#watching for comets masterlist

[colouredbyd]

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

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

synopsis: being a Black means braiding silence into everything soft — childhood, love, even the ache in your bones. Sirius runs from it, Regulus folds beneath it, but you carry it still, tight at the nape of your neck. and when James offers his hands, his heart, you flinch — not because you don’t want it, but because you were never taught how to take what doesn’t hurt.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self-isolation, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect, unrequited love, hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression. read with caution!!!!

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

a/n: this turned out much longer than i thought. very very very much inspired by the song Wiseman by Frank Ocean

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

The hospital wing smells like damp stone and boiled nettle, and you have come to know its scent the way some children know their lullabies.

You’ve spent more of your life in this narrow bed than you have in classrooms, in common rooms, on sunlit grounds. 

Time moves differently here—slower, heavier—as though the hours have forgotten how to pass. The light through the tall window is always cold, a winter that presses its face to the glass but never steps inside. The sheets are tucked too tightly, the kind of tightness that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t remember when it started, the pain behind your ribs, the illness that stole your breath and strength in careful, measured doses. It didn’t come all at once. It crept in slowly, like ivy through a cracked wall, quiet and persistent. 

You grew with it, around it, until it became part of you—a silent companion curled inside your chest. Some days it flares like a wildfire, other days it lingers like smoke, but it’s always there. You’ve learned to live beneath it. Learned how to stay still so it doesn’t notice you. Learned how to hold your own hand when no one else does.

Other students come and go with the ease of tide pools—quick stays for broken arms, for potions gone wrong, for fevers that leave as fast as they arrive. They arrive with fuss and laughter, and they leave just as quickly. But you? You stay. 

You are a fixture here, like the spare cots and rusting potion trays, like the chipped basin and the curtain hooks. Madam Pomfrey no longer asks what hurts. She knows by now that the answer is everything, and also nothing she can fix. 

Your childhood was a careful thing, sharp at the edges, ruled more by silence than softness. You were born into a house where expectation walked the halls louder than any footsteps. Obedience was mistaken for love, and love was always conditional. 

You were the youngest, but not alone. You came into the world with another heartbeat beside your own, a twin—your mirror, your shadow, your tether. And above you, Sirius. Older, brighter, always just out of reach. 

He was too loud, too fast, too full of fire. He tore through rooms like a comet, leaving heat and chaos in his wake. You admired him the way you might admire the storm outside the window—distant, thrilling, a little bit dangerous.

Your twin was the opposite. He was stillness, softness, observation. He watched the world carefully, his words chosen like rare coins he refused to spend unless he must. He was always listening. Always understanding more than he said. And between the two of them, you—caught in the current, too much and not enough, the daughter who was supposed to shine but learned instead how to fold herself small. 

You were expected to be precise. Polished. Perfect. The daughter of Walburga Black was not allowed to unravel.

Your hair was never your own. Your mother braided it herself, every morning, every ceremony, every photograph. The braid was too tight—always too tight—and it made your scalp sting and your neck ache, but you never flinched. You sat still while her fingers pulled and wove and twisted, like she was binding you into a shape more acceptable. Your fingers trembled in your lap, pressed together like a prayer you knew would not be answered. 

She said the braid meant order. Discipline. Dignity. But it felt like a chain. A silent way of saying: this is what you are meant to be. Tidy. Controlled. Pretty in the right ways. Never wild.

You wore that braid like a chain for years. A beautiful little cage. You wondered if anyone could see past it—if anyone ever looked hard enough to see how much of you was trying not to scream.

Your mother expected perfection. You were her daughter, after all. Hair always braided, posture always straight, lips always closed unless spoken to. She braided it herself most days — too tight, too harsh — and you would sit still while your scalp screamed and your fingers trembled in your lap. At nine years old, silence had already been braided into your spine.

The stool beneath you was stiff and velvet-lined, a throne made for suffering. In the mirror’s reflection, your posture held like porcelain. Every inch of you was composed, but only just — knuckles pale from tension, lips pressed in defiance.

 Behind you, your mother worked her fingers into your scalp with the practiced cruelty of a woman who believed beauty came from pain. Her voice matched the rhythm of her hands, each word tightening the braid, each tug a sermon.

“A daughter of this house doesn’t squirm,” she murmured, her grip unrelenting. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t disgrace herself over something as small as a hairstyle.”

The parting comb scraped harshly against your scalp, drawing a wince you were too proud to voice. Still, the sting prickled behind your eyes, a warning. When the sharp tug at your temple became unbearable, a breathy sob slipped out despite all effort to swallow it.

She froze.

Then, softly — far too softly — “What was that?”

Silence trembled between you.

“I said,” her voice clipped now, “what was that sound?”

A hand twisted at the nape of your neck, anchoring you like a hook. The braid tightened, harder now, punishment laced into every motion.

“Noble girls do not weep like peasants,” she snapped. “From now on, your hair stays up or braided. No more running wild. No more playing outside with your brothers. A lady must always be presentable — do you understand me?”

A nod. Barely a motion, but enough to release her grip.

She tied off the braid with a silver ribbon and smoothed a hand down your shoulder. In the mirror, your reflection stared back — hollowed eyes, flushed cheeks, a child sculpted into something smaller than herself. Her voice followed you as you stood.

“You’ll be grateful for this one day.”

Outside the room, Regulus stood waiting. He looked down at your braid and didn’t say a word. His tie was loose, lopsided in that way he never could fix. 

Your fingers moved on instinct, straightening it carefully, eyes never meeting his. He let you. The silence between twins had its own language — and right now, it said enough.

The hallway stretched long and heavy, lined with portraits that watched like judges. You didn’t stop walking. The destination had always been the same.

Sirius’s door creaked as it opened. He was lying on the bed, book propped open across his chest, thumb tapping absently against the page. 

His hair was a little too long, his shirt untucked. Eleven years old and already a constellation too bright for the house that tried to dim him.

He looked up — and the second his gaze met yours, his expression softened.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he breathed, sitting up straight. “Come here.”

You moved without thinking. As soon as the door closed behind you, the first tears broke free. Quiet, controlled — not sobs, not yet. Just the kind of weeping that clung to your throat and curled your shoulders inward.

“She did it again?” His voice was low, careful. “Too tight, yeah?”

A nod. You climbed onto the bed beside him, pressing your face into his sleeve.

“I tried not to cry,” the words came out muffled. “I really tried.”

Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, then gently reached for the braid.

“‘Course you did. You're the bravest girl I know.”

He began to undo it — not rushed, not rough. His fingers worked slowly, reverently, like unthreading something sacred. With each loosened twist, the tension in your body unwound too, your breath coming easier, softer.

“She says I’m not allowed to run anymore,” you whispered. “Says I have to look like a proper lady.”

“Well,” Sirius said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I think she’s full of it.”

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

“There she is.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your scalp. “That’s better.”

The braid came undone, strand by strand, until your hair pooled over your shoulders — a curtain of softness, no longer a cage. Sirius shifted, lying back against the pillows, and opened his arms wide.

“Come here. Sleep it off. We’ll steal some scones from the kitchen tomorrow and pretend we’re pirates.”

You tucked yourself beneath his arm, the scent of parchment and peppermint wrapping around you like a secret. In the soft hush of the room, it was easy to pretend the house didn’t exist beyond these four walls.

By morning, you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers gently working through your hair again. But this time, the braid was loose. Gentle. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sting.

“There,” he said, tying it off with a ribbon he pulled from his own shirt. “Just so it doesn’t get in your eyes when we go looking for treasure.”

And you smiled, because in that moment, you believed him.

The memory fades like breath on glass, slipping away into the sterile hush of the hospital wing.

You come back slowly. First to the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender balm. Then to the stiffness in your limbs, the press of cotton sheets against your legs, the dim ache nestled just beneath your ribs like something familiar.

“Easy now,” comes a voice, gentle and no-nonsense all at once.

Madam Pomfrey stands over you with her hands already at work, adjusting the blankets, feeling for fever along your temple. Her expression is set in that signature look — concern wrapped in mild exasperation, the kind of care she offers not with softness but with steady hands.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she says, eyes scanning your face as if checking for signs of rebellion. “Stubborn girl. I told you to come in the moment you felt lightheaded.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Didn’t want to miss class.”

She snorts softly. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? You students would rather collapse in the corridors than admit your bodies are mortal.”

Her hands are cool against your wrist as she checks your pulse. You glance down at the thin bandage near your elbow — the usual spot, now tender. You don’t ask how long the spell took to stabilize you this time. You don’t need to.

She sighs and straightens. “Your fever’s broken, but you’ll stay here today. No arguments. I want fluids, rest, and absolutely no dramatic exits.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Her gaze softens, just a little. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, dear.”

Before you can answer, the curtain snaps open with a flourish — a burst of too much energy, too much brightness.

“There you are!”

James Potter.

“Sweetheart,” James breathes, as if you’ve just risen from the dead. “My poor, wounded love.”

You barely lift your head before groaning. “Merlin’s teeth. I’m hallucinating.”

“Don’t be cruel. I came all this way.”

He plops into the chair beside you without invitation, sprawled in that casual way that only someone like James Potter could manage — legs too long, posture too confident, as if the universe has never once told him no. 

His tie is missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled up in that infuriating way that shows off ink stains and forearms he doesn’t deserve to know are attractive.

You squint at him. “You didn’t come from the warfront, Potter. You came from Transfiguration.”

“And still,” he says dramatically, “the journey was perilous. I had to fight off three Hufflepuffs who claimed they had dibs on the last chocolate pudding. I bled for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he counters, placing a hand over his chest like he might actually burst into song. “With a girl who is rude and ungrateful and far too pretty when she’s annoyed.”

“Then un-love me,” you mutter. “For your own good.”

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

You shoot him a glare. He beams back like you’re the sunrise and he’s been waiting all night to see you again.

“I should hex you.”

“But you won’t.” He winks. “Because deep, deep down, under that armor made of sarcasm and resentment, you adore me.”

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

“And yet,” he leans in, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

“If you don’t shut up, I will scream.”

He laughs, bright and boyish and utterly maddening. “Scream all you want, darling. Just don’t stop looking at me like that.”

James doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. He lounges like he was born to irritate you — the embodiment of Gryffindor persistence, or maybe just pure male audacity. 

He props his elbow on the bedside table and peers at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world. Or an exhibit in a very dramatic museum: Girl, Mildly Injured, Attempting Peace.

“You know,” he says, casually adjusting his collar, “if you’d let me walk you to class yesterday, none of this would’ve happened. Fate doesn’t like it when you reject me. Tries to punish you.”

“Fate had nothing to do with it,” you snap. “I tripped over Black’s ego.”

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

You throw your head back against the pillow. “Get. Out.”

“But you look so lonely,” he pouts. “All this sterile lighting and medicinal smell — what you need is warmth. Charm. Emotional support.”

“What I need is silence,” you mutter. “Preferably wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak with your name on it.”

James leans closer. “But then you’d miss me.”

You sit up slightly, brows knitting. “Potter. For the last time — I am not in love with you!”

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

“Harsh,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you say that to all the boys who deliver their soul on a silver platter for your approval, or am I just special?”

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, looking at you like he’s just uncovered some hidden constellation, “are poetry with teeth.”

You blink. “Are you trying to flirt with me or describe a very weird animal?”

“Both, probably.”

There’s a silence then — or what should be a silence. It’s really more of a stretched pause, heavy with the weight of all the things you haven’t said and refuse to say. You busy yourself with fluffing the pillow behind you, more aggressive than necessary. 

James watches, unbothered, as if every second in your company is a privilege. He does that. Looks at you like you’re more than you know what to do with. Like if he stared hard enough, he could untangle the knots in your spine and the ones you keep hidden in your heart, too.

It pisses you off.

“Why are you like this?” you ask suddenly, exasperated.

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Like a golden retriever who’s been hexed into a boy.”

He gasps. “You think I’m loyal and adorable?”

“I think you’re loud and impossible to get rid of.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Did you break into the hospital wing just to bother me?”

“No,” he says, stretching. “I also came for the adrenaline rush. Madam Pomfrey tried to hex me.”

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

“She said the same thing.” He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Seriously though. You okay?”

You glance away.

It’s a simple question. An honest one. And it cracks something in you, just for a second — a flash of how tired you really are, how the weight in your chest hasn’t gone away since the moment you woke up here. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“I was fine,” you say flatly, “until you arrived.”

James laughs, not buying a word of it. And you hate him a little, for seeing through your armor so easily. For still showing up anyway.

“Well,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’ll go. But only because I know you’ll miss me more that way.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

He tosses you a wink before heading for the door — whistling as he walks, bright and ridiculous and inescapable.

You throw the other pillow at his back.

You miss.And you hate that you're smiling. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence rushes in too fast. It settles over you like dust, soft but suffocating. 

You just sit there, perched on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands still curled in the blanket, knuckles pale. For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ward and the slow, measured ache blooming low in your back.

Then, you hear it.

James's laughter, bright and stupid and golden, spilling through the corridor like it doesn’t know how to stop. It chases itself down the stone hallway, reckless and echoing, as if it has never once had to apologize for being loud. 

He laughs like he’s never been told not to. Like the world is still something worth laughing in.

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

You’d recognize it anywhere. Cooler than James’s, more precise, threaded through with a sort of effortless arrogance he doesn't have to earn. Sirius doesn’t speak to be heard. He speaks because the world always listens. He laughs like the sun doesn't blind him anymore. Like he’s been here before, and already survived it.

Their voices blur together, warm and sharp and unbearably distant. A private world outside the thin curtain, a place you’re never fully let into, even when you're part of it.

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

Madam Pomfrey told you to rest. Strict orders, she said. Full bedrest. You nodded then. Promised. But your body’s never listened to promises, and your mind is already slipping away from the cot, already pressing you forward with a kind of restless urgency.

The ache in your ribs flares when you move, but you ignore it. You swing your legs over the side and reach for your shoes with slow, shaking hands. Each movement tugs at the bruises hidden beneath your skin, the tender places no one else can see. You wince. You keep going.

It isn’t the pain that drives you. It’s something worse. Something quieter. That feeling, deep in your chest, like a hand gripping your lungs too tightly. Like something in you has started to rot from the inside out. You don’t want to hear them laughing. You don’t want to be the one in the bed anymore, weak and broken and watched over like a child.

You want to run until your lungs scream. You want to scream until your throat splits.

Instead, you walk.

The corridor outside is too bright. You blink against it, but don’t slow your pace. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water, but you don’t stop. The voices are gone now, swallowed by stone and space, but they echo anyway. You hear the ghosts of their laughter in every footstep.

And it stings, because Sirius never laughed like that with you anymore. Not since you learned how to flinch without being touched. Not since the world cracked open and swallowed the parts of you that still believed he would choose you first.

You keep walking. Not because you know where you're going.

Only because you know you can't stay.

You don’t go far. You don’t have the strength.

Instead, you slip into the back corner of the library, the one with the high windows and the dust-lined shelves no one bothers to reach for anymore. It’s always too quiet there, always a little too cold — and that suits you just fine. You drop your bag and sit without grace, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.

Your books are open, but your eyes keep blurring the words. The light from the window stripes your page in gold, but your fingers tremble as you hold the quill. 

There’s a pain blooming slow beneath your ribcage now, deeper than before, as if something inside you is tugging out of place. You press your palm to your side, hoping the pressure will settle it, but all it does is remind you that it’s real.

It gets worse the longer you sit. The burning in your spine, the throb in your joints. Your whole body pulses like a bruise someone won’t stop pressing. You grit your teeth and write anyway, like if you just get through one more page, one more hour, one more breath—you’ll be okay.

But you’re not. Not really. And every breath tastes a little more like defeat.

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

You wake. You ache. You drift from bed to class to hospital wing to silence. You ignore James when he finds you in the corridor and calls you sunshine with a grin too wide for the way your heart is breaking. 

You tell him off with a glare you don’t mean. He calls you cruel and laughs anyway. You walk away before he can see the way your hands are shaking.

The world goes on.

And then one afternoon, when the sun slips low and casts everything in amber, you see him.

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

He’s seated beneath the black lake window, where the light is darker and more still. His robes are sharp and his posture straighter than you remember. 

There’s a boy beside him — fair hair, eyes too bright. You’ve seen him before. Barty Crouch Jr. A Slytherin, like Regulus. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Always smiling like he knows something you don’t.

They’re laughing. Low and conspiratorial. Something shared between them that you’ll never be invited into.

And Regulus is smiling, real and rare and soft in the way you used to think only you could draw from him. His face is unguarded. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks... content. Not loud like James, not wild like Sirius. But happy. In that quiet, unreachable way.

It guts you.

Because both your brothers have found something. Sirius, with the way he flings himself into everything—light, reckless, loved. And Regulus, with his quiet victories and his perfect tie and his smiles saved for someone else. They’ve carved out slivers of peace in this cold castle, let someone in enough to ease the weight they both carry.

And you—you can’t even let James brush your sleeve without recoiling.

You can’t even let yourself believe someone might stay.

You sit there, tangled in your own silence, staring at a boy who you used to fix his tie after your mother left the room, because he never could quite center it himself.

And now—he doesn’t need you.

Now, he looks like the last untouched part of what your family once was. The only grace left. 

He sits with his back straight, his collar crisp, his shoes polished to a soft gleam that catches even in the low light. His tie is knotted with precision. His hair, always tidy, always parted just right, never unruly the way yours has always been. 

Everything about him is exact — not stiff, but composed. He is elegance without effort, and you don’t know whether to feel proud or bitter, watching him hold himself together like the portrait of what you were both meant to be.

He is the son your mother wanted, the child she could show off. He never had to be told twice to stand straight or speak softer or smile with his mouth closed. Where you burned, he silenced the flame. Where you ran wild with leaves tangled in your curls, he walked beside her, polished and obedient and clean.

If she saw you now — slouched, hair unbound and wild, dirt smudged along your hem — she would scream. 

First, for your hair. Always your hair. too messy, too alive. 

Second, for sitting on the ground like some gutter child, as if you weren’t born from the ancient bloodline she tattooed onto your skin with every rule she taught you to fear.

And third — oh, third, for the thing she wouldn’t name. For the thing she’d feel in her bones before she saw it. Something’s wrong with you. Has always been wrong with you. Even when you’re still, you’re too much.

There’s no winning in a house like that.

But Regulus — Regulus still wins. Somehow. He balances the weight she gave him and never once lets it show on his face. And maybe it should make you feel less alone, seeing him there. Maybe it should comfort you, to know one of you managed to survive the storm with their softness intact.

You blink hard, but the sting in your eyes doesn’t go away.

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

The light in the library has thinned to bruised blue and rusted gold. Outside, the sun has collapsed behind the tree line, dragging the warmth with it. Shadows stretch long and quiet across the stone, draped between the shelves like forgotten coats.

Your hand closes around the edge of the desk. Wood under skin. You push yourself up, gently, carefully, like you’ve been taught to do. Your body protests with a dull, familiar ache — hips locking, spine stiff. You’ve sat too long. That’s all, you tell yourself. You always do.

But then it comes.

A pull, not sharp — not at first. It begins low, behind the ribs, like a wire drawn tight through your center. It pulses once. And then again. And then all at once.

The pain does not scream. It settles.

It climbs into your body like it has lived there before — like it knows you. It sinks its teeth deep into the marrow, not the muscles, not the skin. The pain lives in your bones. It nestles into the hollow of your hips, winds around your spine, hammers deep into your shins. Not a wound. Not an injury. Something older. Hungrier.

You stagger, palm flying to the wall to catch yourself. Stone greets your skin, cold and indifferent. You can’t tell if your breath is leaving you too fast or not coming at all. It feels like both. Your ribs refuse to expand. Your lungs ache. Your throat is tight, raw, thick with air that won’t go down.

Still, it’s the bones that scream the loudest.

They carry it. Not just the pain, but the weight of it. Like your skeleton has begun to collapse inward — folding under a pressure no one else can see. Your joints feel carved from glass. Every movement, even a tremble, sends flares of heat spiraling down your limbs. You press a hand to your chest, to your side, to your shoulder — seeking the source — but there’s nothing on the surface. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken.

And still, you are breaking.

Your ears ring. Not a pitch, but a pressure — like the air itself is narrowing. Like the world is folding in. You blink, and the shelves blur, the light bends, the corners of your vision curl inward like paper catching flame. You think, I should sit down.

But it’s already too late.

Your knees buckle. There’s that terrible moment — the heartbeat of weightlessness — before the fall. Before the floor claims you. Your shoulder catches the edge of a shelf. Books crash down around you in protest. You feel the noise in your ribs, but not in your ears. Everything else is too loud — your body, your body, your body.

And then you’re on the floor.

The stone beneath you is merciless. It doesn’t take the pain. It holds it. Reflects it. You press your cheek to it, eyes wide and wet and burning, and feel the tremors racing through your legs. Your hands are claws. Your spine is fire. Your ribs rattle in their cage like something dying to escape.

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

Your bones do not feel like yours. They are occupied. Inhabited by something brutal and nameless. You are no longer a girl on a floor. You are a vessel for suffering, hollowed and used.

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

The only thing you know as it takes you is this: the pain does not leave with you. It goes where you go. It follows you into the dark. It belongs to you.

Like your bones always have.

-

Waking feels like sinking—an uneven descent through layers of fog and silence that settle deep in your bones before the world sharpens into focus.

The scent of disinfectant stings your nostrils like a cold warning. Beneath your fingertips, the hospital sheets whisper against your skin, thin and taut, a reminder that you are here—pinned, fragile, contained. The narrow bed presses into your back, a quiet cage, and pale light spills weakly through the infirmary windows, too muted to warm you. Somewhere far away, a curtain flutters, its soft murmur a ghostly breath you can’t quite reach.

You’re not ready to open your eyes—not yet.

Because the silence is broken by a voice, raw and electric, sparking through the stillness like a flame licking dry wood. 

It’s James.

But this James isn’t the one you know. The James who calls you “sunshine” just to hear you argue back, or the one who struts beside you in the hallways with that infuriating grin, as if the world bends beneath his feet. No. This voice is cracked and frayed, unraveling with worry and something heavier — the weight of helplessness.

“You should’ve sent word sooner,” he says, and every syllable feels like a shard caught in his throat.

“She fainted,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make it less real. “In the bloody library. She collapsed. Do you understand what that means?”

The sound of footsteps shuffles nearby, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s steady voice, calm but firm, trying to thread together the broken edges of panic.

“She’s resting now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

James laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a brittle sound, half breath, half crack.

“Safe? You call this safe? She was lying there—cold—and I thought—” His voice breaks, a jagged exhale caught between frustration and fear. 

“She doesn’t say anything, you know. Never says a damn thing. Always brushing me off, like I’m just some idiot who’s in the way. But I see it. I see it. The way she winces when she stands too fast. And none of you—none of you bloody do anything.”

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

This raw, aching desperation beneath his words—the way his concern flickers through the cracks of his usual arrogance and shields. The way he’s caught between anger and helplessness, trying so desperately to fix something that isn’t easily fixed.

You lie still, listening to him, feeling the swell of something close to hope and something just as close to despair.

James Potter — sun-drunk boy, full of fire and foolish heart, standing now like a storm about to break. He paces the edge of your infirmary bed as if motion alone might hold back the tide. He looks unmade, undone: his tie hangs crooked, his hair is more chaos than crown, his sleeves rolled unevenly as if he dressed without thought — or too much of it — only the frantic instinct to get to you.

“I should’ve walked her to the library,” he murmurs, and his voice is smaller now, like a flame flickering at the end of its wick. 

Madam Pomfrey, ever the calm in the storm, offers a gentle but resolute reply. “Mr. Potter, she’ll wake soon. She needs rest, not your guilt.”

But guilt has already laid roots in his chest — you can hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the soft exhale that seems to carry the weight of an entire world. His hands press to his face like he’s trying to hold it together, knuckles pale, fingertips trembling slightly at the edges. 

You blink. Just once.

The light slices through the shadows behind your eyes like a blade — too sharp, too clean. But you blink again, slowly, eyelashes sticky with sleep. 

The ceiling swims into shape above you, white stone carved with faint veins and a hairline crack running like a map across its arch. It feels strange, being awake again. Like stepping through a door and finding the air different on the other side.

You shift your head — careful, slow — not because you’re afraid of waking anyone, but because you know the pain is still there, sleeping under your skin like an old god. Waiting. You feel it stretch along your spine, an ache carved into your marrow. Your body is quieter than before, but not calm. Just… biding time.

He doesn’t notice you yet — too consumed by whatever promise he’s making to himself. You catch only pieces of it: something about making sure you eat next time, and sleep, and sit when your knees go soft. His voice is hoarse, edged with something too raw to name.

And though your throat burns and your bones still hum with the echo of collapse, you find yourself watching him.

Because this boy — foolish, golden, infuriating — is breaking himself open at your bedside, and he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

It’s strange.

This boy who never stops grinning. Who fills every hallway like he’s afraid of silence — like stillness might swallow him whole. Who flirts just to irritate you, calls you cruel with a wink when you roll your eyes at his jokes. 

This boy who you’ve shoved away a hundred times with cold stares and tired sarcasm — he’s here.

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. There’s a weight lodged just beneath your ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting like a question you don’t want to answer. 

You never asked him to care. Never asked anyone to look too closely. In fact, you’ve spent so long building walls from half-smiles and quiet lies, you almost believed no one would ever bother to scale them.

But somehow — somewhere along the way — James Potter learned to read you anyway.

Learned to translate silence into worry. To see the way your shoulders fold inward when you think no one’s watching. The way your laugh fades too fast. The way you don’t flinch from pain because you’ve been carrying it for so long it’s become part of you.

And for the first time — it doesn’t feel annoying.

It feels terrifying.

Because if he sees it, really sees it… the frayed edges, the heaviness in your bones, the way you’ve started to drift so far inward it sometimes feels easier not to come back — what then?

What happens when someone finds the truth you’ve hidden even from yourself?

You wonder how long he’s been carrying this fear. How long he’s noticed the signs you’ve worked so hard to bury.

And quietly — achingly — you wonder how long you’ve been hoping no one ever would.

You’ve pushed him away a hundred times. Maybe more. With cold eyes and sharper words, with silence that says stay away. You made yourself invisible. Not because you wanted to be alone—but because you thought it was easier that way. Easier than asking for help. Easier than letting anyone get close enough to see what’s really breaking inside.

Because the truth is: you don’t want to be here much longer.

Not in some dramatic way, not yet. 

But the thought is always there, quiet and persistent—like a shadow that never leaves your side. You’ve made plans, small and silent. Things you think about when the ache inside your bones is too heavy to carry. The nights when you lie awake and imagine what it would be like if you simply stopped trying. If you slipped away and no one had to watch you fall apart.

You’ve counted the moments it might take, rehearsed the words you’d leave behind—or maybe decided silence would say enough.

You wondered if anyone would notice. If anyone would come looking.

And yet here is James.

Pacing by your bedside like he’s carrying the weight of your pain on his shoulders. His voice trembles with worry you didn’t invite. Worry you thought you’d hidden too well.

But for now, you lie still, tangled in the ache beneath your skin. Wondering if leaving would hurt more than staying. Wondering if anyone really knows the parts of you that are already gone.

Wondering if you can find the strength to let him in—before it’s too late.

You don't mean to make a sound. You don’t even know that you have, until Madam Pomfrey draws a sudden breath, sharp and startled.

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

There’s a rustle of movement. A chair scraping. A breath hitching.

And then James is at your side like he’d been waiting his whole life to be called to you.

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

Not politely. Not the soft, well-behaved kind they show in portraits. No. You're shaking. Wracked. The sob rises from somewhere too deep to name and breaks in your chest like a wave crashing through glass. Your shoulders curl, but your arms don’t lift. You don't even try to wipe your face. There's no use pretending anymore.

The tears fall hot and endless down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow, your collar, the edge of your sheets. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. It’s the ache in your bones. 

The thunder in your chest. The way Regulus smiled at someone else. The way Sirius ran. The way James calls you sunshine like it’s not a lie.

The way you’ve spent your whole life trying to be good and perfect and silent and still ended up wrong.

And the worst part — the cruelest part — is that no one has ever seen you like this. Not really. You were always the composed one. The strong one. The one who shrugged everything off with a tilt of her head and a mouth full of thorns. The one who glared at James when he flirted and scoffed at softness and made everyone believe you didn’t need saving.

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

And now—now your chest is heaving, and the room is spinning, and you can’t breathe through the noise in your head that says:

What if this never ends? What if I never get better? What if I disappear and no one misses me? What if I’m already gone and they just don’t know it yet?

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is careful now, as if you’ve become something sacred and fragile. “Hey, look at me. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you shake your head violently, because no, you are not safe, not from yourself, not from the sickness that has wrapped its hands around your ribs and pulled and pulled until you forgot what breathing without pain felt like. 

Your throat burns. Your fingers curl helplessly into the blanket. You want to tear your skin off just to escape it. You want to go somewhere so far no one can ask you to come back.

Madam Pomfrey stands frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hand half-lifted. She has known you for years and never—not once—has she seen a crack in your porcelain mask.

And now here you are. Crumbling in front of them both.

“Black—please—” James tries again, voice breaking in the middle. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what to do, I’ll do anything, I swear—”

“I can’t,” you gasp, the words torn from you like confession. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to— I don’t—”

You don’t say it. The rest of it. You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes, wide and soaked and terrified. In your hands, trembling like the last leaves of autumn. In the hollow behind your ribs that’s been growing for months.

James sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes are wet. You’ve never seen him cry before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “Not now. Not alone. You don’t have to be strong for anyone anymore.”

You sob harder. Because that’s the thing you never believed. That someone could see your weakness and not run from it. That someone could love you for the parts you try to hide.

James doesn't flinch. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t call you cruel or cold or impossible to love. He just reaches out with one hand and lays it on yours, feather-light, as if you’re made of smoke.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

  -

A week passes.

It drips by slowly, like honey left too long in the cold — thick and sticky, every hour clinging to the next. The pain in your body doesn't ease. It deepens. It threads itself into your bones like ivy curling around old stone, slow but suffocating. 

Some mornings it takes everything just to sit up. Some nights you lie awake listening to your heartbeat stutter behind your ribs, wondering if it will give out before you do.

James has not left you.

Not once, not really. He’s still insufferable — that much hasn’t changed — but it’s quieter now. 

The jokes catch in his throat more often than they land. He hovers too long in doorways. He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe. And his eyes — the ones that used to be full of flirt and fire and mischief — are wide and rimmed in worry.

It makes you furious.

Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want anyone’s pity. You don’t want to be a burden strapped to someone else’s shoulder. You don’t want to see that shift in his face — the softening, the sadness, the silent fear that you might vanish right in front of him.

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

Still, he meets you after class every day, waiting by the corridor with two cups of tea, like it’s some unspoken ritual. He never says you look tired, but he walks slower. He never asks if you’re in pain, but his hand always twitches like he wants to reach out and steady you.

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

You try not to be bitter. You try to let it go, to let him have this — his brother, his celebration, his joy. But bitterness has a way of curling around grief like smoke. It stings just the same.

You walk alone to the Great Hall, half-hoping, half-dreading, and then you see them.

All of them.

There at the Gryffindor table, the loudest cluster in the room, bursting with laughter and light like a constellation too bright to look at directly. Sirius sits in the center, crown of charmed glitter and floating stars hovering just above his head. He’s grinning — wide and wild and untouched by the quiet rot eating through your days.

Regulus used to crown him, once.

You remember it like it happened this morning — the three of you, tangled in sun-drenched grass, scraps of daisies in your hair, Sirius demanding to be called “King of the Forest,” Regulus rolling his eyes and obliging anyway, and you balancing a crooked wooden crown on his head like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

Now Sirius is surrounded by friends and light and cake that glitters. Regulus is far away, still sharp, still polished, still untouchable. And you — you pass by like a ghost with a too-slow gait and a storm in your chest, unnoticed.

