you no mind, taking out his phone and dialing a number. “Boss, we have a problem. I caught a journalist trying to get into your room,” he taps his chin slowly as he looks at you. “No, no need for security. Just come alone. Don’t alarm the guests.”

2 minutes

“Are you serious?” you ask as soon as he hangs up, a prominent lump in your throat. “You told me to trust you.”

“Did I say I was worth that trust?” he pouts, seemingly mocking the vulnerable ordeal you found yourself in. 

A loud chuckle escapes your lips, your head thrown back as if before a hilarious spectacle of sorts. Hyunjin frowns, crossing his arms in front of his chest as your giggles slowly quiet down. 

“You’re a peculiar person, aren’t you Hyunjin? You need to hide your identity but you crave normalcy still, so you open your art gallery. You go to crazy lengths to cover your moles and wear contacts because you wish for people to look at you with admiration in their eyes, kindness. But you don’t deserve it.” There is a fire lit in your eyes, flames latching into his black suit and burning his already scarred skin. “You’ll always be as evil as them.” 

Hyunjin doesn’t respond for a while, his eyes simply softening at your words.

“I know,” he whispers. 

“Who’s this?” San’s voice booms loudly as he sets foot into the office. Hyunjin’s eyes break apart from your figure to look at San, bowing slightly to greet him. 

“Julia, she infiltrated the party,” Hyunjin explains, stealthily locking the door behind San. “She’s been investigating you for quite some time now. And… She knows about the murders.”

“Mm, she’s clever. Should we hire her?” San jokes and Hyunjin smiles politely, dragging his eyes over your face. You simply roll your eyes, seemingly more bored than scared. 

Cute. 

“Anyways,” Heo stares at you for a fleeting second before tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder. “She looks easy to kill. Just get rid of her. But don’t stain my carpet though, it's expensive.”

“Sure thing,” Hyunjin nods, taking out his gun and pointing it at your temple. He steals a final look at his watch— 9:30 p.m. he reads. 

Time’s up. 

“You didn’t think I’d let you go?” Hyunjin mocks, cocking his head at you. In a split second, a bullet ricochets loudly, but not at you. It grazes San’s ear, making him pause near the door, his back towards you both. 

“Right boss?” Hyunjin’s tone is slightly whiny, annoying is the best way to describe it. You can hear police sirens blare loudly outside, see the red and blue hues reflect off the window. Loud shouts erupt downstairs, Hyunjin leisurely reloads his gun, one hand deep into his pocket, San’s posture slightly falters, his fingers digging into the skin of his palm. 

“Do you hear that Heo? Your mansion is surrounded. All your filthy dirt is exposed. The police officers are arresting everyone downstairs right now. And they’re coming for you. The man of the hour.” Hyunjin makes a show of curtsying deeply. You stifle a giggle at his theatrics.

“You dare turn your back on me?” San yells, pivoting around to face Hyunjin’s barrel, the latter simply yawns as if it’s a regular Saturday activity for him. 

“Oh, don’t get emotional on me,” Hyunjin pouts, before his eyes narrow down coldly. “Now kneel. Let’s end this without staining your carpet.”

You see San slowly lowering himself to the ground, Hyunjin’s gaze sets on you for a millisecond, his pupils dilated in apology, in concern, you don’t know, you don't get to decipher his look because San is taking out his gun from his back pocket, aiming it at Hyunjin. “Watch out”— is all you manage to shout, and hyunjin ducks in an instant, propelled by the sound of your voice to the ground.

He could have died, he could have died because he looked at you. 

It all happens so fast, Hyunjin diving into San to take away his gun, both their weapons flinging into the air, San punching Hyunjin’s mouth and the latter retaliating by flinging his fist up against his nose. You’re struggling with your restraints, trying to reach out for the lone gun that fell to your right. 

A bit more, tune out the sirens, tune out the punches, slowly, only a few centimeters left, your wrist is on fire but that is the least of your concern, almost, there, you grab it.

You fire the gun.

It’s quiet once again, for the first time in two years, it is quiet in your head.

It’s over. 

You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the desk. The sound of your mother’s laughter floods your ears, her airy giggles as she brushes your hair and tucks you into her chest, her being a vision of beauty underneath the sun’s caress. 

