#||Fractured Masks|CRACK||

[dksfml]

Love 119 [Part One]

part of my paramedic!jungwon series. [part two] [part three]

pairing: paramedic!jungwon x doctor!reader genre: workplace tension, constant bickering, fluff (trust me) word count: 2.7k summary: jungwon and you made it a habit to constantly be at each other's throats, especially in the emergency room. while he barked orders, you fired back just as fiercely. but once the doors closed, the tension shifted into a warm intimacy that only you two knew. author's note: self-indulgent fic because i've seen no one writing this trope

The late afternoon sun was just beginning to dip behind the skyline when the call came in—an emergency at a construction site on the outskirts of the city.

Jungwon barely had time to glance at his watch before he was in motion, his team falling in line behind him as the sirens wailed and the ambulance tore through the city streets.

Arriving at the site, chaos greeted them. Workers were clustered around a man lying motionless on the ground, his hard hat cracked and discarded nearby, dust and debris littering the air. Jungwon’s jaw tightened, taking in the scene in a flash. This wasn’t good.

“Let’s move,” he barked, his tone sharp but calm, his team already spreading out as they grabbed the necessary equipment from the ambulance.

He strode forward with an authoritative air, his well-built frame and broad shoulders drawing more than a few eyes from the construction workers, some of whom were openly staring at him, their faces filled with a mix of concern and awe.

“Step back, please,” Jungwon said firmly but politely, the workers quickly making way as he knelt down beside the injured man.

His dark hair, just a bit tousled from the rush, caught the light, and the sharp angles of his jawline seemed even more pronounced against the backdrop of the gritty site. His team watched him with admiration; Jungwon always exuded this calm, confident charm that somehow made even the most panicked scenes feel manageable.

Jungwon quickly assessed the man’s condition. The patient was unconscious, his breathing shallow. One of his teammates handed over the stethoscope, and Jungwon listened intently to the faint sounds of the man’s breathing. His brow furrowed.

“Possible head trauma. We’ve got low oxygen saturation,” he muttered under his breath, signaling for the oxygen mask as his hands moved swiftly yet delicately over the man’s body, checking for fractures and injuries.

His every move was precise, commanding attention—not just because of his skill but the way he carried himself. Even in the face of an emergency, he looked collected, like he was born to handle the pressure.

"Jungwon," his teammate called from the side, holding the patient's chart. "No significant external bleeding. We’ve got a weak pulse though, around 130, BP's borderline. We need to get him out of here fast."

Jungwon’s eyes narrowed as he nodded, quickly making a decision. “Let’s secure his airway first and immobilize his spine. We can’t risk any movement.” He made the call as he smoothly slid the oxygen mask onto the patient’s face, adjusting it with a gentleness that contrasted the urgency of the situation. His fingers brushed over the man’s wrist, checking his pulse again. A slight frown creased his forehead.

With practiced ease, his team set up a backboard to stabilize the patient, while Jungwon prepared to radio the hospital. His deep voice echoed through the dust-laden air, crisp and calm. “We’re looking at a possible internal bleed or brain injury—trauma to the head, decreased GCS. Get Y/N on standby. She’ll want to know.”

He tapped his earpiece, dialing straight into the hospital, his tone switching effortlessly into that of a strict professional.

“Y/N,” he started, his voice filled with authority as he spoke into the receiver, “we’ve got a situation here. Male, late twenties, unconscious after a fall from height—GCS is 4. We’ve administered oxygen and immobilized his spine, but he’s unresponsive. Internal injuries are likely.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, before your voice came through, crisp and all business. “Vitals?”

Jungwon rattled off the numbers, his tone growing sharper as he outlined the gravity of the situation. “BP’s dropping fast, pulse is weak, pupils uneven—one’s blown. It’s not looking good.”

“Get him here as fast as you can,” you replied, your voice steady. “We’ll be ready when you arrive. I need him in trauma two for imaging, and you better give me a detailed report when you get here.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes subtly, though no one else could hear his exasperation. “Of course, Doctor. Just make sure the room’s prepped.” His sarcasm was impossible to miss, but before you could retort, he was already motioning for his team to get the stretcher ready.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, standing up in one fluid motion, his wide shoulders casting a shadow over the patient as he signaled for the transfer. His team lifted the man onto the gurney, Jungwon guiding them every step of the way. Despite the intensity of the moment, there was something about the way he commanded the situation—his deep voice, his piercing gaze, the way he moved like a force of nature—that made even a frantic scene seem a little calmer.

Jungwon was the kind of guy people listened to, the kind of guy people looked up to. Even with the weight of the situation hanging over him, he held his head high, taking charge like it was second nature. His team moved quickly, securing the patient in the ambulance as Jungwon gave one last glance to the scene before climbing in.

“Let’s go,” he said firmly, and with the wail of sirens, they sped off toward the hospital.

Jungwon stormed through the emergency room doors with a sense of purpose, his jaw clenched as he guided the gurney toward the trauma bay. “28-year-old male, head trauma, GCS of 4, possible internal bleeding. Move it!” His voice boomed with authority, eyes scanning the room as the ER team sprang into action.

The chaos of the emergency room was nothing new, but today it seemed more charged than usual. The tension was thick as the nurses hurried to get the trauma room prepped, doctors barking orders as they readied themselves. And at the center of it all was you—focused, sharp-eyed, already gloved up and waiting.

The moment Jungwon and his team wheeled the patient in, your eyes met his, a silent exchange of understanding mixed with the tension that always crackled between them in moments like this. Not that anyone would’ve noticed—your constant bickering was practically a feature of every shift.

You stepped forward, your voice cutting through the noise of the room. “Trauma two is open. Let’s get him in fast!”

The team followed your lead, transferring the patient from the gurney to the hospital bed with swift efficiency. Jungwon stayed close, hands still gripping the rails of the stretcher as if he was unwilling to relinquish control.

“You took too long with the vitals report,” you said, throwing him a sharp glance. “We could’ve been in there five minutes ago.”

Jungwon’s eyes narrowed. “We did take the vitals. Maybe if you paid attention, you’d know that.”

“Excuse me?” you shot back, your gaze never leaving the patient as you worked to stabilize him. “I don’t need a paramedic trying to tell me how to do my job. We had a plan, and your delay didn’t help.”

Jungwon glared, his voice low and clipped. “Maybe if your plan didn’t waste time on unnecessary scans, we wouldn’t have needed a second round of intubation last time.”

Your hands froze for a split second before you caught yourself. You threw him a withering look. “This again? You think you can waltz in here and play doctor, Jungwon?”

“I’m not playing doctor. I’m trying to make sure you don’t screw it up.” His tone was biting, but professional, and the tension in the room rose instantly.

One of the nurses stepped back, shaking her head. “Here they go again.”

You didn’t back down, leaning closer as you adjusted the IV line. “How about you leave the doctoring to me, and I’ll leave the paramedic work to you? We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Jungwon took a breath, his expression unreadable for a moment, his frustration barely contained. “Fine. Just don’t mess it up.”

“Same to you,” you retorted, not missing a beat.

Before Jungwon could respond, one of the nurses interrupted. “Dr. Y/N, patient’s BP is dropping.”

Instantly, you refocused, the banter dropped as quickly as it had escalated. “Let’s get the trauma panel done. We need to stabilize him before moving for imaging. Prep the fluids.”

Jungwon watched you work, his arms still crossed, but he didn’t say another word. Despite the constant arguing, there was no denying that you are incredible at your job. Even in the most high-pressure situations, you were in complete control.

You worked together in tense silence, the only sounds in the room now the soft beeps of the monitors and the quiet shuffling of the medical team around them. Jungwon’s team lingered just outside, waiting for their next call, though they couldn’t help but glance back inside the room occasionally, accustomed to the combative exchanges between Jungwon and you.

As the patient’s vitals finally stabilized, you took a step back, letting out a quiet breath. “We’re clear to take him to imaging now. Good work, everyone,” you called to the team, your voice steady once more.

Jungwon uncrossed his arms, walking past you toward the door. “You’re welcome,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You narrowed your eyes at his back but said nothing. You didn’t need to. Your argument had run its course for now.

Thirty minutes later, with the patient stable and prepped for surgery, you stepped out of the trauma room, pulling off your gloves. Jungwon was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, that same tight-lipped look on his face.

“Everything go okay, or did I miss something else?” he asked, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

You glared at him. “Yeah, we managed just fine without your commentary, thanks.”

“Good,” Jungwon muttered, pushing himself off the wall and adjusting his jacket. “Maybe next time you won’t waste so much time arguing.”

“Maybe next time you’ll do your job and get out of my way,” you shot back, your voice sharp.

“You love being in control, don’t you?” Jungwon’s eyes glinted, his voice dropping low as he stepped closer. “Can’t handle someone else calling the shots, huh?”

You crossed your arms, your gaze unyielding. “I don’t need to handle anything, least of all you.”

“Trust me, I’m not asking for much,” he replied with a smirk, his voice oozing with challenge.

You scoffed, brushing past him. “Try asking for less.”

Jungwon shook his head with an exasperated sigh as he watched you walk away, but his lips twitched ever so slightly. The others on their teams didn’t even blink. This was just how the both of you were. They were used to it by now—the biting remarks, the challenges, the constant back-and-forth. Every time Jungwon’s ambulance showed up, it was only a matter of time before you and him were at each other’s throats again.

Hours later, the hospital had quieted down. The rush of the afternoon was over, and most of the staff had gone home. You and Jungwon had managed to avoid each other for the rest of your shifts, though your earlier argument still hung in the air like static.

You finally peeled off your gloves after your last appointment and scrubbed your hands clean, your mind replaying the events of the day. You were tired, drained even, but there was something about that last spat with Jungwon that wouldn’t stop gnawing at you. Maybe it was the way he always had a smug retort ready or how he never backed down from your challenges.

Shaking your head, you let out a sigh. “Annoying paramedic,” you muttered under your breath, grabbing your coat and heading out of the ER.

Your apartment wasn’t far from the hospital, a quiet space tucked away from the noise of the city. By the time you have arrived, your exhaustion had fully settled in, your body craving rest.

You pushed open the door and was greeted by the sound of faint rustling from the kitchen.

“Rough day?” a familiar voice asked, soft and warm.

You smiled, the tension from earlier melting away. There, standing in the kitchen in the same paramedic uniform that had driven you crazy just hours ago, was Jungwon. His hair was a little disheveled now, his expression soft and boyish, the strict leader of the paramedic team completely gone.

“You have no idea,” you murmured, walking over to him, your eyes catching on his broad shoulders, still defined under the crisp lines of his uniform. Jungwon turned around, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart skip a beat when you see his easy smile, so different from the sharp tone he used at work.

Without another word, Jungwon wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. The scent of antiseptic still clung to his uniform, mixed with the faintest hint of his cologne. You closed your eyes and let yourself melt against him, the weight of the day slipping away. You buried your face into his shoulder, feeling the strong muscles beneath the fabric, and sighed softly.

“You’re lucky I put up with you,” he teased, reaching for your hand and pulling your close. “Even after you yelled at me for no reason.”

“I didn’t yell for no reason,” you protested, but your voice had lost all its sharpness, softened by the warmth of being home. You leaned against his chest, letting out a deep breath. “Okay, maybe I did. But only because you deserved it.”

Jungwon chuckled, his arms wrapping around you more tightly. ���Sure, I deserved it. You really hate me that much, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat behind it as you melted into his embrace. “The worst,” you muttered, though your fingers played with the collar of his uniform.

Jungwon smirked, resting his chin on top of your head. “Good thing we’ve got the whole night to make up for it, then.”

“You’re still in your uniform,” you mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant. But inside, your mind was in chaos. His broad shoulders. The way he held you. The authority he exuded at work seemed to linger here, too, but only just enough to make your heart race.

Jungwon chuckled, his hand moving up to cup the back of your head. “I thought you liked me in uniform.”

You groaned, your cheeks flushing. “Stop it. I’m tired.”

“Liar,” he teased, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His own softened as he took in your face, the familiar tenderness filling his gaze. “You love it.”

And he wasn’t wrong. As strict and commanding as you could be at work, here with him, you couldn’t help but feel weak in his arms. You were whipped for him in every sense of the word, even if you would never admit it out loud.

Jungwon kissed the top of your head, his earlier bravado fading into a gentle affection. “Come on. Let’s get you out of these scrubs and cuddle.”

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that only he ever got to hear. “You’re the one who’s going to change first. That uniform’s distracting.”

“I knew it,” he grinned, but without missing a beat, he started peeling off his jacket, revealing the tight black undershirt beneath that highlighted his lean muscles. You had to look away before you lost yourself completely.

As you settled onto the couch, your limbs tangled together in the quiet of their apartment, the world outside felt a million miles away. In here, there were no patients to save, no colleagues to impress, no reputations to uphold. It was just the both of you.

Jungwon nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his earlier strictness replaced by a cuteness that only you got to see. “You’re such a pain at work, you know that?”

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re not so easy yourself.”

And just like that, the bickering, the tension, all of it faded away. Because here, in your shared apartment, away from the chaos of the ER and the expectations of their coworkers, you were just you and Jungwon—no titles, no arguments. Just two people who loved each other, even if you never let anyone else know.

[part two] [part three]

[ichatake]

Uchihas reacting to “I hate you”s

Request are open! Request rules here!

Characters: Sasuke Uchiha, Obito Uchiha, Madara Uchiha, Itachi Uchiha, Shisui Uchiha

Warning: slight angst, nothing else.

Obito Uchiha (Villain)

��� “I hate you,” he stood there, his expression unwavering as your voice seethed with anger. Your voice could cut through thick glass as you shouted at him, but he felt nothing whatsoever. Even as your eyes bore into him, filled with a hatred so intense it could burn a hole through his soul, it wasn’t directed towards him. No, not ever. Yet despite the venom in your words, he didn’t flinch. Instead he listened intently, his expression indifferent. “That’s okay,” he responded, his voice devoid of any apparent emotion. In any other scenario, he would’ve crumpled under the weight of your vitriol, weeping and pleading for an explanation as to why you might hate him. But not now, because he already knew why.

✧ He knew how you mourned him for years, believing him dead and gone, only to find out the hard way the reality. He knew you visited his grave, and wished that you were in his position. He knew that your trust—your perspective of reality had been shattered the very moment his mask fell from his face. With a heavy heart, he continued “I would too,” his gaze never left yours, watching as tears streamed down your reddened cheeks. It had been years since he’d seen you this close, yet you looked young and pretty. The prettiest he’s ever seen you, even with tears glistening on your pretty face.

✧ “I hate you so much,” your voice cracked with pain and resentment as you spoke to him. Your Obito. The revelation that he was still alive, but causing so much pain and suffering shattered your world, leaving you emotionally fractured. “Why? Why do all of this? Why hurt so many?” You ask, searching his face for remorse but finding none, “Because this world is broken,” he answers steadily, his voice awfully gentle to you. “You have nothing in this reality,” his arms open, showing you the distress and chaos that is currently occurring around you. He wanted you to see how your comrades laid lifeless—to make you understand that you lost your friends, your family, your ‘happy ending’. “ Let this happen, and you will be forever happy,” he pauses briefly, searching for the right words to say. He chose his words carefully, locking eyes with you, “With me. With a better version of me. One that will keep you happy for the rest of your life,” Despite your heart-wrenching cries, he did nothing to stop this war. As you wept before him, he knew your pain would be temporary. He knew that once his plan took action—the infinite Tsukuyomi—you would find happiness. Even if you hate him now, he reassured himself, you wouldn’t think the same after his plan was completed.

Obito Uchiha (Shinobi)

✧ Obito, a strong and beloved jonin from the Leaf village, stood there, his chest tightening at the words that just came out of your mouth. His expression shifted as his mind struggled to comprehend what you had said. Suddenly, without a second thought, his words slipped through his lips as he tried to make sense of what you told him, “What… did you say?” he asked carefully, his eyes frantically darting over your face as if searching for an answer. You met his gaze, repeating your words with unwavering conviction, “I said, I hate you,”

✧ As you repeat yourself, Obito’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach, his throat constricting as it became harder to breathe. He could handle any other response, any other thing you could have said, but hearing your harsh words was almost too much for him. “Why? What did I do? I don’t understand,” he manages to ask in desperation, trying his best to move closer to you. His heart clenched and turned inside his chest, and he boiled with fear. He loves you! He loves you to the moon and back! Why would you say that you hate him when he eats, sleeps, and breathes for you? You were his everything, so how could you hate him when he loved you so dearly?

✧ “Because you never notice how much I try for you. You’re always looking for Rin’s approval, and what about me? I’m left in the dark with nothing. I’m done with you. I’m done with trying to make you realize I’ve been in love with you for years,” you pour your heart out to him, desperate and hurt, and that’s when he realizes what this was about. Though his heart slightly fluttered at your revelation, he still felt awful for the way you were feeling all this time. The tingling sensation in the back of his mind kept bothering him as he examined every inch of your expression. “That’s… why?” He asks with a drop of his shoulder, sighing in pure relief at your confession, which only fueled the burning anger inside you. “I thought it was for something else I might’ve done… (Y/N), I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but I’m in love with you,” his confession caught you in surprise, his voice revealing his true feelings with no hesitation. What once was nervousness and anxiety had now been replaced with determination as he yearned to seek for a solution. It was true, he was deeply in love with you, but people still thought he had something for Rin when he didn’t. However, he did hide the fact that he liked you out of fear of another rejection. With Rin, he handled it well, but with you? He wouldn’t be able to take it. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel horrible. I’m sorry I never noticed, and I’m sorry I hid it from you for so long. I love you, over anything there is in this world. The only thing I want is you, always and forever you,”

Madara Uchiha

✧ “I hate you,” your words felt like a slap to the face, making Madara turn around to face you swiftly. Although his face was deemed expressionless, his body tensed and tightened the more he processed your words. He had obviously been taken aback by your audacity to say such things, but he tried his best to hide his discomfort. With arms crossed over his chest, he scoffed and parted his lips, ready to give you a piece of his mind. “Get over it, woman,” he snarls at you with authority, and slight annoyance. You, his wife, should never say that to him. He’s given you everything; a home, a family, and more importantly, love. “You are acting like a child over something that should have never pestered you in the first place,” although your words had not hit him hard when you first spat them, they started to annoy him the more they set in, “If you hate me, why even decide to say yes when I proposed? If you are going to bother me with such nonsense, I will not bother with you,”

✧ His words were meant to hurt you as much as you hurt him, and when he notices the pain in your eyes, he’s satisfied… until he’s not. Until that annoying tingling feeling lingers under his skin as he watches your eyes brim with tears. The tingling feeling that pulled on the tendons of his heart any time you cried was crawling under every inch of his body. “Oh please, do not start with the tears,” he groaned in annoyance, but the salty tears were already streaming down your puffy cheeks. Despite this, he didn’t move an inch to comfort you, but watched you as you cried for a couple of minutes until he released an exasperated sigh. “Why? Why do you care so much for those people when all they have done is hurt you?” He asks with irritation, referring to your clan members who’ve hurt you in the past. He has said something out of line, and you argued with him about it, which ended you two up here.

