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tremendum · 1 day

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Me and the Devil; i

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader prelude next

word count: 5.3k

summary: Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn.

warnings: blood/violence, family deaath, v brief allusions to smut/dubcon, reader is traumatized. pls lmk if i missed anything. not edited.

notes: thanks for all the love so far!!! here's the first chapter of the story - if you want to stay updated, i post on AO3 first :) just a quick first chapter to lay the scene before we jump into the engaging parts of the story. feedback is very motivating and highly valued, thank u all <33

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Penitent Crimes of Retaliation

In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed upon them. This action shall such be labelled as "Penitent Crimes of Retaliation". Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences, ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041.

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There was once a time when green was your favorite color.

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it; Peridot, Jades, the velvet green of winter dresses, the tall, mighty green the sacred Pine. The woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon the grey armor your parents wore to train you.

When the men of one other Houses Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same pine-colored satin, an elegant dress, as she waved good-bye to you for the last time. When the ice would melt off the lower glaciers for those three months every year, the lakes would thaw to a deep emerald green, and your brother, sisters and you would play in it; servants and soldiers alike yelling and pulling you out, shivering to your bones.

Even at your sister's funeral. The green of the casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet by a man who'd never truly loved her. The women of your House, wearing a veil of mourning in that sacred pine satin as you said good-bye to her. Killed by the birth of her first; a son. Your parents had been proud - You became the oldest of your siblings that day.

You can barely stand to look at green anymore. No, instead, you mostly see black.

Black, white, and red.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a Fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter - but this place... it crawls with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles; most in the form of your betrothed.

Your na-Baron.

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year; he, freshly eighteen. He had been as cordial as you'd ever seen him, escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious but mouth less than offensive. He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. And, in fact, you can consider yourself lucky; perhaps for your bloodline, or for you yourself, Feyd-Rautha took special care of you. Maybe he did care for you -in the ways that he could.

After that, he taught you all you needed to know about the rest of the world. In these final days together, he has admitted furiously that he waited too long to claim you as his wife - four years was much too long for you to wait, even if your purity was claimed by him long before then.

The accusations had come from his uncle, the Baron; House Bourbon was stealing their precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along their exportation route. Perhaps, he thought, you were the one to plot it against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knew better - knew that you'd never dare betray him. He was the one to demand a public execution of your family - but also the one to redirect your sentencing to a mere prisoner. As if you weren't one already.

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet?

After all the sparring, each time you drew that precious blood from him, and you still haven't been able to kill him. If you'd had a blade, you would have, right there in the stands.

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies had hit the sand fast; You'd never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning. The black sun couldn't hide the blood that had seeped from him, nor from your mother's throat. You'd swallowed thickly, wishing you could look away, gasp - cry; but you had to hide your pain. Your na-Baron would've loved it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard; forcing your chin to stare up at him. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger.

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another - in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power.

He'd snarled, slapping your cheek hard enough for you to groan. His breath hit your face, you're mine to keep - there's plenty of life left for you to serve.

He'd held your eyes open as they'd slit your father's throat; then both of your sisters, and your brother's. Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state - the Harkonnens are rutheless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly behind you, your head in his hands, caressing your shaking cheek - but the neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms.

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat. Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp as he sucked a mark just behind your ear, watching as you clenched your palms so hard, your own ruby blood beaded out, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing - centuries of your House, melted away.

Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat.

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall - not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change.

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. Pulling the sheets closer to your body, your hand finds the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be, still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room. "I must not fear. fear is the mind-killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me."

Your voice shakes. Few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This is one is a relic.

There is a loud noise just outside; blades.

For a moment, you imagine there is a hand on your arm. It is strong, ghost-white, and possessive. His voice rumbles in your head. Don't look so sad, my pet. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again.

You almost wish he will.

When you look down to the weight on your arm, you do not find the hand of your once-betrothed, but the remainder of his ownership, a handprint of a bruise that will not fade even as the soldiers in Atreides armor deliver you to the next planet.

You rise from your bed, preparing your sore body for a fight that will surely end before it even starts. You don't stop your old prayer, in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. Even as the doors give in.

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing - only I will remain-" There are soldiers that burst through.

The way one of them fights strikes a faint memory from a lost childhood, and it fills you with rage.

Why did you wait so long to rescue me?

You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become in your captivity. You will fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left.

Your blade falls within minutes.

You're taken by the man from your past not a minute after.

You're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear, in an hour.

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"My Lady."

You don't realize the worker addresses you until you snap out of it, flushing behind your veil as you step out of the aircraft.

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty.

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds an umbrella above you, shielding your elaborate dress from the water as you walk up towards where the members of the House await you. You stare down at the dress - green velvet. A texture you have not felt in years; your skin looks different not wrapped completely in black.

Your eyes strain to take in the grand entrance to the castle from the hangar which Duncan Idaho had escorted you, ignoring him as he turns to glance back at you momentarily. You can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you, now.

He looks the same - maybe less tall, but that has more to do with it having been six years since you last saw the man. You, however, are not the same girl you were when he knew you on Sabberon. Fear, panic, and wrath rage within you while your gaze smolders daggers at the back of his head.

He walks just slightly in front of you and despite yourself, you slide just a bit closer - the only semblance of comfort you can allow yourself to feel as you take in the largess of the castle. The air is thicker here than you've ever felt; salty, windy, like you can taste the sea in the rain... it clings to your skin, but it feels clean. You'd been changing into your robes when you entered atmo - you've heard many things about the ocean, about Caladan.

Something within you yearns to witness it yourself. Subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse; nothing in the near distance but the walls of the castle and high cliffs.

You nearly trip as Duncan Idaho stops just a few paces from where the members stand at attention to greet you and your retinue.

Duke Leto Atreides, regal and composed, stands at the center of the room, his presence commanding your attention. Beside him, a woman wearing a deep cerulean gown - Lady Jessica. Easily, from behind your own veil, her gaze penetrates you; A cool sensation down your spine as you seem to feel her words in the back of your head as she watches the Reverend Mother who'd travelled with you per High Court orders.

Hello, sister.

