Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x FemReader (no use of y/n)
Lyonel Maekar Spinster Series Masterlist
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) poor self image (reader is delulu) poor family dynamics. Explicit Smut - Minors DNI
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left their love for this series, it is been a pleasure to write. Don’t forget to check out all 3 works, linked above.
You had avoided Baelor for days following your betrothal.
You told yourself you owed him that small mercy. You had already caused enough disruption.
The betrothal would be short one. The wedding already planned, the wedding that was meant to be your sister’s. Your father saw no reason in changing the arrangements simply because a different daughter would now walk down the aisle. You were not worth the inconvenience to him.
Once or twice you considered asking for a small change. Something simple like the flowers, you had never been fond of Lily’s. But each time you stopped yourself, believing you had caused enough trouble.
——————————————————————
You stood in your chambers, seamstresses arrived with trunks of silk and lace, their fingers swift, altering your sister’s gown to fit you. Even the dress would not be yours.
However you could not fault her taste. Ivory silk, with a nipped waist and a soft flowing train that shimmered when it caught the light. Your fingers traced the small golden dragon scales embroidered delicately along the bodice, rising toward the shoulders where Baelor would place his house cape. Claiming you as his.
The image lodged uncomfortably in your chest, a man who did not want you, forced to take you.
“It is exquisite my lady” one of the seamstresses breathed.
You met your own reflection in the tall mirror. The gown was beautiful. You were not. You felt like an imposter, wrapped in silk too fine for her.
You smoothed the fabric at your waist, unable to look at yourself much longer.
“Will I do?” you asked quietly
The seamstress blinked at you, startled by the question “You will do perfectly, my lady”
Maybe that would be enough.
——————————————-
Court did not make it easier, whispers followed you openly now.
“How fortunate for such a lady to secure such a match” one woman laughed behind her fan.
“I heard she brewed a potion to ensnare him” another replied cruelly “Why else would he choose her?”
You kept your chin lifted. You had learned long ago how to endure.
Court did not fracture around your sister, it embraced her. She was the wronged beauty. The gracious one, the younger daughter who bore disappointment with poise.
“How dreadful, stealing her sister’s propects right from under her nose” one woman tutted, looking right at you.
Your sister did not defend you, but she could not meet your gaze either. She simply accepted their sympathy, seeming brighter under the attention.
You left before anyone could see your face faulter.
—————————
There was only one place in the Red Keep that felt untouched by gossip. Balerion’s skull loomed as it always had, lit under the touch light.
You sat upon the stone ledge, in the dragon’s shadow and finally allowed your shoulders to fall, letting the tears slip from your eyes with a silent sob.
“I did not mean to ruin you” you whispered to the empty chamber.
The silence answered nothing.
You did not know how long you had been beneath the Red Keep. Sat with your head in your hands, your tears had dried without you noticing as you sat enjoying the silence.
After a while, you rose. It felt foolish to sit weeping beneath a dead dragon, it would not change anything.
You moved deeper into the cavernous hall, past Balerion’s vast skull into the smaller alcoves beyond where the skulls of each Targaryen dragon’s were kept. Each dragon diminished in size, less monstrous than the last.
You paused before one no larger than a cat. Baelor’s words echoing in you head ‘Time makes everything smaller’
You tilted your head slightly studying the tiny white skull. Perhaps that was true of fear and shame, perhaps one day all of this would not seem to large.
You almost laughed at yourself, you were comparing your circumstances to dragons now. “No wonder some Targaryens go mad” you mutter “its this damned place”
You moved further still, wandering slowly along the chamber wall, back towards Balerion, hands clasped behind your back. The world above felt distant, the Red Keep silent for once. It was peaceful.
You did not hear the echo of footsteps, too lost in thought. It was the sharp breath that drew your attention.
You turned and froze. Prince Baelor stood in the archway. Torchlight behind him cast his figure in shadow, but his face was visible. His eyes swept over you, fast, searching, almost frantic, as though confirming you were real.
You blinked, startled “Your Grace?” Your brows knit at the expression on his face.
His jaw was tight, his breathing heavy. For a moment he said nothing at all, as if fearing you might vanish if he disturbed the silence.
Then he crossed the chamber in swift strides stopping just short of you “You are here” he said, fingers flexing at this sides. His tone frayed with something you did not recognise.
You frowned slightly “Of course” you replied softly “Where else would I be?”
His gaze moved over you again, as though checking for injury. As though expecting blood.
You became suddenly aware that you had not told anyone where you were going “I did not mean to disturb anyone” you added gently “I only wished for quiet” your eyes dropping from his.
He exhaled slowly. It sounded suspiciously like relief.
“You have been searched for” he said at last, the words were controlled.
You blinked at him “Searched for?”
His jaw tightened “You have been absent for some time.”
You glanced around the cavern, almost bemused “Have I?”
He did not smile “The seamstress came to your chambers. You were not there. Nor in the gardens. Nor in the library.”
You felt a faint flicker of embarrassment “I did not realize I was required” you said softly “The gown is already chosen”
His eyes sharpened “This is not about the gown ”
You shifted slightly beneath his gaze. “I only wished for a moment of quiet. I did not mean to cause difficulty”
“Difficulty” he repeated, the word low.
You misunderstood the tone entirely “I know I am already disruptive” you continued, lowering your eyes “The last thing I intended was to trouble the household further”
For a heartbeat he did not speak. Then he stepped closer, enough that you felt the warmth of him in the cold chamber.
“You were not in your chambers” he said again, quieter now. “And no one knew where you had gone” the heat behind his words completely lost on you.
You looked up, confused by the intensity “I am hardly a child your grace”
He dragged a hand briefly across his jaw, regaining control “The city is not safe” he said evenly “Nor is this keep, as secure as it pretends to be”
The reminder of the market hung between you, of men with rough hands and cruel intentions.
You swallowed “I did not mean to cause alarm” you said at last, softer now “I thought no one would notice”
That was the line, that struck him hardest. His eyes darkened “I noticed” he said voice low.
The words settled heavily between you. For a fraction of a second, something in his expression was unguarded, raw.
You felt it. And promptly misread it.
“You are very diligent Your Grace” you said in faux lightness “ It would be inconvenient to misplace the bride this close to the wedding”
He took one slow step closer, your chest brushing his, his head craning down to you “Is that what you believe this is?” he asked
You tilted your head, puzzled “Is it not?” You gestured vaguely around the cavern “The court has already adjusted to the change. It would be terribly embarrassing to have to adjust again” you say completely misreading his words, not seeing the emotion in his ones.
His silence was not agreement.
You pressed on, unaware “I assure you, I have no intention of vanishing. I would not compound the trouble I have already caused”
There it was again. Trouble, inconvenience, disruptive. All the words that you used to describe yourself of late.
His gaze dropped briefly, then rose back to yours “You believe you have caused trouble”
You smiled faintly, almost apologetically “Have I not?” You say believing that you had doomed him to this, not noticing his eyes flicker over your face.
You glanced up at Balerion’s skull once more. “Dragons were simpler” you murmured “They burned what troubled them”
That earned the faintest exhale from him “And what troubles you?” he asked.
For a moment, your heart urged you to confess everything. The shame, the whispers, the certainty that you had stolen something meant for another.
But your mind intervened ‘Do not burden him further. You have done enough’
Brain won. “Oh, nothing so dramatic” you say in forced lightness.
And you walked toward the exit. Leaving him beneath the skull.
————————————
The feast before your wedding day was smaller than you expected. It settled the butterflies in your stomach.
You did not avoid Baelor that night. There was nowhere to hide, seated to his right as the top table, your arm brushing his.
The hall was loud with music and wine, but he did not drink heavily. His goblet remained mostly untouched, but you felt the weight of his eyes flick to you often.
“You have been quiet” he murmured beside you, close to your ear.
You smiled faintly “I was told brides are meant to appear composed”
“And are you?” He asked, eyes catching yours.
You considered the question honestly “I am trying to be” you say with a small smile, not noticing his eyes flick down.
“You need not try so hard” he said, in that soft ever reassuring voice of his.
You huffed softly “You have not seen me attempting embroidery, now that is trying too hard”
That earned the smallest curve of his mouth. You tried to ignore the heat raising to your face, dismissing it as the wine.
——————————————————-
Later, when the hall thinned and music softened, you stepped away from the table for air.
The balcony overlooked Blackwater Bay, the night breeze cooled your heated cheeks, the petals from the cherry blossoms above catching in the wind.
You smiled watching the white petals scatter as if fleeing to sea.
“You leave your own feast?” A voice asked behind you, you did not need to turn. He joined you at the balcony, his sleeve brushing yours.
“It is not mine” you replied before thinking.
His brow lowered slightly “It is”
You shook your head “It was arranged for another”
His jaw tightened, but he let the remark pass.
You rested your hands on the stone railing, close to his, pinkies almost touching “Do you ever tire of it?” you asked with a sigh.
“Of what?” He asked moving a fraction closer, like he was drawn.
“Court, politics, being observed” you say eyes meeting his.
