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yogirl-willow · 14 days ago

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The Crimson Pact | Part 10

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Explicit Smut / NSFW. Minors DNI (Do Not Interact), Fingering, Touching, Penetrative Sex (P in V), Breeding Kink / Creampie, Size Kink, Praise Kink, Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance.

A/N: Here's part 10! Thank you to everyone who sent over messages and comments. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying my series. Plot rolls in the first half of this, and there is smut at the end. :) Next chapter will also have smut just because I didn't want to rush any of the moments once again. But the plot and conflicts will really get rolling from here. I hope you all enjoy this one!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Names (For those who get confused): Haneul (Abby), Seoha (Romance), Hwimori/Hwi (Mystery), Seungho (Baby)

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 10:

Every Version of You

The bass thumped through the Huntrix penthouse, shaking the mirrored walls as Mira struck the next beat of the routine. Her cropped hoodie flew with each sharp turn, every kick hitting with fierce precision.

"One, two, spin, down—Rumi, Zoey, hit the arm combo together, please!" Mira barked.

Zoey huffed, brushing sweaty bangs from her forehead. "You're acting like we're going to war."

“We are,” Mira snapped. “This is Takedown, remember? Demon-dissing choreo has to be sharp. Idol Awards are in a few days. We’re not just performing—we’re making a statement.”

Rumi held her pose, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down her temple. “It’s just... hard to focus with everything going on.” She flopped onto the couch dramatically. “Speaking of which... has she replied yet?”

Mira paused, lowering her arms slowly. “Did she see your message?”

“She read it,” Zoey murmured, checking her phone. “No reply though.”

Mira exhaled sharply, arms crossed. “So she’s alive, at least.”

“Or...” Zoey’s voice trembled. “What if they just have her phone? What if she’s being controlled? Or trapped? What if she’s being held hostage?!”

Mira’s fists clenched. “If they’re keeping a human hostage—”

Zoey added, horrified, “What if they’re doing horrible things to her—”

“Oh, I think she might enjoy that...” Rumi muttered under her breath.

Both heads snapped toward her. “What was that?” Mira asked sharply.

“Nothing!” Rumi said quickly, brushing hair behind her ear. “Just... we don’t know the whole story.”

Zoey frowned, concern dark in her eyes. “Do you really think she’s okay?”

Rumi looked away. “Look... based on what we saw—they were protective. Obsessively, even.”

“That could be an act,” Mira snapped. “Demons don’t feel. They mimic. That’s how they manipulate humans.”

“You don’t know that.”

Mira narrowed her eyes. “Why are you defending them?”

“I’m not—” Rumi said, too quickly. “I just think... maybe we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

The silence that followed was thick and tense. Zoey looked between her two friends, biting her lip in apprehension. “Okay, okay, let’s chill,” she said, forcing a weak smile. “How about we call it a day? Tomorrow we can try tracking her—maybe check traffic cams near her café?”

“She hasn’t been to her café,” Mira said coldly. “It’s closed. And her apartment? Empty for weeks. What else do you need? She’s with those demons.”

Then, quieter, sharper: “What if she knows?”

Rumi’s stomach twisted.

“What if she knows what they are—and still stays with them?”

Rumi didn’t answer. Maybe… she does know. Really know what they are, and yet… chooses to stay?

The girls filtered off to their rooms, tension unresolved. Mira’s footsteps were sharp and angry, Zoey’s slow and tired. But Rumi stayed.

She remained seated on the floor of the practice studio, knees curled to her chest, the city glowing behind her through the glass. Her muscles ached from hours of choreography, but her mind refused to quiet.

She could still hear Jinu’s voice. "We’re soulbonded."

There was something in the way he said it. Not just conviction, but reverence. Like the word meant more than the world itself. Like the bond wasn’t just real—it was sacred. And the others? The way they looked at you, hovered near you, protected you like something precious? It wasn’t just possession.

It was devotion. And maybe it was all a lie. Maybe Mira was right…

But Rumi couldn’t stop wondering: What if it wasn’t? What if demons could feel something that deep? That powerful?

What if… her father had felt it too?

The thought hit her harder than expected. It had been something she tried to brush off for days now, ever since Jinu had told her about the soulbond. She’d never known her parents. Just flashes in half-dreams and a handful of secondhand memories from Celine. But now, watching the way you looked at the boys—and how they looked at you—it stirred something in her chest.

Something unshaped. Undefined. Longing, maybe. Or just the ache of not knowing. Could her mother have loved like that? Could she have fought for something that impossible?

Rumi exhaled shakily and rubbed her arms, feeling the faint, cursed heat of her demon marks just beneath her skin. They had always marked her as different. Not enough of one thing. Too much of another. A walking half-truth Celine refused to explain.

She had tried asking before. Dozens of times. What was my mother like? Why did she fall in love with a demon? Who was he? Each time was met with silence. Each time: “You don’t need to know.”

But now Rumi did. She needed to know. Not just for herself. But for what was coming.

If you were really soulbonded to demons… If a bond that powerful could change the rules, rewrite the laws they’d lived under their entire lives— Maybe her parents had tried too. Maybe there was something they left behind.

And what if… that soulbond was somehow tied to their demise. She had to know- is that the same fate that awaited Jinu? The same fate that awaited you?

She stood slowly and walked to her bedroom closet, where a weathered duffel bag lay tucked behind rows of performance shoes. From its inner lining, she retrieved a small brass key—one she had stolen years ago from Celine’s drawer, hidden away on instinct. The key to a locked chest in her old childhood home. The one Celine had told her never to open.

Rumi stared at the key for a long moment. Then, she curled her fingers around it and whispered to the empty room:

“I’m sorry, Celine. But I need the truth.”

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The scent of sesame oil and gochugaru fills the air, warm and rich, as you perch on the edge of the kitchen island in Haneul’s oversized shirt, your bare legs swinging gently. Haneul hums quietly as he moves through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, muscles still slick from earlier, now focused as he stirs a steaming pot.

“Kimchi jjigae tonight,” he says proudly, ladling a bit into a spoon and holding it up to your lips. “Taste this for me?”

You lean forward, letting him feed you. It’s spicy and savory, exactly how you like it. “Mmm. That’s perfect.”

“Perfect’s what you are,” he says, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb. His voice lowers, brushing with something more carnal. “I still haven’t recovered from earlier, y’know.”

You flush. “You’re not supposed to say that while cooking.”

“I can multitask,” he smirks.

Just then, a pair of warm hands glide around your bare thighs. You jump slightly as Seungho presses a kiss to your cheek from the side. He was shirtless, leaving his lean muscles out for you to admire. For someone who’s nicknamed “Baby”, he sure didn’t look it when he was dressed like this without the sweaters.

He slides between your knees, gaze half-lidded, teasing. “God, you look good like this,” he murmurs. “One of our shirts, no shame… You trying to kill me, baby?”

Your hand goes to push him away, but your smirk betrays you. “Just sitting here.”

“Yeah, and I’m just breathing,” he deadpans, “but apparently that’s a sin too.” His hand squeezes your thigh. “Keep testing me and see what happens.”

You giggle, clearly not sorry. Before he can get carried away, the front door bursts open.

“We’re home!” Seoha’s voice sings.

You hop off the counter just in time for Jinu’s arms to catch you mid-run. He pulls you into him like he hasn’t seen you in weeks, burying his face into your neck. “Missed you, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

Seoha’s next, sweeping you up and spinning you dramatically before peppering your face with kisses—forehead, nose, cheeks. “I nearly died from missing you,” he sighs, as if wounded. “I considered throwing myself into traffic.”

“Dramatic as always,” you roll your eyes, laughing.

“And yet you keep coming back to me,” he says smugly, carrying you bridal-style back to the kitchen. Seungho is already setting the table, now with a shirt on. Seoha plops down and keeps you seated firmly on his lap.

“So,” you ask, “what were you guys out doing?”

“Logistics,” Jinu replies. “Stage cues, wardrobe adjustments, dealing with sponsors. Idol Awards are in a few days.”

You blink. “It’s that soon?”

Haneul sets down a plate in front of you—steaming rice, kimchi jjigae, marinated beef, banchan laid out lovingly. You try to shift to your own seat, but Seoha tightens his arms around you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers into your ear, voice low and territorial. “Not after being away from me all day.”

Your face heats as you squirm in his hold. “Where’s Hwimori?” you ask, trying to redirect the attention.

“Studio,” Seungho says, grabbing another pair of chopsticks. “Hasn’t left it since noon.”

“He’s still working?” You frown. “He hasn’t eaten?”

“He never eats when he’s focused,” Jinu sighs. “Like a damn wolf on a hunt.”

Moments later, Hwimori finally comes down. His hair’s tousled, shirt inside-out. He pads over silently, bending to kiss the top of your head. You soften at the gesture. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”

He looks at you, startled. Then grins. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you scold lightly. “Sit. Eat.”

His gaze dips to your hands as he picks them up to press soft kisses across your knuckles. “Your care for me is more filling than any meal, Y/N,” he murmurs, almost bashful—except for the glint of heat in his eyes.

You blush, looking away. "You say the creepiest sweet things..."

Dinner begins. Laughter, gentle clinks of chopsticks. They argue over which brand of soju is superior. Seoha tries to spoon-feed you until Jinu takes over with more finesse. Seungho complains, “You’re all obsessed,” to which they all agree.

“You are too,” Haneul deadpans.

You ask casually, “So what song are you performing for the Idol Awards?”

Hwimori looks up from his bowl. “It’s a new one. I’m halfway done with the mix.”

“Ooh, can I hear it?”

A pause. Their reactions don’t match your enthusiasm. “It’s not finished yet,” Seoha says quickly.

“You’ll hear it soon,” Jinu adds with a reassuring smile.

Your brow furrows—but you brush it off. Hwimori leans over to you. “Come to the studio after dinner,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

You nod, heart skipping a little.

The kitchen is filled with the comforting clatter of chopsticks and soft laughter, the scent of kimchi jjigae still thick in the air. You’re tucked on Seoha’s lap all throughout, your legs curled beneath you, a half-eaten spoonful paused in your hand as you watch the boys move through their dinner routine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jinu reaches across Haneul’s plate to steal a piece of beef. Haneul slaps his hand away without looking up.

Seoha rests his chin on your shoulder and softly nuzzles into your skin, murmuring, “You’re my favorite side dish.”

Seungho groans. “You’re disgusting.”

They argue. They tease. Hwimori eats quietly at the edge of the table, chopsticks in one hand, notebook beside him, already jotting lyrics and notes between bites. No one tells him to stop. No one complains that he’s multitasking again. You chew slowly, eyes drifting between them. And then you stop eating.

Something about this moment… it feels too good. Too quiet. Too normal. You set your spoon down and lean back slightly into Seoha’s chest, gaze flicking toward the warm kitchen light above the table. It bathes the boys in gold—catching on the edge of Hwi’s silver earring, the subtle curl of Jinu’s ink-black hair, the sweat still lingering on Haneul’s collarbone.

And you think— “This doesn’t look like a house full of demons.”

It looks like a home.

You glance at the sink, where Haneul now rinses a pot. Jinu has a towel draped over one shoulder as he air-dries dishes. Seoha’s rubbing a spot on your ankle like it soothes something in him just to touch you. And Seungho is yelling at the rice cooker as if it’s personally offended him.

You close your eyes for a moment and listen to the mundane sounds of it all—water running, footsteps padding on the floor, laughter, the scrape of porcelain. ‘Is this real?’ you think. ‘Or is this… something they’ve created for me? Something they’re maintaining so I don’t run?’

You remember what they said. How they’d waited lifetimes. How they knew you from before. How they love you, need you, worship you. But you also remember how you woke up here. The pain. The fear. The sheer loss of control.

‘They say they love me. But do they love me? Or the version of me they’ve carried for centuries?’

You swallow, suddenly unsure of your own heartbeat. The soulbond pulls tight in your chest like thread wound too firmly around your ribs. You can feel each of them—every glance, every flicker of emotion—and it’s overwhelming how much they feel. For you. But…

‘What if they’re just in love with the memory of me? With someone I don’t even remember being?’

You think of your past lives. The fragments that flicker in your dreams. A hand in yours. A kiss in the dark. Blood. Fire. Death. Always ending in death.

‘Do I even have a choice in all of this? Or is fate choosing for me?’

You open your eyes again and see Jinu watching you. Noticing. As always. His expression softens as your eyes meet. He doesn’t say anything, just sends you a smile that feels like it was forged in a lifetime of waiting. One that says, ‘We see you.’

Your chest tightens. Because you know what you're afraid to admit: ‘They make me feel safe. Even when they shouldn’t. Even when I know what they are.’

And still… Am I just playing a role? Or is this… actually love?

Your fingers brush your thigh, grounding yourself. Seoha murmurs something into your hair, and Haneul walks by and drops a sweet kiss to the crown of your head. Seungho brushes his fingers across your lower back in passing, almost unconsciously. They touch you like they need to make sure you’re still here.

And in that moment, you don’t have an answer. But you want to believe. You want this to be real. And maybe… just maybe…

You already do.

From the corner of your eye, you see Hwimori pause in the hallway. His fingers tap the doorframe, hesitant. His voice is soft, almost shy. “You coming?”

You blink up at him. His golden eyes catch the light. And just like that, the ache eases. “Yes,” you whisper. “I’m coming.”

His fingers find yours before you’ve even stepped into the hallway. Delicately, he laces your fingers together like he’s memorizing the shape of them, then brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles as you walk, eyes still fixed ahead. You swear you feel something in your chest flutter and curl at the gesture—quiet, unassuming, and completely devastating.

You don’t say anything. You just follow him.

Hwimori leads you gently through the dim apartment, the distant sound of dishes and laughter fading behind you. The studio door opens with a soft click, and the scent of sound foam and something faintly like cedar greets you. Inside, the room glows with a soft blue light from a large curved monitor, its screen filled with waveforms and sound levels. There’s a single black desk chair facing the setup, and handwritten notes scattered across the desk—some in Korean, some in English, a few in what looks like ancient runes.

He sits first, pulling you without a word into his lap. You settle there, curling comfortably against him, thighs warm over his, his hand never leaving your waist.

“This is where you work?” you murmur.

He nods against your shoulder. “Mhm.”

Your eyes roam across the workspace. “And this is where the magic happens?”

Hwimori hums again, the softest smile pulling at his lips. “Kind of. Jinu writes most of the lyrics. I handle the production, mixing, layering. Sometimes I add vocals.” He reaches to adjust a dial, the screen blinking in response. “This one’s still a work-in-progress.”

You tilt your head, reading the title scrawled in the corner of the page next to the monitor. “Your Idol.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ominous.”

He gives a sheepish shrug. “Did you want to hear a little of it? I haven’t added in the final vocals yet.”

You grin. “Aren’t you cutting it a little close for the Idol Awards?”

His hand lifts, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender—unconsciously so. “We’ll be singing live,” he murmurs. “This is just the backing track.”

You hum in understanding, but your eyes linger on his face. He’s usually so quiet, almost shadow-like. But in this space, surrounded by his work, his music, his presence feels different. Grounded. Whole.

He reaches behind you and gently lifts a pair of large over-ear headphones. “Here,” he says, placing them carefully over your ears. The size swallows your head a little, and you catch him smiling as he adjusts them.

“What?” you ask, your voice muffled.

He chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to your nose. “You just look so cute.”

Your cheeks heat instantly, and you shift in his lap—just slightly. He doesn’t let you move far. His hands settle more firmly on your waist as he hits play. The first sound is a whisper.

Dies irae Illa…

A chant. Ethereal. Latin. So far removed from the sparkly, bubblegum tones of Soda Pop that it doesn’t even feel like the same group.

The low rumble of a bass begins to rise beneath the vocals. Haunting. Slow. Then the drop hits—hard, distorted, angry. Layers of eerie harmonies weave in and out, and a new pulse sets the rhythm. It's darker, heavier… yet oddly beautiful.

Your spine straightens instinctively. This doesn’t feel like an idol song. It feels like a warning.

After a minute or two, you carefully lift the headphones off, holding them in your lap as the silence returns to the studio. “It sounds… so different,” you say, your voice small.

Hwimori nods, looking straight ahead, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Jinu wanted to try something new.”

“Are you guys rebranding?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just hums quietly. “Something like that.”

You look at him then—really look.

Under the low studio light, his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his bangs fall over his eyes in a silky curtain. You can’t help but reach up, brushing the corner of his hair. His eyes widen slightly, but he lets you. Your fingers tuck some strands behind his ears, revealing more of the amber in his gaze—molten, unblinking, completely focused on you. “You’re beautiful, Hwimori,” you whisper.

He exhales like you’ve struck something inside him.

Then—without a word—he buries his head against your chest, arms wrapping around your back as if he can’t bear a second more of not being as close as possible. You feel his breath stutter. Feel the silent emotion he doesn’t know how to say.

You stay there, letting the music fade behind you, and hold him like he’s always been yours. Neither of you speak for a long while. Just the soft whir of the monitor, the warm hush of breath between you. There’s a peace in it—a rare kind. But even in the quiet, something lingers. A hum beneath your skin. And he feels it too.

“I felt it,” Hwimori murmurs, voice muffled into the fabric of your shirt. “At dinner.”

You blink, confused.

“The way your heart pulled,” he clarifies, lifting his head slowly to look at you. His eyes are searching, soft. “You felt uneasy.”

You stiffen. There’s no use denying it—not to him. He sees right through you, like he always has. You look away, but his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin, coaxing you back to him. You turn your gaze slowly, and he’s already watching you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed to see.

“You were quiet for a little bit,” he says. “But not the kind of quiet you get when you’re sleepy or full. It was the kind that hurts.”

You flinch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s so, so right. You don’t answer, and you don’t need to. Hwimori’s fingers gently reach for your cheek, brushing your hair behind your ear. His touch is impossibly tender. His gaze steady and warm.

“You’ve always been like that,” he says softly. “Since before you knew my name.”

You tilt your head.

“There was one night,” he continues. “From a long time ago. You were just a girl in a little village, taking care of too many people with too little help.”

A memory stirs. Familiar but distant. “It was after a long storm,” Hwimori says, voice laced with something warm. “Your roof leaked. The firewood got soaked. You’d spent all day patching it up with your bare hands, and you still went to the river to wash your siblings’ blankets by moonlight.”

You suck in a soft breath. He hadn’t been visible then. But he’d seen.

“I followed you there, like I always did. And you were singing to yourself, – albeit, a little off-key,” he chuckles, and you huff a soft laugh. “You were humming just to stay awake. Kneeling in the freezing water, shivering, hands raw. I could tell you were exhausted. Your voice was shaking.”

He pauses, as if savoring the memory. “And then a rabbit came to you. It was limping. Barely able to move. I thought you’d ignore it—you had enough to worry about. But you just… stopped everything. You dropped the blanket, picked up the rabbit, and tucked it in your coat.”

Your throat tightens. “You stayed like that, holding it. Rocking it. Whispering, ‘You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,’ like it was your own child.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “That’s when I knew,” he says. “That you had the gentlest heart I’d ever seen. Even after everything life had done to you, your instinct was still to love. To care. Even when you had nothing left.”

You can’t breathe for a moment. He presses his forehead against yours. “You made me want to be something more. Something that could hold you. Protect you. Stay beside you. That was the first night I had ever desired to be more. To be felt. So I could feel you.”

You don’t realize tears have welled in your eyes until he brushes them away with the soft pad of his thumb. Hwi’s words hang in the air like the final note of a love song — quiet, aching. His eyes shimmer, blinking slowly beneath your gentle touch.

You stare at him, overwhelmed. And then… The doubt creeps in again. It’s a quiet voice, but sharp. Your fingers still on his cheeks.

“What if…” your voice cracks slightly. “What if that wasn’t me?”

He blinks.

“What if the girl you saw that night—the one who rocked a dying rabbit to sleep—was someone else? Someone better? I might be her soul, but I’m not her. I don’t remember that life. I don’t sing at the river. I haven’t—haven’t done anything like that. I’m not soft like she was. What if you’re feeling all these things for someone that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Your heart aches at the words. And you hate that you mean them. You try to look away, but he catches your chin—gently, like a thread of silk. He doesn’t force you to meet his gaze. Just holds you still, holds you softly.

And he whispers: “But you are her.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re the same soul who reached for a broken thing instead of turning away. You’re the same heart that gave kindness without needing a reason. You still do. Every single day.”

You tremble slightly, lips parting. But he isn’t finished. “I didn’t fall in love with a girl who sang to the river. I fell in love with the soul that chose to love, even when it hurt. Even now—when you could hate us, when you should be afraid—you still sit here with your arms around a demon and ask if your love is real.”

He leans in slowly, forehead pressed to yours, and his voice drops lower.

“That’s you. That’s always been you. No matter how many lives we live. I’ll always know you. Even if the world forgets. I’ll know your soul, and how it calls for me. And I will always answer.”

Tears blur your vision as you swallow hard. He smiles softly—barely there, but achingly real. “You could cut your hair, pick up new hobbies, forget how to sing, fall in love with different books, dress differently, dream new dreams…”

His voice lowers, “And I would still find ways to love every version of you. Every change. Every chapter. Because it’s still you. Your soul is eternal. And I was made to follow it.”

His thumb brushes away a tear that slips down your cheek. “That’s what love is, isn’t it? Not clinging to who someone was—but choosing them again and again, as they become. I’ve done it for centuries. And I’ll do it for as many more as you’ll let me.”

And then he whispers—almost breathlessly— “My name is Hwimori… because I needed a name to worship you with. It’s the name you gave me. As long as you call me, I will always answer. In every life.”

You break, tears fully running now. Your heart hurts in the most beautiful way — with the kind of love that makes your whole body ache. A sound escapes you- half sob, half chuckle in disbelief. It was almost unreal, the love they had for you. The love Hwimori had for you. The love you were starting to remember you had for him, and the love that was growing rapidly in your chest for all of them.

“You say the most beautiful things…” You say breathily, hands wiping away your tears. You reach for him again. His face. His eyes. You unclip your hairpin and clip his bangs back fully, needing to see all of him, this creature made of devotion.

His eyes are breathtaking. Violet and gold and amber, like the inside of a star. Lashes long, silver, like dust spun from moonlight. And all of it—all of him—was made for you. This soulbeast became a man just to stay by my side.

Your loyal, wild-hearted creature. The one who never asked for anything but to be near you. Your lips brush over his eyelids. He shudders. A soft, needy sound escapes him—barely a breath.

You kiss the other. He exhales like he’s letting go of centuries of longing. Then his nose. His cheeks. His jaw. And when your lips finally meet his— He melts.

He melts into you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. The only warmth he’s ever known. The bond between you hums, low and deep, like a drumbeat just beneath your ribs. And in his kiss, there is nothing but truth.

It starts slow. Hwimori kisses you like a creature in worship, his lips brushing yours in soft, fleeting touches. Then he deepens it, and it changes. Desperation curls at the edges. His tongue traces your bottom lip before claiming your mouth fully, and you feel it—his need, his hunger, his aching loyalty.

Like a beast starved, yet patient. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the taste, the scent. His hands glide along your hips, pulling you tighter against him. You gasp slightly as you feel the heat of his arousal press up beneath you through his clothes. Your thighs clench instinctively.

You shift in his lap, just enough to grind against him—slowly, deliberately. His breath catches, and a low whimper escapes his throat, sharp and broken.

“Ah… d–don’t do that,” he pleads, his voice ragged. His fingers clench at your hips, claws nearly unsheathing. “You don’t know what you’re waking up in me, my love…”

Your eyes glint with a teasing defiance. So you do it again.

And he breaks.

With a growl, Hwimori stands in one smooth motion, lifting you effortlessly. You squeal softly in surprise but he doesn’t release your lips—not for a second. He walks you across the studio and lowers onto the velvet couch with you straddling him, breath hot and wild. His hands roam beneath your shirt, sliding up your back as he kisses you harder—possessive, trembling with restraint.

“Is that what you want?” he growls softly. “To see what I become when I stop pretending to be tame?”

───────── SMUT ─────────

He lifts your shirt in one motion, leaving you bare save for the thin fabric of your panties. His breath hitches as he looks at you—chest rising, flushed, vulnerable. Worshipful silence falls over him for just a second. His gaze travels up—devouring you slowly—and when your eyes meet, it nearly steals the air from your lungs.

There’s nothing human in his expression. Just awe. Hunger. Adoration so intense it borders on unhinged. His hands grip your thighs, fingers trailing up, rough and hot all at once. “You’re mine,” he breathes—low, almost like a growl against your skin. “You’re my soul. My everything. The reason I even have this form.”

You lean forward to kiss his neck, pressing soft kisses against his pulse. You couldn’t help yourself. Not when his face looked like that. Flushed, needy, and oh so beautiful you could combust. He shudders beneath you.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips brushing his skin. He moans—a raw, choked sound—and you feel the muscles of his torso tense beneath your touch. You peel the fabric off him slowly, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest and arms, and your breath catches at how perfectly carved he is. Like a statue built to guard you.

You kiss down his chest, lips leaving warm trails as his hands grip yours tightly, long fingers intertwined with your own. He trembles beneath your mouth.

“I love it when you touch me like that,” he murmurs, breath shaky. “It makes my skin sing. Makes my heart believe I’m not dreaming you.”

You feel him twitch beneath you as your hips move again, wetness pooling between your legs. Your mouth curls into a sly smirk. “Lucky for you, I can make those dreams into a reality.”

He groans at your teasing, eyes alight with fire. His mouth finds your neck, biting softly—claiming. You gasp as you feel his fingers trace the line of your damp panties. He groans, “You’re soaking. Just from my voice? My fingers?” His voice dips into a snarl, “This little body is desperate for me, huh? You were made to take me.”

The sound of his voice, so heavy and laced with desire almost makes you cream. You nod obediently, bottom lip captured beneath your teeth. “Uh huh,” you mutter faintly.

He slides your panties to the side and growls low in his throat as he feels how wet you are for him. His fingers glide through your folds before slowly sinking one inside you. You cry out softly at the sudden stretch, clutching onto his shoulders.

“So tight,” he pants, pressing his forehead to yours. “Always so tight for me. You let me in so easily… like your body already knows me.”

A second finger joins the first, and he begins a slow, precise rhythm, watching your every expression like he’s memorizing your ruin. His thumb brushes your clit, and your body jolts in response.

“Hwi,” you moan, kissing his temple as your eyebrows furrow in pleasure. “It feels so good. You feel so good-”

He growls in satisfaction, your name leaves his lips like a prayer—hoarse, wild. “I can feel you through the bond,” he gasps. “Every pulse, every squeeze—fuck, it echoes in me—I’m going insane with it—”

Your walls tighten around his fingers, your breath stuttering. You grip his hair and moan into his mouth as he kisses you through it, slow and deep and so loving it aches. And when you come undone, trembling, pulsing around his fingers—he kisses you like he needs it to survive. Like your pleasure is oxygen. Like he feels the intensity of your undoing.

He pulls back only when your body softens against him, watching you pant and tremble in his lap. Then, without a word and without tearing his eyes off yours, you watch as he raises his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean—moaning low, possessive heat flashing in his eyes.

“Every drop of you is mine,” he growls, licking the corner of his lips. “You taste like spiritfire. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and could never reach—until you let me.”

His words send a jolt of arousal through you. Endless heat pooling at your core. For him. A sudden idea pops into your head. You barely recover before you lean forward, lips brushing his neck, your hand drifting low with intent. He freezes as your fingers brush his waistband.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice husky, breathless.

You smile softly, gaze heated. “You’ve tasted me,” you whisper. “Isn’t it only fair I get to taste you?”

His eyes go wide. “My love… you don’t have to—”

You kiss his neck, then down his torso, across his abdomen until you plant a kiss on his hipbone and feel him twitch. “I want to,” you say. “Let me give you a preview of your birthday gift…”

He groans, head falling back as your fingers slide beneath his waistband, breath shuddering with anticipation. Your fingers wrap around him—thick, flushed, twitching with need—and stroke him once, slow.

Hwimori’s head snaps back. A breathless moan rips from his throat, desperate and shaking.

“Gods—your hands,” he pants. “Soft… warm… like they were made just to touch me…”

You pull the waistband of his shorts and his cock springs free. Hot and huge against your face. Hwi looks down at the sight of you kneeling before him in awe. Watching how you look so pretty next to his aching shaft. He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear lovingly.

You stare at his member before you, albeit a little bit intimidated as there’s no way that’s all going to fit in your mouth. As if he could read your mind he says gently, “You don’t have to baby. You can just take what you can, or even-”

His sentence it cut short as you lean in, tongue trailing up his length in one long, slow stroke—and he chokes on a groan so wrecked it echoes in your chest. “F-fuck—” His thighs jerk beneath you. His claws tear faintly into the couch cushions, muscles trembling. “Baby, don’t—don’t tease me like that—”

But you do. Again.

Your tongue trails ever so slowly from the thick base all the way to the tip, swirling around the head of his shaft. Hwi’s head tilts back in pleasure, a helpless groan escapes him as he clutches his hands tight against the couch.

You look up at him through your lashes prettily, “But it’s so fun seeing you like this, Hwi…”

Your fingers flutter against the base and corners of him and it has him bucking his hips in desperation. Now you understood why they liked seeing you beg so much… this kind of power was something you could get drunk with. And seeing Hwi’s desperate reactions, how crazy you’re making him right now, was one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen.

"Fuck baby you're driving me crazy," he groans, “My love, please—”

You take him into your mouth—his tip brushing the back of your tongue—and he gasps. His whole body tenses under your touch. Then he breaks.

A cry, ragged and raw. His hands fly to your hair, trembling fingers carding through the strands, gently cradling the back of your head like you’re something sacred. “Fuck,” he groans at the feel of your hot mouth wrapped around him. He’s never felt this kind of pleasure before in his life, and it was driving him absolutely mad.

His hips buck just slightly—restrained. Worshipful. Still trying to hold himself back for you. He was quite girthy, so you took what you could in your mouth and used your hands to cover the rest. Your fingers wrapped around him, twisting in opposite directions.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he breathes, voice barely coherent. “You’re too much—I can feel everything—every flick of your tongue, every sound you make—gods, your mouth is heaven—”

You suck gently, cheeks hollowed, lips slick around him—and he keens, hands trembling. His body begins to shimmer. Veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. Ethereal demon markings pulse along his torso, crawling upward like wildfire. His beast is showing. His restraint, unraveling.

“You’re not just touching my body,” he gasps. “You’re inside my soul. I can feel it—every moan you make, I feel it in me, like I’m the one falling apart—fuck, baby—please—”

He thrusts gently into your mouth, hips rocking upward with a soft growl. The sounds he makes—raw, primal, completely lost in you—only make you want to worship him more. His hands are tangled in your hair, pushing you down gently to take more of him. You loved the sounds he was making. You loved how good you were making him feel. You look up at him from under your lashes and moan at the sight.

His face, flushed with heat and eyes hot with desire, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Like he’s careful not to break you but also holding himself back from thrusting in too deep into your mouth. He looked like you were undoing him from the inside out. You moan at the beautiful sight of him and he tips his head back hotly at the vibrations wrapped around him.

But then—his grip suddenly tightens, trembling.

“Stop—baby, stop—” he whimpers. “I’m gonna cum—gods—I can’t—”

He pulls you off with a wet gasp, eyes wide, chest heaving, cock glistening in the low light. He’s panting. Shaking. Eyes blown wide with lust and love and awe. You’re confused for a moment, a quick flash of insecurity rushes through you. Did he not like it—

“I need to be inside you,” he says, voice hoarse. “Now. I need it—I need you. Please—please—”

Oh.

He pulls you into his lap again, cradling you like you’re fragile. His face was filled with need and so much yearning. He wanted– no, needed you wrapped around him. Badly.

You smile slightly. He was so cute like this, and so hot. You shift on top of him. His hands fly to your ass, desperate and needy. You tilt his head up. Eyes molten pools of gold and violet. And without breaking eye contact, you line him up beneath you, and slowly, slowly, you sink down onto him.

And it shatters him.

Hwimori moans—loud and aching—head falling back, mouth open in a soundless cry. His claws dig into your hips like anchors, and his whole body trembles. You look at him, mouth parted slightly at the huge stretch of him sinking deeper into you. You moan and whimper at the feeling.

“You’re so warm—tight—fuck, I can feel your soul—” he gasps, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. His hands guide your hips lower, sinking himself deeper inside you. You feel as if there was no end. Every inch sinks in deliciously with a stretch, reaching places within you so deep it almost has you seeing stars.

You both grunt as he bottoms out, your head sinking into his shoulder as he stills inside you, allowing you to accommodate the sheer size of him.

“You feel incredible – fuck.” The last word is broken, shattered.

You start to move—slow, deliberate—rocking your hips against him with sensual grace. He gasps softly at the friction, hands tightening on your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Then his eyes meet yours. Wide. Wild. Awestruck. Shining like he’s beholding something holy. “You’re inside me too,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Every part of you… your heart, your voice… it’s echoing in my chest—I can feel you in my soul…”

“Really?” you breathe, stunned by the depth of it and his connection with you. Your body trembles. He nods, mouth parted, lips pink and kiss-swollen. “It’s like the bond has no beginning or end. Just you… burning in me.”

