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sunnami · 3 months

Text

❝time will tell.❞

[credits to the original artist of the photo!! can't seem to find their @ anywhere. title is taken from jane austen's persuasion, as was the first part.]

summary. ❝you are loved. and harry thinks there is no better description that that.❞

pairing/s. poly!mauraders x reader. (james potter x reader, sirius black x reader, lily evans x reader, and remus lupin x reader.)

word count. 9.5k.

tags. reader is referred to mum, with she/her pronouns[!], canon-typical violence [!], canon-typical deaths mentioned[!], very brief marauders as soldiers of the order[!], creepy old men being creepy[!], child abuse[!], pureblood arranged marriages, a minor character expresses wanting to die[!], Depressed and Traumatized Slytherins, the capital is important[!], themes of misogyny [!], teen boys fuck around and find out there are consequences to their actions, THERE IS ACTUALLY A LOT OF FLUFF, I PROMISE YOU, angst, children lose their baby teeth up until the age of twelve!! google said so!! not proofread we die like dobby the free elf

note. damn, i cried, you cried, we all crode. tbh, the first part was only intended as a oneshot, sdfkhdf, but when i re-read it, i thought that i could have expanded on more details,, so now here we are!! i love it more than the first part ueueue. thank you all so so so much for the kind comments :((( please please enjoy the second part to this installment!! part one

HARRY JAMES POTTER was only a few months old when you died at the hands of Voldemort — or as strangers have told him every time they ravaged his personal space and ogled at his scar. They said it was a quick death, better than what had happened to Alice and Frank Longbottom. But that was all they’ve ever said about your death. Unfortunate; caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, entirely different from the pedestal James and Lily have been put on by the wizarding society.

At first, Harry had wondered if it was due to your blood relations, being the daughter of a renowned Death-Eater, heiress to the fortune of a pureblood House. Harry can’t even count the amount of conspiracy theories he’s read or heard to his face that it must have been you who betrayed James and Lily, and not Sirius Black.

Even Hermione’s shared to him a theory that your death was faked to surrender your loyalty completely to Voldemort — of course, Hermione was eleven at the time, head full of books and her favorite theories, and Harry’s already forgiven her. But there’s a part of him that despises the way he’s never known the full truth about his parents, just bits of information dangled in front of him like bait for people [read: the Dursleys] to get him to do what they want, to act like the way they want. Until Remus and Sirius, you were a stranger to him, really.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

IT IS RATHER UNFORTUNATE that Madam Pince has already taken her position as the unbearable librarian at this point in time. The woman gives Harry and you a pointed look as you slam the large book onto one of the tables — to Harry’s surprise, you glare right back at her. You’re awfully flushed, however, blushing cheeks betraying the fire in your eyes; it must have been from when Remus escorted the two of you to the library; he had tried to brush your hand with his pinky, to which you had responded with a startled hiss — Remus only smiled and chuckled at you, and Harry swears he’d like to forget that entire interaction because he saw literal stars in Remus’s eyes.

Jumping back in time and potentially causing chaos? Fun.

Meeting your parents? Definitely fun, in the strangest of ways.

But watching them pine and fall for each other? Not so fun.

Nonetheless, he hesitantly takes the seat across yours and watches you flip through the pages until you land on a chapter with the large, bold letters: THE CURIOUS CASE OF ELOISE MINTUMBLE — Time-Travel and Its Many Dangers. He meets your gaze with a sheepish grin, mustering a look of innocence; except the puppy dog eyes only worked when he was nine — you are not amused.

You slide the book towards him, scarily resembling Molly Weasley when she’s miffed with the twins. “You are aware, right, that just by existing here you’ve changed the future? Your future? And, that’s not even the worst thing that could happen.”

Harry sulks. “Yes, mum.” He prefers not to think about it, actually, it makes his head hurt.

“Don’t call me that in public!” You whisper heatedly, looking over your shoulder to check if anyone had heard him — to your luck, the library was empty, save for a Hufflepuff that was passed out on top of his books. “The less people that know about this, the better. It’s bad enough we told Potter about you. Do you even know what you’re going to do?”

“Considering I was thrown here against my will, no.” Harry shrugs. “And to be honest, I was just going to obliviate the people who asked too many questions.”

You reach over to smack his head, scowling.

“Ow! That hurt!” Harry rubs the sore spot as he grumbles petulantly. “This is technically child abuse, did you know that?”

You roll your eyes. “Do you at least have a plan to get home?”

“Of course I do,” Harry retorts with a scoff, “Her name is Hermione Granger.”

“Hopeless.” You groan exasperatedly. “Absolutely hopeless.”

Harry only grins in response. For a brief moment, he forgets about the present — his reality where the skies are bleak and home is where he knows the feeling of loss more than the warmth of his own parents’ embrace. He lets himself forget, and pretends he isn’t the Boy Who Lived. Just some random boy who’s pestering his mother — even if she likes to deny the inevitability of being romanced by the Marauders, (except for Wormtail because Harry would eat troll slime before he ever lets that happen.)

“Right then,” You say after your tangent — which Harry tuned out when he hears the words, be responsible. “If I’m going to help you get back home—”

Harry’s heart drops to his stomach; as selfishly as it sounds, he didn’t want to go home just yet — not to where people just took and took from him. He’s exhausted. Still, he puts up a front of being excited to be returned to his timeline. It’s for the greater good, of course, because his existence — present or past — is always somehow a threat to the wizarding society.

“—you need to answer this one question for me.” Your voice drops lower as you stare at him intently, lips pressed firmly.

Harry nods slowly. “As long as it’s within reason, yeah.”

You inhale sharply. “Do I outlive Dolores Umbridge?”

The wince escapes Harry before he can even stop it.

That’s all the answer you need, apparently. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you slam your hands down onto the table surface, shrieking.

“That slimy bitch!”

Needless to say, the two of you are kicked out of the library.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1970; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

YOU ARE ELEVEN when your father introduces you to Ferguson, commonly known as Fergus, Bulstrode. He smiles at you with a leer, eyes hungrily dipping to the neckline of your dress. You grit your teeth as you hold out your hand for him to take — you almost shudder at the feel of his lips on your cheek. You eagerly take a step back away from him, hoping your father won’t notice the way you shy from Ferguson’s touch. You’re not dull, you fully understand the implications of this introduction and the way Ferguson is complaining to you about his third wife’s passing — as if you were the solution to his loneliness. Bile rises to your throat, and you shove it down with a forced laugh at your father’s jokes about Mudbloods. From across the room, Allegra Greengrass stares at you in sympathy, and you send her a glare — you do not need anyone’s pity.

The corset your mother laced on too tight is suffocating you; this whole Yule extravaganza made for elitist purebloods is suffocating you; and yet, you smile and greet every red-lipped witch your mother introduces you to. For hours, you pretend, and you pretend. By the time the guests have left, you wonder if you have any more of yourself to give.

You manage to convince your mother to let you slip away for the night. Without missing a beat, you rush outside and into the garden labyrinth, lest old Ferguson snatches you up for a dance and let his gaze wander elsewhere. For the first time since the sun had set, your aching feet finally find some relief. You drop onto the edge of the stone fountain as you toss your heels to the side. You begin working your fingers through your hair, ripping the glittery ribbons from your head. It’s not until you’re unclasping your necklace that you realize you are crying. Tears fall from your eyes, and they sink deep into the fabric of your dress.

You barely hold back your sobs. Your chest heaves as you hiccup; your vision goes blurry as your fingers grow numb. There’s nothing you can do but cry.

You’ve used up all your smiles for tonight.

But then, the sadness turns into resentment and then turns into indignation. Harshly, you wipe the tears from your eyes as you rip a violent scream from your throat.

You sink to the ground, perfectly polished nails digging into the soil as you gather patches of grass and tear them from the roots. You throw a handful of mud at the marble statues. You grab another fistful of mud, scream, then bash your head against the garden floor. You let out another cry, whimpering as you curl into yourself; shivering as a gust of wind brushes against your skin. Surprisingly enough, this is the most human you’ve ever felt. This is the most you have ever felt — period.

When hiccups regress into soft sniffles, you lay on your back, watching the stars float above. As the last of your tears slide down your cheek, you lift a shaky hand to trace the constellation in the sky. It’s not a familiar one to you, but then—

“That’s Sirius.”

You sit upright in a snap, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you muster a mean glare at the newcomer.

Sirius Black.

“Oh, none of that,” He tells you when you move to stand. There’s barely any emotion on his face and it irks you that you can’t figure out what he’s planning. What you don’t expect is for him to sit beside you, thereby ruining his expensively tailored suit.

“You’ll get creases,” You scold him instinctively, nose scrunched — but your voice is hoarse; too tired to put up any pretences. “Your mother will be cross with you.”

Sirius scoffs, laying his head on the dirt, making sure to smear his sleeves with grass stains. “Walburga can go fall in a ditch and die for all I care.”

You gasp. “That’s horrible!”

Sirius gives you a look. “You don’t believe that.”

You really don’t, but you don’t have the courage to admit it either.

After a few moments of silence, Sirius asks, raising a brow, “So who was that?”

“Who was who?” You stare at him with knitted brows, toying with your fingers. You still can’t wrap your head around how weird this is — sitting with Sirius Black in the middle of your mother’s hedge maze, your once bright blue dress now sullied at the ruffles, eyes bloodshot and your hair a frizzy mess. (Sirius thinks you look cute, though; especially with your missing front tooth that peeks out every time you talk to him.)

“Bald guy, older than Merlin himself.” Sirius makes a face. “Looks like a troll. Smells like one, too.”

A giggle flutters past your lips, and your hands fly to your mouth. You really shouldn’t be bad-mouthing your guests, but Sirius was right — Ferguson really did act like an ugly troll. You sigh, letting your arms fall to your side. “My betrothed.”

Sirius nods in understanding. “My mother tried to set me up with my own cousin once.”

You grimace. “Which cousin?”

He sits on his knees to face you, and with a very solemn face, he says, “Bellatrix.”

This time, you laugh freely, throwing your head back as Sirius pouts at your amusement. “O-Oh, that’s golden.”

“No, it’s not,” says Sirius, lips twitching as he watches you snort like a pig through your giggles. “It’s horrible. A literal nightmare. You should feel awful for me.” He pokes your stomach, and it just makes you laugh harder, eyes disappearing into your smile. “Oi. I said feel awful, not take the piss out of me.”

“S-Sorry.” You wheeze, batting away his hand pulling at your cheek. “I just can’t imagine Bellatrix in a white wedding dress and saying her vows to you.”

“That’s disgusting.” Sirius gags. “You’re horrible, I hope you know that.”

When you finally calm down and Sirius tickles your bare feet until you cry in surrender, the two of you lay on the grass as he points out each constellation to you. Later, he fishes a small box of sugar mice from his pocket and offers it to you, opening one for himself. “Here’s to shitty parents and the one day we get to decide our own future.”

You bump your squeaky candy mice against his. “Cheers, Black.”

“Will you go to Hogwarts next year?” He asks you once he’s bitten off the tail of his mice.

You nod.

Sirius shifts on his side, holding his pinky out to you. “We’ll be friends when school starts?”

Again, you nod, wrapping your pinky around his. “Friends.”

The next September comes, Sirius finds a compartment and one James Potter in it. You sit with Allegra Greengrass and Endora Lestrange on the way to Hogwarts. You are sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius finds freedom and a home in Gryffindor. You play the role created just for you; you lift your nose at those beneath you, adorn yourself in custom-made silk clothing, and carry yourself with the etiquette of a pure-blooded lady. Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect clothes, always picture perfect.

You pretend that Allegra doesn’t throw up in the evenings from the fear of getting married to a man twice her age. You pretend that you don’t notice Endora sleep-walking and begging for her mother to save her from her father. You pretend that under your blankets, in the Slytherin dungeon, you are safe.

You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when Sirius looks at you in disappointment when you shove a Hufflepuff student to the ground for getting a higher score than you in Charms.

They call you an ice-princess behind your back, and you overhear some of the fifth-years calling you foul words as well, and no one steps in to stop them; there’s no defending a Slytherin, after all. But you are keeping your head above treacherous waters, and you suppose that is all that matters.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“SO ACCORDING TO THIS, Eloise was stuck in 1402 for five days until she was retrieved to the present, which means we only have four days left to figure out a way for you to get back home.”

Harry sinks into his chair, arms crossed over his chest. The two of you had found an empty classroom to discuss your plans away from inquisitive ears. “What’s the rush?” It’s unfair, he’d only just met you, and now he’s losing time with you.

You sigh. “Harry, Eloise Mintumble spent five days in the past and when she came back, her body aged five centuries, and she died in St. Mungos. It’s not just about altering the whole timeline, you could actually die.”

When you are met only with silence, you close the book, frowning. “Harry? What’s wrong?”

Harry swallows the lump in his throat, looking out the window to avoid your gaze. “What do you know about the Mirror of Erised?”