You purse your lips, looking on - there, next to his mother; Standing tall with an aura of quiet intensity, his eyes on you, is Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, you can see that he's handsome - lithe, hair curled and combed back to show his eyes. They are wide, penetrating like his mother's, but Maker, they are so green.

There is no hunger in his eyes, nor hatred, nor anything but a mild curiosity; it strikes a chord of fear in your gut, wishing briefly to return to the na-Baron's sight. It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; They always made their intentions clear, and the na-Baron never wanted many to see you besides himself. You always knew what he wanted, and you could give it to him enough to control him.

But Paul. His stare betrays no emotion but duty. If not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you could have mistaken him for his father. A Duke.

Your name, boomed from the voice of Leto Atreides, pulls you back to the surface of Caladan. "Welcome." Duke Leto's voice resonates through the hall with authority as he addresses you, his tone measured yet warm. Your stomach twists and turns as the man nods courteously to you. Coaxing your body to move, you bow to him.

"We are honored by your presence." His voice is surprisingly humane, exceedingly polite towards you; someone who was just come from the protection (a laughable phrase) of their sworn enemy.

Your throat tightens at this. There is no honor to your presence, not anymore.

Though you feel the prickling behind your eyes, you force your head to tilt in acknowledgment, schooling your expression to respectful - perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat.

"Thank you, Duke Leto, my lord." Your voice carries steel beneath its polite, quiet veneer, though you try to calm your heart. You turn to Lady Jessica to greet her.

"My Lady, it is a pleasure." You say, equally even. Lady Jessica offers a tight smile, something akin to understanding swimming among her irises. It's been quite some time since you were permitted to talk to a woman; Your servants on Giedi Prime were, of course, tongue-less, as na-Baron wished. "Thank you for welcoming me to your home."

"We understand that these are trying times for you." She says softly, her words a gesture of solidarity as your legs stagger. You feel dizzy and tired, but you force yourself to nod, bowing again. Your chained headdress overlaying your veil chimes slightly with the movement, swaying with the rain.

For such an acclaimed House, you're surprised by the gentleness of their welcome. Perhaps, they'd thought that the groaning and echoing hallways of Giedi Prime might break you, that they'd be taking in some injured little dove, wings clipped by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her nameday.

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side serves not as a reminder, but as fuel. It did not quell your spark. It ignited it, with a bloodthirsty rage for revenge.

Months of being thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that assassinated your family, no - this pit was smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself, and drugged concubines and servants with blades to service his na-Baroness. A place to watch his pets play.

Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common.

Unfortunately, you endured. You learned how to live with the Harkonnens, to be one of them- and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn.

Lady Jessica is correct, these are trying times for you. You swallow as you straighten your back. Despite everything, there's a minor comfort in the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your traditional customary mourning traditions. Your family may be gone, but you can still have this part of them; as a way of saying good-bye. It's what they would have wanted.

You turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

The Harkonnens had tried to show you the dangers of house Atreides; The poison of appearance, of trust. You are not foolish enough to have believed the Baron Vladimir and his webs of deception, but you are sharp enough to know that in times like these, nobody can be trusted.

Your betrothed watches you, as if trying to see through your mourning veil. The green of his eyes sends a warmth through your stomach as you avert your eyes. "My Lord," you bow to him, your heart thumping in your chest, remembering how you might be rewarded for looking your formerly betrothed in the eyes during ceremony. Trying not to flinch, you wait to see what Paul's hands may do. But they do not strike you, nor grasp your jaw sharply. He barely moves.

"My Lady." His voice is softer than you expected, and it strikes your heart with a cool unease. Distrust slithers around you like a daunting snake. He bows back to you.

It's silent for a thick moment before Duncan Idaho - the man from a distant past - speaks from beside you. "We have much to discuss."

Cutting to the chase, as always. Your eyes fall to the Duke, who nods. "Do you need to see treatment?" He asks the Swordsman, eyes assessing the soldier.

Duncan laughs at this, gesturing to his arm, where beads of blood still slowly peeks through his the tunic he'd slipped on after changing out of his armor.

"Harkonnen blades are sharp. So are Lady Bourbon's nails."

The prickling of four pairs of eyes strike you as he continues, turning this time to address you full-on. "Your fighting is much different than I remember, Little Bourbon."

What he doesn't say is clear to you: Much more savage than he remembers. Something between shame and pride licks at your cheeks and you avert your eyes; It had been a force of habit - rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

You clench your hand, your nails digging into your palms; you learned early on that sharper claws could keep Feyd tame for longer.

The force of Duncan's old nickname for you, when you'd been young - it nearly knocks the air out of your chest. It's been over half a decade since you'd seen the man; too much has happened since then. Nonetheless, you smile toothless behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you'd just left behind. Of what cold life lies ahead.

When you respond, your voice is frigid.

"Sometimes adaptation is survival, Duncan Idaho. Threats demand evolution."

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The rain is gone by the next day.

In the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. There must be a clock somewhere near, as the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. A cleared throat, a swallow of water.

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

Your arrival last night held no such time for small talk - you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; Your old clothing and that of your sisters and mother - the few things the Atreides soldiers had salvaged from the ransacked Castle at Sabberon - had been washed thrice of rubble and smoke and were hanging, waiting for you, in the wardrobes.

Barely awake, late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. There, sat across from Lord Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and the Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed - more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. Your eyes could not ignore the Lady Jessica, who stood behind the Duke, her fingers twitching to the others when you responded to a question asked of you. They had some kind of language, you'd realized, as they responded in their own subtle hand gestures.

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night.

Truthfully, you're breaking fast with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had found the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers.

You'd sat watching, cradling your chest with wide eyes, as the ghost slid onto his knees. How he'd crawled, smirking at the foot of your mattress, whispering to you with sharp teeth and beckoning fingers. The sweet promise in his eyes laid with blood and pain, coaxing you forward despite yourself - until something in the corner of your vision moved, and you'd screamed.

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water, and you'd asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; she must barely be twenty. You insisted on sharing a pot of tea with her, sitting in the silence but sipping shortly on your teacups. You didn't talk much, but instead breathed and felt the safety and of a woman's company, even if she is a few years younger than you.

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your courting customs before your arrival - she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows.