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin kneels before you, wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks with his bruised knuckles. He is worried, even behind those icy blue contacts, you can still grasp his worry.

You nod, swallowing the sob that is lodged within your throat. Hyunjin is quick to unlock your handcuffs, entwining your fingers with his as he pulls you off the ground. 

You slightly push him aside, your eyes set on San’s bleeding figure. He’s still alive, rugged breaths escaping his chest, his palm pressed to the bullet that punctuated his stomach. 

“I want him dead,” you mutter, grabbing Hyunjin’s forearm to support yourself, “but I want him to rot in prison too.” 

“He will, for all his crimes. I have it all documented. The police have it too,” his palm rubs soothingly against your back, you lean further into his touch.

“He’s a monster.” 

“I know. They all are. That’s why I killed them,” he simply says, before guiding you back to a couch on the right of the office. He shrugs off his suit, draping it over your trembling shoulders. 

“Give me a minute.”

You watch as he grabs the gun you fired off of the ground, before taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes your fingerprints, making sure to leave his all over the gun. He then walks to the table, taking away your listening device and crushing it to the ground.

He’s calm and collected as he rearranges the scene to his liking, it looks like he has done this a million times before, as if this is the element in which he thrives— a sunflower turning to face the sun, at long last. 

He kneels before your freezing figure one last time, tilting your chin to the side so you’d look at him.

“I fired the gun. You had no idea any of this would happen, you’re just an ambitious journalist who wanted an insider scoop.” He senses you’re somewhere far, pulled by the ropes of memories that had long haunted your dreams. His warm palm presses to your cold cheek, your eyes are glossy as they rest on him. 

“You didn’t do anything. I’m the one who used you as a scapegoat to bring San up here, just like I agreed with the police. Alright? You did nothing.You know nothing.” 

“Alright.”

Hours pass in a cold blur, the weight of time lost on you as three police officers take turns questioning you. You repeat the lines Hyunjin taught you, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. Even as you step out of the police station, with Hyunjin's hand resting gently on your back, you feel nothing. A slight tremor runs through you when he mentions that San survived and will be transferred to prison once he's healed.

You don’t know why you’re disappointed you didn’t become a killer.

You don’t know anything, don’t feel anything as Hyunjin drives you home. You don’t question how he knows your address or the code to your elevator. It’s only when you unlock your door and he starts to pull away that reality snaps back.

Without thinking, you grab his wrist, suddenly aware of the loneliness that awaits you inside, an uninvited guest preying on your vulnerable heart.

“Would you like some tea?” you ask, your voice tinged with hopelessness, knowing just how silly you sound. Why would he stay? He has so many loose ends to thread after his finishing blow, you know he’s part of something far larger than you. 

As if mocking your question, his phone buzzes for the tenth time in the span of five minutes.

But then, to your surprise, he turns it off.

“Yeah,” he says with a soft smile, “I’d like some tea.”

As you bring the water to a boil, Hyunjin rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, casually wandering around your apartment as if it’s not his first time setting foot in here. He’s always at ease— with a gun pointed at him or while looking at the souvenir magnets on your fridge. 

His calmness helps instill some peace in your heart too. 

“I like your apartment,” he says, accepting the cup of chamomile you hand him. “It’s cozy, feels like a home.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you sink into the couch, your head hung low. So much has happened in just half an hour, too much for you to fully comprehend and process.

“Let me see,” he says a few sips later, as he gently removes the cup from your clutch, before sliding his thumb across your right wrist. The bruises have already begun to form, the red marks from the handcuffs clear evidence of your struggle to reach the gun.

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he murmurs, frowning as he avoids your gaze, staring intently at your wrist as if he could will the blue hues away. “I didn’t plan for you to be at the party.”

“I involved myself,” you chuckle softly. You’re not one for physical touch, but you don’t feel the usual urge to pull away from his grasp. His hands are warm, the roughness of his fingertips a stark contrast to the softness of your skin.

“You’re a stubborn journalist,” he says with a small smile, finally meeting your gaze. you suddenly yearn to look into the rich brown of his eyes once more. Was its shade as deep as you remember?

