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moondirti · 6 months ago

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jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

#this is heading into crazy kink fic territory sorry #also bare minimum research. its fanfic so if something is off. close your eyes and think with what's between your legs #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ‘ghost’ riley #ghost #simon riley #fanfiction #x reader #x you #call of duty #cod #modern warfare #mw #fic ༄ jigsaws

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srslyblvck · 4 months ago

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in my arms, five hargreeves

pairing: five hargreeves x fem!reader

synopsis: In the chaos, you break down, and Five comforts you, giving you new hope.

genre: angst, hurt-comfort, fluff

warnings: mental breakdown

author's note: this is to cope with the ending of tua s4 cuz idt i will be recovering from that anytime soon lmao

word count: 0.5k

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE WORLD WAS ENDING. Again.

You had lost count of how many apocalypses you and the rest of the Umbrella Academy had thwarted. Each one had left you more exhausted, more broken than the last. The constant fighting, the never-ending chaos, and the relentless pressure to save the world were taking their toll. There was no time to rest, no time to heal. Just fight, survive, and then do it all over again.

But this time, it was different. You could feel it in your bones. The hopelessness, the crushing weight of responsibility—it was all too much. You had always prided yourself on being strong, on never showing weakness. But now, standing in the ruins of yet another battle, you felt yourself breaking.

The others were scattered, each dealing with their own demons. But you couldn't keep going. Not like this. You sank to the ground, tears streaming down your face as the overwhelming sense of despair consumed you. You had tried so hard, fought so long, but it never seemed to be enough.

You didn't hear Five approach. He had always been the enigma, the one who seemed to have everything under control. You and he had clashed countless times, your arguments as fierce as the battles you fought. But now, as he knelt beside you, all the animosity seemed to fade away.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice lacking its usual edge. "What's going on?"

You couldn't bring yourself to look at him. "I can't do it anymore," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I can't keep saving the world. It's too much. I'm tired, Five. I'm so tired."

He was silent for a moment, then moved closer, wrapping his arms around you in an embrace that was surprisingly gentle. You stiffened at first, not used to this side of him, but then you let yourself relax into his arms. You buried your face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I know," he murmured, his hand rubbing your back in soothing circles. "I know it's hard. But you don't have to carry this burden alone."

You shook your head, the words spilling out between sobs. "I don't want to let everyone down. But I'm losing hope, Five. Everything is in chaos, and I can't… I can't keep pretending I'm okay."

Five tightened his grip on you, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You're not letting anyone down. You're human. You're allowed to feel this way. We've been through hell, and it's okay to break sometimes."

You clung to him, his words offering a glimmer of comfort amidst the darkness. For so long, you had believed that showing weakness was a sign of failure. But now, in Five's arms, you realized that maybe it was okay to let someone else in, to let them help carry the weight.

The chaos around you seemed to fade as you cried, Five's presence grounding you in a way you hadn't thought possible. He held you tightly, his hand gently stroking your hair. It was a side of him you had never seen before, and it made you feel a strange sense of comfort amidst the pain.

You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in each other's embrace, but for the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope. Not for the past, but for the future. Because as long as you had Five by your side, you knew you could face whatever came next.

#the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy fanfic #umbrella academy #tua #five hargreeves #five x reader #five hargreeves imagine #five hargreeves x reader #hurt/comfort #fluff

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wonsdoll · 2 months ago

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WOUNDS N’ KISSES ✦ HYUNG LINE

PREC𝓲S ｡｡ 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗏𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍

형라인 ／⠀ female reader ── fluff + non idol au ｡｡ ⠀ theyre “thugs” but softies 🎀 blood mentions :0 !! . . . more

HEESEUNG SAT ON THE EDGE of the bed, his posture slightly slouched, blood stains on his knuckles and a faint blood stain on his cheek. his usual confident self was quickly replaced with exhaustion from the fight he barely walked away from. you knelt in front of him, a damp cloth in your hand, gently trying to get the blood off his skin.

he hissed slightly when the cloth made contact with his skin, but his eyes remained locked onto you. although his guard was always up, you were the only one who saw him like this. this—raw, unguarded human.

“you dont have to do this..” heeseung muttered, trying to mask his vulnerability. even as he said this, heeseung still leaned into your touch, silently enjoying the comfort he craved.

you shook your head, your hands super steady as you cleaned his wound. “someone has to.” you replied softly, not looking up from his current injuries. this wasn’t the first time you’ve seen him like this, it never got easier.

heeseung’s hand rested on your knee, brushing the skin he had access to. “you’re too good to me.” he murmured, his lips forming a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “i wouldn’t have to be if you stopped getting into fights.” you looked at him, your voice laced with concern.

“maybe.. maybe i’ll be more careful.” heeseung chuckled. “can’t promise anything.” his voice was low and strained.

JAY SAT ON THE EDGE OF the couch, his shirt off revealing a deep bruise on his ribs and several small cuts onto his skin. jay was clearly in pain, but per usual, he was trying to hide it. jay was never one to show any sort of weakness, but with you, it was almost different. your eyes dropped onto his bruised body.

“jay… you really need to stop getting into these fights.” you murmured, dabbing a soaked cloth onto each cut on his skin.

jay winced slightly, but his eyes remained on you, softening in a way it never did. “it’s apart of business.” he muttered, his voice low. “i can handle it.”

you paused at his words, looking at him with a mix of frustration and care. “handling it doesn’t mean going through it all on your own.” you brushed your finger against his bruised chest, watching him quickly tense under your touch.

jay’s jaw clenched, his gaze briefly flickering away from you, almost as if he was trying to avoid eye contact. he absolutely hated the idea of being a burden, hated that you had to see him this way, bruised and battered. “i don’t want you to deal with this.”

you continued to clean his wounded body, each touch more softer than the last. “i’m here for you jay, you don’t have to hide any of that from me..” you tried to remove some of pain, jay was currently feeling.

JAKE SAT ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER, his usual grin was no where in sight. his face was bruised, a nasty cut along his eye brow and his once pretty hands had bruised knuckles. you stood in between his legs, trying to clean each wound carefully. your heart sunk as you saw his condition, it hurt to see him hurt. jake who was always smiling, was now beaten up and silent.

“i told you not to do this anymore..” you whispered, your voice laced in worry.

“i know.” jake winced, his voice rather quiet that usual. “i didn’t mean for it to happen again.”

“i just don’t want to keep seeing you like this..” you sighed, keeping your hands as steady as possible

jake watched you intensely, the weight of your words sitting on his chest. jake had always been the one who made everything lighter, but seeing the concern in your eyes, he felt every bit of guilt. “i don’t either.” jake said softly, reaching for your hips, pulling you closer to him. “i’m okay, i promise.”

“you don’t look okay.” your hands paused on his skin, looking at him. jake’s expressions softened, his hands gently squeezed your waist, a squeeze of reassurance. “i’ll heal, okay? i promise.” jake smiled, pressing his lips against your hair.

