#*sounds of cries of anguish*

[the-eye-guy]

I caught up with Malevolent. And things Certainly Happened.

Send help. I am not Doing Well

[asaarii]

ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible) reader: fem wc: 2604 summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend? cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this requested by: @sophsthebest

this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now

Life is strange, really. 

One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.

You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.

You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.

MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay

You: i’m fine

You: i’m just scared mark 

You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…

MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you

MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw

The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.

“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.

Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.

This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love. 

Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.

“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.

Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.

Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.

“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”

So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.

You don’t get far.

A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.

“Another survivor?” 

You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.

“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.

Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.

“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”

The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”

You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.

“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed. 

He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.

“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.

“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.

Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.

A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?

While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—

“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel. 

“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.

“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”

“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!” 

The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.

Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”

Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.

Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.

Then he hears it—they all hear it.

The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.

A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.

Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.

Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.

“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”

No.

No.

No.

This can’t be happening—

You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.

“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.

Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.

Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.

“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.

A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.

Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.

“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.

“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.

“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.

“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.

“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”

Shit.

©asarii 2025 — do not copy, steal, repost, or translate any of my works on tumblr or any other site or run my works through ai

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men Getting "She's busy bro" Text

Request: Hi!! I waited patiently (and eagerly) for your requests to open again, I'm so happy!! I love your writing!! I laughed so hard at the previous request where you mentioned Tara. I have another "Tara is on thin ice" idea, lol. Tara and Mc are having a girls night at Mc's place. Mc is cooking or just doing something, mc's receives a message from the lads men (something random like "hi, how are you, I'm off work"). Tara tells Mc she got a message (since Mc is doing something and she can't answer), and mc tells Tara to reply for her. All good and sweet, what does Tara reply with? "Hi, all good, she's busy now, she will talk to you later!" (Basically, the "she's busy bro" prank but with an oblivious Tara that didn't mean to prank them, lol)

AN: Hey anon, I am sorry for how last I am posting this. But thank you for requesting such a fun scenario. I hope you enjoy this!! Might be ooc at times but I am woman of dramatics so excuse me.

Ingredients: 75% fluff , 25% drama

My Fav: Zayne 🥺

Genre: She's busy bro, prank

Pairing: LaDS boys x fem reader

You’re in the kitchen, half-focused on stirring the pasta and half-listening to Tara rant about her latest training match when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Hey, your phone just lit up,” Tara says, leaning over to check the screen. “It’s one of the guys. Something about ‘how are you?’ and ‘off work.’”

“Just reply for me,” you say, tossing a handful of garlic into the pan. “Tell him I’ll get back to him later.”

Tara shrugs, picking up your phone and squinting at the message. Her thumbs fly over the screen as she replies, “Hi, all good, she’s busy right now, she’ll talk to you later!”

She hits send with a satisfied nod, setting the phone back down without a second thought

Rafayel:

You lunge to catch Tara as she collapses, her hands flying to her throat, her breaths coming out in sharp, choking gasps.

“Tara!” you gasp, your watch buzzing with frantic alerts, the tiny screen flashing red with proximity warnings.

And then you see it. The curving, sinuous tendrils creeping from the edges of the painting on your wall. The one Rafayel gifted you not long ago. The inky black swirls ripple like living shadows, curling toward you.

You snatch your phone from the counter, one arm still braced around Tara’s trembling form, your body blocking her from the painting as the tendrils inch closer. You hit Rafayel’s contact, your finger jabbing the call button with a fury you can barely contain.

He picks up on the first ring, and you don’t give him a chance to speak.

“Stop it. Now.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, the sound of crashing waves and distant seagulls crackling through the line, but you don’t flinch.

“I swear to the fucking seas,” you snarl, your voice low and dangerous, “I will never talk to you again if you hurt her.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, a flicker of hesitation, and then the tendrils retreat, coiling back into the frame like startled serpents, the air around you cooling as the painting slowly still.

Tara collapses against you, her breathing evening out, her death grip on your arm loosening as she gasps for air. You meet her wide, dazed eyes, your own heart still hammering in your chest.

She gives you a shaky, crooked grin. “That was kinda hot,” she croaks, her lips twitching into a weak, mischievous smile, and your heart melts on the spot.

It takes Rafayel three weeks of pleading, apologizing, and bribing (both you and Tara) to be forgiven for 'the incident'. He sends flowers, chocolates, and a rare pearl necklace that you suspect he made with his anguished cries.

But the painting stays. “For protection,” he insists, his tone defensive, his eyes shifting away from yours when you bring it up. “You’ll thank me one day.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t push it.

Xavier:

He just shows up at your door. Because, of course, he does.

However busy you were, he could stop it. He is a victim to the sunk cost fallacy. If he has to pull you out of some other guy’s orbit, he’ll do it, no hesitation.

He knocks once, twice, each rap firm but patient, the ripped delivery package dangling from one hand, his other tucked casually into his jacket pocket.

The door swings open, and he inhales to deliver his practiced excuse." “Delivered to wr....” He blinks, momentarily thrown off as Tara opens the door, her hair a chaotic mess, pasta sauce smeared up to her cheeks like she’s just face-planted in a pot of marinara.

Behind her, you’re hunched over a massive dish of pasta, a noodle dangling from your lips, your eyes going wide as you choke at the sight of him, your face turning a lovely shade of tomato red.

“Oh, he—uhgh!” you splutter, breaking into a fit of coughing, nearly dropping the fork in your hand.

Xavier’s eyebrow twitches, his frown slowly morphing into a wide grin as his shoulders relax, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in the chaotic scene.

There’s a long, painful beat of silence.

Then Tara, completely unfazed, just wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, shrugs, and steps aside. “You coming in or what, dude?” she says, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Somehow, Xavier ends up joining your girls’ night, plopping down on the couch, grabbing a fork and helping himself to the monstrous bowl of pasta, because why not?

He makes a few snarky comments about your terrible math skills, but shuts up when you threaten to make him eat his own disastrous cooking as punishment.

Predictably, he’s the first to fall asleep. Conveniently, on your shoulder, his head tucked against your neck, his soft breathing mixing with the faint sound of the movie still playing in the background.

Zayne:

Zayne, of course, doesn’t take the bait.

He’s the only one who doesn’t react to the “She’s busy, bro” text like it’s a declaration of war, because he’s seen this sort of thing before.

As a surgeon, he’s often out of reach, his pager passed off to a resident while he’s deep in the OR, his hands steady, his mind clear as he cuts through flesh and bone. He knows what it’s like to be unavailable, to be occupied with things that demand his full focus.

So when he gets the text, he just blinks at his phone, smiles a little, and sets it down without a second thought, already mentally filing away a dessert he can bring you later, something to help you relax after your busy day.

And he does. He shows up that night, a paper bag in one hand, his coat still smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the faint lines of old scars.

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, a little shy, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “I brought tiramisu. Thought you could use a break.”

He’s literally the most precious bby, and you have to resist the urge to hug him right there in the doorway.

Sylus:

He’s in the middle of a deal, lounging back in his leather chair.

He checks his phone on a whim, his fingers flicking over the screen, and sees your text. His lips curl into a slow, arrogant smile as he types out a quick, casual, “Hey, what are you up to, sweetie?”

When the "She's busy, she'll call you later," text comes back, the smile freezes on his lips.

Busy? Busy?

His mood sours instantly. His fingers curl around the edge of his desk. He flicks his gaze back to the fumbling dealer in front of him, and his generosity reserves run dry.

“Out.”

The dealer stumbles back, wide-eyed, sweat beading on his forehead as he stammers out a “Y-Yes, sir!” before practically tripping over his own feet to escape the room.

Sylus leans back in his chair, teeth gritted, jaw tight, the soft click of his metal-tipped fingers against the desk the only sound in the now-silent room.

But just as he’s about to mentally spiral, his phone buzzes again.

“Made a pretty big batch of pasta, would you like some?”

He blinks, eyes flicking to the photo you’ve attached. A literal tub of way too much pasta, the noodles piled high, the sauce thick and steaming, a chaotic heap of carbs that only you and Tara could possibly miscalculate into existence.

He huffs, a quiet, exasperated chuckle slipping past his lips, the tension in his shoulders melting away. He leans back, his head tipping against the cool leather of his chair, a small, fond smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll be there in 20. Don’t start without me.”

And just like that, his mood is ruined in a completely different way, his dark, dangerous aura slipping into something much softer as he straightens his tie and stands, already picturing you waiting with a bright grin and a mismatched fork.

Caleb:

“Why does she get to use your phone and I don’t?” Caleb storms around your apartment, his boots clomping against the hardwood floor, his uniform still perfectly pressed.

It’s been an hour of this. A Fleet Colonel throwing a full-on tantrum in your tiny studio, pacing like a caged animal, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he’s debating strangling the nearest pillow. You did put your plushies away at the first given chance.

Pouting. Whining. Sharp, accusing glances thrown your way every time you so much as move.

You’re honestly grateful that Tara had left before this. She’d probably just laugh and egg him on, and you don’t need two chaotic messes in your living room right now.

“Caleb, I was busy,” you try to reason, leaning against the kitchen counter as he paces. “I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

He whirls to face you, his eyes dark, his jaw ticking, his hair somehow still perfectly in place, untouched by the cap he’d clearly ripped off the second he stormed through your door. Your mind unhelpfully drifts to the way that uniform clings to his shoulders, the way his collar hugs his throat, and nope, now is not the time for that.

“Busy?” he spits, his voice a low, irritated rumble. “Busy with what? And why with her, exactly?”

You sigh, pressing a hand to your forehead, already exhausted from the emotional hurricane that is Caleb. “I was cooking, Caleb. With Tara. I didn’t want to leave you hanging, so I asked her to text you back.”

He scoffs, his shoulders tense, his eyes narrowing like he’s daring you to try that excuse again.

Rage bait Tara is Colonel Caleb’s worst nightmare come to life. Given how you never seem to care how close she gets to you, how easily she invades your space, how unapologetically she teases you.

Much to Caleb’s dismay, you never seem to mind.

[abyssyby]

off guard on duty

— the big twins watch the little twins for a day and long for what they think they'll never have.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: my babies my angels my loves ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡ sylus is just a dad of 4. here's a silly little fic about the big twins watching the little twins. they have a great time. let me know what you think of this one lol, it was super fun to make! enjoy! ❀-urs important heads up for context of this story: kyros and lucian are (my headcanon) sylus's twin boys. around 3 years old at this time.

kieran, luke, lucian and kyros highlight!! | sylus x reader | fluff, angst, softbabysitter!twins, mom!reader, sufferingdad!sylus, bigtwins are also sylus's sons change my mind?? tw: separation anxiety/tantrums, past abuse mentioned (pls let me know if I missed any!)

Don’t drop them.

Don’t lose them.

Dinner is at six.

Easy enough. They’ve gone through more difficult missions before. Covert ones, requiring meticulous planning and great improvisation. 

Kieran prides himself in being able to execute seventeen different kinds of strategies to take down a group of thirty men within 5 minutes. Luke can persuade anyone into doing anything, and eliminate them— without a trace—if they don’t comply. Exceptional mercenaries. Isolated ghosts. Nothing is impossible.

Perfectly capable babysitters, if you ask them. 

How they made the silent twin wail like a siren and the rambunctious one sit still was beyond them.

“Papa!” Kyros screams, blotchy red cheeks puffed and damp bangs stuck to his sweaty forehead. He presses himself against the heavy main door, as if forcing himself to walk through, stretching his little limbs and straining his ankles to reach the knob. “Papa! Papa!” 

“Keero mad.” Lucian blinks, staring at his brother across the room, snuggled against his mama’s blanket. Your scent envelops him, helps him stay calm in your absence. You had left for your mission earlier that day, and Lucian has since finished his little tantrum, as evidenced by his own salt-crusted cheeks.

Luke and Kieran are a mess, to put it mildly. 

“It’s okay, little boss,” Luke tries to say, pulling the toddler away from the door where Sylus had just left from. Kyros gurgles a desperate sound as he weighs himself down to the floor in protest. “Big boss will be back.” 

“Papa!” Kyros cries, calming words falling on deaf ears.

“I don’t think he knows who ‘big boss’ is.” Kieran, equally panicked but hiding his racing heart behind calm breathing, offers. “Little boss, papa will be back.”

Kyros seems to scream louder at that, stomping his little feet and running off to the crevice by the door. He squeezes himself against the corner and sobs. Fat droplets of tears streaming down his swollen cheeks. Heartbreakingly resembling an abandoned hamster.

Kieran’s arms fall to his sides—how? How is this little one such an angel during play time and…? Have they done something to upset him? Does he not really like them? Is this how he finds out that a child can have preferences and can choose not to prefer them? 

Before Kieran can spiral deeper in self-pity and throw Luke off with the swelling emotion in his chest, in their periphery, they see movement from the couch. Lucian, wrapped in his mother’s blanket, waddles over to his brother and gives him a little hug. “Squeezy-squeeze, Keero. No cry.”

Luke blinks at the sight. The realization comes to him in the form of a distant sensation— freezing cold cells, the deafening bang of a metal door and him, anguished and ashamed, crowding Kieran close to the corner of their room where they held one another—high on sedatives— after they had just torn each other apart to survive another day. 

With that, he moves slowly, approaching the little twins with caution and then opens his arms. “Kyros?” 

Lucian makes way, and at the sight, Kyros scrambles over to Luke and buries his hiccups in his chest. He engulfs him in a hug, mindful of the pressure he applies with his arms and how that would translate to a little body like Kyros’s. Pressure, deep, deep pressure tethers him back to them. 

Kyros deflates, nuzzling his wet little face into the fabric of Luke’s turtleneck. He can’t be bothered by the snot, relieved that the boy has begun to stop crying. 

“Papa will be back.” Luke says quietly, making sure to press his lips into the baby’s head so he can feel the sound. Something he’d observed you and Sylus would do to him. “Kieran and I are here.” 

He exhales when he realizes Kyros doesn’t struggle. That he is allowed to comfort him like his parents do. 

“Be back now.” Kyros murmurs, genuinely thinking big, strong Luke and Kieran can do something about it. 

“Later.” Luke assures him. “Just out on a mission.” 

“No, ‘ishun.” he shakes his head, eyes glassy and pleading. “No, pease?” 

“Sorry, buddy, Papa’s work is important.”

“Maybe we can do something else? Like… hide & go boom?” Kieran offers, mirroring the quiet voice and lifting Lucian up into his arms as well. An effort to put them all on equal footing. 

Lucian nods. “Yes.” 

Kyros shakes his head. “Don’wanna.” 

“Okay, that’s fine.” Luke nods, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “How ‘bout the hammock?” 

Kyros shakes his head again, much to their disappointment. 

Kieran racks his brain for ideas. Were it not for the devastation on the little boy’s face, he would have found it funny that he gets to see how Sylus would cry, if he were a small toddler. Lucian and Kyros look so much like Sylus, they might as well be triplets. 

In the corner of his eye, he sees the coat closet open, and an idea is born. “Hey… wanna see papa?” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Get out.” Kieran rasps, pushing his voice deep into his chest. He stands in an imposing pose, chin jutted out to accentuate his jaw and squinting his eyes to be half-lidded and bored. 

On his shoulders was Sylus’s brown leather coat, on his feet were Sylus’s large shoes and on his head… was Lucian. Serving as a giggly white wig on his hair.

“Give us the brooch!” Luke demands, Kyros in a baby carrier strapped tightly to his chest. He wore your hunter gloves on his thumb and forefinger, far too small, and Kyros held an empty water gun. 

“I hid it, go find it.” rasps Keiran again. Poorly hiding the cough that rips through his chest. 

“Where, papa?” Kyros giggles as he’s swung around. Luke makes exaggerated movements of disbelief. 

“Here.” cough. “There.” cough, cough. He rubs his throat and swallows drily, brows knitting together as he breathes out with great difficulty, “Somewhere.” 

Lucian— a sentient wig, apparently— points to the playroom. Kyros nods in understanding.

“Fine’da boots!” Kyros wriggles, willing Luke to march forward. Luke hobbles into the playroom and puts Kyros down, who dives into his toy box. Kieran follows with Lucian.

“Keero, no there!” Lucian says, scrambling off of Kieran’s shoulders, hitting him in the eye— both big twins wince— and sliding down his leg. 

“Don’t tell him, Cian, we’re team papa.” Kieran chuckles, rubbing his eye as he sinks onto the floor to watch the little twins. Something swells in his chest as he watches the two executing his little mission— an affirmation that he’s done something worth their time.

Luke pauses from searching for a clue. He asks, because it matters to the story, “Wait. Does that mean we’re team mama?” 

“Boots?” Kyros asks, holding up a toy fork. 

Lucian swats it away, “No!” 

Kyros continues his search, asking everyone if whatever he was interacting with was a brooch. 

“Boots?” He asks, bouncing on the trampoline. 

“Boots?” As he slides down the playset.

“Boots?” As he carefully stacks the colored rings into a wobbly tower. 

 Boots? Boots? Boots?

“I don’t think he remembers what the brooch looks like.” Luke finally says, after minutes of watching Kyros turn the place upside down. 

Lucian has since joined, and the moment he pulls out the plastic bathtime boat and presents it to them with a hopeful, “Dis boats?”— Kieran is sure he has forgotten now too. 

“No… uh…” Kieran thinks, lips quirking to the side. He tries to explain what the small, metal pin looks like to the toddlers again. They stare at him with wide, clueless eyes, feigning comprehension. “It’s black and has a bird— a small black bird in the middle,” he says, motioning towards Luke who points at the drawer it was in.

Lucian nods first. “Ohh…” 

Kyros hops up with a newfound fervor. “Bird! Ya, bird!” 

“Yes! Bird! Do you remember n— HEY!” 

In a flash, Kyros has tugged his brother out the door and the pair sprint down the halls. Kieran scrambles to stand, feeling his knees pop at the quick motion while Luke slips and tumbles on the rug trying to get to the door. He blinks back the black and white dots from his vision as he runs.

“Wait, wait!” Kieran begs, listening to the echoes of laughter down the halls to follow. Luke is already swiping through the security camera feed to locate them.

The boss is going to kill them. You’re going to kill them dead. 

The giggles resonate throughout the halls until they are confusing. Kieran swears he hears Lucian down the left and Kyros down the right, but Luke just saw them together on Camera 8. 

“They’re—they’re teleporting!” 

“Do they have evol? I’ve never seen them—did you hear that?!”

“Part boss? Did you spot wings?!” 

“Quiet! Let’s…” 

They stop. An argument between them brews just in the horizon when the silence swallows them whole. 

“Where are they?” Kieran glances at Luke’s phone. His jaw sets. Swipe after swipe through the camera feeds, they finds no trace of them. Luke’s hand begins to shake.

Kieran’s comments don’t help. “… I don’t like that.” Camera 13— empty. “No, no, I hate that.” 

Luke shakes his head as helplessness consumes him. “They’re invisible.” 

“Stop it.” 

Chills trickle down Luke’s spine as he hears faint laughter echo down the halls that he fails to localize. “Were they even real?” 

Kieran shoves his brother. “Listen to yourself!”  

Don’t lose them. 

Before their hysteria escalates— praise be— they hear a very distressed squawking. With a look, they take off left. Boss’s office. 

There they find Lucian balanced on his father’s chair— round belly dented over the head rest, stretching to reach the charging perch, little hands grabbing the mechanical bird by the neck. Kyros stares up, holding the other boy’s legs as to not let him fall. 

“Kee-wan, bird!” Lucian says proudly, wiggling in his already precarious state. Kieran feels his life force in his throat as he rushes to get him down from the chair. Palms cold and clammy, fingers trembling and struggling to get a grip.

Don’t drop them.

“Boots!” Kyros proclaims in a shout. It still surprises them how loud Kyros can actually be. “Pisto boots!” 

“Mephisto was not the br—“ Kieran’s mouth is slapped shut as Luke cuts him off with cheers.

“Little bosses found the brooch!” Because he can’t have them running off to find any other thing they think is the brooch again. He can’t do it. His head is still spinning from his wipe out. He curses under his breath, silently checking— just in case— for little wings. 

The little boys scream in delight. Kieran softens at the sight, silently grateful his brother cut him off. Who would want to miss this? 

He pries Lucian’s fingers off of Mephisto gently and places the bird back on the perch. “Nice job, kids.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Dinner comes at six o’clock. Sylus had put his boys into a routine so well maintained that the sound of the clock striking six wasn’t a bell, but his son’s growling stomachs.

“Papa made you squash.” Luke says, taking it out the fridge and heating it. Meanwhile, Kieran buckles them in their ridiculously luxurious high-chairs. “And fish…” 

Luke pauses at the note written on top of the bigger container of meat and potatoes. Reads: Big Twins in handwriting they’ve only seen on under-the-table-offers, bidding slips and ledgers. He tries not to let it get to him, takes it out and heats it as well.

“Papa home?” Kyros asks, although this time with more curiosity than despair.

“Not yet.” Kieran tells him, giving his shoulders a grounding squeeze.

It doesn’t escape them how they’ve been calling Sylus “papa” all day too. How it came so easily when the adjustment was needed. Somehow they can’t seem to stop. 

Luke serves dinner. Two ceramic plates and two silicone-suction-cupped bowls. 

Lucian’s nose knocks into a palm as his path to his food is blocked. Kieran chides, “It’s hot.”

Lucian blinks at Kieran, who is still wearing Sylus’s coat and shoes, and tilts his head in amusement. Something connects in his head and he giggles. “Like papa.” 

Kieran’s face flushes, and Luke howls in laughter as he takes that in too. He hurls the silicone spoon at his brother like a javelin, and through his laughter, Luke catches it with ease. Straight to the sink it went and a new spoon is handed to Lucian. 

An unspoken truth passes between the big twins, a dawning that settles in them like warm milk on a sleepless night, as they feed their corresponding little twin. 

This is their life now— not just running errands, killing, and negotiating for Sylus, no matter how much they enjoyed that. How that put them into use. How that gave them purpose. A reason to exist in this world that hated them enough to maim them, and strip them of who they were only to throw them away. Because even then, they were still worth nothing. 

Now, in the soft glow of the kitchen light, eating the food Sylus had prepared them, feeding their charges. They see, they hope: this—this is who they are. Not machines, not weapons—boys, brothers, parts of this family. No matter how fleeting it may all be. 

They doubt it, but they feel it. In the way you check up on them when they come back from a mission, in Sylus’s silent but kind regard, in the little twins’ comfort and acceptance. Despite their shortcomings, their differences, they have found a place here. And maybe one day, the masks will come off and they will be nothing, thrown away once more— but what a wonder to have had this all the same.

“Kee-wan, Wook,” Lucian tells Kyros, pointing a chubby little finger at the wrong twin as he says it. Pulling the two out of their spiraling thoughts, different but grounded in the same soil. 

Kyros shakes his head calmly, chewing on the soft squash Luke fed him. He points correctly, “Wook. Keewi.” 

Seeking confirmation, Kieran gives Kyros a thumbs up. The little boy grins a proud orange smile, squash and all. Meanwhile, Luke teaches Lucian the differences— “Kieran’s head is this weird sha—ow!”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You’re still snickering at the video footage Mephisto sent you of Sylus lingering on the front door from earlier. Head devastatingly pressed to the wood, a white fist around the handle as his son screamed for him to come back on the other side. 

“It was terrible,” he tells you. His hand hovers on your lower back as you both ascend the pathway to the base. 

You offer him a sympathetic smile and squeeze his shoulder. “I know.” 

“We’re back!” You announce as the door is pushed open. Sylus slips in behind you.

It takes a moment for the footsteps to emerge, but they do. They always do. Only it wasn’t just the two light-footed ones’ you usually hear. Accompanying them was the sound of loud, bounding leather boots. 

“Mama!” Lucian screeches, little legs pumping to get to you. Leading the charge. Behind him, his brother— face scrunched in solemn determination, trying to catch up. Eyes zeroed in on his papa. And behind them…

“Stop! Ow, Mephisto! Kieran, get him!”