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

And you try not to think about how much it hurts that he isn’t waiting for you today. How much it feels like being forgotten.

How much it feels like disappearing.

You sit in the Great Hall, untouched plate before you, the silver spoon resting against the rim like even it’s too tired to try. There’s food, you think. Warm and plentiful, enough to satisfy kingdoms — but none of it ever looks like it belongs to you.

Your stomach turns at the scent.

You haven't eaten properly in days, if not longer. You don't bother counting anymore. Hunger doesn’t feel like hunger now. It feels like grief in your throat, like something alive trying to claw its way up and out of you. So you just sit there, alone at the far end of the table where no one comes, where there’s room enough for a silence no one wants to join.

You have no friends. Not anymore. Illness has a way of peeling people away from you like fruit from its skin. They stop asking. Stop waiting. Stop noticing. You can’t blame them, really — what’s the use in trying to be close to a body always fraying at the seams?

Across the hall, Sirius is the sun incarnate. He always is on his birthday.

He’s laughing with James now, something too loud and full of warmth. His cheeks are flushed with joy, hair glittering with the shimmer of charmed confetti, mouth parted mid-story as if the world waits to hear him speak. 

The Marauders hang around him like moons caught in his orbit, throwing wrappers and spells and terrible puns into the air like fireworks. It’s messy and golden and warm. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You used to be part of that. Didn’t you?

Used to sit beside him and Regulus in the gardens with hands sticky from treacle tart and lips red from laughter. Used to have a seat at the table. A place. A life.

Now even Regulus is far away — his corner of the Slytherin table colder, quieter. But still not alone. He’s flanked by Barty, Evan, and Pandora. All sharp edges and shining eyes. All seemingly untouched by the rot that follows you. Regulus leans in, listens, offers a rare smirk that you remember from childhood, one he used to save just for you.

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

The ache in your chest blooms sudden and vicious. You press your knuckles into your side beneath the table — a small, private act of violence — as if you can convince your body to shut up, to behave, to let you just exist for one more hour. But the pain lurches anyway. Slow at first, then sharper. Stabbing between your ribs like something snapping loose.

You can’t do this.

You stand — too fast, too rough — and the edges of the room ripple like heat rising off pavement. No one notices. No one calls after you. Not even James.

Especially not James.

You walk out of the Hall without tasting a single bite.

And then you’re in the corridor, then on the stairs, and then climbing the towers toward your room. Step by step. Breath by breath. It should be easy — you’ve made this walk a hundred times. But your legs tremble beneath you. The pain isn't where it usually is. It's everywhere now. Your spine, your stomach, the backs of your eyes. Every inch of you buzzes like a broken wire. You clutch the banister like a lifeline, but even that’s not enough.

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

You should go to Pomfrey. Tell someone. Let someone help.

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

Some part of you wonders if this is what dying feels like — this slow crumbling, this breathlessness, this fatigue that eats your name and your shadow and your will to keep standing. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To stop. Just for a little while. Just until the pain quiets. Just until the storm passes.

Except you know the storm is you.

You reach your dorm and shut the door behind you with the quiet finality of a girl preparing to vanish. The walls are too still. The windows don’t let in enough light. 

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

You let your bag fall to the floor. It lands with a dull, tired thud.

And then you see it.

Resting on the pillow — a single folded letter. Pale parchment. Tidy handwriting. Sealed not with wax but with duty. You don’t need to open it to know who it’s from. You don’t need to guess the weight of its words.

Still, you pick it up.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it. Each crease feels like a wound reopening.

Darling, Christmas is nearly upon us. I expect you and Regulus home promptly this year — no delays. You’ve missed enough holidays already. No excuses will be accepted. — Mother

That’s it.

That’s all.

Twelve words from the woman who hasn’t written in months. No inquiry into your health. No mention of your letters, the ones she never answered. No softness. No warmth. Just expectation carved into command, as if your body isn't breaking open like wet paper. As if you’re still someone who can just show up — smiling, polished, whole.

You stare at the page until the words blur. Until they bleed.

And then something inside you slips.

The tears come without warning. No build, no warning breath. Just the kind of sob that erupts straight from the gut — ragged, cracked, feral. You sink to your knees beside the bed, hands still clinging to the letter like it might fight back, like it might tear through your skin and finish what your body started.

The pain blooms fast and ruthless. It surges from your spine to your chest, flooding every inch of you like fire caught beneath your ribs. You curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms, into your thighs, into the fragile curve of your ribs. You clutch at your bones like you can hold them together — like you can stop them from collapsing.

But nothing stops it.

Nothing stops the sound that tears from your throat. A scream muffled into the sheets. A cry swallowed by solitude.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can feel is this white-hot ache that eats at your joints, your heart, your hope.

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

You want it to stop. All of it. The pain, the pretending, the loneliness of being expected to survive in a world that only ever sees the surface of you.

You press your forehead to the floor. Cold. Unmoving. Solid.

And you cry — truly cry — not in anger or silence, but in the voice of someone who has held it in too long, who has no more space left inside for grief.

And still, the letter stays crumpled in your fist, a ghost of a girl who once believed her mother might write something kind.

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

You move like the letter from your mother isn’t still open on the desk, edges trembling in the breeze from the cracked window, her careful handwriting slicing you open with its simplicity. Christmas is coming. You and Regulus are expected home. No excuses.

You move because if you stop, you will shatter. Because the only thing worse than pain is stillness. Stillness makes it real.

So you go to the mirror.

The room is too quiet, too full of the breath you can barely draw. The walls feel too close, like they’re pressing in, trying to crush the last sliver of strength you’ve kept hidden beneath your ribs. Your legs are unsteady beneath you, every step forward a question you don’t want the answer to.

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

There is a hollowness in your eyes that no amount of light can touch. Your skin is pale and stretched thin, the corners of your mouth pulled in defeat. Your hair is a wild mess—matted from where you clutched at it in pain, tangled from nights curled on cold floors instead of in beds, from days where brushing it felt like too much of a luxury.

You reach for the comb. It clatters in your hands, and for a moment, you just stare at it.

Then you begin.

Each pull through your hair is a distraction from the agony blooming in your bones—sharp, raw, endless. You comb as if each knot you work through might undo a knot inside your chest. It doesn’t. But still, you comb.

You need to. You have to.

Because Sirius is downstairs. Laughing. Shining. Surrounded by love and warmth and them. You should be there. It’s his birthday. You remember the way he used to leap into your bed at sunrise, dragging you and Regulus by the wrists, shouting, “Coronation time!” and demanding to be crowned king of everything. You always made him a crown out of daisies and broken twigs. Regulus would scowl but help you braid it anyway.

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

You remember how the three of you used to sit on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling, hands sticky with cake, Sirius declaring himself “the prettiest monarch of them all,” and Regulus pretending to hate it, even as he leaned against you, quiet and content.

Now Sirius is laughing without you. And Regulus is nowhere near your side.

You press the comb harder into your scalp. You need to focus.

Because Regulus—he should be here. You need him. Desperately. With a bone-deep ache that feels like hunger. But you haven’t spoken in days. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Not really. And you can’t ask. You don’t know how.

And James—bloody James—you almost wish he was here. As much as he drives you insane, with his constant chatter and shameless flirting, at least it means someone is trying to stay. At least it means you’re not entirely alone. But he isn’t here. He’s down there with Sirius, and you're alone in this echoing silence, braiding your hair like it might save you from yourself.

You divide it into three sections.

One for Sirius. One for Regulus. One for yourself.

You twist the first strand with shaking fingers, tight enough that it pulls your scalp taut. Then the second, even tighter. Your arms ache. Your chest tightens. The pain is good—it makes everything else fade. Not vanish, but blur around the edges.

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

You focus on the motion. The discipline. The illusion of control. Each loop is a scream you don’t let out. Each pull is an ache you refuse to voice. You braid like your life depends on it. Like if it’s tight enough, neat enough, maybe you’ll stop falling apart. Maybe you’ll be someone your mother could stand to look at. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk past Sirius without dying inside. Maybe you won’t feel so abandoned by Regulus. Maybe you’ll stop wondering what would happen if you simply stopped waking up.

Over. Under. Pull.

You want someone to notice. Just once. That you're not okay. That you haven’t been for a very long time. But you also want to disappear.

The braid is so tight it lifts the corners of your face, gives the illusion of composure. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

But at least now, you look fine.

You stare at your reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She’s polished, composed, hair perfect, pain tucked behind the curve of her spine. Just like Mother taught her.

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

The kind of ache that doesn’t come from sickness. The kind that whispers, What if you just stopped trying?

And for a heartbeat too long, you wonder what it would be like to let go.

But you blink. You blink and you turn and you reach for your school bag like the world hasn’t ended, and you prepare to go sit through another class, braid perfect, bones screaming, heart bleeding.

Because no one can save you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

And no one is looking.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. 

It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

Your fingers move almost mechanically as you smooth the fabric of your robe, the weight of it heavy with memories and expectation. Each fold you press flat feels like an attempt to iron out the wrinkles of your fractured soul, to shape yourself into something orderly, something that fits into the world your mother demands. 

The knot of your tie is next—tight and precise, a cold reminder of the control you’re expected to hold, even as everything inside you threatens to unravel.

Turning away from the mirror, you move to your bed, your hands carefully pulling the covers taut. The fabric is smooth under your fingertips, but your heart feels anything but. 

You straighten the pillows, tuck in the sheets, as if by arranging this small corner of your world perfectly, you can bring some order to the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Books come next. You stack them neatly on your desk, aligning every corner and spine as if the act itself could contain the chaos you feel. 

You run your fingers over the worn covers and flip through the pages, lingering on the words one last time. Your homework lies finished—no undone tasks, no loose ends to catch you. Everything is set, ready.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set your quill back in its holder. The quiet click in the stillness of your room feels loud, a reminder of the fragile balance you hold. In this small, solemn ritual, you prepare not just your things, but yourself—gathering the last threads of control, the last remnants of order before you let go.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. 

For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

The halls are half-empty, half-asleep in golden mid-afternoon hush, and your footsteps echo too loudly against the stone, like your bones are protesting with every step.

 The books in your arms weigh more than they should, tugging your spine downward, but you hold them like a shield. Like maybe the act of carrying knowledge — of submitting things, of finishing things — will be enough to make you feel real again.

You don’t notice James at first. Not until he steps out from where he must’ve been waiting by the staircase — leaning against the bannister with the kind of bored posture that usually precedes some ridiculous joke. 

But he doesn't speak right away this time. His eyes move to your braids, then down the neat lines of your uniform, and there’s a strange stillness in him. No grin. Just… surprise.

“Bloody hell,” he says finally, voice light but too soft to be teasing. “You’ve got your hair up.”

You blink at him. Say nothing. Your arms tighten slightly around your books, like you’re bracing yourself.

He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. “Not that it’s any of my business — I mean, you always look like you just fought off a banshee in a thunderstorm, and now you look like you’ve… fought it and survived.” A smile tries to form, wobbly. “It suits you. You look really cute.”

You stop.

Not just physically, but inside too — something halting in your breath, like a skipped beat. Your gaze meets his, dull and quiet.

“Not today, James.”

Your voice is hoarse. Frayed silk over gravel. There’s no snap to it, no snarl or bite. You just say it like a truth. Like you’re too tired for anything else.

James straightens slowly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you like he’s trying to read through all the space between your words. Your name sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, his brows lift — not in arrogance this time, but in something like confusion. Or worry.

“You—” He swallows. “You called me James.”

You shift your books in your arms, not meeting his eyes this time. “I just want to get through the day.”

He takes a step toward you, but something in your posture keeps him from reaching farther. “Hey, I can carry those—”

“I said not today.” you repeat, softer. Final.

And for once, he listens.

There’s a beat. Then he gives a small nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though you can see the concern crawling up his throat like ivy.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “But if you need anything, I— I’m around.”

You nod once — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. Then turn.

You don’t see how long he watches you walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, the ache blooming behind your knees and up your spine. It shouldn't be this bad — not again, not so soon. You already fell apart days ago. But the fire’s back in your ribs, licking up the side of your lungs, and you press your lips into a thin line, determined not to let it show.

You pass the Great Hall on your way. You don’t look in.

But Sirius sees you.

He’s mid-laugh, one of those rare carefree ones that sounds like summer. Remus has just handed him a small box wrapped in gold, and his crown — handmade from parchment, ink-smudged and jagged — sits slightly askew on his head. He freezes. The smile falters. His brows draw in. Something in his chest clenches.

“Was that—?” he begins, turning toward Remus.

“She didn’t see us,” Remus murmurs, already watching you too.

Your shoulders are too tight. Your spine too stiff. You don’t notice the silence left behind you. You don’t hear how the laughter quiets. You’re already up the next stairwell, already telling yourself you just need the potions. Just need to breathe. Just need to finish submitting your homework. Then maybe—maybe—

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

The infirmary is warm when you step inside, too warm. It clings to your skin like a fever, like the ache in your bones has grown teeth and is sinking in deeper the longer you stand.

You hug your books closer to your chest, as if they might anchor you here, hold you steady, keep you from unraveling.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a boy laid out on the nearest cot—mud streaked across his face, quidditch robes still soaked in grass and sweat. 

Normally, she’d have noticed you by now. Normally, she would have called you over, already tsk-ing and summoning your chart. But she’s too absorbed today, too busy, and for the first time in a long time, no one’s watching you.

Your eyes drift to the far side of the room—to her desk. A tray sits just behind it, lined with small glass vials. Labels scrawled in Pomfrey’s sharp handwriting. Pale blue, golden amber, deep crimson—every kind of potion she’s ever poured down your throat. You know their names better than your own.

And there, at the back, barely touched, is the strongest pain reliever in her stores. Veridomirine. 

Dark and glinting in the soft light, like it already knows it’s too much for most. You remember it burning a hole in your stomach the last time she gave it to you. The way your limbs went numb. The way your mind stilled. The silence of it.

Your grip tightens on your books.

The decision happens slowly and all at once. You glance at Madam Pomfrey—her back still turned, wand still stitching, voice low as she murmurs reassurance to the boy on the bed. 

You step forward, quiet, deliberate. Like you’ve done this before. Like your body already knows the path.

The desk is closer than you expect. You set your books down gently, hands shaking just enough to notice, and reach for the bottle. The glass is cool. Heavier than you remember. It fits into your palm like it was made for you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

You slide it into the fold of your robe, between the fabric and your ribs, right where the pain always begins.

And then you lift your books again, turn on your heel, and walk out as if you’ve only come for a quick word, as if nothing is different. As if your hands aren’t burning from what you’ve just done.

The corridor is quiet outside. Brisk. The chill hits your cheeks and you let it. Let it bite and sharpen and bring you back into your body.

But something is different now.

Because inside your robe, glass clinks softly with every step.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re holding your way out.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, dull and heavy, and the quiet clink of glass from the bottle nestled beneath your sleeve.

You push open the infirmary doors, and the hallway blooms before you, empty at first glance. But he’s there.

Sirius.

Leaning against the stone wall, one foot pressed behind him for balance, arms crossed in a way that looks casual—effortlessly disheveled—but you don’t see the way his jaw keeps tightening, or the way he’s been picking at the edge of his sleeve, over and over again.

He straightens when he hears the door creak open. His head lifts, eyes scanning quickly—and softening, melting, when he sees you. You, with your too-tight braid, your hollow stare, the way you walk like you’re already halfway gone.

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not because you’ve changed on the outside—though you have—but because something’s missing. Something small. Something vital.

And Sirius Black has never known how to say delicate things, not with words. Not with you. So he does what he always does—he opens his mouth and hopes something human will fall out.

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

You don’t see the way he steps forward, the way his fingers twitch like he might reach for your arm. You don’t hear the “Can we talk?” die in his throat. You don’t even look at him. Not once.

You’re already turning away.

The braid down your back is tight, almost punishing. A line of control in a world unraveling thread by thread. Your robes are neat, too neat. Tie straight. Steps calculated. As if by holding the pieces together on the outside, you might silence the ruin inside. 

As if you can braid back the shadows trying to tear themselves loose.

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say your name. Just your name. Softly, like a tether, like a reminder. But the syllables die on his tongue. You’re already walking away, and the space between you feels suddenly endless. Like galaxies expanding between breaths.

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do. 

Watches you walk with the quiet defiance of someone who has learned how to disappear in full view. Someone who was born under a cursed name and carved their own silence from it. He knows that silence. 

He’s worn it too. It’s in his name—in Black. Not just a surname but a legacy of storms. A bloodline that confuses cruelty for strength, silence for survival.

He told himself he had outrun it. That the name couldn’t touch him anymore. But now he watches you, and he realizes: Black isn’t just his burden—it���s yours too. You carry the same weight in your eyes. That same quiet grief. That same ache for something better.

You were the one who never bent. Never cried. Even when the pain took your bones, you met the world with cold fire in your gaze. But now he sees something else. Something crumbling. Something gone.

And it hits him like a curse spoken in the dark: he doesn’t know how to reach you. Not really. He was too late to ask the right questions. Too loud to hear the ones you never spoke aloud. Too proud to admit that sometimes, the ones who look strongest are the ones who are breaking quietly, piece by piece.

You vanish down the corridor, and Sirius stands there, the silence echoing louder than any spell. He leans back against the wall again, like if he presses hard enough, it might hold him together.

 His name is Black. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like a mirror—cold, cracked, and full of all the things he was too afraid to see.

You were light once. Maybe not the kind that burned—but the kind that steadied. Quiet, firm, constant. And now, he wonders if you’ve let go of the edge entirely. If you’ve stepped too far into that old name, into the dark.

And Sirius Black—brave, loud, impossible Sirius—does not know how to follow you there.

The bottle is cold in your hand, colder than it should be. 

You don’t know if it’s the glass or your fingers or something deeper, something in the marrow, in the blood. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re balancing on a cliff, and everything around you holds its breath. 

The walls. The books. The light. Even the ghosts seem to pause, like they know something sacred and shattering is about to unfold.

You set the bottle down on your nightstand, watching the liquid shimmer inside. It’s a strange shade—amber gold, like honey and fire, like something that should soothe, should heal. But you know what it’ll do. 

You’ve read the labels. You’ve stolen the dosage. You’ve done the math. And for once in your life, the numbers give you certainty. This will be enough.

You glance around your room as if memorizing it, not the way it is, but the way it’s always been. The books stacked with uneven spines. The worn corner of your blanket where you’d twist the fabric between your fingers when the pain got too much. The chipped edge of the mirror where you once slammed a brush out of frustration. It’s a museum now. A mausoleum in waiting.

Your hands tremble as you reach for a parchment scrap—just a torn piece, nothing grand. You fold it carefully, slow and deliberate, your fingers aching as they crease the paper into small peaks. It’s clumsy, uneven. A paper crown no bigger than your palm. 

You think of Sirius, of sun-kissed afternoons when he used to run ahead and shout that he was king of the forest, the common room, the world. 

You and Regulus would laugh, always crown him, always believe him. You were never royalty, not really. Just children trying to carve a kingdom out of cracked stone and quiet grief.

You place the tiny crown on the edge of the desk. An offering. A prayer. A goodbye that won’t speak its name.

It’s his birthday.

You whisper it aloud like it means something. Like he’ll hear it. “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

And then, silence again. The kind of silence that screams.

Your fingers reach for the bottle. You uncork it slowly, and the scent rises—bitter, sharp, familiar. You think of your bones. Of how they’ve been singing a song of surrender for weeks. Months. Maybe years. Of how it’s taken everything in you just to exist in this body, in this name, in this world.

You think of Regulus. Of how his back was always straight even when everything else was falling. Of how you used to braid flowers into your hair for him, and he’d pretend not to care, but he’d look at you like you were magic. You think of James and the way his voice is always too loud but his concern is real, is warm, and how he didn’t call you a single name today. You think of how you almost wanted him to follow you.

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

But the pain doesn’t leave. It never does. 

It sinks deeper, folds into your joints, nests behind your ribs. It becomes you. You can’t keep holding it. You can’t keep waking up in a body that feels like betrayal, in a mind that won’t stop screaming, in a life that forgot how to soften.

There is a kind of pain that does not bleed. It settles deep — in marrow, in memory. It builds altars in your bones, asking worship of a body already breaking. You've worn this ache longer than you've worn your name, longer than your brothers stayed.

You were born into the house of Black — where silence is survival and suffering is an inheritance. Regulus moved like shadow. Sirius, like fire. But you? You learned to stay. To endure. To carry the weight of a name no one asked if you wanted. And you did it well. Too well. Long enough for the world to mistake your endurance for ease.

Because strength was never the crown you wanted. It was the chain.

You bring it to your lips.

There is no fear, not anymore. Just the hush beneath your ribs loosening for the first time. Not with hope — never with hope — but with rest. The kind no one can take from you. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hold. That doesn’t ask for your smile in exchange for survival.

You close your eyes.

And then — a crack of wood. A bang loud enough to split the night wide open. Like the universe itself couldn’t bear to be quiet a second longer. 

The door crashes against the wall, unhinging the moment from its silence.

Wind howls through the space between now and never. Curtains billow like ghosts startled from sleep. You flinch before you mean to. Before you can stop yourself. The bottle slips from your hands.

It falls. A slow, glassy descent. And when it hits the floor — the shatter is almost gentle. A soft, final sound. Like the last breath of something sacred. Potion and silence spill together, staining the rug in pale, merciful ruin.

And there — Sirius.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’s already read the ending. Like someone who sprinted through every corridor of this house just to be too late. 

His chest is rising like he’s run miles through storm and stone. His eyes — wild, wet, unblinking. The kind of stare that begs the world to lie.

There’s mud on his boots. A tremble in his fists. Panic stretched tight across his shoulders, brittle and loud. And something in his face — something jagged and unspoken — slices right through the stillness.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The room holds its breath. Around you, time stands uncertain. The glass glitters between you like a warning, like a map of everything broken. The smell of the potion hangs in the air — soft, floral, almost sweet. A lullaby for leaving.

Your hands stay curled in your lap, still shaped around the ghost of what almost was. Still cradling the moment you thought you could disappear, undisturbed.

You were supposed to be gone by now.

Supposed to leave like snowfall, like mist at morning — soft, unseen, unremembered. You had rehearsed the silence. Folded your goodbyes into creases no one would find. You had made peace with the vanishing.

But he’s here. Sirius. And he is looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s known all along.

Not just the pieces you performed — the smirk, the sarcasm, the deflection sharp enough to draw blood. But the marrow of it. The hurting. The leaving. The way you’d been slipping away for years in small, invisible ways.

And you can’t take it back.

Not the uncorked bottle. Not the weight in your chest you were ready to lay down. Not the choice you almost made — not out of weakness, but weariness. The kind no one ever sees until you’ve already left.

And still. Even now.

Something uncoils in your chest. Not like hope but like release. Like exhale. Like gravity loosening its grip. The ache begins to lift, slow and smoke-soft, drifting out of your lungs, out of your spine, out of the quiet place where you’d kept it curled for so long.

And for the first time — the ache goes with you.

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

[zorosgirlfriend]

Vinsmoke Sanji ~ !! Match Made in Heaven.

context: When you boarded the Sunny, it was love at first swoon—literally. You and Sanji mirrored each other’s over-the-top flirtation, fawning, and dramatics like two hopeless romantics in a stage play. basically you simp for men like how sanji simps for women

warnings: none! it's kinda cheesy sooo..!, yeah i dunno, pick up lines here and there. reader is probably more pro at swooning, hehe. mentions of luffy and zoro they talk in the background

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

The moment your foot stepped onto the Sunny’s deck, Sanji's sixth sense for beauty activated.

His head turned in slow motion, wind seemingly sweeping through his hair as he caught sight of you with a gasp.

But before he could even take a single step forward—

“OH MY GOODNESS!”

You clutched your heart, lips parted, eyes wide. “You’re… you’re real?! A man in a suit, with a tie undone just the right amount, AND smoking?!”

Sanji blinked. “Eh?”

You took a step forward, eyes practically sparkling. “Your collarbones are divine, and those eyes? I could drown in them!”

He froze. “You’re swooning over… me?"

“Yes!” you exclaimed, dramatically fanning yourself. “I’ve never seen such elegance and flirtation rolled into one man! The way you walk! The way you hold that tray! The way your hair covers one eye like you’ve got secrets—I’m weak!”

Sanji’s cigarette drooped from his lips. “Mon dieu… I must be dreaming.”

With a graceful spin, he flicked his cigarette to the side, caught it mid-air, and kneeled with one arm pressed to his chest. “Beautiful angel, radiant muse—how could such a perfect reflection of myself exist? Tell me your name before I collapse from love!”

“y/n,” you whispered, your own hand placed delicately over your heart. “But you can call me yours.” you said while batting your eyes.

His eyes sparkled. “Magnifique…"

Luffy blinked. “Is that… what happens when two Sanjis meet?”

Zoro groaned. “No. This is worse. They’re multiplying.”

Both of you ignored what they said and continued.

You stepped closer, both of you orbiting each other like two dramatic, hopelessly romantic comets. Your fingers brushed his lapel, and his hand found the small of your back with theatrical precision.

“You’re like the living embodiment of everything I’ve ever adored,” you said breathlessly. “Chivalry, charm, and a dangerous smile.”

“And you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “are everything I’ve ever wanted to bake the world’s fluffiest soufflé for.”

You both stood still for a beat—hearts pounding, faces close, tension sparkling in the air like champagne bubbles…

Then Sanji took your hand gently, turned it over, and kissed the back of it with reverence.

You gasped softly. “You’re… incorrigible.”

He winked. “You’ve only seen the beginning.”

You pulled your hand back to your chest, dramatically flustered. “If you keep this up, I might just faint.”

He leaned in, just close enough for a flutter, his voice soft. “Then I’ll be ready to catch you.”

Your heart leapt.

A storm of butterflies swirled between you both—no kiss yet, but a promise hung in the air like petals waiting to fall.

A match made in dramatic, over-the-top heaven.

Not long after your theatrics on deck, Sanji insisted—no, declared—that he would cook something just for you.

“For someone as radiant as you, only the most exquisite dish will do,” he said, already rolling up his sleeves with a fiery gleam in his eyes.

You sat prettily at the counter, chin in your hands, watching him move with reverence. “That vein on your forearm when you stir the sauce? Be still, my heart.”

Sanji stumbled with the ladle, face turning red. “Y-You can’t just say things like that!”

“But it’s true!” you sighed. “You're a masterpiece in motion.”

He muttered something in French you couldn’t quite catch, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he garnished your plate. “You're too good at this… you're throwing me off my game!”

You giggled. “So you admit I’ve got you flustered.”

He turned his face away dramatically. “I will not confirm or deny.”

When he finally served the dish—golden, warm, and fragrant—you gasped.

“Did you just make heart-shaped potatoes?!”

“Only the best for a woman who clearly appreciates the art of a perfect spud,” he said, giving you a dashing smile.

You took one bite and moaned. “Sanji. If you keep feeding me like this, I will fall in love.”

He grabbed the counter for support. “You’re gonna kill me…”

You reached across the counter, gently fixing the collar of his shirt. “You forgot this button.”

He froze.

You leaned in, brushing your cheek close to his—so close that your hair tickled his jaw. “There. Better.”

He blinked, stunned. “You’re dangerous.”

You giggled, then leaned back with a sly grin. “I could say the same about you, Casanova.”

He placed a hand on his chest, pretending to swoon. “This... is what destiny feels like.”

And just like that, the kitchen felt like a dream—where blushes danced with laughter and flirtation sparkled like champagne.

No kiss yet… but the tension was simmering like the next course.

Long story short? After countless flirty kitchen disasters, dramatic compliments, and enough heart-shaped potatoes to feed a kingdom…

You and Sanji got married.

He cried more than you did at the ceremony. You made the cake together.

And yes—he still blushes every time you call him “mon amour.”

Match made in heaven? Absolutely.

[suguwu]

WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings. 

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.” 

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides. 

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.” 

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji. 

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet. 

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun. 

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again. 

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa. 

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly. 

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.” 

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say. 

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.” 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering. 

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate. 

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod. 

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji. 

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath. 

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.” 

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!” 

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control. 

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.” 

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth. 

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.” 

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.” 

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”  

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir. 

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”  

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum. 

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon. 

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.” 

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down. 

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.” 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.” 

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.” 

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky. 

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.” 

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.” 

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms. 

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately. 

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. 

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.” 

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” 

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo. 

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do. 

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training. 

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring. 

Life, ever unmoved, continues on. 

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle. 

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes. 

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist. 

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

[brainddeadd]

Chapter 2

masterlist

Jack was elbow-deep in a consult when Yn popped back into his orbit like a comet made of sugar and trouble.

“Dr. Abbott,” she sing-songed, poking her head around the curtain of his trauma bay, “got a 4-year-old with a Lego up his nose and a dad who’s two seconds away from passing out. Wanna help?”

“No,” Jack said, flatly.

She beamed. “Perfect. You’re coming.”

Before he could protest, she disappeared again, leaving him no time to argue. Jack glanced at the trauma nurse, who smirked.

“I think she likes you.”

“She thinks I’m a project.”

The nurse shrugged. “Same thing.”

He muttered a curse and followed the glittery chaos into the peds side of the ER, where the world was brighter and much more unhinged. Cartoon murals, colourful chairs, bubble machines (read: Hell on earth).

The kid in question was sitting on the exam table with a single, perfect tear rolling down his cheek. The Lego, bright blue and wedge-shaped, was lodged neatly in his right nostril like it belonged there. His dad stood nearby, white as a sheet, clutching the armrest of a plastic chair like it was a lifeline.

Yn stood beside the kid, holding a tiny stuffed dinosaur. “This is Dr. Jack,” she said, crouching beside the bed. “He’s very tall and very serious, but he’s also really good at getting sneaky Legos out of noses.”

Jack raised an eyebrow at her, but the kid looked up with wide eyes. “You’re like a superhero,” the boy whispered.

Jack blinked.

Yn wiggled her eyebrows behind the kid’s head.

He sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

—

Ten minutes and one sneaky little suction tool later, the Lego was out. The kid was beaming. The dad looked like he might cry. And Yn? She was watching Jack like he’d hung the stars.

“That was impressive,” she said as they stepped into the hallway.

“It was a Lego,” he replied.

“Yeah, but you didn’t even growl at the kid once. I’m proud of you.”

Jack gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Relentlessly cheerful. Bizarrely optimistic. Sparkly.”

She grinned. “Pretty much. Why? Is it annoying you yet?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She winked. “Means I’m doing it right.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What do you want from me, Dr. Ln?”

Yn tilted her head, and for a brief second, her smile softened—like sunlight filtering through hospital blinds.

“Honestly? Nothing. You just look like someone who forgot what it feels like to laugh.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, hair bouncing, leaving Jack standing alone in a hallway that suddenly felt a little too quiet.

He hated how much he wanted her to come back.

[latenightreadingpdf]

Beneath the Moonlight - Remus Lupin

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: In the days leading up to a full moon, Remus Lupin receives an anonymous gift basket filled with potions, chocolates, and a carefully-brewed Wolfsbane Potion.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Y/N considered herself a rather observant student, especially when it came to the Marauders. It was hard not to notice them, really. They were practically a four-person parade through the halls of Hogwarts—pranks, laughter, and charm trailing behind them like a comet's tail. James Potter with his messy hair and endless attempts to impress Lily Evans, Sirius Black with his dazzling grin and effortless cool, Peter Pettigrew following close, always eager to please. But one Marauder stood out to her more than the rest. Remus Lupin.

