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ssweeterthanfiction · 2 days ago

Text

Glimpse of Us

summary: routine became something finnick cherished. but course, the capitol must ruin everything, including his love. but he will still find a way to get her back.

finnick odair x fem!reader

content warnings for the whole story: descriptions of death, torture, starvation, and everything described in The Hunger Games, mentions of suicidal thoughts, implications of S/A

mood board + playlist

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Chapter VIII

They don’t stop him from visiting.

Maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s because Haymitch told them not to interfere. Maybe it’s because no one knows what else to do with him.

But no one says anything when Finnick shows up. Every day, from the moment he wakes up, he’s there.

The Recovery Wing is quieter than any other place in District 13. Too clean. Sterile. The air smells like antiseptic, but it’s the kind of sterile silence that doesn’t offer any peace. It clings to the back of his throat like saltwater that won’t wash away.

And then, there you are.

Always in the same place. Curled up on the thin hospital bed, your body buried under oversized blankets and clothes. They dressed you in the standard gray uniform, the same as everyone else, but it doesn’t fit right—too big, too loose. The fabric hangs off you like it doesn’t belong, like it’s swallowing you whole.

You’re awake sometimes. But even when your eyes flicker open, it’s like you’re not really here. Like your mind is miles away, and your body just hasn’t caught up yet.

Sometimes you sit up by yourself. Sometimes you let the nurses help you. But Finnick knows. He can tell when you’re too weak, too distant to care. And every single time his shadow crosses the threshold, you flinch. Every time his voice brushes against the air, your whole body tenses, like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re bracing for pain.

It’s that reaction that eats away at him. That’s the part that’s almost unbearable.

He spends most mornings in the chair by the wall, just out of reach. Close enough to watch your chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, but far enough that you won’t notice him too much. Sometimes, he wonders if you even know he’s there at all.

He watches the rhythm of your breathing like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

In his lap, his hands work through knots. Tiny, shaky loops. His fingers ache, cramped from twisting the rope too tight, too fast. But it’s the only thing that helps him hold on to something.

Sometimes, he talks. Softly. So softly that he’s not even sure you can hear him.

He likes to believe you can. Even if he can’t see it in your eyes.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers one afternoon, his voice barely rising above the silence in the room. “It’s morning again. The sun’s probably rising over Four right now, you know?”

His eyes drop to his hands, moving mechanically over the rope, watching it twist. “Mags would’ve made you tea by now. Annie would’ve shown up with one of those seashell bracelets she’s always making. You used to love those. You loved when she gave them to you. You wore them everywhere cause you said it was like having a piece of the ocean with you all the time. ”

He smiles softly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His throat tightens when he thinks of it. “You always said the mornings there smelled like salt and cold sand. Like the ocean was always just a breath away, even when we were indoors.”

Nothing.

His fingers tighten around the rope, pulling, twisting, knotting. He doesn’t even feel the burn in his muscles anymore.

“You hated it when I made fun of you for using too much sugar in your tea,” he adds, his voice so small, so fragile now, like it’s breaking with every word. But it’s the last thing he can remember—those mornings. That laughter. The warmth of it.

Still, there’s nothing.

The room stays as still as a tomb. The only sound is the faint, quiet echo of Finnick’s own voice in his ears, the only thing that feels real anymore.

The quiet is unbearable.

Every word he speaks seems to get lost in the air. It hangs there like smoke, slowly drifting away, just out of reach.

Finnick’s hands keep moving, the rope slipping through his fingers like time itself—too fast, too slow, a tangle of memories he can’t untie. He pulls tighter. Over, under, through, over, under, through. He does it until his fingers start to sting and the knots are so tight they almost seem to bite back.

He wants to speak more. He wants to remind you of everything. He wants to be the one to make it all come rushing back. But how do you remember someone when you don’t even remember yourself?

He glances at you again, his breath catching in his throat. There you are, lying there, eyes closed, but the softness in your face doesn’t reach your eyes. You look like you’re sleeping, but Finnick knows better. You’re not resting. You’re trapped in a place he can’t reach.

And that’s what kills him most of all.

It isn’t just that you’ve forgotten him. It’s that you’re still in there somewhere, lost. Somewhere inside that broken mind, there’s a part of you trying to claw your way back to the world, to him.

But it’s so far gone, buried under layers of pain, and Finnick doesn’t know how to bring you back to him.

He tries again.

“Do you remember...?” His voice is quiet, hesitant. He can’t bring himself to finish the question, the one that’s been gnawing at him for days. Do you remember us?

His throat tightens as he swallows the words, choking on them before they leave his mouth. He doesn’t know why he asked. Of course, you don’t remember. How could you?

Instead, he says something else. Something safer. “I remember when we first met. We didn’t talk much. Just shared a look. You were too shy, and scared—obviously. But you warmed up pretty quick."

He smiles bitterly at the memory. He remembers the way you’d shyly glance at him, your eyes full of questions you didn’t want to ask. The way you’d laugh under your breath when he’d say something under his breath about Lyssandra.

“Do you remember when I taught you to tie knots for the first time?” Finnick’s voice breaks, but he doesn’t stop. “It was after your games, I knew that your brain was probably think of a million things at one time. I wanted to give you something to do with your hands so you could turn your mind off for a little bit.”

He looks at you again. This time, you’re not sleeping. Your eyes are open, unfocused, staring off into some distant space. There’s no recognition. Just that vacant look he knows too well.

His heart clenches, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe.

You flinch when he shifts in his chair, and he recoils in kind, like he’s the one who’s been struck. His heart aches in a way he didn’t know it could. It feels like all the air has been sucked from his chest.

For a few moments, there’s nothing but silence again.

Then, you speak.

It’s quiet. A whisper that barely cuts through the weight of the room.

“I’m sorry...” Your voice cracks, so faint he almost doesn’t hear it. “I don’t... I don’t remember.”

Finnick closes his eyes, but the tears still slip through. He wasn’t prepared for this. He didn’t know how to be.

“I know,” he whispers back, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you don’t.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there after that. The room stretches on forever, stretching his pain with it, making everything feel endless.

Eventually, he stands. It feels like moving through mud, like he’s dragging his own body forward. Every step is harder than the last, each one heavier than before.

Before he leaves, he glances back at you one last time.

You’re still lying there. Your eyes have drifted closed again, but the stillness in the room makes Finnick feel like he’s suffocating.

And as he steps out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him, he finally lets the tears fall.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The days blur together after that.

Finnick doesn’t know how many times he’s sat in that chair, or how many times he’s spoken to you. His words hang in the air like a forgotten song, like an echo fading before it’s even begun.

Every morning, he wakes up with a new sense of purpose, but by the time the day ends, it feels like he’s only ever going in circles. Around and around, through the same old routines, the same old words that lead to the same place: the chair by your bed, the silence, and the aching emptiness in his chest.

Some days are worse than others. Some days, the silence feels suffocating—like there’s a weight pressing against his chest, making it harder to breathe. Other days, there’s a flicker of hope, a sliver of light. The small moments where he swears he sees something in your eyes, some fragment of recognition, a spark that shouldn’t be there but is.

But every time he gets close, it vanishes. Just like everything else.

It’s the waiting that’s killing him. The waiting, and the feeling that he’s not allowed to be anything more than an observer in your life. He can’t reach you. He can’t save you. And every time he’s faced with that harsh reality, it feels like a part of him shatters all over again.

One afternoon, he finds himself standing by the window, staring out at the cold, gray wall. The weight of everything feels unbearable, like it’s pressing in from all sides, and Finnick knows that if he doesn’t find something to hold on to soon, he might just break.

His fingers drift toward the knot of rope in his pocket. It’s worn now, the edges fraying from all the hours he’s spent twisting it between his fingers, but it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded. The only thing that keeps him tethered to the world when everything else seems so far out of reach.

He pulls it out and begins to work the rope, his hands moving quickly, expertly. The knots are familiar now, automatic, like breathing. Over, under, through, over, under, through.

It’s the only thing that makes sense.

But even as his fingers work the rope, his mind drifts back to you. To the way you looked at him when he spoke, the way you flinched, like he was a stranger.

The memory claws at him.

Finnick exhales slowly, the air leaving his lungs in a broken, jagged breath. The tears are close now, but he swallows them back. He won’t let himself cry. Not yet. Not when he hasn’t even begun to figure out how to fix this.

He turns away from the window, eyes lingering on the door to your room. There’s a pull, an ache in his chest, and for a second, he’s sure he’s going to walk right back to you, sit in that chair again, and say the same words he always says. The same words that don’t reach you.

But then, he hears a voice in the hallway. A familiar voice.

“Finnick.”

He stiffens, his heart racing for a moment, before he recognizes it.

He turns, watching as Haymitch approaches, his expression unreadable. There’s a silence between them, thick and heavy, as if neither of them quite knows where to begin.

“You’ve been at it for days,” Haymitch says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “I’m not going to tell you what you’re doing is wrong, but it isn’t helping her either.”

Finnick opens his mouth to argue, but the words get caught in his throat. The truth stings too much.

“I’m not giving up on her,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

Haymitch eyes him carefully, studying him. “I never thought you would.”

For a long moment, Finnick doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, the rope still clenched in his hands, his fingers stiff and aching from all the twisting and pulling. The words he wants to say don’t come. Not now, not yet.

“I just...I don’t know what to do,” Finnick mutters, his voice quiet, almost lost in the air between them. “Every time I think I might get through to her, it’s like...she’s still so far away.”

Haymitch nods slowly, his face softening just a little. “You’ve got to let her find her way back to you. And maybe it won’t be the way you want. But you can’t force it, Finnick. Not when she’s so broken. Not when everything is so...fragile.”

Finnick looks down at the knot in his hands, the tension in his chest growing tighter with every word.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. But I’m afraid...that if I don’t keep trying, she won’t ever remember me. That she’ll forget what we had.”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything for a long time, and when he finally does, it’s just one quiet sentence.

“She’s not the only one who’s lost something.”

Finnick’s chest tightens at that. He looks at Haymitch, seeing something deeper in his eyes. Something that resonates with him in a way that nothing else has.

Haymitch’s words settle heavily around him, a reminder of everything Finnick has lost in the chaos of the war, of the Games, of the Capitol. Of the person he’s been before. Before the weight of his memories started to slip away, too.

Before he started losing parts of himself.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

Finnick doesn’t go back to his room that night.

Instead, he finds himself pacing the hallways, the silence of 13 pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shake off. His mind is a storm of conflicting thoughts, a thousand questions he can’t answer. What if she never remembers? What if all he’s doing is making things worse?

Everywhere he goes, he’s haunted by the echo of his own voice. By the quiet gap between the words he speaks to you and the silence you give back. It feels like a loss too big to understand, like a void that swallows him whole every time he thinks about it.

The walls seem to close in as he walks, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not yet.

He’s at the end of the hall when he hears it—soft footsteps behind him.

This time he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Finnick,” Haymitch says again, his voice low, the kind of voice that speaks without words. The kind that understands what’s happening without needing to say it.

Finnick doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes trained on the floor ahead.

“I know you’re struggling,” Haymitch continues, his voice gruff but not without care. “But there’s a line, you know? You’re going to drive yourself mad if you don’t start thinking about something else.”

Finnick stops, but only for a moment, his body stiff with the weight of Haymitch’s words. He presses his forehead against the cold wall, trying to steady himself.

“What do you want me to do, Haymitch?” His voice cracks, rough with the tension he can’t shake. “She’s in there, and she doesn’t even remember me. I don’t know how to fix this. How do I... how do I make her see me again?”

“You don’t.” Haymitch’s voice cuts through the quiet, harsh and direct. “Not all at once. You don’t get to make it happen. You have to let her come to you when she’s ready. She’s not the only one who’s broken here. You’ve got to remember that.”

Finnick turns, finally meeting Haymitch’s eyes. The older man looks as tired as he feels, his face worn down by everything they’ve been through. But there’s something else there—something that gives Finnick pause.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Finnick whispers, his chest aching with the weight of all his unanswered questions. “I’m not stupid, Haymitch. I know what’s happening. But every time I see her... I know she’s in there. I just can’t reach her. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.”

Haymitch steps closer, his face softening slightly. He places a hand on Finnick’s shoulder, giving him a rare moment of grounding.

“Then stop trying to be the one who saves her,” he says quietly. “You can’t fix everything. Not this time. Sometimes the only thing you can do is wait. Just... wait.”

Finnick swallows hard, his throat tight. For a long moment, he stands there, his hand gripping the rope in his pocket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

Finally, he nods.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll wait.”

But as he steps away from Haymitch and walks back down the hall, a small part of him wonders how much longer he can keep this up. How much longer he can wait for a love that might never come back.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The next morning, he’s back at your room, back in the same chair, watching you sleep—watching for any sign of movement, any hint that you might remember. He talks to you again, just like the day before, just like every day since they brought you back.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers softly. “It’s me again. I know you probably don’t remember...but I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift a little in the bed, your eyes fluttering open. You blink at him, and for the briefest second, there’s something there. Something that flickers in your gaze, like a spark. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Finnick feels his heart sink again.

You’re not ready. Not yet.

He exhales a shaky breath and shifts in the chair, the knot of rope still in his hands. He runs his fingers over it absently, wishing it could anchor him to something solid, something real.

But it doesn’t.

“Do you remember...the beaches back home?” Finnick asks, voice barely above a whisper. “We would go all the time before...before everything happened. You loved the sound of the waves crashing. You said it felt like the world was breathing.”

Nothing.

“I still remember it,” he continues, his voice breaking on the words. “I still remember how your hair smelled like salt and the wind, how you smiled when I tried to teach you to fish.”

Your eyes don’t even flicker at the words. They stay blank. Vacant.

And for a moment, Finnick wonders if he’ll ever be enough. If he’ll ever be the one to bring you back from the dark.

But then—just as the silence settles back around them, thick and suffocating—he sees it.

Your hand shifts slightly, your fingers brushing against the edge of the blanket.

It’s so small, so faint, but it’s there.

For a second, Finnick dares to hope.

Maybe you’re not as far away as he thought.

Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find your way back to him.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

The days stretch on, but Finnick is still there. Still waiting. Still speaking to you.

It’s almost like a ritual now—the mornings, the chair by your bed, the endless string of memories he whispers into the quiet. He talks to you like you can hear him, like you can understand. Like everything will fall back into place if he just keeps reminding you.

But it never works.

Not yet.

He shifts in his chair again, his hands shaking slightly as he touches the rope in his lap. The knots are tight, small, perfect. Each one he ties feels like a silent plea. Every twist of the rope is an attempt to anchor himself to something—anything—besides the ache that is becoming unbearable.

“Do you remember,” he asks gently, his voice trembling, “the first time we ever went to the beach?”

You blink slowly, not responding. Your gaze drifts past him, unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the room. But Finnick doesn’t give up. He leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like it’s the only thing holding him together. His eyes never leave you.

“We went down to the water... you were wearing that white dress you loved so much.” He swallows, trying to steady his voice. “You remember that, don’t you? The one with the flowers? The one you always said made you feel like you could breathe again?”

He watches your face, looking for any sign—anything—of recognition.

But there’s nothing.

He tries again, pushing the words out like they’re his last chance. “You said it reminded you of the sea. That you’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way the waves shimmered in the sun. You said it was like the ocean was speaking to you, telling you secrets no one else could hear.”

He pauses, the silence swallowing him whole. It’s unbearable, and his heart aches with the weight of it.

“You always said,” he continues softly, his voice cracking as he forces the words out, “that you could hear the ocean calling your name.”

For a moment, he swears he sees something shift in your eyes. A flicker. A small change, but it’s there, almost imperceptible. Finnick’s heart skips.

He leans in closer, his breath catching in his throat.

“Do you remember?” he whispers urgently. “Do you remember that day? Do you remember us?”

But then, just as quickly as it comes, the spark fades. Your expression goes blank again, like a veil has descended, and Finnick’s hope crashes down, heavy and cold.

He leans back in the chair, his chest tight with the weight of disappointment. The knot in his hands trembles with the same frustration. He’s trying so hard. Harder than he’s ever tried for anything in his life, and yet it’s never enough.

The silence is deafening, and he feels like he’s drowning in it.

And then—before he can say anything else, before he can beg you to remember—the world shifts around him.

The air in the room seems to change, like the walls are closing in on him. The chair under him feels like it’s pulling him downward, and for a moment, he swears he’s falling into the past.

His fingers slip from the rope, and suddenly—just as the room begins to fade away—the sound of waves fills his ears.

The world around him softens, and he’s not in the sterile, white Recovery Wing anymore.

He’s back on the beach.

***

The air smells like salt and the earth, the waves crashing gently against the shore in a rhythm Finnick knows all too well. The sound wraps around him like a blanket, the familiar scent of the sea filling his lungs, grounding him in a time that feels both distant and close, like a dream he doesn’t want to wake from.

He’s standing on the beach, the sand cool beneath his bare feet, and the sun is still low on the horizon—casting everything in a golden haze. It’s the perfect morning. Quiet. Peaceful. Just the sound of the waves and the distant calls of seagulls. No worries. No Capitol. No war. Just the two of them.

You’re there beside him, standing at the water’s edge, the hem of your white dress fluttering in the wind. Your hair is tangled by the breeze, but you don’t mind. You never do. You’re smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that fills him with a warmth he can’t explain. The kind of smile that makes him think, This is it. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.

The sun catches the edge of your dress, the pale fabric dancing in the wind, and he can’t help but smile as he watches you. You’ve always had that way of moving, like the world was a little bit more beautiful when you were in it.

“You know,” you say, your voice light and teasing as you glance back at him, “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to stand here. The waves keep pulling at my feet.”

Finnick chuckles, shaking his head as he steps closer to you, the sand soft beneath his feet. He can hear the laughter in your voice, the sound that always brings him a sense of peace.

“You’re always complaining about the waves,” he says, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “But you never stop coming back to them.”

You tilt your head, looking out at the ocean with a faraway look in your eyes, the salt of the air catching on your lips. “I think the ocean speaks to me,” you murmur softly, almost as if the waves are the ones you’re talking to and not him. “It tells me things. Secrets no one else can hear.”

Finnick looks at you, his heart skipping a beat as he takes in the sincerity in your expression. You’ve always been like that, so deeply connected to the world around you. He wonders if you even realize how beautiful you are when you’re lost in your thoughts.

“Secrets?” he asks, a grin tugging at his lips. “What kind of secrets?”

You turn to face him fully now, your eyes sparkling with something he can’t quite place. The wind tugs at the edges of your dress, and for a moment, you look like you’re floating on air.

“The kind that make me feel like I belong here,” you say, your voice quiet but certain. “Like I belong with the ocean. With the sky. Like I’m part of something bigger than just... me.”

Finnick’s breath catches in his chest. The weight of your words settles over him like a quiet understanding, something deeper than just a passing moment. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly everything feels clearer. Like this moment is the one that’s been waiting for him all along.

He steps closer to you, his hand brushing against yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The world feels still. The sea. The sky. The sand beneath your feet. All of it is just... you. Just the two of you, lost in this moment, caught between time and space, with nothing else to worry about.

“You know,” Finnick says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper against the wind, “I don’t think I’ll ever hear the ocean the same way again. Not without thinking of you.”

You smile at him, that same soft, knowing smile that always made him feel like you held all the answers. “You’ll always hear it, Finnick. Even when we’re not here, when we’re not together. The ocean will always call your name.”

And then, as if by instinct, you reach for him. Your hand slides into his, fingers curling together with ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The waves crash at your feet, the sound so familiar it feels like home. You close your eyes for a moment, and he can’t help but pull you just a little closer, the warmth of your body against his, the salt of the sea lingering in the air.