SUNGHOON LEANED AGAINST THE WALL, his arm crossed over his chest, trying to mask out the pain from his new set of bruises he recently had gotten and the small cut on his lip. his usual demeanor had slipped, now looking boyish in this state of vulnerability. you stood in front of him, a first aid kit by your side, ready to tend to him after yet another brawl.

“why do you always do this?” you asked, your voice laced with concern as you cleaned the cut on his lip.

sunghoon winced ever so slightly at the touch of the cloth to his lip, his eyes reflecting a sense of stubbornness and affection. “it’s just apart of life.. i’ll get through.” he replied, trying to brush it off.

you sighed, applying a little more pressure onto the wound. “that doesn’t mean you have to keep getting hurt. you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

sunghoon’s lips quirked up into a slight smile, the counter of his mouth lifting despite the pain he’s in. “you really think i’m trying to prove something?” you nodded gently. “maybe.. but you should know you’re already amazing despite this.”

his expressions softened tremendously, the teasing glint in his eyes, soon replaced with sincerity. “you see me like this and still think i’m amazing?” you shifted closer to him, pulling him into a gentle embrace. “you’ll always be amazing to me.. bruised up or not.”

💌 : wonsdoll comeback we cheered ! i love doing hyung line work but let me know if i should do this but maknae line ver !! && did this while my arm is in pain #solidermode

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sgt-tombstone · 1 month ago

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My take on the "Shut up Soap" trope but make it fluffy because I love soft Ghoap

----

Almost everyone on base has told Soap to shut up at some point, to piss off, to go bother someone else. He tries not to take it personally; the military is a stressful career for anyone, much less the special forces he's surrounded by. He doesn't blame anyone for wanting a little peace and quiet every once in a while. He's even started to anticipate it, going into every conversation with the expectation of getting brushed off or, worse, told off. It makes the disappointment a little easier to bear, at least, and he's always pleasantly surprised if it doesn't happen. Win-win in his books.

The only person who's never done it, who's never made his presence feel like a burden, is Ghost.

He's never once told Soap to go away, to take his energy and chatter elsewhere. Even in the middle of tense missions or sleepless nights, he listens. Or, at least, he lets Soap talk. Doesn't tell him to be quiet.

Soap should know better than to question it, because the fastest way to make a good thing disappear is to draw attention to it, but like always, he doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. They're sitting in Ghost's office, the man himself busy with paperwork while Soap sits on the couch, deep in thought, when he finally gives in to the ill-advised urge.

"Why do you do it?"

As soon as Soap speaks up, Ghost caps his pen and sets it down, turning his full attention to his sergeant. He tilts his head in question.

"Do what, Soap?"

"That," Soap says, waving an arm towards Ghost as if to encapsulate the entirety of his being. "Ye never... Ye never tell me to be quiet."

"I enjoy your company," Ghost says with a shrug, as if were that simple, but Soap frowns.

"Aye, sure," he mutters. "So does Gaz, but even he's told me to piss off before. You always pay attention."

"Is that so odd?" Ghost asks, his eyes narrowing slightly, and Soap has gotten good enough at deciphering his masked expressions to know it's out of confusion rather than suspicion or condemnation.

"You're the only one who does, sir," Soap admits, a little meekly, chewing on his lip to ease some of the discomfort of the admission. "Even when you're knackered or getting shot at or ragin', ye don't tell me tae fuck off."

"Would you rather I did?"

"No!" Soap says quickly, maybe a little too loudly, and he's quick to settle again. "I just dinnae ken why, that's all."

Ghost is quiet for a long moment, his gaze heavy where it sweeps across Soap's face, and he can see the moment that Ghost comes to a decision.

"I know what it's like," he shrugs, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. For the first time since Soap started talking, he drops his eyes to his desk, as if the weight of his confession dragged them down. He picks up his pen again but doesn't uncap it; he just fiddles with it, the only nervous fidget Soap has ever seen from him.

"What what's like?"

"To feel like a ghost in your own life," he says, so quiet that Soap has to lean forward to hear him, hanging off of every word. "To crave the connection that comes so easily to everyone around you. To feel immaterial."

Soap isn't sure what to say to that. It's like Ghost dropped a bomb in the middle of the room that neither of them are willing to address in case mentioning it lights the fuse. He's never heard his own feelings expressed so succinctly, especially from someone else's mouth, and it stuns him into silence, his eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

"You deal with it differently than I did," Ghost continues, looking back up. "You fight back; refuse to let yourself disappear. I embraced it, became the ghost I felt like."

"Do you," Soap starts, his voice raspy in his dry throat, and he swallows before starting again. "Do you still feel like that?"

"No," Ghost says after a pregnant pause, the single word steeped in meaning. Soap feels the gravity of it, caught in the warm depths of Ghost's eyes. "Not anymore."

And as Soap grins, comfort flooding his veins, more potent than whiskey, he thinks that they may have solved each other's problems after all.

#call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #tombstone's epitaphs #tombstone's ficlets

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dreamescapeswriting · 1 month ago

Text

Stray Kids Reaction || You're Exhausted From Work

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - October 2024

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅MASTERLIST

CHAN:

You step into the apartment, the weight of the day hanging on your shoulders, all you wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry but you'd forgotten Chan was over tonight. You try to hide your bad day with a smile, but Chan immediately sees through it - he could read you like a book and he shook his head at you. He watches you silently for a moment, his brow furrowing as he notices the faint tremble in your hands when you reach for your phone.

“How was work?” he asks softly, already bracing himself for what he knows is coming. You sat beside him on the sofa and cuddle into him. You shrug, not wanting to burden him with everything that was going on at work.

“Same old. You know, nothing new.” But Chan wasn't dumb, he knew you better than he knew you and he sighs a little. He shifts closer to you, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you into his warmth.

“Babe, what happened today?” You sigh, trying to downplay it as you shake your head, trying your best not to cry in front of him.

“It’s just... a couple of my coworkers. They’re always talking behind my back or making these snide comments. It’s annoying, but I’ll deal with it.” The casual tone you try to force doesn’t fool him either and his grip around you tightens slightly, his thumb stroking comforting circles on your side.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he murmurs, his voice steady but laced with concern. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be. I don’t like the way they’re treating you." You shake your head, brushing it off as though it was nothing.

“It’s fine, Chan. I mean, every workplace has issues. I just need to be tougher.” His jaw clenches, and you can see him holding back the frustration bubbling up. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but he also hates seeing you like this.

“Maybe, but this isn’t just a one-off thing. This keeps happening. You're always coming home upset or exhausted every other day, and it’s starting to affect you, whether you see it or not.” You glance at him, surprised by the firmness in his voice. His usual soft demeanour is still there, but there’s a certain intensity in his eyes now.

“I know you don’t want to quit, and I get that it’s hard to leave a job. But I need you to understand that this isn’t okay. No one should make you feel small or worthless—especially not at work.” You lower your head, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, unsure of how to respond. Part of you knows he’s right, but there’s another part that feels like quitting would be giving up. You'd worked hard to get where you were in your job and you didn't exactly feel like throwing it all away.

Sensing your hesitance, Chan squeezes your hand and speaks up again, his voice softening.