There was something about him that had Y/N hooked from the beginning. Perhaps it was his quiet brilliance or the way he seemed to carry a world of mysteries in those warm, honey-colored eyes. Or maybe, it was the way new scars seemed to appear on his face and hands every so often, faint but unmistakable. They fascinated her, those scars, and as her gaze lingered on him in class or at meals, she found herself trying to figure him out.

And, admittedly, somewhere along the way, Y/N developed a bit of a crush on him. But who wouldn’t? He was brilliant, always top of the class without trying too hard, and—and yes, he was gorgeous. Handsome in that annoyingly effortless way. Soft, tousled hair that practically begged to be touched, sharp cheekbones, and—Merlin, those knit jumpers that always made him look so adorable. How was that fair? It was like he’d been sculpted by some benevolent god of tall, bookish, sweater-loving dream boys.

But Y/N’s interest in him was more than just attraction. There was something… otherworldly about him. She’d started to notice patterns—how he would seem worn and pale every few weeks, how he would disappear entirely from school grounds for a day or two, only to return looking exhausted and, if possible, even more scarred than before.

A month ago, after endless speculation and careful observation, Y/N had arrived at a conclusion: Remus Lupin was probably a werewolf. She wasn’t completely certain; it was more of an educated guess. But what could she do with this theory? It wasn’t like she could walk up to him and blurt out, “Hey, Remus! You don’t know me, but I’ve been watching you for months, and I just wanted to ask, are you, by any chance, a werewolf?”

The thought alone made her cringe. Y/N sighed, tapping her quill against her parchment. Remus Lupin might be full of mysteries and maybe—just maybe—she’d get the courage to actually talk to him someday.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The full moon was only a few days away, and Y/N could already see the toll it was taking on Remus. He was limping slightly, a stiffness in his stride that made her heart ache, and the dark circles under his eyes were more prominent than ever. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t been sleeping in days, and though she knew he had his friends—the Marauders, always fiercely loyal—she couldn’t help but feel he needed more comfort than they could provide. She wanted to do something for him, something small but meaningful.

The idea hit her while she was rummaging through her bag in the library: an anonymous get-well-soon basket. She could leave it outside his dorm, a collection of little comforts to ease the days leading up to his transformation. She’d make sure it was subtle, not too personal, just enough to lift his spirits without drawing attention.

Excitement and nerves mixed in her stomach as she mentally listed what she’d need. A couple potions to help with sleep, pain, and anxiety, some of Honeydukes' finest chocolate, a soft blanket to keep him warm, and a few baked goods from the kitchen elves. She might even add a small note with a simple message—“Hope these bring you a bit of comfort during the full moon. Take care of yourself.”

Over the next couple of days, Y/N carefully gathered everything. She bought him a midnight-blue wool blanket that felt like a hug in fabric form and a variety of different chocolates. She used her advanced potion skills to make Murtlap Essence, a Calming Draught, and a Healing Potion.

But the most important addition was a small bottle of Wolfsbane Potion. She’d somehow managed to get her hands on the recipe, even though it wasn’t officially taught at Hogwarts—and she’d acquired a secret stash of the rare ingredients needed to brew it, though she'd never admit where from. It had taken several nights of brewing in the abandoned classroom she’d found, but she’d done it.

The full moon was only two days away when she finished assembling the basket, carefully placing the note on top before leaving it right outside the boys' dormitory. With a final glance over her handiwork, she quickly walked back to her dorm, satisfied with her work.

As she returned to her room, a little thrill of satisfaction bubbled within her. Maybe, just maybe, her small gesture would help Remus feel a little less alone, a little less burdened by the full moon’s approach. And that thought alone was enough to fill her with quiet joy.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Just a few floors below, the Marauders were still lounging in the Gryffindor common room, sprawled across chairs and couches as the fire crackled low. They’d spent hours discussing pranks, arguing about the latest Quidditch match, and bickering about everything from Potions homework to the best way to dodge Filch. When the last embers started to die, they finally decided it was time to call it a night.

As they made their way up the stairs, it was James who first spotted the basket. He froze mid-step, eyebrows raised as he pointed it out. "Er, lads... anyone know what this is?"

The other boys crowded around, peering down at the unexpected sight.

“No clue,” Peter murmured, squinting at the note resting on top.

Sirius, with his usual curiosity, leaned down and plucked up the note, inspecting it with a grin before his eyes gleamed mischievously. “Ooooooh, Remus, it’s for you!” he cooed, reading the note aloud for the group: ‘Hope these bring you a bit of comfort during the full moon. Take care of yourself.’

The boys’ faces all fell at once. Whoever had left this knew. Someone had figured it out. Their carefully crafted excuses, the timing of their sneaking around, all the little tricks they’d come up with—they thought it was foolproof. But apparently, someone had been watching more closely than they’d realized.

Without another word, they grabbed the basket, exchanging uneasy glances as they rushed into the dormitory, shutting the door firmly behind them. They gathered around Remus’s bed, where James set the basket down, and just stared at it.

“Well? Open it already!” James urged, his voice a mix of curiosity, excitement, and a tinge of concern.

Remus took a steadying breath. His friends were watching him closely as he slowly lifted the wrapping, half-expecting some kind of prank to burst out at him. But instead, he found an assortment of thoughtful items neatly arranged within the basket. A stack of Honeydukes chocolates, carefully tied together with string. A blanket, dark blue and soft, lay folded at the side. Several small bottles—potions, each labeled with precision, sat in the center, cushioned by tissue paper.

They all scanned the contents in awe and curiosity, but Sirius was the first to notice something unusual. He gasped, eyes widening as he pointed to one particular bottle.

“Holy shit, is that—”

“Wolfsbane,” Remus finished quietly, staring at the vial with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

They all fell silent, taking in the implications of that single bottle. Wolfsbane Potion was incredibly complex, nearly impossible for a student to brew, and yet here it was—crafted, sealed, and ready for him. Someone had not only figured out his secret but had gone to lengths far beyond casual concern. The potion’s presence in the basket hinted at more than just kindness; it was a deeply personal gesture, an unspoken understanding that spoke volumes.

Remus swallowed hard, his fingers brushing the cool glass of the bottle. "Did the card say who it was from?" he asked, looking over at Sirius, who shrugged and handed him the note again.

Remus read the short message over and over, searching for any hidden clues, some hint that might give away the sender. But the note was short, simple, and entirely anonymous. He turned it over, checked for invisible ink, even held it up to the light, but there was nothing.

“Not a single hint?” James murmured, peering over his shoulder, a frown deepening across his face. “Nothing?”

The group exchanged baffled glances. They examined the basket once more, handling each item carefully to make sure nothing seemed dangerous. The potions were labeled clearly and accurately, the chocolate smelled rich and sweet, and the blanket was incredibly soft—perfect for a night when he’d be feeling cold and drained. Every item seemed genuine, carefully chosen, with not a hint of a prank or hex.

As they finished examining the basket, they slowly started getting ready for bed. Remus sat quietly on his bed, his mind racing as he took in the kindness of it all. He tucked the potions into his bedside drawer, hiding the chocolate where he knew Sirius wouldn’t be able to steal it, and spread the blanket over his bed. It was soft, warmer than his own, and the weight of it settled over him like a quiet comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

Sliding under the blanket, Remus felt a warmth blooming in his chest. Someone out there knew his secret, but instead of using it against him, they’d tried to make things a little easier. And he knew, without question, that he had to figure out who it was.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The full moon had passed in a calm that Remus had never experienced before. He woke that morning still feeling sore, but the aches were manageable. Normally, the transformations left him scarred and hollow, as if all the energy and warmth had been drained from him, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. But this time, thanks to the Wolfsbane Potion and the potions from the basket, he felt… human. Less broken.

After seeing the other Marauders off to class, Remus leaned back into his bed, feeling the softness of the new blanket wrap around him like a gentle hug. He’d spent the morning drinking one of the calming potions, using the healing salve for his aches, and nibbling on a bit of chocolate to ease his nerves. And though he was grateful, he couldn’t shake the strange blend of curiosity and unease that swirled in his mind. Who knew? Who cared this much? The secrecy felt like a burden, yet he couldn’t help but feel a small glow of warmth every time he glanced at the basket.

Meanwhile, James, Sirius, and Peter were trying to answer that very question in their own way. During Potions, they’d had an idea. Whoever had brewed Wolfsbane Potion had to be incredibly skilled, so finding out who had the best marks in Potions could narrow things down. The second Slughorn dismissed them, they pounced.

Sirius leaned casually on Slughorn’s desk, grinning with exaggerated innocence. “Professor,” he began, “say I wanted to improve my Potions skills. Just hypothetically.”

Slughorn’s eyebrows lifted, clearly intrigued by Sirius’s unusual interest. “Oh? Well, it’s about time, Mr. Black. I’d say your marks could certainly use a bit of boosting.”

“Oh, I know, I know!” Sirius waved his hands, laughing a bit. “That’s exactly why I was thinking maybe a bit of tutoring could help. So… who would you say is the top student in your class?”

James sidled up next to him, nodding earnestly. “Yeah, Professor. Who’s the best at brewing?”

Slughorn looked delighted, his chest puffing with pride at the idea of his Gryffindor students taking a sudden interest in his class. He lowered his voice as though he were sharing a prized secret. “Ah, if you’re looking for someone with real talent, you’d want to speak with Y/N Y/L/N. A truly gifted student! Absolutely meticulous with her brewing, and a Gryffindor as well! You boys ought to know her.”

Sirius and James exchanged baffled glances. “Y/N Y/L/N?” James muttered, frowning in thought.

Peter piped up, looking a little surprised. “Oh, I remember her. We did a project together in second year. She’s very sweet. I suppose she’s easy to miss, always keeping to herself.”

“Right…” Sirius trailed off, scratching his chin. “Doesn’t sound like the type to be sneaking around in the dead of night to drop off mysterious gift baskets, does she?”

“People can surprise you,” Peter shrugged. “I bet she’s got her reasons.”

After classes were over, the three Marauders nearly sprinted back to the dormitory. They’d waited all day to tell Remus their findings, and as soon as they saw him, they launched right into it.

“So,” Sirius said, flopping dramatically onto Remus’s bed, “we might know who left the basket.”

Remus looked up, eyebrows raised, though he tried to appear casual. “Really?”

James nodded, practically bouncing with excitement. “Y/N Y/L/N. Slughorn says she’s his top student in Potions. And she’s a Gryffindor, so she’d know where to find us.”

The name caught Remus off guard. “Y/N Y/L/N?” He knew exactly who she was—quiet, always hanging at the edges of things, never drawing attention to herself. He remembered her from their earlier years, especially a few years back when she and Peter had done that project together. She’d been kind and incredibly smart, but she always seemed to fade into the background.

Sirius shot him a curious look. “Wait—do you actually know her?”

Remus hesitated, carefully picking his words. “I mean… I remember her. We’ve been in classes together since first year.”

But what he didn’t say was that he’d once felt drawn to her quiet kindness. She wasn’t like other students; there was a thoughtfulness to her, a gentle intelligence that had always intrigued him. He remembered her now, the shy girl who had somehow made him feel seen, and the idea that she might have left the basket stirred something inside him—a mix of hope and nerves.

Sirius smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Oh, you remember her, do you?”

Remus rolled his eyes, trying to hide his blush. “Look, it’s probably not her. There’s no way she’d still remember… I mean, we barely ever talked.”

James raised his eyebrows. “Barely ever talked? That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t care. Besides,” he added with a grin, “you clearly want it to be her.”

Remus glanced away, not trusting himself to deny it. Because if it really was Y/N… she’d have gone to extraordinary lengths just to help him. It would mean she knew his secret and, rather than fearing him, had quietly found a way to ease his burden. And perhaps the most surprising part? He found himself hoping it was her.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Alright. I’ll talk to her. See if there’s anything to this theory of yours.”

The next morning, with a hint of apprehension and excitement, Remus set out to find her. He decided to look in the library first, where he thought she might be studying between classes. But as he crossed the common room, he spotted her in the far corner, curled up in a chair with a thick book on her lap.

He took a steadying breath and made his way over to her. She looked up, clearly surprised to see him, her eyes widening as he gave a small, nervous smile.

“Hi, Y/N,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do you mind if I join you?”

She blinked, a little flustered, but nodded, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Um, of course, Remus.”

They sat in a slightly awkward silence for a moment, and Remus could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. He cleared his throat, feeling the weight of her attention on him.

“So… I, uh, wanted to thank you,” he started, not sure how to bring it up. “For… everything.”

She stiffened slightly, her cheeks flushing, but kept her gaze steady. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she replied quietly.

He watched her, seeing the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips, and knew then, without a doubt, that she was the one. “The gift basket. The potions. The blanket.” He lowered his voice. “The Wolfsbane. It helped me… more than I can say.”

Her face softened, and she nodded, understanding in her eyes. “I’m… really glad to hear that. I just wanted you to have what you needed. It’s not easy going through all that on your own.”

Remus felt his heart swell. Here she was, fully aware of the truth and yet sitting here, calm and kind, accepting him exactly as he was.

He met her gaze, feeling a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in ages. “Thank you, Y/N. I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of kindness from you, but… it means a lot.”

They sat there in a comfortable silence, the unspoken words passing between them, understanding filling the space. He knew he’d found a friend in her—someone who saw through the mask he wore and had chosen to help, not out of pity, but because she understood what it meant to care quietly, deeply, and without expectation.

And perhaps, he thought with a hint of warmth, this was only the beginning of something much deeper.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N ~ this is kinda rushed sorry, school is killing me :P

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝐷𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑈𝑠

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Word count- 4624

A/N: This is a chapter 1 of one of my written series, I’m kinda excited to start one but I’m not sure if I’ll get lazy 😭. Recently I’ve had a writing knack though so I’m praying it’ll help me push through

Next - Masterlist

The hum of the classroom faded into white noise around her.

Yu Jimin sat three rows behind you, her chin resting in her palm, her eyes fixed on the back of your head like they had been every Monday and Thursday afternoon since freshman year. It had become a ritual of sorts—her private, unspoken comfort. While everyone else scribbled notes or glanced up at the presentation slide, Jimin’s attention never strayed far from you.

She liked the way your hair caught the light when you turned, the way you nodded thoughtfully when you were concentrating, or how your fingers drummed lightly against your notebook when you were trying to stay awake during long lectures.

She liked too many things about you.

And yet, despite three years of sharing space, despite being in the same department and overlapping social circles, you barely knew her name.

Jimin was okay with that. Or at least she had convinced herself she was. You existed in a sphere she admired from afar—someone bright and kind, always surrounded by others, always laughing a little too loudly, always focused on your goals. And Jimin, the quiet and calculated type, knew better than to disrupt what was never hers to begin with.

Until today.

Professor Lee’s voice cut through the low drone of chatter in the room. “You’ll be working in pairs for the semester project. I’ve taken the liberty of assigning partners this time.”

There were groans from the class. Jimin didn’t groan. Her heart stuttered.

“Yu Jimin,” the professor continued, scanning the roster. “You’ll be with… Y/N.”

Time froze.

She blinked, unsure if she’d misheard, until you turned slightly in your seat and made eye contact with her for the first time in—well, maybe ever. You smiled. Just a polite, acknowledging smile, but it landed like a comet in her chest.

Jimin tried to hide the way her throat closed up.

“Hi,” you said once she’d gathered her things and slid into the empty seat beside you. “I think we’re partners.”

“Yeah,” Jimin said, barely managing to keep her voice steady. “Looks like it.”

Your voice had a tone that Jimin wasn’t prepared for—easy, light, a little amused like you were always halfway between a smile and a clever remark. You looked directly at her, unbothered, confident, and maybe just a little curious. She was used to watching you from the background, not sitting next to you. Not this close. Not where she could see the flecks of color in your eyes or the way your brow arched slightly when you were interested in something.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you said, as if Jimin didn’t already know. She knew. Of course, she knew. She knew your name from the roll calls and student forums, from overheard conversations and tagged posts. She even knew your Starbucks order—though that wasn’t something she was proud of.

“Jimin,” she answered, her voice soft.

You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve seen you around. You’re always so quiet.”

Jimin hesitated. Her instinct was to withdraw, to shrug it off, to give a non-answer. But something in your tone didn’t feel like judgment—it felt… open.

“I just like listening,” she finally said, surprising even herself with the honesty of it.

You laughed—not mockingly, just lightly, like the answer amused you in a good way. “That’s kind of cool. Most people just wait for their turn to talk.”

There it was again—that warmth. Jimin had imagined so many versions of this moment. In every one of them, she was tongue-tied or invisible. But this version—sitting beside you, sharing a real conversation—felt fragile, like a daydream threatening to disappear if she reached too far.

The professor droned on in the background about project expectations and deliverables, but Jimin caught maybe five percent of it. Her mind was spinning too fast, trying to reconcile the person she thought you were with the person sitting beside her now.

You pulled out your notebook, scribbled a few things, then nudged the page toward her. “I figured we could meet up later this week to brainstorm? I’m free Thursday afternoon, if that works.”

It took her a second to respond. “Yeah. Thursday’s good.”

Your pen tapped against the paper again. “Cool. Let’s meet at the campus café? It’s usually quiet around three.”

“Okay.” She tried not to sound breathless.

You smiled again, genuine this time—more than polite, more than necessary. “I’m glad we got paired up. I think this’ll be fun.”

You said it casually, but to Jimin, it might as well have been written in gold. She nodded, unable to trust herself with a real answer.

When class ended and you left with a quick wave, Jimin sat frozen in her seat, still feeling the ghost of your presence beside her.

Three years of watching from a distance, and now she was finally close enough to touch.

_____

Jimin had always believed that feelings like hers were best kept quiet.

Not because they weren’t real—if anything, they were too real—but because she wasn’t the kind of person who knew how to carry them into the open. She didn’t know when it started, not exactly. Maybe it was during first-year orientation, when she noticed you sitting on the quad lawn, earbuds in and eyes closed, completely at peace in the middle of chaos. Or maybe it was the first time you answered a professor’s question with something unexpectedly brilliant, and the entire class looked at you differently afterward.

Whatever it was, it bloomed slowly, like something growing under glass—safe, contained, and entirely one-sided.

Jimin wasn’t shy, exactly. She was just… quiet. Reserved. She picked her words carefully. She didn’t do loud entrances or impulsive declarations. While others chased spotlight moments, she lingered in shadows, where things felt safer—where rejection couldn’t reach her.

She convinced herself it was okay. You were friendly with everyone. Always surrounded by friends, always in the center of a conversation. You didn’t need someone like her hovering at the edges, waiting for the right time that would never come.

So Jimin had learned to settle for fragments: shared air, passing glances, the occasional group project that never quite landed her close enough. She told herself it was enough. That admiration didn’t need an ending, or even a beginning. That she could be content loving you from a distance, the way people love the moon—not because it’s close, but because it’s beautiful.

And then, suddenly, everything shifted.

That single line from the professor—You’ll be with Y/N—had collapsed three years of silent longing into a single breath. Now, here she was, with a seat next to you, with a Thursday coffee date in her planner, with a chance she hadn’t dared to imagine would ever come.

And that scared her more than anything.

Because what if being close didn’t feel the same as admiring from afar? What if she said the wrong thing? What if you liked someone else? What if she was never the kind of person you could see like that?

But even through the fear, there was hope. Quiet, persistent, and so sharp it almost hurt.

She sat on the steps outside the lecture hall after class, her phone in her hand, your name freshly added to her contacts. She stared at the screen for a long time before pocketing it, smiling faintly to herself.

For the first time in three years, Yu Jimin didn’t feel invisible.

_____

It was Thursday. 2:58 p.m.

Jimin was already seated in the far corner of the campus café, her laptop open in front of her, a barely-touched iced Americano sweating beside it. She had arrived thirty minutes early. Not because she was overly eager, she told herself, but because she wanted to find the right table. Quiet, but not isolated. Lit by the window, but not harshly. Close enough to the counter that you’d spot her easily.

And okay—maybe she was overly eager.

Her leg bounced under the table as the minutes ticked by. Her cursor blinked on a blank document. She hadn’t typed a single word. Her fingers kept fidgeting with the cap of her pen, twisting and untwisting it until the click echoed too loudly in her ears. She was calm on the outside, but inside, her thoughts were loud.

What if you forgot? What if you changed your mind?

Then the door chimed.

She looked up—and there you were.

Hair slightly windswept from the spring breeze, tote bag slung casually over your shoulder, scanning the café until your eyes met hers. You smiled, and the knot in Jimin’s chest eased all at once.

You made your way over with that same confident, easy stride that Jimin had watched so many times across campus walkways and lecture halls. But now, it was toward her. For her.

“Hope I’m not late,” you said, dropping your bag beside the seat across from her.

“You’re not,” Jimin replied, her voice softer than she wanted, but steady. “I was early.”

You laughed. “Figured. You look like the type.”

Jimin raised a brow, lips twitching into the hint of a smile. “The type?”

You shrugged as you sat down. “Organized. Calm. Probably keeps her files sorted by color code.”

“…Maybe.”

That made you grin wider. “Knew it.”

You got up to grab a drink—leaving your phone and notes behind like it was nothing, like you trusted her not to snoop (she wouldn’t dream of it)—and came back with a matcha latte and a muffin you broke apart absently while talking.

And you talked. About the project, mostly at first—your ideas, what the professor was looking for, how to break down the research. You were sharp. Thoughtful. Creative in ways Jimin hadn’t expected. But it wasn’t just your ideas that drew her in. It was how you thought aloud, like you were letting her in on the process. You didn’t dominate the conversation, but you didn’t hesitate to lead either. There was a balance between the two of you that felt… natural.

And when the conversation slipped into something personal—how this class was draining you, how you missed home-cooked food, how you weren’t sure what you wanted to do after graduation—Jimin listened like it was the most important thing in the world.

“You don’t talk much,” you observed after a while, finishing off the last of your muffin.

Jimin blinked, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m just—listening.”

“No, I like it,” you said quickly. “Most people talk too much. It’s kinda refreshing.”

Jimin tilted her head, studying you. “What about you?”

You gave a crooked smile. “I talk a lot, don’t I?”

“Not too much,” she said, before she could stop herself. “You say interesting things.”

You paused then—just for a second—and your eyes lingered on hers a moment longer than necessary. Something soft passed between you, subtle but present. An acknowledgment. A shift.

Then you looked away with a little laugh. “Well, I try.”

Jimin wanted to say more, to ask if this was just coffee to you, or if maybe—just maybe—you were curious about her the way she was endlessly curious about you. But she didn’t. Not yet.

Not when she was finally getting what she’d wanted for so long.

The late afternoon light filtered through the café windows, casting gold on the table between you. Your empty cup sat beside a crumpled napkin, and Jimin had barely touched her drink. Not because she wasn’t thirsty, but because she didn’t want to do anything that might break the moment—the rhythm the two of you had somehow, impossibly, found.

You were leaning forward now, elbow propped up, cheek resting against your palm as you skimmed the notes she’d written on a shared document.

“This is really clean,” you said, scrolling through. “Your formatting is god-tier. Like, this is the kind of thing professors screenshot for future students.”

Jimin chuckled under her breath, gaze lowered, cheeks coloring just slightly. “I just like keeping things neat.”

You looked up at her, eyes narrowing in a playful squint. “You like control, huh?”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. “Maybe. A little.”

You grinned, clearly enjoying how flustered she was getting. “It’s okay. I think it suits you. Kind of mysterious, kind of intense.”

Jimin blinked, not sure how to respond to that. It felt like a compliment. It sounded like one. But no one ever said things like that to her. No one looked at her like that.

She cleared her throat, trying to reset. “And you,” she said cautiously, “talk like someone who always gets what they want.”

You tilted your head. “Do I?”

“You carry yourself like that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Do you think that’s a bad thing?”

“No,” Jimin said quietly. “I think it’s impressive.”

The tension changed then—not heavy, but charged, like static before a summer storm. The kind of tension that made the space between words feel louder than the words themselves.

You didn’t look away. “You’re not what I expected.”

Jimin hesitated. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” you said, leaning back in your chair with a stretch. “I guess I always thought you were the cold type. Not in a bad way. Just… distant.”

“That’s fair,” she said softly. “I can be.”

“But you’re not, now.”

Jimin shrugged, unsure what to say.

“I like this version of you,” you added.

That… did something to her.

She looked down at her cup, trying not to smile too obviously. “Thanks.”

The conversation drifted after that, a little looser, a little easier. You talked about music—Jimin found out you loved late 2000s R&B and couldn’t stand acoustic covers. You talked about how stressed midterms made you. You admitted you’d cried in the library once, and Jimin told you about the time she overslept and missed an exam entirely.

Each shared story chipped away at the wall she kept around herself, piece by piece.

Eventually, the sun dipped lower. Shadows lengthened on the walls. You glanced at your phone, reluctantly.

“I should go soon,” you said. “Club meeting.”

“Yeah,” Jimin murmured. “Of course.”

You stood, stretching slightly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “This was nice. Really.”

Jimin stood too, nodding. “Yeah. It was.”

You paused, then reached over and gently tugged the sleeve of her hoodie—not a full grab, just enough to get her attention.

“I’m glad it was you,” you said.

And then you were gone—out the door with a wave, disappearing into the late afternoon crowd.

Jimin sat back down slowly, stunned by the weight of what had just happened. She touched her sleeve where you had tugged it, the faintest smile pulling at her lips.

She’d spent three years watching you from a distance.

And now, you were right here.

_____

Jimins POV:

Jimin stepped out of the café a few minutes after you had left, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, her heart still thrumming with the remnants of your presence.

The sun was lower now, dipping just past the library rooftops in a pale wash of orange. Campus was quieter in this part of the afternoon—only the occasional footsteps, bikes gliding past on the brick walkways, a few students lounging under trees with earbuds in or books open across their laps.

But to Jimin, the world felt a little brighter. Or maybe it was just that you’d smiled at her like she mattered.

She walked slowly, not ready to go back to her dorm, not yet. Her thoughts lingered on the way you had leaned forward when you spoke, like you genuinely wanted to hear what she thought. The way you didn’t treat her silence as awkward or something to fill. The way you had laughed—not out of politeness, but because something she said actually amused you.

You had touched her sleeve.

It wasn’t a dramatic thing—just a small, fleeting gesture—but it had landed in Jimin’s chest like a soft wind knocking open a window she didn’t know was shut.

I’m glad it was you, you’d said.

Jimin pressed her lips together to hold back a smile that was already rising.

It had always been you, for her.

There were no grand confessions today, no sweeping glances or flirty touches. But there was something better—genuine connection. The kind of warmth that built quietly between shared stories and stolen glances. Something slow and real.

And it scared her, a little.

Not because she didn’t want it—she did, more than she could say—but because it was beginning to feel possible. You weren’t just a distant idea anymore. You were sitting across from her, sipping a matcha latte and teasing her about color-coded notes. You had met her where she was, gently, naturally.

She paused at the foot of the quad, looking across the lawn where she had first seen you years ago, earbuds in and lost in your own world.

She smiled softly, to herself.

Maybe—just maybe—you were opening a door she never thought would even be unlocked.

And for the first time in a long time, Jimin allowed herself to hope.

She could still feel the heat of your hand lightly brushing her sleeve when you’d left. It had been an innocent gesture, sure, but it felt so full of meaning. Like something between you had shifted. And Jimin, for all her usual reserve, wasn’t the type to overlook moments like that. It was impossible to ignore how warm it made her feel, how much it had made her heart skip. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time, not about anyone.

It was… nice.

More than nice.

It was a feeling that had always seemed just out of reach. But now, after spending those quiet hours with you, she couldn’t ignore the way her chest swelled with a quiet anticipation she wasn’t used to.

What did this mean? Was it just a one-time thing, a good coffee date between partners who would eventually drift apart once the project was done? Or was there something more here—something worth exploring?

The idea of it both thrilled and terrified her.

She shook her head, almost embarrassed by the way her heart seemed to race at the thought of you. Was she overthinking? Maybe she was. But when had she ever been good at turning off her thoughts?

The more she thought about it, the clearer it became. That afternoon had felt so… effortless. It had felt easy to talk to you. Comfortable.

She smiled softly to herself. She hadn’t smiled this much in a long time. You made her feel like maybe she could be a little more than just the quiet girl in the back of the room, someone who blended into the background.

Maybe you were starting to see her—really see her. And for once, Jimin didn’t mind being noticed. In fact, she wanted more of it. More of you.

Her thoughts kept spinning, cycling through your little gestures, the way you’d tilted your head when you were curious, the way your lips curved into an easy smile. The kind of smile that seemed to say there was more going on behind your eyes, something deeper, something that Jimin was just beginning to scratch the surface of.

But then, she started to question herself again—Was this real? Did she have any reason to think that you might be feeling the same way? After all, you’d been nothing but kind to her, but that didn’t necessarily mean you saw her the same way she saw you. You were so easy to be around, so open and relaxed. Maybe you made everyone feel that way.

Her smile faded a little, uncertainty creeping in like a shadow.

But then, she remembered the way you had looked at her when you said, I’m glad it was you. That brief, but intense look, as if you had meant it. Not just a casual comment, but something more. Something that lingered.

Her pace slowed as she approached the steps of her dorm. She felt a tug in her chest, a small flutter that made her pause for a moment, taking in the sight of the building in front of her. The light in her room felt so far away, so distant, as if it belonged to someone else. She didn’t want to go back to the silence of her room just yet.

What would happen next?

She didn’t know. And that was terrifying, but also exciting.

Jimin took a deep breath, grounding herself. She was still so caught up in the moment—still feeling the buzz of being close to you. It was strange, the way her feelings had bloomed in such a short time. But it was real. It was hers.

And maybe, just maybe, it was starting to feel like the start of something beautiful.

She stood there for a long moment, letting the evening settle around her, letting the thoughts whirl, knowing that no matter how uncertain she felt, something had changed. Something inside her had shifted.

And it wasn’t just the excitement of a new project.

It was something more. Something deeper.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the message you’d sent earlier—just a simple confirmation of the time you’d set for your next meeting.

Jimin smiled again, her thumb hovering over the screen. Maybe she’d say something more this time. Maybe she’d be a little bolder. Maybe she’d say she was looking forward to it more than she probably should.

Before she could think too much, her fingers typed out a message:

Looking forward to Thursday. I think we’ll make a great team.

She sent it before she could second-guess herself.

The reply came a few moments later.

Same here. I’m glad we got paired up.

She looked at the message for a moment, her heart skipping again at the simplicity of it. Just words. But words that felt like a promise in their own way.

Jimin tucked her phone away and finally made her way up the stairs to her dorm room, heart still fluttering. She wasn’t sure where this would lead. But for once, she wasn’t scared. For once, she felt like maybe she was exactly where she needed to be.

_____

Your POV:

You walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, letting the faint sounds of campus wash over you. Students were scattered everywhere—some lounging on benches, some chatting in small groups—but your mind was elsewhere, still replaying the moments with Jimin.

Was that really just coffee?

You couldn’t help but wonder. It felt like more. It was more. The conversation had been easy, effortless even, and that in itself was surprising. You weren’t used to connecting with people like that. Not so naturally. Not without the usual awkwardness or forced small talk. Jimin made it feel like everything was falling into place without effort.

You smiled to yourself as you thought about how she’d reacted when you teased her about her neat, color-coded notes. Her little, almost shy smile. The way her eyes sparkled with that soft amusement when you’d joked about being organized. There was a quiet warmth in her gaze, something real and unguarded, and it made you feel like you’d uncovered a small secret, just for a moment.

You didn’t know what it was, but you liked it. You liked how she didn’t try to hide her vulnerability. She wasn’t loud or brash. She didn’t need to be. She had a way of drawing you in without saying much. It was in the little things: the way she listened, the way she didn’t rush to fill silence, the way she had opened up just enough for you to feel like she trusted you.