“And you’re an excellent painter,” you retort, eliciting a surprised laugh from him. The sound is unexpectedly endearing, and you’re caught in a whirlwind of contradictions. Is this really the same man you saw taking a life? The same man now holding your wrist as if it were made of porcelain?

“Right, you figured out my identity. What gave me away?” he asks, still smiling.

“I heard about this new gallery where the artist’s only clue to his identity was the name signed on his paintings. So, I decided to see for myself. While everyone else was captivated by the artwork, I noticed you, standing in the corner, observing the reactions of everyone around. You smiled when someone smiled, and your grin grew wider with each compliment. That’s when I started to suspect that the artist was you, all along.”

“I remember it now. I bumped into you as you were leaving,” he says, and you nod.

“What stood out to me were your sad eyes. That’s what I remember most. Well, besides your bruised knuckles.”

“And that’s how you connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your eye mole, too. Even though you tried to conceal it with makeup, it still showed.”

“Very perceptive,” he says with a grin.

“Thank you.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll expose your identity?” you ask, as his hand gently slides into yours, his fingers resting lightly on top of yours. A simple, innocent touch, yet it stirs something unknown in the pits of your stomach. 

“I trusted you when you said I’m not the one who matters to you.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I miss putting my faith in someone, even if they end up failing me. Isn’t that the most human trait of all?”

How could an assassin create such heartfelt paintings, overflowing with emotions too hard to explain with words, let alone colors? Perhaps because this isn’t the life he always wanted.

“Did you choose this?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the interrogation, or the near brush with death, or perhaps the relief that this chapter is finally closing for both of you. But something compels you to keep talking, to ask, to hold on to Hyunjin just a little longer.

“Being a killer, you mean?” His voice carries a tenderness that seems at odds with the weight of his words. He’s a walking contradiction, balancing two identities within himself—Hyunjin and Sam. One feels heavier on his bones than the other. 

“I grew up in this world,” he continues. “My parents run a large network of assassins—or vigilantes, depending on how you see it. Some people hire us, and sometimes we act on our own when we see injustice or corruption festering for too long. We conduct thorough background checks. We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that.”

“An eye for an eye.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I always feel good in the midst of a case. One less evil in the world. But after, there’s just this emptiness. Now what? I always wonder. So I try to fill the void with painting.”

“Now what…” you repeat, your voice trembling as a lump forms in your throat. “Now what? What should I do now?” Tears well up and spill over suddenly, streaming down your face in an unstoppable torrent. “San is behind bars, but my mom isn’t coming back. So what now? What was all of this for if I can’t get her back?”

You find yourself burying your head in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his arms wrapping tightly around you, holding you close as if he could contain your sadness, preventing it from seeping from your soul and reaching your mother, wherever she may be.

You haven’t allowed anyone to hold you like this in two years, denying yourself any comfort until you could bring your mother’s killer to justice. It was a promise you made to yourself after San drunkenly ran her over and fled the scene, leaving you alone to hug her cold body in that sterile hospital room.

“It drove me crazy,” you sob, your words broken and incoherent. “He bribed everyone—the doctors, the paramedics, the stores nearby. Everyone acted like my mom didn’t d-die because of h-him,” you hiccup, and Hyunjin only holds you tighter, closer, enough to stitch your wounds with time, only if he remains this close to you. If he wishes to, if you allow him to.

“But now he’s behind bars, and I still don’t have my mom. What do I do now that I can’t bury myself in revenge? Hyunjin, what should I do when I miss her so much and I can’t see her?”

Five hours later.

“The article is perfect, no corrections needed,” Chris says, removing his glasses and looking at you with approval. “Excellent work, Yn.” 

“Thank you,” you nod, feeling a mix of relief, but mostly exhaustion. “I stayed up all night working on it.” 

“Goid, it’s only 6 a.m. so we know that no other media outlet has touched this yet. Our article will be the one to shape public opinion. This is a big win for us. It’s a thorough investigation, and I’m confident you’ll get the recognition you deserve,” he writes something down onto his notebook before looking at you once more. “Take a few days off—you’ve earned it. I’ll reach out if anything urgent comes up.”

“Thank you, sir.” You bow slightly before turning to leave the suffocating office. Or maybe it’s your own mind that’s suffocating you. You don’t have time to dwell on the question before Chris speaks again. 