“Look, I’m not saying you have to make a decision right now. But I’ve been watching how this is affecting you for weeks, and it’s killing me to see you go through this.” He gently tilts your chin up, making sure your eyes meet his, your stomach twisting as you looked him in the eyes. You knew he was doing this because he loved you.

“I love you, and I just want to see you happy and treated the way you deserve to be. This job isn’t worth the toll it’s taking on you.” Letting out a shaky breath you nodded at him, tears threatening to form in your eyes.

“But what if I can’t find something else?” Chan pulls you even closer, his forehead resting against yours, holding you close to him. There was no way he was going to let you back out of quitting.

“You will. And even if it takes a little time, I’ll be here with you every step of the way. You’re incredible, and I know you’ll find something so much better than this toxic place.” You close your eyes, feeling the weight of his words sink in. He’s not just asking you to quit—he’s asking you to take care of yourself and you snuggled into him a little.

“Please, for me? I don’t want to see you like this anymore,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly.

"I'll think about it," You whispered to him, sighing a little before he pulled you into his lap, promising you that you'd figure it out together.

MINHO:

You slam your bag down onto the kitchen counter, trying to keep your frustration in check, but the scowl on your face gives it away immediately. Minho, who’s lounging on the couch with his phone in hand, glances up. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you quietly. You start putting away groceries with more force than necessary, your movements sharp and tense. Minho finally breaks the silence and raises an eyebrow at you.

“Rough day?” You scoff, not bothering to hide your irritation. The two of you were an open book to one another and rarely hid how shit your day had been.

“You could say that.” He sits up, raising an eyebrow. He knew your workplace was giving you a hard time lately and he could see how frequently it had been becoming.

“What happened this time?” You hesitate, not wanting to get into it, but the words spill out before you can stop them. It was like you'd been waiting all day to finally let everything off your chest.

“It’s just... these people at work. They’re so passive-aggressive, and no one says anything to their faces. It’s like this unspoken thing where they gang up on whoever’s an easy target that day. And today? It was me.” You grumble harshly. Minho’s expression darkens, but he stays quiet as you rant, letting you get it all out since you clearly need it.

“I tried to ignore it, but it was constant—little comments, gossip, trying to make me look bad in front of the boss. It’s ridiculous! And the worst part is, everyone just acts like it’s normal.” You throw your hands up in frustration. “Like, am I supposed to just suck it up and carry on like nothing happened!?” Minho’s eyes narrow, and when he speaks, his voice is calm but laced with a sharp edge.

“So, they’re getting away with treating you like crap. And you’re just... letting them?” You freeze at his words, blinking in surprise. It wasn't like you wanted to be a human doormat.

“What else am I supposed to do, Minho? It’s not like I can just leave.”

He stands up, crossing the room toward you, his gaze never leaving your face.

“Why not?” You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. He’s staring at you with that serious, unreadable look, the one that means he’s not going to let this go. Was he right? Could you just walk out?

“I get it. You think you need to tough it out, like somehow putting up with their nonsense makes you stronger. But it doesn’t. All it’s doing is making you miserable,” Minho says, his voice low but firm. “And you’re letting them win.” Your hands fall to your sides as the tension in your body starts to drain, replaced by confusion.

“I’m not letting them win—”

“Yes, you are.” Minho steps closer, his tone blunt but not unkind. You knew he was doing this for your own good and he was always blunt like this,

“By staying, by putting up with this crap, you’re letting them think it’s okay to treat you like that. And it’s not.” You chew on your bottom lip, trying to think of a way to argue back, but his words hit harder than you expected. He’s right, and deep down, you know it.

“I can’t just walk away from my job, Minho. It’s not that simple,” you say, your voice wavering. Minho tilts his head, his eyes softening just a little.

“I know it’s not simple. But what’s worse? Staying in a place where you’re treated like trash every day, or walking away with your dignity intact?” As soon as his words sunk in your tears began to fall and he looked at you,

“Look, you’re strong, baby. Stronger than any of those people will ever be. But that doesn’t mean you have to endure their garbage to prove it. There are better places—places that won’t tear you down like this.”

"What if I can't even find something else?" You sniffle a little and Minho squeezes your hand, pulling you into his chest, his voice softening. He hated seeing you so down about all of this when he didn't have all the answers you needed.

“You will. You’re too talented not to. And even if it takes some time, you’ve got me. I’ll be with you through all of it, I'll support you through everything.” He reassured you and you turned into his arms, cuddling closer.

“But what if things get better at work?” you ask, though your voice is small, lacking conviction. You knew deep down that it wasn't going to get better, that it would more than likely get worse. Minho scoffed at you and stroked your back,

“You’ve been telling me the same story for months now. Do you really think it’s going to change?”

"Min-"

“You deserve better than this,” he says quietly, his chin resting on the top of your head. “I don’t want you coming home every night like this. Tired. Hurt. You think it’s no big deal, but I see it. It’s eating at you.” His voice drops lower, more serious now, you nodded weakly and he continued one.

“Don’t make me go down there and handle it myself, because I swear—”

“You wouldn’t.” Minho raises an eyebrow and smirks down at you.

“Try me.” You knew better than to try him on something and you nod, promising to talk to your boss on your next shift,

CHANGBIN:

You drag yourself through the front door, your shoulders sagging with exhaustion, and drop your bag on the floor. Changbin looks up from his laptop, immediately noticing the slump in your posture and the frown you’re trying to hide. He watches you for a few moments as you kick off your shoes and head straight for the kitchen, barely acknowledging him.

“Hey,” he calls out gently, standing up from the couch and walking toward you. “Everything okay?” You nod quickly, hoping to brush it off and climb into the bath you were planning on relaxing in all evening.

“Yeah, just a long day. Nothing new.” Changbin shook his head, he knew better than anyone how much shit your job was giving you. He follows you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you open the fridge, staring blankly at the contents.

“You sure about that? You look like you’ve been through the wringer.” You sigh, closing the fridge door with a little more force than necessary, unable to meet his eyes.

“It’s just the same people at work being annoying again. No big deal.”

Changbin frowns, sensing that you’re downplaying it. The last time you'd come home from work you'd been inconsolable for hours and he'd had to bribe you with food to talk.

“What did they do this time?” You knew you weren't supposed to keep anything from him and you didn't want to.

“They’re just... rude. It’s like they purposely go out of their way to make things harder for me. Talking behind my back, blaming me for things that aren’t my fault. And if I try to stand up for myself, it’s even worse.” Your voice cracks a little at the end, and you curse yourself for letting it show. You prided yourself on never letting your job get to you but lately, it was getting harder and harder to deal with. Changbin’s jaw tightened, and his arms crossed over his chest.

“That’s not okay. Why didn’t you tell me it was getting this bad?”

“I can handle it. It’s just... it’s work, you know? I have to deal with it.” You shrugged a little, wiping your cheeks from the tears, but Changbin wasn't buying it. His eyes narrow, and you can see the frustration building.