A faint breath left him, sounding faintly amused “Constantly”
You glanced at him, surprised.
“Eldest sons are rarely afforded obscurity” he said honestly.
Something softened in you “Nor eldest daughters” you replied, his eyes focused on your face.
You continued, almost shyly “One is expected to be responsible, yield, endure and smooth what others disrupt.”
His expression shifted, something you could not name flashing though his eyes “Yes” he said quietly, the word carrying weight.
You looked out over the dark water “I used to think that meant something was wrong with me. That I was less suited to brighter things.”
He turned fully toward you now “And now?”
You gave a small, self deprecating smile “Now I think it simply means we are useful”
The wind blew slightly, a petal falling into your hair. You did not see the way his gaze lingered there.
“Useful” he repeated
You nodded “I think we will suit each other in that way” you said lightly “You require someone steady. I can be steady”
You thought you were offering reliability, support, someone to help carry the burden of the crown. He thought you were offering devotion.
His hand moved without conscious thought, catching the petal in your hair.
But instead of instead of retreating like normal, you smiled “You see?” you said softly “Already we are quite good at this”
“At what?” he asked, voice lower now.
“Being partners” you say softly.
The word landed between you. He studied your face carefully, for what, you were unsure “You believe that?” he asked his voice seeming rawer.
“Yes” you said, meeting his gaze steadily “I think we shall be great friends”
Friends. The word struck him like a blow, a knife slicing between his ribs. He stilled for a moment willing the emotion not to show on his face.
He nodded once “If that is what you wish”
You laughed softly “It is more than I expected” your mind whispering that a spinster should expect nothing.
That more than anything, undid him. He looked at you for a long moment, thoughts swirling in mind.
You expect nothing, but he intended to give you everything.
But he did not say it. Not yet.
———————————-
The bells began before dawn, ringing out from the great sept.
You however had not slept. You had sat through most of the night watching the sky lighten beyond your window, trying to quiet the steady hum in your chest.
Your hand maids gave a tentative knock “Enter” you order.
They piled in busying themselves immediately, one hanging your gown, another with hot waters preparing a bath. Another stripping your the sheets. You will be in another bed tonight, you tried not to think too much on that.
“Shall we, my lady?” one of the women asked gently.
You nodded. Prepared for your future.
They bathed and dressed you in careful silence. The gown slitting over your skin like butter, as the laced the bodice tight. They pinched your cheeks and painted your lips in a light rouge. They pinned your hair back, leaving a few strands to frame your face and set a delicate circlet against your crown.
When at last you stood before the mirror, you almost did not recognize yourself.
The gown was exquisite. The woman wearing it looked composed.
“Will I do?” you asked quietly repeating your earlier words.
“You will be radiant, my lady” one of them breathed.
You smiled a small sad smile, your mind telling you they were lying out of kindness.
Pulling yourself together, taking a breath as your fingers traced over the dragon embroidery. You could do this.
⸻—————————————
The Sept of Baelor gleamed in white marble and candlelight.
You stepped inside on your father’s arm, your house cloak pinned to your back. The court had gathered in full force, but you looked past those vipers and their whispers your attention caught by something else.
Cherry blossoms.
Your steps faltered almost imperceptibly, The marble columns had been wound with pale branches heavy with small white blooms. Petals scattered along the aisle instead of stark white lilies.
Lilies had been chosen weeks ago, you remembered your sister speaking of them with great enthusiasm. You remembered nodding along when your father had said you will keep the same plans.
Cherry blossoms had never been mentioned once.
You lifted your eyes, down the aisle to find Baelor was watching you.
You told yourself it was coincidence, perhaps lilies were unavailable. Perhaps the Sept had made the choice.
Perhaps……The music began interrupting your thoughts.
You felt every eye as you stepped forward, you father guiding you down, his head high. Your sister seated among the noble ladies, you did not look at her for long.
Your eyes again finding his, Baelor. Looking as devastatingly handsome as always in a formal red and black doublet, all the trappings of a Targaryen prince.
He did not look at the crowd, he looked only at you.
And for once you did not look away, your steps did not falter, your face did not heat.
You met him at the top of the steps, your father giving you hand to him. The touch of his Baelor’s warm skin grounding you, your eyes not giving his as the High Septon’s voice echoed through the great dome. Words of duty, lineage, ofthe joining of houses and blood.
You repeated your vows clearly “I am his and he is mine, from this day till my last” Without tremor, without hesitation.
When it was his turn, his voice carried easily across the Sept, strong and certain as always.
“I am hers and she is mine, from this day till my last” The way he said did not sound like obligation. It sounded like claim.
You told yourself that was imagination.
The final words were spoken, Baelor stepped forward and removed his cloak. The fabric was heavy when he settled it around your shoulders, red and black draped over ivory. His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he fastened it.
When he kissed you, it was steady and deliberate. His hand firm at your waist, your hand placed on shoulder as is mouth met yours. Firm, controlled and possessive in a way that made your pulse stutter. Your first kiss.
The Sept disappeared, the crowd, the eyes, your sister. There was only the feeling of him, the press of his lips against your own. It felt right.
When he withdrew, it was slow, his gaze now dark searched yours briefly, as if looking for something.
You gave him a small, polite smile, despite your heart hamming out of your chest. It was just a kiss you told yourself.
The court erupted into applause. You turned together, descending the altar steps as husband and wife.
His hand did not leave yours.
⸻
The feast blurred, congratulations, gifts presented, smiles too wide. Ladies who had once whispered now curtsied deeply to their princess and future queen.
You endured it, you had always endured. But this time you had Baelor’s hand in yours.
When the first dance was called, he led you to the center of the hall. The music was slower now. Lower.
His hand settled at your waist again, familiar as your hand rose up to his shoulders.
The dance was a simple one, but he was a good lead, your feet following him effortlessly.
“They were not lilies” you said eyes fixed on his doublet.
“No” he said quietly, guiding you into the first turn.
Your throat felt tight “Thank you” you say eyes reaching his.
His gaze darkened but he said nothing more.
The dance ended too soon, or perhaps not soon enough.
⸻————————————
When at last the feast began to thin, the time came. The bedding ceremony. Tradition demanded it.
You were escorted from the hall amid laughter and crude encouragement from lesser lords emboldened by wine.
You kept your chin lifted, you had survived worse.
As they pulled the dress from your skin, leaving you in your simple shift. You stumbled into the chamber, the laugher fading as the doors closed.
The hearth was lit and the candles burned low, the large chamber bathed in a warm low light.
You turned slowly, he stood a few paces away, his own doublet removed just in his shirt and breeches
“Your Grace” you said softly, formal even now.
His expression changed at that, you mistook it for impatience.
He stepped forward “You may call me husband now, or simply Baelor” he said quietly his voice carrying a rough edge
You swallowed “Yes… husband” The word felt foreign on your tongue.
He reached for the circlet in your hair, removing it gently, setting it aside
You held still, you had prepared yourself for duty. You had not prepared for the way he was looking at you.
“I shall endeavor not to disappoint you” you said softly.
Something in his expression hardened in an emotion you could not recognise “You could not” he replied.
The certainty unsettled you. You stood before him in nothing but your shift, thin linen skimming your skin.
He was close now. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, smell smoke and leather and something distinctly his.
You resisted the urge to fold in on yourself “You have been very gracious” you said carefully, mistaking his intensity for tolerance “I know this was not… your preference”
His brow shifted faintly “My preference?”
“Yes” You forced yourself to meet his eyes “I understand that affection may not come easily” you continued gently “You need not trouble yourself to feign it. I would not embarrass you by expecting” you trial off embarrassed
His jaw tightened “You believe I am troubled?” he asked quietly.
You misunderstood the edge in his tone “I believe you are honorable” you corrected quickly “And kind”
You gestured vaguely toward the bed, toward the chamber, toward everything that had changed.
“I know I am not…….” You swallowed, steadying yourself with logic “I know I am not what men desire”
Silence met you but kept going, because stopping would make it worse.
“You needn’t pretend” you said softly. “I know I am not much to look at” Your eyes finally meeting his face. You expect him to be kind. What do not expect is for him to look wounded.
Baelor’s brow furrows immediately “Pretend?” he repeats softly stepping forward, hoping he has misheard you.
You gesture vaguely toward the bed again.
His hands come up to cradle your face, warm and steady “I have seen the daughters of all the great houses” he says quietly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, catching your lashes as you lower your gaze “And I have not once looked at them the way I look at you now” his voice dropping lower, his gaze following the line mouth, down your throat and the exposed curve of your shoulders.
“I have been exercising restraint all evening” he admits, one hand dropping from your face down your neck, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin there as you shiver in response.
He smiles faintly, something heated flickering beneath the gentleness. His lips brush yours first, soft, exploring.
However when you pull back to protest, he follows pressing down firmer stealing your breath as his strong hands pull you against him.
“Do not mistake my devotion for charity” he murmurs against your lips before he trails down your neck, unhurried, deliberate, as if he has all night to convince you.