Your head tilts in confusion. “That it shows our heart’s deepest desire.”

“Yeah,” says Harry, nodding. “I was eleven when I found it.”

“Oh, Harry. . .”

It’s almost pathetic how quickly his eyes water. “Did you know, before today, I hadn’t known at all what your voice sounded like?”

You stay quiet, and Harry sucks in a shaky breath.

“When I looked into the mirror, I saw my parents—all of you. There I was, in the middle. You were behind me—happy.” Harry swipes a tear from his eye. “I wanted to stay in that room, stare at that mirror forever.”

“It’s—”

“Dangerous, I know.” He laughs bitterly. “Just like finally being able to meet you all here.”

“Harry, you aren’t supposed to be here in the first place,” You say quietly, eyes drooping sadly.

“I know that!” He exclaims desperately. “But is it so selfish to just want some time? I don’t want an illusion, I want the real thing. A real family. Why can’t I have that? Bloody Malfoy gets everything he wants, and what do I have?”

“Your friends,” You tell him firmly. “Your friends who must be worried sick that you’re gone and must be going great lengths to bring you back.”

“I know.” Harry wilts. He’s got Remus at home, too, who probably needs him more than ever after Sirius’s death. “I know. But can’t I just have this one thing?”

You purse your lips for a moment, brows furrowed in thought. Then, you break the silence with: “Do you want to hear a story?”

“What?” Harry croaks, peering at you through wet lashes.

Shrugging, you say, “Stories to remember us by. I’ve got six years worth of stories and then some. I know it’s not much, and you’ve probably heard some of these already from the others in the future, but it’s better than nothing, right?” You lean against the back of your chair, glancing at the wall clock before grinning at Harry. “We’ve got time to spare, anyway.”

Harry manages a smile, setting down his glasses before rubbing his stinging eyes with the handkerchief you offer him. He figures this is what Remus means when you’re the gentlest creature he’s ever known — just not gentle in what the world expects you to be.

“What do you say, Harry? I give you tidbits of the past, and you tell me if you know anything about the next Triwizard champion, so I can place my bets in advance.”

Harry snickers. “Not a chance, mum.”

“Worth a try.” And the smile you give him is nearly blinding.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1977; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND what it is about Gryffindors and their hobby of invading others’ personal space.

A year into dating and James likes to shove his head under your shirt, claiming he loves the sound of your heartbeat — but you know really what he wants to nestle his head in between. The amount of cashmere blouses he’s ruined is absurd! Sirius has a hobby of tracing runes on the plane of your stomach. Lily prefers it when you sit in front of her, just within reach where she can wrap her arms around you and rest her head on your shoulder. Remus tends to lag behind the group when he notices you walking slower due to your leg flaring up. He kisses the side of your head and promises to chase the pain away — sappy poetic that he is. And in the moments where all five of you are together, tucked under a wide alcove, you can best believe there is no escaping what they like to call, a cuddle pile. Limbs are tangled, kisses are shared, and confessions of love are whispered.

Before them, you hadn’t really known the different ways to love and be loved.

Onto the pressing matters at hand, you discover that the brazen show of affection extends to their parents as well. Particularly, the Potters. After a year, you finally caved into James’s requests for you to spend the holidays at their manor, since the others have already made a space for themselves there, and James had said it would be an honor for you to feel at home with his parents, too. Honestly, you spoil them too much — one look into his bright, wide eyes and you gave in. James didn’t even care that you brought two luggages for clothes alone; he lifted each bag with delight and with ease.

(Remus had the audacity to laugh when he caught you and Sirius staring at James’s flexed muscles, mouth wide open.

“As I have said, Remus Lupin, I do not drool!”

“Sure, dove, whatever you say.”)

But now, you really aren’t so sure of your decision.

“Oh, she’s beautiful, Jamie!” Euphemia encases you in a bear hug the moment you step inside the manor. You’re engulfed in the scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar. You stiffen as she cradles your face in between her palms, smiling ever so fondly at you, cooing about how precious you look, much like a mother would — and how your mother never did. You wonder if this is what you’ve been missing all along — the thought stabs you right in the heart. “Please excuse the mess, dear, we haven’t had the chance to clean up yet, Monty and I are excited to try the recipe Lily owled to us the other day, you see.”

“I-It’s okay,” You rasp, struggling to hold back the tears.

“Oh, what a darling you are!” Euphemia smiles and ushers you further inside. “Come, come. The others are right upstairs. You must be tired from the train ride. It is so lovely to finally meet you. Make yourself at home, dear heart — James Fleamont Potter! Give your mama a kiss this instant! Don’t think introducing your girlfriend will distract me from the fact you didn’t owl me letters for two months straight!”

James whines as he hides behind you. “Mum, I’m seventeen, stop embarrassing me.”

Euphemia scoffs, hands snapping to her hips. “You’re going to be my baby boy forever, now come here.”

With a shy smile, you step away to surrender James to his mother — you don’t understand which part of this is embarrassing; you wish for a mum who’d welcome you home like that, with unconditional love and kind eyes. James squawks and calls you a traitor, just before his mum attacks him with loud, exaggerated kisses to his cheek, leaving lipstick stains all over his face. You hide a laugh behind your palm, ignoring the way your heart pangs at the sight of their unrestrained smiles. Euphemia lets her son go after a few more seconds, cackling at the masterpiece she’s created on a grumbling James, who’s rubbing his skin to erase his mother’s affections. She hugs you once more before setting you off, telling you to meet Fleamont after you’ve unpacked.

Just as you reach the foot of the stairs, you hear a girlish squeal, then the sound of rapid footfall against each wooden step. Lily greets the two of you by jumping off the last step and wrapping each arm around yours and James’s neck. “Welcome home, Jamie!” She captures his lips with her own before doing the same to you, cupping your cheek lovingly, “So happy you made it, princess! How was the ride here?”

You were never a fan of traveling by Floo; it made you nauseous after, and left you with a pounding headache for hours. Without hesitation, the others offered to accompany you on the train, but you insisted they Floo ahead to Godric’s Hollow — it took a lot of convincing, but they finally agreed, (they’re not the only ones spoiled; they couldn’t refuse you, too.) With the exception of James, who wanted to be there when you saw his home for the first time. You nearly cried when you saw how well-loved their manor was; rose shrubs dipped in snow, Sirius’s motorcycle parked outside, a mailbox with poorly painted shapes, the fences covered in Christmas lights, and the amount of shoes by the door. From outside, you could hear the laughter and warm conversations.

“It was fine,” You say in a daze.

Lily sees right through you — and frowns sadly. “You alright?”

Were you?

You catch sight of the moving photographs of James and you finally reach your breaking point. There’s a swell in your throat that you can’t seem to push down. There’s a photo of James, Lily, Remus and Sirius; James is in his Quidditch jersey, raising the Golden Snitch high up in the air, Remus is twirling Lily, his arms around her waist, and Sirius is holding up a charmed banner that says: Gryffindor Rules! Slytherin Sucks! Except For My Darling Angel Love Of My Life Most Beautiful And Gorgeous Perfect Brilliant Girlfriend!

There are hints of life all around the manor. Remus’s textbooks and scarf are laid by the coffee table. Lily’s O.W.L. marks are framed on the wall, along with Dumbledore’s letters to James and Lily awarding them the position of Head Girl and Head Boy, as well as McGonagall’s previous letter to Remus that came with his Prefect badge years ago. There’s a spot dedicated to Peter, filled with a photograph of him awkwardly holding his Herbology test, one that he scored a hundred and twelve percent on. It’s a wall dedicated to them, you realize.

Then, you find it.

Right there, up above James’s spot, and beside Sirius’s display of beyond perfect Transfiguration exam marks, and a picture of him and Remus kissing each side of your face.

It’s a space on that wall just for you.

James follows your gaze and rubs the back of his head, ears tinged with a shade of deep pink. “Mum left a space when I first told her about you. I-It’s yours, you can put anything you want there.”

“I can’t,” You whisper, lips quivering as your heart cracks into a million pieces. It’s too much.

James blinks. “Can’t? It’s yours, I promise. Mum won’t mind. You can even hang your dumb Montrose Magpies poster and I won’t tear it down — Marauders’ honor. I can help you if you want. I-I’m not good as decorating as Lily, but I paid attention to your boring explanation of color theory and I know that you hate this shade of—”

“James, I can’t do this.”

That’s all you say before you run out of the door.

(And you’re absolutely delusional if you think James won’t follow you out that door and into the brewing snowstorm.)

You hear James call out to you, but you opt to ignore him and clutch your winter coat tighter around your body, shivering in the blowing wind, trudging through the deep snow through your heeled boots — designer couldn’t help you now even if you tried. You sniff, the salty taste of your tears dripping to your lips, chest tightening with a foreign kind of pain, and the frost nipping at your fingers. You give up after a few minutes, falling to the ground with an anguished cry, hand clutching the front of your chest as you struggle to breathe.

James reaches you in a matter of minutes, draping his jacket over you, barely flinching as the cold welts his bare skin. Frantically, he wipes the tears from your eyes, a pained expression on his face as he sees you cry helplessly. “Come on, dove, it’s not safe out here. Let’s go back home, yeah? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, dove, please don’t cry, it’s killing me to s–see you like this.” Tears fall from his eyes, and he begins stuttering from the cold, but you can’t go back to the manor. “What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it. I love you—I’m sorry.”

You bat his chest. “G–Go home, Jamie. I’ll just take the train back to the castle.”

“What?” He shakes his head, grabbing onto your hands. “Y–You can’t. Not in this weather. You’ll get sick if you try to walk back to the station.”

You withdraw from his hold as you back away from James, slipping into the ice-cold mask you know so well.

James rises in an instant, reaching for you. “No, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. Not now. Not with me. Please, just come home and I-I’ll fix it.”

“Goodbye, James,” You tell him firmly, clenching your jaw as you look him straight in the eyes.

He grimaces. “That won’t work on me, princess, and you know it. Don’t push me away—please.”

“Go home, James!” You yell bitterly, pivoting on your heel as you march through the thick inches of snow, hearing Remus and Lily’s voice grow louder in the distance. “Just go!”

He grits his teeth, nails digging deep into the palms of his hand. “You’re a coward if you walk away from here—from us—right now!” James shouts through chattering teeth and stray tears. “And I hate cowards more than anything!”

You don’t look back.

(Later that night, James stares blankly at the fireplace, tossing twigs now and then. He’s all out of tears. Remus crosses his legs as he sits beside James and offers him a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“Don’t want one,” He mutters, words coarse from earlier, head turning away from Remus’s gift. “Just want her.”

Remus sets the beverage on the ground before pulling James’s head down to his chest, gently wiping the tears from his eyes as he wraps the blanket around both of them. He presses a soft kiss to James’s hair.

“I said I hated her,” James says weakly. “I don’t—I never will. I just hate that she’s out there spending Christmas all alone. She could be here—with us. I hate not knowing that she’s safe, or that she thinks I don’t love her anymore—that’s a bloody lie, Moony. I adore her. If anything, I don’t deserve her.”

James finds out that he does have more tears left in him. “I miss her. Bring her back, Rem, please.”

“You’ll cry yourself sick, love.” Remus wipes each tear away. “Let’s go to bed, yeah? Mornings do have a way of bringing miracles to us.” Because after a night of excruciating pain under the moon’s command, he wakes up to sunlight, and there you all are — smiling down at him like he is deserving of love; and maybe Remus can’t fault you for running away.

You’d kiss him gently and tell him how proud you are of him for coming back to you.

Remus only hopes you come back to them, too.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“AND THAT, dear Harry, is how I humiliated Lucius Malfoy in fifth-year.” Your eyes gleam wickedly as you rest your arms on the school desk. “If he ever bothers you in your time, just mention my name—oh, I wish I could see the look on his face when he realizes I’m haunting him from my grave. Tell him, okay?”

Harry nods excitedly. “Definitely.”

“Got anymore stories?” He asks.

You cackle menacingly. “Boy, do I ever. Let me tell you about the one time Beckett McLaggen took me out on a date to Madam Puddifoot’s!”

Harry grimaces. “Do I even want to hear about this?”

“Oh, pish-posh.” You dismiss him with a wave. “You do, this story is hilarious. Now that I look back on it, Sirius was quite cross with him for the rest of the day—how strange. I wonder why.”

Harry stares at you in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I most certainly am not, Harry Potter.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1974; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

AN EAR-PIERCING scream wakes you up in the middle of the night. You snatch your wand from under your pillow, heart thudding against your chest in fear — last year, the Prewett twins decided it was funny to break into the girls’ quarters at midnight; you get a month worth of detention for hitting Gideon with the Expulso curse and suspension from class for two weeks, while the twins get away with a slap on the wrist and have the time of their lives spreading rumors of you being a Death-Eater.

Endora shoots up to her feet as well, staring at you in panic — then the girl screams again, and you realize it’s Allegra.

