#she thought this was a great time to tell me how the war in the middle east was actually not about oil but thaf muslims are violent

[faretheeoscar]

Poe Dameron and Mae Tal

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Mind you if I infofump a little on my OC's backstory and maybe tell you about her dynamics with Poe?

My Star Wars OC character, Mae, is part of Clan Tal, a clan that was thought to be extinguished after the events of "The night of a Thousand Tears "

[ The Night of a Thousand Tears was the night on which the Galactic Empire massacred the Mandalorian people on the planet Mandalore during the Great Purge of Mandalore ]

Mae’s grandfather, Ebbel, survived the massacre on Mandalore. He was off-planet on Concordia at the time, attempting to infiltrate the ranks of the Death Watch. After the tragedy on Mandalore, he chose to remain on Concordia, helping raise the Children of the Watch. Believing they were the last Mandalorian survivors, Ebbel dedicated himself to the safety of the group.

Later in life, Ebbel had several children, including Mae’s father, Drex Tal. Raised within the strict orthodoxy of the Children of the Watch, Drex eventually left the group when he met Lyra, a Rebel pilot with whom he fell in love. The two settled on Lyra’s home planet, Ferrix, serving as backup for the Alliance, but living mostly a normal life. they had four children together, including their only daughter, Mae.

Mae grew up on Ferrix, far from the main traditions of the Children of the Watch. However, her father Drex still trained her in their Mandalorian ways, while Lyra passed down her knowledge of piloting. When Lyra fell ill and passed away, Drex withdrew from active duty in the Alliance, as it had never been his primary fight.

As a result, Mae had little involvement with the Resistance when it rose against the First Order—until much later. Trying to earn money for a new ship, she initially served as a double agent for the First Order but was eventually recruited by a faction of the Resistance on the Outer Rim. Mae’s unique skills as a Mandalorian pilot quickly attracted attention, and she was soon stationed at the Yavin IV base, reporting directly to Leia during the events of The Force Awakens. There, she met Poe.

Mae and Poe clash constantly, their personalities polar opposites in nearly every way. Poe is exasperated by her contradictory actions and unconventional methods, while Mae despises his hotheaded impulsiveness. They bicker and argue frequently; Mae often disobeys his direct orders, yet somehow manages to get the job done efficiently each time. This only irritates Poe further, and he finds ways to tease her in return, like joking that he can always tell when she’s approaching the hangar because her armor sounds like a “parade of clanking cans.”

There's a lot of story between Poe and Mae, that happens along the fight of the Resistance against the First Order and afterwards.

Its's sort of a Co-pilots to Friends to Situationship to Semi Enemies to Lovers thing (it's very freaking complicated,ngl.)

Anyways… I’ve never actually written down a summary of Mae’s backstory or a quick outline of how she interacts with Poe, so this was really fun.

I was just planning to post it without much context, but once I started writing, I couldn’t stop hehe

I did this sketch a few months ago, but I wanted to share it, while I keep working on other Poevember things and requests!

Thanks for reading my ramblings if you got until here!

HAPPY POEVEMBER!

Reblogs and comments are kindly appreciated!

@silvernight-m @ierofrnkk @howellatme @winniethewife

[itistimetodisappear]

Uh oh workmate is racist

[orcelito]

Oh Boy if the naruto brain grips me as hard as it did in 2018, I really just might end up doing a trigunxnaruto crossover. Specifically with trigun characters in naruto world

Listen. I am just utterly fascinated by Naruto's world building. And if I can find a way to fit Vash (and Nai) into the Naruto world's lore in a way that is both convincing and fitting. Then fuck YEAH I wanna do it

[melzula]

well since requests are open i wanted to request a zuko fic?

zuko x waterbender reader in which someone from team avatar walks in on them kissing?

i feel like it’d be funny idk lol 😂

a/n: i love this trope it’s so funny. also it’s like subtly mentioned reader is a water bender since i didn’t wanna just shove it in there awkwardly. anyway hope you enjoy!

summary: a private moment between you and your boyfriend is interrupted by your unsuspecting friends

“Are you sure no one saw you come in here?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Zuko says with a huff after closing the flaps of your tent. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“You know that’s not true,” you argue with a frown. “I just enjoy having some privacy. I know those guys are going to make a big deal about us being together, and I just want to enjoy our relationship without having to deal with any prying eyes.”

“I know,” he admits with a sigh. “I’m just tired of sneaking around. Do you know how difficult it is not to kiss you or check on you after a fight with my sister? It’s torture.”

“It’s just until the war is over. There’s a lot at stake right now, and it would be a weird time to come clean. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I hope you’re right,” Zuko murmurs with a frown, one that immediately melts away at the feel of your arms wrapping around his midsection. It’s hard to be upset when you’re smiling up at him with the purest look of adoration in your eyes. Despite everything, all of his flaws and mistakes and cruelty, you love him, and it fuels the warmth inside of his heart knowing he has someone like you. Maybe he would have joined the Avatar and his friends sooner if he knew it would lead him to you.

“At least we’re finally alone,” he notes with a faint smile before leaning down to press his lips against your own in a long awaited kiss. He hasn’t been able to give or receive affection all day, and it isn’t until now with your chest pressed against his own that he’s finally able to truly feel relaxed.

Unfortunately, you’re both too engrossed in each other to notice the rustling of your tent flaps as Sokka and Toph let themselves in without a second thought.

“Hey, y/n, Toph and I are gonna head into town, do you want to- oh, gross!” He cries after catching Zuko and yourself mid lip lock.

You both jump at the intrusion, knocking your head together on accident and groaning in unison at the impact.

“Sokka!” You cry out in embarrassment. “Monkey feathers, don’t you knock?!”

“It’s a tent! There is no knocking!” He yells back defensively, equally as upset as you are. “I can’t believe you guys were kissing!”

“We weren’t kissing,” Zuko argues, his face red with embarrassment. “We were… hugging… with our… mouths?”

“Oh, spirits,” you groan, your palm hitting your forehead in embarrassment at Zuko’s horrible attempt at lying. For a Prince, he has a terrible way with words. You’d think all that time spent with his Uncle would make his vocabulary more eloquent.

“If Toph could see she’d be very upset right now!” Sokka scolds, but the girl beside him simply shrugs.

“Actually, this works out great for me. Katara owes me five gold pieces now,” she says with a grin.

“You guys knew they were dating and didn’t tell me?!” The water tribe boy says in offense.

“I had a hunch, but Katara disagreed, so we made a bet.”

“Enough already! This is mortifying enough as it is,” you groan impatiently. “Sokka, we’ll talk about this later. For now, I need both of you out!”

After getting the two to leave the tent, you shut it closed with an irritated sigh. You’re absolutely humiliated, and you don’t think you can show your face to your friends ever again.

“So much for keeping it a secret,” the fire bender mutters.

“You,” you say with an accusatory finger pointed at the Prince, “need to learn how to lie better.”

“I know,” he admits meekly, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. Sighing, you open your water pouch and tend to the growing bump on his head from your previous collision. You can’t stay mad at him when he looks so flustered and sweet, so instead you merely throw your arms around his neck and pull him back in for another kiss.

You can focus on coming clean later. For now, you just want to enjoy your moment of peace with the boy you love.

| zuko tags: @thebluelcdy @royahllty @the-firebender-girl @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @knaite-solo @taeeemin @lora21

[sunnami]

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine. 

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

 —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

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

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

You want to go to sleep already. 

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

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

You miss your cat. 

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

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

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

“Daphne!” 

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

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

But there is nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms. 

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

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

You are tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

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

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

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

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

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

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window. 

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

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

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent. 

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

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

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

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

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

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

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

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

Your mother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

[reidrum]

hit me baby one more time | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

a/n: i have no explanation for this i just really want spencer to fuck me in a mini skirt. this was also fueled by me listening to baby one more time on repeat for the last week so enjoy my horny thoughts hehe

cw: 18+ minors dni, smut, p in v sex, munch!spencer, blowjobs, soft!dom!spence the loml, praise kink, spanking, suggestive dancing, kissing, afab reader, reader wears the outfit from the baby one more time mv (skirt and bra), i picture s11 spence so don’t mind the inconsistencies, idk if kirk actually wears a tie i am a star wars girlie not star trek, lowkey perv spence at the end but i would do the same tbh

summary: halloween brings spencer joy in many ways, this year he finds a new, and super fucking hot, reason to love the holiday more

wc: 3.3k

___________

spencer loved halloween. this was a known fact by many, he loved the lore behind the holiday, loved dressing up as his favorite characters, and loved playing tricks on morgan and jj around the office.

spencer also loved halloween because he gets to see you. not that he didn’t see you on a daily basis in the office or on the field catching killers, but in a state where you were carefree and didn’t have to worry about the behavior patterns of a psychopath.

in past years spencer has dressed up as different versions of the doctor (still claiming his tenth doctor costume was the best, because it was your favorite), the hobbit from lord of the rings, and nosferatu (to the dismay of morgan’s very scared reaction). you would go a more pop culture route, dressing up as characters from recent movies and shows including barbie, the scarlet witch, and wednesday adams.

he loved being able to tell you the lore of the different characters he was and he loved listening to you explaining the cultural significance and impact that barbie had on society. he could listen to you talk about literal garbage, actually, and still be hanging onto your every word.

what he loved the most, however, was your choice of costume tonight at the karaoke bar the team was out at.

for halloween this year you decided to go with a more nostalgic costume. clad in a black mini skirt, tied up white button up showing your tummy and just the right amount of cleavage to have your hot pink bra pop out, gray cardigan, knee high socks and mary janes, you were the spitting image of britney spears in the baby one more time music video. complete with the ribbon entwined pigtails.

the moment you walked in the bar, spencer knew he was utterly and absolutely fucked.

morgan knew about spencer’s infatuation with you, because, he’s morgan and spencer’s not subtle. so when he watched spencer’s mouth hang open like a beckoning for flies to land in, all he could do was pat him firmly on the back and say, “good luck, kid.”

he watched you walk over to the table the team had claimed, making your rounds at saying hi and hugging everyone. he was last, and when you reached up on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck he had no choice (lie) but to rest his hands at your hips while his thumbs brushed the bare skin of your stomach. he also had no choice (still, a lie) but to be deathly intoxicated by the smell of your shampoo and perfume as you placed your head in the crook of his neck.

“hi spence! your costume looks so cool, i love how it turned out. were you able to find what you needed at that store i told you about?” you bubbled happily.

it took spencer about ten whole seconds of staring at you (and definitely not at your chest) to realize that you were asking him something and tried to quickly (embarrassingly) recover, “um, yeah no i was! she knew so much about star trek and was super helpful, she told me how much she loves seeing you in the store.” 

you giggle, “i’m glad admiral kirk, she’s a sweet old thing.”

he should be ashamed at how you calling him that went straight to his crotch.

“y- you also look great, who are you supposed to be?”

“i’m britney spears! in the baby one more time music video?”, you’re met with a blank stare, “spence, we have to educate you better on the true icons of our time.” you playfully grab his forearm.

he laughs nervously at your joke and the contact and proceeds to down half his beer in one gulp. thank god garcia comes out of nowhere to gush over your outfit, “oh my god girl, you look so hot. you have to get up there and sing it, it’s only right!”

“let me get a few shots in first and then i’ll see, penny” you chuckle back.

after about two shots you were already feeling loose, whatever anxiety you had about tonight dissipated as the alcohol overtook your bloodstream. truth be told, you had a super secret mission up your sleeve. 

you would be a terrible profiler if you didn’t notice the way spencer changed whenever he was in your company, and it never made you feel uncomfortable. you only craved his attention even more, and it made your crush on him run even deeper. he was kind and smart and caring. and undeniably sexy. you knew for a fact he wanted you too, and you were determined to make him do something about it tonight.

knowing spencer hasn’t seen the music video therefore not knowing why the schoolgirl outfit, it turned you on even more knowing he was going to lose his goddamn mind after you were done. the plan was already rolling in your brain as you sauntered up to the karaoke stage and got ready to put on a show.

the beginning beats of the song play and you get a couple of cheers and “let’s go, baby!” from the crowd and your team— sans spencer, who was hanging on your every move as you started swaying your hips.

“my loneliness, is killing me. and i-i-i. i must confess, i still believe, still believe.” you sing and dance the choreography to the song you know so well.

“when i’m not with you, i lose my mind.” you make direct eye contact with spencer, and are more than excited to see him locked in on you too.

you decide to kick your plan up a notch, and walk off the stage mic in hand towards the bau’s table, earning many cheers and phones capturing the moment. you play up the theatrics a little by getting emily and jj to sing along with you, morgan and rossi leaning into you as you wrapped your arms around their shoulders.

“give me a si-i-i-ign,” you’ve reached spencer, and the last step in your plan.

your finger leaves featherlight touches around his shoulders and across his collarbone as you stand behind his chair. a flat hand trails down his chest closer to the bulge in his pants, spencer’s eyes widening at the gesture. your hand reaches the final destination at the base of tie, and you pull it so he’s looking up at you directly.

“hit me baby one more time.” you finish with the biggest smirk, never breaking eye contact with spencer. the cheers and claps became louder but all you could focus on were the deep breaths he was taking to compose himself. you give him a wink as you hand the mic back to the stage guy and walk back to him to sit on his lap.