“Oh, Yn?” Chris calls out just as your hand touches the doorknob. “One last thing, did you ever figure out who was behind all those tapes?”

Your grip on the doorknob tightens imperceptibly. “No sir, no clue.” 

One month later. 

It’s a few minutes before the art gallery closes when you walk in. Hyunjin spots you before you see him, your distinctive walk etched in his memory as vividly as if it were only yesterday that he had seen it.

He approaches quietly, stopping behind you as you gaze at the newest addition to his collection.

“Is this us?” you ask, not turning around. Hyunjin’s eyes follow yours to the abstract painting of a couple waltzing in a ballroom, their hands intertwined just like yours were, four Saturdays ago.

“Yes,” he replies softly.

“It seems I left an everlasting impression on you,” you tease, he can hear the smile in your voice without seeing it. 

“You did. You looked beautiful.”

“So did you.”

“I’m glad you came,” he says sincerely. “I missed you.”

“But we only spent a day together,” you giggle quietly, and Hyunjin wishes he could capture your laugh and tuck it away in the veins of his heart.

“Didn’t that day feel like a year, though?” he muses, resting his chin gently on your shoulder. You lean back into him, closing the space between you.

“It did,” you admit before nervously clearing your throat. “Are you free right now? We could grab a drink, if you’d like?”

“Chamomile tea?” he chuckles, and your laughter vibrates through his being.

“No, something stronger this time.”

He hums, hesitating as he despises the words that would stumble out of his mouth. “I have some things to handle tonight. Urgent matters.”

“Ah,” your voice dips slightly, the disappointment clear in your tone. “Well, it’s okay. I’ll see you another time, then,” you say, finally turning to face him. 

He really missed you. 

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

“Okay.”

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” he says, watching your expression soften, a delicate smile forming on your lips.

“You saw it?”

“I did. I read your piece, too. I’m sure your mom would be proud of you.”

Tears of gratitude well up in your eyes, and you squeeze Hyunjin’s hand tightly as you whisper, “Thank you. Really. Thank you, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin’s words linger in your soul, echoing through your mind for the rest of your day, his voice the only sound that seems to fill the silence within you. That is until three loud knocks resonate through your apartment, just minutes before midnight. 

You open the door to find Hyunjin standing there, a fresh bruise marring his jaw, his knuckles freshly scraped and bloodied.

“Let me guess, you had nowhere else to go?” you joke, trying to regain your composure at the sight of him once more.

“No,” he replies, his tone earnest, “I wanted to come to you.”

Your smile falters at the sincerity in his voice. You can’t quite place what it is about Hyunjin that pulls you toward him, how amidst everything that’s happened in the past month, the most vivid memory is how he held you gently as you cried and cried.

“I forgot something,” he says, pulling a tube of cooling cream from his back pocket and offering it to you. “I meant to give this to you for your bruised wrists.”

He’s a month late, you both know your wrists have long since healed.

“I… yeah,” he sighs before your silence, turning to leave, a light blush tinting his cheeks. But before he can, you drop the tube and grab his hand, spinning him back around.

“I forgot something too,” you say quickly before pressing your lips against his.

You don’t fully understand what draws you to Hyunjin, but you know his lips taste as sweet as cherry chapstick, that his hand around your waist feels like water flowing gently over your skin, warm and encompassing. That his brown eyes remind you of sunlight dancing on autumn leaves, that no one has touched your soul as deeply as he has.

You know you wish to make him feel as human as he makes you.

[lxkeee]

MY LOVE, IS MINE ALL MINE PART THREE

pairing: Lucifer x fem! reader

fandom: hazbin hotel

genre: fanfiction

notes: Imaoo sorry it took awhileee I'm actually a very busy college student while simultaneously having so much brainrot for this man so... Be patient omfg, I just posted part one a two days ago also, don't mind the warnings too much as it doesn't specifically for this specific chapter but it can be future parts of the story. So yes, hand holding before marriage will happen between Lucifer and [y/n]

warnings: none except hand holding before marriage Imao.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART FOUR

Lucifer paced back and forth in his room, worried. Walking around the large master's bedroom, passing by many piles of rubber ducks he made.

“She should be back by now.” Lucifer murmured to himself, sighing.

His eyes landed on to the framed pictures decorating his walls.