And now you sit similarly - in the morning dining room, your hands perched in your lap, unsure what to do with yourself.

Your future husband, no older than yourself, sits across the table from you now, pushing his omelet around on his fork. The table shakes just slightly, jilting your glass full of water - he must have a restless knee. He chews at his lip, avoiding your stare, sharing slight conversation with his Lady mother. Her attempts to bring you into the conversation are met with polite answers and more silence, your voice shaky and cold.

After a while, a woman enters, whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Though your stomach coils, you nod, "-if you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it."

His eyes find yours from behind the veil and you clear your throat. He's quiet but chivalrous; A nod, a glance sent back to his mother as she leaves. A short gust of air through the room and suddenly you can smell him. His hair, clean and glossy - healthy - glints as he faces a window, exposing the early morning sun to his bright eyes.

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched and his half-eaten.

"Are you one of them?"

Them?

You stare at him from behind the thin pine veil that covers you. It occurs to you that Paul may assume you are just as bald and sick as each Harkonnen; years of adapting, surviving off of instinct and placation, are over. With a jolt, you realize you are not a Harkonnen. And you will not be wed to one.

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today, ignoring the melancholy feeling in your gut.

"I have hair." You state simply, looking down at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight - your skin, glowing with real melanin like the House of Bourbon.

You'd never spoken this freely on Giedi Prime besides in the sole company of Feyd-Rautha - stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either - but there is no home anymore. And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, its that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators.

Paul is likely the same.

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that, just as you couldn't help with Feyd-Rautha. They can dress you, insist in your traditional customs - but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder. You are more than the bones which hold you up; Meaner than the demons that kept you in their ghostly-grip for four years.

His cheeks flush a peculiar pink, bottom lip captured between pearly teeth. "No," he starts again, eyes searching - trying to find you, beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. "Not Harkonnen-" he quiets after he says the name, as if worried to offend you. "I meant-" his eyes swim, "Bene Gesserit."

Your stomach chills as you meet his eyes.

After some hesitation, you shake your head. "No, my Lord."

When he blinks at your words, you feel compelled to continue. "I suppose I was..." you move your hand to pull on the sleeve of your robes.

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"or, I was supposed to be." your unemotional tone rings through the room. Paul doesn't say anything to that, biting back the suspicion that climbs up his throat.

He stands when you rise from your seat; Your mourning dress, unlike anything he'd ever seen before, flows like the leaves of a weeping willow as you push your chair in behind you. When he offers a stiff arm to escort you out of the room, you hesitate before looping yourself loosely to him.

She is telling the truth.

His mother had indicated, with flicks of her hand, during the meeting the evening before; you, sat before the Atreides' council, unaware that his mother was reading your honesty.

But that could be a trick; you've admitted to being partially trained in the ways of the Bene Gesserit, perhaps you found a way to deceive his mother. As much as he trusts Duncan and his father, he can't shake the suspicion that you're a mere pawn in the Harkonnens' game.

But his father's words burn sharply into his mind.

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future spouse. Love may come in other ways - but you will marry her, and together you will sire an heir when the time comes.

By decree, it was ordered you be wed to Paul, but he can't find it within himself to lose the feeling of distrust. He has spent hours learning about the Harkonnens - how they think, their strategy; and yet, from Duncan's account, the Baron and his nephew just let you go. It makes no sense to him.

"I was supposed to be a lot of things."

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, much more resolute than he'd expected. But you are extremely cold, and evidently unwilling. Polite, yes - it seems you've been trained just as he and every other young noble of the Great Houses have - but you are calculating, aggressive.

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl.

You walk with your chest out, back straight like a soldier; your words are cordial yet laced with steel and indifference - it only serves to deepen his unease. He guides you through the castle, murmuring quietly as he shows you along, introducing you to various members of staff who stop and bow in recognition.

You don't say much until he escorts you to a path that winds down out of your sights; Below the castle, between jagged rocks, Paul finds himself concerned to no longer be surrounded by castle walls. Beside him, you take a deep breath, your footsteps faltering as you slow to stare at moss that sprawls across the cobblestone.

Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy fields and rocks. Soon, as though an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. "Apologies, my Lord." You start to turn away. "I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person."

Paul is suddenly struck by the realization that you may not have seen much of any flora nor fauna on Caladan. He knows what Giedi Prime is like; and your homeworld, from what he'd read last night before bed, was mostly full of Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. Perhaps you are interested in such things; the idea surprises him.

So instead of moving along, he finds himself bending to pull off a bit of the moss from a fallen trunk. The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, the green bright against his skin. You watch him silently.

"It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water." He says it quietly, repeating what he'd learned in an ecological lesson, pushing on the spongy material with his thumb. "Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools outside the castle."

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your short height - he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated. "Am I allowed to see?" You ask stiffly, your arms by your sides.

An initial wave of protectiveness over his home washes over him; remembering his father's words, he forces his shoulders to relax. He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing.

"You are to be Lady Atreides, one day." He tries to school his voice evenly, avoiding any hint of resistance to this fact. "You do not have to ask permission to see your own land."

The wind from the sea whips around you; his stray curls fly in his vision. There are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat.

"I do not feel well, my Lord." You say moments later, voice cordial but thick with the desire to be alone, "I believe I am sick from travel. Please, if you would excuse me."

He is unsure if he had made you uncomfortable or if you are truly feeling sick; nonetheless, Paul escorts you to your chambers silently, calling one of the handmaids - Hestia, her name is - to check on you. He insists she bring you some bread and cheese, to draw you a bath if you please.

His jaw clenches; he's to train with his mother soon, but he needs release. His muscles clench in repressed frustration and so Paul lets his feet carry him swiftly to the training quarters.

His fingers itch for a blade; his mind itches to forget about the last day, about the cold life that lies ahead of him.

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mylittlevsoldier · 3 days

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Mike's "Will Voice". - An Essay by me.

If you’re a byler you know about the “Will Voice '' . But if you somehow don’t or you’re new, the “Will Voice" is the voice that Mike uses when he is talking to Will and ONLY Will. Normally Mike is a little abrasive and defensive to most people when he is talking to them. But when talking to Will, his voice is soft and quiet, just above a whisper, gentle.