“you don’t mind, do you? all the seats are taken,” you smirk as you feel his hard on through your lace panties, “plus i really want to hear what you thought about my performance.” you finish whispering in his ear. he shudders in your hold, but the feeling of your ass weighing on the place he needs you the most, his primal instincts take over and suddenly he has a boost of confidence.

he lifts your head so his mouth is right on the crest of your ear, “how about i show you what your performance did to me?” he shifts a little and lightly thrusts up into your clothed core and you let out a small gasp. luckily the team had all but dispersed throughout the bar, getting drinks or dancing, so no one has to be privy to your conversation.

the glint in your eyes was all the confirmation he needed. you stood up slowly with his tie still wrapped around your fingers, and you pull it over your shoulder so he would trail behind you as you walked. spencer followed you like a dog getting tugged by a leash, literally, and stumbles at first when you pull him but he quickly regains his composure as you navigate through the crowds, placing his hands on your waist protectively.

you end up in front of the women’s bathroom and spencer doesn’t hesitate to push the doors open and lead you inside. it was one of those single person bathroom with no other stalls, but it was definitely one of the more nicer bathrooms you’d been in. the maroon pattern of the wall adding to the sultry vibe you’re setting, not to mention a spacious countertop for the sink and amenities.

the possibilities of what was going to happen run wild in your brain, only being pulled out of it by the sharp lock of the door and the feeling of strong hands snaking around your waist again.

you look up to meet his eyes in the mirror and watch spencer fiddle with the edge of your button up, “i don’t think i told you how much i really like your costume.”

“yeah?” you lean back in his touch, “what do you like about it?”

he moves his hands to the middle of your chest, “well, i like how soft the blouse is,” he deftly undoes the knot, “and i really like the color you got on underneath.” he lets the ends of the shirt fall to your side and slides his hands up to cup your breasts through your lace bra, massaging them gently.

you let out a half gasp-moan, “what else?”

“this skirt is really cute, fits you well.” he hums while he smooths over the front close to your core, leaning down to press love bites into your neck.

you turn around in his embrace to face him, lay your hands flat on his chest, and look up at him with the biggest doe eyes you could muster, “want to see what’s underneath it?”

the ghost of a smirk lies on his face and he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss. his hand cups your cheek closer to him while his other one grips your ass and lower back.

his tongue slots between yours as he deepens the kiss, and he reaches down to the backs of your thighs to lift you up onto the counter. your legs open up instinctively and he steps in between them letting his hand run up the plush of your thigh to the band of your panties. he toys with the lace pattern of it before he detaches his lips and pulls the skirt all the way up.

he slowly sinks to his knees, never breaking eye contact with you as he whispers, “this is definitely my favorite costume on you.” he’s face to face with your pink panty covered pussy and he lets out a groan when he notices the wet spot in the center. he tentatively traces a finger up and down your slit, gauging your reactions.

soft whimpers fall from your mouth as you let out a whiny, “spencer…”

“don’t worry baby, i’m gonna take care of you.” he coos, “lift your hips.” you oblige as he gently pulls your panties down and stuffs them in his back pocket. his large hands push your legs apart, giving him better access as he tugs you closer to the edge and leans in to draw a long stripe up your core with his tongue.

you let out a high pitched moan at the contact, bracing yourself on the counter with your palms flat down. his tongue draws shapes on you and you feel his finger prodding around your hole before plunging in, driving you straight to delirium.

the sensations begin to overwhelm you and you feel the peak rising in your gut. you tangle your hands in his curls, “pl- please don’t stop.” you whimper.

he groans into your pussy and you feel the vibration sent throughout your entire body, enough to push you over the edge and let the white hot overtake you. he doesn’t stop pumping his fingers or his tongue as he drags out your orgasm for as long as you’ll take it, before you’re yanking him by his hair off of your core and up to your face to kiss him dumb.

the salty taste of you lingers on his lips as you grab his face with both hands and keep him close to you. he lets out a whimper when you tug his hair again, and you smirk as you break the kiss to slide off the counter and drop to your knees. you quickly undo the clasp of his belt, the sound of his zipper going down making spencer’s heartbeat go faster.

the size of his bulge through his boxers was intimidating but it only spurred your desire to please him more. you look up at him and offer an innocent smile as you lean forward to pull back the fabric of his boxers with your teeth and let it fall back into place with a snap.

the impact caused spencer to moan out loud, and he watched with bated breath while you slowly tugged his boxers down to let his cock spring free. you let out a tiny gasp, “spencer…i never knew you were so pretty.” 

his preening turns into a sharp moan as you take in the head of his length into your mouth. swirling your tongue around like a lollipop. you lay your tongue flat on the underside of his cock and slowly let it enter your throat until your nose is flush with his tummy and you’re gagging to keep him inside.

“ho-o-ly shit, fuck.” spencer groans when he looks down to see his whole length down your throat and your eyes bulging with tears at the fullness in your mouth. he wishes he had a photographic memory so he could engrave the vision of you on your knees for him in his brain forever.

you retract back and start bobbing your head on his cock, using your hand to pump whatever you couldn’t easily fit in your mouth. expletives and moans fall from him every millisecond, the feeling being so irrepressible that after a minute spencer had to pry you off him so he didn’t finish in your mouth.

“what, too much?” you grin mischievously, dragging your thumb across your bottom lip to wipe the spit.

his heavy breathing is the only answer you got as he turns your body around to face the mirror, and bends you down at the waist to lean your upper body on the counter. he flips your skirt up so your ass is on display for him and draws his hand back to give your right ass cheek a big smack.

you moan out languishly and he lets out a small chuckle, “kinky, are we?”

“you’re the one who spanked me.”

he bends down to whisper in your ear, “yeah, but you liked it. i can feel you getting wetter.” his fingers return to your core to spread the new wetness onto his cock before aligning it at your entrance. he slowly pushes in, stretching you out bewitchingly. he breaks his gaze from where you connect to look back into the mirror, and god, is he so fucking glad he did.

your face is beautifully fucked out, eyes glistening with tears about to fall over, cheeks flushed, eyebrows furrowed, your arms pressed so perfectly against the sides of your chest your breasts are threatening to spill out of your bra.

“god, you look like a dream,” spencer whispers from behind as he begins thrusting into you. you moan back in response and push back on his cock to meet his thrusts. the noise of your hips meeting and him sliding in and out of you filled the bathroom. 

“i’m so close, fuck, oh my god.” you whine pathetically. spencer can’t help but smugly grin in response, “already? it can’t be over that fast, hold it.”

you gasp out, “i can’t, please, i need to come.”

he wraps one arm around the front of stomach to hoist you up and uses the other hand to tug on your pigtails to lean your head back towards him, “you’ll come when i say you can. you’re my good girl, right? gonna show me how good you can be for me?” he whispers hotly in your ear.

a loud moan escapes your throat as you try to keep your composure and hold your orgasm at bay. his precise and timed thrusts doing nothing to help you, you feel yourself starting to float away, becoming so cockdrunk off of spencer you can barely keep yourself conscious.

“almost there, pretty girl. you’re doing so well, ‘m so proud of you.”

you make the mistake of looking back up at the mirror, becoming grossly entrapped by the image of spencer pounding into you from behind and his equally fucked out face tucked into your neck, “spence…baby, please.”

he whines at the pet name and finally gives in, “okay princess, you can come now.” your second orgasm of the night ravages through you, leaving nothing behind but thoughts of spencer. he continues fucking you through your peak, chasing his own release to come shortly after.

“fuck, i’m close. where d- do you want me to..?” he stutters.

“in my mouth.” you breath out.

he groans out loud, “on your knees.”

he pulls out of you and you immediately drop to your knees, not hesitating to take his length into your mouth and using both hands to pump the remaining. spencer puts a hand on the back of your head and guides you to thrust onto his cock until he lets out another stuttered groan, spurts of his release coating the inside of your mouth.

you make sure to get every last drop of him down your throat, seductively sliding your mouth off his cock with a resounding pop. you’re breathing heavily and you remain on your knees as you try to remember what fucking world you’re even in. spencer grabs you by the forearms to pull you back up to him, and gently perches you back on the counter noting you probably wouldn’t be able to stand on your own anyway.

spencer breathes hotly into your face, his hand coming up to caress your cheek and brush a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. his other hand remains on your waist, drawing soothing circles. you grin widely, and spencer notices and matches your smile without hesitation.

“what?” he laughs lightly.

“nothing, it’s just it looks like my plan worked.” you replied.

“and what was this plan of yours?” he grins.

“well, i just wanted you hot and bothered. i did not expect you to fuck me in a bar bathroom,” he blushes at your admission, “plus, you don’t even shake people’s hands. i definitely thought having sex in a public place, let alone the bathroom of a bar, would be so not your style.”

“i think if you keep wearing outfits like this around me,” he gestures to your disarrayed button up and bra, “you’ll be surprised at what i’d be willing to do.”

“so, is this a good time to tell you that britney has other music video outfits that are just as iconic as this one?” you gleam up at him.

his eyebrows raise in curiosity, “it certainly would be. on a totally unrelated note, i’m parked right out front.” he half jokes as he pulls you off the counter towards the door. you giggle and follow blindly behind him, when your eyes draw to the back pocket of his trousers and you notice a flash of hot pink.

“spencer! my panties, oh my god. give them back.”

he looks over his shoulder at you, “i have no idea what you’re talking about.” he feigns. you roll your eyes and let him have it, totally ignoring the way he shoves the panties further down his pocket out of sight.

[aquaticmercy]

Of Heroes and Heartstrings (Part One)

Part 2 │ Part 3

Summary : Bucky Barnes develops a crush on the researcher who interviewed him.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) (The reader works in academia and is writing about superheroes and how they perceive themselves in the 21st century)

Warnings/tags : Meet cute!!! Bucky crushing hard on you. Bucky's past. Sam being a little annoying.

Requested by :  myself again

Word count : 2.4k

Note : I think I might turn this into a three-part series! I would love to write the about gang playing monopoly together. Let me know if you want to be tagged in part 2 or 3!

Requests are open!

Bucky wasn’t sure why he agreed to this. He wasn’t even sure why he was sitting in a tiny cafe off the beaten path, waiting for a complete stranger to interview him about… superheroes? He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at the door for the fifth time in two minutes.

It wasn’t like he had anything special to offer. Sure, people knew him as the Winter Soldier, but that wasn’t exactly something to be proud of. And superhero? That wasn’t a title he claimed. That was for people like Sam and Steve. They were the ones doing good things, saving people.

He was just trying to piece himself back together.

Yet, here he was, because Happy Hogan had sent him a message with a request that seemed harmless enough. He told him about you, how you were working on writing a paper on superheroes and how they perceive themselves for your big research project. Happy had mentioned that Sam and Yelena had already spoken with you, and they’d apparently walked away smiling. 

That statement was enough to make Bucky curious.

He felt a small pang of nerves in his stomach. Maybe it wasn’t too late to just bail—

The cafe door chimed softly, and then he saw you.

Happy had shown him photos, and that sweet, determined smile of yours was unmistakable.

You stepped into the cafe with an air of calm but curious energy, eyes scanning the space before they landed on him. For a brief moment, he froze. You smiled. Not the kind of smile people gave him because they recognise him and didn’t know what to say. Your smile was genuine, bright and easy, like you were happy just to be here, ever so passionate about your research.

“Hi, Bucky, right?” you asked as you approached the table. 

He nodded, feeling the slightest bit awkward but gestured toward the chair across from him. "Yeah. You’re, uh, the research… superhero… person?" He cringed inwardly at his inability to sound more intelligent. 

You laughed, a soft, warm sound that pulled a smile from him before he even realized. "I guess that’s one way to put it. Thanks for meeting with me." You set your bag down and pulled out a small recorder, setting it between the two of you. He had been given the consent form beforehand, he had known that it was going to be recorded. You introduced yourself, telling him your name. He repeated it, liking the way it sounded on his lips. 

"I know you probably don’t get a lot of requests like this,” you continued.

He snorted. "Yeah, not really the type that gets interviewed, but I figured Sam and Yelena didn’t give you too much grief, so…"

“They were great,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “Sam was really thoughtful. He has some incredible insights about how the world perceives enhanced and enhanced-adjacent individuals. And Yelena…” You smiled, clearly holding back laughter. “She has a very direct way of answering questions.”

Bucky shook his head, a small chuckle escaping him. That sounded exactly like Yelena.

There was a pause, not the awkward kind, but the kind where you looked at him in a way that made him feel like he was being truly seen. Like he was human. Not just as the guy with the metal arm or the assassin from his past, but as… more. It was disconcerting, but not in a bad way.

You finally broke the silence. “So, I was thinking we could start with a little bit of your history in World War II and move into what it’s been like for you since. Is that okay?”

He nodded, relaxing a little. “Yeah, sure.”

You hit the record button, and the interview began.

—

At first, Bucky gave the kind of answers he was used to giving. Short, factual. He explained his past, his ties to Hydra, his journey since. But as the interview went on, something shifted. You weren’t just asking questions to check a box—you were genuinely interested in him. You didn’t ask about the Winter Soldier like so many others had before. Instead, you asked about James Buchanan Barnes, the person. The man who fought alongside his best friend in the war, who now worked hard to make amends.

You had even done your research. You knew he was a YMCA welterweight champion back in the day, and though he was a teeny bit embarrassed, he answered your questions truthfully.

“What do you think people misunderstand the most about you?” you asked after a thoughtful pause. 

That question caught him off guard. He blinked and sat back in his chair, fingers absentmindedly rubbing the edge of the table. “I think people still see me as the Winter Soldier. They don’t see me as someone trying to move on from that.”

Your expression softened, your gaze holding a quiet understanding. “But you’re more than that, aren’t you?” you coaxed, careful not to put words in his mouth.

For a moment, Bucky didn’t know what to say. The way you said it—so gently, so assuredly—it was like you had seen past everything. All the damage, the guilt, the regrets… and still believed in who he was.

He glanced down, unsure how to respond. “I’d like to think so,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. 

“I think a lot of people do.” you said softly, your voice kind and warm. 

His chest tightened. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel like he wasn’t defined by his past. You made him feel like he could be more.