He prayed that Charlie met [y/n] up there, the one angel he trusts. Though, it has been eons since he's last seen her, he wonders if [y/n] changed after all these years, especially after he had fallen from grace.

Did she hate him? Did she miss him like how he misses her?

As he sat on his arm chair, a gold sealed white envelope manifested on top of the coffee table in front of him, pink glittery smoke surrounding the letter.

“...What the...?” Lucifer murmurs, hesitant and cautious, eyeing the envelope. What if it's a trap?

Suddenly his phone buzzed, he immediately checked it to see it was a text message from Charlie.

“I just left a letter on your table, it's from someone you know. I'll tell you everything that happened in heaven but I'll rest for a bit. Love you dad!”

Lucifer smiled though a tad bit worried, he can tell that the meeting didn't go as his daughter hoped. He can only give her time.

Lucifer then now turned his eyes back on the neat envelope, sparkling a little. He turned the letter around to see it was specifically addressed to him, written in an oh so familiar handwriting to him. Unknowingly, just by seeing the handwriting was enough for his eyes to tear up a little.

“[y/n]....” He murmurs, finally opening the letter. Using his sharp nails to scrape off the wax without breaking it or tearing the envelope. Taking out the carefully folded light yellow paper, unfolding it to reveal her letter to him.

My Dearest Lucifer

His cheeks flushed slightly, with a comma after dearest. My Dearest, Lucifer

“Oh [y/n], this will keep me up at night.” Lucifer murmurs with a small dorky smile on his face, his sharp teeth shining against the light, eyes watering.

My Dearest, Lucifer

       It has been awhile hasn't it? A couple of eons since we've last seen each other. You have no idea how excited I was when I heard your daughter would be coming here in hell. I made sure to write a letter in advance a day before her arrival. I have a lot to tell you, first and foremost, I truly missed you. You sly man, you really got married without inviting me. How's your time down there? I hope hell is treating you right, I really hope I'll get a chance to see you again. I hope we'll get a proper chance to talk, I want to personally hear you how you've been doing. I hope you'll get the chance to see the good of humans after giving them free will, I promise to find a way for you to leave and visit earth. I am running out of paper to right on but I promise to help your daughter up here and lastly, I want you to remember that I adore you always.

“Sincerely yours, [y/n] [l/n]” Lucifer softly reads out, voice shaking. It felt like he could hear her as he read the letter. The same kind [y/n] who always believed in him. His heart swells knowing that she's still trying to help in any way she can despite their distance. She never stopped believing in him despite him leaving without notice (not that he had the chance to).

“If only you knew how much I adore you too, [y/n]...” Lucifer murmurs softly, his finger tracing the outline of the paper ever so gently.

“I want to see you again, I have so many things to say to you... So many unsaid words I wanted to say... I wanted to tell you that I love...” Lucifer's eyes widened ever so slightly, cheeks turning red. He knows he loves her and he still does but he also loves his ex-wife, Lilith. Does he? Or is he just holding into something that no longer exists as it was something he had for a long time and now it's gone?

Everything in his life changed, Lilith's love for him changed, he changed.

Despite all of this, [y/n] remained unchanging inside his heart. Sure, Lilith held the majority of his heart but now? He is not sure but he is 100% sure [y/n] never left, he still has affections for the angel.

How can he not? She's the only one who believed in him when he was up in heaven? She comforted him whenever the elders said hurtful things to his ideas.

But now...

Her letter gave him a sense of hope that his decision of giving mankind free will might not be useless after all.

Lucifer closes the letter, gently folding it back on how it was folded before he opened it. Bringing the piece of paper to his nose, smelling the faint scent of her perfume. It brought back memories of his time with her in heaven.

“I'll ask Charlie about what happened up there later but for now, I'll take a moment to process this.” He says with a small sigh. Slipping the folded paper back into the envelope.

Lucifer sighs as he gently places the envelope back on his table, walking to his balcony. Eyes staring up into the smoky red skies of hell, devoid of any moon and stars.

He used to stargaze with her when he was still in heaven.

[y/n] was his moon, who shines during his darkest days.

Waving his finger in the air, specks of golden dust flickers out of his fingers. Forming a crescent moon.

Lucifer leans into the railings, eyes staring at the faux moon he created.