✧ “Because we should be better people than them. Violence should never be the answer,” you sniffle with clenched fist, “But that is something you seem to never stop thinking about,” you admit, trying to hold in your tears. You didn’t want to keep crying like this in front of him. You wanted to be strong, “And if you think I am such a burden, then why keep this ring on my finger—,” you were surprised when his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from taking off the ring he had gifted you the night he proposed, “Because I know who I married. The same nagging woman I am with now, is the same nagging woman I fell in love with. If I had any regrets of marrying you, you would be back in your clan,” he scoffs and pulls your head to his chest with an annoyed expression “I love you, you stupid woman,” to any other person, your relationship might’ve seemed strange, but to you, this moment showed you just how much he truly loved you. Even if he has weird ways of showing it.

Shisui Uchiha

✧ Wait, he didn’t quite hear you well. Wait, what did you say? He turned towards you with a raised brow, his mouth slightly parted as he tried to figure out if you had said what he thought you said. Noticing his lost expression, you had no choice but to repeat yourself, much to your annoyance “I hate you,” this time, he did hear you. Loud and clear. To him, it felt like he took hours to respond to you, but in reality, his answer left his mouth almost immediately, “No you don’t,” It wasn’t meant to be cocky, it just sounded like it was. At least, to you it sounded cocky, and it made you even angrier with him. It annoyed you that he never took you seriously, “Oh, so now you think you know how I feel, do you?” you spat at him, hands clenching into tight fists as your eyes locked intensely, “You never care about anything! You come home and sleep and don’t even have time for me. I know you have a hard job, and I don’t expect you to be there at my beck and call, but at least asking me how I am would be enough,” you stressed, waving your arms frantically around you in desperation. You had been like this all week, stressed and unable to talk to anyone, because the only person you could ever rant and banter about things that bothered you in life was barely there for you, and when he was, it was like he wasn’t! He would barely listen to you anymore, and would expect you to listen to him. And you did, you always did. But you wanted something in return, and that was a sliver of his attention.

✧ “You're telling me you hate me over something so little?” he asks with furrowed brows, making you even more annoyed, “Over something so little?” You repeated through gritted teeth. His face, for once, contorted into one of annoyance, something you had never seen on him before, “Yes! Little! Because you know how my line of work is! You know that I barely have time to sleep, let alone waste my time with useless banter!” You were left speechless, standing in front of him with hurt eyes. “Yeah, useless. You’re right. Because my feelings don’t matter,” you scoff, “That’s not what I—” you interrupt him by turning away, tears forming in the corner of your eyes as realization finally hits him. You weren’t trying to waste his time, you just wanted to spend time with him. He had been so lost in his work, so busy caring for himself that he completely neglected you.

✧ “Oh darling,” he takes your hand again, a frown painting his face, “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean any of the things I said. I’m just stressed out. Everything's happening so fast, and the clan isn’t helping at all.” he sighs and pulls you in towards him, engulfing you in his tight embrace, yet you didn’t say anything, “I know I’ve been neglecting you, and you deserve better. Please, let me make it up to you,” he whispers into you hair as he lowers down to kiss your head, “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t have you by my side,”

Itachi Uchiha

✧ “I hate you,” you mumble under your breath as you look at your lover. No, he wasn’t your lover anymore. He had left the village years ago, leaving you behind with a broken heart and a broken image of him. He was a monster who murdered his entire clan, and even though he had left years ago, he still looked the same as when he was still in the village, with only one difference. Those eyes. Those red eyes that stared deep into your soul. They terrified you. The eyes that you once loved and cared about so much looked down at you with no emotion. They were empty. They were dark. They were hurt. “I hate you, for everything that you did,” you pushed him, backing away from him with angry eyes. His cloak told you everything you needed to know. He was part of the Akatsuki, he was the enemy now. He was a traitor, and although your words were meant to hurt him, he closed his eyes and nodded, understanding your hatred towards him. “I understand,” he says in such a soft voice. His voice that you missed so much.

✧ You didn’t understand why he came to visit you. Why come in the middle of the night to see you? Why? Why waste his breath coming back to see you when he knew you wanted nothing to do with him? Because this would be his final goodbye. There were only a handful of people Itachi cared for—Two, to be exact. His brother, and the love of his life. He knew that soon he’d perish, and this was the final time he would ever see you again. Not that it mattered. He tried not to think about it, thinking it would make things worse. It would be better if he never came to see you, but his heart got the best of him, and so he sat there at your window, looking at you for one final time.

✧ “You don’t,” you clench your fist, hurt by his mere presence, “I don’t want anything to do with you, and I will report you to the higher ups. Unless you came here to kill me, which I don’t doubt,” you were defenseless, but you wouldn’t go out without a fight. Never. You would fight until the very end, but soon you realized he wasn’t there to kill you. “I have no need for that,” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “I came by my own selfishness. I don’t expect you to understand, and I accept your hatred, which I deserve,” he looks at you, red eyes burning into yours, “I simply wanted to see you for a final time,” he smiles and reaches out for you, pushing your hair out of your face, “My love,” and with that, your vision goes black as your consciousness slips away from you. You would wake up the next day tucked into your bed with a necklace tucked tightly in your hand.

Sasuke Uchiha

✧ Words never hurt this Uchiha, he was used to every awful thing anyone could throw at him. He cared too little about anything and everything, and that's what you hated the most about him. He barely cared about anything you did or said, at all times. He didn’t care how you looked because he never complimented you, he didn’t care how you acted because he barely spoke to you. You felt like you were in a relationship with a ghost, in fact, the comparison was not even close, because dating a ghost would be ten times better than this. And with every passing day of being emotionally neglected by your partner, today was no different. He was back in the village, and instead of coming to you first—to his home—he decided it was better to meet with Naruto and Sakura over seeing his wife who waited patiently everyday for him. You questioned if the ring on your finger meant anything to him at all at that moment. Despite this,

✧ When he got home, you were so happy, yet he showed no sign of interest in anything you did for him. You cooked and he ate, saying nothing about the taste of your new recipe. In fact, he seemed like he didn’t notice that you had learnt to cook a new dish just for him. Even so, you shrugged his annoying attitude off and asked about his day instead. Your question seemed to annoy the tired man as he became uninterested in mid conversation. When you asked him what was wrong, he shrugged you off. You kept questioning him until he snapped at you, telling you how you were annoying him with all your worries. This had been the final straw. You always gave everything in the relationship. You understood he wasn’t the best at showing his emotions, but it didn’t mean he could act like he didn’t care about you. Like you were nothing. The argument got heated and it ended up with you opening your mouth without thinking. “I hate you!” After your words fell out of your mouth, the room fell silent. He who had been looking away from you, had now turned his full attention towards you, “You don’t mean that, stop being dramatic,” the sight of him rolling his eyes hurt you more than it ever did. “You don’t care about anything, Sasuke. I do everything to try and please you. I could even say I live for you, but it’s never enough! You don’t take a sliver of your time to appreciate me. You think I have to be there for you whenever you need me, but can just leave whenever you want!” you yell, hitting the wall in frustration.

✧ “You don’t care about me! You don't love me anymore!” you were in a current state of pure anger, letting out everything you ever wanted to say to him. This makes him stand up and walk towards you, taking your wrist in his hand. You look up at him, tears of frustration prickling in the corner of your eyes. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t have married you. You mean a lot more to me than you think. I… I’m sorry if I don’t show it,” he sighs, “I love your cooking, I love your stories—I love hearing about everything that happened throughout your day. You’re the only thing I can think about when I’m away,” he lets go of your wrist and places a hand on your cheek, “Don’t hate me, because you’re the only important thing in my life. You’re my wife, and I…” he stops himself, trying to build the courage to complete his sentence. A small blush decorates his cheeks before he sighs, “I care for you a lot,” your husband wasn’t perfect, but you still loved him a lot, and you knew he loved you too.

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 1)

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: Sexual Assault Wounds(Bucky) tried to make it as vague as possible but, there are mentioned. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence.

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: 5.6.k.

notes: Even though this fic includes fluff, smut, and the tone I usually maintain in my stories, there will be flashbacks to unpleasant events that might be triggering. Please read the warnings carefully, and if I’ve missed any, feel free to let me know. More tags will be added in the future.

The cell reeked of bleach and iron, a suffocating blend of sterility and blood. She sat huddled in a corner with her knees drawn to her chest, shaking from the lingering aftershocks of what they had made her do mere hours ago. A steel table in the center of the room bore the evidence: blood-soaked rags, reinforced restraints, and instruments that glinted menacingly under the harsh light.

The door creaked open, and she flinched instinctively. Her pulse quickened as they rolled him in on a gurney, his body was impossibly broken again, but somehow, still alive. The Winter Soldier. His mask was cracked, exposing a bruised cheekbone, his metallic arm hung at an unnatural angle, wires sparking like dying fireflies. His tactic suit was shredded, revealing deep gashes that glistened with dark blood.

"Fix him," the handler barked, void of empathy. He tossed a clipboard onto the table, detailing every injury, every broken bone, every expectation to her work. "We need him ready by morning."

She didn’t move at first. She never did. But the familiar press of a gun muzzle against her temple jolted her into action. They didn’t tolerate hesitation.

Her bare feet slapped against the cold tiles as she approached the table. Soldat’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his blue eyes were half-lidded and glassy, staring past her into the abyss. She wondered, briefly, if he even felt the pain anymore, or if the agony had simply become a part of him, stitched into his body like the scars of the wounds she was forced to erase.

She laid her trembling hands over his chest, cutting the remnants of the suit and rushing her power forward like a tide, knitting sinew, mending fractures, restoring what should have been allowed to rest. His body convulsed as the healing process awakened raw nerve endings. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of both relief and torment and her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"Good pet," the handler sneered, patting her head, "Keep going."

As the minutes dragged into hours, her hands moved mechanically, weaving muscle and bone back into place. Every touch drew more from her, siphoning her strength to pour life into a body that shouldn’t be able to withstand such brutality. The process left her light-headed, and her vision started blurring at the edges, but she didn’t dare falter. They would notice. They always noticed.

As her hands pressed over a jagged wound on his side, a faint tremor ran through his body. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and his eyes fluttered open. Glassy and unfocused at first, they slowly, impossibly, found her. A vacant gaze, yet somehow piercing, locked onto her face as if trying to understand who she was and what she was doing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. She kept her voice low, trembling, her fingers brushing the edge of the wound as she worked. “I don’t want to do this. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t falter, even as she murmured the apology again, with a cracking voice. He didn’t speak -he probably couldn’t- but the weight of his stare felt like an answer. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

More time passed, and the room emptied. The guards left her alone with him, trusting her to finish her work under the ever-present cameras. The sterile silence closed in around them. She wiped the sweat from her brow and whispered again, “I’m sorry,” her voice breaking completely now. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Soldat blinked slowly, almost as if acknowledging her words, but his body remained still. Her fingers lingered over his shoulder where fresh skin covered what had been a deep gash, and couldn’t stop herself from caressing his bloodied temple before going back to mend him.

By the time she finished, her legs felt like water, barely holding her upright. The Soldat’s breathing had evened, the jagged cuts on his skin replaced by fresh, pale scars. His metal arm still hung limp, but it wasn’t her area of expertise. He looked human again, or as close to human as Hydra would ever allow him to be. She allowed herself to caress him again as if that gentle touch could make up for what her actions on his body entailed, his endless torment.

When the door creaked open, the spell was broken. The handler barked a question she didn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. Then he stepped forward, inspecting her work with a critical eye. He tugged at Soldat’s extremities and poked his body, then he turned to her with a smile that chilled her blood.

“Well done,” he said, sickeningly sweet. “See? You’re still useful. You’ve earned yourself another day.”

The words felt like a slap, a grim reminder of her reality. She wasn’t a person to them. She was a tool, an extension of their will, just as much a prisoner as the man she had just saved. Her power was her curse, chaining her to a life of servitude. And for what? To keep the Winter Soldier standing. To ensure he could carry out their dirty work, kill their enemies, and endure whatever horrors they deemed necessary for him to endure.

The handler gestured to the guards. “Take her back. She’ll need her strength for tomorrow.”

They grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the door. Soldat's eyes shifted for a moment, trailing her as they walked her out, his gaze still glazing but faintly flickering with awareness. Then the door slammed behind her, sealing them both back into their respective hells.

----

The cryopreservation always left her disoriented, the passage of time reduced to a murky void of nothingness. Days, months, years, they blurred together into a haze she couldn’t untangle. Based on the count of the meager breakfasts slid through the cell door, it had been two days since they’d pulled her from the tube. Her body still ached from the cold, and the numbness clung stubbornly to her limbs.

When the metallic clank of the cell door jolted her from her thoughts, she instinctively tensed. Two guards stood there, gesturing sharply for her to follow. 

The halls they guided her through were unfamiliar. These weren’t the sterile corridors leading to the medical bay. These walls were darker and the air was heavier, and the faint hum of machinery was replaced by an unsettling silence. Confused, she knit her brows but swallowed the urge to ask.

When they descended a narrow staircase, her stomach sank. The flickering lights cast long shadows against concrete walls. They passed rows of heavy metal doors, each marked with faint rust and grime. No cells with bars, no windows, just solid slabs of steel.

Her breath hitched when they stopped in front of a door near the end of the corridor. One guard yanked it open with a screech that set her teeth on edge. The other shoved her forward, barking a single command: “Fix it.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and the sound echoed in the cramped room. She stood frozen, since the stench hit her like a physical blow: blood, sweat, semen, and something else she couldn’t place.

Her gaze darted around the sparse room. A cot pushed against one wall. A table cluttered with ominous instruments. And in the corner, barely illuminated by the flickering overhead bulb, the Soldat.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale as she took him in. He was curled into himself, naked, trembling despite the heat radiating from his abused flesh. Blood and cum stained his thighs, while bruises painted his skin in grotesque patterns. His wrists and ankles bore the raw marks of restraints, and burns and welts layered over old scars, turning his body into a tapestry of pain.

But it was his face that shattered her. A blank mask with hollow and distant wet eyes, haunted by whatever horrors had left him in this state.

She forced herself to move. When her shadow fell over him, his head snapped up and his vacant blue eyes locked onto hers. The movement was sharp and instinctive, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t flinch. He simply stared, as though he were looking through her rather than at her.

She paused for a moment, crouching to his level, resting her hands lightly on her knees. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice steady. “I’m here to help you.”

He didn’t respond. The haunted emptiness in his expression pierced her chest. He didn’t deserve this. “I know,” she said softly, inching closer. “I know it hurts. I’ll do what I can.”

She reached for him carefully, brushing his arm. His muscles tensed under her touch, but he didn’t pull away. Gently, she guided his arm away from where he’d been clutching his side, revealing the bruises and burns scattered across his flesh. Her stomach churned, but her hands remained steady. She had no room for hesitation, no time to falter.

As she worked, she whispered to him, not apologies this time, but reassurances. “I’m with you now, I’ll make this right, even if it’s only for now.”

As expected, he didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the involuntary twitches of his battered body. But his eyes stayed on her, betraying a silent acknowledgment, a fragile thread of trust.

She tried to focus on the burns on his chest, the raw welts along his ribs, anything but the bruises and blood marking his inner thighs. But eventually, she had no choice. The damage there couldn’t be ignored. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she shifted closer, and her hands trembled for the first time that day.

She couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t understand how anyone could twist a man into this, into something pliable, stripped of will, used like a puppet for their every vile whim. The red book and the chair had shattered his mind, and then they’d wielded that power not only to carry out their heinous crimes but also to satiate their carnal perversions. 

“Soldat,” she said softly as she crouched closer. “I need to see the rest.”

His chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths. His lip was caught between his teeth, bitten hard enough to draw blood. The distant, vacant expression he’d worn before had given way to something else now, resignation, or shame.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I know it's private -should it be-, and it hurts a lot… but I promise I’ll make it better, yes?”

Her tone was as soft as she could make it, the kind someone might use with a frightened child. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he exhaled and shifted ever so slightly, granting her access. The movement wasn’t much, but it spoke volumes. He didn’t fight her. He didn’t resist. Even now, after everything, he complied.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hands moved carefully, brushing his battered flesh with as much gentleness as she could muster. She swallowed hard, trying to keep her focus on the healing, not on the tears threatening to spill over. Every touch she had to make felt like another betrayal of his dignity, but she couldn’t leave him like this, they wouldn’t leave him like this.

“It’s not fair,” she said under her breath “Fuck, it’s not fair.”

Every so often, her gaze flicked to his face, but he didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were closed, and his body was eerily still except for the faint shudder of his breathing.

—-

Some days, she wondered if he resented her. If he was even capable of that. She wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, wasn’t the one abusing him, but she was the one who ensured he survived it. She pieced him together, over and over, a cruel kind of mercy that prolonged his torment. Without her, they wouldn’t have been able to keep breaking him the way they did.

It haunted her.

Sometimes, it seemed like he remembered her. On the rare occasions when his body was whole and he wasn’t immediately dragged back out for another mission or another “session,” his vacant gaze would linger on her. Just a flicker of recognition in those haunted blue eyes, something that made her wonder if, somewhere beneath the chaos they’d inflicted on his mind, a part of him knew who she was.

Other times, he didn’t seem to know her at all. He would stare past her like she wasn’t even there. She didn’t know which was worse: the possibility that he hated her or the possibility that he didn’t think of her at all.

-----

Nine years had passed since her escape from their clutches. Nine years since Captain America and his team put down Pierce and dismantled Hydra’s plans,  the Soldat went missing and she got away in the chaos of the fight.

In the early days, survival had been a constant struggle. She’d wandered aimlessly at first, her coarse, prison-like clothes drawing stares from strangers who gave her a wide berth. The world was unrecognizable: a kaleidoscope of flashing screens, roaring cars, and people glued to strange, glowing devices. Everything felt faster, louder, and infinitely more confusing than the world she remembered.

For a couple of days, she kept to the shadows, but the hunger and desperation eventually pushed her to the edge. One night, trembling and exhausted, she walked into a police station. The officer at the front desk glanced at her with a mixture of suspicion and concern, likely wondering if she had escaped from a mental institution. And maybe, in a way, she had. She tried to explain, spilling out her words in a garbled mess of decades-old trauma. She told them about being taken, about Hydra, about the years spent in cryo. The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked her to sit while he "sorted things out."

She knew they didn’t believe her. Not until one of the younger officers, fresh off patrol, walked in with a nasty road burn on his arm. She didn’t think, just acted. In seconds, the wound knitted itself back together under her glowing hands. The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on her in a mix of fear and awe.

From there, things moved quickly. The police dug into her story, and to everyone’s shock, her name and photo flagged a cold case from October 1962, a missing person report filed by her family. A woman who had disappeared without a trace, and presumed dead after two years of fruitless searching.

But what the police uncovered was too big for them to handle alone. They passed her case to federal authorities, and soon, she found herself in the hands of people who promised her a fresh start, though she quickly learned that nothing came without strings attached.

The feds helped her establish a new identity, gave her a place to live, and taught her how to navigate the modern world. In exchange, she worked for them using her mutant powers to heal injuries, aid covert operations, and clean up the messes no one else could. 

Still, the past lingered in her mind, haunting her in the quiet moments. She often wondered what had become of the Winter Soldier, since freedom, she realized, was not the same as peace.

In the years that followed, she began piecing the fragments of her past into the puzzle of the present. The world had changed in ways she struggled to comprehend, yet she adapted, carving out a relatively ‘normal’ existence.