You sigh in relief, lowering your wand before saying to Endora, “I-It’s alright. I’ll handle it.”

“Are you sure?” Endora asks timidly, gnawing at her lip and wincing when Allegra wails once more.

“Certain,” You respond, yawning.

As Endora climbs back into her bed, you slip into Allegra’s side, holding her head to your chest, brushing your fingers through her hair and untangling the knots. Like most of the Greengrass women, she was of ethereal beauty — silky blonde hair, smooth and fair skin, deep blue eyes that enchant wizards and witches alike. But her cheeks have gone sallow from exhaustion, eyes devoid of any emotion, and her skin now sunken into her bones.

“I don’t want to marry him—I can’t! He’s old enough to be my father!” Allegra sobs violently, desperate for anyone to hear her, but no one really ever hears their cries from the dungeon. “They said they’d wait until I graduated—they promised! I’m supposed to marry him this summer!”

Your heart breaks for your friend — there’s nothing you can do but hold her until she’s cried every bit of her soul out.

“I hate them,” Allegra whispers to you; she had been shedding tears for hours, trembling in your arms until morning finally came.

“I know,” You say defeatedly.

“I wish I was dead,” She replies lifelessly. “He can’t marry a dead bride.”

“Don’t say that,” You beg as you hug her tight; afraid to lose her to the world that has worn her down. “Please.”

Allegra sinks into her pillows, and you follow in suit, hesitantly laying your head beside hers. She stares at the ceiling dully. “The world is so, so cruel to us daughters sometimes. And it’ll be cruel to our daughters, and their daughters. When will it end?”

“I don’t know,” You say honestly.

Allegra hums, neither disappointed nor surprised, and turns away to lay on her side. “Pansy,” She mumbles.

“What?”

“If we lived in a better world and I married for love, I’d want to name my daughter Pansy — like the flower.”

(Later that day, you are given detention for beating Evan Rosier to a pulp. He makes a joke about dirty blood, and you snap — you are tired of laughing and pandering to the arrogant men in your life. This is the first time you publicly defy your parents, and it felt good — more than good, it was liberating. It’s like breathing fresh air for the first time. Then, you earn a second detention for storming up to the Gryffindor common room and punching Fabian Prewett in the face — because fourth-year boys had no business sneaking into the girls’ dorm in the middle of the night for some stupid prank — and you threaten him by pointing the tip of your wand deep into his neck, demanding they apologize to you, Allegra, and Endora.

You get what you want, naturally — as princesses do. You decide then that you’re going to create a world where girls like Allegra don’t cry anymore.)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

HARRY TWINGES WHEN he hears the end of your fourth or fifth story of the afternoon — no wonder you had been so angered by his being in your room. “I-I’m sorry—”

“Yesterday was hardly your fault,” You interrupt him. “There’s no controlling where magic brings you, not in your case. You didn’t know, but now you know. I don’t hold it against them — anymore. Fifteen-year-old boys can be stupid, and at least they’ve learned from their mistakes. You should have seen your mother — erm, Lily — she looked like she was ready to kill them after finding out what they had done. Even Molly was cross with the twins, and you know how loyal Molly is to her family.”

Oh, Harry knows.

And Hermione knows it all too well.

“Others call us evil, conniving and cruel, Harry,” You tell him grimly, “But I will protect my own, no matter what I have to do.”

At that moment, Harry thinks he understands why some people come to fear Slytherin.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

“LOOK, LILY-PAD, the princess is drooling again.”

You open your eyes to glare at Sirius. “I don’t drool, idiot.”

Lily chortles as she presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t, princess.”

Currently, you’re lying on a shabby loveseat that is too small to hold the three of you; it’s the only furniture in the new cottage you call home, where Potter Manor was right across the street. (Euphemia was ecstatic to have you all nearby — the lovely woman was sprite for her age, but you notice the way she stops to sit and catch her breath, Sirius and James hovering over her attentively; you’re good at pretending, so you pretend that the Potters will be around forever.) Some rooms are dusty with cobwebs, walls unfinished, with the floors creak under your feet, and there’s no other place you’d rather call home.

You’re in between Sirius and Lily; your lips swollen from their kisses, cheeks flushed and the column of your throat graced with love marks. It’s the most beautiful set of jewelry you’ve ever worn, not even burmese rubies could compare. Lily’s hand rests under your jumper, Sirius’s thigh wedged between your own. While peace blankets the three of you, James and Remus have yet to come home from their task given by the Order.

“You need a haircut, my love,” You mumble drowsily, pulling at one of the dark ringlets — it’s gone past his shoulders now. He captures your hand and leaves a delicate kiss on your fingertips.

Lily buries her nose in your hair. “She’s right, Siri.”

“I’m always right.” You pout.

Sirius, love-sick fool that he is, smiles as he tilts your chin with his finger and ensnares you in a kiss that leaves you breathless. “Course you are — our girl’s bloody brilliant, isn’t she, Lily-pad?”

“Without a doubt.”

You roll your eyes at their antics, rolling around so that your back is pressed to Sirius’s chest — they’re not fooled, however; Lily sees the way your eyes flicker in amusement and the way your lips threaten to curve up into a smile. She traces the swell of your lips with her thumb, to the dip of your nose, and to the apples of your cheek. Sea-green eyes beam at you.

“I love you,” says Lily, committing every inch of you to her memory as she wears a melancholic smile. “I don’t know who told you that you don’t deserve to be loved, but they were wrong. You are so precious to us, dove, you don’t even know how much. This right here is real — and nothing could ever change that.”

As it turns out, you did have more smiles to give — only the happy ones; not the fake, courteous smiles that you had given to your mother’s friends in the past. You come to intertwine your hand with Lily’s, the one that had been resting on your cheek, tenderly wiping the tears that pooled within your eyes. Your heart could burst from your chest. They had a habit of wringing every emotion out of you; of making love feel real, not just a myth from a Muggle storybook. And you find, that you didn’t mind this particular habit of theirs. In the comforts of the place you call home, where you irrefutably belong, you are free to seek their arms and fall into their love, and the best part is where you get to love them right back.

How lucky you are.

“Let’s get married,” You blurt out, holding your breath, feeling Sirius’s hand on your waist stiffen.

“What?” Lily gasps breathlessly.

You smile up at Lily. “Let’s get married. All of us. I don’t care where, o–or about the rings, let’s just get married. With the war going on, we deserve s–something good.”

Lily sobs as she nods excitedly. “Yes. Oh my Gods—we’re getting married!”

Sirius stares at you in wonder. “Bloody hell, dove, give a guy some warning, would you?”

You grin. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes — forever.” Sirius dives in to kiss you senseless. “Couldn’t get rid of us now even if you tried.”

“I don’t think I’d want to, anyway.”

Right then, the rickety door slams open, and you hear the loves of your life calling out for the three of you. Followed by the heavy thud of Dragonhide boots plunking down onto the floor

“We’re home!” James announces in the entryway.

Lily wastes no time in shooting up from the sofa and welcoming them home with quite a unique greeting:

“We’re all getting married!”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“That ring is an heirloom passed down to the children in our family,” You tell Harry, pointing to the band around his finger. “It’s meant to symbolize our loyalty and duty to our House. My mother said I would have earned it only when I became a wife to Ferguson Bulstrode.” You chuckle at Harry’s perturbed grimace. “No, I didn’t marry him — thankfully. After Allegra. . . I—I. . . I couldn’t bear it. If I was going to marry, it would be on my own terms, and it would be for love, nothing less. Then, if my child wanted it, I’d give them this ring. I want to leave behind a legacy that I created. When I was younger, I’d resigned to a fate that was forcefully carved by someone else’s hand.”

You shake your head. “I want to die being remembered by those who loved me. Otherwise, I was never truly alive.”

Harry won’t let that happen, he won’t ever let your name be forgotten. He’ll share of your kindness to his friends, of your bravery and loyalty. Hermione will love your fondness of Muggle musicals and how you stood up to Lily’s defense in a world that ostracized her for being different. He’ll remind Remus of your love for him, that he had brought you hope in times of despair. Harry is going to make sure the world knows you had been so full of life with endless love to give. You are going to be remembered in the way Voldemort never will.

“What do the words mean?” He stares at the writing: Tempus Edax Rerum.

You smile. “Time, devourer of all things.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1978; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

“REMUS—THE MUGGLES ARE stuck in the telly again!”

Remus snickers as he takes the vacant space beside you on the loveseat, now sewn up with care and spattered with knitted quilts and throw pillows — still too small to carry three people but hasn’t given out yet, anyway. He takes Lily’s legs over his lap, swiftly stealing a kiss from your lips. “It’s a film, dove, they’re acting.”

You purse your lips. “They’re trapped inside, then?”

Lily snorts into her tub of chocolate fudge ice cream. “Not quite, princess, it’s recorded. Movies are like moving photographs — but they’re an hour long with sounds.”

“Oh.” You turn your attention back to the screen, back to the film Lily had been watching. You had to admit — the story of Sandy and Danny was an interesting one. “Lily-pad, she’s singing — again.”

Sirius hushes you from where he was cuddling James on the other couch. “She’s supposed to sing, dove, it’s a musical.”

“Well, yes,” You begin, and James groans into Sirius’s chest, “But they should just talk instead of singing all the time — Sandy’s got a lovely voice, though. I just don’t understand why Danny’s treating her like that! Truthfully, I don’t like any of Sandy’s new friends, other than Frenchy — she’s harmless. If I was Sandy I’d move on from Danny — but then again, that hair and those muscles, and his leather jacket! I can’t blame her.”

Sirius glowers at you. “You like his leather jacket?”

“His hair?” James exclaims in horror.

Remus chuckles as he tucks you in his side, kissing your temple. “If I were you, dove, I’d be quiet and just watch the film.”

“Oh, no, no.” Sirius barely glances at the television as he pauses the film and stands up to point an accusatory finger at you. “Since when were you into leather jackets? Do you think those are cool? Since when? Jamie, should I get one? Let’s unpack this, right now. And his muscles, really?”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Play the film, Black, I want to see the end of their love story.”

“I’m telling Euphemia on you!”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1976; CURRENTLY, IN THE PAST.)

“—and then we realized that we accidentally locked Hermione in with the troll.” Harry’s arms flail about as he shares some of his adventures with you — it had only been fair. He felt like a young boy again, entering Hogwarts for the first time as he watched you listen to him intently, gasping at tale of the vanishing glass and scolding him when he says he and Ron had decided to go searching for Hermione, and by extension, the troll.

Your eyes grow wide. “A troll? In Hogwarts? They can’t have, not unless—”

“Someone let it in—I know!” Harry grins. “You’re not going to believe who let the troll in the castle.”

You snap your fingers, “Malfoy, the older one. I know that lump’s got something to do with this. Can’t have been Snape or Quirrell.”

“Just you wait.” Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “—and so, Professor McGonagall finds us, and can you believe it? She awards us for dumb luck! Then. . .”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1979; ORIGINAL TIMELINE.)

IT HAD COME AS A surprise when you volunteered to join the Order of the Phoenix. You wanted to scoff at their shocked faces — was it so surprising that you wanted to protect your family? They let Severus Snape join their ranks, and you’re fairly certain that you’re a better fighter and survivalist than him — not the better liar, however, he can have that one. The week before, you and the others had an argument that lasted for the whole day. They did not want you in harm’s way, and you would rather die than stay at home, waiting idly for them to return, when you could be out there alongside them.

(“It’s not some game out there!” Remus runs through his hair in frustration — he had always been so careful to never raise his voice at you, but this one time, he needed you to back down. “Every time you step into a raid, there’s a possibility of you dying, don’t you understand that? And even if you survive — you’ll have blood on your hands, and it does not wash away no matter how many times you try, trust me, we know.”

“So what?” You throw your hands up in the air, equally aggravated. “I just stay here like some. . . some pet waiting for their owners to come home?”

“Yes!” Lily angrily replies. “That is the whole point of us joining the Order — so you get to live another day. So we all have a chance at this new world without a war. Let us protect you!”

You grind down on your jaw. “You have got another thing coming, if you think I’m not going to fight tooth and nail for my future.”

James slams a fist onto the kitchen counter. “There are horrors out there you can’t even imagine. I-It’s worse than we thought. It’s our every nightmare come to life.”

You raise your chin defiantly. “Then we face it together.”)

Each day, you survive, and each day the five of you return home — scarred and bruised, but safe within the arms of one another. When you collapse and crumble, it is only for the walls of your home to witness.

Now a month into autumn, you are on your first task without Sirius, James, Lily or even Remus. Instead, you are assigned by Dumbledore to Knockturn Alley along with Peter Pettigrew and Gideon Prewett. How strange time was, years ago you’d never associate with the proud Gryffindors, and now you had to trust them to guard your back. Everyone had to grow up quickly during war, even pranksters.