Before we get into it, I think you should just know that the “Will voice” isn’t just something Byler’s made up! The directors tell Finn (the actor that plays Mike) to use a “special voice” when talking to Noah (The actor that plays Will) when filming.

DISCLAIMER - i actually didnt think this was going to be this long so sorry in advance but here are my thought i hope you enjoy! i love you!

“It was a seven, the Demogorgon. It got me.” - Season 1

One of the VERY FIRST SCENES in the show is Mike using his “Mike voice” Even if he really doesn't have to say anything at all. After Karen tells everybody to leave and all of the boys are hopping on their bikes to go home, Will is the only one left behind with Mike. Will admits to Mike that in the campaign they're playing, the Demogorgon got to him and killed him.

Something about this scene is just so…. The look of understanding, the nod. Mike is just more gentle with will than anyone else.

Right before this he was just arguing will Dustin about weather his sister is cool or not but with Will it’s different.

Unfortunately, since Will really isn’t in the whole rest of the season, because yknow he’s in a whole other dimension there aren't a lot of other scenes where Mike is using his “Will voice” However, Mike was the person who wanted to find will the most behind maybe Joyce. Saying that he “was the only one who cared about Will”, so that is something.

“Crazy together.” - Season 2

In my opinion, season 2 is like beak soft byler. The first season 2 byler moment was..

The Arcade Scene

As soon as Mike snaps Will out of his trance, his vision, whatever you want to call it, he goes right back to Will's comforting voice and tries to make it feel better and distracts him with a dig dug.

In the next episode, it Halloween. And we ALL know what happened on Halloween night of 1987.

Will’s episode on halloween

When Will has a bad vision, who is the first name he calls? Mike. Not Lucas, Not Dustin, not even Max. Mike. Not anyone else but Mike. And who was the first one to find Will and the first one to comfort him? Micheal Fucking Wheeler. And he was using the same soft voice he always does when talking to Will, barley over a whisper. Not to mention that Mike wouldn't let anyone touch Will but himself after Will snapped out of his episode.

Talk in Mike’s Basement Scene

After Will had this awful episode, Mike takes Will and only Will back to his house. Will rambles and rants about how he feels stuck and Mike? He is attentive, sweet, listening, letting him get all of his words out. I’ve noticed with other people Mike can come off like he’s abrasive and harsh but with Will he is nothing close to that.

In this conversation also consists of Mike helping Will express his feeling by finishes his sentences for him when he just can’t get his words out. In the few times Mike does speak, he does not break out of the gentle voice and literally never breaks his gaze from Will, not once.

EVEN WHEN MIKE TALKS ABOUT EL HE TALKS IN HIS WILL VOICE. AND THE ONLY REASON MIKE BROUGHT UP EL WAS FOR WILL’S BENEFIT.

And then the most iconic Byler line in Stranger Things history, “If we’re both going crazy, we’ll go crazy together, right?” “Yeah, crazy together.” So gentle, so sweet, so wholesome.

The hallway scene

Mike immediately notices something off with Will and has to make sure everything is okay.

Side note: even when Will isn't with Mike and the party, Mike will literally do anything he can to help Will. That’s his only priority at the moment.

Will’s bedroom scene

Even when Will is talking about “Him” Mike still reminds him that Will is a good person, calling him a “super spy” Mike is doing absolutely anything he can to comfort Will and make him feel any better. (P.s. this moment is so wholesome I love it.)

And then the “yeah, yeah I really do” The PRIME example of “Will Voice” The gentleness, the voice, the look, the nod, the reassurance, AND THEN THE REACH FOR THE HAND.

Hospital Scene (Will wakes up)

Will wakes up and Mike is obviously right there (‘cause he slept in the chair next to the bed, WHICH IS LIKE MY FAVORITE BYLER MOMENT OF ALL TIME) and asks if Will is “hurting again”, Mike keeps his eyes steady on Will. His only focus is Will right now. He keeps his voice soft and he asks will things to make sure he understands and that he is hearing what Will is going through right now.

Mike recalling how they met

Even though the poor boys voice is shaky because he is literally trying (and failing) to hold back tears, it’s still soft and reassuring.

“It’s not my fault you don't like girls!” -Season 3

The movie theater scene

This scene is one of my favs from Season 3. Mike is the first and only person to realize something is off with Will and say something to make sure he’s okay. The "you okay?” and “you sure?” are so gentle and soft. It reminds me a lot of someone jumping at a scary part in a movie and their partner wrapping their arm around them and asking if they’re okay.

NOT TO MENTION THE NOT SO SUBTLE LIP GLANCES.

(Also the little gay panic Will has after Mike ask if he’s okay and the blush on Mike’s cheeks before)

The scene right before the fight scene

Mike immediately notices Will is upset after Mike makes his “joke” and he goes back to his voice that always gets Will and tries to convince him that they (him and Lucas) do really want to finish the campaign.

The fight scene

Mike IMMEADLEY goes back to his will voice after he drops the bomb shell because he know he fucked up and he did it BIG TIME. The big difference between Mike’s “Will Voice” in Season 2 and Season 3 is that in Season 2 he was really using that voice with Will because he knew that it was comforting to him but now in season 3 he uses it because he knows Will will fall for it.

(Also you know how Max says to El that Mike will come crawling back to El in no time? The only person he came crawling back to apologizing was Will.)

“Get away from the door” Scene

@myname1sca1 brought up a great point! The scene where Max is trying talk to Billy through the door, Will has a feeling that “He’s here” and Mike turns and say to Max to get away from the door a=in a gentle, quiet, soft voice and when she doesn't listen, he turns away from will at screaming at her do get away from the door. He was only using that voice because he was looking at Will and dropped that voice as soon as he looked away.

The “Not possible” Scene

Toward the end of season 3, Mike realizes that he was being (in his own words) an asshole the whole season and starts caring about Will again. And when Will comes out and puts his box of D&D on the donate box, the thing he has loved since forever, Mike makes sure that he knows he is giving it away.

Will knows he’ll just use Mike’s when he visits the won’t join another party. That’s not possible.