Everything feels perfect. Unbreakable. Just for a moment, you are everything to him. The ocean. The sky. His entire world.

And in that instant, he knows with all his heart that he will never let you go.

***

The sound of the waves faded slowly, and suddenly the air in the room grows heavy once more. Finnick blinks, his vision blurring for a moment as the beach begins to slip away, replaced by the sterile white walls of the Recovery Wing.

His heart pounds in his chest as he comes back to the present, his fingers still trembling from the memory that lingers so clearly in his mind.

But it’s gone. It’s only a memory now.

He opens his eyes, and there you are—still lying in the same spot. The same hospital bed. The same quiet room.

And yet, somehow, he feels like he’s closer to you than he was before.

The memory lingers in Finnick’s chest like a weight he can’t shake off. The taste of salt on his lips, the feeling of your hand in his, the sound of your voice—soft and sure. All of it clings to him like an anchor, grounding him even when everything else feels adrift.

But as the last echoes of the waves fade away, Finnick’s heart aches with the knowledge that it’s just a memory. A moment in time that he can never fully reclaim.

He blinks a few times, the stark, sterile white walls of the Recovery Wing pulling him back into the present. The noise of the machines and the soft hum of the air vents return, and with them comes the crushing weight of everything he’s lost.

His fingers curl into fists around the rope in his lap, the knots still tight and perfect, but now they feel like shackles, tying him to the pain of the present.

You’re still there. Still lying in that bed, so close and yet so far away. His heart clenches, and for a moment, he wonders if the memory will ever be enough to bring you back to him.

He stands, his legs shaky as he moves towards your bed. His heart beats faster, thumping painfully against his ribs as he watches you, as he gets closer.

Your eyes are closed, but there’s a soft rise and fall to your chest. The air feels thick, heavy with the silence between you two. Finnick swallows hard, his throat tight with the words he can’t seem to say, the things he’s been holding onto for so long. He takes a shaky breath, forcing his hands to stay steady.

“I miss you,” he whispers softly, barely more than a breath. The words come unbidden, spilling out before he can stop them. “I miss you so much. I miss the way you looked at me, the way you smiled. I miss hearing you laugh.”

His fingers brush the edge of your blanket, but he doesn’t dare touch you. Not yet. Not until he knows if you’ll flinch away from him again.

“Please... I just need you to remember,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as the words catch in his throat. “I need you to come back. I can’t do this without you.”

The silence in the room feels suffocating, like it’s pressing in from all sides. He takes another step closer, but before he can say anything else, he hears it.

A soft sound. A faint shift from the bed.

His breath catches in his throat.

You stir, your eyelids fluttering, and for a moment, Finnick dares to hope.

And then, your eyes slowly open.

There’s a pause—just a beat—but it feels like eternity.

You blink up at him, and Finnick’s heart skips, his pulse racing as he watches you. For a second, just a second, he sees it. A flicker of recognition in your gaze. Something familiar, something so small, but so important.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t dare move, his whole world narrowing down to the look in your eyes.

You blink again, your brow furrowing as you take him in.

And then, softly, so softly, you whisper, “You’re still here.”

The world holds its breath.

The words aren’t enough to bring everything back. They aren’t the words he’s been waiting for, the ones that will bring you back to him completely. But they’re something. They’re a sign.

Finnick’s heart cracks open, but there’s something else, too—something that feels like hope. He leans forward, holding onto that thread with everything he has, because you’re still here. You remember him. You remember something.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice steadier now, stronger. “I’m right here. I'll always be right here.”

And this time, he doesn’t wait for you to respond. He just stays, watching you, holding onto that spark.

Finnick doesn’t leave right away.

He stays, even when the silence grows thick between you both. His heart still beats faster, the pulse in his ears louder than the quiet hum of the room. You’re still here. You spoke. You remembered something. Even if it wasn’t enough, it’s more than he had a few minutes ago.

But it isn’t enough.

Not yet.

🌊 .·:*¨🌊🐚🌊¨*:·. 🌊

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. His legs ache from the stillness, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. The small, fragile thread of hope that you’re still in there, somewhere, is enough to keep him tethered to the moment.

“Do you remember when we used to sit on the beach?” he says after a long while, his voice low, soft. It’s almost like he’s trying to speak to himself more than you, but he says it anyway. “You used to say the ocean called your name. You’d stand there with your feet in the water, your hands stretched out like you could catch the wind itself.”

He doesn’t know if you’re listening. He doesn’t know if you even care to hear the words. But he says them anyway, because they’re all he has.

“I still remember it,” he murmurs. “I remember the way the wind felt, the way the sun warmed your skin, the way you smiled when I asked you what the ocean was saying. I remember everything. I don’t care if you can’t yet. I’ll hold onto it for both of us.”

There’s a flicker in your eyes again. Maybe it’s just his wishful thinking, or maybe it’s the fading edge of some distant memory. But Finnick latches onto it, the small glimmer of hope growing brighter. It’s enough to make his heart ache and swell at the same time.

He leans forward, his hand reaching for the edge of your blanket, hovering there, but not touching. He doesn’t want to push you again. He’s learned that much.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

His fingers curl into the fabric, and for a moment, his mind drifts back to that day on the beach. The warmth of the sun, the sound of the waves. You, standing there like you could command the world with a single step.

It’s a memory he’ll never let go of. And as he watches you, as he waits for you to say something—anything—he realizes just how deep his feelings go. How deeply he’s willing to wait.

For you. For the person you used to be. For the person you’ll become again.

The silence stretches on, but it’s different now. It doesn’t feel suffocating. Not anymore. It’s a silence filled with possibility, with a fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—you’ll find your way back to him.

Finnick leans back in the chair, exhausted, but for the first time since he found you, he feels like he can breathe again. Even if it’s just a little bit.

And as he watches you, still so far away, he knows this is only the beginning. This is just the first step in what’s going to be a long, difficult road.

But he’ll walk it. He’ll walk it for you. And he won’t give up.

Not now. Not ever.

A/N: okay it's out everyone pls come back.

Taglist: @jacaeryslover @sundawn1990 @redama @noodleisodd @amara-mars @lovemyself-m-k @goosy-goose @potao-o @womenkisser05 @arsonistlizard @iguanagwen @lover-rep-fanfic@tatumrileyslover @kimarii-00 @shuri-my-love @saleyeniu @succulent-ruler6 @aphxdea @humongousrunawaytiger @herbal-tea-and-manga @1i1winter @echoingrainydays @technicallyspookymoon @smthabsolutelyunhinged @yeah-idk-either @moon-zoons @shutendoji22 @thatoneamericanblonde @syd649 @curryexpress @harrypotterlovers-things @wonubby @212-apricity @anyaslittlepeanut @momoriii-i @milfslover2 @pluto-plutonium @xmochiloverx @wowlani @eyantice @suneaterscape @hanjelia @winx333-blog @lisaoligy

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onlygirlaliveinnyc · 2 days ago

Text

battle of britpop [18+] ➶ ➴

pairing: 90s!damon albarn x fem!reader x 90s!liam gallagher genre: smut !!, angst if you squint, hate sex if you squint word count: 9702 (so sorry) warnings: brutallllll edging and overstimulation. most of the fic. spit. lotsa spit. hair-pulling, degradation, choking, face-fucking, cockwarming, unprotected sex, oral—f + m receiving, cumplay maybe ?, crying !!!, begging, just ruinedcore, minors dnii !! summary: damon brings you. liam sees. they hate each other—but they hate the idea of anyone else touching you more. a/n: based of this ! req and literally every other thought i have had about liam and damon.... got extra crazy with this im sorry i dont know why it was like my brain shut off while writing and there was an extra 5k words on the page sorrysorryalert alert ! never written a threesome fic so bare with me !

the room stank of cigarettes, sweat, and ego. velvet couches, cheap wine in heavy glasses, polaroids yellowing at the corners. a warehouse turned scene-spot somewhere deep in camden—half full of people who thought they mattered, and a few who actually did.

you walked in with damon’s hand resting low on your back, rings cold where they pressed against skin, the sheer of your dress no barrier at all. he leaned in as you crossed the threshold, voice a brush of velvet over your ear. “they’ll be watching.”

“let them,” you breathed, already smiling.

and they did. especially him.

liam gallagher saw you the second you stepped inside. slouched on the couch like it owed him rent, legs spread, pint half-gone. that lazy smirk already playing at the corners of his mouth. his eyes dragged over you slow. syrupy. something flickering just beneath it—surprise, interest, then something darker. they met damon’s across the room. and held. just long enough—long enough for the air to shift.

you let damon guide you toward the record wall, tucked half out of sight. he poured something dark and gold into a heavy glass, kissed your cheek as he handed it over. his palm lingered against your hip like punctuation—like a claim.

but you felt the gaze again before you even looked. sharp as heat. sticky as sin.

liam, across the room. still watching. unsubtle, unblinking.

he nursed his drink with one hand, other arm slung along the back of the sofa. too relaxed to be casual. too loud for the silence between songs.

you looked away. and then looked back. he was still staring. you knew he would be.

he moved like he was born to ruin something. halfway through his second drink, slinking through the crowd without looking at it. like they’d part for him anyway.

and they did.

“bit posh for this place, ain’t she?” the voice came before the rest. low, northern, smug.

damon didn’t even blink. “don’t you have somewhere to be?”

liam gave a grin like he’d just found his favourite game. “thought i’d say hello. be rude not to.”

“you’ve said it. now fuck off.”

but his eyes didn’t leave you. they dipped—slow, deliberate—then rose again. “didn’t know blur were doin’ plus ones now,” he drawled. “what, she sing too?”

you smiled. sweet. wicked. “only when it’s fun.”

that earned you a twitch of his grin. like he’d just decided you were his next favourite problem.

damon’s hand tensed at your waist. the kind of grip that said mine, even without a word.

liam noticed. of course he did. and he looked pleased.

he leaned in, just slightly—just enough to fog the air between you with breath and bourbon. “just think it’s funny, that’s all,” he murmured. “all that posh-boy poetry, and you’ve still got a girl who looks like she wants someone real to show her a good time.”

your laugh came before you could swallow it. small. dangerous. damon turned slightly. said nothing. but you saw it in his posture—the shift, the pull.

liam caught your eye again. tilted his head. “if you get bored,” he said, voice thick with sugar and spit, “come find me. i’ll be ‘round.”

then he was gone. just smoke in the room.

—

you were left standing there, half-cradling your glass, caught between the burn of your drink and the slower, sweeter simmer of something else entirely.

heat bloomed low in your belly. you blamed the liquor at first. but you knew better.

damon let out a breath through his nose—tight, annoyed—then gently tugged your wrist, guiding you toward the back of the flat. somewhere quieter, dimmer. away from the records and the stares. away from him.

his hand stayed on the small of your back like a brand.

“he’s a fucking prick,” he muttered.

the hallway was narrow, lit by a single red bulb, walls covered in posters peeling at the edges. your spine hit cool plaster. damon boxed you in without meaning to—hands braced on either side of your head, breath hot and sharp.

lager. smoke. jealousy.

his eyes found yours, flint behind the blue. “you think i don’t know what he’s doing?” he said, voice low but edged. “think i don’t see the way he looks at you?”

you tilted your chin up, fighting a grin. “he wasn’t exactly subtle.”

damon’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t afford to.

he leaned in, nose brushing yours. “yeah, well,” he breathed, “neither am i.”

and then he kissed you. not careful. not delicate. a little frantic, a little bruising.

his mouth found yours like it had something to prove—like it needed to undo the memory of liam’s voice in your ear. his tongue swept deep, his teeth scraped. you whimpered into it before you could stop yourself.

one of his hands tangled in your hair, the other gripped your waist like it might anchor him. or claim you. or both.

your drink was long forgotten, half-spilled on the floor, your body arching toward his like instinct.

you let him have it—let yourself be kissed like a secret, a sin, a warning.

but before you could lose yourself in the heat of it, before you could fall headfirst into damon and the way he made you forget—

you felt it. a prickle. the burn of a stare, dragging slow and deliberate over your skin.

you broke the kiss first. eyes fluttering open, head turning just slightly.

through the haze of smoke and half-shadow, across the living room, nestled into a sunken armchair that looked ready to collapse—liam.

he hadn’t gone far.

legs spread. pint in one hand. a knowing smirk on his lips. and the other?

palming himself through his jeans.

your breath hitched.

damon didn’t notice. too caught in the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your collarbone now, fingers bunching the hem of your dress.

but liam noticed. of course he did.

his stare burned into you, lazy and electric. he didn’t stop.

his palm rolled slow over the thick bulge at his fly, movements purposeful—performative. like a man alone in a dark room. like he didn’t care who saw. like he wanted to be seen.

your mouth parted, breath shallow. he held your gaze.

and then—just once—he let his head fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut. not from boredom. from pleasure.

he moaned. not loud. not obscene. but enough. just loud enough for you to hear it above the thump of the bass and the muted pulse of damon’s mouth on your throat.

your knees went a little weak.

you looked back at damon quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed. but his hand had slipped to your thigh, his mouth warm and biting now.

liam was still touching himself when you looked again.

you bit your lip hard enough to sting.

his eyes snapped open at the motion. he was smirking again.

he mouthed something across the room. you couldn’t hear it. but you didn’t need to.

“mine.”

and then he squeezed his cock, slow and deliberate, before sliding his hand away—back to his pint like nothing had happened.

your thighs clenched of their own accord.

damon pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth again. “you alright?”

you nodded. swallowed. smiled—just a little too wide.

“fine.”

but your eyes strayed, just once more.

liam was gone again.

—

you lost damon’s mouth when someone passed too close—bumping him sideways, drink sloshing down his shirt. he cursed, stepping back to swipe a cloth off the table.

“fuckin’ pricks,” he muttered, blotting at the stain. “can’t even throw a proper party anymore.”

you leaned your head back against the wall, breathing shallow, thighs pressed too tight. trying not to think about the way liam looked at you. trying not to ache for it.

but of course—he came anyway.

liam didn’t wait.

he stood, pint forgotten, hips already shifting behind his fly like he’d been thinking about this all night. maybe longer. maybe since the second he saw damon’s hand on your waist.

he walked through the party like he owned the air—shoulders loose, mouth crooked, swagger spilling off him in waves. like it wasn’t damon’s girl he was after. like he didn’t care.

“you alright there?” his voice came syrup-slow, warm and thick and mean. “lookin’ a bit… bothered.”

damon turned before you could speak. already on edge. already bristling.

“fuck off, gallagher.”

but liam didn’t even blink at him. his eyes never left you.

“that what you want, love?” he asked, too close now. “someone else speakin’ for you? or someone who knows what you really need?”

his fingers ghosted your wrist. soft, teasing.

damon slapped his hand away like it burned. “don’t fucking touch her.”

liam’s grin went sharp. “didn’t know she was yours,” he said, like he meant it. “she didn’t say.”

and you— you didn’t say a word. your breath caught. your eyes fell. and you stayed right where you were.

damon turned toward you, gaze narrowing. he saw it. all of it. the blush high on your cheekbones. the way your knees pressed in, tight. the way you weren’t pulling away.

he spun you back toward him, hands rough at your hips, mouth against your throat—hot and claiming. “you’re mine,” he said, voice all grit and growl.

you barely nodded before he kissed you—fast, fierce, like he could burn liam out of your mouth if he kissed hard enough. teeth and tongue and something just shy of fury.

and liam watched.

you felt it—his eyes on you. the weight of them. the heat. and you felt the second he snapped.

because suddenly damon’s hands were gone— and liam was there instead.

pressing close. hotter. louder. rougher.

“get off her—” damon barked, stepping forward.

“make me.”

and then liam kissed you. filthy. deep. full of teeth. like he was starving for it. like he needed to taste you first.

his hands on your jaw, your waist, one dragging down to grab your ass and yank you closer—right against the hard press in his jeans. you whimpered into it. damon pulled your arm— but you didn’t move. not yet.

not when liam whispered against your lips: “let me have you. just once.”

you could’ve said no. you should’ve. but your body was already leaning in. you wanted it. wanted them both. wanted to be the fire they fought over.

you looked between them— damon flushed and fuming. liam cocky and aching.

and you said, voice barely above a breath: “both.”

—

up the stairs you went—dragged and guided, wrists caught in callused hands. liam’s grip was sloppier. greedy. all heat and whisky and the tremble of too much want. damon’s was iron. steady. like his fingers might leave prints, like if he held tight enough, he could still pretend you were only his.

you weren’t sure who reached for you first.

didn’t matter.they were both pulling. both taking.

liam laughed under his breath—low and mean, like he’d already won. damon swore under his—over and over, a litany of fucks hissed like a fuse, like he was holding himself back with every one.

the hallway was dim, low-lit and long. music still throbbed from the floorboards below, like some distant pulse you were already falling out of rhythm with. and when the bedroom door shut behind you, it clicked like a lock, like a secret being sealed.

liam was the first to talk—of course he was.

“didn’t peg you for the type,” he said, circling like smoke, like a wolf with a taste for perfume. “lettin’ two blokes drag you upstairs. filthy little thing under all that sweetness, yeah?”

damon shoved him back by the shoulder, a snarl caught in his throat. “shut the fuck up.”

liam didn’t even stumble. just grinned. “jealous, mate? thought she was yours.”

your back hit the wall. you hadn’t even felt yourself moving. but there you were—pinned in place by heat and hunger and the way they looked at you.

two pairs of eyes, both burning. liam’s lit with mischief, amusement, some twisted thrill. damon’s darker. stormier. a glint of something that felt more like possession than play.

“take your clothes off,” damon said, voice low, already wrecked.

“yeah,” liam added, peeling off his jacket and tossing it aside. “let us see what the fuck we’ve been fighting over.”

your heart beat so loud you swore they could hear it. you didn’t move—not at first. just stood there, blinking slow, lungs too full of smoke and want.

until damon stepped forward, fingers finding the top button of your dress. he popped it open slow, deliberate—like he meant for you to feel every second of it. liam came in next, tugging the hem of the fabric higher, knuckles grazing your thighs.

“fuckin’ unreal,” he muttered, like he couldn’t help it. “like a fuckin’ dream.”

“she’s not yours yet,” damon snapped, voice tight.

“not yet,” liam echoed, cocky. hungry. “but she’s not sayin’ no either, is she?”

you weren’t. you couldn’t. you stood there trembling—eyes wide, skin flushed, breath shallow. you could feel the shift, the balance tipping. the second the tension broke and neither of them could pretend it wasn’t about claiming you anymore. this wasn’t about flirting. this wasn’t about fun. this was war, and you were the battleground.

—

damon kissed you first—of course he did. lips hot and possessive, hand at the back of your neck like he needed to anchor you, to remind you who’d brought you here. who saw you first. his mouth moved against yours with a practiced kind of urgency, like he’d done this a hundred times, but tonight was different. tonight, liam was watching.

and liam didn’t wait long to cut in.

“fuckin’ hell,” he growled, stepping in close. his hand curled tight around your waist, tugging you from the wall and straight into him—into the thick line of him through denim, already hard. already pulsing. he crowded your back, rutting up slow and filthy while damon swallowed your moan.

“feel that?” liam muttered into your neck, words smeared against your skin. “fuckin’ twitchin’ for you, and i haven’t even had a taste yet.”

you whimpered. damon’s kiss broke just enough for him to speak against your lips.