Maybe that’s why, when the interview wrapped up and you turned off the recorder, he didn’t want the conversation to end.

“Thank you for doing this,” you said, gathering your things but not quite standing yet. “You’ve been an open book, and I know it can’t be easy.”

“It’s not,” Bucky admitted, surprising even himself with his honesty. “But… you’re easy to talk to.” He winced at how desperately that must’ve sounded. Then, he saw the way your eyes lit up at the compliment, and for once, he didn’t regret his words.

You tilted your head slightly, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Well, I try to make my interviewees comfortable so they spill all their secrets.”

Bucky smirked, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “It worked.”

You laughed, standing up and sliding the recorder back into your bag. “I’ll try not to use my powers for evil.”

As you started to leave, something tugged at his heartstrings. He didn’t want you to walk out of his life like that. Not yet.

“Hey, uh,” he called out, rubbing the back of his neck, “if you ever need any more… info, or… whatever, for your research, feel free to, you know… stay in touch.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “I’d really like that.” You pulled out your phone and handed it to him. “Here, put your number in.”

He did as you asked, feeling strangely nervous as he handed the phone back to you. You smiled again, that warm, bright smile that calmed him down.

“I’ll be in touch,” you promised as you waved and walked out of the cafe.

For a long moment, Bucky sat there, staring at the door long after you’d left. He felt lighter, somehow. Like the weight of his sins didn’t seem quite so heavy anymore.

—

Over the next few weeks, Bucky found himself texting you far more than he expected. It started off simple—follow-up questions about his experience with the Avengers, a few casual remarks about Yelena’s boldness, Sam’s “Captain America speeches.”

He had been able to introduce you to Isaiah Bradley. He hesitated about that for a moment, but after the interview, Isaiah had called him, thanking the former assassin for introducing him to someone who truly cared. Someone who truly wanted to make a difference in the world.

You continued texting, but slowly, the texts turned more personal.

One evening, he was hanging out with Sam in his apartment, soda in hand, when he heard a familiar vibration of his phone. It was you.

You : What do you like to do in your free time, Bucky? Something other than saving the world, I mean.  

Bucky : Well, I enjoy board games. I play monopoly with Sam and the others every other week on Saturdays.  

You : Maybe I should join you guys sometime. I’ll warn you now—I’m competitive.

He had stared at that text longer than he’d admit, his heart doing strange somersaults in his chest.

Bucky : I don’t mind a challenge.

Bucky sat on the couch, phone in hand, staring at your latest text. He had been reading it over and over for the last five minutes, trying to muster the courage to respond. His stomach twisted with nerves. 

Just then, Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to reality. 

“Why are you looking at your phone like you’re about to defuse a bomb?”

Bucky glanced up to see Sam back from the bathroom, standing in the doorway, a smirk already creeping across his face. He’d been too distracted to notice his return.

“Nothing,” Bucky muttered, quickly locking his phone and stuffing it into his pocket, as if he was naive enough to think that would stop Sam from prying. 

“Let me guess,” Sam said, walking over with way too much interest. “She texted you.”

Bucky sighed, slumping in his seat. He knew there was no escape from Sam’s teasing. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam dropped onto the couch beside him, casually crossing his arms. “I’m not stupid. I can see you blushing every time she messages you.”

“I’m not blushing,” Bucky grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. Sam had been relentless—giving him a hard time ever since he’d found out about the texts that followed your interview. You had kept in contact with Sam when you interviewed him, too— you shared the odd how are you and clarifications for research, but not to the extent that Bucky had. 

The second Bucky mentioned to him that you had been texting daily, he regretted it. He knew he never should have let him see even a hint of it.

Sam wasn’t letting it go. “What did she say this time? Oh, wait, let me guess—‘I had such a great time interviewing you, Bucky. Let’s hang out more, Bucky. You’re just so mysterious and handsome, Bucky,’” he teased, his voice high-pitched as he mimicked a lovesick version of you.

Bucky shot him a glare, rolling his eyes.

Sam just grinned. “Come on, man. Just tell me.”

Bucky hesitated, but then sighed in defeat, pulling his phone back out. “She might want to join our Monopoly night. She said she’s competitive.”

That got Sam’s attention. He raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Oh, so now she’s getting in on game night? Damn, Barnes, you're pulling all the stops.”

“It’s not like that,” Bucky repeated, but even he knew how weak, and untrue, it sounded this time. 

Sam gave him a pointed look. “Oh, it’s exactly like that. She likes you, and you like her. I’ve been saying it for weeks now, but you’re still sitting here, all brooding and shy. Just ask her out!”

Bucky shifted awkwardly. “I don’t even know how.”

“You already talk to her all the time, right?” Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Just ask her if she wants to come to game night as your date.”

Bucky blinked. “A date?”

“You know, two people who like each other doing something fun together? It’s not complicated, Buck.”

He mulled over Sam’s words, the idea both exciting and terrifying. He hadn’t thought about it in those terms, but now that Sam had said it, it made sense. You had been texting him more often than seemed necessary for research, and there had definitely been a… connection. A spark.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Look, man, I’ll help you out. We’ll frame it like she’s just coming to Monopoly night, We’ll invite Yelena and Happy, since she already knows them. and maybe Rhodey, Clint, and Scott, just to sweeten the deal. Make it less awkward. You’ll ask her to be your date. No pressure, just fun.”

Bucky frowned. “And if she says no?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “She won’t. She’s already asking to hang out with you more. Besides, if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t still be texting.”

Bucky wasn’t entirely convinced, but Sam’s confidence was enough to give him the push he needed. 

“Okay,” Bucky said finally, his voice a little rough. “But how do I ask?”

Sam grinned. “Easy. Call her, don’t just text. That way she knows you’re serious. Keep it casual, though. Say something like, ‘Hey, you still want to join Monopoly night? I was thinking… maybe we could make it a date?’”

Bucky stared at him, his expression blank. “You really think it’s that simple?”

“Yes,” Sam said with exasperation, pushing Bucky’s phone toward him. “Come on, man.”

With a deep breath, Bucky pulled up your contact details. Sam watched with a smug grin as Bucky hesitated for just a moment, his thumb hovering over the call button. Then, with a sigh, Bucky pressed it, holding the phone to his ear as the line rang.

Sam gave him a thumbs-up, leaning back on the couch.

The line clicked, and your voice came through the speaker, light and warm.

“Hey, Bucky!”

Bucky felt his heart do that stupid flip again. He shot a glare at Sam, who was giving him a ridiculous “go on” motion, before speaking.

“Hey, I was just, uh, wondering if you still wanted to join us for Monopoly night? Sam, Yelena, and a few others are coming, but… I was thinking maybe you could, you know… come as my date?”

There was a pause on your end, and Bucky’s heart practically stopped. Maybe Sam had been wrong—maybe this was too soon. Then, your soft chuckle broke the silence.

“I’d love to,” you said, your voice warm and teasing. “Are you sure you’re ready to lose?”

Bucky grinned, glancing at Sam, who was nodding with approval. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Okay,” you replied with a chuckle. “Saturday, right? I’ll bring snacks. What do you like?”

“Something sweet,” Bucky answered, feeling much more relaxed now that the hard part was over. “Sam loves cookies.”

“Got it,” you said, your tone light and playful. “See you Saturday, Bucky.”

He smiled, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “See you then.”

As he hung up the phone, Sam slapped him on the back, his grin wide. “You’re welcome, Barnes.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips, grinning like an idiot.

Maybe Sam had been right, after all.

-to be continued…

Part 2 is uploaded!

[ew-selfish-art]

DPx DC AU: Danny learns that he can change his summoning ritual and decides to go chaos mode with it i.e. A viral tiktok trend.

Danny ascends the throne and it's honestly pretty alright as far as new jobs go. He states a few opinions, makes sure no one goes to war and is slowly integrating a community service sentence to Walker's prison. It's not a bad gig, and considering the troves of gold he's now owner of, it doesn't pay too shabby either.

His main problem with the job isn't even his constituents (he likes to think they would vote for him over pariah), it's all these loony death cults! They keep summoning him with Pariah's old cold sign and it's driving him insane- After a very unhelpful smirk by CW, a long study session in GW's library and some help from Ember (she knows drama like no one else) Danny finally has a new summoning ritual.

Of course he swapped out the blood and bone for like, sour gummies and random shit he had in his backpack at the time. A TI-84. And yes, the Latin chant is that one super-fast bit of Rap God preformed to a BTS dance at speed.

But rather than keep this to himself, he gets Sam (who has a thriving plant and protest community following) to record her completing this ritual and Danny being summoned. Why? Cause it was a very specific to Sam skill that they didn't know if people could replicate and it gives Danny some plausible deniability that he tried to make it difficult when CW asks.

Posting it makes it very quickly go viral as people attempt to call it fraudulent but sure enough, Danny is now traveling the world at a moments notice.

Which is great cause it's summer and he's bored in Amity anyway (He's going to change it before he starts university in September, duh), and its even better because the second a lame ass death cult brings him forward to, like, destroy the planet, a slumber party or influencer has already summoned him away. Shit, he even met a few celebrities this way! Plus, turns out that most death cultists aren't able to rap!

Reality hit him pretty hard when he got summoned to an office space that is clearly a base of operations and the summoning spell locked him in. Literally, he has no idea how to get out of this binding spell- Danny definitely hadn't realized that was an option. Taking in the Justice League members in front of him, plus one trench coated menace, Danny groaned for a moment before thinking to ask:

"Wait- Which one of you was able to do Rap God? And the dance? Please tell me someone thought to film that!!"

[visacardteamloverrr]

ex's or not? cs55

summary: y/n and carlos once were the it couple, how are their lives after the breakup? did everyone move on?

warnings: writing this i was sick, i was done and i was ready to delete so enjoyy

i also was supposed to write part 2 to i'll be waiting but oh well...

y/njazzy

liked by lilymunihe, carmenmundt, and 65 000 more

y/njazzy Prague you've been great, next up my beloved Vienna 🍒

comments

y/nstan mother is GLOWING

lilymunihe music to my ears (literally) 🫶🫶

y/njazzy i'm blushing 😊 💋

alexandrasaintmleux i haven't heard you play for agesss, see you in Vienna ig

y/njazzy and whose fault it is?? clearly not mine missy

alexandrasaintmleux oh look at the time, i have to go !!!

chillis the post breakup glow up is reaaal

loverofy/n can we expect some album soon queen?

charlesleclerc exactly @/y/njazzy, care to share with the class???

y/njazzy i will not confirm nor deny

y/njazzy and lord perceval do not push my limits. besides, if you would honour me with your presence, you would know. the choice is yours

charlesleclerc no comment.

user1 she calls him the way that carlos does...

jazzychill she looks so hot in red 🔥

chillistan don't you find it weird that after all charles is in her comments?

y/nfan through all the years y/n was with carlos, she formed a friendship with charles (especially with carlos in ferrari) and other people from the paddock, so it's nothing weird

jazzlover besides, alex and y/n are besties, no?

y/nlos do you remember how carlos would always melt when y/n wear red??? because i do.

carlossainz55

liked by landonorris, charlesleclerc, y/njazzy, and 2,093,728 more

carlossainz55 🌶🍔☀️

comments

soylago ON MY KNEEEES

charlosfan what do they feed our drivers, he and charles are soooo hot

chillis the second photo, two plates, carlos sainz is that a date?

landonorris and where are pics from our little golf tournament 🤔🤔🤔 oh, maybe they aren't here because YOU LOST AHAHAHAHHA

carlossainz55 cabron we all know you cheated.

landonorris what a sore loser we have here

charlesleclerc do you remember when we played uno once?

maxverstappen i wonder why you played uno only once

charlesleclerc lando almost lost an eye

landonorris I ALMOST DIED, HE TRIED TO KILL ME

carlossainz55 do NOT listen to them, those situations did not happen

carlossteponme Y/N LIKED???!!

y/nfan they actually still like eachothers posts, i believe they said something about mutual breakup and that there's no hard feelings between them

y/njazzy

liked by yourbestie, lilymunihe, and 64,728 more

y/njazzy new project coming up 🔜

comments

landonorris tell me who he is.

y/njazzy no❤️

landonorris and why exactly ???

y/njazzy i'll tell you, you'll tell oscar, oscar will tell logan, logan alex, and then magically the whole grid will know

landonorris you won't even tell your best friend?

y/njazzy you're talking about yourself or ?

landonorris PARDON #exbesties #friendshipover #offended

y/njazzy WAR IS OVEEEER

landonorris bye.

lilymunihe A MAN? A MAN? A MA-A-A-AN

lilymunihe girlies to the gc riGHT IN THIS MOMENT

lilymunihe avengers ASSEMBLE @/alexandrasaintmleux @/carmenmundt

carmenmundt i think we've missed a chapter here...

y/njazzy alex didn't.

carmenmundt excuse me !

lilymunihe SHE DID WHAT

alexandrasaintmleux tf y/n? i thought i meant something to you?

y/njazzy if i'm going down i'm taking everybody with me 😘😘😘

alexandrasaintmleux DO NOT QUOTE CHANDLER RN

user1 carlosy/nnation how are we feeling

user2 we don't.

user5 i have an idea...

user3 don't. don't give me hope

user7 fuck the guy NEW PROJECT IN THE MAKING ??? NEW MUSIC ???

user9 do i sense some movie soundtrack

liked by autor

user2 can you imagine

user5 Y/N LIKED !!!!!

carlossainz55

liked by maxverstappen, y/njazzy and 2,836,267

carlossainz55 getaway with mi amor

comments

charlesleclerc i pay my respects to her

carlossainz55 ¿disculpe?

