#you poor unhinged bastard

[favvnsongs]

asdfghjkl lmfao has anyone called in a wellness check on dawson french yet or like, what

[greghousescane]

its literally like midnight and my brain has shut off

— — — — — —

hear me out!! being house’s controversially young gf ?? (aka my fucking dream)

• the first time people found out? TOTAL MASS panic.

• everyone assumed it was some weird fling, a dumb rumor.

. . . until you actually showed up in his office, sitting on his desk, swinging your legs, all casual while house is leaned back in his chair, grinning like a smug bastard.

• cuddy 100% nearly had a STROKE.

“you—you—house—you can’t just—??”

• “I can’t just what, lisa? Have a hot, young girlfriend who’s way too good for me? yeah, I know. tragic.”

• foreman thinks it’s insane and he would totally be the biggest hater. Cameron is lowkey jealous. chase is just fascinated. taub? oh, he’s taking NOTES

• Wilson, bless his soul, literally sits you down like a concerned dad and tries to have The Talk™.

• “you know he’s… house, right?” wilson spoke carefully, leaning his forearms on his desk looking you straight in the eye with a frown.

“I just mean, he’s difficult, he’s complicated, he’s older—”

“You forgot rude and insanely sexy.” we all know house. where did he just come from? who knows. but he’s ALWAYS going to be there to annoy wilson.

“Right. Those too.” and poor wilson is traumatised, exhausted, and fucking confused?? i mean- who wouldnt be??

• everyone assumes you’ll break up with him in a few months, but joke’s on them—you’re just as unhinged, just as stubborn, and you get him in a way no one else does.

[rottenfyre]

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ 𝐌𝐲 𝐝♡ve 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

Pairing: Unhinged Aegon x Therapist Reader part 3

Summary: after that night, no matter what you do, no matter what you say, no one believes you. You're done. You want to quit being his therapist but you still haven't seen the worst part...

Warning: paranoia, abuse, mental illness.

˚꒰♡꒱‧ Hi there! Before you read this, you should know that English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

PART 1, PART 2, PART 4

It had been days since that night—days since the dead doves, the blood on the walls, the police visit to the Targaryen home. Days since Y/N last felt normal.

Now, the walls of her apartment seemed to close in on her. The curtains remained drawn, blocking out the light of day. The once-cozy space was now a prison, suffocating her with silence, except for the incessant scratching at the back of her mind. The feeling of being watched, of not being alone. Every creak, every whisper of wind against the windows made her jump.

She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. Her body felt weak, and her mind was clouded in a haze of paranoia. Her hair was greasy, her skin pale and blotchy. Dark circles framed her eyes—eyes that were wide with fear, darting around the room, always expecting him. Expecting Aegon to appear from the shadows. She had stopped showering, afraid that if she closed her eyes for even a second, he’d be there when she opened them. Her reflection in the mirror was foreign, ghostly, a stranger trapped in a body consumed by terror.

And her boyfriend…he was tired. More than tired. He was done.

"Y/N, for fuck's sake, you have to stop this," he snapped, his voice breaking the silence like glass shattering on the floor. He stood in the kitchen, staring at her with a mix of frustration and pity, while she sat at the edge of the couch, her legs pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them.

"You don’t believe me. You never believe me,” she muttered, her voice hoarse from days of crying, of pleading. "I saw him. It was him. I know it was him." Her eyes were wild, flicking toward the corners of the room as though Aegon might materialize from the shadows at any moment.

Jacob sighed, rubbing his temples. "Y/N, we've been over this a thousand times. The cops checked him out. There was nothing—nothing—to suggest he did anything. No evidence, no signs, nothing. He’s just some guy going through a rough time, and you're his therapist. You’ve taken this too far."

She flinched at his words, the sting of them sinking into her chest. "No…you don’t get it. You don’t see him like I do. He’s dangerous. I’m not safe. He knows where I live. He wants me." Her voice trembled as she spoke, each word a desperate plea for him to understand.

But he didn’t. He was tired of this, of her, of everything.

"You're obsessed, Y/N. Obsessed with this guy. You spend all your time thinking about him, talking about him, dreaming up this whole fucking scenario in your head like you're the main character of some horror movie. But this isn't a movie—this is real life, and you're making shit up!" His voice grew louder, angrier with every word, his patience long gone.

Y/N shook her head, her body trembling. "I'm not making it up. You have to believe me—please. I’m not crazy. I’m not—"

"Yes, you are!" He cut her off, his face twisted with frustration. "You’re fucking crazy, Y/N! Years of being a therapist have finally caught up with you. You’ve absorbed all the bullshit from your patients, and now you’re projecting it onto this guy. Aegon didn’t do anything to you—he’s just some poor bastard who had the misfortune of being assigned to you."

Her stomach lurched at his words. The pain of his accusation was worse than anything she’d felt before. It was like a knife twisting inside her, carving out the last remnants of hope she’d clung to. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

"I'm not crazy," she whispered, her voice broken, fragile. She didn’t even recognize herself anymore.

Jacob slammed his hand on the counter, his eyes blazing with frustration. "Then why are you acting like it? Why can’t you just let this go? You're ruining your life—our life—because you’re so fixated on this guy. You won’t eat, you won’t sleep, you’re a fucking mess, Y/N! I can't keep doing this! Every time I try to help you, you just spiral deeper into this delusion!"

Tears streamed down her face, but she barely felt them. "I’m not delusional," she repeated, but her voice cracked, betraying her.

"Yes, you are!" He shouted, stepping closer, his face red with anger. "You’re making this shit up because you’re obsessed with him. Admit it! You’re obsessed with Aegon. You’ve let him get into your head, and now you’re the one who’s losing it."

"No!" she cried, her voice raw. "I’m not obsessed with him! I don’t care about him like that! I’m scared—he’s going to hurt me! I know he is!"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Oh, give me a break. You’ve been so wrapped up in this guy, you probably want him to do something, just so you can play the victim. Just so you can have some sick thrill of being the center of his attention. It’s pathetic, Y/N."

His words felt like a slap in the face, each one tearing at her like claws. She stared at him, wide-eyed, unable to believe that this was happening—that he was saying these things to her. The one person who was supposed to protect her, to believe her, had turned against her.

"I can’t do this anymore," he said, his voice quieter now but still laced with anger. "I can’t keep pretending that you're okay, because you're not. You need help. Professional help. Maybe you should check yourself into a fucking psych ward, because right now, you’re acting like a fucking lunatic."

Her breath hitched in her throat. The room seemed to spin around her, her vision blurring with tears. "How can you say that?" she whispered, her voice shaking. "How can you say that to me?"

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly done with the conversation. "Because it's the truth. And deep down, you know it. You're spiraling, Y/N. And I’m not going to stand here and let you drag me down with you."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. She felt as though the world had collapsed around her, the last piece of her sanity slipping away.

"Fine," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "If you think I’m crazy…then just go. Leave me."

He stared at her for a long moment, the anger still simmering in his eyes. Then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the apartment, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Y/N alone in the dark.

And for the first time in days, the silence felt more dangerous than ever.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, her eyes red and swollen from sleepless nights. She hadn’t heard from her boyfriend in days, and each missed call had sent her deeper into a pit of despair. But today was different. Today was the day she would finally face Aegon.

Her hands shook as she brushed her hair, her fingers trembling with every stroke. Her reflection looked haggard—dark circles under her eyes, skin pale and sickly. She barely recognized herself, but she needed to pull it together. She had to pull it together.

"He’s just a man," she whispered to herself, her voice shaky but determined. "Just a man… I’m in control. I have to be in control. I can’t let him win."

Her eyes flickered toward the closet. She needed to choose something to wear, something that made her feel strong, confident. Something that would hide how utterly broken she felt inside.

She reached for a black turtleneck, one of the few pieces of clothing that didn’t feel too vulnerable, too exposed. The fabric clung to her body in a way that was both comforting and suffocating, but she convinced herself it was armor. Something to shield her from the weight of Aegon’s gaze. She paired it with dark jeans and boots, feeling the weight of each step as she slipped them on.

"It’s just another session," she muttered, pulling her hair back into a tight ponytail. "I’m going to confront him. I’m going to tell him it’s over. He can’t do this to me anymore."

She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to find some semblance of the person she used to be. Her hands gripped the edges of the sink, her knuckles white from the pressure.

"You're not crazy," she told herself, her voice stronger this time. "He’s messing with you, but you can stop this. You can end this. Just get through today, and then you’re done. You’ll quit. You’ll never have to see him again."

Her heart raced at the thought of being in the same room with him again, but she forced herself to breathe.

"In and out," she whispered, taking a deep breath. "Just…in and out. You can do this. You have to do this."

She tried to picture how it would go. She’d walk into the room, sit across from him like she always did, but this time, she wouldn’t let him get to her. She wouldn’t let his twisted words sink into her skin like poison.

"I’m the therapist," she reminded herself, pacing back and forth now, her boots tapping against the hardwood floor. "I’m the one in control. He’s just a patient. He’s just…" She trailed off, the image of Aegon’s wide eyes and the way he had silently told her to shut up flashing in her mind.

She shook her head, trying to push the memory away. "No, no… Don’t think about that. You’re stronger than this. You’re not scared of him. You can quit. You can walk away."

But her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She stared at them, willing them to be steady. "Breathe," she muttered, forcing another deep breath into her lungs. "Just breathe."

She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder, the weight grounding her for a moment. "You’ve got this," she whispered one last time, trying to convince herself.

But as she headed for the door, the creeping sense of dread wrapped around her, cold and suffocating.

Y/N sat at her desk, staring at the door, the silence of the room pressing in on her. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, and the knot of anger in her chest only grew tighter. She gripped the edge of her desk, her fingers turning white. She was done with Aegon. Done with his games, his manipulations, his stalking. Today, she was ready to confront him—she was ready to make him understand that she wasn’t going to be his victim anymore.

The memory of the dead doves, the blood, still haunted her. Every night, she barely slept, feeling like his eyes were on her, even when she knew she was alone. And yet, despite all of it, he had gotten away with it. He had made her look crazy, gaslighted her in front of the police and her boyfriend, made her question her own reality. But not anymore. Today, she was taking control. Today, she would end it.

Her jaw clenched as she imagined him walking through the door, with that smug, twisted grin. Her mind raced with the confrontation she had been playing over and over in her head. She would scream at him, shout at him until he admitted what he had done. Until he finally stopped pretending to be some innocent victim.

The minutes dragged on, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared at the clock. And then, finally, the door creaked open.

Aegon stepped in, but something was different. He wasn’t the man she was used to seeing—there was no smirk, no defiance. He looked… broken. Shattered.

Her eyes widened in shock. His face was a mess of bruises, swollen and discolored, with dark bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes. His clothes were disheveled, stained with dirt and blood. He walked with a limp, his steps small and hesitant, like every movement hurt him. His hands were clasped tightly together in front of him, shaking as they fidgeted against each other. He kept his head down, glancing around the room like a trapped animal, flinching at every noise, every movement.

Y/N blinked, completely taken aback. This wasn’t the Aegon she knew—the arrogant, unhinged man who had stalked her, terrorized her. No, this was something else, something… disturbing. He looked like someone who had been run over, like life had chewed him up and spat him out, and now he stood there, fearful and fragile.

For a split second, she felt something almost like pity creep into her chest. But then she remembered who he was. What he had done. And the anger surged back to the forefront.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

He didn’t answer. He just stood there, eyes darting around, avoiding her gaze. His lips trembled, but no words came out.

She slammed her hands on the desk, the sound echoing through the room. "Aegon!" she snapped. "What the fuck is wrong with you? What kind of game are you playing now?"

At the sound of her raised voice, Aegon jumped, visibly flinching. His body curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, his shoulders hunching as his knees gave way. He dropped to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth like a scared child.

Y/N’s anger faltered for a moment, replaced by confusion and a creeping sense of dread. "Aegon, what the hell is going on?" she asked again, but this time her voice was quieter, uncertain.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he started muttering under his breath, his voice shaky and broken. "What’s the matter?" he whispered, his words barely audible. "What’s the matter, Aegon?"

Her heart sank as she realized he wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to… himself? His voice trembled as he repeated the words, like a broken record. "What’s the matter, Aegon? No. I’m not gonna hurt you. Come here. Come on. What’s the matter?"

Y/N felt her stomach twist as the phrases spilled out of his mouth over and over again, each repetition more unsettling than the last. It wasn’t Aegon’s voice. It was someone else’s, echoing through his broken mind.

She watched in horror as he hugged his knees tighter, his entire body trembling. "I’m not gonna hurt you, Aegon. See? That wasn’t bad," he whispered, tears streaming down his bruised face. "That wasn’t bad. That wasn’t bad."

It hit her like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t some act, some manipulation. Aegon had been abused—horribly, painfully, to the point where his mind had fractured. And now, as he sat on the floor, shaking and crying, he was reliving it. Over and over again.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen him like this. She had never imagined this side of him—the scared, broken side. The side that had been hurt so deeply that he could only repeat the words of his abuser like a mantra.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her hands shaking as she stood there, unsure of what to do. Part of her still hated him—still wanted to scream at him, to blame him for everything. But another part of her… felt something else. Something terrifying and sad.

She knelt down beside him, her voice soft and hesitant. "Aegon…"

He didn’t respond, just kept rocking back and forth, his tears falling faster now.

"I’m not gonna hurt you," he whispered again, his voice trembling. "See? That wasn’t bad."

She swallowed hard, her mind racing. "Aegon," she said softly, "I’m not going to hurt you either. It’s okay."

He didn’t seem to hear her. He was too far gone, lost in whatever memory had taken over his mind. His eyes stared blankly at the floor, wide and terrified, as if he were seeing something she couldn’t.

She reached out slowly, carefully, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched at the touch, his whole body recoiling, but she didn’t pull away.

"Aegon," she whispered again, trying to keep her voice steady. "It’s okay. You’re safe here."

But he wasn’t safe. Not really. Not with whatever had broken him, not with the darkness that clung to him like a shadow.

He rocked back and forth, mumbling, "Come here. Come on, what’s the matter, Aegon? No, no, no, I’m not gonna hurt you."

Y/N felt a chill run down her spine, her heart pounding in her chest. Whoever had done this to him—whoever had hurt him—had left a mark that ran deeper than anything she could understand.

For the first time, she realized she wasn’t dealing with just a stalker or a psychopath. Aegon was something much darker, much more broken than she had ever imagined.

She swallowed hard, trying to push the fear out of her voice. "Aegon," she said quietly, "It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid."

But as his sobs grew louder, as he curled tighter into himself, Y/N knew that nothing she said could reach him.

The real Aegon—the one who had tormented her, who had done horrible things—was still there, somewhere. But so was this… this terrified boy, trapped in his own mind.

And she didn’t know which one scared her more.

Y/N swallowed down the terror rising in her throat, her hand trembling as she reached out to softly pet Aegon’s head. At first, he flinched, his body jerking away from her touch. But then, as if something clicked in his broken mind, he looked up at her—really looked—and his tear-streaked eyes seemed to recognize her for the first time. His lips trembled as he whispered her name, broken, like a child.

“Y/N…”

Before she could react, he clung to her, his body collapsing into her lap, his head pressed against her chest. He sobbed quietly, his whole body shaking, his hands clutching her as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded. She froze for a moment, completely caught off guard, but then instinct took over, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. His tears soaked through her clothes, and she could feel the tremors in his frail, battered form.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, stroking his hair, trying to calm him. “It’s okay, Aegon. You’re safe now.”

His sobs eventually began to quiet, his breathing slowing as she rocked him gently, her voice soft in his ear. “Shh… it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

For a long time, they stayed like that—her holding him, him clinging to her like a lifeline. The moments stretched into eternity, and Y/N could feel his grip slowly loosen as the storm inside him settled. He pulled away slightly, his eyes red and swollen from crying, but he refused to meet her gaze, his head turning away as he tried to wipe at the tears that continued to fall.

“Aegon…” she began softly, “What happened to you? Who did this?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor, his jaw tight, struggling to control the tears still running down his face.

“Aegon, please…” she pressed, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to tell me.”

For a moment, it seemed like he might respond, but then he muttered something, barely audible. “I… I hate it. When she… when my mother does horrible things to me.”

Y/N felt her breath catch. His mother? She had always known that Aegon’s relationship with his family was fraught, but this? There was something darker here, something that had broken him in ways she couldn’t fathom.

“But it’s okay,” Aegon continued, his voice shaking. “Because I love her. And that’s what matters, right?”

“No Aegon–”

"I didn’t mean to hurt you, Y/N," Aegon said suddenly, his voice softer now, almost childlike. "I was angry that night, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to hurt him. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. The way he touched you."

She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Aegon…"

He turned to her then, his bloodshot eyes wide and full of sincerity. "You can hit me, you know. I won’t stop you. You were so angry, I could see it. You can hit me if it makes you feel better."

Y/N’s blood ran cold. "What? No, Aegon, I’m not—"

"You can," he repeated, almost eagerly. "It’s okay. You’re mad at me. You can hit me." He smiled then, a soft, unnerving smile that made her stomach churn. "I won’t even flinch. I promise."

"Aegon, that’s not—"

“You can beat me if it makes you feel better,” he continued, his voice unnervingly soft, as though he were offering her a gift. “It’s okay. I’ll let you do it. I deserve it, right?”

The pit in Y/N’s stomach twisted. His words, his tone—it was as if he was trying to convince himself, not her. Like he was rationalizing the abuse he had endured.

He turned his head just slightly, enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re like me,” he whispered.

Her body tensed at his words. “What… what do you mean?”

He wiped at his face with trembling fingers, still not fully meeting her eyes. “Even though your boyfriend hurt you… you still think about him, don’t you?”

Y/N’s blood ran cold. She felt the fear creeping back in—the terror that had been gnawing at her ever since the day the dead doves appeared at her door. The stalker. The horror. It was all coming back.