(Plus the look on Mikes face after Will says “not possible” is adorable.)

"I didn't say it." "You didn't have to."

Will's bedrooms scene

OMFG THIS SCENE

Immediately Mike is relaxed. His voice low and calm and he lightheaded. The "You didn't have to" AND THE SMILE. This is a COMPLETE contrast to has he is around El in this part of the season. When with her, he is all tease and feel like he can never say the right thing.

Also, the absolute adoration for Will in his voice. When he says "It's Hawkins, it's not the same without you."

You can also really tell that Mike is really confiding in Will and letting his guard down which he never really does with anyone. Including El. Especially with the whole line "I don't know what's going to happen next." And if you know Mike Wheeler he never tells ANYONE that he is wrong or that he doesn't know what's going on. So, the fact that he feels comfortable enough with Will is something.

"But you make her feel better for being different." Season 4, Vol 2

"We have to Kill him." "And we will." Scene

The MOMENT Mike finds out that Will can feel that 001 is there, he jumps back into being his reassuring, gentle self for Will. This scene reminds me a lot of the "Yeah, Yeah i really do scene for season 2.

OMG WE ARE DONE, if you made it through all of that, I love you so much. If you want to see more things like this PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know because i love writing essays about Byler analysis!

also let me know if there's anything I missed because if i miss enough things i will gather it and but it in an update!

RESOUCES

Stanger Things I The First 8 Minutes - Series Opener [HD] (Still Watching Netflix on YouTube)

Stranger Thing 02x02 - Mike and Will 'Crazy Together' Scene (Raghaua Daroui on Youtube)

Byler compilation (Season 2-3) (GoraculGerard on Youtube)

every byler scene 1080p I Stranger Things Season 4 Vol 1 (longbttms on Youtube)

byler 1080p scene pack I Stranger Things Vol 2 (longbttms on YouTube)

@myname1sca1 's post!

people who wanted to be tagged!

@lebylershipper

@ash-the-wise

@tender-emotional-music

@wallywise

@willbyerswatch

@hearteyes-wheeler

@paloma-ascends-into-hellfire

@hollarious2

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cripplecharacters · 1 day

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Hi! I have a myriad of minor chronic conditions and symptoms, but nothing that's actually been identifiable enough to be diagnosed by a doctor. That's a relevant piece of information, because there's a character who I'm writing with more severe/debilitating versions of some of my own symptoms, and I'm struggling with giving him any actual defined diagnoses because of it. The actual question here is: If I'm basing these symptoms off of things that are happening with my own body, and the character is not in a situation where he'd get a diagnoses in-universe, is there a reason I can't just leave it as a mystery?

I suppose the main reason I'm struggling with the question in the first place is that upping the severity of the symptoms in question means that, unlike myself, the character will be using mobility aids, which makes me feel like I should do more research on why he'd be using them. I have no idea why, once in a blue moon, my right leg just decides to refuse to hold my weight for 10-45 seconds, but I do know that if I know that if it happened more regularly/for longer periods of time I'd probably invest in a cane due to instability walking. I'll be posting this work in a space where people will be able to ask me questions about it directly and I can already feel the comments being typed lol. So, I feel like I should have an answer beyond just "His symptoms are based off my own and unfortunately I don't have a diagnoses", but like... do I actually or am I just getting in my head about this?

Hi,

It’s completely okay to have a character who doesn’t have a specific condition or diagnosis you can point to if you’re basing it off your own life experience.

The truth is that this happens all the time. I also don’t really know why my knee is awful and sometimes can’t hold my weight or is incredibly painful to bend, and I’ve been to doctors (who had suggestions but no specifics) and was prescribed physical therapy. I did the PT. It didn’t do much, but I tried it.

You clearly have an experience with your conditions and symptoms and just because you haven’t gotten a diagnosis doesn’t mean your disabling symptoms aren’t real. It also doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll never get a diagnosis, either.

I completely understand your hesitancy, though, because the truth is that some disabled characters are created with a vague idea and end up having some sort of Ambiguous Disorder that is just for plot reasons. That can be harmful and ignore the realities of real-life conditions and disabilities just for something to be more Appealing or Plot Relevant.

But it doesn’t look like that’s what you’re doing at all—you are in fact pretty well-researched, because you’re basing your character primarily in your lives experience and, in good faith, making them not exactly the same as your own.

“His symptoms are based on my own, and I don’t currently have a specific diagnosis” is a reasonable answer. It’s true, and it’s not dismissive or misleading in any way. You can also add “I did research on how A and B would make someone need/do X or Y,” as needed. Like specific mobility aid research, or potential conditions, or related symptoms.

Overall, you can feel confident in your creation of your character and that your depiction is reasonable, and it also might make you more comfortable to answer questions if you feel equipped to elaborate about the symptoms or the aids rather than about the diagnosis.

Hope this helps! :)

— Mod Sparrow

#howisa-raven-likeawritingdesk #mysterious disability #mobility disabilities #mod sparrow

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t1gerlilly · 3 days

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I’ve seen a number of posts dismissing discussions of racism in the new storyline out of hand. To the point where I have no idea what the original criticisms were. And I think that’s really unfortunate. Partly because it feels like there’s a part of our community we’re not listening to and partly because I have some questions on the subject and would really like to hear what people are saying about it, but I’m clearly not following the right people.

I think folks forget how important Eddie is as Hispanic rep. Although 25% of the US population is Hispanic, only 3.3% of lead roles in TV are played by Hispanic actors (source) They’re also only 1.6% of showrunners and 1.9% of directors. And they are also under 5% of executive or management roles in media (source). So there is clearly a systemic problem.

But how does that apply to 911? Well - Carlos on lone star is notorious for having the least screen time of any character, despite the fact that his character is the closest to Athena in terms of role. And Eddie? Well, the latest I could find was season five totals - and Eddie and Chim, the non-white or black men, were bottom of the barrel. To really establish a pattern, you’d want more than two shows, but at least across half a decade of shows, the pattern is pretty consistent. I’m not making an argument about the reasons for that, but those are just the numbers. If I were to speculate, I’d assume it was a combination of who the network exec, showrunner, and executive producer was, since they have the power to make decisions. Just coincidentally, their racial identities mirror the screen time of the characters? Hmmmm

So then let’s look at who does press for the show - making themselves more visible…yeah, that’s largely Oliver. And you can say that’s because he’s a POV character- but you might be surprised to learn that in many seasons either Hen or Athena had more screen time than Buck. Yeah. Really. But you NEVER see Aisha put out to do press the way that Oliver is.