You gasp, your body overwhelmed with the feel of him, your heart beating for him. But your mind, your terrible, treacherous mind focused on one thing. The word that struck you. Devotion.
You pushed against his chest, harder this time. He went still immediately, pulling back but not releasing you. His hands remained at your waist. His eyes, dark and searching, met yours
“This is kindness” you insisted breathe uneven “And I am grateful for it, truly, but you need not rewrite reality to spare me”
His hands tightened at your waist “Reality?” he repeated.
“You were courting my sister” you said, the words tumbling now, years of self erasure and doubt sharpening them “She is beautiful, bright and desired. I was a duty”
His expression darkened “You think I wanted her” his normally soft voice rumbling through his chest.
You lifted your chin “The court certainly believed so” your voice soft.
“I was doing my duty” he cut in, voice low and dangerous.
“And now you are not?” you shot back.
His jaw flexed “You think this is duty?” Hands tightening at your waist
“What else could it be!” you demanded, your composure finally fracturing “You are the Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne, The Hand of the King. You had your choice any woman in the Seven Kingdoms”
“I did” he said softly, the words landed like a blow all the same “You were never my obligation,” he continued, one hand leaving your waist to cup your face “You were my distraction” he admitted
You frowned in confusion, despite the feeling thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
“Since first day in the library” he said, voice roughening “When challenged the Sept’s account without hesitation”
You remembered the book of Aegon’s conquest, his hand near yours.
“You burned” he said quietly “Do you know that?” His beautiful mismatched eyes holding yours as your breath hitched. “When your fingers brushed mine, I felt it for hours after. Like a brand.”
Your heart began to pound.
“When you placed your hand over mine to still my fidgeting, I nearly lost what composure I had left. I wanted to pull you into my lap in front of every book in that room and claim you right there”
Your face flushed violently
“That night beneath Balerion’s skull” he continued, voice tightening “When you said you would leave, that you were never meant to stay” His jaw clenched “You spoke of vanishing as though it would cost nothing”
You swallowed, stepping back as he followed you.
“The market” he went on, the words harder now “When those men laid hands on you” His restraint cracked visibly for a heartbeat “I have fought rebellions. I have seen war. I have executed traitors without hesitation. And yet I have never known rage like that”
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
“And when you disappeared beneath this keep” he said advancing, until the back of your knees brushed the edge of the bed “I thought I had been too late again, to tell you”
You stared at him “Tell me?” you whispered.
“To tell you I choose you” he admitted, his voice raw and soft all at once “You were never second” he said, each word deliberate. “You were never convenient. You were never charity.”
His hand came to your jaw again, lifting your face gently but firmly “You were the only one who ever stood in this city and spoke to me as though I were simply a man”
Your lips parted, his thumb brushed your bottom lip “And you believe I would not desire the woman who sees me?”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them “You wanted her” you whispered weakly “You must have”
“I respected her” he corrected. “I admired her spirit. But I did not lose sleep over her voice, over the look in her eyes, the touch is her skin and how she would feel beneath me“ His gaze burned now.
Your breath shuddered.
“I have loved you since the day you believed you were nothing” he confessed
The word hung there. Love.
“That is not” you tried, shaking your head, words not coming out “That cannot be”
“It is” he spoke steadily
You looked at him, truly looked at him “I am not her,” you whispered, last defense faltering.
“I know” His forehead lowered to yours “I thank the gods for it.”
The room felt impossibly small. Your certainty wavered.
Your breath trembled.
“And I do not love you out of duty” he murmured “I love you because you are you”
You did the only thing you could think of. The thing you have yearned to do since your eyes first met his that day in the solar. You kissed him.
Soft, exploring, a tentative press that sends a spark through your veins. You part your mouth slightly, unsure, and he takes the invitation, deepening the kiss with a slow, deliberate hunger. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, coaxing your own to meet it in a gentle dance.
Your hands rise hesitantly to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss intensifies.
He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth, the arm around your waist tightens pulling you flush against him. The heat of his body seeps through your thin shift, his chest hard and solid under your palms.
The hand on your face tilts your head back, fingers threading into your hair, and the kiss turns fervent, lips moving in a rhythm that leaves you breathless, your pulse racing.
Baelor pulls away as you gasp for air. Forehead resting against yours he murmurs against your lips “I've wanted this since I first saw you” His breath is warm on your skin. Before you can respond, his lips claim yours again, hard enough to make your knees weaken.
You cling to him, lost in the sensation, the world narrowing to the slide of his mouth, the faint scrape of his stubble.
With a gentle but firm push, he guides you backward toward the bed, his body following yours. Your calves hit the edge of the mattress, and you tumble onto the soft furs, him coming down with you, careful not to crush you under his weight.
He braces one arm beside your head, the other hand stroking down your side as he hovers above, eyes dark with desire “Let me take care of you. Let me make love to you” he whispers, voice husky, and kisses you again, slower now, savoring.
His fingers find the hem of your shift, tugging it upward inch by inch. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him as he peels the linen from your skin, exposing your bare body to the warm glow of the hearth.
The cool air kisses your flesh, but his gaze warms you instantly, reverent, tracing every curve from your breasts, your waist, your hips. He tosses the shift aside and settles between your legs, his clothed form pressing lightly against you.
Baelor lowers his head, lips brushing your collarbone in featherlight kisses that trail down to the swell of your breasts. He cups one gently, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch, then takes it into his mouth, sucking softly.
A gasp escapes you, pleasure blooming sharp and sweet “Bealor” you maan as he hums in approval, switching to the other side, lavishing it with the same tender attention. His free hand roams your body, palm gliding over your ribs, your stomach, mapping you like sacred ground.
“You are beautiful” he breathes against your skin, voice thick with awe, as his mouth continues its worship, kissing the underside of your breast, nipping lightly at your ribs, then lower, to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
He spreads your legs wider with his knees, settling more comfortably, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, but his touch is so caring it eases the nerves fluttering in your chest. His fingers trace the edges of your folds, not yet entering, just stroking lightly to feel your growing wetness.
He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours, seeking permission. You nod, biting your lip, and he smiles that heated smile again.
One finger circles your entrance, gathering your slickness, before sliding inside slowly, carefully “ahh’ you breath. It's a stretch, unfamiliar, but he moves with such gentleness, curling just right to brush that spot that makes your back arch.
“Relax for me” he soothes, adding a second finger after a moment, scissoring them to prepare you, his thumb pressing firm circles over your clit.
The sensation builds, a warm coil tightening in your core as he works you open, his mouth returning to your breast, sucking in time with his thrusts. You moan softly “Bealor” hands fisting the linens, and he kisses his way back up to your lips, swallowing your sounds.
“That's it, feel it, let me care for you” he murmurs, fingers pumping steadily now, stretching you for what's to come.
Just on the edge of pleasure he pulls back, fingers leaving you wanting, his mouth curling slightly at your whimper of protest. You watch as he sheds his shirt and breeches quickly. Your eyes taking in the sight of his board chest, slight scars glimmering in the light. Dark hair peppered with sliver stands cover his chest, your eyes follow that trail down his stomach to between his legs.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, the tip already glistening, he takes it in hand Your eyes spring back to his to find him watching you, you gulp and nod.
He crawls back over you, kissing up your body and positions himself at your entrance, rubbing the head along your slit to coat himself in your arousal.
“I'll go slow” he promises, and pushes in inch by inch, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.
The fullness is overwhelming at first making you cling to his shoulders, a burn that fades into pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still to let you adjust.
Your face meets his as he kisses you, your forehead, your eyelids, whispering endearments “My wife, my love” you relax beneath him, capturing his mouth and rocking your hips slightly, urging him on.
Then he begins to move, slow thrusts that rock your hips in rhythm, his body covering yours protectively.
His eyes keep hold of yours soft, sensual, each slide of his cock into your pussy deliberate, building a steady heat “Baelor” you whimper as the pleasure builds inside you.
He grinds against your clit with every deep push, his hand slipping between you to rub it directly. He captures your mouth in lazy kisses, breaths mingling as the pace quickens just enough to tip you toward the edge.
“Bealor I think I” you don’t get to finish as your climax crashes over you first, walls clenching around him in waves. Your back arches as your hips rock against his, the sensation like nothing before.
Just the sight of pushes him over the edge, he follows soon after, groaning your name into your neck as he spills inside you, hips stuttering.
He doesn't pull away, staying buried deep, holding you close as you both come down, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.
In the afterglow, he rolls to the side, pulling you into his arms, bodies entwined, He rolled onto his side and drew you with him, one arm sliding beneath your shoulders, the other settling at your waist. Your skin still warm, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your body fitting perfectly against his.
Your cheek rested against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat. Slower now. Steady.
His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, absentminded, as though reassuring himself you were real. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly. The question was gentle, careful
You smiled faintly against his skin “Yes”
His arm tightened slightly “I did not wish to rush you,” he said, after a pause. “If at any moment you had asked me to stop”
“I would not have” you said softly cutting him off
He went still at that. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. Your fingers traced lightly over his chest, following the line of muscle and scar. Mapping him the way he had mapped you.