Then, one day, she heard his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

She learned about him in bits and pieces from news reports and whispered conversations among the people she worked with. Steve Rogers' best friend. The Winter Soldier.

The details unfolded like a tragic epic: framed in a terrorist attack, slipping under the radar, fighting in Wakanda, only to vanish in the Blip. And then, five years later, he returned. His face, no longer the blank mask of the Soldat, appeared on screens everywhere as the government pardoned him under strict conditions: mandatory therapy and restricted accommodations, a leash that kept him just shy of true freedom.

She watched every news segment, every interview. He wasn’t the weapon she remembered. There was something different in his eyes. Half-masked pain, certainly, but also humanity. He was trying, struggling to reclaim himself, to exist in a world that only knew him as a ghost or a monster.

It wasn’t an obsession. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was curiosity, concern, a connection she couldn’t sever no matter how hard she tried. Because no one else could understand what they’d been through. No one else had seen the depths of his torment, or felt the same chains biting into their skin.

She hadn’t planned to ever contact him. The idea terrified her. For all she knew, his fractured mind might not even remember her. Worse, maybe he did and resented her for the role she’d played, for the way she’d prolonged his torment under Hydra’s commands. Those thoughts were enough to keep her at a distance, safely watching from the shadows of her new life.

But life and destiny had their ways of unraveling carefully laid plans.

-----

Her work with Sam Wilson had started as another government assignment, one of many designed to keep her powers useful and her secrets buried. Yet, somewhere along the way, it had turned into something more. A friendship. He didn’t know about her past -no one did, actually-. He only knew the version of her life the government had scripted, a fabricated identity polished to perfection.

Leaving that aside, she liked him. He had a way of making her feel less like a displaced ghost and more like a person. Sometimes, they hung out after missions, sharing laughs over beers or stories about the ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when he came back from a mission bruised or limping, she always tried to help.

That friendship had led her here, to a bustling backyard party, with warm laughter and music filling the air. Sam’s birthday celebration. She had accepted his invitation without thinking much of it, expecting a relaxed evening with a few familiar faces. What she hadn’t expected was to see him.

Standing at the drinks table, not the Winter Soldier, not the cold, empty Soldat she remembered, but James. His shoulders were relaxed, his hair shorter, and his blue eyes clearer than she’d ever seen them. He looked... alive in a way that left her breathless. For a moment, she froze, and her stomach twisted into knots. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he lifted his face after grabbing a glass of soda, only to find her mere inches away, rooted in place and staring at him like a rabbit in the middle of the road.

Her breath caught, and the world around them seemed to fade into a blur of laughter and music as his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. 

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The faintest flicker of something -recognition? confusion?- crossed his face. The glass in her hand suddenly felt heavy, and she tightened her grip around it as her heart raced.

“H-hi,” she managed to mutter, almost lost beneath the hum of the party.

He tilted his head slightly, deliberately, as if weighing her. For a long, agonizing moment, he simply looked at her with an unreadable expression. Then his lips parted, and a single word escaped from them, low and hoarse.

“You.”

Her stomach dropped while her mind scrambled for a response. Did he remember her? Or was it just the way her face stirred a distant and fractured memory?

“I-” she started, but the words tangled in her throat.

His gaze darted over her, taking her in: the way she clutched the glass like a lifeline, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she made one step back as though retreating was an option.

Sam’s voice cut through the moment, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey, Buck! Flirting already with one of my girls?”

Bucky flinched, the spell breaking as he snapped his gaze toward Sam, stiffening his posture. “I’m not f-”

“Don’t be a dick with her,” Sam interrupted, grinning as if he were the greatest matchmaker alive. “She’s good people. Y/n, this is Bucky, a pain in the ass but a good friend. Bucky, this is Y/n.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression still unreadable as his eyes flicked back to her. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer a hand or a smile, just narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her instincts screamed at her to move, to flee, to escape his scrutiny before his fractured memories pieced her together.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders and forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite and not-too-awkward smile. “Nice to meet you,” she said, her voice much steadier than she felt.

Bucky studied her for a moment longer. Finally, he gave a slight nod, stepping back as though he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort of figuring out. “Yeah. Same,” he muttered before turning to leave.

As he moved away, she exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her grip on the glass trembled, the adrenaline coursing through her leaving her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sam intervened, leaning in with a knowing smirk. “He specializes in a heterogeneous game of staring, brooding, and groaning. Dry comments here and there, too.”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, grateful for the break in tension. “Good to know,” she murmured, still gripping the glass tightly.

Sam patted her shoulder with the easy camaraderie of someone who had no idea the weight of the moment that had just passed. “He’s not so bad once you get past all the walls. Might take a while to crack that nut, but hey, who knows?”

-----

Two months later, Sam called her for a job.

“It’s a simple mission,” he’d explained. “Poland. The higher-ups want you to stay at the safehouse most of the time in case something goes wrong, but if we need someone to move unnoticed -play tourist, fetch intel- they figured you’re our best bet.”

She hesitated for a beat, her instincts screaming at her to say no this time. But she had never ditched a mission before and Sam will be there, so she agreed.

When she climbed aboard the military plane early the next morning, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she almost turned around and fled.

Bucky was already sitting there, strapped into his seat, with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was as closed off as ever, and his gaze was fixed somewhere on the cabin wall. Her stomach dropped, and before her brain could process what she was doing, she turned sharply on her heel and headed straight for the cockpit.

The pilots greeted her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her there before takeoff. She forced a nervous smile, chatting with them about flight logistics, weather conditions, anything to stretch the time and delay the inevitable.

“Shouldn’t you be back in the cabin?” one of them asked eventually, glancing at her curiously.

“Just thought I’d keep you company,” she replied, slightly strained.

The hum of the plane’s engines growing louder reminded her she couldn’t hide forever. She exhaled deeply, gripping the doorframe. Maybe, she could slip into some corner, unnoticed once the plane was in the air.

But life wasn’t so kind.

“Sam’s voice came loud and clear, calling her. “C’mon, you’re holding us up!”

Bucky’s head turned, locking his sharp gaze onto her the moment she entered. His expression didn’t shift -no frown, no surprise- but what she saw in those blue eyes made her knees threaten to buckle.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Hi,” she greeted the two men quickly, her voice barely above a murmur, before moving to the furthest seat she could find.

Her hands fumbled as she pulled a book from her bag, flipping it open without even checking the page. She pretended to read, scanning the same line over and over as if the words might somehow shield her from the weight of Bucky’s stare.

Sam furrowed his brows, glancing between them with a mix of confusion and curiosity. He’d been prepared for the usual brooding and disagreements from Bucky -his default settings on most missions- but he’d expected her to be more engaged. She’d always been sharp and chatty, quick to offer solutions or crack a joke, but now she seemed... distant.

He leaned toward Bucky, “Did you scare her off already before I got here?”

Bucky shot him an unimpressed sidelong glance. “I didn’t say a word.”

Sam, determined to break the awkward silence, leaned back in his seat and raised his voice. “Alright, we’re stuck in this tin can for the next few hours. Someone better start talking, or I’m gonna make us all play twenty questions.”

She forced a small smile, though her eyes remained glued to the book. “You win. I’m reading.”

He huffed dramatically, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he turned back to Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze flicking toward her briefly before settling on the wall ahead. His expression remained impassive, but his metal fingers tapped against his thigh, the only sign of some internal debate.

-----

After a while, Sam, ever persistent, leaned forward, and turned to her “So,” he started, casually but probing, “you ever been to Poland in other mission before? Got any recommendations for pierogi spots or are we flying blind here?”

She hesitated, tightening slightly her fingers on the edge of her book. Avoiding interaction had been her plan, but the pointed look Sam sent her way made it clear he wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

Finally, she closed the book with a soft sigh, forcing herself to meet his expectant gaze. “No, never been,” she replied, cautious. “Though I think I read somewhere Kraków’s old town is nice.”

Sam grinned, seizing the opportunity. “Kraków, huh? I’ll take that as a vote to play tourist if we get the chance. “Maybe you can even guide us, seeing as you’re good at blending in.”

“I doubt we’ll have time, Sammy,” she said quickly, trying to deflect.

“Oh, come on,” Sam teased, leaning back in his seat with an exaggerated grin. “You’re one of the friendliest people I know. You’ll probably charm us into some exclusive spots. Earn your keep!”

She let out a soft, nervous laugh, shaking her head. “I think you’ve mistaken ‘friendly’ for ‘quiet enough not to get in trouble.’”

Sam smirked, undeterred. “Nah, you’ve got that vibe. People trust you, and open up to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you walk away with more intel than anyone else.”

Her fingers tensed slightly on the edge of her book, but she forced herself to smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment... I think.”

“It is,” Sam replied, his tone warm and easy. “And I’m just saying, if we do get downtime, we’re counting on you to find the good spots.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she managed to say, though her stomach churned under Bucky’s relentless stare.

He hadn’t said a word, but the weight of his gaze made every exchange feel heavier like he was dissecting her responses, searching for cracks in her calm facade. She refused to look at him, focusing instead on Sam’s cheerful grin.

Sam clapped his hands together. “That’s the spirit. See, Buck? She’s already proving more useful than you.”

Bucky huffed, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “Yeah, well, let’s see if she’s still useful when things go south.”

Her stomach tightened at his words, though she kept her face carefully neutral. It wasn’t outright hostility, but the skepticism in his tone felt like a challenge, a warning wrapped in a dry comment.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve gotta work on your people skills. Not everyone you meet is gonna double-cross you, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond and bit his lower lip as he looked away, clearly done with the conversation.

She forced a small smile, trying to defuse the tension. “I think he’s just saying I should prove myself first.”

Sam shot her an encouraging look. “You don’t need to prove anything to him. Trust me, you’re good-”

“Sam,” Bucky intervened almost dryly. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. This isn’t sightseeing. It’s a mission. If she’s not-”

“I can handle myself,” she interrupted, managing to keep her voice steady despite the sudden rush of heat to her face.

The fact that she addressed directly to him got Bucky’s attention. He turned, locking his gaze onto hers, and for a moment, the silence between them felt heavier than the thrum of the plane’s engines.

“Guess we’ll find out,” he murmured, leaning back slightly in his seat. He kept staring at her sharply and unyielding. After a beat of silence, he added, “And, actually, what exactly do you do?”

Fuck.

The question wasn’t casual, she could see it in the way his eyes stayed fixed on her, a glint of something just beneath the surface. He knew. He was waiting for her to say it, to confirm what he already remembered but was pretending not to.

Sam raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Bucky, come on. She’s solid, alright? I wouldn’t bring her along if she wasn’t.”

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. His attention stayed locked on her. “I didn’t say she wasn’t solid. Just curious what her... specialty is.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. If he wanted to play coy, fine. Two could play that game.

“I’m good at staying unnoticed,” she said, feigning a casual tone “Recon, blending in, getting intel…” She shrugged lightly, as though explaining her skill set was just a routine part of the job.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in faint amusement. “That it?”

She gave him a polite smile, curling her fingers around the edge of the book on her lap. “Well, I’ve been told I’m handy in a pinch. Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for fixing things.”

His lips quirked, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fixing things, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her heart raced under his scrutiny. “Little cuts, scrapes, that kind of thing. Nothing too fancy.”

Sam, oblivious to the subtle tension between them, chuckled. “Don’t let her undersell it. She devours. Saved my ass more than once, you wouldn’t believe the absolute carnage I've seen her mend.”

“Good to know,” Bucky commented, with his gaze still locked on her. There was something in his eyes -something sharp-, almost daring her to break first, but she didn’t flinch.

“Just doing my job.” She added, her eyes still glued to the unreadable baby blues.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to say more but decided against it.

Sam glanced between them. “It's pretty early for a staring contest.”

She didn’t answer; she just smiled at him and returned her focus to the book. He remembered, she was sure of it.

Still, if he wanted her to confirm it outright, he’d have to try harder. For now, she’d play his game, and she was determined to win.

-----

The safehouse was a two-bedroom apartment in an old building that groaned with every step. It was cramped but functional, the kind of place that wouldn’t draw attention. As they settled in, Sam tossed his bag onto one of the worn couches and stretched like a cat.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at her. “Do us all a favor and work your magic in the kitchen. I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, and I can’t survive on takeout and those protein bars Bucky packs.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Cooking would give her something to focus on, and it was the perfect excuse to isolate for a couple of hours.

“Fine, let’s see what I can do,” she muttered, scurrying inside the kitchen.

“You’re the best!” Sam called, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll be back soon, gotta meet a contact nearby. You two... play nice.”

The sound of the door closing made her grimace. She exhaled slowly, tying an old apron on her waist as she dug through the sparse pantry and fridge. Within minutes, she was chopping some potatoes, humming Animals while she was at it, because fuck it all.

She felt the weight of his gaze pressed against her back like a physical thing before she heard him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, quiet and unmoving, a presence impossible to ignore.

Her grip on the knife tightened, but she didn’t turn around. “Need something?”

“No.” The simple word carried so much weight that it made her pause mid-cut.

She exhaled slowly and resumed her task. “Then why are you standing there?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretched until it became almost unbearable.

“You’re good at it.”

Her hand froze. “At what?”

“Pretending.”

She forced herself to keep chopping, while her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” His tone didn’t carry malice, but the words felt heavier than any accusation. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I remember you.”

Her chest tightened, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “You’re mistaken,” she said flatly.

“I’m not.” He took another step forward. His tone was soft, but the words were unrelenting. “You were there. Hydra.”

Next Chapter ->

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Series master list:

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

Chapter one: Ultimatum

Chapter two: Separate Worlds

Chapter three: A Stormy Prison

Chapter four: Beneath the Surface

Chapter five: A Dance of Silence

Chapter six: In the Quiet of the Storm

Chapter seven: Closer Than Before

Chapter eight: Cracks in the Armor

Chapter nine: Under Pressure

Chapter ten: Unmasked Tension

Chapter eleven: The Hunt Begins

Chapter twelve: Under Watchful Eyes

Chapter thirteen: Behind Closed Doors

Chapter fourteen: Eyes on the Game

Chapter fifteen: The Game, the Silence, and the Weight of the World

Chapter sixteen: A Moment of Vulnerability

Chapter seventeen: The Panthers Eyes

Chapter eighteen: The Panthers Threat

Chapter nineteen: A Dangerous Encounter

Chapter twenty: Walls and Tension

Chapter twenty-one: The Distance Between Us

Chapter twenty-two: Power not Pity

Chapter twenty-three: Beneath the Mask

Chapter twenty-four: Fractured Walls

Chapter twenty-five: The Invitation

- More to come! :))

———————

I’m making this a large series!!

Thank you!

[pastryfication]

could you write something about oscar and his broken rib? maybe how you imagine how it happend, him going to the hospital to check it out, y/n taking care of him and being worried, him insisting to race,…

hope that helps with inspiration. you don‘t have to write everything from above just what you like

fortune in misfortune | oscar piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x gf!reader. note: i still can’t believe that he raced (AND WON???) with a broken rib so this was definitely fun to write. thank you for requesting it!! <3

you’re sitting on the couch, legs draped over oscar’s lap, when you notice him wince. it’s subtle, just a tiny flinch, but you catch it. you pull your eyes away from the movie and look at him, raising an eyebrow. "what’s wrong?"

oscar tries to shrug it off, offering a half-hearted smile. “nothing, just a little sore from training.”

you narrow your eyes, not convinced. “you sure? you don’t look fine.”

he chuckles, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “i’m okay, really. maybe i pulled something, but it’s nothing serious.”

you let it go for now, but the nagging feeling in your gut doesn’t disappear. he’s been home for a few days between races, and you’ve noticed he’s been moving a bit more carefully than usual. you figure he’s just being cautious—he’s got a big race in hungary coming up and doesn’t want to risk anything.

a couple of days later, you’re in the kitchen making breakfast when you hear a crash. rushing to the living room, you find oscar on the floor, holding his side and gritting his teeth.

“oscar!” you exclaim, dropping to your knees beside him. “what happened?”

he tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a groan. “tripped over my own feet… and then, well, the coffee table.”

your heart races as you help him up, his face pale with pain. “we’re going to the hospital.”

he starts to protest, but one look at your determined expression and he knows better than to argue. “okay, okay. but it’s probably just a bruise.”

you drive him to the hospital, anxiety bubbling in your chest. oscar tries to lighten the mood, cracking jokes and insisting that he’s fine, but you can see the discomfort etched on his face.

in the examination room, the doctor checks him over, sending him for an x-ray. you sit beside him, holding his hand, trying to mask your worry with a smile.

when the doctor returns, he frowns at the x-ray images. “well, there’s nothing obvious here, but given your symptoms, i’d like to do an ultrasound to be sure.”

oscar nods, though you can see a flicker of concern in his eyes. you squeeze his hand tighter.

a little while later, the ultrasound reveals what the x-ray didn’t—he’s got a small, hairline fracture in one of his ribs. the doctor explains it’s not too serious but could cause pain, especially with the physical demands of racing.

you feel a wave of relief mixed with fresh worry. “so what now? should he be resting? can he still race?” your questions tumble out faster than you can control them.

oscar gives you a reassuring smile, despite the obvious discomfort. “it’s just a small fracture. i’ll take it easy.”

the doctor advises some rest and pain management but doesn’t explicitly forbid racing. oscar seems almost relieved, but you’re still not convinced. “oscar, i don’t know… this sounds serious.”

“hey,” he says softly, turning to face you fully. “i’ll be careful. if it gets worse, i’ll pull out, okay? but right now, i’m feeling alright. it’s just a bit of pain.”

you know how stubborn he can be, and how much racing means to him. you want to make him stay home, keep him safe, but you also know he wouldn’t be happy with that.

over the next few days, you fuss over him—probably more than necessary, but you can’t help it. you make sure he’s comfortable, keep an eye on him whenever he moves, and remind him to take his pain meds. oscar endures it with a smile, teasing you gently about being so worried.

“you’re gonna wrap me in bubble wrap next,” he jokes one morning as you hand him a glass of water with his painkillers.

“don’t tempt me,” you reply, only half-joking. but you know you can’t keep him from going to hungary. it’s what he loves, and you can see the determination in his eyes.

the day before he’s supposed to leave, you sit together in bed, your head resting on his shoulder. “just promise me you’ll be careful.”

he kisses the top of your head, his voice soft. “i promise. and if it gets too much, i’ll stop. but i’ve got this, love. don’t worry too much.”

you nod, trying to believe it, but the worry still lingers in your chest. you just want him to be okay.

the next morning, you drive him to the airport, your hand gripping his a little tighter than usual. “text me as soon as you land, and call me if you need anything.”

oscar smiles, leaning in for a kiss. “i will. and i’ll be back before you know it.”

as you watch him walk into the terminal, you can’t shake the feeling of anxiety. but you trust him. he’ll be careful. he’s oscar, after all—strong, determined, and maybe just a little bit clumsy. and you’ll be here, waiting for him, ready to take care of him when he gets back.

[ladybirdswritings]

LITTLE WITCH, FIC — xaden riorson x reader.

DESCRIPTION: you wake— a captive girl with untamed power and no recollection of its origins. before you is a scarred, shadowy figure, whose taunts ignite your abilities—binding your fates in a dangerous encounter. NOTES - fourth wing fic!! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

one;

“Wake her up.”

Water. Cold as ice, constricting your rigid bones like snakes coiling tighter with every stolen shiver.

