#please tell me to kill more men for you
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Not the proudest of how the bg came out but like. Chappell Roan? Sheâs following the blueprint Mad Moxxi Made
#meâs stuff :]#mad moxxi#borderlands#borderposting#I would do anything for you miss moxxi#I have killed men for you and I will again#please tell me to kill more men for you#not because Iâm a lesbian#but because you deserve the blood and heads of your enemies in jars and hung and trophies#and I simply wish to provide
27 notes
¡
View notes
Note
hi bat<3 i feel like youâre definitely not a die-hard fan of the big 3, but for someone like me whoâs been watching menâs tennis since the early 2010s, theyâre like everything.
so i wanted to ask: out of the big 3 (or big 4?) pairings, which duo do you think is more interesting? like which one feels more worth exploring in your opinion?
i just watched rogerâs docu recently, and omg he gave novak a solo moment. not like a story about them, just a montage of novak yelling and screaming on court. then roger went, âthis might not reflect well on novak.â it lowkey gave me vale/jorge vibes, not a perfect parallel, but within the big3/big4, theyâre the duo that feels the least⌠connected. and yet, when it comes to tactical and technical richness, theyâre at the top. rogerâs obviously way more arrogant than vale, like he just doesnât see novak as special or even interesting. meanwhile, novak used to be that guy who wanted everyone to like him, but now heâs completely over it. over the years, thereâs just been this constant low-key, non-vibe-y energy between them. but their matches? they somehow deliver these insane moments at the most unexpected times. at the laver cup, roger said something to novak, and then novak cried.
iâm less into roger/rafa, partly because iâm not a rafa fan, but also because they suddenly turned into this ideal rivalry narrative, and honestly, that kinda freaked me out. iâm slowly starting to understand the feelings between them, though. like, i still donât buy into the whole âgreatest rivalâ thing because, letâs be real, on both the competitive and career-defining levels, itâs just not that mutual. but yeah, their pairing definitely had its advantagesâsorry for saying this, but itâs true. the 2008 wimb F is obviously historic, but if you actually watch it all the way through, itâs not that great. itâs the unpredictable weather that gave it that epic feel.
and then thereâs andy/novak, whoâve always been my fave because of their history and the emotional layers in their rivalry. like, when viktor troicki recently said novak was looking for a âbig nameâ coach, my friends and i joked about it being roger, but none of us thought of andy. and then it happened. i still canât believe it. from my very limited tennis perspective, andyâs kinda feels like a subset of novakâs. i donât really know what qualities do coaches even need in tennis, and how do they maximize a playerâs potential? so iâm really curious to see what they come up with together. their dynamic peaked in 2016, which was also the only time the big4 rivalries genuinely made me sad. so yeah, they totally deserve this heartwarming closure.
okay so first off, I have to confess I get a failing grade as a hater because I read this ask reading ?? eating breakfast with this on
I dozed off to the 2019 wimbledon final last night so idk. this isn't nadal retirement-prompted nostalgia, I actually failed as a hater there too and completely missed his last match happening so like. arrived to dance on the grave a day late. BUT the djokovic/murray coaching news DID awaken something suppressed in me. I'll probably watch the 2012 uso final next just to feel something
anyway, what this does go to show is that for all that I am obviously extremely not a fan of the big three, as a tennis fan it's also not like I can pretend to be completely immune. I grew up watching them!! I remember watching so many of their matches! often with my family! I would argue about them all the time as a fan, whether with my family or people at the tennis club or indeed my maths teacher. I was always rooting for SOMEONE, like I did have an order of preference. and... uh, it should be mentioned that I am also not a complete neutral who just intellectually hated the big three because I thought they were shitty sources of narrative tension. I was a massive murray fan as a kid so I did also just get my heart repeatedly broken by them. we're talking 'cried during murray's speech at wimbledon 2012'... I actually watched the wimbledon 2013 final at the tennis club where I trained and was EXTREMELY smug (and delighted) when murray won because EVERYONE including my coach thought djokovic would win and had been extremely annoying in my direction throughout the experience. but also I have never enjoyed a men's australian open final in my life, except 2012 I suppose. that venue holds nothing but pain and misery for me
so with my biases stated up front, where the big 3/4 rivalries are concerned, I'm basically in the 'anybody but fedal' camp. that one I feel nothing for and its popularity continues to absolutely baffle me. no hate to anyone who enjoys it but I do treat its continued dominance basically like a psyop. idk who's responsible for this or why they're doing it, but SOMEBODY is pursuing some kind of nefarious agenda. call me casey stoner because I've cracked the code. I understand they're both individually rather popular and I suppose in a detached unemotional way I do get how that could happen, but as a unit? idk man. also, EYE am a rivalry enjoyer, but I get very suspicious when too many fans are an enjoyer of a particular rivalry... (or y'know, sometimes you've got rivalries that have a lot of 'theoretical fans' but you can kinda tell they do basically hate one of the competitors involved and will immediately throw them overboard if they have to take a side, which also passes the test.) just shows to me that there's zero edge there. most partisan fans of an athlete hate anyone who is a threat to their athlete, that's just how people are. if there's this little hate then that tells me that there's too little threat which tells me the stakes aren't quite there competitively or emotionally... which tells me that there's no real reason to care. I'm well aware that federer fans used to be more likely to be nadal haters back in the noughties (david foster wallace coming through for me again on that front) and that nadal fans are more into that rivalry than federer fans and that they're both retired now... but still!! if it was a proper fun rivalry, more partisan fans would still be bitter. fundamentally the rivalry is good for both of them in terms of legacy and pr and all that shit and they both clearly agree so it's just... empty
which yeah, so full agree on the stuff you say lol. I HAVE watched the wimbledon 2008 final (and I... think?? must have watched it at the time, I was still pretty young and clearly it wasn't a defining enough experience it stuck in my mind lol) but it's been years by now. so I can't actually reallyyyy speak to its quality and I'm probably not going to rewatch it any time soon. I do also just think it's the most boring match-up tennis-wise... partly this is because my favourite big three playstyle is djokovic's - I love how he moves around the court, I love the compact backhand and the emphasis on counterpunching... the nadal/federer match-up was mostly defined by federer attempting to figure out ways to prevent nadal from bullying his backhand. which I do know is oversimplifying things lol but it's. kinda true. djokovic/federer is the best match-up tennis-wise even if it's a bit one-sided in the biggest moments (which, whatever, that was narratively engaging too)... federer's full artistry against djokovic's precision was just more exciting to watch. then comes djokovic/nadal which is a bit of a counterpuncher-off, like they are quite tactically similar in a lot of ways, extremely optimised baseliners... but that means they were always going to push each other the furthest - they were already half a step ahead of federer in the evolution of tennis and everyone now is obviously basing their tennis primarily on how they changed the game. and, y'know, nadal's biggest rival is djokovic!! I get why if you're a nadal fan, you'd want it to be federer, but well! tough!
and YES yes I ABSOLUTELY agree that federer/djokovic is the most interesting interpersonally because federer was SO arrogant towards djokovic. the worst thing that happened to federer is that he became a pr merchant, like at least being a cunt was INTERESTING. he used to be absolutely dreadful about murray too!! aggressively unpleasant!! but that one was also frustrating because... murray didn't end up surpassing him... (I genuinely have like. traumatic flashbacks to watching their atp finals 2014 match. I don't think my soul ever quite recovered from that day.) but with djokovic!! people used to be so unpleasant about him - and okay, by now unfortunately he's given everyone plenty of cause, but BACK THEN it was a completely different story. it was so much fun rooting for him when the crowds were being horrid to him and he stuck it in their faces... before he did all the boob throwing business - staring icily at them when he beat their hero? hot
and federer was so so snide about the guy... pepperidge farm remembers when he accused teenage djokovic of faking his injuries in 2006
The 19-year-old Djokovic called his trainer multiple times. He had hamstring issues, but Federer thought he was faking his injuries to disrupt Wawrinkaâs rhythm. âI donât trust his injuries. Iâm serious. I think heâs a joke, you know, when it comes down to his injuries,â Federer said.
OR in 2009
Djokovic, the No. 3 seed, threw in the towel midway through the fourth set of his quarterfinal with Andy Roddick, trailing 6-7 (3), 6-4, 6-2, 2-1. But in pointed comments, Federer, the No. 2 seed, noted that it wasn't the first time Djokovic has withdrawn midway through a match in a Grand Slam. "He's not a guy who's never given up before ... it's disappointing," said Federer, who will face Roddick in the semifinals. "I've only done it once in my career ... Andy totally deserved to win that match." "I'm almost in favor of saying, you know what, if you're not fit enough, just get out of here," Federer added. "If Novak were up two sets to love I don't think he would have retired 4-0 down in the fourth. Thanks to Andy that he retired in the end. Andy pushed him to the limits. Hats off to Andy."
'if novak were up two sets to love I don't think he would have retired 4-0 down in the fourth' ...? what are you even saying
and like, on a moral level I do actually think this is pretty gross and have a massive bone to pick with federer on his whole 'look at me aren't I amazing for never retiring from a match' schtick, which continues to have lasting harmful consequences in this sport. this kind of record isn't heroic, it's just fucking stupid. but also, it's hardly the first time or the last time tennis players accused each other of playing up their injuries - it's very much part of the sport, we've all done it or at least thought it. I am also on the record as being pro beefing with children. and it's very strong set-up for that rivalry, especially given how bloody often djokovic went on to crush federer's spirit! it's better set-up than the payoff, quite frankly
that being said, perhaps my favourite match they played is us open 2011 semis - y'know, the match where djokovic saves two matchpoints in the fifth set en route to beating federer... oh, I suppose that doesn't completely narrow it down!!
ah well!
back to 2011, that match did lead to just some really strong snarking in the press:
Djokovic was honest enough to admit the shot was a gamble â but Federer was reluctant to give him credit even for that courage in a crisis, preferring to regard it as desperate. "Confidence? Are you kidding me?" he said when it was put to him the cross-court forehand off his first serve â described by John McEnroe as "one of the all-time great shots" â was either a function of luck or confidence. "I mean, please. Some players grow up and play like that â being down 5-2 in the third, and they all just start slapping shots. I never played that way. I believe hard work's going to pay off, because early on maybe I didn't always work at my hardest. For me, this is very hard to understand. How can you play a shot like that on match point? Maybe he's been doing it for 20 years, so for him it was very normal. You've got to ask him." Djokovic was in a more relaxed mood. "Yeah, I tend to do that on match points," he said, reminded that it was exactly what he did to Federer last year. "It kinda works."
IT KINDA WORKS jhgjhgjhgkf get him again from me
here's the matchpoint save in question ofc
youtube
"someday the little twins will grow up to hear about matches like this" well -
which, I mean, federer's being extremely annoying in press! 'oh I'm above taking risks when I'm down on the scoreboard' says the man who ended up with one hell of a reputation for choking. it's also silly!! sometimes it's worth taking a swing at it!! also psychologically, because you're making things less complicated for yourself!! in individual matches, you won't necessarily be rewarded for your diligence and hard work, just not how anything works you moron. but y'know, this was the REAL federer. by the following year he'd already completely clamped down on this kind of thing and it felt like really djokovic could have also been WAY more bitter about this stuff than he publicly was... but yeah, this I did enjoy
and yeah, I do kinda see the vale/jorge comparison! like you say, federer is kinda... more arrogant, more contemptuous towards his younger rivals, also just more of a sore loser until pr got to him? tennis is infamous for its frosty handshakes, but you compare some of those with how warm valentino generally was when he lost... federer's problem was that he lacked self-awareness and was just so committed to this image of the gentleman's sport, which is why he ended up shying away from all this stuff. the unpleasantness with djokovic was actually like... still fairly late in the game, all things considered, it wasn't even really like 2011!federer to say stuff like that. which does show djokovic was capable of really really getting under his skin! and on djokovic's end, where the jorge comparison very much applies is how much he wanted the people to love him (ik his fans hate this narrative but like,, obviously he did). and how they had all already decided he was the enemy for beating their beloved federer and nadal. I do find it a bit easier to stomach with valentino because he deliberately plays with this stuff, weaponising the crowd and all that, whereas federer and nadal just pretend like it's not happening. (also morally it might be worse to boo at a motogp event because of the danger they're putting themselves in, but practically booing at a tennis match is far far worse - you can actually influence the competitors in a way you obviously cannot in motogp.) but that WAS one of the most interesting storylines in the big three era... djokovic slowly catching these two greats who were always so far ahead of them, however much people didn't want him to, even though he didn't have the love of the people on his side, and eventually managing to surpass them altogether. I do think there's plenty of interesting stuff there!! good groundwork! it's just... nowhere near enough, given how bloody long these guys ended up dominating
on djokovic/murray - MY favourite combination of guys as well, just in terms of how much I actually like both of them. it's an interesting relationship where it's like... they knew each other quite well when they were young, then inevitably grew apart a bit when they were competing for big titles? obviously they were also born exactly a week apart from each other, which is narratively fun. I suppose it's the equivalent to jorge/dani which... actually wait, no, I realise that would assign nadal to casey and certainly not my god. it's a rivalry that's a bit tough to stomach from a murray fan perspective because... I mean, it's not quite 'this is not a rivalry, they always kick our ass' territory... but when I started following tennis as a kid, it felt completely plausible that murray and djokovic would have similarly successful careers. which obviously. did not happen. still remember that kind of controversial 2015 australian open final -
- and, y'know, it's a bit frustrating!! this was the tone of a lot of that era, where you kinda just wanted to take them all aside and tell them. my god. maybe a little bit of feuding is okay, no? but well, it is what it is, mostly they had a good relationship. 2016 was kinda the best of times and worst of times because murray was pouring his heart and soul into scraping all of his potential out of himself, got another slam, year end #1 etc... but it also probably did end up fucking up his body permanently, in the quest to fight djokovic. and there IS something compelling and sad about that, but yeah. still a bit of an old wound as an actual sports fan lol
and yeah, they're two closely related playstyles!! counterpunchers with particularly excellent backhands - and if a wing falters, then it's the forehand. it was lendl coaching murray and getting him to properly go after his forehand, be aggressive enough off that wing, that got him his biggest successes. djokovic's weaknesses are less pronounced and especially these last few years, he's often been lethal as a serve + 1 forehand merchant. roland garros 2023 is a good example of that... murray was the tactician, generally thought a lot on court and had a lot in his arsenal - ofc most famously his excellent lob. djokovic does also have more to his game than just baseline pushing, even if sometimes that involves just spamming dropshots when he feels uneasy. obviously, as can be seen from the slam count, his game ended up being just a bit better... but, well, these are very fine margins. murray's slam count is deceptive, he really was the one guy who could consistently hang with those three year-in year-out. whatever revisionism people try to do now, it really was a big four era
as for the coaching relationship, I'm very curious!! coaching can take a lot of different forms and sometimes there's a bit of a distinction between the... bread and butter coaching, the people who are working with you day to day, and these more high profile gigs where sometimes it really is just localised to specific tournaments. it's all very individualised, depends on the specific demands of the player - obviously, given where djokovic is at in his career, you won't be seeing particularly major adjustments, like murray isn't going to come in and suddenly suggest djokovic revamps his serve, right. (though sometimes players still tinker with this stuff late into careers, especially if they're managing injuries.) given the particular stresses of playing in a match, what an odd experience that is in its own right, sometimes you do just need someone to be observing you, give your game a critical once-over from a little bit of distance. now, admittedly from what I've seen of djokovic's coaching relationships, I do feel like one of the coach's roles in THAT particular camp is also just 'being yelled at continuously during matches'. which...? a little curious if djokovic has that same tone when murray's standing there lmao. also one of the reasons for the yelling is when djokovic feels like he's not getting enough enthusiasm from his box. which... ... uh. I mean. murray wouldn't have been top on MY list for that particular metric. but he can get passionate at davis cup from what I've seen!! so maybe it'll work out
anyway yeah I'll cut it off there lol. obviously I spent half my childhood thinking about tennis and inevitably that involved a lot of thinking about the big four and that means I have a lot of thoughts on them so. basically it's fedole > rafole > fedal as far as I'm concerned. good luck to djokovic/murray in their endeavours, I will be there no matter what
#i'm also SO ticked off at the Next Big Things in men's tennis that like. i'm not gonna do any big three revisionism#but i will say that even a swiss man generated more narrative tension than this lot. so that helps#also it's a bit of a pyrrhic victory with the big three where they have kinda managed to kill the part of me that cares#so now it's a bit. whatever. sure i'll celebrate your retirement but... you outlived my ability to feel something#also low key since my options in january are the djokovic/murray team up or some pasty ginger austrian... i'm rooting for novandy idc#//#racquet tag#kwisatzworld#batsplat responds#trust my head completely went when i saw the djokovic/murray coaching news. i didn't know i had that in me anymore#sleeper agent in me activated. i mean first of all the whole thing just reads like a fic prompt doesn't it#i WOULD be more of a djokovic fan if he weren't SO... you know. i know all these men suck but the vaccine stuff and genocide apologia....#my line with athletes is that if you don't tell me your terrible beliefs we're good. but please don't actively support harmful causes#really the off-court stuff cumulatively was why i soured on djokovic more than anything to do with the tennis
5 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Ask me about season2 Beronica..... she was real right there......
#can never and will never forget. veronica and her pathetic lesbian crush letting betty be her executioner in the matter of morality its like#mitski said in real men shes like betty you are a God ut judgement is absolute tell me im good betty tell me im a good person please and#betty is just like No. you are Trash<3 but then she sings her a moving dyke rendition of you shine and im going crazy from it. Girls!#btw the drinking poison lesbianly to save your life thing can be traced directly to this.the crux of their issue. cuz betty is a judgemental#bitch and veronica is veronica. and you can see the fizzled out remnants of this in their few s5/6 interactions.#betty still judges her for running an illegal casino even though she delivered the final blow that fractured their friendship#via barchie cheating scandal. and then Still veronica tries to iffer her absolution from bettys murder sins via. by my count ive killed way#more pol than you and im fine. and of course this doesnt mean anything to betty. i need to write an essay#rvd#etxt
9 notes
¡
View notes
Text
mother is watching the last episode of miss the dragon and mannnnn zanzan is Acting, heâs shaking, heâs making Panicked Eyes, heâs doing it all! even with the uhhh moderately complex material he was given! but ycly is like đ you killed the love of my life whom i protected for three lifetimes. it hurt a lot. i will now. give this pain back to you a fuckton of times. while zanzan goes from gfjhgkjshfkj emperor please save me i donât want to die!! to just plain out AAAAAAAAAAAAAA (tortured screaming) like thereâs Emotion! meanwhile our no 1 romantic interest: đ
#idk if its just those dramas or if dramas nowadays really are like. 'softer'#but like. why are we voldemorting the antagonists now? why not kill them with a big sword. why not have them and the protagonist bite each#others dicks off (more or less literally) make it BLOODY make it VICIOUS make it look like a PROPER final fight! nooooo one dude is going#to be all GRRRRR GRRRRR and the other will make a hand gesture and explode him with his mind. boring and stupid#is the fake blood more expensive? they're not spitting blood as nicely as they did in like. cql#let them take a nice glug of that and go all out on their lower face and chest! what the fuck is a tasteful streak down their chin#it is NOTHING i tell you NOTHING#shrimp thoughts#i know i said the exact same thing back when i was watching mtd in real time And when i was finishing mirror or rather the last clip#kk so kindly posted (just remembered his 3k characters essay and im LAUGHING he really said we could have had it all! and peaced out)#anyway. give me blood and adult men biting each other please & thanxx
4 notes
¡
View notes
Text
never have i ever gripped my blanket and cringed in full force while reading a book snippet
#someone tell these grown ass men that you dont need to use speech tags in every fucking sentence#thats just the tip of tge iceberg đđđđ#please. please no more#does this mean i have to mute all rr/verse tags known to man on may 2nd.......#it reads like a fanfic id write when i was in 8th grade sorry#t/sat/s makes me want 2 kill myself#meowrant
4 notes
¡
View notes
Text
an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader
your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.
type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)
cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)
Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hungerâa pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.
Your house isnât like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your headâyou didnât believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where youâd like to take your afternoon tea. You donât like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses doâbut no one says the same to your husband.
He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. Heâs still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.
He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.
Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queenâs lettersâher praise for your husbandâs conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.
All for your sake. Ghostâs name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.
You wonât lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since youâve been wed do not scare you. Heâs doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldierâyou know heâs trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?
He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.
To my wife,
The sun falls quicker here. Iâd like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.
I have you to think about now. So I burned them.
Simon
A poet, your beloved.
He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of itâyou donât even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesnât like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.
Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he canât help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.
Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked wellâhe knows, he knows he wasnât wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.
You do hate when heâs away. Youâre not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing heâs home.
The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesnât trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you arenât sure.
Perhaps itâs both.
You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until heâs completely naked.
You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but itâs hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. Heâs so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you canât help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.
Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.
âSimon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, youâre mistaken!â You laugh, and he raises a brow.
âMmmâŚâ He smacks his lips together. âThaâ right, my lady?â He clicks his tongue. âThis is my bed. âs oll mine. Every blanketâŚevery pillowâŚâ He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. âAnd every part of you.â
You giggle again, shaking your head, âPlease, Simon!â You push him away with your toes. âThey only changed the sheets yesterday. Youâll dirty themâŚâ You flutter your lashes. âWill you bathe if I join you?â
He grins wide, licking over his teeth.
âCanât refuse an offer like thaâ.â
You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You donât waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.
Itâs never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesnât just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, itâs always to get back to this place.
To you.
âHowâs my boy?â He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. âOi. Asked ya question, luv.â
Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.
âIâŚâ You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. âI bled while you were gone. IâŚâ You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. âIâmâŚIâm sorry, Simon.â
You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.
âIt will happen,��� he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesnât want to hear you blame yourself. If itâs anyoneâs fault, itâs his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. âI know. Seen it in mâdreams.â
Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesnât laugh.
He says the dreams are why he knows he wonât die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes whatâs to come even if he didnât see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.
Itâs never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.
So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.
When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. Itâs gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.
âI missed you, husband,â you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. âSimon!â you laugh, âmy night dressâoh!âitâs ruined!â
âToo far away,â he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. âMmmâŚâ He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. âYâshould be naked when I come home,â he says lowly. âIâll soil yâr bloody gown next time, mâlady.â
You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as heâll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.