Aegon finally looked up at her, his eyes glittering with something dark, something sinister. “You love him… don’t you?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Her heart was hammering in her chest, the air thick with a suffocating dread.

Aegon’s lips twisted into a smile—that smile. The one she had seen before, the one that sent chills down her spine.

“I hate him,” Aegon said softly, his voice dripping with venom. “I hate the way he treats you. The way he talks to you. Hurts you. He doesn’t deserve you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She could feel her pulse quickening, her mind racing, trying to piece together what he was saying—what he was implying.

“Do you know,” Aegon asked, his tone disturbingly calm, “why he hasn’t answered your calls?”

Her stomach dropped.

She hadn’t heard from her boyfriend in days. He had stormed out after their last argument, refusing to answer her desperate calls or texts. She had been terrified, worried sick about him—about what he was thinking, about whether he’d come back. But now, sitting here, listening to Aegon, that fear morphed into something far worse.

He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have.

Her entire body went cold.

“What… what do you mean?” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

Aegon’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with something inhuman, something evil. He didn’t answer directly—he didn’t have to. The look in his eyes told her everything.

He leaned back, his voice light and playful now, like they were discussing a joke. “Did you open the gift I left for you?”

Her heart nearly stopped.

Gift? What gift? She hadn’t seen anything—hadn’t thought about it. But then, the morning came flooding back to her. The moment she had left the house, her mind too wrapped up in her terror and paranoia to notice anything out of place.

Her blood ran cold as her mind raced with horrible possibilities. The gift. What if it wasn’t just some harmless object? What if it was—

No. No, no, no.

She stood up so fast that she almost tripped, her eyes wide with panic. Aegon was laughing now—a soft, eerie laugh that filled the room, the sound making her skin crawl.

“Oh, Y/N,” he cooed, his voice mocking. “You really should check your door more carefully in the mornings.”

Her mind was spinning, her heart racing. She had to get out. She had to leave. She couldn’t stay here—not with him, not with his laughter ringing in her ears, the sick grin spreading across his bruised face.

She grabbed her keys from the desk, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped them. Aegon was still sitting there, watching her with that horrifying smile, his eyes gleaming with delight.

“You’ll thank me later,” he called after her as she bolted for the door.

Her mind was screaming, her heart pounding in her chest as she tore through the office, slamming the door behind her. His laughter echoed in her ears, following her down the hallway, filling her with a terror so deep she could barely breathe.

And as she ran, the only thought in her mind was the horrifying possibility of what she would find when she opened that gift.

@ 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[just-some-user-hunny]

Daemon: *watching his daughter landing with cannibal for the first time* WHAT WERE YOU EVEN THINKING? STUPID GIRL

Reader: STFU YOU OLD CUNT

Random lord: she is sure yours my prince, a true rogue princess indeed, only one can tame a dragon like cannibal

Daemon: hehe 😌👉👈 fr?? I know she is my little princess isnt she?? 😌

Reader: ew

This is literally what goes down 😭😭😭

Daemon is a mixture mortified and impressed if his child were to claim a dragon as terrifying as the cannibal. Yes, he'll scold you as an enraged over-controlling father, but he's also in awe that his child claimed such a dragon. Yes. He is mad, but he's impressed too. He's the unhinged football parent who would cheer you on, looking deranged on the sidelines.

You can bet that he won't stop himself from bragging about his child and their dragon in court, in front of the greens, whatever your relationship is with them. He'd be puffed up with pride.

He'd subtly rub it in everyones faces. That his princess has a terrifying dragon that no-one has ever been able to claim, because of course she did. She's his daughter after all, she is made of his fire and blood. No-one shall deny you of your heritage now, so what if they're a bastard! They have a dragon, and you don't.

Poor reader as well. Especially once they are in their teen years as well, because that in itself is an awkward flurry of emotions and discomfort. The last thing you need now is a boastful father who parades your name and title around like it's a world wonder. Meanwhile reader is busy tending over her big scary dragon who's gentle to only them, not interested in whatever Daemon is trying to preach or rant about.

[evermoreness]

ok girly I have no idea why but I need angist rn. so

what do you personally think the story would go if barty or regulus had to watch reader be tortured by death eaters (their own family) and what would the final out come be?

— Thank you for the amazing prompt, i loved writing it! Hope you like it! @msfandomsblog

secrets | regulus black - barty crouch jr.

pairing: regulus black x barty crouch jr. x reader

summary: you are working undercover for the order of the phoenix but things take a turn when your boyfriends, proud death eaters, discover how much danger you're in.

warnings: angsty, sad, mentions of blood purity, torture, blood, death and swearing.

obs: feel free to send your request!

masterlist

The first time you, Regulus, and Barty had been seen together, it had sent shockwaves through Hogwarts. The ever-composed, brooding Black heir and the unhinged, sharp-tongued prodigy of the Crouch family—both utterly devoted to you.

It had started as a game of wits. Barty loved a challenge, and Regulus enjoyed the quiet thrill of being underestimated. You had simply walked into their world with a smirk and sharp tongue, meeting their teasing and sarcasm with equal fire. Somehow, that had turned into late-night meetings in the Astronomy Tower, stolen kisses in the library, and whispered confessions between hex duels.

Regulus was the calm in the storm, his fingers always gentle when they brushed against your skin, his words measured and thoughtful. He would read to you on quiet nights, his voice a low murmur against the crackling fire, while Barty lay with his head in your lap, grinning as he plotted mayhem for the next day. Barty, for all his chaos and sharp edges, was fiercely protective, with a gaze that burned whenever someone dared to look at you the wrong way. He had a habit of pulling you against him, smirking down at you like you were the best-kept secret of his life.

The three of you were a paradox that shouldn’t have worked, yet it did.

The years passed, the war was creeping into every part of your lives. It slithered into the quiet moments, the laughter, the stolen kisses. It wrapped itself around your wrists like the Dark Mark, a constant, suffocating reminder of the choices they had made.

Regulus, Barty, and you had all taken the Mark—because what else was there? A refusal meant death, meant dishonor, meant betrayal of the very blood that ran through your veins. And so, you played the part well.

But Regulus was watching you.

At first, it was just a feeling. Something about the way you never seemed comfortable in the meetings. You didn’t speak with the same conviction as Barty, who thrived in the chaos of war. You didn’t look at the Dark Lord with the same reverence as the others. And then there were the small things—the way you flinched when Bellatrix praised a particularly gruesome mission, the way your fingers curled into your palms whenever the word "Mudblood" was thrown around carelessly.

Regulus noticed everything.

But he said nothing. Not yet.

One night, as the three of you sat in your living room, away from the prying eyes of other Death Eaters, Barty was ranting about a recent mission. His eyes were alight with excitement, his hands moving wildly as he spoke.

"And then you should have seen how he begged," Barty said, smirking. "Pathetic, really. I almost felt bad for the poor bastard."

You were staring at the fire, your fingers curled against your palm. "Almost," you murmured.

Barty glanced at you, grinning. "Come on, love, don’t tell me you’re getting all soft on me."

You forced a smirk, playing along like always. "Hardly. Just thinking about how easily that could be any one of us if we weren’t born pure enough."

Barty laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, I love when you get all philosophical on me." He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. "But don’t overthink it, yeah? We’re winning. That’s what matters."

You hummed, nodding. But Regulus saw through you.

Later that night, when Barty had fallen asleep in the armchair across from the fire, Regulus pulled you aside. His grip was gentle but firm as he took your hand, leading you to the farthest corner of the room.

"You don’t believe in this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You froze.

"What?"

Regulus exhaled, his grey eyes searching yours. "You don’t believe in the cause."

Your heart pounded. "Reg, that’s ridiculous. Of course, I—"

"Don’t lie to me," he interrupted, his tone sharper now. He leaned in, his fingers tightening around yours. "I know you, Y/N. I’ve seen the way you look at them. The way you flinch when they talk about—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Why are you here?"

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "Because we don’t have a choice."

Regulus studied you for a long moment. "No," he said quietly. "Because you’re hiding something."

You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? That he was right? That while he and Barty were blindly loyal to the Dark Lord, you had been sneaking off, feeding the Order information? That every time you put on the mask and followed orders, you felt like you were suffocating?

Regulus’ voice was softer now. "Tell me the truth."

You took a shaky breath. "I can’t."

His jaw tightened. "Then I’ll find it myself."

And with that, he turned, leaving you standing there, heart hammering against your ribs.

Days passed, and Regulus was unraveling.

He knew you were keeping something from him—something big. And whatever it was, it was dangerous.

He could see it in the way your shoulders tensed when certain names were mentioned at meetings, in the way your hands trembled ever so slightly after a mission, in the way you lingered at the edges of conversations instead of throwing yourself into them like Barty did.

Barty didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy basking in the thrill of war, too caught up in the chaos to see what Regulus did.

But Regulus?

He saw everything.

And it was driving him mad.

He didn’t say a word to Barty. Not yet. If he confronted you and was wrong, it could put you in danger. If he was right—which he was sure he was—then he had no idea what the hell he was going to do.

So, he watched. He waited. And the more he saw, the more the truth clawed at his chest, making it harder to breathe.

Then, one night, he’d had enough.

You were alone in the living room, sitting by the fire with a book in your lap, though you weren’t reading it. Your mind was elsewhere. It had to be—you had just returned from a secret meeting with the Order, slipping back into the house under the cover of night, your pulse still racing from the risk of it all.

You should have gone to bed. Should have buried yourself beneath your blankets and pretended—like you always did—that everything was fine.

But you didn’t get the chance.

Because Regulus found you.

"You’re going to get yourself killed," his voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

You looked up, heart skipping a beat at the sight of him standing in the dim glow of the fire. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, his stormy grey eyes locked onto yours with something dangerous brewing behind them.

For a split second, you considered pretending you didn’t know what he was talking about.

But the look on his face told you there was no use in lying.

"Reg—"

He took a step closer, his voice strained. "Do you have any idea how reckless you’re being?"

Your fingers curled around the pages of your book. "I don’t know what—"

"Stop it." His voice wavered, just slightly. "Don’t lie to me."

You sucked in a breath.

He sat down beside you, but there was no warmth between you this time, only tension so thick it was suffocating. His fingers were twitching against his knee, a nervous habit he rarely let anyone see.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "Please."

You looked away. "I can’t."

Regulus let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his dark curls. "I knew it," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "I knew something was wrong, but I thought—" He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "You don’t believe in any of this, do you?"

You didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

Regulus let out a humorless laugh, leaning back against the couch. "Of course. Of course you don’t." He turned his head toward you, his eyes burning. "Then why are you still here?"

Your throat tightened. "Because I have to be."

"That’s not good enough."

You turned to face him fully, your pulse hammering. "What do you want me to say, Regulus? That I think this war is a nightmare? That I hate every single second of pretending I stand for something I despise? That every time I watch you and Barty throw yourselves into this, I feel like I’m losing you both?" Your voice cracked on the last words, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard.

Regulus flinched.

"You’re—" His voice caught, and he swallowed hard. "You’re working against us."

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

You inhaled sharply. "I’m trying to stop something that I know will destroy us all."

Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing shallow. "And if the Dark Lord finds out?" His voice was soft now, almost fragile.

You hesitated. "Then I die."

His eyes snapped open, and for the first time since this conversation started, there was something like fear in them.

"You can’t do this," he whispered. "Y/N, if they even suspect—"

"They don’t," you cut in quickly. "No one does."

Regulus stared at you, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. "I do."

Silence.

A long, unbearable silence.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

"I should turn you in."

You stiffened.

"But you won’t."

Regulus swallowed, his hand flexing at his side. "No," he admitted, voice hoarse. "I won’t."

Your chest ached at the conflict written all over his face.

"You don’t have to believe in this either, you know," you said gently.

He let out a bitter laugh. "It’s not that simple."

"Yes, it is," you whispered.

Regulus turned his face toward you, his gaze flickering to your lips before settling back on your eyes. For a moment, he looked like he might say something—something important, something real—but then, instead, he reached out and cupped your face, his fingers barely trembling.

"You’re a fool," he murmured.

"So are you," you whispered back.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t desperate or hurried—it was slow, lingering, like he was memorizing the feel of you in case this was the last time.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

"I’m going to lose you," he said. It was a fact.

You closed your eyes, your fingers curling around the front of his robes. "Not yet."

Regulus exhaled shakily, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling back completely. He looked at you for a long time, as if trying to burn the image of you into his memory.

Then, without another word, he stood up and walked away.

You watched him go, knowing that, after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.

Regulus didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor while his mind spun in endless circles.

You were risking everything. Everything.

And the worst part?

He knew you were right.

He had known for a long time that Voldemort wasn’t a leader to be followed—he was a tyrant, a monster. The things he demanded, the cruelty he enjoyed—Regulus had seen enough to know that this was not the future he wanted. But still, he had stayed. Out of fear. Out of duty. Out of some warped sense of inevitability.

And now, you were standing against it.

And he was too much of a coward to do the same.

He clenched his fists, breathing heavily.

He hated himself for it.

But more than anything, he was afraid. Afraid for you. Because if Voldemort ever found out—if even the wrong person suspected—you’d be dead before you had the chance to defend yourself.

And he—God help him—he wouldn’t survive that.

Something had changed.

Barty was growing restless.

He wasn’t stupid—he saw things.

The way you and Regulus had become something else—something charged, something that teetered between love and fury. The whispers, the stolen glances, the tension so thick it made his skin crawl.

He didn’t get it.

You and Regulus had always been close, but now? Now it felt like there was something unspoken between you, something he wasn’t a part of. And Barty hated being left out.

One evening, as the three of you sat in the living room, Barty was watching the two of you like a predator studying prey.

Regulus was seated beside you on the couch, but he wasn’t touching you. That was the first thing Barty noticed. He always touched you, even in the smallest ways—a hand on your knee, fingers tracing your wrist. But now? Nothing. He was sitting stiffly, arms crossed, jaw clenched, like there was a war raging inside of him.

You were no better. You kept sneaking glances at him, your brows knitting together in frustration, your lips parting as if you wanted to say something but didn’t.

Barty leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. "Alright," he drawled, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "What the hell is going on?"

You blinked, turning to him. "What?"

"Don’t play dumb, love," Barty said, his voice almost teasing, but there was something sharp beneath it. "You two have been acting weird. Whispering, staring, fighting without actually fighting—what is it? Did Regulus forget your birthday? Did you finally tell him you like me more?" He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Regulus exhaled through his nose. "Drop it, Barty."

"Oh, I don’t think I will," Barty shot back. His smirk widened, but his eyes glinted dangerously. "Because I’m starting to think you two are keeping secrets from me."

You forced a scoff. "Oh, please. What, do you think we’re plotting against you?"

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he said. "But no, I don’t think it’s that." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "See, I’ve been watching you two. And whatever this is—" he gestured between you and Regulus "—it’s not normal."

Regulus’ jaw clenched. "There’s nothing—"

"Yes, there is," Barty cut in sharply. His gaze flickered between the two of you, and for the first time, there was something like hurt beneath his usual bravado. "When did I become the third wheel?"

You inhaled slowly. "Barty—"

"Don’t," he said, his voice tight. "Just tell me what’s going on."

Silence.

Regulus was looking at the fire, his profile cast in flickering gold. He looked tired.

Barty’s expression darkened. "You know, whatever this thing is, it’s starting to piss me off."

Regulus let out a sharp breath, finally turning to look at him. "Not everything is about you, Barty."

"Oh, fuck off, Reg" Barty snapped. "Don’t pull that on me. If you two are going to keep secrets, at least have the decency to lie to me properly."

Regulus stared at him for a long moment, then stood abruptly. "I’m going to bed."

Barty let out a bitter laugh. "Of course you are."

Regulus ignored him, turning on his heel and stalking toward the dorms.

Barty turned to you. "Well?"

You hesitated. "I… can’t tell you."

Barty’s lips parted slightly, his expression twisting. "Why?"

You swallowed hard. "Because it’s not something you can know."

His jaw ticked. "That’s bullshit, and you know it."

You closed your eyes, inhaling shakily. "I’m sorry, Barty."

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have a response.

He just stood there, staring at you, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. Then, without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

And just like that, the cracks in your carefully built world grew wider.

Fractured bonds.

The tension between the three of you was unbearable.

Days had passed, but it felt like years. Your relationship was holding on by a thread, fragile and stretched too thin.

It was like walking on broken glass—painful, dangerous, and yet none of you could step away.

One moment, there was anger—shouting, sharp words, accusations that cut too deep. The next, there was longing—a desperate need to hold on, to kiss, to pretend that none of this was happening. It was a cycle, a vicious one, but one none of you had the strength to break.

You knew Regulus was still watching you, studying you with that sharp, knowing gaze. And Barty? Barty was unpredictable. One second, he was angry, bitter, pushing you and Regulus away—then the next, he was pulling you both back in, acting as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

And tonight, it all came crashing down.

The three of you were in your room.

A storm raged outside, rattling the windows, but the storm inside the room was far worse.

"You’re lying to us," Barty snapped, his voice laced with frustration as he paced the room. His fingers twitched at his sides, the way they always did when he was on edge. "You’re both lying to me."

"Barty—" you started, but he cut you off with a sharp glare.

"Don’t," he hissed. "I don’t want more excuses, I don’t want more half-truths. I want the fucking truth."

Regulus was standing by the fireplace, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But you could see the way his jaw was clenched, the way his fingers dug into his own arms like he was holding himself back.

"There’s nothing to tell," Regulus finally said, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Barty let out a bitter laugh. "Right. Because you two sneaking around, whispering behind my back, looking at each other like you’re going to shatter any second—that’s normal?"

"Barty, please," you tried, stepping toward him, but he stepped back.

His eyes burned into yours. "Don’t do that," he said lowly. "Don’t act like I’m the problem here."