“I’m trying— He’s— OW!” 

The mechanical bird nosedives towards the two larger twins who struggle to catch their wards and fight off the bird at the same time. You giggle at the sight, and you hear Sylus chuckle the faintest bit too. 

Both on your knees, you each catch a twin, showering them with affection. Leaving the base for work has been harder than ever since these two gained the curse of existential dread and skill of object permanence. 

“Papa home!” you turn at your Kyros’s voice, who pats his father’s hollow cheeks softly. Meant as a happy report rather than a guilt-tripping accusation. Still, it prickles Sylus’s nose red as he tries to swallow the emotion that rises with the memory of his son’s cries. 

He presses his nose into his angel’s silver hair and breathes him in. “Brave boy.” 

“Mama!” Lucian says, both hands on your cheeks, turning your gaze towards the fumbling big twins. He points, correctly this time to each. “Kee-wan. Wook.”

You squint, taking note of the differences despite their movement and then beam. “You’re right!”

He giggles like a pebble skipped over a frozen lake when you pepper his face with kisses. 

“Mephisto.” At Sylus’s command, the bird ceases. It flutters to a nearby shelf and tilts its head as if nothing happened. 

“Were Kieran and Luke good babysitters?” Sylus asks. Even if he knows, Mephisto having sent automatic updates on his twins’ mishaps.

The little twins nod happily in response, then came the litany of warbles meant to be a retelling of their day. Two baby birds with their mouths wide open trying to string together something coherent. 

You and Sylus catch ‘keewi papa’, ‘boots’, ’boats’ and ‘pisto mad’. Understanding was half the battle when both your boys told stories with such vigor. You struggled to keep them in your arms as they ‘swoosh’ed and ‘fwish’ed, reenacting as if they could project their imaginations to the wall for mama and papa to see. 

Sylus turns to the big twins who listened proudly. Given they had context, they seemed to understand more than the parents did. He raises a brow, squinting slightly at Kieran to make sure, then asks, “Are those my clothes?” 

Kieran jumps, tongue in his throat. “I—“ 

“Looks good on you.” Sylus says so casually it was unbelievable. Lucian nods in agreement, “Like papa!” 

“Wook squeezies.” Kyros mentions as well, pointing at Luke, who had calmed him earlier. He nods in approval, swinging his feet. “Like Wook squeezies.” 

“Looks like you guys did really good,” you commend, walking over to the big twins. You brush a feather out of Luke’s hair, eyes sharp as you secretly check for scratches from their earlier bird-attack. Luke flinches at the contact, and you point at his forehead knowingly. “Ice.”

He hesitates, then gives a bashful smile. Rug. Right. “Oh, that’s… psh.” 

You promise to get him some. And before you forget, you add, “Thanks, guys.” 

“Faithful minions—“ 

“—at your service.” 

The tired grins on their faces make your heart clench. That… doesn’t feel right. The silence that follows is hollow as the weight of their own words settle into the space between them. Is it possible for them to believe that’s all they are? Help? Followers only good for their hands to take orders? The mere thought settles like bile on your tongue. 

You shake your head at the ridiculous notion and prop Lucian up on your hip. “Tell your brothers goodnight, Cian.” 

Lucian extends his arms and Luke plucks him from your hold. Easy and familiar, Lucian presses his forehead on each one’s like a lion cub. “Na-nite.” He whispers.

And just like that, they feel the warmth that radiates off of the little one so overwhelmingly. Just as they do pain, they feel this too— this thing that neither of them have the words for yet. But it is heavy as it is true. Lucian’s hands touching their faces, the gentle repose of your eyes work wonders to cast away old, haunting thoughts of being lesser than or temporary. 

Kieran holds him a little longer. Luke stares. For once, they have no strategy, no words, no logic or skill to make sense of the feeling. Standing there, in silence, they choke on something so difficult to swallow.

You make a mental note to treat them to something fun soon. Hang out with them like you did before the little twins came along. Maybe Luke would appreciate an opportunity to redeem himself in laser tag, or Kieran would like to play a video game again. You’ll make the time.

They freeze when you press a chaste kiss to each of their cheeks, then pass Lucian back into your arms. Without another word, you turn towards the kitchen to hunt for something frozen and something to eat. Nodding along and offering “ah-huh”s and “then what?”s as Lucian’s weaves a colorful, jargon-laced story. 

Sylus follows after you, Kyros already snuggled to his chest with half-lidded eyes and fingers clutching his shirt. He pauses, just as he walks past the twins. A heavy air hangs between them, but it isn’t suffocating. Not tense, or harrowing. Come to think of it, they haven’t felt that in ages. Not since Sylus. 

The air was just… firm. Stable and calm. 

“Thank you,” he says to them, holding their gaze with a reverence that they’ve never noticed before—one they had only ever mistaken for dismissal. But now, really looking, they see it. What Sylus truly feels for them— proven in the trust he had placed in them. Gratitude in the way they cared for his kin, just as he once cared for them; taking them in despite their troubled beginnings.

Pride, in its full glory. 

He is proud of them. 

And as if Sylus sees the gears turn and lock into place in their heads, as if he has been welcomed into their twin loop at last, he smiles—careful and sincere. “Get some rest.” 

Kyros waves a sleepy little hand at them as they go.

Alone, Luke and Keiran turn. Faces reflecting each other. Once never needing a mirror, now taking in the flustered, upside-down smiles pulling at the corners of their lips. They shake their heads at the impossibility of it all. And yet. 

A home, a family. Despite their past, their sins and their scars— 

They are enough. 

Finally, they belong. 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more little twins ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

thank you for reading! 。゜゜(´ｏ`) ゜゜。

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

Touch Starved

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader Summary: This was inspired by a tweet and his gif I saw on twitter. You accidentally walk in on Bucky touching himself when he thinks he is alone. Turns out he is thinking about you. A/N: Unbeta'ed, so sorry for the mistakes! Warnings: NSFW but not that explicit. Word count: 1,379 words

The team had made a last minute decision to go out, but you weren’t in the mood to join them. It has been quite a while since you’d had some time to yourself, and you happily retreated to your quarters with a bag full of late-night snacks in tow.

The thought of having the living area all to yourself was oddly comforting. There was something incredibly liberating about walking through the quiet corridors alone. After carefully stashing your snacks in the kitchen, you glanced around the hallway to ensure no one was around. Satisfied that the coast was clear, you stepped out of your room wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of fluffy socks.

The polished floors gleamed under the fluorescent lights and begged you to indulge in one of your guilty pleasures: dancing and sliding across the freshly waxed surface. You were mid-slide, grinning to yourself like the Cheshire cat, when an unexpected groan pierced the silence.

The sound startled you, nearly making you lose your balance as you skidded to a stop. You scanned the corridor, heart pounding in our ears, as you tried to pin point the source of the noise.

You were met with silence for a few moments. Just as you had convinced yourself that your imagination was getting the best of you, you heard it again. Only this time, it was unmistakable— it sounded like your name.

Your eyes caught a glimpse of a crack in one of the doors. Immediately, you knew that it was the source of the sound. Approaching slowly, you realized that it was Bucky’s room.

Shit! You thought back to earlier, replaying the moment you watched the others leave. Had Bucky gone with them? You didn’t remember seeing him head out. Could he still be here?

A soft, almost pained whimper reached your ears, followed again by your name.

Without hesitation, you pushed open the door, a growing sense of dread and concern rising inside you. Bucky often had nightmares— you’d heard his anguished cries echoing in the dead of night. You didn’t want to let him suffer for a minute longer than necessary— not if you could help it.

But as you silently pushed open the door, the sight before you stopped you in your tracks, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the super soldier, sprawled out on the bed. He was shirtless. You could see the muscles in his abdomen rippling like waves as he writhed around on the mattress.

Another muffled groan escaped him and your eyes were drawn to the pillow he had clamped over his face. It would have been an alarming image, if it wasn’t for the fact that his pants were undone and his flesh hand was wrapped firmly around his cock.

You froze. Every single coherent thought vanished from your head in an instant. You stood in the doorway, mouth parted in silent shock as a flush of heat rushed to your face as your brain scrambled to process what you were seeing.

This is not what you had expected. At all.

Your instincts told you to turn around, to leave and grant him the privacy he so clearly thought he had. But for some reason, your feet refused to move. You stayed rooted to the spot as a cocktail of emotions swirled inside you— shock, embarrassment and lastly desire.

Only when he groaned your name again, the sound muffled by the pillow but clear enough to send a shiver down your spine and a flood of heat between your legs. Your heart raced as you realized that he wasn’t just lost in the moment— he was lost in the thought of you.

Your instincts finally kicked in, belatedly propelling you to turn on your heels and leave as quickly and quietly as possible. But your socks betrayed you, letting out a squeak against the polished floor.

Bucky’s movements stilled.

“Shit,” you heard him mutter under his breath, his voice low and filled with mortification. There was a rustle of sheets and before you could fully escape, his voice called out.

“Who’s there?” His words came out sharp and panicked.

You came to a halt outside his room, cursing your hesitation. You glanced around the corner just in time to see him sit up, clutching the tiny pillow against his lap, as though it could shield him from the situation he had found himself in. HIs face was flushed, his chest heaved and his wide blue eyes locked onto yours.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice cracking, overwhelmed by shame. He rubbed at the back of his neck with his vibranium hand. “I… I didn’t know anyone was—”

“I’m so sorry!” you blurted out. “I—I mean to, I shouldn’t have—” Words failed you, and you swiftly darted out into the hallway, hiding around the edge of the doorway.

But you didn’t go far.

Your heart was pounding loudly in your chest and for some reason, your legs felt like lead, stopping you from running away. You pressed your back against the wall, taking a shaky inhale to calm your thundering heart and trying to process what had just happened.

You needed to keep walking. You should be retreating to your room where you could pretend none of this ever happened. You should. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Something was pulling at your strings, master of puppetry controlling your actions, refusing to let you leave. It was desire. The way he had said your name— with so much longing— played in your mind on a loop. You hadn’t missed the way his body moved, the vulnerability he’d displayed on his flushed face. And then there was the way his eyes had widened with shock when he realized it was you.

Before you could truly think about your actions, your feet had started carrying you back to the door. You hesitated for a second but the pull inside you— the part of you that craved him— propelled you forwards.

You stepped back inside.

His face was crimson, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Was it anger? Embarrassment? Or… something else entirely?

You couldn’t decipher the expression on his face but the tension in the room weighed down on both of you.

Wordlessly, you approached him, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, and he immediately curled in on himself, clutching the pillow tighter to his chest. His body was angled away from you, his gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to meet yours.

You shuffled closer, moving carefully, unsure if he wanted you to stay or to leave. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak, he didn’t give you any indication that he was aware of your presence. But you could feel the tension radiating from him like a forcefield. His knuckles were white against the fabric of the pillow, and he sat so rigidly it was as if his body didn’t know how to relax anymore.

“Bucky,” you whispered softly, your voice filled with kindness and affection.

Still, he didn’t respond. He seemed paralyzed, trapped in this moment of shame and uncertainty.

Slowly, you reached out, unable to control the tremble of your hand as you cradled his cheek. He flinched at first, his body stiffening, but he didn’t pull away. You kept your touch gentle but deliberate, and when he didn’t resist, you applied the lightest pressure to turn his head toward you.

At long last, his eyes met yours— his pupils dilated, unfocused and vulnerable.

You held his gaze, letting the air between you grow heavy with meaning. Your thumb brushed fondly against the stubble on his jaw, and you leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving him every chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

When your lips first met his, they moved slowly, with tenderness, almost searching. You gave him the opportunity to object… he didn’t. And suddenly the heat building inside you made it impossible for you to hold back. You deepened the kiss— conveying your longing— leaving no room for doubt, no room for misinterpretation. You wanted him.

And as his lips began to respond to yours, the pillow slipped from his grasp, forgotten as he surrendered to the intensity of your connection.

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.

A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.

Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

Part 2: Here

Part 3: Here

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."

"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."

The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.

But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.

You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.

You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.

Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.

Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.

The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.

Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.

You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.

-----

“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain. 

The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.

When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring. 

The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.

The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.

“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.

Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”

“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.

As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.

"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”

Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.

He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.

He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.

The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”

Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.

And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.

Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.

-----

Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.

You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.

At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.

You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.

The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.

And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.

And now, it was all coming to an end.

Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.

The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.

He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.

“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.

He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”

“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.

“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”

Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”

“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”

Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”

Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”

He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.

"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.

"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"

Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”

He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”

“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”

Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”

“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.

“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."

But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.

Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.

And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.

"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.

"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.

He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.

It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.

"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.

But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.

"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.

"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.

Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."

"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."

You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.

And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.

What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock. 

Haymitch has a wife.

And she was about to die.

Next Chapter

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

more 18+ LOGAN HOWLETT thoughts bc clearly im a big fat fucking liar

fem!reader, 583 words

Early morning sex is one of Logan’s favourites. There’s no rush, no haste – nothing. The rest of the world quiet, as if it's only the two of you up. 

He’d often be cuddling into you from behind, arm like a dead, sleeping weight around your middle. His hand in a protective hold under one of your tits, keeping you there with your back to his burly chest. It’s rather comfortable.

And as his eyes begin to open, adjusting to the dawn sky through the gap of the curtain, he notices something between his legs causing him anguish. Thick, naked cock rock hard against the cheek of your ass, the little sleeping, unknowing motions of you only furthering that agony.

He nuzzles his face into you from behind, chin hooking on the nape of your neck as he presses soft, light kisses into your cheek – trying to ease you awake. And when you inhale, the sound prolonged and sleepy, he only tempts you further: running the scruff of his beard over your bare shoulder, lips pressing faintly into the side of your throat.

“Got something I want you to take care of, sugar,” he whispers, voice low and gruff beside your ear. His hand on your tit beginning it’s gentle kneading, again, like he was trying to coax you. Pushing it even further by saying your name in that deep, manly way he often does.

You nestle your head back into him, humming in a way as if to show your intrigue. Your half-asleep self silently asking him to elaborate. And when he takes the hint, his grasp around your breast loosens, instead moving down to your stomach – large fingers brushing over your warm, bare skin. 

The trail continues, his touch moving down to between your thighs, the thickness of his wrist acting like a wedge betwixt your legs. His middle finger instinctively extends downwards, the tip of it running between the lips of your pussy, the action like a gentle, momentary warm up.

And so, he leaves that spot just below your clit, reaching his hand behind you —to the front of him— and to his cock. Fingers wrapping around his base, fist faintly pumping over his dick as if to ready himself – simultaneously guiding his head towards you from behind.

He teases you briefly with the tip as he lines up, swirling and circling himself around your entrance before sinking into you. The remnants of last night’s dirty affairs acting like a natural lubricant.

He stills, using his cock like a plug as if to allow you a moment to adjust – accommodate him once again. But it was like muscle memory, the walls of your pussy stretching and wrapping around him, drawing more of him in. 

“Fuck,” he groans, the sound cutting his curse short. He wraps his arm back around your middle, hand finding itself tucked under your tit –like his prior sleeping position– using your body for stability as he begins to slowly rock into you. 

Your eyes close as you melt into him, posture softening against his chest, grip loosening around his thick wrist. He inadvertently mirrors you, the tenseness in his shoulders dissipating as he rests his head back on the pillow – relaxing into you the way you do him. 

Like it all required no effort. The unrushed, irregular wind of his hips into you from behind letting you both feel just enough, each of you still far too sleepy for it to be anything more than this.

I rewatched DOFP for him last night. massive mistake. cried myself to sleep

[aloevera-o]

Hi dearest tumblr writers here is some tips you have no choice in using now.

Please stop over using: said, say, yell, whispered, in your stories. Its atrocious,

(Edit)

I know I phrased it that you were "over using" said. (I was making a joke) I'm not going to bully you for using it. I provided this list for those who *want* it. Personally *I* do not frequently use "said" BECAUSE *I* like to show more emotion in my dialog. Again I am not going to say your writing is good or bad based on the tag on your dialog. This list is for those who WANT to use it.

Use these instead

Neutral 

Announced 

Commented

Divulged(Make known)

Explained

Called

Began

Told

Reported

Observed

Remarked(Say something as a comment;mention 2. Regard with attention;notice)

Noted

Continued

Conferred(Grant or bestow 2. Have discussion;exchange opinions)

Replying

Replied

Retorted(Say something in answer to a remark, usually in a sharp, angry, or witty manner)

Answered

Responded

Suggesting

Advised

Appealed

Asserted

Beckoned(Make a gesture with the hand, arm, or head to encourage someone to come near)

Urged

Promised

Inclined

Implored(Beg someone earnestly or desperately to do something)

Implied

Hinted

Persuaded

Touted(Attempt to sell, typically by pestering in an aggressive or bold way)

Proposed

Teasing or Flirting

Grinned

Quipped (Make a witty remark)

Teased

Taunted

Purred

Mocked

Mimicked

Provoked (Stimulate or give rise to in someone)

Joked

Lied

Imitated

Making a Sound

Breathed

Choked

Croaked

Drawled(Speak in a slow, lazy way with prolonged vowel sounds)

Echoed

Grunted

Keened (Wail in grief for a dead person)

Moaned

Mumbled

Murmured

Painted

Sang

Stifled

Sniveled(Cry and sniff in a feeble or fretful way)

Snorted

Whimpered

Whined

Uttered

Bawled

Howled

Whispered

Accusing

Accused

Articulated

Postulated(Suggest or assume the existence or fact truth or a basis for a reasoning, discussion, or belief)

Angry

Barked

Bellowed (Emit a deep, loud roar, typically in pain or anger)

Bossed

Carped (Complain or find fault continually about trivial matters)

Censured (Express severe disapproval)

Commended

Criticized

Demanded

Raged

Ordered

Reprimanded

Scoffed (Speak to someone or about something in a scornful derision or mocking way)

Scolded

Seethed (Bubble up as a result or being boiled)

Snapped

Screamed

Snarled

Told off

Thundered

Roared

Yelled

Chided (Scold or rebuke)

Leered (Look or gaze in an unpleasant, malicious, or lascivious way)

Condemned 

Rebuked (Express sharp disapproval or criticism of someone because of their behavior or actions)

Admonished (Warn or reprimand firmly)

Chastised (Rebuke or reprimand severely) 

Berated (Scold or criticize angrily)

Interrupting

Interjected

Interrupted

Chimed in

Comforting

Soothed

Comforted

Reassured

Consoled

Empathized

Asking a Question

Sought

Inquired

Doubted

Hypothesized

Guessed

Supposed

Suggested

Lilted (Speak, sing, or sound with a lilt)

Wondered

Probed(Physically explore or examine)

Beseeched(Ask someone urgently and fervently;implore)

Acceptance

Accepted

Acknowledged

Admitted

Affirmed

Agreed

Justified

Settled

Verified

Concurred

Condoned(accept and allow behavior usually thought as offensive)

Cocky or Snarky

Grinned

Taunted

Purred

Jabbered(Talk rapidly and excitedly with little sense)

Fear

Shrieked

Screamed

Swore

Quaked

Shivered

Trembled

Warned

Cautioned

Shuddered

Stammered

Fretted (Be constantly or visibly worried or anxious)

Hesitated

Stuttered

Quavered (Shake or tremble in speaking, typically through nervousness or emotion)

Happy

Babbled

Beamed

Blurted

Bursted

Cheered

Chortled (Laugh in a breathy, gleeful way;chuckle)

Chuckled

Crooned (Hum or sing in a soft, low voice, especially in a sentimental manner)

Crowed (Gloating;saying something in a triumphant manner)

Exclaimed

Giggled

Laughed

Rejoiced

Sad

Wailed

Cried

Sobbed

Yelped

Agonized (Undergo great mental anguish through worrying about something)

Blubbered (Sob noiselessly and uncontrollably)

Groaned

Mourned

Puled (Cry querulously or weakly)

Cried

Wept

Grieved 

Lamented (Mourn someone's death)

"She said with (a)(tone)" Is also a better option than just "she said". Or mix and match

Casual 

Chiding 

Courteous 

Curious 

Dry 

Flirtatious 

Level 

Rasping 

Small 

Panicky 

Soothing 

Condescending 

Perpetually tired/angry/excited 

Controlled grin

Fond look

Gloomy sigh

Note of relief

Sad smile

Sense of guilt

Sigh of irritation

Forced smirk

Wry smile

Crooked smile

Conviction

Determination

Rage

Firm persistence

Pleasure

Quiet empathy

Simple directness

Astonishment

Still emotion

Also here are some better adjectives for words you are banned from using too

“Good”

Exceptional

Adequate

Splendid

Superb

Admirable

Favorable

Marvelous

Satisfactory

Reputable

Worthy

Respectable

Pure

Uncorrupted

Efficient

Dependable

Merciful

Considerate

Mannerly

Proper

Decorous

Satisfactory

“Okay”

Satisfactory

Approved

Acceptable

Passable

Tolerable

Sustainable

“Nice”

Lovely

Beautiful

Favorable

Adequate

Kind

Friendly

Attractive

Polite

Helpful

Inviting

Nifty

Delightful

Pleasant

Admirable

Pretty

“Bad”

Atrocious

Awful

Cheap

Rough

Unacceptable

Cruddy

Defective

Incorrect

Inadequate

Raunchy

Inferior

Poor

“With anger”

Acidly

Angrily

Crossly

Irritably

Loudly

Roughly

Tartly

Tightly

Smugly

Sternly

Hotly

“With sadness”

Depressingly

Gently

Sadly

Softly

Desperately

“Not caring”

Absently

Complacently

Dryly

“With arrogance”

Sarcastically

Condescendingly

Smugly

“With neutrality”

Naturally

Calmly

Approvingly

“With care”

Understandingly

Empathetically

Carefully

Hesitantly

Cautiously

Quietly

Uncertainly

That is my peace, thank you

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 2)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Dark content: Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 5.5.k.

Previous Chapter

“You were there, Hydra.”

Her nails dug into the counter, “…It’s not what you think.”

“What I think,” he said in a low, reflexive voice, “is that you fixed me. Over and over when-”

Her grip on the counter tightened, whitening her knuckles.  She didn’t turn to face him. “Prolonged your misery, you mean,” she replied, sharp and bitterly.

The silence in response was almost worse than an argument. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her back. When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, but no less piercing.

“That’s not what I meant.”

She let out a harsh laugh. “Isn’t it? For decades, every time they dragged you back in pieces, I was the one who made sure they could send you out again. If I hadn’t-” Her voice cracked, the words catching in her throat as the guilt she’d buried for years rising like bile in her throat.

“You didn’t have a choice,” he said, stepping closer.

“I could’ve let you die,” she snapped, finally spinning around to face him. Her eyes were burning, her fists clenched at her sides. “I should’ve let you die. It would’ve been kinder than sending you back to... to them.”

His expression didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, pain, perhaps, or understanding. “You think I don’t know that, didn’t think about that?”.

She looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

He was silent for a long moment before answering. “I don’t want anything from you. I just...” He paused, exhaling slowly. “I remember you. And I know you didn’t want to be there any more than I did.”

She shook her head, her throat tight. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it means you’re not the one I blame.”

She froze, the knife slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the floor. The sound echoed in the small kitchen, but she barely heard it. Never -not once- had it occurred to her that he wouldn’t resent her. If their positions had been reversed, she would have.

“You don’t?” she asked, with a trembling voice.

He took another step closer. “You apologized. Over and over. You cried. You...” His voice caught for a moment before he continued. “You comforted me when they weren’t looking, even if I was just a dull shell sprawled on a table. You talked.”

Her knees buckled slightly, and she braced herself against the counter, her other hand flying to her mouth as the tears started to fall. She tried to hold them back, but it was useless.

“You talked,” he repeated, softer this time, his voice thick with something she couldn’t name. “And it mattered. Even if I couldn’t respond, even if it seemed like I wasn’t there... I heard you.”