A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.
Real power wasnât being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isnât real.
He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you canât seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. Itâs slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.
He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. Itâs maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but itâs hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after heâs finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when heâs home to eat until youâre full and cum until you fall asleep again.
Maybe thatâs why youâre not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until heâs practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.
He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to tasteâtastes so good, luvvie, donât ya see, yeah?âwanting you to know why heâs so eager to be on his knees all the time.
You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.
ââs not what I really want,â is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.
âI know, luv. I know wot ya really need.â
âI must be broken,â you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.
âNot broken,â Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that itâs hard not to believe him. âIt wasnât time.â
âYou canât see the future, Simon! You donât know!â You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.
âYou listen tâme,â he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. âWot I say goes. Yâr my wife, so listen tâme, and listen tâme good. Yâr not broken. Not time. Say it back tâme.â
Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.
âSay it,â he snaps, and you hiccup.
âItâs not time,â you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.
âJust need my cock, luv,â he murmurs. âThaâs oll. Just need me tâfuck it outta ya.â
You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.
ââs oll yâneed,â he repeats, and you nod again.
You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you werenât able to walk there.
You like when Simon is home because itâs quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. Itâs always Simon.
You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and heâs using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You donât know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.
He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.
He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. Itâs intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.
âFuck,â he mutters. âFuck, unnervingâŚthe way ya lookâŚâ
You close your eyes, âS-Simon, pleaseâŚIâm already dressedâŚâ
He chuckles, âI know. I know.â
But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.
He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.
âI want to go.â
âNo.â
âSimon, let me go,â You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. âLet me go with you, I canât do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.â
You arenât sure if Simon underestimates you. You think itâs more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angryâŚand meanâŚand terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.
He couldnât scare you, even if he tried.
âWar is not where women go,â Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. âEspecially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckinâ whole. Look at yaâŚâ He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. âBeautiful. Meant for my lipsâŚfor these dressesâŚmeant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because thaâ is surely the least of wot they would do tâya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ân see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ân you will wait for me here until I come back.â
Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesnât think it suits you.
âIâm sick of waiting for you, Simon,â you spit. âItâs all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And donât say you do this for country, that is a lie.â You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. âYou do it because you like it. Youâre a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our kingâs will.â
A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.
âThat is my duty.â
âYour duty is to me,â you snap. âKings come and go, but I will not.â Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. âNow you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.â
You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.
There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just soâhe has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.
Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived?Â
Would he?
He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a kingâs order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.
Itâs never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.
Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.
Her. Her. Her.
He is bitter, yes, until he is not.
It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.
So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it wonât be taken from me.
I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.
I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.
Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but heâs surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, tooânobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.
When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.
So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.
The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.
His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simonâs library.
He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simonâs house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?
Simon agreed.
But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.
When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simonâs behalf or read another fucking book.
You donât want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.
You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.
You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt âYour Majesty,â she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, âNo need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.â
You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now youâre allowed to be somewhat of friends?
You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears Englandâs colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but sheâs looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesnât like it. Or maybe she doesnât like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.
The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?
You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your lifeâto serve the kingâs wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.
Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.
Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. Youâve heard this before, but youâve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you werenât exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.
You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queenâs favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.
âWell, thatâs not very kind of her,â you say finally, and she laughs.
âNo! Sheâs such a prude. I think her husband doesnât sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,â she winks at you. You giggle at that. âSpeaking of husbandsââ She pops another cake in her mouth. âHow is yours?â
You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.
âOh, uhâŚâ You clear your throat, âHeâs doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, Iâm sure they will be victorious soon enough.â
Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.
âWise words from the duchess, aye, my love?â
You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.
âItâs alright,â he tells you. âPlease, sit. Youâre here as my guest.â
You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wifeâs long coils of hair.
âSince youâre here, Iâd like a word, if thatâs alright,â John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.
âJohn, please, sheâs my friend. Canât it waitââ
âThat wasnât a question, Victoria,â John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. Youâre reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, youâd pity her.
What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a manâs throat just to have your hand.
What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?
No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.
Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesnât reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.
âIâll go check on dinner,â she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.
When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of Johnâs head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.
You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.
âSimonâs been away for some time. I bet thatâs difficult for you.â
You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.
What you have become and what you no longer are.
âI do just fine, Your Majesty,â you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. âI could say the same to you, couldnât I?â
John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.
âSo you know.â
âKnow what, Your Majesty?â
âYou know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didnât listen to me.â
You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.
âIâm not sure I know what youâre talking about.â
âI could have your husbandâs head cut off for treason for that, youâre aware, arenât you?â
You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. âDonât be daft, my king. You wouldnât want to do that.â
John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?
âNow, letâs be civil, Your Majesty,â you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. âIs there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why donât you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?â
John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.
âI need him back here, is what I need,â John murmurs.
âMy king, I couldnât get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.â
âNow whoâs being daft?â
You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.
âWhy did he refuse?â You ask finally.
âWhat?â
âWhy does he ignore your order to come back?â You ask again. âI canât think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?â
John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.
âI wasâŚinformed that there was some sort of letter,â John explains. âSome threat.â
âI donât follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.â
âWas about you this time, Your Grace.â
You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.
âThatâs absurd,â you breathe. âSimon wouldnâtâŚâ
John chuckles, but there is no humor there. âWouldnât he?â
âI still donât understand what you expect me to do,â you roll your eyes, looking away. âSimon isâŚheâs notâŚhe doesnât listen. Itâs why heâs good at this, isnât it? He doesnât really take orders, heâsâŚIâŚâ
John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at Johnâs feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?
John leans forward. âYou need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,â he spits. âAnd sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isnât like anything Iâve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.â He scoots closer. âEngland needs you to call him back here. To me.â
You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?
You wear Simonâs colors, not Johnâs, and you will wear them to your deathbed.
âIf I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,â you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.
âKings do not owe their subjects.â
âQuite right, Your Majesty,â you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. âBut I am not doing this as your subject.â
âEverything you do is as my subject.â
âYou put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,â you say softly. You are not accusing him, youâre reminding him of a truth. âSimon is whyâŚheâs why your counsel still listens to you. Heâs why your people are free from famine, whyâŚwhy your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this placeâs fortune on women and liquor.â You shake your head. âYou have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.â
You are not wrong, and John knows this, and itâs why he hasnât spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once Johnâs duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.
John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and itâs Simonâs name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.
âWhereâŚWhere did you learn to speak to men this way?â John scoffs. âI am your king.â
You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They donât like being held in front of a mirror.
âYou are king because my husband made it so,â you correct him gently. âAnd Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.â You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. âBut he is not your dog anymore. Heâs mine.â
Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simonâs silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.
Simon answers your call. Always.
At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.
âYou were thinking with your cock, Simon,â you spit. âThat is how men like you get killed.â
âYou âave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,â Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.
âMaybe,â you whisper. âBut Iâm not wrong. It is how youâll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, itâs playing the fool.â You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. âYou donât need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.â
He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and itâs comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.
âI know,â Simon mutters. âI know. Yâr right. Iâm sorry, luv.â
You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me âave it, and you will, but he has to say heâs sorry again.
ââm sorry,â he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.
âAgain, Simon,â you whisper. âI wanna hear it again.â
ââm sorry,â he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.
Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they wonât listen, heâs not who they turn to when things go belly-up, itâs your husband, and your husband answers to you.
You werenât sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).
It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.
John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.
You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.
Manipulation.
Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but itâs hard to feel anything like it when thereâs a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. Itâs hard to feel anything but bliss when heâs tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like itâs the last time heâll ever have you.
It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and youâre certain John doesnât fuck the way you do.
Heâs mine.
It isnât John that commands an army, itâs you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isnât it? Youâre the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so itâs you, right?
Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.
A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing youâve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You donât care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his faceâthere is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.
âYou came back for me?â You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.
ââf course,â Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.
âBut not for John.â
He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know itâs true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.
âJohn is afraid, and I donât listen to âim when heâs afraid. Makes bad choices.â
Itâs almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.
âSimon,â you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. âYou have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making aâŚrash decision about war strategy is one thing, butâŚâ You cup his cheek gently. âMake things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.â
This time, at least. Just this time.
Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.
âMake things easy for me, my love,â you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. âAppease your king, yes? For me?â
âCanât say no when yâr pussy squeezes me like thaâ, sweetâeart,â Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. âFuckinâ Christââ
âI hate when you go,â you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. âHate when youâre not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss thisââ
âNghhâŚfuck, I know,â Simon pants. âCan feel it. Feel you.â You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. âYâr so fuckinâ prettyâŚâ
âSimonââ
He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you canât contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.
Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long youâll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before youâre incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.
It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.
Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and heâll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of themâto give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they donât have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.
Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.
Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.
With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, tooâhe saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how itâs meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesnât know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldnât bear that.
Your voice echoes. Youâre moaning, overstimulated, but he doesnât stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, youâre a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.
Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesnât feel bad about it, he doesnât care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.
Simon will fight any of Johnâs enemies, but he wonât fight fate. He wonât fight what has already been seen, and he wonât fight what he already knows will happen.
With Simonâs cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.
âDo this for me,â you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.
âMake me happy,â you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.
âJust this once,â you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.
When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he canât help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simonâs hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detailâone of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.
You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone elseâs) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes wonât leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays.Â
John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.
In a few generations, Johnâs house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.
Itâs what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, itâs what you learned to do. Itâs all youâve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.
Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesnât come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.
In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautifulâmore beautiful than heâs ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.
âYou wanna know somethingâŚfunny?â You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know heâs listening. âJohnâŚJohn made itâŚhe makes it seem like you donât really listen to him. He implied thatâŚin the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.â You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. âIsnât that funny?â
âWotâs so funny?â
You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.
âIâŚâ
âMmmâŚmight be right, innit?â Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. âDo anythinâ for ya. Disobeying a kingâŚâ Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. âIgnoring oneâŚâ He shrugs, âOll in a day, love.â
âHe can hang you for it,â you whisper. âCut off your head. Cut off mine.â
Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.
âI would âave seen it. I would know.â
He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when heâs between your plush thighs.
You canât help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one manâs wife just because it solidifies his name.
You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simonâs neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simonâs eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.
âWhat if I want more?â You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. âDid you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what Iâm asking for? What it is that I really want?â
Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.
What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, youâll have him right where you want him.
When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.
#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost mw2#ghost cod#ghost call of duty#ghost mwii#ghost x reader#cod#call of duty#simon riley smut#simon ghost riley smut#dark!ghost#dark!simon
4K notes
¡
View notes
Note
okay hear me outâŚ. reverse hybrid au⌠with tigerhybrid!sukuna bc nobody else can handle him because heâs so aggressive and overbearing .. so reader is their last resort zoo caretaker and theyâre is shocked at how itâs like reader has a leash on tigerhybrid!sukuna đ
IâVE GOT IT?
Synopsis: Youâre head of a completely different department so why are you being asked to help with an odd situation?
Warnings: Female!reader + Mean!Sukuna + cringe tropes (sorry) + Hybrid!Sukuna: ears and a tail + heat + cumming inside + doggy + NOTPROOFREAD!!! + obsessed!Sukuna
Pairings: Tigerhybrid!Sukuna x female!Reader
Notes: Iâm really working to improve my writing for you guys!! Esp my non-English speakers
âMiss please you know we would never beg like this if it wasnât urgent.â
âI donât specialize in that field, how many times must I tell you?â
You were getting sick of these scientists coming to you more often than normal, thereâs three right now begging for you to take on a case that you didnât want to do.
âSukuna is out of control, heâs already injured five of our best, now they refuse to work with himâ
âAnd I should be the sixth?â You say with a quirk of your brow.
They all stop and stare at one another, you have a good ass point what makes them think that youâll be the antidote for their beast they decided to keep.
âLike I said, my stance on this wonât change.â
Another voice in the doorway of your office speaks up: âIâll upgrade your pay and have you transferred up.â
Your ears perk up at this offer, to go even further where you are right now means business and a fuck ton of money. On the flip side it means facing whatever theyâre against but youâve always been a little greedy for money so you oblige.
The scientists made sure to throw you in the thinnest garments: âto let him know you donât have anything on you.â As they put it.
They also had told you no sudden movements and to talk with him in a calm manner, show him you arenât afraid and find out whatâs been making him so angry lately. Easy peasy except your life is on the line!
You disregard any negative thoughts of death and make your way into the place where they keep their hybrids, itâs like little apartments where they can do as they please in return for information on their biology, as far as you know they love it here. Youâve once met puppy!hybrids Satoru and Suguru they were very sweet men, needy but sweet.
Your first step into the apartment is met with a strong smell, a smell of something primal if that even has a smell. Itâs warm.
You start poking around his place, checking his fridge and looking for anything out of the ordinary, nothing seems amiss though. Itâs not until you come up to one of the doors and hear slight noises. You press your ear up closer making the noise more clearer: whining it sounds like whining.
Could he perhaps be In pain? You knock three times and announce youâre coming in. The door clicks and you start slowly pulling it open. You see the man in all his glory resting upon his bed, arms wrapped around his pillow and an unreadable expression.
Sukuna is big, heâs a big man compared to all the other hybrids, heâs brimming with pure muscle. Does he workout in here? Your thoughts are interrupted by slight growling: heâs warning you. Step any close r and he will have no choice but to harm you.
You pay him no mind, instead you step fully in and start looking around without a care in the world.
âYouâre making trouble- why is that?â You say while looking through his dresser.
âYouâre being extremely nosy, leave before I kill you.â He threatens harshly.
âIf you harm me Iâll have you sent somewhere else, I know where you come from and Iâm assuming you donât want to go back.â
The room goes eerily silent like heâs making a choice, he opens his mouth to speak but a groan accidentally slips past his lips.
Oh⌠the big oaf is in heat, and top scientists couldnât tell or try to track his cycle?
âYou in heat big guy?â
âNo-â
âSuch a liar, Iâm not here to make fun of you, Iâm here to make sure you get proper help.â
âThe only way Iâll get proper help is if I fuck someone.â So damn blunt you think to yourself.
He continues speaking: âI think you know they wonât allow that though.â
âWould you like some toys? I can request that for you.â
âUseless.â
You let out the loudest sigh and plop down on his fluffy bed. Bending your head in his direction you see heâs not looking at your face but your body, eyes fully trained on your pert nipples because of the cold.
You allow the poor suffering hybrid to mount you, putting a good bit of his weight on your back you can feel the outline of his thick meaty cock resting near your cunt and ass.
Heâs hard, fully hard and probably has been for a while: you feel almost a little bad.
Sukuna doesnât waste anytime grinding down against you, it feels so fucking good, his cock is accepting anything even if itâs the bare minimum. Everytime he meets your ass he whines, such a needy tiger you coo.
Heâs ignoring all the dirty little comments you send his way too focused on the only good sensation heâs felt for a while, his hand doesnât compare to your rounded ass. You reach between your legs and pull his shorts down, letting his cock bob free for a minute before heâs pushing up against you again.
Heâs producing so much precum that youCan feel it through your silky garments.
âSmells so good⌠really good.â âMhhhphmmm-â heâs now being open with his groans too focused on the feeling of his tip prodding your clothed pussy. His swishing tail is within your eyesight, you grab it and rub it for extra stimulation.
You help him a little bit by bouncing your ass against him. He places his head in the crook of your neck and starts nibbling on your neck, you can feel how sharp his damn teeth are and pray to yourself he isnât going to bite you: killing you in the process.
He doesnât do any of that instead he just lightly bites, using no strength at all. While heâs busying tearing up your neck you slip your panties off, grabbing his fat length and teasing your wet hole. Just feeling it in your hand has your body burning up in arousal itâs been a while since youâve had a cock, especially a cock his size.
You slowly start inching it in, the stretch is so damn unbearable and uncomfortable. When he feels what youâre doing he starts moving his hips already. An impatient thing such as him isnât gonna wait. He gets about halfway in and you feel a thick liquid fill you, did this beast just cum? Already?
âNhhhnn.. fuck-..â this doesnât deter him because heâs sitting fully on his knees and pulling you flush against him, his entire length snuggly inside your pussy. He doesnât wait to bounce you back on him, you canât comprehend anything properly so shocked by how he just made you take every inch of him.
Your lashes flutter closed as he ruts into you like youâre the damn sex tox heâs been given, one he wasnât gonna take care of properly. His hold on you is extremely tight so you can do nothing but take him fully, even when your walls threaten to constrict around him he pushes through it and keeps fucking Into you.
You allow him, allow him to thrust like a wild animal, mercilessly pulling all the way out of you just to slam back in. Drool is seeping down your neck where heâs latched on in droves. Heâs far too gone, pussy has never felt this good.
By the end Sukuna is still rutting uselessly, heâs not even hard anymore he just canât stop leaking cum nor has that good euphoric feeling stopped. Heâs made a mess of your pussy, his cum and yours seeping down your thighs and onto his ruined sheets.
Hes licking at your face and you can hear a deep rumbling in his chest, this big hybrid is purring in content. Any attempt to move from under him is completely halted, he wonât let you move even an inch.
He begins sucking on your nipples, theyâre definitely gonna be sore later but now it seems he just wants comfort and you fully give that to him. Rubbing his ears and whispering sweet nothings to him.
After that incident Sukuna is completely attached, he constantly whines for you to come see him including the scientists also calling for you to calm him down. He wonât let you have a moments peace.
Even when you tell him youâre extremely busy heâs having none of it, if he wants you to laze around and do nothing but rub him or praise/coddle him he completely expects it!
As his mate youâre meant to be with him all the time you should be grateful heâs even letting you leave the nest.
You were left fully shocked when he first called you his mate but the scientists explained that you were his first and now you are his last, they had all praised you because testing was made easier if you were there.
Theyâre all surprised to see him completely like mush under you, like one time when it was time for his blood to be drawn he made you come and sit in his lap while he had it taken. The doctors said he seemed to be completely smitten with you, in love and so possessive.
#zsworks#fem reader#jjk x fem!reader#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jjk x female reader#hybrid sukuna#Tiger!Sukuna#tiger hybrid#TigerHybrid!Sukuna#sukuna x female reader#sukuna x you#sukuna smut#sukuna x y/n#sukuna x reader#Sukuna#sukuna x fem!reader#hybrid x reader
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
DPxDC prompt: Danny is Chronos' first child.
Well, not his first child biologically, to be completely honest.
It just so happened that the Phantom very often helped/helps/will help Clockwork at different times and his presence next to the titan required an explanation.
And the opportunity to call Zeus a little brother is worth a lot, right? So when the Ancient came up with this idea Phantom did not resist just to have such a pleasant bonus from their cooperation.
However, in the time of the gods and heroes, such a solution was not a problem. But in modern times, when Phantom tries to attract as little attention as possible in order to graduate from university, such relatives are more likely to cause a lot of problems.
~~~~~
Wonder Woman: Uncle Danny?
Superman, who wanted to chase away a teenager serenely strolling through still smoking battlefield, turns to Wonder Woman, who is waving affably at excactly this guy.
Well, Fenton honestly happened to be in Fawcett City by accident, and it just so happened that by chance it was on this sunny and cloudless day that the villains decided to cause riots worthy of the attention of the founders of the Justice League.
Danny: Diana! My dear, it seems like we really haven't seen each other not for a long time! In what century was it? Ah, I honestly, I barely remember it... The speed at which children grow up defies the laws of time. I mean, look at you! Your mother must be so proud. How's Dad? Still not paying child support, arrogant bastard?
Wonder Woman: Oh, uncle, please. I'm all grown up now, don't worry about me.
Danny: Hm, well, let's get back to this question later. I didn't want to embarrass you in front of your friends. Anyway, would you like to introduce them, little princess?
Wonder Woman: Of course, meet Kal El, Batman, and Shazam. The rest of the guys have already returned to our base. Would you like to...
Danny: Ooh, you're talking about, um... What do you young people call it? The Justice League, right? During my youth, the heroes rarely united and mostly performed all the feats alone. It's good that you help each other, kids.
Danny flies up a little to pat Superman and Batman on the head.
Under the Diana's gaze full of hope that they will get along with her uncle, the men do not move.
In the background:
Red Hood and Robin who used to hang out with Danny near the Lazarus pits: *sounds of seagulls dying of laughter*
~~~~~
Flash: So you're Diana's uncle?
Danny: Yes, call me Danny.
Flash: Cool, cool...
Danny: What does the temperature have to do with it? Do you need ice? Let me make some for you.
Flash: No, it's like,um, I didn't know that Zeus has a younger brother with that name. So, it's good to know?
Danny: Hmm, thanks. Many people tell me that I look quite young, hah. But actually I'm his older brother, so...
Flash: Older? Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to disrespect.
Danny: No, it's all right. It's "cool". I rarely appear on the pages of your human myths and legends, I know it. After all this business about Chronos devours his own children, my father punished me for a long time. So, yeah...It's a funny story.
Flash: Punished for what? How?
Danny: Uh, sitting in a room at a time when there is no Internet or electricity is not fun at all. You see, I just didn't want a younger brother or sister because I was afraid that my parents would pay less attention to me. So, I made up this stupid prophecy and persuaded Gaea to tell it in order to remain the only child in the family. My father would never have thought that I would decide to kill him, that's why...Phah, it's just a bad family story. In 10 thousand years, we'll all laugh about it.
Flash: Yeah, that's... funny.
~~~~
Danny *is woken up by an emergency call from the League at three in the morning, although he fell asleep at two o'clock* (he gave his contact so as not to upset his niece): I knew this would happen! I knew it!
~~~~
Billy Batson *stands in his human form in front of the Justice League and doesn't know what to say*,*sweating nervous*.
Danny *enters the hall*: What's up, mortals, Diana and...Batman? My father said that there is something that I have to be here for. Oh! Well, at least someone in this family is also a shapeshifter. Have you decided to make a younger form so that your uncle doesn't feel lonely? What a good boy! Usually everyone is so afraid to seem like children, once they turn a couple of centuries old. Ah, youth~
Billy: Yeah, I decided to..experiment? and it seems I got stuck by accident.
Danny: It's okay, Uncle Danny will help you. Come on, let's go...
~~~~
Danny *teleports them to the Fawcett City*.
Billy: ....
Danny:
Billy: Hey, I'm still stuck!