The alley was quiet — too quiet for your liking. You had been on alert since the moment you apparated into the area, wand at your ready. The back of your neck prickled with goosebumps as you kept an ear out for any sign of movement.

Peter shivers and you glance at him — he’s become far too skinny, constantly shrinking into himself out of fear. And while you want to comfort him, you keep your eyes up ahead. Still, there's a nagging feeling that you can’t quite make out. It’s different from all the other times you’ve been asked to search and rescue.

“Don’t you feel like there’s something wrong?” You ask Gideon, eyes snapping to the flock of crows flying overhead.

“Dunno, kid,” Gideon says, nudging your shoulder with pressed lips. “Everything about this is freaking me out. The place is too empty.”

“I get what you mean,” You reply, swallowing your own nervousness. Without waiting for the rest, you speed up your pace. “I’ll scout ahead, who knows what’s been here before us. I don’t want to risk any of our lives, so let’s be careful. Gideon, ward the area while I check for any cursed objects, last time you almost got your arm cut off by a newspaper of all things. And Peter, could you. . . Peter?”

When you turn to check behind you, it all happens so fast.

“Avada Kedavra!”

You scream as Gideon’s deathly pale body falls to the floor.

“No!”

You aren’t given a moment to rush to his side — someone digs their wand in the side of your neck, and you stiffen in their hold. It’s not until they hiss in your ear that you recognize the voice.

“Rosier.” You spit, biting down on your lip when he presses the tip of his wand further into your flesh.

“Stupid witch,” He taunts, eyes dilating with vengeance. “Where are your lovers now?”

“Jealous?” You claw at his arms, chest heaving up and down. “We don’t have room for one more, sorry.”

“Shut up!” He pushes you to the ground in blind rage, and that’s all the opening you need.

“Expulso!”

Each curse you send his way lands on his cloaked body, sending him staggering backwards. With ease, you deflect each spell he counters with. You’re winning, he is growing tired, and perhaps that is why you let your guard down.

“Accio wand!”

The magic fizzles out, and the spell dies on your lips. As you swivel your head to find out who’s stolen your wand, you expect to find another Death Eater — except it’s Peter. Just Peter Pettigrew, quivering in his boots with tears and snot dripping down his face, your wand in his free hand. You furrow your brows — it doesn’t make sense.

“Peter?” You call out.

“Crucio!”

The curse finds its home in your body — and it sinks deep into your flesh, grinding your bones until you slump to the ground, wriggling as you draw blood from your lips, refusing to let them hear an ounce of your pain. Blood trickles down your nose as you hear Evan Rosier dancing around you in glee. You know this curse well; the sound of your father condemning you gleefully echo in your head. You crawl over to Gideon — hand desperately reaching for his shirt.

“Crucio!” Rosier grabs you by the hair and howls with laughter. “Scream for me again—Crucio!”

It’s as though someone had begun to rip you in half. Your bones shift and crack with every uttered curse. The veins in your eyes have popped and through bloody vision, you see Peter cowering away from you.

“You—fucking—traitor,” You gurgle, throat welling up with blood that’s risen from your stomach. “They’ll—never—forgive you—never.”

“Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! Come on, witch — SCREAM! Look at her go, Pettigrew, crawling like some pathetic worm.”

You lay in your owl pool of blood, wearing a body that is marred and lacerated. But you see something in Gideon’s hand. I’m sorry, you want to tell him. I’ll get you home to Molly, you promise, please lend me your magic this once. With every last bit of your strength, just as Rosier directs another curse at you — one you know you won’t survive — you snatch the wand from Gideon’s hand and tear the last of your magic from your throat.

“Defodio!”

You wait with a bated breath as silence fills the alley; lucky to have remembered Professor Flitwick’s quick remark as to how the slight difference in pronouncing a charm could alter its effect. Rosier stands on shaky legs, a stream of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. You watch as he looks down to his chest, where a gaping hole now lies instead of where his ribcage and heart should be. As Gideon had done before him, Evan Rosier crashes to the ground.

That just leaves one more problem.

Peter scurries to your side the moment Rosier can hurt him no longer. “I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I had to. . . T–They killed my mum, they killed M–Mary, and t–they said I would die too if I d–didn’t do this. I’m sorry. Y–Your father was there, too. He said he would take you in, let you l–live if you joined us. W–We can live, t–there’s still a chance for us to survive.”

Your fingers are bent at unsightly angles, the remnants of the Torture Curse still flowing through your veins, but your face contorts in anger as you let your hand curl around his neck. He sobs louder, and though your grip is weakening — you make sure he looks into your eyes, that he feels your touch.

“I’d rather—die.” You say through gritted teeth, nails drawing blood from his grimy skin. “You’ll die too—you’ll feel my blood on your skin—everywhere you go, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head, now clumsily pushing his wand down to the center of your chest. “Y–You were the only o–one who d–didn’t laugh at me. N–Not like the others.”

“When they find out—you’re dead, Pettigrew.” You laugh darkly as more blood exits your body through your lips. “There’s nowhere you can hide—you’re a dead man.”

“P-Please die,” Peter cries out, each killing spell coming out as a garbled whisper. “Please die, s–so I can live. I c–can’t fight anymore, I’m tired.”

Your vision goes a hazy shade of white, Peter’s silhouette fading away to the familiar scenery of your cottage in Godric’s Hollow.

Oh.

Dying is less painful than you had expected it to be. It’s like coming home after a day’s work.

You just wanted to rest now.

The world caves in on you, and you barely hear Peter’s next words.

“Avada Kedavra.”

(It’s past midnight when Peter Pettigrew arrives at Grimmauld Place, where it’s been altered to host the members of the Order, Lily sobs in relief and gathers him in her arms.

You’ll feel my blood on your skin.

You’re a dead man.

Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re home safe — welcome home — thank the Gods you’re alive,” Lily blabbers through her tears, checking his face for any major injuries. “Merlin, what happened? There’s too much blood on you. It’s on your shirt and your face.”

“It’s not mine,” says Peter hoarsely.

Sirius’s gaze darkens, arms crossed over his jacket as he leaned against the wall. “Where is she?”

Lily nods, standing on her tiptoes to search for any sign of you. “Peter? I–Is she alright? Has something happened to her?”

Peter stays silent for a moment too long, and he finds himself slammed against the wall behind him, Sirius snarling in his face as he seizes the front of Peter’s soiled shirt. “Where the fuck is she, Pettigrew?”

Peter begins to weep. “I–It was an ambush. None of us saw it coming. Gideon r–ran. She was taking on two Death-Eaters at once and I–I was too far away.”

Lily collapses to the ground with a heart-wrenching scream.

Sirius growls as he drives his fist to the wall, inches away from Peter’s face. “Where is her body?”

“It was a disintegration spell.” With Severus Snape — brought to the Malfoy Manor to be made as an example of what happens to blood-traitors.

James pushes Sirius out of the way and grabs a hold of Peter, knocking his head against the concrete. “It should have been you—” James snaps at Peter. “If it came down to you or her—you should have saved her!”

“W-What?” Peter stammers, eyes wide. “She chose to save m–me.”

James sneers at him. “You should have just died.”)

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

(1996; CURRENTLY, IN THE PRESENT.)

ST. JEROME’S GRAVEYARD had exactly one visitor. Remus Lupin sits in between James and Lily’s graves, a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand — four empty at his side. He must be going crazy. There’s no funeral for Sirius as there’s no body to actually bury, Harry is presumed missing after an attack in Diagon Alley, and your name stares back at him mockingly. He tries not to dwell on your passing — there have been too many holes, too many details left unsaid; and he knows just the rat who has all the answers. Unfortunately, Wormtail won’t come out of whatever hole he’s crawled into. Either him, or Severus.

He sighs, rubbing the temples of his head to ease the growing pains.

You are the first to be buried of the five. Like Sirius, there had been no recovered body to lay to rest, but they asked for a compromise instead. Your name is engraved under Euphemia’s in her tombstone, and Remus figures it’s the fitting place to leave you be — with your mother, welcoming you home with open arms. He hopes you’re at peace, wherever you are. (Because, honestly, at this point, he might just fucking follow you.)

Remus takes another swig of his alcohol, laughing bitterly to himself. He glances at James’s headstone and raises his bottle to him. “Not even in death, huh?”

He downs the last of the drink, rising to his tremulous legs. Remus gathers the flower bouquets he had bought earlier this morning; lilies-of-the-valley for Lily, white carnations for Euphemia, forget-me-nots for you, and for James — Remus leaves a moving photograph of him and Sirius; it’s a snapshot taken by Lily during the wedding as James dips his head low to kiss Sirius. Remus thinks it’s a wonderful memory to remember them by.

“Take care of them for me, Jamie.”

And that is all the goodbyes Remus has the strength for.

end note. i think i was crying the whole time i was writing this part, LMAO. i should be able to wrap things up in the next one. important!! there is actually a scene i was hesitant to include, but i ended up writing anyway. it's the whole part where allegra greengrass breaks down, and it was difficult for me to decide because i knew the implications; that i had a strong underlying message in that part, and i don't want it to be misconstrued or anything. pls pls tell me if it comes off as offensive, i definitely don't want to hurt anyone. nevertheless, thank you again so so so much for reading!! if you spot a plot hole, no you didnt!! i hope the time-jumps weren't too confusing! again, thank you so so much for reading!!

#hp angst #hp fluff #hp imagine #hp x reader #james potter x reader #lily evans x reader #marauders angst #marauders fluff #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #remus lupin x reader #sunny's hp fics

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undercoverpena · 6 months

Text

be good, be quiet

joel miller x f!reader | joel masterlist

GIF credit to the amazing @perotovar who i adore, and i'm grateful adores me.

summary: bill tells you both you're sleeping in separate rooms when a thunderstorm doesn't allow you to leave. but joel isn't planning on getting any sleep.

wordcount: 3.7k warnings: post outbreak. smut. sneaking around (so to speak). p in v. fingering. joel angst. you riding joel. jo's spelling. praise kink. joel trying to keep you quiet (by sticking his fingers in your mouth). feelings, but joel-feelings.

AN: thanks as always to @thetriumphantpanda for leaving me comments in the document that made me feel less scared about posting. and also to @swiftispunk for being a cheerleader when i threw a snippet at her like a toddler with a drawing.

All unannounced, it rumbles in. Creeping in, bringing clouds that snuff light and immense claps of thunder. It’s the kind of storm that has lightning that even the shadows can’t hide from. Makes the house creak, groan—it pleading, weeping in its persistence to stand up straight and not cower.

It’s also the only reason the two of you are allowed to stay.

Joel hears the whispers, tuned in until they grow into near shouts in a room next to the one you and him are standing in. If you’re listening, you make no effort to show it—head turned, staring out as the rain thrashes down, eyes following certain droplets as they run down the pane.

Honestly, he doesn’t even want to fucking stay.

Had folded his arms to indicate as such when it was suggested. But, as he stares at you, he knows he doesn’t want you in it—recalling not all that long ago when you had shivered for days. You’d barely been able to speak full sentences as you remained curled in a ball he couldn’t unfurl, all cold to the touch, clinging to him as your teeth rattled in your skull.

It’s the only reason he’s grateful Frank forces Bill’s hand. His tongue piercing, delivering a fine—all razor-like, cutting, his voice booming that the two of you were to sleep in separate rooms.

He could have argued, could have glared, tilted his head—he didn’t. Not as the house shook with another crack of thunder, an idea sprouting, digging itself deep and blooming out across the wasteland living inside of him.

It’s why he plays along. Taking the fresh clothes, the offering of a shower, bidding you a goodnight loud enough for them to hear downstairs, a kiss to your cheek to sign it—burying a smirk under it all.

The whim pulsating, throbbing under his skin—not doused by the cooling temperature of the shower or his hand gripping the base of his half-hard cock. Memories, tinged with blackened edges brimming as he steps from the steam, thinking, ticking—

Waiting.

Waiting for the house to go mute in between the cries of the weather.

Waiting to strike, to prowl—a champion at it, awarded best in class.

Then, he tires from it.

Throwing the covers back, the soles of his feet meet the wood on the thunder. The ticking clock in the corner syncs with his racing heart, desperate to be quiet, maintain mouse-like footsteps, careful—as silent as he is when he moves through buildings that screech and click.

The door you’re behind is at the end of the hallway—shut, closed. A metaphorical do not disturb struck across it from the glare the two of you had been given before Bill had shrunk off to bed.

He didn’t care, not as the drops of water dripped from his hair down his neck, sliding under the fabric that didn’t belong to him. Fingers reaching out for the door handle, all set to twist, when it opens, metal pulled away from him—draping him and the dull flowered carpet in warm orange.

“Jo—“

He’s quick, hand smothering your exclamation, muffling your words. Covering them with his palm, enjoying how soft your skin feels even under it, as he raises his other hand, finger to his mouth—escorted by a glare, a silent order—before dropping it to your hips, grabbing, digging into you as he begins to walk you backwards. You move easily with him, pressing yourself flush to him, all trusting, reading him like a damn book.