You lift your hips—slow, torturous. His cock drags along your walls and you feel him twitch inside you, thick and hot and pulsing. Then you drop your hips again, taking him deep—and he moans. It vibrates through both your chests, your moan echoing right after, the soulbond creating a perfect feedback loop of heat and pleasure.

You start to ride him—slow at first, letting him feel every wet drag of your walls. His hands explore you like he’s mapping the surface of a dream. They roam up your thighs, over your hips, along the delicate curve of your spine. He cups the back of your head with one palm, the other pressing into the small of your back as if he could hold your soul there forever.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs through gasps. “So powerful. So fucking mine.”

You roll your hips harder, drawing circles with your pelvis—and his eyes flutter, his body arching up into yours. Then you lean close, kiss his throat, and moan his name softly into his skin.

And it breaks him.

With a snarl, his hands shoot to your waist. He growls—a deep, primal sound—and in one quick, fluid movement, he flips you.

You barely register the shift before you’re on your hands and knees, breath caught in your throat, his chest behind you, his cock pressed at your entrance from behind—hard, throbbing, wild with need. And then he drives into you.

Hard.

You cry out, hands fisting in the cushions for support as his cock spears deep, reaching places unknown in this new position. The sheer force of his thrust makes you jolt forward—only for his arms to pull you back again, anchoring you against him.

He finds his rhythm. Deep. Powerful. Devastating. Like an beast on a mission to claim.

“Your scent,” he pants, voice guttural, animal. “Your voice—your fucking moans— they make me crazy. I want you messy. I want you needy. I want you like this every day.”

He’s slamming into you now, sweat-slick and burning hot. You cry out as his hips meet yours with obscene sounds, your skin echoing against his like drums to some ancient mating rhythm. His demon patterns were on full display now, no longer able to hold back any longer his primal urge to mark you, to claim you.

You arch back into him, sobbing out his name again and again—and it shreds what little restraint he had left.

He growls, fangs bared, and pushes your chest down flat into the velvet. Your cheek rests against the cushion, stomach flat against the couch, hips raised high as he looms over you, his weight pressing your back flat with his own.

Now he’s fucking you in earnest. Hard. Fast. Possessed. His lips drag across your spine, fangs grazing the curve of your shoulder. Your cries are muffled against the cushions. His nose presses into the crook of your neck, inhaling you like it’s all he needs to live.

“You were made for this,” he snarls, breath shaking. “To be mine. To take me—all of me. Gods, you fit me so perfectly. So fucking perfectly—”

Your moans crack into gasps, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. “Yours,” you mumble, almost deleriously against the velvet. “I’m yours, Hwi-”

Every thrust punches a cry from your lungs. Every kiss down your spine lights up your nerves like lightning. Your walls clench tighter and tighter—every stroke inside you driving you closer to a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.

“Let me mark you,” he begs. “Please. Let me leave something of me on you.”

You nod, helplessly. And he bites down on the side of your neck—not enough to break skin, just enough to claim. Your back arches under him, body trembling as he groans against your skin.

“I want you warm and full and mine,” he growls. “Let me fill you. Let me stay inside you.”

You scream his name as your orgasm crashes over you—twitching around him, sobbing, shattering. White hot pleasure sizzles down your spine and in your core as you close your eyes at the sheer intensity of it. The bond explodes in your chest. Your pleasure echoes into his—his hips falter, then slam one final time—

He moans your name as he cums. Buried deep. Hot, thick, endless.

He jerks as he empties himself into you, cock twitching inside your still-clenching walls, his breath catching as his entire body locks above yours. You feel every spurt of him flood you—so full you feel it dripping down your thighs.

His hands have yours pinned by your head, fingers intertwined and tight against yours as he crashes through his release. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. He just collapses over you. Breathing ragged. Arms caging you beneath him possessively. Nose in your neck.

And you—soaked, trembling, filled and full of him—let yourself melt beneath his weight. Safe. Claimed. His.

──────── SMUT ENDS ────────

“I’ll never let you go,” he breathes against your skin. “Even if all that’s left is instinct… I’ll love you in every form. Every time you’re born, I’ll find you. And I’ll love you again.”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, breath still shaking. “Yours, Hwi. You have me.”

His kiss is searing as he presses it to your cheek, your ear, your temple. And he whispers, broken and beautiful: “Mine.”

The bond pulses one last time. Then it quiets. Wrapped around each other. Hearts tangled. Souls glowing.

Beast and tether.

His weight is still pressed against your back—hot, heavy, anchoring. But his thrusts are gone now, replaced by slow, trembling breaths against the shell of your ear. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the bond and the thunder of two hearts tangled together.

You feel his arms tighten around your waist like he’s scared you might slip through them. “Hwi,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak at first—just buries his nose into your hair and breathes you in like a prayer. Then, softly, brokenly: “Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For… this. For you. For letting me—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to feel you like this. Not with skin. Not with hands. Not like this…”

You turn in his embrace, and he lets you, gently helping you onto your back. He hovers above you, eyes shining with something too big to hold. “I was never supposed to be this,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I was a spirit. A guardian. A thing without touch, without form. But I would've given it up a thousand times over. I did—for you.”

He lowers his forehead to yours, his silver lashes brushing your skin. “If falling from grace means I get to hold you like this—love you like this—I’d fall every time.”

Your throat tightens, your heart breaking and healing in the same breath. “You’re not fallen,” you say, gently brushing his cheek. “You just… came home.”

He swallows hard, eyes closing at your touch. He kisses your palm, your wrist, then your chest—over your heart. And stays there, listening. “I’ll love every version of you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even the pieces you haven’t met yet. Even the parts that change.”

You take his face in your hands, and he melts into them, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. “Thank you.” You say, “For always reassuring me. For loving me like this. Hearing you say things like that, makes it sound too good to be true.” You sigh, “I can’t believe you want to be mine-”

“I only ever knew how to be yours,” he says, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be anything else. And now that I’ve had you like this… I can’t go back.”

Your breath hitches.

“I live to worship you,” he whispers. “To care for you. Provide for you. Cherish you. Love you. Every version. Every life. Every shape you take.”

Something in you shatters. You let out a soft sound—half sob, half laugh—and press a thousand kisses to his shoulder, his collarbone, his cheeks, his hands.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” you whisper. “To be loved like this. After years of solitude. Loneliness…”

He hushes you gently, laying his head against your chest as you softly play with his hair. “I’m here now,” he says. “You won’t ever be without me. Without us.”

His arms tighten again around your middle. His voice is quieter now, small and honest. “I won’t just stand by this time,” he promises. “I won’t let the world take you from me again. I don’t care what I become. I’ll fight fate, gods, time—everything. I’ll bare my teeth and rip the stars down if they try to take you.”

You smile faintly through the warmth in your chest. “Sounds like my beast.”

He grins, eyes glassy with emotion. “I’d burn the sky just to keep you in my arms.”

Then he shifts, wrapping you in his shirt and lifting you in his arms. Your head rests tiredly on his shoulder as he walks and carries you to your room.

Opening the door, he walks over to the bed and places you on it gently. He gets in right next to you—pulling the blanket over both of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tucking you close until your legs tangle and your bodies settle in perfect symmetry.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Sleep now, my love. I’ll guard your dreams.”

And you do. Wrapped in his warmth. His scent. His soul.

Belonging. At last.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Mystery/ Hwimori gets his turn on this one. Wrote this with all my Hwimori girls in mind. I figured his go would be a bit different as he's a soulbeast and always had this type of spiritual connection to the reader. Seeds of doubt slowly creep into her mind in this one as well. Hwi silences them for now, but who knows where they'll go in the next chapters. I think you all know who comes next ;) Let me know what you guys think, and as always, thank you for reading! Much Love, Willa x

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kamaluhkhan · 7 months ago

Text

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 10.5k summary: after years away, vi returns home for the holidays and reunites with you, her ex-girlfriend. the universe (*cough cough* and your meddling families) push you together again, and neither of you can ignore the feelings that linger. (or: you, vi, and the ghosts of christmas past, present and future.) warnings: reader is ekko's older sister but not necessarily biological so appearance isn't specified; childhood friends to lovers + second chance romance; reader gets hit on by a creepy guy + gets into a fight (injury + blood mention), smut [strap mention (reader receiving), oral (both receiving), fingering (both receiving), biting, spitting, tribbing, sub!vi makes an appearance...kinda rough + possessive sex but there's aftercare too <33] (18+) ! a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR GIRLS AND GAYS <33 tbh i debated whether to post this now bc xmas was like....3 weeks ago but figured i might as well. so pls enjoy what is essentially an x-rated sapphic hallmark holiday movie.

♪: ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift (sun); winterbreak by MUNA (moon); last christmas by wham! (rising)

track 1: thank god it’s christmas by queen

(winter — age 17)

“okay, just relax your fingers — no, but keep some tension, apply a bit of pressure on the string….yep, that’s better. now, straighten your back….”

it’s dark and snowing outside, and the cold’s seeping in through the window of her attic bedroom, but vi still almost melts into the floor when you follow her advice and press against her chest. she worries that you can feel how fast her heart is beating — faster than it maybe should for someone she’d been calling friend ever since she could remember.

you shift in her lap, her arms still wrapped around yours from when she offered to guide you through an instrumental version of wham’s “last christmas.” you tilt your head towards her, nose almost brushing against hers.

“vi?”

“....yes?”

“maybe we should finish our lesson another time. we better hurry up, anyways. i bet ekko and powder are already arguing over whether we should watch home alone or home alone two.”

vi snorts. it’s practically a tradition at this point, along with the annual post-christmas-dinner pyjama movie night.

you try to hand her the bright pink guitar pick, but vi shakes her head.

“it’s yours. you’re gonna need it if you want more lessons.”

“hm, or maybe i could sell it for a billion dollars once you’re a big rockstar,” you tease. “i can picture thousands of fangirls painting your portrait and writing mrs. violet lanes in their notebooks.”

you get up, shoot her a wink, and leave vi on the bed, clutching her guitar and trying to get her pulse under control.

neither of you say anything as you both get changed. the stereo plays the mixtape you’d made for her — you got her for secret santa this year.

“my mom loved this song,” vi hums, a warm ache growing in her chest when the next song plays. this is the second christmas without her, but vi is still not used to using past tense. “she thought freddie mercury was the best rockstar of all time.”

“i remember. you…you must miss her.”

of course she does, and she could run through a million reasons why.

“vander says you’ll be spending new year’s at your dad’s,” is what she says instead.

you let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “yeah.”

“your mom going, too?”

“just me and ekko. i swear, it’s like he’s trying to be this perfect dad to his new stepkids, meanwhile he’s the one who left us here to deal with his mess, the one who just ran away, and….whatever.” this time, you do scoff. “hey – do you have a shirt i could borrow?”

vi looks over to find that you’ve switched from the velvet dress you wore during dinner into a pair of flannel plaid pants; her cheeks flush when she sees that you’re only wearing a black lacy bralette on top.

she clears her throat and pulls a clean jersey from her dresser, tosses it over to you.

“that’s a shame. i was looking forward to spending new year’s eve together.”

you hum and slip the shirt over your shoulders. the only sources of light are the moon and the stars and the multicoloured christmas lights strung along vi’s walls, but she swore that your eyes flick down to her lips.

“why’s that?” you ask.

there’s something absolutely dizzying about being this close to you, the way your sparkly eyes wait patiently for her to respond. joni mitchell sings about skating away on a river, and vi wishes she could skate away from this conversation, but there’s nowhere to go.

vi blinks away from your gaze and fixates on one of the many things she’s pinned up on her bedroom walls throughout the years. it’s a page torn from an old notebook of yours, something from seventh grade math class, but vi always loved your little drawings in the margins.

vi?” you prompt, never one to let go easily.

“i want to kiss you at midnight,” she confesses.

“yeah?”

vi nods. she’s tempted to walk out of her room, down the stairs and out into the winter night, until you weave your fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. she looks up — and you’re beaming, a smile that brightens vi’s entire being.

“i want that too.”

vi finally, finally crashes her mouth onto yours, lips sticky with marshmallow fluff.

you taste like vanilla and gingerbread and hot chocolate that is definitely not spiked with irish cream that vi slipped into your mugs while you distracted the adults.

you taste like home.

….

so, slight change of plans….i’m gonna stay here in london with the rest of the band. apparently the kirammans throw a super fancy holiday party with super fancy people every year, and cait convinced her parents to let us perform. fingers crossed someone important discovers us.

merry christmas, baby. and, if i don’t get the chance to say it: happy new year.

….

track 2: winter wonderland by darlene love

(winter — age 12)

you’re supposed to be looking after ekko while your parents are at work, but all that really means is making a big bowl of kraft dinner and stove-top s’mores for lunch and watching old christmas specials on the worn-out living room couch while you draw in your sketchbook and your brother, only 7 years old, programs the doorbell to play ‘jingle bells.’

when someone rings the doorbell, the tune floats through the house and wakes up your dog who starts barking like it’s the end of the world.

“easy, ziggy.” you click a marker closed and run a hand through the husky’s fur, attempting to calm him down. “let’s go see who it is.”

you open the door, and there’s vi: snowflakes sparkling on her eyelashes, pink hair hidden under a knitted hat, and a toothy grin that brings out the dimple in her flushed cheeks. she’s also got a split lip and crooked nose from her last hockey game.

“we’re building a fort,” she tells you. she shuffles to the side so that you can see powder, who’s making a snow angel. “well, we’re going to. wanna join?”

you nod, smiling. “ekko!”

your brother’s already behind you, slipping on his chunky boots and oversized coat that used to be yours before running outside and collapsing onto the fluffy snow next to powder. ziggy bolts outside, too, running circles around them.

you stumble to get your winter gear on as fast as possible, the cold air rushing inside your front hallway as vi waits for you, kicking her snowy boot against the concrete entryway step. not even a heartbeat after shutting the door behind you, vi takes your gloved hand in hers and pulls you forward, the two of you a flurry of laughter.

…..

hey, pretty girl. i was at this party and one of your songs came on! every time i hear it, i’m in awe of how amazing it is….how amazing you are. i’m basically walking home in a snowstorm, so i’m gonna go before my fingers freeze off, but i just wanted to say that i’m so proud of my rockstar girlfriend.

i was also wondering: are you coming home any time soon? the holidays are coming up, and i really miss you. we all do.

…..

track 3: last christmas by wham!

(winter — now)

vi should have learned from sonic youth and fleetwood mac:

no sex or romance between bandmates. it never ends well.

it was bad enough giving into the rumors and fooling around with cait, but it’s another layer of messiness now that cait and maddie dating. meanwhile, cait is very much still bitter towards vi, vi is very much pining after someone whom she’s pretty sure never wants to see her again, and steb and lorris are very much caught in the middle. it’s no wonder the band’s manager suggested everyone take some time apart to ease the tension. frankly, while others protested, vi was almost relieved at the suggestion.

so cait’s off to london, maddie’s off to glasgow, the boys are going god knows where, and vi —

vi’s heading back home, back to you.

she wakes up in the bed of her childhood for the first time in a long time. her dad put on fresh sheets, but they’re still the same ones from back then — worn flannel with cartoon penguins. it takes a lot of willpower to untangle herself from the warmth and cloud-like softness, but eventually she heads downstairs to the kitchen.

powder still has exams so she’s not home from college until tomorrow, and vander’s gone to work. it’s just vi in her too-small christmas pyjamas (she has yet to unpack), eating a box of stale cinnamon pop-tarts for breakfast even though it’s well past noon. curiosity gets the best of her, so she peers through the window to see if anyone is next door.

your mom’s car is in the driveway, completely snowed in. there had only been a dusting of snow while vi was devouring the first pastry, but four pop-tarts in and it’s about doubled. she waits until the snow stops falling; with nothing better to do and a sugar rush to burn off, vi pulls on her old winter coat and snow boots she hasn’t worn since she was 18, grabs a shovel from the garage, and gets to work.

it doesn’t take her long to clear the driveway, and she has some adrenaline to spare, so she decides to be a good neighbor.

vi’s heaving one last shovelful of snow over her shoulder when she hears:

“violet? is that you?”

she turns around. and, okay the first thing she registers is ziggy running towards her, the husky toppling her over into the snow.

“i missed you too, zig,” vi laughs.

she gets up as ziggy’s still bounding around in the snow, and sees your mom standing in the doorway, looking a little more tired and a little more gray. but the smile on her face when she sees that it is, in fact, vi — it’s so bright that the snow might not exactly melt away, but the years sure do.

vi remembers making snow angels with you while your moms gossiped over tea, how the two of you would stomp inside with a mess of slush and snow while laughter echoed from the living room. vi remembers your mom keeping a comforting arm around her shoulder through her mom’s funeral while you held her hand. she remembers your mom helping her pick out the perfect corsage to match your suit at prom, making a joke about how next time it might be an engagement ring, and telling vi how proud her mother would have been of her at your high school graduation party.

with the golden glow of nostalgia comes a crashing wave of guilt at what vi said to you last time you spoke.

“come inside, sweetheart. i’ll make you some hot cocoa as a thank you.”

vi is tempted to reject the offer, but your mom looks so hopeful and vi’s fingers are about to freeze off, anyways.

so your mom makes hot cocoa as vi defrosts, the two of them chatting in the familiar yellow kitchen that you and vi once almost burnt down while trying to bake a cake for powder’s birthday. even the magnets and paper memories decorating the fridge are the same, with the addition of an article about vi’s band that was featured in the rolling stone, pinned up by a ceramic cow.

“she’s an art teacher now,” your mom tells vi after giving an update on ekko. she glances at the oven clock. “speaking of which — i know you just finished shoveling our driveway, but do you mind helping me with another favor?”

“after the world’s best hot chocolate? anything.”

“i told my daughter that i’d pick her up from work, and i’m wondering if you would be able to take care of that.” your mom smiles. “i’m sensing a bad migraine coming on.”

the last sip of hot chocolate trickles down vi’s throat like cement. she knew she’d be seeing you, but didn’t quite plan for how that….reunion might go.

“of course,” vi says.

vi puts both of their mugs in the dishwasher, about to grab the car keys from the hook by the door when your mom calls out:

“oh, and violet?” vi turns around. “i’m so glad you’re home.”

you’re talking to a student when vi enters the art room of your old high school. nothing else in the building had changed — same boring concrete, same scratched up lockers, same graffiti immortalizing whom hooked up with whom. this room is the exception, vibrant with how students’ art is displayed all around, paintings and drawings and collages, and you’ve strung up multicolored christmas lights that give the whole space a cozy ambiance. you look the part of a cool, young art teacher: wearing a simple dark purple turtleneck tucked into black jeans and the same combat boots you’ve had since tenth grade, paint stains on your skin that is exposed by rolled up sleeves, and a marker behind your ear. you’re standing in front of an easel, talking to the student who happens to notice vi before you do.

“holy shit. is that violet lanes?”

vi watches as your face scrunches up in confusion, and then falls into shock when you see her standing there.

“it seems that it is violet lanes,” you state coolly while the student squeals. “what are you doing here?”

“oh, i, uh,” vi clears her throat, her palms sweaty. why is her body reacting like she’s a teenager about to ask out her crush for the first time? “your mom wasn’t feeling great, asked if i could pick you up from work.”

“you guys are friends?” the student asks, eyes wide as they flick between you and vi.

“we used to date, actually,” vi clarifies. wrong move, she realizes, because you can’t help but glare at her.

“oh my god.” the student squeals again and reaches in their pocket to whip out their phone. “i need to tell alyssa that ms. l/n was in a relationship with the violet lanes. are you guys gonna get back together? oh my god, have you come to win her back —”

“layla,” you clip, and by the furrow of layla’s brow, it seems like you’re not usually so stern. you smile at layla, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’ve done some great work today, but you’ll have to finish this when we’re back from winter break. do you mind giving ms. lanes and i a minute?”

layla nods once, gathers her things. when she walks past vi, she can’t help but ask for an autograph. vi complies, of course, even lets her take a selfie. a fan is a fan, after all.

and, quite frankly this is the only part of being in the band that she still enjoys: hearing how excited young girls are at the music she writes, the music that vi wished she had growing up, about girls liking girls, about girls falling in and out of love with each other. everything else is just an occupational hazard that vi’s getting more and more fed up with.

when vi turns her attention back to you, you’re finished putting all the material away, wiping your hands with an already paint-stained towel.

“i meant what you’re doing back in town,” you explain, not quite meeting vi’s eyes. you pack away some books and your laptop into a supple leather briefcase, and slip on your coat. vi’s cheeks flush when you catch her watching you.

“it…it doesn’t matter. i’m here for a while, though.”

you sigh. “okay.” and you don’t say anything more. vi keeps up with you as you switch off the lights, lock the door, and stride to the parking lot in silence. when you get to the car, you extend your hand.

“i’m driving,” you say, gesturing at her to give you the keys. “we both know that you’re a terrible driver.”

“i’m not a terrible driver,” vi guffaws.

“says the lesbian who gives the rest of us a bad name,” you quip, a hint of a smile dancing across your lips, like the first bout of sun after a winter storm. “c’mon, pretty girl. i’m not giving up, so unless you wanna freeze to death….”

the nickname slips effortlessly from your tongue, so much so that you don’t even seem to realize it, but vi’s breath hitches and she’s more than happy to fold to your every whim if it means hearing you call her pretty one more time.

“so….” vi glances over at you from the passenger seat. a snowy landscape passes outside the window, and you tap on the steering wheel to a generic christmas song that plays through the stereo. “you’re teaching high school now?”

she wonders if you remember the last fight you had, almost two years ago to the day.

you keep your eyes on the road. “yeah. guess i graduated from finger-painting with kindergarteners.”

vi feels her cheeks heat up all over again.

so, you do remember.

she wonders if you’ve replayed it over and over again and hoped for a different ending like she did. she should have thought more about what to actually say to you —

“you know, i never understood why you liked this song so much,” you suddenly say when the radio starts playing dolly parton’s cover of ‘i’ll be home for christmas.’

vi can read between the lines, but she’s waiting for you to point out the irony in her preference for a song that’s about someone wanting to go home for christmas, something vi has deliberately avoided at all costs these past few years.

“it just seems kinda sad,” you continue.

“you love ‘last christmas,’ and that one’s pretty sad,” vi points out.

“sure, but it ends hopefully.”

“oh?” vi tilts her head towards you. “how’d you figure?

“sure, it’s someone singing about heartbreak and how much it sucks during christmastime, but then there’s this hope that they still find true love down the line. it’s a maybe that isn’t hopeless.” you shrug. “meanwhile, your song ends with the lyric ‘if only in my dreams,’ which just seems too accepting of the fact that going home for christmas, being with the person they love — it might just be a dream.”

“i don’t know. some dreams do come true,” vi muses.

by now, you’ve made it home. you put the car in park but keep the engine going, presumably to avoid becoming icicles. neither of you make a move to leave.

you glance over at vi. “your dreams sure came true, ms. violet lanes,” you joke, but there’s an air of sadness to it.

“not all of them.”

“yeah? which ones haven’t?”

vi swallows the lump in her throat and hopes that you understand the look in her eyes. “let’s just say i’m working on them.”

you blink away and cut the engine.

….

you’re still dealing with the shock of seeing vi back in town when your brother, freshly home from college, suggests going skating.

he can be fairly convincing, especially when he mentions that it’s a christmas season tradition, so, you prepare for what is essentially a double date with your brother, his girlfriend/your ex-girlfriend’s sister, and your ex-girlfriend, with isha as a fifth wheel.

should be fun.

it turns out, despite all her past hockey experience, vi really cannot skate. in fact, skating seems to be the complete opposite of riding a bike: she’s terrible at it after years off the ice, essentially reenacting that scene from bambi. it’s easier to ignore vi’s presence when she’s sitting next to the snack bar, by herself, but then powder skates up next to you and asks if you’d be kind enough to please help her sister have a good time. you roll your eyes at her shit-eating grin, but it is a bit sad, watching vi on the sidelines. she’s wearing a beanie and a pair of sunglasses to hide her identity, and now she kinda looks like a divorced dad watching his grown kids pass him by while he’s stuck in a midlife crisis.

you convince vi to give skating another shot — it’s tradition after all — and pull her out onto the rink. you start by holding her from behind, keeping her hips steady until she gets the hang of it. you try to let go, but vi stumbles and reaches out for your gloved hand, and you melt into the familiarity of her fingers curled around yours. the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, first with you pulling vi along, then with her taking the lead, until vi almost knocks into a small child.

“see what i mean by you being a bad driver?” you jest, successfully maneuvering to avoid collision.

then, you follow where vi’s eyes have settled — on powder and isha laughing and chasing each other around the rink. vi had asked earlier when isha had dyed her hair blue; you still have some residue under your nails from last weekend, when powder came for a study break and the three of you ended up helping isha achieve a new look she’d apparently been itching to try.

“you know powder’s graduating this year?”

“she overloaded her credits so she could get out of there as soon as possible,” you explain, having had many conversations with powder leading up to the decision.

vi nods, her jaw clenched. you already know what she’s thinking, and frankly, you agree: that vi hasn’t been here, literally and figuratively. you also feel the warmth of vi’s skin radiating through her glove to yours, notice the slight flush to her freckled cheeks, how chapped her lips are from the cold, so much so that you’re tempted to share the vanilla chapstick you’ve got on your own lips, to kiss her deeply like you did last time you were here, together.

it’s only been three days since vi’s been back home. this is only the second time you’ve seen her, and you’re already falling back into old patterns, tempted to ask her to stay, to try again, even though you already know the answer.

except….not staying isn’t the deal breaker it used to be, so maybe trying again isn’t as hopeless as you think it is.

vi squeezes your hand, and you realize that you’ve stopped skating entirely.

“hey. you still with me?”

you nod, decide to enjoy this moment for as long as you can, and the two of you glide across the ice.

…..

when you suggest making stove-top s’mores, it’s another item on the list of things she’d missed.

a list that’s been growing a lot these past few days.

vi offers to make more once you’ve all run out, and ekko follows her into their kitchen while you, powder, and isha keep watching christmas specials in the living room. she turns on the gas stove, stabs a marshmallow through a wooden skewer and waits for it to roast — and, for ekko to say something.

“i don’t know what happened between you and my sister, but i need you to promise me that the tabloids aren’t true. that you and that kiramman chick didn’t hook up…at least until after y’all broke up.”

“or, what, you’re gonna challenge me to an arm wrestle? think you can finally beat me?”

“oh, i know it.”

a pause. the marshmallow catches on fire and vi blows on it to quell the damage.

“i didn’t cheat on her.” she throws out the burnt marshmallow and gives it another shot. “i would never. does….does she think i did?”

ekko shrugs. “not sure. some of those articles are pretty convincing. but, since you’re promising me that you didn’t…”

“i didn’t.”

“then that saves me from kicking your ass.” ekko nods once and uncrosses his arms, handing vi some graham crackers and chocolate. “actually, i could use your help with something.”

“sure.”

“she applied to this great art residency in new york, like, on whim. the only people she’s told are me, powder, and vander….i think she’s nervous to tell mom, at least until she knows for sure she’s gotten in, but this is the most excited i’ve seen her be about something in a while, and she worked really hard on her application…”

“i’m sure she did,” vi states. “what do you need my help with?”

“convincing her to go.”

“i’d love to help, but i’m not sure i’m someone she’d wanna hear from, especially about this. she was never a fan of me leaving to pursue my dreams.”

“she was never a fan of you leaving,” ekko corrects. “she’s still a fan of you pursuing your dreams.” he juts his chin out at the article stuck to the fridge.

vi had just assumed that your mom had pinned that up.

“okay.” vi says. “i’ll talk to her.”

a plateful of semi-burnt s’mores later, and vi and ekko return to the living room with the rest of you.

vi forgot how nice this felt, all of you cuddled on the couch, ziggy included, watching how the grinch stole christmas. she half expects her mom to walk in through the door without even knocking, shake the snow off her hair, and hold up a batch of pre-baked gingerbread people she’d gotten for the kids to decorate.

but that’s not happening. other than isha, none of you are kids anymore and things can never be the same.

and yet — you glance over at vi and give her a sticky marshmallow smile, and she feels her heart grow three sizes.

….

baby, i swear it’s not what it looks like. the record label thought it would be good promo to get a picture of me kissing under the mistletoe…’tis the season and all that…..cait and i were both really drunk and things got a bit out of hand….but it looks worse than it is. i swear on my mother’s grave that nothing happened.

please call me back, baby…..i’m so fucking sorry….please.

it’s not christmas without at least hearing your voice.

….

track 4: river by joni mitchell

(winter — age 23)

it’s hard to believe that hours ago, you were kissing vi backstage and showering her with praise after the concert. she was happy to indulge in your excitement, even though she was all sweaty and her ears were still ringing from the crowd.

more than happy, in fact. phone sex can only go so far, and it’d been too long since vi had seen you writhe and heard you whimper for her firsthand.

“i missed you so fucking much,” you groan, tightening your grip on vi’s hair. it’s now an inky black instead of fuschia — the band’s starting to lean more punk rock.

a particularly hard thrust is her way of telling you that she missed you too. so fucking much. she throws your legs over her shoulders, pushing the strap deeper inside you and digging her knees into the mattress as she coaxes you through another orgasm. you pull her down for one last searing kiss, your tongue searching each crevice of her mouth.

“i can’t believe you’re here,” vi continues a few moments later, after you’re both cleaned up and getting dressed. she wants to add something along the lines of i love you, but she bites back the sentiment. she’ll save that sappy shit for later tonight, when she finally gets down on one knee for you.

you glance back at her from where you’re pulling out a sparkly silver dress from your side of the closet (and isn’t that such a slip of the mind? your side, as if it’s a shared closet and a shared bedroom and a shared home; if she thought about it more, though, she would realize that, though she has no problem asking you to marry her, she’s still terrified at the thought of staying in one place for more than a few months).

“me neither,” you smile.

vi walks over to you, presses her half-dressed body against your lingerie-clad form (vi’s sure you wore this fuschia set just to drive her insane; it’s working). she lodges her hand behind your ear and pulls you in closer, kisses you deeply because you’re here and she missed you so fucking much and she’s so ready to make you her wife.

she could write a whole record just about the taste of your lips: the sweetness of vanilla chapstick, the saltiness of sweat and the headiness lingering from the wetness you lapped up from between her legs.

you pull away first. vi tries not to stare at how your chest heaves, your breasts straining against intricate lace.

“we, um.” you clear your throat. you slip your hand underneath vi’s blazer, and she groans when you make contact with the exposed, burning skin of her abdomen. vi thinks you’re about to suggest another round, or two, or ten, but instead you untangle yourself from her and say: “we should probably get ready.”

the after party is going well. the club’s busy, the music’s good, and the drinks are flowing.

you seem to be having a great time until someone (probably cait or maddie, on cait’s behalf) lets it slip that the band’s heading to london later in the month to start recording their new album before the end of the year….something vi decidedly did not want to tell you until later tonight, after the high of the proposal, after she’s promised you that she’s dedicated to this relationship, that she’s always been dedicated to you.

instead, vi’s trailing behind you as you angrily stomp towards the bathroom, her mind scrambling to come up with a way out of this argument.

there’s a line, but you cut in front and slip inside as soon as someone walks out.

“wait, what the fu —”

you slam the door and lock it behind you once you’re both inside, ignoring the subsequent banging and jiggling of the handle.

“please, baby, let me explain —”

“i can’t fucking believe you,” your voice is steady, measured, and for some reason that makes vi even more nervous. “you give empty promise after empty promise that you’ll be more present, but something always gets in the way, is always more important than —”

“don’t you dare say that you’re not important to me. i offer to fly you out anywhere to be with me, but you’ve only taken me up on the offer once. twice, now.”

“it’s been five years, vi. five years of us staying together because….god, at this point i don’t even know why — ”

“do you not understand how much i love you?” vi raises her voice over the sound of the club music outside. “i was gonna propose tonight.”

you stare at her, then start to laugh.

“please tell me you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“if you think marriage will save us, then you’re delusional. what was your plan — call me your wife while we’re thousands of miles apart, but not even have the time to answer my calls? we’re barely in a relationship now, vi. all that’s left between us are missed calls and voicemails —”

“oh that’s really all that’s left between us?”

“i love you, violet. i have since we were kids. but, now, there’s also all this — the parties, the crowds, the fame….you’ve gone all over the world, and you can’t even be bothered to visit your family during the holidays.”

“well i’m sorry that my ambitions are bigger than that nothing town we grew up in,” vi snaps. “i can’t believe you’re throwing a tantrum because i’m not making it home for christmas. for what? so we can all reminisce by the fireplace, pretend that we can be kids again, even though things can —” vi chokes back a sob, soothes it with a healthy dose of anger. “things can never be the same. you need to grow the fuck up.”