charlesleclerc for putting up with you 😘

user carlos sainz jr i was NOT familiar

user1 which one of you bastards stole my man

reyesvdec ❤️

user2 APPROVED BY MAMA SAINZ

user6 i miss her and y/n together in the paddock

user5 that's y/n. mark my words

user1 i truly aspire to be as delusional as you

y/njazzy she's a lucky girl

carlossainz55 im a lucky boy*

user8 y/n's comment? im dead

user3 carlos' response?????? i am crying, the boy really is in love

y/njazzy

liked by carlossainz55, reyesvdec and 482,471 more

y/njazzy love. love love love.

comments

user8 our girl is in loooove 🥹

alexandrasaintmleux match made in heaven

carmenmundt you compliment eachother so well 🫶

landonorris you two are disgusting

y/njazzy jealousy, jealousy

user5 the luckiest girl???? i wonder why... maybe because she has carlos sainz

user ring ring, that's the mental ward calling for you

lilymunihe i'm heartbroken, how could you leave me

alex_albon execuse me? i'm right here??

y/njazzy lily it's just an act, let's run away together

lilymunihe i am ready to go

alex_albon HEY ITS NOT FAIR

alex_albon he can't even stand up for himself

carlosssainz55 he can

carlossainz55

liked by y/njazzy, landonorris and 5,839,821

carlossainz55 mi amor, you're the closest to heaven that I have ever been. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I promise to cherish you forever. I am so incredibly grateful for you and everything you do. I want to thank you for being there for me, even after we broke up. there is no one else on this earth taht i would spend my life with. you are my person, and I am yours.

comments

georgerussell mate leave something for us

alex_albon what I am supposed to do rn, lily won't let me in to our apartment

charlesleclerc gentelmen we are so finished

landonorris die lol 👎

oscarpiastri yk that they can see you crying, right?

y/njazzy my one and only ❤️

user can somebody check on user5

user5 I KNEW I WAS NOT CRAZY

user5 PARENTS ARE REALLY BACK TOGETHER

y/njazzy

liked by carlossainz55, reyesvdec and 171,729,819 more

y/njazzy the only ex i would ever come back to 💋💋💋

comments

alexandrasaintmleux finally the ferrari girls are reunited

y/njazzy not for too long

alexandrasaintmleux foul

charlesleclerc too soon y/n, too soon

maxverstappen i won't even ask about the last pic

carlossainz55 the less you know the better you sleep

landonorris i cannot belive this is happening

y/njazzy sucks to suck ig

carlossainz55 only ex i couldn't move on from 🫶🫶🫶

y/njazzy you flatter me

user1 the difference in the capitions pls ✋️

[percyluvr]

Hiii!!! If your requests are open could you do an injury fic with Luke and a Persephone reader? Where she gets hurt during capture the flag or smth like that and this man starts stressing even if he’s on the opposite team and didn’t know what was going on when she got hurt?

luke castellan x daughter of persephone!reader summary: you get hurt during capture the flag and luke gets worried wc: 885

Luke Castellan is very particular about his capture the flag team, and everyone at camp knew that, which is why it came as a surprise when you and him were on separate teams.

When asked, he would just say that the two of you had decided to have a competition on who could create the better capture the flag strategy, but it was deeper than that. The two of you had a small fight because you felt that he never let you help with the strategy enough, and you felt like he never really let you in on the combat. It was almost like he thought of you as a delicate flower, and when you brought it up, he got irritated, telling you that he wasn't trying to control you, he just didn't want you to get hurt.

You'd gotten mad and stormed out, and now neither of you knew where you stood, and preparing for capture the flag against him wasn't helping at all. The few days leading up to capture the flag were some of the most hostile days each month, and this time was no exception. It may just be a camp war game to some campers, but to others, especially your teammate Clarisse, this was a big deal. Clarisse was always rude and quite hostile towards your boyfriend, but it was worse than ever now.

You and Clarisse were an unexpected duo, but you two had a special connection, considering each other your best friend, so when you told her what happened between you and Luke, she was pissed off, to say the least.

"Thanks for telling me that, I'm gonna hand his ass to him on Friday," she said, running her hand along your arm, trying to comfort you to her best ability.

"Thanks, Clarisse, I can always count on you if I want someone to get beat up," you joked, making her laugh.

The next few days went by quickly, you and Clarisse rigorously training with each other and going over your plan as co-captains. You'd always loved being on the same team as Clarisse before you started dating Luke, and now you finally got to be again.

On the day of capture the flag, you and all the campers headed into the forest, getting into your positions. The game began, and you and Clarisse charged into the other team's territory.

As a daughter of Persephone, you had the ability to manipulate certain plants, which was helpful, especially at camp, because you could control almost all of the plants that were there. Unfortunately, with great power comes a great ego boost, which you fell victim to.

You and Clarisse were basically wiping the floor with your opponents, when you got caught up in your head, confidence overflowing, and tried to create a longer vine, accidentally tripped over it, and fell right into the sword of the camper you were fighting. Luckily, you had managed to move your body so that you didn't get stabbed anywhere fatal, but you did get an incredibly deep cut right under your ribcage, which caught the attention of Clarisse. Seeing you injured fueled Clarisse's rage, and she quickly finished the fight.

Immediately, she picked you up bridal style, rushing you through the woods to the infirmary. She passed by Luke, and at first he ignored it, but then he did a double take after realizing it was Clarisse, and saw you in her arms, blood soaking through your orange Camp Half-Blood shirt. Even though he was in the middle of a fight, he booked it in the direction the two of you were heading, now full of worry.

He finally caught up to the two of you, surprised at how quick Clarisse was. When Clarisse caught sight of him, she cracked her knuckles and gave him the dirtiest look you had even seen in your life. You bit back a laugh.

Luke rushed up to where you were sitting on the bed.

"Baby, are you okay? Please tell me you're okay," he said, voice filled with desperation.

You gave him a pained look, gesturing to the large blood-soaked bandage covering the left side of your abdomen. "Well, I have a near fatal hole going through my side, but other than that, I'm great," you say dryly.

"C'mon, don't be that way. I'm sorry for what happened last week, okay? But see, this is why I'm so protective. I can't let anything happen to you, I don't want to lose anyone else," he whispers, eyes glazed over.

At this point, Clarisse is long gone. Knowing her, she probably left because she couldn't stand to see you and Luke being all 'lovey dovey,' as she calls it.

"Well... yeah. I guess I see your point. But I still think that you should let me help more, please."

"Okay, you're right. I know you're perfectly capable, I'm just scared. I've lost too many people and losing you would be too much to handle, so please be more careful, okay?" He eyes your bandage, giving you a grimace.

You respond by pulling him down to your face by his shirt, and give him a sweet kiss, which he reciprocates almost immediately. It almost made you laugh how quickly he kisses you back, even though it happens every time.

[thisolrubyriderr]

Gojo fluff bc why not?? 🔵v🔵

Satoru had enough.

Enough of you cuddling and cooing over that devilish ball of fur that was Shoko’s cat. Where was all his affection huh?? Have you forgotten about him entirely?? He knew he never should’ve agreed to you guys keeping him while Shoko was out of town. And now he has to watch heinous sights such as this take place in his own home.

“Am I not cute anymore?”

“What?” you asked, confused as to what the hell your manchild was on about.

“You’ve been holding him and giving him attention all day! You’ve forgotten all about me! Clearly you don’t think I’m cute anymore and you’re trying to replace me.” Satoru fussed as he gestured to the little black cat on your lap. A pout forming on his lips as his eyebrows knitted together.

Oh geez, was he serious? No, you knew he was serious. And that’s why you couldn’t even be upset at his foolishness because this was all honestly adorable to watch.

“Come here Satoru.” You sighed softly, trying to bite back the smile tugging on your lips.

“Why, so that thing can taunt me??” he folded his arms in protest.

“No. So I can hold you on my lap and pet you instead,” you smiled as you set the cat down, “come on.”

The cat ran to go sit in the window and Satoru happily pranced over to you. He curled up on the couch, laying his head on your lap facing your stomach.

“Is this better?” you teased, placing a small kiss on his cheek as you massaged your fingers through his hair.

“Much better, this is how it always needs to be.” Satoru purred, smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You’re so spoiled.”

“Is it reaaally such a bad thing to be spoiled from all your love?” Satoru grinned up at you with those beady eyes of his. A face that knew he would always get what he wanted when it came to you.

You sighed, knowing you would continue to spoil him rotten regardless of how much you complained about it. And you had absolutely no problem with that.

“I guess not sweets, I guess not.”

“She calls me ‘sweets’, what does she call you huh?” Satoru yelled towards the cat, who was paying him no mind.

“Would you stop competing with the cat??”

“I can’t babe! He declared war against me the second he walked in this house. Tch, the nerve.”

“Satoru. You were the one that told Shoko we’d take care of him while she’s gone. You brought him back here.”

“Which I now realize was a mistake. Next time Suguru’s keeping him. I don’t care if he’s allergic.”

“Toru.”

“Yes honey bun?”

“You’re sickening. You gonna sacrifice Suguru like that??”

Satoru paused to contemplate for a moment.

“He can stock up on allergy pills! I’m not splitting your love for me with a demon cat! Only I get to be held, only I get head rubs from you, and only I get your attention!!!” Satoru exclaimed, poking you in the stomach every few words.

“Cut it out!” you giggled, Satoru’s heart fluttering at the sound.

“You deserve it! You don’t get to replace me!”

“Never thought the great Satoru Gojo would be jealous of a cat. My, how far you’ve fallen.” you teased

Satoru pouted at your comment, nuzzling himself further into your stomach. You placed a few more kisses on his cheek, cooing at him as he smiled and claimed silent victory in his head.

Although Satoru constantly expresses his indifference towards the cat, you decide not to tell him about Shoko receiving an interesting gift. You’ve also decided not to tell him about all the pictures you’ve received from Shoko of the cat wearing tiny little sunglasses. Similar to the ones he used to wear. Wonder where he got those….

[papasmoke]

My name is Ruwa Romman, and I’m honored to be the first Palestinian elected to public office in the great state of Georgia and the first Palestinian to ever speak at the Democratic National Convention. My story begins in a small village near Jerusalem, called Suba, where my dad’s family is from. My mom’s roots trace back to Al Khalil, or Hebron. My parents, born in Jordan, brought us to Georgia when I was eight, where I now live with my wonderful husband and our sweet pets.

Growing up, my grandfather and I shared a special bond. He was my partner in mischief—whether it was sneaking me sweets from the bodega or slipping a $20 into my pocket with that familiar wink and smile. He was my rock, but he passed away a few years ago, never seeing Suba or any part of Palestine again. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him.

This past year has been especially hard. As we’ve been moral witnesses to the massacres in Gaza, I’ve thought of him, wondering if this was the pain he knew too well. When we watched Palestinians displaced from one end of the Gaza Strip to the other I wanted to ask him how he found the strength to walk all those miles decades ago and leave everything behind. 

But in this pain, I’ve also witnessed something profound—a beautiful, multifaith, multiracial, and multigenerational coalition rising from despair within our Democratic Party. For 320 days, we’ve stood together, demanding to enforce our laws on friend and foe alike to reach a ceasefire, end the killing of Palestinians, free all the Israeli and Palestinian hostages, and to begin the difficult work of building a path to collective peace and safety. That’s why we are here—members of this Democratic Party committed to equal rights and dignity for all. What we do here echoes around the world.

They’ll say this is how it’s always been, that nothing can change. But remember Fannie Lou Hamer—shunned for her courage, yet she paved the way for an integrated Democratic Party. Her legacy lives on, and it’s her example we follow.

But we can’t do it alone. This historic moment is full of promise, but only if we stand together. Our party’s greatest strength has always been our ability to unite. Some see that as a weakness, but it’s time we flex that strength. 

Let’s commit to each other, to electing Vice President Harris and defeating Donald Trump who uses my identity as a Palestinian as a slur. Let’s fight for the policies long overdue—from restoring access to abortions to ensuring a living wage, to demanding an end to reckless war and a ceasefire in Gaza. To those who doubt us, to the cynics and the naysayers, I say, yes we can—yes we can be a Democratic Party that prioritizes funding our schools and hospitals, not for endless wars. That fights for an America that belongs to all of us—Black, brown, and white, Jews and Palestinians, all of us, like my grandfather taught me, together.

I want to be clear,” Romman said. “We’ve been in negotiations for days. This did not just come up…We’ve been talking about this for at least a week. In addition, the campaign told us that not getting a ‘no’ [initially upon first hearing the request] was a really good sign. For them to give us a ‘no’ the same day that Geoff Duncan [a Republican from Georgia] was on the stage—especially when it was my name—was just absolutely a slap in the face.”

[scarlet-star-witch]

The moon and his sun (Part VI)

Aemond Targaryen x female reader

Summary: People would remember their story. Even decades after they were gone, Septa’s would tell young children about the one-eyed dragon prince and his sweet wife as if they were a part of a fairytale, too good to be true for the harshness real life possessed.

Aemond meets a young girl who quickly becomes his most cherished friend and changes the course of history.

Word count: 6.7 K

Warnings: More angst, Aegon being the villain of all villains, lots of grief and sadness, but also fluff because they love each other so much

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 ... Part 7

~~

Things were different after that night. She was different. With each passing day Aemond saw less and less of the woman he knew and loved with every inch of his being. She was no longer that bright-eyed and sparkling girl he had known since his childhood.

Her lips no longer curled with mischief, her laughter no longer rang out in their chambers. Her hand no longer sought him out, she had no kisses to give him just for the sake of it. 

The space between them in their bed felt like a chasm that was too great for him to cross to get to her.

She spent her days curled up in bed, hugging the blankets tightly to her, refusing anyone who attempted to pry them away from her. The maids tip-toed around her, the gazes of pity stirring Aemond’s anger. 