She sobbed behind her hand, the weight of years of guilt and anguish crashing down on her all at once. The memories of those moments -whispered apologies, fleeting touches meant to comfort, the tears she’d tried to hide- rose like a tidal wave. She had done everything she could, and it had never felt like enough.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her words muffled. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize anymore,” he reassured her, firmly, but gentle.

She shook her head, unable to stop the tears streaming down her face. “I thought… I thought you’d hate me.”

“I don’t,” He stepped closer until there was barely any space between them. “I never did.”

Her shoulders shook as she let out another sob, her hand still pressed to her mouth. She didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know how to process the weight of his forgiveness.

For the first time in years, she allowed herself to fully cry, not holding back the storm that had been brewing inside her for so long. And as she stood there, crumbling in the small kitchen, she felt the faintest touch of his hand on her shoulder.

She looked up, and her tear-streaked face met his gaze. His eyes were brighter than she’d ever seen them, shimmering with unshed tears he didn’t try to hide.

“Fuck,” she muttered, her voice trembling. She wiped at her face with a shaky hand, a bitter laugh escaping her. “Sorry for making it about me, when you got the worst-”

Before she could finish, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him in a firm, grounding hug.

“Stop apologizing, doll,” he interrupted, his voice was low and rough, filled with insistence. “Just stop.”

She froze in his arms, her breath hitching as the weight of his words and his presence settled over her. Slowly, her hands came up to grip the back of his henley, curling her fingers tightly into the fabric.

“I didn’t know it mattered,” she whispered against his chest, her voice cracking. “I didn’t think anything I did matter if I kept completing the cycle fixing their toy soldier.”

His hand rested lightly on the back of her head, his other arm tightening around her as if to shield her from the weight of it all. “It mattered,” he said firmly. “You there mattered.”

She clung to him, her whole body trembling as years of guilt and fear poured out of her. He didn’t let go, didn’t say another word, just held her until the storm passed.

----

By the time Sam returned, the pot was bubbling gently on the stove, and Bucky was quietly setting up the table, like the most normal thing in the world. He quirked a brow at the unexpected domestic scene but chose not to comment, unwilling to disturb the fragile equilibrium hanging in the air.

“Smells good in here,” he said instead, dropping his jacket onto the back of a chair and sniffing the air. Then turn to her. “See? I knew you’d come through.”

She managed a faint smile as she ladled the stew into bowls, trying to shake off the lingering emotion clinging to her like a second skin. Bucky remained silent, carefully placing utensils in neat lines beside each plate, his usual brooding energy somehow... softer.

As they sat down and began eating the food, Sam’s eyes lit up at the sight of the perfectly prepared meal. “Damn, this is next level. You sure you’re not secretly an old lady in disguise? My mom and Titi used to season like this-”

The words hit her like a slap, and the lump in her throat turned literal before she could stop it. She choked on the bite of a potato, coughing violently as her body reacted to both the physical mishap and the emotional jolt.

Sam’s grin dropped instantly as he jumped up, alarmed. “Whoa, hey! You good?”

Her eyes watered as she waved a hand, her coughs harsh and uncontrollable. She fumbled for her glass of water, but Bucky was already at her side before she could grab it.

“Relax,” he said calmly, his metal hand pressing gently between her shoulder blades while his other grabbed the glass. “Breathe. Small sips.”

She obeyed, taking slow gulps of water as the coughing subsided. Her face burned, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the physical strain or the comment still ringing in her ears.

“Damn,” Sam muttered, sitting back down with a relieved sigh. “You trying to scare the hell out of me over a compliment?”

She forced a shaky laugh. “Sorry. Guess it went down wrong.”

Sam grinned again, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I know my compliments are overwhelming, but choking on a tender potato? That’s next-level.”

She managed another weak chuckle, but her mind was elsewhere. She’d been twenty-five years old in 1962 when Hydra abducted her and stole her life away. If he only knew, the reason why her cooking felt like something out of another time wasn’t just a quirky personality trait, but a way of doing things in her time…

“Careful next time,” Bucky’s voice cut her internal rambling, letting his hand linger briefly on her back before he returned to his seat.

“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up,” Sam said with a grin, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath her calm facade. “I’m eating like it’s Sunday dinner at my momma’s place.”

She smiled faintly, stirring her stew with her spoon. “Maybe I’m just an old soul,” she said, carefully measuring the words.

Across the table, Bucky’s sharp gaze seemed to catch every nuance of her reaction. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel his understanding, a weight that lingered long after the moment ended.

----- As they cleared the table, the conversation shifted to the mission. “So, the plan’s straightforward,” Sam said, stacking plates by the sink. “We hit the warehouse. You…” he nodded toward her, “go to the bar, try to blend in, and see what you can get out of one of those drunken idiots. Maybe someone slips up about the serum.”

She nodded, drying her hands with a dish towel. “I’ll keep my ears open. A place like that? Someone’s bound to get loose-lipped after a few drinks.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced. He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and fixed his sharp blue eyes on her. “Are you sure you’ll be alright there?”

She quirked a brow, tossing the towel aside. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this,” she said dryly.

“You can’t heal yourself,” he said bluntly, his voice lower now as if trying to keep it between them. “What if-”

“What?” Sam’s voice cut in, sharp with surprise. His gaze darted between the two of them. “Heal yourself? What’s he talking about?”

She froze, caught off guard by Bucky’s slip. Her mouth opened, but no words came. After a beat, she sighed and looked at Sam sheepishly. “I... yeah,” she admitted. “I can’t heal myself. That’s why the higher-ups usually want me in safehouses or doing recon in relatively low-risk places. It’s not exactly something they let me disclose freely.”

Sam blinked, clearly trying to process the information. “And you’re just now telling me this?”

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t my call. It’s classified. I didn’t want to keep it from you, but... orders are orders.”

Sam’s frown deepened, and his gaze flickered to Bucky, narrowing slightly. “And how do you know?”

Bucky froze for a beat. He glanced at her, then back at Sam, clearly caught off guard. “I... just assumed,” he said carefully. “If she’s only doing recon, makes sense she wouldn’t be sent anywhere dangerous if she couldn’t heal herself.”

Sam raised a skeptical brow, crossing his arms. “Assumed, huh?”

She stepped in quickly, “It’s not that complicated, Sam. It’s just... safer for everyone if I’m not put in situations where I’d be a liability. That’s why they don’t send me into direct combat. Bucky probably figured it out because, you know, it’s kind of obvious when someone isn’t charging into the middle of fights, also, you’ve seen my pathetic attempts at hand-to-hand combat.”

Sam frowned, still not entirely convinced, but he sighed, shaking his head. “Alright. But next time, this kind of thing? I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“I understand,” she said quietly.

Sam exhaled heavily and turned toward the gear he’d set on the table. “Like I said, no risks. Get in, listen, and get out.”

She nodded, glancing at Bucky, who was still standing stiffly by the counter. His face was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary before he turned away.

-----

She stepped out of the bedroom wearing a black dress with a low neckline drawing attention to her bosom. It was elegant but provocative, the kind of dress that would make her blend into the bar’s crowd effortlessly, or stand out, depending on who was looking.

Bucky, seated on the couch inspecting his gear, glanced up as she entered the room. His eyes flickered over her for the briefest moment before darting back to the weapon in his hands, subtly clenching his jaw.

She didn’t notice. She was too busy fumbling with her disposable cellphone, the small device looking awkward and out of place in her hands. “Damn things,” she muttered, sweeping her fingers over the screen in frustration. “They’re always different, changing icons and options every time. I just want to be able to call someone, is that too much to ask?”

Sam looked up from packing his bag and snorted. “You sound like my Titi trying to figure out a smartphone for the first time.”

She shot him a look, half annoyed, half amused. “I’m not that bad. These things are just... unnecessarily complicated.”

Sam crossed the room, taking the phone from her hands with a grin. “Let me guess, you miss flip phones? Or, wait, rotary phones?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Here,” Sam said, handing the phone back after a few quick swipes. “It’s ready. Just hit the green button if you need to call.”

She rolled her eyes, slipping the phone into her small clutch. “Thanks, genius. I’ll be sure to call if I get stuck in a tech crisis mid-mission.”

Sam winked. “Appreciate that. Wouldn’t want to miss the entertainment.”

From the corner of the room, Bucky’s voice cut through their banter, low and direct. “You sure you’ll be okay in there?”

She turned to him, raising a brow. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this.”

His gaze lingered on her, sharp and assessing. “So? That doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.”

“I know what I’m doing,” she said evenly, grabbing a flimsy shawl. “You two just focus on your part, and I’ll handle mine.”

Bucky couldn’t shake the nagging pull in his chest that demanded him to protect her. He knew it wasn’t rational, but the feeling refused to be ignored.

When he was nothing but a shell of a man, a puppet incapable of action or defiance, he’d been forced to sit there, motionless, every time a handler punished her. For not fixing him fast enough. For suggesting they let him rest. For surreptitiously passing him a morsel of bread so the hunger gnawing at his stomach from the tissue’s abnormal regeneration wouldn’t make him gag, which would result in a beating for displaying disgusting behaviors. Every time, he’d been powerless, silent in the passenger’s seat of his own mind.

Every slap, every strike with the iron rod, every vicious yank at her hair, every disgusting lecherous touch, he had watched it all through a fog of helpless rage. He’d remained outwardly impassive, Hydra’s loyal pet, incapable of defying orders, no matter how much the feelings burned behind his frozen stare.

But now, being his own man, the thought of her walking into danger felt unbearable. It was wrong. It was twisted. He had the primal and sharp impulse to guard her, to tear apart anyone who dared lay a hand on her again.

It unsettled him, the realization that some part of Soldat’s instincts lingered, ingrained in the marrow of his mind. Protect the one who matters. Eliminate the threats. It was as if those reflexes had twisted themselves into something more human, more his.

He glanced at her as she adjusted the flimsy shawl around her shoulders in an almost dismissive manner. “Just be careful,” he said gruffly.

Her gaze softened briefly. “I will, Bucky. I promise.”

It wasn’t enough to soothe him, not entirely, but he nodded, forcing himself to step back.

Sam clapped his hands together,  trying to pump up the mood. “Alright, team, let’s move. The sooner we split up, the sooner we shut this thing down.”

As they all filed out, Bucky lingered for a moment, trailing his eyes after her retreating figure.

----

She stepped out of the cab, and the cold night air nipped at her skin as she adjusted the loose folds of her dress. The bar stood like a beacon of bad decisions, its flickering neon sign buzzing faintly, casting a sickly green glow over the cracked pavement.

Taking a breath, she slipped her disposable phone into her clutch and smoothed her shawl over her shoulders. She strode toward the entrance, each click of her heels a reminder to stay in character.

Inside, the air was heavy with smoke, cheap cologne, and the faint tang of spilled liquor. The sticky floor clung to the soles of her shoes with every step, and she resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. Her eyes swept the room, taking in the dim lighting, shadowed corners, and the usual mix of dubious characters.

Her gaze landed on a heavyset man sitting near the bar, a whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. His tailored suit and gold watch were a sharp contrast to the dingy surroundings. Target acquired.

She approached slowly, sliding onto a stool a few seats away, ordering a drink, letting her body language convey disinterest as she let her gaze wander.

Her clutch buzzed softly. Pulling out her phone with practiced subtlety, she glanced at the screen.

Warehouse was empty. It’s a trap. Be careful.

She swallowed hard, forcing her expression to remain neutral as she slipped the phone back into her clutch.. Taking a slow sip of her drink, she steadied herself. She had to play this right. Calm, poised, unshaken.

Sliding one seat closer to her mark, she leaned slightly on the bar, letting her voice carry just enough to catch his attention. “Looks like you’re having a better night than most.”

The man glanced at her, his eyes narrowing briefly before a slow grin spread across his face. “Better now,” he rumbled, staring at her cleavage without concealment.

She smiled faintly, twirling the glass in her hand as though she didn’t notice his leer. “Mind if I join you? It’s been one of those days.”

He chuckled, nodding toward the stool beside him. “Sure, sweetheart. Misery loves company, right?”

She slipped onto the seat, careful to keep her posture inviting but not overt. “Misery, huh? What’s weighing on you big guy?”

He took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled between them. “Work. Always work.”

“Rough day at the office?” she asked lightly, tilting her head in mock curiosity.

The man smirked but suddenly paused, his gaze flicking past her shoulder. His posture stiffened. “Friend of yours?”

Slowly, she turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the doorway.

Bucky.

He stood there, tall and unmoving, his broad shoulders casting a shadow against the dim light. His expression was hard, unrelenting, his blue eyes fixed on them like a predator zeroing in on prey. He wasn’t even trying to blend in, his murderous gaze did not attempt subtlety.

“I don’t know the creep,” she said quickly, turning back with a faint laugh. Her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. “Why?”

The man didn’t answer. His hand drifted toward the waistband of his pants, where the outline of a gun was visible. Her pulse spiked, but before she could move, Bucky was already in motion.

In the blink of an eye, he crossed the room, gripping the man’s wrist and slamming it against the bar with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the floor, and chaos erupted.

Chairs toppled, patrons shouted, and in the confusion, she was shoved back. She stumbled but recovered quickly, grabbing the discarded gun as Bucky took on the man’s lackeys with brutal precision.

“Go!” Bucky barked, his voice cutting through the commotion as he stepped in front of her, shielding her from a bottle hurled across the room.

“I can handle mys-”

Before she could finish, Bucky moved like a bolt of lightning. His vibranium hand shot out, gripping the collar of the armed bartender who had drawn on them. With one swift motion, he slammed the towering man into the wall, leaving him crumpled and unconscious on the floor.

Before she could fully process the scene, he turned to her, gripping her arm firm enough to leave no room for argument, and hauled her toward the bar counter.

“Stay down,” he growled, low and commanding, before shoving her behind it with a force that wasn’t meant to hurt but demanded compliance.

She stumbled, and her hands and knees landed on the sticky floor. A sharp tug at her dress made her wince, probably it had snagged on the metal edge of a dispenser.

“Are you serious?!” she hissed, her face burning as she scrambled trying to get her hands out of the disgusting floor.

Bucky didn’t respond. His attention had already snapped back to the chaos erupting in the room, his body was a blur of calculated precision and brute force. She peeked over the edge of the counter, watching as he disarmed one thug after another, his vibranium arm glinting under the bar’s dim lights as it connected with the offenders, while his human hand delivered equally punishing blows. Each move was efficient and terrifyingly effective.

A chair shattered against his back, but he didn’t even flinch, spinning to deliver a devastating blow to the attacker’s ribs. She winced as the man hit the ground with a groan.

Her irritation at being sidelined simmered beneath the surface, but she couldn’t deny the effectiveness of his approach. The bar was nearly empty now, the smarter patrons having fled while Bucky ruthlessly dismantled the remaining threats.

As the last thug hit the ground, Bucky turned toward her, his chest rising and falling as his gaze locked onto her. “Clear,” he said gruffly, walking toward the counter and extending a hand to help her up.

She hesitated for a split second before accepting, letting her smaller hand to be engulfed in his. As he pulled her to her feet, she muttered, “You didn’t have to throw me like a sack of potatoes.” brushing herself off with a pout.

“You were in the line of fire,” he shot back with a clipped tone.

“I was handling-” she started, but her words caught in her throat as she shifted on her feet and felt an unexpected chill against her skin.

Her hand flew to her rear, patting frantically. Her stomach sank when her fingers met air where there should have been fabric. “Oh, great,” she muttered, her voice tinged with rising embarrassment.

Bucky’s brows knit together as his eyes followed her movements, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride,” she grumbled, “and my wallet, thank you very much. I’m still paying for this dress.”

Ignoring his faint smirk, she glanced around, desperately searching for something to cover herself. Her hands tugged at the torn fabric, but it was no use.

Bucky tilted his head as if reading her mind. “You can worry about it later. Right now, we need to move before backup shows.”

“Oh, because a woman walking down the street with her thong showing through a hole in her dress is very inconspicuous,” she shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word.

His eyes flicked down at the mention of the word thong. Briefly, instinctively. A barely perceptible shift in his expression. She caught it anyway, heat blooming in her cheeks.

“Really?” she snapped, her voice low and mortified. “If you’re done looking, maybe you could grab that guy’s jacket?” She jabbed a finger at the unconscious bartender slumped against the wall.

Bucky blinked, muttering something under his breath before stalking over. He yanked the jacket free and returned with an unreadable expression as he handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, quickly tying it around her waist.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly, already heading for the door.

They slipped out into the cold night, weaving through narrow streets. The uneven cobblestones beneath her heels made each step precarious, and she cursed under her breath about her “stupid dress” and “even stupider shoes.”

When her heel caught on a loose stone, she stumbled. Before she could hit the ground, his hands were supporting her.

Her palms instinctively pressed against his chest for balance, and his body heat contrasted deeply against the chill of the night. “Careful,” he muttered, softer this time, though no less gruff.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, ready to pull away when she registered something sticky and warm under her palm that shouldn’t be there. She froze, glancing down at her hand. Her stomach twisted as she saw it smeared with blood.

“What-” she began.

“It’s nothing,” he cut her off, already stepping forward. “Keep walking.”

Her feet stayed rooted in place, and she narrowed her eyes as she watched him stride ahead as though nothing had happened. Frustration and concern bubbled inside her until she clenched her jaw and grabbed his metal hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Bucky, stop,” she said firmly.

He glanced back at her, with a hard expression. “We don’t have time for this. We need to keep moving.”

She stepped closer, refusing to let go of his hand. “You’re not the Soldat anymore,” she said firmly, locking her eyes on his. “There’s not an only comply rule between us. You don’t get to brush this off like it doesn’t matter.”

His jaw worked as his gaze flickered away from hers. “I said it’s nothing,” he muttered.

She sighed. “After so many years rearranging your body parts like some kind of twisted puzzle... I just can’t.”

His brows knit. Can’t what?”

“I can’t ignore it,” she said firmly, tightening her hand around his. “I know you probably can handle it. Whatever you’ve got under there, I know it’s not enough to take you down. I’ve seen what you can survive -what you can handle- before you collapse.”

His expression hardened, but he didn’t pull his hand away from hers.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s alright,” she continued. “Just because you can take it, doesn’t mean you should.”

For a moment, the only sound between them was the distant hum of street noise and the faint rustle of leaves in the alley.

“We are exposed here,” he muttered, almost defensive, darting his eyes to their surroundings.

“Don’t,” she said, cutting him off sharply. Her tone made him pause. “Don’t brush it off like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.”

His gaze snapped back to her, startled at the firmness in her tone. It looked as if he might argue for a second, but the fight in his eyes faded.

“Let’s at least get to the bike,” he finally conceded.

She nodded reluctantly, releasing his hand. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

They continued walking, and when they reached the motorcycle, she stepped in front of him before he could mount it, crossing her arms with a resolute expression.

“Now,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “Sit down. Let me see it.”

His shoulders slumped slightly as he sat on the bike. She bent forward a little, quirking a brow at him expectantly, resting her hands on her hips. The silent command was clear: Lift your shirt.

He sighed, reluctant but resigned, and rolled up his black shirt to reveal three stab wounds on his side. Blood trickled sluggishly from each one, staining his skin and the waistband of his pants.

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head.

“As I said before, it’s nothing,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words this time.

“And I told you it’s not nothing,” she replied, her voice softening as she knelt beside him. “Because you’re not nothing.”

He stilled at her words, dropping his gaze to her hands as she reached out. Firm but careful, she pressed her palm gently against the first wound and closed her eyes. As she concentrated, a faint warmth spread beneath her hand, infusing her healing powers into his torn flesh.

The room -or rather, the alley- seemed to fall silent, the chaos of their escape melting away as her power worked its way through his body. He felt the pain ebb, the searing burn of the wound cooling into a dull ache before disappearing entirely.

Her brow furrowed as she moved to the second wound, her free hand steadying herself on his knee. “You need to stop doing this to yourself,” she murmured, her tone more an observation than a reprimand.

“Occupational hazard,” he said quietly, though his voice lacked its usual sarcasm.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his briefly. “Doesn’t mean it’s okay.” The soft warmth spread as the torn flesh knitted itself back together under her touch. She hesitated for a moment, furrowing her brow in thought.

“It’s different... healing you,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Bucky’s expression became curious. “Different how?”

She shifted her palm against the wound. “It’s the serum. It’s like... it siphons my powers like it’s trying to cope with the faster regeneration.”

His brows knitted together. “Drains you? What, like it takes more out of you than it normally should?”

She nodded. “I have to concentrate a lot more when it’s you. It’s not like with normal people, your body doesn’t just accept the healing. It’s like it demands more to work properly.”

Bucky’s expression darkened. “So every time they threw me half-dead on the table for you to fix me…”

Her hands stilled for a moment against his skin, the glow flickering faintly before she steadied herself and continued. “It drained me, yeah,” she admitted. “More than I ever let them see.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Did it hurt? Does it... now?”

Her movements slowed, and she looked up at him with a gentleness that made his chest tighten. “No, honey,” she said softly, the endearment slipping out like second nature. “It doesn’t hurt. I just get more tired. That’s all.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line as she moved her hand to the final wound. He watched her intently, unable to ignore the tenderness in her expression or the way her touch seemed to carry a weight beyond physical care.

“This one’s deep,” she murmured, frowning slightly. “Let me concentrate.”

“Alright,” he said gruffly.

She closed her eyes, as the warmth of her powers flowed into his skin. He exhaled slowly, and his body instinctively relaxed again under her touch. The pain ebbed away, but as it did, something else surfaced. A strange, aching melancholy that he hadn’t expected.

It was twisted, so twisted, and he knew it. But decades as the Soldat, the asset with the fried brain, conditioned him to associate her hands with the only semblance of comfort he’d ever known. Her powers healed the damage done to his body, but it was more than that. It was the way her fingers lingered just long enough to soothe, the way she whispered soft reassurances when no one else was listening. She had tried to mend him in ways that had nothing to do with torn flesh or broken bones, and in the endless cycle of missions, pain, and cryo, her care had been the closest thing to kindness he could grasp in his empty existence.

And now, even with his own mind, that feeling lingered, rooted somewhere.

“Bucky?” Her voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. She was watching him, brows knitted in concern. “You okay?”

He blinked, and his throat tightened as he struggled to find the words. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he finally said, though his voice sounded rougher, even to him.

She tilted her head, scanning his features. Clearly, she didn’t believe him but chose not to push. Instead, she focused on healing the wound, letting her hand linger after the glow faded, as if reluctant to break the connection.

“There,” she said softly, sitting back on her heels. “Good as new.”

He nodded, rolling his shirt down and avoiding her gaze. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, standing and brushing off her hands. “Just... don’t make a habit of getting stabbed, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a faint smirk, though it quickly faded as he noticed the exhaustion etched into her face.

As she climbed onto the bike behind him, she hesitated, hovering her hands uncertainly over his waist. “Hey,” she murmured. “Do you mind if I lean against your back while you drive?” She paused, almost shyly. “This whole ordeal... it made me a little sleepy.”

The pang of guilt hit him like a slap. Hydra had drained her for years, forced her to heal him over and over without care for the toll it took on her. They had treated her as nothing more than a tool to keep their weapon functioning.

And now, here they were again. Different circumstances, same pattern.

He tightened his grip on the handlebars, glancing back over his shoulder. “Go ahead,” he replied, forcing a lighter tone. “I’m not afraid of losing my modesty.”

Her lips quirked in a faint, grateful smile, that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t fully understand. She shifted closer, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist as she rested her head against his broad back. “Thanks,” she murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” he said quietly, kicking the bike into gear.

As he sped toward the safehouse, he drove more carefully than usual, steering away from every bump and sharp turn, mindful of the precious weight against his back.