“maybe you should be the one to grow up!” you finally yell. “convincing yourself that this relationship is working, meanwhile you’re running away from everything and everyone you grew up with because it reminds you of your —”

“at least i’m not afraid to actually go after my dreams,” vi cuts you off before you can finish that sentence, uses the broken shards of your words against you. “don’t you want more for your life than finger-painting with a bunch of kindergarteners? you’re gonna end up just like your deadbeat mom, going nowhere, drinking yourself to sleep, all alone, with nothing to show for the life you’ve lived.”

as soon as the words leave her mouth, vi wishes she could take them back. you don’t bother swallowing your tears, letting them rush down your cheeks. vi digs her nails into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and wiping them. it wouldn’t make sense, anyways. she’s the reason you’re crying.

you take a deep, shaky breath.

“yeah, well, i’m glad that your mom isn’t alive to see what a selfish asshole you’ve become.” there’s a pause, and vi feels her stomach turn at your casual cruelty, your quiet anger. “i’m gonna pack up my stuff and catch the first flight out of here. merry fucking christmas and happy fucking new year. have a nice life.”

vi screams and throws the velvet box against the door you’ve slammed shut behind you. the hot tears that were building in her throat finally boil over. the engagement ring clatters onto the floor.

…..

vi? it’s me. not sure if you’ve blocked my number. i wouldn’t blame you. i know it’s been, like, a year, but it feels weird not hearing your voice for this long, especially around the holidays. well, i guess i could just turn on the radio….it’s not the same, though. anyways, merry christmas. happy new year, too. and….and i’m sorry.

please come home.

…..

track 5: i’ll be home for christmas by dolly parton

(winter — now)

karaoke at the last drop used to be one of vi’s favorite christmas traditions, so you decidedly avoided it at all cost since the breakup. vander always tried to convince you to join, but he understood and even made sure to not give you a shift during that time after you started working there at 21.

you kept the job because, evidently, high school art teachers don’t make a ton of money, and you would one day like to move out of your mother’s house.

which, as it turns out, might happen sooner rather than later. you applied for this artist residency in new york, and, yeah, you put time and effort and heart into your application, but you were sure that you’d be rejected. while you got your acceptance email this morning, and you were so fucking overjoyed at first, the thought of leaving still terrifies you, so you’ll postpone worrying about that until after the holidays. that’s what they’re for, anyways: a break from reality, a peek into a cozy snow-covered world where everyone is festive and joyous and worry-free.

right now though, you’re feeling neither festive nor joyous. gert called in sick, and no one else is able to cover for them, so you’re stuck at the last drop on christmas eve, listening to one of your old high school classmates drunkenly fumble the lyrics of darlene love’s ‘christmas (baby, please come home).’

about three verses in, vi walks into the bar with mylo and claggor, flakes of fluffy snow melting into her grayish pink hair. you’re already pouring their drinks before they reach the counter. mylo and claggor offer their sincere appreciation, chattering away as they leave to snag a booth in the corner. vi stares at her drink before grabbing the beer glass.

“you remember.”

“are you surprised?”

vi smiles. “no. it’s just nice. cait keeps insisting i order gin martinis instead. says it’s classier.”

something sour curdles in your stomach. “yeah, well. i’ve always liked you the way you are.”

that probably ended up sounding like you’re still pining after vi (which you’re….not) rather than the bitter comment you intended it to be.

vi’s soft blue eyes search yours.

“i better get back to the boys,” she finally says. “maybe sign up for a song or two.”

you’re busy clearing a table when you hear her voice again. actually — a silence fills the bar, and it’s replaced by the lush rumble of vi singing ‘last christmas.’

you watch her as she performs, eyes locked on yours, and it’s over before you know it. you feel like you should go say something to her, but then there are a bunch of excited fans that she has to attend to, signing autographs, taking photos.

as you swallow your disappointment, the normal chatter of the bar resumes. you’re walking back to the kitchen when you feel someone pinch the back of your thigh, right under your ass. you whip around to find that old classmate who butchered a christmas classic an hour or so before (james, you think his name is, from ninth grade science), with the most arrogant smirk.

“hey, gorgeous. my friends and i were just arguing over who should take you home tonight.” he gestures towards a table of guys who look like equally preppy assholes. “i won the chugging contest.”

“good for you,” you say, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “grope someone in here again, and you’ll be sorry you did.” you turn around to get back to work, but james grabs your wrist and stands up abruptly so you’re chest-to-chest.

“i don’t think you understand what i’m offering, baby.” you gag at the nickname and the stench of beer on his breath. you’re a bartender, you’re used to getting hit on, but creeps like this are the worst.

you rip away from his grasp.

“i’m not interested,” you snap. “and i’m not your baby.”

“listen.” james puts his hands on your shoulders, and if both of your hands were free, you would promptly push him away. everyone’s having a good time and you don’t wanna cause a scene, so you try to think of ways to get this asshole out of the bar and into the snow without much of a fight. “you know, santa might come down your chimney on christmas eve, but if you’ve been a good girl this year i’ll come down your —”

“there you are!” powder’s voice is loud over the sound of someone singing another generic christmas carol. she knocks into your side, breathless. “sorry we’re late. had some car trouble.”

“well, hello.” he removes his hands from your shoulders, shifts his predatory gaze from you to powder.

oh, fuck no.

“powder,” you keep your voice steady even if your heart is racing. “go back to the table. i’ll be there in a sec.”

james reaches out for powder, but you punch him square in the jaw before he can so much as touch her, the tray of glasses crashing on the floor.

james’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only egotistical, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a blow to their ego.

in fact, he’s angry enough to deliver a punch right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but powder manages to catch you before you tumble into the broken glass. she holds you as people start yelling. you think that vander rushes over, too, shouting at james to get the fuck out of his bar and never step foot in it again.

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is all a bit fuzzy. powder tries her best, but you slump your body weight into hers and she almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” vi’s surprisingly calm voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you.

somehow, you find yourself in the bathroom, sitting on the counter as vi stands between your legs. she carefully examines your injury, but you notice how she avoids making eye contact.

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while.

“remember teaching me how to throw a punch?” the question slips past your lips before you can stop it.

vi looks slightly amused, and she finally meets your gaze. “‘course i do,” she hums. “you tried to convince me to help you start an all-female fight club at school.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the pain from your nose.

she remembers.

somewhere within her, vi holds on to fragments of you.

“thank god the principal vetoed it. would’ve been a disaster,” she continues.

vi wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of her silk red button-down now stained a darker crimson. “how’s your hand?” she asks.

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

vi smiles sadly. “i guess you’ve been the one protecting my sister while i’ve been away.”

while i’ve been away.

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart.

vi’s back home, sure, but only for a limited time.

her fingers graze your cheek, and the breath hitches in your throat.

“you know, i only wanted to start that fight club as an elaborate plan to spend more time together,” you confess, opting to preserve the delicate bubble of nostalgia you’d stumbled into together. “we were each so busy….i had studio, and you were always away at hockey games. it wasn’t realistic in the end, though.”

“i would’ve stayed if you asked,” she tells you, and you wonder exactly what she might be referring to.

you swallow the lump in your throat. “it’s what you loved, though.”

“but i - i loved you, more. you had to have known that.”

“yeah, well. i loved you, too,” you explain, and it’s clear that neither of you are talking about a lesbian fight club. “whether it was hockey, or music….as long your heart was in it, it was more worth it to let you go, to not stand in the way of your dreams.”

“you were my dream.”

you scoff, cheeks heating up, and look away. “you probably say that to all the girls.”

“no.” vi guides your chin towards her. “just the one.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on vi’s— messy, urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. she cradles your face in her hands, and you wrap your legs around her waist to bring her closer. you taste beer on her tongue, and maybe a hint of lime, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the adrenaline, but dizzy from her. vi’s gaze is heavy on yours as she traces your top lip with her thumb.

“vi,” you whimper, itching to kiss her again.

“you’re still bleeding.”

vi wipes away the blood with the sleeve of her shirt. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s a knock on the door. vander, wondering if you’re okay and if maybe you could hurry up and get back to work.

you can’t sleep that night. before, staying up on christmas eve was an elaborate operation to catch santa. now, it’s overthinking a very hot kiss and all the unresolved tension between you and your ex-girlfriend next door.

logically, you knew that you missed vi, everything about her and who she is, the way you would laugh and argue and make love. but the rush of feeling her tongue licking into your mouth, her body melding into yours after being apart for so long….

you’re scared that she won’t feel the same, but you’re even more terrified of letting the moment slip through both your fingers without at least trying.

so, you grab your phone, deciding to finally reach out to her, when by some christmas miracle you get a text from her.

she climbs through your window not long after, wearing plaid boxer shorts and a zaun university sweatshirt you’ve been looking for, for about five years. you didn’t bother to change, either, only wearing an oversized shirt. you sit cross-legged on your bed as she waits by the window. vi stares at your chest for a good few seconds, and you remember that you’re wearing one of her band’s concert tees, faded from years of wear.

“so, um,” vi starts, her voice as soft as the well-worn cotton of your shirt. “we have so much shit to talk about and figure out, but, i, uh, can’t stop thinking about early tonight —”

“vi.” the swarm of butterflies in your stomach is replaced by something more delicate, more urgent. “do you wanna come sit?”

vi swallows thickly, looking between you and the still open window. a winter breeze rushes through. you shiver, thinking she might just turn around and disappear into the cold night. instead, she shuts the window, removes her snow-covered boots, and settles onto the bed next to you.

you place a tentative hand on her cheek, still cold and slightly flushed. she shudders when you run your thumb over the tattoo under her eye.

“i know there’s a lot we have to work through.” you take a deep breath as she shifts closer, suddenly dizzy from the familiar scent of her winter pine old-spice body wash. “right now….right now, i just want you.”

“yeah?” vi smirks, her shyness melting away. she settles a warm hand on your bare thigh. “how do you want me?”

you exhale sharply when her hand travels higher, dull nails scraping at the fabric of your underwear.

“it’s cute that you’re flustered,” she quips, leaning in even closer. her breath is warm and heavy against your lips. “because i’ve spent so many night replaying all the dirty, nasty things we used to —”

you tug her sweatshirt and pull her back onto the bed, feeling her body solid against yours. the vibration of her groan shudders through your body when you crash your lips onto hers with such hunger, you’d think you had been starving without her.

“how’s about an encore, superstar?” you drawl.

you bite your lip hard at how vi nods at you desperately, eyes all dark and lustful.

“you read my mind,” she breathes. by now, her hand has reached the hem of your shirt, and she pushes up the cotton to reveal the supple skin of your stomach. you give her permission to remove it, leaving your top half exposed.

her lips nip and suck down your body until she reaches the waistband of your panties. she pulls it up with her teeth, the elastic snapping back when she lets go. you whine her name, and she looks up at you with dark eyes.

“can i?” her breath fans over your navel, her nails digging into your hips as she waits for your answer.

“yes. please.”

you hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but you could feel vi smirk against your inner thigh before sinking her teeth into it. you whimper, and vi salves her tongue over the area to ease the sting before removing your underwear. she positions your legs over her shoulders for better access to where you need her most.

vi moves her tongue and fingers in all the ways she remembers makes you shake, curl your toes, and grind down on her face. in return, you grip her pink hair, tightly, and utter praise in all the ways you remember makes her shake.

“just like that, pretty girl,” you encourage, practically melting into the mattress. it feels so good — dangerously good, intoxicating, even — to be devoured by vi. “keep doing a good job and i’ll return the favor later.”

vi’s moan vibrates throughout your body and she becomes faster, reaches her tongue deeper, bringing you over the edge. she leaves a few more bites on your body on her way up to meet you and when she does, vi’s lips and chin are shining with your release.

you lean forward slightly to lick it up. you ghost your mouth over hers.

“your turn,” you taunt and run your thumb over her tattooed cheek.

you twist your calf around vi’s leg and flip your positions. she lets out a yelp when her back hits the mattress. once you’re hovering over her, legs and arms on either side of her body, you do what you’re sure you’d never get tired of doing: you kiss her, passionately, deeply. you bite her lip as you pull away.

there was always a bit of jealousy that gnawed at you, became your very-own shoulder devil that you just couldn’t shake when you were together, no matter how hard you tried. it was no secret that vi was admired by many, that girls around the world were crushing on her, hoping they’d catch her eye, get their chance with her. you never felt like she was yours, and yours alone.

but you do get a deep satisfaction knowing that right here, right now, you’re the only person who gets to see her like this — pink hair splayed across the pillows like her very own halo, but the rest of her telling a much less-angelic, much more sinister story: her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her cheeks a devilish shade of red, her eyes dark and lustful and waiting for you to make the next move.

"you want me to have my way with you?" you whisper, voice honeyed with desire.

vi whimpers, a sound that fuels the fire in your abdomen. "yes."

you practically rip off her sweatshirt, kiss down her jaw, her neck, her exposed chest and sternum down to her stomach. vi lifts her hips from the bed so that you can remove her boxers, and you’re delighted to find nothing else underneath.

you’re greeted by her glistening pussy. blowing onto her folds, you run your tongue from her hole to her clit, loving how you already feel her slick coating your lips. vi spread her legs even wider, and you take the opportunity to sink two fingers into her cunt. you know her body, as well as you know your own, as well as she knows yours. you flick your gaze up, view slightly blocked by the pink curls of her bush, but you can still picture it — how her eyes roll back, how her mouth opens to release a perfectly delicious gasp.

"god, i've barely touched you and you're already about to cum. did you miss me that much?" you tease, feeling her clench around your fingers. as if you aren’t subtly rutting your hips against the mattress, eager to ease the throbbing between your legs.

all you get in response is whine. it’s muffled, and you crane your neck upward to see her biting down on her knuckles, so hard you’re worried she might break skin.

unacceptable.

the rest of the world gets to hear her every day, any time they please. you want to be serenaded by the lyrics of her want, the notes of her desire. all for you and you alone.

with your other hand, you reach up to pinch one of her pierced nipples, always so sensitive. "answer me, violet."

vi props herself up on her elbows to look at you, just as you remove your mouth from her.

"yes!" she sings, practically sobbing. you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the throbbing between your thighs intensify, hearing the frantic lilt of her voice — like she needs you and only you. "i missed you so fucking much. please, just do something."

at her request, you move up the bed so that the two of you are face to face, one of your hands holding her chin while the other is two fingers deep in her cunt. you add another, just to reveal in the timber of her sultry moan. she tries to bring her hand back, to quiet herself, but you shake your head.

with your thumb, you trace over her lips, uneven and scarred and imperfectly beautiful. "open."

vi obeys you instantly. you spit in her mouth, heart racing as you watch her swallow the combination of your saliva and her cum without question.

you continue fucking her with your fingers until she moans, louder and louder as she reaches her peak.

removing your fingers from her pussy, you lock eyes with her as you bring your syrupy fingers to your mouth and suck off her juices. then, you kiss underneath her ear, lips sticking slightly to her skin, and you whisper: "now i know why they say you have the voice of an angel.”

“fuck,” she exhales, the breath turning into a chuckle as you kiss underneath her chin, where you know she’s ticklish.

"one more time for me, okay, pretty girl? i want to feel you against me," you whisper. "i want to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

vi nods, allowing you to adjust your positions so that your cunts are touching. you start fucking her down into the mattress and she sits up slightly so that your nipples brush against each other, the cold metal of her piercings encouraging the roll of your hips, her nails digging into the curve of your ass to bring you impossibly closer.

“i missed you too. so fucking much,” you finally admit. you flick one of the silver rings before leaning down and wrapping your lips around her nipple.

“i missed these, too,” you add as you release her nipple with a pop, and vi moans. you’re grinning from ear to ear because, holy shit, vi is here and you’re together and you’re both happy, if only at the ecstasy of your silken cunts gliding against each other, at the taste of the other slicking your tongues, as thick as nectar and twice as sweet.

she laughs — love and magic and everlasting bliss — and you have to capture her lips now if you want to swallow the sound. you feel it bounce through your ribcage, awaken something deep within you that you feared was lost to time.

vi thrusts her hips upwards, presses harder against the seam of your cunt until you’re gushing against each other, not quite sure who’s making what mess.

strings of cum connect you as you remove your body from hers. for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath. vi drapes an arm over her eyes, chest heaving.

you throw on some clothes and leave the room, hoping that vi’s still there when you get back.

….

vi worries that if she opens her eyes, she’ll wake up from this dream.

she’ll be in some uncomfortable bed in london or tokyo or los angeles. the dull ache between her legs would be thanks to some girl who’d be eager to text all her friends and spill all the details about what vi likes in bed, or caitlyn who would tell vi to shave next time, darling, or i won’t let you fuck me again anytime soon.

instead, vi hears the creak of a door opening, feet tiptoeing along the floorboards. the mattress shifts with the weight of someone between her legs, though their body is not touching hers.

“vi, baby,” a gentle coaxing, a familiar voice, pulling towards something she forgot she needed. her heart soars when she finds you kneeling on the bed, holding a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in another.

“yeah?” her voice is hoarse, but her throat doesn’t sting in the same way it does after a concert. it feels tender, well-used, well-loved.

you hold out the cup of water, watch vi eagerly gulp down half of it before she realizes what she’s done.

“shit, i — did you want some?”

you smile and shake your head. “i had some downstairs after my shower.” it’s then that vi registers the water dripping from the ends of your hair, soaking the fabric of her (fine, your) sweatshirt. “i’m gonna clean you up. is that okay?”

vi nods.

okay? okay? vi thinks she might have whiplash.

it’s been a while since someone has fucked her so well she’d be satisfied for years and then touched her so tenderly afterwards. you run the damp cloth over vi’s sticky, sweaty skin, occasionally leaning down to press soft lips where you’d left teeth marks and bruises before.

“there.” you throw the cloth on the floor. “so, um. do you wanna stay….?”

you bite your lip as you wait for vi to answer. you start picking at your nail polish, too. vi sits up and grabs your hand.

“i do,” she soothes. “do you want me to?”

your smile brightens the entire room and you kiss vi before muttering:

“i do.”

vi slips on her boxers as you settle into the bed next to her, leaving her top half bare. she notices the sketchbook on your bedside table, and she lifts it up at you, a silent question if she can flip through. you take it from her as you shift to sit between her legs, her chest warm against your back. the room’s only illuminated by the string of multicolored christmas lights you’d left on, but vi can see the talent, the passion behind your work as you walk her through your sketchbook. you tell her about the techniques you’ve been working on and new mediums you want to explore, about how you want to make the kind of art that makes people appreciate the beauty in the everyday.

“i always loved your art,” she muses. vi cranes her neck slightly, places a kiss on your shoulder then one on your cheek. “the world would be more beautiful if you shared it.”

you hum and place the sketchbook on your bedside table. you each shift to your sides, facing each other; vi notches a leg around your hips, and you throw an arm around her waist, fingers trailing down her tattooed back.

“ekko talked to you, huh?”

“i would have said that even if he hadn’t,” vi promises. “so….have you heard anything yet?”

“well….yeah,” you sigh, smiling shyly. “i got in, actually.”

“really? that’s amazing, baby.” she beams at you, excitedly cupping your face in her hands, leaving small kisses across your cheeks until you’re giggling.

“okay, okay,” you laugh. “i don’t know if i’m gonna go yet.”

vi hums knowingly. she presses her forehead against yours.

“i know you’re scared, baby,” she says softly. “but sometimes it’s just a leap of faith.”

“i know.” you pause, gnawing at your bottom lip while your eyes fixate on the scar on her upper lip. “can i ask you something?

“anything.”

“when you proposed to me….” her body tenses up, but you brush your hand over her bicep and the tension in her muscles dissipates. “was that a leap of faith? like, were you scared?”

“well, not at first.” she takes a shuddery breath, her voice suddenly small. “i always thought that we’d be together….i just didn’t think through how we’d make it work, i guess. i didn’t mean to mess things up, though.”

“hey.” vi leans into the hand you cup around her cheek. “we both messed up. we never actually talked, you know? but….i’m glad we are, now.” you swallow. “i still love you, vi.”

vi exhales. “you know, girls tell me that they love me pretty much every day.”

you can’t help it — you roll your eyes, and vi laughs. because, truthfully, her heart has felt more full at your admission of love just now than it ever has for an area of screaming fans.

“there’s a point to this, i promise,” she says, nudging her nose against yours. “i used to get such a thrill from it….but then i think about what you said earlier. my heart — it’s just not in it anymore. all the band is now is drama and gossip and compromises of fame over art, and…. i don’t know. it’s not really what i want anymore. i want to be with you. for real, this time.”

you blink at her; she can feel your chest pulsing against hers like a hummingbird.

“would you, um, if i were to take that leap of faith and do that artist residency, would you —”

“anywhere you wanna go,” vi promises. she thinks about it a bit more….how nice it’s been to be home for the holidays, how nice it would be to come home year round. “preferably close enough so we can have dinner at home on the weekends.”

“sounds like a plan,” you smile.

the two of you twist closer underneath the flannel sheets, sink into the mattress, and gaze up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling until you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

you jolt awake a few hours later, several firm knocks on the door and ekko shouting:

“it’s christmas! get the fuck up before ziggy eats all the bacon!”

beside you, vi protects you from the frosty winter morning. her body radiates warmth, and her eyes flutter open, ever so slightly, as you gently shake her shoulder.

she groans, turning on her back, rubbing sleep from her eye.

“i better go.”

“....yeah.”

you flush when you glance over as vi’s slipping on her sweatshirt, rose-petal bruises delicate across her skin. she opens the window, hair still mussed up, and a gust of frigid air rushes into the room.

the image is so familiar: vi, one leg in your room and another out the window. you feel like a teenager again, scrambling to get dressed and avoid anyone hearing that you’d snuck your girlfriend into your room late at night. but there’s something else now, too — you imagine this becoming routine: waking up next to each other every day, swapping clothes, kissing over coffee and pancakes at breakfast. a place where the two of you might create some new memories, build a shared life together. and much more, so much more that feels like it could be your reality, sooner rather than later.

you’re so deep in thought that you don’t notice vi rushing back towards you. she kisses you and kisses you, until your lungs are burning.

"merry christmas, baby,” she mumbles against your lips.

you grin back at her. “merry christmas, vi.”

....

hi baby, i know you’re at studio right now, but i forgot to ask you this morning: how do you feel about sending out holiday cards this year? i know they’re kind of cheesy, but it seems like the type of thing married couples might do…..

anyways, we’ll talk about it when you get home. i’m test-driving this new recipe for brussel sprouts to bring to dinner at my dad’s.

i’ll see you later. love you!

3K notes · View notes

vinnyvamppp · 4 months ago

Note

You know that to be Desired fic you wrote? Would you be willing to write one Where Mainstream Mark finds out about his other versions wanting his childhood, he gets jealous and decides he has to have them in every way possible, and his other versions can go fuck themselves.

To Be Wanted

Note: Great minds think alike, I actually created this the day after the first one blew up and scrapped it. I'm going on a whim and making this as literal as possible before delving into everything.

Synopsis: He was wrong, he was foolish, and he's here to make up for his mistakes. Of course, you were always the better option, and no one else needs you the way he does. (To Be Desired ABRIDGED)

Warnings: Smut, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Multiple Sex Positions, Pussy Eating, Jealousy/Possessive, Porn w a Plot, Mentions of Anal, Slight Foot Fetish, Mentions of Other Variants, Switch!Mark Grayson, Switch!Reader (both are pretty subby), He needs that cookie real bad, etc.

Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,700 (Had to make it equal to the prequel)

Mark's knuckles ached from the last punch he threw— his breathing ragged as he hovered above the city, eyes locked onto him. Another him. He could charge headfirst immediately, but as his eyes landed upon the destruction and chaos wailing around him— he could only think one thing. I want to see her. You were independent and creative on the battlefield, but even he was angered and fearful. What if these versions of him convoluted your impression of him? He never had the chance to fully confess, and right now? he hated this with every fiber of his being.

The city was unrecognizable, reduced to a graveyard of twisted steel and crumbling concrete. While the screams of the dying were drowned beneath the thunderous collapse of once-proud skyscrapers. Ichor slicked the pavement—bodies crushed beneath rubble or torn apart mid-air—and through it all, the Variants rained destruction without hesitation like a merciless plague of living extinction.

He shot forward, propelling through clouds of smoke tickling him. Smoke settled in his mouth, tasting charred wood and something almost metallic, like blood burned to dust. It was acrid and suffocating, but now was a moment of clarity. He was bruised, costume tethered as blood seeped from cuts among his skin, knuckles bruised with his eye threatening to swell shut.

This needed to be the end of their tyranny, and soon.

As Mark’s body cut through the wind with an unparalleled determination, fist meeting bone with a nauseating crunch, the force of the strike vibrating across the man's face. The variant groaned, wiping a smear of blood from his mouth, before turning towards him with that smug, knowing grin. "You don't get it, do you?" he taunted. "I don’t blame you. You weren’t there when she finally realized she didn’t have to wait for you."

Mark’s heart slammed against his ribs. He knew what the man meant, of the power you possessed. The familial ability to pierce a tear in the universe and peak into what the future beheld. This was an opportune time for you to be dissuaded—he didn’t seem to be the only candidate pursuing you—not with them here.

"Shut up."

The Variant only chuckled, tilting his head. "They say the multiverse is infinite, but you know what every version of us wants? Her. And we don’t hesitate. We don’t string her along. We don’t let her slip through our fingers a second—"

A second time. He didn’t wish to acknowledge that he never chose you, even when fate had bound you two together. He was lovesickV that was his biggest fault. Mark grabbed him by the throat and drove him through a building before he could finish. Glass and concrete exploded around them as they crashed through another two stories. "You think I don’t hesitate because I don’t care?" Mark growled, pressing his forearm against his Variant’s windpipe. "You think I don’t want her?!"

The variant only smirked, even with his air supply cut off. "Then why am I the one she's been warming up to?" His eyes widened in pure panic and rage flashed white-hot in Mark’s vision. He reared back, ready to hit him again when—

"Mark?"

The sound of your voice cut through the chaos like a blade. His breath hitched, movements halting as if to show the hold you had on him. Your costume was worn—the usual well-manicured appearance now frazzled from wages of war, and dried blood flaked against your skin. That look on your face… was different from the ones he recalled in his childhood. The difference was that the fuzzy warmth you once had, was slowly fading into something neutral, common, amongst the glances you shared with everyone.

Mark turned, his heart lurching as he saw another variant landing just a few feet from you. This one wasn’t fighting. He was standing too close, looking at you like he already owned you. His lips are pursing to deceive you.

The Variant beside you reached for your hand. You were actually listening to him, just how many had found you by now? How many professed their love? "Come on. You don’t belong with him. Not when we—"

Mark didn't let him finish. In a blink, he was there— yanking the variant away from you and slamming him into the pavement so hard the ground cratered beneath them. "She’s mine," Mark snarled, gripping the Variant by the collar and lifting him up just to punch him back down. The variant spat blood— barely conscious, but Mark wasn’t done. "I don’t care how many of you there are," Mark seethed, throwing the variant across the street. "She’s mine. You want her? Go fuck yourself." His voice cracked with the sheer intensity.

After a long moment of silence, he turned to face you. Even after that display, you were left silenced. Truthfully, you had begun to consider their words— was it bitterness from his previous relationship with Eve? Or perhaps the feelings you forced yourself to bury? Being a hero made it easy to turn a blind eye, once you became resentful enough.

Mark’s breathing is shaky as he approaches you, his hands still trembling from the fight—from watching them try to take you, try to twist your mind into thinking they were better for you. It makes his stomach churn and his blood boil all over again. Because what if you had believed them? What if he’d been too late? When truthfully, they never stood a chance.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice lower now— steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. “I don’t care what the others told you. I don’t care what they promised. They’re not me.” He awaited a response. Your lips parted, hesitation flickering in your expression. Not because you didn't feel something for him—he could see it. It was the uncertainty. Maybe even a little of the possessiveness still lingering in his tone.

So he softened. Mark reached out, his fingers barely brushing over yours as a silent question before running his thumb over your knuckles. The warmth nearly caused him to shiver. "I should have told you," he murmurs. "A long time ago. But I kept holding back because I thought—I don’t know, maybe I’d ruin things, maybe you didn’t see me the same way. But I can’t do that anymore. Not after seeing them try to take you away from me." You understood what he meant. This was his apology for abandoning you. Leaving when you received your powers—when he got his first girlfriend— when you needed a friend.

You stare at him, searching his face, your breathing uneven from adrenaline. He leans in, close enough that you can feel the way his breath trembles against your lips. "Tell me you want this," he demands with desperation. Your fingers trace along his jaw— voice a hushed whisper. “You threw a guy into the pavement for me, Mark. What do you think I want?”

Your voice is low but firm as you yanked him against you. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Mark knows he should be careful, knows he shouldn’t let his emotions swallow him, but then you’re pulling him closer, your fingers threading into his hair—body molding against his like you’re giving him the permission he so desperately craves.

And just like that—his restraint snaps.

Your back is against the nearest wall before you can process it, his lips crashing into yours with a fervor that nearly steals your breath. It’s messy, desperate—his hands gripping your waist like he needs proof that you’re his. He makes a noise in the back of his throat—something between a gasp and a holy shit again—before his grip tightens.

He groans into the kiss, his fingers sliding under the torn edges of your costume, skimming over bruised skin. "God, you’re so—" He exhales sharply— lips trailing from your mouth down to the curve of your jaw, then lower— ghosting over the pulse at your throat. He couldn’t stop touching you. He wouldn't stop.

You shudder as his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. "Mark—"

"No, seriously," he mumbles between kisses, words muffled against your collarbone. He found you to be perfect. The light in the muddled mess of his life. He could barely let you speak— just wanting to prove to you that he would always be the better option.

His voice is wrecked now— breathless with want, and when you roll your hips against his just to tease, his breath hitches.

"Oh, my God," he chokes, pressing his forehead against your shoulder for a second. "Okay. Okay,—we should probably go home now because if we keep this up, I won't be stopping.” He was right; it was probably best if the news didn’t catch wind of the actual Invincible getting frisky in public during such a time. You bite your tongue, teasing, "You sure?"

Mark groans, lifting you effortlessly, his hands firm against your thighs as he takes off, propelling you both through the sky in a blur. "I have literally never been more sure of anything in my life," he says, his voice tight as he tries not to focus on the way your body is pressed against his—or how obvious his erection is right now.

But you do notice.

And when you grind down against his lap mid-flight, he lets out a noise so strangled and needy that he nearly forgets to keep flying. "Oh—shit, that’s—okay, wow, you’re evil. You’re actually evil. Holy shit, I’m gonna crash us into a building."

Once you two clumsily entered the sliding door of his home, your clothes were quickly strewn across the kitchen floor. He didn’t waste any time—his lips were on yours like a magnet—the taste of you intoxicating like he’d imagined. At this moment, he realized he would’ve never reacted the same for another woman. Excitement swelled his veins as you two collapsed against the couch. The renewed energy powering his body through its injuries.

Every part of you was his. From your knuckles to your shoulders, to your neck and collarbones, breasts— down to your toes. He’d make sure of it as every part of you was riddled with his saliva-ridden kisses. "I should’ve done this sooner—I should’ve made sure you knew you were mine before they even had the chance to try." He heaved— muscled body appearing from the crevices of your flesh. “No one else gets to touch you like this." His voice had a slight rasp, nearly distracting you from the harsh yank against your panties. At the sight alone he groaned— hands moving at inhuman speeds as he stripped himself of his boxers and the tight confines of your bra.

He moves lower, his lips tracing over your stomach— tongue dipping into your navel. You feel a rush of anticipation as he moves lower, his lips claiming your thighs. He parts your legs, his tongue tracing over your skin, his fingers moving to touch you. That’s when it happens— His tongue, almost hesitant, licks your cunt. Oh. You’re sweet like sugar all over. The realization dawned on him as his pupils dilated— lips messily smushed against your labia, and the rough texture of his dry tongue raked against your clit. The arousal that pooled from you was like water— his tongue seeking hydration. Your hips slowly rolled against his face; the soft mewls vibrating against your throat spurred him further.

It was almost sensual, slow as a reminder of who was between your legs right now. His muscular arms locked your hips into place as his tongue grew brutal. Its rapid— pleasurable lashes had you seeing stars. Just as you approached a quick orgasm, his tongue delved inside you, tongue-fucking you as far as his tongue could possibly reach. His nose nudged rhythmically against the bundle of nerves as his fingers glided up your abdomen— mapping out every curve to his memory. His hips rutting desperately against the now-damp couch cushion.

The quiet sound of the kitchen faucet dripping made your moans sound eerily loud. Your fingers roughly travel across his muscled forearm as your back arches into his mouth. With harsh gasps, your fingers roughly tapped him as he finally ripped the climax he so desired from you, his mouth covered in your scent. Divine.

Bringing himself up, his lips captured yours once more— your groans responding to one another. “You’re mine too, you know. But I like watching you get all worked up about it,” you mused breathlessly. He chortled quietly to himself— reddened and pulsing cock waiting readily in his grasp. Stroking it a few times between gasps, he spoke almost darkly amused. "They thought they could steal you from me, but they don’t know you like I do. They don’t know what you like. But I do." Before you could question him further on his remark, his hips snugly snapped against yours. His dick parted through you with ease as you both whined. The rhythm started slow, purposeful—punctuating with each thrust until he grew consumed with lust. Driving himself forward, the couch rocked from the unnatural movement. He had you completely beneath him, knees tucked against your chest and spread wide as his body pressed flush against yours. The wind was knocked out of you with every pummel, leaving you nearly salivating at the sensation. The raw sensation of your nipples rubbing against his chest adds a pleasurable sting to the mix, your hands now clawing at his shoulders.