Regulus exhaled sharply. "You’re not."

"Then tell me what’s going on," Barty snapped, turning on him.

Regulus hesitated. Just for a moment.

And that was enough.

Barty let out another sharp laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t trust me," he said, voice quieter this time. "After everything. You don’t trust me."

Your chest ached. "It’s not about trust—"

Barty scoffed. "Of course it is," he said bitterly. "Regulus barely looks at me anymore, you only talk to me when you have to, and I’m supposed to believe that everything is fine?" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I’m not stupid."

"Then why are you making this harder than it already is?" Regulus said suddenly, voice tight.

Barty’s head snapped toward him. "I’m making it harder?" he repeated, incredulous.

Regulus let out a sharp breath. "You think I don’t know what this is doing to us? You think I don’t know that everything is falling apart?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, and that alone made your stomach twist. "I don’t need you to remind me."

Silence filled the room.

Barty’s expression flickered—just for a second. Then, just as quickly, he covered it with anger.

"Then fix it," he said. His voice wasn’t loud anymore. It was quiet, almost pleading. "Fix it before we lose this."

Regulus inhaled shakily, but he didn’t answer.

And neither did you.

Because deep down, you both knew—this wasn’t something that could be fixed.

Not when you were still lying to them.

Not when the war was getting closer, tearing you in different directions.

Not when you were all breaking apart and couldn’t find a way to hold on.

But despite it all—despite the anger, the pain, the lies—Barty still stepped closer.

The silence stretched between the three of you, thick and suffocating.

Regulus wasn’t looking at Barty anymore. He was staring into the fire, his jaw tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself, and then—"I’m working against him."

Barty’s entire body went still.

His breathing slowed. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"What," he said, voice eerily calm.

You swallowed hard. "I’ve been helping the Order. Gathering information, passing it to them." You hesitated, glancing at Regulus. "He figured it out days ago."

Barty didn’t even blink. His eyes flicked to Regulus, and his voice was dangerously quiet when he spoke.

"And you didn’t tell me?"

Regulus turned then, his face tense. "No."

"You knew she was working against the Dark Lord, and you didn’t say a word?" Barty’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. He took a step forward, fury rolling off him in waves. "You knew she was walking straight into death and you just—what? Let her do it?"

Regulus’s jaw clenched. "It’s not that simple."

Barty let out a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, no, it is that simple, Reg." He turned to you, his eyes burning with something almost wild. "You—do you have any idea what he’ll do to you if he finds out?"

You met his gaze steadily. "I do."

"And you still—" His voice broke off as he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to throw something, break something. "You—fuck."

Regulus took a step forward, voice low. "Barty—"

"No." Barty shook his head. "No, don’t ‘Barty’ me right now. I—I don’t even know what to—you’re both fucking insane."

Regulus stayed silent.

You, however, took another step forward. "I knew you’d be mad, but I didn’t think it’d be because of this."

Barty turned to you so fast it made your breath hitch. "Are you joking?" His voice was rough, strained. "I’m not mad because you don’t believe in him. I’m mad because you—" He let out a harsh breath, shaking his head. "Because I thought I’d have a lifetime with you, and now I don’t even know if you’ll make it to next week."

Your chest tightened.

"You can’t—" His voice cracked. "You can’t just throw yourself into this war like you’re untouchable. You know what he does to traitors."

"I know," you whispered.

Barty let out another breath, and before you could react, his hands were on your face. His grip was firm, almost desperate, his thumbs tracing over your cheekbones like he was trying to memorize you. His forehead pressed against yours, and for the first time in days, he wasn’t pushing you away.

"You’re going to get yourself killed," he murmured. "And I—I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens."

Your hands came up to rest over his, your fingers curling against his wrists.

Regulus was watching, his expression unreadable. But then, finally, he stepped forward too. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into him.

Barty’s breathing was ragged against your skin, and you felt Regulus sigh against the top of your head.

For a moment, just a moment, none of it mattered.

Not the war.

Not the danger.

Just the three of you, holding onto each other like you were the only thing left in the world.

The world outside seemed to disappear.

For a few moments, the only thing that mattered was the feel of Barty’s hands gently cupping your face, the heat of Regulus’s body pressing against your back, his arms around you, both of them surrounding you like a fragile lifeline.

Barty’s breath was still uneven, but there was a tenderness in the way he held you now. His fingers traced over your jaw, soft, as if he were trying to memorize you. He pressed his forehead against yours again, his lips hovering so close you could feel his every breath.

"I can’t lose you," he whispered, voice breaking, as though the admission hurt. "You can’t just—" He shook his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You can’t keep doing this. I can’t—"

"Then stop me," you said softly, your voice trembling.

Barty’s eyes met yours, and for a second, he just stared, his gaze dark, conflicted. He didn’t know what to say to that. His hand moved down to your neck, fingertips brushing lightly over your skin. "I’m trying," he murmured. "But I’m losing you. Every time you walk out, every time you’re not with me..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard, as if the words were too much for him to say.

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breath, but the weight of it all felt heavier than it ever had. You could feel the pull between you and Barty, the tension of unspoken feelings, but also the love—the ache that had been there since this all started.

Regulus’s arms tightened around you, and he leaned down, his voice softer, quieter. "We’re here," he said gently. "We’re not leaving you. Not now, not ever."

His words, spoken in that calm, steady tone, did something to you. The tears you had been holding back threatened to spill over, but you fought them. You couldn’t break down now. Not when they were both holding you together.

"I can’t keep doing this," you whispered. "I can’t keep lying to both of you, to myself."

"You don’t have to lie," Regulus said, his voice full of quiet understanding. "You’re doing what you think is right. But you don’t have to do it alone. You’re not alone."

Your breath hitched at his words. It was like something inside you was unraveling, something you had been holding onto so tightly, afraid of losing control. But now, with them here, with them holding you, maybe it was time to stop pretending.

You turned to face Regulus, letting your fingers curl into his arm, pressing your cheek against his chest. "I’m scared," you whispered, the words coming out in a rush. "I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I’m so afraid of what might happen. Of what’ll happen if he finds out."

Barty’s grip on you tightened, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, "Then let us help you. We’ll keep you safe." His voice was rough with the desperation that mirrored your own. "I’m not going to let you walk into this mess without me. I’m not going to let you face it alone."

Regulus’s voice was firm, unwavering. "Neither of us are."

The three of you stood there, pressed together in the dim light of the room, the weight of everything that was happening in the world outside pressing in on you, but somehow, for a moment, it didn’t matter. The war felt so far away when they were holding you like this.

But the truth was, you couldn’t keep this secret much longer. The lies, the deception, the danger—it was all closing in, and you knew it. Yet, here they were, both of them, offering you their trust, their protection, and their love.

And somehow, for a split second, you let yourself believe that maybe it would be enough.

Barty pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours. "Promise me you’ll tell me next time," he whispered, his voice softer now. "I need to know. I need you to trust me."

You nodded slowly, looking at him. "I promise."

Regulus’s arms tightened around you again, his chin resting gently on the top of your head. "I’ll be here, too," he said quietly. "Don’t think for a second you’re alone in this."

The room was so still, the storm outside distant and almost irrelevant now. You could feel their hearts, both of them, beating against you in sync. For a moment, it was as if time had stopped, as if nothing else existed except the three of you.

"I’m sorry," you whispered. "I never wanted to hurt either of you."

Barty’s thumb stroked over your cheek, wiping away the tear you hadn’t even noticed had fallen. "You haven’t hurt us," he said softly. "But you will if you keep doing this alone."

Regulus’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair. "We’re not asking you to fight this battle for us," he said, his voice low but steady. "But we can’t lose you."

The room felt heavier than ever, but it also felt strangely comforting. The love, the unspoken understanding between the three of you—no matter how much the world outside seemed to be falling apart, right now, here, this moment was everything.

"I don’t want to lose you either," you whispered, finally letting go of the fear that had been consuming you for so long.

And in that moment, for all the turmoil and pain and uncertainty, you knew that you wouldn’t face it alone. They were there, both of them, and as long as they were by your side, maybe—just maybe—you had a chance to survive this. Together.

His favourite.

The dark chamber was cold, the air thick with something suffocating—fear, anticipation, devotion. The Death Eaters stood in a circle, their black robes blending into the shadows, the eerie flicker of candlelight casting long, twisting silhouettes along the stone walls.

You stood between Regulus and Barty, their presence anchoring you, though it did little to quell the sickening dread curling in your stomach. Every meeting was unbearable, but tonight felt different.

The Dark Lord sat at the head of the room, his pale fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his throne-like chair. His red eyes flickered over the gathered figures before settling on you, a slow, satisfied smirk pulling at his lips.

"Ah," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "My most promising ones."

You fought to keep your expression neutral as he rose from his seat, gliding toward the three of you with that effortless, inhuman grace.

"You never fail to impress me," Voldemort continued, his gaze lingering on you for far too long. "So young, yet so skilled. A rare combination."

Regulus shifted beside you, subtle but protective, his fingers twitching at his side. Barty, on your other side, clenched his jaw so tightly you could almost hear his teeth grind.

"My Lord," you said, lowering your head slightly, feigning deference as best you could.

His lips curled as he took a step closer, just near enough that you could feel the cold presence of his magic brushing against your skin.

"Tell me," Voldemort mused, reaching out a single, skeletal finger to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "do you understand how valuable you are to me?"

Your stomach turned.

"I only serve where I am needed, my Lord," you answered carefully, lowering your gaze just slightly, playing the part he expected of you.

His lips curled in something akin to a smile. "Humble as ever."

Barty stiffened beside you. You could feel the way his entire body was wound tight, the anger radiating off him in waves.

Regulus, ever composed, subtly shifted closer to you, his fingers brushing against yours, a silent reminder that he was there. That neither of them would let this go too far.

Voldemort, of course, noticed.

His amusement grew. "Ah," he mused, voice smooth as silk. "You boys are always so protective of her. As if she needs it."

Barty’s jaw clenched. "She is ours, my Lord." His voice was unwavering, firm, but careful. He knew better than to openly challenge him.

Voldemort’s head tilted ever so slightly, amusement flickering in his red eyes. "Oh?"

Regulus’s voice was calm, carefully measured. "We are bound to each other, My Lord. Devoted. She is ours as much as we are hers."

There was a long silence. The tension in the room crackled like static.

Then Voldemort chuckled.

You hated this. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke to you as if you were his.

"Fascinating," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the three of you with something almost like amusement. "How devoted you are to each other. It is rare to find such unwavering loyalty."

You swallowed, resisting the urge to step back. You knew better than to show weakness here.

Voldemort exhaled through his nose, seemingly satisfied for now, and turned away, his robes billowing as he strode back toward his seat.

"But," he continued, lowering himself into his chair once more, "loyalty is not always absolute, is it?"

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay still.

Voldemort’s eyes flickered over the room, sharp and calculating. "I have reason to believe there is a traitor among us," he said, his tone casual, but the weight of his words made the air feel even heavier.

Your fingers curled into your robe.

Regulus, beside you, barely moved, but you could feel how tense he was, every muscle in his body coiled tight. Barty, too, was unnaturally still, but you could tell his mind was already racing.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on different Death Eaters, as if searching for any sign of guilt. "Someone has been leaking information to the Order of the Phoenix," he said, his voice almost lazy. "They think they can deceive me."

The chamber was utterly silent.

You could feel your heart pounding against your ribs, but you kept your breathing steady, your expression carefully blank.

"Whoever it is," Voldemort mused, his fingers tapping lightly against his armrest, "will be found. And when they are…" His smile was razor-sharp, chilling. "Well. You all know what happens to traitors."

Your stomach twisted violently.

Regulus’s hand brushed against yours—so briefly, so subtly, that no one else would have noticed, but the message was clear.

Barty, too, shifted just slightly, moving closer, his body half-angled toward you in an instinctive stance of protection.

Voldemort watched the three of you again, his expression unreadable. "Tell me," he said, "do any of you have thoughts on this… traitor?"

You knew what he was doing.

He wanted you to speak. He wanted to hear you condemn someone, to prove your allegiance.

You forced a small frown, tilting your head slightly, as if deep in thought. "If someone has betrayed you, My Lord," you said carefully, "they have made their choice, and it will be their downfall."

Voldemort regarded him for a long moment before his gaze slid back to you.

"Yes," he murmured. "I trust you will handle it."

Your throat felt dry. "Of course, my Lord."

His lips curled again, but this time there was something calculating in his eyes.

Then, without warning, he reached forward.

His cold, skeletal fingers barely grazed the side of your face before—

Barty stepped in.

Regulus moved at the same time.

"My Lord," Barty said smoothly, though his voice was tight, almost shaking with the restraint it took to keep his anger in check. "She is ours." He said again, as to remember what he just said mere minutes ago.

Regulus was more measured but no less firm. "We have always been loyal to you, my Lord. And we remain loyal to each other."

For a moment, Voldemort merely watched them.

Then he laughed.

Low and cruel.

"Fascinating," he mused. "Such devotion. Such love." His voice curled around the word as if it was something vile. "And yet, love has always been a weakness, hasn’t it?"

Regulus didn’t flinch. "Love is what makes us fight harder, my Lord. We would die for you."

Barty nodded sharply. "And we would kill for her."

Voldemort exhaled through his nose, as if weighing their words. Then, finally, he leaned back in his seat, his amusement still evident.

"Very well," he said, his voice smooth once more. "You may keep your prize."

Your stomach churned.

Your mind was racing, your body still thrumming with the aftershock of his scrutiny.

The meeting dragged on, each passing second heavy with tension. Voldemort had moved on from his initial speech, now discussing upcoming attacks, new strategies, and those who had been caught opposing him. Every word out of his mouth was a reminder of how deep they were in this war, of how much blood was on everyone’s hands.

You kept your expression neutral, nodding when appropriate, keeping your breathing steady. Barty was standing stiffly beside you, arms crossed, barely keeping himself in check. Regulus, ever composed, listened carefully, but his hands were curled into fists at his sides.

Then, as the meeting was beginning to wind down, Voldemort spoke again.

“Before you all leave,” he said smoothly, his red eyes sweeping over the gathered Death Eaters, “I will require a few moments with each of you. Privately.”

A few people shifted uneasily.

You felt a cold wave wash over you, but you didn’t let it show.

Voldemort leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable. “There is a traitor among us,” he repeated, voice silk-soft, yet carrying an undeniable weight. “And I will not be made a fool of.”

The air in the chamber thickened.

“You will come to me, one by one,” he continued. “There is no need to fear. If you are loyal, you have nothing to hide.”

A lie.

No one spoke.

Then Voldemort’s gaze flicked to Barty. “We will begin with you, Crouch.”

Barty stiffened, then exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. You could tell he was biting back something sharp, something reckless, but he held his tongue.

Voldemort stood, gesturing toward a door at the back of the chamber. “Come.”

Barty turned to you for half a second—just enough for you to catch the flicker of fire in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid. He was furious.

Then, without another glance, he followed Voldemort into the private room, the door clicking shut behind them.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle on the desk casting elongated shadows along the walls. Barty stepped inside, keeping his head held high, his expression carefully blank.

Voldemort took his time, moving to the other side of the desk, settling into a high-backed chair.

“Sit.”

Barty hesitated, then dropped into the chair across from him, his movements casual, but his muscles coiled tight.

Voldemort studied him for a long moment, red eyes gleaming. “You have always been a fascinating one, Barty,” he murmured. “So eager. So loyal. Unlike your father.”

Barty clenched his jaw. His father. That was the entire reason he had joined this war in the first place—to rebel, to ruin his father’s perfect reputation, to show him that he would never be the son he wanted. But the more he had thrown himself into the Death Eaters, the more he had begun to realize just how much he hated being under someone else’s control.

Especially when that someone was Voldemort.

Voldemort reached into a drawer, pulling out a small vial of clear liquid. “You know what this is, of course.”

Veritaserum.

Barty schooled his expression into one of mild interest, watching as Voldemort poured a few drops into a goblet of water.

“You will drink,” Voldemort said smoothly, pushing the goblet forward. “And then we will talk.”

Barty didn’t even blink. He took the goblet, swirling the liquid absently, as if he had nothing to fear. Then he tipped his head back and drank.

The potion slid down his throat, cool and tasteless. A normal person would already be feeling its effects, their mind opening like an unlocked door.

But Barty had poisoned himself with Veritaserum long ago. The resistance had built slowly, painfully, over time, but now it was absolute.

Voldemort sat back, watching him with keen eyes. “Good,” he murmured. Then, after a pause— “Tell me, Barty… have you noticed anything unusual within our ranks?”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “Aside from the obvious paranoia?”

Voldemort’s lips curled ever so slightly. “Clever,” he said. “But not an answer.”

Barty exhaled through his nose, tilting his head as if in thought. “If there is a traitor,” he said lazily, “then they’re damn good at hiding it. No one seems particularly suspicious to me.”

A lie, spoken with absolute ease.

Voldemort’s gaze was unwavering. “You are close to her,” he said, voice soft, but pointed. “Your little love affair is no secret.”

Barty’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. He forced a smirk. “Jealous, My Lord?”

A sharp, ringing silence.

Then—Voldemort laughed. A slow, cold sound, more amused than offended. “Ah, Barty,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “Your loyalty is not in question. Your temper, however… is intriguing.”

Barty said nothing.

Voldemort watched him carefully, then took a step closer. "Tell me, Barty," he said, his voice a whisper of silk and steel. "Have you ever doubted me?"

Barty tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, smoothly, he said, "No, my Lord."

It was a performance. The perfect lie.

Voldemort’s gaze bore into his, sharp and probing. Barty felt the magic press against his mind, slithering, seeking. He focused, let his occlumency build walls of ice, let his thoughts scatter like mist. He had trained for this moment, had carved his mind into a fortress that no one—not even the Dark Lord—could break into.