She barely spoke a word, only giving weak-sounding excuses to refuse her meals, to refuse to get up and face the day. 

He didn’t blame her. If he could, he would be in that bed beside her all hours of the day, but his duties as a Prince didn’t stop because his heart had shattered. The thought of his lost child didn’t leave his mind as he sat in on meetings of war, it was all he thought of as he numbly walked the halls like a ghost. 

The empty chair next to him at every dinner spoke volumes and he didn’t know how many more nights he could endure the pitying looks from his mother. 

The guilt was drowning him. 

He knew the attack was revenge for what he had done to Lucerys Velaryon. He knew that man he had driven his sword into was following the orders of Rhaenyra and Daemon. He knew his wife had almost been murdered for his mistake.

He knew his child was dead because of him. 

He couldn’t stomach the thought. He felt untethered to himself, as if he were walking around without a soul. He couldn’t handle the grief, he couldn’t fathom the reality that played out around him. 

So he settled for anger. It was what he knew, it was familiar. 

The moment he would leave his wife’s side, the moment he stepped out of their chambers, the melancholy and the heartbreak would recede within him, his face hardening, his entire demeanor changing in an instant, portraying that of a cold, unflinching soldier rather than the mourning husband and lost father. 

The thought of his half sister and uncle made him see red, the dragon blood within him sizzling under his skin, igniting a fury so volatile it shadowed any ire he had felt for his bastard nephews. 

He sat in his mother’s chambers, staring blankly out the window, ignoring the politicking his mother and grandsire attempted to bring forth to Aegon who sat looking bored. Time passed unknowingly, his mind a million miles away - or just mere hallways away where his wife lay, a picture of a broken mother. 

“Aemond?”

He turned his attention to his mother who was eyeing him questioningly. He hummed absentmindedly and she sighed. 

“How is she?”

He clenched his jaw, his eyes falling to his feet, unable to speak a word of his wife’s condition. He would surely break down if he did and he refused to let his prick of a brother witness such a moment of weakness. 

Alicent sighed, failing yet again to engage her son in any semblance of conversation.

“Her maid told me she has refused to eat… again.” 

Aemond felt himself twitch, his anger sparking at the mention of his wife and the monumental grief she was lost in, that he had no way to help her through. 

He felt a sharp pain in his chest, the same pain he had been feeling for the past few days. He wondered each time if it were another piece of his heart cracking, shriveling away to nothing. He wondered when it would stop, when there would finally be nothing left of it. 

He pictured the scene he had walked into that night, the sight of that man over his wife, her below him, bloody and crying, so close to being taken from the world, taken from him.

It was a sight that had haunted his every waking thought since. 

It was a sight that had broken him beyond repair. 

It was a sight that left him bloodthirsty. 

Unable to stand the grief any longer, he succumbed to his burning anger, the thought of his uncle and half-sister leaving him to feel as though there was only one single thing he could do to release him from the fury that was all-consuming, sure enough to devour him at any moment.

He abruptly stood, causing his family to flinch and send curious stares his way. 

“Aemond?”

“I cannot sit here and let the attempt on my wife’s life and the loss of my child go unpunished any longer.”

He stomped towards the door, prompting his mother and grandsire to stand and quickly follow behind him, worry painting their features. Helaena shifted uncomfortably where she sat, the grief that surrounded her brother and dear friend shrouding her kind heart, clouding her usually sunny disposition. Even Aegon looked worried, his eyes flitting between his brother and his Hand with apprehension.

“It will not go unpunished, but we need a plan. We cannot blindly go forward with violence.” Otto scolded him impatiently.

Aemond smirked, the sight of a man who was beginning to lose it all.

“My uncle underestimates me. He will soon know better than to threaten what’s mine.” 

“Aemond, please.” Alicent pleaded desperately. “I know you’re hurting, but you cannot let your grief rule you, we need-”

“I need to end this. I started this and I paid for it with the life of my child.” Aemond seethed, his lone eye wide and becoming glassy, the lump in his throat growing as he thought of his babe he would never hold. 

Helaena felt her own eyes begin to well with tears as she watched her broken brother attempt to salvage what little control he felt he had. 

“Daemon will die for this and I won’t wait any longer for you to discuss allies and soldiers, to wait long enough to let him plan another attack that will take my wife from me. I will end it today. He doesn’t deserve to see another sunrise.”

He moved to the door once more, but his mother frantically latched onto his arm, pulling him back, her own tears falling down her cheeks.

“Please, think this through.”

“I have!” Aemond screamed, his heart racing, his hands trembling, his grief and anger overtaking every rational thought in his mind. 

His vision blurred and he abruptly turned away from his family, refusing to let them see him crumble. 

The room was silent, heavy with tension. 

“Vhagar is mighty, but she cannot take on Caraxes, Syrax, Meleys, even Vermax, alone and you will get yourself killed for nothing.” Otto added, causing Aemond to flinch as if he’d been struck.

It wasn’t for nothing. It was for his wife, for the child they lost, the son they would never get to hold.

“Aemond.” Helaena’s tearful voice spoke up. “She needs you.”

The words, so simple yet gut wrenching, were enough to snuff out his fury. The thought of his wife, the woman who was grieving just as he was and what would happen to her if he charged into battle. The thought of her losing someone else, knowing he would break her already fragile heart into a state of disrepair had his head spinning, the desire to rip his uncle limb from limb receding into the depths of his mind.

The only thing that mattered was her. 

He refused to cause her any more harm. 

He left the room without another word, keeping his head down as he quickly made his way to their chambers. 

His frayed nerves needed only one antidote, her. 

Stepping into their chambers, his heart jumped within his chest as he noticed the bed was empty. He panicked momentarily before he heard the soft voices of her maids. He stepped forward slowly, peeking his head into the next room where her maids surrounded her, their touches gentle as they helped her bathe. 

Aemond felt the ache return, as if a fist were clenched tightly around his heart, squeezing until it ceased to beat. 

Her eyes were dull, her face passive. His throat grew tight as he watched the maids lift her arm, the limp limb like a ragdoll, as if she were merely a corpse, a body functioning without its beautiful mind. 

It shattered him beyond repair to see her in this state. 

You did this, the tormenting voice in his head reminded him yet again. 

The guilt could’ve knocked him off his feet. 

Gritting his teeth, he turned away from the torturous sight before him and stormed out of the room, his quick, angered pace taking him out of the Red Keep. 

His breathing was heavy, his chest heaving with every step he took. 

Vhagar raised her head lazily as her rider approached. Her demeanor changed in an instant, shaking herself from her tiredness, her bonded’s fury and despair so loud, it was radiating off him in waves. She growled lowly, snarling as he approached.

Aemond had no words of comfort, nothing to say to calm his dragon. She felt what he felt, she was as thirsty for destruction as he was. 

He commanded Vhagar to fly, where he didn’t know. 

The frigid wind was like knives against his skin, the rope in his hands course and rough. He hadn’t bothered to wear his gloves or any of his proper attire for riding. He had been desperate to get out of that room, unable to face his wife for a second longer or his heart would’ve given out there and then. 

He just needed to get away from it all. Everywhere he looked there were reminders of what had happened that night, what he caused. 

To see his wife in such a state and to know it was because of him left him wondering how much longer he could live with it. He was certain it wouldn’t be too much longer, he almost welcomed it for he couldn’t live like this any more. 

Aemond rode far and fast, his legs aching, his back becoming sore, but it didn’t matter to him, it barely even registered. 

Noticing a small island on the horizon, Aemond pulled the reins, commanding Vhagar to descend. 

His heart raced, the lump in his throat close to choking him. 

“Vhagar…” He called out, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Dracarys!” 

His mighty dragon roared streams of fire, over and over as her rider commanded, his yelled commands becoming inaudible over the currents of fire she spewed. Aemond watched the trees burn, their flames growing into raging infernos. He commanded Vhagar to land and he numbly stumbled off her saddle, his grace gone in his state of despair. 

He stepped forward, his eye glowing orange with the flames before him. He felt the heat radiating from the blaze and took another step towards it. Behind him, Vhagar roared, as if in warning, as if she could sense the danger, sense the recklessness in her rider. 

A choked breath escaped his lips, his mind flashing with images of that dreaded night, his wife screaming in agony, her thighs dripping red with the loss of their child. He thought of the little boy he pictured all those times he would place his hand over the small bump that grew, imagining the child with eyes like his mother’s, his smile wide and deliriously happy like his mother’s. The memories were suffocating. 

You did this.

The words circled in his head until he broke. 

His eyes burned with tears and he gasped helplessly as they fell in a torrent down his cheeks. His legs felt weak under him and he stumbled, falling to his knees in the coarse grass below him. 

He cried and screamed until his throat hurt. He unleashed his fury and heartbreak in a flood of sobs he couldn’t control.

The flames before him crawled towards him, the heat before him that burned uncomfortably hot an unlikely comfort. He remained still as the fire raged closer and closer. 

Behind him, Vhagar roared, a sound so heartbreaking it mirrored her rider’s own all consuming anguish. 

Minutes, that felt like hours, passed until he had no tears left, his throat dry and aching, leaving him to stare blankly forward, the flames before him like a hypnotizing mirage, beckoning him forward, enticing him to end the pain once and for all. 

It wasn’t until the trees before him began to creak and wither, soon collapsing under the assault, wicked waves of embers and ash spraying towards him, the island he unleashed his fury on succumbing to his destruction, that he shook himself from his grief induced daze.

With a heavy breath, his eye heavy and hurting, he finally got to his feet slowly, making no haste to climb back atop Vhagar who seemed to rumble in discontent below him, as if to chastise him for his recklessness. 

As he flew back to King’s Landing, he felt no lighter, no great catharsis that lifted the weight on his chest. His heart still felt as though it would break with each breath.  

He just hoped he could survive another agonizing day.

~~

The days dragged on and he was left to face his wife’s absence once again, his head down as he ate, desperate to get the meal over with as quickly as he could and get back to their chambers to be with her. 

At the head of the table, Otto cleared his throat and Aemond wondered how such a miniscule sound could still hold authority. He looked up with barely contained disdain and he met the surly eyes of his grandsire. 

“I think it is time we discuss our next steps.” 

“Father.” Alicent admonished wearily. “Now is not the time.”

Aemond’s eye narrowed, it was all too obvious they had been conspiring without him. 

“Clearly you have something to say, so say it.” Aemond barked out, his tone making Helaena flinch from where she sat across the table. 

The look of apprehension his mother sent to his grandsire didn’t go unnoticed, heightening his already tempestuous nerves. 

“It is apparent your wife’s grief is not permitting her to uphold her duties-”

Aemond didn’t need to hear anymore. He stood from his chair, letting it clatter to the floor from the force of his movements and didn’t spare a look back at his family as he made his way to the door, his body rigid with fury. 

Ignoring the cries of his mother to come back and his grandsire’s warning to not turn his back on them, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

He knew his granside was not overly fond of his union, that he would rather he ally himself with that dastardly Baratheon girl or a plain girl from the Riverlands. He knew it was all to help Aegon’s cause and he couldn’t care less. 

No one dared to make eye contact with the feared Prince as he stomped down the halls with an air of fury. He pictured his wife, the playful shove and sarcastic admonishment she would give him for his temper as the maids scurried out of his path in terror. 

The thought of her, of the person she no longer was, of what was ripped away from them so viciously only made his blood boil hotter. 

His entire body was locked with tension as he stormed into their chambers. He leaned against the closed door, his eye falling closed as he breathed deeply in an effort to regain any ounce of calmness he could reach. 

“Hi.”

Her soft voice startled him, his eyes springing open, searching frantically among the room until he landed on her curled up form on the couch by the hearth. 

His lips parted in surprise, hope swelling within him at the sight of her out of that bed, washing away every bit of his anger in an instant.  

“Hi.” He breathed out, approaching slowly, gauging her reaction as he took a seat next to her, making sure to leave a respectable amount of space between them, as if they were a pair of innocent children, having to put on airs for the court. 

“I assume dinner did not go well.”

Aemond let out a low sound, too exhausted and mentally drained to laugh as he slumped, no longer the picture of the perfectly put together Targaryen Prince. He ran a hand over his tired face. 

“You are familiar with my family. I’m surprised you had any positive expectations.” 

Her lips quirked upwards slightly, more of a barely perceptible twitch of her lips, in a pathetic attempt to convey some semblance of amusement. She couldn’t muster much more in her state. 

Aemond watched her intently, noticing the signs of exhaustion, the way she curled up into herself, her eyes dull and marked with dark circles. It hurt him deeply to see her in this state, but he couldn’t deny the relief he felt at the mere fact that she was no longer hiding beneath her sheets.  

“You.. you’re out of bed.” He remarked quietly. 

She looked over at him, slightly surprised by his words. She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back deeper into the couch she lay on, as if she could make herself smaller. 

“It felt like…” She started slowly, trying to find the words to describe the grief that was overtaking her. “Like a fog had finally lifted, like I could finally control my own body again.”

Aemond nodded slowly, the ache within him only growing more prominent at her words. He reached out, taking her hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the bandage she still wore. He winced slightly at the sight of it, the reminder of that night, of how he had almost lost her and the pain she had been in stirring his devastation yet again. 

“Did you eat?” 

She clammed up at his question, her eyes quickly casting down to the floor, refusing to look his way.

“I’m not hungry.” She responded monotonously, the response becoming all too familiar to him. 

Aemond sighed, pushing past his disappointment, choosing to focus on the relief he felt that she had even gotten out of bed. He’d take whatever progress came, no matter how slow. 

The pair of them were left in silence, a tense air around them that had never existed between them before. 

She shifted in her spot, hating what they had come to, hating her mind for forcing her to relive her loss over and over, keeping her in this black hole of misery she couldn’t claw her way out of. 