"Mine. Mine. Mine," he muttered against the shell of your ear, his jaw unnaturally tight as he fought the urge to cum here and now. You were his—not theirs—just his alone in his suburban neighborhood when he should be putting an end to this. This was his moment to be selfish; to him, his need to defend was over until he devoured every inch of you. "God, I—fuck, I can't stop touching you. I don’t want to stop. You feel too good; you’re—oh my God, you’re everything." He rambled, abruptly pulling out, and a schlick sound echoed from between your legs. Suddenly, you were in his lap—pressed firmly against his torso, his hands wrapping around the width of your shoulders as he resheathed himself once more, his hips pistoning deeper into you. All you could manage was to bounce dumbly against him, the meat of his neck being your sanctuary as the skin absorbed the pornographic sound of your moans. He was breathless, barely able to contain himself as his skin became crowded in a red flush.

Then again—another position change, your bodies tangled together effortlessly, one of his legs hooked over your hip while the other remained stretched out beneath him. The angle was deep, intimate—allowing him to press closer, his body half-wrapped around yours as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Every movement sent a slow, rolling wave of pleasure through you, his hands gripping your waist to pull you even closer. His breath was warm against your skin—lips brushing against your shoulder as he murmured your name between each heated thrust. He slowly came up, hands spreading your ass cheeks as he watched himself be sucked into you willingly. The sight of your puckering hole clenching with each rock made his dick weep for its release. One hand melded against the fat of your ass, the other running up your sculpted calves until his lips mark your ankles and feet, his tongue swirling around your toe. "S... Say it again. Say you’re mine. Please—just say it." He pleaded, more so demanding as his movements became rougher— the couch shifting forward a few inches. “They don’t matter… I’m yours, Mark.” Your words were cut between burying your head in the couch pillows. “T-They don’t matter…” He echoed, a pleased groan vibrating against your foot.

Again. You were suddenly flipped as he stood, his feet backing into a wall as his knees nearly gave out from the sensations. You were hoisted into his arms as he bullied himself inside of you, both of your combined voices growing weak and raw. His neck craned lower as his tongue delved a nipple into his mouth—your skin was cold from a combination of sweat and his saliva. Creamy fluid leaked down his shaft as he unknowingly came from overstimulating himself. His hands gripped you hard enough to bruise, as you scratched up the length of his back, causing him to yelp. His canines finally blossoming their first hickey against your chest. Soon, his lips found yours, the rugged ends of your teeth nipping his lips hard enough to draw blood.

Not that it mattered—every scratch, bite, and pull only cemented one undeniable truth: you were his. And he wasn’t done. Not after feeling the slick warmth of your tongue against him, not after the way his thumb teased your rim while he moved inside you. Not even when he leaned you against the couch— having your legs straddle his as his tip prodded the entrance of your ass.

He seemed truly hellbent on caressing every inch. For further context, the previous two parts are listed in the MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

Text

—So You'll Bury Your Own

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black, james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means learning to ache in silence, to carry what burns without letting it show. but healing, you find, is quieter still — braided through soft hands, old names, and voices that stay. and some burdens, it turns out, are lighter when carried together.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect,hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression, siblings reconnecting. happy ending!!!

w/c: 9k

based on: this request!!

a/n: i absolutely love this <3 it healed a lot in me </3 also who knew that wiseman would inspire this fic

part one part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

You just stare at him.

Like the world has turned inside out and dropped you in the heart of something you can’t name.

Sirius.

Your brother.

Not in memory or in ghost-form or in a stitched-up version from your loneliest dreams — but real, here, breathing raggedly in the doorway like he’s just clawed his way through hell and found you at the center of it.

His eyes are so red they look bruised, lashes wet and clumped like he’s been crying for hours and still hasn’t stopped. His chest rises and falls with frantic rhythm, the kind that doesn't belong to a boy but to someone broken wide open.

His face—he’s all wrong and all familiar. Pale where pride once sat. Crushed in the mouth. Swollen beneath the eyes. And still your brother. Still him.

You can’t move.

There is blood in your limbs but it no longer listens to you. Because you had made peace with leaving — with slipping out of this world like ink in water, quiet and unnoticed. You weren’t supposed to have to see the aftermath.

You weren’t supposed to look into the eyes of someone who would’ve stormed the afterlife itself to find you. You weren’t supposed to see what your absence would’ve done.

And then he moves.

It’s not a walk. It’s not even a stumble. It’s a collapse forward, all motion and desperation, arms reaching before words can form. He crashes into you like the air gave out between you both — a falling star, a scream unspoken, a thousand things too late.

His body slams into yours and you don’t even brace. There’s no time. The weight of him sends you both backward, tangled, breathless, hitting the floor in a clumsy, too-human heap.

“S—Sirius—” you try, but his arms are already around you, fists clenched in the fabric of your sleeves like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

He breaks.

Right there, right on your shoulder — his face buries into the curve of your neck like he’s never needed anything more, and the sound that tears from him is not a sob but a shattering. A noise pulled from the bottom of something that’s been hollowed out for far too long.

He cries with no elegance. No walls. No words. Just shaking and gasping and trembling and shaking again, the way grief does when it finally finds room to land.

“Don’t,” he whispers, cracked and hoarse and still so loud in your ear. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t leave. Don’t ever—”

You don’t answer. You don’t know how to.

You lie there beneath him, cold and burning all at once, and let him shake against your chest like a boy who never learned how to lose. His hands are curled into your shirt, and he’s trembling so badly it rattles your ribs, and you’re still stiff, still hollow, still bleeding nothing where everything should be.

And yet something—just a thread, just a ghost—shifts inside you. Not forgiveness. Not hope. Just the smallest, aching realization that someone came back for you. Not the version you wore in front of others. Not the one who smiled through it. But you. This broken, fading, raw thing. You.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius chokes, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands cup your face, shaking. “I didn’t see it—I didn’t see you. And I’m your brother, and I—I should’ve known.”

You blink, slowly. He’s crying again. He hasn’t stopped. His face is wet and shining and messy and full of something awful and pure, and you hate him for making you feel something like warmth in a moment meant for ruin.

“I wanted to go quietly,” you whisper. “Without… hurting anyone.”

“Well,” he breathes, voice a rasp, forehead pressing against yours, “you failed miserably.”

And you laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it hurts so much that your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

His hands are on your face before you even register the movement — warm, trembling, cradling you like you’re something breakable he’s just now learning how to hold. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, as if trying to memorize the bones beneath your skin, as if looking at you isn’t enough — he has to feel you, anchor you, prove to himself that you’re still here.

He tilts your face gently to the side, and his eyes are scanning you in that frantic, desperate way people do when they’re checking for injuries.

You can see it behind the wet lashes, behind the tears still falling without his permission — fear. Bone-deep, soul-hollowing fear. Like he’s still waiting to wake up and find you gone.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, though your voice cracks at the edges, and your hands find his wrists, fingers curling tight. “I’m here.”

But then your gaze drops.

Blood.

It’s on your sleeve. On the floor. And smeared, thin and sharp, across the creases of his palm where glass must have shattered during the fall. His hands — the same ones that shook when he held your face, the same ones that once reached for yours across a thousand childhood halls — are streaked crimson.

From hugging you. From clutching too tightly. From crashing to the floor through spilled potion and broken glass and years of silence.

Your breath hitches. “Sirius—your hands—”

He looks down as if only now remembering. As if he felt nothing, so loud was the panic. Then he just shakes his head, jaw tightening.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, voice thick. “Doesn’t—nothing matters, not like that. You—” His voice breaks. “Why would you do that?”

He says it like he already knows. Like he doesn’t want to understand but can’t stop asking. His hands are bleeding and he still brings them back to your face, gently now, softly, like he’s afraid to hurt you more.

“Why would you do that, huh? Why wouldn’t you tell me? Why wouldn’t you let me in—?”

You try to speak, but he’s still unraveling.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve—I should’ve written, or called, or showed up. I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve never left you like that. I thought—” He lets out a laugh that isn’t a laugh at all.

“I thought you hated me. You stopped talking and I—Merlin, I thought you were siding with them. With Mum. With everything. I thought you’d already made your choice.”

You blink slowly. Your throat feels like it’s wrapped in wool and fire.

“I was always punished for speaking,” you say, quiet. “Every time I raised my voice, she crushed it. So I stopped. I thought you knew that.”

Sirius flinches like you’ve hit him.

You don’t stop. The words are small and soft but each one scrapes from the hollow of your chest like glass. “I never stood against you. I never could. You’re my brother, Sirius.”

His eyes close. Something in his face folds. You watch the weight drop onto him like a cathedral crumbling — years of guilt, years of leaving, years of assuming you were just another echo of their mother’s hate.

And it’s not anger in his face. Not shame, even. It’s heartbreak. The kind that comes from realizing all the stories you told yourself to survive were lies — and someone else paid the price.

“I thought you hated me,” Sirius says again, but quieter now. “I thought you meant it when you stopped looking at me.”

“I never meant it,” you whisper, voice breaking like tide on rock. “I didn’t know how to mean anything anymore. She—she made me small. I was just trying to survive without disappearing.”

He laughs again, and it cracks down the middle. “Funny. I thought I had to disappear to survive.”

Your fingers twitch against his wrists. He still hasn’t let go of your face.

“I left because I thought staying would kill me,” he says. “I ran and ran and kept running and you—I told myself you didn’t need me. That if you did, you would’ve said something. Looked at me. Anything.”

“I was always being watched,” you murmur. “Every word cost something. And I—I thought you chose to stop seeing me.”

“I never stopped seeing you,” Sirius snaps, but not out of anger. Out of grief.

“I saw everything. I saw you shrinking. I saw Mum turn your light off room by room and I—fuck, I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to stay and fight and still be whole.”

Your voice is a rasp now. “So you left us behind?”

“I left them. I thought you—” He swallows. “I thought you hated me for leaving Regulus behind. For not taking you with me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say. “I missed you.”

He blinks hard. The tears are falling again. “I missed you too.”

You look at his face, streaked in red and salt. His hands still tremble against your jaw. And something like grief twists inside you.

“I used to sit in that hospital bed and wait for you to look at me,” you say slowly. “You’d be right there for him, for Remus. Right there. And you’d never turn your head. Never once.”

Sirius opens his mouth, then closes it. Guilt flashes, molten and ugly, through every line of him.

“I thought if I looked at you,” he says at last, “I’d have to admit what I did. What I didn’t do. And I couldn’t. I was a coward.”

“I was your sister,” you say, and your voice is trembling now too. “And you didn’t see me.”

“I see you now,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You nod, slowly, something cold sinking back into your spine. Something you can’t name. You press your lips together, watch his face — his bloodied palms, his storm of regret, his cracked voice.

“You’re my brother,” you say, like a truth, like a wound. Then, softer: “But your eyes were cold.”

He flinches like you’d whispered a curse, like your words shattered something brittle he’d been pretending was still whole.

His hands fall from your face not in anger, not in defense, but with the trembling reverence of someone letting go of a relic they finally understand they never deserved to hold.

For a moment — no, for longer than that — the silence between you crackles with everything that was never said. It hangs there, aching, bruised, begging not to be buried again.

And then, so soft it sounds like it’s breaking as it leaves him, he murmurs, “I know.”

His eyes drop. Because he can’t bear to meet yours — can’t bear for you to see that some part of him is still winter, still cold, still tangled in the darkness he chose over you. Because if he looks long enough, he knows you’ll find it.

The frost in him that never thawed.

You let him lead you through the quiet halls, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of everything you almost gave away. The weight of his arms was both a cradle and a cage — holding you upright, steadying your faltering steps, but also reminding you of every absence, every silence stretched too long between you.

You didn’t want to be seen here like this, didn’t want anyone to know the shape your desperation had taken. The last thing you wanted was whispers or pity trailing after you like ghosts.

So when he murmured low, voice rough with everything unsaid, “I won’t tell Madam Pomfrey, not a word,” you felt a fragile shard of relief crack open inside you. You nodded, almost too tired to speak, trusting him with the only secret you’d dared carry alone.

The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and old magic, the steady ticking of the clocks a quiet reminder that time was passing — though you wished it would stop.

Madam Pomfrey was busy with another patient, a boy from the Quidditch team, his arm wrapped tightly, grimacing in pain. She glanced at you with a practiced eye, reading the silent plea in your posture, but didn’t press.

Instead, she reached for her supplies and glanced at Sirius with a knowing look — one that said she’d seen this before, and she was ready.

Sirius sat beside you, his fingers curling protectively around yours as the bandages wrapped tightly around his palms. You noticed then the thin lines of blood tracing down his wrists from the broken glass he hadn’t bothered to mention.

You wanted to reach out, to ease it somehow, but your fingers felt too heavy, too fragile. You only watched as the tension in his jaw softened, the brief flicker of pain he tried to swallow.

When Madam Pomfrey turned her attention to you, checking your pulse and watching your breathing with that sharp, clinical care, you closed your eyes and let her work, feeling the cold press of her hands and the warmth of the potion she dabbed gently on your skin.

It soothed and stung all at once — like the pain inside you, raw and real and aching in every breath.

Sirius didn’t say much; his quiet presence was steady, but you could feel the storm behind his eyes, the fight he was waging not to unravel in front of you.

And then, just as quietly as he’d come, Sirius slipped away. His steps were soft, careful, as if leaving you was its own kind of punishment. You heard the faint creak of the infirmary door closing behind him and the hollow echo of footsteps fading down the corridor.

You were left with the sterile quiet, the ache in your chest, and the fragile promise that some secrets could stay locked between two broken souls — even if only for a little while.

You don’t ask where he went. You don’t let yourself wonder, because wondering leads to hope and hope is still too sharp. Instead, you sit in the hush he left behind, your hands folded in your lap like you’re still praying to be seen.

Madam Pomfrey moves quietly around you, fingers gentle on your wrist, eyes soft but heavy with knowledge she never speaks aloud.

“Not all wounds bleed, dear,” she says at last, voice low as if confiding something sacred. “Some sit in the marrow. Some take root in the bone.”

You nod, barely. It aches to move. It aches not to.

She touches your shoulder, not to fix but to reassure. “Warmth helps. Rest. Tea with thyme and a bit of honey. And something that sings. Even quiet pain needs a lullaby.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her your voice went quiet the day your brother stopped looking at you like you were still made of light and not just what remained of it.

The silence hangs fragile between you, stitched with the clink of glass and the soft rustle of linen — until it’s broken.

Screaming. Outside. Sharp and sudden like lightning cracking bone.

“Stop!” It’s Sirius. Loud, desperate. His voice shatters the calm like a stone through stained glass.

Madam Pomfrey snaps her head toward the door, already moving. “Stay here,” she instructs, tight and brisk, years of practiced authority kicking in.

“I swear, these boys will be the death of me.”

You don’t stay. Of course you don’t.

Because you already know.

You swing your legs over the cot slowly, every limb trembling with fatigue, but your heart beats fast and wild. The shouting grows louder. The door flies open before you can reach it.

And then —

He’s there. Regulus.

Not the polished version the world sees, not the cool shadow of a perfect Black heir. But a boy unraveling, wild-eyed and furious, his robes twisted, hair falling into his face, hands shaking with rage. “Where is she?” he’s demanding, voice fraying at the edges.

“Regulus—” Sirius tries, but Regulus ignores him.

He storms through the infirmary like a storm, tearing open curtain after curtain, ignoring the protests of beds still occupied. “Where is she? Where is she—”

You don’t move. You can’t.

The curtain pulls back with the soft, traitorous hiss of fabric betraying silence — and the world goes still.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to. The air has shifted — the way it does before a storm, or after a prayer that’s gone unanswered. You feel him before you see him. Regulus.

He doesn’t say your name.

He doesn’t have to.

His presence hangs in the room like breath held too long — like grief trapped behind ribcages and white-knuckled resolve.

You can feel the way he’s looking at you — not straight at your face, not at your hands or the thin sheet drawn over your knees, but lower. There, at your back.

At the braid.

The one you wore like a memory. Like a keepsake. The one only two people in the world ever loved. Sirius had tugged it. Regulus had braided it.

And now his eyes are stuck to it like it’s something sacred. Something ruined.

You look up — and your lungs forget what to do.

He stands at the foot of your bed like a ghost unsure of its haunting. Pale, gaunt in the way that says he hasn’t slept properly in months. His eyes — they look like frost bitten into storm clouds. Wet, wide, unblinking.

His hands hang by his sides. Trembling. Shaking like he’s holding back an entire tide of something unspeakable.

Behind him, Sirius stumbles in, breathless, voice sharp and breaking in one syllable: “What the fuck, Regulus?”

Madam Pomfrey snaps to attention. “I will not have a shouting match in my infirmary—”

But Regulus doesn’t even flinch.

And Madam knows. You see it on her face — in the way her mouth thins, the way her eyes flicker to you, then to him, then soften. She nods once, tight-lipped, and vanishes behind the heavy oak door, leaving only the three of you in the thick, trembling stillness of what’s left unsaid.

Regulus hasn’t moved.

You’re sitting upright now, your hands shaking in your lap, your shoulders curved inward like you could make yourself smaller, less breakable, less seen.

Still, his gaze doesn’t leave the braid.

The silence is unbearable.

“Reg—” your voice barely carries. It’s scraped raw, soft as snowfall. “Reg, please…”

He blinks — once — and you see the glisten in his lashes.

“Say something,” you beg, your voice catching, shoulders trembling now too. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

But he does.

Like the braid is a funeral ribbon. Like you’ve carved something cruel into his chest just by standing there. Like he’s looking at the girl he grew up with — the one who used to hide poetry under her pillow and sneak cold apples from the kitchens — and seeing a stranger in her place.

You curl in on yourself. Press the heel of your palm into your eye to keep it from spilling again. But it’s no use. A sob leaves you — not loud, but enough to shatter something between you both.

Still, Regulus says nothing. He just stares. Hands trembling. Heart, you think, doing the same.

And it hurts.

Like watching a star collapse in real time.

Like remembering, all at once, every word you never said to him. Every letter you never sent. Every ache that grew between you in the years of silence and split loyalties and all the things you weren’t allowed to feel.

You want him to yell. To say you betrayed him. To say you ruined everything. Anything.

But he’s silent.

And it is the loudest thing you have ever heard.

Regulus steps forward, his movement hesitant yet inevitable, like the slow breaking of ice under a restless sky. His hands tremble ever so slightly, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp the edges of a fragile truth too sharp to hold.

His eyes, those dark pools of silent storms, lock onto yours with an intensity that both roots you to the spot and threatens to tear you apart.

Then, with a voice low and steady, carrying the weight of all the things left unsaid, he asks: “Is it true? Did you really try to kill yourself?”

The words hang heavy in the air, unsparing and raw, stripped of any softness or mercy. There is no sugar-coating here, no gentle circumspection — only the brutal, shattering truth laid bare like bones picked clean.

And as the question falls from his lips, you feel the coldness of it seep into your skin, like frost creeping into bare flesh. You realize in that moment that this is real — it’s not just a secret you’ve carried alone in silence, not just a shadow lingering at the edges of your days. It’s a living thing now, given breath and shape by his voice.

Even Sirius flinches at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as if struck by a sudden gust of pain he had tried to ignore. You stay still, breath caught in a fragile pause between surrender and denial, because hearing it named aloud—so plainly, so fearlessly—removes the last veil of distance and forces you to confront the ache in its full, terrible clarity.

Sirius steps in front of you before you can say anything — before you can find the voice buried beneath the wreckage of what Regulus’s question unearthed.

There’s a rage about him, but not the cruel kind — it’s blistering and desperate, the fury of someone watching something they love be handled too roughly.

He shoves Regulus back with a hand to his chest, not hard, but enough to draw a line between grief and guilt.

“That’s not how you ask,” Sirius hisses, voice shaking. “She’s still bleeding inside. You don’t get to storm in here and demand—”

“Don’t tell me what I get to do!” Regulus snaps back, eyes flaring, voice rising like a tide he can’t hold back.

“You don’t get to disappear for months and suddenly pretend like you’re the only one who cares!”

“I never pretended,” Sirius growls, taking a step closer. “You think I didn’t care? I found her. I was the one who—” His voice breaks, sharp and ugly.

“You weren’t there, Reg.”

“You left us!” Regulus’s voice is full now, a hurricane of sorrow and betrayal. “You left me. You left her. Don’t stand there and talk about who was there when you made it so we had to survive without you.”

Sirius recoils as if struck, and something bitter twists his mouth. “You think I wanted to leave?” His voice drops, not quieter, but heavier.

“You think I could stay when everything was falling apart and I couldn’t tell who was lying and who wasn’t and she stopped writing back and you—”

“I never stopped writing!” you finally choke, but neither of them hears you.

“You shut down!” Sirius shouts at Regulus. “You looked at me like I was the enemy!”

“You were the enemy!” Regulus yells, chest heaving. “You ran off to play rebel with your new family and left us behind to clean up the mess. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

Sirius takes another step forward, his face crumpling, years of anger and guilt and heartache tightening into something sharp.

“Because I didn’t know if I’d survive it. I didn’t know if I could say goodbye to you both and live with it.” His voice is raw now, splintering around the edges.

“I didn’t know who you were anymore. She stopped answering. You stopped talking. And I—I thought I’d lost you both.”

“And now she’s—” Regulus can’t finish it. He gestures helplessly toward you, voice cracking. “You almost lost her forever, Sirius.”

“I know!” Sirius roars, turning on him so suddenly you flinch. “You think I don’t know? I found the bottle. I found her barely breathing. I thought—” His hands shake as he rakes them through his hair.

“I thought I was too late. I thought she was gone. And I would’ve deserved it. Because I—I wasn’t there when she needed me.”

Silence swells between them for a breath, just long enough for the weight of it all to settle in the bones of the room.

And then Sirius turns to you, voice breaking as he points — not at your pain, not at your wounds, but at your heart. “She’s my sister,” he says, low but blazing. “She’s not blood. She’s more than that. She’s mine. And I let her down.”

Regulus stares at him, stunned.

And then his voice comes quiet. Shaken. Hurt in the most childlike way.

“And I’m your brother too.”

The words land like a blow, not loud, not sharp — just unbearably true.

A single tear carves a path down Regulus’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. Doesn’t move at all. Just stands there, blinking, like Sirius has punched the breath from his lungs.

His chest rises unevenly, and he stares at the floor like it might hold some answer to everything they've both broken.

The silence has weight — not the soft kind, but the kind that drips like melted wax onto already raw skin. No one speaks. You can feel it tremble in the air between them, like a wire pulled too tight.

Regulus moves.

He yanks his tie loose with shaking hands — not neatly, but frantically, like it’s choking him. The fabric hits the floor with a soft, pitiful flutter, and he’s already reaching up to press trembling fingers into his eyes, but it’s too late. The tears come anyway, and this time, he doesn’t stop them.

“I’m your brother too, Sirius!” he finally bursts out, voice raw, like it’s been clawing its way up his throat for years.

“I was your brother before any of this — before you ran off and left us! Left me!”

His chest is heaving now, sobs breaking free without rhythm, and you’ve never seen him like this. Never seen his composure shatter so utterly.

“I was twelve!” he chokes, stepping back from Sirius like being near him burns. “I was twelve and you were everything. You were brave and stupid and loud and you laughed in the face of everything I was too scared to even whisper about. I wanted to be like you. I worshipped you.”

He laughs then — hollow, broken — and runs a hand through his hair, tugging too hard. “And then you left. You left. Didn’t even look back. Do you know what it did to her? To me?”

Sirius tries to speak, but Regulus cuts him off, eyes wild now, shining with the kind of grief that never found a place to settle.

“She stopped coming to me after you left,” Regulus says, softer now but still shaking.

“At first, I thought she was angry. But then I realized — she thought I’d leave too. She looked at me like she was waiting for it. Like I’d vanish just like you.”

Your breath catches, and Sirius goes still.

“And it killed me,” Regulus whispers. “Because I would’ve never left her. I never planned to. But she didn’t believe me — not really — not after you. And I hated you for that. I hated you because the moment you left, I started losing her too.”

His voice wavers again, breaks apart into something smaller.

“You weren’t just her big brother, Sirius. You were mine too.”

His hands are shaking at his sides, open like he doesn’t know what to hold onto. You think if he grips one more thing too tight, he’ll bleed. Maybe he already is — not from the cuts on his palms, but the ones he's carried since that day Sirius walked out the door and didn’t look back.

There’s a long, aching pause. Neither of them knows what to do with the grief in the room, so large it might swallow all three of you.

Your sobs are choking out of you in stuttering, fractured waves. “I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to… I just didn’t know how to—how to stay,” you gasp, every word struggling past the agony clawing up your throat.

“I thought I was doing you a favour—both of you—I thought you’d be better off without—”

“Don’t,” Sirius breathes, pulling you tighter against his chest, his voice trembling. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that again.”

“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” you cry, fingers curling into Sirius’s robes, your whole body shaking from the force of grief finally spoken aloud. “I thought if I stayed quiet… if I just stayed small… maybe I wouldn’t ruin anything else.”

“You were never ruining anything,” Sirius whispers fiercely, like it physically hurts him to hear your words. “You’re not a burden, you’re not a mistake, you never were—”

“I’m sorry,” you sob again, looking past his shoulder at Regulus. “Reg… I’m sorry I stopped coming to you. I didn’t know how to face you after Sirius left—”

And that name, that ache, it cracks something in Regulus.

“You stopped coming to me because of him,” Regulus says quietly, like a wound being reopened. “Because you thought I’d leave you too.”

You nod, shame making your spine curl. “Everyone always leaves. I didn’t want to find out if you would.”

Regulus’s mouth trembles. “And you thought dying would hurt less than asking me to stay?”

You can’t answer, not really. So instead, you reach for him again. And this time, when his fingers catch yours, it’s with no hesitation.

He sinks to his knees beside Sirius, and for a second, the three of you are just breathing. No yelling. No silence. Just breathing.

“I hated you for it, Sirius,” Regulus says, the words escaping like they've been burning holes in his throat for years. His tie dangles from his fingers, forgotten, his shirt rumpled from the fall, his eyes rimmed red and shining with unshed fury.

“I hated you so much I could barely breathe some days. You were my brother. You were mine before anything—before Gryffindor, before your damn rebellion, before you decided we weren’t enough.”

He’s trembling now, voice cracking around the edges, the sheen in his eyes spilling over in quiet, furious tears.

“You were my brother, and you left. You left me in that house—left me with Mother and her silence and Father and his rules, and her. You left me to rot in a mausoleum while you carved out your freedom and never once looked back.”

Sirius says nothing. Not yet. His jaw tightens, but he’s still holding you, knuckles bone-white, like if he lets go now, you’ll disappear for real.

Regulus steps closer, shoulders heaving. “She stopped coming to me after you left. Did you know that? She used to come to my room at night and braid my hair with shaking hands. She used to hum under her breath when the walls got too loud. She used to talk about you like you hung the stars. And then one day she just stopped.”

Your breath stutters. You remember those nights. You remember stopping, too.

“I’d wait for her,” Regulus continues, voice barely holding. “I’d wait with the door cracked open just enough. I’d leave out her favourite books. I even carved her a charm to put on her braid—she never came for it. I thought maybe she was angry at me, too. But no, it was worse. She was afraid I’d vanish the same way you did. So she pulled away before I had the chance to prove her right.”

Sirius’s voice finally scrapes out. “I thought she hated me. I thought she stopped writing because she picked your side—because she believed everything they said about me.”

“She stopped writing,” Regulus hisses, “because every time she opened her mouth, someone hurt her for it. Because silence was safer. Because she learned that words were dangerous the night you left and didn’t say goodbye.”

You flinch.

“I kept hating you,” Regulus breathes.

“Because hating you was the only way I knew how to stay angry enough to survive. But you were the first thing I ever loved. And when you disappeared, something broke in me so violently I don’t think it ever healed. You were supposed to be the one thing I could count on.”

He swallows hard. Drops his tie to the floor like it weighs too much to carry.

“You broke her. And when she stopped needing me, it broke me, too.”

The words hang there like smoke. Sirius stares at the ground, breathing hard through his nose, mouth pinched like he’s keeping something back. Your body aches from sobbing, but something still lingers on your tongue.

The silence that follows is not empty—it is thick with the ache of unspoken years, of letters unsent and hands unheld, of nights curled around longing with no one to listen.

It’s the kind of silence that trembles, like the earth before the rain. You can barely hear the ticking of the infirmary clock beneath the weight of it.

Regulus stands frozen, tear-streaked and shivering in the dim light, and Sirius is still kneeling at your side, his arm locked protectively around you as if anchoring you to this moment. His chest rises and falls with breaths he doesn’t know how to take.

And then, without warning, Sirius rises.

Not with fury or resistance—but with something quieter, something breaking.

He crosses the small space between them in three slow steps and stops just short of touching. Regulus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. His eyes are glassy and far away, like he’s still half-waiting for Sirius to turn around again and leave.

But Sirius doesn’t leave.

He steps in and wraps his arms around his little brother, the motion a little clumsy from all the years they went without it. His chin presses to the curve of Regulus’s shoulder. His fingers tremble where they cling to the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers. “I’m so—Reg, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much I left behind.”

At first Regulus stands stiff, every muscle locked tight like he might shatter from the touch. And then—

He sinks into it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not easy. It’s like grief wrestles with his spine before it lets him bend. But he does.

He leans into his brother’s chest and fists both hands into Sirius’s robes and lets out a sob that sounds like it’s been trapped in his ribs since he was twelve years old.

You watch them with eyes swollen and raw, your own heart a wounded bird beating against its cage. And before you know what you’re doing, you’re moving too—rising to your knees, crawling toward them like the gravity between the three of you has finally won.

Your arms wind around both their waists. One arm around Sirius, one around Regulus. A knot in the center. A lifeline in the dark.

None of you speak.

There are no names, no rebukes, no conditions.

Regulus's breath hitches against your shoulder, his fingers curling gently into your braid, like he's afraid it might vanish if he lets go. Sirius presses his forehead to yours, eyes clenched shut like he's praying through skin.

And you—weary, weeping, but breathing—you press your face into the space between them and let yourself be held.

No one wins this grief. No one walks away clean.

Because the Black name had always been a curse stitched into your skin—an inheritance of fire and frost. It did not cradle its children; it claimed them. Moulded them into altars of silence and expectation. And each of you—Sirius, Regulus, and you—had carried that name like a wound in a different place.

For Sirius, it had burned in his throat. It turned into rebellion, into shouting matches that ended in slammed doors and broken photo frames, in the kind of departure that tasted like ash and gasoline. He had to run because if he didn’t, it would consume him.

And so he ran, not knowing that the fire followed. That the emptiness he left behind in that cold manor turned into something sharp and echoing in the hearts of those who stayed.

For Regulus, it had lived in his bones. It didn’t scream. It whispered. Dutiful son. Perfect heir. He learned early how to fold pain into silence, how to smile with his teeth clenched. He bore it all—every twisted tradition, every expectation, every tightening collar—as if it were his penance.

Because someone had to stay. Because someone had to be the mirror their mother could still admire. But in the quiet, in the dark, it splintered him. You saw it. You saw how it hollowed him out, day after day. But he never asked for help. Because what right did the golden son have to ache?

And you. You were the secret between them. The one who did not shout, and did not stay, but simply endured. You curled your pain into the softest parts of yourself and made it quiet. Made it poetic.

The ache lived in your music, in your gaze, in the way you held them both from a distance even when they stood beside you. You became a ghost before you even had the chance to disappear.

The Black name haunted all three of you—but in different languages. In different ghosts. And maybe that was the cruelest part: the way it kept you from seeing each other’s pain. Because you were so busy hiding yours.

Because if you looked too closely, if you let them look too closely, they would see it. The ruin. The breaking. The unbearable weight of being born into a war you never asked for, under a name you didn’t choose, with a future you were too kind to believe in.

But now, here you are. All three of you.

No longer hiding. No longer running.

You’re a knot of limbs and sobs, of shivering hands and raw apologies.

Regulus clutches Sirius like he used to when they were children, when the thunder was loud and the manor darker than death. Sirius strokes the back of Regulus’s head like he’s trying to remember how to be someone’s brother again.

And you—you are cradled between them, your hand buried in Sirius’s collar, the other tangled in Regulus’s robes, anchoring both of them as much as they are anchoring you.

No one speaks for a long time.

Because words, for once, are not big enough.

Because grief has hollowed each of you into temples, and maybe—just maybe—this is where the gods of your childhood finally fall.

You pulled back slowly, like peeling yourself out of a dream that you weren’t ready to leave, your arms slipping away from their warmth, your body still trembling with the echoes of everything that had been said—everything that hadn’t.

The air between you had changed. It was quieter, softer, like the hush that falls after a storm, when the sky is still bruised and wet but the thunder has finally tired itself out.