A new portal opens and a man in a purple cape hands Billy a note. "Go to Constantine. P.S., my son always completes all assignments only by half, sorry." written on it.
Billy: Oh... OoOhHh!!!
~~~~
Meanwhile, Constantine, who is forced to do additional work: Son of a bi... beloved and respected Master of Time.
Danny: Yeap, that's me.
Constantine: Damn it. Couldn't you just let Batman adopt him like in other timelines?
Danny: And where's the fun in that?
#dpxdc#dpxdc prompts#dcxdp#dpxdc prompt#dpxdc crossover#dc x dp prompt#clockwork is kronos#dp clockwork
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
johnny dates your friend and then asks her if she's got any friends (you) for his friend (simon). but simon freaks you out. he can't hold a conversationâ or won't, you're not sure; you're lucky if you get monosyllabic grunts out of him as if he were a neanderthal. the only times you've seriously heard him talk is to bark out words at either johnny or the bartender.
he walks around with a poorly concealed weapon on his hip, almost like he is expecting trouble. he wears all black, which is completely fine, but then a skull balaclava that he refuses to take off, even to drink his liquor. you don't try to hide the grimace on your face when you watch him sip through the thick fabric. he's got skeleton gloves on his hands too, like some sort of shit cosplay to match his mask.
and he fucking stares, unashamedly so. it is unblinking, scrutinizing, intenseâ his dark eyes, pools of midnight, keen. he stares at the people walking in through the door, stares at johnny when he takes your friend to the dance floor, and when you tell him out of courtesy that you're going to go get another drink, you can feel him boring holes into the back of your head as you walk away, piercing flesh and bone.
the phantom fingers of his gaze trace icy paths along your spine, erupting your skin in goosebumps. you find him immensely creepy, and you thank the fucking stars you're only here as a favor for your friend. you don't think you want to do this again. he's either a wanted serial killer or just a goddamn freak.
a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders once you're at the bar, and with a sneer on your lips, you turn to the owner of said offending limb, only to come face to face with johnny. he leans into you, close enough to where you can feel his stubble grazing the shell of your ear. (back up, brother.)
"listen, bonnie!" you wince; it's really not that loud in here for him to be yelling like that. "ah ken, ghosâ er, simon, might no' be yer average man. he can be a little off-puttin'â" a little? if he doesn't follow you home and skin you alive, you'd be incredibly fortunateâ "but ah promise ye, while he may no' be boyfriend material, he's an incredible fuck."
excuse me? he's got to be positively pissed. "maybe you should slow down, yeah? you might already be three sheets to the wind if you're gassing up your unsettling friend's cock. no offense."
"naw! ah'm tellin' ye. long ago, we had a mission tha' ran everyone tight, 'n so we relieved tension the only way we couldâ big, strong guy like him had me limpin' for a few days after."
you're about to ask for an angel shot because there is no way in hell that your friend's boyfriend is making casual conversation about him getting absolutely railed byâ
"give 'em a try. jus' the once, i swear he don't bite," johnny pauses-- the rosy flush on his nose and cheeks vibrant, "unless ye ask nicely. yer friend said ye needed to get laid, anyways." oh, you're gonna fucking kill her, that long-tongued cretin.
"right!" you drink the remainder of your cocktail in one big gulp, liquid warmth trailing down your throat, before not-so-kindly shrugging him off. "i'm gonna go, you, uhâ we didn't have this conversation, for the sake of my friend." you gesture at the bartender. "one more, please. i'm gonna need it."
-
damn. now johnny's got you thinking about getting your back broken by simon. maybe you really are just down horrendously, or maybe it's the alcohol in your system that has decided to toss all self-preservation out the metaphorical window because now you can't stop noticing him.
he's real tallâ enough to have him slightly tipping his head to walk through a doorway. his shoulders are mountainous, his hands the size of a bear's paw. his physicality is undoubtedly impressive and well, you've always been weak to burly, commanding men.
you make eye contact with johnny from across the room, his bright blue eyes alive under the dim light of the dingy bar, and the bastard shifts his gaze from simon to you, giving a cheeky wink.
lifting your glass, you drink the last of your liquid courageâ the taste of it bittersweet. it has been a long time since you've gotten laid.
double damn.
"hey." you lean slightly toward simon, cupping your hand around your mouth. "you and i both know why we're here. take me home?" the way he looks at you has you shifting restlessly in your seat. did you perhaps make a mistake? oh, fuck. did you just throw yourself cunt-first at someone who is not interested? your face burns with embarrassment, heat licking up your cheeks. maybe the earth will split open, right here riâ
"let's go then." oh thank fucking god. you don't know what you would've done if he'd said no. shrivel up and die, probably. "uber'll be here in 4."
when it arrives, he places his leather jacket around your shoulders, cocooning you in its warmthâ the heady scent of nicotine clings to the garmentâ and leads you outside with a hand on the small of your back.
-
the world outside the car blurs into a hazy painting as the driver navigates the streets. colors blend together, once sharp outlines now dissolved. the rain gently taps on the window, a soothing sound that could easily lull you to sleep until you start when a roughened palm suddenly glides along your thighâ fingers slowly tracing intimate patterns on your skin.
simon's hand is hot, and it only burns hotter the closer it gets to your center under your least favorite skirt. he cannot be serious right now. you place your hand over his, short nails biting into him because there is no way you're about to be fingered in an uberâ
his voice is deep, a deliciously thick rumble, right by your ear. "nice kitty." you've never been one for pet names or anything else for that matter, but the pulse of arousal that shoots up your spine has a shaky exhale leaving your lips, a ghostly breath fogging up the window.
the tips of his fingers tease the seam of your knickers, a generic cotton fabric that clings to your dampening cunt like a second skinâ desire trickling onto the gusset. your whimper is drowned out by the terrible music the driver is currently playing when his small finger grazes over your slit, featherlight.
"so wet already? i've barely even touched ya, love." again with the cunt-clenching nicknames. he has no business purring them out like that. "i can smell your sweet pussy from here. you really must be achin' for it." of course the time he chooses to be vocal, it's to spew filth. "don't worry, i'll treat ya good."
somehow, you actually manage to choke out a response. "i'm sure. johnny-" you hiss through clenched teeth when he slips under your knickers, a finger brushing along your slick entrance, "said you had him walking side to side once." you buck your hips, seeking the friction you need, but it only makes him pull away a bit; how unsurprisingly cruel.
"only because he was bein' a brat. you're not a brat though, are ya? gonna be good f'me?" your tongue is heavy in your mouth, words lodged in your throatâ all you can give him is a slight nod. "i expect verbal answers. i'd hate to spank your arse raw. how would ya sit down after?"
the idea of being bent over his strong thighs, face pressed into his couch as his firm hand takes you into the needy subspace you crave is too much, or maybe not enough because you're tucking your face into the side of his neck in an instant. "please," you warble, unsure of what you're even begging for.
he curls his finger, slipping between your lips, and when he finally brushes your clitâ a fleeting, tantalizing touchâ your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head. "needy little thing. i bet there's a damp spot right where you're sittin'. drippin' all over my fingersâ" your breath is ripped from your lungs when he abruptly pulls his hand out and away, the sodden material of your knickers snapping against your heated skin. you're about to snarl out a vicious what the fuck, but the once-blurred scenery outside sharpens into focus.
the driver parks and looks at you from the rearview mirror. "we're here." you mumble a muted thank you, stepping out with quivering legs and a drenched cunt. a crisp breeze dances across your skin, a refreshing contrast to the stifling heat from inside the car.
as soon as the car drives off, you're hoisted onto a broad shoulder. the world tilts, and you fist the back of simon's shirt for stability. "highly unnecessary. i can waâ" you let out a squeak when he slaps the back of your thigh, the sharp bite of it sending a jolt straight to your throbbing center.
"hush."
you sputter indignantly as you hold on tighter, breaths coming out in short gasps, syncing with each step. "i beg your pardon?"
you yelp when he gives you another slap, this time closer to your cunt. "then beg." you're rendered speechless.
wow. maybe you've actually bitten off more than you can chew.
the wet cement under you is a blur, the texture lost in the rush of his movements until he comes to a stop, and you hear a familiar jingle of keys. he bursts through the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and you're staggeringly planted on both feet.
"nice place." a lie. it looks unlived inâ brand spanking new. you vaguely hear the lock behind you as you take in your surroundings. a perfect, leather couch, not a crease in sight. the rug under it is pristine and bland, a cream color that matches the rest of his flat. impersonal. not an ounce of real personality anywhere. you begin shrugging off his jacket when you're suddenly pressed against the cold door, simon bent at the knees in front of you, his dark eyesâ sharp as bladesâ lock onto yours.
"gonna beg?"
the fire in your lower belly reignites at the sight of his unmasked face. ash-brown hair in a simple crew cut, thick brows with the right one bisected by a pink, gnarled scar. slightly crooked nose, broken one too many times, and thin, pale lips. a countenance to match his rugged personality.
you're pulled out of your thoughts when he licks a hot stripe over your covered slit and you mewl at the sensation. "i asked you a question."
the words rush out of your mouth before you can even think of stopping them. "yes, yes! please, god, i don't- just- please let me come! i-" his thumbs hook into the waistband of your knickers and tug them down slowly, strings of arousal sticking to the gusset, smearing on your inner thighs.
"alrigh', since ya begged so prettily." your vision goes white when he throws one leg over his shoulder, and his slick tongue slides through your folds, the tip flicking your clit lightly. he laps at your cunt like it drips milk and honeyâ nourishing and sweet. simon groans into you, the sound crawling up your vertebrae and into the base of your skull.
he begins to draw lazy circles around your pearl, every swirl of his tongue has your back bowing as if winding it, inching you closer to the precipice. your toes curl in your shoes, hands finding purchase in his coarse hair, knuckles staining white as you start the feel the familiar tightening in your lower belly.
and then he pushes one thick finger into you, down to the scarred knuckle, and crooks it. the squelching noise your dripping pussy makes when he presses on the tiny patch of rough skin inside is loud and obscene; practically echoing off the dull, ivory walls of his flat.
"gonna come f'me? make a mess all over my hand?" simon adds another finger, a slight burn nipping at the heels of the pleasure coiling under your navel.
"c'mon. give it to me, pet." his lips encircle your clit, giving it a light suckle and it'sâ
the coil snaps, a sudden release of tension. it is violent and oh, so exquisite. white noise in your head, your ears, coursing through your veins. it prickles, it stings; it's pleasure and pain. your soul sinks back into your bodyâ like a feather returning to its nestâ and you blink, momentarily unbalanced.
"ya with me?"
you breathe deepâ the taste of salt in the air, the scent of sweat-slick skin, your heart pulsing with life. "yes. i'm here." the man took you to the stars and laid you on them. jesus.
"good." the room spins, and you're weightless, nestled in his arms. it'd seem innocent if it wasn't for the stickiness in between your thighs, or the prominent bulge in his jeans occasionally pressing into your arse.
simon kicks a door open, knob bouncing off the wall with a crack, and quickly places you on the bed before tugging his shirt off. the belt and jeans come off next, andâ
"you don't wear pants." why would he let that monstrosity just hang like that?
"good observation. is water still wet?" he asks, tonelessly. you narrow your eyes at him, pushing your tongue against the back of your teeth.
"fuck me for having eyes and using them as intended, i guess," you mumble under your breath. he grabs you by the ankle and tugs the skirt off, then your shoes, "ouch, i like my feet where they are, thank you," and literally rips your shirt in half. "you'll be giving me on of yours before i leave as recompense."
he holds himself up with his arms over you, your thighs burning as they cradle his hips.
his cock is a heavy, hot weight on your stomachâ ruddy, leaking tip right under your navel. you're not small by any means, but he's going to tear you in half. there's no surviving such an onslaught. he's not just leaving you with a limp, he's going to turn your two smaller holes into one big one.
he tears into a golden wrapper with his teeth, and expertly rolls the condom on. simon lowers down to his elbows and nudges your jaw with his nose. "i'll stop the moment ya call it. tap on me if you're feelin' overwhelmed."
that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you, and the fact that it comes from a massive creep who stares at people like they owe him money has you a bit dumbstruck.
his stubble grazes the side of your neck as he glides his cock along your slick folds; once, thrice, until the head catches on your swollen entrance. simon pushes in slow, agonizingly slowâ you don't know if it's better or worse because you feel every devastating inch of his length as it forcibly wrenches your walls apart.
your senses are solely focused on him: his body enveloping yours completely. his breath, sweetened like malt, wafts gently across your skin. his thick waist that you can't fully wrap your legs around. everything about him is bigâ his physicality, his presence, his cock.
"take a deep breath for me, pet. feel everythin' i'm givin' you."
your lungs expand as you do, and when you exhale, your muscles slacken. rapturous pleasure begins to bleed through the delicate membrane that separates it from the bite of pain, until boundaries are blurred andâ
and he sinks into you like a rock breaking the surface tension of still water, bottoming out in one, smooth stroke. you can't help the mewl that falls from your lips nor the way your walls clamp down around him.
"fuck, there it is. so bloody tight, this greedy cunt is takin' my cock like it was made for me."
there isn't a single coherent thought in your head and you're glad for it. finally, someone to fuck you stupid.
simon gives you an experimental thrust, dragging his length along every single one of your nerves, and then anotherâ desire overflowing from where he stuffs you to the very brim. "good. ready?"
he takes your tiny nod as an answer this time and begins to fuck you in earnest. it takes everything in you to not black out from how perfect it felt.
simon puts his weight behind every thrust, a steady pull out, and a spine-jarring push in. you can feel him deep in your stomach, a delicious pinch of discomfort each time he presses against the plug of your womb.
"so fuckin' wet, your cunt's droolin' all over me." he hooks an arm under your left leg and lifts, the angle he's put you in tittering dangerously on the tightrope of rapture and ache.
it's so good, so fucking good, your slick walls fluttering as he carves himself into you, your soul, your cunt when you feel a tight snap inside.
simon pulls out in an instant, taking your breath with him as he does. you look down at his cock and notice thatâ
"the condom broke. i've got another in the drawer, gimme a sec."
there is some weird thing that lodges in place somewhere deep in your sternum when you realize that he's been nothing but considerate and attentive to you since he brought you home and hasn't fussed over anything once. it's an extremely low bar, you are aware. rewarding what should be the bare fucking minimum is sad, but you're not completely altruistic in your motives anyway. you want to feel his bare cock inside as he rearranges your insides.
"no!" he quickly turns to look at you, "no. it's okay. i'm clean and i'm also on the pill. if that's okay with you, of course."
a man his stature should not move as fast as he just did, blinking from one side of the room to the other. he quickly throws both of your legs over his shoulders, heels resting on his back when he sinks back in, this time letting out a guttural groan as he does.
you can feel the ridge of his flared head, the warmth of his cock seeping into your tender wallsâ a new level of intimacy. he fucks you with fervor now, a precise snap of his hips that has your teeth clacking with every thrust.
your climax takes you by complete surprise, crashing into you like waves on a rocky, jagged shore. burst after burst of blinding pleasure threatens to consume you whole, and when your limbs are loose and syrupyâ body limpâ only then do you realize that he came just as fast. thick white ropes of viscous spend cover your stomach and trail down to your abused cunt.
your hamstrings already hurt with delayed onset muscle soreness. you might actually need a wheelchair to go back home.
(thank god your hips held out, and no, you don't care that it's essentially sacrilegious of you to even think that.)
his breathing comes out in ragged bursts, beads of sweat dripping onto the valley of your breasts.
and he's back to the fucking staring. "simon."
"pet."
"please stop looking at me like that."
he huffs and dips his head to flick your hardened nipple with his tongue, making you hiss with over sensitivity.
"make me."
-
as dawn breaks, the world begins to stir awake. hues of pale pink stain the sky, the first blush of morning. light and shadow begin to blend in the bedroom.
your phone vibrates under the pillow, simon's arm tightening around your soft waist at the buzzing sound. his lips press a light kiss on the sensitive skin by your ear, and his large hand begins to weave its way downward, pads of his fingers gathering the evidence of last night (or early morning) and gently parts your folds, brushing light strokes on your clit.
when he places your leg around his hip and sinks into you from behind, your phone buzzes again-- alone and forgotten.
good morning!!! i expect a full, detailed report by lunch or so help you god.
sent 5:30 am
about time you got laid, you're not you when you're horny.
sent 5:49 am
#call of duty#simon ghost riley#cod mw2#cod mwii#simon ghost riley smut#cod smut#simon ghost riley x f reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader
8K notes
¡
View notes
Text
Forgetting
Jake Seresin x reader
Summary: Jake forgets to pick you up at the airport because of his ex, and for the first time, you think maybe you and Jake aren't mean to be.
Notes/Warnings: Angst, but ends fluffy. Fighting. Cursing. This was a request that I said I'd have done in a couple days and it took me a week and a half. Sorry about that. Also, please be gentle. I haven't written for Jake in what feels like a millennium.
Words: 2700
Jake Seresin Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List
As much as it would kill you to know that he could be hurt, you hope heâs hurt. You hope heâs on his way to the hospital to receive life-saving treatment because if heâs not hurt, if heâs not receiving life-saving treatment, then he simply forgot about you. And that makes your heart want to claw its way out of your chest and scamper across the floor until itâs well out of your range to catch it.Â
Your call goes to voicemail for the fourth time. You send your twelfth text: I hope youâre ok. I landed an hour ago. Please call me. Nothing different than the eleven other messages that have gone unanswered. Forty-five more minutes pass of you sitting on a bench by the airport exit before you finally surrender your last shred of hope and call Bradley to come save you.Â
Within the hour, youâre sighing in relief, the sight of a friendly face almost bringing you to tears. He approaches you with open arms and you fall right into the embrace, comforted by the hug that should be in your boyfriendâs arms, and the warmth that should be from your boyfriendâs body, and the forehead kiss that should be from your boyfriendâs lips.Â
âPlease tell me heâs ok,â you say against your friendâs chest.Â
A heavy palm rubs up and down your back. âNo one could get ahold of him.â
Your head jerks back so you can meet his eyes. âOh my god!â
âIâm sure heâs fine, kid. Donât worry.â
âHow can you say that? He was supposed to be here and heâs not andââ You pause when Bradley looks away from you, and a hefty stone settles in your gut. You know your friend well. Heâs a good man, honest but sensitive, and when that honestly meets that sensitivity, it results in his inability to look someone in the eye if he thinks the truth might hurt them. Youâve seen it a hundred times, but never with you.Â
Your posture wavers with your lengthy exhale. âWhat arenât you telling me?â
Another great thing about Bradley: he doesnât make you play any games. You donât have to jump through hoops. You donât have to ask the right questions in the right way in order to get what you need out of him, unlike many men, your boyfriend included, who recently has found ways to skitter around telling the full truth.Â
âJavy said he saw him a couple of hours ago,â Bradley says.
Your back teeth clench. Your mind shoots to one conclusion. âWith her?â you ask. Bradleyâs eyes drift from yours again and you nod, a tear at the ready to leak down your cheek. âHe forgot about me because heâs with her.â
âWe donât know that for sure, andââ
Your hand scrubbing down your face cuts him off. Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose before you suck in your whimper and say, âRooster, why did he even ask me to come here?â
âBecause heâŚI mean, we thought heââ
âYou thought he gave a fuck about me.â
âHe does,â Bradley says, stressing his words in an attempt to reassure you. âHe never shuts up about you.â
âSure,â you say. âHe gives so much of a fuck that he forgot about me to be with his ex. How can you explain that?â
Rooster sighs. His hands slip into his jeans pockets just to have something to do with them. âI canât.â
âExactly.âÂ
No one can explain it. Not you, not Bradley, not Jake. Everyone you know back home would be telling you to run for the hills right now. They were already wary of this âNavy guyâ that theyâd only met twice around the holidays, who lives a decent distance away from your entire life and who constantly requests that you be the one to hop on a plane rather than the other way around.Â
For the duration of your time together, youâve been understanding of that sacrifice. You know his schedule doesnât allow impromptu trips out of state, but that hasnât made it any less exhausting for you. And maybe thatâs a sign. Another sign. A nail in the coffin. Maybe you and Jake arenât meant to be. And why would you be? You met him on a brief vacation to visit a friend who doesnât even live in the same town anymore, and somehow, during those few days, he convinced you to take a chance on him. So you took the leap. But being that bold doesnât guarantee you wonât fall flat on your face, and you think thatâs exactly whatâs happening. Youâve tripped over a guy only to realize he doesnât care about you to the same degree that you care about him.Â
However, youâre not the type to avoid confrontation. If Jake Seresin is going to mistreat you because of his ex, then he is going to do it to your face. Heâs going to look you in the eye when he shows himself to be the liar he is. It may hurt more to go to him rather than get on the next plane home without so much as taking in a breath of fresh Californian air, but youâre too upset to let that thought fully develop, and a moment later, Rooster is following your stomps out the door.Â
â
You find him at the Hard Deck, standing at a hightop with a beer glass in his hand that clinks against the one in his exâs before he takes a sip. Bradleyâs comforting hand lands on your back in solidarity. You only met him because of Jake, but the two of you bonded despite their differences, and having him by your side now makes him nothing short of a life-saver.Â
He helps guide you through the crowd to the table, and when Jake spots you, he chokes around the liquid going down his throat. His blown-out emerald eyes rival saucers and his mouth gapes like a fish, but then his stare flicks to Bradley, and those eyes shrink into narrow slits. His face heats to a boiling red.Â
âWhat the fuck!â Jake snaps, shocking the composure right out of his exâs poised stance. Bar patrons close by turn their heads but quickly return to their own conversations. Jake steps away from the table, coming to a halt in front of you and his squadmate. âWhat the hell is this?â
You figured heâd be bothered if you showed up with Bradley in tow. And good, thatâs what you feel he deserves. Jakeâs been wary of the other Daggerâs closeness to you for a while, and even though you knowâas does Bradleyâthat itâs an asinine concern, you have no problem using it against him now. But still, the intensity of his reaction manages to surprise you. You didnât think he would be this angered by the sight of you with another man that it would have him overlooking his mistake of forgetting you.