“you like this?” he asked, voice lower than sin, thumb dragging along the edge of your jaw. “like bein’ split between us?”

liam laughed under his breath, breath warm against your shoulder. “she’s soaked,” he said, like it was fact. like he could feel it through the heat of her skin. “fuckin’ drippin’ for it.”

“bed,” damon ordered, already breathless.

they moved you together—guiding, greedy. liam’s mouth at your neck, damon’s hands skating down your ribs, over the curve of your waist. you stumbled a little, half-blind with it, and damon caught you by the hips as he sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans still clinging to his thighs. he pulled you into his lap like he’d done it a thousand times.

liam didn’t bother waiting. he came up behind you and unhooked your bra with ease, tossing it aside. “this off too, yeah?” he breathed, already kissing down your spine. you nodded, barely able to speak.

his hands were rough—one on your shoulder, the other sliding low. he hooked a finger into the band of your underwear and pulled. he dragged them down slow, taking his time, eyes locked on the way the fabric stuck to your soaked thighs. you kicked them off and stood trembling in nothing, caught between their stares, stripped bare and burning.

“fuckin’ perfect,” liam groaned. “knew it.”

damon leaned forward, mouth trailing heat across your chest. “you love bein’ watched, don’t you, sweetheart?”

you nodded, dizzy, panting. liam’s teeth grazed your skin, kisses trailing lazy heat down your back.

damon’s hand dipped between your legs, fingers curling inside you without warning. you choked on a gasp and collapsed against his chest.

liam stared, jaw slack. “fuckin’ unreal.”

you were trembling now, suspended between their hands, their mouths. every breath tasted like fire.

“you gonna let us pass you around?” damon asked, voice thick. “gonna take what we give you?”

liam growled, low and possessive. “fuck that. i want her now.”

“wait your fuckin’ turn,” damon snapped, still pumping his fingers inside you—but you were already moving, already climbing off his lap, mindless and hungry and shaking.

you turned to liam. lips parted, thighs slick, legs unsteady.

liam caught you mid-step, one hand wrapping around your throat—loose, not choking, just claiming. his eyes burned down into yours, dark and bottomless.

“on your knees,” he rasped.

—

you dropped without question.

liam didn’t wait. didn’t ask. he fumbled with his fly, dragged his jeans down far enough, and pulled himself free—already thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. his hand moved slow over himself, just once, just enough to watch you watch him—eyes wide, lashes damp, lips parted.

“fuckin’ unreal,” he muttered. “on your knees like you were made for it.”

he brushed the head of his cock against your mouth, smearing precome like gloss across your lips. you opened up—obedient, eager—tongue out, ready.

he slid in slow. just the tip at first. enough to stretch your mouth, to watch your jaw go soft around him.

“jesus fuck,” he breathed. “this fuckin’ mouth—”

you hollowed your cheeks, sucked him in deeper. his hand curled tight in your hair, grounding. holding.

behind you, damon knelt on the floor, his fingers ghosting your spine. he was silent for a second—just watching, drinking it in like a slow drag of smoke. then, calm and low: “slower.”

liam huffed. “she likes it rough.”

you moaned around him, breath caught, throat tight.

“see?” liam laughed, voice already fraying.

his hips rolled—testing. shallow thrusts at first. careful. but not for long. each push went deeper, until your nose was pressed to his skin, your throat stretched full, tight, aching. you gagged. swallowed. gagged again. and stayed there.

“fuckin’ no gag reflex,” liam gasped. “little angel. takin’ it so sweet.”

damon’s hand slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. his other hand dipped between your thighs—bare now, slick and swollen. you whimpered. liam groaned.

“she’s fuckin’ melting,” he said, voice thick. “look at her knees. fuckin’ slick.”

he pulled out just far enough to slap his cock against your cheek—wet and sharp. once. twice. again. you gasped with each sting, spit stringing from your lips.

“open.”

you did. he fed it back to you, rougher this time—both hands on your head, fucking in. your mascara smudged. your eyes watered. your throat clenched tight.

“take it,” he snarled. “take what you fuckin’ begged for.”

you choked, coughed, moaned—each breath a broken little prayer. damon’s fingers rubbed lazy circles over your clit, teasing soft and mean.

“she’s fuckin’ soaked,” he murmured. “not even inside her yet and she’s already gone.”

liam grunted, hips stuttering. “gonna ruin this mouth,” he growled. “gonna use her ‘til she can’t speak.”

you sobbed around him, desperate. your lungs ached. your throat pulsed. you were trembling on your knees, caught between ache and awe.

“breathe,” damon said softly, tugging your shoulder.

liam pulled out with a wet pop. you gasped. spit trailed down your chin, your chest, shining under the low light. your throat burned. your eyes blurred.

but still, you leaned forward, stroking him with one hand, licking the tip, kissing it like you missed him.

“fuckin’ perfect,” liam whispered. “look at her. fuckin’ look.”

“on the bed,” damon said, darker now.

liam helped you up—hands on your waist, your tits, everywhere. you swayed, dizzy and glowing.

damon settled behind you on the mattress, palms sliding up your thighs, spreading you open slow. liam climbed on top, his cock resting heavy against your stomach.

“wanna fuck her throat again,” liam muttered. “make her cry on it.”

“you will,” damon said, slipping two fingers inside you, slow and steady. “but not yet. not ‘til i’ve had her too.”

—

liam didn’t wait. didn’t need to.

he just hooked a thumb beneath your chin, tilted your head up, and said, breathless, “mouth, now. c’mon, sweetheart.”

you opened without question.

he eased back in—slow this time, deliberate, savoring the slide. your throat was already sore, drool slick at the corners of your mouth, but he groaned like it was the first time all over again.

“good girl,” he panted. “fuckin’ filthy.”

behind you, damon had dropped to his knees between your thighs. his hands found your hips—firm, steady—as he spread you open like he owned the right. the air hit your cunt sharp and cool, and then you felt the warm weight of his cock sliding through your folds. slow. thick. deliberate.

already wet enough he didn’t need to tease.

“hold still,” he muttered.

you moaned around liam’s cock. a muffled, strangled sound.

damon hissed, low. “she’s dripping. this just from your cock in her mouth?”

liam laughed, voice rough. “’course it is. look at her. made for this. she loves it, don’t you, babe?”

you tried to nod, but he was too deep.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he growled, fisting your hair tighter.

then damon pushed in. slow, stretching, splitting you wide. you gasped, back arching, and liam held your head steady, hips twitching forward to bury himself deeper down your throat.

“jesus,” damon groaned, breath catching. “tight as fuck.”

“tight everywhere,” liam muttered, voice frayed. “mouth’s fuckin’ heaven.”

and then they started moving.

damon rolled his hips into you with deep, unhurried thrusts, filling you up again and again—while liam fucked your mouth with sharper, shorter snaps, his cock gliding slick through spit and heat. they moved like they’d done it before. like they’d planned this. like they knew exactly how to ruin you together.

you were just caught in the middle, helpless and aching, stretched wide between them—nothing but a body for them to fuck.

“look at this,” liam rasped. “fucked-out little toy. not even blinking.”

damon dragged a hand up your back, palm warm on your spine. “she’s perfect. takin’ it like she was made for us.”

you moaned, voice crushed and wet around liam’s cock. your throat fluttered each time he pushed in, your cunt clenched every time damon bottomed out. you couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. didn’t want to.

liam slipped out with a wet gasp, slapped his cock against your cheek—once, twice, again—leaving you messy and open, drool slicking your chin, tongue still hanging out.

“open wider,” he ordered. “there. fuck, that’s it.”

he slid back in, deeper. you gagged and swallowed, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

behind you, damon grunted. “she’s clenching. fuck. think she’s gonna come.”

“don’t let her,” liam snapped. “she doesn’t get to come ‘til we do.”

“we won’t,” damon promised, pace quickening. “not ‘til she’s ruined.”

you whimpered, trembling, desperate to come, to breathe, to fall apart—but they weren’t done with you.

liam’s hips slapped against your mouth, cock bruising your throat, hands locked in your hair. damon fucked you harder, one hand spreading your ass to get deeper, his breath hot and ragged.

“you feel how soaked she is?” damon panted. “she loves this. bein’ used. bein’ filled.”

“she’ll get filled,” liam growled. “not yet, though. not ‘til she’s fuckin’ beggin’.”

your body burned. your cunt throbbed. your jaw ached. and still, you took it.

—

you barely had time to breathe before he shoved back in, deeper than before—sharp and punishing. you choked, tears spilling hot and silent down your cheeks, mascara smeared and forgotten. it burned, it throbbed, it stretched your jaw until it ached—but still you moaned. still you begged, muffled and desperate, the sound guttural and soaked in spit.

behind you, damon bent low over your back. his hand wrapped around your throat from behind—not squeezing, not yet. just resting there, heavy and warm, palm curved over the flutter of your pulse.

“you like bein’ fucked like this?” he muttered, voice a snarl in your ear. “two cocks stretchin’ you open, mouth full, cunt drippin’—this what you came for, sweetheart?”

you whimpered, tried to nod, but liam’s cock was too deep. your body answered for you—hips rolling, pussy clenching down around nothing, desperate to be filled again. you pushed back against damon’s abs, tried to drag more friction out of the air, and it made him groan—low and wrecked.

“she’s fuckin’ close,” damon gritted out, breath hot against your neck. “feel her shakin’. she’s gonna—fuck.”

“not yet,” liam said, voice sharp, hand tightening in your hair. “hold it, sweetheart. you don’t come ‘til we say.”

your whole body trembled—wrecked, strung out, ruined. they were good at this. too good. dragging you right to the edge only to leave you there, twitching. their cocks, their hands, their voices, all of it too much and not enough. you were gone—somewhere between need and obedience, dizzy with it.

“you hear that?” damon hissed, snapping his hips forward just to make you flinch. “don’t come. be a good girl. hold it for us.”

liam fucked faster, rougher. his cock slid down your throat with each thrust, slick and brutal, and your jaw hung wide just to take it. you couldn’t breathe—but you didn’t want to. you didn’t need to.

then—his hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing into your cheek, and he dragged himself out. spit clung to his cock, thick and glistening, and he slapped it against your face—once, twice, with a little groan each time.

“miss me?” he rasped.

you gasped for air, lips red, eyes glassy.

“open.”

you did. tongue out. obedient. filthy.

“there’s a good girl.”

he slid back in, deeper than before, and your knees buckled again.

behind you, damon’s hand clenched hard at your hip. “fuck—fuck, i’m gonna—”

liam’s eyes narrowed. “don’t.”

“she’s squeezin’—fuck, liam—”

“pull out,” he growled. “we’re switchin’.”

damon cursed like it pained him. slipped out slow, wet, panting. you whimpered, mouth still full, the loss of him sharp and aching—but then hands were all over you. rough and warm and frantic. gripping, flipping, dragging you onto your back.

your head hit the mattress. your thighs fell open. and liam was there—hair a mess, sweat dripping from his neck, shirt pushed up past his stomach as he shoved his cock into you in one long, brutal thrust.

you cried out. back arching, nails raking the sheets.

“that’s it,” he panted, already fucking you. “been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night. watchin’ you bounce on his cock—made me fuckin’ ache.”

he set a rhythm without mercy. deep and fast, the sound of skin on skin filthy and constant. your body rocked with every thrust, breasts bouncing, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

damon settled beside you, cock flushed and angry, still slick with you. he brushed a thumb along your cheek, kissed the corner of your mouth.

“you still hungry, darling?”

you blinked up at him—glass-eyed, fucked out—and opened your lips.

he guided himself in, slow and smooth. let you suck him messy, tongue greedy, lips swollen. “that’s it,” he breathed. “my sweet little whore. always so good with your mouth full.”

liam slammed into you harder, fingers bruising your hips. “she’s tighter now,” he gritted. “she likes havin’ both of us. made for it.”

you moaned around damon’s cock, voice warbled, and they just kept using you.

—

liam was pounding into you now, sharp and fast, dragging filthy sounds from your throat even around damon’s cock. it was too much—too full, too wet, too fucking good.

“this cunt’s fuckin’ soaked,” liam growled. “like it missed me.”

“she’s tight as hell,” damon muttered, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “how’s that throat, love?”

you couldn’t speak. not properly. just moaned, tears slipping sideways into your hair.

liam’s hand found your throat, gripping as he fucked harder.

“don’t you fuckin’ come yet,” he hissed. “not ‘til we say.”

you were right there. stomach tight, cunt squeezing him over and over. your thighs trembled.

and still they didn’t let you come.

damon pulled out again, slapped his cock against your lips—“beg,” he said.

you did. voice barely there.

“say it louder.”

“please,” you choked. “need it. please—”

liam was close too. his thrusts rougher now, sloppy, sweat dripping onto your chest. he gritted his teeth. “fuck—gonna ruin you.”

you begged for it. begged with your body, your hands, your mouth.

and still they held back.

still they made you wait.

your thighs were shaking.

sweat cooling where it gathered behind your knees, on your collarbone, where damon had bitten down hard enough to leave a mark. your body was wrecked—used and soaked and trembling—and still they wouldn’t let you come.

liam had pulled out just when your moans hit that desperate pitch. “nah,” he panted, grinning, breathless. “not yet.”

you sobbed, hips rolling helplessly against nothing, your clit aching. it felt like punishment—delicious, drawn-out punishment—and neither of them had any plans to stop.

“told you not to come,” damon murmured, brushing his knuckles over your throat, your chest, down to the soaked heat between your legs. “and you were about to, weren’t you, sweetheart?”

“n-no,” you lied, barely audible.

liam snorted, crouching at the foot of the bed. “don’t lie, love. we know this cunt like the back of our hands now. fuckin’ pulses when she’s close.”

“yeah?” damon said softly, tilting your chin so you’d look at him. “then maybe she needs to learn how to behave.”

you whimpered—open-mouthed, desperate.

liam slid two fingers inside, slow and cruel. they curled just right, just enough, and you arched again—thinking maybe, maybe this time they'd let you. maybe they'd—

but then he pulled out, smeared the slick across your inner thigh, kissed it.

"not yet."

“please,” you gasped.

damon just leaned in, lips ghosting your temple. “you’ll come when we say. not before.”

they worked you open again and again—hands and mouths and hips grinding into you, cock in your mouth, in your cunt, but never letting you fall. never tipping you over the edge.

liam fucked your mouth while damon stretched you out on three fingers, palm pressed to your stomach to feel how deep he was. then they’d switch—liam between your thighs again, slapping his cock against your cunt, dragging it through your folds until you cried.

and every time your breath hitched—that tiny tell—you were stopped. left empty. aching.

—

“don’t cry,” liam murmured, soft and sticky, brushing a tear down your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “you love this. bein’ our little toy. lettin’ us play with you.”

you nodded, dizzy with it—soaked and ruined, begging without words. you couldn’t lie. not like this. not when you were stretched and trembling, cunt clenching around nothing, mouth too slack to speak.

damon leaned back on his heels, eyes dark as coal, cock twitching where it lay heavy against his thigh. he dragged his gaze over your body like he was trying to memorize every shake and spill of you. “you’re filthy,” he said, but there was heat behind it. reverence. “fuck if you’re not perfect.”

liam didn’t wait. didn’t ask. he pulled you into his lap and sank you down onto his cock in one smooth drag, and you cried out—more from relief than pain, though it was both, both, always both.

“don’t move,” he growled into your mouth. “you sit there. just like that. don’t fuckin’ move unless we say.”

he was so deep it made your vision spark—cock nudging that place inside you that made you feel cracked open, barely human. you shook, hands braced on his chest, but you didn’t move. couldn’t. wouldn’t. you were pliant, obedient, wrecked.

they didn’t fuck you. not yet.

they didn’t let you come, didn’t let you do anything but feel it—liam pulsing inside you, damon’s eyes eating you whole. time dripped like syrup. seconds stretched like years. you floated somewhere between need and nothing.

when you begged again, voice paper-thin—“please, please let me, need it, please”—they shared a look. unspoken. cruel.

then damon leaned in, slow, like he was offering something sacred.

“alright,” he said, voice low and lilting. “you wanna come?”

you nodded. frantic. pleading. your thighs twitched around liam’s hips.

“you’re gonna earn it.”

liam laid you flat again. your back hit the mattress and your legs were lifted, bent, folded—ankles over shoulders. he held them there like handles, then slammed back inside you with one savage thrust. the force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“gonna make her come so hard she sees stars,” he panted.

“no,” damon corrected, palming himself slowly, eyes locked on the way your body bowed. “gonna make her cry for it first.”

and they did.

they edged you until your moans turned to sobs—until even the word please sounded broken. your voice cracked like glass, your hips writhing, cunt squeezing around liam’s cock like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the room.

liam’s pace grew mean—shallow thrusts, maddening, barely there. enough to tease, to make you twitch and grind and sob out another helpless whimper.

he studied you. watched every flicker of agony in your eyes like it thrilled him.

“how many times’ve we stopped you now?” he asked, almost dreamy. his thumb dragged across your cheek, smearing tears and spit. “three? four?”

“five,” damon said from the headboard, voice lazy. his hand was wrapped around his cock again, stroking slow. he looked at you like you were a painting. something expensive. something ruined. “poor little thing can’t think straight.”

your thighs trembled. your whole body did. tears spilled freely now, lip wobbling, your breath a stuttered mess.

“she’s close again,” liam muttered. his voice was hoarse. his hips stuttered, cock twitching inside you.

“ruin it,” damon said, cold. “make her wait.”

“no—please—” you gasped, voice gone raw. “i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll—”

liam pulled out.

slow. cruel. deliberate.

your cunt clenched around nothing, fluttering empty, a cry ripping out of you like it had claws. he slapped his cock against your thigh—wet, heavy, hot. you were slick everywhere, thighs shiny, sheets ruined. your body thrummed with denial.

you didn’t even know you were begging again until damon reached down and grabbed your chin—tilted your head up, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“you wanna come that bad, sweetheart?” he cooed. “gonna lose your mind if we don’t let you?”

you nodded, wild. frantic.

—

he smirked. “then crawl.”

you blinked, breath caught halfway between a sob and a moan.

“on all fours,” he clarified, voice low and slick with threat. “between us. show us how much you want it.”

you moved without thinking. knees aching, palms sinking into the rumpled sheets, body flushed all over with sweat and spit and need. everything between your thighs throbbed. everything inside you ached.

liam laughed behind you—dark and delighted. his hands were on you immediately, spreading you open, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your ass.

“fuckin’ mess,” he muttered, breath ghosting over your skin. “never seen a cunt this wet before. it’s obscene.”

in front of you, damon stroked himself lazy and slow, eyes half-lidded as he watched you crawl. “she’s got no idea who she wants more.”

“don’t matter,” liam said, leaning in, mouth brushing your lower back. “she’s gettin’ both.”

and you did.

they made you take turns.

damon in your mouth, thick and rough, hand knotted in your hair as he pulled you forward, feeding his cock past your lips with slow, possessive rolls of his hips.

liam fucking into you again from behind—harder this time, deeper. brutal thrusts that made you jolt forward, made your mouth choke on damon’s cock, made the sheets crease beneath your knees.

and every time you started to shake—every time that white-hot pulse built low in your belly—they stopped.

again.

and again.

“liam—please, i can’t—”

“you can,” he growled, snapping his hips forward. “and you will.”

damon slapped the side of your face with his cock—gentle, almost playful. “open up.”

you did.

you always did.

mouth slack, tongue out, spit slicking your chin. he slid back in and didn’t stop—fucked your throat slow and deep, his cock dragging against the sore walls of your mouth, fingers tight at the back of your skull.