“You frightened me” you said quietly.
His expression sharpened slightly “Tonight?”
“No” You shook your head “When you said you loved me”
His breath caught almost imperceptibly, his hands holding you a fraction tighter
“I thought” you continued carefully “if I believed you… and you did not mean it…” your voice wavered “I do not know that I would survive it”
His hand stilled entirely. He lifted himself slightly on one elbow so he could see you properly “I do not speak lightly” he said.
“I know” you say fully believing him. You drew a slow breath “I have loved you since the library” you confessed softly.
His eyes darkened holding your face.
“I loved you more beneath Balerion’s skull” you continued, voice trembling faintly “When you told me you remembered everything I said”
He watched you as though afraid to move.
“And I loved you beyond reason when you came for me in the market” you finished “Not because you are a warrior. But because you were afraid for me”
His hand tightened against your waist.
“I did not think it could be returned” you admit looking down.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, causing you to look back at him “It is returned” he said with such assurance that for once in your life your mind listened
You smiled a true and genuine smile “I love you, Baelor”
He exhaled slowly, as though something long restrained had finally eased, bending his head forward and kissed you.
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
Hello, may i request a prompt "are we friends?" between f!reader and the slytherin skittles? Where the reader used to attend Ilvermorny but had trauma from it (like bullying and fallout with friends). So she doesn’t want to intrude on the friendship that the skittles already have. Oh and they’re all in their sixth year. Thank you 🙏
hi lovely, thank you for this cute concept<33 i didn't explicitly emphasise what your past at ilvermorny was to leave it dubious and open to every reader
Prompt: F.3 "Are we friends?"
Words: 2.2k
Warnings/tags: gn!reader, use of y/n, ilvermorny!reader (no specified nationality), implied troubled background at ilvermorny, mental illness/insecurity shown through reader's pov, odd friendship dynamics, found family, intended as platonic!slytherin skittles x reader but can be read as romantic if you want<3
You weren't entirely sure what happened.
One day you were being thrown into what felt like a wild zoo filled with any and every kind of person you could possibly imagine, clad in dark robes and chattering around in hundreds of different accents, and you were decidedly determined to isolate yourself away from the masses and live a solitary life at Hogwarts.
The next, you were sitting in the library and the same group of Slytherins that sat with you yesterday – and strangely the day before that, and the day before that – plopped down around you and made themselves at home. As if this was simply the norm, as if it was a given that their seat was the one beside you.
You weren't offended or uncomfortable, necessarily, but you were certainly... confused. You didn't mind them being there, yet their presences were strange to you and you could not make sense of this disconnect in your mind.
When you arrived at Hogwarts a month ago, you had felt nothing short of publicly humiliated when you were brought up to the Sorting Hat after the ocean of 11 year-olds had been passed through it for the past hour. It was apparently not a common occurrence that students transferred in from other schools, especially not Ilvermorny, and there was no protocol for how to handle it. Instead of taking your Ilvermorny house into consideration and putting you in the Hogwarts house that most closely resembled it, Dumbledore himself had decided that this jittery 7th year student go through the same process as everyone else.
McGonnagall had pitied you enough to grab your shoulder before you went up to whisper to you, "The hat is your friend, not foe, Mx. L/N. Do not fear it."
With entirely too many eyes on you, you climbed the steps and gingerly sat down on the seat. Unlike with the kids, the Sorting Hat fit you rather snuggly, leaving you unfortunately without the much sought after shelter of the brim.
You solved the solution by looking down in your lap, trying not to visibly startle when a voice spoke in your mind.
Transfer student, huh? Haven't had one of you in a while. Most certainly interesting...
You reminded yourself friend not foe and closed your eyes, trying to will the hat to be merciful and grant you reprieve. To put you in a house where you can get what you need – solitude, privacy, quiet. It was just a year. You could go through a year if you were just left alone.
To your shock – though perhaps it shouldn't have been – the hat responded to your thoughts.
What you need, you say? Well, I do believe I can help in that regard. Keep your mind open, dear one.
The next word the hat spoke was out loud, not in your mind – it yelled out "SLYTHERIN". At the time, you didn't know whether to be relieved, confused or terrified. Unbeknownst to you, a certain group of 7th year Slytherins sitting at the end of the long table had shared curious looks and wide grins upon the announcement.
Those Slytherins were the very same strewn around you today, on various furniture all surrounding the same large oak table that was almost invisible beneath all your parchments and books.
You were sitting on one end of a settee, legs crossed and wrists resting on the table, somewhat jittery. On the other side sat Regulus Black in a similar position, his face as impassive as ever and turned down into a book that you were quite confident was not in the curriculum. Opposite you on a similar sofa, Barty Crouch Jr. laid upside down, with his legs thrown over the back of the sofa and his neck craning in a way that simply could not be comfortable where it rested on the seat. Pandora Rosier was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside Barty's head, braiding a dozen tiny braids into his hair, mixing black and acid green strands together absentmindedly. Her twin brother Evan Rosier was pretending to ignore whatever Barty was talking about as he did his homework, but you could see how his ears were perked up. Lastly, Dorcas Meadowes sat on an armchair beside the settees, twirling her wand and looking every bit like she was thinking of something she shouldn't.
You would be the first to admit that they were interesting people. In another life, perhaps you would even spend time together on purpose – but now, above all else one might want to know about them, you wanted to know why they were here.
It had started by them making space for you on the Slytherin table that first day, and afterwards they always left an open space there. Not asking, not demanding; it was as if they were just assuming you would sit there. And you didn't know where else to sit, so you did. Then the same thing happened in your classes – you sat down at an empty table, and before you knew it, one of them was taking the empty seat beside you.
There was never any proper introductory conversation, never any invitation into a friendship, yet they found you everywhere. It was not as if they didn't talk to you when they were there, though; from the very beginning, they were cracking jokes with and around you and roping you into their odd conversations. Learning more about you as you went instead of interrogating you on the spot.
It was sudden and unexpected and you didn't know what to do about it.
"Then I told him precisely where he could shove it and– are you even listening to me?" Barty cut himself off to look accusatory at Evan, whose eyebrow was now quirked up while his eyes remained trained on his parchment.
"Hm?" Evan asked absentmindedly, though you were almost entirely sure it was just to rile the other boy up.
Evan was usually successful in such endeavors, and this was no exception, judging by the shrieking gasp that escaped Barty. "You absolutely bloody wanker, how dare you– this is a good story!"
"Maybe," Evan drawled. "But it lost its charm around the third time I heard it."
Barty whipped his head sideways to stare daggers into Evan. "Salazar's soggy balls, this is a new story, I swear." He then rolled his head backwards to look at you upside down, pinning you to the seat with the same accusatory tone. "You were listening to me, right, Drâga?"
You made a reluctant face. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were talking to me."
Barty let out a theatrical huff and threw his hands up in the air for effect, nearly hitting Pandora on the way, causing Evan to give his wrist a slap, still without looking. "Of course I was talking to you – I'm talking to you all. By Merlin, you're all awful friends."
Though Barty continued on with his grumbling, you felt frozen in place by his last word. Before you could think more of it, the words tumbled out of your mouth. "We're what now?"
Dorcas tilted her head to the side, looking between you and Barty. "Oh, he didn't mean it Y/N, he's just a loudmouthed arse. You're still getting used to it."
"I resent that." Barty pointed at Dorcas as he spoke before he grabbed one of Evan's parchments, curled it up into a ball and threw it at her. "I'll have you know, I'm a fucking delight."
You were unaffected by their banter, eyes still narrowed at the lot of them, trying to decipher and understand what the hell was going on.
"You're thinking hard." Regulus remarked from your right, finally looking up from his book. At his rare contribution to conversation, Evan and Pandora seemed to perk up as well, and you suddenly felt entirely too much like you were being stared down. It was worse than the Sorting Hat.
"I–" you began, but cut yourself off and pressed your lips together with furrowed brows. "You think we're friends?"
Whatever they expected your answer to be, that did not seem to be it, based on their empty gazes. Dorcas reared her head backwards just a little, while Barty did a full body spin to land him in a mostly-upright position on the sofa – this time Evan yanked Pandora out of reach of Barty's swinging legs.
"What do you mean, do I think we’re friends?" Barty questioned then, almost offended. "Don’t pull my leg, why else would we be here? Either way, what I was trying to say–"
Barty's rant was once again cut off, this time simply by Dorcas holding up one hand in his direction while her eyes remained dutifully trained on you. "Love, did you not think we're friends?" she asked. Her voice was so painfully gentle, so caring, that you wanted to shy away from it, to pack up your bag and run and hide.
You realised that that was not a possibility. Instead, you tried to shrug as casually as you could and not let your emotions show. "Well, why would we be? We don't know each other, do we?"
You dared a glance sideways to see Regulus looking at you with a seemingly unimpressed expression, but you saw the twitch in the corner of his mouth. Evan opposite you, though, was not hiding his wide grin whatsoever. "Don't we know each other, love?" he asked then, seemingly partially smug.