Why is that? Is it because she’s a black woman? Because she plays a queer character? And who is making that decision and why? Because that lack of visibility impacts her personal career. Same thing with Ryan Guzman and Kenneth Choi, who both have less screen time AND less press.

But in particular- and this is the rub - Ryan has CLEARLY been making intentional acting choices FOR YEARS to shape his character and his dynamic with Buck as queer. Oliver played into them, thinking of them as natural chemistry- but it’s clear that other creators on the show - notably the directors and writers, picked up on Ryan’s choices and fan reactions to reframe the dynamics and the characters.

And it’s really clear that Tim originally intended to have Eddie come out, but the poor reaction to Natalia and the fact that the actress was unavailable led him to switch the storyline to Buck. All of which is perfectly understandable.

But if there’s one person most responsible for the reason we ultimately got bi!Buck, it’s Ryan Guzman - for the bravery and perseverance of his choices as an artist. It’s amazing to me that in all the praise for Oliver saying that he “would have” leaned into Buck as queer even without the go ahead…no one has thought to praise the actor who actually DID THAT - for YEARS- when he was in a much more precarious position as a character and an actor. Like really take a minute to look at what that took…he was risking his livelihood with that choice.

And then, when the show DOES finally make it canon…who gets the praise? The buzz? The support? The white guy who was mostly oblivious for the past five years. Like…how is THAT fair?

And OK, the original plan was for the helicopter pilot to be Lucy, and that fell through so they reached out to Lou, because Tommy was a former character- but also quite likely because he looks a good deal like Buck - and the SL was supposed to have that character be a stand-in for the other half of Buddie. When they switched to Buck, they had to make Tommy have similar hobbies to Eddie to establish the similarities, since they couldn’t rely on looks.

But that meant they totally whitewashed the story line. And if you want to talk about firsts - when has a Hispanic lead come out as gay or bi? And how many of them were men? And how many were over 21? And on a mainstream show?

And no, it wasn’t intentional (just a function of having so many more white characters than Hispanic characters), but it was unfortunate. Not to mention the intersectionality of it all.

So…I honestly think there’s a decent basis for critique there. Not a “these people are terrible” critique, but a “not paying attention to diversity systemically” in a way that lets unconscious bias have the same impact as deliberate bias.

And I really wonder at the people who just dismissed the entire discussion - how hard did you listen? How willing were you to hear what people were saying? Because this is an issue that has to do with real people, their careers, their hopes, dreams, and identities. And you should be willing to listen.

#911 abc #eddie diaz #ryan guzman #911 discourse #911

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live-laugh-lenney · 8 hours

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Hello! Can you write a story where George or Arthur messes up and they like totally grovel over the reader? I feel like they would beg for forgiveness 😆

ohh, god lord. can you imagine the amount of grovelling?

arthur didn't mean to forget.

he was never a forgetful person; if he knew his plans were going to overrun or if he knew he'd double-booked himself, he would always make it his problem to deal with and sort out.

but with multiple video shoots happening that week that kept him busy, from a sidemen shoot to a podcast recording and then back to his own channel before he partook in a reacts video for someone else on their channel, the planned dinner with her parents had just slipped his mind.

when he walked through the front door of their flat, he was greeted with the laughter and the chatter of company. and it's in that given moment, when he sees her mum's handbag hanging on a coat hook beside her dad's coat, that he knows what he had forgotten. that he knows he messed up... big time.

rounding the corner and stepping foot in the open-plan living space of their flat, he was greeted with the biggest smile from her mum and a welcoming handshake from her dad... lessening the guilt in his belly until he was met with a fake smile and darkened eyes from yn. and the guilt only bubbled more viciously because he knew he couldn't dig himself out of this one easily.

"yn said you'd gotten stuck in a meeting with your work team, lovely. that's such a shame," her mum coos softly and she pulls arthur in for a loving hug that was tight and secure, his own arms enveloping her in a warm hug, "i know you insisted we had this dinner without you but it didn't feel the same."

he swallows back the lump in his throat and the guilt felt even worse. she lied on his behalf and made it out to be an unfortunate accident when, truly, it had simply slipped his mind. the smile on her mum's lips made him want the ground to swallow him whole. his eyes dart over to yn who occupied herself in clearing away the dirtied dessert plates from the tabletop - and he remembered her telling him that morning, before he left, how she was baking a coffee and walnut cake for them all to enjoy that night.

"we'll have to organise another one, i'm so sorry," arthur apologises before helping clean up the table, collecting the empty glasses and the cutlery that yn had left behind, "i'll cook next time since yn did this. it smells delightful."

"we had your favourite dinner, kiddo," her dad informs him and arthur looks at yn as she tries her hardest not to let her emotions get the better of her, "she's a good'un, our yn. even baked us a cake."

"she's the best," arthur smiles at her.

and he was hoping for a slight smile back in his direction to know he was off the hook and they'd talk about the whole evening later on... except he doesn't and all he sees is her jaw clench and tighten, her eyes rolling discreetly, head staying low as she piles everything up on the counter beside the sink.

they said goodbye to her parents soon after with kisses, hugs and handshakes being exchanged as well as a promise of taking an entire day off so he didn't have to miss another meal planned with them. except, deep down, he felt the guilt beginning to eat away at his insides and he knew he was minutes away from being made to feel even worse.

the door closed and before he could get his apology out, she was first to break the silence.

"don't speak to me for the night."

"yn-"

"what did i just say to you?" she sneers at him and he stares at her with sorrow in his eyes, hoping that she would come round and give him the chance to explain everything; from how he felt overworked from a week of non-stop work to how he got confused with the dates to how he wanted to make it up to her for being a forgetful muppet. "don't talk to me. i don't want to talk to you tonight."