A gasp tore from your throat, water spewing from your lungs as your body heaved against the jagged floor. Your eyes fluttered open, disjointed memories playing like a fragmented reel in your mind.

“Her power exceeds that of every living vernin on this planet!”

“Promise me you’ll fix this, darling.”

Promise me. Promise me. Promise me.

You blinked hard, but the image didn’t fade.

You were tied.

The rough ropes bit into your bony wrists, leaving searing, ring-like burns. Every labored movement set your nerves aflame. Your gaze darted upward, breath hitching as the world slowly came into focus.

A girl stood above you, silver-dipped hair framing a weary, glaring face. Beside her, a man with raven-black hair and a severe jaw hovered like a dark sentinel, his pale skin nearly glowing in the dim light.

And then there was him.

A scar slashed across one onyx eye, his expression cold and unreadable. Caramel skin adorned with swirling ink that climbed every visible inch of him. His presence suffocated the room, shadows pooling at his feet as if he commanded them.

You inhaled sharply.

“Do you think she speaks English?” the girl asked, her voice wary.

Your wide eyes locked onto her as you pulled against your restraints, panic rising. The three of them stepped back in weary unison.

“Be calm.” His voice—low, smooth, commanding—cooed like a bird singing a song only you could dance to. It scraped against the fragile walls of your resolve, but you clung to the shreds of your sanity.

Your eyes darted around, desperate to piece together this fractured reality. You tried to speak, tried to form an identity, but your name—your very sense of self—slipped through your fingers like quicksand.

“You have me tied,” you rasped, the words tasting foreign in your mouth.

Another synchronized step back.

“Xaden…” the silver-haired girl’s voice was cautious, her eyes glassy with an emotion you couldn’t yet name. But it was fervent, pulsing. You could sense it.

Lust. Love. Betrayal.

The man— Xaden’s jaw ticked, his gaze piercing as it lingered on you.

“We’ve already discussed this,” he said, his voice devoid of hostility but heavy with finality. “Take her, Garrick. I’ll handle the girl.”

She only bristled at his words, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. “You lost the right to give me orders when you—”

“I’m well aware, Violence.” His voice cracked with strain, the facade of calm splintering for just a moment.

The girl—Violence—swayed slightly, but her resistance faltered. With a deep, resigned exhale, Garrick gently guided her out of the room.

And then it was just you.

As the door slammed shut, Xaden’s features transformed. The fleeting agony that had marred his face dissolved into a cold mask, his expression as unreadable as the void of shadows around him.

His gaze roamed over you, scrutinizing every inch with an intensity that made your skin crawl. When he was satisfied, he dropped to one knee before you, the motion deliberate and predatory.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low, as if any louder would break you. As if you were a precious thing, needing to be preserved. And though he asked you for it, you had a fleeting sense that he already knew.

He was testing you.

Your trembling hands tugged at the ropes, panic stabbing through your mind. A flash of white burned behind your eyes—a memory.

A woman with electric blonde hair and a gaze colder than ice stared down at you. You were tied, gagged, and helpless.

“Shall I strike her again, General Sorrengail?”

The memory vanished as pain lanced through your wrists, the ropes burning like scorched iron. Your teary gaze met his, desperation clawing at your chest.

“Please untie me,” you begged, voice raw and jagged.

His head tilted slightly, but he didn’t so much as twitch. “I can’t do that.”

Your breath quickened, chest heaving as your head fell back against the pole that anchored you. The room blurred, warmth suddenly flooding your cheeks.

When your eyes snapped open, he was closer. His thumb brushed away the tears streaking your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. Shadows coiled tighter around you, suffocating yet oddly soothing.

“What’s your name?” he repeated, his thumb grazing your trembling lips as if trying to still them.

“I… I don’t remember,” you whispered.

His brows knit together, his silence heavier than words. For a moment, his gaze softened, as if he saw something tethered within you he’d searched to find for a millenia.

You’re coddling her.

A voice, unfamiliar and swelled with a power you found yourself connected to— it sounded throughout the confines of your mind. And then another voice. His voice.

Trust me, Sgaeyl.

And yet his lips did not move, set in a hard line. Perhaps you had a name, and the world had simply forgotten. Who gave any attention to the sick and mad? To those who had phantom voices roaming within the confines of their skull? Suddenly, like a curtain falling, his expression hardened again. He rose to his full, imposing height, towering over you like a specter.

“Get up,” he commanded, voice sharp enough to slice you in two.

“I’m tied,” you protested, voice trembling.

His eyes narrowed. “Get up and face me, and I’ll free you from all your binds.”

Hope fluttered in your chest, fragile and fleeting. You braced yourself, using the pole for support, and pushed. Your legs buckled instantly, sending you crashing back down.

Again.

And again.

By the eighth attempt, your knees were raw, your wrists throbbing, and your patience gone.

“You’re trying to humiliate me,” you hissed, glaring up at him.

“It seems to be working,” he said with a ghost of a smirk that made your blood boil.

Something stirred deep within you, a dormant fire roaring to life. His words, his condescension—they fed it like kindling to a flame.

“Aiming to embarrass ourselves today, are we?” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

The fire ignited.

“Let me go.”

Your voice was guttural, commanding, a force that reverberated through the room like a shockwave.

And time stopped. Only for a moment, but even so. Still, not a life in sight daring to breathe. Sudden, suffocating, swelling.

Then over.

Xaden dropped to one knee, his hands moving to untie your restraints as if compelled by an unseen force. His breath hitched as the ropes fell away, but the closeness of him—the warmth of his hands against your bloodied wrists—froze you in place.

He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours, his breath mingling with your own in a dangerous dance.

“Look at that… we’ve finally found you, little witch…” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

And somehow, you knew him then. Even free from all memory, you knew well that whoever he was— he was just beginning to unravel you.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

“ENTWINED DECEIT, FRIGID DEMISE”

BRUCE WAYNE X FEM!READER

synopsis : You were meant to be just a mission for Bruce, a source of intel he’d extract before disappearing without a trace. But feelings, unbidden and undeniable, wove their way in, and even death seemed to conspire against the plan.

authors note : Just a heads-up, this one’s tragic. English is not my first language. Lmk if you’d like a part two !!

YOU HAD GROWN accustomed to galas by now, but attending one with Bruce was a different world entirely — everything you expected and yet somehow always more.

The velvet-lined walls seemed to hum with opulence, the chandeliers scattering fractured light across the room like stars caught in crystal prisons. Champagne flutes clinked in a delicate symphony, accompanied by the low murmur of Gotham’s elite exchanging pleasantries.

It all felt like stepping into a dream, one you couldn’t quite convince yourself you belonged to.

Bruce always insisted otherwise, his voice steady and sure, telling you that you were perfect, that your presence made these events bearable.

You’d roll your eyes, brushing off his words with a playful comment about how flattery wouldn’t get him anywhere.

But he’d only smirk, lean in close enough to whisper something sultry in your ear, and seal it with a kiss against your cheek that left your heart stumbling over itself.

At your side, Bruce was the embodiment of effortless poise and commanding presence.

His tailored tuxedo fit him as though it were spun from threads of myth and shadow, something that might have been forged by Hephaestus himself. He carried an air of calm control that was magnetic, the kind of presence that could hold a room without ever demanding it.

His touches were subtle yet constant, an anchor tying you to his side— a hand resting on the small of your back, a gentle squeeze of your hand beneath the table, his shoulder brushing yours in fleeting reassurance.

He wasn’t one for public displays of affection, and you appreciated the way he reserved those quiet intimacies just for you.

It felt private, sacred, like a language spoken only between the two of you.

But the mask never slipped, not in the way that mattered. His expression was calm, his words perfectly measured. The cracks in his carefully constructed world remained hidden, buried beneath the charm and the tailored suit.

You didn’t know then what lay beneath the surface — the sorrow he carried, the secrets he kept.

Behind closed doors, Bruce Wayne showed his affection in ways that made your heart ache with confusion and longing.

He would cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away any remnants of the day’s exhaustion, as if he could smooth out the weight you carried. He’d draw you into his arms in the quiet moments, his embrace firm but never constricting, murmuring reassurances you didn’t realize you needed.

Sometimes, he’d simply sit beside you, his hand resting over yours, tracing idle circles with his thumb — like a silent declaration in a world that expected noise.

His gestures felt genuine, too genuine for someone as guarded as he was, and you began to wonder if there was a depth to him you’d yet to uncover.

And for better or worse, you found yourself falling in love with him.

It wasn’t just the things he said or did but the way he looked at you, like you were something rare and fragile, deserving of reverence.

That look made you feel seen in a way no one else had before, and you clung to the hope that it meant as much to him as it did to you. You wanted to believe it, but a quiet part of you hesitated, unsure of what lay beneath the surface of this man, this relationship.

You had met him in the polished, artificial glow of one of the galas he had organized for Gotham General Hospital. You were there as a nurse, one of many faces in the crowd, trying to blend into the background.

But Bruce had noticed you.

At first, it felt absurd.

Why would someone like him ( a man who could have the world if he asked for it ) single you out?

He flirted with effortless charm, the kind that seemed reflexive, as though it was as natural to him as breathing.

And you? You didn’t fall for it.

Not at first.

After all, this was Bruce Wayne; the billionaire playboy who flirted with anything in heels. You’d seen it on television, read about it in gossip columns. You knew better, so you played hard to get, guarding yourself against the inevitable letdown.

But Bruce was persistent.

He had a way of breaking through walls with his quiet sincerity and surprising humor.

Slowly, almost against your will, he worked his way into your life, into your heart.

You began to trust him, little by little, until one day you woke up and realized he had become your world.

And how you wished you hadn’t.

You came from a family you rarely spoke of — a family mired in secrets and cloaked in shadows, their truths too heavy to carry and too dangerous to confront. You had spent years untangling yourself from their web, building walls to keep their chaos at bay.

The distance wasn’t difficult to maintain; they had never cared enough to hold on to you in the first place. You had learned to be fine on your own.

Fine with the solitude.

Fine with building a life far away from the mess they left behind.

But now, Bruce had found a way into your carefully guarded life, and you couldn’t help but wonder if letting him in had been a mistake.

The love you thought you saw in his eyes — was it real, or just another mirage conjured by your own longing? Could he truly care for you, or were you merely another piece in a game you didn’t know you were playing?

When Bruce first met you, it wasn’t serendipity or fate.

It was a mission.

A calculated move, meticulously planned and executed for the Justice League.

This wasn’t the first time he’d walked this path—charming someone, gaining their trust, extracting the information he needed, and then walking away, his conscience carefully compartmentalized. It was a routine he knew too well, one that came with the mask he wore both in the field and in life.

But somewhere along the way, the mission began to blur.

This time, feelings had complicated everything. You were… everything he didn’t expect and everything he realized he wanted. With you, there was no endless ticking, no constant countdown to the inevitable end like there had been in every other relationship he’d had. There was calm — steady, grounding, like the kind of peace he hadn’t dared to believe he could ever find. And he liked it. No, he liked you.

Perhaps more than that.

Bruce had never been one to believe in easy things like love, but now, he wasn’t so sure.

He might even… love you. Not that he’d ever dare to say it out loud.

The thought of losing you, of you leaving him once you found out the truth — was a fear that settled deep, a sharp ache he couldn’t ignore.

A year and a half had passed, and in that time, you’d become something no one else ever had. His longest relationship, his quiet anchor, the part of his life that felt both foreign and essential.

People had started to speculate.

Rumors about an engagement swirled, whispers that Bruce Wayne — the elusive bachelor — might actually settle down.

He couldn’t deny he’d thought about it.

Late at night, he’d sit in the dim light of the manor, his mother’s ring in hand, turning it over and over between his fingers. He imagined it on your hand and how perfect it would look.

But then the weight of the mission would crush the fantasy. The thought of you discovering the truth behind how this all began made his chest tighten painfully.

Losing you would be unbearable, a wound he wasn’t sure he could survive.

For once, Bruce allowed himself to be selfish. He wanted this — wanted you — and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care how wrong it might be. You made him happy. And he wanted that happiness to last.

He told himself he’d confess everything.

This week.

He’d sit you down and finally tell you everything, not just about the mission, but about how much you meant to him, how deeply he loved you. Those words had always felt impossible for him, too heavy, too vulnerable to speak aloud.

He’d never said them to anyone before, not to any of the fleeting relationships that had come and gone over the years.

None of them had ever held a candle to you.

None of them had ever made him feel this way — this terrified, this alive.

You already knew about his life as Batman; the boys had grown fond of you, and you’d fit seamlessly into his strange, chaotic family.

Seeing you with them filled him with a joy he hadn’t known he could feel, a joy that made him believe, even briefly, that everything might just work out.

If you forgave him — if you gave him a chance — he’d propose.

Simple as that.

He knew you were the one, like Orpheus and Eurydice, destined to be intertwined despite the shadows and trials of fate. Like the sun and the moon, pulled toward one another, unable to exist fully apart.

You were his anchor, the calm in his storm, the missing piece of his story he never knew he needed until you appeared.

He’d already spoken to Alfred, who, ever fond of you, had all but insisted Bruce follow through. The old butler was thrilled to see his master finally find a piece of happiness.

Yet every time Alfred gently reminded him of how this all began, that sharp, twisting guilt resurfaced, tightening around his heart like a vice.

God, he hoped you’d forgive him.

The idea that you might not ( that he could lose you ) was a pain he couldn’t bear to consider.

What would he do if you didn’t? He didn’t know.

And that terrified him more than anything he’d ever faced.

The evening had started with so much promise.

But here, in the heart of Gotham, beneath the gilded lights and the false smiles, the truth wasn’t so easily buried.

You were engaging in polite conversation with some donors for a cause that had always been close to your heart, children battling cancer.

It had been Bruce’s idea to dedicate the evening to this charity, a cause you held dear, and he had gone to great lengths to make it all happen. He’d chosen it specifically for you, recognizing how much it meant.

But you weren’t feeling yourself.

The exhaustion had become almost constant — fatigue that clung to you no matter how much you rested, a persistent need to pee, nausea that came in waves, and headaches that never seemed to ease.

It wasn’t until recently, when your period never came, that the weight of it all hit you.

Something was wrong, and you didn’t know if you were ready to face it.

You excused yourself from the conversation, the urge to use the bathroom pressing hard against you.

The elderly lady you were talking to, though, didn’t make it easy to leave. She smiled softly, leaning closer, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You know, I’ve never seen him like this,” she said, her eyes glimmering with a knowing that made your heart skip a beat.

You managed a laugh, though it was strained, your stomach doing somersaults as you tried to remain upright. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice betraying a hint of curiosity despite yourself.

She leaned in a little closer, like she was sharing a well-guarded secret. “Well, happy sweetheart,” she said, her tone light with amusement. “I’ve known him since he was just a boy. Always brooding, always stoic. You know, the usual Bruce Wayne charisma. And before you came along, he had a string of relationships that never quite worked out.” Her eyes flicked across the room, and you followed her gaze.

You saw Selina Kyle.

Bruce had mentioned her name before, but you didn’t know much about her. She was surrounded by a few men, laughing, effortlessly charming the crowd. You felt her gaze on you like a weight, but you pushed it aside, acting as if it didn’t bother you. Bruce had told you she would be here, after all.

The lady beside you continued, undeterred by the way your focus shifted. “But they were all toxic,” she said, lowering her voice even more. “Not a fit. Always something off about them.”

She glanced at Selina again, then back at you, her eyes narrowing knowingly. “But with you... it’s different.”

You raised an eyebrow, uncertain of what she was getting at. “What do you mean?” you asked, though you already had a sinking feeling you knew the direction she was heading.

She gave you a long look, almost like she was appraising you. “Well, you're certainly not from our class,” she said bluntly, her words sharp, but you could tell she wasn’t trying to insult you.

You cringed inwardly, but stayed silent, holding onto your composure. “But I can’t deny the way he seems more at ease around you. More him — if that makes sense.” She looked at you closely, her smile softening. “That’s a first.”

Your heart twisted at her words, a strange mixture of relief and unease stirring within you.

Bruce had always been a complicated man to understand — reserved, closed off in many ways — but this, what the woman had said, felt different.

You couldn’t tell if you were being swept up in some romantic fantasy or if there was truth to what she was saying.

All you knew was that you were standing on the edge of something fragile, something you weren’t sure you could trust, even though your heart wanted to believe it.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual, even though you could feel the weight of the conversation creeping up on you. The old lady, who smelled of intoxicating flowers, seemed pleased by your response.

"Thank you, I guess," you said with a polite smile, though you were already feeling the urge to leave. "I need to go freshen up, but we can continue this conversation later if you’d like."

She nodded, and you took the opportunity to slip away, heading toward Bruce.

You spotted him across the room, talking with a man, but the moment his eyes found you, his expression softened, and he smiled, just a little. Your heart gave a little skip in your chest as you returned the smile.

Bruce excused himself from the conversation and moved toward you, his hand reaching out for yours. You met him halfway, and when you arrived by his side, he immediately wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer.

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yes."

He didn't buy it, though, his brow furrowing as his hand gently cupped your cheek. "No, you're not. Headaches again? I told you we should've stayed at home."

You leaned into his touch, savoring the comfort it brought, then kissed the inside of his hand. "I told you, it’ll be fine. It's too important to miss."

He sighed, his lips pressing to your forehead for a brief moment before he spoke again, softer this time. "Look, just take care of yourself, okay?"

You nodded again. "I will. I’m just going to the powder room to freshen up for a bit."

"Alright," he said, his voice laced with concern, though his grip on your waist tightened slightly. "But don't make me wait. I want you by my side for the speech. And then, off we go. I want you all to myself tonight."

His words sent a thrill through you, but you slapped his chest playfully, teasing him before you turned to leave. "Don't get too ahead of yourself," you said with a wink, heading toward the bathroom.

You needed a moment, a breath, a quiet pause. Your feet ached from the heels, but it didn’t matter now. The rush in your chest was too loud to ignore.

The bathroom was still — like a sanctuary.

The marble walls provided the privacy you craved, and for a moment, you let the silence wash over you. You closed yourself in a stall, sitting with your head cradled between your hands, desperately trying to steady your shaking breath.

But then, the click of heels against the floor shattered the calm.

“Can you believe it?” Selina Kyle’s voice sliced through the air—sharp, deliberate.

You froze.

The last thing you wanted tonight was to face her. But there was no escaping this now.

“It’s just ridiculous,” another woman replied, her voice dripping with a mix of pity and mockery. “I mean, does she really think Bruce cares about her?”

Your heart stilled in your chest, and for a moment, you didn’t even breathe.

The words seemed to freeze the air around you.

“I’m still shocked he hasn’t cut her loose,” another added, voice thick with judgment. “I mean, he already got what he wanted, right?”

A chill ran through you, one that had nothing to do with the cold air around you.

You clutched the purse in your lap, the leather a cold reminder of the world outside this bathroom, but the panic inside you wouldn’t let go.

What were they talking about? What did they mean?

“Yeah,” Selina chuckled darkly. “He was never interested in her. He used her, just like he always does. From what I understand, The Justice League needed her for intel, and once they got what they wanted, he'd be done with her, right?” Her words dripped with a bitter kind of amusement, and both women hummed in agreement.

Your stomach twisted, the silence around you suddenly suffocating. It felt like the truth had just shattered your world in one sweeping blow.

But still, you refused to believe it.