“Were y’coming to find me?”

It leaves his tongue in a rasp.

And the look you give him makes his cock even harder than it already had been. Reminding him he’s too worn, too old to be doing shit like this—but fuck does he want to. Lay there, thinking of only you. Mind lost out at sea, bobbing along gentle waves of how you feel wrapped around him, that whimper you make when he flattens his palm to your spine, slides in, fills you, hips flush with yours.

You’re good, because you nod, no words—not making another noise. Your hand slips past him, shutting the door as your chest remains flush with his—the door happy, gleeful to return to its frame. He slides his hand from your mouth, moving to wrap it around the back of your neck, your chin tilted up without so much as a request.

Then, you smile, soft, almost innocent. But he knows you’re no angel—you’re something carved from molten and destruction, but fuck are you pretty. The kind that leaves an outline on the back of his eyelids. The kind that he suspects would turn heads, if you didn’t look like you wished to disembowel them for even looking. Plus, you’re always with him, eyes on him, enamoured, enchanted—

You shouldn't.

Not when he’s poison, slowly feeding you with drops—rotting your insides and blackening your soul. Watching you slowly being made in the shape of his past, carved, narrative rewritten and a future fading, before you get to live it, because of his company. A price scratched against your name.

But, you chose him—leave a mark, Miller. And he did, does. He paints himself on your spine, ropes of white whenever he can; he makes the juncture between your thighs slick with the mess he makes of you. More you whine, and that’s when it changed. When it became less about mindless distraction and more about possession, care, something else fucking entirely—

He pulls your ear to his mouth, your body relaxing, going limp—catching the scent of freshly washed skin. “Ima need you to be a good girl and be quiet. Can y’do that?”

Joel catches the smirk before you blink it away. Your teeth digging into your lip, nodding, catching the reflection of him as lightning floods the room—a sight that undoes him, affects him even though he’ll never show it. Because how much you want him scares him, makes him feel something other than numb, muted grief and disgrace.

The two of you don’t kiss, but he ghosts his lips over yours all the same. Something about the room makes it more intimate, romantic, normal.

“Not like you to break the rules.”

You snort, fingers knotting in his still-damp hair. “Well, I’m sure it’s equally not gentleman-like to sneak into a lady’s room.”

He grunts, and buries it in the back of his throat. Your tongue forces his hand, making him tug on the borrowed PJ bottoms you’re wearing. Palm flattening under the fabric covering your chest, resting it on your stomach, pausing, briefly feeling your heart beating, proof it isn't a fantasy, a dream, before sliding it down.

That’s when he focuses, basks in the feeling of nothing but the softness of your skin and the stories etched into it from surviving, from living. His fingers inching under the elastic and string, your eyes aflame, an inferno, and he wants you to burn him. Singe yourself into him, leave a mark, make it hurt.

“Stopped being a gentleman a while ago, honey.”

You’re wet. A truth two of his fingers feel, sliding them into your heat, suddenly enveloped by nothing but warmth and the sweet rose scent of the soap you washed your skin in. And it’s a comfort, eyes transfixed, all in awe as he watches you try to hold back a gasp—enjoying the way your nails dig into his neck, lashes fluttering and how you part your lips in a silent moan. He can make out what you’re saying is Joel. Each letter inscribed, even in a muted whisper. J-O-E-L.

He already decides he misses the way you sound. A new craving, a new need to make you sing—make your body break out into music, remind him how sweet something can sound when the world is nothing but grievous behaviour and murder.

It’s why he likes when your back is pressed to his chest, knees sore as he pistons in and out of you on the shitty mattress in the shitty room back in the QZ.

Because you can be loud, unfiltered.

There is no need to muffle back how good it feels what he’s doing to you, you can be unhinged, hiss his name, moan through gritted teeth if you’re trying to punish him. He hears them all the same, collects them. Stores them, and uses them to keep the last shard of him intact from all the loss and survival—the part of him he occasionally shows you. Usually in the dark, more morning than night, your chest flush to his back, not asleep, but not fully awake.

But, he can’t collect them here, can’t risk it here—slowing his movements down, hearing you fight it, struggling, being strangled by the moan you want to let breathe.

“C’mon baby, you know how to be quiet. Y’so good when we’re surrounded by clickers. This is no different.”

Narrowing your eyes, you whimper as the base of his palm catches your bundle of nerves. “You’re not—fuck, Joel—usually doing this when we’re surrounded by clickers.”

The corners of his lips twitch. It slides up into one of his cheeks, making a home there—all temporary, only something you seem to pull from him. “Guess I’ll have to help y’out then, won’t I?”

Your eyes narrow briefly before he does. Snaking two fingers—index and middle—past your lips, pressing down onto your tongue, continuing the movements of his other hand, the one pumping his fingers inside of you, coating himself in you.

He learns, quickly, that the pressure applied to your tongue does little to muffle your moan, but the clap of thunder smothers the rest. The way it bleeds out, shakes everything, allowing you a chance to whimper, whine and moan. Eyes digging into his, begging, pleading—

And, he could watch you for hours like this. At his mercy, hanging on the edge—shimmered with a light sheen of sweat and desperation swirling in your eyes. It’s the only time you’re weak, that you show him you can be vulnerable, soft, your edges smoothed down.

It’s why it takes him by surprise when he feels your tongue swirl around his fingers, sucking on them, staring into his fucking soul like you could repair all it had been through. Fuck he’d let you try when you look at him like that.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he groans, sliding his palm from your face, resting it on the wall by your head.

“You’ve fucked me on a forest floor, Joel. Don’t act so surprised.”

He lets you have that one—rewarding you for it. Unable to tear his gaze away when you’re overcome with it, stilling, tensing, clenching around his fingers like a vice as you constrict, breathing laboured, rapid breaths before you slant his name across his lips. Stain it. Bury the gratitude and relief as you slide your tongue past his teeth, worming into another part of him, a place he realises he’s wanted you to own. Wants to swallow it, have you rooted under his skin—

“Get on the bed.”

“No,” you rasp, grasping his wrist from between your thighs, bringing his fingers to your lips, tongue swirling before you release them with a pop. “Floor. Bed creaks.”

Another flash, another rumble—it allowing him to take in the expression spreading over your face. The calm, sleepy edge to your smile, all thanks to him. It sears into his skull, makes a home, and buries into a crevice he’ll never be able to scrape you from.

Least of all when you turn, shedding your clothes without aid—stripping himself as you busy ripping sheets to the floor, pillows scattering, a teenager's sleepover dream strewn across the carpeted floor. One he has you lay down on, sliding his mouth over the parts of you he hasn’t yet touched—lapped and enjoyed. Leaving a trail, a path of desire against your skin, your nails finding a home in his scalp, awarding him with gasps, small medals compared to the trophy of before.

“Wanna go on top,” you mewl, hand on his, pausing his hips from connecting with yours. “Wanna ride you, Joel.”

“Think you can handle it.”

It’s perfectly timed, almost comically, the way lightning sparks through the room—your glare more than sharp, digging into him, spacing out his insides until he’s nothing but bone.

He knows you can, but he likes taunting you. Enjoys the way your eyes lick flames across his skin, that your tone can be curt with him, gaze sharpened, pointing.

Joel likes being under you. Has a fondness for the weight of you on him and how your thighs feel on either side of him. Mostly, he likes what it says—what it gives you. An assurance you never ask for and he can never provide, because he can’t give you much, a lot, anything. He’s not good, kind or soft—he won’t trace three words against your shoulder and fan his hand out over your back as he tells you you’re a tempest on two legs, a thing which takes his breath, makes him crave, makes him want, makes him wish.

“You can do it—can take it, take me.”

“I know,” you bite back, lining the head of him at your slit.

It almost makes him snigger. That fury in you, that little determined flame that won’t ever be doused, becoming an inferno in your indignation. So, he whispers your name, fingers crawling up your neck, watching the space your bodies join as you sink down on him.

And he’s in awe as your pussy swallows him, inch by inch, the lightest hiss from under your breath caressing the air as your hips go flush with his.

“Feel good don’t it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes closed, head rolled back fingers digging, half-curling into his stomach. “You always feel good, Joel.”

Your velvet wrapped around him, encasing him in warmth, all slick and needy. It tugs at him, and makes him for a moment feel like a man and not a carved-out monster who keeps fighting to live another day, for some reason or another. He supposes you wouldn’t let him have it any other way, would fight him and anyone else tooth and nail on it. You’re fierce like that, a difficult fucking thing he’s come across and now wishes to never lose.

“So big,” you whine in a whisper.

Lit up by the storm. It casts flickering shadows over your breasts over the muscles that contort as you roll your hips—if it lingered longer, he’d have been able to witness how wild your eyes were, how slick it is where the two of you are conjoined. Evidenced ruin, a sight he’d pull up in his mind when he’s alone, and you’re busy, and he pretends his fist is close to how you feel.

“Y’doin’ so well for me.”

Another flash grants him the chance to study your parted lips, the way your lashes hang over your cheek. It’s a sight, a fucking delight. An extra breath of oxygen and an anchor to keep him here all at once. A thing which didn’t cling, but had sunk its nails into him all the same—I’m not letting go, and you’re not going to ask me to.

You never say those words, but they hang—attached to string and bunting, a banner of sorts. One that isn’t wrong. A realisation that feels larger here than at the QZ. Surrounded by ornate white furniture and floral patterns, a room which has remained untouched, unspoiled—almost making him feel like a person he used to know. The one who he occasionally spots in the mirror, hanging back in his reflection.

It fucks with his mind. Makes him relaxed, and unwinds the stress from his bones as he plants his feet on the ground and rocks with you. Enjoys your moans, soft, bitten back but likely screamed in your head.

A thought beating inside him, all closed fists hammering on ribs: because he never thought he’d get attached to someone. Never mind someone who appears so otherworldly, likely created to threaten, but he finds only fascinating. A soul who unlocks things within him, finds a way through cobwebs and vines.

Someone who makes him wonder how passion and despair, adoration and darkness can all exist inside of him. Especially without losing the parts which he needs to live, to protect, to save—while keeping the parts that have you coming back to him.

He’s sure you see it, though. You understand him, having peeled back the layers in time and seen the decay which lives within his chest. You’ve even traced your fingers over his scars, ear close to them, as if they’ll spill all their secrets. Even without answers, you remain by his side.

It’s what makes this time different. So much so, he lifts your hand from his chest, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles. All tender, soft. Your eyes twinkle, shimmering with something—lit up again—before he places your hand back and rests his hands on your hips, aiding you, helping you ride him, until he has a better idea, a better thought—

His palms almost lift you off him, just the tip remaining as you hover. Digging his thumb and fingers into your skin, leaving indents he can trace when he catches his breath, and he latches his mouth in the space under your breast. Kissing, drawing a circle with his tongue, before he sucks, nips. Intentionally leaving a flaw, signing his name in a signature only he’ll be able to admire—a piece of evidence that this is real, you’re real. Knowing it will be there in the trek back to the life the two of you live; present when you strip off and change, a blight on otherwise perfection, put there by him—another ruin in your life.

Because you could do better than him. A fact he knows, has put to bed but still occasionally turns over.

I chose you because you don’t expect perfection, you’re happy with just good.

Except, you’re more than good.

Your fingers brush over his cheek, soft, gentle. Far too much of both in his opinion. Then he lowers you back down, pussy taking every inch, the lightest hiss fluttering over him as he stares up at you. Transfixed, lost. Almost able to live a fantasy, allow himself to fall into a dreamlike state.

Because this, right in this room, could have been plucked from the world before. It normal, could pretend the two of you were in a room in some inn somewhere or a bedroom the two of you would have built together—hand-chosen ornate furniture and pleasant knick-knacks that adorn surfaces, wooden frames with pictures he could imagine you’d fill if this was real, and not a break in the reality.

“This what you wanted when you were coming t'look f’me?”

He sounds drunk, intoxicated, maybe he is. Having drank from you for so long, he’s more you than he is rotten. He assists you as he snaps his hips to yours, burying the thought in his movements. But, he’s breathing you in—tasting the air tinged with the two of you as you both pant, hunger rearing, desperate, wanting to collide and spark out across nerves, muscles and fucking bone.

Yes, you chant. Yes, yes, yes.

M’close, Joel. So close.

It falls in breathless swirls, a juxtaposition to how tight you are around him, knotting perfectly at the base of him. Sucking him in, keeping him rooted, the head of him finding that spot that makes your body loose and boneless.

“Doin’ so good for me, my good girl.”

So he fucks you harder, uncaring if the floorboards creak, if they protest and shout, he has to. A thing inside of him commanding it. This is all he can give, so give, give, give—

He feels your nails dig, half-moons slicing in—a new scar, one he’ll be thankful to trace. Next is your thighs and muscles tautening. Then, that flutter, the one he seeks, desperate to own, his prize, no one else's.