After a moment, Voldemort made a small sound. Amused. Intrigued.

"You are not so easily read," he mused.

Barty allowed himself a small, careful smirk. "I’ve always valued my privacy."

Voldemort chuckled, a low, cold sound. "Indeed."

He turned slightly, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, almost lazily, he asked, "Do you trust your… companions?"

Barty knew exactly who he meant. He forced his body to remain relaxed. "Regulus and her?" he said, as if the question was absurd. "Of course. We trust each other with our lives."

Voldemort hummed. "And yet, trust is so often misplaced."

Barty’s fingers twitched at his sides. He hated this. Hated the way Voldemort spoke about them, hated the way his gaze darkened with something possessive whenever he mentioned her.

Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his red eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “She is… captivating, isn’t she?”

Barty’s blood ran cold.

The way Voldemort said it, the way he let the words roll off his tongue like a slow poison, made his skin crawl.

“I have seen the way you look at her,” Voldemort continued, watching him closely. “The way both of you do.”

Barty gritted his teeth. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something reckless, something stupid.

“I have no objections to… loyalty,” Voldemort said. “But tell me, Barty—would you be so loyal if she were to betray you?”

Barty inhaled sharply, forcing himself to meet Voldemort’s gaze with unwavering eyes. “She would never betray me,” he said, voice steady, but laced with something dangerous.

Voldemort studied him for a moment longer, as if searching for something in his expression. Then he hummed. “We shall see.”

He leaned back again, fingers tapping against the desk. “You may go.”

Barty didn’t hesitate. He stood, turned, and strode toward the door, his every movement sharp and controlled.

But as he reached for the handle, Voldemort’s voice stopped him.

“Oh, and Barty?”

He clenched his jaw before slowly glancing over his shoulder.

Voldemort’s smirk was barely there, but it was there nonetheless. “She is quite lucky to have you.”

Barty said nothing.

Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

The moment Barty stepped out of the room, Regulus knew something was wrong.

Barty had always been good at masking his emotions, but right now, his shoulders were too stiff, his fists clenched too tight. His usually smug expression was gone, replaced by something dark, something furious.

Regulus didn't ask. He didn't need to. He simply met Barty's gaze for a fraction of a second before Voldemort’s voice called his name.

"Regulus."

Regulus inhaled slowly, steadying himself before stepping forward. The air in the room was thick with something unseen, something suffocating. He kept his posture straight, his expression blank.

Voldemort gestured toward the same goblet, still laced with Veritaserum.

"Drink."

Regulus took the cup and swallowed it with the same practiced ease as Barty. He felt nothing. The years of slow poisoning had paid off.

Voldemort studied him carefully before speaking. "You are an interesting one, Regulus," he said, pacing around him. "So quiet. So… calculating."

Regulus said nothing.

Voldemort tilted his head. "Do you doubt me?"

Regulus met his gaze, eyes as cold and unreadable as ever. "No, my Lord."

A lie. Smooth, effortless.

Voldemort hummed, stepping closer. "Your mind is quiet," he mused, his tone amused. "Most people cannot silence their thoughts so well."

Regulus remained still, his Occlumency shields firmly in place. He had learned early on that emotions were weaknesses, that showing anything more than cold obedience would only draw suspicion.

Voldemort circled him like a predator. "You are devoted to the cause, are you not?"

Regulus nodded once. "Of course."

Another lie.

Voldemort chuckled, seemingly entertained. "And yet," he murmured, "I wonder… what is it that you truly believe in, Regulus?"

Regulus held his gaze. "I believe in what you have taught us, my Lord," he said smoothly. "That power is meant for those who can wield it. That weakness must be eradicated."

Voldemort smiled, pleased.

Regulus had always been good at telling people exactly what they wanted to hear.

Voldemort’s gaze darkened slightly, his next words slow, deliberate. "And what of her?"

Regulus’ jaw tightened, barely perceptible.

Voldemort’s smirk widened. "You, Barty, and her… it is amusing, really. You act as though she belongs to you."

Regulus remained silent.

"But you forget," Voldemort continued, stepping closer, "that I am the one who chooses whom she belongs to."

His voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but the weight of the words sent something cold and sharp crawling up Regulus' spine.

Regulus forced his expression to remain blank, but his blood was burning beneath his skin. He wanted nothing more than to lash out, to put an end to the way Voldemort’s gaze lingered on her. But that would be reckless. Stupid.

Instead, he inhaled slowly, masking his fury behind a carefully controlled voice. "She is loyal, my Lord," he said smoothly. "That is all that matters."

Voldemort chuckled. "Is it?"

He studied Regulus for a long moment, searching. Trying to push past the wall of ice that Regulus had spent years perfecting.

But he found nothing.

After a moment, Voldemort let out a quiet sigh, as if slightly disappointed. "You may go," he said finally.

Regulus didn’t hesitate. He turned and walked out of the room, his steps controlled, his breathing even.

But the moment the door shut behind him, his fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms so hard it hurt.

Barty was waiting for him in the corridor, his expression just as stormy.

Regulus exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I hate him."

Barty’s lips curled into something dark, something sharp. "That makes two of us."

Just some moments ago, it was your turn to be interrogated by the dark lord.

The door creaked as you stepped inside, your heartbeat steady but your stomach twisting. You had always known this moment would come. The moment where you had to sit across from him, knowing the web of lies you had carefully woven could crumble with a single misplaced word, a single crack in your composure.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes locked onto you, and a slow, knowing smile stretched across his pale lips.

"Finally," he murmured. "I saved the best for last."

You forced a small smile, polite but distant, before stepping forward and taking the goblet from his outstretched hand. You tilted it back, letting the liquid slip down your throat. It tasted bitter, like metal and rot, but you didn’t flinch.

Voldemort watched your closely, his head tilting slightly.

"Tell me," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Do you know who has been leaking information to the Order?"

You met his gaze without hesitation. "No, my Lord."

Truth spilled effortlessly from her lips—just not the whole truth.

Voldemort hummed, tapping his long fingers against the arm of his chair. "Curious. I was sure someone of your intelligence would have some idea."

You shook your head. "If I did, I would tell you."

Another lie, clean and sharp.

Voldemort leaned back, watching your in consideration. Then, without warning, he reached forward, long fingers pressing against your temple.

You didn’t flinch. You had expected this.

The moment his magic touched your mind, you strengthened your Occlumency shields, keeping your thoughts blank and your emotions steady. You had practiced for years, had learned from the best.

The fact was that Regulus was the one to teach you and Barty the secrets of occlumency. It was Regulus who slowly poisoned the three of you until you were resistant to veritaserum. Regulus was always thinking three steps ahead.

Nothing.

Voldemort’s frown deepened.

"You are difficult to read," he murmured, almost fascinated. "Like Regulus. I wonder… have you been learning from him?"

"I learn from those who are worth learning from, my Lord," you answered smoothly.

Voldemort chuckled. "Clever girl."

You held still as his fingers traced lightly down your cheek, the cold, skeletal touch sending revulsion curling in your stomach. But you remained impassive, empty. Just like Regulus. Just like Barty.

"You are so obedient," Voldemort praised, his tone almost… fond. "So loyal."

You didn’t respond.

Voldemort let his fingers drift lower, brushing against her jaw. "Unlike the others, you understand true power, don’t you?"

You swallowed back the bile rising in your throat and answered, your voice steady. "Yes, my Lord."

His eyes gleamed, and his thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

"You could be greater than them," Voldemort mused, his tone light, almost indulgent. "Why waste your time with children when you could stand beside someone truly powerful?"

Your stomach twisted.

"I am where I wish to be, my Lord" you said flatly.

Voldemort chuckled again, as if your words were amusing rather than a rejection.

"Are you?" he asked, tilting his head. "I see how they cling to you. How they think you belong to them." His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. "But you are not theirs."

You kept your breath even, forcing yourself not to recoil.

"You deserve more," he continued. "Someone who can give you more. I could give you more."

The disgust was a wildfire in your chest, but you did not let it show. You met his gaze, cold and impassive. "I am honored, my Lord," you said carefully. "But I am loyal."

Voldemort searched your face, as if trying to find a crack in your perfect mask.

Then, after a long silence, he sighed. "A shame," he murmured, his fingers finally drawing away.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, your skin still crawling.

Voldemort leaned back, watching you with something close to amusement. "You may go," he said finally. "And do not let those boys keep you from reaching your true potential."

You gave a short nod and turned on your heel, leaving the room without haste but without hesitation.

The moment the door shut behind you, you sucked in a breath, your hands shaking slightly before you clenched them into fists.

Barty and Regulus were already waiting for you.

And the moment you saw them, the disgust, the revulsion, the lingering phantom touch of Voldemort’s hands—it all became unbearable.

Barty noticed first. His eyes darkened. "What the hell did he do?"

Regulus stepped forward, his jaw tight. His hand brushed against yours, grounding, steady. "Did he—?"

"I’m fine," you said quickly, but your voice was strained, your mask cracking.

Barty’s fists clenched. "I’ll kill him."

Regulus said nothing, but his eyes were filled with something dark, something murderous.

You shook your head, swallowing hard. "Not here. Not now."

Barty let out a sharp breath, still furious, but he stepped closer, his hand curling around the back of your neck. "That bastard," he muttered, his voice low, deadly.

Regulus placed a hand on your waist, grounding you. "You’re trembling," he murmured.

You exhaled shakily. "I just need to leave."

They didn’t argue.

Regulus slipped an arm around your shoulders, and Barty took your hand, squeezing it tightly.

And together, you walked away, leaving the darkness behind you.

The moment you were outside, far from prying eyes and listening ears, the weight of what had just happened crashed down on you.

You felt filthy. Like Voldemort’s touch had left something rotting on your skin, something you couldn’t shake off no matter how hard you tried. Your stomach twisted, nausea rising, and you could feel your hands shaking. But you kept walking, head high, expression cold and unreadable. You knew better than to let anyone see you like this.

But Barty and Regulus saw.

They always saw.

Barty was practically vibrating with rage beside you, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles had turned white. Regulus was walking with tense, controlled movements, his jaw locked, his eyes dark.

As soon as you were far enough from the meeting place, in the secluded forest where they had Apparated in, you stopped. And then—you broke.

A sob wrenched its way out of your throat before you could stop it. Your knees buckled, and you covered your mouth with your hands, trying to quiet the sound, but it was useless.

Barty was at your side in an instant. "Fuck," he muttered, voice tight. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—come here." He pulled your into his arms, crushing you against his chest.

You clung to him, fists curling into his robes as the sobs wracked your body. "I hate him," you choked out. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him—"

Regulus placed a hand on your back, rubbing slow circles. "It’s over," he murmured, his voice low, controlled. But you could hear the restrained fury underneath it. "He can’t touch you now."

Barty’s breathing was ragged, and you could feel the way his whole body was shaking with barely restrained anger. "Where did he touch you?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

You hesitated for half a second before whispering, "My face. My jaw. My arm. My—my lip."

Barty made a sound so vicious it barely sounded human. "I’m going back there," he growled. "I swear to fucking Merlin, I’ll—"

"No, you won’t," Regulus said sharply, his grip on you tightening as if to remind Barty of what truly mattered right now. "She needs us. Not a fight you won’t win."

Barty let out a sharp breath, his whole body still shaking with fury, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he pressed a fierce, lingering kiss to your temple, his fingers curling protectively around the nape of your neck. "I swear to you, if he ever does that again—"

"He won’t," Regulus interrupted, his voice filled with quiet, deadly certainty. "We won’t let him."

You sniffled, finally pulling back enough to wipe your tears away. "I just—I just want to go home," you whispered.

Regulus nodded. "Let’s go."

Barty took your hand, squeezing it tightly. "And then you’re taking the longest shower of your fucking life, and we’re going to make sure you forget every second of what just happened."

You exhaled shakily, nodding. "Please."

The moment you Apparated back to the Black estate, the suffocating weight in your chest barely lifted. The grand, dark halls of the house were cold, eerie, but you were safe. Safe from him. Safe from the way his fingers had burned into your skin like something rotten, something vile you couldn’t scrub away.

You barely made it past the threshold before your legs gave out again, but this time, Barty caught you before you could fall. His arms wrapped around you, strong and grounding, holding you up even when you felt like crumbling.

Regulus shut the door behind you, locking it with a flick of his wand. Then he turned to you, his gaze sharp, analyzing. His mind was already working, calculating, planning—what to do next, how to stop this from happening again.

But Barty? Barty was all fire.

"You’re shaking," he muttered, voice raw with barely contained fury. He pressed his forehead against yours, his grip tightening around you. "You’re fucking shaking."

Of course, you were. You could still feel Voldemort’s touch like something etched into your skin. You hated it. Hated it so much you wanted to rip yourself apart just to make it go away.

Regulus took your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up so he could look at you. His touch was nothing like Voldemort’s—it was steady, firm, but careful. His thumb brushed over your jaw, where Voldemort had dared to trace. His eyes darkened. "I should kill him," he murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

You let out a shaky breath. "You can’t."

Regulus’ jaw clenched. "Doesn’t mean I won’t find another way to make him suffer."

Barty growled under his breath, still vibrating with rage. "Why didn’t you slap his fucking hand away?"

You closed your eyes, feeling the exhaustion creeping in. "Because he’s Voldemort, Barty."

Barty’s grip on you tightened. "I don’t care," he hissed. "If he ever—if he ever fucking touches you again—"

Regulus cut him off, voice sharper than usual. "He won’t."

Barty turned to him, expression still twisted in fury. "How can you be so sure?"

Regulus met his gaze without hesitation. "Because next time, I’ll kill him myself."

You let out a broken sound, something between a laugh and a sob. "I love you both," you murmured, shaking your head. "But you can’t just kill Voldemort."

Barty scoffed, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild. "Watch me."

Regulus exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing against yours before he took your hand. "Right now, we need to take care of you." His voice was softer now, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath it. "Shower. Fresh clothes. Something warm to drink. And then sleep."

You hesitated. "I don’t want to be alone."

Barty scoffed. "Like we’d let that happen."

Regulus’ grip tightened. "We’ll be with you the whole time."

A lump formed in your throat, and you exhaled, nodding. "Okay."

Barty pulled away first, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the bathroom. "Come on. We’re scrubbing every trace of that bastard off you."

Regulus followed, quiet, watchful, protective.

And for the first time since the meeting, since Voldemort’s hands had dared to touch you, you felt like you could breathe again.

The bathroom was warm, steam curling around the air as the enchanted taps filled the bathtub. The scent of lavender and cedarwood filled the space—Regulus’ doing, no doubt, since he always had a way of making things feel softer, safer.

Barty sat on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, watching the water rise. His knee bounced impatiently, hands still clenched into fists, but his eyes kept flickering back to you. Regulus stood behind you, fingers at the clasp of your cloak, carefully undoing it before sliding it off your shoulders.

Regulus sighed, stepping closer. "You don’t have to do anything," he murmured. "We’ll take care of you."

You swallowed, exhaustion pressing into your bones. "I feel disgusting."

Barty’s jaw tightened. "That’s because he is disgusting." His hands curled over yours, his grip firm but warm. "We’re fixing this. Now."

Regulus reached up, brushing his fingers against your jaw—the same spot Voldemort had touched. His touch was a whisper against your skin, gentle, reverent, as if trying to erase the phantom feeling of someone else’s hands on you.

"Let us," he said simply.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. "Okay."

Regulus undid the buttons of your robes, slow, deliberate, giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. When you didn’t, he slid the fabric down your arms, leaving you in only your underwear. Barty stood, pressing a kiss to your temple before whispering, "Get in."

You stepped into the tub, the hot water enveloping you instantly, and let out a shuddering breath. It was comforting, but the unease in your chest hadn’t left yet.

Barty knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves even more, grabbing a washcloth. "Close your eyes," he murmured.

You did.

The cloth was warm, soft against your skin as Barty ran it over your arm, wiping away the invisible filth you still felt clinging to you. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, slow and careful. "It’s just me," he murmured, as if reassuring you. "Just us."

Regulus kneeled behind you, gathering your wet hair in his hands, his fingers brushing against your scalp. "Tilt your head back," he instructed softly.

You did as he asked, and a moment later, water poured over your hair, washing away the remnants of the night.

They worked in quiet synchrony—Regulus washing your hair with slow, practiced fingers, Barty scrubbing your arms and shoulders, tracing patterns into your skin that felt like protection, like a vow.

"I hate him," Barty muttered under his breath.

Regulus hummed in agreement, fingers still in your hair. "He doesn’t own you," he said quietly. "No matter what he thinks."

Barty’s fingers curled around your wrist, his lips brushing against your knuckles. "You’re ours," he murmured. "Not his."

Your breath hitched. The weight of their words, the warmth of their hands—it was all too much and yet not enough. You turned your head slightly, opening your eyes, meeting Regulus’ gaze.

"Stay with me," you whispered.

Regulus’ thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away a droplet of water. "Always."

Barty grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re not getting rid of us that easily, love."

You exhaled shakily, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. "Good."

Regulus rinsed the last of the shampoo from your hair, his hands lingering on your shoulders. "You’re clean now," he murmured. "Inside and out."

Barty kissed your wrist again before reaching for a towel. "Time to dry off, sweetheart. We’ve got a bed waiting for you."

You let them pull you up, wrapping you in the warmth of the towel and their hands. Every touch, every whispered reassurance, every kiss against your skin was a promise—of protection, of devotion, of something bigger than the war, bigger than the darkness that loomed over all of you.

Because tonight, for just a little while, you weren’t a soldier.

You were just theirs.

Regulus carried you out of the bathroom, his grip firm but careful, like he was holding something precious. Barty was right behind, still fussing, rubbing the towel over your arms and legs, making sure you were completely dry before you got into bed.

"You’re treating me like I’m made of glass," you mumbled, your voice still hoarse from earlier.