Your arms cross. âThis is your girlfriend and the guy who saved her when her damn boyfriend left her stranded at the airport.â
âExcuse me?â
Jakeâs exâs prying gaze tugs at your attention, but when you glance over his shoulder to catch her in the act, she quickly looks awayâjust more proof that whatever the fuck sheâs doing with your boyfriend is something to be ashamed of.Â
Bradleyâs saying something. You canât quite hear him over the anger-induced fuzzing in your ears, but youâre pretty sure itâs a scolding based on the twisting of Jakeâs features as he shoots back his own words of aggression. And then your hand is in his and youâre being pulled through the bar, out the back door, and onto the deck where the only intrusive sound is the lapping of waves on the shore.Â
âWhy are you here?â he asks.Â
You scoff to mask the heartbreak that comes with that question. âBecause you asked me to be here.â
âTomorrow.â
âWhat?â
âItâs Wednesday,â he says.Â
âItâs Thursday, Jake.â
âNo, itâsââ he freezes, and you donât know if heâs tipsy or stupid, but it takes him a minute to come to the same conclusion: it is indeed Thursday. âFuck,â he mutters.
Your lower back meets the edge of the railing, and you sigh, thankfully keeping in the tears. âWhat are you doing with her?â
âWhat the fuck are you doing with Rooster?â he returns much more forcefully. âWhy didnât you call me?â
âI called, I texted, I left voicemails,â you tell him, âBut clearly, she was more important.â
Jakeâs hands pat down his pockets, mouth setting in a frown when he canât find his phone.
âDonât bother. Phone or no phone, you forgot about me because of her. Last time I was here, you were late for one of our dates because of her. You spent fifty percent of our time together stepping away to take her phone calls,â you say, trying and failing to avoid the bitter taste on your tongue. âJust fuck her, Jake, if you havenât already. I only came here to tell you that she can have you.â
Youâve never seen him fall apart the way he does. Youâve never seen the blood drain from his cocky face. Youâve never seen his features break and crack and contort into the vision of pure devastation as they do. His parted mouth mustâve gone dry because his next words come out slightly hoarse.
âYou donât mean that,â he says, but itâs more of a plea than anything. âWhyâŚWhy would youââ He swallows. A wrinkle forms between his brows and he shakes his head. âYou love me. You didnât mean to say that.â
You do love himâterribly soâbut youâre willing to be one of those people who wonât view love as enough if it also means laying you out as a fool. âJakeââ
âTake it back,â he says. His steps are quick, and then youâre trapped where you stand, his hands on either side of your body, gripping the rail. Eyes drill into yours, and for a second, you feel a pang of guilt. âPlease, baby, take it back. She doesnât mean anything to me.â
âAnd I mean less.â
âNo!â he says. âThatâs not true. Youâre everything, ok? You mean everything to me. She was just helping me, thatâs all.â
âHelping you,â you mimic with a roll of your eyes. âHelping you what? Get off?â
With a little whine, Jakeâs head drops between his shoulders, his blond hair brushing your collarbone. âPlease. Please quit saying things like that.â His hands slide closer to your body and land on your hips. You donât push him awayâyou can'tâand his touch softens you ever so slightly.
âThen tell me the truth,â you say. âRight now. Iâm giving you one shot.â
His head snaps up. His eyes flick back and forth between yours, ironically searching for your honesty, as if youâre the liar on trial here.Â
âIt was a surprise,â he tells you. âSheâs a realtor now, and for the last few months sheâs been helping me find a new place, one thatâs bigger than what Iâve got because I was going to ask you to move in with me.â Your heartbeat stutters. A layer of goosebumps coats your arms. When you donât respond, he continues, âI hate missing you. I hate how unfair it is that youâre always the one to come here because I canât fly out at the drop of a hat. I know itâs a big step, but I figured if I had a place, I could show you how great things could be. Thatâs why she and I came here. We were celebrating because Iâm signing on a house first thing tomorrow,â he says. âWell, thatâs why Iâm celebrating, anyway. Sheâs probably celebrating because she just made a decent commission.â
Itâs almost unfair how that new information doesnât make you feel any less of a fool. Had he told you that under any other circumstances, youâd be leaping into his arms, kissing him like youâve been deprived of him for years, repeating âyesâ over and over between those kisses, but you canât. You canât because his explanation doesnât fix everything.Â
âThat still doesnât change that itâs Thursday, not Wednesday,â you say.
âI know, baby. Thatâs my fault. I was so excited, and I was thinking how perfect the timing was that I would be able to pick you up tomorrow and drive you by the house now that itâs officially mine, but I fucked it up.â
Jakeâs thumbs press into your hips, and youâre instantly reminded of each moment in your relationship when youâve felt that same light pressure on your skin. A gentle claiming. The same pressure you felt when you agreed to be his girlfriend. The same pressure you feel whenever youâre in bed together.Â
You sense eyes on you other than your boyfriendâs, and when you turn your head, you find his ex staring right at you, an expression on her face that you wish you could say wasnât one of distress, but it is. And worse, itâs obviously not distress for herself, but for Jake, as if sheâs hoping she wasnât just a contributor to a bomb dropping on his life.Â
Jakeâs busy staring at you despite your averted gaze, and in a monotone voice, you say, âShe feels bad.â
He doesnât follow your eyes. âBecause she knows Iâve been doing this all for you.â
You blink. Your hand runs down your face before sifting through the strands of your hair. âYou really want me to live with you?â
âOf course I do,â he tells you. Heâs shaking his head, but you know itâs because he thinks any idea that he wouldnât want you to be blasphemous. His hand cups your chin. âI love you.â
With a sigh, you push aside the rollercoaster of emotions, the misunderstandings that lead to frustration and hurt, and look him directly in the eye. And where moments ago you thought you saw lies, you see honestly. Where you thought you saw betrayal, you see love.Â
âCan I see it?â
â
Itâs smallâa two-bedroom with a little driveway, the shingle siding painted a blue-gray shade that is more blue than gray; bundles of flowers bloom in the boxes under the windows; a bay window protrudes from the side of the structure facing the beach. And itâs perfect.
You can imagine building a life here. You can picture a dog that youâll have to build a fence for and children years later that will have you reinforcing the fence because theyâll probably be like their father, and Jake didnât choose to be a pilot because of his lack of adventurous nature. You look at this house and you can see the core of a family. A house that, no matter how far you go for Jakeâs job, will always be home base.
Jake is leaning around you so you can both watch the house from the passenger seat window. âIâd offer to show you around, but I donât get the keys until morning.â
âItâs ok,â you tell him. âI donât need to see inside.â
When you say that, he falls back into his seat. The back of his head presses against the headrest. His fingers squeeze the steering wheel with his sigh of defeat. âYou donât like it.â
Shifting your body to face him, you say, âJake, I love it.â
Just like that, his eyes brighten like a pouting child who was just offered a lollipop, and you canât help but chuckle. You canât help but forget everything that happened earlier in the night, all of it seeming so insignificant now, even though you know itâs not, and you both know that if he ever makes the same mistake again, heâll have hell to pay. But something tells you that wonât be a problem.Â
âEnough to live with me?â he asks.
You nod. âEnough to live with you.â
---
A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments make my entire world, so if you liked it, let me know? Thanks :)
#jake seresin#jake seresin x reader#jake hangman seresin#jake seresin fic#glen powell#top gun maverick#tgm#bradley bradshaw
2K notes
¡
View notes
Text
ŕźËâđ・â to be loved loudly - đđđ đ¤
ďź đ
đşđđ˝đ đđđđđđ đ đđđ
đżđż đđžđşđ˝đžđ ďź
ďź đđđđđşđđ ďźđşđ
đ
đ
đşđđ˝đ đđđđđđ đđşđđđ đđ đżđđ đžđđžđđđđđž đđ đđđđ đđđ đ˝đđđ đťđşđ˝ đşđđ˝ đđ đ
đđđž đđž đđ đđđđ đđđ đđđđ
đżđđđžđđ˝
⍠i feel like i have to say this but most of my smauâs are literally just random posts and rarely have a plot also lowk part 3 of walk em like a dog?? idk i somehow made her totos daughter without realizing đ
đŽ
yn
liked by pierregasly and 2,871,443 others
yn đâđŠ
landonorris first
landonorris fuck iâm hard
⤡ yn what??
⤡ landonorris baby you can glance at me and itâs up
⤡ yn weirdo
⤡ landonorris donât stop iâm close
⤡ yn WHAT THE FUCK LANDO??? this is public everyone can see this
⤡ landonorris ainât no one gonna stop me from thirsting đ keep going i was so close
⤡ yn why am i dating you
⤡ landonorris well if i remember this correctly you said âi love pathetic menâ
⤡ yn get out of my face
⤡ landonorris i came
⤡ yn iâm going to report your account
landonorris iâm gonna miss you when i scroll đ
⤡ yn youâre sitting on my lap right now?
⤡ landonorris i just wanna be close to you
⤡ alex_albon loser đđ
⤡ lilymhe Now alexâŚ
⤡ alex_albon I was jking only good boys sit on their gfs laps fr
⤡ landonorris good boys?
⤡ alex_albon are you not a good boy?
⤡ landonorris iâm the best boy ho
⤡ mclaren What am I looking at
oscarpiastri I feel molested
maxverstappen1 Lando is horny 24/7: confirmed
georgerussell63 Chile anyways so
đŽ
landonorris
liked by tomholland2013 and 3,890,516 others
landonorris i love my girlfriend so much everyday i wake up i thank god that iâm able to call her my girlfriend no one compares she is perfect and so funny and so beautiful and so kind i love her more than all the stars in the sky in every lifetime and universe i will find her because she is my one love
yn so sappy i love it
⤡ landonorris always for you honey
charles_leclerc Average Lando post
alex_albon super cool super rich super popular nepo baby gf who has everyone in the palm of her hand x loser bf who looks at her like she hung the stars in the sky is my favorite love trope
⤡ landonorris iâm cool and rich and popular as well?
⤡ alex_albon not as much as y/n
⤡ landonorris true
danielricciardo Pussy whipped
⤡ landonorris damn right you would be too
lilymhe So cutie patootie
georgerussell63 Lando please, youâre making all of us look like bad boyfriends.
f1 We love our talented, athletic, beautiful, multilingual queen
georgerussell63 y/n blink twice if youâre being held hostage
âĽď¸ yn
⤡ georgerussell63 Thatâs a sign. Help is on the way dear
alexandrasaintmleux Tell her Iâm in need of a date at the mall
⤡ landonorris iâm not her assistant?
⤡ alexandrasaintmleux Arenât you?
⤡ landonorris ms wolff said she is available any time for you. but not for me ig.
francolapinto i was the line leader in 3rd grade đââď¸
⤡ landonorris seriously? on my own post? iâll kill you
⤡ carlossainz55 That escalated quickly
⤡ landonorris i zont play about my girl
⤡ francolapinto well i tried
⤡ landonorris try again and see what happens â¤ď¸
đŽ
yn
liked by lilamoss and 4,461,220 others
yn lan saw it first
landonorris first
⤡ carlossainz55 second
⤡ charles_leclerc third
⤡ oscarpiastri fourth
landonorris lawd have mercy đŤ iâm about to bust
⤡ yn awh thanks babe
landonorris youâre so cute i canât get enough of you
landonorris most beautiful girl i have ever laid eyes on how did i get so lucky
⤡ yn you sweet talker đ
⤡ oscarpiastri Seriously though, how did you get her to date you Iâm still baffled
⤡ landonorris years and years of begging, endless amounts of gifts and flowers, zero contact with any females iâm not related to, and charisma đ
⤡ oscarpiastri I wonder how much money youâve spent on her
⤡ landonorris you do not want to know đ
⤡ landonorris forgot to mention i became best friends with her family and got invited to all vacations, holidays, and birthdays đ
alexandrasaintmleux Heaven sent đŞ˝đ¤
⤡ yn thank ya angel baby đźđ˝
francisca.cgomes ooh lala đ
landonorris i was the line leader in 3rd grade
⤡ francolapinto seriously?
⤡ pierregasly You made it to 3rd grade?
⤡ landonorris shut your butt
⤡ pierregasly You first
đŽ
alexandrasaintmleux
liked by landonorris and 871,054 others
alexandrasaintmleux AquĂ me quedo
yn mi chica đââď¸
⤡ alexandrasaintmleux mi amor đ
landonorris release her now. give her back. i have not seen her in ages. this is not funny.
⤡ alexandrasaintmleux You seen her at lunch? Besides she love it over here
⤡ yn yeah i love it over here
⤡ landonorris donât make me send out a amber alert
⤡ oscarpiastri Please not again you had all of Italy in a state of panic last time
landonorris why are you matching with my wife?? just say you hate me
⤡ alexandrasaintmleux đ
⤡ landonorris did you just threaten me?
⤡ alexandrasaintmleux đ
⤡ landonorris you this is funny? iâm getting grey hairs woman GIVE MY GIRLFRIEND BACK FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IâM HAVING WITHDRAWALS PLEASE
landonorris fuck she so hot
landonorris whoâs the hottie on the right???
landonorris i will find you and i will make you regret hiding my wife from me
⤡ yn lando please. you have my location
⤡ landonorris oh silly me đ
coming to get you be there in 10 minutes â¤ď¸
⤡ yn iâm 30 minutes away?? do not put yourself in danger lando iâll smack you upside the side
⤡ landonorris baby, danger is my middle name đ
⤡ yn oh just die
⤡ landonorris okay iâm getting a lot of mixed signals idk if you want me dead or safe?? like my head hurts please choose â¤ď¸
⤡ yn die
⤡ landonorris whatever you say baby â¤ď¸
đŽ
yn
liked by naraaziza and 3,451,802 others
yn the legend lives on
landonorris whoâs the hottie behind the camera đ
⤡ alex_albon *debbie ryan smirk* *raises hand shyly* đââď¸
⤡ landonorris shut your face do not steal the show from my lady
⤡ landonorris as i was sayingâŚwhoâs the hottie behind the camera đđđŤ
⤡ yn shut your face
⤡ landonorris mmm i love dirty talk
⤡ yn donât make me get a restraining order
⤡ landonorris kay, iâll meet you in the hotel room đ
alexandrasaintmleux Unfortunately
georgerussell63 My petite prince đ
⤡ landonorris yk what ainât petite though?
⤡ georgerussell63 Was just trying to have some light hearted banter đ
francolapinto dang
⤡ alex_albon alright lil bro do you have some sort of death wish or something?
⤡ oscarpiastri Iâve seen him cuss out this server at a gala cause he tried to flirt with herâŚit was pretty entertaining tbh
⤡ carlossainz55 One time I told her she looked pretty (purely platonic sheâs a baby) and that night I woke up to him sitting in the corner of my room. Almost shit myself.
⤡ lewishamilton Not to be a gossip or anything but like he knocked this guy out in my garage once cause he wouldnât stop bothering her, I think thatâs when Toto finally accepted him
francolapinto you two are endgame frđ¤đ˝
⤡ landonorris right? (donât try to lock your doors iâll find a way in)
đŽ
landonorris
liked by judebellingham and 3,890,154 others
landonorris my wife (she ainât gonna be able to walk tomorrow)
alex_albon just put the fries in the bag bro
lewishamilton Letâs put the phone down for a bit bud
oscarpiastri Please, this canât be healthy. Iâm sick of hearing you two every weekend
⤡ landonorris sorry osc i canât function without her my body starts to shut down
georgerussell63 How many PowerPoints do I need to make?? ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
maxverstappen1 Get the wheelchair ready
lando.jpg my cute amazing talented tan beautiful funny sexy hot sweet wife
⤡ yn so when are you gonna stop calling me your wife and actually make me one?
⤡ lando.jpg soon baby, trust me
⤡ danielricciardo This sounded so sweet
pierregasly My kinda guy đ¤đ˝
yn my dad seeâs these
⤡ landonorris are you cereal?? and youâve never told me??? iâm to young to die
lilymhe babygirlll đđ
⤡ landonorris please, not today
mclaren Please stop posting things like this Lando it is bad for our image
⤡ landonorris thatâs telling me to stop breathing I CANT itâs just who i am
charles_leclerc Okay but why is she so good at tennis?
⤡ yn what am i not good at? đ
⤡ charles_leclerc Being nice đ
⤡ yn iâm very nice just not to you
⤡ charles_leclerc Iâll sue you
⤡ landonorris Iâll drown you â¤ď¸
đŽ
yn
liked by brock.purdy13 and 5,153,403 others
yn my favorite puppy dog đ¤
landonorris awhhh you do love me đ
landonorris ugh iâm touched
landonorris baby iâd follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked me to
landonorris sweetest brat ever
landonorris iâve never loved anyone or anything like i love you
landonorris my one love forever
landonorris iâll never get tired of loving you
landonorris there are no words that can describe my love for you
landonorris you have me wrapped around your finger
landonorris youâre so perfect i canât fathom your beauty
landonorris most precious soul ever
landonorris i canât imagine my life without you, youâve changed me for the better
landonorris the yin to my yang
landonorris you complete me
landonorris i was made to love you
landonorris letâs fuck đš
⤡ oscarpiastri Almost had it
⤡ landonorris I CANT CHANGE WHO I AM OSCAR I WAS BORN LIKE THIS DID YOU NOT HEAR ME SAY I WAS MADE TO LOVE HER IâVE BEEN YEARNING FOR HER MY ENTIRE LIFE OSCAR LET ME LIVE
⤡ francolapinto a man who yearns is a man who earns âđź
⤡ landonorris does this have some sort of double meaning?? cause iâll kill you fr đ¤đ˝
landonorris as i was saying, letâs fuck đ
⤡ yn kay, iâll meet you in the hotel room đ
⤡ georgerussell63 IS SOMEBODY GONNA MATCH MY FREAK?? IS SOMEBODY GONNA MATCH MY NASTAYYYY???
#lando norris#lando norris x reader#lando norris smau#lando norris imagine#lando norris fluff#lando norris smut#f1 smau#f1 imagine#formula one imagine#formula one smau#lando norris insta au
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
âwatch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.â
[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: âfor me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.â
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.
âRITA, 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 seasonâs 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.â
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 gardenâand 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. âGold-digging wench must be at it again.â
As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every wordâand youâre more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. âRiveting.â She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. âWe may have tomorrowâs front page in our hands.âÂ
Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. âDo tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?â
You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. âWhy, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!â The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and theyâre 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.Â
âA shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alrightânot every one is fit to work.â The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.
âOh, Elinor, my love, Iâm surprised youâd even suggest such a horrible thing!â 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 youâve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.Â
Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. Itâs 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 worldâs attention constantly and effortlessly.Â
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. âOh, donât worry, my dears! Iâll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.â
Melina Traverse brushes you off. âWe could never! You know youâre like family to us, pet!â
With a delighted gasp, you say, âDonât tell Narcissa, but youâve always been my favorite Slytherin.â 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, youâre 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.Â
What a bunch of insufferable fools.Â
Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.Â
âOh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?â You approach the horrid family of Gryffindorsânearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. Itâs been so long since youâve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. âCissa and I didnât think youâd even respond to our invitationâbut 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 meâhave you been trying those snail facials? I hear theyâre all the rage nowadays.â
Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. âBloody hell, Iâm going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.âÂ
âYouâre at a garden party, Sirius darling,â you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. âThe elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!â 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. âFrom the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.âÂ
Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with Jamesâs, a polite smile on her faceâan odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) âY-Yes, well, itâs so good to see you, too. Weâre grateful for the invitation, especially since itâs for a rather honorable cause.âÂ
Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. Youâve changed your mind, youâre sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husbandâs. âWe just knew youâd see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?â
Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. âYou and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.â She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. âI never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.â
âWell, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,â 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. âAs staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldnât you agree, Lily flower?â
âQuite,â replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.
James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lilyâs waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. âHave you met our son, Harry, already?â He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harryâs back with a crooked smile. âHaz, this is an old classmate of ours.â 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, heâs never held a girlâs hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. âWhat an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.âÂ
âWhy, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.â Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lilyâs survival against the killing curse. âAnd such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your motherâs son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.â
His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) âOh. . . not really.â 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. Harryâs voice deepens as he continues, âI couldnât be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.â Â
âHow interestingâElsie!â You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. âGet Mister Potter and his company a plate of macaronsâserve them our finest tea, as well.âÂ
Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. âThereâs r-really no need forââ
Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. âHave you heard the news, dearheart?â
Harry looks to his father before shrugging. âI donât think so.â
âIf Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,â you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lilyâs side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, âOtherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this yearâand I do love a good partyâso you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.â You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. âMore than that,â you continue with a sly cant to your voice. âThere will be a few new additions to Hogwartsâ staff. Among them, of courseâis yours truly!â
âAnd to do what, exactly?â Sirius blurts out incredulously.
âBe a teacher, of course!â you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. âWhy else?â
âBrilliant!â Sirius chuckles scornfully. âSo, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?
âIs that truly all you think of me?â you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.Â
âYou want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?â Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. âYouâve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But Iâve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.âÂ
He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. âBut I reckon nothing has changed since then. Youâre just the same insufferable, vapid wench as youâve always been.â
âSirius. . .â Remus quietly calls. âThatâs enough.âÂ
Your expression faltersâbut 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. âSuch crude language, Mister Black,â 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.Â
Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. âPerhaps, I am not the only one who hasnât grown out of their immature habits,â 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 youâd 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.
âWhat is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?â You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Siriusâs breath and Remusâs parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. âOh, silly me, Iâve 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 doesnât accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.âÂ
Your eyes flash impishly. âWouldnât you agree, Mister Lupin?â
Lily curls her lip viciously. âJust what exactlyâ?â
âElsie has returned, master.â 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.
âYou may go, Elsie, thank you.â 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. âItâs jasmine pearl,â you explain haughtily. âCarefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you wonât be able to find anywhere else.â
âDo enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.â The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you wonât receive your flowers for todayâs performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. âDo 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.â
You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. âToday, after all, is for the children.â
Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.Â
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.Â
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 tĂŞte-Ă -tĂŞtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestraâs symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. âSeverus darling,â 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. âYouâre missing out on the festivities, you know.â
âHave you finally finished tormenting Narcissaâs visitors?â he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.
âWhy, Iâd never dare to do such a thing,â you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. âI 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,â you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.
âSpare me,â he drones, lips curved impatiently.