Mine, mine, fucking mine.

And, distantly, he’s aware he’s the one who pulls you down, but he’ll tell himself later it was you. Trick himself that you required it, even if it was he who needed it. His mouth slanting over yours, clinging to your jaw and cheek, tongue swirling over the moan that is bestowed to him, that hits and fucking pounds into him. Unable to hold on, barely a handful of thrusts before he’s grunting into your mouth, spilling into you, pouring unspoken words to the place between your thighs as you grasp at the tufts of hair on either side of his face.

Something about it makes you taste sweeter. A man like him should never get to experience it now, not this version of him, the act more forbidden, prohibited. It’s what makes him want to spread you out on the floor, lick the expanse between your thighs, taste the two of you—clean you with his mouth and smear you across his face until he’s dyed with the two of you.

Instead, he grasps you close when you collapse against his heaving chest. Palm, all rough, blotched with death, pressing against your cheek as he kisses you. Knowing he should get up and clean himself from between your legs; knowing he should go back to his room.

But he wants to remain on the floor. Enjoying this, whatever the fuck it is. Hand stroking your arm, your fingers drawing shapes as your mouth parts from him, flicking a warmer gaze over him, before lying on his chest.

Stay. Because of the storm.

It’s barely that, just droplets of rain occasionally kissing the glass of the windows.

But in his head, he wants to pretend a little longer. Live in some make-believe land that this is your two’s house, he found it—safety, built ease into your muscles, allowed the callouses to rid from clutching weapons you shouldn’t know how to use. That it’s just a night where the two of you can’t sleep, rather than it being a night where the two of you just feel safe.

“Sure,” he replies in a gruff. “F’the storm.”

Sighing in contentment, rather than annoyance, even if he knows there’s so much suspended in the air—words not spoken or shared.

He almost thinks he could. Almost thinks the moment calls for it—a little whisper, a selection of perfectly chosen words that would wrap you in the knowledge you mean something to him.

But, he thinks you know.

Hopes it, anyway.

AN: shout out to G, who had to listen to me ramble about this two months ago. i hope, once you read this, it's worth the wait.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #tlou fanfic #hbo the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader

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chvoswxtch · 4 months

Text

teach me

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you want frank to teach you self defense, but it doesn't quite go the way you expected.

warnings: swearing, some angst, mentions of guns, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

word count: 8.3k

a/n: what better way to end this year and start the new one than with our favorite hot bodyguard. don't ask me how many times I watched that scene with him and amy. it was for science. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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“You’re being a dick.”

“Hey, you said you wanted to learn.”

“You’re still being a dick.”

“Yeah yeah, you ain’t gettin’ no sympathy from me, sweetheart. Now c’mon, try again.”

It was a good thing the cabin was isolated in the middle of the woods, because if anyone had been looking in the living room window at that very moment, they would’ve definitely called the police in horror. Frank had a gun in his right hand that was trained on you, and while he wore a neutral expression on his face, your brows were furrowed in pure annoyance and there was a faint scowl on your lips.

Letting out a huff of irritation, you kept your eyes focused on the gun in Frank’s hand, getting back into somewhat of a fighting stance again. Clenching your hands open and closed a few times, your teeth sank down into your bottom lip before you suddenly rushed forward in an endeavor to take the gun out of his hand.

But just like he had done the past seven times you tried this, Frank easily managed to block your attempt. He grabbed your wrist in his free hand and spun you around swiftly, pulling you back firmly against his chest while a deep chuckle sounded right next to your ear.

“That was real cute.”

Letting go of you, Frank took a step back and lightly pressed at the back of your knee with the heel of his boot, sending you down to your knees below him. He decided to take it a step further and used the toe of his boot to gently shove at your ass, causing your hands to fly out to catch yourself, rendering you on all fours in front of him. Turning to narrow your eyes at him over your shoulder, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth let you know that was very intentional.

“You know, if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.”

“That right?”

Grumbling a string of curses under your breath, you pushed yourself back up onto your feet and turned around to shoot a death glare in Frank’s direction. His plush lips instantly parted into a crooked grin while he looked at you, cocking his head to the side slightly while his eyes twinkled in amusement.

“Aw, what’s wrong baby, hm?”

“I already told you, you’re being a dick. You’re supposed to be teaching me-”

“Then why don’t you quit actin’ like you know everythin’ and start askin’ questions, yeah?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know what questions to ask? I asked you to teach me. Teach me means tell me what to do.”

“And when have you ever done what I told ya to?”

As you opened your mouth to protest, Frank arched one of his thick brows and shot you a pointed look, and your rebuttal quickly died on your tongue. You did have a history of ignoring his instructions completely and doing whatever you wanted anyway. With that in mind, you let out a deep exhale through your nose and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Okay, that’s…fair. But this is completely out of my area of expertise. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even held a gun until four days ago. And for the record, when it comes to something serious, I do listen to you. This is serious, and I’m listening.”

Originally when you asked Frank to teach you self defense with a gun, he was completely against it. He made the argument that with him around, you wouldn’t have to worry about that, to which you reminded him of the incident where two people tried to kill you in your own home where you had nothing to protect yourself with and no knowledge of how to in the first place.

The two of you went back and forth about it for at least an hour. He made the case that it was a one time incident that would never happen again, and argued that nothing was ever going to happen to you in the first place anyway because he showed up to take care of it. You argued back that Frank wouldn’t be by your side twenty-four seven anymore and would eventually be assigned to someone else, possibly taking him far away for extended periods of time.

In the end, you wore him down like you usually did until he gave in and you got your way.

Frank took in the impatient and stubborn expression covering your features, the one he had become all too familiar with and grown to adore. You were a force to be reckoned with when you wanted something, just as much as he was. Even though he didn’t want you to ever have a reason to use a gun, he would rather know you were safe and could handle yourself in his absence if it came down to it.

“Alright, alright. Wipe that pout off your face and c’mere.”

Doing your best to conceal your tiny smile of victory, you went to stand in front of Frank, but he held his large hand out to stop you and motioned for you to move back a little.

“Keep your distance, okay? You don’t wanna be too close. Now, step one.”

Frank reached out to grab your wrist and brought your hand up towards the barrel of the gun, placing his large hand on top of your own and squeezing gently to signal for you to grab onto it. Once he felt your tight grip on the barrel, he slid his hand over to grab onto your forearm and pushed against it, which caused the gun in his right hand to shift directions. It was no longer aimed at you, but pointed at the wall to your left.

“You wanna take the gun offline, yeah? Look.”

Glancing up at him briefly, you nodded to show him that you were paying attention. When he pulled your arm back in the position it was before, aiming the gun at you once again, you quickly redirected your focus back to his large hands. To reiterate what he was trying to explain to you, Frank repeated his demonstration two more times to make sure you understood.

“Offline, right? Offline, right? And push hard, as hard as you can.”

While Frank’s eyes were locked on you as he demonstrated the first step, you were studying his movements, committing every detail to memory. It seemed simple enough in theory so far. Keep your distance, grab the barrel of the gun, and push it away from yourself hard. When he let go of your arm, you let go of the gun, and you looked up to see that Frank was already watching you.

“Show me.”

Without hesitating, you swiftly reached out to grab the barrel of the gun and forcefully pushed it to the left. Frank let you redirect it to a certain point, and then pushed back to hold the gun in place. His strength was something you couldn’t combat, and as you kept pushing at the barrel, his resistance made the gun almost wobble in your hands.

“Attagirl. Easy, easy. Relax.”

Frank reached out with his left hand and grabbed onto your wrist, gently squeezing it to steady your hand.

“Alright, now step two, you go for that wrist, yeah? You get control. Go.”

Immediately you reached out with your right hand to wrap your fingers around Frank’s wrist to grab onto it tightly. Giving a slight shake of his head, Frank pulled your hand off of his wrist and guided it underneath his wrist instead.

“Look, underneath, yeah? Underneath. Go for the joint. Joints are weakest.”

Everything Frank was showing you seemed so simple that it filled you with a false sense of confidence. With your right hand under his right wrist, you gripped onto the barrel tightly with your left hand and took a step back as you tried to tug it away, thinking it would spring loose. Frank let out a grunt of disapproval and pulled his right arm back, easily slipping the gun out of your grasp completely and causing you to stumble forward a bit. He had a somewhat stern look on his face as he wagged the gun in your direction twice.

“Easy, bang bang. Don’t ever pull a gun towards you. You push it away.”

Letting out a huff of annoyance as your previous overzealous confidence fizzled out, you looked up at Frank as he held his left hand out towards you to signal for you to stay in place. He wasn’t teasing you anymore like he had been earlier. This wasn't Frank that had made you strawberry pancakes and caressed your legs while they sat in his lap as the two of you shared breakfast this morning. This was Frank that nearly sent your ex to the morgue instead of prison. He was back in full protective bodyguard mode.

“Listen to me. Use your legs, get underneath, and twist. Don’t pull, twist. Yeah? C’mon, show me.”

Taking a deep breath, you gave a slight nod and went over the steps in your head. Grab the barrel of the gun, shove it away from yourself, slip your other hand under the wrist joint, and twist the gun away. Your lips faintly twitched as you silently recited the steps to yourself three times for good measure. Frank didn’t make a move to rush you. He kept his eyes on you and waited patiently until you were ready to give it a try.

Sucking in one more deep breath, your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you sprung into action. Taking a quick step forward, you reached out to tightly grab the barrel of the gun with your left hand, and while you pushed it away to the left, you simultaneously slipped your right hand under Frank’s wrist. Twisting the barrel of the gun forcefully to the right caused Frank’s wrist to twist with it until he was forced to let go, and in that short window of weakness you were able to pull the gun out of his hand with a hard step backwards.

Glancing down at the gun in your hands, your eyes went wide with surprise and your mouth hung open as you let out an incredulous laugh.

“Holy shit, that actually worked!”

Frank held his hands up like you had just made a touchdown, and he started to clap as a proud tooth bearing grin stretched over his lips.

“Look at that, huh? Who got a gun, huh?”

Looking up at Frank, your lips parted into a huge grin of your own while you held it up like a trophy and spoke in a proud voice.

“I have a gun.”

“Attagirl. You’re goddamn right you do. You did good, sweetheart. Real good. Feels good, yeah?”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you let out a soft laugh while admiring the gun in your hands. Well, more so admiring the fact that you were able to actually take it from Frank. The only reason you felt comfortable holding the gun right now was because Frank had shown you the clip was empty before he started demonstrating the basics earlier.

Pointing a loaded gun at Steven had been different. You were blinded in a fit of rage, not thinking clearly, but deep down you knew there was no way you would have actually pulled the trigger. However if you had been level headed, you probably wouldn’t have taken it from Billy, even if he offered.

“Yeah…yeah it does.”

And it did feel good. It made you feel strong…less helpless. Frank was giving you back a sense of safety and security that had been stolen from you when you were first threatened by the Defenders of Freedom. Even if you never used this lesson, and you genuinely hoped you wouldn’t have to, you felt a surge of confidence knowing that you were at least capable of protecting yourself in some capacity.

“Okay, step three.”

A pinch of confusion settled between your brows as you looked up at Frank when he mentioned a third step, and you noticed that he wasn’t smiling anymore. A grim look had settled over his features that sent a chill of unease down your spine.

“You just took a gun off someone that wanted to use it on you. What d’you do.”

The delight of pride had disappeared from his face and was swiftly replaced by a shadow of severity that was now coveting his sharp features, and the elated grin that was on your own lips had slowly fallen from grace. It was a rhetorical question you both knew the answer to, but you hadn’t factored in a third step. It hadn’t even crossed your mind, and Frank could see that in your eyes.

“You use it on them. Don’t matter who they are, you do not hesitate. You got that?”

Looking down at the gun in your hands, the weight of it was suddenly too heavy in your palms. Step three was a reminder that step one and two weren’t just to boost your confidence in protecting yourself; they were steps to defend yourself. Swallowing thickly, you nodded your head in silent understanding.

“Good. Show me.”

Frank’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a suggestion either. Placing both of your hands on the gun the way he had shown you to properly hold it, you took a deep breath, slowly raising it to aim in Frank’s direction. You weren’t sure if it was the fact that he knew the clip was empty, or that this most likely wasn’t the first time he had stared down the barrel of a gun, but he looked completely unphased. The canvas of his face was expressionless, but his eyes were what you had learned to read. Only right now, you couldn’t understand what they were trying to tell you.

The gun trembled slightly in your grasp, as if every cell in your body knew exactly how wrong it felt to point a gun at Frank, loaded or not. The self defense lesson you wanted for a possible yet highly improbable scenario had quickly become too heavy and realistic, and you were quickly regretting even asking for it.

“Show me.”

“I’m not doing that-”

“It ain’t loaded-”

“Frank, I don’t want to-”

“What’d I say, huh? I don’t care who it is, you do not hesitate. Ever. Now, show me you understand.”