"Yeah, if you don't know me, that is because you lot of wankers never listen. But I most certainly know you, L/N." Barty gestured with his finger in your general direction, as if he was preaching, which Evan yet again slapped away – though in favour of pulling Barty closer into his side.
"You don't know me," you tried, voice shaky yet growing somewhat frustrated with the situation.
"Of course we do," Dorcas intercepted. "I know you loathe breakfast but adore dinner. I know you prefer tea over coffee, I know that you like the sweets from back home better than those from Honeydukes."
"And I know that you're ridiculously patient, both with randos you're paired up with in class and with us, your friends," Barty added with a deadpan. "I know your real laughter is a very cute snort. I know you dislike being pranked but enjoy watching them play out, which is why we never play them on you but always around you."
"You're kind and you're bloody bright," Evan said with a nod, as if this was a natural conclusion. “Your best subjects are all of my worst ones, which is a joy. Watching your passion for them is the most enjoyable, though.”
"And you're peculiar just like us." Pandora finally spoke up with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. "That's why we go so well together – we're the same."
At some point in their conversation with you, your mouth fell open as you listened to them recount everything they had picked up about you over the past few weeks. The moment didn't feel real, it felt fabricated by some awfully optimistic and naive six year old still living in your mind, one that was readily crushed long before your transfer. You didn't realise they had noticed you so much.
You're brought out of your stupor by Regulus' quill being poked into your side, demanding your attention. You turned your head to find the twitch of his lip had turned into a small, knowing smile. "Even if we don't know everything about where you've been, we know who you are. You don't need to tell us anything for us to understand that."
"Yeah, what he said!" Barty exclaimed with glee, kicking his feet up onto the sofa as he leaned his entire weight on Evan.
“Even before we knew anything about you, we were friends.” Pandora was looking out through a window, seemingly in thought and awfully happy at being so. “In a way, we’ve always been friends, I suppose. When it just works like this.”
You weren’t always sure you understood what Pandora meant, but this time, you felt it in your heart.
"Sorry love, but you're kind of stuck with us now. Should have sat with someone else on your first day." Dorcas shot you a wink at that, and something in your chest seemed to snap into place.
Even when you were asking an awkward question, the atmosphere never changed – there was no pity here, no judgment, just... kinship.
Friendship.
At last, you let a smile begin to bloom from within you, one which you immediately saw reflected back at you in your five new friends.
Imagine Uraume fingering you while your legs are sprawled open on their lap, they’re using one of their hands to keep your legs firmly apart, sharp nails digging crescent shapes into the soft flesh while two of their fingers are jamming in and out of your hole making your cunt drool and drip onto their kimono, ruining it with wet stains but they don’t seem to care one bit. Their eyes are fixated on their long fingers disappearing and being swallowed into your needy pussy, just for it to appear again but covered with more slick and cream from your pretty hole as your head falls against their shoulder.
And the way they’re so nonchalant, not even articulating one word to you, it makes you so shy, your cheeks flushed as your mind grew hazy while they continue staring at the mess between your legs, licking their lips while you moan and whimper at their fingers ruining you.
poly!bartylus oneshot: i'm not in love, so don't forget it.
you, barty, and regulus are friends with benefits until things get too personal.
cw: internalized homophobia, sexual content, emotionally unhealthy relationships, denial of feelings, ambiguous ending, sexual content between all characters, m/m contact, complex polyamorous dynamics, unresolved emotional conflict, low self-worth, casual sex, barty and regulus don't want to admit anything and you get caught in the middle
you’re not sure when it started exactly. it could have been that night at the crowded party, when barty stumbled into your room, eyes too bright, words slurred, but hands still gentle when they brushed against yours. or maybe it was regulus standing too close in your kitchen later that week, the way his gaze lingered longer than polite, his smile tight but full of something raw beneath the surface. maybe it wasn’t any moment in particular. maybe it was just the way the three of you slipped into something quiet, messy, something no one wanted to name.
at first, it was easy. late nights blurred together, a tangle of limbs and whispered jokes, bodies pressed close with no need for words. barty and reg worked around each other, like planets caught in the same orbit but never quite colliding...except when they did, and it was electric, fierce, like a secret flame neither could let go of.
“it’s just a thing,” barty said once, shirt half-buttoned, grin crooked but eyes flickering with something he wouldn’t name. “we’re just havin' some fun.”
he said it like he was doing you a favor by clarifying, as if he hadn't just praised and worshipped you for hours on end.
regulus just nodded, face unreadable, tugging his sleeves down like he was straightening some invisible crease...like he was trying to flatten out a part of himself he refused to let show.
but it did show, and you noticed.
you noticed the way barty watched reg when he thought no one was looking. the brief flush that crept up his neck, the way his voice softened whenever he called reg’s name. and reg, too, with his carefully guarded smiles, the way he reached out sometimes, fingers twitching with want, but always pulling back, like he was scared of crossing a line you all pretended didn’t exist.
there was the way they touched, not quite openly, but never quite hidden. a hand brushing a hip, a finger curling around a wrist, a lingering glance that lasted too long. these were moments you caught in the spaces between your own feelings, moments heavy with unsaid things. you felt it in the way their bodies tensed when they were near each other, in the silence that fell when one left the room and the other stayed behind, staring after them.
you liked them. you loved them, maybe, but not in the straightforward way you wished. more like you were tethered to them by something fragile, something that could snap if pulled too hard. you told yourself it was just desire, just the heat of the night and the thrill of being wanted by two people who sometimes looked at each other like they were drowning.
but it was more than that. you could see it in their eyes.
one night, barty was stretched out on your couch, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face, and he laughed low and bitter when you asked if he liked reg. “like him?” he said, voice rough. “i don’t even like boys, alright?”
it wasn’t a joke. not really.
regulus was nowhere to be seen, but you felt the weight of the words hang in the air, thick and heavy, like a storm waiting to break. you watched barty carefully. the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched against the worn fabric of the cushion. he was fighting, you knew. fighting something inside himself, and maybe fighting you, too.
the next day, reggie was quieter than usual, his sharp words dulled, his usual sharpness replaced by something soft, almost vulnerable. “it’s easier to say i don’t care,” he told you once, voice barely above a whisper. “easier to pretend it’s just a phase...that it’s just nothing.”
but it wasn’t nothing. you saw how he looked at barty when he thought no one was watching, the way his eyes softened, the way his breath caught when barty laughed across the room. you saw how barty responded, the way he reached for reg’s hand under the table, fingers curling tightly, like a lifeline.
sometimes you wanted to pull them both close, to tell them it was okay to admit what they felt. but the silence was loud, and you were tangled up in your own feelings — the ache of being the third piece of a puzzle that wasn’t quite finished, the tension of loving two people who couldn’t say what they really wanted.
you caught yourself lying awake at night, hearing barty’s voice in your head, saying, “it’s just a silly phase i’m going through.”
and you wondered how long they could keep pretending before everything fell apart.
and what a hypocrite you were. you failed to notice the way they looked at you as though you were the creator of all magic. the way their eyes glistened at your laugh, the way barty's chest puffed out to protect you at any given moment, or how regulus stared at you at work.
you failed to notice that when barty was fucking himself deeply into you and your eyes rolled back into your head, they were getting off on just how beautiful you looked when they made you feel good, not just how your body made them feel. it was never as simple as you thought.
they came to your flat one rainy evening, the kind of rain that makes the windows fog up and the world feel small and close. barty’s shirt was half unbuttoned, collar askew, and reg was already sitting on your bed, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to disappear.
“you’re late.” barty said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
you dropped your bag and watched them.
regulus didn’t meet your gaze. he traced patterns on the duvet with his finger, avoiding the tension buzzing in the room like electricity.
“we need to talk.” barty said suddenly, voice low, serious.
you sat down on the edge of the bed, heart pounding.
“about us.” barty said, looking at reg.
regulus stiffened, the ghost of a smile flickering then gone. “there’s no ‘us,’ barty.”
“yeah?” barty snapped, voice rising. “then why do you look at me like i’m the only thing that keeps you from falling apart?”
regulus stared at him, eyes dark and haunted. “because i’m terrified, that’s why.”
you swallowed, feeling the heat of their words burn through you.
“terrified of what?” you asked softly.
“of admitting it,” reg said, voice breaking. “of what it means.”
“what do you mean?” you pressed.
reg’s eyes flicked to yours, raw and desperate. “that we’re not just fooling around. that this isn’t some phase. that…i’m in love with him.”
barty’s laugh was harsh, bitter. “you're not in love. not with anyone.”
“you’re lying,” reg said, voice sharp as glass. "you don't know what i want."