“Moon, tell me if I could...” Lucifer softly sang, eyes tired but hopeful. “Send up my heart to you...?” he asked softly, unfortunately no one answered.

A bit of a timeskip....

It has been a few months since Charlie's visit here in heaven and the next extermination is getting closer by the day. Emily and I are still trying to look for ways to help Charlie.

Sera adores Emily, I am sure that she wouldn't get punished. I on the other hand, Sera has been keeping a close eye on me. Criticizing me. Lute being tasked to watch my every move.

“Sera, this is utterly ridiculous! We should give those poor souls a second chance.” [Y/n] says, clenching her fists as she looked at Sera who was sitting on her chair inside the Seraphim office.

“That is enough, [y/n]. You keep this up and you'll end up fallen like Lucifer.” Sera said sternly, eyes glaring at the [y/n]. “You barely managed to escape that fate before, you could've fallen the same time as Lucifer but thankfully your actions weren't as severe as his.”

[y/n] slammed her fists against the table, angel eyes appearing on her wings with fury, “We aren't God, Sera! Who gave you the right to judge those sinners and claim they don't deserve a second chance?” she exclaimed.

Sera stood up from her seat, anger evident on her face. “Don't you dare raise your voice at me! You're on thin ice, [y/n]!”

[y/n] rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over chest, “What are you going to do? Huh? Kick me out of heaven?”

Sera's glare sharpened, patience running thin. “Keep that attitude up and you just might.”

“Lucifer doesn't deserve this treatment! You cursed him to not see the good of people! You cursed the people who have a chance to redeem themselves by taking their life! How does it feel that so much blood is spilled because of your decision?!” [y/n] asked angrily, tears running down her cheeks.

“We have our own souls to protect! This decision wasn't easy to make!” Sera remarked angrily, her wings spread out intimidatingly.

“Protect them from what?! As far as I know, it's only us angels who are a threat to them? If they do something that doesn't fit your standards or the elder's standards they are bound to fall from grace!” [y/n] says mockingly, rage and annoyance evident on both women's eyes.

“That's it, you've crossed the line!”

“You don't want to admit that I am right, angels are such selfish, greedy, and filthy creatures. I cannot believe I am associated with beings whose hands are stained with blood.”

You know, falling doesn't seem so bad.

Strong and harsh winds are blowing against my back, thankfully I still have my wings. It is currently useless, unfortunately. I don't have the energy to flap them to save myself from the approaching pain.

After that argument with Sera, the higher seraphim thought I was already way out of line and disrespectful. I was placed on trial, handcuffed with the type of handcuffs that prevents me from using my angelic powers while it simultaneously sucked the energy out of me.

I was deemed guilty, shameful, and ungrateful and a threat to the order of heaven.

Tossed out of the pearly gates of heaven by none other than Adam, that asshole really grabbed me by the hair.

[y/n] sighs softly, vision blurring. Trying to focus it as she falls from grace. The skies looked so beautiful.

Lucifer would've loved these skies, we've stargazed during the night before. When he was still in heaven with me.

Lucifer, I can see Ursa Major tonight. Someday, I'll bring you back here on the surface and stargaze like we've always do. No matter how many stars are in the sky, you always take my attention. You're like my star, you shine so bright and so pure.

I'll join you in the pits of hell, I hope you didn't forget about me.

I should be happy that I'm finally leaving that god awful place.

Why am I so scared of falling to my demise?

For a moment, I can see a glimpse of how Lucifer felt when he fell from grace.

Terrifying.

[Y/n] closes her eyes as she finally goes past the Earth's crust. Ichor flowing out of her hands from the handcuffs she had to wear.

“I am not allowed to die, I still need to see him.” [y/n] murmurs before eventually crashing into the fiery grounds of hell, she fortunately crashed somewhere where there weren't any people, a wide space of nothing but dead trees, a hotel can be seen in the distance.

Pain, pain shot everywhere her body. She let out a sharp scream of pure pain. Blood spilled everywhere before she eventually passed out.

It didn't matter, the pain didn't matter. She's here now. She'll look for him or Charlie.

She doesn't know Charlie would find her first.

END NOTES: YUHHH THEY'LL SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN IN THE NEXT UPDATEE

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