You moue. âEver the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?â
âShall I sit around while I wait?â Snapeâs lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. âThe Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.â
âSeverus dear, if I didnât know any better, Iâd say you were trying to tell me something.â 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. âSo,â you pry, âdid you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle Iâd have a drink with him.â
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. âEnsure that nothing traces back to you,â he snarls. âClearly I do know better, Severus.â You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. âNot to worry,â you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, âI always do as I am told.â
(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)Â
act ii. tonight, letâs 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, letâs see where you sent me to this time.
And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. âAlohomora.â
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 youâand 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 maskâitâs warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.Â
Thereâs a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboardsâin an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.Â
âReveal yourself,â 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, youâd be blown into the walls by now. âThis isnât an ensemble stage, you know,â you chuff impatiently, âIâm not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.âÂ
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.Â
There are exactly five people youâd risk your life for, and right now, youâre digging the tip of your wand into their neck.
âMister Regulus Black,â you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. âSeverus didnât mention weâd be running into each other tonight.âÂ
âThatâs because I didnât tell Sev Iâd be here,â says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. âI might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, thereâs only so many times I can re-read Good Omensâand by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?âÂ
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. âAnd 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.âÂ
Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. âWasnât it Cissaâs soirĂŠe today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?âÂ
âWho do you think I am?â you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a momentâs pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, âOf course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.â You hum reminiscently, âtruthfully, itâs 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, itâs an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.âÂ
Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. âAnd, then? Did you see my brother?âÂ
âOh, darling, I did more than that,â you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.Â
âHow was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think itâs been so long since I saw his face.â Thereâs 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. âSorry, I just. . .â He slumps his shoulders in resignation. âI wouldnât have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .â
âI donât understand why I have to hide from my own family.â With a jagged whisper, he says, âI feel like Iâm losing my mind. Like I canât believe that Iâm really here, I donât even know if I exist sometimes.âÂ
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. âItâs forââ
âMy own good, I know,â 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.Â
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.Â
All the worldâs a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.Â
âHow long do you think itâs going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?â 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. (Youâve 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.) âNever mind, letâs just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.â He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. âWhat are we looking for, anyway?âÂ
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. Itâs an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize itâs been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. âHere,â you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.
He furrows his brow. âWhat?âÂ
You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. âHelp me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.â You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.
âWhy donât we just, I donât know,â Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. âUse magic?â he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. âI suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.âÂ
You stare at him vacantly. âRegulus 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.âÂ
He grins boyishly before ushering you away. âAlright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.â 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.Â
You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulusâs restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. âCareful,â you keep a tight watch on Regulusâs pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.Â
âLike taking jelly slugs from a first-year,â he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.Â
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. âReady your wand, Regulus,â you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, âI believe what awaits wonât be as simple as that.âÂ
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.)Â
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. âIâll go first,â you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. âIt could be cursed the moment we step inside.â Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.Â
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.Â
After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.Â
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, youâd have dropped your wand already. âThis. . .â you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.Â
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. âBloody hell,â Regulus growls, chest heaving. âWhat the fuck?âÂ
âItâs a prison,â 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.Â
âAre. . . are you with the bad men?â A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. âNo,â 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.Â
Regulus calls your name. âTheyâre Muggles,â he hisses angrily. âI donât sense any magic from any of them.â He exhales in frustration. âWhat the hell are they doing with Muggle children?âÂ
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. âTend to their wounds,â you say sharply. âIâll see what I can do about the chains.â And you will do something about those shackles, if itâs the last thing you do. âWeâre going to get you out of here, I promise,â 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.
âMove out of the way!â you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as youâre blown into the stone walls.Â
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. Thereâs a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. âGet them to the safehouse,â you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; thereâs an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though itâs been snapped in half. Youâre definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. âNow!â you bellow gutturally.Â
A muscle ticks in Regulusâs jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. âItâs okay,â you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. âIâm rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.â
In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only onceâdriven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.Â
(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)Â
âGo,â you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boyâs forehead. âHide and wait until my companion comes for you.â
âAnd as for the ill-mannered invader,â you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figureâs bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. Thereâs 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, âConfringo!â
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 wonât be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guestâs 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. whereâs your soul? whereâs your dream? do you think youâre alive?
âAPPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.â 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 Houseâthe cete of badgers. (You seize everyoneâs attentionâwhether 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, âThat is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this yearâs 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.â Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. âAnd our first lesson begins straight away.â
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, youâre not the least bit worried. Youâve 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.Â
âNow, now, children,â you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. âThe Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.â 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. âAs such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.â
(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)
âMister Filch, if you please.â 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 LĂŠo Delibesâs Valse. CoppĂŠlia, you simper to yourselfâa story close to your heart. (Youâve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girlâs song.)
âA dance, while enjoyable by oneâs lonesome, is best savored with a partner,â you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. âYour date for the night must be aware that youâve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.â Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. âShall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?â
âNo one?â You raise a brow curiously when youâre met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: âIâll choose the lucky student myself.âÂ
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. âMister Harry Potter?â you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. âWhy donât we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?âÂ
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.Â
âAs you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,â you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, âAnd not a newborn foal.â You place your hand in his, âYou may now invite your lady to dance.â
âOr your beau,â you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.
You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. âDancing is about connection,â you turn to the students with a stern gaze. âIf your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,â you say sharply as you tilt Harryâs chin and correct the arch of his arms. âRemember, itâs not ballroom if thereâs no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .â You lay your palm onto his shoulder. âThe feet should follow the music.â
Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, heâs appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harryâs flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors whoâve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. âYouâre doing it wrong, James!â shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.Â
âWhy donât you try it, Padfoot?â Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. Youâre given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.Â
You blink, dumbfounded. âHarry dearest, I donât believe that is necessaryâ!â
âGo on then,â says Harry, jerking his head. âShow us all how to do it.âÂ
To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. âWeâve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?â he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.
âShut your mouth, Weasley,â 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. âWho? Me?â He chuckles before forcibly slapping Jamesâs back with the flat of his palm. âNo, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.â Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. âHave at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?âÂ
âGo on, Sir Prongs!â exclaims one of the red-headed twins. âShow us how itâs done!âÂ
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, âMay I have this dance?âÂ
Your breath stuttersâif only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners youâve had during Narcissaâs galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. âWell,â you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. âIf you must.âÂ
In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. Youâd 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 songâs aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and youâd be able to hear his heartbeat. âThere will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,â you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. âYou will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?âÂ
James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. âYouâre good with the children, you know,â he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought youâd be downright rubbish at it.Â
âWell, Mister Potter,â you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. âTo some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.â Your chin all but perched atop Jamesâs shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiverâdew on fresh grass on a warm sunny dayâfills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Siriusâs way, to which he responds with a raised brow.Â
âBit shallow, isnât it?â he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.Â
You scoff. âOne could argue the same for a young Seeker whoâs been given their first ever broom.âÂ
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 hipâincidentally, where youâve 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 youâre more sensitive and hurt than you thought.Â
Even statues of white gold chip and fade over timeâyouâre 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.Â
James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) âWhatâs wrong?â
Occlude! Occludeâyou must occlude immediately!Â
With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. âIt is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,â you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. âI do believe weâre done here.â 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; youâve forgotten how to breathe without it. âNow, letâs have the students pair up and practice what theyâve learned so far. Iâll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. Youâll dance until I tell you to stop. Youâll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.â
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 heartsâit always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the studentsâ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain theyâd 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.Â
As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurorsâno doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotionsâhow putrid. The studentsâ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outrĂŠ stone walls feel like theyâre closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.Â
Whatâs wrong?Â
The question echoes in your head.Â
Ha!Â
You scream inwardly, if they only knew!Â
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.Â
The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. âAre. . .â Dracoâs expression contorts morosely. âAre you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.â he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.Â
âMind your language, Draco,â you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that youâve 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: âAnd do not ask what is not needed to be.âÂ
âYouâre hurt, arenât you?â he presses further, mouth pinched. âDonât treat me like a dim-witted child because Iâm not!âÂ
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. âPerhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.â Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. âI will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.âÂ
In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snapeâs grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.Â
When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. âJust get it over with, Severus,â you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.Â
You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. âI wonder,â he says through gritted teeth. âIf you are actually capable of following direct ordersâof using that near-empty brain of yours!â His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. âYour stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?âÂ
You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. âAnd Iâve done my part. Every last one of themâdead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why youâre still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?â
âDo not play coy with me,â he replies brusquely. âIâve 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!â
âAnd if I didâso what?â You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isnât the first time youâve 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 Firebirdâand never on you, the foppy socialite. âWould it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?âÂ
âDo not forget your duty,â he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. âTo the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.âÂ
âDo not talk about her!â you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.Â
âThen see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!â Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.Â
After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his faceâas though you are the perplexing one. âThis. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.âÂ
âAnd why, pray tell,â you retort gruffly, âshould I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?âÂ
âIt contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!â he proclaims angrily. âGet to the bottom of this. Iâll 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 mindâas long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.âÂ
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. Heâs dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shouldersâhandmade 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.Â
âSnape,â Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpiredâwell, youâre certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.Â
âProfessor,â he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. âYouâre looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?â
âI am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,â you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your witâs endâhow bothersome of it all. âShould you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?â you bite tiredly.Â
Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. âMad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. Iâm sure he has much more experience to offer than me.âÂ
You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. âWell, Iâve no interest in dragging my feet around. If youâll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and Iâm afraid Iâve left her alone for too long.âÂ
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. âPerhaps, we should get you to Lily,â offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snapeâs eye roll in the background.Â
âI said I was fine!â You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. âMerlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fineâ!âÂ
Turns out, you are not fine.Â
The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon youâve ever seen.Â
 â
You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectantâa Muggleâs touch, no doubtâand concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you concludeâalthough, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, youâd 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 openâand in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.
âAm I in hell?â you eye them bitterly.Â
âNo,â says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurseâs 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. âBut youâre in my office, which means you are now under my careâtherefore Iâd like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.âÂ
âAnd I would like to return to my quarters now, please,â you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. âIâve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!â you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.Â
âYou will listen to meâseven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!â Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantlyâshe may have adhered to you in Malfoyâs territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. âIf you had been a Muggle, youâd be dead ten times over.â
âWell, now that weâve established that Iâm alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.â You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.Â
âNot before you tell us where those bruises came from,â Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.Â
âMust have been the Nargles,â you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a childâs shelf. âTheyâre quite frisky this time of the year, didnât you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, Iâd say.âÂ
âAre you capable of taking anything seriously?â 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.Â
âSirius, letâs not scare her off now, love,â Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Siriusâs neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. Theyâre an uncharted danger that you arenât familiar with navigatingâand you figure young Harry wouldnât appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. âWe just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,â Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.Â
You sneer. âIf I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.âÂ
Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. âHow could you say that?â she asks, hand flying to her lips. âOf course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.â She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. âWe nearly couldnât find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, heâs a universal donor and he didnât even hesitate in giving you hisââ
âGiving me what?â you echo lowly. âWhat did Sirius give me, Lily?â
âBlood,â Lily says firmly. âHe gave you his blood so you could live.â
âHow dare you?â you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. âYou had no right!â You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.Â
Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. âYou had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!âÂ
âGet out!â You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Siriusâs head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.Â
âYou think Iâd be grateful?â you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. âYou think Iâd be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!â You laugh irately as you gasp for air. âIâd rather die!âÂ
When you run out of items to throw at themâpillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stemsâyou sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.Â
âI. . .â Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. âI understand. . . But I am the castleâs nurse, as long as you are under Hogwartsâ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.âÂ
âI donât bloody care,â you snide.
Her eyes flash to James. âWeâll leave you to rest, then.âÂ
You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. Itâs not until you feel Jamesâs arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize youâve stopped shivering. âIâm sorry,â 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.Â
â
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 arenât aloneâbut you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. âSome boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . theyâre okay,â murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.Â
If Sirius wants an encore, heâd have to drag the fight out of you. Youâre utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. âDidnât know you were into Muggle songs, Black,â you chortle bemusedly. Â
Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the roomâyou distinctly hear the moment Siriusâs 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. âAfter today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.âÂ
You donât bother replyingâyouâd have Obliviated them instantly if it wasnât illegal to use on Aurors.Â
âWe know it was you,â says Sirius out of the blueâyour blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if heâs figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. âOn the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,â he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. âI almost didnât believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.âÂ
(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)Â
âThank you,â he says, guttural with emotions. âIt means more to Remus than you think.â
âYour gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,â you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyesânot 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. âDonât delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldnât care less what happens to you or your family.â
Sirius chuckles, like heâd expected such a response from you. âWell, do what youâd like with my gratitude, I donât care, just know that you have it,â he says, rising from his seat. âItâs past midnight, by the way. Lilyâs left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.âÂ
Your eyes drift to the nightstand. Thereâs 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.Â
âShe believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,â Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reactionâbut thereâs 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. âYou know,â he begins quietly. âThe thing about magicâit can fool the best of us into thinking weâre indestructible. But, youâre not as inhumane as youâd like us to think.â Sirius veers his head to look back at you. âTake that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? Youâd see the rest of the world clearly if you did.âÂ
That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and youâre left alone with your thoughts.
How arrogant.
How very Gryffindor of him.Â
You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lilyâs kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? Youâd give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they haveâtheyâre more pestilent than you realized. No matter, itâs high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.Â
If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.
â
It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly areâbut you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly youâre called the pureblood societyâs darling.Â
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.Â
Youâve 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, youâve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.Â
âWell, thatâs certainly a speedy recovery,â says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeterâs new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently youâve 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 canât help but feel disappointed.
Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students canât help but notice this fact as theyâre brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind CoppĂŠliaâs songâher wishes, and her painâbut you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)
âMummaâs just about ready to send her a Howler,â you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermioneâs shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, âCalled the Professor a tart, even.â
Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. âReally?â
âYes, yes,â Ginny nods. âBut enough about all thatâhave you seen the news this morning?âÂ
Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. âThe one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.â
âNot that one,â Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. âThe article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Whoâs followers came and raided the entire campsite?â
âThat would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,â Hermione replies softly.Â
âWell, the Firebirdâs gone and hunted a few of them,â Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. âFound their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.â
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 glacĂŠ 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 donât mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. Itâs a role you enjoy more so than others.Â
âYouâve been worrying me these days, dear,â 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. âThe other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.âÂ
You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldnât possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Siriusâs 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.Â
At your silence, Sprout continues on, âWe always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.â You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. âI hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.â Pomonaâs hand is leaden on your shoulder. âAfter 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 shellâbut do not forget, I will always be on my childrenâs side no matter what.â
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 beginsâlike 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. âNo one has been on my side. Not then, not now,â you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. âBut do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.âÂ
In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affectionâbut the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. Youâve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.Â
âToday was lovely, Pomona, thank you.â It is one truth youâve permitted yourself to offerâa 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 thatâyou 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.Â
(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)Â
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. Itâs an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.Â
âYour shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,â you tut, straightening his tie. âDo you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?âÂ
Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. âFather told me to tell you that youâve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,â he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. âThat is, if you arenât busy.âÂ
You raise a browâsly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, âTell your father that Iâm choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.â You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, âTell him Iâm paying for everything, too.âÂ
His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you donât expect him to yell once more:Â
âIâm going to enter the tournament this year!âÂ
Youâre certainly taken by surprise, but you donât slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lipsâwell, at least you know where youâre placing your bets.Â
A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and Jamesâmuch to your annoyance. Itâs just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greybackâs 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.Â
âAuror Black, Auror Potter,â you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. âWhat can I do for you today?âÂ
Sirius scoffs in disbelief. âSo itâs like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?âÂ
âPartying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like youâre better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,â he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. âGuess we were the fools, eh?âÂ
James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. âIt just doesnât make sense. What we saw at the infirmaryâthatâs not something anyone forgets.â He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. âItâs like youâre two different people.âÂ
âItâs disappointing, really,â Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.
Theyâve made it all too easy for you.Â
âWhat are you so frustrated for, darlings?â you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. âWhat were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? Weâre not children anymore, my loves!â you exclaim histrionically. âDid you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didnât you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?â
Sirius staggers.
âThe real me?â you giggle incredulously. âWhat you see is what you get, dearestâdonât go searching for what doesnât exist. Itâs not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.â You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up Jamesâs chin. âNot every damsel is in distress, you know.â
Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. âMaybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion heartsâyou wouldnât have driven Regulus to his death.âÂ
James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with angerâSirius 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 thisâthat they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you donât plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.
âYou are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature Iâve ever seen,â says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. âCanât believe I thought anything less than that.âÂ
You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. âAre we done here now, gentlemen?â
They would learnâthis is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.Â
The thirtieth of October brings about a cold youâve 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.Â
The skies are exceptionally gray todayâyouâve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touchâyou find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the momentâeach time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Siriusâs eyes.Â
Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?Â
When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louderâyet all you hear are their words.Â
âYou are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature Iâve ever seen.â
âI actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.â
You would not weepânot for yourself, and not certainly for them.Â
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?Â
When does duty end? And when does life begin?Â
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 hostâthat 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.Â
âWhat a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,â you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. âIf you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where youâll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.âÂ
You want to go to sleep already.Â
Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lakeâa sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and youâll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damnedâyouâve 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 Krumâs entrance, Hogwartsâ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seekerâwell, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.Â
Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palmâthe dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. âDumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.âÂ
You miss your cat.Â
(Siriusâs eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroffâs wretched compliments.)Â
You want to die.
â
Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth championâHarry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the studentsâ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harryâs name in the goblet in the name of family prestigeâpredictably, itâs Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you donât expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So thereâs a crack in the prideâs loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.Â
Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.Â
âDid you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?â the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.
The atmosphere is beyond wintryâyou 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.Â
Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the manâfor a fleeting momentâfor if looks could kill, Siriusâs tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.Â
âWe 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.â
Your blood runs cold.
Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleagueâs decisionâyou see no reason why he shouldnât be, heâs only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. âWell, Barty knows the rule book back to front!âÂ
Dimwitted fool.
You scoff. âIn a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potterâs name from the tournament.â
âErr. . .â Ludoâs gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. âThereâs nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.â
âDo you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?â you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. âIf 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.â âIt is not as simple as that, Professor!â Bagman cries. âBut you are welcome to try a hand at it.â
âSo we just let a child run to his death, then?â you seethe, nostrils flaring. âI never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?â
(Harryâs brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)
âHeâs got to compete. Theyâve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?â 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.Â
âMaybe someoneâs hoping Potter is going to die for it,â Moody growls in response to Fleur. âOver my dead body!â James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.Â
âYes, yes, Potter, we all know youâd die for your son,â Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.Â
âIt seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,â Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lilyâs sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. âBoth Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .â
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 Cedricâs eyesâworry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.Â
Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen Oneâand it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.Â
The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twiceâtoday 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.Â
âOi! Professor, over here!â One freckled Weasley twinâFred, you guessâbeckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.Â
âThank you, Mister Weasley,â you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.Â
Itâs quite oddâyouâd have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But itâs not half-bad. You donât erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You donât particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginervaâs ear when itâs time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.
âWe got a traitor here!â George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snoutâs fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.Â
âPlease excuse me for a moment,â you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. âMinerva,â 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 sheâs misjudged a professor or two.)Â
Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harryâs match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. Youâre 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 donât understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.Â
Harryâs dragon has broken free from its chains.Â
You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from dangerâspotting 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.Â
But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.
âDaphne!âÂ
The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.Â
You scour the area franticallyâthere, 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.Â
âDaphne, get away from there!âÂ
You hardly hesitateâyou 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 awayâeach 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 frightâyou close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.Â
But there is nothing.Â
Just you, Daphne, the Hungarianâand Remus whoâs pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntailâs attention, now zipping freely on his broom.Â
Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. âAre you alright?â he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.Â
You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. âAre you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, letâs get you to Madam Pomfreyâcan you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.âÂ
âTâThank you, Professor,â stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, âBoth of you. IâI donât know how Iâll repay such kindness.âÂ
âDonât worry, Daphne,â says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.Â
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. âMy kindness is freely given.â
Has kindness ever felt so real before?
act iv. you wouldnât last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.Â
âTHE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchenâshattered! The little ones couldnât sleep for days.âÂ
You hear the orphanage matronâs voice behind the bedroom door. Youâre allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasnât 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 Thompsonâs wrinkly face and foul smile.Â
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.Â
âSo this is the child,â Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. âYou may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.â
The matron widens her eyes. âMissus Fawley, I strongly advise againstâ!â
âYou misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,â says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. âThat was not a request.â
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 sheâs thinking about; wondering if itâs 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 girlsâ noses bleed.)
âShow me,â Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piperâs song. For a few moments, you donât understand what sheâs asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toyâs limbsâseconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though itâs gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: âIâm a real boy!â
Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusionâwhen you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, theyâd begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You donât try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. âMy name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,â she tells you, and you donât have a lick of comprehension. âWhat do you know about witches and wizards, darling?â âI donât know, maybe. . .â You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glanceâFawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. âThat they arenât real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?â
Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if youâve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. âDamned Mugglesâ! Is that what they teach these days?â She shakes her head. âNo, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.â âAre you going to adopt me?â you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.
âI will,â she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. âBut if we are to become familyâthere is one thing you must do for me.â
âAnything!â 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.Â
âNever lower your eyes.â She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. âYou are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.â
You believe her.
You believe her with all your heart.
But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves âmotherâ and embrace you with open arms.Â
The Fawley Manor is largeâlarger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldnât fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. Itâs like a princess castle coming to lifeâakin to the ones youâve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawleyâs 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. (âThink of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,â 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.Â
You meet Elsie, the house elfâyour 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 canât 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.Â
âGet settled into your room, and then weâll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,â Fawley says after she ushers you into a roomâa bedroom just for you, where you wonât have to listen to anyone elseâs snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard theyâd given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.Â
Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you arenât looking forward to.Â
But, how bad could a school be if itâs filled with magic?Â
You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.Â
For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothingâand on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family youâve 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.Â
The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.
âVirtue in hardships,â 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. âI 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.â
âThe wizarding world is in grave danger,â she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. âWill you help me fight for the greater good?â
You blink.
You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?