As the minutes passed in a dreadful silence, she finally reached her breaking point, her disdain for the state of their marriage for once overtaking her grief.

“Can you read to me… like you used to?” She asked, her voice sounding slightly raspy from disuse. 

Aemond looked shocked by her question, but the light that reached his eye was unmistakable, twisting her stomach for the first time in weeks in ways that didn’t signal trauma. The fluttering of nervous butterflies at the sight of him made her feel like she was a child again.

He nodded eagerly and reached for the book that lay on the table beside him, the book he’d been leafing through at night when he couldn’t find sleep, when the guilt became overwhelming that he couldn’t bring himself to lay next to her. 

He began to read, stealing occasional looks to her, a hint of a smile playing at his lips as their eyes met each time. 

With each passing second, the tension between them slowly abated, leaving the tranquil ease they were used to. 

Both of them couldn’t help but think back to how their friendship started, of their days together in the library, the hours she spent listening to Aemond read, the beginning of everything. 

She smiled lightly, focusing on the beautiful sound of her husband’s voice. She let her body relax, unclenching each limb that was wrought with stiffness. She shifted, stretching her legs out on the couch, Aemond reflexively moving his book to bring her feet to rest in his lap, laying his other hand over her legs as he had done a thousand times before, reminiscent of late nights reading by the fire after hours of lovemaking. 

She smiled and let her head fall back on the pillow behind her, closing her eyes in contentment, letting Aemond’s voice relax her into a state of calm she didn’t think she’d ever feel again.

Slowly, the weight on their shoulders lifted, piece by piece, replacing their soul-crushing hurt with a relative ease, the despair and grief dissipating. It was still there, they both knew they wouldn’t soon forget the thought of their child, but it didn’t feel as strangling as before. 

It took time, but she was able to spend more days out of bed, beginning to eat little bites of the food Aemond had brought her, her heart feeling lighter at the sight of his relieved smile with every bite she took. 

She would have her moments, when the grief became all consuming once again and she would hate the world for what it took from her, but he would be there every time to embrace her tightly and wipe her tears, to tuck her into their bed and hold her in his arms until she calmed. 

“I think of him every second of the day.” She whispered into the darkness, the tightening of Aemond’s arms around her the only indication that he had heard her words. 

They didn’t speak much about their child, but it was clear to both of them the loss was never far from their minds. Aemond held her differently, more gently, as if he feared she would crack like porcelain if his touch was anything more than feather-light. 

“I do too.” He admitted quietly, his voice strained from the emotions that threatened to break him at the thought of their child. His hand smoothed down the front of her nightgown, resting on her stomach that no longer grew with the life of their babe. 

A shuddering breath escaped her, the noise prompting Aemond to pull her in closer to him, his lips pressing to her cheek in a gentle show of affection, one she needed desperately. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered tearfully. 

Aemond turned her over so she was facing him, his hand resting on her cheek, his thumb discreetly wiping the tears that had snuck out of the corner of her eye.

“You do not ever need to apologize to me.” He assured her softly, his nose brushing against hers as he regarded her carefully, the sight of her sadness stirring his determination to remind her of what she meant to him, how deeply his love for her ran.

“This is my fault.”

Aemond’s whispered words crashed over her like a wave. Her eyes met his, the sadness reflected in his own mirroring hers, revealing how much they were both struggling, adrift in the sea of grief without a paddle.

“You didn’t do this.” She told him, her voice weak with emotion. “You love our son. I would never doubt that.” 

His face twisted, taking a monumental effort not to crumble into tears. She could tell him a million times, but he wouldn’t believe it. He knew what he was, he knew what he did, and nothing would change it.

All he could do was try to live with it. 

He tightened his grip on her, moving in closer so there was no inch of his body that wasn’t pressed against hers. He needed her comfort, her closeness, to remind himself there was something worth living for. 

He leaned in, kissing her more softly than he could ever recall, their first proper kiss in weeks. 

“You mean more to me than anything in this world.” He kissed her again, just as gentle as before. “I would be nothing without you.” 

His whispered words made her eyes sting again, though this time for a much different reason. She felt as thought the deep cracks in her heart were beginning to heal, slowly coming back together to be whole again, to love again. 

Despite the grief they still felt so strongly, they came back to each other, finding solace in their shared tears and memories of what they had envisioned for their future. 

But it couldn’t last forever.

They were curled up on the couch together one afternoon when a knock sounded at their door. She tensed immediately, causing Aemond to tighten his hold on her as he called for the person to enter. 

A guard entered their room and bowed respectfully. 

“My Prince, Princess. King Aegon has sent for both of you to meet him in the council chambers.” 

Aemond tensed, his gaze narrowing as he sat up straighter. 

“Both of us?”

“That is what the King has ordered.”

They shared looks of uncertainty, her fear growing greater than his at the prospect of facing his family for the first time since the incident. She’d seen Helaena of course, her sweet friend had been by her side, brightening her day for the past week once she’d been accepting of visitors again. 

But she had yet to see Alicent and the thought of coming face to face with Otto and Aegon had her ready to jump back into her bed, pull the sheets over her head and pretend the outside world didn’t exist. 

But she had a duty to perform. She couldn’t very well refuse the King, especially not when he was a drunken beast with the temperament of a spoiled toddler. 

She smoothed her hair out in an attempt to look more presentable and took Aemond’s arm, the two of them walking slowly, their bodies tense, pits of dread in their stomachs, as if they were headed to the executioner’s block. 

They arrived at the council chambers much too quickly. She kept her head down as they entered, but the sound of the Dowager Queen’s voice quickly had her raising her gaze to attention.

“Why is she here?”

She first met her good mother’s look of contempt before shifting to land on Aegon’s lecherous smile and her stomach twisted. 

“I invited her here, mother. This concerns her too.”

Aemond looked between his mother and brother incredulously, a sinking feeling growing within him, suddenly dreading having ever left their chambers. 

“What is the meaning of this?” 

“Take a seat, we have much to discuss.” Aegon said, all too cheerfully. Across the table, the Hand sighed heavily, sending a snide look to his grandson for his lack of decorum.

“There are still arrangements to be made for House Tully.” Otto began vaguely, his eyes shifting from Aemond to his wife at his side, mentally preparing himself for the fight that was soon to break out. 

“These arrangements concern me?” Aemond asked, his tone already one of hostility. 

Alicent cleared her throat and sat up straighter in her seat, her gaze focused solely on her hands, refusing to meet the gaze of her son.

“With Daeron’s marriage agreement securing Storm’s End as our ally, that leaves House Tully to be discussed.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed, his heart picking up its pace, his mother’s refusal to look him in the eye setting his nerves alight. 

Aegon rolled his eyes at the delicate nature of the meeting that was taking far too long for his liking. 

“You will be betrothed to a Tully daughter, securing their alliance to our side.” Aegon blurted out quickly, ignoring the looks of indignation from his mother and gransire. 

Aemond’s face darkened, a sarcastic sounding laugh escaping him, the sound making the hairs on the back of Alicent’s neck stand at attention, for it was a sound far colder than she had ever heard from her son.

“I know you’ve been lost in your cups for years, brother, but surely you remember that I married many moons ago.” 

The bitter tone to his voice put everyone on edge. 

“Yes, but your wife has been unable to give you a son, a valid enough reason for an annulment, I’d say.” 

He didn’t know what pissed him off more, Aegon’s words or the ease with which he had said them, as if it was a decision easily made. Aemond grit his teeth, his deadly glare locked steadily on his brother, a thousand and one threats to his life on the tip of his tongue. 

To have their loss thrown into their faces so callously had him seeing red.

But it was the soft hand that brushed over his, desperately seeking comfort, that held him back. He turned to his wife, the brimming tears of defeat in her eyes and the despair in her expression made him want to scream.

She couldn’t possibly think he was going to let this happen.

He turned to Otto, his gaze flaring with anger. 

“This is ridiculous, he cannot do this.”

“It is a valid reason.” 

Aemond stormed to his feet, the abrupt action causing the guards at the door to put their hands on their swords, threatening him before he could make a move to end the lives of anyone who dared to threaten his marriage. 

He seethed, sending a deadly glare to the guards before turning his attention to his mother who sat silently, picking at her nails anxiously.

“Mother?” He asked, fury coursing through him again when she refused to meet his eye. 

“You would not be forced from her. Many men take mistresses.” 

A choked breath escaped him, his gaze laced with betrayal, his mother’s words like a slap across the face. 

“Exactly!” Aegon agreed, all too happy with the turn of events. “Your marriage was already a sham. He was bedding her long before they were betrothed.” 

Aemond’s lone eye glared daggers at his brother. He could feel the burning gazes of shame from his mother and grandsire and he couldn’t find it in himself to look their way.

“Not to worry, brother, I could easily keep your whore here with us. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, maybe I’ll follow in his footsteps and take your sweet wife as my own.”

The smile he sent her made her stomach turn. She would die before she let Aegon touch her.

“I don’t mind sharing her.” Aegon smirked, the sight nausea inducing.

His wife’s hand on his arm was the only thing to stop Aemond from lunging forward to throttle his brother. He was trembling with rage, he had never felt this before, like every inch of him was unraveling, like the bare bones of him were alight with fire. 

He turned back to his mother, a sense of satisfaction coursing through him when he saw her flinch at the intensity of the fury in his gaze. 

“You cannot be serious.” He said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You cannot let him do this.”

“He is our King, I do not ‘let’ him do anything.” Alicent responded harshly. “You rushed into this marriage without considering our political position. We are at war and we need to do what we can to secure our allies. You have a duty to perform, Aemond.”

He couldn’t bear to hear another word and grabbed his wife's hand, hauling her up from her chair and storming out of the room, practically dragging her behind him as she struggled to keep up with his quick pace. 

Alicent sighed heavily as the door slammed behind them, burying her face in her hands. 

“Why would you summon her?”

“She deserved to hear what I have planned for her future.”

“You cannot truly be taking her to wife.” 

Aegon shrugged. “She’s pretty enough, I don’t see why I wouldn’t.”

Alicent’s disgust was clear in the sneer she sent her son. 

“Aemond will never agree to this.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, his mind returning to his first plan. 

“Perhaps it’s time we consider more… drastic options.” 

“What are you suggesting?” Alicent asked warily.

“Aemond will not budge so we must remove the obstacle in our way.”

The Dowager Queen felt a heavy weight settle on her chest that made it hard to breathe. Her son would never forgive her. 

“Surely there is another way.”

“We would not be in this predicament if you had done as I told you and stood your ground against this senseless marriage.” Otto sneered at his daughter. “Her death could have been avoided but it is too late now. We have no options left.”

Alicent kept her head bowed, silently praying to the Gods for forgiveness and begging every higher power that Aemond would never find out her part to play in what would destroy him. 

Across the Keep, Aemond slammed the door to the chambers shut, breathing heavily as he leaned against the grand door for a few moments.

“Aemond?”

The sound of her voice, her sweet voice that always brought him comfort, was now only a reminder of the turmoil his family had put him in. 

He growled and slammed his fist against the door, over and over again until his knuckles bled.

“Stop!” She screamed, gripping onto his arm, wrenching him away from the door. “Have you gone mad?!” 

He was breathing heavily, fury thrumming through his veins, his entire body shaking as his mind went over his brother’s words over again until he saw nothing but red. 

“Fucking prick.” He seethed. “He wouldn’t even be on that throne if it weren’t for me. He’d be across the narrow sea, probably dead in some whore’s bed.” 

She stayed quiet, letting him rant, expelling his anger so he wouldn’t storm back into the council chambers and separate his brother’s head from his shoulders.

“I have done everything for them. I’ve been the dutiful Prince they wanted me to be and what do I get in return? They want to dismantle my entire life, they want to rip me away from the only good thing I have and for what? For a damned throne he didn’t even want!” 

His chest heaved, the image of him reminding her of Vhagar, a wild dragon ready to spit fire. 

“I’ll kill him.”

“Aemond, stop.” She finally stepped in, pulling at his arm, stopping him from moving towards the door. “You’re not going to kill your own brother.”

“I won’t let him touch you. He’ll be dead before he can even look at you.” He spoke frantically, his wild eye now staring at her deeply, as if he needed her to hear his promise, as if she didn’t already believe it.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat, the weight on her chest so heavy it was a wonder she could even breathe.

“I’ll talk to my mother. I won’t let this happen.”

Her brows furrowed. He had heard his mother, just as she had, she was in agreement with this heinous idea. 

“Aemond…” She trailed off, her mind a mess of thoughts, though there was one thing she desperately longed for. “I need to go home.”

He paused, his anxious pacing coming to a sudden stop as he looked at her, ready for her to smile, or to assure him he had heard her wrong. Surely she wasn’t thinking about splitting up, not while the war raged, not when his family was trying to sink their claws into them.

“What?”

“I need to go back to Ixtal.”

“You want to leave? You… you’re leaving me?” Aemond choked out slowly, the tightening of his chest leaving him breathless.

“I don’t want to leave you, that’s the last thing I want, but I cannot stay here.” She spoke tearfully. “It’s been too long since I’ve heard from my parents. I know our letters are being intercepted, they would never let this much time go by without checking in on me. I don’t think they even know I lost the baby, I-I have to see them.”

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. All Aemond could comprehend was that she wanted to leave. The only thing he could grasp in his already tumultuous state was that he was losing her. He felt like his entire world was shattering in front of him.

“You can’t do this to me.” He choked out. 

Her eyes softened, her heart aching to hear him sound so weak.

“Aemond, I-”

“You aren’t leaving.” He spoke lowly, his voice betraying how scared he truly felt. 