You sat back on the narrow infirmary bed, your breath uneven, lashes damp, and stared down at your fingers twisting in your lap. The silence returned—not sharp this time, not cold, just cautious. And then, you said it. Quietly. Like it was just another thing to survive.

“Mother wrote me.”

They both froze. Regulus’s jaw tensed, Sirius’s shoulders stiffened behind you. You didn’t look up.

“She wants us to meet for Christmas.”

A long pause. Then, a tired exhale. Regulus ran a hand over his face like he could wipe the family out of him. Sirius just sighed—one of those long, too-heavy exhales that sounded like defeat wrapped in dry laughter.

“Course she does,” he muttered. “’Tis the season.”

And then, Sirius said, “C’mere.”

You blinked, confused, still folded in on yourself.

“What?”

“C’mere,” he said again, voice softer now, coaxing.

You turned, hesitant. Sirius was already shifting back on the bed, scooting until his back hit the wall and his knees spread apart just enough to make space for you between them.

It was a tight squeeze—three nearly grown bodies on a cot meant for a single patient—but somehow, you all managed.

“Closer,” Sirius said.

You let out a faint, bewildered breath but inched toward him anyway, letting him guide you. You ended up with your back resting against his chest, his arms gently encircling your waist, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades.

It was strange—comforting, anchoring—like being wrapped in the kind of warmth you had long given up believing you’d ever feel again. His chin settled lightly atop your head.

Regulus sat in front of you on the edge of the bed, your knees brushing his. He reached out without hesitation, took both your hands in his.

His fingers were cold at first—always a bit colder than yours—but the longer he held them, the more the warmth seeped through. His thumbs traced slow circles into your palms, grounding you like a spell.

He looked at you. Really looked.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. His voice didn’t tremble this time. It cracked, low and quiet and sincere.

“You’re my twin. I shared a womb with you. I share a name with you. Yeah?”

You blinked, and the tears started again, slowly.

“I’d share this pain too. All of it. If I could carry it, I would. If I could cut it out of you, stitch it into myself, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

You didn’t know how to speak. It was like something was pressing into your ribs from the inside.

“And even if I can’t take it away—the heaviness in your bones, the ache that never seems to leave—I’ll be here. I promise. So please…” his voice faltered now, eyes wide and raw and flickering with something close to desperation,

“Don’t leave me. Not you.”

And behind you, Sirius was moving. Slowly, carefully. His hands, rough from years of fighting, from running, from surviving, were suddenly so gentle it nearly broke you.

You felt them reach for your braid—loosened and half-undone from the night before, frayed at the edges but still clinging together in the way you had always worn it. The way you had been taught to wear it. One braid. One girl. One legacy.

Sirius touched it like it was something sacred. Not a symbol of tradition, but of the little girl he left behind.

He began to undo it—strand by strand, knot by knot. His fingers trembled sometimes, and you weren’t sure if it was from guilt or grief or some ancient combination of the two.

The braid began to fall apart, softly, like snow thawing under sun. And with every loosened piece, you felt something in you unclench. Something that had been tight for years.

You cried.

But not with sobs. Not this time.

You cried in silence, the kind that shudders through your body like a song without lyrics. And you didn’t even know if it was because of Regulus’s words or Sirius’s hands.

Or maybe it was both. Maybe it was that they were both still here. Still trying. Still holding what pieces of you hadn’t crumbled away.

Your braid came undone completely, hair falling over your shoulders like the end of a chapter you’d been too afraid to close.

Sirius pressed his forehead to the back of your head, and whispered, “There you are.”

Regulus was still holding your hands, his eyes on your face like he was reading scripture.

The silence between them grew tender, no longer sharp or fragile, but thick with the kind of quiet that comes after all the shouting is done — when the hurt still lingers but the love is louder.

Sirius’s hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it back gently, reverently, like he was afraid to let it drift too far from him.

Then, his voice—low, half a murmur, half a tease—broke the hush.

“As much as I think you’re the prettiest girl to ever walk the bloody halls of this castle,” he said, fingers still combing lightly through the freed strands, “you’re much prettier with your hair out.”

You blinked up at him, tears still dewing the corners of your lashes, breath catching softly.

“I mean it,” Sirius continued, resting his chin atop your head again. “Don’t like seeing your hair all braided up. Not after what it came to mean. I’ll always undo it for you if you want. Every time. You can let it be free. You can let yourself be free.”

His voice was steady, but there was something quietly broken in it—like he knew how deeply the braid had rooted itself in you, like a chain dressed in silk.

You leaned into him just slightly, comforted by the closeness, and from across you, Regulus tilted his head, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he said, “Didn’t know you were capable of being soft, Sirius.”

There was a beat of stillness—then Sirius scoffed, a quiet huff of laughter breaking through the grief. “Hey, she’s my little sister. Of course I’ll be soft with her. I’m not a complete arse.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laughed. Not a big one, not a loud one. But it slipped out of you all the same—shy, fragile, like something trying to live again.

Sirius smiled against your hair. “You’re not exactly the poster boy for softness either, Reggie.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was no venom in it. He looked at you again, watching as your hair fell like a shadowy veil around your shoulders, framing your face the way moonlight sometimes wraps around ruins.

Regulus was just opening his mouth to make what you knew would be a smug, likely sarcastic jab—something about Sirius finally learning tenderness in his old age—when the door to the infirmary creaked open with the subtle force of a hurricane.

Madam Pomfrey entered, arms crossed and expression half stern, half deeply fond. “As much as I find all three of you Blacks absolutely adorable,” she said, voice sharp but eyes twinkling,

“I’ve got a bleeding student here who needs tending to, and not a circus on my floor.”

Sirius snorted and slowly slid off the bed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes, Madam.”

Regulus followed, brushing the wrinkles from his robes as he stood, offering you a glance to make sure you were still steady. You nodded at him—quietly, gratefully—and the two of them stepped aside, giving Madam Pomfrey space to begin bustling about her potions and gauze.

You watched them for a moment, Sirius leaning against a cabinet with the ease of someone who had made chaos his home, and Regulus, stiff at first but slowly softening, arms loosely crossed, shadows beneath his eyes fading just a little as he watched his brother from across the room.

Then—something bloomed in your chest.

Without a word, you reached out, grabbed Regulus’s hand, and pulled him toward the door.

“What—?” he started, confused but not resisting, his fingers lacing with yours on instinct. “Where are we—?”

“Shh,” you said through a smile, tugging him through the corridor. “Just come with me.”

He followed. He always did.

You found an empty classroom bathed in slanting golden light, one of those quiet, forgotten rooms that still smelled like ink and chalk and childhood.

You rummaged for parchment—crumpled, half-used—and sat down cross-legged on the floor, folding and creasing with all the reverence of a sacred rite.

Regulus crouched beside you, watching you fold the paper with wide eyes, something flickering in them—recognition, maybe. Hope.

“Is that…?” he began.

You didn’t answer—just smiled, and when you were done, you stood, clutching the fragile little crown in both hands like it was made of gold. Then you stepped out of the room and started back toward the infirmary.

Regulus didn’t say a word, but he followed close behind. And just before you entered the room, you heard him whisper under his breath, voice barely audible, like something stitched from memory:

“Long may he sulk, long may he scream, but today he’s our king, crowned with dream.”

You almost burst out laughing.

Sirius looked up from where he’d been talking softly to Madam Pomfrey, clearly startled by your sudden return—and even more so by the smile on your face.

“Oi—what’s going on?”

You grinned as you approached, heart blooming with something fragile and bright. And with a kind of ceremonial grace that belonged in a castle rather than a school infirmary, you lifted the crinkled paper crown and gently placed it on his head.

He blinked at you.

And then you said, “Happy birthday, Siri.”

For a moment, the world didn’t breathe.

Sirius looked between you and Regulus, the memory dawning slow but sure, the kind that blooms in the bones before the mind catches up.

You’d done this every year as children—the crown, the phrase, the quiet sweetness buried in a house that knew so little of it. It was tradition, rebellion, and love all wrapped in paper creases.

He laughed. Softly, shakily. “You remembered?”

“Of course we did,” Regulus muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “You never shut up about your birthday.”

Sirius turned toward him, eyes damp and mouth tugging into a crooked smile. “You used to say it was a national holiday.”

“It was a national tragedy,” Regulus corrected dryly.

But there was no edge to his voice.

You watched the two of them smile—awkwardly, almost shyly—and you couldn’t help the way your own heart ached with it. Like something was being stitched back together with trembling hands. Not perfect. But mending.

And in the soft golden light of the infirmary, Sirius Black wore his paper crown like a boy who had lost too much but finally found his way home.

Regulus cleared his throat, the faintest quiver still lingering in his voice as he straightened, a tentative smile breaking through the storm of emotions clouding his face.

“You’ve still got another year to annoy me—don’t waste it.” he said, voice steady but warm, the words carrying more weight than a simple greeting—an unspoken promise folded into each syllable.

“Happy birthday, Siri,”

The days had slipped by like snowflakes melting on warm skin, soft and silent, until Christmas had quietly wrapped the world in its chilly embrace.

Over a month had passed since that fragile moment in the infirmary, since crowns and whispered apologies had begun to stitch together the frayed edges of what remained of them.

Now, you sat on the edge of your bed, the weight of leather and cloth gathered around you as you packed your bags, each fold and tuck a quiet act of farewell — not just to this house, but to the lingering ghosts that had lived here with you.

Regulus’s calm presence was steady nearby, Sirius’s laughter still echoing faintly in the halls, both shadows woven into your thoughts as you prepared to leave, to find a different kind of family with the Potters.

The room was quiet in that in-between way — not sad, not soft, just filled with waiting. You stood by the mirror, fingers combing uncertainly through your hair, still not quite used to the way it fell freely now, unbound and loose around your shoulders like a secret you hadn’t told anyone yet.

Then came the knock, sharp and unapologetic, followed by the door creaking open before you could answer.

“There she is,” came the familiar voice, warm and arrogant and so full of light it almost hurt to look directly at it. “My absolutely favorite Black.”

You didn’t turn, just rolled your eyes at your reflection — though you didn’t hide the faint tug of your lips.

James Potter leaned against the doorframe, a walking sunbeam in boots far too muddy for the castle floors, his hair as unkempt as his sense of timing.

“You know, I’ve been emotionally devastated all week. Not one rude comment. Not even a single ‘Potter, get out.’ It’s been tragic, truly.”

You hummed softly. Your fingers trailed through your hair again, then dropped to the edge of the mirror. You looked... softer now. Or maybe just quieter.

James tilted his head, and for the first time in a while, that ever-glowing grin faltered. “Hey... you alright?” he asked, pushing off the door.

“You’ve gone suspiciously quiet on me, and I’m not used to being ignored this elegantly.”

You finally turned to him, something shy in the movement, something almost scared. Your eyes met his, steady but hesitant, like you were holding a secret between your teeth.

“Hey, James?” you said, voice smaller than usual, not sharp-edged or full of fire, just a bare whisper of a question.

He blinked, shoulders straightening instantly. “Yeah?”

You shifted, hands wringing in front of you, then took a breath like you were diving underwater. “Do you still... want to go on that date?”

It took him a second. A full second of stunned silence. Then:

“Wait. Wait—are you—are you saying yes?”

You nodded once, unsure, your cheeks burning.

James's entire face lit up like a starburst, bright enough to outshine the gloom in the corners of the room. “You’re saying yes?” he repeated, his voice climbing in disbelief, in utter delight.

“Are you messing with me? Because if this is some elaborate Black twin prank, I swear I’m not above falling for it, but I’ll go down dramatically.”

“I’m not messing with you,” you said, softer.

He stared at you, eyes wide, heart probably thudding too loud in his chest. “You’re actually agreeing to a date with me.”

You gave him a tiny, tired smile, the kind that meant I’m trying, I’m healing, I’m still here.

And James Potter — hopelessly besotted James Potter — just raised both hands in triumph, beaming like a boy who just got the girl of his dreams. “Merlin, it’s a Christmas miracle.”

You laugh — really laugh — and it startles you. The sound rises out of your chest too fast and too free, like it’s been hiding somewhere behind your ribs all this time, waiting for permission.

It echoes in the room like light catching on water, and for a moment, you forget you were ever someone who cried quietly in an infirmary bed with your braid too tight and your voice locked behind your teeth.

James is just standing there, watching you like you’re something he almost lost and just remembered in time.

That grin he always wears — cocky and bright — softens. His eyes crease, not with mischief but with awe. He reaches forward without speaking, without rushing, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers are warm, callused from Quidditch and writing too fast. His touch is so gentle it makes your throat ache.

Then, without asking for more, he leans in and kisses your cheek.

It’s soft. Not flirty, not teasing, just… soft. Real. Like he’s placing something in your hands that he wants you to keep.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says, and his voice is quiet, like he’s afraid to shatter the fragile thing blooming between you. “Not just laughing. Letting yourself laugh.”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to, but because something in your chest is blooming too fast, too wide. Instead, you just hand him your bag.

He grins again, like he’s won something, and slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “Come on, Black. Holiday awaits. And I plan to win Best Company, Hands Down.”

He holds the door open for you with an exaggerated bow. “After you, m’lady.”

You roll your eyes, but smile. You step into the corridor with him, your shoulder brushing his — and then you see them.

Sirius and Regulus. At the end of the hall. Arguing.

It’s not the argument that stops you. It’s how they look.

Sirius, of course, is chaos incarnate — shirt untucked, sleeves rolled, hair like a stormcloud. Hands moving wildly, voice sharp and amused all at once.

But Regulus.

Regulus looks like something cracked open.

His hair is a mess. Not windswept, not styled, just… undone. Soft curls tumble over his forehead like they’ve finally forgotten who they were supposed to impress. His shoes are scuffed. His collar is open. There’s no tie strangling his throat. His robes are wrinkled, like he didn’t bother smoothing them, like he didn’t think he needed to.

He doesn’t look like the perfect Black heir anymore. He doesn’t look like he’s trying to.

He looks like a boy who finally gave himself permission to breathe.

They’re arguing over something stupid — wrapping paper, probably, or the wrong gift for Euphemia — but it’s the kind of argument you only have with people you’re allowed to love. You watch them, your hand still in James’s, and something in you loosens further.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you were still holding it.

James gives your fingers a squeeze. Doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

You glance up at him. He’s still looking at you like you’re some new season he’s waited years to feel again.

They’re laughing.

It startles you, how soft it is. How human. It doesn’t echo like a curse. It doesn’t shiver like a cracked bone. It simply exists — this light, fragile thing — between the two boys you once thought you’d never see whole again.

Sirius is half-doubled over, clutching his side like he might fall from how hard he’s laughing. Regulus is shaking his head, cheeks flushed, that rare, real smile tugging his mouth wide open like a secret he forgot he still had. The moment stretches golden and unreal. For once, they look like boys.

Just boys — whole, breathing, and free.

You stand a few paces back, James at your side, his hand warm in yours. His thumb traces soft circles over your skin like he's writing a lullaby without words. You don’t speak. You just watch.

And as you watch, you feel it stir in your chest — not pain, not fear, but grace.

The quiet, trembling kind. The kind you thought had died the day you pressed a chair beneath the doorknob and tied your braid so tight it ached. The kind that says: You made it. Somehow, gods, you made it.

The three of you — Sirius, Regulus, and you — you carry the name Black like a birthright and a burial shroud. Like a blade tucked under the tongue.

You’ve all learned how to wear it in different ways: Sirius ripped it off like shackles, Regulus wore it like a crown turned collar, and you — you simply bore it in silence, braid by braid, day by day, trying not to crack.

Some days, you still feel it in your bones — that ache, deep and dull, flaring like a ghost during the cold. You know it will come back. Soon, probably. In quiet moments when the room goes still and the world presses in. It will whisper that old hymn of despair.

But now, you know something else too: that it will pass. That not all pain means ending.

You’re glad you wore the braid that day. Glad for the heaviness of it. Glad it was that braid, tight and tired, that gave you away, because Sirius noticed.

Because Sirius knew. Because your brother — dramatic, angry, wild Sirius — looked at a single twist of hair and saw the truth. That you were vanishing.

And he came. He ran to you.

You glance at James, who is still watching you with that half-smile, like he knows exactly where your mind has wandered.

His fingers tighten around yours as if to say: I’ve got you. I’ll keep holding on.

In front of you, the two boys who share your blood — your name, your ruin, your love — are laughing. And suddenly, you want to laugh too. You want to live.

You lean gently into James’s shoulder, and the three of them blur before you: your brother who left and returned softer, your brother who stayed and came undone, and the boy who never stopped waiting at your door.

It’s strange how grief makes architects of all of us. How you learned to build your life on ash and memory. How you learned to survive the kind of love that comes with a coffin.

You don’t know what comes next. Only that your breath still fogs the glass. That your feet, somehow, still move.

So you do.

You walk — not away, not forward, but through. Through memories, through the long echo of a house that taught you silence before speech, duty before desire.

A house where your name was an heirloom of ruin. Where hands pulled your hair into braids too tight, too perfect — a crown of obedience woven strand by strand.

But not now.

Now your hair spills loose down your back — untamed, unburdened, soft as defiance.

You carry the name Black not as a chain, but as a hymn — a quiet song for all the broken things that chose to live.

You carry Sirius’s laughter like a lantern in your ribs. Regulus’s sorrow like a psalm in your throat. You carry what’s left of your childhood in the curve of your spine.

You carry yourself.

You carry the body that was taught silence. The body that ached in invisible ways. The body that stayed — even when the wind begged it to leave, even when the mirror didn’t look back.

You carry the illness no one could see, the exhaustion that braided itself into your bones.

You carry the love you couldn’t let in — James’s hands, James’s gaze, James’s waiting — all the gentleness you almost believed you didn't deserve.

And still, you walk.

You do not braid your hair.

You do not say goodbye.

But when the frost climbs the glass again — when the old house calls to you in the voice of your mother, your fear, your past — you will not answer.

You will not kneel.

You will not weep.

You will not look back.

You will gather your ghosts by name — every echo, every ache, every version of yourself that once begged to be small. And you will lay them down, one by one, with the care no one gave you.

And so —

you’ll bury your own.

i don’t usually write these; but this is for anyone still wearing their braids — the ones woven by expectation, by blood, by a family that taught you to stay small, quiet, grateful. if you know what it is to carry a name like a burden, to sit before a mirror with aching hands, trying to undo what the world once made of you — this is for you. for the ones who learned survival through stillness, through obedience, and through being what was asked. i still wear mine too, some days more tightly than others. but there is freedom in the unbraiding, in letting your hair fall wild, and in choosing your own shape, your own silence, your own story. may your hands one day learn to unweave without trembling. may your softness survive. you are not alone. and you are allowed to be free. —with love, dalia

1K notes · View notes

jamminvroomvroom · 5 months ago

Text

let’s go ride.

LN x fem!reader

in which lando keeps getting frustrated and you wanna know why…

hiiiiii here u go! belated love day fic from me to you 💝 love u all, tysm for the love on my last few fics, i’ve had a lot going on lately so i’ve not had very much time to write but when the inspo hits….. shoutout to miss mcrae for dropping lando-coded bangers bc i literally cannot resist. might make a part 2 of all the times they get freaky in a car lmao, lemme know if you want that! likes, comments and reblogs are sooooo appreciated so lemme know what u think xoxox

proofed by my own personal goat @lavenderlando 💖

songs to set the vibes: sports car by tate mcrae, bad guy by billie eilish

warnings: 18+!! minors begone! smut, language, fluff, bit of angst bc lando’s in a mood, friends to lovers, p in v, porn without plot but there is a little bit of plot, bitchy lando

4.2k words

you sit in silence, opening spotify and preparing to fiddle with the bluetooth as he slips into the drivers seat beside you. the car door slams shut and he huffs, jawline taut with annoyance. the hood of his car is surrounded, a million and one cameras pointed at you both as he tries to relax into his chair. the engine roars to life and you side eye him.

“when are you gonna learn, hm?” you try and sound playful, teasing, but it comes out laced with a twang of scolding. lando tenses up even further, turning to glare at you.

“god forbid i go outside.” he snaps.

“give over.” you roll your eyes. “poor me, i’m famous! lando, you can’t get angry when you park in the most high profile spot on the fucking planet and your fans want to worship you.”

“you don’t know what you’re talking about.” he sighs, white knuckles wrapping tighter around the steering wheel.

“don’t i? this has been happening a lot lately.” your voice softens, ever so slightly. “every time i’m seen with you, you lash out.”

“because i don’t want people harassing you, looking at you like some fucking commodity.” lando snarls, steely eyes locked on the supposed car enthusiasts that are slowly backing away from his parking space.

“lando, we’re friends. this has always been a thing. why is it bothering you so much now?”

you wonder if it bothers him for the same reason it bothers you.

he shuts his eyes, collecting himself for a moment. he puts the car in drive and smoothly pulls out of the space, ignores your question. you scowl at him, at this sudden childishness that has overtaken his easygoing manner in the last few months.

“fine. whatever.” you mutter, slumping defeatedly into your seat. you give up on playing music, leaving him to bask in the silence, something he loathed.

lando had switched from his usual self to this stony, irate version of him that you rarely had the displeasure of seeing, from the second you walked out of the restaurant where you’d had lunch. he was reluctant to pose for photos and sign hats, something he usually revelled in, grateful that people even wanted to see him. the swathes of fans that had gathered had irked him for once, but what really boiled his blood was the photographers that seemed to find him no matter where he chose to spend him time. so much for monaco’s privacy laws.

it wasn’t like he cared about himself, either. it was you. the way they leered, leaned close to you while he was distracted with pens being shoved in his face. it was the way their eyes dipped low, whether you were in a tank top or a baggy hoodie. it was the way they spread the false, painful narrative all over the internet that you and lando were together, which drove hoards of losers into your comment section and your DMs just to call you names.

you were not together. as much as it pained him, you were just friends.

he couldn’t exactly explain his overprotectiveness to you without getting himself into a big, tangled mess. you, being the resilient, cool as a cucumber stoic that you were didn’t care what fourteen year olds on the internet thought about you. you weren’t about to let faceless, jobless trolls ruin the friendship that you’d nurtured for years, through ups and downs, thick and thin, race wins and huge losses. but lando, god, it killed him, tore him up inside every time someone so much as looked at you wrong.

“you really don’t get it.” he says, hushed, like he’s telling a secret. you turn to look at him, tearing your eyes away from the glistening view of the marina.

“lando, tell me then. make it make sense because i’ve never seen you behave like this. they love you! least you can do is lose the attitude over some harmless pictures.”

“jesus christ, it’s not the fans! it’s not the ‘harmless pictures’! it’s these fucking creeps that follow us around just to make some money off of my own personal hell. you really don’t get it, because if you did, you’d know that it breaks my fucking heart to see the way people talk about you online, just for being seen with me. it’s my fault that you get harassed, that paps are basically stalking you now.”

he signs of his rant with a sharp inhale, one that seems to suck all of the life out of the car. you melt.

“but lando, it doesn’t bother me. i just wanna be here with you, i don’t care about the rest of it.” you coo softly, reaching over the centre console to grip his forearm.

“and i want you here. i want you with me every fucking second of the day, but i can’t cope. can’t help thinking that one day it’ll all just be too much and you’ll leave me.” he whispers.

“never. never ever ever.” you promise. your belly swirls with emotions, tickled from the inside out by butterflies that threaten to swarm.

lando breathes shakily, warmed through by the hand that rests on his arm as he manoeuvres through the twisty lanes. as he hits traffic and slows, he clocks another photographer looming on the pavement, lens aimed at his windshield. already too annoyed, he aggressively smacks his sun visor down, leaning over the console to reach yours too, pulling it down. he prays it’s enough.

“you need to relax, lan. i’m fine, we’re fine. i promise.” you reassure, but he’s breathing heavily now. “you don’t worry this much when it’s max.” you trail off.

he doesn’t know what comes over him. he spins the car into a sharp u-turn, positively speeding back in the direction you’d just come from. any mention of you and him as a ‘we’ makes him crazy, makes him utterly lose his mind, but something about your sweet, earnest voice bringing him back to reality has left him completely shaken. the sun is setting now, most people clearing out of the underground car park he pulls into to head back to their homes. he has other intentions. you don’t say another word until he pulls into a space at the back of the lot, tucked neatly into a corner.

“what are we doing?”

“need a minute.” lando rasps, forehead resting on his steering wheel, the matte leather pushing his sharp curls back. you trail your eyes over him, the way his chest rises and falls under the sweatshirt he’s wearing, the way his thick fingers curl as his grip continues to tighten.

“i’m jealous. and i’m selfish. and i’m a complete fucking idiot.” lando says, steadily, like he’s reading the news.

“you’re… you’re jealous? of what?” you’re like a deer in headlights.

“of any other person that gets to lay their fucking eyes on you.”

“what are you saying?” you whisper. the air in the car goes still, frozen. you can’t breathe.

“i’m saying… that you’re mine. and i should have made that a known fact a long time ago.” ever so slowly he looks up at you, and you gasp at the intensity of his stare. he’s gazing at you with complete conviction in his eyes, a whole lot of vulnerability mixed in with the sincerity of his words. “i don’t want anyone else anywhere near you. lose my fucking mind watching the way they look at you.”

“lando…” you trail off, eyes as wide as saucers. is he really saying what you think he’s saying?

“i know this is terrible of me, to do this now, here - to do this at all, to be honest. i know that i have no right to stake some kind of claim on you, and i know that you probably don’t feel the same, but god, i just needed you to know. if you want me to shut the fuck up or leave you alone forever then i totally get it but-“

“oh my god, are you stupid?” you shake your head, still stuck in your state of disbelief, but you muster the coherency to grip the collar of his crewneck, tug him close.

your lips meet hastily, urgently, and every ounce to tension seems to seep out of the car. he moans at the very sensation of you against him, breath caught in his throat when you lace your finger through his hair like you want to mould your faces together, never stop. his brain finally catches up, awestruck as he is, and you trade passion and saliva, bumping noses as you clash chaotically.

“i think we’re both stupid.” he mumbles into your lips. you shut him up with another kiss, fiery and needy, and his hands begin to wander. he smoothes over the back of your jumper until he finds your waist, awkward in the limited space of the front of the car, and skims his hands up until he’s made his way beneath the material and he’s gripping your bare skin.

“too forward of me to ask you to get in the back?” lando pants with a cheeky smile.

“you literally just marked your territory on me, and nearly bit a photographer. i think we’re past ‘forward’.” you deadpan.

“then get in the fucking back.” he grins, devilish and commanding. you do as you’re told, wriggling between the leather until you’re propped up against the backseat. lando follows, sitting beside you, tugs you into his lap like you’re weightless.

you can feel him beneath you, hard and wanting, and you mewl, keen into him. your breaths mingle in the nonexistent space, lips brushing gently.

“this okay?” lando’s lips ghost over yours and you lean forward, just enough to reach him. he pulls back, eyes hooded, teasing, and tuts. “use your words.”

“who knew you were such a bossy boots.” you smirk. “more than okay.”

his eyes glaze over once he has your permission, and he kisses you like you’re the last supply of oxygen on earth. he licks into your mouth, wet and desperate and you whimper as he grazes over the crease of your thigh, toying with the hem of your skirt where it’s ridden up.

“can feel you.” lando groans, pulling away to look between your bodies. “so warm for me, you like seeing me all riled up?”

you nod coyly, lip caught between your teeth, and you swear you see his eyelashes flutter.

“what did i say about words?” lando composes himself enough to tease. you roll your eyes, but you can’t ignore the way heat rolls through your body.

“like when you get all bitchy.” you reply, rolling your hips once.

“bitchy?”

“mhm. always been so easy to toy with.” you whisper, leaning in to nose along the thickness of his neck. you drag your tongue up the vein there, feeling it pulse under your tongue. he smells like his cologne, so him, and it makes you even hotter.

“oh, so you’ve been playing with me?” he chokes out, eyes rolling back in his head at the marks you’re leaving.

“maybe a little.” you hum.

“you liked watching me get angry? pretending to be all sweet and clueless?” lando whispers, the words hanging heavy in the space between you. all you can manage in response is a mischievous smile that twists his tummy.

your hands trail under his sweatshirt, skating over the muscled ripples of his belly, ever so slightly dipping into the band of his sweats. his head lulls back, blindly holding you close while you worship him. he lets you, lets himself have this moment, thinking for so long that it would never come.

“waited so long,” your lips brush over the shell of his ear, tongue grazing the lobe. he descends into a mess of shivers. “needed you to break first. i knew you would.” you croon.

“you’ve been loving this, haven’t you?” lando starts, low and calculating. “bet you’ve been getting off on dressing like a whore for the cameras, watching me suffer.” he pieces together. your resolve cracks. “bad girl.”

the sense of control you’d briefly maintained shatters, a hand around your neck forcing you away from him, preventing your sweet torture. his fingers flex, just above your collarbone, and you swallow at the smirk that seems to engulf his entire face. he looks animalistic, crazed with a feral adoration that leaves you certain that you’re dripping all over his lap.

“i think you’ve had your fun, baby, it’s my turn.”

you whine when he drags you across his lap, back and forth until you’re squirming. his hips rut up into yours, fuelling your desire for every single inch of him.

“please, lando.” you breathe, reaching out to lace your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“let me look at you.” he demands, shutting down your intentions for more. “i’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you think?”

“so have i.” you beg him with your eyes, but give in to him nonetheless. you’re staining his lap, grey sweats darkening as your wetness pools there and he can’t help but buck up into your warmth.

“wanna play with you, baby, see how you like it.” he taunts, bringing two fingers between your legs.

he brushes his knuckles over the obvious damp patch at the crotch of your panties, lip caught between his teeth at what he finds. your soaked through, and he pinches your bundle of nerves just to watch you thrash in his grip.

“i hate you right now.” you spit through gritted teeth, but your hips can’t help but chase his hand.

“doesn’t feel like it.” he kisses you quick, loving the way you lean in for more, but he relaxes against the seat and dips slowly beneath your underwear. “fuck.”

he doesn’t have to work too hard to spread your wetness around, you’re already lathered in it, but he continues to tease, fingers gliding over your clit and through your folds.

“please.” you beg, leaning back to give him as much access as possible.

“what do you want, baby? tell me.” he urges, drawing circles on the swollen bundle of nerves.

“your fingers.”

“you have them.” he barks out a condescending laugh, applying more pressure just to prove his point.

“need them inside of me.” you pant, eyes squeezing shut at his sadistic game between your thighs.

“that’s my girl.” he praises, and you curse, clamping down around him before he even gets the first knuckle inside of you.

“how are you doing this to me?” you think aloud, tears in your waterline already. it all feels far too good for a first time.

“because i know you better than you think i do.” he coos.

lando pulls you flush against him, grinding his fingers deep so that they curl deliciously against your sweet spot. his palm bumps your clit with every twist of digits and he nips over your collarbone. his tongue laves over your skin, tasting the perspiration that gathers as the car steams up around you. you’re suddenly hyper aware of your surroundings, huddled together in the back of his urus in a dimly lit car park. thank god you’d lost the photographers.

“can’t believe we’re doing this.” you gasp, feeling your tummy tighten at the thrill of it all, of feeling your best friend work to please you.

“i knew it would happen. knew that someday i’d get to see you like this, all for me.”

“all for you.” you repeat, drunk on him as you rode his fingers. “feels so good.”

“want you to come for me like this.” lando orders, replacing the heel of his hand with his thumb against your clit. his ministrations are more controlled like this, precise, and you throw your head back in pleasure. his teeth sink in to the base of your neck, sucking softly over the bruising skin, lapping at the mark to soothe it.

“i’m so close, lan.”* you choke, riding his fingers as you near your release.

“c’mon baby, make a mess for me.” he urges, eyes locked intensely on yours. you’re enticed by the sea green storm that swirls in his irises, shrinking as his pupils blow with lust. you can’t help it, can’t delay the inevitable, and you thrash in his arms, wildly bucking your hips against his as you fall apart.

you gush all over his lap, further ruining his sweatpants but he doesn’t bat an eyelid, working you through your orgasm until you’re spent. he’s transfixed by the way your thighs glisten, by the way your release seeps through the material covering his crotch and it makes him throb.

“that’s it baby.” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. you pant, collapsing forwards onto him.

“thank you.” you whisper into his neck, and he laughs softly.

“don’t thank me, silly girl.” he coos into your ear. you pull back just enough to kiss him, taking it slow, giving you a moment to come down from your devastatingly intense high. you’re exhausted, eyes fluttering shut from the exertion, and he tucks sweaty strands of your hair behind your ears. his fingers graze your warmed cheeks, noses bumping and you take him in, carefully studying the lines of his face, the sharp slope of his nose, the flutter of his eyelashes against those ridiculously high cheekbones.

“you’re so pretty.” your voice floats over him like a delicate caress, makes him shiver. he grins at you, enamoured.

“didn’t think our first time would be in the back of my car but i don’t think i can’t wait to get you home.”

“you’ve thought about this?” you ask, bashful. he gazes up at you sheepishly.

“every night before bed.” he jokes, and you shift your hips.

you’re overstimulated, but it does the trick, the playful haze shattering, replaced by thick, charged tension.

“you gonna make that fantasy a reality?”