âGreater good?â you echo in disbelief. âF-Fight? Fight who? Iâve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anneâs nose bleed w-was just an accident!âÂ
âI will be with you every step of the way,â she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. âTell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And Iâm preparing you for your role in this world starting now.âÂ
The ingĂŠnue 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 donât understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantationâbut Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You donât want to go back to the orphanage, cold and aloneâso, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.Â
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. Itâs the best birthday youâve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.Â
The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, âThis 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.â
âWhen that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.â Her eyes flash dangerously. âAnd 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 worldâdo not let them see that you are afraid.âÂ
And so, you donât tell her that sheâs petrified you to the bone.
âAs 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.â Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. âTo be envied by allâthe perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.â
When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, âYou must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumbleâif you let even a single person know what youâre truly feeling, all this will be for naught.â
The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.Â
âControl them before they can control you,â Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. âExert 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.â
You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.Â
âSmile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.â Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. âBut 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. Youâll just be the greatest of them all.â
(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. âElsie will give Master her hat!â 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.Â
Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of Septemberâa letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, youâre more than excited. (âOh, mother, look!â you exclaim, pointing to the various shopsâand also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. âA sweet shop! Fortescueâs ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!â) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hersâtoday is a special one, she decides. Youâre allowed a bit of fun. Especially since youâve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.Â
You get your very first wand at Ollivandersâand 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, youâll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you donât mindânot when youâve 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 youâve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people sheâs 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.Â
âWalburga!â Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesnât reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. âWhat a pleasant surprise, my dear.â She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. âOh, my! Is it that time already? Iâd forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.âÂ
Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. âFawley,â Walburga responds, rather displeased. âTalking my ear off, as usual.â Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. âAnd who might this little one be?âÂ
You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. âMadam Black, how do you do?â you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teethâthe two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.Â
Walburga stares you down harshly. âHow adorable.â Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. âSirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.âÂ
Missus Fawley laughs, a grating soundâmuch like warning bellsâas her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. âWhat a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.âÂ
âButâoh, dear, look at the time.â Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. âI promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. Iâd give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems youâre embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.â
âTa-ta!â She plants two, airy kisses on Walburgaâs cheeks before waving the three goodbye.Â
âThat,â Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. ââis exactly how to do it.â Â
You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what youâve gotten yourself into and what kind of world youâre 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.
âHufflepuff!â 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, youâll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.Â
(Hogwarts is the best!)Â
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 Thirdâs portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.Â
âSo you were sorted there,â 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. âThis would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matterâitâs not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bonesâ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Blackâs daughters as well.â
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 didnât want to be your friend, then thereâs no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twinsâ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pigâs head in the girlsâ dormitory just because.)
On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for youâmasqued 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 sheâs 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, whoâs already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.Â
As long as you donât 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 Blackâs laughter haunts you.)
But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You donât fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black nĂŠe 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.Â
You donât understand why Mother is so scared of these people.
But youâll 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 tutorâyouâre bewildered at first, arguing that youâve consistently been at the top of your class. (âMadam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,â Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. âDance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. Youâll 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.â)Â
Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorneâs cane.Â
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.Â
You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietnessâtruthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress youâve 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.Â
Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you donât 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. âMay I have this dance?âÂ
You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. âY-Yes, if you must,â you splutter, placing your palm in his.Â
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.Â
âIsnât it odd that the birthday celebrant wasnât dancing all this time?â he says, pulling you in for a twirl.Â
âI assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,â you reply timidly. âSheâs quite overprotective, you see.âÂ
âWho? That tall lady over there by Missus Black whoâs currently glaring at me?â James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. âShe couldnât possibly terrify me.â
âLily says thank you, by the way.âÂ
âOh? For what?â
âLetting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essayâsheâs downright shite at the subject. Donât tell her I said that, though.â
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.Â
When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real giftâyour debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where youâve never ventured before. Itâs 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. âBe brave,â is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)Â
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 cloaksâas 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.Â
âWhat is this?â 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. âMother, what is going on?âÂ
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. âMy 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.âÂ
âYou know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?â 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 arenât careful. âThe Cruciatus, the Imperius, andâ?â
âThe killing curse,â 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.Â
âThatâs right, little one,â says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the manâs mouth. Itâs worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. âMuggles,â she spits the word out like venom. âLook at them. Theyâre filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.â
âKill him,â Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. âKill him and youâll have proved your worth to us.âÂ
âNo! No, please!â The man struggles against Abraxasâs arms. âPlease! I have a family! A c-child!â
You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. âIâ!â
âKill him, pet!â Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. âMake sure you mean it! Otherwise it wonât hurt!â
âYou know the words,â says Walburga, lifting your pliable armâa puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. âSay it.â
The man before you is real. Heâs 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? âMother, pleaseâI canât. I w-wont.â Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. âI donât. . . I donât understand.â
Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.Â
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. âI canât do thisâplease!â
âYou will.â
You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. âAvada Kedavra!â
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.Â
A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.Â
That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguishâyou cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.Â
âDo you get it now?â 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. âThis is your world from now on.âÂ
You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. âI donât want to live in your worldânot anymore! I donât care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! Youâre a monster!âÂ
âGood.â Fawleyâs voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. âThat means youâre ready for your next lesson.â
âDidnât you hear me? I said I was done!â you retort, sore from crying.
âDonât you see?â says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. âWe will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.âÂ
As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, âReady yourself. Iâll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.â Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.Â
When you return to school after the winter holidays, youâre forced to pretend that you hadnât taken the life of an innocent Muggle.Â
âDo not let them see you are afraid.âÂ
âUnfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dressâitâs crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,â 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 inâalmost. 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 mothersâvying for the pedestal youâve been put on by their parents.Â
For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. âCan you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?â
(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. Youâre more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideonâsomeone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just wonât.)Â
âOh, you cruel wench!â 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 someoneâs life.
Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if youâre alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved itâwell, youâre not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassivelyâoh, itâs nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. âMy mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.â
âYou and your mother can kiss my arse!â she shrieks, eyes ablaze.
âGideon didnât deserve that, and you know it,â Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twinâs dejected expression. âHow could you even say that?âÂ
âHow could I not, Lily darling?â 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. âYou are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature Iâve ever seen.âÂ
She has the softest voice youâve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.Â
Youâve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that youâd wash the feel of your sins off your handsâitâs all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but youâre 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, âThere are far worse creatures out there, Evans. Youâre lucky youâve been born only a Muggleborn.â
Fortunate that she wonât ever have to play the role that youâve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards herâeffortless 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 thatâs only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.Â
And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.Â
âSay another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,â Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.
Oh, how easy they make it for you.Â
You smile in delight. âSo you think Iâm pretty?â
Marlene lunges.
(You are so tired of it all.)
Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agathaâs lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (âAgain!â Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. âDo you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! Weâre going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!â)Â
While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, youâre stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, youâve 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.Â
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?Â
There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.Â
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. Youâre not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctorâs stern orders.Â
You also learn that sheâs absolutely insaneâbut that is a fact youâve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, youâd let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycanâs curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.Â
âA werewolf? In Hogwarts?â Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. âNo, no, no. . .â she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. Itâs 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. âDumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!âÂ
âDonât worry, my dear,â 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 confusionâyou hadnât been worried about that student at all. âIâll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.âÂ
âThatâs it,â she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. âPerhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house propertiesâcan you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything Iâve worked so hard for!âÂ
âMother?â 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. âMother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,â you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. âYou canât do this!âÂ
âDo not tell me what I can or cannot do!â Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. âEverything 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!âÂ
âWell then, why didnât you?â you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. âMaybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldnât have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!âÂ
Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think itâs 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 thereâs crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. âHa,â she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. âMerlin, what have I done? IâIâve gone too farâeven the Gods cannot save me.â
The despair in her voice is confounding. âCome here, my love,â 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 palmsâhow many times have you been in this position before? âIâm sorry,â she sobs, shoulders trembling. âOh, my darling, I am so sorry. Iâm afraid Iâve doomed the both of us.â She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. âMy child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?âÂ
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. âI am to die soon,â says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. âBut 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.âÂ
She lets her head hang limply. âI-I am tired, as well. Iâve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hardâthat is what Iâve lived by all these years.â
âAnd so must you.â Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.Â
You hate her.Â
You hate her with all your heart.Â
But even monsters need a heart to breathe.Â
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. (âThis is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,â your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. âDo not let him in no matter what.â) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.Â
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 youâre 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 floorsâyour breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddleâs chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.Â
(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 donât understand why this is the world you must live in.)Â
âCome here, my dear,â Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.Â
Tom Riddle is handsomeâyou 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 ownâinstantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and youâre nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimencyâobstinate bastard.Â
âThis one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.â 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 youâve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. âHow fascinating.âÂ
You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.Â
âMy Lord,â you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. âWhat an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.âÂ
Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. âDo not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!âÂ
âEnough, Bella,â Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. âIâve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.â She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for herâalmost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to childrenânow, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Naginiâs forked tongue flicking in anticipation.Â
âTell me, my dear,â says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. âHas your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.â
You grow frigid in his hold. âNot at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.âÂ
Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. âI see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?âÂ
Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. âMy Lord,â you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. âThe only reason there isnât much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophetâs eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,â you say, desperation pouring from each word.Â
You donât want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure itâyou can endure it all so long as you arenât eternally condemned to his name.Â
âTake that away, and youâll face significant repercussions,â you threaten boldly. âI promise you that. They look away because of me.âÂ
For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the publicâs attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partnersâyou 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 proposedâsuch as anti-werewolf bills.Â
And Voldemort would never notice that youâve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.Â
(Youâre also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)Â
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 oneâs business but the Orderâsâand yours.Â
For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your motherâs cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrowâbut youâll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.Â
Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.Â
A day before youâre set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.Â
There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoyâs guest roomâthe Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawleyâs voices blend into a cacophony of panic. Theyâre shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulusâs hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.Â
But you donât feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.Â
You scream, cry, and scream againâyou feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skinâbut itâs not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.Â
Bile rises to your throat.Â
Tears fall from your eyes.Â
(How cold is the floor? You donât 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 Riddleâs monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your armâAbraxas 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 canât believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)Â
âIâll. . . kill him,â you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing youâll ever do, you will have Voldemortâs head on a silver platter.Â
âDonât be foolish,â Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. âNone of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that weâre given.âÂ
âI promise. . . you,â you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. âIâll destroy them all.âÂ
You pass out in her arms.Â
When you awake, youâre on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.Â
You donât bother attending your classesâseeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when youâre just a pawn in someoneâs, everyoneâs 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 internallyâyouâve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.Â
You are tired.Â
How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?Â
Youâre only seventeenâhow can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?Â
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 happenâif you just run away now.Â
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?Â
Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.Â
Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabiniâclaiming that you had stolen her beau from her.
You toss the newspaper into the fire.Â
Some nights, you donât bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.Â
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 horizonâif 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.Â
Maybe. . .Â
If you move a few inches forward. . .Â
If you just fly.Â
Youâd be free.Â
âOh, I didnât know this window was occupied.â 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. âI guess Iâll. . . find somewhere else to brood.âÂ
I donât care.Â
Go away.Â
I want to die.
If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?Â
You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.Â
Starlings chirp and fly past youâhow 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.Â
You let your weight shift over the window.Â
Maybe if you fall, you could see what itâs like to fly.Â
âH-Hey! Donâtâ!â Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embraceâthe 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. âWhy would you do that? Are you mad?â
You sigh.Â
Maybe tomorrow, then.Â
âOi!â Remus pokes your shoulder. âDonât just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.â His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at youâjust to make sure youâre still in front of him. âA-Are you okay?â he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. âDo you want to talk about it or anything?âÂ
You shrug. âNothing to talk about.â
His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. âI think thatâs a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.âÂ
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. âHey. . . listen. We donât know each other all that wellâso this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?â
He opens his arms wide enough for you to fitâand you stare at him in horror. âCâmon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.âÂ
You stay silent.Â
He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. âI donât bite. Promise. One hug and weâll go on pretending like we donât know each other tomorrow. Marauderâs honor.â
âI havenât done anything to deserve your kindness,â you say with a prominent sneerâcertainly 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.Â
Remus smiles. âI think youâll find that my kindness is freely given.âÂ
You nibble on your bruised lip.Â
Could you really?Â
Maybe just this once.Â
Youâre only human, magic as you are.Â
You take one step forward.Â
Then another.Â
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, âYouâre alright, love. Let it out. Iâm here.â 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 donât feel like youâre floating away into oblivion.Â
Maybe youâd stay aliveâfor a few more days.Â
To do what is right.Â
To endure.Â
Perhaps, tomorrow will be easierâif such kindness is real, maybe youâre allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.Â
But your nightmare doesnât end when youâre awakeâit takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallowâs Eve.Â
Youâre not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddleâs followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of nightâit must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Luciusâs shadow. You search for your mother but she doesnât appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yoursâNarcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.Â
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 finallyâ
Your mother.Â
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.Â
You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your visionâNarcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.Â
âWe have found a traitor in our midst!â Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the groundâyour fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. âI caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!âÂ
âNo,â you whisper, dread knocking you backwardsâit just isnât 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.Â
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.
âIf the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!â 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. âIs this true?â he asks, drawing blood from your skin. âTell me!âÂ
âNo!â you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. âItâs notâlet me go! That is my mother! Youâre hurting her! Sheâs sick!â
âThat,â Riddleâs eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, âis a betrayer to our cause.âÂ
âSheâs not!â you scream.
âHow did she find out, then?â Voldemort flings you to the groundâimmediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and youâre blasted into the wallsâyou feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you wonât let him in. Heâll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.
The pain is searingâyouâre being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddleâs magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. âWeâre not traitors!â you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your motherâs listless body. âI swear!â
Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. âCrucio!â
âNo! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!â 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. âYouâre killing her!â
Tom snarls, âGood.â
Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manorâyou swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. âYour mummy over there is done for. But youâour precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.âÂ
She puts your wand and closes your fist over the woodâyour eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. âKill her. And you may live.âÂ
âJust say it,â Bellatrix whispers in your ear. âTwo little words. Youâve already done this before, petâthe second time should be easy enough!â
âNo!â you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at youâbut to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.Â
âMum, wake up, please!âÂ
You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops youâand you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. Itâs a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddleâs invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.
âThank 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.â
âKill her!â Voldemort rages into your ear.Â
You watch as Fawleyâs eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. âItâs okay, my darling,â she whispers tiredly. âI. . . can rest now.â
For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someoneâs heartâthis time, itâs your motherâs.Â
âWhat are you waiting for?â Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. âKill her! Before I do it myself!âÂ
Thereâs a faint smile on her face.Â
âIâm. . . sorry.â
Those are Agatha Fawleyâs 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.Â
But your eyes are on one person and one person only.
Tom Riddle.Â
âAvada Kedavra!â
He will know your pain.
Not today, not tomorrow.
But youâll 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
#poly!marauders x reader#hp angst#hp fluff#hp imagine#james potter x reader#lily evans x reader#marauders x reader#poly!marauders fluff#x reader#remus lupin x reader#sirius black x reader#reader insert#poly marauders#poly!marauders imagine#poly!marauders#sunny's hp fics#x reader angst#poly!marauders angst#poly!marauders x you#marauders fanfiction#marauders angst#marauders imagine
2K notes
¡
View notes
Note
HI SWEETIEEEE, LOVE UR WRITING
Can you PLEAAAAASEEE make reader with breeding kink? Like, how would Sanji, Luff and ussop react to their partner asking for being filled/breed?
Btw, tell me I'm cool for asking without anon or I'll cry.
UR THE COOOOLEST FOR ASKING WITHOUT ANON GIRLY!! i salute your confidence, also ur veryyyy pretty (i stalk you through your window) and also here's the filth you want mwuahh đđ
đthinkin' about: the monster trio, ace 'n law! vs breeding kink!
NOT PROOFREAD. JUST PURE HORNY. cw: they all kinda wanna be dads. im sorry. i just wrote it. they wanna be dads now. its cannon. pussydrunk!men. nsfw includes: praise, a lot of overstimulation and talks of "being a dad" and "getting a mini-me", penetration, cunnilingus, loads of creampie [obviously.] and smex. lots of smex. m.list
đmonkey d. luffy: going insane at the mere idea.
â¤ď¸"ngh~ hah again." from the way luffy said it, you're not quite sure whether he was asking or telling. but you weren't sure of a lot of things like where he ended and you began, which round were you on, yada yada. eitherways, you shouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours, not when you're the reason the captain of your ship was panting like this against you. hot huffs clashing against your skin with every strained movement of his hips. all because you had had the audacity to come up to the captain of the ship, pull him by his shirt to your room, strip and tell him to "fill you up." like are you insane?! did you want to kill him?! â¤ď¸you're lucky that your captain has a strong heart, and an even stronger will... because now his hips were bucking into you wildly, hot stings against your thighs where he collided over and over and over again. whispering like a man gone mad, "fill you up, p-please. you wanted th-that right? you want me to fuck you like this? over 'n over 'gain?" and you must have been on a mission from the marines cause you just caught your trembling, bottom lips and hiccupped out a soft, "y-yes, please, cap'n." oh that wretched nick-name, goddamit. â¤ď¸and now he's rutting into you harder, his tongue pushing against yours in such a lewd display of love. when he parted from from you, strings of glistening saliva connected you both. before they dropped downwards, stagnating against his bottom lips. "gonna have a little me runnin' around, i promise." monkey d luffy grinned, so pussy-drunk from the way you were clenching and gnawing at his aching dick. you wanted it just as much as he did, huh? with short, persistent thrusts into your gummy walls, he's cumming inside you once again, "one more time, p-pretty. promise this'll be the last. hah gotta make sure i get it right, y-yeah?" liar. he said that the last three times too.
đroronoa zoro: daddy or father? you choose. ps: both.
đwhatever you expected, this was not it. when you had waltzed into zoro's room while he was napping, closed the lock behind you, straddled his hips and huskily beg for him to fill you up, you didn't expect this. you didn't expect the man who was reluctant to even think about a family to prep you for his cock like he wanted a kid right fucking now. đyou didn't expect the goddamn demon of the sea, former marine-hunter and the current first mate of your crew to caress your cheek so softly, to look you in your eyes with nothing but devotion as he thrusted his fingers into you so mean. "you're serious?" he mumbled against your skin and you nodded, half-delirious from the unfaltering pumps and your crescendo into another orgasm, "ye-yeah, i am, zoro." the swordman grinned, chasing his action with a mean slap to your aching cunt. fuck. and for a moment you saw something inherently holy in his action, "you want me to fill you up? you wanna make me a dad, angel?" "ngh ohmygodâ" your eyes rolled back as his nimble fingers messily circle your clit before pinching the nub slowly. his voice husked, "my girl wants me to fuck her till i get a mini-me around?" đof course you cannot now blame roronoa zoro for the way he was fucking you without any breaks. not when you were the one who had nodded and assured him that a little him would be soo cute. "me? a dad?" zoro mumbled again. and for someone who only talked in grunt and groans and huffs when he was fucking you like he was going to ruin you, he sure was talking a lot. he repeated, "shit, my girl's gonna make me a dad?" "zoro, no-no more, pleaseâ" you pawed at his biceps, trying to pry him off of you. you could practically feel yourself filled to the brim, the milky white pouring out of your so obscenely and collecting at the base of his pretty cock with every little thrust into you. "no, no. no." he almost sounded cocky when he pulled his dick back and used his fingers to stuff them back in, "come on, now. don't waste any." he grinned, feral, "'m gonna be a fucking dad." jesus christ, what kind of demon did you let out tonight?
đŤvinsmoke sanji: living out his dreams (while buried in you).
đhonestly, you must have had courage pouring through you veins to ask sanji to fill you up. him and fatherhood were no joke. vinsmoke sanji had seen you for exactly 1.52 seconds when he realized he would have a family with you immediately, or get rejected over and over till he gets you and then have a family with you. đ"and th-then i'd get her whatever she wants." sanji rambled on, hips stuck in a periodic rhythm as his tip caught against your g-spot again and again. "s-sanji." you stuttered, trying to throw your head over your shoulders to meet his flushed face. he had held your back flush against his chest, face reddened and lips trembling as he kissed your neck. your heart fluttered at his reaction, "there's- we d-don't have a kid yet... y'know that, right?" because from the way he was planning, it sure seemed like the kid was alive and well in his mind. the blonde nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, his finger slowly thumbing your clit, using your wetness to his leverage to bring yourself to destruction once more, "so, what, love? i'll fuck you till i get it, right?" đand who were you to deny him of that when his fingers glided through your folds easily and he rocked his hips gently, trying to coax another orgasm out of your tired bones. his breath was hot against your shoulder, "we're gonna have such a cute kid, r-right, love?" "mhm, w-we will." you nodded, the pit in your stomach tightening cruelly at his candied words. and he smiled against your shoulder, words slurring at the thoughts, "god, she'd be so cute." "sanji," you whined, your voice shaking as he finally pulled himself out. the warm fluid cascaded down your folds and sanji tsked in mock distress, "shh, looks like i gotta do it all over again." don't complain. you're the one who made him this way.
đŚportgas d. ace: don't ask for what you can't handle.
đ§Ą"a-ace." your voice waivered pathetically as his hot breath played against your trembling pussy. his grin was cocky, eyes hidden by his hat as he husked against your wetness, "what?" "s-stop teasing." you tried, only for him to laugh at your pathetic efforts to sound stern. he tipped his face back, eyes glinting with something malignant, "you started it, baby." "i wasn't teasing." đ§Ąoh so you weren't teasing when you walked into his room, interrupted his paperwork and asked him so, so nicely to fill you up tonight? ace's eyebrows quirked up in part-surprise, part-delight as he slowly kissed your inner thigh. eyes never leaving yours. he smiled all over again, "you want me knock you up? give you my kid? awh, want me to fuck you till i get it right?" oh and the way you averted your eyes, looking oh-so-shy at his question, it had ace wanting to ruin you all over again. đ§Ąyou were spread so deliciously on his bed, your glistening cunt on display just for him to edge you and watch you drip over and over again. the sheets underneath were soiled from your juices, he was sure his crew-mates would tease him to no extent with the way you were screaming his name but none of that mattered. when you writhed against him, your aching hands pushing his pretty face away and pulling him back into you all over again, ace hummed, "what? too much already? but we haven't even started." not when he took his hat off and gave you bestial grin. untamed, animalistic, primal. portgas d ace just made a promise, "when i finally give you what you want, don't you dare run away. or i think we both know how it'll end." it'll end with you stuffed full of him. it'll end with his finger past your pretty lips, with you choking on your own moans and his thick digits as he pumped you full. it'll end with him humming, "running away? no. don't you dare." after all, portgas d. ace never broke a promise.