Next Chapter

ReaderTag: @sunshinedayz19 @winterstar1917

[ssahotchnerr]

this one is kinda angsty, but imagine Aaron and Reader are still kinda new (not even a year yet) and reader does something Hailey used to do all the time and Aaron (still grieving) just breaks down about it

-🗣️

flashbacks

aaron baby :( cw; fem!reader, established relationship, mentions of haley, references to the foyet arc, discussions of grief/death, food mentions, hurt to comfort <3, aaron cries :( wc; 1.4k

"Hi honey, welcome home."

"Hey," Aaron greeted you, confusion laced in his voice as his brows furrowed. "You're awake at this hour?"

It was about four in the morning, and the team had landed back in Quantico not even an hour ago. He had expected to come home to an asleep apartment, but found you fully awake, in the kitchen making something that smelled wonderful. Cinnamon, was it?

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep." You shrugged slightly, cracking an egg into a bowl and discarding the shell. "So I figured I'd make you a very early breakfast. I thought coming home to something warm would be nice." Glancing over your shoulder, you offered him a bright, kindhearted grin.

Aaron's mind immediately flashed to an image of Haley, the scene nearly identical. In her pjs, a dimly lit kitchen, the aroma of french toast drifting through the air. They'd both sit down to eat, Haley's lighthearted conversation pulling him from the case induced fog that always followed, until he felt like himself again. This was years ago, back when they were happy. Back before... everything.

It was like a smack to the face; the abruptness, the vividness, the grief took him completely by surprise. His whole upper body tensed up ; his chest was particularly tight, as if an exhale would break the barrier and a major flood would erupt.

"Aaron?" Your concerned voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"I'm not hungry."

That's not what he wanted to leave his mouth (he was also starving, in fact) but it was simpler. Horribly simpler by the look on your face that developed. Your expression dropped completely, cheeks warming from hurt and embarrassment.

You turned too late to hide it, beginning to tie up the bread. "Okay, that's fine."

"No that's not what I... shit." He mumbled under his breath, raising his hand to momentarily cover his face. Your wavering, not-sounding-like-you voice shattered his heart profusely more.

He was awful. Awful awful awful.

"It's no big deal, really," you insisted, your tone borderline high-pitched as you forced normalcy. "It was silly of me to assume-"

The very last thing he wanted was to push you away. To make you feel forgotten. Unwanted. In which from previous experience, he was evidently an expert in. He couldn't make the same mistake twice - he couldn't lose you too, by plain idiocy.

"Haley..." he began to explain, taking a deep breath and using it to open up the broken part of his heart - the one he purposely kept hidden away. He also didn't want to deny you any part of it; it was clear you loved him with all of yours, and you deserved to know all depths of his. "She used to do this for me whenever I got home from a case late."

Any short lived walls were dropped, and you faced him with slight horror, now fully aware of what you had done. "She did?"

Aaron met your eyes, nodding silently.

"I'm..." Lost for words, you urgently walked towards him, frazzled yourself. "I'm so, so sorry."

"You didn't know. I mean, how could you." Aaron shook his head, forcing an apologetic smile. He sat down at the table, his back hitting the chair defeatedly. "I didn't mean to be so harsh. It caught me off guard. I'm sorry sweetheart."

"I can only imagine." You dropped onto his lap, looping your arms around his neck. You felt horrible, greeting him with anguish rather than the warmth you had intended, especially after a long, grueling case.

"I didn't expect the memory to be so..." He searched for a word, ultimately failing as his chest rattled slightly.

"Grief is unexpected. It has its ways of sneaking up on you," you consoled softly. "It's okay."

"Yeah, but..." Aaron sighed, looking down with intent to gather his thoughts, if the deep line drawn in his eyebrows was anything to go by. Your fingers ran through the nape of his hair soothingly, an indication he could open up. You were here to listen.

"I feel bad grieving. As if I don't have the place to. I mean, I'm the reason she's well..." Dead. Even more images flashed through his mind, specifically ones of high school Haley: auditioning for Pirates of Penzance just to find the excuse to talk to her, the initial puppy love, the certainty they'd found their person. It made him sick to his stomach. She was so young, so full of life, and she made the deadly mistake of falling for him. "Not here."

"It's not your fault."

"I'm the one who-"

"No, you're not." As he raised his head to look at you, the tears he didn't know had escaped trailed down his cheeks. "Aaron, honey. That man," Your teeth clenched. You didn't want to say his name, knowing what he did to Aaron. The scars he caused, the very ones you saw Aaron glare at in the mirror while shirtless. The terror he caused Haley before taking her life. And Jack, too young to understand why he'd never see his mom again, "Is the only one responsible for what happened. You did everything you could."

"I let her down." He'd never forget Haley's voice during that phone call - the panic as she realized who she had encountered. He had failed her, he had failed to protect their family.

"No, you didn't. And in terms of the present too, you're still aren't." You breathed out softly, sympathetic. "Please, don't blame yourself. I know it's easy to, but it's unfair. And I'm certain Haley would agree."

You tightened your grip around him, pulling him closer with all your strength, as if doing so would alleviate some of his sadness. More than anything, you wished you could absorb some of his pain. You'd gladly take it and more, if that meant relief on his end.

And the two of you stayed like that for a while. Aaron pressed his face into your neck - savoring your warmth, your presence, that you were here with him. He never thought he'd find love again, let alone someone would love him. You were the sweetest miracle he could imagine.

"Thank you," he mumbled into your skin, closing his eyes.

"No need to thank me," Aaron pulled back as you spoke, opting to give you a kiss. "I'll always be here for you."

"I didn't mean to sound ungrateful before."

"I know you didn't," you graced him with another kiss. "And I understand. Moments like that will come and go, they most likely always will. I'm willing to help you through them."

He offered you a gentle smile, his sweet brown eyes relieved but sad.

You reached up, brushing back the cowlicks lazily draped over his forehead. "Tell me about her."

"Hm?"

The subject of Haley had never been forbidden - you wanted to keep her memory alive, for both Aaron and Jack. She played a huge part in both their lives, shaping who they had become. But you were always hesitant, not wanting to bring up the painful memories.

Aaron and yourself were a few days shy of your six month anniversary. But within that first month, in your heart you made her the promise to look after the two of them. You only hoped she somehow approved of you.

And talking openly about Haley could do wonders for him - helping the ongoing grieving process.

"Tell me about her." You used the pad of your thumb, to wipe away his stray tears. "Did she do it after every case?"

"Almost," Aaron chuckled, adjusting his seated position to get more comfortable, his hold on you not daring to lessen. "Sometimes my 'I'm almost home' message would wake her up, and she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep afterwards. I think that's what started it, but she also had trouble sleeping early on when I wasn't home." His thumb causally brushed against your hip bone as he reminisced. "Plus she would get on my ass for all the takeout I'd eat while away. She made sure to sneak some fruit onto my plate."

You couldn't help but laugh, offering an encouraging, soft smile. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah..." Aaron sniffled lightly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. There was a tenderness in his gaze, a warmth that wasn’t overshadowed by grief, but rather carried a sense of nostalgic, loving fondness; a ghost of the past. "She was."

"Tell me more." Before he could even begin, he was interrupted by a small grumble of his stomach. Your nose scrunched in amusement, a giggle escaping you. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

[thekinslayed]

A Mother's Work

summary | With their daughter sick with a fever, Aemond and his wife work to quell her distress. (based on this request.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

tags | fluff, sick baby Aemyra :(, DAD AEMOND, pure marital bliss, part of EOD but can still be read standalone!

wordcount | 1.6k

note | hi :) not fully back yet but this was something i wrote quickly while i'm procrastinating studying for my exam teehee

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Wails blasted through the spacious apartments, the sharp sound bouncing off the red brick that enclosed Aemond and his wife. Their young babe was in distress, ailed by a fever brought about by the change of the seasons. The one-eyed prince watched helplessly as you bounced your daughter in your arms, frowning as it failed to soothe young Aemyra.

“I do not know what ails her,” you sighed, brows tightly knit together as anguish stitched into the skin between. Your daughter’s face was growing redder with every cry, now turning into screams as the sickness made her restless.

“Should I call for the maester?” he suggested, earning a quick shake of your head in refusal.

“No, he’ll only offer to give her poppy milk again. I don’t want that anywhere near her,” you responded, to which Aemond nodded in understanding. The knock on your door barely broke its way through Aemyra’s loud sobs, the heavy oak revealing the wetnurse carrying a bowl of water and some linens. “You could put it by the bedside, Beth. I’m afraid it’ll be a while before she settles down.” The young maid offered her service to watch the babe through the night, to which you swiftly refused, stating you’d rather have her sleep in your bedchambers.

“Here, let me have her,” Aemond offered, taking Aemyra into his arms. His daughter’s blood always ran a bit warm, thanks to the dragon blood in her, but she was evidently hotter to the touch in his hold. It permeated through the thin cotton of his undershirt, warming his chest as he kept her close. The young father tried to soothe his babe by running a comforting hand down her small back as he softly bounced her, pressing his nose into her temple. “What’s wrong, my little dragon? What is bothering you, hm? You don’t feel well?” he cooed, pressing light kisses to her cherubic cheeks. Her answer came in the form of the thrashing of her small arms against his back, and the fat droplets of tears running down her reddened skin. The sight was enough to render a painful pang in Aemond’s chest, a twin feeling of distress emanating from the couple who remained clueless in soothing their firstborn. 

The prince turned his head to where you were kneeling on the bed as you arranged for Aemyra to sleep between the two of you. Beth was helping you put down the small pillows to keep her centered before you dismissed her with a grateful smile and a promise to call on her for help should you need it. Though the crease in your brows remained as Aemyra’s cries did not seem to be dying down any sooner. Aemond wouldn’t be surprised if the sound managed to reach his father’s chambers on the top floor, waking the nearly rotting king to his granddaughter’s roaring pair of lungs. 

All too sudden, her cries started to die down, which made Aemond start to think she was starting to feel better. Then Aemyra started to lurch, and something warm was dripping down Aemond’s back. You gasped, making your way to take your daughter back into your arms to clean her up. “Thank the gods–” you sighed in relief, wiping down a now-calmed Aemyra. “—that should take some of the heat out from within.” 

“A good sign then,” Aemond said, not minding the hot trail of milky vomit down his back. He could hardly feel disgusted when the crease between your eyebrows now unknitted itself and his daughter’s eyes were starting to grow heavy as what was bothering her was now starting to dissipate. 

With the peace in their apartments finally restored, Aemond peeled the soiled cotton of his back and settled on his side of the mattress as you swayed Aemyra to sleep, lightly humming while you pressed your nose into her skin. You settled your daughter into the little crevice you created out of pillows and linens, tucking her in well before kissing her forehead. The prince felt himself starting to drift off as he watched you. He was in awe of you, with the natural ease you approached motherhood with, and how well you’ve adapted to this duty. It was times like these when he could hardly find himself believing the fact that the little bundle in your arms was purely yours and his, born out of unexpected love and newfound loyalty. Yet despite the unexpected, everything felt good. Everything felt right.

It was the sound of water dripping that pulled Aemond out of his brief slumber. His good eye opened to the dimness in your marital chambers, the only light being the soft glow of the candle on your side and the subtle moonlight beaming through the windows. Aemond found you still sitting on the edge of the bed, right where he last saw you before his exhaustion had gotten the better of him. You dipped a piece of cloth into the bowl of water Beth had brought in hours ago, before wiping the damp cloth along the babe’s arms and legs. Aemond turned to his side to face you better, draping his arm over Aemyra’s pillows to reach for your wrist. His lips lifted into a small smile as you halted your movements, eyes flickering to meet his gaze.

“You should rest, my love,” he whispered.

“I find myself unable to find sleep, not until she feels better,” you answered softly, looking at him with fondness despite the exhaustion painted into lines underneath your eyes. 

“She will,” Aemond reassured you, squeezing your wrist. “She has a wonderful mother taking good care of her.” 

Your smile widened at his words, eyes slightly glimmering in the low sheen of the night. You shifted his hand into yours, pressing a soft kiss into the back of his hand in gratitude. Placing the damp cloth onto Aemyra’s forehead, you finally lifted the sheets to settle on your side of the mattress, much to your husband’s relief. 

You fell asleep rather quickly, though still fitful as you would awaken every hour or so to check on the babe. It came as no surprise when you slept well into the late morn, sleeping through Aemyra’s lively kicks that woke her father. The warm relief swarmed Aemond’s chest as he rose from his slumber at the sight of his daughter’s improved condition. She was no longer alarmingly hot to the touch, and she was as exuberant as she always was. “Hello, my dragon,” Aemond smiled, tickling her chin with his fingertip. “You’re feeling quite better, aren’t you? Yes, you are.” Aemyra responded in incoherent babbles, her plump cheeks dimpling as she smiled cheerfully. It made him chuckle, the prince overly glad that her ailments from the night past were now gone. Deciding to let you get your rest for a moment longer, Aemond took his daughter into his arms and made his way to the nursery for a quick change with the wetnurse. His little dragon glowed like the fever was never there, jumping in his hold as her wordless chatter echoed through the halls. “Let’s see if mummy’s woken up,” he said, chuckling as Aemyra seemed to respond in her own language. He opened the door just in time to find you stretching your limbs along the span of the vast bed, eyes blinking wide to find the two approaching the bed. 

“Look who’s feeling all better, dear wife,” Aemond smiled.

“Oh, my darling!” you exclaimed, sitting up and opening your arms wide to take Aemyra into your arms. The smile on the prince’s face threatened to ache his cheeks, but it was no matter when the sight before him was this lovely. You peppered loving kisses all over your daughter’s skin, making her squeal in delight as you nuzzled into the folds of her neck. “I’m so happy you’re bette– Oh! You must be hungry!” 

His daughter was smart like her father, already knowing how to get what she wanted when she wanted it despite only being six moons young. Aemyra’s tiny fingers took hold of the strings of your nightgown, pulling them loose as a gesture of wanting to feed. You both shared an amused look and a laugh at her antics, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder against the headboard while you shifted Aemyra in your arms to latch her onto your bosom. Aemond played with her tiny feet, holding them both in one hand and squeezing the plump folds in her legs. His babe was a healthy girl, well taken care of by an ever-devoted mother. 

“That fever must have left her starved,” the prince mused, earning a soft hum of agreement from his wife. 

“As am I, in truth,” you chuckled, mindlessly running a fingertip down her nose. She had her father’s nose, as well as the hair and the amethyst hues that made her look utterly Valyrian. Though, Aemond would argue her beauty was all yours, and the effervescent life behind her eyes that mirrored the ones he always adored in yours. 

Taking your free hand in his, the prince placed a kiss of devotion on your knuckles, then another one on your temple. “Well done, my love,” he whispered against your hair. Aemond pulled away to meet your gaze, one that looked at him with a tenderness he used to never imagine would become familiar. “She is lucky to have you care for her like this… as am I.”

The rest of Aemond’s day would be spent with his little family, snuggled up in bed and staying attached in the comfort of their chambers. The prince may not have been one to find tranquility in time spent in nothingness, but everything felt good. Everything felt right.

[moonxknightx]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : THE ARGUMENT : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Logan Howlett x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Angst but fluff at the end!!

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: X-Men

ੈ���‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Contains themes of intense argument, accidental injury, and emotional distress. It includes descriptions of pain and fear as well as a depiction of physical and emotional reconciliation.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: During a heated argument, Logan accidentally scratches your cheek. Shocked and scared, you pull away, but his sincere apologies and careful care help mend the emotional rift, leading to reconciliation.

THE LIVING ROOM WAS CAST IN THE FADING LIGHT OF THE SETTING SUN, the shadows elongating across the floor as tension thickened in the air. Logan and you were in the middle of a bitter argument, voices raised, emotions frayed.

"You never understand me!" you shouted, your frustration palpable. "Every time I try to share something important, you just shut me down. How am I supposed to deal with that?"

Logan’s expression was a mix of irritation and disbelief. "I do understand! I’m not shutting you down. I’m trying to protect you from things you don’t need to worry about!"

"You think you know what’s best for me, but you don’t!" you shot back, anger making your voice crack. "You’re so caught up in your own world that you can’t see how much this hurts me!"

Logan’s face was taut with frustration as he threw his hands up in exasperation. "I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just trying to keep things together. You don’t know what it’s like, and you don’t get to judge me for how I cope."

"Judge you? I’m not judging you!" you cried out, your voice rising with every word. "I’m trying to be a part of your life, to understand your pain, but you push me away every time I try!"

The argument spiraled, each of you lashing out, fueled by pent-up emotions and misunderstandings. The more you both spoke, the more entrenched you became in your anger and hurt.

In the heat of the argument, Logan’s frustration boiled over. He swung his arm out sharply, trying to emphasize his point, but his claws, which had been retracted, extended reflexively. His movement was sudden and uncontrolled, and the sharp metal grazed your cheek.

The sound of tearing flesh and your gasp filled the room. A sharp pain exploded across your face, and you instinctively clutched your cheek, stumbling back. Blood began to trickle down your face, mingling with your tears.

Logan’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the result of his actions. "Oh God, no!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief and horror. "What have I done?"

You stood frozen, shock and pain leaving you momentarily immobilized. The initial sting of the cut was quickly overshadowed by a numbing fear. Your eyes were wide with terror as you stared at the blood trickling from the wound. The sight of Logan’s panicked face only made the situation feel more surreal.

Logan took a tentative step toward you, his hands raised in a gesture of helplessness. "Please, let me help you. I didn’t mean to—" His voice was choked with emotion, his usual gruffness replaced by a raw, pained vulnerability. "I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

But as he moved closer, you flinched away, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain and fear made it hard to think straight. "Don’t come near me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Stay away."

The fear in your voice made Logan freeze. He looked at you, his face a mix of anguish and regret. "No, please, I—" His voice cracked as he tried to explain, "I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry."

You continued to back away, the blood on your cheek mingling with the tears streaming down your face. Logan’s heart ached seeing you like this. He desperately tried to keep his voice calm and steady, despite the turmoil inside him.

"Just sit down, okay?" Logan’s voice was pleading, almost breaking. "I’ll get a first aid kit. Please, just sit down. I need to help you."

You hesitated, your body trembling with shock and pain. Slowly, you sank onto the edge of the couch, trying to steady your breath. Logan dashed to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit with trembling hands. He returned to you, moving cautiously to avoid any sudden movements that might make things worse.

Logan knelt in front of you, keeping a respectful distance as he carefully opened the first aid kit. His hands shook as he prepared the supplies, his eyes darting between the kit and your face.

"I’m here," he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I just want to help you. Please let me."

You nodded slowly, tears still falling as you tried to control your breathing. Logan’s touch was gentle as he cleaned the wound, his eyes never leaving yours. "I’m so sorry," he repeated over and over, his voice filled with remorse. "I never wanted to hurt you. I was just so frustrated. Please forgive me."

As he worked, he tried to explain, his voice a constant murmur of apologies and reassurances. "I know I can’t undo this," he said softly, "but I want to make things right. I need you to know that I care about you, that I’m here for you."

Logan carefully bandaged the cut on your cheek, his touch tender and cautious. He avoided any sudden movements, mindful of the pain you were in. Once he was done, he sat beside you, his posture weary but attentive.

"Can we talk now?" Logan asked gently, his voice a mix of pleading and sincerity. "I need to understand what happened, what’s going on with us. I want to fix this. I want to make things right."

The tears had slowed, and as you looked at him, the sincerity in his eyes began to cut through your fear and hurt. You nodded, your voice still trembling but more composed. "I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m scared, and I just… I need to feel safe.”

Logan’s eyes softened with relief. He moved closer, his arm gently wrapping around you in a comforting embrace. "I’m here," he murmured into your hair, his voice steady and reassuring. "I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right. I’m sorry for everything."

You leaned into his embrace, the warmth of his body and the sincerity in his touch helping to ease the emotional pain. Logan held you close, whispering soft apologies and promises of a better future. The warmth of his embrace began to heal the wounds that went beyond the physical.

As the night settled in, the earlier turmoil faded, replaced by a renewed sense of connection and understanding. The quiet of the evening was filled with the gentle sounds of Logan’s reassurances and your steadying breaths.

You pulled back slightly to look at him, a small, tentative smile on your lips. "Thank you," you said softly, your voice steadier now. "Thank you for being here and for caring."

Logan’s smile was filled with a mix of relief and affection. "Always," he replied, his voice soft but full of conviction. "I’ll always be here, no matter what."

And as the night deepened, the warmth of your renewed bond wrapped around you both, offering comfort and hope for the future.

🏷️: @twinky-wink @fidgetingbee @astarions-girl-dinner @layladestiny8 @birdy-bat-writes

If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know! 🫶

[pucksandpower]

To Hell With Duty

Lewis Hamilton x soulmate!Reader

Summary: you’ve always known that being Princess of the UK means that a soulmate is a luxury you can’t afford … but then you meet your soulmate and decide that some things are worth turning your back on duty for

Warnings: abusive family dynamics

Note: I promised to write something in honor of Lewis’ win and this was born (now I’m tempted to make a soulmate AU series)

The sun blazes overhead as you step out of the sleek black car, your designer heels clicking against the pavement. The roar of engines and the excited chatter of the crowd at Silverstone envelop you, but you can barely hear them over the pounding of your own heart.

“Your Royal Highness, this way please,” a smartly dressed aide gestures towards the paddock area.

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. As you walk, you absently rub your wrist, feeling the slight raised bumps of your soulmate mark beneath the carefully applied concealer.

“I wish you didn’t have to hide it,” your best friend and lady-in-waiting, Sophie, whispers beside you.

“You know I don’t have a choice,” you murmur back, glancing around to ensure no one overheard.

The memory of your brother’s ordeal flashes through your mind, as vivid and painful as the day it happened ...

“No, please! You can’t do this!” Edward’s anguished cries echoed through the palace halls.

You huddled in your room, hands pressed over your ears, trying to block out the sound. But nothing could drown out your brother’s screams as the royal physician burned away his soulmate tattoo.

Later, when you snuck into his room, you found him curled up on his bed, cradling his bandaged wrist.

“Eddie?” You whispered, your voice small and frightened.

He looked up at you, his eyes red and puffy. “Y/N ... I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

You climbed onto the bed beside him. “Why did they do it? Why can’t you be with your soulmate?”

Edward sighed, pulling you close. “Because we’re royals, little sister. Our marriages are about duty, not love. Soulmates ... they’re a luxury we can’t afford.”

“But that’s not fair!” You protested.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, his voice hollow. “But it’s the price we pay for our position. Promise me something, Y/N. If you ever find your soulmate ... run. Run far away and don’t look back.”

The memory fades as Sophie gently squeezes your arm, bringing you back to the present.

“Are you okay?” She asks, concern etched on her face.

You take a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

As you make your way through the paddock, you can’t help but feel a twinge of envy at the carefree laughter and excitement around you. Everywhere you look, people are proudly displaying their soulmate tattoos, some comparing them with friends, others stealing glances at strangers, wondering if today might be the day they meet their perfect match.

“Your Royal Highness,” a race official greets you with a bow. “We’re honored to have you here today. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the VIP area.”

You nod, allowing yourself to be led through the crowded paddock. The official drones on about the day’s schedule, but your mind wanders.

“What do you think your soulmate is like?” Sophie had asked you once, years ago, when you were both giggling teenagers.

“I don’t know,” you had replied, tracing the words on your wrist. “But I hope they’re kind. And funny. Someone who sees me for who I am, not just my title.”

“You’ll find them one day,” Sophie had said confidently. “And when you do, it’ll be magical.”

Now, surrounded by the bustle and excitement of race day, that conversation feels like a lifetime ago. You’ve long since resigned yourself to the fact that you’ll never meet your soulmate. Even if you did, you could never act on it. The risk is too great.

Lost in thought, you don’t notice the figure rounding the corner until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, stumbling backward. Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you before you can fall.

You look up, an apology on your lips, and find yourself staring into the most captivating brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Time seems to stand still as you gaze at each other, the world fading away around you.

And then he speaks, his voice low and warm.

“Whoa there, careful Princess. I’ve got you.”