“Deal with it? You shouldn’t have to deal with it. No one should be treating you like that, especially at work. You're there to work, you should be treated with respect,”

“I know, but what am I supposed to do, Changbin? Quit? Walk out and never look back? I can’t do that.” He moves closer, his expression softening just a little, but his voice still firm.

“Why not? Is it really worth staying somewhere that treats you like garbage? Just last week you told me someone trashed your office.” You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. His question lingers in the air, and you suddenly realize you don’t have a good answer.

“You’re coming home miserable almost every day. You’re tired, you’re frustrated, and it’s affecting you. You think I don’t notice, but I do. I hate seeing you like this.” He squeezed your hand a little, he didn't want you to feel like he was ganging up on you either but he'd noticed everything it was doing to you.

“I just... I don’t know what else to do,” you admit, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

“I know it’s hard to walk away, but you deserve better than this. You’re letting them drag you down and you don't deserve that, baby." You look up at him, the tears threatening to spill over as the frustration and helplessness hit you all at once.

"What if I leave and it’s even worse somewhere else? What if I can't find anything else and I'm stuck jobless?” Changbin shakes his head, his voice resolute.

“No. You’re not going to end up somewhere worse because you’re better than this. You'll find somewhere to go where they treat you like the human being you are.”

"but-"

"And if you can't find something, I will support us in the meantime...You know it's always been an option," He reminds you, kissing the side of your head as you sighed a little and nodded.

"I'll speak to my boss tomorrow." You whisper, laying your head on his chest as he softly stroked your back.

HYUNJIN:

After the day from hell, you walk into the apartment, trying to keep your expression neutral, but Hyunjin immediately picks up on the tension radiating off of you. He’s sitting at the dining table, sketchbook in hand, but his attention shifts entirely to you the second you come in.

“Hey,” he says softly, closing his sketchbook and setting it aside. “Rough day?” You force a smile, waving him off as you toss your keys onto the table, looking at the bowl of fruit he was sketching.

“Just work stuff. Nothing new.” You smile weakly but he watches you carefully as you shuffle around the kitchen, pretending to be fine. He knew you better than that. He could sense it, your shoulders were slumped and you moved lazily around the room.

“Come here for a second,” he calls out, his voice gentle but firm. You swallowed the lump in your throat, looking at him from the corner of your eye, but eventually walked over to where he was sitting. The moment you’re close enough, he grabs your hand and pulls you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and comforting. “What happened today?” You knew he was referring to the week before when you'd broken down and told him how awful your job was.

“It’s just... the same people at work. They were being extra rude today, and I just—I don’t know. It’s frustrating, but I’ll deal with it.” Hyunjin frowns, his grip tightening slightly around your waist.

“You always say that. That you’ll deal with it. But you keep coming home like this, and it’s starting to worry me. Do I need to come down there?” He asked with a smirk, trying to earn a smile from you but you just sighed, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“I just don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Everyone deals with difficult coworkers, right?” Hyunjin’s brows knit together in frustration.

“Yeah, but not everyone deals with being treated like this constantly. You don’t deserve it, and I hate that you think it’s just part of the job.” He pulls back slightly so he can look into your eyes, his gaze intense.

“Why are you putting up with this? You shouldn’t have to. This place is draining you, and it’s not okay.”

"It's not like I can quit, I don't have another job waiting for me. I don't want to be weak and quit," You grumble a little and his expression softens, and he cups your face gently in his hands, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

“You’re not weak for leaving a place that’s toxic. You’re strong for knowing when to prioritize yourself, your mental health matters baby.” You look away, still not entirely convinced.

“But what if it’s like this everywhere? What if I leave and end up in another job that’s just as bad? What if I leave and my next boss calls my old boss?” Hyunjin let out a soft sigh, resting his forehead against yours, he knew there was nothing he could do to reassure you but he was going to do his best to try.

“I can’t promise that everything will be perfect if you leave. But I can promise that staying in a place that’s treating you like this will only keep hurting you. You'll be pushed and pushed until you snap. And I don’t want that for you.” You knew he was right, you knew in your heart that all of this was going to be bad in the long run. You’ve been telling yourself that things would get better, but they haven’t. If anything, they’ve only gotten worse.

“I just... I feel like I’m stuck,” you admit quietly, the vulnerability in your voice breaking Hyunjin’s heart.

“You’re not stuck. You’re strong enough to walk away from things that aren’t good for you. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be here, every step of the way.”

"Promise?" You whispered, glancing up at him as he nodded at you. His eyes scanned yours and he could see some of the weight lift from you.

JISUNG:

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Jisung’s head pops up from the couch, his smile immediately faltering when he sees the exhausted look on your face. You'd clearly had another bad day at work,

“Hey,” he calls softly, concern already creeping into his voice.

"Shitty day?" He asked as you nodded and forced a smile onto your face. You threw your bag down into a chair and fell onto the sofa,

"you could say that again," you grumbled at him,

“What happened this time? Was it that bitch in accounting? Shanny? I can go down there if you want,” he smirked at you but you shook your head at him. You'd told Jisung all of the things that had been happening but clearly, it was worse.

“Just the same bullshit just a different day. Nothing new." Jisung frowns, his brows knitting together.

“Nothing new, huh? You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” You sigh at him and cuddle into the sofa cushions,

“I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s just work. Everyone deals with difficult people.” Jisung stared at you,

"Sure, difficult people but this isn't the same baby. You're dealing with bullshit that shouldn't even be at your fucking workplace. You told me Shanny was spreading lies,"

"Yeah but-"

"No buts, baby. No one should have to deal with the stuff you’re going through. It’s been months of this, and I can see how much it’s wearing you down.” You stay silent, not wanting to admit how right he is. The constant microaggressions, the gossip, the passive-aggressive comments—it’s all become routine, something you’ve convinced yourself you just have to endure.

“You don’t have to act like it’s okay, you know? It’s not. It’s not okay for them to treat you like that. You should say something or leave.” you knew saying something would get you nowhere, the boss was worse.

“I can handle it,” you mumble, almost more to convince yourself than him. Jisung shook his head at you,

"I have no doubt you can, baby. But my point is that you shouldn't have to handle it. You shouldn't be coming home every single day stressed or getting upset every day you have to go to work." He looks at you

"Anyone with eyes can see this job is ripping you apart," You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for the first time, you realize how much this has been affecting him, too. He’s always there, always comforting, but you can see the worry etched into his expression.

“I don’t know what else to do, Jisung,” you admit quietly, tears rolling down your face as you finally let everything out.

"You're quitting, you're going to find something else." He told you sternly.

"What if there's nothing out there?" Jisung’s eyes soften, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I know you’re scared, unemployment is scary but baby...I'm not going to sit here and let you get treated like this. I don't give a shit if it takes you a week or years to find your next job, you're not going back there." He told you and you chewed on your bottom lip,

"What if I regret leaving?"

"You won't. But I know for a fact you'll regret it if you stay." He looked at you,

"Take some holiday days...take some day...but baby there's no way I'm letting you go back to work there full time." He wasn't the type to tell you what to do or control you but this job was hell, anyone could see it.

"You mean it right...You'll support me?"

"With everything inside of me," He promised.