đŞťtrafalgar d. water law: doc please don't knock her up.
đyour boyfriend was a doctor. surely, you must have more common sense than to bother him while he was already drowning under paperwork with the ideas of a little you and him running around. surely. "'s a terrible id-idea," he stuttered uncharacteristically as you has fiddled with his shirt, giving him such a sickly sweet smile, "why? you don't wanna?" "noâ" his voice faltered as you slowly perched upon his lap and undid his button one by one. "'s just a kid is a huge responsibility, and we're not r-ready," his breath hitched when you kissed his neck. your words stilled against the column of his throat, "pretty please, doc?" it's like you lived to raise his blood pressure. đso, now back was was pressed into the cold wood of his table, your knees pulled apart on his broad chest. his dick slipped in and out of you as his tattooed fingers pinched your clit. "l-law, please." your eyes were brimming with tears. aching, fat droplets that fell down as he continued to fuck you on that creaking wooden desk. you babbled as he rut into you harder, flushed tip bumping against your abused g-spot, "'m done, i-i'm sorry ngh, c'mon." "you're hahâ crying?" don't let anyone know but maybe law was a bit of a sadist with the way he grinned, "i thought you wanted this?" đgood point. you were the one who wanted to be pinned down onto that wretched desk and fucked into till you lost the feeling in your legs and your body trembled with every shallow way he drilled into you. so, take it. any faltering whines and moans were pointless. his actions were unhurried, pace rhythmic even as you spasmed around him due to the overstimulation. as your velvety holes gnawed at him, the doctor found himself spilling into you with little to no sanity left in him. "hah fuckâ" law breathed heavily, eyes going wide as he pulled out and saw his milky essence dripping out of you so obscenely. his gaze fell upon your flushed face. your eyes were clenched shut, mouth parted in utter bliss. all reason and rhyme left the man as he found himself nudging his tip back into your trembling cunt, "shit. come on, baby. you wanted this." he isn't lying. you did want it.
a/n: first time writing law, lowkey nervous teehee đ¤đ¤. i come out of the writers block on and off so im sorry im shit at posting. also i know i wrote ace n law longer okay I KNOW DONT TELL ME SHHH. i just got carried away đđťđđť. couldn't write ussop for the life of my but i hope you like it anyways @shinysp4rk mwuah <3 m.list
#one piece#op#opla#one piece smut#roronoa zoro#vinsmoke sanji#monkey d luffy#trafalgar law#trafalgar d water law#ace one piece#portagas d ace#zoro smut#luffy smut#ace smut#law smut#sanji smut#roronoa zoro smut#vinsmoke sanji smut#monkey d luffy smut#portagas d ace smut#trafalgar law smut#opla smut#zoro x reader#luffy x reader#sanji x reader#ace x reader smut#law x reader smut#the monster trio smut#monster trio
2K notes
¡
View notes
Note
demily I'd normally vote for lesbians but good omens is one of my favourite shows of all time, so please sell me on suletta x miorine before I choose the old men situationship
Okay then here we go *cracks knuckles*
So there's this daughter of the CEO of a giant tech corp, Miorine, who wants to escape from her private school because her dad intends to make her marry whoever is the best at Giant Robot Fights.
She meets this random country girl, Suletta, who just started attending the school. Suletta inadvertently is the best at Giant Robot Fights because she has a crazy good robot, making her Miorine's fiance, and Miorine suddenly decides "hang on this might not be so bad."
Suletta was not aware that being gay was an option, but once she realizes that's on the table, she instantly becomes head over heels for Miorine.
They repeatedly refer to themselves as being bride and groom, and their relationship's importance is constantly recognized and affirmed by the people around them. Their relationship is central to the plot.
A lot of stuff happens, but some highlights:
Miorine sees Suletta being targeted by the corporations, and she decides to use her knowledge of the corporate world to start her own company so she can protect Suletta. This is a significant moment because it goes against her earlier wishes to escape the corporate world; protecting Suletta is more important to her. When asked why she did this, she calls herself Suletta's bride.
Suletta constantly talks about having a wedding with Miorine
Suletta tries to kill a guy for getting between her and Miorine (as she should)
Miorine makes Suletta promise to stay with her forever, and text her three times a day. Suletta does this dutifully. (Needy x Indulgent is such a cute dynamic)
Miorine tries to push Suletta away for her own protection. This backfires. Suletta forgives and comforts her.
Miorine tells Suletta's mom that they should get along since they're going to be family (power move)
They are featured together in the intro and ending of every episode.
They get married at the end of the series, and wear rings in the ending. Suletta becomes a school teacher, and Miorine uses her successful company to support her.
Gundam Witch is a love story. Suletta and Miorine are canon and they are married. It's an incredibly significant relationship because gay marriage isn't even legal in Japan, but it's treated as normal in the show. They are so important to me. Thank you for coming to my ted talk. Yuri will save the world, goodbye
#suletta mercury#miorine rembran#mobile suit gundam#mobile suit gundam: the witch from mercury#sulemio#g-witch
2K notes
¡
View notes
Text
Self care || Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Bucky always seemed interested in your skin care routine, so when one day he arrives tired and drained from a mission, you take the opportunity to show him the importance and benefits of self-care.
Warnings: established relationship, brief mention to Buckyâs past trauma, a fuck ton of fluff, my little knowledge of skin care lol
English is not my first language
Word count: 2200
Notes: this was inspired by a dream I had. I thought it was cute and I couldn't get it out of my head, so I wrote this little thing. If it doesnât make sense, blame my dumb dreams lol
It was one of the first times you slept over at Bucky's place that you discovered he didn't have a skin care routine. He would look at you cleansing your face from the bathroom door, watching you apply creams and serums with a mixture of admiration and confusion in his expression. And every time you picked up a new product, he would ask you what it was and what did it do.Â
It didn't really surprise you, most of the men you had dated tended to use a small number of personal hygiene products and usually the facial skin was only treated with soap and water. And if that was men your age, it was to be expected that Bucky and his over one hundred years of age were not aware of the benefits of skin care.You found his reactions kind of adorable. It wasn't every day that you caught Bucky acting with the naĂŻve curiosity of a child, and you couldn't help but laugh as you answered his endless questions.
"Please tell me you at least wear sunscreen." You said and Bucky remained silent. "Oh my God, Bucky!" you complained, explaining to him how dangerous the sun was for his skin.
"After all I've been through, I don't think a little sun is going to kill me, doll." He laughed, coming up to you to hug you from behind. You wrapped your arms around his, smiling at him in the mirror as he rested his chin on your shoulder.Â
The bastard knew how cute he was âlooking at you through the mirror with blue eyes full of loveâ, and he was using it to his advantage to keep you from scolding him. He was probably right, the super soldier serum surely protected him from skin cancer in the same way it protected him from hits and falls that would be fatal to the rest of humanity. But still, it wouldn't hurt him to take care of himself a little every now and then.
"You smell nice." Bucky praised you, inhaling the subtle floral scent the creams had left on your skin. He gave you a kiss on the cheek, his stubble tickling your sensitive face. You laughed and he knew he had won.
"Don't think you're getting out of this so easily." you warned, tilting your head to the side so you could kiss him. "Flattery will get you nowhere!"
From that day on you decided that you would put together a skincare routine for Bucky. Super Soldier serum or not, everyone's skin needed a little help from time to time. And besides, you believed it was something that could benefit Bucky in more ways than just one. It would teach him to take better care of himself and to value the precious 'me time'. And god knew he needed that. So you made a mental note to buy a couple of products for him the next time you went to restock some of your kit and stopped thinking about it for a while.
That was until one day Bucky came home tired from a mission. You didn't quite know what he had to do and he didn't want to tell you much about it either when you asked him. Not knowing tore you apart, but you respected his wishes and didn't press the issue, deciding to help him in a way that wasn't invasive. You started with running him a bath, filling the tub with warm water and using some of your bath salts and lotions to create a more relaxing environment. You insisted on taking care of him, although Bucky didn't put up much resistance, surrendering to the soothing power of your caresses on his hair. Your fingers gently massaged his scalp, coating it with shampoo to remove all the dirt before rinsing it and repeating the process with conditioner.
He still found such intimacy a bit strange. Even though he enjoyed it, he still wasn't completely used to being cared for with the affection you showed him. It had been so long since anyone had treated him with such love and care that he could hardly remember it. But he felt safe in your hands, happy to have you in his life. A light of hope at the end of the dark tunnel of agony that had been his life. That was what you were to him. His second chance to live, to love. So he relaxed under your touch and let your gentle caresses take all the tiredness and worries out of his system.
But your pampering didn't end when Bucky got out of the tub. After he changed into his pajamas and laid down on his side of the bed, you emerged from the bathroom with a small white bag in your hands. You rested it on the nightstand and began pulling out various products he recognized from your skin care routine, arranging them in a nice neat line.Â
"Doll... what are you doing?" Bucky asked, looking at the pink cat-ear headband you held in your hands. It was the one you always wore when you did your makeup or skin care routine, a tool you used to keep your hair out of your face while you worked. He always thought you looked adorable when you used it, but he didn't understand why you were directing it at him this time.
"Taking care of you." You replied as if it were obvious, "I want to show you the benefits of having a good skin care routine." Bucky hesitated for a moment, but eventually gave in to your soft smile and the sparkle of enthusiasm in your eyes. There was nothing he could say no to if you looked at him that way.
He gave you a slight nod and you took that as a signal to continue. You climbed onto the bed, settling onto his lap with one leg on either side of him, so you could face him and work more comfortably. Bucky put his hands on your hips instinctively, the cold metal of his fingers giving you goose bumps at the unexpected touch. But you didn't move them, you liked his hands there.
"First we have to make sure your hair is out of the way." You announced as you placed the headband on his head, making sure no hair was out of place or near his face. You couldn't help but let out a giggle as you admired Bucky wearing the accessory. The pink, furry cat ears looked so out of place it was ridiculous. The clear feminine energy of the headband clashed against the distinctive masculine look on his expression in a fun and charming way. It made him look adorable if you were honest, especially when he smiled at you. He could definitely pull it off.
"How do I look?" Bucky asked, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion.Â
"Adorable." You replied between giggles, before giving him a quick peck on the lips.
When you broke apart, you began your skin care routine, taking a piece of cotton and your favorite micellar water to cleanse Bucky's skin. He looked at you closely, taking advantage of the position you were in to admire your beauty up close while you concentrated on soaking the cotton ball in the liquid. You were the most beautiful woman in the world, he was sure, and not only that, you were kind and loving too. A wonderful person all around and he still didn't understand how he had managed to get you by his side, but he was happy about it.
"Why do you have to clean my face? I just showered." Bucky mumbled with his eyes closed, feeling your delicate fingers on his chin as you ran wet cotton across his face.
You let out a giggle. "Water is not enough! And regular soap is too harsh on the skin of our face, so you need to use a cleanser or cream that is meant for the face."
"I never heard about that." Bucky frowned, tilting his head slightly to the side in confusion.
"Because you're a guy and guys are used to using one product for everything hygiene related."
âThatâs not true!â he tried to defend himself, although he didn't sound very convinced.
You decided to skip a few steps in the routine to keep things simple. The idea was not only to pamper Bucky and help him relax, but also show him that maintaining a skin care routine didn't have to be complicated and could bring him many benefits. So you went straight to the eye cream, taking some with your ring finger and carefully applying it to the bags under his eyes.
"Stay still! You're gonna make me poke your eye if you move like that!"
"It already feels like you're poking my eye!"
"Don't be so dramatic!" You laughed, men really were cry babies. "Just close your eyes and trust me." Bucky grumbled, pouting. You planted a quick kiss on his lips, and that seemed to please him because he kept his eyes closed and stopped moving. Carefully, you spread the eye cream over his dark circles, giving his skin time to absorb the product before proceeding with the last step.
"What is that?" Bucky asked you curiously as you reached for the last tub in the line of products.Â
"It's a night cream. You're supposed to use it at night after you wash your face to keep your skin moisturized."
"Isn't that what the other cream did?"
"No, silly! That was just for your under eye area, this helps hydrate the rest of your face. We need to give back all the good things we got rid off when we cleaned your skin of all the dirt and oils clogging your pores."
Bucky made an annoyed face, muttering about how complicated it all sounded. But the truth was, he was enjoying the extra attention you were giving him. He had you all to himself, the warmth of your body enveloping him in a comforting embrace as your fingers gently massaged his face. He couldn't think of a better definition of paradise than that. Just the two of you sharing an intimate moment, far from the horrors of the outside world. He could commit to a skin care routine if it involved at least a third of the pampering you were giving him at that moment.
"You don't need to use much," you continued your explanation, dipping one of your fingertips into the cream before bringing it up to Bucky's face. "Just a little bit here, here, here... and here." You painted a couple of white dots on his cheeks, forehead and chin, kissing the tip of his nose before applying a bit of cream to the area. It was such a cute and intimate act he almost blushed.
The first thing Bucky noticed about the cream was the scent. It had a light rose fragrance that was familiar to him, comforting even. It traveled up his nostrils as you massaged the cream into his face, sparking a warm and fuzzy feeling inside him. It took him a few seconds to understand that it was because that was the same rose scent he recognized on your skin whenever he kissed you, that sweet floral scent he had learned to recognize as home. He finally knew he had your choice in moisturizer to thank for it.Â
"You're using your cream on me?"
"Yes, it's the only one I had. The perfume doesn't last long, don't worry. I'll buy you an unscented one tomorrow."
"No, don't! I like this one, it smells like you... it's like having a little piece of you with me all the time."
You didn't expect him to say that, so you weren't prepared for the tingling warmth of love that coursed through your body. The idea that he wanted to keep you close at all times, that he recognized your scent and found comfort and safety in it, made your heart melt with love. Bucky was normally a man of few words, and tended to show his feelings with other things rather than words. Acts of service were his most common way of showing how much he loved you, although he also resorted to spending quality time together whenever you had free time. But every once in a while, he would manage to drop a sentence like that, which in concise words made it clear how much he loved you. Always taking you by surprise, he would drop them at the most casual moments, leaving you completely stupid for a few seconds as you processed his words and wondered what you had done to deserve having someone so wonderful in your life.Â
Bucky gave you a shy smile, cheeks turning pink under your gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He looked so adorable that you couldn't help but join your lips with his in a slow, loving kiss. He reciprocated immediately, one of his hands leaving your waist to cradle your cheek, pressing you tighter against him and deepening the kiss.Â
"I love you," you muttered against his lips, pressing your forehead against his as you gazed into his deep blue eyes.
Bucky smiled, feeling the last bit of stress evaporate from his system thanks to you and your sweetness. "I love you too."
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x fem reader#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x reader fluff#bucky barnes#bucky barnes fanfiction#marvel fanfiction#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
Seeing JJK men shirtless for the first time
Pairings: (true form) Sukuna x fem! reader; Nanami x fem!reader; Choso x fem!reader; Gojo and Geto x fem!reader; Ino x fem!reader; Toji x fem!reader; Ijichi x fem!reader
Word Count: 6k (this is literally one third of my bachelor thesis lmao)
Warnings: Spice in Sukuna's, a little bit in Choso's and in Toji's part, true form Sukuna so slight spoilers regarding his appearance, I'm sorry but Choso's part is a lil shitty
Notes: You guys...This has to be my biggest fic yet and let me tell you, I poured my heart and soul into this piece. So please, if you find the time, leave me a like, a comment or a reblog. I appreciate it more than you could imagine đ¤
Sukuna
You donât even know how you ended up here. To be exact, it still feels like a feverish dream to you. Only one second ago, you were on your way to find your friends, injured with your shoulder throbbing each passing second. But nowâŚ
Your eyes roam around the barely lit area, gleaming in that unpromising red light that runs shivers down your spine. There is absolutely no logical explanation for how you ended up here.
âSure took you some time to finally wake up again.â
That dark voice hollering at you, the sarcastic undertone in it. Itâs a man, without any doubt. And just by the sound of his masculine voice you can tell that heâs build like a wall.
Is it wise to move forward, to discover this place? Well, standing here like an idiot definitely wonât help to find a way out of here, right? And you definitely need to find out who that man isâŚ
âWho are you?â
Your voice gets lost against the tall walls, echoes back at you over and over again. But no answer.
âAre you the reason for me being here?â
There is no doubt in the fact that his eyes are all over you. Like a hunter, he roams around you in silence while your tingling nerves almost cause you to lose your mind. Who is he? Where are you? What is all of this?
Your feet dash forward once again. Straight into the darkness, chasing after a dim beam of light that catches your interest immediately. Maybe this is your way out, maybe youâll get to meet your friends again, maybe-
Suddenly your breath gets stuck in your throat, feet stopping immediately. That thingâŚ
You swallow hard, eyes fixated on the most muscular male upper body youâve seen in your entire life. No, this isnât a thing. This is a grown man.
âStop staring at me like thatâ, he growls with his now familiar voice.
This is him, the person who talked to you earlier. You want to confront him, want to ask him for a way out, but instead you stare him up and down. Those oh so muscular four arms decorated by hypnotizing tattoos, a chest so broad it takes you all your strength to outstand the urge to press your head against it. But what really catches you off guard is his mouth. No, not the mouth on his face. Your gaze gets caught by the parted lips that cover his stomach, teeth exposed to threatful that the thought of getting killed crosses your mind for a split second.
âAre you done now, stupid girl?â
Before you even realize whatâs happening, you find yourself lying in his arms, his body pressed so tightly against yours that you fail to breathe. His half naked body, muscles touching your bare skinâŚ
Oh god, this is so wrong. There is no doubt in the fact that this is Sukuna in his true form, the king of curses in his full glory. And you? You are nothing but a tiny human compared to him, an ant underneath his boot.
But why does it feel so good, then? Why do your knees give him, why does your body start to throb in places where it shouldnât?
A whimper escapes your lips, body almost collapsing into itself when you can feel his mouth there.
Against your bare skin.
Caressing the sensitive flesh of your thighs.
âIf you just break into my kingdom like that, then I can do whatever I want with youâ, he whispers against your ear.
âP-pleaseâ, you groan, not even knowing yourself what exactly youâre begging for.
â(y/n)?â
You close your eyes, searching for the feeling of his tongue against your skin.
â(y/n)!â
No, donât open your eyes, donât get distracted.
â(Y/N)!â
When your eyes dart open again, you arenât greeted by Sukunaâs stinging gaze. No, the innocent eyes that look at you filled with worry belong to someone else.
âMan, you really have me worrying out here for you. You just broke down and started whimperingâ, Yuji explains while lifting you off the ground.
Was itâŚall a dream?
Nanami Kento
Your heart races, blood rushing through your ears like electricity. You told him right from the start that leaving on his own wasnât a good idea, that the injuries of other jujutsu sorcerers make you believe this might be a special grade curse.
But Nanami Kento never listens when you worry about him.
âIâm sorry to bother you, but it seems like thereâs a gaping wound placed under my ribcage on my right side.â
You didnât hesitate a single second, rushed after him with your little case like you always do. As Shokoâs co-worker, itâs your responsibility to look after injured jujutsu sorcerers. Even though youâll never be as good as her, you will always make it your mission to help as fast as possible.
Especially him.
His signal grows stronger and stronger with every step you dash towards his location, mind racing back and forth. A gaping wound, what is that supposed to mean? Did he get hit by a gun, a curse? You donât allow yourself to catch your breath, eyes focused on the little dot that comes closer.
âAre you alright, (y/n)? You really donât need to rush to my side like that.â
A wave of relief washes over you when you see him leaning against the wall of a public toilet. But only until you catch a glimpse of the deep red tissues covering the sink and ground, his usual dark blue shirt discoloured in horrific crimson.
All colour drains from yourself while you lunge yourself at him, thick fear rushing through your veins.
âWhy didnât you call me sooner? You already lost a hell amount of bloodâ, you press out, inspecting the wound carefully.
This looks bad. Really really bad. If you donât act right now, if you donât start to use your technique immediatelyâŚ
âTake off that shirt. Nowâ, you instruct him without waiting for his response while putting on gloves and showering your hands in sanitizer.
You fail to understand the meaning of your automatic words until he stands in front of you, bare chested.
Oh.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat all over again, eyes shamelessly discovering the way his muscular chest rises and falls steady.
âDid you justâŚâ
Suddenly your mouth feels dry like the desert, mind unable to form a single sentence. Since you know Nanami Kento, you always know him as that well-dressed gentlemen in that suit that makes his butt look delicious and his shirt that leaves you pondering about the way he might look underneath when youâre supposed to work. There was never an opportunity to peek at more than his veiny forearm. And now this force of a man is standing right in front of your hungry eyes, showing you that reality is so much better than everything you could have imagined.
âSorry, didnât you tell me to take my shirt off?â
âIâŚâ
When Shoko wasnât around, you always pondered about the way he might look under his dark blue shirt. Do his tight muscles draw those valleys onto his belly youâve seen on TV before? Does his biceps have that popping vein his forearms make you suspect?
You canât help but allow your eyes to roam around his frame freely. That little scar decorating his chest. Is it from a fight? And that minor trail of untrimmed hair that lets your gaze wander to placesâŚ
âI donât want to be rude butâŚIâm not feeling that well, (y/n). Would you mind treating me?â
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Blood rushes into your cheeks immediately, face heating up by the horrific thought that he caught you staring at his bare chest like an idiot. Fuck, he definitely thinks youâre nothing but a freak now. What if heâll ignore you from now on? What if you wonât see him again after that? What a dumbass you are, didnât you see countless men without a shirt on already-
âHey, stop worrying. Iâm more than flattered that I caught the attention of someone like you butâŚletâs do this when Iâm feeling better.â
Your widened eyes fail to leave his oh so gorgeous face while your trembling hands go to work, mind too focused on what he just said.
âLetâs do what?â, you finally breathe out.
Is thisâŚa smile forming on Kento Nanamiâs lips? You feel like tripping all over again, heart pounding so roughly against your ribcage that you might pass out right by his side any given moment.
âI like the way you look at me, (y/n).â
What a simple reply. And yet, his words send you into another dimension.