“such a pretty little cocksleeve,” he murmured. “so eager to please. we could do this all night, couldn’t we?”

liam groaned behind you, pace quickening. “she’s squeezin’ me,” he panted, voice ragged. “fuck, she’s gonna—”

“not yet,” damon barked. “make her wait. make her feel it.”

you sobbed around damon’s cock. it hurt. it burned. you were soaked and shaking and full and empty and used. your whole body screamed for release, but they kept dragging you back—over and over. denial thick as blood in your veins.

liam reached around, two fingers circling your clit—sloppy and fast, just enough to make your hips buck.

“you come without permission,” he warned, voice tight, “we start over.”

and god, you were close.

so fucking close.

you trembled violently, your jaw slack as damon fucked your throat, as liam filled you like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out. your vision blurred. your hands slipped on the sheets. your breath caught.

you wanted to come so badly it felt like your skin might tear.

“she’s crying again,” liam said, gleeful, voice dark with triumph. “fuckin’—look at her. you ever seen anyone this desperate?”

damon pulled out with a wet pop, letting your head fall forward. you gasped, spit pooling down your chin, mouth open and useless.

your body sagged—aching, overstimulated, unraveling.

“please,” you whispered. barely a sound. “please, i need—”

“not yet,” liam snapped.

“just a bit longer,” damon added.

your thighs twitched. your stomach clenched. your cunt fluttered helplessly around liam’s cock, still buried inside you like it belonged there.

—

and then it hit you out of nowhere.

you had tried so hard to obey—to breathe, to take them, to hold yourself back—but then liam’s fingers brushed just right, and damon thrust deep into your throat, and suddenly it was happening. the orgasm ripped through you like a snapped wire.

“fuck—i—i’m—” you choked out a sob as your hips jolted forward, thighs trembling, cunt clenching tight around liam’s cock. your vision whited out. your whole body seized, back arched, moaning helplessly around damon’s cock. you hadn’t even meant to. it was just too much—the teasing, the pressure, the filth of it all, their voices and their hands and their need.

liam stilled behind you, breath going sharp. “she came,” he muttered, incredulous. “she fuckin’ came.”

you slumped forward, thighs twitching, cheek pressed to damon’s thigh. you were still shaking. still dazed.

damon eased himself out of your mouth—slow, wet—then grabbed your jaw and tilted your face up to look at him. “did we say you could?”

you blinked up at him, ruined. slack-jawed. drool and come slick on your chin.

“i—i’m sorry—i didn’t—”

“no, sweetheart,” damon cut in, voice low. “you did.”

liam chuckled darkly, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “fuckin’ greedy.”

“didn’t even ask,” damon said, still holding your face. “didn’t even ask.”

“gonna have to teach you a lesson now, aren’t we?”

“no, please—”

“oh, now you wanna beg?” liam snorted. “bit late for that.”

and then he pulled out. you whimpered at the loss, body still fluttering from the aftershocks. your knees gave out beneath you, and you collapsed back onto the mattress.

—

damon hauled you up by the arm, flipped you over like you weighed nothing, pinning your wrists above your head. your back hit the mattress, body boneless and blinking, already spent—but they weren’t done. not even close.

liam grabbed your knees, spread you open wide, stared down at the mess between your thighs like it was something holy. “look at that,” he muttered, voice gone soft and wrecked. “fuckin’ soaked.”

“she’s gonna be sorer than she’s ever been,” damon rasped, settling between your legs again. “but it’s what she wanted. didn’t you, sweetheart?”

you shook your head, tears in your lashes, the words barely there. “i—I can’t—”

“yes you can,” liam murmured, already shifting forward. “and you will.”

damon stroked himself once, lined up, and slammed back in. you screamed. arched. your wrists jerked in his grip, but it didn’t matter—your cunt was already pulsing, raw and slick, stretched wide for him again.

liam knelt beside your head for just a second—then shifted, bracing one knee over your shoulder and the other beside your ribs, cock heavy against your cheek. “open,” he ordered.

you did.

and he slid in, slow and mean, one hand tangled in your hair, the other braced on the headboard as he started to fuck your mouth again—this time with no softness at all.

now you were helpless. pinned. every hole filled, no room to move or breathe. damon pounded into your cunt like he meant to ruin it, hips snapping, his teeth clenched. and liam used your throat like it was his god-given right, fucking deep, holding you still by your hair as your lips stretched wide around him.

they didn’t stop. not when your legs started to shake. not when your throat burned raw. not even when your cunt fluttered, desperate and full.

“she’s fuckin’ addicted,” liam groaned, thrusting harder, deeper. “look at her—soaked again already. takin’ it like a cockdrunk little whore.”

damon’s jaw clenched. he grunted, sweat sliding down his spine, watching the way your body bowed up for him, how your hips still tried to meet every thrust like you couldn’t help it. “you hear that?” he panted. “she’s squelching. fuckin’ dripping all over me.”

you whimpered around liam’s cock, throat too full to speak, eyes burning with tears. spit smeared across your cheeks, frothing at the corners of your mouth. you gagged again, choked softly—and liam just moaned.

“aw, baby,” he crooned, voice gone almost sweet. “you cryin’? sobbin’ ‘cause you’re that fuckin’ full?”

he swiped your tears away with his thumb—then pressed it to your jaw, forcing you wider. “you love it. filthy little fuckin’ girl.”

damon’s hands gripped tighter at your hips. your arms went limp above your head. all you could do was take it. take it and take it—his brutal rhythm, the bruising grip, the hot breath on your skin.

liam pulled out for just a second—let you breathe—then slapped his cock across your cheek, once, twice, before sliding it back into your mouth.

“fuckin’ born for this,” he muttered. “your mouth was made to be used.”

damon groaned. his hips stuttered. “gonna fill her up—fuck, she’s milkin’ me—”

liam laughed, breathless. you moaned helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, spit trailing down your chest. your whole body shook—your thighs locked up.

you were so close again it hurt.

“please,” you tried to say, voice broken around liam’s cock. it barely came out at all.

“you beggin’?” damon bit out.

“thinks she deserves it,” liam sneered, his hips still rolling, his cock rutting against your throat like he owned it.

then they both went still. just for a second.

damon leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a threat.

“not yet.”

—

they dragged you off the bed and dropped you to your knees like they were done pretending you weren’t a toy. one hand each, tangled in your hair—guiding, holding, owning. “look at you,” damon sneered, thumb swiping the spit from your lips, smearing it across your cheek like it was warpaint. “can’t keep your fuckin’ mouth off our cocks for five minutes.” “needy little slut,” liam muttered, already unzipping with one hand, cock hard again, heavy in the low light. “go on then. be useful.”

you blinked up at them, mouth already parted like you were starved. you didn’t even wait for permission—you just reached for both of them at once, stroking them side by side like it was all you knew. one hand wrapped around damon, the other for liam, your jaw already going slack as you leaned forward and took damon into your mouth, lips stretching wide.

liam let out a breathy laugh, not jealous—just amused. “always his cock first, huh? fuckin’ groupie.” “she’ll get to you,” damon said, voice low, hand brushing hair from your face like you were something delicate even as you gagged around him. “look at her. workin’ us both like a good little toy.”

you moaned around him, spit starting to slip down your chin, wrist twisting just right around liam’s cock like you’d memorised what made him twitch. they were both watching you like they were starving and you were the only thing left to eat.

and god, you were soaked. your hips shifted, almost on instinct, grinding against the rough carpet beneath you in search of even the smallest relief. it wasn’t enough—never enough—but the pressure was something, and your moan deepened, throat fluttering around damon.

you thought maybe they wouldn’t notice. they noticed.

liam jerked your head back hard enough to make your spine arch, spit trailing from your mouth to damon’s cock. “what the fuck d’you think you’re doin’, huh?” you blinked up at him, dazed. “just—needed—” “needed?” he snapped. “who the fuck said you get to need anything?”

damon’s voice cut sharp, a clean slice. “was that you humpin’ the fuckin’ carpet like a bitch in heat?” you froze.

they stood over you, hard and flushed and furious, and you were still on your knees, dripping and ruined, lips red and shiny with spit. “got two cocks in your hands, one in your mouth,” liam growled, “and you’re still greedy? fuckin’ unbelievable.”

you tried to say something, anything, but damon pressed his thumb hard against your lips, muffling the sound before it could leave. “nah,” he said. “no more of that. not ‘til we say.”

liam leaned in close, his voice rough and thick with heat. “you wanna come that bad?” he said, smiling against your cheek. “then beg. tell us why the fuck you deserve it.”

—

they didn’t even let you finish your plea.

you were on your back in seconds, dizzy from the manhandling, thighs spread wide and trembling, breath hitching in your chest like a sob. but liam didn’t fuck you—not yet. he just sank into you slow, so slow, thick and deep and hot—and still. didn’t move. just held you there, full to the brim, cunt twitching around him from the stretch and the ache and the sheer denial of it.

“shh,” he cooed, already breathless. “you want it so bad, don’t you? thought about this for fuckin’ hours. days.”

you nodded, desperate, nails clawing at his arms.

damon crouched beside you, palm stroking your jaw. “then be good. hold him. just hold him.”

you tried. god, you tried. but your hips twitched, bucking up just a little.

liam growled low in your ear. “what’d i fuckin’ say?” his hand flew to your throat, fingers curled around your pulse—not squeezing, just there. grounding. warning.

“stay still,” he said again. “take me. that’s all you get.”

your walls fluttered around him, slick and hungry, clenching on instinct.

damon chuckled darkly, brushing your damp hair from your cheeks. “she’s barely hangin’ on. look at her.”

your lips trembled. your cunt pulsed. you were so full and so empty at once, stuck in that unbearable in-between.

“please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “just—need to come.”

“you need to?” damon echoed, faux sympathy laced with heat. “oh, babe. this isn’t about what you need.”

liam leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and biting.

“you’ll come,” he murmured. “when we say.”

“maybe.”

“maybe not.”

and still—they didn’t move.

you were stuck there, trembling and soaked, cockwarming liam while damon stroked lazy circles over your swollen clit. barely enough to keep you right there—on the cusp, on the edge, begging with your body even when your mouth went quiet. they could’ve done it for hours. you would’ve let them.

your whole body thrummed with tension—hips shaking, thighs aching, cunt clenching desperately around liam, who stayed deep inside. not moving. not giving. just holding you open, stretched and sloppy and so fucking full.

and worse—damon was still teasing. his fingers ghosted over your clit, maddening light. the barest brush, the slowest swirl. never enough.

“hold still,” liam gritted again, low and hot in your ear. his grip on your hips was bruising. anchoring. like he knew you’d try to squirm again. “told you—s’not for you to take.”

you whimpered, trembling underneath them, so full you felt like you might split open. your walls fluttered, pulsing with need.

“but—please—”

damon hummed, gaze locked on your wrecked face. “oh, she’s close again. feel that?”

his fingertips circled your clit slow, cruel. like he was winding you up just to let you unravel.

you writhed—instinct, really—just trying to rock your hips, to chase a fraction more friction, to meet liam’s cock where it rested. anything.

“don’t you dare,” liam growled. “you move again and we stop.”

“fuck, please,” you gasped, eyes shining. “can’t—can’t help it—”

damon leaned in, mouth by your jaw, fingers never letting up on your clit. “then don’t help it. suffer for it.”

and you did. suffer, that is—body strung tight like wire, breaths hitching in your throat. liam’s cock pulsed inside you with every shallow squeeze your cunt gave. and god, he felt it.

“you’re clenchin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he muttered, jaw tight. “like you’re tryin’ to milk me without movin’. cheeky little thing.”

damon snorted softly. “think she’s gonna cry.”

you weren’t sure if you already were.

“you want to come, sweetheart?” damon asked, almost sweetly, rubbing a slow circle just above where you needed him. “you want us to let you?”

you nodded frantically.

but they didn’t say yes.

they didn’t move.

liam shifted just enough to knock the head of his cock against that aching spot inside, and you sobbed, legs trembling violently now.

“fuck!” you cried. “please—i’ll do anything—”

“you’ll do nothing,” liam cut in, voice hoarse. “we’ll do. you’ll take.”

and then damon slid down between your legs, replaced fingers with tongue, licked at your clit while liam stayed lodged deep—cock twitching, balls snug up against your cunt like he was just waiting.

you arched. moaned. seized.

and then damon pulled back, mouth wet, breath hot.

“not yet,” he said.

you were falling apart and no one was catching you.

they hauled you into damon’s lap like you weighed nothing, his back pressed to the headboard, cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. he palmed your hips, thumbs digging in, your cunt still twitching from liam’s tongue.

you whimpered when you felt him line up—thick and hot, head slipping through your folds. your thighs trembled as you straddled him, hands braced on his chest.

“go on then,” liam murmured from the end of the bed, voice lower now—gutted. “show me how you ride him.”

you were too wrecked to answer, only nodding as you sank down slow. damon groaned, head falling back, grip bruising your hips.

“fuckin’ hell,” he hissed. “still so tight, even after all that.”

you rocked your hips, slow at first. it was thick, so thick, and your muscles ached from restraint. from being used. you cried out when he ground up into you, cock dragging that spot that made you see stars.

liam sat just out of reach, legs spread, fist wrapped tight around his cock. he watched you like a starved man—eyes dark, hungry, drinking in the bounce of your tits and the way your mouth fell open.

“look at you,” he breathed, voice broken. “takin’ him so good. so fuckin’ good.”

you met his gaze, even as your thighs trembled from the effort.

“want you to touch me,” you pleaded, eyes glassy.

“you’ve got him,” liam murmured, thumb teasing over his leaking tip. “earn me.”

you moaned at that—keening as damon snapped his hips up rougher now, making you ride harder, faster.

“she’s fuckin’ perfect,” damon growled, hand slipping between you to rub your clit. “look at her, liam. fuckin’ made for it.”

liam groaned, fisting himself faster. “tell her. tell her what she is.”

“cock drunk little slut,” damon snarled, voice ragged. “just a fucktoy. stuffed full, used, begging for more.”

you cried out, clenching around him.

liam stroked himself harder, breathing shaky.

“bet she’ll come just from that,” he muttered. “from ridin’ you while i watch.”

your body jolted with each thrust—damon dragging you down onto him, your cunt wet and sloppy, clit swollen. liam spat in his palm, spread it over his cock with a hiss, eyes locked on the way damon disappeared into you again and again.

“fuck,” he muttered. “can’t wait to split her open next round.”

damon gritted his teeth, thrusts snapping up cruel. “you hear that? you’re not even done yet.”

you nodded, tears streaking your cheeks, moaning like it was the only word you remembered.

“thank you,” you gasped. “thank you—thank you—”

liam moaned. “you love it. love bein’ passed around.”

“so filthy,” damon panted. “but she’s ours.”

you sobbed, cunt clenching around him—right there on the edge again.

damon’s grip turned bruising, his chest sticky with sweat as he slammed into you from beneath. your cries sharpened with every thrust, hands scrambling across his shoulders for something to hold.

“gonna fill you up,” he gritted, teeth clenched. “fuckin’ ruin you for anyone else.”

you nodded, desperate. babbling something half-coherent, gasping with every drag of his cock inside you.

liam stayed at the foot of the bed, fist tight around himself, breath ragged and uneven.

“go on,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “fill her up, albarn. let her leak for me.”

you whined—half a sob, half a moan—as damon shoved in deep, hips jerking, cock twitching. his head tipped back against the wall as he spilled inside you, thick and hot and endless.

you shuddered around him, already clenching from the heat of it, cunt fluttering like your body didn’t know what to do with it all.

damon exhaled slow, dragging you down into his lap, pressing his lips to your temple as his hand stroked down your back.

“fuck,” he breathed. “that’s it. took it so well.”

but liam was already moving. already climbing back onto the bed, already dragging you off damon’s lap with hands greedy and impatient.

“my fuckin’ turn,” he muttered, pulling you to all fours.

you gasped, the shift making damon’s cum spill from you in a slow, messy drip.

liam saw it—let out a low, wrecked groan, one hand spreading your ass to watch it leak. “jesus. look at that. fuckin’ full of him.”

you started to say something, but his cock pressed to your entrance—already hard again, already dripping—and the words turned to noise.

“he warmed you up for me,” liam panted, pushing in slow. “that’s sweet of him, innit?”

you moaned, high and cracked, back arching.

“still so fuckin’ tight,” he gritted, bottoming out with a snap of his hips. “like your cunt’s fuckin’ starving.”

he started fucking you immediately—deep and messy, the slick from damon making everything louder, wetter. the slap of skin and the filth of it echoed through the room like thunder.

you sobbed into the sheets, clawing for purchase, body melting under the weight of it all.

“mine now,” liam growled, hand fisting in your hair. “gonna fuck you till you forget his name.”

“c’mon, love,” damon murmured, voice low and coaxing. “give us one more. you’ve got it in you.”

liam groaned behind you, cock twitching inside your soaked cunt. “she’s close. can feel it.”

and you were. soaked and stuffed full, stretched and trembling, your voice unraveling into nothing but choked gasps and ruined little cries. your body felt like a wire pulled too tight, every nerve frayed and raw.

liam thrust harder, meaner, his nails biting into your hips. damon’s fingers never stopped—circling your clit with sharp, deliberate sweetness.

“let go,” liam breathed, voice torn and hoarse. “come for us, baby. now.”

and you did.

like a spark to dry leaves—sudden, scorching, a full-body detonation. your wail broke ragged in the room, your cunt clenching down hard around liam’s cock as he groaned, loud and guttural, hips stuttering against you.

“fuck—fuckin’—take it, take all of it—”

he came deep, hard, burying himself to the hilt, grinding against you as he spilled inside. his whole body shuddered, slumped heavy over your back, breath catching.

—

and then damon was pulling you close again, tugging you back into the pillows, arms wrapping around your shaking body.

you were limp, breathless, boneless. flushed and wrecked and fucked-out beyond words, your lashes fluttering where your cheek rested against his chest.

“that’s it,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “you did so good. took all of it.”

liam stayed behind you, panting, cock still slick inside you as he pulled out with a wet drag. he watched the way your thighs trembled, watched cum spill down onto the sheets. he swiped his thumb through it absently, slow and possessive.

“look at the fuckin’ state of her,” he muttered, not quite teasing. “ruined.”

“we should send her back down like this,” damon said lazily, thumb brushing your jaw. “see how long she lasts out there.”

liam’s gaze sharpened. “fuck off.”

damon chuckled, but there was heat behind it. “what? let ‘em see what she’s good for.”

liam sat up, slow, and dragged the sheets up over your bare skin. tucked them in like a shield. “she’s not goin’ anywhere.”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t, really. you just blinked up at the ceiling, floating on the edge of sleep, every nerve still pulsing.

they were quiet for a beat. the room thick with something taut and silent.

then—damon shifted, pressed a kiss to your temple.

liam wiped between your thighs with a warm cloth he didn’t ask for.

they didn’t talk to each other. just to you. soft little murmurs.

“you’re alright, love.”

“you did so fuckin’ well.”

“my good girl.”

“ours.”

their touches overlapped—careful, clumsy. damon combing his fingers through your sweat-damp hair, liam tracing circles into your thigh like he didn’t realize he was doing it. both of them acting like the other didn’t exist, except for the way they kept trying to outdo one another. gentler. quieter. closer.

you fell asleep tucked between them—liam’s arm slung heavy around your waist, damon’s breath warm against your shoulder.

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betweensnoopy · 2 days ago

Text

see you again ⋆ ･˳

walking into the loud, crowded house, you could instantly smell alcohol and weed. your nose turns up to the smell and you face your friend, who’s already in the party mood.

her smile fades as soon as she see your face and she rolls her eyes in a playful way. ‘oh my gosh, we’re not even half way in the house and you already want to leave? i thought you wanted to go out, y/n?’

she was right. you thought that going out would help you get over your break up but all you want to do is lay in bed and cry your eyes out.