Frank’s tone was a little more forceful, but the volume of it was still even and somewhat soft. You knew there were no repercussions if you didn’t pull the trigger. He had learned early on that he couldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to, and you trusted him enough to know that he would never try to force you. Frank never demanded anything of you, he always asked.

But you had asked for this, and he wanted you to follow through with it.

Clenching your jaw, you let out a shaky exhale through your nose, and you slowly squeezed the trigger like he had taught you to yesterday when you were out in the woods using cans as target practice. The click that sounded caused you to flinch, and it seemed to echo loudly in the living room. Frank on the other hand didn’t visibly react to it at all.

Without another word, you placed the gun down onto the coffee table a little too forcefully and headed towards the back door, wanting to put as much distance between it and yourself as possible. Frank caught your wrist before you could get too far and gently tugged you back towards himself.

“Hey-”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“No, you ain’t. You ain’t runnin’ away, you’re gonna stay here and talk to me. We ain’t doin’ that not communicatin’ shit. Why are you upset?”

“I told you I didn’t want to do that-”

“You asked me to teach you. I said no, but you kept on beggin’. What did you think this was gonna be, huh? You think you get a gun off someone, and it ends there? No. As soon as you get control and take it, you use it. No negotiatin’, no questionin’ it, you do it-”

“And what if I can’t, Frank?”

The distress in your voice made him pause and clench his jaw. He could see that you were visibly upset, and for a moment he wondered if he was being too hard on you. You said it yourself, this was not your area of expertise. It was his. Frank had years of professional training under his belt. Pulling a trigger was something he didn’t even have to think twice about. It was an automatic response. The aftermath of what followed didn’t even make him bat an eye. There were always casualties in war.

But you weren’t a soldier, and having to actually pull the trigger on someone would be something that haunted you for the rest of your life if it came down to it.

Letting out a deep exhale through his large nose, Frank stepped forward and wrapped one of his arms around your waist to pull you into his embrace while using his other hand to slip his fingers gently into your hair to brush it back before cradling your face in his right hand.

“Listen to me. If it comes down to you, or someone else, you do whatever you gotta do to save yourself, you got that?”

The rational part of your brain knew that Frank was right. If you had taken a gun from Cavella or Walker, you would’ve had to shoot them. There’s no way they wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to kill you if they had it. But the emotional part of your brain was struggling to figure out if you could handle the consequences of taking someone’s life, justified or not. Frank could see the internal conflict in your eyes, and he lightly brushed the calloused pad of his thumb along your cheekbone as the rough timbre of his voice broke the tense silence.

“Hey, no one’s sayin’ you gotta shoot ‘em point blank, alright? I’ve seen your aim, and it ain’t all that great anyway. You’d be lucky to scare ‘em off with firin’ a terrible shot just so you could get away.”

Rolling your eyes at his comment, you let out a dry laugh. As much as you wanted to be annoyed, he was right. You were terrible. You didn’t hit a single can yesterday, even at close range. You did manage to scare the shit out of some crows in a tree though.

“You are such an ass.”

The edge of Frank’s mouth twitched up into a light smirk while giving your waist a gentle squeeze.

“And you’re cute thinkin’ you could actually do some damage. I know a blind guy that can hit targets better than you. Look, you gotta stop gettin’ upset ‘bout things that might not even happen, alright? If it ever comes down to it, remember that you’re the one controllin’ the gun, yeah? It ain’t controllin’ you. Wherever you aim, the bullet’s gonna go. You can shoot ‘em in the leg, foot, shoulder, hell shoot ‘em in the dick for all I care. That’ll keep ‘em down for a while. You just promise me you’ll pull that trigger. You get ‘em down however you want, and then you get the hell outta there. That’s all you gotta do, yeah?”

Frank dipped his head to catch your eyes, staring intently into them. Letting out a deep breath, you bit down on your bottom lip and nodded while placing your hands on Frank’s biceps. You could do that. Injuring someone just to get away was a lot more manageable for your conscience. Frank lightly grasped your jaw in his large hand, his bottom three fingers wrapping around your throat while his index finger and thumb held your jaw. He tipped your head back so that you had no choice but to look up at him.

“Lemme hear you say it.”

Staring up into his warm brown eyes, you gazed up at him silently for a moment before speaking.

“No hesitating. I promise.”

“Attagirl. C’mere.”

Frank leaned in to capture your lips in a soft and sweet kiss. Sometimes it amazed you how easily he was able to talk you down from the ledge. Frank was a man of few words, but he somehow always knew exactly which ones to say to ease whatever anxieties were weighing on your mind. And the distraction of his plush lips against yours also certainly helped.

Ever since the other night by the fireplace, every kiss between the two of you that started out soft and sweet had a way of evolving into something more passionate and insatiable. Maybe it was the months of denying your feelings for one another, or maybe there was just some magnetic pull between your souls, but whatever it was, neither of you could get enough.

Before you could even register that you were moving, Frank was lifting you up by your hips and setting you down on the dining table, his hungry kisses leaving a searing path along your jawline and down the column of your neck.

“Did good today, sweetheart. Did real goddamn good, made me so proud.”

Frank’s gravely songs of praise in your ear only further ignited the flame of desire that was burning in your lower belly. Despite the warmth of his large palm touching your bare skin as he slipped it underneath your shirt to caress your lower back, a shiver teasingly tumbled down your spine from the contact.

“I had a good teacher.”

“Nah, I think you’re just a natural, baby.”

“I thought I had terrible aim?”

“Didn’t say you were perfect. Everybody’s got their strengths and weaknesses.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you could feel the rumble of Frank’s deep chuckle vibrating in his chest that was pressed against yours.

“Wow, you really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, Castle.”

Frank pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes traveling over your figure to drink in the sight of you sitting on the edge of the dining table before they slowly wandered back up to meet your gaze. He arched one of his thick brows as a smug smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yours are currently danglin’, sweetheart.”

Before you could retort with a smartass comment of your own, Frank’s mouth was back on your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your sensitive skin. Feeling his tongue gliding along your collarbone and giving it a delectable love bite, you closed your eyes and let your head fall back, granting Frank all the access he wanted to your skin.

The feeling of his lips on your neck was so heavenly you almost didn’t notice that he had popped the button on your jeans and tugged down your zipper until he was lifting you up slightly with one arm around your waist and pulling the denim down your hips with his free hand. As soon as your jeans were completely off, your own hands were reaching for Frank’s belt buckle, but he grasped your wrists and halted your attempt. A soft noise of protest quickly slipped past your lips.

“Frank-”

“Shh shh shh. Spread your legs for me, baby.”

A rush of heat pooled in your cheeks at his request, but you obliged immediately. Frank leaned in to kiss you deeply, swiping his tongue along your bottom lip and nipping at it softly while his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties and slipped them off too slowly for your liking. The sudden contact of the crisp autumn air coming in through the open windows hitting your slicked folds had you gasping, and Frank used that to his advantage by slipping his tongue into your mouth to caress your own sensually.

“Spread ‘em wider for me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

Frank’s deep voice was quiet, but it nestled in your ears as comfortably as it did between your thighs. He pulled you a little more towards the edge of the dining table, and when you spread your legs further for him, he sank down to his knees in front of you and let out a low groan of appreciation at the sight waiting for him.

“Attagirl, that’s it. God, look at you. You should see how fuckin’ pretty you look right now, baby.”

His large hands gripped onto your soft thighs, kneading and squeezing your flesh with his thick fingers. Frank didn’t waste a second before diving into your cunt face first. As soon as his warm and wet tongue began to strum your clit like chords to his favorite song, your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head. He brought your legs over his broad shoulders, burying his face so deep into your core, you weren’t sure how he was breathing.

Your hand quickly found a fistful of his slightly grown out hair that you gripped onto to steady yourself, and when you gave it an experimental tug, the vibration of his groan against your clit had your thighs trembling more than any toy you had ever gotten for yourself before.

“Fuck…Frank…”

Frank let out a loud grunt as he pulled back for just a moment to stare at your glistening pussy almost in awe, his hooded eyes briefly meeting your own for a second before focusing back on the display of your desire for him.

“Taste so good sweetheart, so fuckin’ good. You got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

He dove right back in, this time slipping his tongue inside of you to explore while using his large nose to bump against your clit repeatedly. The stimulation had your back arching off the dining table and a loud moan echoed throughout the cabin. Tugging harder at his dark roots, you pushed your hips up against his face, desperately and greedily searching for more. None of your exes had ever eaten you out like this before. Most of them didn’t even know what the fuck they were doing, and the rest gave up after a few minutes because it “took too long”, but still expected you to suck them off until your jaw ached.

But Frank…God, Frank knew what he was doing. His thick fingers were digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, following your hips wherever they went. The groans that continued to vibrate against your clit not only turned you on because of their stimulation, but because you could tell that Frank was genuinely enjoying eating your pussy. The fact that he was getting just as much pleasure out of it as you were had you on the brink of an orgasm alone. Frank had a way of making every experience feel brand new, and it made you realize just how much you had been missing out on in your previous relationships.

That familiar bubbly feeling was building up inside of you, cresting slowly like a tidal wave ready to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting beach. Your breaths were coming out in short staccato variations, and at this point you were roughy tugging at Frank’s hair with both hands while essentially fucking his face. Not that he seemed to mind at all. If anything, it just seemed to make him more feral.

“Yesyesyesyes…please-fuck, Frank…I…I…”

Frank pulled you even closer towards the edge of the dining table to where your ass was basically hanging off of it, and the jolt of his large palm smacking against your ass was the only indication you got that he understood what you were trying to tell him.

You thought you had more time, but your climax suddenly crashed into you without further warning, and your hips were stuttering as Frank continued his incessant assault on your pussy with his tongue. It seemed like he didn’t want to let a drop of your essence go to waste, and while you appreciated his enthusiasm, the way he was flicking his tongue rapidly against your overstimulated clit was riding that very thin line between pain and pleasure, and you were weakly shoving at his broad shoulders.

“Okay okay okay…Frank…fuck, please! Just…give me a second, God-”

Frank dragged his tongue up your entire pussy from your entrance to your clit one last time before granting you mercy with a low growl. While you panted heavily laying back against the dining room table, he was pressing featherlight kisses to each of your inner thighs, but due to your body feeling like a live wire, they felt like faint shocks that had your body jolting every time his wet lips met your heated skin. He chuckled deeply watching you respond to his touch.

“You alright there, sweetheart?”

Lifting your hand, you gave him a weak thumbs up, and Frank just laughed even louder in amusement at that. The sound of his laughter combined with your own blissed out post orgasm state had a lazy grin stretching over your lips. You felt his large and rough hands slipping underneath your shirt, gently caressing your bare skin and grabbing your waist while he leaned over you, kissing your lips deeply. The taste of your own sweet tang on Frank’s tongue had your head spinning, and a soft hum sounded in the back of your throat. Even though you were still recovering from your first ever oral orgasm, the feeling of Frank’s hard cock straining against his jeans and rubbing against your inner thigh reignited your greed.

Brushing your hand slowly down his chest, you palmed him firmly through his jeans, and Frank let out a grunt while pushing himself further against your hand. He broke the kiss momentarily to nuzzle his large nose against your throat.

“If ya need a minute-”

“No. Now.”

While you unfastened his belt in record time, Frank placed his hands on the table on either side of your head and pulled back to look down at you with a soft chuckle at your impatience. He lightly cocked his head to the side, his brown eyes darkened with lust as they roamed over you shamelessly. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and a crooked smirk caressed his mouth.

“Anybody ever tell you what an impatient lil thing you are?”

A smirk of your own tugged across your lips while you slipped your hand into his jeans, stroking his thick cock through his briefs, earning a quiet grunt from Frank.

“Apart from you every day since we met? Maybe a few other people. Is my lack of patience really what you wanna talk about right now, big guy?”

The sultry tone of your voice did not go unnoticed by Frank, and in fact, it only made his cock swell even more in your welcoming hand. He slowly moved his hips back and forth as you teasingly stroked him and leaned down closer towards you, nuzzling his nose along your throat before whispering huskily into your ear.

“Got somethin’ better in mind.”

By the time Frank had carried you down the hall to the master bedroom, the two of you had left a trail of forgotten items of clothing strewn like breadcrumbs along the path from the kitchen. He let you push him back against the mattress and grabbed your hips to pull you on top of him, his lips moving in sync with your own, but when you felt the swollen head of his cock bump against your clit, you suddenly pressed your palms firmly against his chest and pulled back while breaking the kiss.

“Wait.”

Frank immediately paused, loosening his grip on your hips, his lust clouded eyes clearing a bit while searching your own and wandering over your figure for the source of the problem.

“What? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

The concern in his rough timbre combined with the worry in his soft brown eyes made your heart melt. A gentle smile covered your lips while you reached out to delicately hold his strong jaw in your hands, and you leaned in to kiss his lips softly.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t think it’s fair you get to have all the fun.”