“yeah. yeah, i am.” he mumbles.

his hands skim your waist, pushing your jumper up as he goes higher and higher, until it’s off, chucked into the footwell. you tear at his sweatshirt until it joins your discarded clothing and explore the bronzed planes of his chest, extra sun-kissed by the trip you’d taken to dubai just a few weeks before. if only you’d known then…

“hurry.” you plead, and he scoffs, adjusting you on his lap just enough to free himself from his sweatpants and boxers, and you gawk down at what’s revealed to you.

it’s big, thick, and you sigh in relief that he’d so thoroughly stretched you out, got you nice and slick for him already.

“gonna take it all for me?” lando taunts, catching your hanging jaw between two firm fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“gonna try.” you reason, breathing shakily as you rise up on your knees. you feel the head of his cock prodding your clit, the sodden tip running along your folds until it catches on your entrance. you both hiss as the contact, his hands steadying your hips.

“you can do it, baby.” lando promises, helps you begin your descent.

“oh my god.” you gasp, sinking down slowly. “dunno if i can take it, lan, you’re so- so…” you trail off, head thrown back far enough that you miss the way he’s smirking up at you.

“c’mon baby, being such a good girl for me, i know you can take it. just a little more.” he goads, pressing each button of your apparent praise kink, and you whine, soft moans tumbling from your lips. a sense of determination becomes you, and you’re aching to take him all the way.

you cry out his name when you’re pressed flush against him, and he soothes circles into your hips, holding you close against his chest. one hand smoothes through your hair, the lace of your bra scratching against his chest as you breathe rapidly.

“well done, baby, knew you could do it.” lando praises, trailing kisses over your face. you quiver in his hold, hips wiggling ever so slightly, and he takes that as a sign. “want me to do the work, hmm? make you feel so good?”

you nod lazily, looking up at him from where your face is smushed against his shoulder, and he lets you break his rule of “words”, softened by how beautiful you look, vulnerable in his strong arms. he starts to move, fucking up into you slowly, feeling you out. you can feel him twitch inside of you, his breath catching in his throat at the feeling of you, tight and warm, enveloped all around him. you roll your hips languidly, meeting his thrusts and you both moan out as the explosion of sensations unfolds between you.

“harder, lando. can take it.” you mumble, glazed over doe eyes looking into his. he tenses up, shaken to the very core by the emotional tether between you, feeling the way it grows even stronger. the one woman he’d wanted since he’d laid eyes on you, the one women he never thought he could have; his heart pounds violently in his chest.

he readjusts your hips, pushing you back so that you’re upright once more, eyes raking hungrily over your flushed body. your skirt is bunched around your waist, panties tugged to the side, cups of your bra barely covering anything anymore. he tweaks a nipple through the lace, paws at your tits until you’re fluttering around him. the cups of your bra are tugged down, resting below your breasts and he swallows hard.

“fuck me, you’re so beautiful.” lando rasps, leaning you back further to perfect the angle.

once he’s satisfied, he bounces you against him, meeting your hips with harsh thrusts, his pace unrelenting. he can see the way you pool around his base, dampening the thatching of hair that decorates his pelvic bone. you seem to chase the friction there, rutting your clit against him. sweet puffs of breath fill his ears, melodic combined with a symphony of your needy whines, continuously intensifying as he fucks you deeper and deeper.

“it’s so good.” you slur, mouth hanging open, totally unhinged from the raw pleasure that he courses through your veins.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby.” he wants to say more, but then he sees it, the way your lower belly seems to protrude with every roll of his hips. “oh, fuck.” he cries out.

“do you see that, baby? see how deep i am?” lando growls, voice rippling through your connected bodies. you glance down, and the first tears start to fall.

“oh my god.” you repeat, nothing else to say, totally braindead at the sight. your cheeks are wet with tear tracks, utterly overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you, so blissful that it hurts.

“you crying for me, baby? do i feel that good?” lando mocks, reinvigorated by the way your tears gather at your collarbone. his hand swipes messily against your throat, swiping them away, but you catch his hand, keeping it there. your eyes lock as your hand squeezes around his, a silent plea. he rocks up into you even harder, hand clamping around you neck slowly, leaving your breathless, liquid heat shooting down your spine. you can’t stop it from hitting you like a ton of bricks, can’t hold back, not when he’s making it hurt so fucking good.

“lando, i can’t- i’m gonna- fuck.” you bellow, falling to pieces around him. he keeps you propped up through your orgasm, plowing into your limp body until you’re so tight around him that he quite literally can’t keep going. he shudders, repeating your name like a godforsaken prayer as his abs flex beneath your shaky hands. you feel him filling you up, shots of warmth painting your insides.

lando lets you collapse into his arms, holding you tight as you both tremble in the silence of the car. condensation rolls down the windows, giving away your frenzied desires. if anyone caught sight of his car, it wouldn’t be hard to do the math.

“gonna let me take you home so we can do that again?” lando laughs, breathing you in. he can feel the way your chest rumbles softly in response, hears your angelic, raspy laugh.

“gimme a sec, don’t think i can move ever again.” you groan, sighing into his chest.

you stay there for a while, basking in it, coming down. he traces shapes into the bare skin of your back; you absentmindedly trace a heart into the window fog.

when you finally manage to redress, it’s dark outside, bright lights casting patterns into the calm midnight of the marina. he holds your hand as he drives up into the heights of monaco, and you stare at the way yours fits so perfectly with his, just like how your head tucked so perfectly into the crook of his neck. you smile out the window and lando smiles at you.

by the time bedtime rolls around, you’re both well and truly exhausted. when you try and wriggle out of his grip, ready to retreat back to the guest room like a wounded animal, lando pouts - pouts! - and holds you even tighter.

“silly girl.” he kisses the words into your hairline, and drifts off to sleep.

hehe

taglist

lemme know if you wanna be added or removed! any tags that don’t work will be removed xo

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @formulaal

taglist cont. in reblogs. smooches

2K notes · View notes

fuckitupfelix · 4 months ago

Note

Hear me out,

A soft spoken hero reader. He's mainly for damage control and healing. He is well liked by the public and even gets cutesy nick names and edits on the internet.

And jealous Mark, who's slightly possessive over reader. But it never goes beyond thoughts because the reader is his own person.

But the variants obviously have to have different thought processes and morals. It would be interesting to see how they react to this universes version of reader.

(You can choose the variant(s) because I really suck ass at remembering their names.)

never letting you go.

invincible x male reader

chars: full mask, no goggles, mohawk, sinister mark variants

warnings: canon compliant violence + mild suggestiveness (no goggles, mohawk, sinister) + straight up cannibalism ? (sinister)

mainstream mark has liked you for a while. the two of you have grown close during his time as invincible— mainly due to him absolutely wrecking himself every time he fights and you're the one healing him— but he's grown fond of you over time. you both like seance dog, even though it took him months to squirrel that information out of you; you're always so quiet, so soft-spoken and nervous and shy. but now he knows you better, and you've warmed up to him.

you jokingly scold him more when he comes to you for stupid little injuries, and you send each other memes and edits that you find of your hero personas. he really cares about you, and he'd never want you getting hurt. thats one thing that never changes; even across universes.

full mask!mark

when he came during the invincible war, he had two people on his mind; debbie and you.

when he finds you he's absolutely pathetic

-> im talking practically on his knees, clutching at your waist, fingers digging into your sides (only slightly)

he was so convinced he'd lost you forever, but now that he finally had you back? oh he's never letting you go..

very gentle with you. he knows you aren't technically as fragile as a normal human, but compared to a viltrumite? you're like glass to him

used to HATE when you healed him because it fatigued you so much with how many injuries he bore

he lost you once. he's not losing you again.

you're out in the city, doing your best to help anyone that was unlucky enough to get caught up in the carnage. the amount of times you expected to pull out people and only got detached limbs made your stomach churn. you've been at it for a while when you notice mark descend next to you, his suit dripping with blood.

"mark...?" you murmur, eyes wide. without hesitation, your hands are on his shoulders, placing your forehead against his as you wait for your healing powers to work. a subtle but warm blue light envelops you both. "are you okay? you look... terrible."

he doesn't respond, instead leaning into your touch. he wraps his arms around your waist and lets his head dip into the crook of your neck. "god, its been so long..." he murmurs, lips ghosting over your neck. you tense up at his choice of words— this isn't your mark. fuck.

you stop your healing slowly, and try to gently peel yourself away from this.... imposter.... but his grip tightens on you almost immediately. "please, [name].. i can't believe its you." he almost whines into your neck, pressing soft kisses into it. "i know im not your mark, but let me bring you home with me. i'll keep you safe. I promise. i'll be a better boyfriend than your mark is."

"mark and I... we aren't..." you trail off, but he gets the hint, and immediately shoots up into the sky, cradling you flush against his chest.

"shhh, my love, it's okay," he murmurs, even though you hadn't made a sound. "i'll take care of you, i promise. you and mom are coming home with me. this time I'll keep you safe."

no goggles!mark

he's absolutely obsessed with you

in his universe, you used to heal him no matter how badly he got hurt

-> the healing process hurt equally as much at the actual fighting, your powers working overtime to set his broken fingers back into place and regrow adult teeth in a matter of minutes

-> yeah he got off to it. he would sometimes let himself get a little more beat up just to see you

stalked you back in his universe! he's got your daily schedule and mannerisms memorized, down to what mugs you prefer

you haven't even stepped foot out of the kitchen when mark comes in through that window with loose bolts— some things really don't change, even across dimensions. you hear the window creak, and you turn to see him there. you know this isn't your mark; his mask and suit are slightly different, but also his expression. he looked too.. calm. too cheerful.

"hey, mark," you murmur, your voice dying in your throat. there's a solid chance he's going to hurt you, you think. your grip on the counter behind you tightens. "what're you doing here?"

before you can blink, he's floating inches away from you, bringing his hands up to cup your face tenderly, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks. he leans close, inhaling your smell; fresh laundry mixed with mild rosemary. just like his [name].

"hey, you," mark coos, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your nose. he sounds too happy; too giddy. "missed ya sooo much, babes."

this isn't your mark. your mark is touchy, yes— but he knows his boundaries. his touches are arms thrown over shoulders, loose hugs, and light shoulder punches. not this. not tight squeezes on your shoulders, wet kisses across your face, or thighs rubbing against crotches. definitely not.

"we aren't dating," you whisper, gently curling your hand around the one holding your face, carefully peeling it away from you. mark snorts at that, and grasps the hair on the back of your head, gripping tightly. "sorry."

"well, in my universe, we are. isn't that good enough, [name]?" he giggles, and he pulls you so your lips crash against his, but its softer than you'd expect. it was almost sweet, if not for the intense grip on the back of your head. you bring your hands up to push against mark's chest. he chooses to ignore that, pressing you harder against the counter, forcing his tongue into your mouth and nibbling on your bottom lip.

"mark," you mumble against his lips, finally shoving him off of yourself, ignoring the little flip your stomach does. "i need to go help people."

"come on, i'd end up killing more people than you could save," he groans, letting his thumb trace over your bottom lip. "actually, I think you're saving more people staying with me here, dont'cha think? come onnnnn, [name]. don't you wanna keep all those people safe?"

mohawk!mark

hates how nice you are. like actually loathes it, and he tells you that

-> always talking about how you should be meaner, how you're a little pussy. his version of you doesn't take it to heart as much anymore

prob one of the few variants that won't be extra gentle with you because of your powers

-> "im not even being rough— you can just fix yourself later, stop bein' a crybaby."

definitely mocks you whenever you cry but licks the tears away anyways

he finds you when you're looking for your own mark. you tried calling him, texting him, asking cecil if he knew. nothing. then mark comes along, hovering over you with a nasty grin on his face. only... he's got the sides of his head shaved. of course you find a knockoff and not your actual mark..

you hold your hands up in a placating manner, as if you were dealing with a feral animal; you were, in a sense. except this was a more unpredictable situation.

"finallyyy," mark groans, floating down closer to you, arms crossed. "i was starting to think they didn't have you in this universe." he then pins you to the ground, his hands trailing and groping every inch of your body as he practically straddles you. "fuckin' missed this," he grins.

you tense up, and try to knee him in his crotch. he winces a little, spitting out a curse, and his thighs tighten around you. "come on, cutie, don't be a bitch," he scoffs, staring down at you. he grabs you hair, yanks your head up, and then proceeds to smash it down into the pavement. a strangled yell leaves your lips, your hands pawing pathetically at the pavement beneath you as a blue light circles around your shoulders. your head is throbbing, and you can feel a small sticky puddle forming under your head. you resist the urge to throw up.

"why're you.." you grit out weakly, hand grabbing at mark's thigh, nails digging into the flesh.

"awwwh, is little [nickname] tryna heal himself?" mark laughs, grabbing you by your throat and wrapping his hand tighter and tighter, pressing you down into the pavement. "you know only I can make you feel like this, yeah? i know you like it, so quit fucking struggling and be a good boy, hmm?" he coos, leaning down and messily smashing your lips together.

sinister!mark

uses you as his chewtoy. deadass

you're less of a romantic partner, more his property

-> if he's badly hurt and needs medical attention, he goes to you. if he needs sexual relief, he goes to you. if his teeth ache and he needs something to gnaw on, he goes to you.

keeps you close to him whenever he does anything; he can't have his property getting damaged, now can he?

finds you and your powers very interesting.. keeps you like a little science specimen

-> he talks down to you all the time, and he always expects an answer. nods or little noises won't cut it.

you're trying to help people, attempting to heal the people you just dug out of rubble. there was one more person you had to bring, but when you turn around, you see a floating figure clad in yellow and black, and wearing a cape. you've been at it for hours now; long enough to know this mark is fucking dangerous. even if he is anything like your mark, the chances of him being actually nice are.... pretty slim.

"ahhh. i was wondering when i'd find you. this is cute, trying to save all these people?" mark hums, hovering just in front of you. he smiles. its unnerving.

"mark. hi." you say, trying to keep your voice steady. you can feel the heat radiating off of his body. keeping your breathing consistent, you continue. "it's, uh, good to see you."

he doesn't bother acknowledging what you said. "you really think you can help these people? why?" he scoffs, and in an instant, he darts behind you. the warm blood splattered on your back processes faster than the screams. you turn around slowly. there he stood, atop the corpses of the civilians you had just struggled to save, his arm poking straight through a person's chest.

"m-mark—" your voice dies in your throat when mark turns to look at you. he hovers over, the metallic smell of blood filling your lungs. his feet finally touch the floor. he rolls his shoulders, muscles flexing.

"i told you. it's pointless. you're more useful for other things." he chuckles, his crimson-soaked hand squishing your cheeks together with one hand and grabbing you by the waist with the other . he tilts your head an uncomfortable amount, and bites down into your shoulder. he shoves your head into the crook of his neck to muffle your pained scream, but the sound still cuts clean through the silence. He moans at the taste of your blood, his teeth ripping off a chunk of your flesh. he runs his tongue over the newly formed crevice in your shoulder, lapping the blood up.

"go on. heal it." he says, digging his tongue into the wound. your hands dig into his back, clawing at the fabric of his cape and suit, your yells of pain barely muffled by his shoulder. you can feel your knees buckle underneath you, and your head feels heavy as you try and heal yourself. it's not working as fast as you'd hoped— you're long since exhausted from working for hours saving the now corpses behind you.

"god, are you even trying?" mark scoffs, and his hands dig into your side, fingers piercing the flesh by your ribcage. "come on, pet. you can do better than that," he sneers, dragging his nails down and through your skin.

the writing blurbs are so uneven im so sorry :< if you want me to do other variants lmk!! I might continue this with shiesty and viltrum mark at some point...

#(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆ lix writes !!#x male reader #x reader #invincible x reader #invincible variant x male reader #invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #no goggles mark x reader #mark grayson x reader #sinister mark x reader #full mask mark x reader #mark x reader #mohawk mark x reader

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gloryinthunder · 2 years ago

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I used to really love the first romance scene with Astarion (and I still do) but it hits so much harder after you know why he's doing it. That he's purposefully seducing you for protection and blood, that he's forcing himself to sleep with you, and this is a mask he's wearing.

It's a sexy scene and really feeds into the vampy (pun intended) jump-your-bones version of him you get at the start of the game. The whole thing starts out with him being so confident and suave, saying that he's wanted you ever since he set eyes on you and how you want to be known and tasted. It's like everyone's perfect vampire romance novel.

He's laying out the bait that's worked thousands of times over and luring you in. And you can just get right to the kissing if you want.

But, you can also stop and ask him, "And what do you want?"

And for just a moment the mask drops. This is not the same cocky seductive face we've had up until now. This is vulnerability showing. When has anyone asked him what he wants? When has anyone cared? Does he even know the answer to that question?

So he pivots. The mask snaps back into place immediately. He turns back into the master seducer and feeds you a line about shared ecstasy to get you back on track.

And then comes what is, to me, the pivotal moment. He asks you "That's what you want, isn't it? To lose yourself in me?"

Looking at his body language he seems unsure at first, maybe questioning his previous tactics. Then he slightly cowers back, lowering himself as he asks the question. The total opposite of his confidence from earlier where he's standing with his arms out wide.

He's not sure what you want anymore. You're not playing by the rules he knows. Why haven't you taken the bait yet? Why haven't you thrown yourself at him?

And when you finally Nod in agreement, confirming you're here for sex?

This. This is the face he gives you. He just looks so damn sad. To me, it hearkens back to "Of course it'll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?"

Whatever momentary blip made him question why you're there with him, he's just been reassured about both of your roles in this situation.

He sounds so quietly resigned when he answers: "I thought so."

And then the scene transitions into the actual act. I do like to think Astarion enjoyed himself as I'm sure the PC did, but it's hard for me to watch this scene now that I know his story and history without being uncomfortable.

Just that line "lose yourself in me" is so difficult to hear. Because on paper it's so sensual. Who wouldn't want a lover to feel that way about them? But knowing the context of what Astarion expects and believes in this moment is just... oof.

And to me, this is what makes this scene brilliant. The writing, voice acting, and the mocap/animation are all just SO GOOD. It's so delicately done and Astarion the character is so good at playing a role that you can completely gloss over the deeper stuff. But once the mask is eventually stripped away you can't help but see what was there the whole time.

And as we've established, being seen is a whole aspect of Astarion's romance arc.

I originally romanced Astarion for the same reasons I'm sure most did: he's a hot, sexy vampire elf (i.e. everything that's on the surface). But, I keep coming back to him over and over again for the person I know is waiting for me underneath the mask.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 astarion #astarion spoilers #astarion romance #baldur's gate 3 #baulders gate 3 spoilers #bg3

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satoruined · 1 month ago

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in which the strongest sorcerer asks you out on a date.

GOJO SATORU arrives twenty-three minutes late to a meeting he insisted on scheduling.

the higher-ups are dialed in already, projected in harsh pixels across the briefing room’s high wall screen. utahime is mid-sentence, explaining some strained cluster of regional curses in hokkaido, when the door slams open and in comes the strongest sorcerer—radiant and unapologetic, his polished black dress shoes clicking against the tile.

“apologies,” gojo announces cheerfully, breezing past protocol, posture, and of course, shame. “had a very important meeting with someone extremely high up.”

“with who?” you ask with a raised brow. he lifts a paper bag. it reads croissant croissant in cursive.

“myself,” he replies, dropping into the seat beside yours.

“took me out for breakfast. because self-love is the foundation of any healthy workplace environment.”

utahime looks like she’s on the verge of rupturing a blood vessel. shifting slightly in your chair, you angle your head without turning it fully, and murmur behind the shield of one hand, voice pitched low enough not to carry:

“…are those mochi socks you’re wearing?”

staring straight ahead, gojo lifts the hem of his tailored slacks a fraction, revealing a flash of pale fabric: pink, round-faced mochi with arms. one is holding a flag. he wiggles his ankle.

“business casual,”

the meeting drags on, a mire of mismanaged exorcisms and pressure from the kyoto school. gojo contributes nothing except red sharpie doodles in the margins of a terrain map—one of which is labeled “enemy base” and drawn to resemble a cat.

afterward, the other staff shuffle out in varying degrees of exasperation. only two remain. one out of obligation. the other… out of reasons unknown.

“you really skipped half the briefing for croissants,” you quip.

gojo shrugs, unrepentant. “i invited you. but you didn’t come.” he adds, with a pout.

“no you didn’t.”

he looks genuinely offended. “i thought about inviting you telepathically. didn’t you get the memo?”

your brow lifts.

“fine,” he concedes, mock-humbled. “next time i’ll text you. with my phone…so cold, so impersonal.”

the corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. “what, and ruin your reputation for spontaneous irresponsibility?”

he grins. finishes the pastry slowly, more contemplative than usual, and flicks the crumb off his thumb like he’s stalling.

then, offhand: “you free now?”

“for what?”

“coffee. with me. ideally somewhere you won’t start quoting the handbook at me.”

“you’re on thin ice, gojo satoru.”

“…emotionally or professionally?”

“both.”

the smile he gives isn’t his usual one. not the cocky, lopsided smirk meant to provoke. you decide you like this version better.

“shall we?”

“now?”

“before i disappear again. i know how much you miss me when i’m gone.”

you give him a look.

he adds, a beat softer, “c’mon, my treat. i’m being generous. open-hearted. warm. lovable.”

“lovable?”

“undeniably,” he says, rising to his full height.

“but i’ll let you pretend otherwise, if it helps you sleep.” he waits for you at the door, hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted as if he’s already mentally elsewhere—but his eyes under the blindfold never leave you. not until you move.

and when you do, he falls into step beside you, quiet for once. he’s decided—for reasons you’ll never get him to explain—that this afternoon is his to waste with you.

#𝐉. ★#五條悟 — gojo satoru #gojo satoru #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fluff #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #satoru fluff #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojo fluff

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frecklenog · 2 years ago

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i want you all to understand this.

insulin pens are very often used by diabetic children (or their parents, but they were very easy to use during the short time i was prescribed them when i was a child myself). they’re less cumbersome, produce less waste, and are far easier than pulling insulin from a vial with a single use syringe, as syringes are much more susceptible to air bubbles, which result in the diabetic not getting enough medication. i’m explaining this part because i know that some diabetic adults do also use them, and i’m sure that that’s true of diabetic adults in palestine with such scarce resources. when it’s life or death, you can’t really be picky.

the israeli occupation is now banning insulin pens from entering gaza.

lack of insulin results in diabetic ketoacidosis — essentially a very, very dangerous version of the effects of the keto diet. insulin is a key for the sugar from one’s food (both slow and fast acting, since all food has some carbohydrates, from nuts to potatoes to table sugar) to get from their bloodstream into their cells. without insulin, the body resorts to eating through its own fat stores rather than the sugar it cannot access and tries to flush the excess glucose that is in the blood through the urine. this results in weight loss, headaches, nausea, dehydration, blurred vision, abdominal pain, impaired mental faculties, and, if left untreated, will result in a coma, and eventually death within a matter of weeks. not “can.” it will kill you if not treated, and was largely considered a lethal diagnosis until insulin was discovered in the early 1900s and made readily available in 1922.

i’ve been in dka. admittedly, i was very young and have blocked much of it out. but i do remember that it fucking sucked. i couldn’t focus on anything, i was ravenous no matter how much i ate, and the room spinning to the point i felt like i was going to throw up became an increasingly regular occurrence. i was seven years old and wasting away like i was starved. i was dying. a few more days, and i likely would’ve gone into a coma and might not be here now.

to inflict that, willingly and knowingly, on innocent people, is nothing short of a crime against humanity, and violates the geneva conventions (item 2.a.ii. torture or inhumane treatment, including biological experiments and item 2.a.iii. willfully causing great suffering or serious injury to body or health). not that the israeli occupation cares, of course, as south african prosecutors have already extensively detailed their crimes in the icj, and this one in particular has already been committed near-countless times.

this entire occupation is a genocide, and this is only one more nail in that coffin. but, as a diabetic — as a human being who has been in that state and was lucky enough to have the resources to live almost another fifteen years (with the anniversary of my own diagnosis about halfway through next month), i can’t find the words to express my disgust and rage anymore. maybe it’s selfish to be so deeply impacted by this particular blow. i don’t know. but these people have done nothing wrong but be disabled in gaza, and as someone with the same disability, i know that no one deserves this, even if they have committed a crime (which, again, these civilians, largely children, have not). i will not fucking stand for it.

we need a ceasefire. we need an end to the occupation. we need a free palestine. now.

here’s a masterpost of how you can help.

EDIT: here’s a post on how to help diabetics in gaza specifically

#free palestine #free gaza #israeli war crimes #actuallydiabetic #actually diabetic #actuallydisabled #actually disabled #shut up emrys

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keraawrites · 11 days ago

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Between friends

Summary: Eren was the popular jock, Armin was the popular nerd, and you were the only thing that mattered to them. ۶ৎ Eren x Armin x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Weed, Threesome, dom Eren, soft dom Armin, rough sex, oral (male and female), doggy, cowgirl, dirty talk, slut shaming, pet names (ma, baby, princess), overstimulating, squirting, probs more but I can't remember

Word count — 5.4k

Babble: I'm 50/50 on this one

You honestly couldn’t remember the last time you’d gone a full day without hearing Eren or Armin’s name fall out of some girl’s mouth.

And you definitely couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t in your life.

You met Armin first. You were six, he was shy and sweet, and always carrying around books too big for his backpack. Then the very next day, Eren barreled into both of your lives like a storm—loud, fast, a little reckless, but already talking about how the three of you were gonna be best friends forever like it was a promise he was born to keep.

And from then on, it was the three of you.

As different as the damn seasons, but you made it work. Armin was the calm. Eren was the chaos. You were… somewhere in the middle, orbiting around both of them, balancing out the push and pull like muscle memory.

It wasn’t a problem. Not back then.

Not until people started trying to make it one.

Because somewhere along the way, both of them had gotten hot. Not just cute, not just “glow-up in senior year” hot. No—undeniable. The type of hot that made girls change electives just to be in the same class. The type of hot that made people ask you, constantly, “Are you guys, like a thing?”

And honestly?

You still didn’t know how to answer that.

Eren was the typical kind of popular—captain of the basketball team, tall, broad, hair always falling into his eyes like he paid someone to make it messy on purpose. He was the type girls wanted to fix, which was hilarious because he didn’t want to be fixed. He liked the chaos. He liked the attention. He had a different girl on his arm every month, maybe every week, but it never meant anything.

He never brought them around you.

And then there was Armin.

Not the kind of hot that slapped you in the face—but the kind that snuck up on you. Captain of the debate team, quiet confidence, thoughtful eyes behind those wire-frame glasses. He didn’t chase attention, but it found him anyway. Girls in AP Lit would giggle every time he pushed his hair back or bit his lip in thought. He didn’t flirt the way Eren did, but he didn’t need to.

And you? You were the girl always next to them. The one who knew every version of them before the world ever cared. The one they trusted with the parts no one else got to see. You weren’t just some girl who hung around them—you were their girl. Their anchor.

And still, people couldn’t stop trying to place you into a box.

“Y’all must’ve dated at some point,” they’d say.

“C’mon, you’ve definitely hooked up with one of them…”

You’d just laugh. Shake your head. Pretend it didn’t get under your skin.

But sometimes—late at night, when it was just the three of you again, shoulders touching, conversations slow and sleepy—you’d wonder if they ever thought about it too.

"Hey girl, please tell me that Eren ain't still fucking Claire, I really need someone to break my back in tonight."

You thought you were gonna cough up blood by how hard you had to bite your tongue to stop you from lashing out at the girl.

“If I had a dime every time some girl said they wanted Eren to rearrange their spine…” You muttered, slamming your locker shut with more force than necessary.

Your friend blinked at you, unfazed. “What?”

You spun on your heel to face her. “Look, if you wanna be another notch on his belt, do you. But don’t drag me into the middle of your thirst.”

“Damn.” She raised both brows, stepping back slightly. “Relax. I was just asking.”

You crossed your arms. “You always just asking about one of them. Every week, it’s a new ‘Who’s Eren dicking down’ or ‘Is Armin still with that junior from cheer?’ Like I’m some hotline for dick updates.”

She sucked her teeth. “Girl, come off it. Don’t tell me if they weren’t your friends, you wouldn’t have let one of ‘em hit by now. Or both.”

You blinked.

Oh.

The air in the hallway shifted a little. Your heartbeat ticked up a notch, but you kept your face calm.

“Wow. Okay.”

“I’m just saying!” she defended, arms up like she hadn’t just thrown a grenade at your whole reality. “They're fine as hell. I know you’ve thought about it.”

You looked away, lips pressed tight. Thought about it? That was the problem. You’d been thinking about it too much lately.

The sleepovers had gotten more touchy over time, especially when you smoked. The idea of Eren’s rough hands on your hips or Armin’s soft lips pressed to your neck had been invading your thoughts like an uninvited guest.

But she didn’t need to know all that.

“I think about a lot of things,” you said flatly. “Doesn’t mean I act on them.”

She snorted. “Bet. But if you ever decide to, send them my way after. I’m tryna see something.”

You rolled your eyes so hard your head tilted with it. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re in denial.” She winked, then bounced off toward her class.

You stood there for a second longer, jaw locked, mind running way too fast.

Denial.

That was funny. 'Cause you were starting to think that maybe you weren’t denying anything—maybe you were just waiting for the right moment.

"I'm gonna thump Eren in his little thick skull."

You turned to face the tall blonde who leaned over you. You stared up at the freckled face who had been your best friend for 12 years now, and for the love of God, why did he have to be so attractive?

"What did Eren do now?"

"All I ask is for five minutes so I can cram for my maths test, yet he doesn't seem to understand what do not disturb means."

You giggled as you reached up to plant a kiss on the boy's cheek, like you always did. "Yet you only allow me and him to be those special ones who can bypass that special little feature."

“You two are the only exceptions,” he muttered, voice a little rougher now, a little softer too.

"Yo!” Eren’s voice bellowed from the end of the hall, snapping the moment in half like a dry twig. “Tell Armin to stop acting like a victim, bro wouldn’t even have math anxiety if he did the homework when it was assigned!”

You turned to see him stalking toward you both, wearing a smug smirk and a hoodie slung off one shoulder. A basketball perched underneath his arm, and his chain caught the light just right.

Eren finally caught up, slinging his arm around your neck without asking, dragging you into his chest as he leaned down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Sup, troublemaker.”

You shoved him off with a huff, but you were grinning.

“I was minding my business 'til you interrupted my moment.”

Eren shot you both a lazy grin. “Y’all always having moments. Share the wealth.”

You rolled your eyes but your heart was racing again—and not just from Eren’s presence. Being between them like this, tangled in the easy banter and lingering looks, was familiar. But recently… it felt less friendly and more like standing too close to a fire you weren’t sure you were supposed to touch.

“I need a break from both of you,” you muttered, trying not to look too flustered as you backed up toward your next class. “You’re gonna melt my damn brain.”

“We already live there rent-free, might as well,” Eren called after you, but you just flipped him off.

Armin turned and punched the brunette in the arm, "Ow, what the fuck.?"

"For being stupid, now shut up and come on, I wanna watch her practice."

You giggled, face half-buried in your comforter, the warmth of the weed settling deep into your chest like a weighted blanket. Your legs kicked aimlessly in the air behind you, and the faint buzz of your phone matched the lazy energy of the room as you scrolled through TikTok, stopping only to laugh at something dumb that wouldn’t be funny sober.

The glow of your LED lights bathed the room in soft pinks and golds, casting everything in the kind of warmth you only ever got when it was just the three of you. Just like this.

Eren was camped out on your floor with his back against your bed, legs stretched long and wide, while his fingers flew across the controller in his lap. His tongue poked out slightly as he concentrated, muttering trash talk under his breath at whoever was on the other end of his headset.

Armin was reclined against your headboard, his long fingers typing away on his MacBook—probably editing his essay for the third time this week. Glasses sliding down his nose, the soft glow of the screen made his freckles stand out even more than usual. His knee brushed your hip every so often when he shifted, but neither of you acknowledged it.

"You know you guys didn't have to stay with me, you could have been flirting with girls at Connie's."

"Aww, mama, you know you're the only girl for us." Eren retorted from the floor, his eyes not leaving the graphics of his game.

You pulled his hair, causing him to yell out and lose the footing in his game, "Yeah right, that's why you both fuck anything that moves—"

“Oi, don’t lump me in with him,” Armin muttered, not looking up. “I have class.”

You sat up, still giggling as you faced the blonde. You held the blunt between your fingers, gesturing it towards him. Armin looked up from his laptop, his brows raised at you in question.

"Oh, come on, that essay is probably senior college grade level. Don't let me be high alone."

Armin smiled at you, his eyes looking over at Eren as he took the blunt from your fingers. He took a slow pull, exhaling thick smoke with a little grin. “Fine. But only 'cause it’s you.” You giggled, moving his laptop from his lap as you moved to sit between his legs, Armin’s arms lazily draped around your waist, his chin grazing your shoulder like he’d done it a thousand times—and he had.

"Eren, pause the damn game and come up here."

Eren smirked as he paused his game, pulling out his phone, he quickly connected to your speakers as his R&B playlist filtered through your room.