‘c’mon let’s go have fun! maybe you’ll find somebody better!’ she dragged you in and push y’all’s way through the crowd and right to the liquor. there were all types of alcohol—tequila, beer, vodka, whatever you named—it was definitely there.

your friend grabbed the tequila and poured 6 shots, 3 for her and 3 for you. ‘wait wait wait! this is too much..’ you rasped. she ignored you and continued to pour the shots.

‘I don’t need you worried about your ex or anything else while we’re at this party. girl, you’re gonna drink these shots’ she hands you your first shot and cheers you. you had a feeling in your stomach, not because you were scared.. well you were scared a little bit but, because it’s been months since you drank and you don’t want to be that one drunk girl at the party.

you quickly drink the shot, a burning sensation goes down your throat. you go to grab a cup of orange juice until your friend stops you. ‘nope, no chasers.’ she says and snatches the cup out of your hand.

a guy, who looks very tipsy—walks over to you and your friend and eyes her up and down.

the guys asks her to dance to the song that just screams sweaty, drunk bodies grinding on each other. she accepts to dance and gives you a look. ‘go have fun, y/n! finish your shots!’ she yells over the loud music and leaves you there—by yourself.

you eye down the two tequila shots. she’s right, you should have fun. you just got out of a relationship and is going out for the first time in forever. you need to turn back into your carefree, single self again and have fun.

you quickly take the two shots and make yourself a drink and step out the dance floor.

you finally started to let loose and danced to a couple songs. you know, really enjoying this party, even dancing with this one guy you came across.

you were having fun until you saw him.

the man that broke your heart, staring right at you. the man who’s the reason your at the stupid party in the first place.

your heart dropped to your stomach, what was he doing here? hamzah wasn’t really the party or any social activity type of guy.

you haven’t seen him the months. his hair is a buzzed bleach now and not the black curls that you love, or well loved. he looked more muscular than the last time you saw him, his eyes looked darker than his usual brown eyes.

hamzah looked totally different from when you guys broke up, and so have you—you two looked like two strangers to each other.

you looked away from hamzah and continued dancing with this stranger, putting on a fake smile—but you could feel his eyes still on you. his eyes basically burning holes into your back.

you tried the take your mind off your ex-boyfriend who’s standing in the corner, looking like the creep. you grind harder into the man behind you, his hand on your hips guiding you.

‘how about we take this somewhere else?’ the man says into your ear, before you can answer you were snatched away from the guy. you nearly fall due to the fast speed this person was walking.

your heart beating fast, you thought you were getting kidnapped and the guy you were dancing on didn’t when run after you. you look up and see that bleached buzz, it was hamzah.

before you could say something—he shoved you in a empty bathroom and locked the door. ‘what the fuck are you doing out there?’ he exclaimed.

you face scrunches up, what the fuck is he talking about?

‘what the hell do you mean? i’m enjoying being single, you know since you fucking dumped me!’ you snap back. hamzah pinches his nose bridge before looking down at you.

you walk up the mirror to fix your dress and fix your hair, hamzah’s eyes filling you ‘don’t worry, you still look the same way you did when you dancing on the guy, like a whore.’

without even thinking, you turn around and slap hamzah across the face. ‘fuck you, hamzah!’ you shout.

he has no reaction, fucking weirdo. ‘fuck me?’ he muttered.

‘yes, fuck you.’ you say. he looks down at you with hooded dark brown eyes, lips plump just asking to be kissed.

the two of you looked at each other until hamzah smashed his lips onto yours, you could taste the alcohol on his tongue. the kiss was tough and messy, your hands go on each side of hamzah’s face.

he breaks the kiss, turning you around and pushes you against the counter. your hands tightly grip the sides of the sink as he pulls up your dress and pulling your panties to the side, wasting no time.

his lips go on your neck—making little hickies all around it, visibly marking his territory.

you lightly gasp at the feeling of his fingers rubbing your entrance. ‘your already wet? you’re living up to your name, whore.’ hamzah grins.

you look up at him in the mirror ‘don’t call me th-’ he cuts you off by sticking his middle and ring finger inside your wet cunt. your head drops low and you lightly bite your lip.

‘what was that? I didn’t hear you..’ the man mutters. his fingers pump in and out of you at a torturing pace. hamzah places his hand on your throat, squeezing lightly—pulling your head back to kiss you from behind.

his curled fingers speed up, making you moan in his mouth. behind the muffled moan coming from you, you could hear the squelching from your pussy.

he fucked you with his fingers, knowing that it always get you loose. your creamy fluids spill on his fingers, dripping down on the tiled bathroom floor.

‘look at you, fucked out just by my fingers. you miss this down you.’ hamzah whispered as he looked at you through the mirror.

he groans at the sight in front of him. ‘look at me, y/n. look at how pretty you look with my fingers inside you.. fuck.’ hamzah cursed.

you slowly open your eyes to see him staring at you. the same stare that makes your knees weak everytime. he takes his fingers out of you, glistening in the bathroom light. you let out a little whine at the lost of contact, your cunt just throbbing.

hamzah puts his forcibly puts the same fingers that were inside you in your mouth. ‘taste yourself, see how good you taste, y/n.’ his voice rasped.

you slowly suck on his fingers as he watches you in the mirror— a number of curses coming out of his mouth.

he takes his hand out of your mouth and get a taste himself. he begins to unbuckle his pants, the tent in his pants is just raging. you reach down to help him, slowly palming him in thought his boxers.

you pull his cock out, hitting his stomach as you do. hamzah takes over and strokes his cock.

he rubs his tip against your entrance, gaining a small moan from you before he pushes all the way in. immediately, you feel full—it’s like you’ve never adjusted to his size.

hamzah doesn’t start off slow, no. he started off rough, fucking you like he hated you.

‘wait.. ham.. oh fuck..’ your eyes rolled back under your hooded eyes. your hands grip the sink for support. his mouth attaches to your neck once again as he pounds you.

the muttered music from the party played outside of the bathroom, you were hoping that it was enough that no one can hear how loud hamzah’s hips were slapping against yours and your high moaning.

this feels completely wrong but yet, so good. his hand wraps around your throat—making you look at him. ‘fuck, y/n. you must missed me fucking you like this, don’t you? say it. say you miss me fucking your guts.’ his mouth is so filthy.

it took you a while to get the words out, you were so overstimulated with him pounding into your aching pussy and slightly choking you.

‘i miss.. you.. s-shit.. fucking me like this..!’ you moan. hamzah groans at the words, his pace going even faster.

you lightly try push hamzah, putting a hand on his stomach. ‘nuh uh, don’t try to push me away. goddamn.. you know you want this.’ he moans as he pushes your hand away.

your makeup and hair was fucked up and smudged. you looked a hot mess but hamzah loved every sight of it, knowing he’s the one that caused you to look like that. your dress pushed all the way your waist, panties soaked and pushed to the side.

his cock hit your g-spot repeatedly, mouth opening into a ‘o’ shape.

‘that’s the spot? i know it is.’ hamzah spoke in your ear. your mouth opened but nothing came out.

his cock so deep—pushing the feeling of an orgasm at brink. ‘hamzah.. im close..’ you mutter.

‘you gonna cum? do it, fuckin cream all over me.’ hamzah groans. his cock pounding you over and over and over—until you came and your body fell limp against his. hamzah came right after you, letting out a deep moan, shooting his ropes inside you.

it’s quiet now, just muffled music in the background. he stayed inside for a minute, feeling your warmth for once again.

he carefully pulls out, his cum oozing out of you just turns him on again.

your dress wasn’t even fixed or actually anything, you still looked a mess before he left after getting dressed again.

‘it was nice seeing you again, y/n’ your ex-boyfriend says before leaving the messy bathroom.

TAGSLIST: @weirdogirl888

hey guys! ik it’s been a while since I’ve posted but trust i have some things in the drafts that i need to finish. I hope you guys enjoyed this! remember my requests and tagslist are open!

#hamzah #hamzah x reader #hamzahthefantastic #hamzah fic #hamzah the fantastic #hamzah fluff #hamzah smut

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shadamyheadcanons · 2 days ago

Text

Total Recall

For the 2025 Shadamy week prompt: Forgotten. Kindly beta’d by the lovely @shadowsfascination.

Shadow wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with amnesia and finds that a vaguely familiar pink hedgehog took him in, promising to take care of him until he remembers everything. He keeps a journal while he’s there so he can at least remember some things over time. 5.8K words.

Cross-posted on AO3.

Day 1

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache, a bump on my head, and not a single memory of how it happened...or who I was. Who anyone was. I must’ve grunted in pain, because a pink hedgehog dashed into the room to check on me. She was fretting and worrying over me, but I couldn’t really focus.

She introduced herself as Amy and said we were friends, but I don’t know. She feels more important than that, somehow. She must mean something else to me. Whatever it is, it must be positive, because I instantly felt better once I saw her. Safer.

Amy promised she’d take care of me until I got my memories back, and she gave me this journal so I could write things down as I remembered them. When I asked her why she’s helping me, she said she’s always there when a friend needs her. She also mentioned she felt guilty, but she wouldn’t tell me why.

Day 2

The stabbing pain in my head this morning was just as bad as yesterday, maybe worse. I couldn’t even leave bed, so she fed me soup and pet my head for a while. It felt...nice. I kind of want to fib and tell her I need to stay in bed more often, but the idea of lying to her makes me feel sick for some reason.

Day 3

I tried walking around the house today, but I was too dizzy to make it far. Luckily, Amy was there to help guide me to a seat in her kitchen, and she talked to me while we ate lunch, telling stories about all our friends. A couple of names sounded vaguely familiar, but the details escaped me. She didn’t seem to mind.

When I asked if looking after me was a nuisance, Amy instantly denied it, saying it’s nice to have someone else around for a change. Apparently, she used to live with her friend Cream, but then Cream moved back in with her mother, leaving Amy by herself.

It looked like she was trying really hard not to look sad. I wonder if she’s lonely. Maybe I’m lonely, too.

I told her I liked being with her here so far, and she looked really happy. I think I’ll mention that more often.

Day 5

I remembered something today. She was playing music while she made us breakfast. I recognized the chords, the words, the tone...I spoke some of the words, then sang a few lines as the lyrics came to me.

Amy was thrilled. She instantly perked up and started talking a mile a minute about the band—Hot Honey, she called them—and how she’d brought me to a concert with her, how much fun we’d had together, how much I liked it. She played song after song of theirs, excitedly chattering away.

But I didn’t understand. I told her that although I recognized the songs, I didn’t like them.

I wish I hadn’t done that. She went quiet and looked really sad.

I wanted to make her feel better, so I admitted that although I didn’t really like the songs, they felt meaningful. Important. She smiled a little.

She hasn’t played Hot Honey since then.

It was grating. It was sappy.

But I kind of miss it anyway.

Day 6

Not too much happened today. My head’s been feeling better and I can walk now, so Amy said we can go out tomorrow.

I noticed she had blankets and a pillow set up in another room, so I asked if she always slept there. She said it was just temporary, that she usually sleeps in the bed I’m using. She told me she was fine sleeping there and it wasn’t a problem, but I don’t know. It looks uncomfortable to me. I told her there was probably enough room for both of us in the bed if we slept close enough, but her face went bright red, and she got all flustered and said no.

Not sure what that’s about, but I kind of want to see her do it again.

Day 7

I’m apparently a fan of flowers, so she took me out to a public garden today. She must be right, because I remembered all of their names—lilacs, azaleas, rhododendrons, magnolias. It’s weird what my brain hangs onto; little facts are fine, but whenever I try to think of details about people or my past, it’s like there’s this weird bubble in the back of my head stopping me. If I try to push it, I get this sense of wrongness, like I’m snooping somewhere I shouldn’t be.

But flowers are easy. I even told her scraps I remembered about their supposed “symbolism,” whatever that means, and she looked happier and happier the more I shared. Memories came back in bits and pieces: times when I’d seen each flower for the first time, the books I’ve scoured to learn more, the feeling of soil passing through my fingers, and the joy of raising my own flowers and watching them bloom. Upon remembering I had a garden myself, I immediately stopped and asked Amy about it. Luckily, she’d asked a friend of hers, Silver, to look after it while I was under the weather. She really does think of everything.

Halfway through, she spotted some bright yellow daffodils and gasped. She brightened up and told me I gave her a bouquet of them once to cheer her up. I can’t remember doing that, but the smile on her face was warm and familiar. If she always looks that way when she gets flowers, I’ll have to get them for her more often.

At the end, she lamented that it was too early in the year for lavender, saying those were my favorites. But I don’t think they actually are. They aren’t right now, at least. I pointed to a patch of roses we’d already passed and said those were my favorites, especially the red ones. She looked confused, but then she smiled again and told me she loved them, too, and that “Rose” is her last name.

It suits her.

On a whim, I asked if I could call her that, and her eyes widened. She smiled shyly and agreed. Her cheeks were pink.

Rosy, even.

Day 9

Today, Rose introduced me to two of her friends, a fox with two tails and an...echidna? I think that’s what he’s called...named Tails and Knuckles.

Two people named after body parts. Not exactly creative, but it does make me wonder where my name came from. What am I a shadow of? I tried to think back, but all it gave me was an unsettling sensation in the back of my mind: a gentle voice, followed by a stabbing pain.

I decided the answer could wait.

I’m not sure why Knuckles was there. It seems like Rose doesn’t always have a reason for bringing people over, she just does it. He mostly lounged around and pestered me about what I did and didn’t remember and seemed disappointed with how little I knew. But when I called Rose by her last name, he lit up and started hounding me about her instead—how “close” we were, how much I liked her, how long I was staying with her—smirking obnoxiously the whole way through. Rose eventually got him to back off.

Tails asked about my headaches. How frequent they are, what triggers them, that kind of thing. He talked to me about amnesia, too, saying this kind usually only persists for a couple weeks in Mobians and my memories will probably be back soon. The others seemed relieved, but I’m not sure how to feel about it.

After checking on my health, Tails showed that he’d brought a two-wheeled vehicle with him, saying he’d been in the process of tuning it up when my...incident happened. He encouraged me to take a seat and start it up, explaining that I’d been built with what he calls “vehicular intuition,” so I’d know how to ride it even without my memories. He’s awfully smart for a kid. Smarter than Knuckles, at least.

At first, I didn’t recognize it. The striking jet black and sharp angles called out to me faintly, but it wasn’t until I sat down on the seat and started up the engine that it clicked.

Powerful sensations and images flashed behind my eyes—wind whipping through my quills, scenery blurring past, the growl of the bike beneath me, the simple joy and freedom of it all—and my heart pounded.

My bike. Mine.

I almost shed a tear. I’ve missed it that much. Luckily, I regained focus in time to blink it back. I think I’d be okay if Rose saw me cry, but the other two? Not a chance.

After they left, Rose begged me to take her on a ride with me, and I immediately said yes. She’s a difficult person to say no to.

The familiar thrill of racing returned to me, but the feeling of someone clinging to me was fresh. I don’t think I’ve ever given Rose a ride before. I’ve been missing out. The way she held me made my chest feel warm and light, and whenever I sped up or turned a tight corner, she’d let out a cute little squeak.

I kept driving her around until the sun set. Once I brought her home, she finally explained why she’s been feeling guilty about my amnesia. She said I was helping her build a new addition on her house and she accidentally knocked me on the head with a hammer. Said she felt awful, should have been more careful, all of that. I didn’t like seeing her so unhappy, so I hugged her and told her it was alright, and she calmed down.

To be honest, I bet there’s more to the story than that. Tails mentioned I’m supposed to be some kind of “Ultimate Life Form,” so I highly doubt a sweet, silly, petite girl could knock me out with a hammer, especially by accident. She’s probably being too hard on herself for something. She does that a lot.

But she does have a hammer she keeps by the door, this giant yellow and red thing. Just looking at it does make my head hurt.

Day 11

Rose invited over an obnoxious blue hedgehog this afternoon—Sonic, I think? He wouldn’t shut up and kept sprinting around making dumb jokes, saying he ‘would race me if I were feeling better.’

As if I’d need to be at full power to beat that buffoon in a race.

Rose seems...fond of him. She has terrible taste. I didn’t tell her that.

She asked me if I remembered anything about him, and I told her that she must have hit me pretty hard if I managed to forget someone that annoying. I thought she’d be upset, but she laughed instead and said that some things never change.

Day 14

Today

Day 15

Yesterday I

Day 16

Rose and I went to a city two days ago called Westport Westopolis to run a few errands. While we were there, we ran into a man in a military uniform with two differently colored eyes. He started to snap at me about my “extended vacation.” Rose got mad and stepped between us, maybe to defend me, but I couldn’t hear what she said to him because I caught sight of a weird logo on his chest that spelled out “G.U.N.”

It felt like my head was splitting in two.

Unsettling, terrifying noises ricocheted in my mind—panicked voices, pleading, screams—ending with a deafening bang.

I don’t know what that sound was, but it made my stomach turn.

After the bang, my vision went black, and my legs gave out. I don’t remember hitting the floor, though. Maybe Rose caught me. She did say she carried me home, and I’ve never caught her in a lie. She must be stronger than she looks. I couldn’t even leave bed until today, so I’m sure I was no help.

I think something bad happened to me, and I’m scared of finding out what it was. Is it possible to just bring back the good memories? Am I wrong to want that?

I hope I never run into G.U.N. again.

Day 17

Rose thought we could use a nice day off after what happened, so she brought me to the city park with some food and a blanket so we could eat outside on the grass. She said it’s called a “picnic.” The word wasn’t familiar, not even a little. Rose got really sad when I said so. She thinks I’d probably never been on one, even before I lost my memories. She immediately turned determined, scrounged up some food—bread, strawberry jam, peanut butter, chips–and brought me to the city park.

I don’t think this will help me regain any memories, but I don’t mind. She’s cute when she gets all determined like this. Are all female hedgehogs as pretty as she is? I asked her, but she told me to stop embarrassing her. She was as red as the strawberry jam.

I figured Rose would find us a table somewhere, but instead, she spread out the blanket right on the grass. We were halfway through our meal when Rose’s friend Cream hopped over to us with a small blue creature in tow who she calls “Cheese.” She let me hold him. He has an odd texture, warm and soft but jiggly. Not sure what to make of that, but it’s comforting somehow. A few other Chao stopped by, too. They’re clingy, but I like them.

The afternoon passed with no discussion of who I used to be; Rose, Cream, Cheese...all they cared about was who I am now. The temperature and breeze were relaxing, and it was nice to see them laughing and enjoying the comfortable weather. Their voices and the natural sounds of the park were gentle. I would’ve gladly spent all day there.

Rose once told me I’d promised her years ago that I’d keep everyone safe, that I’d made it my life’s mission to protect the Earth and everyone on it. I think I’m starting to understand why.

Day 20

We went grocery shopping in some square today—Station Square, I think it’s called. She had a pretty long list. She’s going to teach me how to make cupcakes. It’s another one of those things I know I’ve never done before. Is she still avoiding my past because of what happened with the commander, or is she just as reluctant to dredge up my memories as I am?

Taking a look at the list, I recognized enough items that I’m sure I could have dashed around the store and cut the time in half; I’ve experimented with my strength and speed here and there, and they’re both returning to me. Even as I thought of it, though, I lost all desire to rush. If I ran, I wouldn’t get to walk by her side. I’d miss the cute way her nose wrinkles when she’s comparing prices. I wouldn’t have gotten to reach the cake mix she was too short for and enjoy the smile it earned me.