âYouâŚWHAT?â
Choso Kamo
Your body threatens to fail you, eyes in desperate search for Yuji. When Megumi finally gave in and told you he went out on his own, you almost lost your mind. Yuji, Sukunaâs vessel, on his own in Shibuya when everyone chases after him? Megumi definitely deserves another slap for that.
You sprint down the empty hallways of Shibuyaâs train station, following the distant sound of battle. Please, let Yuji be alright. As his bigger sister, it was always your aim to protect him. When Yuji joined Jujutsu High, you did as well. When Yuji decided to fight in first row, you did too. There is no way youâll allow your little brother to die, even though technically you arenât related by blood. But even as your step brother, you canât afford to lose him.
âYuji?â
Nothing. Your body hollers back at you unanswered, mind slowly but surely starting to get into panic mode as the sound of cracking metal grows closer and closer.
And then you see it, the chaos that lays itself out in front of you dipped in neon purple lights. Blood is splattered across the area, the floor swimming in water that escapes the nearby toilet.
The toiletâŚYou furrow your eyebrows. Is this⌠a wave of pink hair?
âYuji?â
His eyes meet yours. The so determined gleam in them escapes instantly when fright replaces it.
âGet away from here right now, (y/n)!â, he screams at you just before a fist pushes him into a nearby wall violently.
Your brain threatens to fail you, body dashing into the toilet without thinking twice. Whoever this is will pay for hurting your brother so violently, for causing all this mess.
âDidnât I tell you to walk away?â, Yuji questions with an irritated voice.
âAnd I told you more than once that I wonât leave you hanging!â, you hiss through gritted teeth.
âAre you two done?â
A male voice that makes you turn your head instantly. The second your eyes find him, your breath gets stuck in your throat. Oh, what a force of a man he is with strands of dark hair sticking to his wet face, his gorgeous eyes looking at you so unbothered. But what almost sweeps you off your feet is the way his robe allows you a single peek at his firm muscles that are lit by neon purple.
âOh myâ, you mumble to yourself.
Who on earth is this guy? Why is he fighting Yuji? But most importantlyâŚWhy does he have to look so steaming hot?
âWhy are you not moving, (y/n)? Get out of here right nowâ, Yuji taunts urgently.
âWhat a wasteâ, you jeer at the man in front of you while taking a few steps towards him.
Choso canât help but look at you bamboozled. How you move so confidently even though you donât even know who he is, your eyes still fixated onâŚ
His body? Are you looking at his abs?
âThat a handsome guy like you acts like this.â
His eyes widen unintentionally, hands not daring to move. He should kill you right on the spot, should end your life just like that of Itadori Yuji. Youâre partly responsible for the violent death of his brothers as well, given the fact that youâre also wearing that uniform. But his tight fists donât dare to move a single inch, glued to his sides.
âIdiot, you donât even know who youâre talking to. I will kill you just like Yuji Itadori, I will-â
âWill you, though?â
You come to a stand in front of him.
âWâŚWhat are you doing, (y/n)?â
Yujiâs voice shifts into the background. This definitely isnât the first time you get close to a handsome man, but the others definitely werenât that handsome. Just one look into his surprised eyes, the delicate marks on his face. And that force of a body. There is no doubt in the fact that this man trains a lot.
âI am distracting him, what else?â, you purr.
âI am not distracted.â
âAre you sure about that?â
Before heâs able to think about your words any further, you wrap your longing arms around his neck and hold him firmly against yourself.
âBecause your eyes tell me something else.â
Now itâs Choso who fails to breathe. He never understood the simplicity of tender touch, the urge that drives humans almost crazy. What is so special about another hand placed against your skin, about lying in each otherâs arms? He might have never understood if it wasnât for you. You with your arm wrapped around his neck. You, with your free hand wandering down his chest, the wet fabric exposing his tight muscles without mercy.
In the split of a second, he begins to realize what touching each other seems to be about.
âRespect. Out of all the trained men I see on a daily basis, you have to be the most handsome one out of all. You work out a lot, donât you?â
Your fingertips discover the valleys of his abs even further, force Choso to feel an uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Fuck, he doesnât even know your name, has never seen you before. How is it even possible for you to have this power over him?
âNone of your business, idiotâ, he breathes out.
âWhatâs your name?â
Your voice does things to him his mind fails to understand, his sharp breath now hanging in the air between both of you. You are threatening, your glowy eyes showing more than urgently that you arenât playing. But that slight smile on your face, the confidence dripping from every pore of your bodyâŚWho are you?
âChoso Kamo.â
âIâm (y/n)â, you reply while allowing your eyes to take one last glance at his tight abs.
Oh, youâll definitely regret what youâre about to do. What if you wonât get to see him afterwards, the most handsome man you ever laid eyes on? Thereâs no other way, though.
âAnd I hope Iâll get the chance to be this close to you again.â
One innocent kiss pressed against his soft lips. One innocent kiss that sends him straight onto the ground, emerged into nothing but darkness. A pretty useful cursed technique, probably the reason why you get called femme fatale at Jujutsu High.
âWhat a shame, I really liked that guyâ, you comment with Yuji coming to a stand right by your side.
âYou didnât have to touch his abs like thatâŚâ
âOh I definitely didâ, you reply instantly.
Your hands brush over his upper body one last time before you turn around and walk away.
Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru
What a lovely day. Well, lovely apart from the stinging fact that you are forced to babysit the vessel of Tengen-sama when a bunch of bounty hunters chases after you. Your shaded eyes roam around the area without any break, too scared of the consequences that carelessness could have. In contrast to Gojo, you take this task very seriously. You, who is nothing but an average jujutsu sorcerer at jujutsu high, surpassed by her classmates a long time ago. Who, who only got the chance to go on this mission by coincidence.
Well, and then thereâs him.
â(y/n), why are you not wearing a bikini? Weâre at the beach, arenât we?â
Gojo Satoru, the honoured one. Of course, they would choose him to escort the plasma vessel. Itâs only logical for him to be here.
âWeâre on a mission, Satoruâ, you remind him urgently without even looking his way.
âHey, are you alright? Thereâs no need to be so tense, (y/n). We have everything under control.â
And then thereâs also him, Geto Suguru. The boy with the most charismatic smile youâve even seen, so gentle and kind that itâs almost unbelievable heâs even talking to Satoru.
âI wonât be tense when sheâs finally with Tengen-sama. This mission is very important to meâ, you mumble with your eyes fixated on Riko and Misato walking in front of you, completely unbothered by the fact that both of them almost died more than once.
âHey, stop looking so serious, (y/n)! Iâm here to save you if it getâs heatedâ, Gojo purrs from behind, literally forcing you to roll your eyes behind your sunglasses.
âWhy do you always have to tease her like this? (y/n) can help herself and you know thatâ, Geto remarks instantly, letting himself fall behind to mumble something you canât understand into his best friendâs ear.
You worked your ass of for this opportunity, always stayed longer than anyone else on the training field, always learned until far past midnight while everyone else was sound asleep. There was never anything except getting a better jujutsu sorcerer in your life. God, you didnât even have a single boyfriend in all those years.
Enough. You straighten your shoulders and force your eyes onto Rika again. For now, you have a job to do. Thereâs no time to think about something so wasteful as boys.
Your gaze roams around the beach before you allow the plasma vessel to get into the water with a wink. No one but a little family without cursed energy is located around you, so everything should be fine. Also, Gojo would have detected an enemy with his six eyes. GojoâŚwhere on earth is he, though?
When you turn around in order to follow his and Getoâs muted voice, your breath gets stuck in your throat. You really donât know what you expected when going to the beach with both Suguru and Satoru, but that? Both of them wear nothing but shorts and a shirt â an opened shirt. Your gaze hits their bare chests one after another, races back and forth while your mouth opens on its own. To be honest, youâve never seen a real guy shirtless. Maybe here and there at the swimming pool when you were training or at the beach. But they werenât like them. They werenât this toned.
âEnjoying the view, (y/n)? Looks like a cat got ya tongue, huh?â, Satoru jeers at you.
âNot every girl looks at you, Satoruâ, Suguru comments dryly.
âHey, are you alright, (y/n)?â
You missed out.
Fuck, you definitely missed out.
How is this he first time you saw both of them shirtless? Geto with a firm body that doesnât match his soft personality at all. Gojo, who isnât only blessed with his immense powers but with a god-like body as well.
âIâŚUhâŚâ
You canât find words. How are you supposed to say anything logical when your heart almost beats out of your chest? They were never more than comrades to you, never more than strong jujutsu sorcerers you look up to. But damn, at this very moment, you truly see them as man.
Suguru puts his hand on his hip which makes his muscles dance delicately, head tilted to the side in sheer confusion while he walks towards you. Lord have mercy, you really are doomed. How are you supposed to concentrate on this mission when now youâre aware of how they look underneath those strict uniforms?
âAre you feeling unwell? Itâs totally fine if you go back to the ho-â
âNoâ, you interrupt Suguru immediately when he puts his hand on your shoulder.
His bare hand.
While he stands in front of you with his bare chest.
You never longed for men. No, your only interest has always been your training, to become greater, better, faster, stronger. But at this very moment, when both of their toned bodies stare right back at you, you suddenly feel a weakness youâve never felt before, a hunger that was unknown until now.
âCanât you see that (y/n) is busy staring at us right now, Suguru? Bet thatâs your first time ever seeing something apart from trainingâ, Satoru teases you.
Faster than your mind is able to follow, he stands in front of you, grabs your wrists and presses your palm against his naked chest. His heartbeat pulsates against your fingertips, forces a warmth between your legs youâve never felt before. Those tiny hair that tickle against your oversensitive skin, the heat that radiates from his body, that makes you almost faint.
You stumble back a few steps only to get caught by Suguru, who presses you against his body firmly.
âHey, are you not feeling well?â
âIâŚIâŚâ, you stutter.
Oh god, you feel like dying and flying at the same time, lying like an idiot in Suguruâs arms while Satoru still grins at you.
âWant me to take off my pants as well, (y/n)?â
âSATORU!â
Ino Takuma
âWhy do I have to train with this jerk again?â
Your eyes roll backwards while you let yourself fall onto a nearby bench theatrically. God, how much you hate that guy, the way he always acts so competent around Nanami makes your guts turn in pure disgust. Doesnât he understand that you are better than him, that you are Nanamiâs favorite student? Ino Takuma doesnât stand a chance against you.
But why does Nanami insist on both of you training together, then?
âBecause both of you need to work on your abilities and you complement each other perfectly.â
âThatâs not true!â, you answer along with each other instantly.
No, you despise Ino with all your heart. Thereâs nothing you could learn from him. Him with that stupid grin, him with that dumb confident walk, him in that oversized black sweater.
âI will be back after my mission. It is your choice how you spend your time until then. Stay safe.â
Fuck, Nanami knows exactly what he did with those words. Of course, thereâs no way around spending your time with that jerk now.
âCan you stop breathing so fucking loud?â, you jeer at him.
âMe? Nothing but hot air comes out of your mouth. Save your breath, idiotâ, Ino bites back instantly.
âYou know what? Letâs start right now. I canât wait to beat your puny ass.â
You dash to the other side of the large room after bumping into his shoulder provocatively. There is no doubt in the fact that you will make Ino regret coming into your life like this. You are the one and only one who deserves a recommendation from Nanami and not him. Just one look into his oh so confident face makes your veins pulsate.
âWhatâs wrong? Are you scared, (y/n)?â
You let out your shaky breath, hands balling into tight fists. That fucker will regret every stupid comment he ever made when youâre done with him.
âIf you were as good at staying dumb stuff as you were at fighting, youâd probably be a special grade by now.â
He dashes towards you with his mask covering his face. Just in time, you are able to dodge his merciless attack while holding onto your sword so tightly that your knuckles stand out white. Over and over, he tries to hit you, tries to distract you while you swing your swords without regard as well.
âI wonât lose this fight, (y/n)â, he presses out while pushing you backwards.
âI wonât either.â
Over and over, again and again, your body collapse against each other, his flying fist missing your face only by inches. You have to fight back harder, sweat sticks to your forehead while you squint your eyes in order to follow his rapid movements. How much you hate to even think about the stinging fact that Ino is a decent fighter, that both of you actually meet eye to eye.
You ball your fists even tighter, let your powers roam free in your pulsating veins. Still, you wonât allow him to win this. You will stump him into the ground, make Nanami proud, show him that you deserve his recommendation. This is your only way to become a grade 1 sorcerer, to surpass Ino.
With one well-placed dash of your bare hand, his sweater gets torn into pieces while you position yourself in front of him, so ready to give him that last hit he deserves, so ready to win this fight.
This fightâŚYour eyes follow the movement of your hand, watch how the black fabric hangs on for dear life, how it reveals something youâve never seen before.
Your eyes widen in sheer surprise, blinking against the sudden sensation that hits you. Are those really Inoâs abs? So well-toned that you simply canât look away, covered in a layer of glittering sweat and flexed to the brim.
âOh my godâ, you mutter to yourself.
This is definitely not the sight you expected. Of course you know how much he trains, that he has to be somehow fit. But that?
âWhy youâre looking at me like that?â
âYou look like fucking adonisâ, you spit at him.
âWhy do you have to look so damn good?â
âHuh?â
âThis is not fairâ, you continue, grabbing his arm and yanking him towards you.
âYou donât deserve to look like that.â
âAre you out of your mind, you idiot?â, he hisses through gritted teeth.
Like in slow motion, a sudden redness creeps up his face and discolors his cheeks red.
âJust shut the fuck upâ, he continues.
Your eyes travel downwards his body again. What a great figure, what a body of steel. Why does it have to be Ino Takumo who looks this damn good? Why on earth does it have to be him? Your cheeks heat up like fire, a nauseous feeling threatening to eat you up alive. Is it even more disgust, more hatred than you already hold for him? No, this feels somehow different.
Is thisâŚdesire?
âI need to get out of hereâ, you announce before turning on your heel and aiming to walk away.
âNo, thereâs no way in hell Iâll let you leave like that you creep. Did you just check me out? I thought youâre disgusted of me.â
He grabs your arm and pulls you backwards before youâre able to stop him, his eyes gleaming at you.
There you stand, both of you with red faces, just looking at each other like plain idiots while you force yourself to keep your eyes focused on his face.
âYou donât deserve to be this hotâ, you reply in a haste.
Why do his lips suddenly look this inviting? You actually never saw him up-close, always kept your save distance to your greatest enemy. Ino is a jerk, nothing but a trash talker, a pain in your ass since you first saw him. But on the other hand, heâs well-toned and strangely handsome with the way a coat of sweat decorates his forehead, his troubled eyes and those lips. Those lips you never payed attention to, those lips who did nothing but talking shit until this day. You canât help but wonder how they feel pressed against yours, how his abs feel pressed against the palms of your hand. Out of instinct, your head moves forward, closes the gap between both of you step by step. How did you never notice his delicate smell and how hot he looks with that mask?
âInoâ, you breathe his name out like a prayer.
â(y/n)âŚâ
âWhatâs going on here?â
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You stumble backwards immediately, heart dropping to the floor. There he stands like a knight in shining armour. None other than Nanami Kento.
âI didnât know you were still busy, Iâll come ba-â
âThis is a misunderstandingâ, you desperately try to explain yourself.
And there it is. Even worse than seeing him standing in front of you with his arms crossed after catching you only inches away from your worst enemy.
A smile. A tiny fucking smile forming on Nanamiâs lips.
âIs it, (y/n)?â
âI hate youâ, Ino mumbles next to you.
âI hate you too.â
Toji Fushiguro
To say that youâre bored is an understatement. You feel like fucking dying with that little brat walking by your side. These last days were like a trip to hell and back.
âLet me say Iâll never babysit some stupid kid againâ, you announce into the silence around you, earning a cheeky grin from Gojo.
âTotally agree with that.â
âOh yeah?â, Riko replies challenging.
Just seconds before a blade pierces trough Gojo next to you with full force.
Just before his blood splatters across your face.
âSatoruâ, you hear Geto breathe out far away.
âGet Riko away from here right nowâ, you instruct him out of instinct.
When you turn around, you get greeted by the hottest green eyes youâve ever seen. The man who forces his blade straight into Gojoâs chest looks stunning with that maniac smile plastered on his gorgeous face.
âNow thatâs a pleasant surprise. Apart from piercing through my friend, of courseâ, you comment dryly.
Itâs clear that heâs older than you. Just one glance into his masculine face tells you that heâs no one to be messed with. Well, separately from the sword he pierced through the honoured one.
âSorry, I didnât mean to interrupt ya, princess. But you and your little friends have something I need to killâ, his low seductive voice hollers back at you.
â(y/n), you shouldnât stay here, y-â
âI got this Suguru. Get Riko to Tengen-sama as soon as possibleâ, you interrupt him immediately.
Your heart almost beats out of your chest by only a glimpse at the stranger standing in front of you. Finally, something exciting. Or rather, someone exciting.
âCâmon, we both know I canât let that happen, princess.â
âGet out of here as well and use your reversed technique, Gojoâ, you instruct the white-haired man again.
âIâm the honoured one, remember?â
âWell, Iâm a womanâ, you hiss through gritted teeth while walking past him.
âSeems like we have to fight, then.â
His smirk is intoxicating while he dashes towards you with neck-breaking speed. Over and over, you escape his blade just by inches while enjoying the wave of dopamine that rushes over you.
âYouâre hotâ, you jeer at him while dodging another attack.
âYa know, we donât have to fight here. Lemme finish this real quick and then weâll have a talk under four eyesâ, he replies with his enormous biceps rushing over your head.
âA talk, Iâd rather see you naked.â
âOh yeah? Donât force yourself.â
A grin creeps up your face while you attack him with both of your swords, swinging through the air so effortlessly that he canât help but stare at you. How are you so different from all the women heâs met before? So fearless, so forbidden hot. Maybe not his age, but given the gleam in your eyes mature.
What heâd do to run his fingers through your hair once, to watch your expression twitch underneath his merciless touch. Youâd sure feel good pressed against his body with your bare back pressed against the mattress.
âOh no, seems like I broke your shirt. What a shameâ, you purr with your eyes locked onto his now exposed upper body.
Just as you expected, exactly how you imagined a man like him to look like. A body built from heaven itself, his abs so firm that youâre sure theyâd feel like cement underneath your touch. What a force of a man.
What a shame he came here to sabotage your mission.
âWould have happened sooner or later anywayâ, he replies while pinning you against a nearby tree, desire obviously clouding his dark eyes.
You canât deny the fact that you are oh so tempted to enjoy this little sensation, a timeout from that shitty mission. Carefully, you allow your hands to discover the valleys his upper body has to offer, to feel his muscles tense underneath your merciless touch. Thereâs no shame in admitting that this was your favorite first glance of a male for a long time.
âYouâre probably my favorite.â
The smirk on his face grows even wider while he traps you between his strong arms. What a shame, you think to yourself. You definitely have to tell Gojo to work out even harder after seeing a guy like him.
âBut I canât afford to play favorites when it comes to men. Youâre in my way and if you sabotage my mission, Iâm screwed, big guy. Letâs just stay here and let that girl live-â
Suddenly all air escapes your lungs, you fail to breathe when he pushes your body onto the ground with full force.
âThought you were in control, huh? Too bad for ya, I donât get distracted by a girl touching my abs. Even though I have to admit youâre a nice one. Now you stay here and let me finish your little friend before killing that vessel, okay?â
Your eyes widen in sheer horror as he simply walks away. Him, with his shirt hanging in shreds down his body, exposing his shamelessly toned back to your watery eyes.
He tricked you with the force of his muscles. And you actually fell for it.
Ijichi Kiyotaka
Your heart is racing in your chest, fingertips trembling by the nauseous wave of stress that washes over you. Again, something you didnât calculate correctly. Again, some students got stuck underneath a curtain.
Your feet rush you to his room immediately. Heâs probably the only one whoâs able to fix the mess youâve caused. After all, this is what he always does. Making sure no one gets hurt, having your back when things get messy.
For you, Ijichi is a blessing walking on earth. And he might be your only saviour right now.
With rapid steps, you dash into the building you know so well, the building he calls his come. Even if blindfolded, youâd always find your way to the man who seems so powerless in a world full of people who are ridiculously strong. Forced into the shadow, always looking out for everyone except himself.
âIjichi, I need your help, I-â
You dashed into his flat like you always do, expected him sitting on the table while reading a book like he always does when you come around. But today, that doesnât seem to be the chase. All of the sudden your mouth starts to feel dry, eyes fixated on nothing but his naked upper body.
His naked upper body. Â
â(y/n)! IâŚI didnât expect you here today!â, he frantically mumbles while fighting for dear life with his white shirt.
âI never expected you to be so trainedâ, you breathe out, glance getting stuck on his surprisingly toned chest and six-pack.
âDonât make fun of me, (y/n). Iâm just an average guyâ, he tries to laugh your words off.
âYou look fantastic. Literally, youâre definitely able to keep up with Gojo. Are you training in secret?â, you insist.
âDonât say something like that too loud, (y/n). If he hears you-â
âItâs nothing but the truth. You look absolutelyâŚstunning.â
âStunningâ isnât enough of a description for those butterflies violently racing through your stomach. It takes all your strength to stop your eyes from moving downwards again, to burn the picture of his toned abs inside your brain. How are you supposed to ever look into his face when knowing very well what an attractive man he is?
âDo youâŚmean it?â
His eyes meet yours, search for a spark of sarcasm in your glance. But there is no doubt in the fact that you mean it. Every single word you said about his lousy body, the praises.
A woman like youâŚFinding him attractive?
âOf course I doâ, you mumble.
Oh.
Tags:
@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld
@hellkaiserinphoenix @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen
@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmutÂ
@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0
@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwifeÂ
@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brainÂ
@risuola @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny
@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr
@kayleegomez @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world
@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44
@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299
@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa
Links to the pinterest pics used for the banner:
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#gojo x reader#jjk gojo#gojo satoru#sukuna#ryomen sukuna#sukuna x reader#sukuna x you#true form sukuna#nanami kento#nanami x reader#jjk nanami#choso kamo#choso x reader#choso x you#choso jjk#geto x reader#geto suguru#geto x you#toji fushiguro#toji fushiguro x reader#toji x reader#toji x you#toji zenin#ino jjk#ino takuma#ino x reader
3K notes
¡
View notes