FELIX:

As soon as you'd walked in earlier that night Felix knew something was off but you'd gone straight for a shower without even greeting him until now.

"Hi," You mumble a little as you join him in the living room, looking forward to a night of gaming on the sofa with him but he sets the controller aside instantly.

"Long day?” he questioned, opening his arms for you as you crawled into them.

“You could say that.” Felix’s brow furrows and he stroked your back softly. He knew something was bothering you about work but you'd refused to talk to him about it,

“What happened?” he asks softly, you knew you weren't gonna hide it from him for long and you let out a small sigh, not really in the mood to talk about it, but knowing Felix won’t let it go until you do.

“The same as usual. Just people at work being... difficult.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks but you're not actually telling me what's going on.” He reminded you but you shrugged it off,

"It’s nothing I can’t handle. Everyone deals with this stuff at work.” He sighs, his voice dropping to a softer, more concerned tone.

“Every day I watch you drag yourself out of bed and force yourself to go...You’re not supposed to dread going to work.” His eyes are filled with worry, the deep brown of his gaze searching your face for answers.

“Is it really bad?” You let out a long breath, your defences starting to crumble under his gentle persistence.

“It’s... it’s exhausting...a-awful... They’re always talking behind my back, making me feel like nothing I do is good enough. Last week we held a small party for Martha's birthday and it was like I couldn't have done a single thing right for anyone there...It’s like I can’t win no matter what I do.”

"That’s not okay, love. You shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of treatment. They’re bullying you, and you don’t deserve it.”

“But I can’t just quit. I need the job. What am I supposed to do, Felix? Walk away and hope something better comes along? Or sit and mooch off you because you're working in the idol business?” You rolled your eyes, you hated that idea but he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as he rested his chin on your head. His voice is soft but firm, a mix of comfort and seriousness.

“Yes. Because you deserve better than this, I'm not saying mooch off me but taking some time away...finding something better suited for you is better than staying in that shit hole.” You smiled softly at the thought of finally leaving a place that made you want to cry every single day,

“I just want you to be happy, love. And if leaving is what it takes for you to find that happiness again, then I’ll support you every step of the way.” You sniffled a little, nodding your head at him.

"I'll put in my notice and take two weeks off from the holidays they owe me," You smirked at the thought, having confidence from Felix to be able to leave somewhere bad for you.

SEUNGMIN:

"I ordered your favourite takeout and-" Seungmin stopped himself as you

tossed your bag onto the floor with a sigh before looking like you were ready to rip your hair out. He takes one look at your face and immediately knows something’s wrong.

“Bad day?” He asks with a small smile and you scoff at him,

"Understatement of the year," you huffed, dropping down onto the kitchen chair beside him and he stared at you, reaching out he slowly stroked your back,

"You wanna talk about it?" He knew there were bad days at work but lately, it seemed all of your days were bad when it came to that place.

“Same shit different day," Was all you said before he stared at you,

"What happened this time?” You smiled weakly at the thought of him knowing it was something going on,

“Just the usual,” you mutter. “People talking behind my back, making me feel like I can’t do anything right. Reporting shit to the boss that I didn't even do by the way. Telling him I was mishandling customers when I wasn't it was somebody else, but who gives a shit? Not my boss because he didn't even care to do a proper investigation just took Karen's fucking word for it,” You rambled off in almost one breath and Seungmin’s brow furrows, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“That’s not just the usual. That’s harassment.” You turn to face him, leaning against the table on your elbows.

“I don’t know... Maybe I’m overreacting. Everyone has to deal with annoying coworkers at some point, right? You had shit at work...” Seungmin shook his head at you,

"Annoying coworkers are one thing, baby. But if they’re making you feel like this every single day, it’s not normal. Your boss should have done a proper job too.” You sigh, rubbing your temples and shaking your head, You were probably being dramatic, you had the weekend off you could focus for a while,

“I can handle it. I just need to push through.” Seungmin squeezed your thigh under the table,

“Why are you so determined to stay in a place that’s treating you like this? It’s wearing you down, and I can see it...You shouldn't have to deal with this shit,"

"What should I do? Quit?" You joked but you could see the serious expression on your boyfriend's face,

"I mean...why not?" He questioned and you looked away,

“It’s not that simple...” you mumbled a little,

“I know it’s not simple. But you’re coming home every day looking more and more exhausted. This place is toxic, and it’s not getting better.” You knew he was right,

"But quitting? That's the coward's way out-"

"Don't you dare! You quitting that job would be best for your mental health. Do you know how hard it is to watch you go to work every day? I watch you force yourself into the car on the verge of tears and watch you come home even worse." he stroked your back softly and you blinked the tears away.

"True, but it might get better...K-Karen is leaving soon and-"

"And they'll replace her with someone the same...or worse. You know it and I know it, baby." He sighed and you looked down at your hands,

"What if I'm not good enough for anything else?" You whispered, your insecurities getting the better of you,

"I know for a fact you can do whatever you put your mind to, princess," he whispered and kissed your cheek softly.

"We'll look over the weekend okay? A new job...new place, we'll find something." He promised you.

JEONGIN:

“Hey, you’re home!” Jeongin says cheerfully, pushing himself up to sit properly. But his smile falters when he notices your tired expression, your slouched posture. It was clear you'd had an awful day and he felt his stomach sink,

“You okay?” You offer a small nod, but Jeongin isn’t convinced. You looked like you were about to burst into tears at any given second,

“Yeah, just... work.” He watches you closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as you drop your bag on the floor and head toward the kitchen.

“Just work? You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” He stated as he got up from the sofa and made his way over to you.

“It’s nothing, Innie. I Can handle it. Just some annoying people at the office. You know how it is.” Jeongin bites his lip, his brow furrowing as he stands up and follows you.

“Yeah, but it’s been weeks of this, hasn’t it? Every time you come home, you look... drained...You say it's just work but you're losing yourself...” You shake your head, trying to brush it off.

“It’s fine. Everyone has to deal with difficult people at work, and everyone goes home and fixes it alone”

"Sure...but not everyone deals with someone who belittles them every chance they get...Your boss treats you like a fucking maid and his personal assistant," You looked down at your hands

“I can deal with it, Jeongin. It’s just part of the job.” Jeongin scoffs at you and He doesn’t look convinced, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

“But why should you have to? Why should you keep dealing with a place that’s making you so unhappy?”

"This is the job of my dreams, Innie."

"Sure. If you were doing what you were told the job was but you're not. That arsehole is making you work as his assistant instead of the job you applied for,"

"I have to work my way up,"

"You've said that for years yet men he's hiring are working their way above you faster," You knew he was right. Your boss was a misogynistic dick who would only hire you because HR was breathing down his neck.

"This job is killing you,"

"but what if I can't find anything else..." You whispered, trailing off as you glanced up at Jeongin,

“You won’t know until you try. And even if it’s hard, I’ll be right here with you, okay? We’ll figure it out together.” He pulls you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you as if he’s trying to shield you from all the worries and doubts weighing you down. His voice is quiet but firm as he whispers into your hair,

“You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’ll be here, whatever you decide.” You nod and close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of being close to him after the shitty day you'd had and you sigh a little.