"if you let me explain then-"

"it'll just be excuse after excuse coming out of your mouth, arthur."

he follows her around the flat like a lost puppy, scared to lose her but also wanting to plea for his forgiveness and to explain, not with the hopes of being forgiven right away but with the hopes of being understood, because he really and truly never meant to miss out on the evening with her parents. stands beside her as she washes up the dishes in the sink, watching her as if he was waiting for her orders on what she wanted him to do, mind racing as he tried to come up with the most calmest way to explain everything.

"the shoot overran. the taxi for the way home got stuck in the rush-hour traffic on its way to pick us up and we were miles from a tube station," he tries to take the plate from her hand so he could dry it and put it away but she refuses his help, placing it down on the side and swatting his hand away when he tried to pick it up, "by the time it arrived, we'd been waiting an hour for it at the site."

"doesn't help me in understanding why you never showed up. not even a text. i had to lie, arthur. to my parents!"

"i know and i'm sorry you had to do that," he places a hand on the base of her back and uses his thumb to rub gentle circles into the tee on her back, "truthfully, i did forget. okay? i forgot but-"

"i know you forgot," she huffs heavily and moves from his touch, his hand still lingering where it was once placed on her back, "please, just don't come near me. don't touch me. don't talk to me. i'm angry with you so please let me be angry with you."

"i don't want you to be," he frowns.

"then you should have thought of that before you skipped on dinner," she retorts back to him and his shoulders slump in defeat, "i'm just so upset with you."

the whole night was spent apart.

and, truth be told, they hated it.

yn hated how she still wanted to be close to him, even though he had made her feel anger. hiding in the bedroom with her laptop opposed to the television because he had taken refuge on the sofa and chosen a documentary she didn't want to intrude upon. she understood how hectic his schedule could be at times and she understood that, sometimes, he was tired and he needed reminding of things... it was a minor mistake but it had upset her and she needed her feelings to be validated and she wanted him to understand how hurt she felt.

arthur hated how he had made the mistake that lead them to being apart. sleeping on the sofa so she had all the time in the world to feel better and feel angry without him being there to add fuel to the fire. it was forgivable, what he did, but it wasn't forgettable and he knew she'd be upset for a while with the situation.

the next morning, he was awake early.

he ran to the corner shop to grab her some flowers, to grab her a card, to grab ingredients for breakfast so he could surprise her and a little goody-bag of her favourite snacks to show her just how sorry he was for what had happened. deciding on breakfast pancakes, with her favourite fruits and syrup, writing a long-winded message in the card that could explain better than he could if she was looking at him whilst he spoke it verbally.

and when she rose from her slumber, ready to forgive him, he was prepared with a table full of a surprises.

"good morning," he smiles sheepishly and she lets her eyes wander over the pile of pancakes in the middle of the table beside bowls of fruit and bottles of maple-syrup, "i made breakfast."

"you made a feast," she giggles softly, stepping towards the dining table and reaching for the card that he'd leant against a jar of nutella, "what's this?"

"it's my apology. i figured i could write it better than i could say it so," he walks towards her and sets his hands on the back of a chair, pulling it out from under the table and letting her sit down, tucking her underneath before he sat beside her, "i really am so sorry for forgetting our plans."

"it's okay," she pulls the card from the envelope and lets her eyes scan over the paragraph of his writing, her mouth soundless speaking every word he had written on the piece of paper, "i figured you were just stressed and tired. i was never going to stay angry at you."

she squeezes his knee softly and looks at him.

"i made reservations at that new london restaurant you wanted to go to, too. figured we could go with your parents," he informs her and she smiles widely, "it's on me, of course."

"arthur," she hums softly, "you need to fuck up more often."

he rolls his eyes and she giggles softly.

"i don't think so. one time, you might actually leave me and i don't know if i could cope with that," he leans over and presses a kiss to her lips, "i love you and i'm truly sorry."

"i love you too, you muppet." xx

#arthurtv #arthurtv blurbs #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv headcannons #arthurtv fics #arthur frederick #arthur frederick blurbs #arthur frederick imagines #arthur frederick fics #arthur frederick headcannons

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that-bwitch · 8 hours

Text

yellow hearts

summary: the times you put yellow hearts around his name, and the times he put them around yours.

pairing: sirius black x reader

warning: sappy fluff

wc: 1.6k

a/n: yellow hearts by ant saunders. a cute little thing I made upon hearing this song after many many years. finally able to write something short!

“Girl, what is this?!”

You whine, slamming your diary shut. Your cheeks suddenly feel hot and you try your hardest to avoid Lily’s prying gaze. She tries to look over your shoulder again, letting out a disappointed groan at the sight of a shiny cover.

“Just… Zip it,” you sigh, still flustered and really embarrassed. “You didn’t see anything!”

“No, no, I definitely just saw it!” Lily shouts and you have to hush her, noticing a few people at the table giving you weird glances. “Was it “Sirius” with hearts around?” she asks, her voice a bit calmer but still conveying the same emotions.

“No…”

You stutter, giving yourself completely and irrevocably away. Your eyes make an automatic roll and you scoot over to make space for your friend. Lily plops down next to you, her eager hands already reaching for your little navy-blue diary. Before you have time to hide it, she snatches the book from you and starts flicking through the pages, ignoring whatever is written on them. Finally, she finds the right page and bends the spine of the diary to have a better look.

Here it is, in all its glory. A “Sirius” with shiny yellow hearts drawn all around.

“Eww!!!”

Lily wrinkles her whole face, looking at you and then at your scribbles again.

“Don’t tell me it’s that prat Black from our year! Is it?!”

You sigh, taking the diary from her and putting it safely in your bag.

“Who else has the name, Lily? Think.”

You stare down at your breakfast, hoping that as long as you don’t look at your friend, she will miraculously forget about your existence.

“But he hangs out with Potter and they’re a bunch of tossers!” Lily’s voice is loud again, earning you a few more concerned looks.

You sigh again, biting on a slice of bacon.

“Maybe,” you mumble with your mouth full.

Lily rolls her eyes. Her plate remains untouched as she turns to you, fully intending to push for more information.

“And since when?” she demands, raising her eyebrow. You start to feel like a criminal being questioned in court.