Maybe you don’t need a reason to spend time with someone. Maybe the right person is worth it all on their own.

Day 25

Today, Rouge and Omega stopped by. I don’t remember everything about them, but their names are the only ones I’ve known right off the bat so far, and I felt better having them here.

Before they came in, Rose poked her head out the door and whispered something to them about not mentioning “assignments” around me right now, and every so often, she or Rouge would steer the topic away from something. Omega didn’t like that very much. They cut him off when he started mentioning something about target practice, and his internal motors made this disgruntled rumbling noise.

I get the feeling Rouge and Omega—and me, by extension—don’t visit Rose. Rouge didn’t know where the bathroom was, and Omega was analyzing the house’s structural integrity like he’s never been here. I can apparently teleport when I’m at full strength, so distance isn’t an issue, and she clearly needs the company, so why don’t we visit her?

Rouge apologized for not checking up on me sooner, saying they’d been really busy. Whichever “assignments” they’re being sent on must be stressful; Omega was grumpy, and there were bags under Rouge’s eyes. I told them to look out for themselves.

When Rose stepped out to bring in the cupcakes we’d made together, Rouge asked me about her—whether I felt comfortable here, if I wanted to stay somewhere else, all that. I told her I was happy here with her. When I called her “Rose,” though, Rouge stopped. She didn’t respond like Knuckles had. She and Omega exchanged a nervous glance. I asked what was wrong, but they both stalled out. Rouge just said that I was welcome to come back to live with them anytime, especially if I “needed some distance” after I got my memories back. Rose came back with the cupcakes before I could ask what she meant.

Distance from what? From Rose? Why? I like her. I like her smile. I like her cooking. I like how she laughs, even if I don’t always understand why. I like the warm feeling I get when she holds my hand to lead me places. I like hearing her hum when we’re doing chores around her house. I like how she says my name. She puts an extra...something into it that no one else does.

What miserable version of me would want to avoid her? What was I afraid of?

Day 31

It’s been a month now, and I think I need to talk to Rose.

The longer this goes on, the less and less I want to know about whatever darkness is lurking in my past. Every time I think back, all I feel is pain and dread, and I can’t help but wonder if I was ever as happy as I am now. I like the world I live in. I’m not sure I always did.

It feels like almost everyone wants to pull me backwards, but I’m tired of looking back. Why can’t I move forwards instead? Why can’t this be me?

Rose has put in so much time, so much effort into helping me regain my memories, but if anyone will accept my decision, it’ll be her.

I’ll tell her tomorrow.

Day 32

I did it. I told her...and she accepts me!

She said she’d noticed how nervous I was about it, and she understood why. She even told me she loved me—every version of me—memories or not, and that she’d be happy to let me stay here no matter what I choose to do about my amnesia!

But...something odd happened. I can’t explain it, but she said this one phrase that echoed in my mind, and my brain...lurched, as if something was settling into place. She said, “I don’t care what you choose, Shadow. I want to give you a chance to be happy!”

My head’s been spinning ever since. Hopefully I’ll feel better in the morning.

I don’t know how I’ll break the news to everyone else, but with Rose by my side, I’m sure I can do it.

This is who I am.

Shadow sat on the edge of his bed—Amy’s bed—feeling his muscles shake. His jaw clenched harder with each cheesy, embarrassing, lovestruck journal entry his ignorant self had written over the past month.

The immense weight of his agonizing past had lifted for scarcely a moment, allowing him just enough room to drop his guard...and let her in.

And by the time he’d awoken that morning, the entire world had crashed down on his head once more. Raw and honest and unforgiving, leaving him broken like a neglectful Atlas.

His fingers tightened, wrinkling the pages, and his chest clenched. All the years I spent keeping my distance, and she breaks it all down in an instant. And as if that weren’t enough...

Vivid images of the massacre flashed behind his eyes, the gruesome tragedy that had taken everything from him.

Shadow’s heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew rough and unstable. His eyes went wide and his expression strained as he stared at nothing, but no tears dared fall.

Energetic footsteps, heavier than expected for a silly, petite hedgehog, bounded around the corner. Amy poked her head in. “Shadow, do you want—”

Shadow choked and threw the journal aside, feeling his face shift into that of a cornered animal. “A-Amy—!”

At the mention of her first name, Amy gasped, and her brow wrinkled in concern. “Shadow? Are you...”

He tore his gaze away.

Shadow heard Amy’s footsteps grow closer, and the bed sank next to him. Her hand hovered for a moment, then rested on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Her light reached out to him. He panted and tried to pull away as he always had, only to fall even further.

The ARK.

Gerald.

MARIA.

Amy wrapped her arms around his shoulders, desperate yet reassuring. “Shadow, it’s okay! You’ll be alright! I’m here.”

Shadow clenched his jaw until it hurt, and he grasped the sheets on either side of him. He could see Amy’s expression pinch out of the corner of his eye, and she rubbed his back. “Is there anything I can do?”

He met her gaze. Try as he might, Shadow couldn’t lock out her warmth, not the way he could just a month ago. He stared for a long moment at the woman he loved—the one he could never have because she was so enamored with someone else—and he sighed. Shadow looked down and shut his eyes. “Take out your hammer.”

A baffled noise escaped Amy’s throat, but she summoned it. “Um...okay...?”

Shadow took the hammer from her hands and held it to his forehead. “Right here. Just...”

After a moment of silent confusion, Amy gasped and ripped the hammer from his hands, throwing it aside. “SHADOW! That’s not funny!” There was a pause, and then her vitriol faded. “Shadow...?”

He felt the tears hit his knees before he even knew he was crying. “Take it back,” he croaked, voice cracking. “Take it all back.”

“Oh, Shadow.” Pain was evident in Amy’s voice, too, and she wrapped her arms around him fully, gentler this time. “I know it’s hard. You’ll be okay.”

“I was h-happy...for once...” he managed through shuddering breaths.

“Shh...it’s alright.”

Shadow turned in Amy’s hold and clung to her, letting himself break down in the arms of the only person left who was allowed to see his tears. He wept for Maria. He wept for Gerald, flawed though he was. He wept for the Shadow of yesterday who’d never known pain or loss or inhibitions, and he wept for the innocence he’d lost yet again.

Brainwashing, amnesia, time travel, and now I almost forgot all over again...only to remember every time. How many times will I be forced to lose them?

Shadow wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, mourning pain both old and new. Amy didn’t falter, not even after his breathing slowed and his muscles stilled.

At last, he lifted his head, vision bleary and head aching. Amy was gazing up at him, eyes watery with tears she’d shed on his behalf. “I’m so sorry!”

Shadow pulled back, baffled, but he held onto one of her hands. “Why?”

“Because I’m the reason you got amnesia in the first place!” she insisted. “I feel awful.”

Shadow was shaking his head even before she finished. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Amy glanced back at the hammer she’d left on the ground, then shot him an incredulous look.

“...Not on purpose,” Shadow added.

Amy groaned and hid her face. “You told me to use a regular hammer, but I got impatient and used mine!”

“In your defense, it was faster.”

“But you told me to be careful!”

“I got in the way,” he fibbed.

Amy yanked at her quills and scrunched her eyes shut. “I should’ve just done the job myself! If only I’d—”

“Amy.”

She peeked her eyes open a crack. Shadow threaded his fingers with hers and pulled them away from her quills. “Stop trying to make me blame you. It’s not going to work.”

Amy stared up at him and sniffled, but she remained silent.

“You’ve been taking care of me. Feeding me. Housing me. Helping me. Making me happy. And it worked.”

As he said that, though, he felt his face fall. It worked...just not forever.

Amy squeezed his hand. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, and I know it can’t be easy, but you have good memories, too,” she insisted. “Whenever I hear you talk about Maria, it never sounds like you regret meeting her.”

“Of course I don’t!”

Amy jumped, so he averted his gaze and quieted down. “I would never regret meeting her. I couldn’t. Not for a second.”

Amy nodded, encouraged. “And think of all the adventures you’ve been on! Think of your friends! What about Rouge and Omega?”

Shadow’s chest warmed, then instantly tightened. “They’ve been covering for me. All this time. That’s why they were so exhausted.”

“Huh?”

“They’ve been keeping Team Dark going without me this entire time. How much longer would they have kept doing that? A month? Two months? Forever?” All so I could keep playing house with you, happy and ignorant?

I nearly threw away everything we’ve been through together.

The thought repulsed him.

“Because you would have done the same for them,” Amy countered, learning forward to get a better look at his face. “You’re kind. You’re dedicated. And if this had happened to either one of them, you wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.”

There was silence for a moment. Shadow just stared, sensing she had more to say.

Amy’s lower lip trembled. She held on for a few moments before blurting out, “You shouldn’t have been here in the first place!”

“What?!”

“No, no!” Amy spluttered, holding her hands up defensively. “I mean you shouldn’t have been there the day I...” She glanced back at her hammer and cringed.

Shadow rolled his eyes. “You were putting another wing on your house, and no one else would help. Of course I showed up.”

Amy scratched the back of her head and looked down at her feet. “Ah...not quite.”

Shadow’s ears perked up.

Amy bit her lip. “See, I actually...didn’t ask anyone else,” she murmured. “I had it handled. I could have called Tails if I needed help with construction, and I could have asked Knuckles if I needed more strength...but I didn’t. I can do all that by myself.”

With anyone else, Shadow would have snapped in irritation. He kept his tone gentle. “Why did you ask me?”

Amy looked up at him, fidgeting with her fingers. “Promise you won’t get mad at me, okay?”

Shadow nodded. I don’t think I could if I tried.

She paused, then let her head drop, resigned. “Because I wanted to get to know you better.”

Shadow’s heart pounded. “Really?”

Amy nodded, peeking up at him shyly out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve wanted to get to know you since we talked on the ARK, but you’ve always kept your distance. I could never get close.”

Shadow’s heart ached. I never meant to hurt you. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat.

Amy twiddled her thumbs in her lap. “But I knew one thing that would work. No matter how busy you are, you’ve always found time to help me. Every single time I’ve asked you for help, you’ve been there.”

Memories of Amy’s voice drifted into his head.

“Thank you so much for coming with me to this concert, Shadow. I never could have gone alone. It’s so much better with you here!”

“Ah, Shadow, I’m so glad you’re here! Cream went into this weird-looking castle, and she hasn’t come back out! Will you go in there with me to look for her?”

“Shadow, please help us! Give them a chance to be happy!”

She’s right. I really will do anything for her.

“Shadow!”

He didn’t know he was grasping at his chest until Amy threaded her fingers with his. Her voice pulled him out of his stupor. “I’m sorry! I know it was wrong. It’s just...you’re so sweet, and brave, and kind...and you don’t hear that often enough. I wanted to know more. I—”

Shadow stalled out as she rambled, at a loss for words. His heart fluttered.

Does she...?

Every word died in his throat. Instead, he grasped her hand with both of his and held it to his chest, letting her feel his racing heartbeat. Her ranting immediately stopped, and one solitary tear faltered, nearly falling from her eye. A voice from fifty years ago, quieter than Amy’s but clear, floated in from the back of Shadow’s mind.

“You have a big heart! It may be difficult for you to express it, but I know that deep down you really do care. About me. About everyone! What you do is what defines you. I know you’re having a hard time finding answers, but I’m certain you will one day. Then, you’ll find even more people you can trust.”

Shadow found his voice at last. “I really wish you could have met her.”

Amy’s confusion lasted for only a moment before melting away, but she remained silent.

He brushed away the tear she’d almost shed, breathed in deeply, and let it out. “She would have loved you almost as much as I do.”

Amy’s eyes bugged out. Shadow slid his hand onto her cheek, making his intentions clear. He waited for a few terrifying seconds that felt like years, praying he hadn’t misinterpreted.

Finally, Amy glanced at his lips...and leaned in to meet him.

Her lips were warm and soft, and Shadow’s eyes fell shut at the pleasant sensation. His motions were tentative from nerves and inexperience, just as hers were, and he lingered for only a few seconds before pulling back. Amy leaned in to follow him, apparently just as reluctant to end the contact, and he pressed their foreheads together to stay close. Her breath tickled his lips, and a shy smile spread across her face. He couldn’t hold back a small grin of his own.

“So does this mean you’ll forgive me?” Amy asked, hesitant but hopeful.

Shadow scoffed and rolled his eyes playfully. “The girl I’ve had a soft spot for since the beginning resorted to subterfuge to spend more time with me, then pampered me for a month? I’ll live.”

Any last trace of hesitation vanished from Amy’s face, leaving behind cheeks dusted pink. Shadow tilted her head down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before aiming a smile her way. “Thank you, Amy.”

“Ah—”

She snapped her mouth shut. He raised a brow. “Hm?”

Amy pursed her lips, deliberating, and then her expression turned sheepish. “You know...you can keep calling me ‘Rose,’ if you want...” Her eyes shot open. “I mean—you don’t have to, but...”

Shadow perked up. “I can?”

Her smile was small and secretive. “It’s...nice. No one else calls me that, so...it feels special when you do.”

Shadow smirked roguishly. “No problem. ‘Rose’ it is.”

A happy little noise escaped Amy’s throat, and he knew even before looking that her tail was wagging. As he kept looking around her room, though, Shadow’s stomach churned with nerves once more. “So...I know I’ve recovered by now, but...is your offer from last night still valid?”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Shadow tugged absently at the blanket underneath him. “I know you’re lonely, and I’ve found a lot of happiness here. More than anywhere else.” He squeezed his eyes shut, ignored the way his stomach flipped, and met her eyes. “I don’t want to leave.”

Amy’s face barely had time to light up before he was pulled into an enthusiastic embrace. “Of course I want you to stay!”

Shadow choked from her strong hug, then laughed and quieted down when she loosened up. He listened patiently, happy just to hear her rant excitedly about all the new ideas she had for the house.

At last, she retreated, showing the exhilarated, post-rant expression he knew most were never patient enough to see.

Their loss.

Shadow ruffled her quills. “In that case, you’d better have supplies ready when I get back.”

Amy frowned. “What do you mean?”

Shadow stood up and adjusted his gloves. “I really do need to talk to Rouge and Omega, but if I’m moving in, then you’ll need that extra wing on your house more than ever.” He smirked down at Amy. “And it’s been established that you can’t handle that yourself, right?”

Amy leapt to her feet and gave a grumpy pout, cheeks puffing out in irritation. “That wasn’t—! Oh, you—!” He chuckled, and she crossed her arms. A few seconds later, though, she stood up straight and snickered. “Are you sure about that? You’re not just going to ask me to sleep in the same bed with you again~?”

Amy giggled, clearly expecting him to get flustered just as she had. Shadow raised a brow.

There’s nothing you can say that’s more embarrassing than that journal.

Shadow snaked an arm around her waist and cradled the back of her head, showing his own smirk when her eyes shot open. He pulled her close, closer than before, and pressed their lips together. He lingered longer this time, deepening the kiss and feeding more passion into it. He tilted his head and lightly scratched her scalp. Inexperience be damned, he kept going even as her fingers dug into his biceps, only pulling back when she whined quietly against his lips.

Shadow broke contact, unable to hold back a smug smile at her wide eyes and flushed cheeks. He leaned up to whisper in her ear.

“Not yet.”

Amy squeaked quietly. He released her and stepped back, unable to hold back a lighthearted laugh. She briefly stumbled, face even redder than before, and he felt his smile turn more genuine.

“I’ll see you later, Rose.”

She held a hand up to try and hide her face, but her bashful smile showed through. “O-okay.”

He took a moment to enjoy the sight before teleporting away.

I never want to forget this day.

#shadamy #shadow the hedgehog #amy rose #sonic the hedgehog #shadowxamyweek2025 #shadowxamyweek #placeholder title was “get bonked idiot”#my friends nearly convinced me to make that the actual title #peer pressure is real kids

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sugarhog05 · 13 hours ago

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Sooo… I have some oldish art I found recently that I thought I’d share with y’all :]

First are just some sketches of a few of my AUs at the time. These were just before I made The Starlit Swordsman AU. They were also before I’d fully come up with the concept of Bloodborne Moon being infected by the beast plague. He was going to be an animatronic hunter that the healing church would use because he… ya know… doesn’t need blood and therefore couldn’t transform into a beast. I hadn’t come up with a design for DL!Sun yet. There’s also a doodle of if Moon was in Don’t Starve, A game I’d been playing nonstop at the time.

Next are just some doodles so I could test out the brushes in Procreate. This was at the height of my SAMS obsession. Not much else to say about it.

Here’s the old Bloodborne Moon Design I mentioned. I still like the design, but idk I wasn’t sure of what else I could do with the concept. I’m sure I could’ve come up with something, but when I had the thought of ‘what if Moon COULD turn into a beast?’ I kinda had to make it. I still might make an AU of the AU and now that I think about it… maybe it could be a swap AU where Y/N turns into a beast and Moon, who knew Y/N (as friends or… something more?) can’t bring themselves to kill them. Maybe he goes on a mission to help Y/N remember who they were, while keeping them from shedding anymore blood. He… doesn’t have any after all lol

I mean, because that WAS shown in the game with Father Gascoigne… Hrmm… 🤔

Just a creachure Moon… not much else to it.

Pretty old Moon I drew when I was in a very stressful time in my life. It was uh, bad but escaping into this fandom (even if I wasn’t actively participating at the time) was what got me through it. I think I’ll always be grateful for all the wonderful artists who helped me get to where I am now, which is a much happier place <3

Here’s a Y/N design I’d made for the DCA Ballerina AU. Just a thing where Y/N is in costume. They were going to be a girl Y/N since girl outfits in performances are typically much more elaborate and I can come up with concepts easier for them. The DCAs outfits are also easier to figure out cause they have a theme to them already. I also have a lot more experience (as a previous girl ballerina myself) with that side a ballet. Sorry guys and masc leaning non binary pals :(

Lastly is some fanart I drew of a fic that I can not for the life of me remember the name of. If I remember correctly it was about Y/N being a nurse who finds a very human looking animatronic (DCA obviously lol) who just escaped from the fire at the Pizzaplex. They take him to their apartment to help him but end up finding out he’s an animatronic who doesn’t have anywhere to go, so they let him stay. They think Moon is a separate animatronic who died in the fire for a while, but then surprise! He’s alive but they think he’s homeless since Moon always “leaves” before daytime comes. There’s more but in case you ever find the fic I don’t wanna spoil it for y’all. I remember Sun and Moon were also able to taste things and he really liked chocolate milk which is why he’s holding a glass in the fanart. I think I stopped reading it because I kinda didn’t like the direction they took Moons character? He was super sweet in the beginning and kinda an ass but in a fun way. Then he just turned into a sassy (in an obnoxious way) ass in a not fun way. There’s nothing wrong with that obviously, it just came down to my personal preference and the fic is still really good even if I ended up not liking where it was going. If I find it again I’ll probably give it another chance because of how much i liked it in the beginning, but… that’s entirely dependent on if I find it again lol.

ANYWAY, sorry for the yap session/info dump it’s just when I found these I couldn’t get my mind off of them so I thought I’d share it to like… get my brain off of them, I guess. Thanks for reading and I hope you got some enjoyment out of my ramblings at least lol

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orlaunderrated · 2 days ago

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The Edges of Us: Chapter 12

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.3k+

Note: This is a bit disjointed :/ but i hope you still like it!!

xxx

I slump against the back of the couch, my legs still sore from the night out. It's quieter than it’s been in days, and I finally have a second to breathe, to think.