She stepped towards him, reaching out to him but he quickly flinched back, his hard gaze landing on her, making her frown deeply, her stomach dropping. He had never once looked at her like that, as if she were the one betraying him.

“Aemond, I’m not safe here.” She told him, her voice weak, portraying just how exhausted she was. “Your family seeks to tear us apart-”

“And you’re making it much easier for them!” Aemond yelled. “You are not leaving and that’s final.”

She scoffed, he had never once spoken to her like this, he had never even raised his voice to her and it had her frustration rising, taking over any ounce of fear that had been plaguing her just seconds ago. 

“So you’re going to keep me prisoner? Lock me in our chambers until I comply? Or until I’m forced to watch you marry and bed another woman?”

Aemond’s eye blazed with fury at the mention of his family’s heinous plan. A plan he had no intention of ever complying with.

He grit his teeth, his mind a mess of thoughts that only seemed to infuriate him and spiral him into a pit of fire and gnashing teeth. 

He turned on his heel and pulled the door open with such a force, it was a miracle it stayed on its hinges.

“Where are you going?” She called out, but received no answer. The slamming of the door echoing in the room that felt more empty than ever before. 

Her lip quivered, her emotions coming to a head, their bleak looking future leaving the desire to scream out until she ran out of breath. She didn’t know the lengths his family would go to supplant her. 

She only knew it brought her fear to imagine what their ire would mean for her.

She was left to stew in her devastating thoughts for hours, Aemond’s absence from her side a glaring reminder of how truly alone she felt. Since her father had left, since this war had started, she scarcely recognized the place she had grown, the place she had fallen in love, the place that had been filled with so much laughter and delight. 

It seemed like it had all been a dream, a fantasy she had created for herself. 

She barely recognized her own husband anymore. 

As night crept on the Keep, as she refused her dinner once again, she crawled into her bed, pulling the sheets high around her, the racing of her heart not having calmed since the meeting, since she began to fear her marriage being forced from her. 

The thought was too much to fathom. She couldn’t stay there and watch as Aemond married someone else. She couldn’t watch as the woman’s stomach swelled with his child. 

The thought made her sick. 

No matter how much Aemond would sink his heels in and stand against it, it was still the King’s order. He couldn’t deny it forever. The second he would be parted from her side, forced to fight in this war, she was sure his family would take action, rip her out of their shared chambers, probably throw her in the dungeons so she wouldn’t cause any trouble and ruin their plans. 

She longed for her home, to be with her family again, wrapped in their warm, safe embrace. 

As their chamber door opened, Aemond finally returned, she closed her eyes and settled her breathing, pretending to sleep to avoid the inevitable tension still locked between them.

She’d had enough conflict for the day, perhaps her entire life. 

She remained still as she listened to him shed himself of his clothes and she tried with all her might not to cry as there was no dip of the bed beside her, as she heard him settle on the couch for the night. 

~~

Well... I can only apologize

I promise this story has a happy ending xx

~~

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[thewritetofreespeech]

A Whole New World

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

summary: in the wake of all the rats abandoning ship, you ask Aemond to leave King's Landing with you as well. [sort of in the vein of my tv show series?? mostly because I want to keep it seperate from the rest of my HOTD stuff that is more book related. part -X XX XXX]

-------------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

“Let’s leave this place.”

Aemond looked up at you from his table. Maps and plans littering the surface. There were not enough hours in the day to make headway on a plan to attack or thwart Rhaenyra, so they had moved into your bedroom. “We will leave for Harrenhall in a few days’ time.” He told you. “We will be off soon enough.”

“No, I mean leave this place.” You told him. “Leave Westeros.”

Your husband looked shocked at your suggestion. Understandably. “You would have me leave Westeros. Leave my birthright.”

“It is not yours Aemond.” It was a bitter truth, but a truth none the less, and you were the only one that could tell him that without threat of death.

None of this was supposed to be theirs. Aegon nor Aemond. Deep down they all knew that. Knew that Viserys had not wavered in his final moments on who his favorite child was. Who his first and only was. Alicent could have given the former king 100 sons, and it would not have made up for the one he lost with his first wife. “Rhaenyra now has 7 dragons to our 1 with her dragon mongrels taking flight. Besides which her armies.”

“I have Vhagar!” Aemond shouted in anger. Rising to his feet. “The oldest, strongest, largest dragon in all Seven Kingdoms.”

“And a pack of wild dogs can take down a lion if their numbers are great. I am not trying to upset you Aemond, I’m simply following the maths.”

The prince took a deep breath though his nose and turned from you. Annoyed that you were right, but clearly didn’t want to admit it. “You want me to abandon the city, ney? Run away and hide like the rest of those cowards!”

Aegon had left the city, for his own protection. To where, you could not be sure. That may have been by design as many whispered about how Aemond would kill him in his bed if given the chance. You knew he wouldn’t do that; if for nothing else than the simple fact that it would be dishonorable to murder a cripple in their bed unarmed. His mother had been missing for days at a time now. Uninterested in the war efforts since her dismissal from the council. Such was her right, but the fact that she wouldn’t look you in the eye these days did not grant you comfort on what the former Queen was thinking. The rest seemed to slip out under the cover of darkness. Less and less people seemed to be in the castle. The rats saw that the ship was sinking and were abandoning it quickly.

“I don’t want you to ‘run away’ Aemond. I want you to live.”

Aemond huffed and turned from you again. “Better to die in battle then wither in obscurity.”

“And if you die, and Rhaenyra takes the city, what of me then? Die an honorable suicide like the Queens of old? Be a political prisoner here until the Queen forces me to marry one of her bastard heirs as a good will gesture?”

That got Aemond’s attention. The idea that you could die not nearly as infuriating as the thought that one of Rhaenyra’s “strong boys”, or even her Targaryen brood, would touch you. “That would never happen.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t. Rhaenyra would have to kill me. If not for the simple fact that I would not bend the knee, but also for the fact that I am a charge to her claim.”

Your hand came to rest at your stomach. Still the same, but not for long. Aemond’s eye followed your hand, and his expression turned to shock before you raised his face to look at you with your other hand. “There are more world out there, my love. Across the Narrow Sea. Beyond. We could take Vhagar and make a new kingdom like your ancestors. We don’t have to stay here and fight over this one. We could have so much more.”

Aemond’s gaze dropped from your hold, but he took your hand at his cheek and held it. “You would have me abandon my family? Turn my back on them?”

“Have they not turned their back on you?” They blamed Aemond for everything. As if he put Aegon up on that stage and gave him a crown. You weren’t naïve enough to think your husband was blameless in his actions during this war, but they were looking for a scapegoat at this point and Aemond was the convenient target. “We are each other’s family now. We are all that matters.”

“Daeron….”

“He can come with us.” You felt maddened to the point of tears. You were fond of Daeron, the few times you had met. A sweet boy who was free of this place. Though you would honestly say anything to Aemond at this point to get him to come. “Helaena too, if you wish. We will fly to some far away place like Aegon and his sisters. Just please….please…let us leave this place.”

Aemond seemed to think about it for a long moment, before he gave you his answer and that was the end of it.

In the morning, Vhagar took flight over the city. Whether she went to Harrenhall with her rider or parts unknown, no one could know then. What was sure, as the histories tell us, was that it would be the last time the great dragon, her rider, or his wife ever came back to the city.

[igotanidea]

The great birthday mess up : Damian Wayne x Reader

Request: Yes! Reader planning a surprise party for Dami and him thining she's going to break up with him so he does it first.

Thank you anon! ;) made some changes to the requests hope you'll like it either way :)

***

„I don’t understand…” the words coming out of Damian’s mouth was the perfect example that hearing and getting were two completely different things.

“What’s there to not understand Y/N?. I’m breaking up with you. Sounds pretty simple even for your little brain.” He shrugged and turned to the window in their shared apartment so she wouldn’t see the strain on his face and clenched fists.

“But-“

“Please don’t go all whiny on me now. Just take my decision with dignity.

“I don’t understand—” she said again, as if that was the only sentence she could say in shock coursing in every cell in her body.

“Of course you don’t.” the tone he was giving her was ruthless, unlike the rapid beat of his heart calling her name with all the emotional power it could gather.

“Don’t you love me anymore?” as pathetic as it was, she almost downgraded herself to begging for an explanation with that sentence

“I’m just breaking up with you! Now will you leave me alone? I really do not want to see your face anymore.”

Well that was true, cause seeing her sad face was making his resolve crumble.

And It hurt. It hurt to tell her all those mean things.

Especially because Damian did not even wantto act like an asshole.

He did love her like a fool, he used to laugh at. If anything, he could just fall at her feet (as long as no one  saw) and beg to forgive him.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t because she was the one who stopped loving him first.

***

Three weeks ago, “command center” at Wayne Manor.

“Ok, people, listen up! We’re on a mission of-“

“Is she for real?” Tim whispered turning to Dick who was holding back a laugh. If the boys knew that Y/N would take planning Damian’s 24th birthday in such a serious manner, almost putting on a war paint, one of them would bring a fancy camera to memorize it.

Instead it was only Jason taking photo after photo of the girl-in-command in her makeshift uniform and with indicator in hand.

“Get it off my face Todd!” she cried out trying to shove him off, but failing at dealing with the brick Jason was.

“Not a chance. You look ridiculous. And all that for the demon’s spawn? My god! He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Careful or I’ll think you’re telling me a compliment.”

“Compliment? No, no. It’s merely an observation of your poor choice in men. Both your boyfriend and those gathered here…”

“HEY!” Dick reacted almost immediately. No way he was going to let anyone, even his adoptive brother shit-talk him “I beg your pardon! I believe Y/N has an exquisite taste in men!”

“Just because you are here?” Jason mocked, giving Dick a smirk.

“Oh-my-god….” Y/N rolled her eyes throwing hands in the air “Could you please stop that…? I got a whole presentation about ideas for the party and –”

“A presentation?” While Dick and Jason did not give the girl any attention, at the mention of possible slides Tim became awfully animated. “What kind of slides? How many?”

“Oh-my-god…” She muttered again, this time covering face with hands gathering herself “God give me patience for those man-children.” One deep inhale and exhale on her part and she was ready to proceed. “SHUT UP!!” she yelled at the top of her lungs “SHUT UP ALL OF YOU!”

None of the men has ever seen her like that. Reddened on the face with fury in eyes and clenched fists. Clearly just a thought of Damian was making her spin out of control.

“Y/N--?”

“I’m about to tell you how it’s going to go from now on.” She hissed with an unobjectionable tone. “First, you’re going to sit on your pretty asses.” her gaze travelled to Dick knowing the attention in this particular moment will make him listen “Second, you’re going to stop throwing veiled insults.”

“But-“ Jason tried to chime in and object.

“I don’t fucking care if your inner Chandler Bing is coming to voice, you shut it or I will.”

“I’m not scared of you Y/N. You are just a –”

In a blink of an eye she was next to him, with one finger on his neck.

“You got about 100 vascular plexus in your body and so it happens I know how to put pressure on all of them.” She hissed before pulling back and taking on an innocent look “now, will you keep quiet, Jason?”

“I’m still not scared…” he muttered leaning on the doorframe with a frown and pout of a kicked puppy.

“Thank you very much. As for the plan, thirdly, you’ll stop asking me about my PowerPoint thing and actually watch it.”

“I’ve been dying to watch it the whole time!”

“ Shut up Tim!” came from three pair of mouths.

“Hey! Why am I being the only one yelled at by everyone? It’s harassment! Not fair!”

Y/N exhaled deeply, making a mental note to herself to never get those boys in men bodies in one room ever again and started explaining the details of her surprise party. Clearly, even despite knowing Damian’s family for a while she did not expect it would be this hard to get boys to cooperate.

However, per aspera ad astra, she managed to present her idea of a gift, the attractions and all the surprise party.

Obliging the boys under the  pain of sudden and unexpected death, or at least mutilation, to keep their mouths shut.  And since she was the girlfriend of a teenage assassin – this time no one dared to say a word.

***

Obviously the surprise party included working on it undercover. Therefore Y/N was spending more time with Jason, Dick and Tim to the detriment of her hours with Damian. Sneaking around. Dismissing or getting off lightly of answering his questions.

And he got suspicious, it was Damian Wayne Al-Ghul after all.

The young boy, spend hours and days fighting his natural urge to follow her when she was walking out the apartment with no explanation. Tie her to the chair, light the lamp in her face and force the information out of her.

But she was his girlfriend, not a villain.

So, getting too much into his head he came out to one plausible explanation – she was slowly letting him down. Not cutting the tie right away, because that was not who she was, but discouraging him.

“You’re going out again?” he asked, capably hiding the disappointment seeing her putting on shoes and jacket.  Quickly he put the bouquet of flowers he bought for her behind his back, almost crushing the innocent buds, while simultaneously wondering if calling off reservation at her fav restaurant for the fourth time this month would get him kicked out of the VIP list. “I thought we could have a night out and—“

“Sorry, babe.” She smiled apologetically pecking his lips, grabbing the bag and already one foot out the door. “I gotta go do this thing that I told you about!”

“What thing---”

“Don’t wait for me, I’ll be back late. See you around buddy!”

Buddy?!

Did she just--? Holy fucking shit. Now Damian was sure, she stopped loving him.

And since he couldn’t watch her walk out his life like that, it was him, who was going to walk out of hers.

***

She run.

She run as fast as she could, hoping that if by some miracle she got into Flash’s speed the last fifteen minutes conversation with Damian would just turn out to be a dream. Or maybe she’ll find herself back in time, making sure it never happened in the first place.

What did she ever do to him to be treated like that?

Working her ass off to prepare a party? Using all her abilities to get people to help? Miraculously finding Damian’s friends from the past and even getting Jon to attend?

Fuck this shit! Fuck the life!

And out of all day’s in year he choose his own birthday to break up with her!