“Last year,” you answer reluctantly, knowing that she won’t let you be if you don’t pour your whole heart out right here and now.

Lily scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief.

“This is so messed up! What’re you gonna do?”

You don’t reply. You don’t know yet. You don’t plan to ever know. But you don’t stop your sappy scribbles – you just make sure Lily never sees them again.

The second time someone sees the yellow hearts is much, much worse.

It’s your fifth year. You lost the diary a couple of days ago and you go absolutely mental trying to remember all the places you could have left it at. Your heartbeat briefly stops every time you think of a possibility of someone finding it, reading it and knowing it all.

“Oi, come on! It’s not like fancying Black is just a you thing!”

Lily tries to calm you down as best as she can. She has been lightly teasing you about your crush on Sirius for the previous two years, but she sees your worry and, being a good friend she is, hugs you and helps you on a secret mission to search every single classroom for any signs of the diary. Unfortunately, no luck.

“Lily, shut up! I have a wand and I’m not afraid to use it.”

You nibble on your nails for the hundredth time today – a nasty habit you have developed ever since losing the only way to let out your growing feelings towards a certain someone.

“What? The whole school is mad about him and his pack of tossers! No one’d blink an eye.”

“But what if he finds it?!”

“He finds what?”

You freeze at the sound of a voice, and not just a voice, his voice. A young fellow appears from behind the bench you’re sitting on, followed by three other guys, all snickering and whispering something to each other.

“Hello there, ladies,” Sirius murmurs, making a funny little bow.

“Black, shut it!” Lily immediately retorts, noticing your hopeless gaze. “Keep walking, and you might just live.”

“Well, I would, but I may have something you’re looking for.”

No. No, no, no, no.

A small navy-blue book appears in his hand and you suddenly feel like the bottom of the lake wouldn’t be such a horrible spot to be in. Lily’s eyes are wide and you think that if she had an ability to cast spells with just her eyes, she would use it right at this moment.

“Where the hell-” she starts, but you cut her off, not willing to prolong the already tense and miserable moment.

“Sirius, please, give it back.”

Your voice trembles treacherously and you mentally curse yourself for such a poor attempt at hiding your emotions. A thought of trading your face for a brick wall doesn’t seem that unappealing.

To your surprise, Sirius hands you the book without any of his usual shenanigans that you would normally expect. Your fingers brush his as you snatch the diary from him and you hold in a gasp; you would not mind becoming a delicious meal for the mermaids to munch on.

Sirius turns on his heels to leave, but then stops abruptly, as if he forgot something. A moment later, he’s at your ear, his breath warming up your already flaming hot cheek.

“I like yellow,” he whispers as his lips graze against your stray baby hairs; they suddenly feel like а bouquet of exposed nerves.

He leaves, shameless about the fact that his actions made your heart perform acrobatics within the bounds of your ribcage.

“What did he say?!” Lily repeats over and over, but you can barely hear her voice. You flip through the pages erratically and the right one catches your eye at last. A glaring “Sirius” with yellow hearts around it. You notice another name at the bottom of the page. A name of your own, staring right at you. And around it, the same yellow hearts.

The third time someone sees the yellow hearts you aren’t anxious anymore.

It’s your seventh year. Exams are approaching, but seeing as your boyfriend is Sirius Black, it’s hard to get any actual studying done. You have been dating for quite a while now, but it still feels… new.

You’re in Transfiguration together. He sits several rows behind you – a rule McGonagall made just a week prior, “For your own good”, as she said, because together you weren’t making much progress. But he still finds ways to remind you of his presence – he makes paper birds, charming them to fly right to you. Sometimes they’re just pretty birds, sometimes they’re notes with some silly poem he wrote for you, just to make you laugh and earn a warning from Minerva – for both of you, because the source of your distraction is really obvious.

Another bird lands on the desk in front of you. You quickly glance at McGonagall and, much to your contentment, notice that she’s preoccupied with her textbook.

“Hey,” you hear a whisper from behind. Of course, you recognize Sirius. He grins at you and gestures to unfold the origami. Even before you can do it, you see a sheer golden glow emanating from within. Your smile grows wider as you open the poor bird and see the letters scribbled down on a piece of parchment.

Your name. And yellow hearts around it.

McGonagall clears her throat somewhere above you. Her menacing glare tries to burn a hole in your head, but you don’t really care. You give her a sorry nonetheless.

“Shall I teach special classes, so that you attend in the morning and Mr. Black – in the evening?” the professor demands, but you see glimmers of amusement in her eyes. She briefly glances at the note she took from you and gives you and Sirius one of her raised-eyebrow looks, but you see the corners of her mouth lift up ever so slightly. You hear Sirius chuckle, close your eyes and smile. You don’t need anyone else.

The fourth time yellow hearts frame not one name, but two.

You and Sirius have just returned from your honeymoon. You have a whole stack of polaroids from your trip and you want to pick just one to put on the fridge in your shared home. The job proves to be rather difficult. You almost have a fight, which is so stupid and insignificant, but so you.

“Babe, this one is obviously superior! You see how stunning I am in this jacket?!”

“Yeah, and I’m blinking like an idiot because the sun is right up in my face. Sirius, babe, not everything has to be about you.”

You finally choose the one. It’s the last polaroid in your stack and you just can’t take your eyes off of it. In the picture, you’re waving at the camera and laughing, with an ice cream cone in your hand. Sirius pulls you in for a kiss and when he leans away, his nose is adorned with a spot of white ice cream.

You can’t help giggling, show the polaroid to Sirius and he does the same.

“This is it,” you say simultaneously and cackle at your apparently developed skill in Legilimency.

“Just a moment.”

Sirius stops you from taking the picture, takes out a sharpie and writes something on a white area at the bottom of it. He takes out his wand, silently waves it in front of the picture and only then goes up to the fridge and puts it up with many others. He steps back to have a better look at his creation.

You’re flustered, but a joyful smile doesn’t leave your lips. Sirius understands and places a gentle kiss on your temple. You look at the words written on the polaroid once more.

A “Sirius” and then your name below it. Around it, shiny yellow hearts shimmering in the sun and casting an array of rainbow specks all over the kitchen.

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