Maybe this isn’t just a project partner thing.

You found yourself wondering about the possibility, and that thought both excited and unnerved you.

Jimin wasn’t the type to chase attention. You could tell that. There was a quiet confidence in her that wasn’t desperate for approval, and that made you respect her even more. It was so different from what you’d grown used to—people who either tried too hard or not hard enough.

And yet, there you were, sitting across from her. Sharing moments that felt meaningful.

What does this mean for me? For her?

You couldn’t help but replay the last part of the conversation, when you’d pulled her sleeve lightly as you got up to leave. That brief, but telling touch. The softness in your own voice when you told her you were glad it had been her. It had been a small thing, really, but the look in her eyes—the way she didn’t immediately look away—had stuck with you. It was like you had shared something unspoken, something that lingered in the air between you two.

Did she feel it too?

There was no doubt she was special. That much was clear. You’d always known she was a little different from everyone else in the class, from the way she carried herself, the way she observed the world around her rather than rushing through it. She was thoughtful in a way you rarely encountered.

And you liked her. You liked her more than you probably should.

But what if it wasn’t like that for her? What if she didn’t see you the same way? What if this was just about the project for her, just an easy collaboration between classmates?

You exhaled, trying to clear your thoughts, but they refused to be quiet. You thought about her smile again, how she hadn’t flinched when you teased her, how she’d leaned forward just a little more when you spoke. She’d seemed genuinely interested, like she enjoyed being in your company.

But then there was the doubt creeping in, like a quiet shadow.

What if I’m overthinking this?

You shook your head, deciding you were probably being too analytical. It had only been one coffee date. One meeting. Maybe it was too early to jump to conclusions, too soon to wonder if there could be something more.

Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. You had walked in there expecting the usual—it was just a project, just a time to talk about the work, maybe share a few notes. But instead, it had felt like… something else. Something warmer. Something that could be more than just a class assignment.

Did I make it weird? You wondered, suddenly anxious, wondering if you had said too much or not enough.

You pressed your lips together as you walked, glancing down at your phone. Your message to Jimin had been simple enough—just a little note confirming how you felt about working together. But now, looking back on it, you couldn’t help but feel like you might’ve put yourself out there just a little bit more than you intended.

And that was scary, right?

But also… exciting.

The buzzing of your phone pulled you from your thoughts. A message from Jimin. You glanced down, your stomach doing an unintentional flip when you saw it was a reply.

Same here. I’m glad we got paired up.

You felt an odd sense of relief wash over you as you stared at the words, heart quickening again. You couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of it, but at the same time, it felt like something more was wrapped up in those words—something unspoken, but still present.

Is this the start of something?

For a moment, you couldn’t quite answer your own question. But the hope was there, tucked away in the corners of your mind. And it felt a little too real to ignore.

You tucked your phone back into your pocket and exhaled slowly, glancing up at the sky as you kept walking. The world felt a little bigger, a little more open. A little more full of possibility.

Taglist: @1luvkarina, @llotvkmj, @kangshxrtie, @bimkayd, @spidrgamer, @onlymymnd

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

How do they sleep?

Masterlist

Well, hugging you like a teddy bear of course! These skeletons can't keep their arms and hands to themselves when sleeping, and the fact that you're just so soft doesn't help them!

Sky, Lucky, Rot, Axe, Ted, Spade, Bee, Killer, Papyrus, Red, Berry, Mutt, Hound, Venus.

With a hand around your waist, it's not very affectionate yet it's what they like plus it's perfect for both winter and spring!

Smoke, Nightmare, Dream, Blue, Cross, Cash, Sans, Rus, Edge, Killer, Cross, Butch, Cosmo, Butcher, Star.

You're the one holding them, maybe because of a problem they have or simply because it's comfortable!

Coffee, Sans, Willow, Honey, Comet, Meteor.

They don't really like affection, but they will hold your hand while sleeping, it's their way to say "I'm with you" nonverbaly.

Rasp, Dust, Error, Wine, Noir, Boss, Mal, Mars.

They don't sleep and simply spend the night watching you. It's not creepy, right?

Ink, Fresh.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 23: Extreme Makeover Backyard Edition

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty three of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: I'm going to label this one 18+ because it handles some heavy subjects!  Angst, Cursing, Nudity, Mentions of Abuse (sort of- it's more the reader being used without knowledge of it and I'm not sure what to call that), Numbness, Depression, Mental Health, Brief mentions of graphic death, Brief mentions of graphic torture, Mention of gore, Mention of death, Mentions of character going through some HEAVY EMOTIONS and INTERNAL TRAUMA, Fluff, Sexual References, Family Problems. Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Reader POV

You fall on your hands and knees in the soft grass of Legend's front yard, falling from the sky like a comet as it's glow fades and burns for the last time before striking the earth. You don't remember how you left Stan's apartment, don't remember flying here, don't feel anything, not the humidity that comes with the rising sun, not the cold kiss of dew against your skin, all you feel is the cold creeping numbness that trickles through your veins.

The memories of what you did come in flashes, but they do nothing. They do not evoke remorse nor pain, they haunt you, but do not bring tears to your eyes.

You open and close your hands, letting the blades of grass crush beneath your fingertips, but you don’t completely comprehend where you are, or how the hell you got here. All you feel is weakness tugging at your every muscle, threatening to drag you under the rising tide. You felt electrified, but so tied at the same time, everything and nothing. What happened seemed centuries ago and also seconds ago.

There was no anger, no remorse, no pain, no horror, no shock, there was nothing, only the chill that clung to your skin on the warm summer morning. You could see Stan’s death in your mind, watch his body collapse in on itself under your power and yet it did nothing to you.

You're not sure of anything anymore. Who you are, who Rosemary is- everything you knew is gone and you're not sure what's left behind, not sure what will come crawling out of the shell you were now. You knew you should be afraid, but another voice in your ear whispered so should they.

Someone grabs you by the shoulders, hauls you up off the ground, raising your gaze from the wet grass.

Ben looks furious, mind you, he always seemed to be angry when it came to you. You wondered if that was because he loved you or if it was because the two of you were fated to kill each other one day.

Or maybe it's a healthy combination of both.

He's wearing his jeans again, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes that burn with the force of his rage, but as soon as he sees the dried blood coating your cheeks, hair, and body, you watch worry begin to spark behind his glowing green eyes.

You register that deep down his anger and worry comes from a place that he'd hidden from you for eighty years, his love for you, the love that he was no longer hiding. But the chill still rose in your chest like the first frost of winter.

"Fuck." Ben mutters, moving his hands along your body, boldly looking for injuries, but he doesn't find any. "What the fuck happened? Why did you leave?"

You don't answer him, instead you take in a shallow breath, filled with the smell of fresh cut grass and Ben's musk. You're trying to find your voice, but it's difficult for you.

"Y/n are you alright?" He asks it, firmly gripping you by the shoulders, trying to shake you back into reality. You can hear the way the anger in his voice has shifted to something else.

"It's not mine Ben." Your voice is no more than a whisper as you stare blankly at him.

"Whose is it?"

You can't answer him, the only thing in your mind is Stan's words to you, the secrets he kept for forty years coming to light, the terrible things that he and Vogelbaum did. You want to tell him, tell him about what you know, but you can't find the words, can't find the thoughts to follow them.

"Sweetheart?" Ben furrows his eyebrows together, tilting your face to look at him. His hand softly strokes against your cheeks not understanding why you’re acting like this. “Are you alright?” 

His voices sound like you’re underwater, a murmur, a buzz, just a shadow of the deep rumble you love so much, the voice you thought you'd never hear every again.

Ben says your name again, with such urgency that it snaps you out of it for only a moment. The smoke clears, but what’s left barely has the strength to cling to him as you collapse into his chest. Your body shakes uncontrollably, tears soaking through his thin t-shirt, unable to do anything else, but clutch him tighter against you.

"He's our son Ben. They stole my-" You can't find the words, can't find your voice, it sounds hollow. "Stan he and Vogel-." But your voice breaks again and you shudder against Ben's chest, the numbness coming back to drag you under.

Ben doesn't hesitate, he picks you up as if you weigh nothing, tucking your head under his chin as he goes and turns back towards the house. You barely register his picking you up, can’t seem to focus on anything, breath coming in shallow gasps, body still shaking. Ben tightens his arms around you as if trying to comfort you as he walks through the front doors.

“Is she alright?” Rosemary’s voice is close, but you don't raise your head from Ben's body.

“Fuck, there’s so much blood.“ Hughie adds and you can imagine him standing beside her, his eyes wide.

Guess that means he survived Mindstorm.

Your only hope was that Lou was already in bed, that she wasn't watching Ben carry you soaked in blood through Legend's house.

“It’s not hers.” Ben replies gruffly, still moving towards the staircase. He wasn't stopping and you were thankful for that, you didn’t want to talk to anyone and didn’t want to have it out with Rosemary. You were so tired, tired of fighting and of trying. You didn’t want to yell at her, didn’t want her to yell at you, all you wanted was to slip deeper into the darkness.

"Shit, she's just as fucking unhinged as Soldier Boy is." Butcher mutters under his breath wherever it is he's standing.

“Wait mom talk to me-“ Rosemary tries again.

“No.” You murmur into Ben’s neck. Stan’s revelation rings in your ears once more, betrayal momentarily clawing its way from the pit before the cold feeling comes back to drag you under.

Because it felt like she had betrayed you. All these years you thought that Vought left the two of you alone, but no, it was a lie. And if she'd done that, what else had she done to ensure your freedom?

“Please-“ She sounds broken, and it strikes something inside, because she's never sounded like that before. Rosemary was strong, stronger than you ever were.

But then the word makes the memory of Stan’s body snapping and twisting beneath your control come roaring back, his pleas for the mercy he didn’t deserve exhaled on his dying breath, as you turned him into nothing more than a lump of flesh.

You gasp, another shudder shaking through your body and you don’t answer and don't raise your head.

"Wait Ben-" She says his name, but Ben doesn't stop.

"She doesn't want to talk right now." Ben's tone is controlled, but you can hear the trickle of his rage just on the edge of his inflection. "And I'm not going to make her." He continues walking down the stairs and Rosemary does not follow.

Ben doesn’t put you down on the bed, instead he takes you to the adjoining bathroom. It’s bigger than your bedroom back at your apartment with a walk in shower big enough for five people to stand in, a giant vanity with two sinks, a jacuzzi, and a bathtub big enough for three. Legend never spared any expense when it came to that sort of thing.

Ben slowly places you on the vanity but when he pulls back you grab the front of his shirt. “No.” You breathe suddenly terrified. The terror of Ben leaving cuts through it all, followed by a wave of horror and fear.

If he leaves they’ll come for me again. They’ll come take me or Lou.

You were afraid to be alone, didn’t want him to go, not after everything that happened.

“Shhh.” Ben soothes you, brushing your hair back, “It’s alright sweetheart I’m just getting a washcloth.”

You relent, hand unfurling from his shirt, and he comes back with it, wetting it with warm water before he begins to drag it over your face as gently as possible. His eyebrows are furrowed with concentration, but you don’t move, you only stare at a point over his left shoulder not really comprehending what’s happening.

What happened to Stan comes back in flashes, black and white photographs followed by the bits of conversation that unmade you, the revelations that would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Ben sighs. “Well. I don’t think this is helping at all.” He throws the washcloth into the sink and gently cups your chin, turning your gaze on him.

You blink a few times to focus your eyes.

“Look sweetheart I know you don’t want me to leave, but you gotta get in the shower. I can’t get it all with this washcloth and the last thing I want is to put you in bed covered in blood.” He searches your gaze trying to make you understand what he was asking but you don’t respond.

He leans his forehead against yours. “Honey please you gotta say something. You’re scaring me.” Ben’s eyes meet yours, wide and for the first time in years you see genuine fear.

You let out a shallow breath, but don’t say anything. You can’t find your voice. Instead you gently touch his chest just over his heart. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough for Ben.

Ben closes his eyes for a minute as if trying to make sense of it all. “Okay.” He breathes, opening his eyes again to look at you, care and concern charging the air between the two of you. “Can I take off your clothes?”

You nod once, eyes still focused on the white tiled wall behind him.

“Okay.” Ben gently pushes the leather jacket back from your body. It falls back on the counter in a bloody heap, staining the white countertops with flecks of dried reddish-black blood. “I need you to stand up for me sweetheart.” Ben says, holding you firmly by the waist and pulling you off the counter.

You stand there for a moment, unsteady on your feet, staring blankly ahead of you.

“Arms up.” Ben whispers.

You raise them above you head and Ben removes your shirt and bra before moving to your pants. “Hold on to me.” He places your arms around his shoulders as you step out of your shoes, pants, and panties.

If you’d been in your right mind maybe you would have worried about this moment, worried about Ben seeing you naked again after all these years. He’d only ever seen you the one time, but somewhere deep down registered that this was different. It wasn’t sexual. There weren't any expectations and there was nothing to be embarrassed about. This was Ben keeping his promise and taking care of you the way that he always had.

He steps over to the bathtub, running his hand under the stream of water to check the temperature.

"Come on.” Ben gently leads you over, your small hand in his and helps you step over the side of the tub and into the warm water.

Steam rises around your body, but the water feels lukewarm. Your gaze levels at the water that streams from the spout on the edge of the tub, not looking up at Ben as he switches the water to the handheld shower head.

"Tilt your head back for me honey." Ben murmurs, touching your chin with your free hand to tilt it back. "Eyes closed."

You do as he says and feel the water trickle through your hair and down your back, followed by the gentle scrub of Ben beginning to work shampoo through the strands. He works quietly, catching the suds that threaten to fall into your eyes. Your hands are folded in your lap, eyes still closed, feeling the steady way he cleans your hair and then your face.

As you sit there the memory of everything that happened with Stan begins to trickle in, causing an uncontrollable shudder to shake through your body. Ben's ministrations were doing little to make the cold feeling dissipate, if anything you could feel it sinking into your bones.

"It's alright sweetheart, I'm almost done." Ben says, and you feel his thumb stroke against your cheek for a moment before he continues to wash your hair.

"Sit here for a second. I'm going to go get you some clean clothes."

You open your eyes and watch him go. The water in the tub is red now, the last remnants of Stan's blood scrubbed clean from your body.

The fire would destroy any evidence that you'd been there and washing the clothes that you killed him in should take care of any other problems.

When you're dried off and in your own clothes, you stand in the bathroom and catch a glance of yourself in the mirror. You look hollow, broken, eyes miles away, skin a little paler than normal. You don't look like yourself, but you also don't feel like yourself.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." Ben says and you feel him pick you up again, carrying you to the bed as if you weigh nothing.

You mechanically go through the motions of getting under the covers, pulling them up almost over your head as you curl in on yourself, making yourself as small as possible. You shut your eyes to try and make the images of what happened go away, but you can't fight the ebbing darkness that comes to welcome you home. It's familiar. The same one that you fell into when Ben broke your heart and you thought he died. The pit was opening beneath your feet once again, and you wondered if you'd be able to pull yourself out this time.

Ben changes into a pair of faded sweatpants, before he crawls into the bed behind you under the covers, putting his arm up over your waist to pull you into him. You turn in his arms so that you're chest to chest and can bury your face into his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent, trying to rid yourself of the images and of the things you learned a few hours ago.

"It's alright Sweetheart, I'm right here." You can feel the rumble of Ben's voice in the palms of your hands where they curl against his soft shirt. The weight of his arm over your waist is familiar as is the heat of his body, the warmth you expected to wipe away the cold feeling that crept along your spine drowning everything else out of your head.

It's quiet for a few moments. Ben's hand is gently trailing up and down your spine, but sleep is miles away for you.

"I'm trying real hard not to be mad at you Sweetheart, especially when you're like this but-" Ben sighs, rubbing his hand up and down your back. "You lied to me. What were you thinking going off alone and-" His tone has shifted into more of a growl, the one he gets when he's about to yell at you.

If he had yelled at you, you wouldn't have reacted, you were just so tired of everything, couldn't focus on anything.

Ben's body tenses. It was as If he was physically trying to hold himself back from being upset, but you couldn't answer him. It had seemed like a good idea when you went, seemed right, but now you weren't sure.

What you had learned changed you, and you weren't sure if you'd ever be able to go back to the way you were.

He's quiet for a minute, before finally he presses a kiss to your forehead, and you bury yourself further into his chest. "I love you." He murmurs. "I promise I'm not going to go anywhere."

But you barely hear him, the only thing you hear is the low buzz of fluorescent lights and Vogelbaum's voice telling his staff to keep you quiet.

Soldier Boy POV

He didn’t know what to do. In all the years he’d known you, Ben had never seen you like this. He’d seen you upset, angry, sad, but never this.

It had been three days since you came back covered in blood, three days of you laying in bed refusing to speak, curled up into his chest.

Ben had tried to get you to eat something, but when you wouldn’t do it by yourself he had to spoon feed it to you, as if you couldn’t remember how to eat.

It scared him.

Ben hadn’t ever felt fear like this before in his entire life, but now, seeing you so distant and cold, he was terrified. He worried that you’d never come back.

Mindstorm had told him the truth about Homelander and as angry as Ben was about that, he couldn’t understand how Homelander was also your son. He’d never heard you say anything about them taking something from you for genetic testing, never spoken about willingly giving up your genetic material.

So then how the fuck did they get it?

There was something sinister that danced on the edge of his mind, something that seemed too horrible to consider, something that meant that Ben had failed to protect you, had failed to keep the promise he made eighty years ago.

But deep down Ben wondered if it was true, because as much as he knew you hated killing people, this seemed different than you usual reaction.

He held you closer to him, curving his body around your back as you slept soundlessly. You were holding on to his hand while you did, fingers entwined with his, holding it against your chest while you found some peace.

Ben was honestly waiting for another nightmare. Each time you’d fallen asleep over the past three days you’d woken up gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably, with tears rolling down your cheeks. Ben did what he could, brought you into his lap and held you tight, reassuring you that it was okay, that it was only a dream.

He was trying not to be angry, but he was. He was furious when he got back to Legend’s two days ago and discovered that you were gone, that you’d left to go off and do God knows what with Homelander flying around. Rosemary refused to tell him where you were only told him that you left but that you’d be back. Ben hated that you made him wait around like a fucking woman waiting for her husband to come home.

He had intended on yelling at you, at making sure you knew how pissed off he was that you did the one thing he told you not to do, but then he saw you land in Legend’s front yard looking like you had taken a shower in someone’s blood and he couldn’t. Not when he feared that the blood was yours and not when he saw how broken you were.

Ben had loved you for a long time, understood you, saw how strong you were, saw that you always spoke your mind no matter what, and to see you like this was… petrifying. He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t understand how something you learned could effect you this much.

He too was still reeling from the revelation that Homelander was his son, felt an even greater sense of betrayal because Vought should have let him give the team to his son, pass it off like a king giving up his throne. And after the night that he had spent with you all those years ago, Ben was ready to give it up, to walk away and give you the life that you always wanted away from the spotlight.

Ben figured that Stan had told you Homelander was your son, and maybe that’s what this was. Ben had been dreading the conversation with you when he got back to Legends, the conversation in which he was going to have to tell you that Homelander was your son too. He didn’t want to hurt you all over again with news like that.

I guess I don’t have to.

Ben thinks to himself listening to the soft beat of your heart, pushing his face further into your hair where it hangs over your shoulders. But he's not sure that this is better.

When he wakes the bed is empty.

“Sweetheart?” Ben says looking around the bedroom. He strains his hearing to see if you’re in the bathroom or upstairs but he doesn’t hear you. Fear grips his heart.

Fuck. Where did she go?

Thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows as Ben looks around the room, brief flashes of lightning illuminates the vintage furniture, but you aren't sitting on anything. The sliding glass doors on the back wall of the bedroom are open, allowing rain to sweep through onto the carpets, water flooding towards your now cold side of the bed.

Shit.

Ben all but jumps out of the bed and rushes to the sliding glass doors, looking beyond into the darkness of Legend’s backyard. Lightning skates across the night flashing bright white, and catching where you stand in the grass. You’re looking up at the sky, soaked to the bone, but seemingly unnerved by the weather.

“Sweetheart?” Ben shouts over the sound of the thunder, but you don’t move. “Are you okay? Did you have another nightmare?”

“It’s not a nightmare.” You murmur into the storm, your eyes still focused on the sky, looking up at something that he can't see.

“What do you mean?” Ben gets closer to you, his feet sinking into the wet grass, rain saturating his clothes every second he stands out there with you. Ben was trying to understand, was trying his best to do what you needed, but he was worried that he was failing, that maybe he needed to take you to a hospital. He wasn't sure how to explain that to anyone if he did take you to one.

If anything he thought that you'd want to talk things out with Rosemary, but you hadn't wanted anything to do with her at all. That was the most surprising, that you didn't want to speak to her, didn't want her around. She had tried to come down to the bedroom, but you hadn't looked at her, you'd only clung tighter to Ben and said no. He wanted to know why, what Stan had told you to make you not want anything to do with her.

He was happy that Lou hadn't come down with her, he didn't want Lou to see you like this, didn't want it to haunt her the same way it was haunting him. He had heard Lou ask about you when he was laying in the basement beside you, and she had found him in the kitchen getting you something to eat and had hugged him tight and asked where you were. There were tears in her eyes when she did so and Ben told her that you weren't feeling well, but that he was taking care of you. There was a hand-drawn card on your bedside table from her filled with a picture of Lou holding out a bouquet of lavender to you that she asked him to give you.

“It really happened.” You close your eyes, head tilted up at the sky.

Lightning crackles across it, striking close to where you're standing, but you don't move an inch.

Ben stops mid-step. Your words sink into his soul, burn against his ribcage, anger surging up to replace the chill of the rain that clings to his skin. Because it meant he failed. It meant that the promise Ben made to you all those years ago was worthless, that he'd failed to protect you.

He thinks about all the time he wasted with other women, chasing after them, ignoring you. He thinks about all the moments he should have spent with you instead.

Maybe I would have figured it out if I wasn't so damn selfish. If I hadn't fucking cared about those stupid movies, or commercials, or the shitty interviews. I failed because I didn't put her first and I allowed this to happen.

“Stan told me.” You continue. "I wasn’t supposed to remember, but my mind knew. It was trying to tell me all these years but I just ignored it. Fucking pushed it away because I thought my mind was messed up from living this long. But it really happened."

“When?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he said they did it when you were on location shooting a film. That they were too afraid to take me when you were still there.”  You're still not quite looking at him.

Ben felt the words like a punch to the gut. Why did I ever shoot any of those stupid films? Why didn't I take her with me? Why didn't I make up some stupid reason why I needed her there with me? Why didn't I tell her sooner how much she meant to me?

Ben remembered the first time you had the nightmare in front of him, he had just gotten back from shooting a film overseas, one that he could barely remember only that he literally had sand in every crevice of his body after each day of shooting. He remembered how happy he was to see you when you answered the door of your small apartment, how you smiled at him, but you seemed more tired than usual. Ben had missed you more than he knew, he had tried to call while he was away, but you hadn't picked up. He remember thinking that was odd. You always picked up the phone or at least always called him back, but you hadn't.

“They knew I’d say no. Knew that I wouldn’t want to raise a child under Vought’s watchful eye and instead of respecting that, they-" You stop mid sentence, your body has begun to glow bright purple, not just your eyes, there's a thin film of purple radiating out from your body, tracing your outline with a heavy hand, glowing brighter than the lightning that flashes across the sky. "Stan wasn't even ashamed. He was proud of what they made. Proud of what they did to our son."

As soon as you utter the word 'son', the ground begins to shake under Ben's feet, grass shreds in the air all around him, and the storm grows worse by the second. There's a terrible cracking sound and the trees on the edge of Legend's property snap, loosing their limbs to flashes of purple energy that wash away into the darkness with the force of your power.

Ben could feel the same power trying to push him back from you, push him inside the house, but he fought it, continuing to take more steps towards you.

“After all these years he wasn’t afraid of me. He was afraid that you would show up and make him pay.” Ben can see your body shake. “Everyone was always just afraid of you. All those years I worked so hard to make sure you didn’t kill anyone and for what? So they could take advantage of me?”

Your body begins to rise off the ground, glowing brighter and brighter. Until Ben almost has to look away, his body still being forced backwards. In all his years of watching you use your powers, he's never seen you do anything remotely like this. This didn't seem like just telekinesis and Ben wondered who else had killed you over the years, if it had happened before and you just hadn't cared to tell him, or if it had happened in the years he'd been away.

"Sweetheart please." Ben tries to say again, but it's swallowed up in the howling of the wind.

"All those years I gave Vought everything. I let them dress me, tell me what to say, inject me with that shit. I was everything they wanted me to be, and they used me just like I was a fucking doll for them to play with!" Ben can hear your teeth clenching together in rage, your powers spiking again so that now there is shredded earth, grass, and trees, whirling around the two of you swirling together in a vortex that flashes with purple energy. "But no more. They're all going to pay."

"Y/n-"

You were still rising off the ground getting further and further from Ben's reach and he was scared. He'd never seen you like this before, never seen you lose control or seen you this angry. Sure he pissed you off and you'd occasionally throw a couch around the room, but this was almost insane.

Fuck I should stop pissing her off.

Ben could feel his own rage surging in his chest when he understood exactly what Vought took away from you, when he understood exactly what Vogelbaum had done. But at the same time he was ashamed that he hadn't been there for you, that he hadn't been able to protect you from them, and that he hadn't known the first time you had that fucking nightmare and woke up screaming when he was in bed beside you.

"Sweetheart!" Ben finally shouts, grabbing your hand. As soon as his skin touches yours he feels like he's stuck his finger in an electrical socket,  as if the energy from your body jumping into his is almost painful, but he doesn't let go. He couldn't lose you to this, whatever the hell this was, wouldn't allow himself to lose you again.

Your glowing purple eyes flick to his. "Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't do that?" Your voice is cold. "That my revenge isn't as important as yours?"

"No." Ben shakes his head. "It's important. It's justified. I hate that they did that to you, that I wasn't there to stop them. That I didn't understand until now."

"It's not your fault what happened to me." You shout back, eyes flashing bright purple. "This isn't about you. This isn't your fight!" The vortex swirls faster around the two of you now, blurring everything beyond. "This is about what I need to do!"

"Yes it is!" His hand tightens in yours. "It is my fight if it involves you. I love you and that's what it means. It means us working together-"

"I don't need you to protect me! I am strong enough to do this on my own. I am so sick of people underestimating me and what I can do."

"Y/n please, listen to me!" Ben pleads. He could feel you slipping away and it scared him more than anything he'd been through in his entire life. He wasn't afraid to admit that. The look on your face and the display of power was so different than the person he knew.

You watch him silently, body glowing brightly in the night, floating off the ground as you stare down at him.

"I don't want you to do this alone." Ben says. The storm was still raging, thunder shaking the ground, lightning surging all around him. "I'm asking you to let me help you. Please."

"What?"

"You say that I hide what I'm really feeling, but you do too. You still hide things away from me. You think that you have to be perfect, controlled, some version of yourself that has everything together all the time, but you don't." Ben gently tries to pull you down an inch from the sky. "You've done that since we were kids, always done what you think is expected of you. That's why you almost married that asshole, because you were afraid to just let it go. So I'm asking you to do that now, to let go of all of it, because I promise that I will be right here for through every step of it."

"But-"

"I know I made promises when you chose me, and I'm sorry I let you down, I'm sorry that I let this happen, that I wasn't able to protect you from them." Ben's voice breaks and for a moment he sees a flash of the two of you in your bedroom the night that he asked you to come with him, how young and innocent you were, how much you cared for him reflected in your eyes. "So I'm promising you this now. That I will protect you, that I won't let anything happen to you and that you never have to be alone ever again. Because I love you. So please, just let go and let me in.

The whirlwind slows around the two of you, still ripping up the ground and the grass in the backyard.

"I have to be in control." You say in almost whisper.

"Why?" Ben asks.

"Because if I'm not I don't know what will happen!" You snap. "Someone dies, or you leave again, or they come to take Rosie or Lou away and I can't-" You shake your head, the glow on your body fading for a moment. "I'm not strong enough-"

"Sweetheart, you don't have to be." Ben says, and this time he pulls you from the air so that your bare feet swish in the grass again. His hand falls under your chin to raise your face to his. "That's why I'm here. You don't have to do this alone anymore, you don't have to carry this all on your shoulders. I am here and I am not going anywhere."

"But-"

"Please. I'm asking you to give me your pain, your anger, your burdens, your sorrows. Give me all of you. It's not going to scare me away." Ben whispers, taking your face between his hands. "I know that in the past I haven't been as dependable, but nothing is going to scare me away. I love all of you, even the pieces of yourself you keep from me, that you think you have to, to keep me here with you."

Fuck I sound like a pussy, but it's true. She's all I have and all I've ever wanted. And why shouldn't I say this to her? It's what she says to me. It's what she tells me and I believe her. I believe her when she says that I can rely on her, that I don't have to be strong all the time, that I can break.

He searches your face, brushes his thumbs across your rain soaked cheeks. I just want her to know that she can too and trust that I'll be here for her.

The vortex stops, the pieces of earth, trees, and grass falling to earth, the purple fading from your eyes as they do. You're no longer glowing, no longer a beacon in the night, you're just you, the woman that Ben loves more than life itself, and the woman that he thought he would never have ever again.

"I love you too." You whisper leaning into him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to lean your forehead against his.

He can feel the curves of your body against him, your wet clothes sticking like a second skin, hair stuck to your head, but you're just as beautiful as you always have been. And Ben understands that this time, he's not going anywhere, that he's going to stay with you for the rest of his life, and nothing can keep him away.

Reader POV

"Mindstorm told me." Ben says dragging his hand up your arm. You were laying on his chest in the bedroom, hair still wet, but now wearing dry clothes.

The residual thrum from your use of power was still charging through your cells, but lessened. Honestly you didn't remember going outside, didn’t remember standing in the storm, didn't know how long you were out there before Ben came out.

You were glad he did. You weren't in your right mind when you were out there, and if he hadn't come out you were sure that you were going to charge Vought yourself, tear it down and send it to hell where it belonged. You still wanted to, but you wanted Ben to do it with you. He was right, you didn't have to do it alone, and you didn't want to.

You nestled further into him, remembering what he shouted outside, remember how he held your face with the storm raging around him. He looked so afraid. You had only seen him look scared a handful of times in your life, but out there in the storm was different. It shocked you back into reality, brought you back from the pit, made you feel like you again for the first time in days.

And what he said hauled you further out of the darkness. You had said it to him countless times since he came back, that he didn't have to hide away what he was feeling from you, but for him to say it to you meant that he was listening. To you, Ben saying that made all of this more real, that he really wanted every part of you, that he loved you as much as he said.

The storm still raged outside, thunder occasionally shaking the windows, and lightning flashing behind the closed curtains, but you stayed curled up against Ben. Your head was tucked under his chin, arm wrapped over his bare chest. He hadn't put a shirt back on after the two of you changed, but you weren't complaining about that, there wasn't anything to complain about when it came to that. He was just so wonderfully warm, that you didn’t think you would get used to it. You also hoped that you didn't turn radioactive because of him, but you being here with him, laying on his warm chest made it worth it.

"Did he know about what Vogelbaum did?" You whisper.

Ben's muscles tense beneath your body when you ask that question. You knew that it hurt him, that it made him feel like he'd failed to protect you, but you didn't blame him for that. Even if he had been around, you knew that Vogelbaum would have figured out a way to do it, to get around him. And you didn't like it when Ben felt like he failed, it made you think about all the terrible things that his father used to yell at him when he was a kid. Ben had told you bits and pieces, over the years, and it was enough to make you want to travel back in time and kill his father yourself.