The brunette had already made himself comfortable when he came over, his jumper was gone— which you were currently drowned in, which left him in just his wife-beater, his cargos hanging low on his hips and his fingers littered with rings.

Eren placed himself on the edge of your bed, his eyes scanning over the two of you with a cocky smirk on his lips as he took the blunt from Armin's fingers.

It was always so peaceful whenever it was the three of you, Armin was always extra cuddly when he was high or not even; he always found a way to have his head on your lap or have you snuggled up against him.

Eren was the same. In his own way. He’d never say it, not in words, but the way his hand would end up resting on your thigh, or how his legs would bracket yours when you all got too close on your tiny bed—it said more than enough.

Eren passed the blunt back to you as you watched his lips part to take one last drag. You felt Armin shift behind you, his fingers trailing just under the hem of Eren’s jumper, cool against your warm skin.

"I have a question?"

Armin hummed lazily into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your skin. “Mm? Go ahead, princess.” You sighed a little as the sound of his voice went straight to your core.

You could feel the weight of your question before you even mumbled it out. You knew damn well you wouldn't have asked it sober, but you didn't care.

"How comes you guys never once tried to fuck me?”

The question halted everyone's movements. Armin's fingers had frozen against your skin, Eren’s body stilled instantly, his back straightening where he sat at the edge of the bed.

You didn’t take it back.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was tense. Like something had been cracked open.

Eren blinked slowly. "Say that again?"

You lifted your gaze to his, your throat tight but your voice even. “I said… how comes you guys never once tried to fuck me?”

Eren leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees as he watched you. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

"I mean, I know it has nothing to do with looks, I know I'm attractive, your friends keep trying fuck, but not you two.”

Armin’s hand moved again—this time to your waist, pulling you back into him so your spine pressed flush against his chest. His voice was quieter now, but deeper. More serious. “We didn’t know if we were allowed.”

That made your stomach flip.

“What?”

“You’re our girl,” Armin said simply, like it was a fact. “You always have been. Didn’t think we were allowed to touch without harming our friendship.”

Eren’s mouth twitched into something like a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I wasn’t about to lose you just because I couldn’t keep it in my pants.”

You sat up straighter now, questions flooding your brain, "Wait, Ren, I know you stare at my ass every chance you can get, and Armin, don't even get me started, you staring at my boobs whenever my cleavage is out. So what the fuck, one of you could have made a pass at me!”

"Yeah, I mean we're allowed to stare, but we didn't know you felt that way about us. Trust me, the reason I don't fuck that many girls as him is cause I beat my shit off to your selfies half the time." Armin said, peppering small kisses on the base of your neck, causing your eyes to flutter.

Eren watched as your body reacted to Armin's touch, the brunette licked his lips as you shifted amongst the blonde.

Damn,” Eren muttered, his voice hoarse. “You like that, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not with the way Armin was palming at your thigh now, inching higher, his breath warm against your collarbone.

You couldn’t have anticipated how quickly the mood would have shifted. You were always a little more outspoken when high.

“She’s always been sensitive,” Armin murmured, nuzzling your skin. “Especially when she’s got weed in her.”

Eren’s jaw ticked, tongue running across his bottom lip. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He leaned forward, his fingers dragging down your face, causing your eyes to flutter back open.

Eren's dark green eyes met yours, the glint in them were dangerous, he brought the blunt back to your lips, a dark smile painting his face.

"Hold it for me." You blinked up, hazy eyes meeting the brunette's in question, his eyes gestured to the blunt.

Your lips wrapped around it as Armin's tongue slid along your pulse point, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark. You whimpered, barely keeping the smoke in your mouth, your eyes locked on Eren’s like he was pulling it straight out of you with nothing but his stare.

Eren leaned in, one hand holding your jaw, the other bracing himself against the mattress. You exhaled slowly, lips barely brushing his, the smoke curling between you. He inhaled it greedily, his mouth ghosting over yours before pulling back with a low groan.

“Fuck, baby. You taste so good,” he rasped.

Armin’s fingers finally found the spot between your thighs, pressing through the cotton, and your hips jumped reflexively. A shaky moan escaped your lips, and Eren grinned wider.

“Rennie,” you whimpered, the nickname dripping from your tongue like honey. A wicked smirk flashed across the brunette's face, the sound of your whimper drove him crazy and he couldn't wait any longer.

His lips crashed into yours with urgency, stealing the next breath right out of your lungs. You melted into him, your fingers curling around his wrist, grounding yourself as Armin’s hand worked between your thighs with maddening patience.

The contrast was dizzying—Armin’s touch was slow and calculated, tracing circles over your clit now through the soaked fabric of your shorts, while Eren kissed like he was starving, like he needed to taste every part of you.

You gasped, breath hitching as Armin finally pushed your shorts to the side, fingertips slipping against your soaked folds. A low groan rumbled from his chest, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“She’s dripping,” he muttered, voice hoarse with disbelief and hunger.

Eren pulled back from your mouth, pupils blown wide as his gaze met Armin’s over your shoulder. His jaw clenched with restraint, breath heavy.

“Of course she is,” he said, breathless and wild. "Fucking slut has just been waiting for this to happen."

You whimpered again, your thighs trying to close around Armin’s hand, but Eren caught your knee and spread it wider, smirking as he leaned back slightly to look between your legs.

He tugged your shorts further down your legs, tossing them somewhere behind him as Armin kept those fingers moving—slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you.

Your head dropped against Armin’s shoulder, lips parting with a soft moan as his fingers pressed in deeper. “Shit,” you whispered, legs quivering.

Eren had moved lower, his strong hands gripping your thighs as he settled on his knees between them. His gaze locked on the way Armin’s pale fingers glided against your slick brown skin, spreading you open with casual reverence. The sight alone made his dick twitch in his cargos.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

He tugged you closer to the edge of the bed, face now inches from your pussy. His breath hit your skin, hot and shaky. He glanced up at Armin, flashing a dark, knowing smirk—then dipped his head without warning, mouth wrapping around your clit in one slow, devastating pull.

Your whole body jolted, a strangled cry falling from your lips as your hips jerked in response. Armin held you tighter, whispering something low into your neck as you writhed between them.

“Easy,” he soothed, fingers never still. “Let him taste you, baby. Been waiting long enough.”

Eren groaned against your cunt, the vibrations shooting through you like a shockwave. His tongue flicked your clit with unrelenting precision. His nose bumped your folds, his moans muffled against your soaked heat.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Sandwiched between Armin’s possessive hands and Eren’s filthy mouth, you felt like you were being devoured from both ends.

“Fuck, Min—Ren—I can’t—” you gasped, toes curling, nails digging into Eren’s shoulder and the bedsheets.

“You can,” Armin whispered against your temple, voice like velvet. “You will. Let go for us.”

Eren’s fingers joined the party then—two slipping in beside Armin’s, stretching you open as he sucked harder. The coldness of his rings had your hips lifted, thighs shaking violently as you let out a scream.

Armin gripped your jaw, tilting your face to meet his. His lips swallowed your cries as his tongue tangled with yours. The blonde moaned against your mouth as your pussy pulsed around his fingers.

When you finally came down, chest heaving, legs still twitching, Eren lifted his head, chin glistening and lips parted in awe.

Armin finally pulled away from you, your breathing laboured, breathless from the kiss and the overstimulating orgasm that just occurred.

Eren looked at Armin then, eyes wild. “Min, you gotta taste her. Swear to God—she’s the best thing I’ve ever had.”

The blonde’s glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, strands of hair sticking to his flushed cheeks. A wicked glint lit up behind those lenses as he slid his fingers out of you, coated and glistening.

With a soft groan, Armin brought them to his lips, sucking them in one at a time. His eyes fluttered closed, tongue curling around his fingers like he was savoring something decadent.

“Jesus…” he murmured, fingers slipping free with a soft, wet pop. His gaze dropped down to your trembling thighs, then crawled slowly up to your face. “Fuck, mama… can you do me a favor?”

You blinked at him, already breathless and needy.

“Wanna feel you ridin’ me while that pretty mouth of yours is wrapped around his cock,” he said, voice dripping with filth and sweetness all at once. “Can you do that for me, baby? Be good for us?”

Your eyes shifted to Eren, who was now at the side of the bed, completely stripped down—his wife-beater long gone, cargos pooled at his ankles. His hand was wrapped around his thick length, stroking slow as he watched you like he was starving.

You hadn’t even realised he’d gotten undressed. But now all you could focus on was how hard he was. How flushed the tip looked. How much you wanted him down your throat.

You nodded, lips parted, eyes still glassy from the orgasm that had just wrecked you. Armin smiled at you, a soft smile to the untrained eye, but you've known him for so long, you could see the dark mask that covered his face.

“Good girl,” he whispered, guiding you to straddle his lap as he laid back, resting against the pillows. “Come here.”

You crawled over him slowly, body still sensitive and trembling, but your core throbbed when you felt his clothed cock. Armin pulled Eren's jumper off your body, your bare tits meeting the air, causing both of them to groan.

"Help him with his clothes, baby,” Eren rasped, his hand still lazily stroking himself, the head of his cock flushed red, leaking just from watching you.

Your fingers were shaky as you reached for Armin’s shirt, tugging it up slowly, revealing his toned chest inch by inch. The second it was over his head, you shimmied down his frame, kissing across the expanse of his chest. His skin was hot under your lips, his muscles flexing slightly as your mouth dragged over him, as your fingers worked against the buckle of his belt.

“You’re so pretty,” you whispered, your voice hoarse from all the screaming.

“Say that again,” Armin breathed, his eyes fluttering half-shut as he looked down at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Min,” you said again. You hurriedly pulled on his jeans, your actions more needy than before, your cunt wanting to be filled again.

You quickly straddled the blonde once more, Armin’s hands gripped your hips as he lined himself up with your entrance, hissing through his teeth when you sank down onto him.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, head tipping back against the pillows. “So tight. You always this perfect, baby?”

You whimpered, the stretch burning so good, your hands planted on his chest as you started to grind against him slowly, adjusting.

Eren came up beside you, his cock hard and heavy in his hand. “Damn… she’s taking you so well, Min.”

You turned to him, tongue wetting your lips, and leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to the tip of his cock. He hissed at the contact.

“Go ahead, pretty girl,” Armin urged under you, hands sliding up your thighs. “Let him fuck your throat while I fuck this little pussy.”

You moaned softly at his words, lips parting as you wrapped them around Eren’s cock. He groaned instantly, hand curling into your hair, guiding your rhythm as you slowly took more of him.

“God damn, baby,” Eren cursed, eyes fluttering shut for a second, “Mouth feels like heaven.”

Your hips began to move again, bouncing on Armin's cock while your throat swallowed more of Eren with every motion. The wet sounds of your pussy squelching around Armin mixed with the sinful drag of your mouth over Eren’s shaft.

Armin bucked up into you with more force, fingers digging into the supple of your ass cheeks as he groaned, “Fuck, fuck—just like that, mama. Use me. Shit…”

Eren’s hand tightened in your hair, his breath stuttering. “You gonna let us ruin you tonight, huh? Been waitin’ so long baby, fuck, our perfect girl.”

You moaned around him, tears already welling in your eyes from the stretch of your jaw, the fullness of your cunt, the overwhelming heat crashing into your nerves.

Armin leaned up, his mouth hot and desperate as he kissed across your chest. Then his lips found your nipple, sucking it greedily into his mouth as he moaned around it. The warm, wet pull of his lips on your sensitive skin made your back arch, your thighs trembling harder now.

“She’s gonna cum again,” he murmured against your chest, tongue flicking your nipple before he let it go with a soft pop. “Feel that pussy fluttering—fuck, she’s already close.”

And fuck, he was right, the way your gummy walls kept sucking him in, your eyes rolled back into your head as you continuously slammed down onto Armin's cock.

Eren looked down at you, his cock glistening with your spit, his jaw clenched tight. “You gonna cum while choking on my dick, princess? Gonna fall apart for both of us?”

He slipped from your mouth just long enough for you to gasp, your voice rough and strained as you nodded. “Yes—fuck—please don’t stop. Please.”

Eren’s cock tapped against your lips again, and you opened back up for him, moaning as he slid in deeper than before. Armin’s hands gripped your ass, pulling you down onto him as he thrust up into you, matching the rhythm of Eren’s strokes into your throat.

Armin's face was flushed, glasses halfway down his face. His lips parted as a long groan came out of his mouth.

You whimpered around Eren, unable to speak, every nerve in your body sparking. You clenched around Armin as your orgasm hit again, sudden and blinding. You cried out around Eren’s cock, body seizing up, thighs trembling as your release poured out of you—slick and hot as it spilled down Armin’s thighs.

“Shit, fuck—fuckkk,” Armin gasped, his head tipping back, hips jerking up hard as he came. He held you there, buried deep inside, ropes of cum spilling into your already messy cunt.

Armin gently rolled his hips, his breathing slowing, but he was still inside you, lazily grinding. “You okay, baby?” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You did so good.”

You nodded, eyes glassy, lips swollen, still trembling as Eren moved behind you again.

You weren’t even fully down from your last orgasm before Eren lifted your hips again, carefully coaxing Armin’s softening cock out of you with a soft, wet noise. His cum leaked down your thighs, and Eren groaned at the sight.

"Fuck, mama, put that ass up for me—yeah, just like that." You couldn't even think, but your body moved on its own. Armin was still coming down from his high, but he watched as your body acted out on its own.

You didn’t even process the words—your body just obeyed, moving on instinct. Knees sinking deeper into the mattress, spine arched, cheek pressed against Armin’s chest as he lazily played with a strand of your hair, his blue eyes never left you. He watched, chest rising and falling, mesmerized by how easily you bent for them.

Eren propped one leg up on the bed behind you, hand gripping your hip as he ran the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds—dragging it slowly over your overstimulated clit. You cried out, your thighs twitching, hips jerking forward, but Eren just chuckled, holding you in place.

"Aww mama, you sensitive?" he asked, mock sympathy dripping from his tone. “Good.”

His cock was already slick with your arousal, your orgasm, and Armin’s release, making it easy for him to slide against you—teasing your entrance, letting the tip sink just barely in before pulling back out again.

You whined, burying your face into Armin’s chest. “Rennie… please.”

“Shhh,” he cooed, leaning over your back. “You’ll take me when I say you can.”

Then he shoved in with one deep, brutal stroke.

You screamed, body jolting forward, hands gripping the sheets. Eren was deep—so deep it felt like he was still in your fucking throat. The stretch burned, but it was addictive. Your eyes rolled back, your mouth dropped open as your pussy clenched hard around him.

“Shit,” Eren hissed, hands tightening on your hips. “You’re still fuckin’ pulsing. You like being used like this, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately, breath catching in your throat. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop.”

He started to move, long, deep strokes that made the whole bed creak. Your ass rippled with every thrust, your body arching back into him like you needed him deeper. Armin slid a hand under your chin, tilting your face toward him so he could kiss you again—slow and messy, a contrast to the way Eren was fucking you raw.

“You look so good like this, princess,” Armin murmured against your lips. “So pretty when you cry.”

Eren was relentless behind you, panting now, sweat dotting his brow as his hips smacked against your ass over and over. One of his hands slid up your spine to the back of your neck, gently pressing you further into the mattress.

“You gonna give me one more?” he asked, voice tight with restraint. “Gonna let me fuck another one outta you?”

You couldn’t form words—only a ragged, choked moan as your body rocked between them. Your thighs were shaking, your breath coming in short, panicked little gasps. But your nod was enough. Your moan was enough. And your pussy squeezing around him like it didn’t want to let go? That was more than enough.

Armin had begun stroking himself softly, his hand still planted on your chin. His yes never leaving yours, his new favourite thing was to watch your face as you orgasmed.

Eren’s hands came down hard on your ass, the cool feel of the metal of his rings soothed the blow. The smirk didn’t leave his lips as his palm continued to meet your ass, the ripple of your cheeks like his own personal tidal wave.

Your nails dug into Armin’s thighs, your cries muffled as your body began to snap tight again, overstimulation pushing you to the edge faster than you could brace for.

Eren felt it—felt your walls squeezing around him like a vice. “Oh fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, thrusts becoming erratic. “You’re fucking clenching—shit—fuckin’ squeeze me just like that.”

Your whole body jerked, a silent scream lodged in your throat before a broken sob of a moan spilled out of you. You collapsed forward onto Armin’s lap, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, legs quivering violently as your third orgasm slammed into you and shattered every nerve.

“F-Fuck, she's squirting—look at her,” Eren moaned, voice trembling as he fucked you through it, the sounds obscene, wet and slick and goddamn feral.

Armin let out a low laugh, pushing your hair back from your face as he kissed your temple. “Can’t get enough of you, mama. She’s soaked,” he said, voice breathless. “Fill her up Ren.”

“Shit—shit, I’m gonna cum,” Eren gritted through clenched teeth. He pulled your hips flush to his, burying himself deep one final time—and then you felt it. His release hitting hot and thick inside you, filling you up with a groan that nearly made your legs give out completely.

He stayed there, panting, bent over your back with his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Both of you breathless, trembling, your bodies stuck together with sweat and cum and all the heat you’d been hiding from each other for so long.

When he finally pulled out, you whimpered, your body twitching from the emptiness, from the sheer overwhelming mess of it all.

Armin caught you before you could collapse, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you down gently onto the bed between them.

Eren flopped beside you, arm draped over your back. His other hand lazily traced circles into your thigh, still shining with everything they'd given you.

“You okay, baby?” Armin murmured softly, thumb brushing away the tears on your cheeks.

You blinked slowly, lips parted, a dazed smile forming.

“Never better,” you whispered hoarsely.

Eren turned over, his arm looping over your waist as he planted a kiss on the back of your neck.

"Good girl, now go to sleep."

You smiled into the pillow, your body still tingling from the excessive orgasms. Now you could understand why girls never let up on the two of them.

And God help them, cause you're not letting up on them now.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

#black fem reader #black female smut #katsuki bakugo mha #eren yeager #armin artlert #aot fanart #eren x black fem!reader #armin x black reader #eren x black!reader #eren x reader smut #armin x reader smut #aot smut #aot x black reader #eren x armin x reader

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ilovemarvel97 · 19 days ago

Text

All That I Gave Till We Found Our Happy Ending

Wanda Maximoff x Asgardian Fem!Reader

Summary: Y/N always loved Wanda. But Wanda had chosen Vision.

Word Count: 8,914

Warnings: angst, heart break, death, happy ending.

A/N: This Story has two versions. This is the happy ending version. If you plan to read both versions, I recommend to read the other one first!

Main Masterlist

Angst Only Ver.

---

Y/N had always found Midgard’s silence different from Asgard’s. Here, it pressed against the walls, especially after battle, especially after loss.

Y/N had been by Wanda’s side every step.

After Sokovia.

After Pietro.

When Wanda screamed into her pillow for nights, Y/N stayed by the door.

When she stopped eating, Y/N brought her food and sat with her silently until she ate.

When her hands trembled with power she didn’t understand, Y/N taught her to breathe like the warriors of Asgard did when their blood threatened to boil.

She fell in love with Wanda through all of it.

Not for her beauty—though she had never seen a creature more stunning in any of the Nine Realms.

Not for her power—though it sang with a rhythm that called to something deep in Y/N’s bones.

But for her heart. Her grief. Her strength. Her way of rebuilding from ashes.

The first time Y/N told Wanda she loved her, it wasn’t some grand confession under fireworks or amid a life-threatening mission. It was quiet. Honest. Just the two of them, sitting under the stars on the compound’s roof.

Wanda had still been grieving back then—her eyes hollow, her heart heavy from losing Pietro. And Y/N had been there. Through it all. Not because she hoped it would earn her love, but because she loved her.

“I know you're not ready,” Y/N had said, her voice low, steady like thunder before the storm. “But I needed you to know. I love you, Wanda Maximoff. And I’ll wait. I’ll pursue you, gently—steadily—until you tell me to stop.”

Wanda had blinked, tears shimmering in her eyes. She didn’t speak right away. Just leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder and whispered, “You make me feel safe. Like I can breathe again.”

Y/N took that as enough.

For a while, it seemed like maybe—maybe—that love would have room to grow.

But then came Vision.

He was kind. Curious. Gentle in ways that didn’t threaten Wanda’s still-tender heart. And Y/N, though she felt the shift, stayed silent—watching it happen, watching him happen.

Then one day, Wanda pulled her aside. Her hands were shaking.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

Y/N already knew. Gods, her heart knew before her mind ever did. But she nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I care for you, I do,” Wanda started. “But... Vision asked me to dinner.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t rage. She only said, “And what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

Silence hung between them like a blade.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Wanda added quickly. “You’ve always been there for me and—”

“I know,” Y/N interrupted gently, a sad smile curling her lips. “And I always will be. But if Vision’s the one who makes your heart feel like it can fly, then don’t let me hold you down.”

Wanda’s eyes brimmed with guilt.

Y/N stepped closer and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way she always did when Wanda looked like she was falling apart. “I meant what I said that night, Wanda. I will pursue you—unless you tell me not to.”

“I think... I think it wouldn’t be fair to you if I let you wait.”

“So tell me to stop.”

Wanda’s voice cracked when she whispered, “Stop.”

Y/N nodded, her heart breaking in a way only someone raised by gods could endure without crumbling. “Then I’ll love you quietly. From afar.”

She walked away then, not because she was weak, but because staying would’ve hurt worse.

And even as Wanda watched her go, a part of her already knew—Vision may have been the safe choice, the logical one. But Y/N... Y/N had always been home.

---

After that day Y/N watched it unfold slowly—Wanda and Vision.

A subtle closeness at first. Quiet conversations in corners. Shared books. Hands brushing, lingering too long. Then came the stolen glances. The soft laughs. The night Wanda didn’t come to the rooftop anymore—because Vision had asked her to watch a film with him instead.

Y/N watched. And ached.

But she never stepped back. Not from Wanda.

When nightmares clawed at Wanda’s mind, it was still Y/N she called.

When her magic flared too wildly in training, it was Y/N who steadied her hands.

She was always there.

Even after Wanda told her, gently but firmly, “It’s not you, Y/N.”

Y/N only nodded, swallowing the storm in her chest. “It’s okay. I never expected you to wait for a god.”

But that was a lie. Some part of her had hoped Wanda would.

---

Before the Sokovian accords, Y/N was called away when Hera attacked Asgard. Thor and Loki needed her. Duty bound Y/N to go. She left Midgard with a reluctant heart, leaving only a message for Wanda.

“If you need me, call. Across realms, across space—I’ll find you.”

Wanda never called.

Not until it was too late.

When Y/N returned, the world was on fire.

The Sokovian Accords had split the Avengers apart. Half of them fugitives, the others enforcers of law. And Wanda—gods, Wanda—had been imprisoned.

By Vision.

By the one she chose.

Y/N landed at the ruined compound, cape still dusted in ash from the Bifrost, fists clenched at her sides.

“She trusted him,” she growled. “And he put her in a cage.”

Steve was the one who told her everything. The explosion in Lagos. The fear. The politics. Wanda being deemed a threat. And Vision “keeping her safe” behind locked doors.

Y/N’s eyes glowed with fury. “He was supposed to love her. And he chained her like a beast?”

“She’s not in there anymore,” Steve said. “We broke her out before the Raft.”

“No. I will break her out.”

She found Wanda in a hidden base in Wakanda, still shaken. Still fragile.

Y/N burst into the room like a storm, pulling her into her arms, her voice tight with emotion. “You should’ve called me. You should’ve called me.”

Wanda clung to her like a child. “I didn’t know how.”

Y/N stayed.

Through the hiding. Through the guilt. Through the endless apologies Wanda muttered at night in her sleep. She taught her how to wield her magic without fear again. She trained with her. Held her when the grief came in waves.

They laughed again.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N let herself hope.

---

But fate, cruel and mocking, had other plans.

Y/N stood at the edge of the crumbling hillside estate, the moonlight casting a pale silver glow over the ruins they had once called refuge. Far from the compound, far from the chaos of governments and sides, they had run here—Wanda and Y/N—to a safehouse in the woods of Eastern Europe. Hunted, broken, healing.

She had thought maybe here, maybe this time...

But fate, cruel and mocking, had other plans.

Vision had found them.

He came not as a soldier, not as an enemy—but as the man Wanda had once loved. The one she had chosen.

He stood in the courtyard, speaking softly to Wanda in Sokovian, voice trembling with guilt and promises. Y/N had watched from the shadows, every word carving deeper into her chest like a blade.

Wanda cried. Trembled. And then… she took his hand.

Didn’t even look back.

Didn’t see the way Y/N’s jaw clenched. The way her knuckles went white around the hilt of the dagger at her thigh. The way her eyes—normally blazing with Asgardian fire—dimmed to something hollow.

She walked.

Out the gate.

Down the path.

Through the trees.

Until she reached the hill’s edge, where the stars stretched like cold diamonds across the black velvet sky.

She looked up, exhaled slowly.

And whispered, “Heimdall.”

Silence.

Then—golden light shimmered faintly in the air, as if the cosmos itself paused to hear her call.

“Heimdall,” she said again, firmer now. “Open the Bifrost.”

The wind picked up, whipping through her dark hair, pulling at her crimson cloak. Behind her, the leaves rustled—but it wasn’t Wanda.

Of course not.

She didn’t expect her to follow.

Didn’t want her to—not if it wasn’t her choosing.

Then, in a flash of burning celestial light, the Bifrost opened—crackling sky to earth, bright enough to chase away the shadows still clinging to her soul.

Y/N stared into its heart.

No one came running after her.

No one called her name.

And still, she waited.

One second. Two.

Just in case.

Just in case...

But there was only wind.

So Y/N stepped into the light.

And was gone.

---

Wanda’s POV

She didn’t watch her go.

Wanda stood in the overgrown courtyard long after Vision had taken her hand and whispered, "You don’t have to run anymore."

Long after the trees stilled.

Long after Y/N turned and walked away without a word.

But when she felt the sky split open in gold behind the treetops—the distinct hum of the Bifrost tearing through the night—she knew.

Y/N was gone.

She pressed her lips together, fingers curling into the folds of her sleeves.

A pang struck her chest, sudden and sharp. Not grief. Not regret, exactly. Just… ache.

Empty, dull ache.

The kind you don’t feel until something has already been lost.

She swallowed hard, looking up toward the flicker of dying light in the sky.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the wind. “But it was always him.”

Her voice trembled on that truth.

Because she did love Vision.

Right?

Yes!

She loved his stillness. His calm. His curiosity. The way he looked at her without fear—even when she was at her worst. He saw the humanity in her, not just the power.

With him, she didn’t feel like a monster.

So when he came back—arms open, words soft, eyes full of sorrow—how could she say no?

He was her choice.

He had always been her choice.

And Y/N... Y/N was the one who loved her first. The one who carried her through the fire and never asked for anything in return. The one whose love was so big, so unwavering, it made Wanda feel like she could burn the world down and still be forgiven.

But love like that... it scared her.

Because if she ever fell into it, really fell, and it shattered—she didn’t know if she’d survive.

So she didn’t chase her.

Didn’t call her name.

Didn’t beg her to stay.

Because safety was here—in Vision’s quiet voice, in his promises, in his logic.

Even if her heart felt heavier than it should.

Even if she still felt Y/N’s warmth on her skin and her absence like frost in her lungs.

She turned to Vision.

Smiled, though her lips barely moved.

And tried not to look back.

---

A Year Later

The Bifrost split the sky open over the Scottish countryside, a streak of burning celestial gold crashing into the earth. Smoke curled from the crater, and from it rose a figure clad in dark Asgardian armor, her cloak torn by battle, eyes burning with urgency.

Y/N stepped out of the light, her face grim. She looked up to the clouds, chest rising and falling. The weight of what she’d left behind pressed against her ribs—Thor, bloodied. Loki, defiant. Thanos, looming.

She didn’t know how bad it would get.

Only that it was coming.

And she had to warn them.

She found Steve Rogers in a safehouse outside London, flanked by Natasha and Sam. The air was thick with tension the moment she arrived.

“Y/N,” Steve said, stunned. “I thought you were still on Asgard.”

“I was,” she said quickly. “But Thanos is coming. He’s not sending armies anymore—he’s doing it himself. He already has the Power Stone. And the Space Stone.”

Natasha’s face darkened. “And you’re sure?”

Y/N nodded once. “I left Thor and Loki to stall him. We didn’t have time to argue.”

Steve stepped forward. “Then we don’t have time either. Wanda and Vision—”

“Where are they?” Y/N interrupted.

“They’re in Edinburgh. We lost contact.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. Of course. Of course they were alone.

She didn’t wait for orders. “We go now.”

---

Edinburgh

By the time they reached them, the fight was already underway. Vision was pinned, injured—half-dead from the blade impaled through his back. Wanda was fending off the Children of Thanos alone, her magic flaring wildly.

Y/N hit the ground like thunder, crashing into one of the attackers with the force of an asteroid. Her sword gleamed under the neon lights, slicing clean through alien armor. She didn’t look at Wanda, not yet—her focus was war.

When the dust settled, Wanda stood breathing hard, blood dripping from her brow, magic pulsing at her fingertips. She turned, stunned.

“…Y/N?”

Y/N looked at her, gaze unreadable. “We have to go. Now.”

Wanda took a step forward, eyes searching hers. “You came back.”

“I came to fight,” Y/N said. “Not for you. For the world.”

That stung. Wanda flinched.

But Y/N had already turned, kneeling beside Vision, who was barely conscious. “You need to get the Mind Stone out of him. Now. Before Thanos finds you.”

“He’ll die,” Wanda said, voice cracking.

Y/N met her eyes then, finally. “Everyone will die if you don’t.”

---

Wakanda

They were in the jet now, flying fast over dark waters. Vision lay silent, head in Wanda’s lap. Steve was focused ahead. Natasha checked weapons. No one spoke much.

Y/N stood at the far end of the cabin, hand resting on the hilt of her blade, eyes locked on the stars. She didn’t look at Wanda.

But Wanda kept glancing at her.

There was something different about Y/N now. Something quieter. More distant. As if the pain she once carried had been turned into steel and silence.

Wanda wanted to speak. To say thank you. I'm sorry. I missed you.

But the words caught in her throat.

Because it wasn’t her Y/N anymore. It was a warrior.

And this time, Y/N wasn’t there to pick up her pieces.

She was here to stop the end of the world.

---

Wakanda — The Final Attempt

The halls of Shuri’s lab pulsed with urgency—lights flashing, alarms flaring in the distance as Thanos’s army began to breach Wakanda’s outer defenses.

Inside, Y/N stood beside Princess Shuri, her glowing hands hovering over Vision’s body. The Mind Stone shone faintly in his forehead, flickering like a dying star.

“This is delicate work,” Shuri said quickly, fingers dancing over the holographic schematics of Vision’s neural network. “One wrong move and—”

“I know,” Y/N said, her voice calm but taut. “But I can keep him alive.”

Shuri blinked, pausing. “You’re not human, are you?”

Y/N gave a small, tight smile. “No. I’m Asgardian. More than that—I am the daughter of the River Eternal. The Goddess of Life.”

Shuri raised a brow. “Impressive title.”

“It’s not a title,” Y/N replied. “It’s what I am.”

She looked down at Vision. “If you can disconnect the stone from his systems, I can keep the organic part of him alive. Every cell, every function—I can breathe life back into whatever remains.”

Shuri hesitated—then nodded once. “Then we’ll do it together.”

The procedure began.

Shuri worked fast, fingers flying over hard-light controls, separating vibranium mesh and neural pathways. Outside, the rumble of battle shook the earth, but inside the lab, there was only stillness—and the faint golden glow spreading from Y/N’s hands into Vision’s chest.

Wanda watched through the glass with Steve and Okoye, her hands balled into fists. She didn’t understand the science, or the magic—but she saw the way Y/N leaned in, her energy pulsing like a heartbeat, her lips whispering ancient words in a tongue older than Midgard itself.

It was beautiful. Terrifying.

Selfless.

“You're burning yourself,” Shuri muttered, glancing at Y/N’s shaking arms.

“I can take it,” Y/N said through gritted teeth. “Just keep going.”

Bit by bit, the stone began to loosen—its tendrils detaching from Vision’s mind without killing him. Golden light poured from Y/N’s fingertips into every vein in his body, sustaining his systems. She willed every cell to live.

She could feel it—Vision’s fading consciousness, the echoes of Wanda in his memory, the quiet way he still longed to stay with her.

So Y/N gave more.

More than she should.

Outside the chamber, Wanda pressed a hand to the glass, eyes wide, breath shallow.

She could feel Y/N’s energy—it wasn’t chaos like hers. It was warmth. Like sunlight on skin. Like spring after winter. Like love, if love were made of starlight and sacrifice.

She’d known Y/N was powerful.

But not like this.

Not until now.

Wanda’s breath came fast, each heartbeat pounding like a war drum. “I have to go,” she said urgently, glancing toward the distant battlefield where Thanos’s forces advanced relentlessly.

Y/N nodded, her hands glowing faint gold as she steadied Vision’s still form.

“Shuri, are you ready?”

Shuri gave a sharp nod. “I’ve almost disconnected the Mind Stone. Once it’s free, it’s yours.”