"But I guess it’s fun for him, too." Selina’s voice softened, as if savoring the cruelty of it all. "You should’ve seen him with me, though. He was all about the role — refused to kiss me, refused to even sleep with me. Can you believe that? It’s almost like he was trying so hard to keep it professional, but now I’m hearing he might actually do something with me."

"He's very committed," one of her friend remarked, casually applying some lip gloss.

“Watching her cling to him like he actually cares. It’s embarrassing,” Selina added with a scoff, as if every word she spoke was another wound.

The pain slammed into you like a tidal wave.

You tried to breathe, but the air felt too thick, too tight. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you fought to hold back the tears that were already burning your eyes.

“I don’t know how she doesn’t see it,” one of the women said, words laced with condescension. “It’s like watching someone in a dream, not even realizing that the rug’s about to be pulled out from under them.”

You gripped the purse in your lap harder, trying to anchor yourself to something, anything.

The tears burned against the back of your eyes, but you forced them back.

You couldn’t let them hear you. You couldn’t let them see how deeply their words were cutting into you.

“I guess we’ll see what happens when he finally tells her the truth,” Selina's voice was laced with mock sympathy, like she was savoring the scene she was imagining. “She’ll be heartbroken. Maybe he’ll even do it in front of everyone, make it public. He does love that kind of dramatic flair.”

Each word felt like a dagger, twisting deeper and deeper. The breath caught in your throat as a dark realization settled over you like a suffocating weight.

The world around you tilted, and for a moment, it felt as if the floor had vanished beneath your feet.

Everything you thought you knew about Bruce — the laughter, the stolen kisses, the intimate whispers, the times he held you close, making you feel like you mattered — suddenly felt like a cruel joke.

It had all been a lie.

You had been nothing more than a tool.

The door clicked behind them, the sound too final.

You let out a shaky breath, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating pressure in your chest.

The truth had burrowed deep inside you, cold and unforgiving.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake it.

You stayed in the bathroom longer than you intended, lost in your grief, trying to piece together your heart.

Eventually, you forced yourself to step out, your eyes raw from the unshed tears, the weight of their words still heavy on your chest.

You stood before the mirror, hands trembling slightly as you tried to make yourself look presentable, to hide the turmoil inside. Who were those women? Did they work with the Justice League? Or were they just ordinary people, yet somehow, everyone at this gala seemed to know that you and Bruce were nothing more than a mission, a task for him.

The thought made your stomach churn.

You didn’t want to confront him, not now, not like this. You just needed distance, some space to breathe and think, to escape the suffocating reality they had painted for you.

But Bruce was nowhere to be seen.

He must’ve noticed your absence by now, but he hadn’t come searching — not really.

Not with the urgency you needed.

And when he did find you, you knew it would be too late.

You needed air.

You needed to get away from it all.

As you quietly exited the bathroom, you kept your gaze down, desperate to avoid anyone seeing the evidence of your turmoil—your eyes, swollen and red, stained by the silent tears you had fought so hard to hold back.

You moved quickly, your steps quickening as the truth settled in. But then, a voice—a soft, aged voice—reached your ears.

"Ma'am?"

You froze.

Alfred.

You turned toward him before your mind could catch up with your actions. The moment his eyes met yours, the lighthearted words he was about to say disappeared, replaced by a look of concern that made your heart ache.

You inhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. "I know," you said, though your voice cracked, betraying the calm you were struggling to maintain.

He lowered his gaze, his posture slightly faltering.

"You knew too, didn't you?" you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Everyone did. And I believed it... like a fool."

His eyes filled with sorrow, and he opened his mouth as though to say something, but all he managed was a soft, "I'm sorry."

You swallowed hard, holding back the flood of emotion that threatened to overtake you. "But, ma'am, believe me when I say that he truly cares about—"

You raised your hand, cutting him off. "I need air. Space. And I'm leaving," you said, your voice strained as a sob bubbled beneath the surface. "To think I actually fell in love with him," you muttered, shaking your head, unable to stop the broken laugh that followed.

Without another word, you turned and walked away, Alfred watching silently, expression heavy with regret.

The click of your heels echoed in the otherwise quiet hotel hallway, each step louder than the last. The receptionist gave you a glance, but you didn’t care enough to meet her gaze. You were too lost in your own mind.

You stopped in front of the front desk, barely able to hold yourself together.

“Where’s the back door?” you asked, voice barely a whisper, cracking with the sting of everything you were trying to suppress.

The woman pointed toward the hallway to your left, and you nodded in thanks. As you walked toward the exit, your mind was fogged with pain.

I don’t want to see him again.

I don’t want to feel the weight of his lies on my chest anymore.

I can’t. I can’t.

You stepped into the alley, the cool night air hitting you like a slap.

For a fleeting moment, you had clarity—a fragile stillness before the storm broke. Then the tears came, relentless and burning, streaming down your cheeks as anger and sorrow tangled together.

You gripped the fabric of your long skirt as you descended the stairs, every step deliberate, wary of twisting your ankle in the unsteady heels.

Frustration bubbled up, and you swiped at your tears with trembling hands, the motion sharp and angry.

Then, from the shadows, a figure stepped into view.

“Jewelry,” the man barked, his voice coarse and demanding. “Take. it. off.”

The sight of him made you freeze, a jolt of fear sparking through your exhaustion. But you didn’t have the strength to argue, let alone resist. Wordlessly, you handed him your purse, your fingers trembling as they let go.

It wasn’t enough.

He stepped closer, the gun shaking in his grip, its cold barrel pressing against the curve of your neck. His voice was sharp, insistent. “The necklace,” he growled.

Your hand instinctively rose to it, the one Bruce had given you. Diamonds and gold, gleaming faintly even in the dim light, a small defiance against the darkness surrounding you. The weight of it was more than its value; it carried the ghost of his touch, the echo of a moment when everything felt whole and true.

It was all you had left.

And now, even that was slipping away.

But your fingers tightened around the necklace, clutching it as if it were a lifeline. The barrel of the gun pressed harder, this time against your stomach, cold and unforgiving, a warning that your resistance would cost you.

Even so, you couldn’t let go.

Not yet.

The thought of surrendering the last piece of him — the last tangible thread to a life you had believed in — was more painful than the threat before you.

“No,” you whispered through your tears. “Please, no.”

The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his yellowed teeth grinding together as his desperation became palpable.

His hand shot out, rough and calloused, grasping for the necklace with an almost frantic urgency.

“Hand it over, you bitch!” he snarled, his voice rising with rage.

The stench of alcohol clung to his breath, each word cutting through the air like a jagged blade, laced with frustration and fury.

He yanked hard, the chain biting into your skin, but you instinctively pulled back, clutching it tighter. The clash was brief yet electric, a silent battle fueled by his desperation and your unwillingness to let go of the one thing still tethering you to a fractured sense of belonging.

It was all you had left of him.

The only piece that held the truth of what you had believed.

The only thing that reminded you of the moments that weren’t tainted by lies.

You kept telling yourself that, even as the desperation rose within you. With a burst of adrenaline, you drove your knee into his groin.

He groaned in pain, stumbling back.

“You fucking whore!” he hissed, his hand grasping your hair, yanking it painfully. You screamed, thrashing against him in a frantic attempt to break free.

Then, the sound of a gunshot shattered the night.

The pain was immediate, consuming, like fire ripping through your flesh.

You gasped, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as blood blossomed from your stomach, staining your dress a deep, unforgiving crimson.

The man muttered a low, bitter curse, but you couldn’t focus on him anymore. You couldn’t focus on anything except the excruciating burn that spread through your body.

Another shot rang out, this time tearing into your shoulder, and you collapsed forward, the blood pooling faster than you could process.

A third shot — this one grazed near your heart.

The world twisted and spun, and your breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. You couldn’t feel your arms anymore, only the cold numbness that seemed to sink deeper with every heartbeat.

Blood pooled in your mouth, thick and metallic, and you choked on it as the world began to tilt.

The man’s footsteps receded into the background, but you didn’t hear them, not over the deafening ringing in your ears. Everything moving in slow motion, and the sirens — distant and fading — were little more than a mocking reminder of how little time you had left.

There was nothing.

But through the haze, you felt something, someone's touch, gentle but insistent, a hand cradling your cheek, pushing against your wounds. The voice was frantic, urgent, but it was so distant, as if you were underwater. It sounded like Bruce, but no, you couldn’t be sure.

But no, it couldn't be.

Because everything you had once believed in had crumbled to dust.

No love, no man, no future.

The fragments of your heart were scattered, sharp pieces glistening on the floor, each one driving deeper into the hollow space where warmth used to reside.

Your fingers instinctively curled around the necklace : the only thing that had stayed true, the only real part of him left in your life.

The cold metal felt alien against your skin, its weight a cruel reminder of everything that had been torn from you.

You tried to speak, to tell him that it was okay, that if this really was Bruce, you could let go. But the words refused to form, a strangled gasp escaping your lips instead.

And then, the darkness came, cold and complete, swallowing everything — taking the pain, the love, the memories — leaving only silence.

[flwrkid14]

Love, in All its Impossible Forms

Tim Drake loves with everything he has. He always has. And maybe that’s his fatal flaw—he doesn’t know how to hold back. He throws himself into it the way he throws himself into everything else: completely, recklessly, without a second thought for his own safety.

But love, for Tim, is never simple. It comes in forms that twist and tangle, leaving scars even as it gives him something to hold onto. And if you ask him, he could probably tell you exactly what kinds of love he’s experienced.

There’s love that is doomed.

Steph was chaos, energy, and unrelenting determination wrapped in a bright smile. She was Tim’s equal and his opposite all at once, and when he loved her, he did so fiercely, wholeheartedly. She didn’t just step into his world—she tore through it, unapologetic and unstoppable, showing Tim a version of himself that didn’t have to be so calculated, so controlled.

But their lives were chaos, a whirlwind of masks and missions, and when the dust settled, there was never enough left of them to make it last. Tim loves her in a way that feels like holding sand; no matter how tightly he grips, she keeps slipping through his fingers. And maybe that’s why he held on so hard—because he knew she’d never stay. Steph was never meant to be tamed, and Tim loved her too much to try.

Even when it ends, there’s no anger, no resentment. They don’t blame each other for the way things fall apart. They don’t have to. They always knew, deep down, that no matter how much they wanted to hold on, it was never meant to last. It wasn’t about a lack of love—it was about the world they lived in, the lives they led, and the way they could never quite fit together the way they needed to.

Steph was the love that burned brightly but couldn’t last, no matter how much either of them wanted it to. She was the fire he couldn’t hold onto, the storm he couldn’t contain, and the one who left her mark on him in ways he’d never forget. They were love, doomed from the start.

Then there's love that dooms them.

Kon wasn't just Tim's best friend—he was everything. A partner in every sense of the word. Loving Kon felt like second nature, so easy and so effortless that Tim didn't realize how deeply it ran until it was too late. Until Kon was gone.

When Kon died, it destroyed Tim. Grief didn't come in waves-it came in obsessions.

Tim couldn't let go, so he didn't. He turned to stolen data and secret labs, creating clone after clone in a desperate attempt to fill the void Kon left behind

It wasn't about moving on. It wasn't about closure. It was about holding on to the only person who ever made Tim feel like he could breathe, even when it was killing him to do so.

When Kon returned, whole and alive, it should have been everything Tim had dreamed of. But the shadows of what Tim had done lingered between them. The lengths he went to, the obsession that fueled him—it left cracks in the foundation of what they once were. Kon loved Tim, he always would, but part of him wondered if he'd ever been loved for who he was, or for what Tim couldn't let himself lose.

And Tim, for all his brilliance, couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap he'd created. He oved Kon with everything he had, but love born out of desperation carried its own weight, and he wasn't sure how to lay it down.

So they stayed in the gray space between what they were and what they could have been, bound by love so fierce it hurt, but too fractured to fully mend. They were doomed by their love.

Finally, there’s love that dooms anybody else.

Danny is chaos, but not the kind that breaks Tim—it’s the kind that grounds him. Danny exists between worlds, between life and death, and yet he’s more alive than anyone Tim has ever met. He doesn’t fit neatly into any box, doesn’t follow any rules, and yet there’s something about him that feels inevitable, like gravity or the pull of the tide.

Danny doesn’t ask for Tim’s sacrifices. He doesn’t need to be saved, doesn’t want Tim to burn himself out in the name of love. Instead, Danny challenges Tim to slow down, to stop trying so hard to hold the world together and just be. With Danny, Tim learns how to live in the moment, how to breathe without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It isn’t an easy love, but it isn’t supposed to be. It’s a love that demands courage, the kind that doesn’t come from donning a cape or taking a hit for someone else. It’s the courage to be vulnerable, to stop hiding behind plans and strategies, and let someone see every cracked, raw piece of himself. Danny is relentless in breaking down Tim’s walls, not to fix him but to show him that he’s worthy of being whole.

Together, they are something untouchable. Their love is an anchor and a storm, a lighthouse and the waves crashing against the shore. It’s a love so big, so consuming, that it leaves no room for anything else.

And that’s where the doom lies.

They are the kind of love that consumes the world around them, leaving it scorched and battered in their wake. Not because they want to hurt anyone, but because their connection is so fierce, so all-encompassing, that nothing else can survive in its shadow. They are the eye of the hurricane, calm and steady, while everything outside is chaos.

It’s the kind of love that makes people ache to touch it, to understand it, even as it destroys them. The kind of love that people will write stories about and linger in though, long after the last page has turned. Love, that will echo through time in whispers and legends. But no one will ever truly understand it, because no one else could ever bear the weight of it.

Danny is the love that makes Tim believe he might deserve to be happy after all. Together, they are the love that dooms anybody else—unapologetic, overwhelming, and utterly unforgettable.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Crawling back to you

synopsis-> His new concubine start to slowly become an obsession for him

The dimly lit chamber is thick with the heady aroma of sandalwood and smoldering embers casting their flickering amber glows across ornately gilded walls.

You kneel demurely before the towering entity that is the indominable King of Curses with a tray of succulent fruits balanced precariously in your lap.

Despite the dozens of lithe, scantily-clad courtesans draped across plush cushions surrounding Sukuna's imposing throne, not a single one possesses the capability to enrapture his full, unadulterated interest like you.

He attempts schooling his expression into one of practiced aloofness yet finds his scrutiny involuntarily drinking you in from the corner of his periphery.

The modest way loose tendrils of obsidian tresses fall around your delicately sculpted features...How those full lips part just enough to reveal a glimpse of glistening teeth worrying your lower pout while plucking a ripe persimmon free...

Even the flutter of those thick, sooty lashes framing those eyes as you peek up through them with an achingly sweet naivete.

Something viscerally primal stirs low in Sukuna's abdomen each instance your gazes accidentally lock - simultaneously thrilling yet inexplicably vexing him to the core.

He shouldn't find any fascination or particular novelty in your obvious purity and fragility, should he? After all, you pose no formidable threat to one who has mercilessly throttled nations with nary a conscious thought.

Yet he cannot prevent those four obsidian-tipped limbs from imperceptibly tightening with the overwhelming compulsion to simply...take you right there.

To lash out and possess every scant inch until the searing brand of his essence remains molten and permanently etched into your very marrow.

Maybe then you'd no longer exude such blinding radiance capable of rooting him in place like some pathetic, feeble-willed human wretch.

Every sinew instinctively coils rigid when your delicate fingertips drift upwards to present that glistening persimmon temptingly close.

Except your feather-light caress doesn't retreat once his lips part to accept your offering.

Instead, the pad of your thumb ghosts across his bottom lip with a tenderness and reverence he finds utterly transfixing.

And just like that, the last thread of rigid control over his carnal urges combusts instantaneously.

Sukuna's vision fractures into a million shards of ruby as your hopelessly innocent proximity suddenly consumes his restraint whole.

"Get out..." The abdominal maw snarls in a guttural rasp now utterly stripped of his usual controlled veneer.

Every talon-like fingernail hollows razor-deep grooves into the armrests flanking his throne when you instinctively flinch back with those dewy irises rounded in terror.

"Now."

The massive chamber remains utterly frozen until you scramble backwards on hands and knees finally fleeing his presence.

Only then does Sukuna finally permit himself to surrender - lifting a single beckoning digit to numbly brush across the very spot your captive touch seared straight through his exterior not a moment prior.

What sacrilegious witchcraft have you entangled him within?

This unfathomable compulsion to simultaneously profane and protect?

He's the almighty King of Curses - feared and reviled across every realm. Yet a solitary brush of your chaste fingertips against his mouth threatens to dismantle every staunch defense he's meticulously crafted over centuries of brutality and indiscriminate annihilation...

Head bowing forward until his pallid death mask cracks in a bitter sneer, Sukuna releases a blustering huff of mirthless derision directed solely at his own lamentable weakness.

Loathing how you've wormed your way beneath his armor so effortlessly with scarcely any intent whatsoever.

He vows to purge this infuriatingly inexplicable yearning to possess your radiance before it blossoms into something...darker. Something treacherous...

For both your sakes...

[moomuzan]

— 𝖇𝖗𝖔𝖐𝖊𝖓 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖘

requested , you break up with them , angst , chuuya , kunikida , ranpo , dazai x gn! reader , requests are open xoxo

Dim lights suffocated your shared apartment in silence. You sat by the window, staring at the buzzing city that blinked like distant, uncaring stars. Your heart ached in its cage, heavy with the weight of too many broken promises. Too many nights spent waiting, too many lies wrapped in pretty words.

You had told yourself this time would be different. This time, DAZAI would mean it.

When the door creaked open, the faint scent of alcohol drifted in with him. Dazai stood in the doorway, his coat slung carelessly over his shoulder, his hair disheveled. He had that same crooked smile, the one that used to make your heart flutter but now only made it crack a little more.

“Ah, belladonna,” he said softly, shutting the door behind him. “Still awake? You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you turned to look at him. He noticed the empty wineglass on the table beside you, the untouched plate of food you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to eat. His smile faltered for just a moment, but he recovered quickly, as he always did.

“I got caught up,” he said lightly, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the back of a chair. “You know how it is. Things happen. Time slips away.”

“Time doesn’t slip away, Osamu,” you said, your voice quiet but sharp. “You let it.”

He stilled, his back to you, his hands tightening on the chair. For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator, a hollow sound that filled the space between you. Slowly, he turned, his face carefully blank, though you could see the unease flickering behind his eyes.

“I told you I’d change,” he said softly, stepping toward you. “I told you I’d try—”

“You’ve been saying that for months,” you interrupted, standing up from your seat. Your voice broke on the last word, and you hated how small you sounded, how tired. “And what’s changed, Dazai? What’s actually different?”

His hands twitched at his sides, and for once, he didn’t have a clever response. “I’m trying,” he whispered, his voice almost pleading.

With hitching breath you shook your head, tears spilling over despite how hard you tried to keep them in. “Trying isn’t enough anymore,” you said, your voice trembling. “I gave you everything I had, Osamu. I waited for you, believed in you. And all you ever gave me was pieces of yourself—never enough to hold, never enough to feel whole.”

“Belladonna,” he said, his voice breaking, stepping closer as if the sound of your name could mend the fractures spreading between you. “Please. Don’t—”

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, stepping back from him, your hands trembling as you reached for your bag. “I love you, but loving you feels like drowning. And I don’t want to drown anymore.”