“maybe,” barty said, jaw tight. “but i’m not ready to admit it. not to you. not to myself.”
the room went silent except for the rain tapping on the windowpane.
you watched them, the way their hands twitched, the way their eyes searched each other for answers they wouldn’t give.
and you felt yourself breaking, because you loved them both, and they were trapped in a fight you couldn’t fix.
that night was different. when their hands roamed over your body, the touches felt heavier. there were more glances between them, more hesitation, more heat they didn’t know where to put. you were kneeling in front of regulus, your mouth warm and slow around him, and barty was watching from the edge of the bed, just like always.
but then reg said his name—barty—soft and breathless, like it meant something, like it always had. and barty came closer, and you expected his hands to find you, like they usually did. but this time, they found regulus.
it wasn’t your hands on barty’s cock. it was reggie's. it was reg’s thumb rubbing slow circles at the base, regulus’ wrist flicking just right, reg’s mouth parted in wonder when barty gasped and came undone.
and then it was over. just like that.
later, you sat alone, the echoes of the fight and the sex ringing in your ears. you traced your fingers over the scratches on your arm...marks from restless nights, from holding on too tightly to something that might never be yours.
you thought about the polaroid picture barty left on your wall, covering a stain you’d never managed to clean. the picture of him, smiling, but with eyes that held secrets you weren’t allowed to know. barty and regulus were holding you tightly in that picture: you were kissing reggie's cheek, barty was making a kissy face at the camera, and you all looked so carefree. what a joke.
you thought about regulus’s quiet touches--the way he smoothed your hair when he thought you were asleep, the way he brewed your tea without a word, like he was trying to say everything with those small gestures.
you thought about the nights when barty’s voice would be the last thing you heard before sleep...soft, teasing, filled with unspoken apologies.
and you realized you were waiting.
waiting for them to admit it. to admit the love they were too scared to say aloud.
but maybe they never would. maybe they were too tangled in their own fear, too wrapped up in the denial that kept them safe.
and maybe you’d just have to live with the ache of loving people who couldn’t love you back the way any of you wanted. maybe you could all keep pretending. or perhaps it was just a phase, after all.
(this is my first time writing for bartylus x reader! i had this idea in mind for ages with the song becoming so popular in the last several months, and i hope i did it justice! if any of you are interested in me delving further into this ship, let me know!)
I'm going to *remembers suicide is often not a desire for death itself but rather an attempt to radically change one's life because the current state of being has become unbearable but the person can't think of any way to change it other than death* kill myself
❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞
summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.
pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.
word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)
tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.
cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.
note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.
YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.
It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm.
You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.
No.
You can’t have.
You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers.
There is no way you are this unlucky.
Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.
Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.
Bloody hell.
Not again!
Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.
“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside.
Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due.
YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident, Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors.
(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.)
Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head. You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction.
It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.
Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams.
(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.)
Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else.
(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)
You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.
You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.
If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.
(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)
You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes.
(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.)
And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier.
On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.)
Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones.
“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.
(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)
A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback.
As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.
When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling.
There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.
After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did.
Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again.
As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing.
You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else.
After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion.
For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.)
The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.
But for how long could you cheat fate?
Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus.
There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent.
“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel.
Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?”
You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.
“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”
You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”
True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace.
“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could.
“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”
Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”
“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.
The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.
An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap.
(Damn it!)
(Damn it all to Hell!)
You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh.
You could not take it anymore.
In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it.
You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.
A family.
A happy ending.
Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two.
You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity.
(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)
Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers.
On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate.
Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear.
Let me die surrounded by my family.
At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.
And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.
TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you.
“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask.
(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?)
There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background?
His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you.
There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall.
“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .”
“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”
“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”
Lily stays silent.
Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.
How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?
But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face?
He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.
“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company.
You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words.
“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!”
From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback.
He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.”
“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?
He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp.
“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave.
The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof.
He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall?
THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that.
Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)
Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek.
You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve.
(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)
“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”
Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes.
You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.”
She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”
A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”
You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)
“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.”
“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.”
“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.”
Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?”
Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”
(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)
Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.”
(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)
You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.
You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp.
It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.
‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’
This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?)
“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well.
Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head.
“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun.
By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.)
Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?
But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger.
For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done.
“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest.
“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)
Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old.
Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.
You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.
(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’
You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”
“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”
“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”
His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.)
But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”
While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about.
A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.)
But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.
The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned.
An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)
(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.)
Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold.
It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby.
You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.
You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands.
(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.)
You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth.
You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work.
(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”)
They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.)
That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.
“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done.
Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?”
You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”
Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?)
“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.”
“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.”
You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.”
There is no time like the present.
And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)
You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.
No time like the present.
“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.”
Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace.
“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.”
“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?”
“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.”
Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug.
“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”
“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red.
“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”
“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .”
“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”
Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”
“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.”
Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second.
“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”
You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave.
“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes.
No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes.
You freeze in fear.
(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)
The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels.
They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)
“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.”
“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.”
You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”
Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?”
“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.
“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”
“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.”
“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”
“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back.
“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”
“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?”
You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?”
Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”
You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?”
“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly.
“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.”
And so, you choose them.
For there was never any other option from the start.
YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor.
Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.”
You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper.
Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same.
Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more.
When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.
(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)
a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.
the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.
summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.
pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.
wc. 4.1k
tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.
cws: brief mention of violence and blood.
note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.
i.
SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.
After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.)
He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them.
He wanted—
He did not know what he wanted.
For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks.
Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays.
No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you.
“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.”
He thought so, too.
“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.”
You had not replied.
Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you.
(But you had done so first.)
When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.
It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you.
It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.)
But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love.
ii.
JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.)
The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive.
But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it.
No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”)
What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb?
It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”
It was a plea this time.
He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you.
Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”)
In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded.
“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed.
But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you.
Make no mistake about that.
Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.
(But not to love.)
“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe.
(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.)
He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you.
James did not love you.
But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you?
Not. Love.
iii.
REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No.
Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that.
“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain.
He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones.
“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.”
One question lingered in your eyes: Why?
Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.”
But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone.
“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms.
Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)
“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return.
“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”
They all would.
But not because they loved you.
It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile.
It was the least he could do.
For failing to protect you.
But that was not love.
(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)
iv.
LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered.
And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before.
This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better.
“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .”
Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you.
She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”)
And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)
Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight.
“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily.
And that was that.
Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side.
“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much.
“Is that. . .?” you croaked.
Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—”
One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever.
Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.”
Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence.
For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?
But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.
(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)
v.
YOU did not love them, either.
The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know.
Because you did not love them.
Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love.
Surely not.
Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend.
The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny.
Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel?
Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows.
Was love that unkind? That merciless?
Then, you did not want to love at all.
Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish.
You were no different.
You wanted.
Oh, how you yearned.
“I LOVE YOU.”
You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts.
“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?”
“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.”
He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.”
–
“I love you.”
In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him.
And you had loved him fiercely for that.
“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”
“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.”
-
“I love you.”
“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice.
“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch.
You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”
And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.
“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
–
“I love you.”
Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.”
You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.”
“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.”
“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.”
“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread.
“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.”
“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”
“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.”
And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.
You loved them.
And they loved you.
a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!
it is here yall, no smut but a surprising amount of straight sexual tension, i’ll make it gayer in the next one dw
you can’t believe you’re here. fuck. fuck. you changed too, back into tennis gear. fuck. the stars twinkle above like little spectators, a clear night in new york city. like fate was watching. they had reserved a court before even asking you, cocky as ever. you had all driven there together. you sat in the back, like mommy and daddy were taking you to a dance recital. this whole thing was ridiculous, and positively beneath you. and yet here you are, separated by a net from the man you’d thought in your naivety you would marry one day. you each stretched, rackets on the ground a ways away. every time you saw them in the corner of your eye you tensed, thinking about what was to come.
when you beat art, you wouldn’t fuck him. that’s something you were certain of, because it would make it so much more embarrassing for them. pimping yourself, your husband out is one thing, trying to and failing is much more humiliating. you thought about it, briefly on the car ride. what it would feel like after all these years. how good it would feel to make tashi squirm. and she would squirm. so help you god she would squirm. and art too. while he was inside you and clinging to you and more vulnerable than he’s ever been, you would tell him all about tashi and patrick’s little raundevouz, their little secret excursion. you would hear his heart break beneath you, feel his world crumble. you smiled to yourself in the backseat. art gave you up, tossed you out like a used tissue the second he could wriggle his way into the amazing tashi duncan’s life. and where was he now? coming second place, being cheated on, being whored out. and where was tashi? still seething over college, still hating you. you couldn’t judge her so violently, you were uncomfortably similar. except you can play, and she has art for a husband. it seems you can have love or tennis, and never both. tashi seems to have neither. in a roundabout way you pity her. in a more direct way you think she got what was fucking coming to her.
but no. you couldn’t fuck him, because that would hurt infinitely more. if tashi had come to town and avoided you, that would have angered you five times more than whatever this is. no. you weren’t sleeping with him. no way no how. nuh uh. dick is dick and you can get dick from anywhere. if the night before told you anything, historical dick will always do you wrong. so there. not sleeping with art. or tashi. or whatever.