Barty scoffed, tossing the towel aside. "Yeah? Well, you bloody shattered back there, didn’t you?"

Regulus shot him a look. "Not helping."

Barty groaned, raking a hand through his damp hair. "I’m not trying to be an arse, alright? I just—" His voice wavered, and for the first time that night, you saw something else behind his anger. Fear.

He had been scared.

You reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. "I’m okay," you whispered.

Barty let out a sharp breath, looking down at you, his hands settling on your hips. "No, you’re not," he murmured. "But you will be."

Regulus, ever the silent force of control, gently nudged Barty aside and guided you toward the bed. "Lie down," he instructed softly.

You obeyed, sinking into the mattress with a sigh. It smelled like them—clean linen, a hint of Barty’s cologne, and something darker, something that always reminded you of Regulus.

They crawled in beside you, one on each side, their warmth seeping into your skin. Barty was always restless, so it didn’t surprise you when he pulled you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. His fingers trailed along your spine, drawing lazy, distracted patterns.

"You still feel it?" he asked after a moment.

You knew what he meant. The ghost of Voldemort’s touch, the suffocating presence of him, the way your skin had burned under his fingers like a brand you couldn’t wash away.

You swallowed hard. "A little."

Barty made an irritated noise in the back of his throat, his grip tightening. "I’d kill him if I could," he muttered.

"You’d die trying," Regulus pointed out, his voice quiet. He was lying on his side, watching you, his hand resting just above your knee. "And she wouldn’t want that."

Barty sighed, pressing his forehead against your hair. "Yeah, well. It’s the thought that counts."

Regulus gave a small, almost amused exhale, but his fingers traced small, soothing circles against your skin. "Close your eyes," he murmured.

You did.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Barty’s lips brushed against your temple, and he whispered, "Mine."

Regulus leaned in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, his voice a ghost against your skin. "Ours."

A shiver ran down your spine—not from fear, not from disgust, but from something else entirely. Something safe.

Something that felt like home.

And for the first time that night, you felt clean.

Trying to understand.

The three of you sat in the dimly lit bedroom, an unspoken tension thick in the air. Days had passed since the last Death Eater meeting, and the weight of everything was pressing down on you. You knew this conversation was inevitable. You had kept your secrets long enough.

Regulus sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, looking calm—too calm. It was the kind of stillness he carried when he was deep in thought, when his mind was running faster than he’d ever let on. Barty, on the other hand, was sprawled across the chair near the fireplace, one leg bouncing up and down in irritation. He wasn’t good at keeping still when he was frustrated.

"You’re going to have to explain," Barty said, voice sharp. He wasn’t yelling, but his frustration was evident. "Because I get that you hate the Dark Lord. I get that you hate everything he stands for. But what I don’t get is why you’re still doing this. You know it’s suicide, right?"

Regulus finally looked at you, his cold grey eyes searching, studying. "Barty’s right," he said, and Barty let out an incredulous scoff at Regulus agreeing with him. "If anyone finds out what you’re doing, you’ll be dead before you can even pull your wand. And we won’t be able to stop it."

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. "I know the risks," you said.

"Then why?" Barty demanded. "Why the fuck are you doing this?"

You looked at both of them, really looked at them. They were your boys—angry and protective and scared in their own ways. But you had to make them understand.

"Because someone has to," you said simply.

Barty groaned, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not a real answer. Try again."

You exhaled slowly. "You want the truth? Fine. I never believed in this cause. Not for one second. I never thought blood purity meant anything. I never thought Voldemort was some great leader destined to change the world. I never thought any of this was right."

Regulus tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flashing in his expression. Barty, however, leaned forward, his jaw tight. "So why the hell did you join in the first place?"

"Because I had no choice," you admitted. "Just like you."

Barty flinched. You knew you hit a nerve.

"You did it because of your father," you continued, voice softer now. "You wanted to spite him. You wanted to prove something. But you never really believed in it either, did you?"

Barty clenched his jaw. "I believe in blood purity," he shot back, though there was something defensive in his tone, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

You gave him a sad smile. "Do you?"

His fingers twitched. "I—" He stopped, huffing. "Fuck. I don’t know."

Regulus finally spoke. "You joined the Order, didn’t you?"

You nodded. "Not officially. But I’ve been feeding them information. Helping them from the inside."

Regulus didn’t even look surprised. He just let out a long breath, rubbing his hands over his face.

Barty, on the other hand, looked like he was going to explode. "And what, you thought you’d just keep this up forever? That no one would ever figure it out? That the Dark Lord wouldn’t eventually start questioning why one of his most trusted followers is always one step behind the Order?"

"I know it won’t last forever," you admitted. "I know eventually I’ll get caught. But until then, I can make a difference. I can save people."

Barty scoffed. "Save people? And who’s gonna save you?"

You swallowed hard. "I’m not asking to be saved."

"Well, too fucking bad," Barty snapped. "Because we’re not just going to sit here and watch you get yourself killed."

Regulus was quiet, but you could see the way his hands clenched into fists. "You should have told us sooner," he murmured.

You looked down. "Would you have helped me?"

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. But then—"Yes."

Your head snapped up. Even Barty looked startled. "What?" you asked.

Regulus met your gaze, something resolute in his expression. "I said yes. I would’ve helped you."

Barty let out a frustrated groan, slumping back in his chair. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, not you too."

Regulus ignored him, keeping his focus on you. "I never wanted this life either. I was born into it, like you. Like Barty. But I never wanted it."

For the first time, Barty looked genuinely thrown off. "Are you saying you’re going to join her?"

Regulus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you. And in that moment, you realized—he already had. Maybe not officially, maybe not yet, but in his mind, he had already chosen.

"I’m saying I can’t just keep pretending," he said simply.

Barty groaned again, rubbing his temples. "This is insanity. You know that, right?"

"You don’t have to make a choice right now," you told him softly.

Barty glanced at you, his eyes burning with something unreadable. "You’re my choice," he said. "You and him. That’s it. That’s all I fucking care about."

Regulus’s expression softened, just slightly.

You exhaled. "Then let’s figure this out. Together."

Regulus shook his head, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "We won’t die."

Barty snorted. "You say that like you actually believe it."

Regulus met your eyes again, and his hand found yours, fingers lacing together.

"I do."

Not alone.

The room was silent, the air thick with the warmth of sleep. The steady rise and fall of Barty and Regulus’ breathing filled the dimly lit space, the only sound breaking through the stillness. You moved carefully, inching out from beneath the covers, making sure not to shift too much weight onto the creaky floorboards. Every muscle in your body was tense, every movement calculated.

You had done this before—sneaking out while they slept, slipping away into the night. But tonight was different. You barely made it two steps from the bed before—

"Where the fuck do you think you’re going?"

Barty’s voice, thick with sleep but sharp as a knife, cut through the air.

You froze, cursing internally.

Then, another voice—low, cold, but not groggy. Regulus. "You weren’t seriously about to go alone, were you?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course they woke up. Of course they did.

You turned slowly, your expression schooled into neutrality. "I have something to do."

Barty let out a humorless laugh, sitting up in bed, rubbing his hands down his face. "Oh yeah? And let me guess, it involves you sneaking out like a fucking idiot in the middle of the night?"

Regulus was already sitting up too, his sharp grey eyes locked onto you like he was reading every thought in your head. "You’re going to them," he stated. Not a question. A fact.

You sighed. "I need to—"

"No, you don’t," Barty snapped. "You don’t need to do shit. What you need to do is stay here, where it’s safe, and not get yourself killed."

You crossed your arms. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah? Then what? You come back bleeding?"

Regulus was already moving, already reaching for his wand, his shoes, his cloak. "If you’re going, I’m going."

You frowned. "Regulus—"

"Don’t start," he said, cold and final. "You’re not doing this alone."

Barty groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "Oh, for fuck’s sake—both of you are insane."

Regulus didn’t even glance at him as he pulled on his coat. "Someone has to make sure she doesn’t die on the way there."

Barty stared at him like he was the dumbest person alive. "Or—and hear me out—we could just not go."

You turned to Barty. "I have to do this, Barty."

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Why?" His voice was quieter now, less rage, more frustration. More worry. "Why do you always have to be the one risking everything?"

You softened, stepping closer to him, resting a hand on his arm. "Because I can help."

Barty closed his eyes briefly, exhaling hard through his nose. "I hate you," he muttered.

You smirked. "No, you don’t."

He shot you a glare before looking at Regulus, who was already fastening his cloak like he had accepted his fate. "And you. You’re supposed to be the smart one. What the hell are you doing?"

Regulus raised a brow. "Making sure she doesn’t do something reckless and die."

Barty scoffed. "That’s my job."

"Then get dressed."

Barty groaned, throwing his head back dramatically before grumbling, "I swear to Merlin, you two are going to be the death of me." But despite his complaints, he was already pulling on his cloak, grabbing his wand.

Regulus smirked slightly. "Then we’ll make sure you die in good company."

Barty shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. "Shut up, Black."

You smiled despite yourself, your heart swelling at the sight of them. They would never let you do this alone. Even when they were furious at you, even when they thought you were making the worst decision possible, they were with you.

"Alright," you said, exhaling. "Let’s go."

Barty shook his head, muttering under his breath as he stepped closer to you and Regulus. "If we die, I’m haunting you both for eternity."

Regulus smirked again. "Noted."

And with that, the three of you disappeared into the night.

Working for the order.

The weeks bled into each other, every day more dangerous than the last.

You were in too deep now, tangled in something that could kill you at any moment. Regulus had started helping, slipping into the shadows with you, covering your tracks, whispering secrets in dark corners when no one was listening. And Barty—Barty never agreed, never wanted any of this, but he came anyway, because as much as he bitched and groaned about your "stupid, reckless decisions," he refused to let you and Regulus run into the fire alone.

Tonight was no different.

The three of you crouched behind an old stone wall, hidden in the ruins of what used to be a manor before Death Eaters had burned it to the ground. It was your meeting spot with one of the Order members, but something felt off. The air was too still.

Barty shifted beside you, whispering, "This is a fucking stupid idea. Just so we’re all aware."

Regulus didn’t even glance at him. "Noted."

Barty scowled. "You keep saying that, and yet we keep doing these stupid things."

You smirked slightly, despite the tension crackling in the air. "And yet you keep coming."

Barty groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Because you two have a death wish, and apparently, I’m the only one who gives a shit."

Regulus’ voice was calm, quiet. "You give a shit because you care."

Barty scoffed. "Shut up, Black."

Before Regulus could respond, you stiffened. Footsteps. Three of them. You immediately pressed yourself lower against the stone, heart hammering. Regulus was still, calculating. Barty’s hand was already on his wand.

Then, a voice: "It’s me."

You exhaled, recognizing the voice of the Order member. Slowly, you stood, stepping out of your hiding place, Regulus and Barty moving with you.

"You’re late," you whispered.

The man—tall, broad-shouldered, his face lined with exhaustion—nodded grimly. "Ran into some trouble. Had to take a longer route." His gaze flickered to the two boys beside you. "I see you brought company."

"They’re with me," you said firmly.

The man studied them both for a long moment. "Black," he said, looking at Regulus. "Didn’t think I’d ever see you working against them."

Regulus didn’t blink. "You still haven’t."

The man raised a brow. "You’re here."

"To protect her," Regulus said smoothly.

Barty let out a scoff. "Yeah, well, same. I don’t give a shit about your little rebellion, mate."

The man didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he handed you a small, folded piece of parchment. "There’s going to be a raid. Tomorrow night. You know where."

Your stomach twisted. You knew exactly where.

Regulus was reading your expression like a book. "You’re not going."

You looked at him sharply. "I have to."

Barty let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, of course you do. Because throwing yourself into a fucking raid is such a brilliant plan."

You turned fully to them, your hands clenched into fists. "I don’t have a choice."

Barty stepped closer, anger flashing in his eyes. "There’s always a choice."

"Not for me."

Regulus exhaled, his voice calmer but just as firm. "We’ll go with you."

You hesitated. "Reg—"

"We’re going," he interrupted, voice final.

Barty groaned. "I hate you both. I really do."

Regulus smirked slightly. "No, you don’t."

Barty scowled. "I do. I hate you both so fucking much."

You sighed, exhaustion creeping into your bones. "We should go before someone finds us."

The Order member gave you a nod before disappearing into the night.

As soon as he was gone, Barty let out another dramatic groan. "I swear to Merlin, I should just let you both die one of these days."

Regulus hummed. "You won’t."

Barty shot him a glare. "I’m actually going to kill you, Black."

You rolled your eyes. "Can we go home now?"

Barty let out a breath, looking at you, his frustration melting into something softer. "Yeah. Let’s go home."

And with that, the three of you vanished into the darkness once more.

The next day came quickly.

The raid was chaos. Spells flew in every direction, lighting up the darkened alleyways in flashes of green, red, and white. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and blood, the screams of both fighters and innocent people caught in the crossfire.

You moved quickly, ducking behind debris, sending hexes at Death Eaters while trying to get civilians to safety. Regulus was somewhere nearby, casting silent curses with deadly precision, and Barty—Barty was fighting like a man possessed, reckless and furious.

Everything was going to plan. Until it wasn’t.

You turned a corner, trying to get to the last group of civilians, when a hand grabbed your wrist. Before you could react, a Disillusionment Charm was lifted, revealing a group of masked Death Eaters waiting in the shadows.

It was a trap.

Cold fear shot down your spine as a wand was pressed against your throat. "Look at what we have here," a voice sneered. "The little rat."

Your stomach twisted.

They knew.

You struggled, trying to reach for your wand, but someone yanked it from your grasp, shoving you hard against the wall. The impact stole the breath from your lungs.

"Thought you could betray the Dark Lord and get away with it?" another voice hissed.

You tried to think, tried to find a way out, but there were too many of them. Your mind was racing, but before you could even attempt to escape, someone hit you with a spell—

"Crucio."

Pain exploded through your body, white-hot and unbearable. A scream tore from your throat as you collapsed, the ground cold and unforgiving beneath you. Your nerves were on fire, your body convulsing against the relentless torture.

The spell lifted for a moment, just long enough for you to gasp for breath, before another Death Eater crouched beside you, yanking your hair back so you were forced to look at them.

"How long?" they demanded. "How long have you been feeding them information?"

You gritted your teeth, blood dripping from your lip where you had bitten down to keep from screaming again.

"Fuck. You," you spat.

A hard slap cracked across your face.

"Wrong answer," the Death Eater growled.

Another curse slammed into you, sending fresh waves of agony coursing through your body. Your vision blurred, black spots dancing in your sight, but you refused to break.

You couldn’t.

Not too far away from where you were, your boys were having a heated argument.

Regulus was fuming. "You’re going to get yourself killed, Crouch."

Barty scoffed, wiping blood from his cheek. "And what the fuck do you call what we’re doing right now? A lovely evening stroll?"

"You’re reckless," Regulus snapped. "You don’t think. You act on impulse, and one day, it’s going to get you caught."

"Funny," Barty shot back, eyes narrowing. "Because I could say the same about you, Black. At least I know what I stand for. What the fuck do you believe in?"

Regulus stiffened, his expression unreadable.

"That’s what I thought," Barty muttered.

Before Regulus could respond, something changed. A shift in the air.

It took him a moment to realize what was wrong.

"You hear that?" he asked suddenly.

Barty frowned. "What?"

Regulus’ heartbeat picked up. "Exactly."

The sounds of battle were still loud, but something was missing.

You.

Regulus turned sharply, scanning the wreckage, the bodies, the flashes of spells, but you weren’t there. His chest tightened.

Barty must have realized it too, because his face paled.

"Where the fuck is she?"

Neither of them hesitated.

They ran.

Running but not fast enough.

Cold stone bit into your knees as you were thrown onto the dungeon floor. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, your body aching from the curses that had already been cast upon you. The Death Eaters loomed above, their masks concealing their faces, but you didn’t need to see them to know who they were.

You could hear Bellatrix’s delighted laughter before you even looked up.

"Oh, this is simply delicious," she cooed, stepping forward, her wand twirling lazily between her fingers. "The Dark Lord’s favorite little pet… a filthy traitor all along."

You swallowed hard, refusing to let her see your fear. You wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

Bellatrix crouched in front of you, tilting her head as she examined your bruised face. "Where are they?" she asked sweetly.

You blinked, confused.

"Your little lovers." Her lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Where are they now, hm? Surely they would’ve come storming in to save you by now, if they cared so much."

You clenched your jaw. "They’ll come," you rasped.

Bellatrix’s laughter echoed through the chamber. "Oh, darling," she purred. "No, they won’t. You’re alone. Just like you always were."

You glared up at her, forcing yourself to meet her wild, dark eyes. "Do whatever you want to me," you spat. "I’m not telling you anything."

Bellatrix let out a delighted gasp. "Oh, I was hoping you’d say that."

And then—

"Crucio."

Pain, unbearable and all-consuming, shot through your body. Your back arched violently as a scream tore from your throat. It felt like fire in your veins, like your bones were breaking from the inside out. Every nerve burned, every muscle spasmed, and the agony was endless.

Bellatrix giggled, letting the curse linger before finally releasing it. "My, my," she mused, watching as you gasped for air. "You’re strong. I like that."

You panted, sweat dripping down your forehead. "Go to hell," you croaked.

Bellatrix feigned offense. "Now, that’s not very nice, is it?" She reached forward, running her fingers along your jaw mockingly. You wanted to recoil, but your body was too weak to move.

"You’re going to tell me everything," she whispered, her voice sickeningly sweet. "How long have you been betraying the Dark Lord? Who else is involved?"

You lifted your head slightly, your lips curling into a bloodied smirk. "You’re not as smart as you think you are," you murmured.

Bellatrix’s face twisted in rage. "Crucio!"

The pain returned, worse than before. Your vision blurred, black spots dancing before your eyes. You knew this could kill you if it went on long enough.

