Magik!wlw brainrot,,, ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
You always know when she’s back before you hear her.
It isn’t the stepping disk,, not exactly. It’s what comes after. The shift in the air, like something sharp has been dragged through the room and left it quieter, heavier. Your candles react first. Flames bending, trembling, stretching just slightly taller like they’re reaching toward something unseen.
Then the gold light splits the space open.
She steps through it like she owns the violence she came from.
Magik doesn’t announce herself. She never does. The portal snaps shut behind her with a sound like something final, and for a moment she just stands there, shoulders tense, jaw set, armor half-formed and flickering at the edges like it doesn’t fully belong in your world.
You don’t rush her.
You never do.
“Hi,” you say instead, soft, like she just walked in from the cold.
Her gaze finds you immediately. Blue eyes, too bright, too sharp, scanning,, always scanning, before settling. It takes a second longer than it used to.
“…You’re awake,” she says.
“Obviously.”
That earns you the smallest shift in her expression. Not quite a smile. Something close enough.
She steps forward, slower now, and that’s when you see it,, dark streaks along her sleeve, a tear in the fabric near her shoulder, the way her hand flexes once like she’s testing whether it still works.
You push off the counter.
“Sit,” you tell her.
“I’m fine.”
“Illyana.”
She exhales through her nose, annoyed more at being seen than being told what to do, but she sits anyway. Your couch dips under her weight, armor dissolving piece by piece until she looks almost human again,, just a girl in black, pale and sharp and tired in a way she won’t admit.
You move without asking, grabbing the cloth you always keep nearby, dampening it with warm water and something herbal. The room smells like incense and dried lavender, something grounding, something yours.
She watches you as you approach.
Always watches.
“You don’t have to do that,” she mutters, though her voice is quieter now.
“I know.”
You kneel in front of her anyway.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The air hums faintly, like the residue of wherever she’s been hasn’t fully let go yet. You reach for her arm slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Your fingers brush her wrist first,, light, careful, and you feel it immediately. The tension. The coiled energy under her skin, like something still ready to fight even though the battle’s over.
Your touch softens.
“It’s done,” you murmur.
Her jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t know that.”
You glance up at her, calm, steady. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
That makes her pause.
Just for a second.
It’s enough.
You start cleaning the cut along her arm, gentle but firm. She doesn’t flinch, not really, but her shoulders stay tight, her gaze flicking to the side like she’s expecting something to break through the walls at any second.
So you do the thing you’ve learned works.
You take her hand. Not the injured one. The other.
Your fingers slip between hers, grounding, deliberate, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re not holding onto someone who could tear reality open if she wanted to.
Her reaction is immediate, even if it’s small.
A pause.
A breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
“…You’re distracting,” she says quietly.
“Good.”
You squeeze her hand slightly, thumb brushing over her knuckles in a slow, absent motion. The kind that doesn’t demand anything. Just stays.
Her grip tightens back.
Not hard.
Just enough.
The tension in the room shifts. Not gone, never gone,, but dulled, softened at the edges. Her gaze drops briefly to where your hands are joined, something unreadable flickering there before she looks away again.
“You’re not scared,” she says after a moment.
It’s not a question.
“No,” you answer simply.
“Why?”
You finish wrapping the cloth around her arm, then lean back just enough to meet her eyes again. “Because it’s you.”
That lands.
You can tell by the way her expression stills, like something inside her didn’t expect that answer and doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Her thumb shifts slightly against your hand. Testing. Then settling.
“You should be,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.
“Probably.”
You don’t let go.
Neither does she.
The candles flicker again, softer this time, like the room itself is exhaling. The space between you feels smaller now, quieter,, not empty, but full in a different way.
She leans forward slightly, just enough that you notice.
Not enough that she has to acknowledge it.
Your hands are still linked between you.
Her voice drops, almost thoughtful. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m…” She trails off, searching for the word, then gives up. “Less.”
You tilt your head. “You’re not less.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You know what I mean.”
“I know what you think I mean.”
That earns you a look. A real one this time, direct and intense.
You don’t look away.
“You come back like you’re still there,” you continue softly. “Like you’re waiting for it to follow you.” Your thumb brushes her hand again, slower now. “I’m just giving you something to come back to.”
The silence stretches.
Heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Her grip on your hand tightens again, more deliberate this time. You feel the shift,, not in strength, but in intention. Like she’s choosing to stay in the moment instead of slipping somewhere else.
“…Stay,” she says, almost under her breath.
You blink. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The words hang there.
Your heart stutters just slightly, but you don’t pull away, don’t make it bigger than she’s letting it be.
Instead, you lean in just a fraction, enough that the space between you changes. Enough that she notices.
Her gaze flicks to your mouth for half a second.
Then back to your eyes.
There’s something there. Sharp. Careful. Wanting, in a way she doesn’t quite trust.
You don’t close the distance.
You let it sit there, hovering, fragile and charged all at once.
Her breath brushes yours, barely there.
“…You’re still distracting,” she murmurs.
You smile, soft, just a little crooked. “You’re still here.”
That almost does it.
You can feel it,, the moment tipping, the space narrowing, the possibility of it shifting into something neither of you are fully ready to name.
But instead, she leans back first.
Not far.
Just enough.
Her hand stays in yours.
And somehow, that feels more dangerous.