"I'll think on it."

@chiisaiblog @sw33tnight @kaitieskidmore97 @laylasbunbunny @stayconnecteed @saymyspringrain @toplinehyunjin @katnisspeetaprim @acciocriativity @just-aelia @choisoorin @straykids5star @midnightfrog625 @beccaskz @scarletemeterio @halesandy @junhannies @gothic4under4lord @lixie-phoria @soulphoenix1618 @aerastus @jin-from-the-block @lensfilm @elizaschuyler18 @piratequeen-impact @kpopsstuffs @chaeyoungs @delulu18 @xyahrinx @katsukis1wife @anthropologymajorkpopmultistan @blairscott @4-chan-inpadella @niktwazny303 @moonlight-the-writer @armystay89 @hadassahchan @yxngbxkkie @s3ungm1nxxl0ve

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solxamber · 2 months ago

Note

Kind of want to see how you write White Rabbit!Reader overbloting with the TWST characters.

On your rules, it didn't state whether or not you wrote angst or not, soooooo......

I imagine while everyone else sees it as just teasing anxious/shy beastman, White Rabbit!Reader doesn't find it funny at all and finds it kind of insulting that people are willing to tease them in some shape or form or even try to rope them into a deal.

TBH, if I was White Rabbit!Reader, I would feel insulted or agitated that people are willing to take advantage of them.

Thank you for the request, I hope you like it <3

Part 1 with the characters interaction with white rabbit!reader

You’ve always been the nervous type. Jumpy, shy, the sort of person people look at and think, Ah, easy to tease. It’s not like you want to be like this, constantly on edge, always trying to avoid the next embarrassment. But that’s just how things are, right? No one really sees you, not beyond the anxious White Rabbit who always stumbles over their words and drops paperwork.

Everyone thinks it’s harmless. The playful teasing, the way they poke at you like it’s some kind of game. You try to smile, laugh it off, and pretend like it doesn’t bother you. But inside? It’s different. It’s not funny. It’s exhausting. Day after day, week after week—there’s only so much you can take before the cracks start to show.

As you fall deeper into your overblot, surrounded by thick, inky shadows and an overwhelming sense of betrayal, each of them reacts differently. They’ve never seen you like this before—never imagined you’d reach a breaking point. But here you are, consumed by magic, frustration, and the hurt they didn’t realize they’d inflicted.

Riddle Rosehearts:

Riddle is the first to react, freezing in place as memories of his own overblot flood back. He knows what it’s like to snap under the pressure, to feel like the world is pressing down on you with impossible expectations. But seeing you, someone so quiet and timid, become consumed by that darkness? It hits him harder than he expected.

“White Rabbit…” he mutters, voice tight, guilt pooling in his chest. He knows what it’s like to feel trapped by rules, but he never thought his teasing could push someone to this. The weight of his own overblot sits heavily in his gut. He had no right to let his frustrations out on you, to not recognize the burden you were carrying.

“Enough!” he shouts, not to you, but to the others. “This is my fault… I should’ve noticed.” He’s desperate to keep you from making the same mistakes he did.

Trey Clover:

Trey is shocked but calm, his expression unreadable as he watches the chaos unfold around you. He thought he knew you, thought you were just shy, a bit anxious. But this? This darkness swirling around you? It tells him how badly he misread things.

“I didn’t realize…” he admits under his breath. Trey has always been the ‘caretaker,’ the calm one, but he wonders now if his casual teasing and pushing you along without addressing your stress was a mistake. “I never meant for things to go this far.” He takes a step forward, hoping to pull you back from the brink.

“I’ll help you,” Trey says, trying to reach through the rage and chaos. “You’re not alone in this.”

Cater Diamond:

Cater flinches when he sees your overblot form, a deep pang of guilt hitting him. He had always laughed off your reactions, thinking you were just a little skittish. Maybe he even found it cute in a weird way. But now, seeing the result of all those moments, he’s not laughing anymore.

“Whoa… I didn’t think—” He cuts himself off, realizing there’s no way to make light of this. His chest tightens with anxiety, memories of watching Riddle’s overblot flood his mind. He’s always been the type to avoid confrontation, to stay on the sidelines and keep things light. But now, he feels guilty for not paying more attention to your feelings.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” Cater says softly, watching the chaos unravel. “Come on, this isn’t like you…”

Ace Trappola:

Ace is terrified but refuses to show it, the smirk on his face slipping into something much more serious as he watches you spiral. He knew you were jumpy, but he never expected this from you. The thought that his teasing, his joking around, might’ve actually hurt you? It’s a hard pill to swallow.

“Damn… you’re really pissed, huh?” Ace mutters, trying to keep his voice light, but the guilt creeps in. He remembers when Riddle overblotted, how terrifying that was. He wonders if this is how you felt back then—small, powerless, cornered.

“I didn’t mean to push you so hard, okay?” he says, raising his hands defensively. He takes a step forward, though he’s still uncertain. “We’ll fix this, alright? You don’t have to do it alone.”

Deuce Spade:

Deuce’s heart races as he watches you overblot, his mind scrambling to process what’s happening. He never wanted to make you feel like this. You were his friend, and he thought the teasing was just harmless fun. But now? Now he sees how wrong he was.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Deuce shouts, stepping forward, fists clenched. He remembers when he lost control of his temper, how it felt like the world was collapsing around him. And now, you’re going through the same thing. “I didn’t mean it! I swear, I didn’t think—”

He feels sick, watching the darkness consume you. He knows what it’s like to feel cornered, but he can’t bear to see you fall apart like this. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m right here.”

Leona Kingscholar:

Leona watches your overblot unfold with a cold, calculating gaze, his own memories of overblot lurking in the back of his mind. He knows what it’s like to reach your breaking point, to feel like you’ve been pushed too far by the world around you. But seeing you, so jittery and anxious, transform into something so full of rage and power? It catches him off guard.

“Tch. Should’ve seen this coming,” Leona mutters, though his voice lacks its usual bite. He remembers the humiliation of his own overblot, the way it felt to be consumed by bitterness and frustration. He won’t admit it, but he feels a flicker of empathy for you.

“Don’t get cocky just because you snapped,” he says, stepping forward. “You think you’re the only one who’s been pushed too far? Get a grip.” But behind his harsh words is a hint of understanding. He knows this darkness all too well.

Ruggie Bucchi:

Ruggie’s first instinct is to run, to get as far away from the chaos as possible. But then he hesitates, seeing the pain etched into your overblotted form. He knew you were an easy target for teasing, but he never meant for things to get this bad. You’re just the anxious bunny who always jumped at shadows, right?

“Ah, man…” Ruggie rubs the back of his neck, feeling a pang of guilt. “Didn’t mean to push ya so hard.” He understands what it’s like to be at the bottom, to feel like people are using you. It’s something he’s lived with his whole life.

“Look, I get it. Everyone pushes you around, huh?” Ruggie says, his voice softer now. “But this ain’t the way to deal with it. We can figure this out, alright?”