***

Your heart stops as Lewis’ words sink in. They’re an exact match to the tattoo hidden beneath layers of concealer on your wrist. For a moment, you’re frozen, lost in his warm brown eyes, your mind reeling with the implications of what just happened.

Then reality comes crashing down. You can’t do this. You can’t put him in danger. You can’t risk the pain your brother went through.

“I ... I have to go,” you stammer, pulling away from his gentle grip.

Lewis’ brow furrows in confusion. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

But you’re already backing away, panic rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, I can’t ... this isn’t ... I have to leave.”

You turn and run, pushing past startled onlookers, your heart pounding in your ears. Behind you, you hear Lewis call out.

“Princess, wait! Your words ... they’re on my wrist!”

You falter for a moment, his words piercing through your panic. But no, it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. You keep running.

“Y/N, please!” Lewis’ voice is closer now. He’s chasing after you. “I know you felt it too. We need to talk about this!”

You duck around a corner, trying to lose him in the maze of the paddock. But Lewis is faster, more familiar with the layout. He catches up to you in a quiet area behind one of the garages.

“Princess,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Please, just hear me out.”

You shake your head, tears threatening to spill. “You don’t understand. We can’t do this. My family ... they’ll never allow it. They’ll hurt you, or worse.”

Lewis takes a cautious step closer. “What do you mean? Why would your family hurt me?”

“Because you’re my soulmate!” The words burst out before you can stop them. “And royals aren’t allowed to be with their soulmates. It’s all about duty and arranged marriages. They ... they burned off my brother’s mark when he found his soulmate.”

Lewis’ eyes widen in horror. “That’s barbaric. They can’t do that to you.”

You laugh bitterly. “They’re the royal family. They can do whatever they want.”

“No,” Lewis says firmly. “They can’t. Because I won’t let them.”

You look at him, confused. “What?”

Lewis takes your hand gently, his touch sending sparks through your body. “Y/N, I’m not just British. I’m also a Brazilian citizen. And in Brazil, there are laws protecting soulmates. If we’re truly matched, which I believe we are, you automatically gain Brazilian citizenship too. Your family can’t touch you there.”

Hope flares in your chest, but you quickly squash it down. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll find a way. They always do.”

“Not this time,” Lewis insists. “Look, I have a race to drive soon, but after that, we can fly to Brazil immediately. I’ll keep you safe until then.”

You shake your head. “It’s too dangerous. If they find out ...”

“They won’t,” Lewis promises. “My driver’s room is private and secure. You can hide there until after the race. No one will think to look for you there.”

You hesitate, torn between hope and fear. “I don’t know ...”

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know we just met, but I’ve been waiting my whole life to find you. Please, give us a chance. Let me protect you.”

You look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there. Slowly, you nod. “Okay. But we have to be careful.”

Relief washes over Lewis’ face. “We will be. Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

He leads you quickly through the paddock, taking care to avoid busy areas. You keep your head down, heart racing every time you pass someone. Finally, you reach a door marked with Lewis’ name.

“Here we are,” he says, ushering you inside. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it for anyone but me. I’ll knock three times, pause, then twice more. Okay?”

You nod, taking in the small but comfortable room. “Okay. But Lewis, what about your race? You can’t miss it because of me.”

He smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll race, and then we’ll leave right after. It’ll be fine.”

“But what if something goes wrong? What if they find me?” The fear creeps back into your voice.

Lewis takes your hands in his, his touch grounding you. “Hey, look at me. Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise. We’re soulmates, remember? That means we’re in this together now.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re also incredibly brave. You’ve lived with this fear your whole life, and you’re still standing. We can do this.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “We’ve known each other for all of ten minutes and you’re already saying ‘we’?”

Lewis grins. “Well, that’s what happens when you meet your soulmate, I guess. Everything changes in an instant.”

You laugh softly, feeling some of the tension leave your body. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Listen,” Lewis says, his tone turning serious. “I know this is all happening very fast, and I don’t expect you to fall in love with me right away or anything. We’ll take things as slow as you want once we’re safe. But right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

You look into his eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity and determination. Slowly, you nod. “Yes, I think I can.”

“Good,” Lewis smiles. “Now, I have to go get ready for the race. Remember, three knocks, pause, then two more. Don’t open for anyone else.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “Be careful out there, okay?”

Lewis’ smile widens. “Always am, Princess. I’ll see you soon.”

As he leaves, you lock the door behind him, your heart still racing. You sink onto the small couch, trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour.

You’ve found your soulmate. After years of hiding your tattoo, of living in fear of it being burned away like your brother’s, you’ve actually met the person whose words are etched on your skin.

And not just any person. Lewis Hamilton. World-famous driver, activist, and fashion icon. You’ve seen him on TV, of course, admired his skill on the track and his passion for social justice. But you never imagined ...

You rub your wrist absently, feeling the slight raised bumps of your mark beneath the concealer. For the first time in years, you allow yourself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, you can have the life you’ve always dreamed of.

But doubt creeps in. What if Lewis is wrong? What if Brazilian citizenship isn’t enough to protect you from your family’s influence? What if they find you before you can leave?

You pace the small room, alternating between hope and fear. The sound of engines revving in the distance tells you the race is about to start. You find yourself holding your breath every time you hear footsteps pass by the door, terrified it might be palace security coming to drag you away.

Time crawls by agonizingly slowly. You try to distract yourself by watching the race on the small TV in the corner, but every time the camera focuses on Lewis’ car, your heart leaps into your throat. You silently urge him to be careful, to finish the race quickly so you can escape.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear it. Three knocks, a pause, then two more. You rush to the door, your hand hesitating for just a moment before you unlock it.

Lewis slips inside quickly, closing and locking the door behind him. He’s still in his race suit, his hair damp with sweat.

“Are you okay?” You ask immediately. “How was the race?”

Lewis grins. “I’m fine, and I won. But that’s not important right now. We need to go.”

He grabs a bag from a locker and starts shoving clothes into it. “I’ve arranged for a private jet to take us to São Paulo. We need to leave now, before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

You nod, your heart racing again. “Okay. What do we do?”

“I’ve got some clothing here that might fit you,” Lewis says, pulling out a hoodie and sweatpants. “Put these on over your clothes. We’ll need to be discreet getting to the airport.”

As you change, Lewis continues talking. “Once we’re in Brazil, we’ll be safe. There are strict laws protecting soulmates there. Your family won’t be able to touch you.”

“But what about your career?” You ask, suddenly realizing what he’s giving up. “You can’t just leave everything behind for me.”

Lewis pauses, looking at you intently. “Y/N, you’re my soulmate. That means you’re more important than any career, any amount of fame or money. We’ll figure out the details later, but right now, keeping you safe is all that matters.”

His words make your heart swell. You’ve never had anyone put you first like this before. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lewis smiles. “Just trust me, okay?”

You nod, feeling a sense of calm settle over you despite the chaotic situation. “I do trust you. Let’s go.”

Lewis takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath, thinking of all you’re leaving behind — your family, your duty, the only life you’ve ever known. But as you look at Lewis, you realize you’re also stepping into a new life. One where you’re free to be yourself, to love who you want, to follow your heart.

“Ready,” you say firmly.

And with that, Lewis opens the door, and together, you step out into your new future.

***

The private jet hums softly as it cuts through the night sky, carrying you away from everything you’ve ever known. You’re curled up against Lewis on the plush leather seat, your head resting on his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear is oddly comforting, grounding you in this surreal moment.

Lewis’ arm is wrapped around you, his hand gently stroking your back. With your free hand, you trace the lines of his soulmate tattoo — your first words to him, now etched forever on his skin.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” you murmur, your fingers following the curves of each letter.

Lewis chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through his chest. “I know what you mean. I’ve imagined meeting you so many times, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality.”

You look up at him, a mixture of emotions swirling in your chest. “Weren’t you afraid? When you realized who I was?”

“Afraid?” Lewis considers for a moment. “No, not afraid. Excited, nervous, maybe a little overwhelmed. But not afraid.” He pauses, his expression growing serious. “But you were. You’re still afraid now, aren’t you?”

You nod slowly, dropping your gaze back to his wrist. “I’ve been afraid for so long, I’m not sure I know how to stop.”

Lewis’ hand moves to cup your face gently, encouraging you to look at him again. “Will you tell me about it? Help me understand?”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “It’s ... it’s not a pleasant story.”

“I’m here,” Lewis says softly. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

His words, so simple yet so profound, give you the courage to begin. “It started with my brother, Edward. He was always the rebellious one, you know? Always pushing boundaries, questioning traditions. When he found his soulmate, he was over the moon. Her name was Lily, and she was ... she was perfect for him. Kind, funny, passionate about the same causes he was.”

You pause, the memory of your brother’s joy contrasting sharply with what came after. Lewis waits patiently, his presence a comforting anchor.

“For a few months, they managed to keep it a secret. But eventually, someone saw them together. Word got back to our parents and ...” You shudder, remembering that awful day. “They were furious. They gave Edward an ultimatum: give up Lily or give up his place in the line of succession.”

“That’s horrible,” Lewis murmurs, his arm tightening around you.

You nod, continuing, “Edward refused. He said Lily was more important than any throne. So they ... they decided to take matters into their own hands.”

Your voice breaks as you recount what happened next. “They had the royal physician burn off Edward’s soulmate mark. I can still hear his screams echoing through the palace. It was ... it was torture.”

Lewis’ body tenses beneath you, his voice tight with anger when he speaks. “They had no right. How could they do that to their own son?”

“They said it was for the good of the country,” you reply bitterly. “That royals can’t afford the luxury of soulmates. Our marriages are political tools, nothing more.”

“What happened to Edward and Lily?” Lewis asks gently.

You sigh heavily. “Edward was never the same after that. The spark in him just ... died. He does his duty now, makes the appearances he’s supposed to, but it’s like he’s just going through the motions. And Lily ... last I heard, she moved to Australia. I think being anywhere near the UK was too painful for her.”

Lewis is quiet for a moment, processing your words. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Y/N. No wonder you were scared when you realized we were soulmates.”

You nod, feeling the weight of years of fear and secrecy lifting as you share your story. “That’s not even the worst of it,” you admit softly.

Lewis looks at you, concern etched on his face. “There’s more?”

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself for the hardest part of the story. “My father ... he had an older sister. Aunt Margaret. I never met her, but I found out about her a few years ago.”

Lewis listens intently as you continue, “She found her soulmate when she was young, maybe 20 or so. And she refused to give him up, no matter what my grandparents said. They tried everything — threats, bribes, even attempting to arrange another match for her. But Margaret stood firm.”

“She sounds brave,” Lewis comments.

You nod, a sad smile touching your lips. “She was. But bravery wasn’t enough. One night, both Margaret and her soulmate disappeared. The official story was that they’d eloped, run off to start a new life together. But that wasn’t the truth.”

Lewis’ body tenses again, as if bracing for what’s coming. You press on, the words tumbling out now that you’ve started.

“Margaret’s soulmate was ... dealt with. Permanently. And Margaret herself was institutionalized. Locked away in a private facility, hidden from the world.”

“That’s ... that’s monstrous,” Lewis breathes, horror evident in his voice.

You nod, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “When I found out, I couldn’t believe it. I managed to find out where she was being held and I ... I visited her.”

Lewis’ hand resumes its gentle stroking of your back, encouraging you to continue.

“She was ... god, Lewis, she was just a shell. Decades of being locked away, of being separated from her soulmate ... it had broken her. She didn’t even seem to realize I was there.”

A tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. Lewis gently wipes it away with his thumb.

“That’s why I was so scared,” you whisper. “I’ve seen what my family is capable of. What lengths they’ll go to in order to keep up appearances, to maintain their idea of duty.”

Lewis is quiet for a long moment, his arms tightening around you protectively. When he finally speaks, his voice is filled with a mix of anger and determination.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he says firmly. “What happened to your brother, to your aunt ... it was wrong. Cruel and wrong. But I promise you, I will not let that happen to us.”

You look up at him, seeing the fierce protectiveness in his eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because we’re not alone in this,” Lewis explains. “We have resources they don’t. My citizenship, for one. The laws protecting soulmates in Brazil. And beyond that, we have the power of public opinion.”

You frown, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

Lewis shifts slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Think about it. Your family’s power comes from public support, right? What do you think would happen if the world found out they were separating soulmates, institutionalizing people?”

“It would be a scandal,” you realize, your eyes widening.

“Exactly,” Lewis nods. “We’re not helpless. If they try anything, we can fight back. We can tell our story, rally support. The world has changed a lot. People believe in the sanctity of soulmates now more than ever.”

His words spark a tiny flame of hope in your chest. “You really think we could do that?”

“I know we could,” Lewis says confidently. “But more than that, I don’t think we’ll have to. Your family isn’t stupid. They’ll realize the risk isn’t worth it. Especially not with someone as high-profile as me.”

You can’t help but chuckle at that. “Modest, aren’t you?”

Lewis grins, the tension of the moment breaking. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. Seven-time world champion, remember?”

You roll your eyes playfully, but then grow serious again. “Lewis ... thank you. For listening, for understanding. For not running away when you realized how complicated this all is.”

“Hey,” Lewis says softly, tilting your chin up so you’re looking directly into his eyes. “You’re my soulmate. That means we’re in this together, complications and all. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words wash over you, soothing fears you’ve carried for so long. For the first time, you allow yourself to truly believe that maybe, just maybe, you can have this. You can have him.

“So,” you say, a small smile playing on your lips. “What happens now?”

Lewis grins, his eyes twinkling with excitement and possibility. “Now? Now we start our adventure. We land in São Paulo, get your citizenship sorted out, and then ... well, then the world’s our oyster. We can go anywhere, do anything.”

“Anything?” You ask, the concept of such freedom almost dizzying.

“Anything,” Lewis confirms. “We could travel the world. Or we could find a quiet place to settle down if that’s what you prefer. We could work on charitable causes together, or you could pursue whatever dreams you’ve had to put aside because of your royal duties.”

The possibilities swirl in your mind, each one more exciting than the last. “I ... I don’t even know where to start,” you admit.

Lewis chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We don’t have to decide everything right now. We’ve got time. For now, let’s just focus on getting to Brazil safely. We can figure out the rest as we go.”

You nod, settling back against his chest. The steady beat of his heart syncs with the hum of the jet engines, lulling you into a sense of peace you haven’t felt in years.

As you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of your soulmate’s arms, you realize something. For the first time in your life, you’re not afraid of the future. Instead, you’re excited to see what it holds.

Whatever comes next, you’ll face it together. You and Lewis, two halves of a whole, finally united. The journey ahead may be uncertain, but with him by your side, you’re ready for anything.

***

As the private jet touches down on Brazilian soil, a mixture of excitement and nervousness flutters in your stomach. Lewis gives your hand a reassuring squeeze as the plane rolls to a stop.

“Ready?” He asks, his warm brown eyes meeting yours.

You take a deep breath and nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

The cabin door opens, and the humid Brazilian air rushes in. Lewis leads you down the steps, his hand never leaving yours. At the bottom, a tall woman in a crisp suit waits, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she greets with a warm smile, extending her hand. “And Your Royal Highness. Welcome to Brazil. I’m Dr. Raquel Santos from the Department of Soulmate Affairs.”

Lewis shakes her hand. “Dr. Santos, thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”

“Of course,” she replies, turning to you. “Your Highness, it’s an honor.”

You shake her hand, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “Please, just call me Y/N. I ... I’m not sure how much of a royal I am anymore.”

Dr. Santos’ smile softens. “Of course, Y/N. Why don’t we move this conversation somewhere more private? I have a car waiting to take us to a secure location where we can discuss everything in detail.”

You and Lewis follow her to a sleek black car. Once inside, Dr. Santos turns to face you both.

“First and foremost,” she begins, “I want to assure you that you are under the full protection of Brazilian law. As soon as you stepped off that plane, Y/N, you became entitled to all the rights and protections we offer to soulmates.”

“Just like that?” You ask, hardly daring to believe it could be so simple.

Dr. Santos nods. “Just like that. Brazil takes soulmate rights very seriously. We believe that the bond between soulmates is sacred and should be protected at all costs.”

Lewis leans forward, his expression serious. “What exactly does that protection entail? Y/N’s situation is ... complicated.”

“I understand,” Dr. Santos says. “Your assistant filled me in on some of the details during our phone call. Let me break down the key points for you.”

As the car glides through the streets of São Paulo, Dr. Santos begins her explanation.

“First, as the soulmate of a Brazilian citizen, Y/N is immediately eligible for Brazilian citizenship. We can begin the paperwork right away. This will provide an added layer of protection against any attempts at extradition.”

You feel a weight lift off your shoulders at her words. “So my family can’t force me to return to the UK?”

“Correct,” Dr. Santos confirms. “Brazil does not recognize any authority over soulmate bonds, not even royal decrees. Your status as a princess is irrelevant in the eyes of our law when it comes to your rights as a soulmate.”

Lewis squeezes your hand, a smile playing on his lips. “See? I told you we’d figure it out.”

Dr. Santos continues, “Furthermore, we have specific laws protecting soulmates from forced separation. Any attempt to interfere with your bond — be it physical separation, coercion, or even attempts to remove or alter your soulmate marks — is considered a serious crime in Brazil.”

You unconsciously rub your wrist where your tattoo is hidden. “What about ... what if they try to claim I’m mentally unfit or something? To try and invalidate my choices?”

Dr. Santos’ expression turns serious. “We’ve seen such tactics used before, unfortunately. That’s why we have safeguards in place. Any claims of mental unfitness would require extensive evaluation by multiple independent Brazilian psychiatrists.”

“And if they try to use their diplomatic influence?” Lewis asks.

“Brazil’s stance on soulmate rights is non-negotiable,” Dr. Santos states firmly. “We’ve stood up to pressure from other nations before, and we won’t hesitate to do so again. Your bond is protected here, regardless of external political pressures.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “This all sounds almost too good to be true.”

Dr. Santos smiles warmly. “I understand your caution, Y/N. But I assure you, these protections are very real and very enforceable. Now, let me explain some of the practical aspects of your situation.”

As the car turns onto a quieter street, Dr. Santos pulls out a tablet. “We’ll need to register your bond officially. This involves a simple verification process — usually just a visual confirmation of a matching font on your soulmate marks. Once registered, you’ll be issued official documentation of your bond status.”

“What does that documentation do?” You ask, leaning forward with interest.

“It serves several purposes,” Dr. Santos explains. “Firstly, it’s legal proof of your bond, which can be used to claim various rights and protections under Brazilian law. It also serves as a form of identification and can be used to expedite your citizenship application.”

Lewis nods thoughtfully. “And what about privacy? Given our high profiles, we’re concerned about information leaks.”

“An excellent question,” Dr. Santos says. “We take privacy very seriously, especially in high-profile cases like yours. All information related to your bond and Y/N’s presence in Brazil will be classified at the highest level. Only a select few government officials will have access to this information.”

You feel a surge of gratitude towards this woman and the country she represents. “Dr. Santos, I can’t thank you enough for all of this.”

She smiles warmly. “It’s my pleasure. Protecting soulmates is not just my job, it’s my passion. Now, let’s discuss some of the support services available to you.”

As the car pulls up to a nondescript building, Dr. Santos continues her explanation. “We offer counseling services specifically tailored for soulmates who have faced separation or threats to their bond. These services are completely confidential and can be invaluable in helping you process your experiences and adjust to your new life.”

You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. “I think ... I think that might be really helpful.”

Lewis wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “We’ll get through this together, love. Whatever you need.”

Dr. Santos leads you into the building and up to a comfortably furnished office. As you all take seats, she pulls out some forms.

“Now, I know this is a lot to take in,” she says gently. “But I’d like to start the official registration process, if you’re ready. The sooner we get this done, the sooner you’ll have legal protection.”

You look at Lewis, who gives you an encouraging nod. “Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

As Dr. Santos begins to explain the forms, a thought occurs to you. “Dr. Santos, what about Lewis? How will all of this affect his career?”

Dr. Santos smiles. “I’m glad you asked. Mr. Hamilton, as a Brazilian citizen, you have the right to have your soulmate with you wherever your career takes you. We can provide diplomatic assistance to ensure Y/N can travel with you freely, without risk of detention or forced return to the UK.”

Lewis grins, looking relieved. “That’s fantastic news. I was worried I might have to give up racing.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Santos assures him. “We believe that soulmates should support each other’s dreams and ambitions. Our laws are designed to facilitate that.”

As you begin filling out the forms, a sense of surreal calm washes over you. For the first time in your life, you feel truly protected, truly free to be with the person you’re meant to be with.

“There’s one more thing,” Dr. Santos says as you finish the paperwork. “As part of our soulmate protection program, we offer a safe house service. It’s a secure location where you can stay while you adjust to your new situation and decide on your next steps. Would you be interested in that?”

You and Lewis exchange a look. “I think that might be a good idea,” Lewis says. “At least for a little while, until we figure things out. My home here isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

You nod in agreement. “Yes, please. That sounds perfect.”

Dr. Santos smiles, clearly pleased. “Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements right away. The location is completely confidential and guarded 24/7. You’ll be safe there.”

As she stands to make some calls, you turn to Lewis, feeling overwhelmed by everything that’s happened.

“Lewis,” you say softly, “I can’t believe you’ve done all this for me. You’ve turned your whole life upside down.”

He takes your hands in his, his eyes shining with emotion. “You’re my soulmate. My whole life was leading up to finding you. Everything else? It’s just details we’ll figure out together.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. For the first time since you can remember, you feel truly, completely safe. Protected not just by laws and governments, but by the love of the person you were always meant to find.

As Dr. Santos returns to finalize the arrangements, you realize that this isn’t just the end of your old life. It’s the beginning of something new, something wonderful. A life where you’re free to love, free to be yourself, free to explore the bond that fate has given you.

Whatever challenges lie ahead, you know now that you won’t face them alone. You have Lewis, you have the protection of Brazilian law, and most importantly, you have hope. The future, once so terrifying, now shines with possibility.

And as you leave the office hand in hand with Lewis, ready to start your new life together, you can’t help but smile. Because for the first time, you’re not running away from something.

You’re running towards it.

***

The roar of engines and the buzz of excitement fill the air as you stand at the entrance to the Autódromo José Carlos Pace. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of nerves and exhilaration coursing through your veins. Lewis’ hand is warm and steady in yours, a constant reminder that you’re not alone.

“Are you ready for this?” Lewis asks, his brown eyes searching yours with concern.

You take a deep breath, squeezing his hand. “As ready as I’ll ever be. It’s time to stop hiding.”

Lewis nods, a proud smile lighting up his face. “That’s my girl. Remember, whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

With one last reassuring squeeze, Lewis leads you into the paddock. The moment you step into view, a hush falls over the nearby crowd. Then, like a wave, whispers and exclamations ripple outward.

“Is that ...”

“It can’t be ...”

“The princess!”

“With Lewis Hamilton?”

Cameras flash in a frenzy, and reporters surge forward, held back only by the security team flanking you and Lewis. You keep your head high, your hand firmly in Lewis’ as you make your way through the paddock.

A brave reporter manages to shout a question over the commotion. “Your Highness! Is it true you’ve been in hiding in Brazil?”

You pause, looking to Lewis. He gives you an encouraging nod. Taking a deep breath, you turn to face the press.

“Yes, it’s true,” you say, your voice steady despite your nerves. “I’ve been in Brazil for the past few months, under the protection of the Brazilian government.”

The questions come rapid-fire after that.

“Why did you leave the UK?”

“Are you and Lewis Hamilton really soulmates?”

“What does the royal family have to say about this?”

Lewis steps forward, his arm protectively around your waist. “We’ll be holding a press conference later to address all your questions. For now, we ask for your patience and understanding as we prepare for the race.”

As you continue through the paddock, you can’t help but think back on the tumultuous months that led to this moment ...

The first few weeks in Brazil had been a whirlwind of paperwork, security briefings, and adjusting to your new reality. You and Lewis had stayed in the safe house provided by the Brazilian government, venturing out only when necessary and always under heavy guard.