tashi watches you stretch. your muscle fibres flex and protrude, a threat. if you beat art, she thinks you’re going to try to refuse the reward. or you at least plan to. you’re so fucking proud. everything is beneath you, everything, you can’t be pleased by anything. art is perfect, in every way, and yet you sneer and turn your nose up at her perfectly fine man. she wants to see it. she wants art to fuck you so bad it makes her angry. she wants him to be rough, and mean, she wants him to hold you down and make you cry. she watches the body that dominates the court, the face that haunts her dreams. she wants you to fucking submit. she wants your tennis body to become a cocksleeve and nothing more, and she wants art to do it. art would like it too. she knows he would. he doesn’t speak about you. he avoids you like the plague. something is left. maybe because of how you ended, in one clean silent chop the day of tashi’s accident, that he feels there’s something unfinished. she thinks he wants you. and he’s gonna get you and destroy any dignity that might remain. he’s gonna pound you like he owns you, because really he does, and tashi is gonna watch and she’s gonna laugh.
if you lose, she’ll watch her husband destroy you at tennis. and that will be just as freeing.
your gaze shifts from man on court to woman in stands, woman to man. they both have this serene look on their faces. not a care in the world. art should be worried. you’re going to thrash him. presuming this was still somewhat about tennis and he had any pride left at all, he was in for a rude awakening. second in that open. hm. you were gonna hang his sorry pathetic cuck ass out to dry and then you were gonna leave him wanting.
art’s certain he can win. tashi gave him comprehensive coaching in your style, your weaknesses and your strengths. truth is, you’re impressive, but art is a man. he could over power you, smash you into the dirt with sheer brute force. he’s certain he could beat you. but will he? tashi was unclear. this was of course entirely for her benefit, so which would she prefer? art had a feeling that your prize wasn’t only there to make you want to play. the prize didn’t seem to entice you at all, which bruised whatever remained of his ego. so should he win, or lose? what would please tashi more, seeing you beaten, or seeing you beneath something she owned? maybe they were the same.
you were both fully stretched and watered, and had began the stroll to pick up your rackets in synchronicity. his eyes raked over your face, and for the first time in all of this he considered what he wanted. he would’ve wanted to leave you alone. to respect you. but that couldn’t have happened. tashi needs closure. sleeping with you would be strange. you weren’t the same person he left in college, he wasn’t naive enough to forget that. before it all fell apart, when he was your tentative boyfriend, there were nights he locked away, too tender to be thought of by a married man. nights at his lake house, nights in your dorm, mornings when he would wake up covered in you and it was so still and calm that he had thought maybe it was still night, and you forgot to turn the light off. those nights, bolted into the safe for lost things in his mind, now drifted free. your soft skin and its smell, the weight of your body on top of his, your strawberry balm kisses. when you would dash away before sex to ‘freshen up’, and he’d smell his dorm’s cheap fruity hand soap when his nose pressed into your clit, when you opened your arm pit. you’d stopped drinking because he wouldn’t sleep with you drunk. you’d cry sometimes when he held you, when you were on top of him or when he was curved over your body so tightly everything touched. you’d cry. because no one had ever been this nice to you. and he would kiss them away, right from your under eye, licking them as they drooped of the edge of your chin. you never said i love you. never got that far. but he felt it from you. he knew you did. you had. he could tell in the way you listened to him. any tiny thing, any tiny little thing you logged away and remembered about him. if he told you once that he liked your hair half up half down, that was your hair for the next year. if he told you he liked your hands, rings and bracelets would scatter all across your dorm to be thrown on at his arrival. superficial things like that, but you listened so hard. you tried so hard. in those nights, you were like putty in his hands. he could’ve moulded you into anything. so receptive, so soft and wet and gentle. when he was inside you, when he was milked by your suckling, loving heat, he felt more at peace than he had in his whole life. it felt like you were the only two people left in the world, by God’s perfect design. you would take anything he gave to you, and because of that he was sweet and perfect to you. he was a dream man because you deserved a dream man. he truly adored you. but he wasn’t yours. and when those loving nights and sleepy mornings ended, it was tashi that returned to his mind. tashi. and she was so different from you. she was dangerous and painful and she made him itch. it was like getting high from a wasp sting, like he was addicted to the hurt. he didn’t want what was easy, what was simple and good and hearty. he wanted her. and it all worked out how it was supposed to, because tashi was his wife and she loved him and needed him and you were a tennis star. but, taking everything into account, it could never be how it was with you ever again. because you didn’t trust him anymore. he watched as you scooped up your racket, doing the same. you looked so concentrated. so angry. he wondered if you always felt angry. it probably helped you play better.
did he want to sleep with you again? that was the real question. well, if you would let him, he would. he wanted to. he never stopped adoring you, he realises now you hate him. you never did anything to make him stop. never pullled the plug, just walked away. the passivity of it made you slip away into the back of his mind, and for so long he didn’t realise you never left. he wanted to know how you changed. he wants to know how you’re different, and selfishly, he wants you to forgive him. if he was close enough to you you would know how sorry he was. if he could touch your skin one final time, and know whatever hurt he had caused you hadn’t stopped it being soft, then he could let go of you for real.
“you two ready?” tashi called from where she lounged in the seating area.
you flipped the racket round in your hold a few times, and nodded. art nodded too.
“alright.”
this was it. you were going to beat that man into the ground and you were going to laugh in tashi’s face and you were going to remain unfucked. partially unfucked. god, in this rush you had forgotten that just the night before patrick had smiled at you, and for a glorious hour you had lost your mind. it didn’t bear thinking about. you wondered what he was doing tonight. probably laid up with some sorry girl in that fucking motel room. what a simple life failures lead. you eat, you fuck, you shit, you die. when you’re actually worth something everything is struggle.
art was undecided. he held a little fluorescent ball in his hand, putting it into the neck of the racket. his eyes darted in the dark to his beautiful wife. he raised his eyebrowqa millimetre. tashi’s head flicked side to side, incrementally left to right, shaking no. throw the match. this wasn’t about tennis anymore. it had never been about tennis. he knew that now.
restless you leaned from knee to knee, crouched, flaunting your mobility, eyes never leaving tashi duncan. he looked back to you, and when he met your eye a shiver ran down his spine. he’s gonna touch you again tonight.
he paused a few more seconds. and then he served, a big sweeping motion, a thunk over his head. you were put into play.
what was it tashi had said? something really pretentious. you remembered hearing about it, something she had said to the threesome lackeys. it was passed down in bits like chinese whispers, but you’d heard the thesis of it. tennis was like fucking. like making love. like a beautiful dance where souls intertwine and total nirvana is reached and blah blah blah. at the time you’d thought that it was the biggest load of drivel you’d ever heard, and that if that was how she really felt then she’d never amount to shit, at least not in tennis.
but now, on this moonlit court, a dozen feet away from tennis star art donaldson, a dozen more away from star coach tashi duncan, you think maybe she was right all along. because you are fucking the shit out of art. he can’t seem to get a single fucking point. if this was a relationship, it’s fucking abusive. small grunts emanate from him, wimpy and down trodden sounds like a kicked dog. you get halfway through the match before realising what’s really going on.
the sound of the ball cracking from racket to racket is ear splitting, but the sound of your celebration every time you sink a point is louder to art. more distinctive and more memorable. you pump your fist at your side, and almost hiss, yes, and you walk around in a little circle, as if unable to contain your excitement. in all the match footage tashi had him watch, you never celebrated unless you won the match. he almost felt himself smile, but forced it away. he couldn’t let you know your joy was under his control, that he was allowing it.
but he wasn’t subtle. point after point after point, and art never withered. his spine was straight, not beaten wavy with defeat like it was supposed to be. once or twice the ball passed right by his racket, he didn’t even lift it. he got a few points, it wasn’t forty love. but he didn’t sweat. grunted before he even lost the point, before he even began to hit the ball. his arms were loose. they flung one way and another. was he even trying to hit the ball? you were grunting, you were sweating. you were fucking trying. you respected tashi and art enough, if not as people, then as competitors, to fucking try. all this bullshit about fucking, and you were still willing to try and win because despite everything, you still felt you had something to prove. didn’t they? what was this if not proving something? what more could it possibly be? art was smiling. beaten into the dirt and smiling. this was fucked. your turn to serve. you hold the ball in your hand, and seethe. you don’t move. your head tilts incrementally. you stare art down, half to determine the degree of fuckery, and half just to make him squirm. until his eyes flick to tashi. guidance please, master? his big loping puppy dog eyes scream.
fucking pathetic.
your racket clatters to the ground, ear splitting in the dark and quiet. tashi grinds her teeth, fingers drumming the seat, and almost calls out. almost barks at you to keep playing. but she doesn’t. because for some reason, you’re stalking towards the net. she can see the moonlight bounce off your closely shaven legs. the springing of your pony tail wafts towards her a paralysing chill, and she remains in her seat, silent.
your shoes grind as you stop on the astroturf, gripping the net with one hand, beckoning art with the other hand. he looks at you, up and down, eye brow quirked up. his lips pout involuntarily, and the bottomless well of tenderness you have for this silly, silly man pours fourth once again, doing nothing to stave off your anger.
“you tryna fuck me or something?”
art recoiled slightly. his eyes dashed to tashi.
“what do you mean?” his voice was thin. he wanted you to be quieter.