Jack Howl:

Jack’s eyes widen as he sees the darkness surge around you. He’s always respected your timid nature, never the type to tease you like the others. But still, he didn’t realize how much pressure you were under, how deeply the teasing had cut. Seeing you overblot like this—it makes him feel guilty for not stepping in sooner.

“You...” Jack mutters, his voice filled with concern. He knows what it’s like to feel small and powerless, but he never imagined you’d reach this point. “I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve said something earlier.”

His instincts kick in, and he steps forward, determined to help you. “You don’t have to go through this alone. We’re packmates, right? I won’t let this take you.” He braces himself for whatever comes next, ready to face the storm by your side.

Azul Ashengrotto:

Azul’s eyes widen in shock, but a familiar pang of guilt hits him. Seeing you succumb to an overblot drags up memories of his own, the crushing weight of failure and inferiority pressing down on him. He had worked so hard to keep himself from feeling powerless, just as you had kept trying to stay in control.

“Not again…” Azul mutters to himself, his mind flashing back to when he was in your shoes. He had been mocked, taken advantage of, and pushed to the edge—just like you. But he realizes now how unfair it was to tease you, to make you feel as though your anxiety and insecurity were something to exploit.

He straightens up, trying to shake off his own feelings. “I won’t let you go through what I did. I’ll help you, White Rabbit.” He knows what it’s like to drown in despair, and he won’t let you be consumed by it.

Jade Leech:

Jade’s smile falters, his gaze sharp and observant as he watches your overblot unfold. To him, you had always been the anxious little White Rabbit, easy to fluster, easy to toy with. But now, seeing the raw fury and pain that has overtaken you, he wonders if he pushed too far.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs softly, though there’s a note of regret in his voice. He had always found your reactions amusing, but he never thought it would come to this. He’s not entirely unfamiliar with what it feels like to be pushed beyond one’s limit. But even so, this wasn’t what he intended.

“I wonder…” Jade steps forward slowly, voice calm. “What can be done to quell this storm?” His tone is smooth, but there’s a genuine desire to help beneath it.

Floyd Leech:

Floyd grins at first, excited by the chaos, but his grin quickly fades when he realizes how serious this is. He’s seen overblots before, but yours? It’s different. He thought messing with you was fun—seeing you all flustered and scared always gave him a good time. But now? Now, he’s not so sure.

“Oi, Rabbity” Floyd says, tilting his head. “I didn’t think you’d snap like this.” There’s a note of surprise in his voice, even a little bit of guilt. He knows what it’s like to be driven to the edge, to feel like everything is just too much, but he never thought you’d end up like this.

“Come on, don’t be boring. Let’s stop this,” Floyd says, his voice still playful, but there’s concern in his eyes.

Kalim Al-Asim:

Kalim’s heart breaks as he sees you overblot. You were always so quiet, so nervous, and he never imagined that all the teasing, all the casual comments, could push you to this point. He’s never experienced an overblot himself, but he’s seen it before—he saw Jamil’s, after all—and he knows how much pain must be inside you right now.

“I’m so sorry!” Kalim cries, rushing toward you. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like this! Please, [Name], I never wanted to hurt you!” There’s desperation in his voice as he tries to reach through the swirling darkness to get to you.

“We’re friends, right? I’ll help you! I promise!”

Jamil Viper:

Jamil’s stomach churns as he watches the darkness swallow you. It’s a feeling he knows intimately, the suffocating need for control and the constant pressure to serve, only to snap under it all. His own overblot had been a rebellion, an explosion of resentment he could no longer contain.

But you? You were different—or so he thought. Now he sees it clearly: you’ve been pushed into a corner, taken advantage of just like he was. A bitter taste fills his mouth.

He calls out to you, voice steady but not unfeeling. “Overblotting won’t free you. Trust me, I’ve been there. It might feel like the only option right now, but in the end, you’ll still be trapped—just in a different kind of cage.”

He takes a slow step closer, his mind already working through how to defuse the situation. “Let’s solve this another way. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

Vil Schoenheit:

Vil watches your transformation with narrowed eyes, his heart clenched in a mixture of anger and regret. He knows all too well the feeling of perfection slipping through his fingers, the desperation to control everything, only to lose it all. His own overblot was a moment of utter failure, a lapse in control that still stings his pride.

But this is different—your overblot is not about vanity or the fear of fading. It’s about being pushed, teased, and broken.

He steps forward, his voice sharp but laced with an undertone of empathy. “Is this what you want? To lose yourself because of what others think?” His gaze hardens, but there’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “I understand your frustration. I’ve been where you are, and trust me—overblotting won’t make it any better. It’ll only steal more from you.”

Vil may be harsh, but his words carry the weight of someone who’s learned a bitter lesson. “Come back to yourself, or you’ll regret it.”

Rook Hunt:

Rook’s eyes light up with both fascination and concern as he watches the darkness surround you. He’s always been keenly aware of people’s emotions, but he never realized just how much you were struggling. He thought your nervousness was simply part of your charm, but now he sees how deeply the teasing cut.

“Mon lapin, such fury!” Rook exclaims, though there’s a softness in his tone. “I never meant to push you so far. I only wished to see you shine, but I see now that I have caused you harm.”

Rook steps forward, his voice gentle. “Let me help you find your way back to the light.”

Epel Felmier:

Epel feels a pang of guilt as he watches you overblot. He thought you were just shy, just a little jumpy, and he didn’t think much of the teasing. But now, seeing the darkness consume you, he realizes how much you were holding back.

“Dang it…” Epel mutters, clenching his fists. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He knows what it’s like to feel underestimated, to feel like you’re being pushed around, and he can’t help but feel responsible for not standing up for you sooner.

“Come on, we’re better than this! Don’t let them get to you like this!"

Idia Shroud:

Idia feels a wave of guilt wash over him as he watches your overblot. Memories of his own overblot come flooding back—the fear, the anger, the feeling of being utterly powerless. He knows what it’s like to feel like the world is against you, and seeing you go through the same thing? It hits too close to home.

“Ah, crap…” Idia mutters, running a hand through his hair. He’s been there, and it’s terrifying. The isolation, the pressure, the overwhelming urge to just… break. He never thought you’d reach that point, though. He always saw you as the timid one, the anxious White Rabbit that everyone teased, but he didn’t realize just how much you were holding in.

“I-I get it,” Idia says, his voice wavering slightly. “It’s not fair. None of it is. But you don’t have to do this.” He feels a strange connection to you now, and the last thing he wants is for you to go through what he did.

“We’ll figure it out, okay? I won’t let you end up like me.”

Ortho Shroud:

Ortho’s sensors flash in alarm as he registers your overblot. He’s never experienced one himself, but he’s seen it happen to Idia, and he knows how dangerous it can be. His eyes widen as he scans your vitals, detecting the surge of magic and stress that’s overtaking you.

“You’re overblotting!” Ortho shouts, his voice filled with concern. He hovers closer, his holographic wings fluttering as he tries to figure out how to help. “You don’t have to go through this alone! We can fix this! I promise!”