And maybe that would be better.

Maybe it would be easier than giving them the chance to break you.

But you weren’t broken yet.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Regulus and Barty were losing their minds.

"She was right there!" Barty snapped, his eyes wild with panic and fury. "How the fuck did we let this happen?"

Regulus didn’t answer. His hands were shaking.

They had searched every corner of the battlefield, but you were gone. Vanished. Taken.

"We need to think," Regulus muttered, trying to suppress the sheer terror clawing at his chest. "They wouldn’t kill her immediately. They’d want information first."

Barty ran a hand through his hair, his breath ragged. "They’ll torture her," he whispered.

Regulus swallowed hard. "I know."

Barty turned on him, grabbing his collar. "She’s not like us, Reg," he hissed. "She’s strong, but she’s not like us. We grew up with this. She didn’t. They’re going to break her."

Regulus stared at him, eyes dark and unreadable. "No, they won’t."

Barty let go of him, pacing. "We have to find her. We have to—"

"We will," Regulus interrupted. His voice was eerily calm, but Barty could see the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. "We’re getting her back."

Barty met his eyes.

"Whatever it takes," Regulus added.

Barty nodded. "Whatever it takes."

Saving each other.

Your body was barely holding on. Your wrists ached from where they had been bound, your head was spinning from the sheer pain coursing through every inch of your body, and you could feel the warmth of blood dripping from your temple, your lip, your ribs. Everything hurt.

And then, suddenly, you heard them.

A scuffle, the sound of struggling, and then—

"Barty—Regulus—?" Your voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

They were here.

But it didn’t matter.

Because they had been captured too.

Your heart twisted violently as you watched them being dragged into the room, their wands ripped from their hands, their arms forced behind their backs as Death Eaters shoved them to their knees.

"Ah, now this is a sight," Bellatrix mused, her lips curling into a wicked grin. "The Dark Lord’s three little favorites, reduced to this. Isn’t it just tragic?"

Regulus’ eyes snapped to you, and the second he saw the state you were in, something in him shifted. His normally cold, unreadable expression cracked—just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the sheer, unfiltered rage and fear burning beneath the surface.

Barty, on the other hand, was already losing it. "You fucking bitch!" he roared, trying to lunge at Bellatrix, but the Death Eater behind him yanked him back harshly. "I swear to Merlin, I will rip you apart with my bare hands—"

Bellatrix only laughed, delighted by his fury. "Oh, how precious," she cooed. "Look at him, so protective of his little pet."

She turned back to you, crouching down so she was at eye level. "I wonder," she mused, dragging her wand along your bruised cheek. "Would you be more willing to talk now that your lovers are here? Or should I make them watch a little longer?"

You spat at her.

Bellatrix’s smile disappeared.

And then she backhanded you across the face so hard your head snapped to the side, a fresh burst of pain blooming across your cheekbone.

"You fucking touch her again, and I’ll kill you!" Barty snarled, his voice raw, desperate. He was thrashing against his restraints now, barely being held back by the Death Eaters pinning him down.

Regulus’ voice was quieter, but no less deadly. "You’ll regret this," he said, his tone eerily even. "Every single one of you."

Bellatrix chuckled. "Oh, will I? And what exactly are you going to do, little Black? You don’t even have your wand."

Regulus didn’t respond. He only stared at her, his silver eyes glinting with something cold.

Bellatrix smirked. "Well, in that case, let’s continue, shall we?"

And then—

"Crucio."

Your screams tore through the chamber once again.

Barty’s entire body tensed like he had been physically struck, his breathing erratic. "Stop—STOP!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "PLEASE!"

Regulus wasn’t speaking. He was staring at you, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful, his entire body trembling with restrained fury.

Bellatrix lifted the curse, smiling. "Oh, did that upset you, boys?" she taunted. "Are you feeling… helpless?"

Barty was panting, his entire body shaking. "I swear to fucking Merlin," he rasped, "I will kill you. I will fucking kill you, Bellatrix."

Bellatrix only laughed again, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Now, now, that’s not a very nice way to talk to a lovely woman like me, is it?"

She turned back to you, running her wand along your collarbone. "Now, love," she purred, "are you ready to talk?"

You lifted your head slowly, meeting her gaze despite the agony radiating through your body. And then, through cracked lips and bloodied teeth, you smiled.

"Go to hell."

Bellatrix sighed dramatically. "Wrong answer."

And then the pain came again.

This time, you heard Barty scream your name.

And then—

Then you heard Regulus.

Not screaming.

Not begging.

His voice was calm. Cold.

"Let us go," he said simply.

Bellatrix looked at him in amusement. "Oh? And why would I do that?"

Regulus didn’t blink. "Because if you don’t," he said, "you’re going to wish you had killed me when you had the chance."

There was something terrifying in the way he said it.

Something that made even Bellatrix pause for half a second.

But then she smirked. "Oh, I do love empty threats."

She turned her wand back on you.

And this time, when the pain came, it didn’t stop.

Bellatrix finally lifted the curse, and your body collapsed onto the cold, stone floor, chest heaving, every nerve still screaming from the aftermath of the Cruciatus Curse. Sweat and blood mixed on your skin, your limbs trembling violently, but you didn’t let out another sound. You wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Regulus and Barty had gone deathly silent.

The second the curse lifted, Regulus’ expression hardened into something terrifying—something unshakable. His silver eyes burned with pure hatred, and yet, his face remained eerily calm, like a frozen lake hiding something deadly beneath the surface.

Barty, on the other hand, was still breathing heavily, his body straining against the Death Eaters holding him back. His entire face was flushed with rage, his eyes wild. He was ready to kill.

Bellatrix tilted her head, examining you with an almost lazy curiosity. "My, my," she mused. "Still so stubborn, aren’t you?" She crouched beside you again, running her wand along the side of your face as if she were admiring a piece of art. "I must admit, I’m impressed. Not many last this long without breaking."

Your breath was shaky, but you still managed to glare at her, your lip curling despite the pain. "You talk too much," you rasped.

Bellatrix let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, I do like you," she said, almost fondly. Then, she glanced over her shoulder at the two boys. "What about you, dear cousin?" she purred, locking eyes with Regulus. "Is it painful? Watching your little girlfriend suffer?"

Regulus didn’t react. His face remained a perfect mask of indifference. "You’re pathetic," he said quietly.

Bellatrix’s smirk twitched.

"Really, Bella?" he continued, voice smooth as silk, laced with venom. "Using me against her? That’s the best you can do?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You think I care about you?" Regulus scoffed, tilting his head. "You think I’ve ever cared about any of you?" He leaned forward slightly, his tone dropping lower. "You are nothing to me."

Something flickered in Bellatrix’s expression.

"Aw, is the little Black boy finally growing a spine?" she cooed, but there was a slight edge to her voice now. "Careful, Regulus. That sounds a lot like treason."

Regulus smirked. "So kill me."

Bellatrix’s jaw clenched.

And then, before she could say another word—

"You fucking touch him, and I will burn this entire place to the ground," Barty growled.

Bellatrix turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that, Crouch? Without your wand?"

Barty’s eyes were wild with fury. "I don’t need a wand to rip you apart."

Bellatrix let out a breathy chuckle, clearly amused, and turned fully toward him, slowly walking closer. "You’re quite the feral little thing, aren’t you?" she mused, circling him like a predator. "It’s a wonder the Dark Lord keeps you around."

Barty bared his teeth. "He keeps me around because I’m useful," he sneered. "Unlike you."

Bellatrix’s expression darkened.

In an instant, she lashed out, backhanding Barty across the face. His head snapped to the side, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Regulus’ entire body tensed.

You could barely lift your head, but when you saw the way Barty slowly turned back to face her, his eyes burning with something dark, something terrifying—you knew she had made a mistake.

Barty licked the blood off his lip and smiled. "You hit like a fucking coward," he muttered.

Bellatrix’s grip on her wand tightened.

"Enough," a voice commanded.

One of the older Death Eaters stepped forward, his voice heavy with authority. "The Dark Lord wants them alive. We still need answers." He turned to Bellatrix. "Torturing the girl further might kill her. And we need her conscious."

Bellatrix sighed dramatically, but she stepped back, twirling her wand between her fingers. "Fine," she drawled. "Then let’s see if the boys are more willing to talk."

Two Death Eaters grabbed Regulus, dragging him forward.

"Get your fucking hands off him!" Barty snarled, but another fist slammed into his stomach, making him double over, coughing violently.

Regulus didn’t resist. He didn’t fight.

He just looked at you.

And in that single glance, you knew—he wasn’t afraid.

Bellatrix leaned down in front of him, gripping his chin tightly, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Tell me, cousin," she purred. "Do you know what she’s been up to?"

Regulus didn’t even blink. "No."

Bellatrix smiled. "Liar."

She nodded at one of the men. A fist slammed into Regulus’ ribs, but he didn’t even flinch.

Bellatrix clicked her tongue. "You always were the quieter one," she mused. "The good boy. Mother’s favorite." She leaned in closer. "Tell me, Regulus, does it kill you to know that Sirius abandoned you?"

Regulus’ face remained unreadable. "You don’t know anything about me."

Bellatrix chuckled. "Oh, but I do," she whispered. "I know that no matter how much you pretend otherwise, you’re still the scared little boy who always did what he was told." She smiled sweetly. "You never had a choice, did you?"

Regulus’ fingers twitched, as if itching for a wand he no longer had.

"Tell me the truth," Bellatrix murmured. "And I’ll let her go."

Regulus finally spoke. "Go fuck yourself."

Bellatrix’s smirk faltered.

Another punch.

Another.

Regulus took each one in silence, his jaw locked, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Then it was Barty’s turn.

"Last chance, Crouch," one of the Death Eaters sneered. "Tell us what you know."

Barty spat blood onto the floor, grinning through crimson-stained teeth. "Kiss my ass."

A boot slammed into his stomach.

Then another.

And still, neither of them spoke.

Neither of them broke.

You tried to move, tried to reach for them, but your body wouldn’t obey.

You could only watch.

And pray that this wouldn’t be the end.

—— ☄️ ——

A note from the author:

Hello beautiful people!

I was NOT expecting for this to have two parts.

I had to stop writing because somehow Tumblr has a limit? I didn't even know about it.

So here's part two.

This story was a challenge for me to write, but i hope you all liked it as much as i did.

See you soon!

[writesvani]

fuckbuddy!gojo x reader

pairing: gojo x reader

type of fic: short drabble, hc

tws: explicit sexual content , dom/sub themes, manipulation, coercion (implied), cheating (implied), explicit language

my note will be at the end of the chapter! 🤍

happy reading, love you all [@writesvani]

Fuckbuddy!Gojo knows you have a boyfriend. And he loves it. Loves that no matter how much you try to play house with that poor bastard, you still end up in his bed, still come crawling back when you need to be ruined.

Fuckbuddy!Gojo who sends a lazy "wya?" knowing damn well you’re curled up against that pathetic excuse of a man—wrapped up in his warmth, drowning in his affection, trying so hard to convince yourself that this is what you want.

Fuckbuddy!Gojo who doesn’t even need a reply to know you’ll see it. That your heart will stutter, thighs clenching out of instinct, mind already fogging up with thoughts of him. But he waits anyway, phone in hand, cock already straining against his sweats, knowing you’ll crack.

And when you finally sneak away—probably murmuring some excuse about needing a glass of water—just to tell him you’re busy, that your boyfriend is waiting for you to come back and finish the movie?

Gojo just smirks.

"Oh, I was just thinking sum about you."

Short. Teasing. A trap, laid out perfectly. He knows you won’t be able to stop thinking about it. Knows you’ll be shifting in your seat for the rest of the night, pretending you’re paying attention to the movie when all you can think about is him.

What was he thinking about? The way your voice breaks when he’s fucking you? The way you tighten up around him like you were made for him? The way your boyfriend will never, ever be able to touch you the way he does?

Yeah. You’ll be thinking about him all night. Gojo? He’ll be waiting.

Fuckbuddy!Gojo who already knows that the second that thing you call your boyfriend knocks out, you’ll be right there—sneaking off to the bathroom, phone in hand, voice low and breathy as you murmur, “What were you thinking about?”

Fuckbuddy!Gojo who doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t bother with sweet talk or games, just lets out a slow exhale before saying, “Just thought about making you forget your own name.”

Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just send a pulse of heat straight between your legs, didn’t just have you pressing your thighs together, biting your lip, trying to ignore the slick pooling in your panties.

Fuckbuddy!Gojo who’s already shoving his sweats down with one hand, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, his own breath turning ragged. He knows exactly how you look right now—back against the bathroom wall, fingers gripping the sink, head tilted back, lips parted in that soft, needy way that drives him fucking insane.

"You miss me, baby?" He asks, voice laced with amusement, but there’s a hunger behind it, something darker, something desperate.

And he knows the answer. Knows that no matter how much you pretend, no matter how safe and comfortable that loser in the other room makes you feel—this is what you really crave. This is where you really belong.

As always, he’s more than happy to remind you.

author's note:

alright, listen, i’m supposed to be working on coming down (my college gojo x college reader fic, check it out HERE if you haven’t yet, you’re missing out), but today i decided to abandon all responsibility, throw caution to the wind, and let my brain do whatever the hell it wanted. and what did it want? a chaotic, unhinged gojo drabble that basically slapped me in the face. so here we are—me, spilling this madness onto the page, because my brain is too loud for me to ignore.

so yeah, forget about coming down for a second—this drabble is now my new obsession. i hope you're as addicted to this mess as i am because honestly, i don’t even know what happened.

but don’t worry! i’m not abandoning coming down forever. a new chapter is coming out on wednesday, so mark your calendars. get ready for more messiness, more chaos, and probably more of my unhinged ramblings.

divider by: @chilumitos

[sevinagreatergood]

I'll be honest people. I have nothing against ships. I have been shipping since I was 12. Now I'm 22. Ships were nice and if it wasn't my ship, I'll just scroll you know?

Many things happened once I entered harry potter fandom.

For liking snape. I was called a Nazi, racist and fascist

For hating lily. I was called a mysoginist and incel

I've also come to hate ships. In particular, jegulus, wolfstar and jily.

I know ships can exist. But I hate the people behind these ships. Many of them are snaters. I will explain to you why many of these have Snaters.

Jegulus:

In this ship, there are fans that steal Snape his canon position of slytherin. And claim regulus was the gofer of Severus Snape. THE Regulus Black? And other purebloods allows one of their kind to be treated like a slave? Yeah, no. I know fanon exists, I know but it's just how the fans claim that it could be canon or might as well be canon.

Also, they often steal Snape his role as a spy. That he changed for the greater good. And people saying that he canonically did. Bitch, he changed for a racist af house elf. Not to mention that James, whom he never ever interacted with, swoops in to save the damsel in distress.

Also, I dislike the way they hate lily. Many Snape fans see how lily has flaws. She was a bad friend. Jegulus somehow either hates lily because she's a woman or love her because she's a woman. No other reason whatsoever. That's so messed up. Women have flaws and a personality too you know?

As people mentioned. Jegulus is the ship for cowards. I bet Sirius would think, "why my brother when you have me? The best version of house Black? " While he holds a knife against his brother's throat, questioning James. 😂

Wolfstar:

Let's go to wolfstar. This ship ⚓ like the titanic. I have no idea why, how, when, where, who, why (I know I did why twice, leave it 😭) that ship. It's wrong on so many levels. This ship becomes fanon, more and more with each crappy thing the people make up from this.

You see. I dislike this ship. Because often, wolfstar writers see Remus as the victim of that prank. He's a co-victim at best. And they have a whole ordeal about Sirius apologizing to Remus and so on, but where is Severus in this story? Nowhere. Severus is even painted like the bad guy that doesn't need an apology.

Which is why I hate this ship. Fuck it. Fuck the people too. Recently, I've come across headcanons where Remus wore 2nd hand robes, is a Slytherin and has to deal with Sirius his stalking behavior (you know, the -like a dog that scented a rabbit- thing). Bitch, that's Snape. Just say you love a poor snarky git victim with a rich good looking Classist bully, enemies-to-lovers trope. Which is jeverus and snirius at best.

I hate this ship for all the brain rot the shippers have, the hatred towards Snape, and the nerve to justify Remus and Sirius by walking over Snape. Not to mention the immense mischaracterization. Since when is Sirius a crop top, mini skirt, lipstick, mascara wearing bastard and Remus is a hot daddy cowboy that gets lapdances from Sirius as if Black is a stripper.

The Remus that couldn't even look a child of 15 in the eyes as he himself justified James? That Remus? The Sirius that is basically Bellatrix her twin, gives lapdances? That it's fanon, alright, but please, if you can't paint Snape good in your fanfics, then don't touch him at all. That's why I hate wolf star shippers. I just know, Sirius would actually put more effort into trying to kill his FEM Sirius version by none other than Remus. Yeah, Sirius is so unhinged he would try the shack incident a 2nd time.

Jily:

Now, my favourite. Jily. Hey, I know its canon. Just because it's canon, doesn't mean I can not hate it. You see. Many fans of this ship, JUSTIFY James and Lily. Yeah, you read that correctly. There has to be a few screws loose in the head to justify a Classist aristocratic slightly racist bully. And a woman that willingly gave her hand to that type of monster.

Worst part is, similar to wolfstar. People don't work on Snape at all. Giving him some 2nd hand basic bad guy dialogue. To justify James his bullying and Lily her backstabbing. And similar to jegulus, for potter to swoop in and safe lily. Severus was the victim! He was the victim of James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Peter, Teachers and Slytherins.

Lily had good friends she made WILLINGLY. James also had a good friendship circle that he made WILLINGLY. Meanwhile Snape is left there to rot. Same fans will say Snape was an incel, Snape would've been a pedophile is Harry looked like her.