“play like you mean it or get off the court.”
you turn on your heel as soon as you spit the words, tearing at the dirt red asphalt. but then you stop. art never does anything you want him to. you know from experience. he needs an ulterior motive. you flick the sweat off your slick forehead with the slick back of your hand, and turn to art, savage smile pulling uncontrollably at your lips.
art remained where you left him by the net, stunned. what a violent, vulgar woman you had grown into. the creature he knew, that swallow, that doe, would never have spoken to him like that. jaded. vicious. you were changed. you were mangled. even that look on your heavenly face sent chills ricochetting up his spine, across his ribs. he visibly twitched as you returned to the netside.
“art, did tashi tell you about atlanta.”
you let the end of that word flick, like a feather in the wind. ta.
art blinked.
“atlanta? we were just there.”
you grasped the net and leaned forward. all was hush, even new york waited for you to continue. no car alarms, no distant drunken hollering. it was just you and art and festering contempt. and tashi, off the side, craning to hear a word and hearing her heart beat instead.
“you wanna know who else was there?”
you bit your lip, gleeful. art took a step closer to grip the net, to lean over.
“who? what are you talking about?”
“patrick.”
slowly, like a fall through quicksand, art realised. art screwed up his face, looked at his shoes, and then slowly, and right before your eyes, he found out who his wife really was. face fallen, eyes wide and focused on you, you only nodding. now that it was in front of him it seemed to obvious.
“what does that mean?”
but he knew what it meant.
“it means, i saw him yesterday. he said he saw you. well, not you. your other half. she didn’t tell you? he said it was a quite vigorous discussion.”
“stop it.”
that sickly satisfied smirk slipped off your face like leftovers into trash, leaving only the fire that never left.
“make me.”
neither of you looked away, rarely blinked, both fumed. art thought he could best you, thought you wouldn’t notice, thought you would just accept his bullshit and roll over. but art didn’t know his wife like you did. and now he would play you like he hated you, and you could beat him at his best. also, he most likely wouldn’t want to have sex regardless of the outcome, so it was win-win in truth.
arts thoughts were not so controlled, nor as proud or positive. the limpness of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, it all spurred on a horrible sinking feeling, as if along with his world he too was crumbling. he had thought nothing when she left for a walk after the finale. nothing whatsoever. but it was then she had stolen away, like a criminal. a secret dirty rendezvous. forbidden, tantalising, stomach churning. art got second place that day. was that why? was she punishing him? why had you done this to him? patrick. patrick. of all people. patrick. each flash of his smiling face in the void of arts mind was like a gunshot, a flash breaking through the void. how could one person be this cruel? and why did it have to be you? why were you changed? why couldn’t you be the same, why couldn’t you love him still? he needed someone that loved him and you were right in front of him, dead. dead to love. dead to connection. you were a creature, but you were no doe. you were a wounded sulking beast. you would beat down or maul anything wilfully ignorant enough to cross your path. but he needed you to love him. if not tashi, you. despite tashi, you.
watching his crumble had a strange effect on you. he swayed, and looked all around like he was blind. you felt bad. the animal softness you kept for him in your soul churned inside you. you felt guilty. but he should know. he deserved to know. maybe not in that way. but in a way.
“is that true? swear to me you’re not lying.”
the night was cooling off, and the ice-lake blue of art’s eyes, the press of his lips, the sag of his shoulder made you shiver. only now did you realise how close his face was to you as he leant over the net. incrementally moving back, you swallowed.
“i swear.”
“ok. ok.”
he looked down, rocked, didn’t pull away.
“i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”
his cheeks filled with air, and you could hear him try to cough out the lump in his throat.
“hey, art. art.”
he wouldn’t look up.
“i never wanted to know that. i would’ve never known.”
you didn’t think about this, about how ugly this all was. that was an ugly, horrible, jaded thing to do. jaded. patrick was right.
“i’m sorry.”
hands on hips, he turned around, moving away from you, racket clutched in a white fist. he just walked. and walked. it looked like he was about to leave the court when he turned around.
“you serve.”
and you and him played. actually played for the first time all day. he was running for the god damn ball, he was slamming it so hard your wrist ached to receive it. his face was aged, he looked more wrinkled and wisened and sinister, and he played like that too, like he has a clue what was going on and what tennis was. on one hand, this pleased you. a real fucking game. someone of the tashi clan is finally speaking to you in a language you can understand, a field you can dominate. art, try as he might, still, still, still, using all his anger, wasn’t beating you. this pleased you immensely.
but on the other hand, art was so angry. so fucking furious, and he was directing it at you. of course he was, you’re right there, you’re the bitch that told him his wife cheated, you get the surface of it. but he was so fucking angry. the grunts he made, the force behind his strides, the festering resentment he looked at you with, that was all bullshit. art is so bullshit.
in times gone by, tashi was the big bad in your mind, a monolith for your hatred. but this hissy fit is alerting you to another fact. art left you for her. he married her. that was his choice. but now, it blows up in his face, and he has the gall to be angry at you? to glare at you, grunt at you, spit on the moon-shaded clay and snarl at you? he comes into your life for the second time, blows it up, while you have a competition, and now he’s pissed at you for biting back? with the truth no less.
art is angry at you, but the truth is, you’re angrier. and so you wipe the floor with him.
above, tashi surveys, quietly mystified. this is the best you’ve played, ever. your form is exquisite, and strong, violent but controlled. you’re not fucking around. not that you ever are, but she notes that as your tally climbs and climbs, you never get comfortable, you never let up. it’s the same measured looks, the same desire as you lick the sweat off your lips and eye-fuck her husband. whatever you spoke about got art playing good too. maybe you should come to all his tournaments. tashi is itching to know what was said, but moreover she’s itching for the match to end, for a forfeit to be exchanged. whatever that may be.
it doesn’t take long before her prayers are answered, and the verdict is art has lost. he miss your last mighty shot by a landslide, on the other side of the court when it crashes down and bounces away out of bounds, into the nothing. you have won. you won. art lets out a guttural throaty cry and throws his racket to the ground while little sweat droplets leap from him like glitter.
he laps the court angrily, and you just hold out your arms, let the cool air hug your skin. no victory cry, because your body is singing with exhaustion, hard earned exhaustion, as your chest fills with air you feel vilified, you feel your truth has been exacted. you beat tashi. tashi’s husband. you beat art. you beat tashi’s man servant into the ground. you fucking win.
“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck,” he holds the back of his head, elbows swinging as he moves about.
“fuck is right. i win.”
“shut up.”
like the crack of a whip you turn to look at him. he is still so fucking angry. at you. you, of all people.
“what was that? shut up? did a loser just tell me to shut up?”
“you know what you fucking did. you told me so i would lose concentration and throw the match.”
you were both approaching the net, seething, panting. he pointed at the floor as he spoke, with passion, like he even had a leg to stand on. maybe it was his righteous outrage that pissed you off, his self important hurting. why was he so angry at you? you didn’t fuck patrick. well, not in atlanta anyway.
“i told you so you would give enough of a shit to play me for real. that was the best you’ve played in year, art,”
you poke his chest, and aggression blooms within him from your point of contact like blood in water. you’re gonna make him crazy, he’s so angry. you’re still poking him.
”and guess what? i still. fucking. beat you.”
“you shut up or ill make you shut up.”
“oh, that really got the testosterone pumping didn’t it donaldson? do you think your balls are gonna drop soon, you spineless shit?”
“you vicious little bitch. you’re this much of a cunt just because tashi was better than you in college? how pathetic can a person be?”
“she is not fucking better than me. and you of all people should know that.”
your voice cracks. so it comes out fu-cking. but your point remains. a breath filled quiet settles and for a brief moment all either of you can do is stare at each other and realise how close you’ve gotten and ache and burn and crave. his hand rests on the net, a centimetre away from yours. if you wiggled your pinky at all you’d be touching.
you watch him breath, watch his eyes trace the sweat from your chin that drips to your chest, watch him hate the fact he noticed. you watch his anger congeal. set into warm mush instead of hot liquid. you felt a heaviness in your chest as you felt yourself giving in, giving over to your anger. giving over to the hurt that fueled it.
and you kissed each other. because there was nothing else in the world to do. like opposite poles, against both of your conscious wills, you crashed into each other and kissed like biting vipers. it hurt. your fingers dug into his thinly covered shoulders, his back, dull though they were. he gripped the back of your neck, the base of your skull, pushing you forward into him, keeping you where he could have you. his other hand fisted the back of your tank, like he was holding the scruff of a bad cat’s neck. trapped in his hold, you had no choice but to love him. you clawed and kissed and little noises escaped you, and all of a sudden he was 19 again and he had you. All thoughts of tashi and patrick and coming second place were vanquished, and all he could feel was the softness of your nose pressed into his cheek, the pliable flesh of your tongue and the freedom with which you enjoyed things, how much noise and honesty you were willing to give. nothing had felt so raw, so real for a long time.
your lips mushed and deformed around the other, your tongues licked like fire, you held each other until you felt you couldn’t be closer. and then tashi existed again. and you pulled away.
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