Honestly, you thought about killing him all the time when you weren't a supe as well.

"No. He didn't know that. All he knew was that Homelander was our son." When Ben says the word son he hesitates as if it's difficult for him.

It was also difficult for you, understanding that you had another kid and one that you didn't have anything to do with for forty years was hard. You suddenly understood how Ben felt about Rosemary.

"I should have known." You mutter into his chest.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh loudly. "At the premiere, Vogelbaum was pushing for me to come to the lab, said he was working on raising the "next generation of heroes" or whatever. And then Stan tried to come by and get me to do the same thing after you died, but I broke his nose."

"I remember." Ben mutters.

"What do you mean you remember?" You sit up to stare at him.

Ben raises an eyebrow. "I might have been there with Countess, but do you really think I wasn't listening to everything that was happening around you? He was dancing with you, I was making sure that everything was okay." Ben clears his throat awkwardly. "I mean I know that there was a lot happening that night, but I still wanted to make sure that you were okay."

"I wasn't."

"Yeah I-um- I know." His eyes flick away in shame.

"Ben?"

"Yeah?" He murmurs.

You gently turn his face back to look at you, fingertips under his chin. His green eyes are downcast, brows furrowed, lips pulled down into a frown. You knew how much he was still beating himself up for everything that happened in the past, and it was difficult for you to pretend that you didn't still feel the sting. But you knew he wasn't going to do it again, you believed that.

"It's okay. We're starting over. Just you and me." You brush your thumb over his bearded cheek. "No one else. This time what we're doing, it's different, it all feels different. Don't you think so? I mean I still love you just as much as I always have, but I-" You could feel yourself blush just a little, you weren't sure if Ben could feel that too.

"I know. It does." Ben whispers gazing at you. His fingers push back the strands of your hair that have fallen forward into your face. The way he's looking at you is the same way he did the morning you woke up on his chest after you slept together for the firs time. "I love you too Sweetheart." His lips find yours, gently pulling you up further on his chest so he can kiss you deeply, show you how much you mean to him, and you can’t help but smile into his mouth, feeling warm and happy for the first time in ages. His love dragging you out of the darkness that loomed over you and consumed your heart when Stan told you the truth about Homelander's heritage. 

You sit up, folding your legs beneath you, pulling Ben's right hand into your lap, gently tracing the lines with a finger tip, noting the rough callouses that he'd developed over the years. You weren't really sure what to say next.

Ben sits up so that he's leaning towards you. "Are you feeling better?"

"A little." You continue to trace the lines. His hands were so much bigger than yours, everything about Ben was big, but you liked his hands, mostly because how small yours were when you held his. "I think destroying Legend's backyard was just the right amount of therapy."

"That was a little much, but I'm glad you're feeling better. I was-" Ben swallows. "I was really worried about you."

"I know." You whisper. "It's never been that bad before. The last time I got close was-" You stop mid-sentence.

"Forty years ago?" Ben asks quietly.

You nod.

"I figured." Ben scoots closer towards you so that his thigh is brushing against yours. "I'm-"

"No." You squeeze his cheeks, eyes narrowing. "No more saying sorry. Not again."

"Okay." Ben's gaze is still apologetic. He waits for a minute, watching you in the silence. "What are we going to do about Homelander?"

"I don't know."

It was the truth, you had no idea what to do with your supposed son. You had seen the coldness in his eyes, heard about the horrible things that he was doing to other people, the horrible things he had threatened to do, and you'd seen the way he didn’t seem to care about human life.

Then again maybe I can't judge him, not after what I did to Stan. You think, your frown deepening. Stan deserved what I did to him and my only wish is that Vogelbaum somehow survived getting his head fucking blown off so I can make him pay.

"Do you think we should try to talk to him?" Ben asks.

"I don't think that's possible."

"Why not? He's our son, somewhere deep down he's got to be willing to do that." Ben's voice rumbles up through his chest. "Maybe they brainwashed him into the person we saw at Herogasm, maybe he's just being controlled and told what to do just like we were."

"I don't think that’s possible."

"Why not?" There's an urgency in his eyes that is unfamiliar to you, almost as if he's pleading for you to understand.

But why? Yes he's our son by blood but we don't know anything about him. We haven’t been in his life for forty years, we don't have any connections to him.

"You saw how he was at Herogasm. How he was almost happy to kill Butcher, how he was happy when he tried to kill you and me. I don't know what kind of person is okay with that. I mean you and I have killed people and we feel remorse after, or there's some kind of justification, but there was something in his eyes, it's almost not human. It's predatory, it's-" You shake your head trying to comprehend it. "I don't know what the fuck Vogelbaum did to him, but there's something inside Homelander that's not able to be saved."

"You don't know that."

"Ben, do you think that I want to believe that? To believe that our son is not a good person?" You drop his hand from your lap. "It's taking everything I am not to go to him, not to try and work this out. I keep trying to tell myself that maybe all he needs is family, but I don't know."

"My old man said that blood mattered. That it was the only thing that defined family-"

"Now you want to listen to your dad?" You sigh looking at Ben who is frowning at you. "We both know that he's not exactly the best role model."

"Well neither am I okay?" Ben snaps, his eyes flashing. "Maybe he just needed someone and there was no one there. I mean I wasn't there for Rosemary, but she had you and she turned out fine!"

"That's not your fault Ben. It's not your fault that you weren't there. You can't forget that they sent you to Russia to replace you with him."

"I'm not forgetting I'm just saying that they did the same fucking thing to me!"

Your next thought fizzes to a stop in your brain. What is he talking about?

"What are you talking about?" You try to reach for him, but he pulls back from your touch.

"They force fed him all that shit about what it was to be an American, they made him a supe, they brainwashed him with all my old fucking films." He spits. "But in the lab when we got the serum the first time, they did the same thing to me. They told me that I was going to be a god, that I was going to be the symbol that America needed to get through the war, that I was everything that would save America from destruction."

"Ben." You say again, this time taking his hands and he doesn't pull away. "Ben listen to me. You were older when you became a supe, we both were. You knew what reality was, you knew what the world was like when the scientists started spouting all their crap. You were old enough to understand. Homelander was raised in a lab, he didn't have a family, he didn't have friends. He was told that he was a god every day and he's not. He was raised to believe that he was something more than human, something unbeatable."

"But-"

"They told me that too." You push his hair back out of his eyes, trailing your fingers against his forehead. "That I was a god, that everyone would want me, would look at me and understand that I was beyond human. And at the beginning maybe I believed it for a few years, but that doesn't make him anything like you or like me. He's twisted, his mind is gone, any semblance of humanity he had has been warped away into something dark. He never had any light to begin with."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I can see it in his eyes. I saw it when I fought him at the Herogasm. There's nothing left to save. He's done terrible things."

"I have too." Ben mutters.

"No. You lost control, we all do. It's unrealistic to think that it won't happen, especially not for people like us who have lived this long, but him? He did those things of his own volition, because he believed that he should or maybe it was because he believed that no one could stop him." You cup his cheek, pulling his face forward into the space between the two of you. "The things you've done you feel remorse for. I was there for you every time you messed up. I saw what it did to you, saw how broken you were when you hurt someone."

"Because I'm a hero." Ben sighs. 

"Messing up once or twice does not make you less of a hero Ben, it makes you human." You lean your forehead against his, cupping his cheeks with your palms, feeling the way his beard tickles against your skin. "But Homelander, I don't think that there's anything human left."

Ben's hand comes up to hold on to your left wrist. "Then what do we do?"

"I don't know." You sigh. "I wish I did. If you really want to try to talk to him, we can, but I don't think that it's a good idea."

"He's still our son."

"He's our blood, but I don't think that makes him our son." You murmur.

You really didn't know how to deal with any of this. You wanted to believe that there was some semblance of humanity left in Homelander, but you didn't think that there was. You hated that Ben believed that he was like his son. Maybe that was some weird misogynist thing and Ben kept thinking like father like son in his head, but there wasn't any way that Homelander could be anything like Ben. Ben wasn't around for him, wasn't in his life, but maybe.

Ben pulls you back down on his chest once more, and you nestle into him once more, your head directly over his heart, the warmth of his skin comforting against your cheek.

"I think Noir knew." You breathe, tracing your hand over Ben's right pec.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Stan kinda hinted that he did, said that Noir was obsessed with me after I saved his life-"

"When did you save his- oh." Ben sighs.

"I think I should have seen that coming, given how much he kept showing up to my sparring sessions, the interviews, even some of the commercial shoots I had he seemed to always be around." You frown with a sigh. "I can't believe that I didn't know he was stalking me."

"What?"

"Stan said he kept breaking in to my apartment when I wasn't there, that he stole my necklace, you know? The one my dad got me for my birthday-"

Ben sits back so he can look you in the eye. "You're shitting me right?"

"No. That's what Stan said." You shrug. "Might have been just Stan trying to take some of the heat off, but that's what he said."

"That piece of shit." Ben almost growls. You can see the flash of jealousy and possession in his eyes that makes your heart thud a little faster in your chest. He clears his throat. "You-um- you never liked him right?"

"What?"

"The two of you were never that close?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Well you did save his life."

"Ben I've saved plenty of people from your temper. But no, I never liked him that way. Irving was sweet, but he was always so eager to prove himself to Stan it was just sad."

"Good."

"Why?" You sit up further, smirking at him. "Does that make you jealous? For you to think that Noir and I were together?"

Ben's eyes darken. "Watch it Sweetheart."

"Watch what?" You bat your eyes innocently. "I'm just asking a simple question."

"You keep poking the bear and you're not gonna like what happens."

"Poking the bear?" You snort sitting up and poke him in the ribs. "Are you the bear in that scenario?" You poke him again with a wicked smirk.

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well I think you're all talk. Because I have definitely poked you several-"

You're on your back in a second with Ben hovering over you, his green eyes shining as he flashes a roughish grin at you. One of his hands is pressed into the pillow next to your head, the other is at your waist, slipping beneath your t-shirt to rub circles over your hip bone with his thumb. "You were saying?" His voice is the low rumble that makes it hard for you to think.

You clear your throat. "I was saying that," You thread your hands behind the back of his head, working your fingers into his hair. "You have nothing to be jealous about."

"Really?"

"Mhhmm." You smile sheepishly. "Because it's always been you. No one else. Not Howard, Not Noir, just you." His hair is soft between your fingertips, his gaze unbreakable.

Ben returns your smile and collapses on top of you. You gasp out a breath, in a loud 'oof' sound as he does. His arms go around your waist and he buries his head in your chest breathing deeply. "I like it when you say that." He murmurs, turning his head so he can look up at you from your chest, with a smile that catches you in your heart.

"I know." You continue to scratch your fingertips through his hair.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yeah?" You breathe as you close your eyes, comforted by the weight of his body on top of yours. It was familiar, almost like he was a weighted blanket that took all your anxiety away. You felt safe with his arms wrapped around your waist, as if no one could touch you. You needed that now, needed that after you learned that without Ben someone had taken you from your home.

"I know that I can't say that there hasn't been anyone else." He whispers. "But you're the only one who mattered. You're the only woman that I've ever loved, and I swear that as long as I live I'll never love anyone else. You are all I've ever wanted and everything I thought I'd never have."

"You have me Ben." You whisper, beginning to fall asleep. "You always have, you always will."

And with those words you drift into the first fulfilling sleep you'd had in days, wrapped in the warm cocoon of Ben's love, allowing it to send you under into oblivion.

A/N: I know this one was mostly fluff and talking, but I thought that the reader deserved that after everything with Stan, and also after she well -you know- made a tornado in Legend's backyard. We're going to pretend that no one else heard it. 😂

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist please let me know :)

And if you'd like to read something a little more bantery then try my series: Take A Chance On Me

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[atlabeth]

everything happens for a reason part 22 - zuko x fem!reader

I've been waiting on you

part 21 | masterlist | part 23

a/n: UHHH happy one year anniversary of me not updating!! i missed it by a day but honestly that's very in character. i kind of have no excuse for taking a year long break from this. lol. all i can really say is i lost all my avatar inspo and got really into a bunch of other things and poor little ehfar got left in the corner abandoned!!! but i could never abandon this it's my baby and even if it takes me 1000 years to finish it i will finish it. it's kind of embarrassing that it took so long for this to come out and it's a short filler chapter like who do i think i am.... but everyone is happy and on the beach and yn finally gets some clothes of her own after spending like 7 chapters in prison clothes. anyways enjoy (three more chapters left what?? will it take me 3 years who knows)

wc: 4.8k

warning(s): yn and zuko talk about their pasts and what theyve been through but overall this is a very fluffy chapter

chapter title from seasons (waiting on you) by future islands

The days after their arrival back to the island passed by with relative ease. 

Y/N practiced waterbending with Katara and Aang so she could work on getting the hang of it again. She’d been close to mastery before Ba Sing Se, and her muscle memory was stronger than she realized, but prison and the months without her bending had weakened her. Zuko continued working with Aang on his firebending under the looming deadline of the comet.

Sokka and Suki trained with each other too, working on their hand to hand and sword fighting, and Y/N would occasionally join in to stay sharp on what Suki had taught her back in prison. Her time without her bending made her realize how much she relied solely on it, and she never wanted to feel defenseless again. 

They continued to share stories every night over a campfire. They all had plenty to talk about after everything they’d been through, especially when Zuko had been against them for half the time, Suki was leading the Kyoshi Warriors, and Y/N was stuck behind bars. 

And of course, Zuko and Y/N spent as much time together as they possibly could. They were practically attached at the hip—sitting together at meals, watching one another bend on their breaks, training against each other the way they used to, exploring the island together, just being with each other. After everything they’d been through, Y/N thought they deserved it. 

Eventually though, it was decided that they had to leave. Being in Fire Nation territory, even in the middle of nowhere, was risky. They were running out of food and supplies in general, and the possibility that Fire Nation ships would still somehow discover them weighed on their minds. They couldn’t afford to get caught so far into their mission, especially with the traitor prince of the Fire Nation on their side. 

Zuko’s idea, however, was possibly even riskier. 

“Ember Island?” Y/N asked hesitantly. “That’s… bold.” 

“We’re already being bold by staying in Fire Nation territory,” Zuko said. “We’re safe from Azula for now, but it’s only a matter of time before she somehow finds us again.” He shrugged. “My family’s vacation home is the last spot anyone will think to look.” 

“I think it’s a great idea,” Sokka said. “It’ll be nice to not fight for our lives for a minute before we make the final push.” 

Aang adjusted his hold on the reins—they’d already packed up Appa and started flying before Zuko proposed his idea—and shrugged. “I’m okay with it. Zuko and I will be able to keep training, and you all can relax in an actual house.”

“And we’ll be able to go to the beach!” Toph exclaimed. “I’ve been meaning to work on my sandbending. And,” she grinned, “I’m betting none of you have heard of sandball fights.”

“We’re really getting ourselves into something,” Katara said dryly. 

Y/N smiled and she leaned into Zuko’s side. He wrapped his arm around her immediately and pulled her closer.

“I’ve always wondered what Ember Island was like,” Y/N mused. “I was always so jealous when you and Azula got to go there on vacation every summer and I was stuck at the palace.” 

“You weren’t missing much,” Zuko said wryly. “Yeah, there’s beaches, but mostly it was just unbearably hot.” He frowned. “My father still made me do work even when we were supposed to be on vacation. I’ve done a lot of swordfighting here.” 

“I missed you,” she said, and she knew that she would never get tired of seeing Zuko’s cheeks flush red. 

“Really?” he asked. “Even then?” 

“Especially then,” she clarified. “It wasn’t like I had much going on for me there. The palace was extremely boring without you.” 

“Spirits, you guys are gross,” Sokka groaned as he looked out at the sky. “Suki and I haven’t been like this, have we?” 

Katara chuckled. “You definitely have. You could barely stay off of each other when you got back from the Boiling Rock.” 

“Just imagine what they were like when they first got back together,” Zuko said with a frown. 

“Neither of you can say anything,” Toph asserted. “I can hear both of your heartbeats shoot up every time you’re around Y/N and Suki.” 

Zuko scowled, Sokka’s face flushed, and Suki and Y/N just smiled at each other. 

“So Ember Island is a yes?” Aang asked. When everyone nodded in agreement, he looked at Zuko. “I’m in need of your navigation skills, Sifu Hotman.” 

He groaned. “I told you to stop calling me that.” 

“I know,” Aang said cheerfully. 

Zuko just sighed, and he kissed Y/N on the cheek before he moved to sit next to Aang. She smiled, and she let her hand hang over the side of the saddle. 

“...I guess it is nice not seeing you two argue all the time,” Sokka said after a moment. 

“It’s nice that you two aren’t moping around all the time either,” Toph added. “That was kind of annoying.” 

“Imagine how I felt,” Y/N said, though it was absent minded as her gaze stayed on Zuko. 

“I don’t have to imagine it,” Toph said. “You were very clearly mopey.” 

“And when you weren’t mopey, you were angry,” Suki contributed. “You said you were imagining Zuko’s face whenever I taught you new moves at the Boiling Rock. You beat him up a lot there.” 

Sokka and Toph laughed, but it was a moment before she said anything. It took Katara saying her name for her to turn back around, and when Y/N did, she blinked for a moment. “What?” 

Katara chuckled, glancing at Zuko before she looked back at her. “We’re just glad you’re back.” 

Her expression instantly brightened as she smiled. “I’m glad to be back.” 

-

It didn’t take long for them to arrive at Ember Island—and if it did, Y/N was far too busy conversing with her friends and watching Zuko for it to matter. She grimaced as she slid off of Appa, one hand taking Zuko’s and the other wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. 

“Spirits,” she mumbled, “I thought I was used to Fire Nation heat by now.” 

“Me too,” Sokka groaned. “But this is already worse than all the other places we’ve been to.” 

“Ember Island’s always been like this,” Zuko said. “The good news is that it’s Ember Island. There’s plenty of beaches—we’ve even got our own private one.” 

“Good for practicing waterbending,” Katara said with a glance at Aang. 

“Good for practicing all kinds of bending,” Zuko said. “You’re gonna need to practice your firebending every day if you want to stand a chance against my father. We’re running out of time and you’re nowhere close to being a master.” 

Aang frowned. “Way to bring down the mood, Zuko.” 

“I’m being realistic!” he defended. “You can’t just end one hundred years of war with some good luck and an optimistic mindset!” 

Sokka shrugged. “It’s worked for us so far.” 

Zuko opened his mouth to say something that would definitely cause an argument. Before he could, Y/N laughed, looping her arm through his and tugging him along. 

“Come on,” she said. “Show us around.” 

Zuko sighed, though his show of annoyance was negated as he pulled Y/N closer. “Fine. It is about time I’ve brought you here.” 

“Ugh.” Toph kicked at the sand with her foot. “I think Zuko’s just brought us along on his couples vacation.” 

“Oh, quiet,” she joked. “We’ve earned it.” 

Toph stuck her tongue out. “Doesn’t mean we can’t complain about it.” 

Y/N chuckled as they walked together, the rest of the group trailing behind them. 

“Spirits, Zuko,” Sokka marveled when they stepped inside the house. “This is huge.” 

“It is the summer home of the royal family,” he said dryly. “My father never settles for anything less than perfection. It also gave us more room to avoid each other when he was causing arguments.” 

“I can’t imagine that happened a lot,” Katara said sarcastically. 

“Never,” Zuko agreed with the same tone. “He almost burned down the place a few times.” 

Aang frowned. “Sounds like a great guy.” 

“I know you’re not a violence guy, but if there’s anyone you’d enjoy fighting, it’s my dad,” Zuko muttered. 

“I’ll do it for the good of the world,” Aang said. “Not because I’ll enjoy it.” 

Zuko grimaced and opened his mouth to say something, but Y/N interrupted once more before they could devolve into this conversation again. 

“Like Sokka said, this place is huge.” She placed a hand on Zuko’s arm. “Will we have our own rooms?” 

Zuko’s brows creased a bit, but he nodded after a moment. “Yeah. There should be enough for all of us.” 

“Suki and I can share,” Sokka said, stretching his arms out casually to reach one around Suki. She laughed and leaned her head against his chest, and he looked far too pleased with himself. “Tryna make up for lost time, y’know?” 

“Gross,” Toph scoffed. “I’ll take my own room, please.” 

Aang glanced at Katara for a moment before he cleared his throat and nodded at Zuko. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Katara was too busy looking at a mask sitting on a mantle. She picked it up and glanced back at Zuko. “What is this from?” 

“One of my mother’s favorite plays,” he said. “She was an actress before she married my father, and every time we came here, we’d always go see some shows. They gave her the mask of the lead character after the end of one production a few years ago, as thanks for her patronage.” 

“Oh, we should definitely go see a play while we’re here!” Y/N exclaimed. “I got my hands on some old play scripts when I was still working in the palace, and the other servants and I would spend hours reenacting our favorite parts.” She chuckled. “It would be nice to see actual actors do it.” 

“We should be able to carve out some time for that,” Zuko said. “Between all the training, of course.” 

“You are such a downer,” Aang groaned. 

“I’m seeing the full picture!” he defended. “We’ve still got a lot of work to do—just because we’re at our vacation home doesn’t mean we’re on vacation.”

“After all this is over, we definitely deserve a vacation,” Sokka muttered. “Before all the rebuilding and restructuring and relegislating starts…” The smile fell from his face. “Wow. We’re never gonna get a vacation.” 

“Oh, perk up, ponytail,” Toph said. “We’re going to end the endless war and defeat the undefeatable Fire Lord. If we want to take a vacation, no one can really stop us.” 

The smile reappeared with surprising quickness. “That’s true!” 

Zuko laughed softly. “Your rooms should be on the first floor. You can explore and divide the rooms yourselves. I,” he looked at Y/N, “want to show you something.”

She smiled as Zuko pulled her closer with an arm around her shoulder and made for the stairs, leaving a rapidly growing argument over room selection in their wake. 

“Do you think they’ll have decided by the time we get back down?” Zuko asked. 

Y/N shrugged. “This is the first time they’re sleeping in rooms instead of camping on the ground in… Spirits. Since Ba Sing Se, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if they go at it all night.” 

He chuckled as they stopped in front of a room, and Zuko pushed open the door so they could walk in together. 

“This was my room whenever we came here,” he said. “I figured we could share it.” 

“This is the height of luxury,” Y/N commented, stepping out of Zuko’s embrace to run her hand over the sheets. Her lips quirked into a smile. “I can’t believe you slept on a bed like this every night.” 

“You’re telling me they don’t have this kind of stuff in the North?” Zuko asked wryly. 

“No,” she chuckled, “definitely not. We were more focused on not freezing.” 

“Well, we’re more focused on pointless displays of luxury,” he said, “so you’re not too far off.” 

Zuko ignited the tip of his finger and began lighting candles around the room, and Y/N glanced at him with amusement as she sat down on the bed. 

“Mood lighting,” he explained with the sliver of a smile. “I think we deserve some time alone after the past few days.” 

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You know the way straight to my heart.” 

Once he was done he sat down next to her, and Y/N intertwined their hands together and pulled him down so they were laying on their backs. She rested her head on Zuko’s chest and he moved his arm around her to keep her close, tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. 

“Wonderful mattress,” she sighed. “So this was what you were up to while I was sewing clothes and doing endless loads of laundry.” 

“I thought about you a lot more than you probably think,” Zuko said. She turned her head a bit to look at him, slightly surprised, and he shrugged. “Honestly? When we were kids, I thought about you pretty much constantly. My father always told me not to talk to servants, but I didn’t see you as anything other than my friend. You were… kind of my only normal friend.” 

“Well, you were kind of my only friend, period. All the other servants were way older—they just felt like a different version of my mom.” Y/N’s gaze rose to the ceiling. “I wonder how they’re all doing.” 

“They should be okay,” Zuko said. “No one really caused as much trouble as we did.” 

Y/N laughed as her gaze flitted around the room, taking in all the details. A portrait of the royal family hung on the wall, while a much smaller, lone portrait of Zuko sat on a desk in the corner. He didn’t look very happy, but she couldn’t imagine sitting for that many paintings as a child was fun. What looked to be a half-finished message sat on the desk, the ends of the scroll rolling up and obscuring most of the inked letters. A neat stack of towels and blankets were on top of a clothing chest in the other corner, and she chuckled a bit. In her experience of doing his laundry in their youth, it seemed to be something he still hadn’t grown out of. 

“I can practically see little Zuko running in here after a day at the beach,” she mused. “The ends of his clothes singed from fighting with Azula, his hair drenched from swimming, getting sand all over the sheets.” 

“I wasn’t that messy of a child,” he complained. “I… I did come home with my clothes singed a couple times, though.” 

She chuckled. “I know. My mother had to fix a lot of your outfits because of it.” 

“It’s not my fault that ‘hide and blast’ was her idea of fun!” he defended. 

“Hide and blast?” 

“One person hides, the other person searches. By… blasting fire everywhere.” Zuko shook his head. “I don’t know all kids around the Fire Nation were as crazy as us or if Azula invented it herself.” 

“...Yeah,” Y/N said with a slight laugh. “We definitely didn’t play that in my village.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” he said. “None of you were firebenders.” 

“I was the only waterbender in the village though,” she said. “There were a couple other earthbender kids, but it made me feel so special. We would always play together and try to mix our bending together.” A small yet wistful smile tugged at her lips. “That feels like forever ago, though.” 

“I know what you mean,” Zuko murmured. “I was banished three years ago, but a lifetime has changed since then.” 

“For the better?” Y/N murmured. 

She could feel Zuko nod. “Definitely.” 

Their door was then pushed open more, and Suki poked her head in through the gap. A grin appeared on her face at their closeness. 

“I see the lovebirds are making themselves at home,” she mused. 

Y/N laughed as she sat up, pulling Zuko with her. She smiled at the sight of his flushed cheeks. “We’re trying.” 

“We believe in knocking here in the Fire Nation,” Zuko grumbled. 

“The door was open,” Suki said cheerfully. “And I’d like to steal your girl for an afternoon outing.” 

Her eyebrows shot up. “What for?” 

“Well, I’d like to explore the island some, and I figure we’re the lowest profile out of our whole group,” she said. “We’ve also missed out on some shopping while we were stuck in prison—we’ve gotta get our hands on some Fire Nation clothes.” 

Y/N’s eyes lit up. “That’s a great idea! Leya’s dress is beautiful, but Earth Kingdom clothing sticks out a bit more than I want.” 

“And I’m in literal prison clothes,” Suki said. “The sooner we’re in red, the better.” 

“That’s… probably smart,” Zuko amended. “There’s some gold pieces in my bag. It should be more than enough for both of you.” 

“Are you sure?” Y/N frowned. “You don’t have to—” 

“You think I didn’t take a bunch of money from the palace before I left?” Zuko asked wryly. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Suki’s smile grew. “Just call it reparations.” 

Zuko huffed a laugh, but Y/N cut him off as she pulled him in for a kiss. 

“You’ll be alright while we’re gone?” 

“Of course,” he said. “This is my home, after all. If anything, I should be asking you that.” 

“I’ve got the leader of the Kyoshi Warriors with me,” Y/N said. “If anyone decides to mess with us, it’s going to be their problem—not ours.” 

Suki laughed and gestured with her head, and Y/N stood up and started walking backwards. “I’ll see you later—try to have some fun here.” 

“I don’t have fun,” he called out as she was walking out, and she just shook her head with a smile. 

“You’re really dating a ball of sunshine there, aren’t you?” Suki joked. 

Y/N bit back her growing smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

-

The rest of the day went by in a breeze. 

Y/N and Suki spent a few hours in town, chatting and shopping and even doing some reconnaissance at the end, just to make sure they were truly undercover at the vacation home. Doing rookie spy work with a Kyoshi Warrior was surprisingly just as fun as the shopping part—and after what she and Zuko did to free her village, it was surprisingly easy. 

The sun was still high in the sky when they got back, dressed head to toe in Fire Nation finery. Zuko and Aang were in the midst of training when the two of them went around back to find their friends, and when he saw Y/N, his fire died out and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. 

(“Yeah,” Zuko had stammered when she asked his opinion, “You look really good.”

“Thanks,” she said, and she felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “I feel pretty good.”

“Fire Nation clothes suit you,” he said, and he pulled her into a kiss. “It’s about time you’ve gotten some.”

“Technically, I wore them for a few months,” she said wryly. “Prison clothes and all.”

Zuko scoffed. “That doesn’t count.”

“And I wore them for most of my childhood,” she mused. “Servant clothes and all.” 

“That counts even less!” he insisted. 

“But thank you,” Y/N finally said with a smile. “I was hoping you would like them.” 

It was an effort to bite back her joy every time Zuko would sneak a look at her while they continued their training.) 

The rest of the day was just mostly spent getting used to everything. The last time the vacation home had been occupied was when Zuko, Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee visited, so a lot of adjustments needed to be made. 

Katara insisted on washing all the sheets, and Y/N decided to join in because of her waterbending—Aang wanted to talk with Katara, Zuko wanted to be with Y/N, Toph wanted to ask him a bunch of questions about Ember Island, and Sokka didn’t want to be left out, so soon enough, the seven of them were all sitting on the steps of the house doing laundry and telling stories. 

Soon enough, the sun had set and the house had been cleaned what felt like ten times over. Everyone had retired to their own devices except for Y/N and Zuko, who were walking along the shore arm in arm. 

“I think I like beaches,” she mused. “The nearest ocean had no beach back home, and all we had in the North was ice. You Fire Nation folk are lucky.” 

Zuko chuckled. “I don’t know if it’s luck. We’re just one big island with a lot of humidity.” 

“Still,” she leaned her head on his shoulder, “it’s nice. We should visit here together once all this is over.” 

“Of course,” he nodded. “I know I’m going to be the Fire Lord if all goes well, but there’s going to be a lot of diplomacy trips.” She felt his eyes on her. “You can join me on all of them.” 

“Of course,” she repeated. “The Fire Lord’s Earth Kingdom-born, waterbending girlfriend will be so welcome.” 

“If you’ve learned one thing through all of this, it should be that I don’t care what anyone thinks when it comes to you,” Zuko said. “I want you there with me. You want to be there with me. That’s reason enough.” 

Y/N chuckled, and she ran her thumb over Zuko’s knuckles. His hands housed callouses, borne from hundreds of hours of explosive firebending and sword-fighting and years of life on the road. She always wondered how hands that treated her so softly, that revered her, were so capable of violence. 

“I know there’s going to be a lot of expectations for us,” she said. “Especially once you take the throne. But I— I’d like to take things as slow as we can.” 

“Of course.” Zuko squeezed her hand, his brows creasing. “I don’t care what anyone says or wants or expects. I love you, Y/N—we’ll go at our own pace.” 

“It’s just because we’ve spent the past year trying to kill each other,” Y/N said with a nervous laugh. “If we could spend this next year being in love with each other, that would be really great.” 

That actually got a laugh out of Zuko, and he gestured with his head towards the sand. When they sat down, he pulled her into his side. They fit perfectly together. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I think we’ve already gotten a headstart on that.”

“Good,” she said. 

Y/N sighed as she moved closer into Zuko’s embrace, his warmth a shield from the cool night breeze. She’d always run cold, and having a personal hearth made things much easier. 

“I wish we didn’t have to go through so much to end up with each other,” she murmured. 

“Believe me,” Zuko sighed, “I know.” 

“But my mother always told me that everything happens for a reason,” Y/N said. “And… I guess she’s right. Because I don’t think we would be here if all this hadn’t happened.” Something inside of her twisted, and though she tried to suppress it, the words came out before she could really think about it. “And sometimes I— I wonder why I’m still here.” 