Bro, Snape didn't even have sex because he could die at any given day. Keep your perverted thoughts to yourself please, snater. That's the jily fandom. If jegulus and wolfstar loved Snape as a carpet. Boy, Jily makes Snape a red carpet to walk on all of his sorrow and misery.

Worst of all, people here either mischaracterize lily a lot. Telling others she is this saintly, empathic girl, when she was nothing but a backstabbing prick. Or, they like her because she is a woman married to the almighty James Potter. So, involved with Marauders. Perhaps even also helping wolfstar indirectly. James is taken, Remus and Sirius get together and "Peter can go fuck himself because he's ugly anyway." - some snater

That is why I hate wolfstar, jegulus, and jily. Now, I am honest here. I haven't put much thought in other ships outside Snape and the ones I hate. So please don't ask me about dramione, Drarry, Tomarry or whatever ship exists out there. As soon as I see these three ships on TikTok, I dont immediately act. Especially when their comments are empty. But I tend to lash out more often on the shippers of these 3 ships.

It's ships like these that create more snaters by the day. So if they have no Severus content on their page but lots of marauders content (yeah,I check their pages and followers and their pages). I make sure they know who the character is that they idolize. Until now, this theory has yet to be proven wrong because all jily, jegulus and wolfstar shippers I've interacted with are snaters.

Now, I'm not advising anyone to do this. This is simply my hill to die on I guess.

[vandme12]

RONIN WITH A PARTNER THATS MORE SADISTIC AT KILLING THAN HIM 🙏

Ronin thought he’d seen it all.

Thought he’d done it all.

The Devil’s Butcher, the monster under the bed, the nightmare in broad daylight—he lived and breathed carnage, reveling in every scream, every last breath, every desperate prayer that went unanswered.

And then you happened.

Now, he wasn't stupid. He knew you were something different the second he laid eyes on you. It was in the way you moved, how you smiled just a little too wide when things got messy, how your eyes gleamed in the glow of fresh blood.

You weren’t just capable of keeping up with him.

You left him in the dust.

And fuck, did that make his blood run hot.

The first time he saw you work, he had to take a second. Just to watch.

It wasn’t just the way you killed—efficient, brutal, artistic—it was how much you enjoyed it.

The way your blade sank into soft flesh like it was meant to be there, the way you lingered when someone begged, soaking in their fear like it was a drug. The way you smiled, lips painted red, fingers flexing as you decided whether to drag things out or end them.

You didn’t just kill.

You played.

And that was the moment Ronin knew.

He was in love.

“Y’know,” he says now, watching as you press a knee into some poor bastard’s chest, blade trailing a slow, lazy line down trembling skin. “I thought I was fucked up.”

You don’t look at him. You’re too busy drinking in the way your victim shakes beneath you. The way they can’t even scream anymore, throat raw from all the useless begging.

Ronin leans against the wall, arms crossed, head tilting as he studies you.

“Not that I’m complainin’,” he adds, grinning. “I like my lovers a little unhinged. But sweetheart… you might just be worse than me.”

You finally glance up at him, eyes sharp, calculating. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sink your knife slowly into soft flesh, just to hear the way it makes your victim wheeze.

Ronin lets out a low whistle.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, shaking his head, but there’s no disapproval—just pure admiration.

You flash him a bloody grin. “Don’t compare me to him.”

He barks out a laugh, pushing off the wall. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I doubt He’d be nearly as fun.”

The poor bastard under you gurgles, and you sigh. “They’re boring now.”

Ronin makes a thoughtful noise, eyeing the mess you’ve made. “Shame.”

Your knife stills. There’s something in your expression—something hungry.

Ronin recognizes it instantly.

His own reflection.

“You wanna find another?” you ask, voice light, teasing, but there’s intent behind it.

Ronin grins.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with affection, “I thought you’d never ask.”

And just like that, you’re both on the hunt again, matching smiles carved into your faces like permanent scars.

Because what’s better than a monster?

Blood spatters across the pavement.

Warm, fresh, still dripping from the jagged wound you carved into the man’s chest. His ragged breaths are shallow now—too weak to fight back, too slow to register the agony of his final moments.

Ronin watches, eyes half-lidded, lips curled into a fascinated grin as he rests his chin in his palm. “Damn, sweetheart. You really went to town on this one, huh?”

You hum, tilting your head as you wipe the blade clean against your sleeve. “What, getting squeamish on me?”

“Squeamish?” He barks out a laugh, pushing off the wall where he’d been watching. “Nah, babe, I love it. Just, y’know—" He gestures to the sheer mess of the scene—blood pooling in unnatural patterns, the man’s face frozen in sheer, unrelenting terror. “Bit much, even for me.”

He crouches beside you, examining your handiwork like a critic admiring a particularly gruesome painting.

You glance at him. “Jealous?”

Ronin clicks his tongue, grinning. “Jealous? Pfft. Maybe. You make me look downright merciful, and that’s kinda rude, don’tcha think?”

You smirk. “Mercy’s for the weak.”

“Ooh.” He whistles low, eyes dark with something dangerous. “Cold. I like it.”

[drakaripykiros130ac]

The Driftmark scene as a whole was a hot mess, courtesy of the showrunners.

So, based on the changes they made from the book, they attempted to make Alicent and Aemond the clear victims (which they’re not, not even in the show).

A 5 year old child, after being called a bastard, threatened with death, and forced to watch his demented uncle prepare to bash his 6 year old brother’s head with a rock, made a move to stop him using a knife and ended up slashing the guy’s eye.

The intention of the 5 year old was to stop this madness. It wasn’t a premeditated thing. It was the reaction of a child.

Now, moving forward to the great “assembly”, we have Alicent who found herself to be everyone’s spokesperson and although she wasn’t there, she somehow knew exactly what happened.

There were no witnesses to this child fight. The result: two girls who were bleeding, a boy with a broken nose and another who unfortunately had his eye slashed. All this shows is that the children fought, the fight escalated and one child ended up permanently damaged.

And then, you have a full grown mid-30 year old woman demanding the 5 year old child’s eye in retribution. When no one was listening to her insane ramblings, she picked up a knife and like a lunatic, lunged herself at the opposite party. At this point, we don’t even know if she was going after Lucerys or Rhaenyra. Afterwards, in a fit of rage, this mad woman slashes the arm and wounds the heir to the throne.

To recap:

1. Alicent thought herself entitled to retribution even though no one witnessed the child fight, and therefore no one could pass judgement.

2. A few dozen people witnessed Alicent hurting Rhaenyra and no consequences followed.

And I’m supposed to be convinced by this scene that what? That the Greens are poor misunderstood victims of Viserys and Rhaenyra?

The only thing this whole scene tells me is that Alicent is an unhinged b*tch.

[demialwrites]

Rufus x Pregnant Reader

His initial reaction to the news is to go quiet and start furiously turning the wheels in his head

He's proud, of course, but now he has to worry about someone using you against him

There's bickering about how much he can restrict your freedom for your own safety

The smug bastard thinks he's right, of course

You end up compromising on a Turk on guard 24 hours a day. They're spread thin already but they're willing to take on the extra stress for their boss man's unborn baby

He's a little jealous that they get to spend more with you than he does and is slightly grumpy during work hours

Anyone who does attempt to use you to influence Rufus, or the company itself, disappears and may be found hiding, having been harassed violently by the Turks. You may never even hear about it

You had better be careful about any complaint, however small, because he'll buy something and have it delivered in an attempt to fix it without consulting you first

Poor Reno or Rude have to sort through the Shinra-labelled boxes for you when they really start to pile up

Rufus is unfazed by any of your mood swings. As long as you're safe, he'll brush off anything said in anger

If it's a boy, just don't suggest to name him after Rufus' father. He doesn't care otherwise

If it's a girl and you let him choose, it'll be embarrassingly unique

Hojo is not allowed to touch you with a ten foot pole

If any of the directors send gifts, only Reeve sends something that's not ridiculous. Also, Tseng is mostly like to gift you a baby monitor

As you move along in your pregnancy, Rufus starts to change his behaviour at work. He clamps down more and more on his subordinates' unhinged behaviour

He's starting to think more about the kind of company he would like Shinra to be for his child's future

He's extra motivated to be different than his father and provide a better childhood than he himself got

That doesn't necessarily mean he knows what that might look like so you'll have to guide him, if he lets you

He doesn't clear his schedule on your projected delivery day because he can just drop whatever he's doing and leave

[summerpearlpen]

Polin Fic Recs - Amazing World Building

The world building is insanely good. I gasped and got transported while reading these.

1. In Fragments We Fall by smj

Mature. Regency. Complete. 80,729 words. S2 post the Queen's threat to Eloise, Penelope comes forward, sacrificing all to save Eloise. Politics. Strong Penelope Featherington. Protective Colin Bridgerton. Espionage within the Napoleonic War. Both Pen and Colin being sly & sneaky bastards. Slow burn.

2. Poor Puzzled Moon by everlarktoast

Explicit. WWII setting. Work in progress. +26,000 words. A story of fear, loss, friendship, family, and love during the second World War. Strong Penelope Featherington. Protective Colin Bridgerton. Oblivious Colin Bridgerton. Slow burn.

3. Only You by ktbeets

Explicit. Regency. Complete. 66,655 words. Penelope and Colin wake to find the entirety of London abandoned. All humans are gone except for them. A journey of physical and spiritual survival. ANGST. Lots of unhinged hand holding. They work together as a team. Oblivious Colin Bridgerton. Slow burn.

4. london boulevard by phantomphaeton

Mature. Regency. Complete. 227,034 words. 10 chapters from Colin's POV. Followed by chapters from Penelope's POV. This story has many layers. Investigations, hustling and late-night revelry. Female friendship. Slow burn. European grand tour. Girls just wanna have fun. Convenient plot device that ensures there are no accidental pregnancies. Inspiring song suggestions can be found in the notes. Only AO3 members can access this fic.

5. My Jolly Sailor Bold by rottentiger

Explicit. Regency in the Ocean. Work in progress. +35,000 words. Penelope is a mermaid who rescues Colin from a shipwreck. Hurt/Comfort. Innocent but sassy Penelope Featherington. Aware Colin Bridgerton. Keeps to the principle that in the world of Bridgerton, death is less important than horniness.

[redbleedingrose]

Rhys in grey sweatpants, I had that image put in my head now I want to spread the gospel 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

Just him with his sleep hair and voice in nothing but his grey sweatpants 😮‍💨

UMMMMMM

Rhysand is totally the best dressed of all the males in the night court and possibly Prythian.

Only Eris rivals him in the clothing department and I stand firm on that statement.

He just knows what gets you going. He knows the colors that suit him and he is not afraid to work it.

I feel like for the most part, Rhys really plays the role of high lord well. And he dresses the part too.

All of his clothes are freshly tailored and laundered. He never really wears the same outfit twice. And when he meets you???

He makes sure that you have all the clothes that you could ever want or need. He also insists on matching most days. You basically are THE moment in Prythian, everyone who isn't you wants to BE you. And it is all thanks to Rhysie's impeccable fashion sense. All your clothes make you look like the star of the night, pun not intended.

And all of your shoes and jewelry he has designed for you? Don't even get me started. Each outfit needs its own individualized look and feel and vibe. And he makes sure that is there for you. He is always there to help you put together your look.

Playing dress up for him is sooooo much fun. He has you doing twirls in your dresses and gets on his knees to help you put your heels on. He kisses every portion of your exposed neck whenever he clasps on your necklaces for you. You are treated like an utter princess around him, never having to lift a finger beyond your desire.

He also loves to help you with your earrings. And he is so gentle with it too. His pretty violet eyes focusing on your ear lobe as he ever so carefully puts in your earrings. He makes sure that they don't feel to heavy or cause any irritation to your ear as you are sensitive to different kinds of metals. When he is done, his eyes focus back on you with this look of utter pride that you are his. You are his mate. His high lady. His everything. And he is just obsessed.

You are lucky if you can make it to ANY event on time because this male will find any excuse to show you just how obsessed he is.

Back to Rhys' fashion sense...

He really rarely wears clothes that are "lounge wear." TBH, I feel like he started moreso a little after meeting you because he sees what it does to you.

Rhysie is the kind of male who can look good in practically anything. But in lounge wear??? send freaking help he is the hottest male to have ever EXISTED!!!

His gray sweatpants are one of your favs on him. He is always wearing it with a tight black or navy blue t-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders and biceps. You can basically see the outline of his abs whenever he wears those shirts (which you will be riding later so help you gods).

And omg just think of all of his tattoos exposed on his corded forearms. And think about those muscles flexing while he fingers you speechless.

Anyway, poor rhysie needs to replace his sweatpants any time he wears them because they always end up stained from you riding his thigh.

But he knows that.

Thats why he wears them, slutty smug bastard. The smirk any time he pulls them out and surprises you by wearing them is enough to know that he knows exactly what he does to you. And he is proud of it too.

His formal clothing is not to be forgotten.

His tight fitting dress shirts where he leaves the top two buttons open so that you can see his smooth tan chest underneath??? The dark swirls intricately peaking out and climbing up his neck??? The small silver chain he wears??? The one that has your name engraved over and over, all along the metal because he belongs to you??? Because he knows that every part of him, his heart and soul, is all entirely owned by you???

The only ring he wears is his wedding ring too.

Sigh, I need a Rhys.

This was terrible but I love Rhysand so you are gonna get my unhinged thoughts about him always.

[chibsandchill]

A blood red setting sun

Fandom: HOTD (House of the Dragon) 

Pairing: Aemond x GN!Dragonrider!Reader (reader’s house is not specified)

Warnings: Death, toxic relationships, Aemond needs therapy (like a lot), sui§ide, Dark!Unhinged!Aemond, bad language, blood and gore (described), unreliable narrator (Aemond), grammatical and spelling errors. This is a dark fic

Summary: Rhaenyra changed her mind and sent you instead of Daemon to guard Harrenhall, and a battle between you and Aemond one-eye ensues far above the Gods Eye. Inspired by Love crime by Siouxsie and the Hannigram cliff scene. 

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Alys clung to his back, her breath warm on the side of his neck. It made his skin crawl, 

he loved it. 

That feeling of wrong that washed over him every time they touched. The disgust that sprung down his spine when he joined himself with her. How his breath caught in his throat when she kissed him, when she pressed herself against him, 

the instinct to flee. 

It was familiar, 

unlike with you, 

when everything felt right. 

Aemond shifted forward in the saddle once he spotted the charred ruins. Alys moved closer, her rounded belly pressing against him to the point of discomfort. Disgust rolled in his stomach at the thought that she carried his bastard. He tugged her closer still, chasing the feeling, and yet, despite his efforts it ebbed away, just like it always did. He chased and chased like a dog with a bone, 

but even that would abandon him. 

Aemond scoffed and pushed her arm away. He would push her away, off his dragon were it not for the fact that he was addicted to her. She was a witch, 

his Alys. 

His. 

It rushed through him again, the loathing. It set his nerves on fire, his chest aching and heart screaming in protest, 

oh how he loved it. 

“There, my Prince.” Alys whispered in his ear. It made his skin crawl. Oh, how he loathed her touch. 

But true indeed, there you were. Waiting for him by the ruins and the great old tree. Your dragon stared them down when he ordered Vhagar to land. No respect, no… fear, either of you, he thought, for both dragon and rider neither flinched nor moved away when he landed his Queen of Dragons recklessly close. 

“Kinslayer!” You named him. “You came at last.”

He helped Alys down from Vhagar. Her touch chased away the delight he felt at hearing your voice again. “I hear you’ve been seeking us.” 

“Only you.” 

“Hm.” A smirk grew on his face. “I rarely leave my Lady’s side.”

You frown at the sight of the witch’s belly. “Clearly. I see Aegon’s lesson stuck after all. Tell me, Lady,” you turned to Alys, “did he cry as he spilled himself inside you?”

Your fire excited him. He found he didn’t even mind that it was his past you used to tear at the frayed edges of his wounded heart. It was you he had cried to that day Aegon had taken him to the brothel. He had cried as the old whore forced him to his peak, 

a whore who looked like Alys. 

Perhaps that’s why he chose her. So he can relive it time and time again. So that when he dreams he can hide in your arms again, where you press him to you to the point of pain. It grounded him, 

unlike now, 

Aemond felt untethered, like a kite who’s string had been cut and was left to waste away in the wind. 

His witch stood tall. Perhaps a bit too tall. Rigid. “Hardly.”

“Ah,” you lean back against the tree, “you’re upset about the gift I left you, witch.”

Alys tensed and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Aemond wanted to look at your hands but he refused to tear his eye from yours. Were they bloodied with Alys’ bastards? Or had you scrubbed and scrubbed until your hands bled. Were your arms marred with tiny scratches as they fought back? 

How did it taste? 

How did it feel to have your soul tainted with their blood? 

Could you still taste the iron on your tongue as he did? 

You were the same, 

tainted, 

doomed. 

You had left them all in a pile. Poor Alys could barely recognize them, much less identify what pieces belonged to which of her children. She had cried that night as he took her. He had licked the tears from her face and her misery warmed him. 

He wanted to thank you for it, 

for the high. 

Could you do it again? 

“I had thought murdering children was Daemon’s brand of cruelty.” 

“As did I, kinslayer.” You worried your lip between your teeth, face a perfect mask of indifference. “I do believe the saying to be ‘an eye for an eye’, not ‘an eye for a life’. Let’s not forget about sweet Lucerys,” you pouted and stepped closer. “He was Rhaenyra’s favorite, you know. Was it worth it?”

Always, he wanted to say. 

Aemond the One-eyed kinslayer with a heart as black as the night he slayed his nephew. 

“No.” 

“Liar.”

Perhaps a little. 

“And how is the whore of dragonstone, hm? I hear they heard her screams all the way to Dorne.” Aemond placed Alys in front of him, pressing himself against her. “And her daughter? A sign from the gods. My sister is more beast than woman. It is not so surprising then to find our uncle rutting into her so.” 