The couch I'm sitting on now isn't the same as it used to be. It’s still the same cushions, the same fabric, but it feels all wrong. Too stiff. Too empty. I can feel the weight of every moment that’s passed since I last found myself stretched out here, back when I didn’t have to think twice about being here. Back when it was just… home.

I used to walk into George’s flat, plop down on this couch without a second thought. It was my refuge. The place I could always count on, even after a rowdy night out or a long, tiring trip from Manchester. The blankets never stayed in place, the pillows were always slightly off-center, but none of that mattered. It was perfect in its imperfection, and it made me feel like I belonged here.

But now, as I sink into the worn cushions, it feels like I’m sitting in someone else’s space. The couch hasn’t changed, but everything else has. I can’t quite get comfortable. The fabric feels foreign under me, like I’m sitting in a place that’s been claimed by someone else. Maybe that’s what it is—this couch doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It hasn’t felt like it in a long time.

And the worst part? It’s not just the couch. It’s us. George and me.

Back then, this couch was ours. It held the weight of all our unspoken jokes, our easy conversations, the kind of talks that only happen when you’ve known someone so long you don’t have to try anymore. But now? Now, this couch is Switzerland with a throw blanket. Neutral. Safe, but in a way that doesn’t matter. We’ve become strangers, tiptoeing around each other, avoiding the things that matter most.

The cushions press into me, but they don’t comfort me anymore. I can’t help but wonder if the couch misses me. Or maybe it’s not about the couch at all. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just holding onto something that’s been gone for a while, like this space, this life I once knew, but don’t know how to live in anymore.

I sigh, looking around the room. Everything feels off

London doesn’t feel like home.

I’ve been here long enough now that I should feel more rooted, right? But something about this place still feels so... foreign. The city is too big, too busy. Everyone's on a mission, too preoccupied with themselves to care about the newcomer trying to carve out a little space in it all.

And George—well, George was always too preoccupied. Too busy with his own life to care about mine. He never introduced me to his friends—not properly, anyway. I was just the girl who showed up sometimes, drifting in and out of the background of his nights, the one who sat quietly on the couch, the one who hung out in the kitchen while everyone else made plans. I don’t even think he noticed how I ended up alone when he was off with his mates, disappearing into the crowd like I was just another fixture in the flat.

There was that one party—Calfreezys? During my first two weeks in London. The one where he took me, thinking it would be fun, and then basically ghosted me the entire night. I stood in the corner, nursing my drink, watching everyone else laugh and mingle, while George was in his element, making jokes with his friends, slipping into his world like I wasn’t even there. He didn’t bother to introduce me properly. Just a quick, “This is YN,” before turning away, as if the rest didn’t matter.

I tried to laugh it off then, tried to convince myself I didn’t care. But deep down, I knew. I knew I wasn’t part of it. That night, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be, but it felt like a cold reminder.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm just a visitor. Like this place is temporary, but I can’t even tell if that’s because I’m waiting for something to change or because I’m waiting for myself to find the courage to leave.

I know I’ve harped on about this for the entire time I’ve been here, but I can’t shake it. The loneliness is sinking into my bones, creeping up like a cold draft that I can’t escape, no matter how many layers I put on. It’s more than just being by myself—it’s the constant hum of the city that never slows, the sea of faces that I’m never a part of, the noise that only makes me feel more invisible.

I didn’t think it would feel like this. I didn’t think I would feel this... lost.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just the city, or if it’s me. Maybe I’ve gotten so used to hiding behind jokes, behind distractions, behind whatever George and his mates thought I should be that I don’t know how to not be alone anymore.

But... Will.

Will is the only thing that almost feels like home. The way he holds me when it’s just us, how his arms wrap around me like they were always meant to. The way he makes me laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s pulling me under. When he’s around, everything feels a little bit simpler. Easier. And for the first time in ages, I don’t feel so...

alone.

Yet at the same time, he’s also the one thing I can't quite fit into place.

There’s always this distance between us. Not in the way we talk or the way we touch, but in the way we never quite ask the deeper questions. He doesn’t ask too many of them. He doesn’t expect much from me, either. He’s content to let things flow, to leave things unsaid, and maybe that’s part of why it works—or why it feels like it works. But I can feel it—the quiet uncertainty. This weird in-betweenness we’re both floating in, unsure of what comes next, both of us reluctant to make it anything more than what it is. We haven’t labeled it, haven’t defined it. And part of me is fine with that. It’s easier this way.

Still, when I’m with him, it’s like there’s a quiet truth between us. Something unspoken but understood. No matter the silence or the tension, there's this strange comfort in knowing that we’re both feeling the same thing... or at least, I think we are.

But god, it’s so much fun. I’ve not had this much fun in so long.

Exploring each other—emotionally, physically—everything feels so new, like we’re testing the boundaries of something neither of us fully understands yet. It’s light, it’s playful, it’s intense in a way I never imagined. I don’t know if we’ll ever have it figured out, but for now, I don’t care. I just want to keep laughing, keep making memories with him—before the inevitable question of what happens next arrives.

But for now, I’m lost in the moment—lost in the way he looks at me, the way we make each other feel alive—and I don’t want to think about what’s coming next, not yet.

xxx

I don’t know when it became a secret, exactly. It’s not like Will and I sat down and drafted a pact over takeaway noodles. No one said, “Let’s hide this from the group.” But it’s sort of happening anyway.

Quiet texts. Late-night Ubers. Him slipping out of the flat before anyone else wakes up.

And when someone—usually George—asks where I’ve been, I say something vague. “Just at Ruth’s.” Or, “Stayed at a mate’s.”

Not always a lie. But not the truth, either.

And Will doesn’t call me out on it. He just… plays along.

Like it’s a bit. Like it’s part of the fun.

Maybe it is. Maybe it started that way.

We've only just crossed that line, after all. We’re new. Unlabelled. Fragile in the way new things are. Keeping it to ourselves made it feel easier. Lighter. Like we could enjoy it without having to explain it.

Without giving everyone—George included—a reason to dissect it. Because if we say something, it becomes a thing. And things in their friend group? They don’t stay quiet for long. Everyone has opinions. Everyone likes to joke. Everyone has a social media platform that something could accidently be spilled to.

And Will and I… we don’t even know what this is yet. So we keep it close.

Private.

Ours.

Still— There’s a part of me that feels weird about it. Like I’m sneaking around when I shouldn’t have to. Like the other night, when I got home late and George asked where I’d been. I said “just at Ruth’s” before I could think twice. His expression didn’t change much, but something about the way he looked at me made my stomach twist.

Not because I think he knows. But because I hate the way part of me still cares what he thinks. And maybe that’s what I’m trying to avoid.

The commentary. The comparisons. The questions that would come if people knew. Like, “I thought you and will didn’t get along?” Or worse—“Wait, is this why things have been weird with George?”

It’s not.

At least, I don’t think it is. But the truth is… Will and I are figuring it out. We’re still laughing our way through the awkward bits.

Maybe I’m afraid of George finding out because I still care what he thinks.

Maybe it’s because some part of me is still bitter he didn’t want me, and now I don’t want him to think I moved on so fast—like I never meant it.

Like I was just lonely.

Or maybe it’s because I’m scared that if I say it out loud—“Will and I are a thing, kind of”—

then it will be a thing.

And I don’t know what the hell I’d do with that.

xxx

Will and I fumble into my flat like we’ve broken in, like the night is something we’ve stolen and have to spend fast before anyone notices.

He hasn’t been back here since that night—since he kissed me with all our friends just one room over, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it didn’t matter.

It kind of did, though. Everything felt a little too loud after that.

I don’t know how we ended up here tonight. He has his own place. He lives alone. That’s the whole benefit of dating a man who doesn’t share walls with three other YouTubers and a collection of mystery tripods.

But I was finishing late at work. He offered to wait. We had a drink. And then another. And I guess when you have three glasses of wine with your pub dinner and he’s looking at you like that, you start thinking sleeping together in a flat with three roommates and paper-thin walls is actually a good idea.

Spoiler: it’s not. But right now I don’t care.

His hands are on my waist. We’re both slightly uncoordinated—half tripping over my trainers, knocking into the IKEA shoe rack that’s somehow always loose on one side. He’s laughing into my neck like this is all funny, like we are funny, and I love that. I love that we can’t quite walk in a straight line around each other.

He presses me against the door just as it clicks shut behind us, and I feel it—that slow, heavy thrum of want. Familiar now, but never dull. It’s always a little new with him. A little dangerous in the best way.

“I thought we were going to yours,” I murmur against his jaw, already breathless. Only now realising just how silly of a plan this is.

Will grins, unbothered. “You looked like you needed saving, and your flat is closer.”

I huff a laugh. “So this is charity work now?”

He leans in, breath warm against my ear. “Public service.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s already grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing. I kiss him to shut him up—hard and fast—but it backfires. His hands slide under my shirt like he’s been waiting hours, not minutes, palms warm and greedy against my skin. Like we’ve got all the time in the world and I've got no flatmates.

Then I’m pinned against the kitchen counter. My breath hitches, my heart racing a little faster than it should. Instinctively, my hand goes back, steadying myself against the cool granite. Of course, this means I knock into the spice rack.

A few jars tumble, crashing into the sink with a clatter that feels way too loud for a moment like this.

“Will,” I hiss, breath catching as his fingers toy with the clasp of my bra. “We’re in the kitchen.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Flat’s quiet,” he says, like that’s all the justification he needs to get me half-naked next to the toaster.

I bat his hand away, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You’re out of your mind.”

He smirks, that devilish cocky grin making my heart stutter. “You’re into it.”

Before I can protest again, my hands are on his wrist, tugging him toward my room. My breath hitches. My self-control is about to completely combust.

“Will,” I snap, glancing nervously toward the hallway. “Someone could walk in.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even hesitate. The smirk on his lips is pure mischief, but his eyes—they’re all hunger now. “Then you better hurry up and take me somewhere I can do this properly.”

I don’t think twice. I grab his wrist again, this time pulling him into my room with a sense of urgency that only makes everything feel worse—in the best possible way.

God help us if George’s door is open.

My door clicks shut behind us, and the hum of the hallway light fades as Will crowds me back toward the bed—my bed, crammed between boxes of ring lights, tangled cables, and a monitor that hasn't been turned on in months.

We are pressed up against the door like criminals hiding a body — except the crime is tongues and poor impulse control.

Its starts like it always does with Will—messy, impulsive, like we might both think better of it if we paused for even a second. It's familiar now, reckless in a way I didn’t expect to crave.

I grip the edge of his hoodie, dragging him closer, and my back hits the edge of the mattress, half-covered in unfolded laundry. He laughs against my mouth when he knocks over a ring light leaning against the wall. The light hits a case of old tripods, and something inside rattles, loud in the quiet.

"Jesus, your room's a death trap," he mutters, voice low.

"It’s not mine. It’s a glorified storage unit with a bed," I whisper back, tugging him down by his collar. He comes willingly, all heat and hands and that annoyingly cocky smirk. "But t’s fine. If anything falls on us, we die doing what we love," I whisper, trying not to grin.

He raises an eyebrow. "Shagging in a storage cupboard?"

“Something like that.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I forget where the joke ends. His hand slides beneath my shirt, warm against my skin, and I lean into it, into him. The room smells like dust and laundry detergent and the faint citrus of his shampoo.

I can hear George’s voice faintly from the next room. Something about editing. He's probably still up, headphones around his neck, furrowed brow, legs crossed in that way he does when he’s hyper-focused.

And I hate that I notice.

Even now.

Will's hand skims my waist, fingers brushing skin where he's pushed my shirt out of the way. I suck in a breath, not from surprise—I've gotten used to this routine with him—but from how easy it is to forget everything when his mouth finds the side of my neck.

"You're thinking again," Will murmurs, pulling back just enough to search my face.

"I'm not," I lie. He knows I am. He just doesn't press.

My suitcase is still half-unzipped in the corner. Clothes spill out of it like I never really decided to stay. Like I was waiting to see how it would feel here before committing to drawers.

Will’s hand slides into my hair, tugging gently as he kisses me again—deeper this time. I let myself fall into it. His mouth. His weight. The scratch of his stubble against my cheek like an anchor, grounding and familiar. His knee nudges between my thighs, and my breath catches, involuntary and aching.

And then, Laughter, through the wall.

George.

Followed by another voice—female, warm, soft in a way that immediately twists something sharp in my chest.

I go still. Will notices. Of course he does. His thumb brushes my cheek, his voice low, gentle, lips ghosting mine.

“You good?”

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, just—” But my pulse betrays me. I can hear George. Probably still perched at his desk, headphones half-off, hoodie hanging loose the way it always does when he gets lazy about the heating. He’s probably tapping his foot, laughing at something on screen, completely oblivious to the way his voice still curls like smoke into the corners of my room.

Will doesn’t move. Doesn’t pressure. He just presses his forehead to mine with a soft sigh, like he already knows where my head is trying to wander.

“We can stop,” he says quietly. “If you’re not in it.”

But I am.

I shake my head, firmer this time. “No, no, please. I want this. Want you.”

It comes out muffled, tangled between kisses, but I mean every word. My mouth is on his again before I can second-guess it—desperate, certain, like I’m trying to prove it with my teeth.

Will makes a quiet sound against my lips, somewhere between a breath and a groan, and it lights something in me. He pulls me closer, like he’s been holding back and I’ve just unlatched something in him. His hand slides down my back, anchoring, fingers curling at the hem of my shirt like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

“I mean it,” I whisper, and this time I pull back just enough to look at him, eyes searching his face, trying to make sure he knows. “fuck, please, right now, I just—need you.”

Will’s expression shifts—softens and sharpens all at once. Like he’s letting himself believe me. Like I’ve just answered a question he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.

His forehead presses to mine again, and for a second, we just breathe there. No rush. No pretending.

Then he kisses me—slower this time. Sure. Reverent in a way that feels like he’s thanking me without saying a word. His hands are everywhere now, but careful, always careful. Like I’m something worth holding right.

And maybe I am.

I want to be.

I want him.

Not just because he’s here and George isn’t.

Not because he’s warm and beautiful and knows exactly how to touch me like I’m something worth figuring out.

But because when he looks at me, it’s real. Solid. No second-guessing. No waiting to be chosen.

With Will, there’s no power game. No unspoken test I have to pass.

There’s just us.

His hand on my hip.

His mouth on my neck.

The way he always checks in like I matter.

And I know it’s messy. I know it’s early. I know I haven’t untangled all the knots left behind. But Will isn’t a placeholder for the feelings I haven’t processed. He’s something else entirely. Something new.

I pull him down with me, wrapping my legs around his waist, not out of desperation—but decision.

A choice.

Because I want him.

I want the way he kisses me like he means it.

The way he makes me laugh when I’m two seconds from spiralling.

The way he never makes me feel like I have to be anything more or less than exactly who I am in this moment. The laugh through the wall fades. So does the echo of everything I haven’t said.

I kiss Will again—harder this time, yes, but not out of anger. Not out of pain. Out of certainty. Because for the first time in a long time, I feel wanted. And more than that—I feel like I want someone back.

Fully. Freely.

And he’s right here. On me. Around me. Mine.

His weight presses into me like a secret, warm and heavy and real. His hands slide under the hem of my shirt, skin to skin, and I can barely think, let alone breathe.

"Literally everyone is home, we have to be quiet"

“You’re the one making noise,” he mutters, dragging his mouth back to mine. “If someone hears us, I’m blaming your inability to whisper.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I whisper, deadpan. “Next time you stick your tongue down my throat, I’ll take minutes instead.”

Will huffs out a laugh.

“That’s the attitude that made me hate you, by the way.”

“You didn’t hate me,” I murmur, letting my hand wander up under his T-shirt.

“You just couldn’t handle me being funnier than you.”

“I still can’t,” he admits, smiling against my lips.

It’s crooked and soft and the kind of smile I know I shouldn’t read into — and do anyway. We stare at each other for a beat too long. Then he kisses me again.

It’s back to messy. Hungry. More desperate — like we’re both running out of excuses but sprinting forward anyway.

I tug at his hoodie, and it—and the T-shirt underneath—are gone in one smooth pull, tossed carelessly into the open suitcase by the bed.

My work shirt follows, slipping off my shoulders and landing somewhere between a pile of tangled cords and the box labelled "wires??" in Sharpie.

Everything feels like it’s unravelling. In the best way.

Like we’re pulling thread from something too tight, too tense, and letting it fall loose.

His mouth is on my collarbone now, hot and steady.

My fingers dig into the bare skin of his back, and all I can think is yes, this—this is what I want.

Right here.

Right now.

Him.

Let George have his night.

I’m having mine, too.

Xxx

Will’s hand is resting flat on my thigh, warm and relaxed. His breath is slow, close against the back of my neck. I’m not sure if he’s asleep yet—I’m not even sure if I want him to be.

The air’s cooled a little, window cracked open from earlier. I can hear London beyond it—distant sirens, the hum of a train, the occasional clatter of someone drunk and laughing down the street.

I don’t know why the quiet always makes it worse. Or clearer.

My suitcase is still open on the floor. Half-packed, like I’m still not sure if I’m really staying. Like some part of me is still waiting for an out, like I’m still waiting for a sign that this isn’t where I belong.

I thought Brisbane would be it. Thought maybe if I went back, things would settle. That I’d feel anchored again. But my grandma died, and suddenly everything that once held weight felt hollow. Familiar streets didn’t comfort me. Sunshine didn’t fix anything.

Nine months later, I was dragging my life through Heathrow again. George said I could crash here—"Just till you find your feet"—like no time had passed since uni. Like we hadn’t grown apart and moved cities and maybe moved on.

But here I am. In George’s spare room. In George’s flat. In George’s life.

Except right now, it's Will's skin against mine. his laugh still ringing softly in my ear from earlier, his hands moving like he actually wants me—not like I’m just a passing thought.

I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t expect him, of all people—the one who used to roll his eyes at everything I said, who once told me I looked like a stressed-out Pomeranian when I tried to parallel park. But something changed. Slowly. Quietly. And now he looks at me like I matter.

And I think—I really think—this might be something.

Not just a distraction. Not just a reaction to George.

I wanted George. For so long I thought maybe he’d feel the same. When I finally took the leap, he kissed me—and then stepped back like I’d thrown a grenade. A silence followed that stretched for a month, colder and heavier than any outright rejection.

But even as I try to move on, part of me still reaches for George—the way his smile flickered with something unspoken, the hesitations that hung between us like a fragile thread, the endless waiting for something that maybe was never meant to happen.

But here I am, lying in my bed with Will , tangled up in questions I don’t have answers to: Why him? Why now, when everything felt so locked down? What exactly am I supposed to do with this sudden softness from him?

Will doesn’t make me feel fragile or half-seen. He teases, pushes, pulls me close, but beneath the surface, there’s something quieter, something harder to read. Like he’s waiting to see if I’m worth the risk.

I shift, careful not to wake him. We’ve never done this before—been here like this, quiet and tangled. Will he leave soon, slip back into his own life where I’m just a late-night memory? Or maybe—just maybe—he’ll stay a little longer. Take me out for breakfast before work, buy me a takeaway coffee before I catch the tube. The thought feels both hopeful and terrifying, like a question I’m not sure I’m ready to ask out loud.

Still, lying here now, I let myself imagine what it might mean if this could be more. If Will’s here for me, not because it’s easy, but because he chooses to stay.

I press my face into the pillow, soft with his scent.

It’s not love. Not yet.

But maybe it’s a start.