He frowned slightly, allowing a short glance down at her. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean… you know what I’ve had to go through to get here. My village, the palace, the North, this journey with Aang, the capital prison, the Boiling Rock…” she shook her head. “Countless others have died or gotten hurt trying to protect me or save me. Our group— we were the first ones ever to escape from the Boiling Rock. So why do I get to be here? Why is my father gone, but I’m still here? I don’t deserve it more than he did. I certainly don’t deserve it more than Yue. So… I don’t know. Sometimes I just can’t understand why I’m the one that got to make it when so many others haven’t.” 

“Don’t say that,” Zuko urged. 

“It’s not the way you think,” Y/N said honestly. “It just feels like we’ve beaten every single odd.” 

“Maybe we have,” he said, “but it’s certainly not out of luck, or chance.” Zuko took her hand and intertwined their fingers together, giving her hand a squeeze. “You fought every step of the way to get here—a lot of the time, you were fighting against me. You’ve earned every good thing you’ve gotten, Y/N, and I think I might spend the rest of my life trying to be someone worthy of you.” 

“Zuko,” she lamented, “you already are.” 

“It’s not the way you think,” he echoed wryly. “I’ve loved you since the beginning, and despite everything, you still love me too. You kept giving me chances because you believed in me for some stupid reason. I wouldn’t be where I am without that—without you. I want to be the best version of myself every day so you know you made the right choice.” 

Y/N felt the heat rush to her cheeks as she smiled, squeezing his hand back. Nowadays, they were almost always touching in some way. Tonight reminded her why—she never felt more comforted, more at peace, then when she was with Zuko. 

“You… kind of just hit my next point,” she said with a nervous chuckle, curling into his side further. 

“Don’t tell me it’s more self-doubt,” Zuko said. 

“I can’t help it!” she defended. “I— I just have to make sure.” 

“Of what?” 

“That…” Y/N paused, her mouth suddenly dry. “That I’m still the one you want. Even after all that’s happened. After all that’s going to happen.” 

Zuko frowned, and he took her other hand, lacing their fingers together.  “Of course. Y/N, it’s always been you. It’s been true forever, even if I haven’t always known it.” 

“It’s not going to be easy,” she said softly. “I’m Water Tribe and Earth Kingdom. Your people aren’t just going to accept that, especially with you as their leader.” 

Zuko actually laughed at that, and he gave her a sideways smile. Months ago, staring into his hardened eyes used to bring her close to tears. Seeing him smile now, reassuring doubts that seemed so pointless in the face of his love—even after everything, Y/N considered herself the luckiest girl in the world. 

“Y/N, we’ve gone across the whole world doing things no one ever has,” Zuko said. “The seven of us are going to end a war that’s been going on for a century. Aang is going to defeat my father, and he shouldn’t even be alive. We’ve beat every single odd against us. I think getting my people to like you will be the easiest thing we have to handle.” 

“You think so?” she asked. The tension had dissolved some from her shoulders, her worries dissuading with each honeyed word. 

“I know so,” Zuko assured. “I’m gonna have to change the Fire Nation from the ground up. There’s no one else I’d want by my side while I do it. My people will see you the way I do, and they’ll love you just as much.” 

Y/N leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his lips. Sometimes she still couldn’t get over the fact that she could just… do that. Just kiss him, just smile with him, just be happy with him. Yue shone down on them as she pulled away, Zuko’s features glowing in the moonlight, and Y/N hoped her friend knew she was so much of the reason she’d gotten here. 

Happiness seemed out of reach, out of her cards entirely, for such a long time, and when she had it, it always felt like such a precarious thing. Sometimes she still remembered those days in the tea shop, the night in the catacombs. 

But with Zuko finally by her side, it was a tangible thing. Something she deserved. Something she already had. 

“We’ll do it all together,” she murmured. 

“Together,” Zuko agreed. 

And she laid back down on the sand, bringing Zuko with her. He pulled her closer, tucked into his side as he wrapped his arm around her. They laid there in silence, Zuko’s warmth heating her from the inside out, staring up at the starry night sky and reveling in the feeling of just being with each other. 

Together.

-

i'll tag ppl here because it's been uhhhhhh fucking YEAR and everyone's prob forgotten it exists and i also did tag lists while this was coming out but please do not ask to be added bc i dont do them anymore!!

ehfar tags: @chandies-sideblog @zacatecanaaaa @anzanity @randomthingssssss @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @shanksfav @shephard17895 @ilovespideyyy @whats-my-question @selfship-mishaps @ilistentotayswifttocope @i-make-questionable-choices @3leni @thatobsessedreader @lostgreekgod @oriontingz @zerode-unhinged @badpvn @mimi-sanisanidiot @adhdhufflepuff @aquaamethyst96 @hollyismentallyillhelp @holypoetrygarden @islandgayneery @pitrii-petra @jinxed-jk @veras-fanfic-reblogs @cloud-9ine @lucifersidepiece @kiskzawagnerwhore @froggi-00 @eajalova @mrsyixingunicorn10 @xxxxxxdelenaxxxxxx @cafesho @the-natureofme @whoevenfrickinknows @a-bit-late @zukowantshishonourback @settlebackeasy @jemssafespace @wildwallflower24 @calmoistorm @mich1551-blog @inutheangel @sagemastah @avrilh

[purple-writer8]

Long Story Short - ACOTAR

“And he’s passing by, rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky. And he feels like home, if the shoe fits walk in it everywhere you go.”

warnings: war, war injuries, past relationship tension, new mating bond, self doubt, angst (but like not a lot), allusions to sex

1.9k words

Part 2 to Closure

Masterlist :)

You fought in the Winter Court battle along with Thesan and the Dawn Court’s Peregryn legion. You were a skilled warrior, trained by Rhysand himself— you used to love training, now you despised those memories. 

Looking into the mirror in your bathchamber, you flinched as your fingers grazed over the purple bruises forming on the side of your face. It wasn’t pretty, it was horribly gnarly looking. A Hybern warrior had given you a hard blow to the face, beating you to the ground. If it wasn’t for one of the Peregryn warriors, Thesan would have probably needed to plan a funeral for you. 

It was all a blur. One day you were mourning Rhysand and your failed romance, the next you were fighting in a war alongside him and all of the other courts. You had told Azriel that you did not care to make amends, and you meant it. But this was for a greater good. 

A soft knock came upon the bathchamber, making you snap out of your haze and exit to find your brother standing there. Thesan looked miserable. Your brother was a protector, ever since you knew reason, and this war— the casualties— took a steep toll on his mental health. “Why are you here?” 

He was supposed to be back in the war camp with everyone else. You only left because you did not wish to heal and sleep amongst Feyre and Rhysand. The wounds in your heart still needed time to heal.

“Azriel is hurt.” Thesan looked distraught. You could not explain the way that your heart plummeted at those three simple words. For some reason, it made your heart ache— the thought of Azriel hurt. “It’s his wings. I could not heal them… they are not the same as Callan’s. Will you try?” Thesan asked, and instantly you nodded. Your healing abilities were good, almost as good as his. You could try. 

Your brother grabbed you and in a blink of an eye, you were winnowed away. 

-

A chill ran down your spine when you winnowed into Azriel’s tent. He was screaming, Rhysand holding him down as he writhed in the bed— his wings shredded in a horrible manner. You felt yourself freeze, eyes wide— it was like you could feel his pain— and you would do anything to stop it. You would rather take on his pain than let him feel it. 

Rhysand was there too, but for the first time ever, you didn’t even glance at him. No, instead you rushed to Azriel, kneeling besides him. There was something in your heart, something that made you strain, that broke you— all because you saw him in pain. 

He stopped his thrashing when your hand reached for his face, his hazel eyes widening by the bruise that overtook your own face. “What happened?” He asked, as if he weren’t the one with shredded wings. 

“Nothing. I am fine,” you assured him, feeling like he was truly gravely worried for your wellbeing. His eyes remained on you, searching all over your body for more injuries. “I am not the problem, please sit so I can heal you. Please,” you begged him, feeling like you couldn’t breathe the longer you stared at his wings. 

He sat up, and you got to work.

-

You spent all night working on his wings, and by dawn they already looked much better than when you had come in. Azriel had fallen asleep, and he had slept peacefully for many hours all while you watched over him. You did not sleep at all, you were sick with worry. 

“Thanks for coming, I know that you took a harsh beating in Winter,” that velvety voice you had once worshipped whispered from the doorway. To turn and see Rhysand there, in Azriel’s tent, made you angry.

You almost wanted to tell him to leave, but you were in no place to make commands. This was still his camp. “I came for Azriel. He doesn’t deserve this,” you responded bitterly and you meant it. 

Ever since that talk the two of you had in your balcony, you had become obssesed with the shadowsinger. For some reason, you could not get him out of your head, even in the battle, while killing and fighting— you thought of him. “Well, I thank you. Thesan was drained after the battle and struggled to heal him… when he said you would do it… I doubted,” Rhys confessed, his violet eyes drifting to his sleeping brother. 

“You think I am so selfish that I wouldn’t heal him just because he is your friend?” You asked, and you truly tried to reel in your emotions, but they were too strong for you to control. It wasn’t even about Rhys, you realized, it was about him thinking you wouldn’t help Azriel. 

“You can sometimes be selfish, yes.” Rhysand shrugged, and you wanted to lunge foward and strangle him for suggesting you were selfish. He was the epitome of selfishness, and here he stood— accusing you after you came and healed his brother. 

You had tried avoiding him ever since Thesan told you the Dawn Court would fight alongside him against Hybern. You tried picking your battles, and decided Rhysand was not a battle worth fighting, yet here the battle stood, picking you. 

You decided to ignore the dig, your gaze drifting to the still asleep shadowsinger and asking, “how did he get so hurt?” 

“He went to save Feyre’s sister from the Hybern camp,” he replied, and you could not explain the jealousy that surged within you at the mention of Azriel saving that girl. 

Those freaks of nature bring more harm to Prythian than good, you wanted to tell Rhysand about his mate and sisters, but once more figured it wasn’t a battle worth picking. 

A groan escaped the shadowsinger, and instantly you ran to his side, helping him sit up in bed. His facial expression was one of pain, and you knew taht he was trying his best to mask it. But you knew... you felt his pain. 

“How are you?” Azriel croaked, his voice more hoarse than usual due to all of the pain filled screams he let out the night before. You scoffed in disbelief, “me?! I am not the one whose wings were torn apart.” 

He winced at the reminder, but still his hazel eyes did not leave yours. “You healed me…” he said in the gentlest of tones, making your heart skip a beat. You frowned, wondering why in all of Prythian your heart was thundering inside your chest. 

“Will he heal fine?” Rhysan’s icy tone snapped you out of the trance Azriel has you in. You turned to him and nodded, scowling at the High Lord. “He will heal completely but he will not be able to fly for a while.”

Azriel protested, saying how he felt fine. Though one cold glare from you made him sink back down unto the bed. Rhysand noticed this, how you were able to tame down Azriel with just a look. “For how long?” The High Lord asked. 

“For a few weeks, at least. For the health of his wings, he can not fight anymore battles…” you trailed, looking at Azriel with a solemn expression. You somehow knew he wanted to fight, to protect his family and Prythian.

“How is Elain?” Azriel asked Rhysand, and you snarled. You had always been a jealous female, but always over Rhys, never over anyone else. 

“Fine. Shaken up but fine, everyone is fine… we will be meeting up later today to discuss some things. Join us, Az…” Rhys’ violet eyes shifted to you, “you may as well.”

“Thanks for the permission,” you mumbled sarcastically. 

Rhysand stared at you. A cold, unforgiving glare, then soon after you felt those talons you had once adored caressing your mind. He wasn’t looking for a way in, no, he was reminding you who he was— what he could do. You didn’t say anything, only glared at him as he left Azriel’s tent. 

A beat passed and you turned to the shadowsinger, “I’ll get you some food.” You were quick to your feet, and before Azriel could protest, out the tent you went.

You didn’t understand your new and— quite blinding— feelings regarding the Night Court’s shadowsinger. You’d known Azriel for almost a century, and you had never cared for him further than for friendship. And now, suddenly, you felt as if you had been stabbed when Rhysand said he had been hurt because he went to save another female. 

Was this your mind’s sick way to get over Rhysand? You stood over a pot of rice that boiled on top of a bonfire, filling a ceremic pot you had found with rice and chicken for Azriel. 

Azriel. While you swooned over Azriel, some Ilyrian warrior snatched the plate from your hands and walked off. You shouted an obscenity, but the male’s glare made you shrink back into yourself. 

Fuck your life. You looked back to the pot that had been cooking and realized that plate contained the very last of the rice and chicken. You couldn’t let Azriel starve. 

You groaned and got some more rice from a nearby sack, throwing it in the boiling pot and letting it cook. A yawn escaped your lips as you watched the rice cook, then a few minutes later— it was ready for him. You served him a big bowl and went back to his tent. 

You went inside, only to find Azriel squirming in bed, his large wings twitching uncontrollably. You gasped, setting the bowl down and rushing to him. “What happened?!” You shrieked as you tended to him. 

“It’s nothing, really. I just stood up too fast,” he tried keeping it cool, but you knew well that he was hurting. You looked up at his face, and you gasped when you felt it. 

A mating bond snapping inside your soul. So strong it almost sent you flying to the floor. 

“What the fuck?!” You asked in shock, your chest rising and falling in a heratic manner as you stared up at the Ilyrian male. He looked devastated, solemn as he looked at you. “Im sorry…” he whispered, and you frowned. 

“Why would you apologize?” You asked, still reeling from the knowledge of who your mate was. “It is disappointing, I know. To be mated to me instead of who you always wanted. If you wish to reject me…” 

“Why would I reject you?” You asked in shock, your mind running an entire marathon as you thought about everything that this meant. Azriel was your mate… Rhysand’s brother was your mate. You had known him for ninety years and you never felt the bond, no… because you were in love with someone else before ever meeting him.

“Why would you accept me?” You reeled from his words, and your heart— you could feel it— begged you to accept him. 

Because you thought back to the years you lived in Velaris, to your interactions with Azriel and the Inner Circle. 

One Winter Solstice, before Under the Mountain, you and Rhysand got into it— and it was bad— one of the biggest fights you had ever had. You had left the townhouse in a hurry, not even putting on your shoes and coat. Rhysand demanded you to come back, his voice thundering in your mind over and over again. You didn’t. You were so mad, you sat in a small Velaris coffee shop— freezing to death— until Azriel appeared. 

He held your shoes and a coat. You wondered if Rhysand had sent him, though he hadn’t— because Rhysand was still ordering you back in your mind. 

As you recalled the many times Azriel only ever showed you kindness and gentleness, you took the bowl of rice you had made, handing it to him. 

His hazel eyes widened in shock. He looked at the bowl, as if it was the most grandiose thing in the world. “You are serious?” He asked, his tone soft and gentle. 

“Please eat, Azriel.” 

-

Two Years Later 

Losing Rhysand felt like falling off a precipice. Loving Azriel was like climbing right back up that hill. It was absolutely everything. Your mate was… perfection reincarnated. He swooped in. Just when your life could not get worse— he came in and turned it all around. 

You never thought in a million years that Azriel would be, could be your mate. You had pined for Rhysand for ninety years for cauldron’s sake. But now… now you only ever thought of your doting mate, of the male that taught you that love could be something beautiful, something that you didn’t have to beg for or ask for. It was given freely, willingly. 

You were currently sitting on your bed, preparing the final touches for Azriel’s winter solstice gift. It was already noon, and he had spent the day with his family in the Night Court as you had asked him to. He had wanted to skip his family’s celebration, but you didn’t let him. 

Your relationship with the IC was still difficult, you and Rhysand were not yet completely healed from your ninety year tryst— but regardless of that, you never wanted Azriel to push his family away. Even though Rhysand and him had definitely grown apart. 

Rhysand didn’t care about the bond, that was what he claimed. But then he grew hostile, and always sent Azriel on long missions— away from the Dawn Court where you resided, or he didn’t let Azriel visit you. He wasn’t jealous, obviously. He had a mate and now a son. Rhysand just did not think you were enough for Azriel. 

You hummed a solstice tune as you fixed up the little gift box, and just as you finished it, your beautiful mate winnowed into your room. You squealed, lunging at him and wrapping your arms around his neck, eagerly kissinng him. 

Azriel chuckled, “my angel seems happy to see me.” He hugged you back, despite the flowers he held in his beautiful hands. You nuzzled your face into his chest, warmth and love engulfing your senses instantly. Azriel was your home. 

He kissed the top of your head as you pulled away. “How was it?” You asked him, watching as he moved to his dresser, carefully discarding all of his leathers. “Good, but would have been better if my angel mate was there,” he groaned the last part, still upset he didn’t spend winter solstice morning with you.

“Your angel mate was preparing your gift and spending the day with Thesan in the village,” you answered in a chirpy manner. You did not care that he hadn’t been there in the morning. All you cared was seeing him, period. 

You watched as he changed his leathers into more comfortable clothing, salivating as you ogled the way his muscles flexed with any sort of movement. After he was done, he turned to you, a smirk adorning his handsome face, “ready for your gift?” 

“Are you my gift?” You asked excitedly, making him laugh as he grabbed a tiny box from his discarded coat pocket and strided across the room towards you. Cauldron forgive you, but this male was your religion.  “No… well… later.” He said, his voice gentle and soothing as always. 

His loving arms wrapped around your waist, pressing you closer into his figure. You looked up at him, smiling as he leaned down to engulf you in a passionate kiss.  “I go first,” he whispers as he pulls away and hands you the velvety sapphire blue box. 

You squealed and opened it to reveal two sets of keys. You smiled, eyeing the pieces of metal before looking up at Azriel with inquiring eyes. “I bought us a house in Velaris… near the hills…” He trailed off. 

He eyed you for your reaction and then his wings twitched in excitement, “and a home here, in the city.” At that statement you gasped. 

“What?!” You shrieked, eyeing the keys in sheer shock. He had bought two houses?! For you?! 

“We can never agree on a place to live. You don’t want me away from my family, and I don’t want you away from your brother. So I figured… we split our time as we wish… I’ve spoken to both Rhysand and Thesan and they have agreed, we can go and come as we please. We get to live together without sacrificing our lives in our home courts.” Azriel explained, and the way he spoke made your insides flutter beyond remedy. 

“You are serious?” You asked in shock, not expecting such a thoughtful and frankly, expensive gift. Azriel nodded, “all I want is to be near you. I will buy a home wherever you want as long as I have you. I know you don’t want me to leave my family… and I would hate for you to have to compromise for me…”

“I… fuck, my gift is so bad.” You cursed, rubbing your temple as happy tears swelled your eyes at the thoughtfulness of your mate. Thoughtfulness a partner had never given you in the three centuries you had lived. 

“Angel, you are the only gift I will ever need. You know that. This bond… is everything I ever wanted, and more.” Azriel kissed your forehead as he soothed you. You rested your head on his chest until he asked, “is my gift the leather cuffs I wanted for my armor?” 

“Yes.” You groaned. 

“Fuck yeah, angel. Cassian will be so jealous when he sees what Nuan came up with.” You giggled at his words and handed him the box. 

You watched as your mate eagerly opened and then put on the brand new mechanical cuffs. They were black and blue, and had some features that apparently would make him a more unbeatable opponent. “I feel like this is so bad compared to the TWO houses you just gave me.” 

“Sweetheart,” he frowned, “you think I kid when I say my mate is my most exquisite, excellent gift?” 

You rolled your eyes playfully, only for him to tackle you to the bed, his wings flaring wide as he peppered your face with sweet kisses all over. “You are all I have ever wanted.” 

You laughed gleefully and gave in to your loving mate. 

Long story short, you survived. 

-

Taglist: @mybestfriendmademe @wallacewillow0773638 @lilah-asteria

[i2rizz]

Fast and Furious! Pt.2

Fandom: Blue lock | masterlist

Characters: street racer!Kaiser x reader

I noticed yall liked the street racer au soo i made more content for it:>

----------------------------------------------------

The streets were alive with the electric hum of engines, headlights piercing through the thick night air. Neon lights glowed faintly in the distance, reflecting off rows of sleek, modified cars lined up like gladiators waiting for battle. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, punctuated by the occasional roar of a revving engine.

You leaned against a cobalt-blue Porsche, its glossy paint reflecting the crowd’s energy. The car’s owner, Michael Kaiser, was perched in the driver’s seat, adjusting his gloves with a level of nonchalance that only he could pull off.

“You ready for this?” you asked, stepping closer.

He glanced up, a smug grin playing on his lips. “When am I not?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. That confidence—borderline arrogance—was part of what made Kaiser so irresistible.

“Just don’t get too cocky,” you teased, leaning through the open window to ruffle his perfectly styled blonde hair.

“Please,” he scoffed, gently swatting your hand away. “This guy doesn’t stand a chance. But I’ll make it interesting for the crowd.”

The “guy” in question was a cocky up-and-comer with a custom black Dodge Charger who had challenged Kaiser earlier that week. The prize? Bragging rights and a hefty wad of cash.

“Five minutes!” someone called, the crowd beginning to gather at the starting line.

Kaiser opened the door and stepped out, his tall frame commanding attention. He sauntered over to you, casually draping an arm around your shoulders. “Stay close,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the show~”

------------‐---------------------------------------

Engines roared as the racers lined up, their cars growling like beasts ready to pounce. You stood at the sidelines, your heart pounding in sync with the vibrations beneath your feet.

Kaiser’s Porsche was a thing of beauty, its custom mods practically glowing under the streetlights. He threw you a wink from the driver’s seat, his confidence palpable even from a distance.

The starter—a woman in a leather jacket with a checkered flag—raised her hand, the signal for silence. The world seemed to hold its breath as the racers revved their engines one last time.

“Three… two… one… GO!”

The flag dropped, and the cars shot forward, tires screeching against the pavement. The crowd erupted in cheers as the racers tore down the street, their taillights streaking like comets.

Kaiser was a maestro behind the wheel, his movements fluid and calculated. He drifted around corners with surgical precision, leaving his opponent scrambling to keep up.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he muttered to himself, glancing in the rearview mirror.

The Charger was gaining on him, its roaring engine a testament to raw power. But Kaiser wasn’t fazed. With a flick of his wrist, he shifted gears, the Porsche surging forward with a burst of speed.

The course wound through the city, weaving between towering skyscrapers and narrow alleyways. You watched anxiously from the sidelines, your hands clenched into fists as Kaiser executed each maneuver with maddening ease.

“He’s gonna win,” someone said behind you, their voice tinged with awe.

“Of course he is,” you muttered, a proud smile tugging at your lips.

Just as the finish line came into view, a distant wail cut through the night—a sound that made your stomach drop.

Police sirens.

The crowd scattered like leaves in the wind, the once-buzzing street now a flurry of panic and motion.

“Cops!” someone shouted, confirming your worst fear.

Kaiser was already in action, his Porsche swerving sharply as he abandoned the race and headed for an alternate route. You barely had time to react before he pulled up beside you, the passenger door swinging open.

“Get in!” he barked.

Without hesitation, you dove into the car, the door slamming shut behind you. The Porsche roared to life once more, tearing down the street as red and blue lights lit up the night.

Kaiser’s hands gripped the wheel tightly, his usual smugness replaced by a laser-sharp focus. You held onto the seat, your heart pounding as the Porsche sped through the city at breakneck speed.

“Are you seriously smiling right now?” you shouted, glancing at him in disbelief.

“Admit it, this is thrilling!” he replied, his grin unmistakable despite the chaos.

“You’re insane!”

“Only a little,” he quipped, cutting through an alleyway so narrow you swore the mirrors would scrape the walls.

The police weren’t far behind, their sirens growing louder with each passing second. But Kaiser was relentless, weaving through traffic and taking turns so sharp they left your stomach in knots.

Finally, he pulled into an underground parking garage, the sudden silence almost deafening. He killed the engine and motioned for you to follow him out of the car.

“Quick,” he whispered, leading you through a side door that opened into yet another alley.

The two of you emerged into the cool night air, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you listened for any sign of pursuit. When none came, you turned to him, your anger finally bubbling to the surface.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you hissed, shoving him lightly.

He caught your wrists, his grip firm but gentle. “Relax, liebe.(love) We’re fine.”

“Fine? We were almost arrested!”

“But we weren’t,” he said, his smirk returning. “Because I’m just that good.”

You wanted to stay mad, but the sheer audacity of his words—and the way he was looking at you, like you were the only person in the world—made it impossible.

“Next time,” you said, trying to sound stern, “give me a heads-up before dragging me into a police chase.”

“Noted,” he replied, pulling you closer. “But admit it, you had fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small laugh escaped you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, his voice softer now.

You didn’t reply, instead letting him wrap his arms around you as the adrenaline began to fade. The night had been chaotic, dangerous, and utterly unforgettable—just like Kaiser himself.

------------‐---------------------------------------

I love him (i say this to every fictional man i see)

[suguwu]

MOON EATER I THREE

"But truly, Master Diluc—why am I here?"

"I would wed you," he says, flexing his hands in his lap. "If you are amenable to it."

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

masterlist

pairing: diluc ragnvindr x f!reader

notes: i've been sitting on this chapter for a while, so i'm excited to send it out in the world!

content: marriage of convenience, politics, some manipulation, pining, jealousy, some jeanlisa if you squint.

wc: 4k

The winery is almost entirely empty when Diluc steps inside after you. Jean is corralling the few stragglers, giving quiet orders to the remaining knights, her blue eyes as gentle as the summer sky. She’s in ceremonial wear and it hones her; he thinks of a sheathed blade. 

“Jean,” he says. “You don’t need to do that.” 

She turns to face him, a soft smile curling up on her lips. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, the color of the pearly dawn. It’s the one she gains when she’s caught doing something she knows she shouldn’t.

(“Father,” Diluc said, innocent as a newborn fawn as Jean and Kaeya shifted at his side.  “You wanted to see us?”

His father eyed them with a raised brow. “I don’t suppose the three of you know anything about the pie that went missing from the kitchen.” 

Kaeya fidgeted with his sleeve, his slender fingers working at the cuff of it. Diluc elbowed him in the ribs subtly. “No, Father,” he said.

His father studied each of them carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, Diluc saw the blush rising to Jean’s cheeks, a soft pink that was slowly darkening. 

“Jean?” his father asked.

“I’m sorry!” she cried out, and Diluc groaned.)

“I was just helping—”

“Jean. You don’t need to help.” 

She bites at her lip and Diluc softens. He’d forgotten how much she needed to feel useful. But this close, he can see the bags under her eyes, the deep blue-gray of a stormcloud. “My staff has it under control,” he says. “And you’re a guest.” 

“But—”

“Go home and rest.” 

“I can still—”

“Jean.” 

“Alright,” she says quietly. “I just need to give a few more orders, that’s all.”

He nods and starts to step away.

“Diluc?”

When he turns to face her, he takes a sharp breath. There’s something like sorrow shining through her expression, something bone-deep carved into the curve of her mouth.

“Is this really what you wanted?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, but she’s watching him carefully, her gaze a comet streaking through the sky, the blue of it cutting through the heavens’ tender underbelly. It cuts through him, too.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says after a moment.  

Jean smiles, starshine at dawn, a slow fade of light. “I thought you might say that.”

Diluc stays quiet, meeting her gaze steadily. 

“You’re as stubborn as ever,” she says, shaking her head, but her voice is fond. 

“Master Diluc? Stubborn? Perish the thought,” Lisa says as she joins them, wrapping her shawl around her pale shoulders. 

Jean heaves out a beleaguered sigh, but she can’t quite hide the twitch of her lips.

Lisa laughs, light and tinkling, looping her arm through Jean’s. “Come on, darling,” she says. “Let’s let the newlyweds have their night, yes?” She throws Diluc a bold wink. 

Heat scorches across his cheeks, a supernova burn. He’s able to disguise his choke as a cough at the last second, though from the glimmer in Lisa’s jade eyes, he hasn’t hidden it well enough. 

“Lisa!” Jean scolds.

The mage laughs again. She’s every inch the cat who got the canary, her lips curling into a delighted little smile. 

“Goodnight, Diluc,” Jean says, all but dragging Lisa away. Lisa lets herself be led, snuggling in close to the blonde as they leave. It smushes some of the roses in her hair, but she doesn’t seem to care that she’s leaving a trail of petals behind. Diluc sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry about her,” you say as you join him. “She’s a handful.”

“I’m aware.” 

You laugh, picking a cecilia out of your hair and rolling the short stem between your palms. The bloom whirls with it, a ballerina’s tulle skirt, a light dusting of pollen floating down from it to tint your fingers gold. It catches the light as you raise your hand to cover your yawn.

Diluc frowns. “You should go to bed,” he says. “It’s been a long day.” 

You hum. “It has been,” you say. “I don’t suppose you intend to sleep soon?”

“I need to speak with Adelinde.” 

“Alright,” you say. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.” 

He watches you go upstairs, the hem of your dress flowing behind you, a silken spill of moonlight. 

You don’t look back. 

He turns on his heel. Finding Adelinde is easy; she’s in the midst of giving orders to some of the staff. She hands off a mostly-empty platter of tiny, delicate golden-brown pastries to Hillie when she sees him.

“Master Diluc.”

“Adelinde,” he says. “How is the clean up going?”

“We’ll be done with the food soon. The rest can wait until morning, I believe.” 

“Good.”

Adelinde pauses. She looks at him for a moment; her jade eyes have a knife’s edge to them, her gaze an autopsy cut. Her lips draw tight, a wound of a mouth. “You mean to go out tonight.”

“Yes.”

“If I may, Master Diluc,” she says, “you now have a wife.”

“That has no bearing in this. The Knights will be lax tonight, lulled into complacency by the celebration. I heard a few mention continuing at Angel’s Share after they return to the city. I cannot leave Mond unprotected.” 

Adelinde does not frown. Instead, her face smooths out into an impenetrable mask, porcelain breathed to life. “Very well,” she says. “At least wait until she’s asleep.” 

“The sooner I leave—”

“At least wait until she’s asleep,” she says, voice sharp. “It is your wedding night.”

“When she’s asleep,” he allows.

Adelinde nods. “Goodnight, Master Diluc.”

“Goodnight, Adelinde.” 

He goes upstairs quietly. There’s a soft light filtering from under the door to your room. He sighs and heads into the master bedroom, settling at the small desk in front of the windows. He lights the candles with a flick of his wrist; the flames devour the wick, leaping high before settling into a low, sweet glow. He’s just beginning to shuffle through a few papers when one of the hallway floorboards groans, a warning song.

“Diluc,” you say from the doorway. The candlelight barely reaches you there; it casts you into shadows, a new moon’s outline against the velvet of the sky. “May I come in?”

He stands. “Yes,” he says. “What is it?”

You step inside. The cecilias are gone from your hair, but you’re still wearing your dress. Your smile is a bit sheepish, but there’s a secret tucked up in the corner of it. “My dress,” you say. “The maids are all so busy. Can you undo the top few buttons for me?”

“I—what?”

“It’s hard to undo them from this angle,” you say. “Please?”

He takes a breath. “Alright.” 

You turn as he steps closer, the delicate train of the dress swirling at your feet, a whirlpool of silk. It exposes the line of buttons marching down the back of your dress, rigid against the soft flow of the fabric. 

The buttons are tiny things, pearls that shine like little moons even in the low light. He bites back a curse as they slip against the leather of his gloves. He tries again, gently tugging on a button, but it refuses to come out of the loop holding it tight. He changes the angle, but it’s no use; he runs afoul of the slick surface again and again. He huffs in annoyance and bites at the tip of his index finger to peel off his glove, letting it drop to the ground.

He tries again and finally, the button slips free of the little loop. The fabric separates. His fingertips—rough, heavy with scars from burns and blades alike—brush against the cool slope of your back, skin against skin. He goes still. 