Frank’s apprehension morphed into confusion, and a few creases nestled between his thick brows.

“Huh?”

Letting out a soft laugh at how adorable he looked when he was confused, you decided to explain with actions instead of words. When you moved backwards off his lap to settle between his legs, Frank raised himself up on his elbows, following you with his eyes as he watched you intently.

“What are you-holy shit.”

Frank’s jaw went slack the second you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, swirling your tongue around it once before beginning to take a few inches into your mouth. Placing one of your hands on his left hip, you teasingly moved your lips up his length until he was out of your mouth with a satisfying pop. Pursing your lips, you let a string of glistening saliva slowly drop onto his tip and used your free hand to spread it down the rest of his thick cock for lubrication, and after wrapping your fingers around his girth, you began to twist your wrist up and down slowly.

You could feel how tense he was through your hold on his hip. Glancing up at him through your lashes, you noticed that he was staring directly at you, completely mesmerized, and was gripping onto the sheets so tightly you thought he might rip them. Moving your hand from his hip, you reached out to caress his hand, and he slowly loosened his grip, his knuckles no longer stark white. His plush lips were parted, and he was breathing hard, his thick brows knit in complete focus. You allowed him to slip out of your mouth for just a moment to smile softly up at Frank.

“Just relax.”

The sweet sound of your voice seemed to reach his ears, and after a few more moments of hesitation, Frank finally laid back against the mattress and let his head rest on the pillows. He moved the hand that was underneath yours to grab your wrist, turning your hand over so he could slot his fingers between yours to hold it. His other hand slowly came over to card his fingers through your hair before cradling the back of your head. Giving his hand that you were holding a light squeeze, you continued to hold eye contact with Frank while slowly sucking him off, using your hand that was around his base to work over what wouldn’t fit in your mouth.

The sound of his quiet grunts and low moans sent a thrill through you, and you wanted to know just how vocal he could get. Letting go of his hand, you placed both of your palms firmly on his hips and relaxed your jaw completely, taking his entire cock into your mouth until his tip hit the back of your throat. A guttural groan ripped from the depth of his chest and his lower abdomen instantly tensed up as he gripped onto your hair.

“Goddamn-fuck…fuck, sweetheart. Do…do that again. Please…please baby, do it again.”

Taking in a deep inhale through your nose, you prepared yourself to deepthroat Frank’s thick cock again, and this time you held him there until your eyes started to water. He let out a louder moan of your name, and that caused the throbbing between your thighs to evolve from dull to downright unbearable. You thought about sneaking your hand downwards to get a little relief, but Frank had been so unselfish when he ate you out, only focused on your pleasure, and he deserved that same treatment.

All of a sudden, Frank roughly tugged at your hair, and that made you moan around his cock. You heard him let out a quiet fuck under his breath in response. He gave your hair another tug to get your attention, and his cock slipped from your lips as you licked them and tried to catch your breath while staring at him, noticing that he had sat up.

“C’mere.”

He didn’t give you a chance to protest before he grabbed your throat and pulled you in close to kiss you fervently. Frank’s large and rough hands grabbed your hips and pulled you onto his lap again, and you let out a soft whine against his lips when the head of his cock rubbed against your sensitive clit.

“Frank, I didn’t get to finish-”

“As much as I’d love to come down that pretty throat, I need ya baby. Need ya now.”

Grabbing the base of his cock, Frank positioned himself perfectly with your entrance and pulled you down slowly, letting you feel every single inch of him. Your mouth hung open at the sensation, and your body instantly tensed up. You thought Frank had been deep the other night, but he was reaching an even greater depth inside of you right now if that was possible. There was a slight burn as your walls stretched to accommodate his size, but your brain barely even registered it, because Frank was slipping his tongue into your mouth and kissing you sensually as if he wanted to steal the very essence of life from your lungs.

Once he was fully nestled deep inside of you, a high pitched cry left your mouth, and he wrapped his arm around your waist tightly.

“Shh…s’alright. Just relax for me, sweetheart.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you clung to Frank as he wrapped both of his strong arms around your waist and held you tightly against his chest. Both of you sat there for a moment, your foreheads pressed together as you panted. He rubbed his large calloused hand up and down your spine soothingly, his teeth grazing along your ear lobe and biting down gently to distract you from any discomfort. Slowly, the tension in your body melted, and you gave an experimental roll of your hips that had your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

“That’s it…attagirl. Take your time, sweetheart. M’right here. I got you.”

This felt right. It felt…perfect. Those three little words almost slipped out right there. Grabbing onto the back of his neck, you pulled Frank in for a passionate kiss, trying to pour every ounce of emotion you felt into it. He groaned quietly against your lips when your nails lightly scratched at the back of his head where his hair was shaved closely to his scalp. Moving your hips in slow circles, you grinded down onto Frank’s cock, and he flexed his hips upwards to match your rhythm. The other night by the fireplace had been the best experience of your life, but this…this was something you couldn’t put into words.

Placing your palms against Frank’s firm chest, you pressed lightly and he followed your silent instructions, allowing you to push him onto his back. His large hands gripped firmly onto your hips as he gazed up at you, and you kept your palms flat on his chest while slowly riding his cock. Neither of you could tear your eyes away from each other. The feeling of his warm hands leisurely moving up your bare skin made you shiver, and a soft gasp left your lips when he groped your breasts and squeezed gently. The calloused pad of his thumb gingerly brushing over your peaked nipple had you arching your back, pressing your chest further into his eager hands.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

The sincerity in Frank’s vulnerable whisper nearly brought tears to your eyes. He wasn’t saying it because he thought it was what you wanted to hear, he was saying it because he felt it, and he was making you feel it too. The way he was staring up at you like you were the only thing that mattered had your heart swelling inside your ribcage like a balloon about to burst. It had been a long time since you mattered to someone, and you felt lucky it was Frank. The look in his eyes was almost too much to handle.

Letting your head fall back, you closed your eyes for a moment as you writhed on top of Frank, getting completely lost in how good it felt to be connected to him in such a raw and intimate way. One of his hands traveled up from your breast towards your throat, and he wrapped his fingers tightly around it almost entirely, forcing you to face him again. He pulled you down over him so that your forehead was pressed to his, and the two of you stared deeply into each other's eyes.

“Frank-”

“I wanna see you. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come for me. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

Being this close to him, you noticed for the first time that there were scattered flecks of honey in his deep brown eyes. They looked so warm and inviting, like two melted pools of chocolate you wanted to drown in. The eyes that could say so much with a single look. You thought you could see it…that flicker that he felt it too. You wanted to tell him so fucking badly, but you didn’t want to ruin the moment, and the way he was hitting that spongy spot inside of you that could cause supernovas to appear behind your eyelids was making it hard for you to speak at all.

Holding his face in your hand, your eyes drifted back and forth between his own as you stared down at him in complete devotion, your lips parted as you nodded your head frantically while short and breathy moans escaped you. Frank’s eyes were focused solely on you, one of his hands holding the back of your head while his other remained around your throat. It was getting harder and harder for you to keep your eyes open, but you didn’t want to miss a single second of this moment.

It was also getting harder and harder to not voice the sentiment that was overflowing from your ribcage.

“Frank…I…I-”

Frank cut off your words by capturing your lips in a heated kiss. The softness of his lips against yours, the heat of his bare skin pressed to your own, his thick fingers wrapped around your neck and tangled in your hair, his pubic bone rubbing just right against your clit…it was all too much. Breaking the kiss, you buried your face into the crook of his neck and let out a sharp cry of his name. Your nails raked harshly down his chest when your climax finally peaked, and a white hot cloud of hedonistic desire blinded your vision.

Your entire body seized up, and you could faintly hear Frank whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he gripped your hips and repeatedly thrust up into you, fucking you through your orgasm while barreling towards his own. The sensation of that alone was enough to nearly send you free falling into another. The intensity of your orgasm had rendered you an incoherent and moaning mess. Frank dug his fingers roughly into the flesh of your hips and came with a deep grunt that nearly sounded like a growl, letting out a loud groan of your name.

The room felt like a sauna. Your face felt overheated, and your hair was stuck to your cheeks and the back of your neck with sweat. Frank had his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, hugging you against his chest. The feeling of his strong heartbeat thundering against your own chest kept you anchored to the moment while your body trembled with aftershocks. You couldn’t move, and you didn’t want to.

As soon as Frank made a move to sit up and pull out of you, a desperate and high pitched whine of protest fell from your lips while you gripped onto his shoulder and dug your nails into the muscle.

“No no no no no, please…don’t move.”

Frank instantly stilled, bringing one of his hands up to brush the sweaty hair stuck to your forehead and neck away. He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead and gave your body a gentle squeeze in his strong arms.

“Okay, we don’t gotta move yet.”

Letting out a soft sigh of relief, you buried your face further into Frank’s neck, letting the comforting scent of his cologne calm you. He gently carded his thick fingers through your hair and kept holding you tightly to his chest while resting his head against your own.

“I just wanna stay like this for a while.”

“We can stay like this as long as you want, sweetheart.”

When you started to regain your senses, you started to wonder just how true that statement was.

How long could you and Frank stay like this before reality came knocking?

Your home wouldn’t always be a crime scene. Eventually the two of you would have to go back to work. Now that everything had changed between the two of you, what would a new normal look like? Frank’s job required him to be with someone constantly. What happens when he gets assigned to someone else? What if it’s another woman? Even though Frank was broody and unapproachable initially, you had still found him attractive, and all the time you spent together over the past few months led you right here to this moment.

What if that happened with someone else? What if the next woman he was assigned to found him just as attractive? What if she wanted him? You and Frank hadn’t really established what this was between the two of you. Were you together? Did he want to be together? Would he still want to be together if the next woman was prettier and less stubborn and actually-

“Quit it.”

The sound of his deep voice breaking through the silence interrupted your spiraling.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re overthinkin’ right now, let it go.”

Removing your face from the crook of Frank’s neck, you pulled back slightly to peer down at him in pure curiosity.

“How do you even-”

“I can practically hear the gears turnin’ in your head, sweetheart. You keep thinkin’ so hard, smoke’s gonna start comin’ out of your ears.”

Giving him a pointed look expressing you weren’t amused, he let out a quiet chuckle and gently brushed the calloused pad of his thumb along your cheekbone.

“C’mon, you ain’t got nothin’ to worry ‘bout right now. Just relax, yeah?”

Letting out a soft sigh, you nodded and laid your head back against Frank’s shoulder, nuzzling your nose against his neck as he hugged onto you tightly. For a while, you two laid there wrapped up in one another, and you were able to let some of your anxieties go. The afterglow of your shared euphoria was peaceful, and you could’ve even fallen asleep at that moment, but something Frank said earlier suddenly popped back into your head.

“Hey Frank?”

“Hm?”

“Do you really know a blind guy that has a good aim with guns?”

Frank let out a quiet snicker at your question.

“He don’t use guns. He’s too…Catholic.”

That did nothing to answer your question and only fueled you with more inquiries.

“But…you said he could hit targets better than I could.”

Frank simply grunted in response. You stayed silent waiting for further explanation, but when one didn’t come, you continued your questions.

“How?”

“Hell if I know.”

Sitting up a little bit again, you stared down at Frank in complete puzzlement.

“But…he’s blind. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No it don’t.”

“So…he’s-”

“An asshole. Go to sleep.”

Letting out a soft laugh, your eyes widened slightly as you gently smacked his chest.

“Frank!”

“What? Cause he’s blind he can’t be an asshole?”

“Well…no. But…how does he do it?”

“You’ll have to ask ‘em yourself.”

“I thought Billy was your only friend.”

Frank pulled a look of faux offense at that, his thick brows knit as he let out a puff of air through his lips.

“Ouch. I got other friends, smartass. And I never said he was one. He’s more of a pain in my ass.”

Frank gently pinched your ass which made you squeal before erupting into a fit of laughter.

“Hey!”

A huge grin split across your lips as he suddenly flipped you both over, managing to keep himself nestled inside of you while he pinned you beneath his large body. As he leaned in to kiss your lips, you brought your index finger up and pressed it against his mouth.

“I’m not done. I have more questions.”

“Course you do.”

“I wanna know who this mystery blind man is with good aim, and your other friends that you suddenly have that you’ve kept from me. While you’re at it, is there anything else you’re hiding, Castle?”

While your question was intended to be teasing, a dark look flashed across Frank’s eyes, and it made your breath hitch in your throat. He stared down at you silently for a moment, and it made you wonder just how much more there was to Frank that you hadn’t uncovered yet. As soon as you removed your finger from his lips, Frank leaned in closer, caging you in with his large hands on either side of your head. As he loomed over you, he slowly thrust his hips against your own, pulling a sharp gasp from your chest. His breath was warm against your lips while he nuzzled his large nose along your own, his rough voice coming out in a husky whisper.

“Think I liked you better when the only thing you could say was my name, sweetheart.”

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