“You think I am here for her?” You laughed. 

Aemond bristled at the sound. He stood before you, a warrior, bloodied and proven, 

and you laugh. 

“No, Aemond,” his trousers tightened despite Alys pressing back against him, “I am here for you. It is time we end this. It is time we see who will win this deadly game. Say goodbye to your whore.”

Alys twisted in his arms with outrage, but Aemond said nothing. He wanted to disobey, if only to see what you would say, 

what you would do to her, 

to him. 

Would you tear the bastard from his arms? He tightened his arms around Alys. Would you? Could you see it in his eyes? The desire? 

Take her, he urged you in his mind. 

Take her. Take her. Take her. Take her. 

Take me. 

In his dreams you called him ‘yours’. 

Eager to chase it all away, Aemond forced Alys around and pressed his lips against her hard and fast without an ounce of kindness. They were already bruised from last night and she twisted in his hold to get away, 

but he wouldn’t let her. 

She saw much in the fire, his Alys. Surely she saw into his very core and knew the beast that waited there, ready to devour all that tries to take what belongs to another, 

what belongs to you. 

Piece by piece Aemond fed Alys to it. 

Who did you feed to your beast, Aemond wondered, or had you left it starving until he returned? Did you wait for him like you swore? He refused to believe you had. He did not. So you did not. What if you had? If he touched you would the beast take him? Would it turn against him? 

He wanted to try.

If you consumed him, 

he would be glad. 

You had lain with another. You must have. Or else… He refused to believe you had not, refused to believe that you had not betrayed him for that meant that it all was for nothing. 

He could see it in your eyes. You taunted him with it. A piece of you had been given to another. It must have been. It had been. He could see it. He saw the lack of it. You lacked it. You could not give it to him. It was gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. 

Just like you. 

Where did you go? 

He tore his face away from Alys and pushed her out of the way. 

There. 

You were mounting your dragon. 

The die had been cast, it seemed. Now to see who would survive this dance of theirs. 

Aemond clambered up the chains to Vhagar’s saddle. 

“Kinslayer!” You interrupted him as he was about to fasten the chains around him. He looked up, and there you were. Upside down in your saddle. He scowled. “Don’t bother with the chains. This won’t take long.”

“Soves!” Aemond barked at Vhagar, who grumbled and growled in protest at his tone, but the she-dragon obeyed. 

Your dragon was smaller and swifter than the old she-dragon, and quickly the pair of you disappeared in the clouds above. Because of her size Vhagar was much slower and had taken to ascending in ever widening circles, forcing them out over the vast lake. The waters of Gods eye shimmered like molten copper under the setting sun. It was rather peaceful, Aemond thought. 

And then, 

your dragon emerged from the clouds from his blindside. Teeth like swords wrapped around Vhagar’s throat and talons ripped and ripped at her soft underbelly. Vhagar twisted in your dragon’s hold, tearing herself further at his teeth in her desperation to be free. 

“Vhagar!” He shouted in horror. 

Her roars of pain echoed across the land. She turned and turned, lashed out with her tail, her claws. 

“Dracarys!” Aemond commanded her. “Dracarys!” 

Fire spouted from her maw, so bright that it looked like the clouds themselves caught on fire. 

Your dragon let go so that he could get a better grip but Vhagar banked to the side and the two dragons grappled at each other. Talons tore at hide until blood rained down on the fishermen below. 

And yet, through it all, you remained quiet. Such was your bond with your dragon. It needed no words. 

Vhagar’s claws caught on the soft underbelly of your dragon, and her teeth on his wing, but the she-dragon was dying. Her great wings slowed down, her fire a mere ember glowing in her throat. Your dragon bit at Vhagar again with renewed vigor, undeterred by her talons cutting straight through entrails. 

“Oh, kinslayer!” Your voice echoed in the wind. 

He looked up and only managed to draw his dagger as you leaped from your dragon. You slammed into him and your sword through him. Aemond gasped and sputtered. You were touching him. 

Skin against skin. 

Your face against his. 

Blood coated your teeth. 

You had never looked more beautiful. 

He barely noticed Vhagar’s dying shrieks, or that the three of you began plummeting towards the water. 

The feeling of her, 

it rushed through his veins, 

burned up his skin. 

Your chest heaved, but you smiled at him. You smiled and pressed yourself closer to him. Would you impale yourself on your own sword to get closer? Bleed into him as he bleeds into you. For what was this but you killing yourself? You and he were the same. 

Then you gasped, and Aemond was broken from his trance. 

You were still falling, 

falling together. 

But his dagger? You had fallen straight onto it. Red gushed out onto his hand. Horror filled his chest. He brought his hand up to his face. He wanted to cover his eyes and pray, pray, pray until he woke up in his bed and this was all a bad dream. 

He hardly felt his own pain over the pain in his heart. The beast rattled at the bars of the cage, breaking his ribs to crawl out of her chest and be reunited with you. 

Aemond’s eyes flew open at your touch. Calm acceptance waited for him in your eyes. He knew then that you also knew that this would never end in any other way. You were never meant to survive the war, for what was there to live for if not the other. You were always meant to burn together, 

die together.

Happiness. You were happy, 

happy with him. 

He could see the water now. It would be your grave. But you would be together. He wondered if you knew what would happen when you decided to jump from your dragon. Had you seen his dagger? Was this your design all along? To die together at each other’s hands? 

The one piece of you that you could give to no other. It was his. 

His. His. His. His. He was yours. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

You brought his blood coated hand to his mouth, and without looking away he licked at the wetness there. You pressed it harder against him and he licked and licked until it was gone and his face was stained with you. You. You. You.

You threw yourself against him again, your lips pressed against his. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. But it was perfect. He chased your lips as you pulled away. You had never looked as beautiful as you did then, lips smeared with blood and wide-shot pupils. 

You clutched at his tunic, to bring him closer or push him away? Aemond didn’t know. You pulled and then you pushed. 

And then, 

blackness. 

Aemond looked up. 

A blood red setting sun. 

Water filled his lungs. He didn’t feel cold and it was okay, 

because he had you in his arms, 

and now you would never be apart. 

[marvelmaniac715]

These are my nicknames for every single Master (I already made a post about the last three - Little Drummer Boy, Femininomenon, and the Mad Hatter - and I’ll include them again here for the sake of fairness (apologies in advance for the blurry images - I cropped them individually from the Wikipedia photo of the Master):

Father - He’s quite literally the first Master that exists (ignore the fact that he’s the 12th regeneration) and I don’t know when that technicality made me start internally calling Delgado!Master that nickname, but I ended up internally cheering it every time he popped up on screen 😅.

Skeletor - I think it’s self-explanatory, poor bastard 🥲.

Bad Tan Job - Again, self-explanatory.

The Other One - I’m gonna be honest, I haven’t seen this guy’s episodes yet, I know he turns into a cat, but I really have nothing to go off for this guy, hence the bland nickname 😂.

Count Dracula - This is the only outfit I’ve ever seen Roberts!Master in - haven’t seen the movie yet 😅, and you have to admit, he looks like Dracula.

Metacunt - I saw Derek Jacobi in Good Omens before I watched Doctor Who, and I already despised the Metatron, so War!Master gets to share that nickname by association ☺️.

Little Drummer Boy - The sound of this man’s insanity is set to a rhythm that slaps, who’s to say that he wasn’t the drummer boy from the Christmas Carol?

Femininomenon - Self-explanatory, I love Missy, she’s iconic and I want a ten movie long franchise about her exploits, episodes, books, and Big Finish audios aren’t enough for her awesomeness.

The Mad Hatter/Spy Boy - The first nickname is solely because he wears a top hat in that one Victorian scene and is unhinged, whilst Spy Boy just came to me before the reveal, when I’d shout “quick, Spy Boy!” at my screen as he ‘helped’ the Doctor and her Fam, the nickname just stuck.

[sweetangelofdesirex]

Fun in the Patches

You can thank this edit for making me watch this movie, and therefore making me write this. I'm gonna just say this, I don't know if this is unhinged or not, and that should tell you something.

Pairing: Gus X fem! reader

Warning: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, Unprotected sex, creampie, this is my first smut ever. Thank you.

Other notes: Chapter 6 of Release Me-Fix me will be coming out this week on Sunday so look out for it! Also I came up with an awesome Jackson Ripnerx Fem! Reader Idea, but that won't be coming out until I finish Release Me which I think has about 3 or 4 chapters left. Lol! I lost my pig obsession but the love of the story is what's keeping it alive. I WILL FINISH IT! Alright guys hope you enjoy my one-shot.

P.S. Was thinking about adding their wedding night hehehe-TOO MANY PLANS

It had been on my mind for hours now, replaying over and over and over again, dreaming of his soft lips on mine, shy but desperate to please. Poor bastard may have been inexperienced (and terrified) on our wedding day, but nothing a little guidance couldn't fix. It was so adorable seeing him stutter out how much he loved me.

"Ay miss, a drink over here please."

"Got it." I wanted out of here as quick as possible.

My mind was in the clouds. How could I focus on serving customers and helping with my boss's baby, when all I could think about is gazing into those angelic blue eyes as he takes me? Oh! I could fuck him on the floor, or in his wagon. My pussy ached for more; I want to fuck on that fucking roof until it caves in. Or... somewhere even better; his father's beloved cabbage patch.

My lips were sore from biting them, I wouldn't be able to take this much more. I could see my pervy boss imagining his own fantasies of me-Ugh! Guy's a dickhead if I ever met one. The door opens, but I'm too busy polishing glasses and dreaming of fucking in the mud to notice.

"Hey there, Gus." Mave greets him. My heart flips like a coin in chance. I look up to see a striking man staring at me.

"Hello love." his soft voice warms my heart, and I can't help but to blush.

"Hello, What brings you here today?"

"Came to drop this off." Gus shakes the package in his hand, smiling sweetly at me. If only he knew what I've been dreaming of all day.

"Alright love birds, you'll have plenty of time-"

"Actually, I was wonderin' if I could get off early?" I turn to my husband "I think we should check on your dad's cabbages, don't you?"

"It's pourin' outside-freezin'." He says quite shocked, like I said if the poor bastard only knew.

"That's perfect.-We should get goin'." I grab my coat and he's waiting for me, thankfully getting the hint.

Thick fog cloaks the dirt roads, and the chilled rain drops leaves Gus's cheeks red. He looks so innocent and yet so hungry and I can't help but kiss his cheeks.

"Stop here." I whisper in his ear.

"Here?" He whispers back, voice cracking with shock. "What are we doing here? It's cold."

"Not for long". Before he can say anything else, I slip off my brown wool coat. He's shocked but can't stop watching. Slowly, I lift my shirt, exposing my bare breast and stiff nipples. I give him a wink as slip down my skirt exposing heaven to him. Now I really got his attention. Not so innocent now.

"Y'wanna do that here?" The words stutter out of flustered Gus as I jump out of the carriage, slapping my ass for an added enticement.

"C'mon don't you want to play with me." Keeping my gaze on his, I let my hair down, allowing the strands to fall where they may. I love the feeling of the mud under my feet as I walk through the patch. I turn to see Gus watching me curiously, weighing his options. Why not put on a little show? It won't hurt. I begin caressing a cabbage, placing it in between my legs. Slowly, I grind my hips against it. Soft moans leaving through cold puffs of breath.

"Ohh Gus." Oh Gus was right! Gus couldn't believe the divine sight before him. He knew he wanted you as soon as he saw you serving food at the Pub. He begged his father to let him marry you, even get on his hands and knees to be with you, and God was he grateful.

Never in his life did he think cabbage was sexy, in fact he loathed cabbage, but seeing the way your hips grinded in smooth waves made his cock suffocate desperate for that orgasmic paradise.

Gus couldn't take it anymore, ripping off his clothing with a quickness. He had been feigning for you all day! Fuck the freezing rain, anything you wanted, he wanted. The mud squished beneath his feet, with each step he became more intoxicated by you.

Staring up into his eyes as he stared down into yours, was euphoric. He slicked his hand your hair and down to your neck, closing the gap between you. His lips gently press on yours, then your cheek, and your other cheek. His hard cock was practically begging you to devour it, the veins bulging, slowly you open your mouth to take him in. Your taste buds savoring every bit of salt, sweat, and skin. His head lulling back as you his erection touch the back of your throat. You were in paradise, watching his mouth agape from the pleasure you were giving him. You grind harder against the cabbage, the rough petals rubbing harder against your clit.

"Fuucckk." Swiftly, he pulled his twitching cock from your mouth. He was so close to the edge, but he couldn't waste cumming just yet.

He licked your chin, tasting himself in the deepness of your kiss. The feeling of your lips intertwined-Oh no he definitely couldn't cum yet.

Pushing that godforsaken cabbage out of the way, he placed himself right in between your glorious legs. The sheer energy between you two was irresistible. The rain glistening your skin, shiny and slick, dripping over your breast and down your stomach. It called to him to lick it up, to taste and treasure every bit of you, it fed his thirst in ways he could never imagine. Electric. Gripping your hips, he aligned your entrance to him. He needed you now.

And you loved that about him. His one track mind, and his insatiable desire for you. The way he's gripping you tight as he touches and pushes his way inside, making sure I take every. single. inch of him. The sheer mass is enough to overtake me, filling me to the brink. Sweet mother of God.

No words are needed between lovers, only the pure rapture of the slow and steady rhythm of each thrust. Our hips in sync, deeper, stronger, harder, threatening to become one. Our hearts racing as the desperation for release builds. I don't know how much more I can take! Tongue entwined with tongue, his thrusting becoming deep and wild.

"I love you." His voice a soft whisper, his gaze encapsulating me with light blue.

"I love-I love you too." You could say that a thousand times, and it would still make his heart patter as if it was the first time. His body couldn't resist the urge any longer, and with such force, pleasure rippled through his body pouring into you. Another thrust, he could feel his warm release filling you, so hot it rivaled the chill outside. He left a line of kisses from your neck up your jaw. Softly, he kissed your cheeks, and your nose. He could spend all day and night here, reveling in your beauty. With one last kiss, he pulled out allowing his release to leak out of you, crumbling on top of you from satisfaction.

God was he happy to have you as his wife, to see you smiling sweetly at him-well worth half of the cabbages.

The downpour became heavier washing away the mud, but not quenching the thirst of desire.

Looking at him, you couldn't help but want to do it again.

"Don't y'dare look at me like that." Grabbing his face, you planted kisses on his cheek hard with love. Tonight was going to be fun.

[snail-day]

Nobody and I mean absolutely nobody asked for this.

Yandere! Excalibur x Reader

(Yes, the silly little guy from soul eater)

TW: Uhhh crack fic? Yandere behaviors (obsession), Dry humping.

Inspired by that one silly little bar scene.

Imagine this: you’re a weapon meister. You had dreams of being someone great. A hero, a legend, maybe even someone people sang ballads about. But those dreams died the day he entered your life. Excalibur. The sword of legend. The kingmaker. The literal worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

It started with a smile. Just one polite, foolish smile. You didn’t even mean it—it was one of those reflexive, awkward ones you give when you don’t know how else to respond to a monologue about bathing rituals and legendary glory. But to him? That was it. The moment. The spark. “Ah,” he proclaimed, his stubby hand dramatically over his heart. “A fool worthy of my love! You shall be my meister! My eternal companion!” He even tipped his stupid little pathetic top hat for you. How could you not fall in love?

You should have run. You should have bolted and never looked back. But now it’s too late.

Excalibur is everywhere. There’s no escaping him. He’s beside you at all times, glaring at anyone who dares speak to you. Did your friend just smile at you? Excalibur’s already whacking them with his cane, shouting, “FOOL! They belong to ME!” Did someone accidentally bump into you in a crowded space? Oh, don’t worry. Excalibur’s singing about how he’ll destroy them in increasingly unhinged, improvised verses. “HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY MEISTER, YOU INSOLENT WORM!” he screeches, flinging glitter at the poor guy. Honestly, where does the glitter get stored? You dont know, you don't ask. The poor stranger is left wondering if they’ve been cursed.

And the nights? Oh god. The nights. Every single one is a waking nightmare. You’ll be dead asleep when you suddenly jolt awake—there he is, staring at you. Staring. Unblinking, his stubby little face inches from yours. “You look so peaceful when you sleep, my fool,” he says, voice soft, almost tender. Then he lifts his cane, prodding your cheek. “Do you dream of me? You better dream of me.”

When he’s not staring? He’s cuddling. Or worse, dry humping your leg. “This is an expression of my undying love!” he shouts when you shove him off. You tell him to stop. You beg. But he just tilts his head, looking at you like you’re the crazy one. “Stop? Stop?! FOOL! My affection knows no limits! You should be grateful!”

He leaves notes. Creepy little love letters scrawled in perfect cursive on parchment that smells faintly of roses. “Dearest Fool,” one read. “Today, you complimented someone else. I forgave you, of course, but it hurt me. Do better tomorrow, my love.” Another? “I’ve counted the seconds since you last smiled at me. 58,432. Do you hate me now?” You don’t know how he’s even getting these into your pockets. But every time you reach for your wallet, there’s another one.

And just when you think it can’t get worse? The shrine. Oh yes, the shrine. You found it by accident—he dragged you into a room one day, claiming it was part of his “1,000 Provisions.” It wasn’t. It was a room filled with pictures of you. Badges you’d worn. Stray hairs he’d somehow collected. Even a pair of socks you thought you’d lost forever. “Do you like it?” he asked, beaming with pride. “It’s for us. For our eternal bond.”

You can’t escape. You’ve tried. You’ve tried everything. Locking your doors? He’s already inside. Moving to another city? He’s waiting at the train station, cane in hand, tapping it ominously against the floor. “Fool,” he says, his voice dripping with menace and affection. “You’ll never leave me. Never.”

You poor bastard or should I say fool?