He froze, his face crumbling in a way you had never seen before. The ever-present mask slipped away, leaving behind a raw, aching vulnerability that nearly stopped you in your tracks. “Don’t leave,” he said, his voice cracking, desperate. “I’ll do better. I’ll—”

But you shook your head, your heart shattering even as you turned away. “I’ve heard it all before,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “And I don’t think you know how to be better, Osamu.”

The door closed behind you, and for a moment, the world outside felt just as suffocating as the apartment you had left. Inside, Dazai sank to the floor, his head in his hands, his chest heaving with the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

For once, there were no words, no excuses, no clever remarks to hide behind. Only the sharp, aching truth: you were gone, and he had only himself to blame.

,

The room smelled faintly of sugar and salt—the remnants of the snacks he had devoured earlier, his wrappers still littering the coffee table. The curtains were drawn, the world outside shut out as always, and RANPO lounged on the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world. You stood by the window, the cool glass pressed to your fingers, staring out at the city lights that stretched endlessly beyond the horizon.

This wasn’t what you had wanted. Not now. Not anymore.

“Ranpo,” you said, softly at first, and then louder when he didn’t respond. “Ranpo, we need to talk.”

He glanced up from the handheld game console in his lap, tilting his head with that casual, almost dismissive smile you had grown to dread. “What about?”

You crossed your arms, trying to steady your voice, trying to ignore the way he was already looking at you like you were overreacting. “About us. About how you keep promising you’ll take this seriously. That you’ll try. But nothing’s changed, has it?”

Sighing dramatically, Ranpo set the console aside. “Oh, come on. Not this again. I told you, didn’t I? I’ll work on it. I just need more time.”

“Time?” you repeated, the word sharp in your mouth. “How much more time, Ranpo? How much longer am I supposed to wait for you to care enough to do something, anything, for us?”

His brow furrowed, his lips curving into a slight pout as if he were offended. “You’re acting like I don’t care,” he said, shrugging. “But I do. I’m here, aren’t I? Doesn’t that count for something?”

You laughed bitterly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Being here isn’t the same as showing up for me, Ranpo. You keep me at arm’s length, always distracted, always playing your games or solving your mysteries like they’re the only things that matter. You keep saying you’ll try, but you never actually do. It’s like I’m begging for scraps, and I can’t do it anymore.”

His expression wavered, his confident mask slipping for just a second before he replaced it with indifference. “You’re blowing this out of proportion. You know how I am. Relationships just… aren’t my thing. I thought you understood that.”

“That’s the problem,” you snapped, the tears spilling over now. “I do understand. I understand that I’ve been waiting for someone who’s never going to meet me halfway. I’ve been fighting for something that’s never going to change.”

Ranpo leaned forward, his voice softening. “You’re overthinking it. You always do. I’m fine with how things are—why can’t you be?”

“Because I’m not fine, Ranpo,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m exhausted. I love you, but I feel like I’m the only one trying, the only one who wants more than this endless cycle of nothing. And I can’t keep breaking my own heart waiting for you to catch up.”

Grabbing your coat, your chest tightened as you heard him shift on the couch behind you. “Wait,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically low, uncertain. “You’re not serious. You’re not really leaving, are you?”

You hesitated, your hand trembling on the doorknob. “I don’t want to leave,” you whispered. “But you’ve left me no choice.”

The door clicked shut behind you, and the air outside felt sharp, cold, and biting. Inside, Ranpo stared at the spot where you had stood, his hands limp in his lap, his mind racing in ways it never had before.

He had solved countless puzzles, unraveled mysteries no one else could touch, but this—this loss, this empty space where you used to be—was a riddle he couldn’t solve. For once, his brilliance was useless. And for the first time in his life, he felt truly, utterly lost.

,

The faint sound of keys jangling outside the door stirred you from where you sat, curled up on the couch with your arms wrapped around yourself. The clock read 2:37 AM. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The heavy stomp of boots, the rasp of his breathing—alive, but barely.

As the door swung open, CHUUYA stumbled inside, his coat hanging in tatters, blood splattered across his shirt. He was holding his side, though he tried to hide the wince as he stepped forward.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice low, strained. You didn’t even look at him, staring instead at the cold, untouched tea sitting on the table.

Chuuya froze mid-step, the smirk he’d been ready to give you fading into something softer, something more uncertain. “Babe—”

“You can’t keep doing this, Chuuya.” Your words were barely above a whisper, trembling with all the emotion you couldn’t hold in any longer as you stared at his side as blood spilled to the ground.

He flinched at the sound of your voice, his hand dropping from his side. “I’m fine,” he muttered, stepping closer. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

“Just a scratch,” you repeated bitterly, your knuckles white as you clenched your fists. “Every time, it’s just a scratch. And one day, it won’t be. One day, someone’s going to walk through that door, but it won’t be you. It’ll be Mori or someone else from the Port Mafia, and they’ll tell me you’re gone.”

Feeling his jaw tighten, he didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

“I’ve waited up every night,” you continued, your voice breaking. “Every single night, wondering if this will be the time you don’t come back. I can’t do it anymore, Chuuya. I can’t keep loving someone who doesn’t love themselves enough to stay alive.”

The red-head moved closer, reaching for you, his gloves sticky with blood. “Don’t do this,” he said, his voice rough, desperate. “I’m here, aren’t I? I came back. I’ll always come back.”

You stood, stepping away from him. He stopped in his tracks, his hands falling to his sides. “And for how long?” you asked, tears streaming down your face. “How many more times do I have to patch you up? How many more times do I have to wonder if the next fight will be your last?”

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words didn’t come. He didn’t know how to promise you something he couldn’t control.

You grabbed your bag, your heart breaking with every step toward the door. Chuuya reached out again, his fingers brushing against your wrist, but you pulled away. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the silence. “But I can’t keep doing this. I won’t.”

The door shut behind you, the sound reverberating through the apartment like a gunshot. Chuuya stood there, frozen, his hand still outstretched.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees, his head bowing as he pressed his bloody hands to his face. The room felt colder without you in it, the silence deafening. He had faced death countless times, laughed in its face even, but nothing had ever hit him like this.

He sat there for hours, unmoving, his chest aching with a pain he couldn’t fight, couldn’t fix. You were gone. And this time, he couldn’t bring you back.

,

The apartment felt lifeless, weighed down by the hum of the overhead lamp. KUNIKIDA sat at his desk, rigid as always, his pen gliding over the pages of his notebook with the same precision he brought to every corner of his life. The faint scratch of ink against paper was the only sound, filling the chasm where your voice used to belong.

You lingered by the doorway, your shadow stretching into the room, unnoticed. The sight of him—the man who once looked at you as if you were the one constant in his world—cut deeper than any words could. His face was lit by the cold, clinical glow of the desk lamp, sharp lines of exhaustion etched beneath his glasses. You wondered if he even realized how distant he had become, how hollow his promises now sounded.

“Kunikida,” you said, softly at first, the word trembling on your tongue like a final plea.

He didn’t stop writing. “In a minute,” he replied, the words automatic, lifeless.

Your lips parted in a bitter smile. A minute. How many of those had passed? How many hours had you spent as a footnote in his grand designs, the love you’d once shared overshadowed by ideals scribbled in neat columns? “No,” you said, the word firmer this time, cutting through the quiet. “We need to talk.”

The pen paused mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as though your interruption was a disruption in his carefully crafted world. He turned to look at you, his sharp eyes dim with impatience. “Is this really the time for dramatics?”

His words stung more than they should have, but you bit back the tears threatening to rise. Instead, you stepped forward, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’ve waited for you,” you said, each word heavy with a grief you could no longer swallow. “For months, for years. I’ve waited for you to let me in. To give me even a piece of yourself that isn’t already claimed by this—” you gestured to the notebook, the desk, the rigid structure of his life “—this endless pursuit of perfection.”

Kunikida’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’m building something. For us. Don’t you see that? What I’m doing matters. It’s not about—”

“It’s not about me,” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “I know. It never has been. You’ve spent so long chasing your ideals that you’ve forgotten the person standing right in front of you. I’ve begged for scraps, Kunikida. Scraps of your time, your attention, your love. And I can’t do it anymore.”

The air between you seemed to thicken, silence stretching taut like a string on the verge of snapping. His mouth opened, but for once, Kunikida Doppo—so eloquent, so composed—had no words.

“I needed you,” you said, stepping back toward the door. “Not the future you’re building. Not the man you think you’re supposed to be. Just you. And you couldn’t give me that.”

You turned before he could see the tears finally spill over, the door clicking shut behind you.

Kunikida remained frozen, staring at the empty space where you had stood. The notebook lay open before him, a half-finished list of tasks glaring up at him like an accusation. Slowly, his gaze dropped to his hands, ink smudged on his fingers, trembling slightly.

This was supposed to be temporary, he told himself. The long nights, the endless sacrifices—it was all for something greater, something noble. But what good were his ideals now? What use were his plans if they had driven you away?

He closed the notebook with a trembling hand, the echo of the shut cover resounding through the empty apartment. And for the first time, Kunikida felt as though his vision of the future had slipped irreparably from his grasp.

,

The casino lights always felt too bright, too harsh, masking the emptiness that lingered behind them. The man sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed as if the weight of the entire world pressed down on him. His hands twisted nervously in his lap, trembling faintly, though SIGMA tried to still them.

You stood by the window, staring out at the neon glow of the city beyond. The glass reflected your silhouette back at you—a hollow figure, worn down by the same conversation you’d tried to have too many times.

“Do you even hear me, Sigma?” you asked softly, your voice breaking the stillness.

“I do,” he replied immediately, too quickly, his voice thin and fragile. But he didn’t look at you. He never did, not when it mattered most.

You turned, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Then why?” The word came out sharper than you intended, slicing through the air between you. “Why do you keep pulling away? Why do I feel like I’m the only one trying?”

Sigma flinched, his head sinking lower. “I’m trying,” he muttered, though the words sounded empty even to him. “I am. I just… I don’t know how.”

The confession hung in the air, brittle and raw.

You sighed, the anger slipping into exhaustion, your voice softening. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Sigma. I never did. I just needed you to try. To meet me halfway. But every time I reach for you, it’s like you’re not even there.”

His hands stilled, his fingers curling tightly against his palms. “I want to,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “But I… I don’t know how to be the person you need. I don’t know how to be anything but this.” He gestured vaguely at himself, his expression filled with a quiet despair.

You stepped closer, your chest aching at the sight of him so small, so utterly lost. But it wasn’t enough. Your love wasn’t enough. “I’ve waited, Sigma,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’ve waited so long for you to meet me in this, to choose me the way I’ve chosen you. But I can’t keep waiting for someone who doesn’t even know if they can try.”

The tears pooling in his eyes didn’t fall, but you saw them, glinting faintly in the dim light. He finally looked up at you, his face pale, his lips parted as though he wanted to speak. But nothing came.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words shattering as they left your lips. “But love can’t fix what you won’t even fight for.”

You grabbed your bag, the silence between you suffocating. Sigma didn’t move, didn’t stop you. He only sat there, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, his breath shallow and uneven as the door clicked shut behind you.

And then the stillness consumed him.

Sigma let out a shuddering exhale, burying his face in his hands as the weight of it all crashed down on him. He wanted to chase after you, to say the words he could never seem to find, to promise he could be better. But deep down, he knew the truth.

He had always been too small for this world, and now, he was too small for your love too.

a/n: HERE ML!! it’s not as angst-y as my other works but i added more characters so maybe you’d feel good!! lmk if i did it wrong <3 lowkey in love with kunika’s part

[nakylvr]

— CAUGHT!

daniela avanzini x tmasc!reader

summary: in which your girlfriend finds out you, are the vigilante that's been running the streets, when you show up beaten and bruised.

warnings/tags: fluff, established relationship, spiderman!reader, mild language

rewatched tasm and had to make something...i love superhero!aus

pain. all you felt at the current moment was pain. stumbling down the alleyways of new york, you were breathing shallowly while trying to see through your mask that was essentially torn in half. one of the eyes ripped off showing your bright pupils, and there was a large tear along the side accompanying the bleeding mark on your face. one of your ribs might've been cracked judging by the sharp pain and slight difficulty to breathe. you were limping due to landing on your ankle during the fight, probably fractured or at least sprained. you should've known better than to get into a fight you weren't determined you could win, and yet you did anyway.

glancing around, you find yourself in front of your girlfriend's apartment. you don't entirely remember how you got here, but you continue to walk around the building. staring up at the building, you take a deep breath before planting your hands and feet on the wall, slowly starting to climb up the wall. you can hear your heart beating in your ears, your head pounding as you move and eventually reach the window of her bedroom. removing one of your hands from the wall, you take the remainder of your mask off and look through the window, seeing daniela sitting on her bed reading a book. you knock on the glass a little harder than you anticipated, watching the latina jump and look over.

you can see her say "what the fuck" before she quickly gets up and goes to the window, opening it and seeing you clearly. but, you're in too much pain to notice or even remember that you were still in your outfit. letting her be the first person (excluding your aunt) to know who spiderman was.

"yn? what the fuck?" daniela says, her tone sounding angry but you know she's far from it with the expression on her face. she grabs your arm and pulls you inside, and you land on your back with a dull thud as you hit the ground.

"dani," you choke out, coughing up a bit of blood. the light in the room feels brighter than it is, and you have to close your eyes to keep your head from spinning.

"jesus fuck. what the hell yn?" daniela kneels down next to you, her hands cradling your face to make you look at her, your eyes tiredly opening at the feeling. "what happened? what did you do? why the hell are you wearing a fucking spiderman outfit?"

she's asking the questions so fast you can barely keep up, only really hearing the last one which is the one you most expected. "it's me," you murmur in response.

her eyes widen, looking over your face and then trailing down to see the parts of your suit ripped open with open wounds bleeding. she tries not to think on the fact you're a vigilante for too long, shaking her head and grabbing your arms. "get up," she tells you, pulling your arms.

it takes all your energy to pull yourself up off the ground, and immediately your legs are wobbling and you slouch against daniela, hearing the curse she mutters while wrapping her arm around you to keep you standing. she then guides you to her bathroom, sitting you down on the edge of the bathtub. "stay here," she says before leaving the bathroom.

you close your eyes, focusing on breathing that hurt every time you inhaled causing you to cough and feel an extreme sharp pain in your side. "fuck," you curse quietly. you're not sure how much time passes until you hear footsteps approaching and you slowly open your eyes, your vision slightly blurry but managing to make out daniela with a first aid kit in her hands. "dani..."

"don't talk," she tells you, stopping in front of you and setting the first aid kit down on the sink counter. "how the hell do you get this thing off?" she asks, clearly talking about the suit.

tapping the spider logo on your chest, your suit shrinks into a small trinket off your body, leaving you in just your boxers, causing daniela's eyes to widen and mumble a curse under her breath.

"okay...not going to ask," she murmurs. looking over your body and seeing the different cuts and bruises. "god, yn..." she sighs quietly. "you look like shit." she opens the first aid kit, pulling out a few different things from it.

"feel like it," you mumble, your eyes drooping closed.

"don't close your eyes," daniela tells you, pouring some rubbing alcohol on a pad before pressing it on your cheek.

"fuck!" you gasp at the stinging pain you immediately feel, your eyes shooting open.

there was a silence that filled the room after that as daniela put bandages around your waist and other spots that were bleeding. but it was far from a comfortable silence. you knew she was upset at multiple things, but you didn't know how to talk about it. your aunt was the only one who knew you were spiderman, and she found that out on accident, so you hadn't really prepared for when others would find out.

"i'm sorry," you mumble.

"don't start doing that." daniela shakes her head. she finishes with the last bandage and takes a step back to look at you better, letting out a short sigh. "were you ever going to tell me?"

you look down at the ground at her question. it takes you a moment to respond, both from the throbbing in your head and trying to figure out how to put it. "eventually," you answer.

"eventually?" daniela repeats. "what the hell does that mean?" she crosses her arms over her chest.

"it means i..." you take a shaky breath. "i didn't want you to know and possibly get hurt. i-i didn't want to risk losing you," you answer quietly.

daniela's face softens at your response. she sees you look down at the ground again and she grabs your hand causing you to look at her. "you aren't going to lose me, yn," she says in the same voice. "and while this is definitely not how i would've liked to have found out considering you're completely beaten and bruised, i'm glad you came to me."

"i didn't know where else to go," your voice cracks slightly, your breathing coming out in light wheezes from the pain you were feeling. "all-all i could think about was if i-i didn't get away i would die a-and i w-wouldn't see y-you and-"

"hey, hey," daniela interjects, her hands moving up to cup your face and seeing the tears starting to form in your eyes. "breathe, yn. you're okay. everything is okay. i swear." her thumbs wipe away the few tears that fell from your eyes. "i love you, okay? nothing will change that." she presses a soft kiss to your lips.

you can feel your heartbeat finally slowing down to an even pace when she kisses you, sighing softly against her lips as your arms snake around her waist. when she pulls away, she looks down at you with such love in her eyes that it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

"i love you too," you say quietly.

"c'mon, let's get you into some clothes. i think there's still some of yours from when you were last here," daniela says. grabbing your hand and gently pulling you up onto your feet.

you follow her back to her bedroom, standing there silently as she finds the clothes of yours and helps you get them on. once you've changed she grabs your hand again, going over to her bed and lying down on it while pulling you along with her.

you lay down on top of her, hearing the quiet gasp that escapes her lips at the sudden weight on her, but she doesn't mind it. you were honestly like a weighted blanket when you did this, and she knew how much pain you were currently in, so she didn't say anything. your head rests on her chest as you close your eyes to try and ignore the throbbing in your head, hearing her heartbeat calm you down so you were breathing correctly again. one of her hands drags its fingers through your hair, playing with the strands causing you to immediately feel the exhaustion seeping through your body.

"thank you," you mumble.

"don't thank me," she whispers. "i'm just glad you're okay."

you nod a little bit, feeling yourself about to fall asleep just by the way she was playing with your hair and her familiar perfume as you put your face in her neck. "i love you."

"i love you too." she presses a small kiss on your head. "get some sleep. i'll be here when you wake up."

a short hum escapes your throat at her words and within the minute you were passed out asleep on top of her. she glances down at you, her eyes wandering across the bruises that were already beginning to form on your skin and the bandages she used to cover the open cuts you had on you. she lets out a quiet sigh before closing her eyes, knowing she'll have to have a long talk with you tomorrow about all of this. but not for now. for now, you were okay, you were safe, and you were in the arms of the girl you cared about the most. and for now, that was enough.

[theonottsbxtch]

A FUTURE WORTH LIVING | CS55

an: this was a request from @carlossainzapologist and RAHHHHH they’ve given me so many ideas chat be ready to be blown up on here please enjoy knight!carlos

wc: 3.6k

The castle walls were always cold at night, the chill seeping into her bones no matter how many fires roared in the hearth. She stood at the balcony, the silk of her gown whispering against the stone as the wind tangled itself in her hair. Below, the training yard was empty, save for one figure—Carlos.

He moved like the ocean, each swing of his blade fluid and unyielding. Moonlight danced along the edge of his sword, casting fleeting shadows that seemed to mock her. She had watched him countless nights like this, a silent penance for the sin of her love. The knight was hers in duty, bound to protect her with his life, but not in the way her heart so desperately craved.