Together, they worked with precision and silent determination. The Mind Stone pulsed like a fragile sun, tethered to Vision’s mind by delicate, golden threads.

Then—suddenly—free.

Vision gasped, eyes fluttering open, and Y/N caught him effortlessly.

“We did it,” she whispered.

But there was no time to celebrate.

She turned, Mind Stone glowing fiercely in her palm, and ran out into the woods.

The woods were alive with the distant thunder of battle. Steve, Natasha, and others held the line against the advancing enemy.

Wanda waited, tension carved deep in her face. Y/N approached, breathless, holding the Mind Stone.

“This ends here,” Y/N said firmly.

Wanda took the stone, magic flaring around her fingers as she chanted ancient words, energy crackling until the Mind Stone cracked—fracturing like a star exploding.

A blinding light burst from the shattered gem.

For a moment, hope blossomed.

But then—time twisted.

Thanos appeared like a shadow cast in malice, eyes burning with cold fire.

In a swift, devastating motion, he lunged.

His blade pierced Y/N’s side—tearing her away from the battle, from Wanda, from hope.

She collapsed, blood blooming dark against her armor.

Wanda didn’t hesitate. She sprinted through the trees, heart pounding, until she reached Y/N collapsed on the forest floor, clutching her side where blood seeped through torn armor.

“Y/N!” Wanda cried, dropping to her knees beside her. Her hands glowed softly, weaving magic to mend the wound.

Almost instantly, the gash began to close—skin knitting together, strength returning. Y/N’s breath grew steadier.

“Wanda…” Y/N whispered, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile breaking through the pain.

“I’ve got you,” Wanda said fiercely, eyes shining with hope.

Then—

A sudden, chilling silence swept the battlefield.

The air grew cold.

Wanda’s glowing hands froze mid-motion.

She looked up—just in time to see the cruel grin on Thanos’s face as he raised his gauntlet.

With a terrible snap, the world around them shuddered.

The grass at their feet withered.

The sky darkened.

And Wanda… flickered.

Her vibrant form began to crumble, particles of light and color dissolving into dust.

“No!” Y/N gasped, reaching out desperately as Wanda’s eyes met hers one last time—full of pain, fear, and unspoken love.

And then—

She was gone.

Dust drifting on the cold wind.

Wanda’s ashes still floated in the dying sunlight, dancing between Y/N’s trembling fingers.

She stared blankly at the space where her love had been, her mind struggling to accept the void left behind.

A scream tore from her throat.

Raw. Primal. Agony incarnate.

The kind of scream that shattered the air, that made birds flee from trees, that cracked the bark of trees around her. The ground trembled beneath her knees, golden energy bursting out of her body like an uncontrollable wave—life itself flaring in devastation.

“WANDA!”

Her name echoed through the woods, through the smoke and blood, but there was no answer.

Only silence.

Only dust.

Y/N slammed her fists into the earth. Vines sprouted instantly, flowers bloomed—life bursting from her, unable to fix what had been taken.

Because it wasn’t death.

It was erasure.

And not even the Goddess of Life could bring back what wasn’t there.

A sudden streak of lightning flashed across the sky.

Thor landed beside her, Stormbreaker dripping with blood. His breath was heavy, his eyes wild.

“Where is he?” he roared.

Y/N rose, her golden eyes burning. She pointed across the clearing—toward Thanos, standing calmly on a distant hill, watching the devastation he’d wrought.

Thor didn’t wait.

He charged.

Stormbreaker soared.

It struck true—burying deep into Thanos’s chest.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Mad Titan smiled grimly. “You should have gone for the head.”

And with a final flash—he was gone.

Vanished into ash and silence.

Y/N stumbled forward, eyes wide. “No… no, no, no—”

Thor collapsed to his knees beside her, staring at the empty space Thanos left behind.

“We lost,” he murmured.

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

Her knees gave out again, and she fell to the ground where Wanda had last been—hands open, reaching for dust that would never reassemble.

She whispered, brokenly, “She was everything.”

And for the first time in centuries, the Goddess of Life had no hope to offer.

Only grief.

---

Five Years Later

Time hadn’t dulled the ache in Y/N’s chest.

Five years had passed since Wanda vanished in her arms, since half the universe crumbled into dust. Every sunrise without her was a quiet war Y/N fought alone. She wandered Earth, sometimes Asgard, but she never stayed long anywhere—always moving, always waiting for a sign that she could do something.

That sign came in the form of Scott Lang.

The Quantum Realm. Time travel. A second chance.

And suddenly, there was hope.

---

Vormir — The Soul Stone

When the teams split up to retrieve the stones, the mission to Vormir fell to Y/N, Vision, and Natasha.

None of them questioned it.

Vision was restored by Shuri using Y/N’s lingering energy from the procedure five years earlier—rebuilt, quieter, still haunted by all he remembered. He looked at Y/N differently now. With gratitude. With guilt. And always with Wanda between them, even unspoken.

When they reached Vormir and met the Red Skull, the truth settled in like a blade.

A soul for a soul.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll go,” she said, stepping forward.

Natasha grabbed her arm. “Y/N—”

“It has to be me,” Y/N said. “This is for Wanda. If there’s a chance she can live again... I’ll give everything.”

But Vision stepped forward.

“No,” he said softly.

Y/N turned to him, stunned. “Vision—”

“You’re the Goddess of Life,” he said. “You can’t give that up. The universe needs you.”

“I’m not doing this for the universe,” she snapped. “I’m doing this for her.”

He held her gaze. “And she would never forgive you if you died for her.”

She faltered.

“I’m not truly alive,” he said. “I was created. I can be rebuilt again. If anyone must go—let it be me.”

“Vision—”

“Let me do this… for both of us.” He said quietly.

Y/N’s throat closed.

She stepped back.

And Vision turned, without fear, to the cliff’s edge.

“I hope,” he said with a faint smile, “she remembers me kindly.”

Then—he let go.

Y/N screamed as he fell, but she didn’t stop him.

A flash of light. A tremor in the sky.

The Soul Stone lay there, glowing.

Y/N collapsed to her knees, clutching it to her chest. “You fool,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

---

The Endgame — One Last Push

The battle was chaos—time fragments crashing together, armies from across the universe colliding.

Thanos returned.

And so did Wanda.

Y/N saw her in the midst of the storm, her red magic slicing through the sky, her rage pure, focused.

“Wanda!” she shouted.

Their eyes met for just a second—but there was no time.

Then Tony snapped his fingers.

He fell.

Y/N ran to him as Peter and Pepper wept by his side. His breathing was shallow, his life fading.

But Y/N—bloody, shaking—knelt beside him, hands trembling.

“No,” she said. “Not you too.”

She pressed her fingers to his chest, gold light pouring from her palms.

“He gave everything,” Pepper whispered.

“I can give it back,” Y/N said, her voice low, fierce. “Just enough.”

She didn’t heal everything. Just enough to keep the arc reactor pulsing, his heart beating.

Enough for Tony Stark to live.

---

After the End

The Avengers Compound was quieter now.

The fires were out. The dead were mourned. The sky was whole again.

But peace was fragile.

And grief hadn’t gone anywhere.

Wanda walked through the wreckage with red-rimmed eyes, ignoring the celebrations and reunions. She searched every room, every hallway.

“Vision,” she whispered. “Where is he?”

No one had answers.

Until Natasha found her.

“Wanda,” she said gently. “We need to talk—”

“Where is he, Nat?” Wanda’s voice cracked. “Where’s Vision?”

Natasha hesitated, her jaw tight. “He went to Vormir with Y/N and me… for the Soul Stone.”

Wanda froze. “That’s impossible. He—he was with me, in Wakanda. He was here.”

“I know,” Nat said quietly. “He chose to go in Y/N’s place. He gave himself for the stone.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then—Wanda’s breath hitched.

And she snapped.

She stormed down the corridor, magic surging around her in an unstable flicker of red chaos.

She found Y/N standing in the debriefing room alone, her armor still stained with blood, shoulders sagging, eyes vacant. The Soul Stone’s glow long gone from her palm.

Wanda didn’t wait.

“You let him die,” she said, her voice trembling.

Y/N turned slowly, eyes widening. “Wanda—”

“You let him die!” Wanda shouted, her magic flaring behind her. “You stood there and watched while he threw himself off that cliff! You’re the Goddess of Life! You could’ve stopped him!”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “He made a choice—”

“No. No, you made a choice,” Wanda spat. “You let him go so you could be the one who survived. Was that your plan all along?”

“Wanda, that’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed, her hands shaking. “Did you think that if he was gone, I’d suddenly look at you differently? That I’d fall into your arms out of grief? Is that it?”

Y/N’s lips parted, stunned, wounded, but silent.

Tears poured down Wanda’s cheeks as her voice turned vicious.

“You should’ve been the one to die, Y/N. Not him.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. And Wanda knew it.

But she said them anyway.

“Whatever you thought was between us—it was never real. It will never be real.”

The room fell silent.

Y/N stood frozen, like stone. She didn’t argue. Didn’t explain. She only looked at Wanda like someone who had finally been destroyed—completely.

Then Y/N said, so softly it barely carried,

“…I know.”

And walked out.

Natasha stood in the doorway, having heard it all.

Wanda sank to the ground, sobbing.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, over and over. “I didn’t mean it—”

But it was too late.

Because gods may survive battles.

But they don’t always survive heartbreak.

---

Few Days Later

Y/N stood with Steve Rogers, both watching the golden shimmer of the Quantum Gateway pulse to life.

“You sure you don’t want to be the one to go home?” he asked, half-grinning.

She smiled faintly, already worn from the battle. “Home’s not a place for me anymore.”

He gave her a knowing look. “Then find a new one.”

She tilted her head. “What about you?”

Steve glanced at the briefcase with the stones, and then back to the past he hadn’t seen in seventy years. “I think I already did.”

Y/N nodded, understanding without needing him to say her name. Peggy.

“Go,” she said. “You deserve your dance.”

He gave her a soft salute, then vanished into the stream of time.

And just like that, he was gone.

---

She didn’t have long, but there was one place she needed to see before returning to her timeline.

Asgard.

Not the one that had fallen—but the Asgard of the past. Golden skies. Singing winds. The scent of lavender and stone.

She wandered the gardens she remembered from childhood, her boots echoing over marble pathways.

And then—her mother found her.

“Daughter,” Frigga said warmly, opening her arms.

Y/N fell into them, for the first time in years allowing herself to feel small.

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” she whispered. “I loved someone who couldn’t love me back. I tried to let go, and I keep losing.”

Frigga ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “You love deeply. That is no mistake.”

“She told me I should’ve died.”

Frigga’s hand paused.

Y/N didn’t cry. But her voice broke. “And maybe she was right.”

Frigga pulled back, her voice sharp. “No. She was in pain, not in truth.”

“She loves someone else.”

“Love isn’t possession, child,” Frigga said softly. “Love is knowing their happiness matters more than your pride.”

Y/N swallowed. “Even if that happiness isn’t with you?”

Frigga nodded. “Especially then.”

There was silence for a while. Then Y/N looked up. “She was my happiness.”

“Then give her the choice to feel it again.”

Y/N says her goodbyes and she returns to her timeline.

With a new purpose.

She brought together the ones she trusted—Shuri, Bruce Banner, and the knowledge Tony Stark left behind. They worked in secret. Wanda was still grieving. She hadn't spoken to Y/N since the battle. She hadn’t apologized. She didn’t even know.

It didn’t matter.

This wasn’t for forgiveness.

It was for her.

Vision’s body was rebuilt—vibranium polished, neural cores realigned, brain patterns reconstructed.

---

Few Weeks Later

Vision’s body lay still on the platform—repaired, restored, but empty. A shell waiting for a spark.

The lab thrummed with quiet urgency.

Shuri moved through the diagnostics. “We’re ready for memory restoration, but it’s incomplete. We don’t have a sustainable power source for full neural activation.”

Bruce glanced at Y/N. “There’s got to be another way. You can’t—”

But Y/N was already stepping forward.

Her eyes glowed faintly, golden light dancing at her fingertips. Her breathing was tight. She pressed a hand over Vision’s chest.

“Y/N,” Bruce said, alarm rising in his voice. “This will burn through you.”

Shuri looked up from her console. “If you override his system like this, you won’t survive. It’s too much. Please—don’t do this.”

But Y/N just closed her eyes.

And gave.

Light poured from her like a storm breaking open. Not radiant like before—but cracked, fractured, tendrils of black laced through gold as it streamed into Vision’s core. Her veins darkened across her neck, her chest, her hands.

The mark of a god bleeding herself dry.

“Y/N, stop!” Bruce shouted.

“Think of Wanda—she already lost him once, don’t make her lose you too!” Shuri cried.

But Y/N didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just kept going.

Until—

A single gasp.

Vision’s chest rose.

Eyes opened.

Alive.

Whole.

Remembering.

Y/N let go.

Her knees buckled. She barely caught herself against the table. One hand clutched her chest, where deep black veins now pulsed with slow poison.

Bruce caught her before she fell completely.

Her skin was pale. Her lips trembling.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Why would you do this?”

Y/N met his eyes.

But she didn’t answer.

Didn’t say a word.

She only looked at Vision.

And then away.

As if that—bringing him back—was the only truth that mattered.

Later that day,

The compound was full of light and laughter.

People clinked glasses. Music drifted lazily through the halls. Wanda stood beside Vision, her hand in his, her eyes brighter than they had been in years.

He was alive.

Whole.

Home.

Wanda smiled when she looked at him, something warm and complete blooming in her chest. Whatever pain she had carried for five years—it finally cracked open and let joy in.

Everyone celebrated.

Everyone but one.

Y/N stood at the edge of the garden outside the hall, her cloak pulled tightly around her. She could feel the pulse of life in the compound—the heartbeat of friends, of family—but she remained just beyond the glow.

The dark lines beneath her skin had spread.

The threads around her heart were deeper now, cold. Even breathing hurt. Even standing still made her bones ache.

She didn’t know how long she had.

A week?

A few days?

It didn’t matter.

Because Wanda was smiling.

And that… was enough.

Y/N turned away from the lights and laughter, her silhouette swallowed by the quiet of night.

And by morning, she was gone.

She boarded a small transport heading north, toward the coast—toward New Asgard.

The winds were colder there. Salt and sea and starlight clung to the air.

It wasn’t the Asgard of old, but it was still hers.

And she was tired.

So tired.

She took a small house by the cliffs, overlooking the sea. Simple. Quiet. The way gods faded—softly, like stars falling below the horizon.

Every night, she stood at the shore, hand over her heart, where dark veins glowed faintly like dying embers beneath her skin.

She didn’t curse Wanda.

She didn’t regret what she gave.

She only whispered, each time the wind howled through the waves,

“I would do it all again.”

---

The morning after the celebration, Wanda stirred beside Vision, but something gnawed at her chest—soft, intangible.

She glanced at him.

He was smiling, calm, gentle as ever.

But… there was a silence between them now. A distance.

And she couldn't name it.

Later that day, while the others moved through the compound, Wanda searched every hallway for one person.

Y/N.

Gone.

She asked Bruce. Shuri. Sam.

No one had seen her since the party.

Finally, it was Vision who found her in the garden.

“I believe,” he said carefully, “she left the morning after I was restored.”

Wanda frowned. “Why would she…? Wait—restored?”

Vision nodded, looking toward the sky as though recalling a dream. “Y/N was the one who brought me back. She gathered the science. Provided the magic. And in the end—she gave the power I did not have.”

Wanda’s breath caught.

“She… never told me,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “I never got to thank her. Or apologize.”

---

Days passed. Wanda tried to cling to what she had.

But the ache wouldn’t go.

She and Vision spoke often. Sat together. Walked side by side.

But something was always missing.

And after a week, they both said it aloud.

“It’s not the same,” Vision admitted softly, fingers brushing hers but not quite igniting the same spark. “Whatever connection we shared… it was the Mind Stone.”

Wanda nodded slowly, pain deepening in her eyes. “I feel like… I should still love you. But it’s like someone turned down the volume on my heart.”

And that truth, quietly, gently, shattered the illusion they’d both held onto.

But for the first time, Wanda didn’t cry.

She simply said, “I think I needed to understand that… to move on.”

---

Thor found her a day later.

“She’s in New Asgard,” he told her. “Came here quietly. Hasn’t said much. She doesn’t look well, Wanda.”

Wanda didn’t waste time.

She left the next morning, heart full of nerves and hope and something else—remorse.

When she arrived at the cliffside house, she saw her.

Y/N stood barefoot by the edge of the shore, cloak fluttering in the wind, eyes closed like she was listening to the sea breathe.

“Y/N,” Wanda called softly.

Y/N turned.

Her eyes were dimmer than Wanda remembered. Her skin paler. The dark veins across her chest barely hidden by the open collar of her tunic.

“Wanda,” she said gently. “What are you doing here?”

Wanda ran to her, breath catching. “I had to. I needed to say—I'm so sorry.”

Y/N looked at her quietly.

“I said unforgivable things,” Wanda whispered. “I was grieving and cruel, and you—you gave everything. You saved him. And I never even said thank you.”

Y/N looked out at the sea. “You were in pain. I understood.”

“But it wasn’t right,” Wanda said, her voice breaking. “You should have hated me.”

“I never could,” Y/N said softly. “All I ever wanted… was for you to be happy.”

They fell into a quiet stillness.

Not awkward—just heavy with everything left unsaid. The wind rustled through the grass. The waves rolled in and out below the cliffs.

Finally, Wanda spoke again, her voice gentler now.

“We figured it out… Vision and I.”

Y/N turned slightly, listening.

Wanda looked down at her hands, then back out toward the sea. “It was the stone. The Mind Stone. That’s what made it feel like love. It was real in its way, but it wasn’t ours. It was never truly mine.”

She paused, breath catching in her throat. Then, almost in a whisper—

“When it was gone… and everything faded, all I could think about was you. My Y/N.”

Y/N blinked, heart stuttering.

Wanda turned to her fully now, eyes raw and open.

“I thought I loved him because it felt destined. But you... you were always there. You were never anything but real.”

She reached for Y/N’s hand.

And smiled—tentatively, softly, real.

Wanda took Y/N’s hand in both of hers, her voice trembling with something deeper than nerves—hope, maybe, or something close to a prayer.

“I want to try,” she said, eyes shining. “I want *us.* I want the life I should have chosen before. If there’s still time… please, let me love you the way you deserve.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but it was hollow—like a flicker of warmth inside a fading flame.

That smile was what broke Wanda first.

Her breath caught. “Y/N…?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Her gaze drifted toward the horizon, as if trying to keep the truth at bay. But Wanda’s eyes followed the curve of her jaw, then lower—and froze.

The veins.

Black and red, like scorched lightning, had crept higher than before—now curling up Y/N’s neck like some twisted brand of sacrifice.

Wanda’s blood ran cold.

“…What did you do?” she asked, voice low, cracking like fragile glass.

Still, Y/N didn’t answer.

“Y/N. What did you do?!”

Y/N finally looked at her. And with a voice barely above a breath, she said:

“I gave him my essence. My core. My life. Enough to rebuild his soul.”

The air left Wanda’s lungs.

She stumbled back a step as if struck.

“No… no, you didn’t…” she whispered, eyes wide in horror. “Tell me you’re lying—tell me you didn’t—”

“I had to.”

“You didn’t!” Wanda screamed. “You didn’t have to do this! Not for me!”

“I didn’t do it for me,” Y/N said softly, painfully. “I did it because you loved him. And I loved you.”

Wanda fell to her knees.

Her hands covered her mouth as the tears broke free—harsh, endless, guttural sobs she couldn’t contain.

“You’re dying?” she choked out.

Y/N gave a slow, heartbreaking nod.

Quietly.

Without fear.

“I didn’t know how long I had,” she said. “I still don’t.”

Wanda crawled to her, clutching at her hands, at her shirt, at anything she could hold onto.

“You should’ve told me. You should’ve let me choose you, not mourn you.”

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Y/N whispered.

“But I’m not,” Wanda sobbed. “I’m not if you’re not with me. Don’t you understand? You’re my happiness.”

Wanda clutched Y/N’s hands like lifelines, her tears soaking the fabric of her tunic.

Y/N’s hands… were too still.

Too calm.

Wanda looked up at her, eyes blazing with pain. “You don’t get to say goodbye. Not now. Not after everything.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but her eyes were distant. Hollow.

“You’ll be okay, Wanda.”

“No, I won’t,” Wanda snapped. “I won’t be okay without you.”

Y/N shook her head gently. “You will. One day, you’ll find someone who gives you peace again.”

Wanda stared at her like she’d been struck.

“What?”

Y/N’s voice was quiet, but unshakable. “I’m not your happiness, Wanda. I was never meant to be. You’ll love again—maybe even find your way back to Vision. Or someone new.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You loved him before. The stone made it stronger, maybe… but part of it was still yours. That kind of love doesn’t just vanish.”

“It did!” Wanda shouted. “It did the moment I realized what I lost in you.”

Y/N looked away, toward the sea. The wind caught her hair, her silhouette steady even as Wanda crumbled beside her.

“I was supposed to die, Wanda.”

Wanda blinked. “What?”

“Vormir,” Y/N whispered. “It should’ve been me. Just like you said it. Not Vision. Me.”

Wanda remembered.

“It should have been you, not him.”

The words she had spat at Y/N in her grief, in her fury, after Endgame.

Words meant to wound—and they had.

Gods, they had.

She choked on a sob as the memory clawed its way into the present.

“You said it too,” Y/N said softly, without accusation. Just quiet acknowledgment. “You knew it all along.”

Wanda dropped to her knees, cradling Y/N’s hands in hers, her heart tearing open.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it—”

Y/N just smiled, sad and kind. “I know.”

Tears ran down Wanda’s cheeks like rain.

“But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

For a moment, there was silence—thick and heavy with everything left unsaid.

And then Wanda stood abruptly, the tremble in her limbs betraying her composure.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can’t lose you,” Wanda breathed. “Not again. Not ever.”

But as her arms tightened around Y/N’s back, her fingers brushed the skin of her shoulder—and froze.

Wanda pulled back just enough to look.

And there it was.

The spreading dark veins crawling across Y/N’s chest and shoulder, slithering up the side of her neck like poison beneath the skin. They pulsed faintly—black and red like old wounds refusing to close.

Wanda’s breathing hitched, her lungs suddenly too tight.

She stared, unable to blink.

Her heart pounded.

No…

Her eyes widened as she stumbled back a step, her hand covering her mouth.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “No, no, no…”

Her chest heaved.

No magic could explain this away.

No spell could undo what she saw.

No time stone could rewind it.

Y/N—her Y/N—was dying.

And this time… it was because of her.

Because she asked for Vision back.

Because she let Y/N sacrifice everything.

Because she had said the most unforgivable words and never took them back until it was too late.

Y/N reached for her, but Wanda sank to her knees in the grass by the cliffside, sobbing—hands pressed to her face, body trembling with every breath.

she cried. “Not you—never you!”

Y/N knelt beside her. “Wanda—”

“I thought I was broken when I lost Vision. But this—this is worse. This hurts more!” Wanda sobbed, clutching her chest like her heart might rip out.

“And I told you… those horrible things. I said you should’ve died. And now you are, and it’s—it’s my fault—”

Y/N’s arms wrapped around her gently.

Warm. Steady. Weakening.

“You’re not to blame,” she whispered. “I made this choice. I would make it again.”

Wanda shook her head violently, clinging to her now. “You don’t get to leave me. Not now.”

“I just wanted to give you peace.”

“You are my peace,” Wanda cried. “Don’t you get it? You are. I was too blind to see it. Too afraid.”

She looked up at Y/N, her hands cradling her face.

“I didn’t love Vision anymore. I loved the memory of what we were. But you—you’ve been there. Through everything. And I love you, Y/N. I love you now. I always loved you. But the stone was on the way!”

Y/N blinked slowly, the words softening something deep within her even as her body weakened.

“Please stay,” Wanda begged. “Please… however long you have—just stay. With me.”

---

They stayed in the small cliffside house.

Wanda never left her side.

She cooked for her. Wrapped her in blankets. Pressed warm tea into her hands and read aloud to her from old Asgardian texts. She even tried to meditate with her—even though she was terrible at it.

Every night, they laid together under thick quilts, Wanda’s fingers tracing softly over Y/N’s scarred skin, whispering promises into her hair.

“You’re not going anywhere without a fight.”

“If I can’t save you, I’ll love you through the end.”

“Please don’t go. Not yet.”

Y/N would sometimes smile, touch her cheek, and say softly,

“I’m not gone yet.”

---

One evening, the two of them sat in silence, watching the sea. The sky was pink and gold, the wind gentle.

“I thought love was supposed to be joy,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N leaned against her. “Sometimes it’s just choosing to stay. Even when it hurts.”

“And you stayed,” Wanda said. “Even when I didn’t choose you.”

“I never needed you to,” Y/N replied.

Wanda’s tears fell again.

“But now I do.”

---

The dark veins had reached Y/N’s collarbone.

Her fingertips were colder now. Her golden glow—dimmed to a flicker.

Wanda had stopped pretending things were okay. She barely left Y/N’s side, except when she was researching. Studying. Digging through old Asgardian scrolls, ancient magical texts, forgotten Stark files, even calling on Doctor Strange.

But every time—

“I’m sorry, Wanda. It’s not death. It’s essence decay. There’s no known reversal.”

She screamed into her pillow that night, fists clenched in helpless rage.

She hated the universe. Hated the sacrifice. Hated herself for not realizing sooner.

But most of all—she hated the thought of losing Y/N when she had only just found her.

Y/N could feel it too.

The weight in her bones. The way light had to be forced out of her fingers now. How her vision swam when she stood too long. The world felt quieter. Slower.

So she prepared.

One evening, while Wanda was gone, Y/N wrote something.

It wasn’t long. Just a page, folded carefully.

Then she summoned her final magic—what remained of her pure golden light—and tucked it into a locket.

It shimmered, faintly warm, like a heartbeat captured in metal.

She placed it on Wanda’s pillow with the letter,

“You gave me love, even when I thought I didn’t deserve it. You gave me your time, your truth, your touch. This light—it’s the last of me. When it’s cold, hold it. And remember I never left you. Not really. —Yours, always. Y/N.”

When Wanda found the locket and the letter, she collapsed to her knees.

“No, no, no—not yet.”

She rushed to Y/N’s room.

The goddess was curled beneath thick blankets, eyes closed, breath shallow. Her skin was almost grey now—webbed with shadows.

“Y/N,” Wanda choked out. “Don’t do this. Don’t you dare.”

Y/N’s eyes opened slowly.

“I’m here,” she whispered, voice like wind over glass.

“You can’t leave me.”

Y/N reached up, brushing Wanda’s cheek with weak fingers. “You found me, Wanda. That was everything.”

“I’m going to find a way,” Wanda whispered fiercely, taking her hand and pressing it to her heart. “I’ll find something—anything—just… stay. Please stay.”

“I don’t want to go,” Y/N whispered. “But I gave too much.”

Wanda’s magic pulsed around her, flaring in red, trying to hold Y/N’s essence in place.

But the light was fading.

And still—Y/N smiled.

“You’re the best thing I ever loved.”

That night, Wanda held her in bed.

No magic. No desperation.

Just their hands twined. Their foreheads pressed together.

“I love you,” Wanda whispered.

“I know,” Y/N said. “That’s why I’m not afraid.”

Wanda’s tears soaked into her shoulder.

Y/N’s light flickered.

Flickered.

And then—

Darkness.

Wanda held Y/N’s body tightly to her chest.

Still.

Too still.

Y/N’s skin had lost all warmth, her chest unmoving, her hand slipping from Wanda’s grasp. Her golden veins—once filled with the light of life—had gone black.

She was gone.

Really gone.

Wanda shook, the grief crawling up her throat in a scream that refused to come out. Her magic churned violently beneath her skin. The walls trembled. The sea roared.

“No,” she whispered. “No—no—no—NO!”

Red light exploded from her.

It shattered the glass.

Cracked the foundation.

The sky screamed with her.

“GIVE HER BACK!” Wanda sobbed, and with a scream that tore her soul in two, she placed both hands over Y/N’s heart.

A violent wave of chaos magic erupted outward—red and glowing and angry, laced with raw energy no spellbook ever dared to name.

“I don’t care what it takes—you don’t get to take her from me!”

Magic poured from her palms, surging directly into Y/N’s lifeless chest.

It crackled and hissed, merging with what little gold light remained deep within.

“COME BACK TO ME!”

The red swirled violently around Y/N’s body, burning like a second sun. The locket on the nightstand glowed brighter, vibrating, pulsing—like a heart desperate to beat again.

And then—

A gasp.

Y/N arched.

Her back lifted off the bed, golden light bursting from her mouth, her chest, her eyes.

Her veins, black and dead only seconds ago, flooded with warm golden light again—twisting through the darkness, consuming it. Purging it.

She collapsed back down, limp.

Wanda froze, eyes wide, panting.

“…Y/N?”

A breath.

Then another.

Y/N’s fingers twitched.

And her lips parted.

“Wanda…?”

Wanda threw herself onto her, sobbing in relief. “Oh my god—oh my god, you’re back—I thought I lost you—I thought I—”

But Y/N was blinking, dazed. “What… happened…?”

“You died,” Wanda choked out. “You died in my arms and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you go!”

Her magic still glowed faintly along her arms, her skin shimmering with residual power.

“You brought me back?” Y/N asked weakly.

Wanda nodded. “I—I didn’t know if it would work. I didn’t care. I just needed you.”

Y/N touched Wanda’s face, her hand trembling. “I thought I used everything. I didn’t think I had anything left.”

“You didn’t,” Wanda said. “But I did. And I gave it to you.”

Wanda leaned her forehead against hers.

“This time,” she whispered, “you don’t get to leave me.”

Y/N exhaled, shaky and soft.

“I wasn’t trying to. I just didn’t know you’d want me to stay.”

“I want everything with you.”

They kissed—slow, trembling, full of salt and magic.

Outside, the sun rose over New Asgard, painting the sea in gold.

And for the first time in a long time…

Y/N’s heart beat not because of power or sacrifice—

But because someone had loved her back.

---

Three Years Later

The curtains fluttered gently in the breeze, sunlight spilling across the sheets in golden warmth. Wanda stirred slowly, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach—rounded and firm beneath her palm. Nearly five months now.

Her fingers traced the swell of life growing inside her, and a soft smile pulled at her lips.

But as she blinked into the morning light, the bed beside her was empty.

“Y/N?” she mumbled, pushing herself up carefully, concern immediately sparking in her chest.

Before she could swing her legs over the side, the bathroom door creaked open.

And there she was.

Y/N stepped out into the room, drying her face with a towel. Her hair was damp and pushed back messily, strands sticking to her forehead. She wore only a dark sports bra and shorts, muscles still lean and defined—though the smallest mark of black-red veins remained faint across her chest, like an old burn from another life.

Wanda’s eyes softened immediately.

Y/N caught her staring and smirked. “Good morning, my love.”

Wanda huffed a breath of relief, her smile growing. “You weren’t in bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Y/N said, padding over to the edge of the mattress. “Kid was kicking like they were trying to duel me.”

Wanda laughed. “Well, they are ours.”

Y/N leaned down, pressing a kiss to Wanda’s bump. “Good morning, tiny chaos.”

The baby kicked again in response, right beneath her lips.

Wanda let out a soft gasp and rested her hand over Y/N’s. “There. See?”

Y/N’s smile dimmed, just slightly, as her eyes drifted to the faint mark still etched over her chest.

Wanda noticed.

She reached up, cupping Y/N’s face gently. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Y/N whispered. “Not anymore. Just… reminds me I almost didn’t get this.”

Wanda brushed her thumb over Y/N’s jaw, her voice like a vow. “You did get this. You fought for this. For us.”

“I’d do it again,” Y/N said, leaning into her touch. “Even now.”

“You won’t need to.” Wanda pulled her in, kissing her slowly, deeply. “We’re here. We’re okay.”

Y/N nodded against her forehead. “Yeah. We are.”

She wrapped her arms around Wanda, pulling her in gently so that their bodies pressed close—her chin resting atop Wanda’s head, her hands resting over the soft swell of her stomach.

Then—

A kick.

A solid thump, right against Y/N’s ribs.

She blinked, then pulled back just slightly.

“I know you are here too, my little chaos”

Wanda laughed, eyes shining.

As if on cue, another little kick nudged against Y/N’s abdomen where it met Wanda’s bump—firm and insistent, like a tiny high-five.

Y/N’s eyes widened with awe. “You’ve got your mother’s timing.”

“And your stubbornness,” Wanda added with a proud smirk.

Y/N placed both hands reverently on Wanda’s belly, kneeling slightly so she was eye level with it. Her thumbs moved in soft circles over the warm skin, lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t yet find the words.

And then she whispered, voice thick,

“You’re here too, huh?”

Another soft nudge.

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She kissed Wanda’s bump with trembling lips.

“Okay then,” she murmured. “We’ll take on this world together.”

Wanda watched her, tears in her eyes, heart full.

Three lives.

One love.

And all the time in the world ahead of them.

---

Let me know in the comments if you read both versions or only this one!