Xxx

The kitchen smells like garlic and basil, sharp and bright, with a zing of lemon zest teasing at the edges. I’m standing at the counter, swirling the glossy green pesto around the bowl like it’s some kind of sacred elixir, while Ruth hacks away at the pine nuts with a precision that can only be called professional.

“How do you make this look so damn easy?” I ask, trying to mimic the way she moves—effortless, like she’s been orchestrating pesto symphonies since birth.

Ruth shrugs, her lips curving into that lazy, half-smile that usually signals she’s not giving up all her secrets. “Mostly luck. And a lot of stirring. You have to coax it, not shove it. Pesto’s a diva.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “A diva with a killer taste, then. I’m just trying not to murder it.”

“You’re doing fine, Pesto Padawan,” she teases, tossing me a wink. “Just don’t ask me to babysit a soufflé.”

I’m about to reply when Ruth raises an eyebrow, a new energy in her voice. It’s not her usual easygoing tone—it’s more… sharp, like she’s picking up on something I’m not saying.

“So,” she says, leaning in a bit, her eyes scanning me like she’s about to crack open a secret. “You never told me what actually happened after Friday. The night you vanished with Mr. Brooding. Did he even like you, or was he just hungry?”

I feel my pulse skip. I try to keep it light, but the weight of it—the reality of Will and I—is there, humming under the surface. “Yeah, well… we ended up going home together.”

Ruth’s grin widens like she’s won some sort of personal victory. “No shit, Sherlock. But seriously, why? And what now?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way I don’t want to admit. “I just… stopped pretending it wasn’t a thing. And he was into it, which helps. We’ve been seeing each other, kind of… casually. Trying to keep it on the down-low.”

Meanwhile, we’re both elbow-deep in the pasta prep, a mountain of spaghetti still swirling in the pot—enough to feed a small army. The smell of garlic, basil, and pine nuts fills the air as I continue to mix the pesto, Ruth adding more oil with a knowing flick of her wrist. This is no small batch; we’re making enough pasta to feed half the building.

Ruth folds her arms, her gaze sharp as she watches me, her lips pressing into a knowing smile. “So, this is cloak-and-dagger stuff. Keeping it from your flatmates too?”

I nod, feeling that familiar tension creep in. “Yeah. Sometimes, it feels like the apartment’s weirdly silent. Like I’m... hiding something. But I don’t want to make it a thing. No drama, no heavy expectations. Just... whatever this is. But that’s the problem.”

Ruth sets down the knife with a soft thud, her expression shifting, as if she’s not just reacting to me but feeling me, too. “Whatever this is? You sound unsure. You and I both know you’ve never been great with ‘casual’ anything. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending. Whatever’s going on with you and Mr. Brooding—if it’s more than just sex, then maybe it deserves to be out in the open.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I try to shrug it off, but the truth is, I know she’s right. It’s all a mess of half-truths and missed signals. “It’s not that simple, Ruth,” I mutter, still stirring the pesto like it’s going to give me some answer.

Ruth’s eyes soften. She steps forward, setting a hand gently on my shoulder. “Yeah, I know it’s not. But when you’re already juggling two lives, it’s hard to figure out where you even belong.”

My chest tightens at her words. She’s got this way of cutting through the noise, and it stings. “London’s so damn big,” I mutter, my voice quieter now. “Everything’s just... harder here. I thought it’d feel different, you know? Like I’d find something—someone—who made it feel less lonely.”

She tilts her head, as though weighing something. “And does Will do that? Make it feel less lonely?”

I freeze, my spoon stilling in the bowl. Ruth’s got that directness about her that I can’t escape. And honestly? I don’t even know what to say. So I settle on something that’s technically true but not exactly the full picture. “He makes it better, I think.”

Ruth smiles, though it’s tinged with something softer now. “Sounds like you’re already halfway there, then.”

I shake my head, trying to suppress the tension building in my chest. “I just... I can’t tell if I’m doing this right. I want him, but I can’t just make this real yet. It’s... too messy. And besides, what if George finds out?”

Ruth’s expression hardens, just slightly, like she’s already piecing this all together. “Yeah, I get it. The thing with George. But you can’t keep letting his opinion weigh so much. You’ve got to start doing things for you, YN. George doesn’t dictate who you’re allowed to see. So, why does it matter so much what he thinks?”

I bite my lip, caught between the truth and the guilt I feel. “I mean, I guess... you’re right. But I’ve known George a lot longer than I’ve known Will. He’s one of my best mates. And right now? Everything’s just so weird with him. I don’t even know what to call it. We’ve never been like this.”

Ruth’s eyes narrow, considering. “Exactly. You’ve been mates with him for years. You can’t let him control your life just because it’s a bit messy right now. Besides, you’re not just shagging Will, it’s... different. And I know that.” She leans in a little, her voice quieter now. “It’s okay to have things that are just yours, you know? You’re allowed to keep that. You deserve that.”

I swallow, feeling the weight of her words settle on my shoulders. But then something clicks, and I can’t help but deflect, the weight of George’s expectations still hanging over me like a cloud. “I know. But I don’t want to make things worse with him. He’s always been there for me. Letting me crash on his couch whenever I needed it... it’s just… I feel like I’m betraying that somehow. And I don’t even know what to do with that feeling. It’s just so weird now.”

Ruth’s mouth twists into a little smirk, her usual playfulness returning. “Diva, you need your own place.”

I blink, thrown off for a second. “What?”

She folds her arms, leaning against the counter. “You need your own space, YN. A place where you don’t have to worry about George walking in on you or pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. You can’t keep playing in limbo. It’s unhealthy. No wonder you’re getting all tangled up with how you feel about Will. You’ve been hiding for too long.”

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle over me like a heavy blanket. I try to brush it off, but the truth is, Ruth’s right. My “room” is nothing more than a corner of the flat that’s more like a storage unit than a space of my own. The walls are lined with mismatched furniture, boxes, and random stuff—Georges old textbooks, clothes Arthurs outgrown, the things Chris has shoved away when he didn’t want to deal with them. The only real “furniture” I own is a bedframe, a mattress, and a second-hand bedside table that my glorified-fuckbuddies friend saw on Facebook marketplace.

“I’ve been looking, Ruth. I’m not just sitting here doing nothing. It’s hard. I’m a foreigner, and all my uni flats were sublets. I don’t even have the documented rental experience that landlords want. No one’s taking me seriously, especially when my references are from student gaffs.”

Ruth smirks at that. “You’ve been hanging around northerners too much,” she teases, a grin tugging at her lips. But it fades quickly as she studies me, her expression shifting into something half-sympathetic, half-exasperated. “God, I hate how difficult the rental system is for people like you. But you’re not going to get anywhere if you don’t keep pushing for it. Seriously, YN, don’t let this city swallow you whole. Get out from under George’s roof. It’s time you had your own place, your own life. You’re not a visitor here anymore.”

We've finished our pesto now. Its staying hot in the hotbox.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “It’s not that simple. I’ve tried everything. I’ve been calling estate agents, checking places... and nothing’s come through. I’m starting to feel like London just doesn’t want me here.”

Ruth, without missing a beat, opens the fridge and grabs a tub of mascarpone, while I begin rinsing the pasta. Her movements are automatic now, and within a few seconds, we’re both silently gathering ingredients for dessert, like it’s second nature. She pulls out a box of ladyfingers and a bottle of espresso—of course, I didn’t even have to ask.

Ruth reaches over, squeezing my shoulder like she’s trying to calm the storm brewing inside me. “London doesn’t want you to quit. Don’t let it win. And you’re not alone in this. Will’s on your side, too. He’s not just a distraction; he’s your support, even if things feel weird between you two.”

The words feel heavy, but they also land in a place that I didn’t expect. “You think so?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

She nods, her smile warm, but determined. “I know so. And you don’t need George’s permission to make this work. You’ve got to go after what you want, YN. I mean, look at us—how long did we wait to make this volunteering thing happen? But we did it, right? You’re stronger than you think. Just trust yourself.”

I look at her, feeling something settle in my chest. Ruth’s got a way of making me feel like I can do anything, even when the weight of it feels like too much.

“Alright, alright,” I say with a forced grin. “I’ll keep looking. But honestly? I might end up with a cardboard box on the corner if this keeps going on much longer.”

Without missing a beat, Ruth grabs a mixing bowl, dumping the mascarpone into it, while I grab the sugar and the coffee. She looks at me, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Don’t tempt me to come be your roommate. I’ll take cardboard box next door.”

I snort. “Yeah, because that’s gonna be fun.”

We move in sync, the conversation flowing naturally as we whip up a quick tiramisu—no planning, just muscle memory. Ruth’s got a way of making the kitchen feel like it’s ours, no pressure, no expectations.

Ruth bumps me with her hip as she grabs the pasta pot, and we fall into our rhythm again—laughter, lightness, and the feeling that for a moment, I’m not just trying to survive London. Maybe, just maybe, I’m beginning to belong here. We spoon the layered dessert into small cups, finishing with a sprinkle of cocoa powder, all while making plans for our next mid-work catch up lunch.

It’s easy. And the loneliness that is deep-set in my bones starts to melt away, just a little. The rhythm of cooking, the low hum of Ruth’s voice, the familiarity of it all—it's like a temporary escape from everything that’s weighing me down.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

#george clarke #george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #george clarke imagine #will lenney #WillNE #willne x reader #willne fic #willne fluff #willne imagine #ukyt #george clarkey angst #willne angst

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lamambanegro · 2 days ago

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bloodsworn part iii.

[vampire!bucky barnes x f!reader]

okay literally I'm having so much fun and ignoring all work because all I want to do is keep writing this story.

synopsis: Original series where y/n is a recently single Black millenial living in modern day Seattle. On a whim you take a backpacking trip through Europe and through a series of events, find that you are the mortal woman unknowingly promised to vampire king Bucky Barnes.

themes/warnings: language, power imbalance, worship, obsession, vampire human dynamics, violence, eventual enemies to lovers, eventual smut (18+), slow burn

bloodsworn part. 1

bloodsworn part. 2

bloodsworn part III. things you can't ignore.

You don’t respond. You don’t argue. You just move. You reach into your bag, still slung across your shoulder, and pull out the iron fireplace poker you tucked in there earlier, just in case. You raise it high, not toward him, but toward yourself.

Bucky’s eyes flash instantly. He’s across the room in a blink, voice low and furious.

“Don’t.”

You press the sharp end against your own collarbone. Just enough pressure to make your skin smart. Your voice shakes. “You want me alive? Then let me go.”

His expression twists, something between rage and heartbreak. You press harder.

“Stop,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I do. I know I don’t want to be hunted. Or claimed. Or kept in a fanged palace with strangers who want to drain me like a goddamn Capri Sun. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No you didn’t.” He pauses, almost unsure. “But you must understand the full truth.”

The words hit the air like lightning. His voice is still soft, but now it’s dangerous. Velvet stretched over razorwire.

You freeze. He steps closer. The gold in his eyes is molten now, burning.

“I’ve wanted you in ways that would make you tremble. I’ve watched over you for longer than you know. Every instinct in me said to claim you the moment you got off that train, but I waited. I waited because I wanted you to at least have a choice.”

You glare at him. “This doesn’t feel much like a choice.”

“I understand.” He swallows hard. “But the risk was too great. When those villagers attacked you, I lost control. I couldn’t let them harm you. You mean too much. You are safest here.”

The room goes silent. He inhales once, shakes it off. Then cooled, he turns, “You want the truth?”

He strides down the hall without looking back. You don’t follow at first. But you do. Because despite everything, despite the fury, the fear, there’s something inside you screaming to know more. He leads you into a locked gallery wing of the castle. The doors groan as he opens them, revealing rows of tall, faded portraits under dusty glass. Rulers, maybe. Long-dead nobles with pale faces and painted smirks.

He stops in front of the largest canvas. Draped in cloth. You feel it before he touches it. The hum. That magnetic wrongness in your chest. He lifts the cloth. And your breath vanishes.

It’s you.

In the painting you’re seated, wearing a corseted gown of deep plum and black lace. Your locs are coiled, red eyes lined in kohl. Your gaze is sharp and sovereign. It’s not just resemblance. It’s uncanny, like it was a picture taken yesterday. You stare, lips parted, pulse roaring.

“This painting,” Bucky says, “appeared here (your age) years ago on (your birth month and day).”

You don’t move. “That’s not possible.”

He steps beside you.

“Your ancestors were the first to carry the blood that marks you. Centuries ago your tenth-great-grandfather made a pact to save his village and in doing so promised that you could one day rule by my side. As my queen.”

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. The portrait watches you. Regal. Unapologetic. Familiar in a way that makes your bones ache.

He watches your reaction. Then, as if confessing something even older, something heavier:

“There’s more. Something I have not shared with anyone else.”

You tear your eyes away from the painting. “That’s comforting.”

He lifts the edge of his shirt, slow and deliberate. Along the left side of his ribcage, carved into his skin in dark ink that seems to shimmer under the torchlight, is a tattoo, coiled, jagged symbols in a language you’ve never seen. They look burned into him, not drawn.

You almost reach out to touch them, but quickly draw your hand back. “What is that?”

“A prophecy,” he says. “Written in Old Nyxian. One of the lost vampire tongues. Only a handful of us still remember it.”

“When your ancestor made the pact,” he says, voice low, “it did more than promise your blood to mine. It summoned something. Woke something. This tattoo appeared on me the same night. Burned itself into my skin without a blade or brand.”

You stare at it. “What does it say?”

His gaze locks on yours.

“When the mortal to be Queen rises, the Vampire King shall bleed the heavens. Together, they will bend all creatures to their reign. And Hell itself will kneel.”

You go still.

“I thought it was a metaphor,” Bucky says, almost to himself. “Until I saw your face.”

You turn back to the painting. The portrait doesn’t blink, but it may as well. You feel seen in a way that claws at your mind. Not just a resemblance, this is you. A version of you. Your brain kicks into overdrive.

You trace every logical path. Photoshop? No, the pigment is cracked with age. Real oil. Real canvas. An actress? No. The posture, the scar above the brow, even the tilt of the mouth. It’s too close. A hallucination? But the servant saw you. The village men who attacked. The brute who tried to bite you did. The priest. The baker. This isn’t in your head.

But if it’s not in your head, then what the hell is it? You take a single step back. Then another. Your throat is dry, but your voice stays calm.

“I need… I need to go back. To my...to the room.”

Bucky doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t argue. He watches you like you’re some fragile celestial thing he’s terrified of breaking. Like even your retreat is sacred. He nods.

“I’ll take you there.”

You shake your head. “No. I want to go alone.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then, quietly, “There’s a map in the study. It will guide you. The castle won’t shift, not tonight.”

You look up at him. “Why?”

“Because you asked.”

You don’t thank him. You turn and walk out, steady, quiet, never showing your back to the portrait. As you leave the gallery, you hear his voice echo behind you, just a whisper, meant only for you.

“I have waited centuries for you. I can wait one more moon for your answer.”

You find the map. You follow it. The castle obeys. Your room is as you left it, dim, warm, too quiet. You lock the door behind you. Check it twice. Then you slide down to the floor, back to the wood, heart still racing. Your mind is a storm of questions. And for the first time since arriving, you’re not sure any answer will bring you peace.

You try to stay awake. You sit on the edge of the bed and mentally review everything you've seen. Try to find the seams in it all. Look for the illusion. The trick. The lie. But eventually, your body betrays you. The candle flickers low. Your eyes blur. And the weight of exhaustion pulls you under.

You wake into fog. Or maybe you’re still dreaming.

You're barefoot. Dressed in white, ethereal. The ground beneath you is soft earth, mist curling at your ankles like something sentient. You're in a forest, but the trees feel older than any you've ever seen, gnarled and silver-leafed, their bark streaked with red.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls. You turn. A castle rises behind you. But not the one you know. This one is newer. Golden. Lit with a thousand torches. And waiting at the base of the steps is you. Or… the you from the painting. She (you) smiles, sad and radiant.

“It’s time.”

You take a step back.

“No. This isn’t, this doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand any of this, why me? What am I?”

She tilts her head. “You are the beginning. And the end. You were painted into prophecy the moment you drew your first breath.”

The dream shifts. Suddenly you're inside the castle, stone floors, soft light, velvet drapes blowing in a breeze that has no source. And then he is there.

Bucky. But not quite. He looks younger. Or maybe just... lighter. His eyes aren’t gold. They’re ocean blue. And there’s blood on his collar, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He kneels before you. “Do you know what you are?” he asks.

You want to say no. But you do. You feel it in your bones, like a second heartbeat.

You look down. Your hands are covered in blood. Not his. Yours. And yet… you’re still alive. More than alive. Whole. Burning with something ancient.

You wake with a gasp.

Your room is cold now. The fire’s burned down. You can tell it’s early morning by the glint of light through the windows. You don’t know what compels you. But you rise. Walk barefoot through the hallways. Back to the gallery.

Back to her.

To you.

You stare at the portrait, heart pounding. Something about the painting feels... off. Not just artistically, physically. The air changes near it. The stones under your boots sound hollow. For the first time, you notice a symbol or a sigil of some sort right underneath the frame. You reach out and touch the edge. It’s surprisingly warm.

The moment your palm presses fully against the sigil etched beneath your painted likeness, the mural shudders. Dust rains down from the ceiling as stone grinds against stone. A seam appears. A passage opens. Narrow. Dark. Old.

You glance behind you. The room is silent. Still. No one followed you. You take a breath, then step through. The door seals behind you. The corridor is made of black stone, veined with veins of silver and red, like petrified blood vessels. It spirals downward. Deep. Far deeper than you thought the castle could reach.

There are no torches. But the walls glow faintly where your fingers graze them. The air grows colder. The pressure thicker. Eventually, the path ends at a heavy iron door. It swings open at your touch.

Inside is a chamber. And at the center, on a pedestal of dark marble, is a single beautiful and terrible chalice. As you approach it, mesmerized, you notice the stem is made of what appears to be human bone. It’s empty bowl etched with the same symbol you noticed underneath the painting. Carved into the rim in an ancient language you shouldn’t recognize, but somehow immediately understand,

"She who drinks by right of blood shall awaken the throne eternal."

You can’t help it, you feel called. You brush the rim and there's a hum in your bones. Your breathing picks up. It’s as if the air all the way down here rushes around you. As though something dormant inside you has just opened its eyes.

You don’t remember walking back to your chambers, but all of a sudden you’re sitting at the small desk in your room, looking at the chalice set up velvet, resting on the desk. You spend the day staring out the window, considering, thinking. At some point one of the attendants from before must have come in and started a fire. You don’t recall when or who.

You watch the sunset. As you come back to your body, you turn and notice fresh clothes have been laid out. A cup of tea waits for you, steam still rising.

As night falls, a knock at your door. You exhale and slowly walk to open it and look at Bucky. He doesn’t enter. Doesn’t press. Just stands there, one hand braced lightly on the frame.

“You went back to the gallery,” he says. Not a question.

You nod.

“And?”

You stare at him, then step back into the room, letting the silence stretch before answering, “Against all better judgment,” you huff softly, “I can’t ignore this. Not all of this, all at once.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you sense the tension in his broad shoulders ease.

“I’m not saying I’m staying forever,” you continue. “But… show me this...your world. Carefully. Slowly. Let me decide if I want to stay.”

His voice is soft, reverent, “One week.”

You nod.

“And if I still want to leave after that?”

His eyes flash, not anger, but something different that you can't place.

“I will let you go. But not without showing you everything first.”

part iv. wip

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #vampire!bucky barnes #bucky barnes #18 + only #bucky x f!reader #vampire bucky #bucky fanfic #bucky au

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