She clenched the railing, the cool stone biting into her palms. Tomorrow, she would stand before an altar, draped in gold and jewels, and vow her life to a man she barely knew. A prince who was everything a kingdom could hope for—noble, strong, diplomatic. And yet, she could barely remember the color of his eyes.

Carlos, on the other hand... She could sketch the curve of his jaw from memory, trace the faint scar that cut through his brow with her fingertips. But he had never once looked at her as though she were anything more than his charge.

She turned away, unwilling to let the tears fall where they might be seen, even by the night.

“Your Highness,” his voice broke through the stillness, low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine.

She hadn’t heard him climb the stairs. “Carlos,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.

He stood in the doorway, his armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. “It’s late. You should rest.”

She laughed softly, bitterly. “Rest will not come easily tonight.”

He hesitated, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’ve...much to think about, I’m sure.”

Her heart twisted at his careful tone, the way he avoided her gaze. “Do you ever think about what it might be like to leave all of this behind?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos stepped closer, and for a moment, she thought he might say something—something that could shatter the fragile balance they had maintained for years. But instead, he bowed his head.

“My duty is here,” he said, his words as unyielding as the steel he wielded. “With you, always.”

And wasn’t that the cruelest part of all?

She turned back to the balcony, desperate to hide the tremble in her lips. His words echoed in her mind, a hollow comfort and a deeper torment. With you, always. But never in the way she longed for.

“Duty,” she murmured, tasting the bitterness of the word. “And what of desire, Carlos? Do you ever think of what you want?”

The question hung between them like a blade poised to strike. She didn’t expect him to answer; he never did. He was a master of restraint, trained to subdue his every impulse, his every want, for the sake of the kingdom.

But this time, he faltered.

“I have no right to want,” he said at last, his voice tight with something she couldn’t quite name.

She spun to face him, her heart pounding. The stoic knight who had stood at her side for years, unflinching, unyielding, looked...fractured. His jaw was clenched, his hands trembling at his sides, as though holding himself back from something he couldn’t afford to let loose.

“Everyone has the right to want,” she said, taking a step closer. Her voice was steadier now, emboldened by the crack in his armour. “Even you, Carlos.”

He shook his head, “It’s late, Your Highness,” he said, his voice cold again, the mask he wore sliding back into place. “You should go to bed.”

Her heart stuttered.

“I…” She swallowed, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. “Carlos, I—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice a little softer but still firm. “It’s been a long day. You need rest. Tomorrow, I’ll be here to take you to your wedding.”

The words stung, sharper than any blade. Your wedding.

Her chest tightened. She nodded, but it was a hollow motion, an empty gesture. “Of course,” she whispered, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “I will go to bed.”

Carlos didn’t move, didn’t speak, as she turned away, her steps heavy as she walked past him and into her chambers. His silence followed her like a shadow, and when the door clicked shut behind her, the walls seemed to close in.

She collapsed onto her bed, the weight of the night pressing down on her chest. The tears came then, hot and relentless, streaking down her face. She buried her face in the pillow, her sobs muffled by the soft fabric, but the pain was no less real. How many years had she spent in this prison of her own making? How many nights had she wondered if he felt the same? And now, she had the answer.

He had never loved her. Not like that.

The cruelest part was that she had always known it. He had always kept his distance, had always put up that invisible wall between them. But tonight—tonight, she had hoped for something different. A sign. A glimpse of what could be. But instead, he had pushed her away, as he always did. As he was bound to.

And tomorrow, she would marry a prince. Not Carlos.

The thought was suffocating.

She cried until the tears were spent, her body aching with grief. The room, the bed, the very air around her felt like a tomb. Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, but sleep was fitful, filled with dreams of a life she would never have.

When the morning came, bright and cruel, she woke to the sound of birds outside the window. The sun was already rising, casting its light on a future she was powerless to change.

The day had come.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her chamber, staring at the reflection of the woman she was supposed to be. The dress—gold and white, sparkling like the dawn—felt like a weight, a gilded cage around her body. Her hair, braided intricately, was pinned perfectly in place, but her heart was a mess of tangled threads she couldn’t untangle. She had spent the last few hours preparing, her hands trembling with the knowledge of what was to come. The crown, the prince, the vows.

But as she looked into her own eyes, she saw only a woman who had never been allowed to choose her own fate.

Her father’s voice echoed from outside the door. “It’s time, my daughter.”

She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears.

When she stepped into the hall, the air seemed to thicken with the weight of expectation. The guests were already seated, whispering amongst themselves, all of them dressed in their finest clothes, their faces a blur of curiosity and anticipation. The music began to play softly, and her heart raced in response.

She could feel every eye on her as she made her way down the aisle, each step feeling heavier than the last. The golden carpet stretched out before her like a path to a life she had never wanted but had been told to accept. Her father’s arm was warm and steady at her side, but his grip felt more like a shackle than a reassurance.

And then, she saw him.

The prince stood at the altar, tall and regal in his embroidered cloak, his expression composed but his eyes glimmering with the excitement of their union. He was a handsome man, noble, with a smile that promised safety, security. But it was a smile she had never truly felt for.

The thought of marrying him—of giving herself over to someone who had always been a stranger to her—gnawed at her insides.

She caught sight of her people sitting in the pews, the nobles, the courtiers, their faces filled with eager expectation. The kingdom was relying on her. They all expected this—her duty to marry and secure the future of their land. And she had always known it was her responsibility, her burden, to uphold this legacy. But today, as she walked closer to the prince, closer to the altar, something inside her broke.

This wasn’t her life to choose. This was a life written for her before she had even taken her first breath.

Her heart pounded as she neared the altar. The prince’s eyes were fixed on her now, his smile widening. He reached out, eager to take her hand, to finalize the union that had been arranged for years. But something inside her snapped.

She looked to her father, his face a mask of pride and expectation. And then, she whispered—her voice trembling but resolute, despite the tears that threatened to spill.

“I can’t.”

The words were quiet, but the silence that followed felt deafening. Her father’s face faltered, the confusion and anger flashing in his eyes as the entire room fell into stunned silence.

“I can’t do this,” she said again, louder this time, her breath shaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Before anyone could stop her, she turned. Her gown swished in the air as she fled from the altar, her heart pounding with every step, every beat screaming to be free. The room erupted in chaos, gasps of shock and whispers of disbelief. Her father’s furious voice called after her, but she didn’t look back.

She ran down the aisle, past the stunned guests, toward the doors. The weight of their eyes was suffocating, but it wasn’t enough to make her stop.

But then, as she reached the doors, she heard it—the sound of footsteps, fast and urgent. A figure pushed through the crowd, his heavy armour clanking as he moved with determination.

Carlos.

Her breath hitched as he came to a stop in front of her, his face flushed with exertion but his eyes filled with something softer—something she hadn’t dared to hope for.

He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. The world had stopped, leaving only the two of them.

“Carlos,” she whispered, her heart thundering in her chest.

He looked at her, his gaze gentle but firm. “You’re not alone,” he said, his voice low, raw. “I’ll be here. Always.”

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she allowed herself to breathe, to feel something that was her own.

He reached out, taking her hand with a tenderness she hadn’t dared dream of.

“Come with me,” he urged quietly.

Without a second thought, she nodded, her heart finally free of the chains that had bound it for so long.

Carlos led her swiftly through the palace, his hand firm around hers as they moved with purpose. The chaos of the wedding behind them still echoed in the corridors, muffled voices and heavy footsteps trailing in their wake, but they were already a world apart.

He knew every hidden corner of the palace. Every secret passageway and forgotten alcove. He had trained here for years, had wandered these halls long before he had become her protector. Now, as he led her through a narrow, unlit hallway, his grip tightened, a silent promise that he would never let her go.

They reached a small, inconspicuous door at the end of the hall, tucked away in the shadow of a grand staircase. With a glance over his shoulder, Carlos pushed the door open, revealing a small room that had been untouched by the outside world for as long as either of them could remember.

The walls were lined with old tapestries, their colors faded with time, and the floor was covered in a thick rug. There were no windows—no light except for the soft glow of torches on the far wall. The air was thick with dust, but it felt safer than any grand chamber in the palace. Here, in this forgotten corner, they could be hidden from everything, from everyone.

He closed the door behind them, the click of the lock sounding final.

For a moment, they both stood in silence, catching their breath. She was still in her wedding gown, the fabric bunched around her legs, her chest rising and falling with each breath. His hands were still warm from the grip he had kept on her, his fingers now twitching with the need to touch her again.

Carlos took a step closer, the heat between them building. His eyes searched hers, full of questions, but also something deeper—something he had fought to conceal for years.

She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “What now?”

Carlos didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His touch was hesitant, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.

“I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “I didn’t mean to make you run. But I couldn’t let you do this, not when I knew you weren’t ready.”

Her heart skipped at the weight of his words. He knew her. Truly knew her.

“You should’ve let me go,” she whispered, her voice strained. “You should’ve stayed out of it. This is not our fight.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “It’s always been our fight, Your Highness. I’ve watched you—” His voice faltered as if the confession had come too suddenly. “I’ve watched you give everything for this kingdom, for your people, for your father. But it was never your choice, was it? Not once. And I couldn’t bear to watch you live a life you didn’t want.”

The words were like a dagger to her chest, but they were also freeing. For the first time in her life, someone saw her, truly saw her—beyond the princess, beyond the duty. He saw her heart.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she said, the words coming out with a rush of emotion she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now. “I never did.”

Carlos stepped closer, his breath mingling with hers. “Then don’t. Not now. Not ever.”

She looked up at him, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. “But what do we do now, Carlos? What’s left for us?”

He didn’t hesitate. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to spill from her eyes. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. Whatever you need, I’ll be there. Always.”

And in that moment, everything that had been left unsaid, all the years of longing and silence, came crashing down.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against hers for the briefest of moments, tentative, searching. She gasped, her heart racing as she finally let herself feel everything she had been holding back. She kissed him back, her hands moving up to his chest, tugging at the fabric of his tunic, desperate to feel him closer.

The kiss deepened, their bodies pressed against one another as though they were two halves of a whole, finally coming together. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her flush against him as his mouth claimed hers with a fierce urgency.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath coming in short gasps as the heat between them intensified, the room spinning with a mixture of passion and desperation.

She had imagined this moment a thousand times—dreamed of it in the silence of her heart—but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. The way his hands burned against her skin, the way his lips moved over hers with a hunger that matched her own.

Carlos pulled back for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, both of them gasping for air. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’ve always wanted this,” she confessed, her voice trembling.

And without another word, they kissed again, this time with a fierceness that spoke of all the years they had spent apart, of all the moments they had lost. In that hidden room, within the walls of the palace that had confined them both, they were finally free.

Just as their kiss deepened once more, a sharp, urgent knock at the door shattered the fragile moment between them. The sound echoed in the small room like a warning bell.

She pulled away immediately, her heart leaping into her throat as she scrambled to straighten herself. The panic rose within her, hot and suffocating. What if it was her father? What if the whole palace had come after her?

Carlos, too, immediately stepped back, his expression flickering between concern and irritation. He moved toward the door swiftly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though it wasn’t drawn. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, and in that glance, there was no need for words. They both knew they were far from safe.

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by a low voice from the other side.

“Carlos? Open the door. It’s Lando.”

Her heart skipped. Lando—one of the knights she recognised from the court. He had always been polite, professional, and loyal to her family, but what was he doing here?

Carlos hesitated for only a moment before he reached for the latch and opened the door. Lando stood there, his expression tense, eyes scanning the room quickly. He wasn’t wearing his armor, but he was still dressed in the colors of the royal guard, his dark cloak billowing slightly behind him.

“Carlos,” Lando began, his voice low but urgent, “I’ve heard the rumors. Your princess...she’s gone?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away, his gaze still fixed on Lando, weighing the situation.

“Yes,” Carlos said, his voice steady but tinged with something like defiance. “She’s with me. No one else knows of this.”

Lando nodded, glancing quickly at her—still in her wedding gown, eyes wide with fear—and then back at Carlos.

“Good,” Lando said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “I’m not here to make trouble. I’m here to get you both out.”

The words struck her like a bolt of lightning. “Get us out?” Her voice trembled, the reality of what that could mean slowly sinking in. “Where? How? They’ll come for us. The entire palace…”

Lando closed the door behind him with a soft thud, cutting off the room’s only escape from the chaos outside. He leaned against the door, his hands steady. “I have a plan. I know the back routes. I can get you on a train, to the border. The prince and your father will have no idea you’ve gone. But we need to move now, before they realise what’s happened.”

Carlos turned to her, his eyes dark with unspoken emotion, but this time there was no hesitation. He wasn’t waiting for her to choose anymore.

But she was frozen, her mind racing. The weight of everything was bearing down on her—her family, the kingdom, her future. She had run away from her wedding, run away from the life she had been promised. It wasn’t just a momentary flight of passion. This was real, and there would be no going back.

Her heart was torn between the life she had been forced into and the man standing in front of her. She had always known she was meant for something more, but this—this escape—felt so final. So dangerous.

The room seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing against her chest as she breathed in sharp, ragged breaths.

“I can’t... I can’t do this,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

Carlos took a step toward her, his hand gentle on her arm. “You don’t have to decide now, but we don’t have time. They’ll find us, and they’ll make sure you marry him. You’ve already decided you can’t go through with that. So what are you going to do? Stay here, be forced into a life you never wanted?”

The words stung, but they were true. She had always been the dutiful daughter, the princess. She had always done what was expected. But this—this was hers.

She looked at Lando, then back at Carlos. The decision was there, right in front of her.

The chaos of the wedding, the pressure of her family’s expectations, the silence she had lived in for so long—it all came rushing to the surface. She didn’t have time to think anymore.

Fuck it.

The thought shot through her mind like a spark to kindling.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice steady now, her decision final.

Carlos’ eyes softened, relief flooding through him. He reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly. “You won’t regret this.”

“I already have,” she replied, a wild grin breaking across her face. “But this... this is my choice.”

Lando smiled, and with a quick nod, he moved toward the door. “We’ll need to move fast. You two better follow me.”

Carlos took her hand, guiding her toward the door, but before they stepped into the unknown, she paused for a moment.

“Carlos,” she whispered. He turned to her, his hand resting on her back. She looked at him with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. “Are you sure? Will you stay with me? I... I don’t want to be alone in this.”

Carlos stepped closer, his voice firm. “You’re not alone. I will always be here.”

And with that, they followed Lando through the dark corridors of the palace, the sound of their footsteps fading into the distance.

They were no longer bound by duty, by royal expectation, by anything but their own desire for freedom. And in that moment, they realised that together, they could forge a new path—one they chose.

the end.

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[teastainedprose]

Breaking Point (Homelander x reader)

Homelander delights in teasing you until he needles you too much on the wrong day. 1.5k words | Jerk Homelander to guilty Homelander, hurt/comfort if you squint. Homelander x gn!reader, implied chronic pain reader, implied plus-sized reader, [A03]

You are so soft. Your flesh gives under his grasp when he yanks you by the arm, careless with how it makes you stumble. Homelander laughs mockingly at the small, annoyed twitch of your lip as he tugs you close. Too close.

"Hey. Where are those new poll results, sweetheart?" The words are a purr, warm breath a caress against your cheek as he looms too close to be proper. Everything done with calculated intent to pull a reaction from you.

You stare blankly up at him, expression schooled neutral. You're used to this game. You've watched other employees crack and fracture under the pressure Homelander exerts. You refuse. You're made of sterner stuff, a master of hiding how you're honestly feeling.

He knows he gets to you, but you rarely let it show on the outside. You can school your face, but there's no controlling how he makes your heart hammer in your chest. How being so close to him sets your nerves alight in a pleasant sensation. Homelander leers down at you, pleased at how your pulse skitters under his scrutiny. He releases you, stepping back as the persona of a proper gentleman settles into place. Homelander smiles as he waits for your reply, the well-practiced one that the cameras always catch.

You're quick to give Homelander an indulgent smile back. An exchange of fake expressions as the two of you play nice. You look so placid and calm before him, but Homelander knows better. He can hear your heart jumping in your chest.

"I can pull them up for you right now if you want?" You reply, the words even and calm as you look up expectantly. You're too tired to deal with any bullshit. Homelander's included. You're always too tired.

In his eyes you're so amiable, so sweet. So disgusting. Your response isn't what he wants.  It's controlled and that's no fun. He's not satisfied with your performance. Homelander sneers, whirling away with a flutter of his cape. "Never mind."

You stand there, grimacing in his wake as you rub the spot where he grabbed you. You briefly let your honest emotions flicker freely on your face while his back is turned.. No eyes on you at this moment as sheer frustration and pain settles in. You take a breath as your mask of calm is set back into place. You go on with your day.

Why are you so soft? Under his hands and how you interact with others. Why do you always hand out such easy smiles so freely? He hates that about you. You carry that weary calm like a cloak, but you'll shake it off with a vibrant smile and a laugh if the right person engages you in conversation. They distract you from your fatigue and you light right up.

Homelander has yet to earn one of those sunshine smiles. He gets the fake ones. The ones that make him feel like a child clamoring for attention that you only indulge with your patience. He hates it. It makes him feel small. A god should never feel this way around such a weak mortal as yourself.

As any god does, he lets it bruise his fragile ego. The mortal must be punished and punish you he does. Every day Homelander tries to get a rise out of you. He tries to crack that cheerful facade you've welded in place. It must be fake. No animal has such a cheerful disposition naturally. There's no reason for it because you're so often a lethargic thing. He can smell the weariness on you, the stress, and even pain. How the fuck are you still smiling?

-and why the fuck do you never smile at him? 

Homelander decides, in his usual mature fashion, that if you won't smile? He'll bait out your anger instead. He wants, needs a reaction from you beyond those fake smiles.

He continues to goad you day in and day out. He'll slide right up next to you, too close, and lean down to ask directly into your ear for a report or some statistics on what his numbers are doing. Any old excuse to engage with you. He gleefully invades your personal space and is extra handsy because Homelander knows you hate it while he's aware of the effect it has on your body. 

If he grabs your shoulder and squeezes just so, your breath hitches. If he places a palm against the small of your back, your pulse races away without fail. If Homelander berates your fashion choices or comments on how tired you look, you flash that hollow smile while your eyes speak loathing at him. He wants that fire, craves it.

The tired fatigue that you always carry briefly pulls back to hint at a simmering something. One day he'll get you boiling over. In anger, in lust. It doesn't matter which one as long as it happens with him there to witness it.

Homelander finds himself brimming with anticipation for that day until it finally happens.

Everyone has a breaking point, even you.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It's too much, please just-

He's caught you trying to hide away in a conference room, the scent of adrenaline in the air as your heart races. A glance with his x-ray vision reveals you staring off with shaking fists clenched against your plush sides.

Finally!

Will you lash out?  Will you bite back? The thought sends a thrill through Homelander at seeing little Miss Sunshine finally rattled. There's a storm brewing on your face as your fingers tighten. It's an expression Homelander knows he's worn many a time. The sort of look that has interns scattering and Ashley stammering.

What a delight it'll be to see what you unleash. What can you possibly do, as small and soft as you are? Will it be like watching a kitten hiss and claw? Adorably pathetic.

He strides into the conference room with a smirk, the door clicking shut behind him. "There you are! You missed today's meeting, you know." He chides softly with a waggle of one finger as Homelander strides closer. You stare up at him, eyes blazing.