One morning, about a month into your stay, Dr. Santos had arrived with a grim expression.

“We’ve intercepted some concerning communications,” she had said, her usual calm demeanor tinged with worry. “It seems the British royal family has intensified their search for you, Y/N. They’re making threats.”

You had felt your heart drop. “What kind of threats?”

Dr. Santos had hesitated before answering. “They’re threatening to use their diplomatic influence to pressure Brazil into returning you. They’re also ... they’re suggesting that you might be mentally unfit, that you’ve been coerced or manipulated.”

Lewis had immediately pulled you close, his jaw clenched in anger. “They can’t do that. We won’t let them.”

“And we won’t,” Dr. Santos had assured you both. “Our stance on soulmate rights is non-negotiable. But I want you to be prepared. This might get ugly.”

And it had. Over the next few months, your family had tried everything. Diplomatic pressure, media manipulation, even attempts to infiltrate Brazilian government systems to locate you. But Brazil had stood firm, and you had remained safe.

A commotion near the Mercedes garage snaps you back to the present. You see a group of men in dark suits pushing their way through the crowd, their expressions grim and determined. Your blood runs cold as you recognize one of them — your father’s head of security.

“Lewis,” you whisper urgently, “they’re here.”

Lewis’ arm tightens around you as he quickly assesses the situation. “Stay calm. Remember the plan.”

As the men approach, the lead one steps forward, his voice loud and authoritative. “Your Royal Highness, by order of His Majesty the King, you are to return to the United Kingdom immediately.”

You feel all eyes on you, the paddock having gone deathly quiet. Taking a deep breath, you step forward, your voice clear and steady. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I am here of my own free will, protected by Brazilian law as the soulmate of a Brazilian citizen.”

The man’s expression hardens. “Your Highness, please don’t make this difficult. Your family is concerned for your well-being. They believe you may have been coerced or manipulated-”

“The only manipulation here,” Lewis interrupts, his voice sharp, “is coming from those who would separate soulmates for political gain.”

Just then, Dr. Santos appears, flanked by Brazilian officials. “Gentlemen,” she says coolly to the British security team, “I’m afraid you’re overstepping. Y/N is under the protection of the Brazilian government. Any attempt to remove her against her will would be considered means for an international incident.”

The head of security sputters, clearly not having expected this level of resistance. “This is a family matter-”

“No,” you interject, your voice stronger now. “This is a matter of human rights. The right to be with one’s soulmate. A right that Brazil recognizes and protects.”

Dr. Santos nods approvingly. “Furthermore, any claims of mental unfitness have been thoroughly disproven by independent psychiatric evaluation. Y/N is here of her own free will, in full possession of her faculties.”

The security team looks at each other uncertainly, clearly realizing they’re outmatched. The lead man makes one last attempt. “Your Highness, please. Your family misses you. They want you to come home.”

For a moment, you feel a pang of sadness for the life you left behind. But then you feel Lewis’ steady presence beside you, and you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“I am home,” you say softly but firmly. “My home is with my soulmate, wherever that may be.”

The man opens his mouth to argue further, but Dr. Santos cuts him off. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for you to leave. Unless you’d like us to involve the authorities?”

Realizing they’re defeated, the security team begins to retreat. As they leave, you hear murmurs of admiration and support from the crowd that has gathered to watch the confrontation.

Lewis pulls you into a tight embrace. “You were amazing,” he whispers in your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”

As you pull back, you see reporters clamoring for comments, their cameras flashing incessantly. Dr. Santos steps forward to address them.

“A full press conference will be held later today,” she announces. “For now, I can confirm that Y/N, formally known as Her Royal Highness, is here legally and of her own free will as the soulmate of Lewis Hamilton. She is under the full protection of Brazilian law, and any attempts to interfere with their bond will be met with the full force of our legal system.”

As Dr. Santos continues to field questions, Lewis turns to you. “Are you okay?” He asks softly, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “I’m more than okay. For the first time, I feel ... free.”

Lewis grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because we’ve got a race to win.”

As you make your way to the Mercedes garage, you’re overwhelmed by the support you receive. Team members, other drivers, and even fans call out words of encouragement.

“We’ve got your back, Y/N!”

“Love wins!”

“You show ‘em, Lewis!”

Inside the garage, the team greets you warmly. Toto approaches with a smile.

“Y/N, Lewis,” he says, shaking both your hands. “That was quite an entrance. Are you sure you’re up for all this today?”

You nod firmly. “Absolutely. It’s time to show the world that love doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger.”

Lewis beams at your words. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Now, let’s go win this race, yeah?”

As Lewis begins his pre-race preparations, you find a quiet corner to collect your thoughts. The events of the past few months flash through your mind — the fear, the uncertainty, but also the overwhelming love and support you’ve received.

You think about your family, about the life you left behind. There’s sadness there, but no regret. You’ve found something more precious than any crown — the freedom to love, to be yourself, to follow your heart.

A gentle hand on your shoulder pulls you from your thoughts. You look up to see Lewis, now in his race suit, his helmet tucked under his arm.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks softly.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Just thinking about how lucky I am. How grateful I am for you, for Brazil, for everyone who’s supported us.”

Lewis leans into your touch, his eyes shining with emotion. “We’re the lucky ones, Y/N. To have found each other, to have this chance at happiness. And I promise you, I’ll spend every day making sure you never regret your choice.”

You stand, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I could never regret choosing you. You’re my soulmate, my home, my everything.”

As you lean in for a kiss, the garage erupts in cheers and whistles. You break apart, laughing, to see the entire team watching with grins on their faces.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Toto calls out good-naturedly. “Save it for after the race. Lewis, you’ve got a championship to chase.”

Lewis gives you one last quick kiss before pulling on his helmet. “Watch me fly, Princess,” he says with a wink.

As he heads out to the track, you take your place in the garage, surrounded by your new family — the team that has embraced you without question. You feel a sense of belonging, of purpose, that you’ve never experienced before.

The roar of engines fills the air as the race begins. You watch Lewis navigate the track with precision and skill, your heart swelling with pride and love. This is your life now — the excitement of race day, the thrill of competition, but most importantly, the joy of being with your soulmate.

As Lewis crosses the finish line in first place, the garage erupts in celebration. You rush out to meet him in parc fermé, not caring about protocol or propriety. Lewis sweeps you up in his arms, spinning you around as the crowd cheers.

In that moment, with the sun shining down and the sound of celebration all around, you know that you’ve made the right choice. This is where you belong — by Lewis’ side, free to love and be loved, ready to face whatever challenges come your way.

Together.

***

The familiar scent of motor oil and rubber fills the air as you step onto British soil for the first time in over a year. Silverstone buzzes with excitement, but you can’t shake the nervous energy coursing through your veins. Lewis’ hand finds yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You okay?” He asks softly, his eyes searching yours with concern.

You take a deep breath, nodding. “I think so. It’s just ... strange being back.”

Lewis pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Remember, you’re not alone. We’ve got security everywhere, and I’m right here with you.”

As if on cue, the head of your security team, a tall, no-nonsense woman named Maria, approaches. “Everything’s clear, Ms. Y/N. We’ve swept the entire area and have eyes on all entry points.”

You smile gratefully at her. “Thank you, Maria. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Maria’s stern expression softens slightly. “Just doing our job, ma’am. Your safety is our top priority.”

As you make your way through the paddock, you can’t help but notice the stares and whispers that follow you. Some are curious, others admiring, and a few ... less than friendly. But your security team forms a protective barrier around you and Lewis, keeping any potential trouble at bay.

“Y/N! Lewis!” A familiar voice calls out. You turn to see Fred Vasseur approaching, a warm smile on his face. “Welcome back to Silverstone. How are you holding up?”

“It’s ... intense,” you admit. “But I’m glad to be here, supporting Lewis.”

Fred nods understandingly. “Well, you’ve got the whole team behind you. Anyone gives you trouble, they’ll have to answer to all of Ferrari.”

As you continue through the paddock, greeting team members and other drivers, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Not just by the curious onlookers, but by someone ... familiar.

That’s when you see him. Standing near the VIP area, looking as regal and composed as ever, is your brother.

Your heart skips a beat. You haven’t seen Edward since that fateful day you ran away. Lewis, sensing your tension, follows your gaze.

“Is that ...” he asks quietly.

You nod, unable to find words. Lewis turns to Maria. “Can you make sure we have a private moment?”

Maria nods, already signaling to her team. Within moments, they’ve created a small bubble of privacy around you and Edward.

Edward approaches slowly, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you both just stand there, years of unspoken words hanging between you.

Then, to your surprise, Edward’s composure cracks. His eyes fill with tears as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You cling to him, your own tears falling freely. “Eddie ... I’m so sorry I left without saying goodbye. I just ... I couldn’t ...”

Edward pulls back, holding you at arm’s length. His eyes roam your face, as if memorizing every detail. “Don’t apologize. Not ever. What you did ... Y/N, I am so incredibly proud of you.”

His words catch you off guard. “Proud? But I abandoned the family, my duties ...”

Edward shakes his head firmly. “You chose love. You chose happiness. You did what I was too weak to do.”

You glance at Lewis, who’s standing a respectful distance away, giving you this moment with your brother. “Edward, this is Lewis. My soulmate.”

Edward extends his hand to Lewis. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lewis. Thank you for protecting my sister and giving her the happiness she deserves.”

Lewis shakes his hand, his expression sincere. “The honor is mine, Your Highness. Y/N is the bravest, most amazing person I know. I’m just lucky to be part of her life.”

Edward’s smile is tinged with sadness. “Please, call me Edward. And you’re right, she is amazing. Always has been.”

You look at your brother closely, noticing the lines of stress around his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders. “Eddie ... how are you? Really?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s ... not easy. The family is in turmoil after your departure. Father is furious, Mother is heartbroken, and I’m ... well, I’m trying to hold it all together.”

“And Lily?” You ask softly, referring to Edward’s soulmate. “Have you heard from her?”

Edward’s expression clouds over. “No. Not since ... not since that day.”

You take your brother’s hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s not too late, you know. You could still reach out to her.”

Edward laughs bitterly. “And say what? ‘Sorry I let them burn off my soulmate mark and married someone else. Want to grab coffee?’”

Lewis steps forward, his voice gentle but firm. “With all due respect, Your High- Edward, it’s never too late. The bond between soulmates ... it’s not something that can be erased, no matter what’s done to the physical mark.”

Edward looks at Lewis, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You really believe that?”

Lewis nods. “I do. Y/N and I found each other against all odds. Who’s to say you and Lily can’t do the same?”

You squeeze Edward’s hand again. “Eddie, you deserve to be happy. You deserve love. It’s not too late to choose yourself, to choose love.”

Edward looks torn, glancing around at the crowds, the cameras, the weight of expectation that’s always surrounded you both. “But the family ...”

“Will still be there,” you say softly. “But you’ll be facing them as your true self, with your soulmate by your side. It makes all the difference, trust me.”

Your brother is quiet for a long moment, clearly wrestling with years of ingrained duty and expectation. Finally, he looks up, a new determination in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says, his voice growing stronger. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve spent too long living for everyone else. It’s time I lived for myself.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Does this mean ...”

Edward nods, a mix of fear and excitement in his eyes. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to find Lily. I’m going to make things right.”

You throw your arms around your brother, hugging him tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Eddie. And I’ll be here for you, every step of the way.”

As you pull back, you see tears in Edward’s eyes, but also a lightness that you haven’t seen in years. “Thank you. For showing me that it’s possible to choose love. For being brave enough to pave the way.”

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “If you need any help — legal advice, security, anything — just say the word. You’re family now.”

Edward looks at Lewis gratefully. “Thank you. I might just take you up on that.”

Just then, Maria approaches discreetly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to move. The press is getting restless.”

You nod, turning back to Edward. “Will you be okay?”

He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “I will be. For the first time in a long time, I think I really will be.”

As you prepare to part ways, Edward pulls you in for one last hug. “I love you, little sister. Thank you for reminding me what’s truly important.”

“I love you too, Eddie,” you whisper back. “Go find your happiness. You deserve it.”

With one last squeeze, Edward steps back. As he walks away, you see him pull out his phone, a look of determination on his face. You have a feeling you know exactly who he’s about to call.

Lewis wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “You okay, love?”

You nod, wiping away a stray tear. “More than okay. I feel ... hopeful. For Eddie, for us, for everything.”

As you make your way back through the paddock, you’re struck by how different everything feels. The stares don’t bother you as much, the whispers fade into background noise. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, with the person you’re meant to be with.

“You know,” Lewis says as you reach the Ferrari garage, “I think I’m going to win this race.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smile playing on your lips. “Oh? And what makes you so sure?”

Lewis grins, pulling you close. “Because I’ve got my lucky charm by my side. How can I lose?”

You laugh, the sound light and free. “Well, in that case, you’d better not disappoint. I expect nothing less than a victory, Sir Hamilton.”

As Lewis leans in for a kiss, you’re vaguely aware of cameras flashing and people cheering. But none of that matters. What matters is this moment, this love, this life you’ve chosen.

You think back to a year ago, when you were terrified of finding your soulmate, of the consequences it would bring. Now, standing here at Silverstone, with Lewis by your side and the hope of your brother finding his own happiness, you realize that choosing love wasn’t just the brave choice.

It was the only choice.

As Lewis heads off to prepare for the race, you take your place in the garage. The roar of engines fills the air, and you feel a surge of excitement.

This is your life now. Supporting Lewis, championing love, and showing the world that sometimes, the greatest act of duty is being true to yourself.

As the race begins, you watch Lewis tear around the track, your heart swelling with pride and love. You may not wear a tiara anymore, but you’ve gained something far more precious — the freedom to love, to choose, to be yourself.

And as the chequered flag waves and Lewis crosses the finish line in first place, you know that this victory isn’t just his.

It’s yours. It’s Edward’s. It’s everyone who’s ever had the courage to choose love over duty, happiness over expectation.

As you rush to congratulate Lewis, wrapped in his arms as the crowd cheers, you know that this is just the beginning. There will be challenges ahead, obstacles to overcome. But with love by your side and the strength to be true to yourself, you’re ready to face whatever comes.

Because in the end, love always wins. And you? You’re living proof of that.

***

The warm Brazilian sun streams through the windows of the spacious beachfront home, filling the living room with a golden glow. The sound of children’s laughter mingles with the distant crash of waves, creating a symphony of domestic bliss.

You’re seated on the plush carpet, surrounded by an array of colorful toys. Your three-year-old daughter, Emilia, is busily stacking blocks, her little face scrunched in concentration. Across from you, Edward is attempting to wrangle his own two-year-old son, James, who seems more interested in knocking down Emilia’s creations than building his own.

“James, darling, let’s build our own tower, shall we?” Edward coaxes gently, redirecting his son’s attention.

You can’t help but smile at the scene. Five years ago, you never could have imagined this — you and Edward, raising your children together, free from the constraints of royal duty.

The sound of a door opening draws your attention. Lewis walks in, his arms full of grocery bags, closely followed by Lily.

“We come bearing snacks!” Lewis announces with a grin.

Emilia’s head snaps up at the sight of her favorite person. “Daddy!” She squeals, abandoning her blocks and running to Lewis.

Lewis sets down the bags just in time to scoop up his daughter, peppering her face with kisses. “Hello, my little racer. Have you been good for Mummy?”

Emilia nods enthusiastically. “I builded a big tower!”

“Built, sweetheart,” you correct gently, getting to your feet. “And it was a very impressive tower indeed.”

Lewis sets Emilia down and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a quick kiss. “And how’s my other favorite girl doing?”

You smile, leaning into his embrace. “Better now that you’re home. How was the market?”

“Busy,” Lily chimes in, setting down her own bags. “But we managed to get everything on the list, plus a few extras.”

Edward stands, hoisting James onto his hip. “Extras, you say? Let me guess — more of those brigadeiros that you’re definitely not addicted to, right, love?”

Lily’s cheeks flush slightly as she laughs. “I plead the fifth. This baby wants what it wants.”

Your eyes light up at the reminder. Lily is five months pregnant with their second child, and you’re all buzzing with excitement.

“Speaking of the baby,” you say, moving to help unpack the groceries, “have you two decided if you’re going to find out the gender?”

Edward and Lily exchange a look. “We’re still debating,” Edward admits. “Part of me wants to know, but there’s also something nice about the surprise.”

Lewis chuckles, joining you in the kitchen. “I remember that debate. Though if I recall correctly, someone couldn’t handle the suspense and made me call the doctor at two in the morning to find out.”

You playfully swat his arm. “Hey, you were just as curious as I was!”

As you all work together to put away the groceries and prepare snacks for the kids, you’re struck by how natural this all feels. The easy banter, the shared responsibilities, the love that permeates every interaction. It’s a far cry from the rigid formality of your royal upbringing.

“You know,” Edward says, as if reading your thoughts, “sometimes I still can’t believe this is our life now.”

You nod, understanding completely. “I know what you mean. It’s so different from what we always thought our futures would be.”

Lily comes up behind Edward, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Different, but better, right?”

Edward turns, pulling her close. “Infinitely better. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

As you watch your brother with his soulmate, you feel a wave of happiness and gratitude wash over you. It hadn’t been easy for Edward to follow in your footsteps, to give up his place in the line of succession and choose love over duty. But seeing him now, so relaxed and genuinely happy, you know it was worth every struggle.

“Earth to Y/N,” Lewis’ voice breaks through your reverie. “Where’d you go just now?”

You smile, shaking your head. “Just thinking about how far we’ve all come. How different things could have been.”

Lewis nods, understanding in his eyes. “Do you ever regret it? Giving up your title, your life in England?”

You don’t hesitate for a second. “Never. This life, with you, with our family — it’s more than I ever dreamed possible.”

A sudden crash from the living room interrupts the moment. You all rush in to find James standing triumphantly atop a mountain of scattered blocks, while Emilia looks on in horror.

“James Edward Henry Albert Windsor!” Lily exclaims, trying to sound stern but failing to hide her amusement. “What have we said about destroying other people’s creations?”

James, looking not at all repentant, grins widely. “I king of the castle!”

Edward struggles to keep a straight face as he lifts his son off the block mountain. “Yes, well, kings should be builders, not destroyers. Let’s clean this up and then we can all build a castle together, okay?”

As you all pitch in to help clean up the blocks, Emilia tugs on your sleeve. “Mummy, will James be a real king someday?”

The question catches you off guard. You exchange a look with Edward, unsure how to explain the complicated reality of your family’s situation.

Lewis kneels down next to Emilia, his voice gentle. “No, sweetheart. James won’t be a king and you won’t be a princess. But that’s okay, because you get to be something even better.”

Emilia’s eyes widen with curiosity. “What’s that, Daddy?”

Lewis smiles, pulling her into a hug. “You get to be yourself. You get to choose who you want to be and what you want to do with your life. And that’s much more special.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes, overwhelmed by the simple beauty of Lewis’ words. This is why you left, why you chose this life. So that your children could have the freedom you and Edward never had growing up.

As the afternoon wears on, you all migrate to the back patio. The kids play in the sand under the watchful eyes of their parents, while you, Lewis, Edward, and Lily relax on the comfortable outdoor furniture.

“So,” Lily says, her hand resting on her growing belly, “have you two given any thought to expanding your own family?”

You and Lewis share a knowing look. “Actually,” you say, unable to keep the excitement from your voice, “we’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.”

Edward raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell, little sister.”

Lewis takes your hand, giving it a squeeze. “We’re thinking of adopting. There are so many children out there who need loving homes, and we have more than enough love to give.”

“That’s wonderful!” Lily exclaims, her eyes shining. “Oh, Emilia would love a little brother or sister.”

You nod, watching your daughter play. “We think so too. We’re just starting the process, but it feels right.”

Edward leans forward, his expression serious. “Have you thought about how this might affect things back in England? The press ...”

You sigh, having expected this question. “We have. And honestly, we’ve decided that it doesn’t matter what they think. This is our life, our family. We’re not going to let fear of judgment or outdated institutions dictate our choices anymore.”

Lewis nods in agreement. “We’ve already faced the worst they could throw at us. We came out stronger. Whatever comes next, we can handle it together.”

Edward’s serious expression melts into a proud smile. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry, old habits die hard I suppose. I’m thrilled for you both, truly.”

As the conversation flows, touching on everything from potential names for Lily and Edward’s baby to Lewis’ upcoming ambassador campaign, you’re struck by how perfectly imperfect this life is. It’s messy and chaotic at times, full of unexpected challenges and joy in equal measure. But it’s real, and it’s yours.

The sun begins to set, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. James and Emilia, tired from their day of play, curl up in their fathers’ laps. As you watch your brother gently stroke his son’s hair, you remember a conversation from years ago.

“Eddie,” you say softly, “do you remember what you told me the day they ... the day they burned off your soulmate mark?”

Edward looks up, his eyes clouding with the memory. “I told you that if you ever found your soulmate, you should run. Run far away and don’t look back.”

You nod, feeling Lewis’ arm tighten around you. “I’m so glad I took your advice. And I’m even more glad that you eventually followed it too.”

Edward smiles, looking down at James and then over at Lily. “So am I, Y/N. So am I.”

As the evening draws in, you all move inside. The kids are put to bed, their excited chatter about building sandcastles and racing cars fading into peaceful sleep. You, Lewis, Edward, and Lily settle in the living room, glasses of wine in hand (sparkling juice for Lily).

“A toast,” Lewis proposes, raising his glass. “To family, to love, and to the courage to choose our own path.”

“To freedom,” Edward adds, his eyes shining with emotion.

“To second chances,” Lily chimes in, her hand resting on her belly.

You raise your own glass, feeling a swell of emotion. “To us. All of us. And to the beautiful, chaotic, perfectly imperfect life we’ve built together.”

As you clink glasses, you catch Lewis’ eye. In that moment, you’re transported back to that day at Silverstone, when you first ran into each other. The fear, the excitement, the life-changing decision you made in an instant.

You wouldn’t change a thing.

As the night wears on and conversation flows freely, you realize that this — this warmth, this love, this freedom — this is what happily ever after really looks like. It’s not a fairy tale ending, but a beginning. A beginning of a life filled with love, choice, and the joy of being truly yourself.

And as you curl up in bed that night, Lewis’ arms around you and the sound of the ocean in the distance, you know that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Your family’s story is still being written. And you can’t wait to see what the next chapter brings.

[cumironi]

SLIPPING THROUGH MY FINGERS: GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

“suguru, help!” he sounds, pathetic. gojo satoru is a pathetic man when it comes to you. “ . . . there are so many kisses to have, soul and bone for you to crash and swear that how stars are born, so please. . ., believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, holding your hands, begging for you to love him— love him enough to stay.

warning : age-up! satosugu, depressed! fem x reader, drug mention, trauma mention, suicide, self-harm, death mention, drowning, blood, heavy angst.

w/c : 6,2k | [☆] MASTERLIST

𝜗𝜚 . . . . i had to stop so often writing this because i can't stop crying and think that i shouldn't continue because it hurts me so bad that i have to take a cold shower and think about my life. and honestly, i wasn't supposed to write the last part but yeah..

A MINUTES AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

it was too quiet. . .

gojo satoru never screams so loud in his entire life, so loud. . . the world shaking beneath his feet, ready to swallow him whole and rotten. so loud . . . he sure he can no longer hear. he ran, slipping on his way until he broke his knee on the puddle of the red, transparent liquid that spill from the bath-up.

the starling sigh, you were there. . .

“no, no, no, baby— no.”

the water, tinged with a haunting crimson, surged and overflowed, cascading into the bathroom with relentless force. it climbed steadily up gojo's legs, as if the liquid itself sought to ensnare him, to drag him down into its suffocating embrace, or just. . . mock him.

a dark mockery that seemed to whisper that it alone held the power to drown him, to swallow your trembling breaths and the last echoes of your voice. it wasn’t him, or geto suguru who was to be your executioner, but the merciless water, eager to claim your final, stutter breath.