Fucking piece of shit, demon’s spawn, undeserving of a single second of the last 6 years she gave him.

Jason was fucking right as tragic as it sounded.

She burst into the Wayne Manor, where the boys were hanging the last decorations and immediately started ripping the garlands off and throwing tableware off the table.

“Y/N!!” Dick jumped off the ladder and rushed her direction, but it was Jason who reached her first. Almost tackling her to the floor, fighting against the rage of nails, teeth and screams coming out of her mouth.

“Stop it!”

“LET FUCKING GO OFF ME! THIS PARTY AIN;T HAPPENING UNLESS IT’S OVER MY DEAD BODY!”

“Better be careful with those words, cause in this family you get more than one chance at life.” Jason chuckled

“LET FUCKING GO!” she was struggling against his iron grip while Dick and Tim kneeled next to them

“No.” Jason responded calmly. “No, I’m not letting go off you.”

“None of us do, Y/N.” Tim added, moving a little bit closer, careful to not get a shoe in his face or something like that.

“What happened?” Dick asked calmly “come on, it can’t be that bad…”

“He broke up with me…” she sobbed. Not angry or furious anymore, but fully immersing in sadness. “Damian broke up with me…”

“HE WHAT?!” Dick yelled almost ready to start ripping off the decorations himself, successfully held back by Tim slapping him in the back of his head.

“She just told you. Can’t you see how shaken she is. And your making her say it again just for the sake of it? Get yourself together, Dick.”

“Sorry…”

“I don’t know what happened! I tried to talk and—”

“Talking to Damian about feelings, huh! Great idea Y/N.”

“GRAYSON!” Tim yelled slapping him again.

 “Sorry…”

“I hate to break it to you guys, but it seems like the man of the day has just arrived.” Tim moved to the window where he saw the reflection of the car lights.

“WHAT!?”

“Don’t yell at me! Bruce brought him! It was your plan Y/N!!”

“Oh so one time Bruce could be late he’s actually on time?!”

“Again-stop yelling at me!”

“He cannot see me here! Not like this! Not crying cause he’s going to think that I –“

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAMIAN!

“—care….”

The ending of the sentence was not supposed to escape her mouth, but not caring about her intentions it did. Maybe it was the shock of Bruce entering Wayne Manor with his youngest son, almost convinced the surprise party was already prepared and they could celebrate.

Instead the two were met with four people, caught like deer in the headlights, crying y/n, Jason on the floor holding her for comfort, enraged Dick and a little scared Tim without a plan.

As far away from their usual selves as possible.

“Are we too early or—” Bruce started, but before he could finish the sentence, the nearby ladder started to totter, hooking over the poorly hanged b-day banner and –

“NO!!” Dick yelled and rushed towards it, but tripping over Jason’s leg, fighting desperately to gain back balance and stepping on Y/N’s hand in the process. She yelled and it scared Tim who took a step back, crashing into Dick. Seeing all that Jason rushed to his feet trying to catch the material that was already falling down, dangerously close to the table and the candlestick. In the commotion no one noticed Alfred the cat, who obliviously entered the room, only to almost be flattened.

As the poor animal rushed to Y/N’s side, making her reach arms to give cat some resemblance of shelter, Dick finally managed to grab the banner.

“I got it! YES! Once more I am the one to save the day and--- AH!” he slipped on the floor cause clearly Alfred the cat left a remnants of his fear there, sliding all the way up to the table.

“NO!” Y/N yelled trying to save any of the dish that was already flying to her face.

“NO!” Jason cried out trying to snatch the decoration, getting tangled in it.

“NO!” Tim shrieked as the candled set the tablecloth on fire, that quickly spread to the leg of his trousers. And as the stimuli activated already downloaded plan in his brain, he reached for the extinguisher, profusely spraying everything (and everyone) with white powder.

Disaster.

Y/N, Dick, Jason and Tim were now all on the floor. Dirty, injured and/or humiliated, turned into giant, living, walking snowmen all on Bruce and Damian’s eyes.

“Not again….” Bruce whined.

“Happy birthday Damian!”

“SHUT UP GRAYSON!” the rest of three organizers yelled getting off the floor feeling worse than ever.

“What is all this?” Damian asked with a slight frown. “Or rather… what was all of this.”

“This is your—” Dick started

“AHHHHH!”

“Y/N, we know you are frustrated but please try to calm down—”

“This was supposed to be your stupid birthday party you idiot!” she yelled stumping towards Damian “Hear me?” he poke a finger into his chest. “Your. Stupid. Birthday. Party.”

“My- my what?” Damian stuttered grabbing her wrist only now realizing what day it was. Honestly after the morning break up with Y/N he couldn’t care less about the clock or calendar.

“Your—”

“Wait, wait. Hold back. Is this why you were acting so suspicious?”

“sus-suspicious? Is that what you thought?” her eyes grew wide once more and the steam to hit him blew off instantly

“You were just planning and preparing a party?” Damian asked realizing how much of an idiot he was.

“Yes”!

“So you didn’t stop loving me?” the hint of hope showed up in his eyes

“So you did not stop loving me?” Y/N repeated.

“How could I ever—”

She never gave him a chance to finish that sentence pressing her lips to his, not caring who was watching. And if anyone dared to tease, Damian’s katana would be used for something. And the knowledge of locations of nerve plexuses in the human body.

“Um….” Tim muttered feeling a little awkward in the situation. “Should we--?”

“Mhm. We should.” Dick agreed and noiselessly, like silently as befits a vigilante they fled the room.

***

Meanwhile, Damian and Y/n were sitting on the window sill amongst the mess of a b-day party.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way I planned—” she sighed.

“You kidding? It was the best thing ever.”

“Because you got the gift in clearing the misunderstanding between us?” she smiled and interlaced their fingers.

“no! because of watching my brothers making fools out of themselves.”

“Damian!” she patted his head.

“OUCH! Ok, fine! Fine! It was because I got you back!”

“This was forced, such confession doesn’t count!” she feigned offence.

“Well technically, we never really broke up, so I couldn’t get you back.”

“Well, technically-“ she tried to find a smart way of the situation, but he cut her off.

“Well, non-technically, you got cake in your hair. And on your face And in your lips. And I haven’t even tried that treat. So how about we stop talking so I could get a chance at it?”

He liked the cake.

A lot.

@keidylovestacos @nocturnal-onlooker - I'm taking the liberty of tagging you guys :)

[chillinglyadventurous]

Jealousy, Jealousy

Tags: Jealousy, Pining

I did NOT proofread this.

Once you met Stan’s twin brother, you were absolutely smitten. Stan had known immediately, of course. You told him not ten minutes after Stanford Pines, the real one, had sent the FBI agents away.

You pulled him aside as the twins gushed over Ford, “Why is he hot? Why do I want to marry him immediately?”

Stan shook his head at you, “I knew you were into older men, [Y/N], but I thought you only have eyes for me?”

The fake hurt in his voice was amusing as you crossed your arms over your chest. You kissed his cheek before turning your attention to his biceps, giving them a strong squeeze. You laughed when he flexed.

“A big, strong man like you,” you gushed, “ugh- men like you just can’t be tied down to one woman.”

“You got that right, hot stuff.”

You and Stan had always been flirty with each other, perhaps a bit inappropriate at times, but it was strictly platonic. He had even pulled you aside once, telling you you were a cute girl, but he didn’t have the same feelings. You had laughed in his face, of course. So presumptuous, so full of himself. “I’m out of your league, babe,” you punctuated your sentence with a wink, leaving him speechless. “You wouldn’t know how to handle me.”

Now, you were all about his brother. He was more your type anyways, older and more mysterious. Stan was an open book, always speaking his mind. You appreciated the honesty, but you weren’t Stan’s type either. He preferred a the exact opposite of you.

In some twist of fate, Ford had asked you to dinner. You knew it wasn’t what you thought. It couldn’t be a date. He was simply taking you to dinner to talk over his research. When he and Stan had gotten back from their sail around the world, he had promised to show you everything over a nice meal, to thank you for all your help before they had left.

You were still excited, though, so you had dressed up. It wasn’t anything fancy. It was more casual, a dress you had found in the back of your closet you just hadn’t had the chance to wear in a while. Mabel had offered to help you get ready, that’s why you stood in the middle of Stan’s TV room.

“How do I look?” You gave a little spin in the living room. You held out your hands as you turned. “Think he’ll like it?”

Stan growled at you. A wide, flirty grin covered his face, “I don’t know about that nerd, but I’d take it off you right now if you’d let me.”

“Stan!” You chastised, your head pointing toward the kids sitting at the table behind you.

Mabel looked from you to Stan and back. She looked confused, “Grunkle Stan, she looks beautiful! Don’t make her change.”

“Yeah, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper agreed. “I think [Y/N] looks very pretty.”

You laughed at their innocence, hoping it would never go away. They were sweet kids. You loved them. Maybe, if things worked out with Ford, you could be their great aunt. Graunt? Graunty? Grauntie? You’d work out the details later.

You smiled when Ford came around the corner. He hadn’t really dressed up like you had. He wore his normal garb, but the trench coat had been forgotten. You didn’t understand how he could wear a sweater in the middle of summer. You felt over dressed.

“You ready?” You beamed, taking the outstretched, brand new, Journal 4 in your hands. You were so eager to see what he had been up to.

His hand ghosted over your shoulder, afraid to touch down as you walked by him. Your nose was already buried in the pages. “Only if you are.”

A smack and your yelp broke your concentration. You looked back at Stan who had just smacked you on the rear. He gave you a wink, “Go get ‘em, tiger!”

You didn’t notice the scowl on Ford’s face. Specifically, you didn’t notice the angry glare Ford gave his twin brother. Stan knew how Ford felt about you, yet he was still doing this?

“Stanley,” Ford had confided one night aboard the Stan O’ War II, “I think I have feelings for [Y/N].”

Stan had barely looked down at him brother who was lying on the bunk beneath him. He gave a dismissive wave, “She’s a cute one. That’s for sure.”

Now, you were sitting at dinner. You barely noticed the waiter as you and Ford chatted about his and Stan’s run-in with a giant kraken that had almost sunk their ship. You laughed with him over the story, amazed how he used his magnet gun, carefully aimed at a distant lighthouse, to pull them to safety.

“That’s amazing!” Your hand touched his. Perhaps you had too much wine, “You’re amazing.” The buzz of your phone pulled you out of the spell Ford had put you under by just being himself. “Excuse me,” you whispered as you reached into your purse. You held up your phone so he could see Stan’s name.

U 2 get married yet?

Stan. You let out a breathy laugh, “You’re brother is the most annoying person I have ever met in my life.”

Maybe we would be if you’d leave me alone.

U know you love it when I bother you.

You noticed the change in Ford’s demeanor. “You okay?”

“Of course,” he muttered as he waved the waiter down for the check. He gave you a sad smile. “It’s getting late,” he sighed as he paid the bill.

You walked back to the Shack in silence. As always, Ford held open the door for you and you snuck inside only to find Stan waiting for you. He gave you a warm smile and patted the arm of his chair for you to sit. You sat down next him, his arm slung over your shoulders.

“You two have a good time?” You smiled, but Ford didn’t. His eyes were glued to Stan’s hand squeezing your bicep.

You shuffled away from your friend to sit on the floor instead, “We had a great time, didn’t we?” You glanced over at Ford who refused to look at you.

You didn’t understand. “Yes, of course,” his tone was dry as ever. “I have work I need to do.”

A pit formed in your stomach as he disappeared. You looked up at Stan with pleading eyes. He gave you a warm, comforting smile, “Don’t get so flustered, babe. That man catches mood swings better than he catches a ball.”

“Does he like me at all?” Your words were more confident than you had expected. You sighed, “One minute, we’re laughing and have a great time. The next, he’s all cold and distant. I don’t get it. Did do something?”

You had avoided Ford for a few days after that, never even getting the chance to thank him for such a nice meal. The two of you skirted around each other. Just as things felt normal in the few moments you shared, he grew cold as soon as Stan walked into the room.

You didn’t understand it. You thought they were getting along now, only ending their sailing trip for the kids to come back for the summer. They seemed fine most days. You didn’t understand what had suddenly changed.

“Hey,” you sighed “I brought your journal back.” Ford barely acknowledged your presence in his study. It upset you. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

Ford looked up at you, shocked by your words, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I thought we had a nice time at dinner,” you crossed your arms over your chest, closing the book he was reading. You stared at him with an unblinking gaze. “Now, you’re acting like I don’t exist. When you do speak to me, you get all quiet when Stan shows up. What’s up with that?”

He breathed in a heavy inhale. His thumb and pointer finger gripped the bridge of his nose, “I can’t be around you and not think about you and-“

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” Stan smirked as he entered the room. The atmosphere in the study was tense. “Whoa, what’s going on here?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. Ford did the same. The two of you glared at Stan. “Just say it, Stanley,” Ford huffed. “Just say she’s already with you. I’m tired of waiting for you both to just spit it out.”

“What are you talking about?” Your eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not with anyone.”

Stan snickered from beside you. “Yeesh, I forgot to tell you guys something.” You and Ford turned to Stan expectantly, “So, [Y/N], you know that little crush on Sixer you told me about last year?” You blushed, trying to hide it behind a flare. Ford’s face relaxed, stare landing on you. Crush? “Well, Ford told me he’s got a thing for you too. I thought I told you.”

“No,” you spat, “you left that little detail out.”

Ford stood from his chair. “I thought you two were seeing each other. You’re always flirting.”

You shook your head, a small smile forming on your lips. Every ounce of anger you had towards Stan vanishing, “We’re just friends.” You could see the relief on Stanford’s face. His eyes sparkled from behind his glasses. “Maybe we should give dinner a second chance.”