You glance at him over your shoulder. You’re still shadow-kissed, but your eyes gleam in the dim.

(“Forgive my forwardness,” you said. “But there is the small matter of lovers.”

Diluc coughed. He glanced at you and saw no hint of a joke. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lovers,” you said, that rosebud smile rising to your lips, petals yet unfolded. “If you should take one, I only ask that you be discreet. I would do the same, of course.” 

Something in Diluc’s chest went cold. It was bone-deep, as if the Dragonspine winds were cutting through him. “You would take a lover?”

“I do not know the future,” you said. “But if I should, I would be discreet, as I said. Is that alright?” 

Diluc took a deep breath. “If you wish it, I would hardly stop you.”

You inclined your head to him with a little smile. You moved on to another topic like a river current, slow but inexorable. Diluc barely heard any of it, your voice muffled, as if you were speaking underwater. He only came back to himself as you gathered your things and bid him farewell. 

“Master Diluc,” you said at the door. He glanced up at you, your features softened in the light streaming in through the windows. “I should mention that I would not mind you in my bed instead of a lover.” 

Diluc choked.

By the time he recovered enough to speak, you were already gone.)

He undoes another button. Then a third, and a fourth, each little pearl slipping from its loop with ease. His thumb traces over the salt of your skin until it slips just beneath the fabric. He pulls just enough for the gap between the fabric to widen. He drags his thumb along the crescent moon sliver of revealed skin; a callus catches against you. You take in a sharp breath.

Diluc pulls back as if burned.

“There,” he says, clearing his throat, his cheeks hot. He knows they’ve gone scarlet, that there’s a deep flush painted over his whole face. “They’re undone.”

“Thanks,” you say, glancing over your shoulder once more. Your lashes catch the shadows like a spider’s web. It only serves to better illuminate your eyes. He swallows. 

“You’re welcome.”

You study him for a moment before you smile, as soft as the breaking dawn. “Goodnight,” you say.

“Goodnight.” 

The door clicks shut behind you. Diluc listens as your quiet footsteps fade away; there’s a distant thud as the door to your room closes too. He sighs, leaning down to pick his glove up off the floor. He slides it back on as he crosses to his closet. The night is still young and he knows what he must do.

When he’s dressed, he opens the secret compartment to his desk. He stares down at the owl mask that’s ensconced there. It gleams in the low light, the severe point of its beak a wicked hook. Diluc tucks it away under his cloak before he opens the window. 

With the lush vines clinging to the winery walls, it’s an easy climb down. He looks up when he reaches the bottom. There’s still a light glowing faintly in your window. His chest aches, as if a ribbon is tightening around it, but he ignores it and slips on the mask.

He has work to do.

—

Morning comes far too soon.

Diluc’s room is still steeped in blue, but the promise of morning is apparent on the horizon where golden fingers of light are reaching into the sky, scraping their way through the darkness. The birds are just beginning to stir, their chirps still subdued, a few plucked notes before the melody. 

It feels like Diluc has just only collapsed into bed, but the stars that had been watching over him when he stole back into his room have gone out, fading beneath the dawn. He sits up and scrubs a hand over his face, wincing as it pulls at the fresh set of lilac bruises blooming on his right side. He prods at them carefully. 

The ache sinks its teeth in as he brushes his fingertips along the biggest of them. It’s still darkening, a galaxy caught under his skin. It remains tender as he gets ready for the day; it takes effort to not compensate for it in his movement. 

By the time Diluc heads downstairs, the winery is already stirring to life. A few maids scurry past him; he can hear the vineyard workers starting to make their way through the vines, checking them after the harvest. But most of the activity is centered in the heart of the winery, where the remnants of your wedding reception are. He watches as two of the servants unhook a floral garland from the rafters, petals raining down beneath them. The petals whirl through the air like snowflakes, thick and white, and Diluc brushes one off when it lands on his shoulder. He’s in the middle of plucking another out of his mass of crimson hair when the floorboards whisper your arrival. 

“Oh,” you say. “They’re taking them down already? A shame.”

He glances at you. “I am sure Adelinde would be open to keeping them up, should you wish it.”

“It’s fine. I just thought they might keep them up a little longer while they’re fresh.” 

“I see.” 

You reach out and let a petal drift into your hand. It’s a little bruised at the edges from being shaken loose, but you don’t seem to mind. 

“Do you think I could have a few for my room?” you ask.

“A few—”

“Flowers,” you say. “I’m sure many of them are still intact even after the garlands are taken down.”

“Of course. Any that you would like.” 

“Thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” he says, adjusting his cuff. “It’s—this is your home too, now.” 

You pause. When you look at him, he can’t quite make sense of your expression. “Yes,” you say quietly. “I suppose it is.”

“I hope you will be comfortable here.”

You smile, the slow rise of a crescent moon. “I’m sure I will be. Though I intend to return to Liyue soon.”

“Of course. Do you know when?”

“I expect that I’ll return within the week.”

“Oh? That’s later than I expected.”

“So eager to be rid of me?”

Diluc flushes, the heat of it spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “No, I—”

“I’m only teasing,” you say. “I haven’t been back to Mond in a while. There are some things I should handle in person.” 

“I see.”

You examine him for a moment. Whatever you see must satisfy you, for you glance back at the workers, still diligently undoing the reception decor, autumn come indoors, the flowers stripped away to reveal bare wood. A petal flutters down into your hair; Diluc thinks of the gentle fall of snow. He starts to raise his hand to pluck it out but you shift and the petal drifts to the ground. He halts before tugging at his glove instead.

“Now,” you say, turning back to him, “I need something to eat. Will you be joining me for breakfast?”

Diluc shakes his head. “The vintners asked for me today,” he says. “The earlier I can speak with them the better.” 

You hum. “Okay. Have a good day.”

“You as well.” 

You flash a small smile before inclining your head to him. “Husband,” you say. You dart off before he can respond. He watches you disappear, the moon dipping below the horizon. 

Husband, he thinks. 

He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that.

—

The days roll by. Diluc buckles down to work, caught up in the hubbub of the end of the harvest season. He oversees the grape crushing, the little fruits popping beneath the press until they’re must, all pulp and juice. A few small buckets of grapes are set aside for the children of the workers; they’ll stomp them to their hearts’ content, their chiming laughter drifting through the vines as they cling to each other for balance, their little feet dyed dark.

(“C’mon, Luc!” Kaeya cried, already scrambling towards the tub filled with ruby-red grapes. His eye was shining, starlight bright, a grin spread wide across his face, his usual reticence washed away. Diluc knew it was his favorite time of year; the other boy loved every moment of the harvest season and all that came with it.

 “Hurry up!” Kaeya called. He had already rolled up his pant legs and stepped into the tub, his face lit with joy, a summer sun in the autumn chill.

Diluc huffed but climbed in after him. The grapes popped beneath his weight, squishing up between his toes, a pulpy mess of skin and seeds. He stomped once, twice, and felt more of them burst. 

Kaeya reached for his hand; Diluc twined their fingers together and held on tight as the scrawny boy started to jump in place. Kaeya laughed wildly, the sound picked up by the wind and carried away like seeds. He jumped again and almost slipped. Diluc caught him at the last minute, hauling him up with a giggle. They joined hands again and began to twirl in a circle, stomping away as they went.

They laughed as they spun around together, holding on tight to each other as juice started to gather beneath their feet. Their skin went purple with it, a galaxy splashed up to their calves. The golden afternoon sun shone down on them; sweat gathered on their brows. But they kept going and going, unrelenting until the last of the grapes had burst beneath their feet.

They panted as they climbed to the side of the tub. Kaeya sat on the edge of it, swinging his feet as the maids went to gather towels for them. He was incandescent with delight, a shooting star streaking across the night sky, and Diluc grinned. 

“Good work, boys,” his father said, coming down the path. He’d clearly met the maids halfway; there were towels slung over his broad shoulder.

Diluc puffed up with pride; next to him, Kaeya smiled, shy but pleased. His father handed them the towels and watched as they wiped their feet clean.

“Ready for the next step?” his father asked. 

Kaeya nodded eagerly, but Diluc balked.

“Can’t we stomp more grapes?” he asked.

His father laughed, as warm as the sun. “Maybe later,” he said. “But now you need to learn what happens next.”

Diluc sighed.

“C’mon, Luc,” Kaeya said, bumping his shoulder against Diluc’s. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Diluc said. “There is.”)

Diluc sighs, nodding to Connor as he takes his leave. He heads back to the winery; a few of the workers call out greetings, but no one tries to stop him.

Adelinde appears as soon as he steps inside the winery. She inclines her head to him, her hands clasped in front of her. “Master Diluc,” she says.

“Adelinde,” he greets. 

“Is everything in order?”

“Yes,” he says. “Everything is ready for processing. It was a good harvest.” 

“That’s good to hear.”

“I’ll take some of Elzer’s work with the Wine Guild so he can concentrate on processing. If you see him, please let him know.”

Adelinde purses her lips. “Master Diluc, Elzer is perfectly capable of handling both. You have enough on your plate.”

“My decision is final, Adelinde.”

She examines him for a moment, her jade eyes sharp, a flaying gaze. “You don’t need to make amends for your absence,” she says. “That is the past.” 

Diluc flinches. Adeline watches him steadily, her face impassive, but her eyes have softened, have crinkled around the edges, sweetly fond. He flexes his hand, searching for words, but his tongue is leaden in his mouth.

Adelinde takes pity on him. “The vineyard workers are starting the fertilization process today and tomorrow,” she says. “Is there anything you wish to let them know?”

“No. I trust them.”

“Good.”

Diluc adjusts his cuff. “Is that all?”

She smooths her hands over her uniform skirt, as if erasing wrinkles that aren’t there. “Your wife’s travel arrangements are complete. She means to leave tomorrow.” 

He nods. “Where is she now?”

“She went to the Dandelion Sea, I believe.”

“By herself?”

“She has an escort. One of the knights. Though it is my understanding that the knight would not be able to return with her due to a patrol.” 

Diluc rolls his shoulders, trying to loosen the broad line of them. “When did they leave?”

The corners of Adelinde’s lips creep upwards, an ivy tendril curve, barely noticeable. “A few hours ago.”

He nods curtly. “Thank you, Adelinde.”

“Of course, Master Diluc.” She disappears, light on her feet despite her heels, barely a whisper of sound to accompany her.

Diluc leaves the winery to head to the stables.

—

The Dandelion Sea stretches vast, the flowers rippling in the breeze like waves lap at the shore. The sun is high in the sapphire sky, a halo burning bright, the dandelions stark white under its kiss. There are seeds floating through the air, faintly glowing, scattered like falling stars. 

Diluc ties his horse to a tree, leaving her to graze on some long grass, and begins to make his way into the Sea. More seeds come loose, dancing around him like snowflakes; they settle into his mane of hair, the crimson of it bleeding to something darker against the soft white of them. They catch on his jacket, too, dotting the ebony cloth until it’s a glittering night sky. 

It doesn’t take him long to find you. He can see faint figures at the edge of the Sea, where the trees cast shadows, a sweet pool of shade. He heads towards you as the breeze picks up. It carries a peal of laughter to him, bright as the sun, swirling around him. 

“Oh,” you say as he draws close, standing up before he can stop you.

The knight you’re with comes to attention—far too late. “M—Master Diluc,” he stammers. 

Diluc clicks his tongue. The knight goes shame-faced, glancing away from his thunderous visage. 

You smile, a glaze lily unfolding under the moon’s tender touch. You touch the knight’s vambrace lightly before turning to Diluc. His gaze stays on where you’re touching the knight still, your fingertips lingering against the metal of his armor.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say. “Is something wrong?”

Diluc blinks, vermilion eyes flickering back to you. “No.”

You pause, as if waiting for something. Diluc blinks again. Your smile flickers, a guttering candle. The knight shifts in place.

Diluc turns his attention to him. “You can go,” he says curtly. 

“But—”

“You have patrol soon, don’t you, Anselm?” you ask. “You should head out.” 

Anselm glances at you. “Oh. Of course.”

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” you say. “It’s appreciated.”

The knight nods, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. He gives you the Ordo’s salute. “Let the wind lead,” he says before turning to leave.

Diluc doesn’t bother to watch him go; he keeps his gaze on you. That rosebud smile blooms on your lips again, as inevitable as the sun’s rise. “Poor Anselm,” you say. “You have quite the scowl, Master Diluc.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “Was he going to leave you here alone?”

You sigh. “It’s perfectly safe here.”

“So he was.”

“You’re here now,” you say. “So it hardly matters.”

Diluc bristles. “It matters to me. The Knights have their duties—”

“They cannot attend to every single civilian. The roads to the Sea have been clear for weeks, anyway. Or did you see something on your way?”

He furrows his brow and sets his jaw. “No.”

“The Knights aren’t as incapable as you think,” you say softly. You peer at him through the fan of your eyelashes, the shadow cast by them soft against your cheeks. “And besides, as I said, you’re here now. I know you’ll keep me safe.” 

Diluc takes in a sharp breath. He tugs at his glove and glances away.

You don’t seem to notice. Your attention has returned to the Dandelion Sea. The meadow sways gently in the wind, a honey-slow shiver. You trace a finger over a dandelion; it stays whole despite your touch, the Anemo energy holding it together brightening for a breath before it fades again, a firefly glow.

But when you flop into them, the dandelions puff up, the seeds scattering like starfall. They yield to you like a blessing, giving you everything they have. The seeds catch in your hair, your clothing, your eyelashes. You turn your face up to the sky, the sun bathing you golden.

It strikes Diluc that you are pretty. 

(Burnished by the light, you were lost amid the golden leaves of the sandbearer tree. You climbed and climbed until you were shining bright in the cerulean sky, a sun all your own. Diluc watched from the ground, mouth agape.

When you glanced down, the shadows crossed your face in bold strokes. It softened you, blurred the edges of you. Except for your smile. Your smile cut through the shadows like a single stark slash of a sun-bright knife.

Diluc looked up at you, at that smile, and suddenly, he knew what pretty meant.

It meant you.)

It’s not the first time he’s realized it, but it feels new. It’s in the curve of your back, a cathedral nave of muscle and bone; it’s in the way the sun filters through the leaves to touch you like a lover, a stained-glass kiss. The dandelion seeds catch on your eyelashes like moonlight, and it hits him again: you’re pretty. 

And you’re his.

He pushes the thought away. You might be his, but it’s in name only. He knows better than to assign meaning to it. There’s nothing between the two of you aside from a certificate with your signatures upon it. 

But that’s fine.

That’s all he needs it to be.

[thebestofoneshots]

Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Series Masterlist | Previous episode

Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 7.7 K Warnings: None. Prompt: You can always count on your friends to have your back. Alt- Making sure James gets to go on that date. This IS a wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it. Proofread by sweethearts: @aremuslupinsimp & @profoundpidgeon

Chapter 29: With a Little Help from My Friends

The next morning, the castle was submerged in chaos. With the mess the headless hunt had caused in the Slytherin Common room, most of them had left early and encountered the traps you and Remus had set up all over the dungeons. From dung bombs to stinky mist and firecrackers, the whole thing had been chaos. 

You’d sent Comet, Minho and Nox an anonymous warning in advance, telling them not to rush out of the common room as fast as they could in the morning, and to watch their step. You assumed it had been enough since they seemed relatively unharmed at breakfast. You still had yet to see the boys that morning, they hadn’t made it to the great hall. None of them. It made you slightly anxious to say the least. Severus, Mulciber and Barty weren’t around, and the latter’s roommates seemed unharmed, which was reassuring, they were probably still rolling on their beds.

When you went back to the common room you spotted Remus, he had his wand pointed at Peter while he held his friend’s jaw with his free hand. Peter looked horrified, so you rushed towards them “What are you–” Peter turned his face, he had a huge bruise on his left eye, and his nose was swollen. You winced, the fall from Evan’s hand must have been nasty.

Remus looked relieved with your interruption and took a step back from Peter, taking your shoulder and your lower arm in his hands and pushing you in front of the boy, “You do it instead. You’re better at charms.” 

“Do what?” You asked as he handed you a piece of paper with a spell written on it, “You want me to fix his nose?! Are you insane?” 

“You have to,” Peter said, voice a little hoarse, no doubt from the pain. You shook your head. “I can’t go out like this, let alone to Pomfrey, she’ll assume I was out with Sirius and James for the prank. Can’t get punished, I’ve got a date tonight.” 

You gave him an incredulous look, and then it dawned on you that Peter wasn’t the only one with a date tonight. James would be absolutely bombed when he realised he wouldn’t be able to go out with Lily. 

“But I’m… This is serious medicinal magic Peter, people study for years to be able to do it.” 

“Please,” he begged, he tried to make puppy eyes but his swollen nose and left lid didn’t help him much, he looked like he urgently needed the bathroom instead. “Please, please, please.”

You gave Remus a side glance as if asking him to back you up, but he said,“ If anyone can do it, it’s you luv,” instead. 

You groaned, closing your eyes and bouncing in your place before nodding and grabbing the paper again, rereading the instructions. The text was leaning to the side, handwriting neat, but clearly rushed, Remus’ handwriting. That was at least a little tranquillising, if it had been Moony the one to find the spell, then it must have been a good one. “Have you ever used this one?” 

“Sirius is the one that uses the fixing charm. He’s used it on James before,” Remus reassured. 

“On his face?”  

“On his shoulder,” he said as he shook his head lightly. 

You gave the boys another unconvinced look, “Peter are you sure you–“ 

“Pleaaaaase Vix,” he repeated, a little more desperate this time around. 

You huffed, “This girl better snog you so much you forget about the pain,” you said as you gulped and raised your wand towards your friend’s face. He shut his eyes like he was about to get hit, “Don’t make faces Wormy, it’ll make it worse.” 

“You think–” he started, raising his eyes towards you and looking a lot more relaxed, but you didn’t let him finish his words and cast the spell. He yelped at that, stifling a scream, before turning to you a little crossed, “Oi, where’s my warning?” 

“They say it hurts less if you’re not expecting it,” you said with a shrug, he instantly frowned at that. 

“Did it work?” he asked Remus. The werewolf made a face and Peter looked positively mortified, but then Remus started laughing and passed Peter a small mirror that was sitting on a nearby table.  

The swelling was gone, and the bruise was fading rapidly “You’re brilliant!” He told you as he stood up and shook your shoulders, delighted by how much better he looked already. 

You almost laughed, “I still have some radiant complexion potion, you want a little?” 

“Cosmetics?” he asked with a frown. 

“It helped me with the bruises on my jaw from Monday,” you said, pulling down the collar of the sweater you had been wearing to show your almost spotless neck, not low enough to show Sirius’ still fading hickey. But Remus was taller, and he easily spotted it, averting his gaze as the image of Sirius kissing your neck popped into his head. “Could help yours fade faster.” 

“And it’s not really cosmetics either,” Remus explained, “Technically it would be more of a–” 

“Will it make me more handsome?” Peter interrupted. 

You raised your eyebrows at him, “uhh… It’ll make you more radiant.” 

“Then I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Sure thing Pete,” you said, “by the way, do you know anything about Pads and Prongs?” Peter shook his head. 

“They didn’t make it to our room at all, I think Slughorn took them to McGonagall. She must be livid.” 

Then you heard the door of the portrait open and you spotted the boys, shoulders slumped, dark circles under their eyes, both looking completely defeated as they walked inside. You frowned as Sirius let himself fall on the sofa with a sigh, he had a bruise near his eye and another one on his left cheek. James seemed even more upset than Sirius, but he was in better condition, just some redness near his jaw. 

You looked at them with worry and frowned, the survivor’s guilt gnawing at you. Peter and Remus seemed to be taking the sight of them a lot better than you did. You sat on the table in front of the boys, Remus took the armchair and Peter sat back down on the edge of the sofa, turning his head to look at them. 

“So…?” the shortest asked. 

“We can’t play tomorrow,” Sirius said as he tensed his jaw, “McGonagall said it’d serve us right for picking up fights with the Slytherins. If only she knew.” 

“What?!” you asked, shocked. 

“And we have detention all day, no Hogsmeade either,” Sirius continued. 

“No Lily,” James groaned, hiding his face in his hands. 

“Will the Quidditch match be cancelled then?” Asked Peter with a frown, “two of the best players won’t be there.” 

James shook his head with a sigh, “We’ll call in the reserves.” He then sat up, eyeing you closely. “You’ll be the seeker.” 

You looked attentively and nodded. “I’m not too happy about that,” Sirius grumbled. You looked at him with a frown, ready to argue about being a good seeker when he spoke again, “Barty will be playing beater,” he informed. “I won’t be there.” 

“I can dodge.” 

“Because you have a great record at dodging ,” Sirius said sarcastically, a smile playing on his lips. You gasped and swatted at him playfully, his shrugged in response.

“Marlene will be there, I trust her,” you said in a more serious tone. 

“Yeah, I trust her too, but not the Slytherins. And I have no clue who will play instead of Evan.” 

“He also got punished?” you asked surprised. 

Sirius nodded with a smile. “Slughorn was absolutely pissed, didn’t even let him talk before he started reprimanding him for bringing the honour of the house down or something like that.” 

“Will they let you come to the game, at least?” 

James shook his head, “McGonagall said the team would survive without us for a match. Although, I’m sure she wasn’t too happy about it, it was Slughorns’ idea.” 

“How will you tell Lily about your date?” Peter asked. James just pouted in response. 

“She’ll never, ever give me another shot.” 

“Maybe… she doesn’t have to…” 

“That’s incredibly uplifting, thanks Vixen,” the boy spat a little crossed.

“Shut it, Prongs! I’m trying to help,” you uttered, and turned to Remus. “Remember what I told you about the potion from Slughorn?” 

Remus looked at you, eyes filled with shock. “You surely wouldn’t be considering…” You nodded, a tight smile dancing on your lips.

 “What are you considering?” Sirius asked, feeling a little left out. 

“Polyjuice potion,” you said, turning back to your boyfriend with a confident smirk.

James looked up at you, a mix of shock, and gratefulness reflecting behind his glasses. “You… you’d do that?” 

You shrugged, “I deserve the punishment as much as you do anyway. I’ll take the potion and pretend I’m you while you’re in detention today. That way you don’t have to reschedule the date with Lily.”

“But what if they make them do men’s work in detention?” Peter asked, a little weary.

“There isn’t any men’s work I cannot do,” you said with a scoff. You’d eventually regret those words. 

As you had planned, you had done. You’d gone to your room to pick up the potion and then met the boys in their room closely after. 

“Ready to be me?” James asked you as you stared at the potion in your hands. You threw him a look but nodded, extending your hand to his head and plucking a single piece of hair, before throwing it onto the flask you had used to store the potion. You weren’t sure how long it was going to last, so you had separated enough to recharge its effect in the middle of the day in case it was necessary. 

“Auch!” James complained, “Could’ve warned me.” 

“She’s literally going to take the punishment for you Prongs,” Remus responded a little irked, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea for you to go, especially with your still healing shoulder, but he also knew if he voiced his concern, he’d only make you more determined to do it, even if it was just to prove that you could. 

“Still, you could’ve warned me,” he repeated. You shook your head as you contemplated the potion. You’d never drank it, but the smell was deterrent enough. 

“You want me to do it instead?” Remus offered kindly. 

You shook your head, a tight grateful smile on your lips at his offer. “No, it’s… It’s fine I can do this,” you said before bringing the flask up to your mouth and drinking it. The taste was as bad as the smell. You coughed a couple of times and handed the flask over to Remus who held it as you felt your legs start to wobble and your mind went dizzy. You felt a tingling sensation all over and let yourself fall back onto a trunk. Sirius rushed to hold you up but seemed deterred when he saw the way your skin was bubbling. In a matter of seconds, you were already an exact replica of James. You were still dizzy when you looked at your hands, much larger and stronger looking now. 

“BIoody Mother of Merlin!” Sirius said in surprise. 

“We’ve got two Jameses,” Peter said, looking at you and then back at James and then back at you again, completely baffled. 

“How do I look?” You said, raising a flirty eyebrow towards Sirius. 

“Handsome as hell,” James replied about at the same time that Sirius cringed and said, “Like shit,” just to fuck with James. It earned him a soft punch on the arm. Remus and you were eyeing each other with diverted looks. 

“Asshole,” James said, slightly irritated. “She looks damn well.” 

You really admired James’ confidence. You cooed your head and stood up, “Handsome as hell,” you repeated, trying to make your voice sound a little more like Prong’s. He winced at that, “Oi, I’m trying!” you said back in your tone. You had a man’s voice, in fact you had James’ voice; you had his vocal cords after all. But they didn’t sound quite right. 

“I think I might be able to help you with that one,” Remus said as he pulled his wand up. “Open your mouth and say ahh…” 

You raised an eyebrow, terrible choice of words, you thought. “Woah Moony, didn’t think you’d get so kinky with me,” you teased. “That’s way more of a Sirius thing to say.” And he had, in fact, said it a while ago, before you even started dating him. 

Sirius stifled a laugh, the memory plaguing his mind while Peter was trying to figure out what you meant by that and why Remus had given you the look he had. When he finally understood, he flushed. 

“First you wanted to blindfold me and now…” you pressed, just to see Remus’ reaction. 

Sirius frowned. “When did you want to blindfold him? her, you know what I mean.” 

“When we met,” you said casually, “He said I couldn’t see your secret passages.” 

“And you let him?”

Remus shook his head and scoffed. “Of course she didn’t,” he said matter-of-factly. 

You gave him a pout, “If it makes you feel better, I’d let you blindfold me now.” 

Sirius laughed at your joke and Remus’ eye roll. The fact that you looked exactly like Prongs only made the entire situation even funnier. Remus just looked at you with a stern expression, he was just expecting you to do what he had initially asked. 

You just smiled and stood up, feeling disoriented by the difference in height. You were taller than your boyfriend now, and almost as tall as Moony. You pressed your lips tightly against each other to avoid saying anything, another joke wouldn’t have been wise at that point, you could tell by the way Remus was tapping his feet on the ground. 

Eventually, you stood facing him and opened your mouth “Aaaaaah…” 

Sirius, behind you, had to cover his mouth to avoid laughing blatantly at the way you had followed Remus’ instructions to the T and yet Remus seemed bewildered. Regardless, the boy picked his wand up and pointed it to your face, saying a few words and holding his wand to your face as he pulled it back and to the sides, as if he were calibrating something, which was exactly what he was doing. As he moved the wand your voice started to change. It went from your normal tone to helium inhalation level of high-pitched to sounding like Elvis’. But eventually, he stopped, pulling the wand back from your face. 

“Say something James would say.” 

You narrowed your eyes, thinking of something and then smiled mischievously, pulling out your best impression of James. “Pads, hold your position! Vixen, another backflip! That one was wonky, again!” 

Sirius almost doubled over in laughter while James looked at you with a frown. “That’s not how… Please tell me that’s not how I sound.” 

“Well, not all the time,” you said with a shrug.

“But that’s exactly how you sound when you’re on Capitan mode,” Sirius added with a teasing smirk.

“When I’m on– You gave it a name?!?” 

“It’s so we can separate the screaming captain from our dear ol’ James, it was Marlene’s idea,” you replied. James frowned. 

“You should change,” Peter said, “Can’t go around with a skirt, can you?” 

You gave him a look and then turned your head downwards, “Don’t know mate, Prongs’s got some nice calves,” you said tilting your leg to the side.

James winked at your reply while Remus threw you a clean pair of pants, a vest and a shirt. You unhooked your skirt and let it fall on the floor. “Why are you wearing boxers?” Sirius asked and got a punch from James.

You quirked an eyebrow, “Something made me assume it would be uncomfortable to keep normal knickers on after the change.” 

“Oh,” Sirius and James said, a little surprised. 

“Clever,” Remus said, nodding your way. 

You smiled and shrugged at his words -almost beaming from his praise- and then proceeded to put on the pants and finished changing, “how do I look?” you said twirling around once you were done. 

Sirius looked at you and placed a hand on his chin as if analysing, “Almost perfect,” Sirius said as he turned to the side and took James’ glasses away from his face and walked over to you, handing them over. 

You took them and placed them over your eyes, wincing as you pulled them off almost instantly “James mate, you’re blinder than Tommy.” 

“Tommy?” James asked, confused. 

“From the Movie,” replied Remus, dismissively. 

“From The Who,” added Peter. You wondered if he’d gone to the cinema at some point in his last vacation. James didn’t say anything after that, he still had no idea who this “Tommy” was but he also knew you’d tease the hell out of him if he asked. 

You took the glasses off and used gemino to make yourself a perfect replica, taking the originals, or what you thought were the originals and giving them back to James. You put the other back on and narrowed your eyes to try and see better, you saw Peter extending his arm towards you, “Hand them over,” he said simply. 

You did, and he placed his wand over them, whispering a spell you hadn’t heard yet and handing them back over to you, placing them back on and looking at him surprised “How did you…?” 

“My sister used to make me wear her glasses so I looked smarter,” he said with a shrug. “They gave me awful headaches so I dug through our library and found a spell to make them fake.” 

“That’s brilliant Pete,” you said with a nod. He just smiled and nodded, pretty pleased with himself.  

You took a deep breath and turned back to James “I think I’m ready then. Do I look the part?” 

“Definitely,” Remus said, the rest of the boys nodding in agreement. 

“Well then,” you said with a clap, “Time to go get detention,” you added, looking over at Sirius. 

He let his head fall back and groaned in response, then he looked over at Remus with a charming little smile, “Moony, don’t you want to drink some of the potion and pretend you’re me today?” 

Remus raised his eyebrows and scoffed, “of course not.” 

“You sure? You could use my dashing good looks to flirt around.” 

“No, he couldn’t,” you said with a scoff .“You’re dating me. Even if it wasn’t actually you, he’d only be allowed to flirt with me.” You sounded slightly jealous, which in a way was justified, after all they were talking about your boyfriend’s face. You tried not to think much that Remus “flirting around” wasn’t an image you wanted to see.

“That sounds so weird coming from James’ face,” Sirius said as he looked at you. “Either way, I suppose I’ll get going,” he said with a dramatic sigh, still staring at Remus as he continued walking towards you. 

“Off you go,” Remus said, placing his hand on Sirius’ back and pushing him towards the door, to make him move faster, Sirius turned to you with a pout, the kind of face a kid would give their mother when their brother mistreated him. Meanwhile, Remus gave you the look that said “See what I have to deal with?”

“Hey James,” you said before leaving, he hummed in acknowledgement, “You better not blow your date with Lilly.” 

“Maybe you should go instead,” Peter teased and got a scowl from James. 

You just laughed, “Sorry mate, I can take the punishment for you, but I’m not gonna seduce the girl. That’s all off to you.” 

“She’ll want to marry me after today,” he said confidently. 

You nodded “Remember not to overdo it, you’ll scare her away.” 

When you were done, you closed the door behind you and turned to Sirius. “Where are we supposed to meet?”

The moment McGonagall opened the doors, Peter’s words came floating back to your mind “But what if they make you do men’s work in detention?” followed by your blatant response, “There isn’t any men’s work I cannot do”.

You had regretted those words the moment you stepped into the dirty men’s loo. You were sure you gagged as you walked behind McGonagall and felt the dreadful smell, ever so characteristic of men’s lavatories, “I asked the elves not to wash the bathroom last night. Just for you,” she said, “wands,” she added, extending her open palm towards you, Sirius and Evan. 

“Do you expect us to clean with our own hands?” Sirius complained. Evan said something similar next to him. You would have probably made a joke about how spoiled they both were if you weren’t so shocked yourself. 

“Can I… Can I do something else?” you said as she was about to leave. “I’ll clean the owlery, I don’t care–” 

“Mr. Potter.” She said sternly. You closed your mouth shut, only now remembering you were supposed to be James and not you. “Men up and stop whining, all you have to do is clean the toilets.” Sirius almost doubled in laughter at her choice of words. 