“i-i —sorry, i’m sorry..” you stammered.

your voice stammered between choke, barely a murmur beneath the frothy waves, struggled to be heard amidst the tumult. your eyes, devoid of warmth, reflected a chilling detachment. the coldness in your gaze was almost tangible, a stark contrast to the chaotic, drowning world around you.

“suguru, help!” he sounds, pathetic.

gojo, even on the verge of your death is still so gentle, as if he's afraid you are going to die than you already are. dropping on his knees as he tries to pull your warm bodies out of the bath-up.

gojo shook his head, a soft whisper escaping from his trembling lips, “shhh, it's alright baby, it's alright, you're alright,” his mumble, each word a fragile promise against the storm of his own emotions— words and voice shaking, his bones and soul shivering. his strong arm wraps around your body, pulling you closer to his chest, feeling everything, even as his flesh trembling.

tears cascaded from the corner of your eyes, tracing silken paths down your skin, while his embrace, though trembling, sought to cradle and calm you, a sanctuary against the turbulence of your anguish.

“suguru, please help!” again, this time he shouted.

geto runs upon hearing the horror howling, and his purple irises about to peel from his face and his lungs lose air— ragged gasps, as if each inhale were stolen from him. the scene before him struck with a painful clarity: you nestled within gojo’s embrace, your body wracked with distress.

foaming at the mouth, you appeared trapped in a tormenting grip of anguish, while the open scars on your wrist bled stories of suffering and desperation. in that moment, the sight was both heart-wrenching and surreal, a vivid tableau of fear and pain, painted across the canvas of his deepest fears.

“i'm sorry— i-i'm so sorry,” you whisper between choking gasps as geto kneels beside you and your body shaking. tears cascade uncontrollably, each dropping a shimmering testament to a sudden, overwhelming regret. it is as though a profound realization has swept over you, too late to mend the wounds that have been inflicted.

the regret feels like a bitter aftertaste of the sorrow you can no longer escape. the eyes of those around you, trembling with the weight of their own anguish, are bloodshot and haunting, mirroring the crimson that flows from your wrist. in that agonizing moment, the world feels irrevocably broken, and the fleeting desire to be alive seems like a distant, unreachable dream.

they burst from the bathroom, gojo's arms wrapped tightly around you as he dashes through the chaos. your lifeless feet and hands dangle, a heavy, haunting reminder of the blood seeping steadily onto the floor. each drop forms a macabre trail, like the relentless shadow of death that clings to you, a grim companion refusing to let go.

the crimson stains splatter and pool in your wake, an anguished testament to the finality that now seems inevitable— each red stain on the ground is a haunting reminder, a stark declaration. as they run, the blood's mournful descent weaves a sorrowful narrative of moments slipping away, each drop a poignant echo of what might have been, a stark and unyielding declaration that time has run out, that it is too late.

and suddenly, everything feels like a slow motion.

6 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

the doctor spoke with a grave tone, his words laced with concern. “it appears,” he began, looking at gojo who's just sitting there with his eyes focusing on the floor, meanwhile geto standing beside him. “that she intentionally tried to overdose. we've had to act swiftly to pump the substances from her body, working to counteract the severe effects of her actions.”

geto's hand gently gripping on gojo's shoulder as they listen. his expression was one of solemn seriousness, reflecting the urgency and gravity of the situation. “we've done everything we can to stabilize her, but it's crucial that you two understand the seriousness of what she has done. this was a life-threatening situation, and we're only beginning to address the underlying issues that led to this crisis.”

the doctor continued, his voice carrying a mix of relief and concern. “fortunately, the cut on her wrist wasn't too deep,” he said, his eyes scanning the notes before them. “it seems that the severity of the injury was somewhat mitigated by her weakened state from the drugs. if she had been stronger, the outcome might have been different.”

his tone softened, acknowledging the fragile balance between the danger of the overdose and the mitigating effects of your physical condition. “we've managed to address the immediate threats, but it's crucial to understand that this is a serious wake-up call. we need to work on her recovery and the emotional struggles that led to this moment.”

if she had been stronger, the outcome might have been different,’ the words echoed repeatedly, hauntingly through the air, like a broken record stuck on a painful refrain. once, twice, three times, they reverberated through their minds, each repetition a stark reminder of how close they came to losing you, how dangerously close the edge of despair was.

even the notion of ‘almost’ carried a weight too immense to bear, a heavy presence that pressed down on their hearts. the silence that followed was thick with unspoken guilt and anguish; none of them could find the words to bridge the chasm of their shared grief. they avoided each other's gaze, unable to escape the silent blame that hung heavy between them, a suffocating testament to their collective sense of failure.

gojo stared at his hands through the thin veil of his blindfold, his fingers trembling as they traced the dried blood staining his pale skin. the sight of it was a brutal reminder of you. with a strained effort, he clenched his hands tightly, hoping to meld the dried blood with his own, as if to erase the haunting evidence of what had transpired— his last hope trying to be with you.

each breath felt like a desperate gasp, a small gap forming between his lips as he struggled to draw in air. the sensation of suffocation gripped him, a relentless pressure squeezing his chest, making each inhale a battle. despite his efforts, the air seemed insufficient, leaving him feeling as though he were on the precipice of life, teetering on the brink of an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

geto felt an overwhelming tide of guilt and anguish, a heavy weight pressing down on his heart. the scene that unfolded before him replayed in his mind like a relentless, agonizing loop, hunting him down like he is some kind of a fucking prey. he was haunted by the sight of your suffering, the image of your blood-streaked hands and the anguished cries that pierced the air. each moment of his own reflection, seeing the remnants of your blood on his skin and his white shirt, deepened his torment.

the sense of responsibility gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how close he came to losing you. he felt suffocated by a profound sorrow and helplessness, as if the very air around him was too thick, leaving him gasping for breath— like the death itself pointing its ugly fucking finger to his face and laugh at him, at them.

what a fucking pathetic man’ the death must be said.

the weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, and the silence between him and his companions only amplified his inner turmoil. the unspoken blame and the aching realization that he couldn't undo what had happened created a chasm of despair within him, making each moment feel like an eternity of unbearable remorse.

both of them are buried in profound sea of grief, guilt, shame because a thousand moments with you that they take for granted— shame, for thinking, assume that there would be a thousand more. is it too selfish to be here?’ they thought.

that curse must be laughing at them, the higher-ups, everyone— pointing their finger from all directions. look at them, ’ they thought, those two who called themselves the strongest can even save a single soul,’ again they must be laughing, let alone a soul who is to be called the love of their life.

but nobody knows, none, not even a single soul that, oh, how your presence evokes such selflessness in them— even amid their silent, tormented reflections. they are consumed by an incessant questioning of the selfishness of their own sorrow, wondering if it is wrong to cling to their grief while you teeter on the precipice of loss.

the haunting thought persists, a cruel reminder of time's fragile nature and the profound depth of their remorse. in their heartache, they are acutely aware of the contrast between their own suffering and the delicate balance of your existence, each moment of their anguish a poignant testament to the sorrow they feel for having taken so much for granted.

is it okay to feel sad? ’ they thought.

even the very sensation of sadness and grief feels like an indulgence they do not deserve. i can't even protect her, what rights do i fucking deserve to be sad?’ they thought. to them, these emotions seem an opulent luxury, an extravagant gift they are not entitled to. in their hearts, the depth of their sorrow feels almost excessive, a poignant reminder of how their suffering pales in comparison to the magnitude of the almost loss they face.

each wave of grief feels like a grand, unwelcome opulence, an unjust reward for the pain they have caused and the moments they have squandered. the luxury of their sadness seems a cruel irony, a stark contrast to the profound emptiness of the reality they must now confront.

people passing by in front of them, throwing them a glance or two. seeing their red eyes and tears-stain cheeks, blood in their hands, in shirts, in pants, in their soul, laid bare. everyone wants to give them both a pat on the back, telling them that they are good at handling grief; howling, crying, and blaming each other. that's the proper way to handle grief.

18 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

your hands are warm, a stark contrast to the pallor of your pink lips, which have lost their vibrant hue, your eyes open still so retain their gentle softness, a quiet testament to the grace you still hold.

as you lie upon the hospital bed, draped in the drab, floral-patterned gown that clings to you, it feels woefully inadequate. the gown, mundane and worn, seems too insipid and shabby to encompass your beauty, too faded and forlorn.

“i'm sorry. . .” you mumble.

you can’t bring yourself to look at them as they sit beside your bed, their eyes red and swollen from sleepless nights, their uniforms crumpled and disheveled, their hair falling in untamed disarray. their faces have lost their vibrant hue, a stark contrast to their usual vitality.

gojo satoru’s once-brilliant blue eyes, which used to shimmer with an unyielding light, now seem dull and lifeless, even when the golden sunlight spills over them. the sunlight, which once might have enhanced the beauty of his gaze with its warm orange tones, now only serves to highlight the emptiness that has replaced his once-sparkling eyes— it's dull, it's dull, it is fucking dull.

geto suguru's strikingly handsome face is graced with a smile, tender and achingly gentle, as though he is pouring all his effort into offering you a sliver of solace. his lips tremble with a subtle quiver, betraying the deep sadness that lingers beneath his calm exterior. his once-vibrant purple irises have dimmed, their former brilliance faded to a shadow of their former selves.

you fear that they might darken further, losing their hue altogether, slipping into a void of despair where even color seems to vanish. the sight of his sorrowful eyes, so devoid of their usual spark, reflects a profound sadness that pierces the heart, a silent testament to the emotional toll of the moment.

oh, what i have done. . .’ you thought.

“don't, please don't,” gojo pleads, his voice trembling as he clasps your unharmed hand with a desperate grip. his blindfold has been removed, revealing eyes that are filled with raw, unfiltered emotion as he gazes at you. beside him, geto's hand rests gently at the back of your head, his touch tender and soothing. he caresses your hair with a featherlight motion, his thumb brushing softly over your scalp.

“we are so sorry for taking you for granted,” he murmurs, the words heavy with regret and sorrow. “we are sorry for offering you only a lukewarm love, when you deserved a love that was fierce and all-consuming, a love that burned brightly and fiercely. i'm sorry,” his voice wavers, each word an echo of their deep remorse, as they both grapple with the weight of their unspoken apologies and the profound realization of what they failed to give you.

they do not seek to question why your soul bleeds, nor do they dare to unravel the dark tapestry of your pain. the blood, flowing with a steady, silent, and disturbingly deliberate pace, engulfs you in its relentless embrace. it seeps into every corner of your being, a somber tide that threatens to consume you entirely.

they find themselves unable to confront this harrowing reality, their hearts too burdened to bear the weight of such a painful inquiry. the sight of your suffering leaves them paralyzed, unable to utter the questions that linger in their minds, as they grapple with the profound helplessness of watching you slowly succumb to the encroaching shadows.

“i love you, baby,” gojo whispers, “i'm sorry that you're in so much pain so to think death is the only salvation,” he stopped for a second, cocooning your hand with his large one before resting his cheek against. “i'm sorry i didn't notice your rage for the world and too busy loving you. does my love scare you, love? that's why you decided to leave, hm?” his voice shaking, lips quivering.

“if you are angry, stab me a little so you can feel better, make it hurt, i don't care. a little suffering would be worth it if it's by your hands, by your pretty little hands,” he murmured against your skin, his breath a warm whisper that sent shivers across your body. each word was a soft plea, wrapped in a tone that trembled with both desperation and tenderness.

his trembling lips pressed gently against your hand, each kissing a fleeting starburst of warmth against your cool skin. him— no they, stood ready to endure your pain, inviting you to inflict upon them the hurt you felt.

they stand poised to let you sink your teeth into them, to delve into their very flesh. to let you open them up, laid bare and vulnerable, just to offer you a chance to heal. just so they can love you a little too much, starving even— like a flesh begging to be knitting together over a wound. ruin me, ruin us, and we will let you.

“i love you, i love you, i love you,” he gave you stars in each between. they fucking love you like a rotten dog. “believe me when i said this. . . there are so many kisses to have, soul and bone for you to crash and swear that how stars are born, so please. . ., believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, holding your hands, begging for you to love him— love him enough to stay, “we love you.”

he finally said we’ geto thought.

at first glance, people might assume that geto suguru’s love for you surpasses that of gojo satoru, that his love is somehow greater. yet, the truth remains that it has always been gojo satoru who harbors the most profound and boundless love for you from the very beginning. his love is vast, immense, and utterly astonishing, stretching beyond the horizons of understanding.

gojo’s devotion is a vast expanse, a love so deep and wide that it seems to defy the very limits of emotion. even geto suguru, who himself is capable of immense love, finds himself awestruck and somewhat intimidated by the sheer magnitude of gojo’s feelings. no one can truly grasp the depth of gojo’s love—not even gojo himself—such is the overwhelming, almost incomprehensible nature of his heart’s boundless devotion to you.

and sometimes it scares the shit out of geto.

but maybe, just maybe, they have a little too much love for you more than for each other, even more than for themselves— as if you make a space in their ribs, and call it home country.

30 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

geto stirred from a restless sleep, his head resting gently against your hospital bed, nestled close to your side. as he slowly opened his eyes, he was met with the soft, gentle sight of you gazing at him, a faint, tender smile gracing your lips. the serene moment, bathed in the quiet of the hospital room, brought a flicker of warmth to his weary heart, a small but profound comfort amid the lingering shadows of their shared sorrow.

“hey sunshine,” geto whispered in a hoarse croak, reaching a hand to brush your hair away from your face, “how long have you been awake?”

“long enough to notice the dark circles under your eyes and the tear stains on your cheeks,” you replied softly, your fingers brushing gently against his cheek, your thumb tenderly caressing the worn skin. geto hummed, his hand capturing yours and guiding your palm to his lips, where he planted a gentle kiss.

the touch of your skin was like a salve, soothing the ache in his weary soul. he chuckled weakly. his eyes were tired and his skin pale, but your touch made him feel alive. “you’re too observant for your own good,” he teased, his lips curving into a weary smile.

geto shifted in his chair, wincing slightly as his body protested the movement. he settled into a more comfortable position, still holding your hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your knuckles.

he studied your face, taking in every detail, from the delicate flutter of your eyelashes to the subtle flush in your cheeks. the sight of you, even in this vulnerable state, filled his heart with a mixture of tenderness and protectiveness.

“how are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, his gaze fixed on your face. he knew it was a question he had asked before, but he couldn’t help himself. he needed to hear you speak, hear your voice, just to reassure himself that you were still with him.

“like shit,” you answer.

your hand is still gently cupping his cheek, thumb running low across his skin in a loving manner. at your blunt response, geto's lip curled into a soft smile. even in your weakened state, you still had a defiant spark.

he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the sensation. “i thought we agreed no profanity,” he teased, his voice laced with affectionate humor, opening his eyes to meet your gaze. he turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against the palm of your hand in a tender kiss.

“you’ve always been a bad influence on me,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and ticklish. he chuckled softly, his eyes softening as he studied your face.

he took a moment to compose his words, his expression growing serious. “there was a moment,” he began, his voice a hoarse whisper, “a moment when i thought i lost you.”

your smile faltered, and your eyes softened with concern as you listened to the gravity in his voice. you reached up to gently touch his cheek again, your thumb brushing away the remnants of his sadness.

“i’m here now,” you whispered, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “you haven’t lost me.” you looked deeply into his eyes, trying to convey with your gaze the depth of your presence and the promise of your unwavering support. “and i’m not going anywhere,” you added softly, hoping to soothe the lingering fear in his heart.

his hand covers yours, holding it against his cheek as he closes his eyes, relishing in your soothing touch. for a moment, he just allows himself to bask in your presence, letting the warmth and comfort wash over him.

“i was afraid i wouldn’t get to hear you say that,” he murmured, his voice growing thicker with emotion. he opened his eyes, the raw vulnerability in his gaze bared to you, his heart laid bare.

your heart ached at the sight of his vulnerability. you gently squeezed his hand, your voice trembling with sincerity as you spoke. “i’m so sorry,” you said softly, your eyes filled with compassion.

geto’s thumb traced gentle, small circles on the back of your hand. “you have nothing to apologize for,” he assured you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “it was my responsibility to keep you safe, and i failed.”

the guilt and regret in his voice were palpable, the weight of his self-imposed responsibility clear. he lowered his gaze, wrestling with emotions that were etched deeply into every line of his weary face.

he lifted your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. “i just need you to know how much you mean to me,” he added, his voice cracking slightly. his grip on your hand tightened, as if he was holding onto you for dear life.

geto’s lips continued to brush against your knuckles as he spoke, soft and gentle. his eyes held yours captive, the depth of his affection bared for you to see.

“you are my everything,” he confessed, his voice hoarse with the weight of his honesty. “the thought of losing you, of living in a world where you don’t exist…” he trailed off, a pained expression crossing his features. he was torn between the love that engulfed his heart and the fear that threatened to consume him.

geto drew in a shaky breath, composing himself as best he could. he lifted his gaze from your hand, meeting your eyes once again. his expression held a mixture of love and devotion, but also a hint of desperation.

“i need you to know that no matter what, i will do everything in my power to protect you,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the turbulent emotions raging within him. “not just because it’s my duty, but because i love you more than i thought it was possible to love someone.”

you met his gaze with a warm, reassuring smile, the depth of your gratitude shining through. “thank you,” you said softly, your voice imbued with genuine appreciation. your smile was a reflection of the profound comfort and reassurance you felt, a silent promise to stand together through whatever lay ahead.

geto’s eyes softened at your smile, a flicker of relief passing over his weary face. he squeezed your hand gently, his touch both appreciative and protective.

he studied your face for a moment, his gaze lingering on each contour, each freckle and line, as if to further commit them to memory. “don’t scare me like that again,” he murmured, mostly in jest, but with an underlying current of seriousness.

gojo entered the room, his expression a mix of relief and lingering concern as he carried a bag of your belongings. upon seeing the tender moment between you and geto, his eyes softened, though they carried a hint of the exhaustion and worry that had shadowed him. he set the bag down and approached, took a sit at the edge on the other side of your bed, his voice catching slightly as he spoke.

“don’t scare me like that again too,” he said, his tone gentle but tinged with the weight of his emotions. his gaze met yours with a blend of earnestness and relief. “i know suguru’s been holding on tight, but i’ve been right here, too. seeing you like this... it’s been hard on all of us. please, don't leave us.” his words were a heartfelt plea, an echo of the concern and love he carried for you, a testament to the depth of his feelings and the strength of his devotion.

geto’s grip on your hand tightened momentarily at the sound of gojo’s voice, his eyes darting towards his best friend. he could hear the exhaustion and worry that laced gojo’s words and knew all-too-well the weight of the responsibility they shared.

he turned his gaze back to you, his expression a mix of worry and relief. his thumb resumed its gentle, soothing circles on the back of your hand. “yeah,” he said in agreement, his voice gruff with emotion. “please, don’t scare us like that again.”

gojo’s presence brought with it a sense of familiarity, a comfort that was both grounding and reassuring. he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your arm, his touch a silent expression of his affection and concern.

he studied your face, his eyes tracing every contour, every line, as if to commit the sight to memory. “how are you feeling?” he asked, his voice softer now, though still tinged with worry. “i wanna say like shit but suguru said no profanity,” you puff a little chuckle.

geto gives a little scoff at your comment, his expression laced with a mixture of annoyance and affection. he rolls his eyes playfully and mutters, “you’re such a bad influence.”

gojo’s lips curled into a small smirk before he turned his gaze back to you, the lines around his eyes creasing with a mix of amusement and relief. “can’t have you talking like that,” he teased, his words light but carrying a hint of genuine concern.

gojo studying your face carefully before speaking ever so softly, “well, apart from the obviously crappy mood geto’s been in, you look good. your color is better.” he noticed a faint crimson crushed on your cheeks, a little pink on your lips.

he reached his hand out to smooth a strand of hair away from your forehead, his touch light and tender. his gaze wandered from your face to where geto still held your hand, his eyes reflecting a subtle hint of appreciation.

geto watched gojo's gentle touch, his grip on your hand unconsciously tightening a little bit in response. his expression was a mixture of protectiveness and vulnerability, his eyes betraying the fear and worry that still tugged at his heart.

he took the moment to observe the soft interplay of emotions between you and gojo, the easy familiarity and the deep bond that existed between you all. he could sense the weight of gojo's concern as he studied your face, the care and attention in his touch.

gojo's voice was soft as he continued, his gaze still fixed on your face. “so, how are you feeling, for real?” he asked, his tone a gentle echo of geto's earlier question. “any pain? any discomfort?”

geto looked at you, his eyes silently pleading for you to be honest. he was hanging off your every word, each response a small insight into your well-being.

you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their concern pressing down on you. meeting gojo’s gentle gaze and then turning to geto’s silent plea, you spoke with a mixture of remorse and honesty. “i’m sorry,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “i’m sorry for how i handled things. i know i should have talked to you both, but i didn’t—i tried to take matters into my own hands without thinking it through first.”

your eyes reflected a deep sense of shame and regret as you continued. “i actually feel like absolute shit right now, and i’m ashamed of myself for thinking i could find a quick solution without considering the impact it would have on you both.” you looked at them, hoping your words conveyed the depth of your remorse and the sincerity of your apology, wanting them to understand that your actions were not a reflection of your feelings for them, but rather a moment of misguided desperation.

gojo's expression softened with understanding, his eyes filled with compassion. he knew the weight of your words, the regret and shame that clung to them. he reached his hand back to your arm, his touch gentle and reassuring.

geto's gaze was a mix of surprise and relief as he processed your apology. his hand around yours tightened slightly, his thumb tracing reassuring circles on your skin. “it's okay,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “we all have moments of weakness. what matters is that you're here, safe and alive.”

you felt a wave of gratitude wash over you at their responses, their understanding and compassion a balm to your wounded spirit. “thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “thank you for not being angry with me and for not questioning me right away. i know i made a terrible mistake, and i’m grateful you’re here, supporting me instead of condemning me.”

geto's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his eyes filled with a complex mixture of emotions— relief, love, and a hint of lingering fear. he shook his head gently, a reassuring smile on his lips.

gojo chuckled softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and playfulness. “we can save the anger and lecturing for when you’re not looking so terrible,” he joked, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “and trust me, baby, i had a lot of choice colorful words for you when the right time comes,” he lean in to kiss your forehead, “but right now, we just trying to be here for you.”

geto nodded in agreement, his grip on your hand still tight. he couldn’t help but roll his eyes a bit at gojo's playfulness, but there was a hint of fondness beneath the feigned annoyance.

he leaned in, reaching out with his other hand to gently brush a strand of hair off your forehead. “you are a stubborn, reckless, and stubborn pain in the ass,” he scolded lightly, his tone a soft but affectionate mix.

gojo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners with humor. he settled himself closer, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. “he's right, you know,” he chimed in, his smile wide. “you're very good at pushing our buttons and getting under our skin.”

geto's lips curled into a small smile, his expression a mixture of feigned anger and affection. “and you're even better at making us worry,” he added, his tone light but underlined with the gravity of their concern. “but we care about you more than anything,” he added, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “so you better not do something like that again, you hear me?” his voice held a hint of authority, but mostly it was filled with love and concern.

geto's smile grew a bit wider, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. “yeah,” he said, his voice firm. “you better listen. we don’t need anymore of these near-death experiences from you.”

gojo chimed in enthusiastically, leaning in a bit closer. “yeah, cause let me tell you, i can’t handle any more gray hairs than i already have.”

geto's grip on your hand tightened again, his expression a mix of sternness and vulnerability. he looked at you intently, his gaze locking with yours. “he's right,” he echoed, his voice firm but filled with warmth and care. “no more reckless decisions. no more putting yourself in danger. you hear us, my love?”

gojo nodded in agreement, his expression serious but eyes softened with concern. he added, “yeah, we can't keep having our hearts in our throats like this. it's not good for our health, you know.” geto's hand caressed your arm gently, a silent plea for your understanding. “we just want you safe and sound. that’s all we ask.”

a hint of vulnerability flashed across geto's face, his expression betraying the weight of his words. he locked eyes with you, his gaze filled with a mixture of pleading and sincerity.