"Now what are we going to do about that?" Homelander goes on, voice as smooth as honey as he smirks down at you.

Something in your expression shifts. A crack in your mask appears.

Gotcha.

"Well?" He prompts, expectant. Giddiness trickles down his spine as Homelander grins wide, fangs on display. He can't wait to see how this rage of yours plays out.

Except you don't unleash anything on him. You don't even insult Homelander, which would give him reason to taunt you further or retaliate. It would give him a reason to finally lash out at you in earnest, but all you're doing is standing there.

Your expression crumples up like wet tissue. The tears are white hot and silently streaking down your face in an instant. The sound you make is beyond pathetic as you drop back into your seat, huddling into yourself. Homelander watches stock-still as you draw your legs up, arms coiling about your knees as you bury your face away from his gaze.

It's a truly pathetic sight, sobbing like the little mud person you are.

Homelander should feel triumphant. His grin twists to a grimace. He awkwardly shifts, gloves creaking as he balls his fingers into fists at his side.

Why isn't he pleased? He's watching you shatter and it doesn't wash him in the usual delight bringing misery to others does. Your sunshine is gone and it's raining on your parade, which is exactly what Homelander wanted.

Your crying should amuse Homelander. He's not amused. Instead, there's a sinking feeling within the pit of his stomach. A dead weight settles heavy inside as all his amusement flees at the sound of your whimpering sobs. It's a foreign sensation and Homelander doesn't like it one bit.

Homelander works his jaw as guilt chews away at his insides, stuck to the spot hovering over you. You continue to cry, quieter now with your back bowed and face hidden. He can smell the salt of your tears easily. 

Silently, he reaches back to pull up the length of his cape. This Homelander offers to you. He doesn't have a handkerchief like a proper gentleman, so this will have to do.

He knows he's broken something. Carelessly snapped it in two. Homelander has done it countless times before. The snap of a spine. Fizzle pop of a control deck. The crackle and sizzle of flesh. The wet sucking sound as organs spill on the floor. It's natural for a creature such as him. Things breaking is a fact of his life. He's never felt guilty about any of those times. Guilt is a rare emotion for Homelander but now it's clawing up his throat, threatening to choke him. 

Homelander blinks and refocuses his gaze as he feels a tug on his cape. He watches in a detached way as you dab at your face with the fabric, sniffling loudly. Homelander can't make himself apologize. He doesn't know how.

Instead, he asks in a surprisingly tentative voice. "Bad day?"

That takes you by surprise as your gaze snaps to him. You stare a beat up at Homelander and then you smile. It's a quavering sort, but it's an honest smile. The sunshine rushes back into your face as Homelander sucks a breath in. Were you always such a lovely little creature?

"Yeah," You say slowly. "Something like that."

[sombaf]

The silence before the storm was always the most dangerous. Lena had learned that early in life—boardrooms, labs, and now, in the heart of her office at L-Corp, standing across from Kara Danvers. Correction: Kara Zor-El. Supergirl. Her wife. Or at least, her soon-to-be ex-wife.

The tension in the room might as well have been a grenade, pin pulled, seconds from detonating.

“You filed for divorce,” Kara said, her voice low, tight.

“Yes.” Lena kept her arms crossed, her face calm. She had practiced this—practiced detachment, practiced not letting Kara look at her with those wide blue eyes and make her doubt her decision.

“You actually filed for divorce.” Kara’s voice cracked, disbelief and anger curling together into something sharp. “Lena, how could you—?”

“How could I?” Lena’s voice rose sharply, her mask fracturing. She pushed off the desk, closing the distance between them in two quick strides. “Don’t you dare stand there and act surprised, Kara! How could you?”

Kara recoiled slightly, her eyes narrowing, her jaw tightening. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hurt you!”

“And yet, you did.” Lena’s voice was cold, cutting. “Every single day you lied to me. Every moment you pretended to trust me while keeping the biggest part of yourself hidden. Did you think I wouldn’t find out eventually? Or was I just supposed to live my entire life being the idiot who didn’t know her wife was Supergirl?”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel like an idiot!” Kara’s hands curled into fists, trembling at her sides. “I was trying to protect you, Lena! Don’t you understand that?”

“No, Kara.” Lena stepped closer, her voice like ice. “I don’t understand, because that’s not protection. That’s control. You decided for me. You decided I didn’t need to know. That I wasn’t worthy of the truth.”

“That’s not—” Kara’s voice faltered, her shoulders sagging. She looked at Lena, her eyes pleading now. “That’s not why I didn’t tell you. I was scared.”

Lena barked out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Of me? Kara, I loved you. I trusted you completely. I would have died for you, and you were scared of me?”

“I was scared of losing you!” Kara shouted, her voice raw, reverberating through the office. Her fists slammed against her thighs, and Lena could see the way her fingers twitched, like she wanted to punch something—anything.

For a moment, they stared at each other, the tension in the room so thick it felt like the air itself might shatter. Then Kara reached into her jacket and pulled out the manila envelope.

Lena recognized it instantly.

“I can’t believe this is what you want,” Kara said, her voice low, shaking. She slammed the envelope onto the desk with a crack that echoed through the room. The wood splintered beneath it, a jagged fault line spreading across the surface.

Lena flinched but didn’t step back. She refused to let Kara intimidate her, even unintentionally.

“You want your divorce so badly?” Kara spat. “Fine. Take it.”

The desk groaned ominously, the split widening. For a moment, neither of them moved, their heavy breathing the only sound in the room.

Lena’s lips parted, words teetering on the edge of escape, but nothing came. Kara’s chest heaved, her fists still clenched at her sides, and for the first time, Lena felt the full weight of Kara’s anger—not just the anger at her, but the anger Kara carried toward herself. Lena’s body tensed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She told herself to step back, to stay in control, but the pull of Kara—of her fury, her presence—was impossible to resist. Even now, with anger still simmering in her veins, Lena hated how much she wanted her.

And god help her, Kara had never looked more breathtaking.

Lena’s composure cracked completely. She hated herself for noticing the way Kara’s chest heaved, her lips parted in anger. Oh lord, why does she have to look like that? The thought scraped against her resolve, shattering it entirely.

She surged forward, grabbing Kara’s shirt and yanking her down into a kiss. It was messy, frantic, their teeth clashing before their mouths found a rhythm, before their anger melted into something else entirely.

For a moment, Kara froze, her mind racing. She didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve Lena’s touch, her anger, her love—but Rao, she couldn’t stop herself. Her hands found Lena’s waist, pulling her closer as if drawn by a force she couldn’t resist. Lena could feel the heat radiating off her skin—something warm, almost electric, like sunlight trapped beneath Kara’s clothes.

“This doesn’t mean—” Lena gasped between kisses, but Kara cut her off, her lips capturing Lena’s again, stealing the breath from her lungs. She tasted faintly sweet, like honey and something unplaceable—something not of this Earth.

“Don’t talk,” Kara murmured, her voice low and rough, her hands sliding up Lena’s back. “Just—don’t.”

Lena didn’t argue. Her fingers fisted in Kara’s collar, pulling her closer, the fabric taut beneath her hands. Kara’s strength was dizzying, a palpable force beneath her touch. When Kara lifted her onto the desk—splintered wood and all—Lena felt a fleeting rush of safety, absurd in its contrast to the chaos between them.

The papers were crushed beneath them, forgotten, as Kara pressed forward, her hands everywhere—Lena’s hips, her thighs, her waist. The touch of her fingers was firm, grounding, but never too much, as if Kara was still afraid of breaking her.

“Kara,” Lena breathed, her voice shaky, her hands threading through Kara’s hair. Her fingertips grazed the soft waves, tugging just enough to make Kara groan low in her throat—a sound that sent heat pooling low in Lena’s stomach.

It was intoxicating, the way Kara’s control slipped in moments like this. The way she kissed Lena like she was both holding her together and tearing her apart.

“You drive me insane,” Kara muttered against Lena’s lips, her voice low and husky. The scent of her—clean, crisp, with a faintly alien warmth that Lena couldn’t name—wrapped around her like a cocoon.

“Good,” Lena whispered back, her nails dragging down Kara’s back through her shirt. The fabric bunched under her hands as she scratched lightly, just enough to make Kara shudder. “Now shut up and kiss me.”

Kara obliged, leaning in again, her lips searing, her hands gripping the edge of the desk to steady herself. The desk groaned under their combined weight, but neither of them cared.

It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet. It wasn’t a resolution to the anger and hurt that still lingered between them. But it was something—something raw and real and theirs.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were panting, their foreheads pressed together. Kara’s hands were trembling where they rested on Lena’s thighs, and Lena’s lips were red and swollen from the force of their kisses. Her heart thundered in her chest, her body still thrumming with the aftershock of Kara’s touch.

“I hate you,” Lena whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I love you,” Kara replied, her voice just as shaky, her gaze searching Lena’s face.

Lena let out a choked laugh, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re infuriating.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them.

But the tension that had suffocated them for weeks now felt… lighter. Not gone, but no longer insurmountable.

“Let’s talk,” Kara said softly, her voice breaking the silence.

Lena nodded, her hands still clinging to Kara’s shirt. “Okay. But not here.”

Kara smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair out of Lena’s face. “Anywhere you want.”

And for the first time in a long while, Lena thought they might actually be able to fix this. Together.

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter twenty-four: Fractured Walls

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

previous |24| next

Series Masterlist

The days that followed felt like a delicate dance—one where every step, every movement, was measured and careful. In-ho had distanced himself, but it wasn’t the same cold, distant wall he’d once put up. Now, it was like a door left slightly ajar, the cracks in his armor still visible but not easily breached. The pain in his eyes lingered, but so did the silence. He was more restrained, more controlled, but there was something else—something you couldn’t quite name, but you felt it. He was waiting for you to push, to challenge him, to see if you would let him hide.

You hadn’t pushed yet. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you understood. Losing someone, especially someone you loved with everything you had, left a scar deep enough that no amount of time could heal it. You could see it in the way he moved, the way his jaw clenched when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his eyes sometimes lingered on you as though trying to decide if you were worth the risk. He had built walls, but now they were just fragments—broken enough for you to see glimpses of what was underneath.

And so, you waited.

But waiting wasn’t always easy.

The following evening, you found yourself standing in front of In-ho’s office door. The silence in the hallway was suffocating, like the quiet before a storm. You weren’t sure what you were hoping for. Maybe a conversation, or maybe just the courage to finally confront him again. Something inside you told you it was time. Time to stop tiptoeing around the truth.

You knocked twice before stepping inside. He looked up from the papers on his desk, his usual unreadable mask in place, but there was a flicker in his eyes. A flicker you knew all too well. He wasn’t angry—he was… conflicted. Conflicted in the way only someone who had been hurt so deeply could be.

“You need something?” His voice was calm, controlled—too controlled, almost as if he was bracing for a confrontation.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on you. There was a knot in your throat, but you wouldn’t let it stop you.

“I need to talk,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with something that might have been uncertainty.

He leaned back in his chair, studying you in that quiet way he did, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of his desk. His mask was still firmly in place, but the air around him felt thick—heavy with the unspoken tension.

“What about?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, though you could see the flicker of curiosity behind the coldness.

You took a step forward, your gaze unwavering as you met his. “About us. About what happened after the panther mask… and about you pulling away.”

In-ho’s jaw tightened at the mention of the panther mask, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he stood up, walking to the window without a word. His back was to you, but his posture had stiffened, the tension in his broad shoulders radiating out like a warning. He hadn’t even taken the time to mask the rawness in his expression, and for a brief moment, you saw the cracks in his calm demeanor.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, do you?” His voice was low, almost a growl, and you could hear the edge of frustration in it. “I told you before. This life… this world… it’s not for you.”

You didn’t flinch, even though your heart skipped a beat. You were used to his intensity now, used to the way he could shut you out with just a few words. But that wasn’t going to stop you. Not this time.

“I know this world isn’t easy,” you said, your voice quieter but still firm. “But I’m already in it, In-ho. Whether you want me to be or not. And I’m not asking for anything more than… honesty. I need to understand why you won’t let me in.”

He turned to face you, his gaze sharper now, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. For a moment, his eyes softened—just the slightest hint of vulnerability flickering behind the cold mask. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same guarded distance.

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice thick with frustration. “I can’t open myself up again. Not after… not after everything that happened.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. There it was—the reason behind the walls. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you—it was that he didn’t know how to let someone in again. He was afraid. Afraid of the very thing you were hoping to build.

“You’re afraid,” you said, your words soft but firm. “You’re afraid of losing someone again, aren’t you?”

He flinched, the barest flicker of emotion crossing his face before it was hidden again. The silence stretched between you both, thick with the weight of his unspoken pain.

“Losing someone…?” His voice faltered for a split second, and you saw the wall in him crack just a little more. “I lost everything once. My wife. My child. I let myself love them, and it destroyed me when they were gone.”

Your heart ached for him—really ached, in a way you hadn’t anticipated. He wasn’t just pushing you away; he was guarding himself from something deeper. Something that threatened to break him if he allowed it to resurface.

“I can’t make the same mistake again,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, the vulnerability in it raw. “I won’t.”

You felt the urge to step closer, to reach out to him, but you stopped yourself. You knew he wasn’t ready for that yet. But you weren’t going to let him push you away this time.

“You don’t have to love me right now,” you said, your voice calm but unwavering. “But don’t shut me out. Don’t shut yourself out. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the silence thick with the weight of his words and your own. You could feel his struggle, the internal battle waging inside him. He wanted to push you away, but he also wanted to pull you closer. You could see it in the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way his jaw tightened with effort.

Finally, In-ho broke the silence, his eyes never leaving yours. “I can’t promise you anything,” he said, his voice rough. “Not right now. Not after everything.”

“I don’t need promises,” you replied, taking a step toward him. “I just need you to trust me. Little by little. I’m not asking for everything.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if weighing your words, before slowly opening them again. This time, there was something new in his gaze—a hint of uncertainty, a crack in his resolve that he couldn’t hide.

“You have more patience than I thought,” he muttered, almost to himself, before his gaze softened ever so slightly. “But you should know… this isn’t easy for me.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I’m not asking for it to be easy. Just… don’t push me away. Not when I’m here.”

There was another long pause, the air between you both heavy with unspoken thoughts, but this time, the silence felt different. It didn’t feel like a wall—it felt like a quiet understanding, a beginning of something that neither of you could fully define yet.

But at least now, there was the possibility of something real. Something you could hold onto.

———————

Chapter 24! How do you guys like this? Do you like how I’ve written the chapters and the characters? Thank you!

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[aventurineswife]

helloo, may I req platonic blade,jing yuan,dan heng and moze with a teen!reader who is like sirin from honkai impact 3rd?

“You can destroy everything in your path, but you can never destroy what lives inside you”

Tags: Blade x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Moze x Reader, Teen!Sirin!Reader, Platonic Relationships, Mentorship, Emotional Struggles, Inner Conflict, Vulnerability, Angst, Personal Growth.

Warnings: Mentions of pain and emotional turmoil, Inner conflict and rage, Destructive thoughts (brief), Themes of vengeance and loss, Mild language.

Blade stood motionless, the broken sword in his hand reflecting the dim light of the underground hideout. His eyes narrowed as he watched you, a figure consumed by inner turmoil and rage. Your expression flickered between innocence and something far darker, a complex mix of vulnerability and an undeniable thirst for vengeance. Blade recognized it instantly—the hunger for destruction, the same fire that burned within him.

“You have a choice,” Blade said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. “The path you’re walking leads to nothing but despair. I know this better than anyone.”

You glared at him, eyes flickering with frustration, before your voice cracked, “I don’t care. The world deserves to burn.”

Blade tilted his head slightly, observing your inner conflict. “Burning it all down won’t make the pain go away. Trust me, I’ve walked that path.” he muttered, glancing down at his fractured sword, a symbol of his own lost humanity. He could see the darkness in your eyes, but also a hint of something more—something worth saving.

“You’re not alone in this,” Blade said, a rare softness in his tone. “But don’t let your anger consume you. You’ll end up like me. A weapon without a soul.”

Jing Yuan leaned against a pillar, the soft glow of his golden eyes observing you as you paced restlessly. The weight of the world seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders, and the way you clutched your hands, as if holding back a storm, was telling. Jing Yuan's reputation for his foresight and calm demeanor preceded him, but he could still sense the conflict beneath your hardened exterior.

“You seem troubled,” Jing Yuan remarked, his voice slow, measured, as always. “I know what it’s like to carry the burdens of the world, but you need to understand one thing: you’re not alone.”

You stopped and turned sharply, eyes blazing with unspoken words. “I don’t need anyone. I’m stronger alone.”

Jing Yuan’s expression softened, but there was no pity in his gaze—only understanding. “Strength is not always about being alone, my young friend. Sometimes, it’s about learning to rely on others. Even the greatest warriors rely on those who walk beside them.”

You looked away, clearly struggling with the idea. Jing Yuan could sense the unresolved anger in you, a mirror of the feelings he had fought to keep in check for centuries. “I know it’s hard to trust,” Jing Yuan continued, his voice a little quieter. “But don’t let your pain isolate you. It can only make you weaker in the end.”

Dan Heng sat silently on the edge of the Astral Express, staring at the vast, starry expanse. Your footsteps were soft, almost hesitant, as you approached him. He didn’t look up immediately, but he could sense your presence—tension hanging thick in the air.

“You’re avoiding them,” your voice broke the silence, a directness that took Dan Heng by surprise. He finally looked up, his expression guarded, though his dark eyes betrayed a certain wariness.

“Not avoiding,” Dan Heng replied coolly. “Just staying out of trouble.”

You smirked bitterly, stepping closer. “Seems like you’ve been doing that your whole life.”

Dan Heng’s gaze hardened. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough,” you retorted. “You hide behind your responsibilities, your stoic face. You think running will make things go away. But it doesn’t.”

Dan Heng stiffened, and for a moment, his calm mask cracked. He had seen too much of himself in your rebellious defiance—too much of the pain he had buried deep within. “Running won’t solve everything, no,” he admitted quietly. “But it can keep me from destroying the things I care about.”

Your eyes softened for a brief moment before you turned away. “Yeah, I get that. But maybe you don’t have to run forever.”

Dan Heng’s gaze lingered on you. “Maybe.”

The room was quiet, save for the faint sounds of your breathing as you sat, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. Moze stood in the shadows, watching you with a cold, calculating gaze. He had been sent to observe, not to interact, but there was something about you that drew him in.

“You’re restless,” Moze said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. You flinched, not expecting the intrusion into your thoughts.

“Yeah, so?” you shot back, sharp and defensive. “What’s it to you?”

Moze stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “Restlessness doesn’t serve you. It’s a sign of a broken mind. You seek control, but you can’t control what’s inside of you.”

You clenched your fists, your shoulders tense. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Moze raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps not. But I know what it’s like to feel trapped by your past. To be consumed by the things you’ve done and the things you’ve lost.”

Your anger flickered in your eyes, but there was something else—something vulnerable, buried deep. Moze could see it, and it troubled him more than he cared to admit.

“Pain is a part of life,” Moze said, his voice steady. “But it doesn’t have to control you. You can choose to let it define you or let it go.”

You didn’t respond, but the silence between you felt different—less tense, perhaps, more thoughtful. Moze didn’t expect you to understand right away, but sometimes, it was enough to plant a seed.