“Minnie please,” you added, using the vocabulary James would have used, or perhaps that would have been Sirius, since the way the old teacher turned over and looked at you gave you the chills, making you unconsciously recoil towards Sirius. 

“Mr. Potter!” She said a lot more sternly now, “It’ll serve you well to stop your silly pranks and occupy your mind with something productive. One more complaint and I’ll make you wash the prefect’s bathrooms and the greenhouses as well,” you nodded, not saying anything more as you watched her walk all the way towards the door, she turned right before leaving. “Pebblier the house elf will be watching over you,” she informed, “so no fighting and no funny business unless you want to help polish trophies tomorrow.”

You gulped and nodded, it’s not that it would be you doing things those things tomorrow, but you still didn’t want to subject James, let alone Sirius, to more torture. Once she was gone, you sighed, taking one of the mops and dipping it in water, holding your breath from the smell still filling your nostrils. 

“What? He’s mopping? I’d rather mop than…” Evan trailed off, looking at the bathroom stalls.

As James, you were as tall as the blond and probably as strong as he was, you just turned to him with a stern face, tilting your head slightly to the side and bringing your hand from the handle to point at your face, “How’s the eye?” you asked calmly, it had been such a simple and yet strong thrеat, Sirius was almost shocked. James would never be that bold. 

Evan swallowed, it hadn’t even been James who punched him and yet the way you had stared at him had somehow made him blech, he huffed after he got back his stance. Evan had never seen Potter be so intimidating, of course, he wasn’t looking at Potter then. Most of the time, James was just an annoying ray of sunshine and jokes. He hoped he’d go back to that soon, he wasn’t sure the thrеatening James would be so much fun to bother. “Fine then, I’ll wash the stalls,” he grumbled after he took a hold of one of the buckets. Evan didn’t want to polish the trophies either.  

Sirius raised an eyebrow, looking at you impressed, he never thought he’d considered James hot, but what you did, had been exactly that. He could almost see you underneath the skin you were wearing, and he started wondering if he too would have fallen for you if you had been a boy. He might have. But then, what did that fucking mean? What would that mean for him? Did that make him– 

You gave him a small complicit smile in return, you didn’t think Evan would recoil so easily, but it was certainly fun to be bigger and broader and to look stronger, it gave you a sort of power you’d never wielded before, and as strange as it might seem, you liked it. Seeing Evan back out after just a look, a look that you probably had thrown at him many times as yourself with no effect, had been interesting, to say the least. Regardless, the funniest part was the fact that you were taller than Sirius, and he looked adorable, even more like a puppy. 

A grumpy, riled up, bathroom-cleaning puppy, but a puppy nonetheless. You wondered if being taller made him feel the same way when he looked at you; if the protective instinct instantly activated with a few inches of advantage to the other person. Not that you never felt the need to protect him in the past. You remembered the time at the park, how you had reacted, ready to take all the blame for him and how neither of the brothers had let you, but this was different. This version of you, the Potter version of you, wanted to hug and coddle him and tell him everything would be all right. 

Either way, it could have just been some of Potter’s innate traits mixing with your own, since you had taken the potion, and it had changed you into him. You started wondering about the implications of Polyjuice too, what kind of things it’d actually do to your body. What about long exposure? If you were actually intermixing DNA with it, and altering not only the way you looked but also the way you thought? Then perhaps it could also change the way you felt, alter feelings and thoughts and give you some of those of the one you were impersonating.

You could probably talk to Lily about it, since she knew a lot about potions. Or perhaps Remus would be a better option since it’d be complicated to explain to her why you had used polyjuice, and how you had gotten your hands on it. 

When you were done with the floor, and the stinky smell had died down just a little (or perhaps your nostrils had gotten used to it) you went on to wipe the mirrors and faucet, while the other boys focused on the urinals and the toilets. You saw Sirius gag a couple of times as he brushed over one of the toilets and almost wanted to help him, but the stinky smell coming from them persuaded you against it. 

While you were cleaning some of the mirrors you realised the potion was starting to fade, so you had to pull out the flask and take a sip. Sirius had given you a wary look, but you just nodded in what you hoped was a reassuring manner and continued with your task. Sooner than later the three of you had finished, and Pebblier, the small elf who had been watching over you, snapped his fingers and disappeared, coming back just a few minutes later with McGonagall by his side. 

She looked at the three of you, Evan was placing the bucket in its place, you were drying the mirror and Sirius had reclined against some of the mops. The witch examined the room in detail, the smell had gone away already, and she had even walked towards the stalls, looking through every single one. She seemed… impressed. As if she hadn’t been expecting you three to do such a good job.  

“Great job boys,” she concluded, “you may go clean up before dinner.” 

Dinner time? Already? 

Sirius nodded and grabbed onto your arm to pull you out of the room. Once you were away from prying eyes he gave you a diverted look, “You aren’t that great at being James, you know?” 

You gasped, “I had everyone fooled.” 

“Evan didn’t say a word,” he countered, “he was terrified from the moment you thrеatened him.” 

You gave him a look and almost winced, “You think I overdid it?” 

Sirius gave you a diverted smile, “You called McGonagall Minnie.” 

“Well, you call her that all the time, I assumed James would…” Sirius raised an eyebrow at you, and you didn’t even finish your answer, James had never been as blasé as your boyfriend. As you continued walking through the halls you spotted a girl, who seemed to be looking at the two, specifically at Sirius, before she approached, standing right in front of you and blocking your path forward. 

“Hi!” She said shyly, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear and looking down for a moment before turning her face towards your boyfriend. You stared down at her, looking a little displeased, you assumed, from the way she gave you a wary look as if she wanted to retreat. She cleared her throat, “Sirius.” 

The boy hummed in response, you noticed a group of girls giggling not so far away from her, and you stared back at the girl, intrigued by what she might do. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” your boyfriend said, a mix between polite and annoyed. 

She made a displeased expression at that, “Ugh… I’m Zia, from 5th.” She really was looking at Sirius and completely ignoring you, or well, she was completely ignoring James. Which made you feel a little angry on his behalf too.

“Right, hello.” Sirius said, when the girl still didn’t move he sighed, “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

“I… would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me?” 

You raised an eyebrow at that. You weren’t surprised Sirius got girls asking him out all over the place, you’d seen his face, you understood, but you thought everyone knew about your relationship already. 

“Why?” He asked. You gave him a look. That had sounded uncharacteristically cold, and slightly rude. 

“Wh-why?” the girl stammered. “I was just thinking... maybe I could– like a date.” 

You weren’t sure whether to be jealous or just feel sorry for the poor girl, she looked like a deer trapped in headlights, “Sirius is already going out with someone,” you said, a little colder than you intended, to try and protect the girl from whatever cold thing Sirius might have told her instead. 

But her reaction was something you weren’t expecting, she snapped at you, fury in her eyes as if you had said something improper. “But it’s just for now, isn’t it? You aren’t actually dating her,” she said, turning to Sirius. 

Sirius rolled his eyes as if he was used to this, “Even if I wasn’t. I wouldn’t date someone who’s trying to dig into and separate an already established relationship.” 

The girl was taken aback by his answer, even more so when Sirius skipped past her and continued his walk as if she had never even talked to him. You would have given her an apologetic smile if you hadn’t been so flummoxed, but instead, you just chased after Sirius not bothering to give her a second glance. As if she had bothered to say “hi” when she had gone straight after him. 

“Well that was very… brazen of her…” you said as you caught up with your boyfriend.

He sighed, leaning his head against your shoulder like he would if it were you and not James he was talking to. He enjoyed the height difference, actually. He didn’t have to lean his head so much, it was nice. You, as a boy, were hot. His mind crossed over to Remus, how he was slightly taller than James and he wondered how it would feel to lean his head onto that boy’s shoulder. In a romantic way, not in a friendly one, he had to force the thought out of his head, he was not meant to be thinking of Remus that what, let alone with you –his girlfriend– standing next to him. What the hell would he do if you had legilimency? You, on the other side, seeing him all thoughtful, wondered if he’d care that the girls were still boring holes in his back, he probably wouldn’t. “Sorry you had to see that, Starshine.” 

You looked down at him with a diverted stare, “It was rather rude on your part.” 

“If I wasn’t, she’d think I was leading her on.” 

“You were never rude to me.” 

He gave you a look, “Why do you think that is, Starshine?” He asked with a flirty smile. 

You almost blushed at that, you wanted to reach for his hand, but realised it’d be a bad idea to do it then, with James’ face. You didn’t know this, but Sirius might have actually liked it if you did, even if it would increase his mental issues with the thoughts of Remus he’d been having lately. Eventually, the two of you reached the common room, the boys let you use their bathroom to shower off the sweat and stank from the bathrooms since you still looked like James and you threw yourself in Sirius’ bed, already changed into a pair of pyjamas that were a little tight on James but would be oversized once you turned back. 

“James isn’t back yet, is he?” you asked Remus, the only boy still in the room, since Sirius was in the bathroom and Peter was on his date. 

Remus shook his head and you sighed, you’d be stuck there until Prongs came back or you looked like yourself again, neither of those things seemed to be happening soon enough, “It’s no fun to be James if I’m locked up in his room,” you complained. 

Remus gave you a look, raising an eyebrow at you as he pulled his head from the book he was reading. “You thought it was fun?” 

“I mean, not the cleaning the bathroom part, but… You should have seen Evan’s face after I accidentally thrеatened him.” 

“How do you accidentally thrеaten someone?” he asked, incredulous.

“You give them a nasty look with the height and build of James Potter,” you told him. “I guess I’d be more thrеatening if I were bigger, you’re lucky I’m not as tall as any of you.” 

“Sprite size,” he joked, and you scoffed at his silly little joke. 

“Either way,  it was also fun to be taller than Pads, makes him look a lot more cute and adorable, it was hard to hold myself back from stealing a kiss like I do all the time.” 

Remus huffed a laugh, “Would have started some interesting rumours.” 

“Mhm,” you said, “Must be nice to be big and broad all the time though.” 

“Not when you bump your head onto door frames.” 

“What a drama queen Moony,” you teased. 

“It’s never happened to you. You wouldn’t know how inconvenient it is.” 

“What is inconvenient?” Sirius asked, walking out of the bathroom with just a simple towel around his middle. It was as if he thought you were actually James and not you. Either that or he purposefully wanted to fluster you. 

“Being tall, apparently,” you said, letting your gaze linger just a few seconds before turning your eyes back to Moony, who had been looking at Sirius casually. Although perhaps…

“You certainly wouldn’t know, would you Starshine?” 

You turned back to him, your eyes shining with mischief, “Careful Puppy, I’m still taller than you.”  

“Hmm… not for long,” he said before disappearing into the bathroom with some clothes in his hands. His shirt fell on the floor and you used your wand to drag it towards you, still sitting on the bed. Remus gave you a look but went back to his book, not saying a word. It was a shirt Andromeda had given him as a gift –a Queen shirt– it was soft from how many times he’d used it, but in great condition still. Perhaps he used some kind of spell. 

“Hey Moons have you seen my…?” he asked as he left the bathroom again, he had his pyjama pants on but he was still shirtless. You had his shirt in your hands, a smirk playing on your lips, or James’ lips, you supposed. “Starshine.” 

You shrugged, “It fell on the floor, didn’t wanna leave it there.” 

He narrowed his eyes at you but walked towards his bed, where you sat. You were on the edge, whereas you normally just rested against his headboard, and most of all, you had a rather suspicious expression going on, an expression he’d seen you wear before, slightly different to James’. The second he skeeved in to take it between his hands, you stood and dodged, standing a few steps from him while holding the shirt high above your head. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Taking advantage of the one time I’ll be taller than you, I suppose.” Remus was now looking at the two of you, diverted rather than paying attention to his book. 

“Maybe you just want to see me shirtless for longer,” he teased. 

You shrugged in response, “Maybe I do.”

His head pulled back, his cocksure stance faltering as he tried to process how brazen you’d been with that answer, it’s something he would have done. Regardless he got closer to try and pull the shirt. The difference in height between James and Sirius wasn’t that big, especially not when you compared it to Remus, so you couldn’t trust solely on the extra inches you had. 

Sirius reached his hand up and tried to grab the shirt, and you pulled it just behind you, there was definitely a benefit with getting James’ physical attributes, especially the speed. 

“Aw come on, that’s not fair.” 

You just smiled, daringly. “Come on Puppy, you can do this, can’t you?” 

“I’m gonna bite you next time I’m Padfoot,” he thrеatened playfully. 

“You’d only be able to do it if I still looked like Potter,” you told him with a smile. “Vixen’s too adorable to bite, am I not?” 

“My shirt.” 

“What shirt?” you asked innocently as you threw it Remus’ way.

It fell on his head, and for a second you thought he’d be mad, since he didn’t move, rather, it took him a few seconds to figure out why the shirt smelled so much like Sirius until he remembered he’d used the same shirt last night, and the previous. Fuck, it smelled delightful, focus Remus, he told himself as he took it from his head and held it between his hands. 

He looked over at you, you gave him a smile, and winked at him, an expression so unbelievably yours it was almost shocking to see it on James, all thought there was something in your eyes. 

Remus stood, as if he were to give the shirt to Sirius and your smile faded, he almost laughed but managed to hold a serious solemn face. Just as Sirius extended his hands to grab the shirt from Sirius’s hand, he pulled his arm up again, you smiled, diverted, while Sirius frowned. 

Two against one, there you go Puppy, you thought. Remus, being a lot taller, managed to hold the shirt a lot higher, which forced Sirius to walk even closer to him as he jumped around to try and get the shirt. Remus was having way too much fun to actually process the fact that a shirtless Sirius was brushing onto him as he jumped to get the shirt.

“I could just wear something else, you know.” 

“Yeah, but you won’t,” you said with a smile, you stood just behind him, blocking his hand whenever he tried to reach up for his shirt, still held high above Remus’ head. 

“Too stubborn for that,” Remus confirmed, looking at you with a complicit grin.

Sirius huffed in response but tried again. Remus pulled back and you held Sirius between your arms, but he managed to slip from your grasp and lunged at Remus, who threw the shirt over his head and towards your arms, “Great shot, Moony!”

He winked at you as Sirius crashed onto him, “Okay kids, that’s enough!” Sirius said. Remus enjoyed the closeness a little too much.

“Giving up so soon, Puppy?” you asked with a pout, passing the shirt from one hand to the other. 

“Giving– It’s completely unfair! You’re both taller and stronger.” 

You hummed, “Welcome to my world.” 

“I won’t say you’re short ever again?” he tried, you pretended to think about it for a moment. 

“What do you think, is he being honest?” 

“I don’t know Little Witch… seems unrealistic.” 

You nodded in agreement. “Aww, come on…” Sirius complained, but then he lunged for you, you moved to the side, both of you moving almost in a circle. If anyone were to see the three of you from above, they’d think you had carefully choreographed this dance. 

“Starshine…” He warned. You felt a bit of a tingling in your legs, but for some reason, you didn’t think it was the nickname or his tone that caused it. Remus from behind, notice your ear shrinking. You were changing back. 

You smiled “Come and get it!” 

He did, he skeeved forwards, you intended to crash against him, but Remus noticed you were counting on James’ strength, rather than yours. If Sirius crashed onto you, the real you and not Polyjuice-potion James, then it would probably hurt you. So he grabbed onto your waist, or James’, everyone was confused at that point, and pulled you to the side. 

Unfortunately, he tripped on a pair of shoes, and the two of you ended up falling towards the bed, not before Sirius grabbed onto the box plate of your shirt, and got pulled along with you. There was some thumping, and then complaining groans from the three. 

Remus’ back had ended on the bed, you were on top of him, back facing his chest, and Sirius was on top of you, still half naked, and feeling a lot heavier than you expected him to be. You were quite literally sandwiched between the two boys, it was oddly comforting, even if a bit uncomfortable. 

Remus frowned as your hair covered his face, you were back being you, and Sirius was crushing you against him, Sirius’ face dangerously close to his, it seemed like the longest time before the three of you managed to process what had happened. “Starshine you’re back!” Sirius said as he looked at you with a bright smile, taking the shirt from your hands, using his strength to keep your arms in your place as you tried to wriggle out. 

He gave you a rather satisfied smile as you huffed, “Not fair.” 

“Suck it up,” Sirius replied as he finally rolled to the side. “Can you give her back her voice?” 

You sighed, catching your breath still against Remus’ shoulder until you too rolled off, landing right in between the two boys and slightly pushing on both so you had enough space to lay on your back. “Can’t take me speaking like your best mate?” 

“It’s weird when you no longer look like him.” 

You shut your eyes, Remus’ bed was softer than Sirius’, you noticed as you continued to accommodate in the small space between the two. Your shoulders were all pressed together, but neither of the boys seemed to want to move either. It was warm, it was comfortable. 

Remus fetched his wand from the side with a display of wandless magic that would have been shocking had you been looking and passed it over you, “finite incantatem,” he whispered. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice finally back to normal. You took a deep breath, thinking that you’d have to get up now and go back to your room, even if you didn’t actually want to move. “What time is it?” 

Sirius lifted his head to look at the watch, “Almost 8,” he informed, “why?” 

You shrugged, “I probably have to go back soon.” 

“You don’t sound so eager,” Remus acknowledged.

A playful scoff left your mouth, “What with two handsome boys by my side, who would?” 

Remus scoffed and Sirius rolled his eyes, “what a flirt.” 

“Learned from the best,” you said in return and then sighed dramatically. “I don’t want to move, cleaning was so tiring!” you whined, Remus’ bed is comfortable, this was perfectly gracious.

“Should have let Prongs take the punishment,” Remus said. 

You shook your head, “No-uh, wouldn’t want to kill his chance to date Lily and get married and have beautiful children.” 

“That’s a very long story to make up in your head, Starshine.” 

“As if James himself hadn’t outwardly said that that’s what he wants,” you responded with a shrug and changed the subject. “What were you reading Rem?”

“The Godfather,” he said simply. 

Sirius turned his head, “The Mafia book you were telling us about on the train?” Remus nodded. “You haven’t finished it already?” 

He shook his head in response, “I was reading a book she borrowed,” he said, nodding towards you for a second. 

“Dorian Grey,” you acknowledged. 

“Dorian Grey?” Sirius asked, “It’s a muggle thing, isn’t it?” 

“It’s a classic, Sirius.” 

“You’d probably like it,” Remus added. 

“Oh no, he might end up like Dorian,” you joked, “Lord Henry has some rather convincing dialogue.” 

“He’s already like that.” 

“Pair of nerds,” Sirius huffed, “But I don’t like being left out, so I’ll read it.” 

You shook your head with a smile on your face, “How’s the mafia book?”

“Interesting,” Remus replied. 

“Why don’t you read to us?” Sirius asked casually. 

“What?” Remus asked, a little puzzled. 

“Oh yeah,” you said, turning your head towards him, “You have a really nice voice, read to us,” he didn’t look convinced. “Please.” 

“Oblige her Moony, she worked très hard cleaning the men’s loos today.” 

“Yes,” you nodded. “Sirius did as well… Oblige us, yeah?” Remus sighed dramatically but levitated the book right above him, you could see well enough to read by yourself but you’d much rather hear it from Remus’ soothing deep voice. In the end, he couldn’t refuse.  “Don Corleone stood up and put a fatherly arm around Johnny's shoulder.” You were smiling like an idiot, Sirius was too, both pretty satisfied with your convincing abilities.  “I’m going to make this man an offer he can't refuse,' he said, leading Johnny towards the door.” Remus was even making different voices for the characters, ‘“Now, go and enjoy yourself´ He kissed Johnny on the cheek, shut the door and turned to Tom Hagen, who had heard everything…”

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A/N: Well, that's an interesting turn of events, isn't it? I mean, this was James' one-time chance, we had to make sure he made it to that date, didn't we? Also, Remus my love, you're adorable, thank you for exciting <3

Read more Marauders Fiction

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Them reacting to reader using their vision in weird ways

Characters: Ayaka / Furina x gn!reader (separate)

warnings: none

a/n: When I updated my masterlist yesterday, I noticed that I hadn’t written for Ayaka in a long time, so I decided to use my 3 brain cells and think of something to write for her. Why is Furina here as well? Easy, since I love her and want to dig myself into an even deeper hole for when it inevitably turns out I got her whole personality wrong once Fontaine comes out in a few days.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Ayaka

Crossing paths with you while walking around the Kamisato Estate was as common as seeing a bird fly over the horizon. You were everywhere, from filling out paperwork in the garden, running errands for her brother or sneaking off to pet whatever pet you had laid eyes on to rushing past everyone to fetch Thoma before he could waste more of his time trying to fulfill one of Ayato’s impossible assignments. And although you seemed to be in a hurry most of the time, you always made sure to stop and chat with Ayaka whenever she passed you.

Your conversations were brief, but that didn’t mean that the young Kamisato didn’t appreciate them, making sure to keep an eye out for you whenever she could, so when she finally spotted you while talking to another resident of the estate, her eyes immediately began following you, not wanting to lose track of you before she had the opportunity to at least greet you. Something that had to wait until her current conversation was over.

Your face was as red as it could be, not that she held it against you. It was a scorching hot day and Ayaka was lucky enough to have her fan with her whenever she felt it became too unbearable. You however, having both of your hands full with paperwork you were presumably carrying to her brother’s office, weren’t so lucky. But just as she thought about offering you her fan, you carefully put your chin on top of the papers, pressing them between it and your right hand before quickly grabbing your anemo vision with the other and creating a wind as an impromptu fan.

“Miss Kamisato?”, her conversation partner called out her name in a worried manner, probably noticing her space out when she failed to answer a question, causing Ayaka to snap back to reality as a small blush formed on her cheeks, quickly apologizing. Luckily, the other person didn’t seem to care too much, asking the question again.

“So, about your order…” However, their voice quickly faded into the background as her attention once again shifted towards you, your previous stunt seemingly having caused a few papers to fall to the ground, leading to you silently staring at them, probably thinking about what to do next. 

Instead of bending down and picking them up however, you once again used your vision to create a breeze that caused them to fly just high enough for you to catch them without having to move an extra muscle, smiling to yourself as you put them back on top of the other papers before your gaze met hers.

Before Ayaka knew it, you were waving and smiling at her, your vision still in hand , and before she managed to stop herself, she was waving back, only to be dragged back to the present once again when she saw her conversation partners confused look, causing her face to grow even redder than last time, especially when she heard a snicker escape your mouth.

Furina

Furina had hoped for a million different things to spice these mind bogglingly boring days up, a sudden mysterious criminal causing chaos while evading police and setting off an intriguing investigation, a comet filled with alien lifeforms crashing into the surrounding area, a judge pronouncing a word embarrassingly wrong… ANYTHING.

So when she noticed a person throwing their pyro vision into a pot of water to heat it, she couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle, continuing to watch them with rising interest as it became increasingly clear the water had gotten too hot for the vision to be fished out, her smile only growing larger with each bubble that rose to the water's surface.

“You need something or are you just here to watch and smile?”, you eventually asked as you turned your head towards her, your face portraying a miffed expression, one bringing her even more amusement. Meeting a stand owner that was accidentally more entertaining than most shows she visited in the last couple of weeks wasn’t exactly on her bingo sheet for that day, but she definitely wasn’t complaining.

“No, I’m just watching”, she stated, not even attempting to hide her amusement. Only for you to look back down at the pot with an increasingly worried expression.

“You got a cryo vision or something that I could throw in to cool it?”

Your question earned you nothing but a deadpan expression, only for the silence between the two of you to suddenly cause it to shatter within an instance, Furina breaking out in laughter as it became increasingly clear that you were being serious, eventually ending up in her having to wipe away her tears, stopping her laugh several times to look at you with a face nearly begging you to say you were joking before continuing even more uncontrollably.

“If you intend on continuing to laugh instead of helping, then please go away”, you eventually stated, your face withholding any emotions as you stared at her, only for her to finally calm down enough to speak.

“Just pour out the water”, she managed to say between her laughs, causing you to shake your head.

“Great, and where do I quickly get new water from then?”, you asked sarcastically.

“Hello? You’re talking to the Hydro Archon here, water should be the least of your concerns”, she wheezed. Only to immediately stop when she heard a laugh coming from you, her expression darkening as it was your turn to laugh at her.

“Yeah right, good one. Let me help you find your parents, I’m sure they must start to get worried about you”, you laughed and laughed until you buckled over holding your stomach, not able to stop for even a second.

It took Furina all of her willpower not to take the boiling pot and pour it over you, the only thing stopping her being the knowledge that doing so would rob her of one of the few entertaining people in her country.

[starlostseungmin]

thirteen, hjs.

✰ notes: hi i know it’s been a while! i hope you’re still here waiting for me but i get that you’re not since i was long gone and didn’t say anything TT y’all i’m not officially back but here’s a short drabble i made after hearing han’s 13. the man made me bawl my eyes out. don’t forget to reblog, leave tags and comment! — i wrote this drabble a few minutes after i heard the song mehehe

✰ tags: @felixglow , @soonyoungblr , @awkwardnesshabitat , @lix-ables , @skzfelixlove , @zoe8stay , @seungly , @ppiri-bahng , @sleepyleeji , @l3visbby , @ohish , @comet-falls , @mrswolfiechan , @rachabreathing , @iadorethemskz , @minluvly , @dreamingsmile , @flirtyskzbutterfly , @tangylemonade , @gwynsapphire , @annispamz , @surefornext , @seungincore , @skz1-4-3 , @hanjingin , @hyunverse , @hwaberryjuice , @3rachasbby , @reignessance , @alicedawitchbish , @ameliesaysshoo ( refer to my navi to be tagged )

masterlist. song inspo. (paragraphs/sentences with * and italized are han’s memories.)

han sat alone at the back of the bus with his headphones on. the sceneries that passed by made him fall into his thoughts about what happened to the both of you. his elbow rested on the armseat with his lips placed at the back of his palm, eyes filled with sadness and love, but he didn’t have a choice back then. those happiness he felt wasn’t his in the first place. 

* it was the season of spring, the cherry blossom petals danced with the wind and some fell on your hair. you heard han laugh as he brushed them away one by one. 

“it’s cute,” he said and the way you giggled made his heart melt. “finish that up before it melts,” 

“okay,” you answered, linking your other arm with his while eating the chocolate ice cream he bought for you on the other hand. 

* it became a habit of his to annoy you as you study for your finals. the way he makes your long hair as a fake mustache or pokes your cheek out of nowhere borrows an extra pen from your pen case, and writes a funny note on your paper with his quokka doodles and if you choose to stop him, he’d place a kiss on your cheek which would distract you from it. 

“you can’t do that,” you said. 

“why not?” he asked, pouting his lips but then you gave them a peck. 

“because i’m studying, that’s why,” you answered, going back to reading your textbook, leaving him flustered and dumbfounded, making you smirk in secret. 

han arrived at the beach early in the morning. the cold wind brushed his hair as he walked slowly toward the shore, hands in his pockets while feeling the breeze and the gentle waves. he closed his eyes and yet another nostalgic memory flashed in his mind, remembering how his heart would go crazy every time you were with him. 

* in the same season of spring, the night he walked you home as you held each other’s hands, he hated the fact that this would end your moment for the day and had to see you tomorrow again. he would whine about it making you laugh and share a kiss to say good night. 

“i’ll see you in the morning,” he said as you gave him a nod. 

“get home safely,” you answered as he started to take his way, waving at you before turning his back after you entered the dorms. the smile he has on his face will last a while. you made him so happy. 

* there are times that han wouldn’t let you go home when you visit him and you didn’t have a choice but to do a sleepover. it’s either you both sit on the couch while watching your favorite movies and when you fall asleep on his shoulder as he caresses your hair, he plants a kiss on the crown of your head, whispering millions of “i love you”. 

or when you would lay down beside each other on his bed while you’re fast asleep, he’d stare at you with a lovesick smile on his face while caressing your cheek. he’d admire how beautiful you were and thought about how lucky he was to have you in his life. 

but both of you knew that this love wouldn’t last longer than expected. 

* misunderstandings came by, and immature and irrational reasons started to spoil the relationship, saying both of you are too young to commit and understand the deeper meaning of being in love. time is one of the reasons, as well as different tastes and opposite perspectives. fights started to be serious until the breakup happened. 

you two stood face-to-face in front of your doorstep as han tried to fix the broken pieces of the puzzle you were making but you decided not to pursue it. at first, he didn’t want it, but you were consistent to stop and so, he fell into despair. 

han sat down on the sand, remembering how you used to visit this beach during high school and play tag, he would often carry you to the water as you squealed in laughter, arms locked around your waist 一giving you a tight hug. laughs were shared, and the smiles you showed, it was all pure. but the pain you left, he’s the only one who bears it. 

* with those times that you and han played at the arcade, he remembers them all, the plushie he won for you from that damn claw machine cost him a lot, or those shooting games that he lets you win every time and you thought he sucked at it, then those kids getting annoyed about how you take too long playing tetris. 

* “i’m sorry,” you told him. 

there’s nothing to be sorry for, it was all done. 

han broke down in tears with the sun shining bright and the sky was clear, it was a good day to be heartbroken. he couldn’t do anything now, he had to let you go and let the waves wash his pain away even if it was hard to do it. 

and there, he left. 

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©️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 , 𝟐𝟎𝟐4.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Vampire Captures Vampire Hunter to Use as Bloodbag part 20

Warnings: aftermath of escape attempt, vampire carewhumper, recovery whump

Maybe he'd let Mallory heal just barely enough to endure sessions of torture, letting him recover after each one to stretch out the suffering.

Mallory let out a choked sob, tears pricking his eyes at the utter hopelessness of his situation. He'd gone from an esteemed hunter to a vampire’s pet in less than a week. The crushing devastation washed over him, the knowledge that he'd never see the outside world again, that he was going to die as a prisoner and no one would even find his body.

Helpless tears slid down his cheeks, and he couldn't stop shivering as cold gripped his whole body, worsening the pain with every tiny tremor that forced him to move even a hair. Even breathing hurt, his nose clogged with blood and lungs bruised. A few ribs were likely cracked or broken too. The blanket did nothing to ease the chill, his body already far too weak from blood loss. Being locked in the basement before had been cold, but now it was freezing.

He flinched violently when he heard the door unlock, familiar footsteps descending the stairs. He couldn't even turn his head to watch the vampire for incoming attacks as the sound approached from behind him. He just lay limply where he'd been dumped, breathing shallowly from both pain and panic in equal measure.

A broken whine slipped out when he felt a hand on his shoulder through the blanket.

"I really did a number on you yesterday, didn't I?" Alex mumbled grimly. "I got carried away."

Mallory would have laughed if he had the strength. 'Carried away'? The vampire had almost killed him!

A shuffling noise, and Alex came to crouch in front of him within his field of vision, and Mallory's terrified eyes flicked up to meet his. There was no disguising the fear anymore, no cockiness or snark to hide behind.

Alex sighed heavily, and Mallory glanced to see he was holding a clear bag in one hand with a long tube attached.

"I bruised your jaw really hard," Alex explained, and had the audacity to look worried. "It's stiffened up. I checked while you were unconscious. It's going to be near-impossible for you to eat normally, so Anisa sent me instructions on how to make this nutrient-rich... slushie-thing." He gestured to the bag in his hand, which was full of liquefied pinkish-gray mush. "It's the only way to get food into you in your current condition."

Mallory was trembling so hard he couldn't answer, too cold to think straight. But being tube-fed by a vampire -- especially his captor -- was not something he ever wanted to experience. But he didn't have much of a choice, he knew, and was too weak and injured to resist as Alex grabbed his head, prying his jaw open an inch or two.

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