“we just want to know that you're safe,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “that you're not recklessly endangering yourself anymore.”

gojo leaned in closer, his hand resting on your arm lightly. “we can't bear the thought of something happening to you again,” he chimed in, his tone carrying an undercurrent of worry.

they continued to exchange tender words and earnest pleas, their voices overlapping in a chorus of concern and affection. each spoke fervently about their love and the lengths they would go to ensure your safety and happiness. their words, though filled with their own fears and frustrations, were underscored by a deep, unwavering care for you.

as you watched them, a soft smile touched your lips. their earnest devotion, their refusal to let you face this alone, filled you with a profound sense of comfort and gratitude. you could see their love in every gesture and hear it in every word, and it warmed your heart. despite the gravity of the situation, their caring presence made you feel cherished and supported, giving you strength even in the midst of your own turmoil.

after a few moments of their heartfelt declarations, the room fell into a short silence, the weight of their words lingering in the air.

gojo ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of nervous energy. “and just so you know, suguru here basically took a week off work to sit by your bedside like a damn watchdog, he even almost made the rainbow dragon eat gakuganji because that fucker won't let him leave.” geto, caught off guard by the sudden revelation, flushed faintly and shot a glare at gojo.

geto, taken aback, shot a sharp look at gojo before retort, “you clearly about to hollow purple the higher-ups and the entire school because they won't let you stay here with her.” gojo's expression darkened for a moment, “you know i would do it in a heartbeat, if i could.” geto's grip on your hand tightened, his gaze still fixed on gojo. “i know you would. and i'd be right there with you.”

gojo and geto turned their attention back to you when they heard your soft chuckling, their expressions a mix of relief and amusement at hearing you laugh.

gojo chuckled as well, “you find that funny, huh?” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. geto rolled his eyes a bit, but his own smile betrayed his true feelings. he couldn't stay serious when you laughed. “just the thought of us going rogue and taking down the entire school system for you is amusing, i guess,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.

you hummed in satisfaction, “they are shit anyway.” a gentle smile lingering on your pale lips.

gojo chuckled warmly, his eyes sparkling at your comment. “ah, and there’s that signature wit of yours coming back.”

geto, still feigning annoyance but struggling to hide a grin, shook his head slightly. “still as blunt and unfiltered as ever,” he said, his eyes soft.

you glances at both of them, the comforting silence lingering between you, and with a tender smile, you mouthed softly, “i love you.” your cheeks flushed a delicate crimson beneath your pale complexion as you kissed their cheek.

gojo and geto exchanged a brief glance at your sweet words and soft kisses, their hearts swelling with warmth and love. gojo's hand reached out to stroke your hair, his touch gentle and loving. “we love you too,” he said softly.

geto's smile widened as he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “always,” he breathed, his voice filled with tenderness.

the thought of you coming back to them is warm.

TAGLIST :

@junni-berry @fortunatelyfurrygiver @soraya-daydreams @diorzs @dancing--devils @iloveboysinred @bounie1 @nina3871 @ohnotheusernameisbroken

[theosang3ls]

Why do you care?

part one; part two; part three

pairing: Theodore Nott x Female!Reader

Warnings: mentions of break up, smoking, mentions of consumption of alcohol, fluff (i think?), cheating.

summary: Theodore was always distant, reserved and cold, not just with you but with everyone, so when he comforts you at the Astronomy Tower you feel like you get the chance to explore a more vulnerable, more human side of him.

A/N: this is a bit short but I really liked how Theo showed a softer side of him. English is not my first language! Enjoy Lovelies!

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Your arms barely held up the weight of your head, trembling under the burden of your grief as tears cascaded down, staining the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower. Each ragged breath felt like shards of glass scraping against your throat, each sob a raw, involuntary

Your arms cradled your heavy, dizzy head as tears etched silent trails down your face, darkening the ancient stone floor of the astronomy tower. Each tremor of your body, each shuddering sob, was a raw outpouring of heartbreak—a painful replay of the scene that had shattered your world. The flashbacks from the scene before you replayed in your mind in a taunting matter, reminding you of the love you lost; your soon-to-be-ex boyfriend pinning a mysterious girl against the cool stone wall of the Ravenclaw common room, the party still raging around them.

The image seared into your memory: him, not just kissing, but hungrily consuming her in a way that mirrored the passionate kisses he reserved for you—only this time, it was her, not you.

Every detail burned itself into your consciousness. You fled in a desperate, heartbroken sprint, burdened by an avalanche of shame and betrayal. In that agonizing moment, the realization struck with brutal clarity: you had been nothing more than a fleeting amusement, a mere jest in his twisted game. The questions crashed over you—did you ever truly matter? Had his affection for you been a cruel illusion? These thoughts would haunt you indefinitely, gnawing at the remnants of your shattered self-worth.

As your anguished cries filled the silent gaps between your sobs, your body shook uncontrollably. Your lips, trembling and raw, echoed the fury and despair of your soul, while your eyes burned fiercely from the torrents of unrelenting tears.

Eventually, the physical pain of crying subsided, leaving you numb and exposed. In the stillness that followed, the creak of wooden steps echoed through the tower—a harsh reminder that, even in your most vulnerable state, you were not alone in your suffering. The mere thought of someone witnessing your devastation—puffy eyes, disheveled hair, and makeup smeared like the remnants of a battle—sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over you.

You barely had the energy to lift your head. Your body felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out of you and left behind in that suffocating common room, along with your dignity, your trust—your heart. But the sound of slow, measured footsteps against the stone forced you to glance up, your breath catching in your throat.

Theodore Nott.

Of all people.

Why him?

You never spoke much, never exchanged more than fleeting glances in the library, polite nods in the common room. He was distant, untouchable, a figure carved from ice and shadows, too indifferent to be part of your world. And yet—he was here.

Standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, Theo’s sharp gaze flickered over you, taking in the wreckage you had become. His eyes lingered on the way your arms wrapped around yourself, like you were physically trying to keep from unraveling, on the tear-streaked devastation painted across your face.

You braced yourself for a scoff, a sneer, the usual sharp-edged indifference. But it never came.

Instead, he exhaled—soft, measured—and stepped forward. His hands slipped into the pockets of his robes, his expression unreadable, as if he was weighing his options. Stay. Leave. Pretend he never saw you like this.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the dull, agonizing ringing in your ears, he asked,

“Who was it?”

Your stomach twisted violently. Did he already know? Did it even matter?

You swallowed, but the lump in your throat refused to go down. “Doesn’t matter,” you croaked, barely above a whisper. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breathe.

Theo didn’t react right away. He just watched you, his gaze dark and calculating in a way that made your chest tighten. Then, slowly—cautiously—he moved again, stepping closer like he was approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he wasn’t careful.

And maybe that’s exactly what you were.

He crouched down in front of you, and for the first time since he arrived, the mask of indifference slipped—just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something unexpected. Concern.

“You look awful,” he murmured. But there was no mockery in it, no teasing. Just blunt honesty, spoken so softly it nearly undid you.

A weak, broken laugh escaped you. “Yeah, well… I feel worse.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. You were waiting for him to leave. Because that’s what people did, wasn’t it? They left. They always left.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Theo exhaled through his nose and reached into his pocket. A moment later, something soft was pressed into your trembling fingers.

A handkerchief.

You stared at it, at him. The gesture was so unexpected, so strangely intimate that your breath stuttered in your chest.

“You—”

“Just take it,” he muttered, his gaze flickering away, as if the act of kindness itself embarrassed him. “Your face is a mess.”

Something inside you cracked.

No one had come looking for you. No one had cared enough to check if you were okay. But Theo had. And he didn’t just see you—he stayed.

Your fingers curled around the fabric, gripping it tightly as another tear slipped down your cheek. Before you could wipe it away, Theo sighed. And then—without thinking—he reached forward, his touch featherlight as his thumb brushed against your skin, wiping it away himself.

It was barely there. A fleeting, delicate moment. But his hand was warm.

Steady.

Real.

Theodore didn’t move away after wiping your tear. Instead, he let out a slow breath, shifting his weight before lowering himself onto the cold stone floor in front of you. He leaned back against the railing, long legs stretched out, his posture lazy—too lazy, like he was trying to seem unaffected by the way you were falling apart right in front of him.

You watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. The soft click of his lighter echoed in the empty space between you, and for a brief moment, the flickering flame illuminated the sharp angles of his face—the defined cheekbones, the slightly furrowed brow, the lips parted just enough to take in a slow drag.

He exhaled, the smoke curling around him before dissolving into the cold night air. The scent of it—earthy, bitter—drifted toward you, oddly grounding, though it shouldn’t have been.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Theo made no move to ask what was wrong, didn’t press for an explanation. He just sat there, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement besides the occasional flick of ash from his cigarette. It should’ve been uncomfortable, the silence. But it wasn’t. It was a relief.

“You smoke?” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, raw from crying. Theo flicked his gaze toward you, raising a brow slightly before taking another slow drag. “Occasionally.” You watched the way his fingers curled around the cigarette, the way his lips parted to exhale another stream of smoke. He made it look effortless, like something he did purely out of habit, not addiction. “Helps with the noise,” he added after a moment. You frowned. “What noise?” He tapped a single, long finger against his temple before looking away. “The kind that doesn’t shut up.” Something about the way he said it, so casually yet so weighted, made your chest tighten. “You?” he asked, flicking ash onto the stone floor. You shook your head. “Never tried.” “Probably for the best.” His voice was quiet, but not condescending. Just matter-of-fact.

Another pause. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Do I get to know what happened, or am I supposed to guess?”

Your throat tightened. Did you want to say it out loud? Would that make it more real?

Theo didn’t rush you. He just waited, his cigarette burning down between his fingers, his expression unreadable.

Finally, you exhaled shakily. “He cheated on me.”

The words felt like glass, sharp and cutting, even as they left your mouth.

His cigarette remained poised between his fingers, unmoving, as if even he needed a second to process the weight of what you had just said. Then, slowly, he brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of smoke that dissipated into the night.

“Bastard,” he muttered, his tone flat, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you. “Yeah.” Silence settled between you again, thick and suffocating. You wrapped your arms around yourself, nails digging into your sleeves as if you could hold yourself together long enough to make it through the night.

“Do you still want him?” Theo asked suddenly. You flinched, your fingers clenching. The answer should’ve been easy.

No, of course not. I’m not that pathetic.

But the truth was murkier, tangled in the ache in your chest, in the echo of the betrayal still fresh in your mind. “No,” you admitted, but your voice wavered. “But it hurts.” Theo nodded slowly, as if he understood something you didn’t. “It will,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “For a while.” You swallowed against the lump in your throat, your hands twisting the fabric of the handkerchief he had given you.

“I feel like an idiot,” you choked out, your voice barely holding together. “You’re not.” his response was immediate, not allowing this thought to unravel more in your mind. You flinched at the certainty in his tone, your breath hitching as you finally forced yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes—usually cold, distant—were anything but indifferent now. There was no pity in them, no empty reassurances. Just something solid, something unwavering. “You trusted someone,” he said, slow and deliberate, like he needed you to believe it. “That doesn’t make you stupid. It makes him a fucking fool.”

A sharp breath left your lips, something fragile cracking open inside your chest. You searched his face, half-expecting to find the usual detachment lurking beneath his words—but it wasn’t there. Not tonight. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words unsteady, like they might break apart if you spoke them too loud. It felt too small, too inadequate for what he’d just given you, but it was all you had.

His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes flickered—just for a second. You had spent so long memorizing the way he kept himself walled off, how carefully he measured his words, his presence, his warmth. But now… now there was no distance between you. No armor. Just him. Just this.

His fingers twitched at his side, like he was fighting some instinct to reach for you. Instead, he exhaled, slow and controlled, before saying, “You don’t have to thank me.” A pause. Then, softer, like it wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud, “You didn’t deserve that.”

Something heavy settled between you, something unsaid but undeniable.

The words hit harder than you expected. Your boyfriend’s touch was still burned into your skin, his betrayal still playing on an agonizing loop in your mind—his hands, his lips, his urgency, all for her, not you. And here you were, falling apart, while he was probably still at that party, laughing, drinking, touching someone else like you don't mean a damn thing to him. Your breath shuddered, a fresh wave of pain surging up your throat. But this time, something else was there too. Theo’s words, grounding you, anchoring you.

He didn’t tell you to move on. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just sat there, looking at you like you mattered. Like you were worth more than the way you were breaking. You wiped at your face again, the handkerchief damp with your tears.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

Theo stilled.

For the first time that night, he hesitated. His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers curling into his palm before he exhaled sharply, almost as if annoyed with himself. “Dunno,” he muttered, his gaze flickering to yours, something unreadable behind it. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you like this.” you looked up at him, you were slightly shocked at the words coming out of his mouth. Theo had always been distant, unreadable, sharp edges and cold indifference. But right now, sitting in the dim light of the Astronomy Tower, his sharp edges seemed softer.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath shaky, as if your body wasn’t sure whether to cry again or collapse under the weight of it all. The cold stone beneath you bit through your robes, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading in your chest, the hollow ache left behind by what you had just witnessed.

Theo watched you for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. Then, with another sigh, he leaned his head back against the stone railing, eyes flickering up toward the night sky. “You should hate him,” he said, almost lazily, but there was a sharpness beneath the indifference. Your fingers clenched the handkerchief tighter. “I do.” It wasn’t a lie. You hated him for what he did, for throwing everything away so easily, for making you feel so small. But beneath the anger, the betrayal, the heartbreak—there was still love, twisted and broken, but love nonetheless. And that was the part that hurt the most.

Theo hummed as if he didn’t quite believe you. “Good,” he muttered, exhaling slowly. “Because if you went back to him, I’d have to kill him myself.” Your head snapped up, startled. He wasn’t looking at you, still staring up at the stars as if the words he just mouthed weren’t something sharp and violent, as if they didn’t leave a strange warmth curling in your stomach.

“That’s a bit… extreme, don’t you think?” you murmured, your voice hoarse but laced with something close to amusement.

Theo shrugged, finally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Not really.” Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t joking. Maybe he wouldn’t actually kill him, but he meant it. If your ex walked up here right now, Theo would have no hesitation in making him regret it.

Why?

The thought sent a fresh wave of confusion through your already-overwhelmed mind. “You’re acting like you care,” you muttered, turning your gaze back to the floor, tracing the cracks in the stone with your tired eyes. “You never even talk to me.”

Theo didn’t answer right away. You expected him to brush it off, maybe throw some sarcastic remark back at you, something to keep his distance intact. But when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“I notice things,” he said simply.

You frowned, looking up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Another slow inhale of smoke, another exhale. “It means I’ve seen you,” he said, finally looking at you fully, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. “I’ve seen the way you hold yourself together even when people don’t notice you breaking. I’ve seen the way you laugh at your friends’ jokes even when your eyes don’t match. And I sure as hell saw the way you ran out of that party like you couldn’t breathe.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

He had seen you.

You thought you had been alone in your heartbreak, thought no one had noticed the way you fled from the party, shattered and humiliated, choking on the betrayal. But Theo had. And now, sitting here, offering you quiet comfort in the way only he could, you realized he had been paying attention this whole time.

“I don’t know why I came up here,” he admitted, his voice low, almost hesitant. “But I did. And I’m not leaving unless you want me to.” and with those words for a few moments the world stopped spinning, as simple as it was as a phrase, it held a lot of weight, it was a form of confession you couldn’t completely grasp.

Theodore Nott, cold and distant and unreadable, had come here for you. And in a world that suddenly felt unbearable, he was giving you a choice, a sense of control when everything else had crumbled beneath your feet.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A/N: should I make this a slow burn series????

!Reblogs and Likes are highly appreciated¡

masterlist

…until next time lovelies💋

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Part One (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Bound together by power and fate, you and Rio are undeniably tied, but Agatha Harkness was something unexpected - yet in the end...

Words: 1664

Warnings: Canon deaths, AAA, uh... language, child birth kinda? Angsty? I dunno, there's things.

A/N: A retake and partial redo of AAA (in the sense of "what if"). This is gonna be a... four part series? I think?

-X-

Cries of pain echoed throughout the trees as Agatha stumbled towards the water, body finding purchase against the trunk of a tree as another contraction washed over her. Everything ached, but she didn’t care. All she had worked for was so close. She just needed a little more strength and her child would be tucked into her arms, a beacon of her love.

She hardly noticed the unnatural silence that befell the forest, the wind dying into nothing more than an occasional puff of air. All she could see was- feel, hear - was the sound of her own heartbeat.

Glancing up as another cramp hit, she caught sight of two familiar figures lingering near. The beating of her heart quickened, so overwhelmed at the prospect of you both being there to meet your son, but the identical expressions you wore sent her heart plummeting.

He is not mine, you conveyed to Rio regretfully, tears prickling the corner of your eyes.

Life and Death stood, watching critically over the mortal who’d stolen their hearts. While bound together forever in a way no one would ever understand or be capable of recreating, you had both found the tiny piece you were missing within Agatha. You’d found a middle ground.

Death took a step forward.

Life took two steps back.

“It cannot be,” Agatha breathed, inching away from the green witch as she neared.

You could feel Rio’s heart cracking, felt the anguish and guilt rushing over her.

“It must be,” she replied gently.

“You do this and I will hate you forever,” Agatha spat fearfully, glancing between you. “Both of you.”

A sob clawed its way up your throat, suffocating and vile. This was the hardest moment you’d ever been summoned to.

“Please let him live!” Agatha cried. “Please, my loves. Don’t take him from me.”

Pleas began falling like tears, and your entire being called out to you. Begged you to rush to her side. To heal your son.

Rio’s eyes drifted closed for a moment before a dark stare met Agatha. You could see the parts of Rio warring. Her nature and her love clashing together in a battle, both reaching out to Agatha before being yanked back.

“I can offer only time.”

She peered at you. Save him.

Your feet moved before you could fully comprehend what was happening. Your knees hit the dirt in front of Agatha, warm light shining from your hands as they touched her swollen belly.

Looking over your shoulder at Rio, you watched the veil that separated you from mortals swirl around her.

Tell him of me, she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks in rivets.

All the time, my love, you vowed.

Attention returning to Agatha, you smiled up at her faintly. “Let’s bring our boy into the world, shall we?”

-X-

Years passed. Years of joining your love to decide the fate of a life. Years of watching your little boy grow, watching him become sick, watching him grow frail and tired…

Watching your lover kill in hopes of distracting your other lover. Watching her use your son to do it but never allowing Rio too close. Watching Agatha grow colder. Meaner. Deadlier.

As life comes and goes, you were often pulled away from Nicholas, helping the other piece of your soul collect and distribute life and death as needed. But for the times you were with him, watching him blossom and shrink, you never let him forget about the woman who offered him time.

As you stepped through the trees, veil falling away into your human form, you watched the beautiful smile break across Nicky’s face before he was bounding into your arms, clinging to you like a lifeline.

“Mother! You are back!” he beamed up at you, his thin arms gripping you as tight as he could. It was devastating to see the sickness ravaging him, knowing you could do nothing to change it.

“Hello, my littlest love,” you cooed, carding your fingers through his long hair before peering over his head at Agatha. “And my tall love.”

“If you are here, will I see Mami tonight in my dreams?” Nicky whispered into your ear, shrieking happily as you lifted him, tossing him over your shoulder and holding him tightly as his little feet kicked.

“Maybe.”

Agatha rolled her eyes affectionately as you pressed a kiss to her cheek, Nicky thrown playfully over your shoulder and squealing as you swung him about. She was surprised to see you return so soon, and her heart thumped painfully as she thought to Rio.

As the afternoon progressed into night, Nicky regaled you with tales of their exploits. Your heart ached, knowing the reasons behind Agatha’s choices but refusing to discourage your son from telling his vivid stories. You were so… angry with Agatha, for doing this to him, but in another life, maybe you would’ve done the same.

After he was tucked onto a small pallet, blanket right around his frail form, you joined Agatha at the edge of the water. Staring out into the darkness, you spoke softly, “This has bid you some time but you know this cannot stop the inevitable, my love.”

Bristling, Agatha turned to walk away, unwilling to hear your truths, but a steady hand caught her.

“You need to hear me, Agatha. She has given all she can. She has fought the universe to keep him here; avoided her own son so that Death would not call him home yet. But we cannot keep him here. He is not meant to be here, yet we let him walk and talk and be here with you. And you still hate her for the time she has allowed me to give him. Without her, he never would have taken his first breath. You need to unbury your head from the sands and accept we cannot change fate anymore than we have.”

Eyes flaring purple with fury, Agatha shoved you but you did not waver. “You are essentially gods! Yet one child unravels the cosmos? Fate? He is my son and you want to let her take him from me!”

“He is our son,” you corrected sharply. “He is her son. As much as he is mine or yours. She made him as we did. She does not get to watch him grow as we did. Hold him. Love him. Because she wanted to grant you time with him and yet you spit in her face!”

Staring into the reddened face of your lover, you softened slightly. “She loves Nicholas. I love Nicholas. And we love you. Gods know we do not wish to hurt you. But he is sick. His body is tired. You know there is only one way.”

“If you cannot understand why I do what I must to keep him here, maybe you should leave,” Agatha whispered, eyes filling with anger and tears. “I will do whatever I can to save him.”

Bowing your head, you tugged her into a tight embrace, pressing your lips to the crown of her head as she cried silently against your chest. It was raw and painful and you knew this was the last time you would see her for a very long time.

By the time she wandered back to camp, you were gone.

-X-

The shadows of night surrounded you as you and Rio approached the campsite one night, hand in hand. Her eerie green torch illuminated the path, her true form hidden beneath a familiar guise.

“I don’t want to scare him,” she had mumbled, cheek resting against your shoulder as time ticked down.

The heavy fall winds dragged Nicholas from his slumber and he slowly sat upright, eyes landing upon the eerie light. His eyes brightened before dimming, realization crashing into his chest. He peered down, watching his body remain as he stood.

Rio gestured for him to kiss his mother and he obeyed, whispering, “I love you,” before meeting you and Rio at the forest edge.

She cupped his cheek sweetly, thumb soothing on his paling flesh. “It’s time, love.”

“I am afraid,” he admitted shyly, wide eyes flickering between you as if ashamed of the admittance.

Crouching down, both of your hands found his lithe shoulders and squeezed reassuringly, letting light and warmth pour from you. “We will be with you every step, darling. I swear it.”

He peered over at Agatha, eyes shimmering in the green light. “I do not fear dying, but I do not want Mama to be alone. She is going to be so lonely.”

Your chest seized painfully.

“Our sweet, wonderful boy,” you breathed, peeking up at your partner, who stared at Nicky adoringly. “I promise, we will not be far from her, even if she cannot see us. Even if she is angry. She is etched into our bones and we will not stray far.”

“I will miss her,” he murmured, “But I will see her again one day?”

“Yes, sweetheart, and someday, we shall be a family again. A complete family.” Looking at Rio, you smiled sadly and cupped her face with your free hand. “One day, we shall never be apart again.”

“A complete family,” Nicholas repeated with a smile, peering up at Rio. “With Mami this time.”

Carefully making your way to the bridge, shadows and light swirled around as you passed through the veil and Nicholas was brought into the embrace of his mother’s domain. You were not ignorant to the pain that would overtake Agatha when the sun rose above the horizon, so once Nicholas found the space crafted especially for him, you returned to the mortal plane and stood above the resting witch.

Stooping down, you patiently maneuvered Nicholas’ mortal body in Agatha’s arms, tucking his blanket tight around him before pressing a butterfly soft kiss to Agatha’s temple.

“I am sorry, my love,” you muttered, pecking her temple again before disappearing with the morning light, soul aching as her wails crested the treetops.