He reaches out, trying to connect with you on a personal level. “My brother went through something similar, but we helped him. We’ll help you too! You’re not alone, okay?”

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus watches your overblot with a calm, contemplative gaze. He’s no stranger to feeling isolated, to being misunderstood and feared, and seeing you succumb to the darkness brings up a strange sense of kinship. You were always anxious around him, always jumpy, and he wonders if he contributed to the pressure that broke you.

“So, even the White Rabbit has fallen to despair,” Malleus murmurs, his voice low. He knows the weight of loneliness, and he feels a deep sympathy for you. “You are not alone in this,.I will help you, as you have helped me.”

He steps forward, his presence commanding and calm. “Do not let the darkness consume you. You are stronger than you believe.”

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia’s playful demeanor shifts as he watches your overblot unfold. He’s lived a long life and seen many things, but overblots are always tragic. He thought your timid nature was just part of who you were, but now he sees the pain you were hiding.

“My, my… I didn’t think you’d reach this point,” Lilia says softly. “I should’ve paid more attention to the signs.” There’s regret in his voice as he steps forward, his usual playful tone replaced with seriousness.

“Come now, little one. There’s no need to let the darkness take you. We’ll get through this together.”

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek is taken aback by your overblot, his usually brash demeanor faltering for a moment. He thought you were just weak, just anxious, but now he sees how much pressure you were under. He didn’t expect you to snap like this.

“White Rabbit! Pull yourself together!” Sebek shouts, though there’s a hint of concern in his voice. He’s not good at dealing with emotions, but he knows what it’s like to feel like you’re not living up to expectations.

“Don’t let this consume you! You’re stronger than this!”

Silver:

Silver watches you overblot with a calm but concerned expression. He’s always been quiet, like you, and he knows what it’s like to feel overwhelmed by the expectations of others. He didn’t think the teasing would push you this far, but now he regrets not stepping in sooner.

“I should’ve noticed,” Silver says softly. “I should’ve done more to help you.” He steps forward, his voice gentle. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here.”

Rollo Flamme

Rollo’s eyes blaze with a mixture of horror and triumph as he watches you descend into your overblot. The corruption seeping through your veins, the monstrous form taking shape—it only reinforces everything he’s ever believed about the dangers of magic, especially from those at NRC.

“This is exactly what I’ve warned against,” he mutters, his voice cold. He steps back, disgust etched on his face as he tightens his grip on his staff. “Another student, corrupted by the very environment they’re surrounded by.”

He glares at the swirling darkness around you, his hatred for Night Raven College deepening. “This place… it turns even the meekest into monsters. You should’ve never come here.”

Yet, despite his disdain, there’s a flicker of pity in his eyes. “ I had hoped you’d be different.” But that hope has been dashed, and now, all he sees is confirmation of his worst fears.

Dire Crowley:

Crowley stands frozen for a moment, his usual air of superiority faltering as the gravity of the situation hits him. “[Name]… an overblot? How could this happen under my watch?” His voice is laced with disbelief, but it’s quickly replaced by a sense of urgency.

“This is most unfortunate!” he exclaims, hands fluttering in a dramatic display of panic. “But do not fear, my dear student, your magnanimous headmaster will ensure that you are saved!”

Despite his outward bravado, there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes. He knew how much you struggled, but he never paid enough attention. Always too busy, always passing off the responsibility to others.

“Now, let’s remain calm, everyone!” he declares, trying to rally the other students. “We must contain the situation! For the good of the school, of course.”

Divus Crewel:

Crewel’s sharp eyes narrow as he takes in the scene, the dark magic radiating off you in waves. He’s trained many students, seen plenty of potential disasters, but this… this is something he should have seen coming.

“Overblot?” he mutters, shaking his head. “Honestly, pup, I expected better from you. Letting your emotions take control? That’s a rookie mistake.”

His words are biting, but there’s a hint of something softer beneath them. He doesn’t pity you, but he understands the pressure you’ve been under. He’s seen students buckle before, and now it’s happening again.

“You’re better than this,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Get a hold of yourself before you do something truly irreversible. Or do I have to clean up your mess, too?”

Crewel doesn’t tolerate weakness, but he’s not about to let you fall without trying to snap you out of it.

Mozus Trein:

Trein’s stern gaze hardens as he watches the chaos unfold. There’s no surprise in his eyes, only a deep, resigned understanding. “Another overblot…” he mutters under his breath, his face grave but composed. “You, of all people…”

He adjusts his glasses, his expression lined with disappointment. “It is always the quiet ones, the ones who bottle their emotions until they explode. I should have seen it coming.”

Trein steps forward, his voice measured and calm despite the swirling darkness around you. “Magic is a gift, not a tool for reckless venting of one’s frustrations. Overblotting won’t bring you peace, only further destruction.”

Though his words are stern, there’s a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. He’s seen too many students fall victim to their own emotions, and he knows that sometimes, the weight of expectations and pressure is too much for anyone to bear.

“Control yourself,” he says, his tone softening slightly. “You are not the first to feel overwhelmed, but you must find another way to deal with it.” His words are laced with the wisdom of experience, but whether or not you hear them in your current state is another matter entirely.

Ashton Vargas:

Vargas frowns, confusion etched on his face as he watches your overblot unfold. You? The shy, anxious student who could barely run a lap? He never expected you’d be capable of this.

“Whoa, hold on!” he shouts, rushing forward with the same intensity he brings to every physical challenge. “What’s going on here? Overblotting isn’t the answer! You need to sweat it out, not let it take over!”

His approach is as straightforward as ever, but there’s a genuine concern in his voice. He’s used to pushing his students to their limits, but he never meant for you to break like this.

“Come on,” he says, raising his voice like a coach urging you to keep going. “You’re stronger than this! Fight it! Don’t let the darkness win!”

Sam:

Sam watches from the shadows, his usual carefree smile slipping as he observes your overblot. “Well, well, looks like things got a little out of hand, huh?” His tone is light, but there’s an underlying seriousness that’s hard to miss.

He’s seen plenty of students walk through his shop, weighed down by their struggles, but you? You were always so jittery, so nervous. He never thought you’d snap like this.

“Hey now,” he calls out, his voice steady and calm. “You don’t want to go down this path. Trust me, there’s no deal worth making with that kind of power.”

He steps closer, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening. “Let’s talk it out, yeah? No need to let this magic get the best of you. After all, you’ve still got plenty of life left in you—and it’s worth more than whatever this overblot’s promising.”

Sam’s no stranger to dark magic, but he’s not about to let you drown in it without a fight.

Grim:

Grim's reaction to your overblot would be a mix of shock, fear, and frustration. Despite his usual bravado, seeing you consumed by darkness would unsettle him deeply. He paces back and forth, tail puffed up and ears flat against his head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are ya doin', henchman? This isn't part of the plan!" Grim yelps, his voice a bit shaky despite the tough front. He jumps back as the overblot's magic flares, eyes wide. "You can't just let that dark stuff take over! You’re better than this!"

Despite his fear, Grim tries to stand tall, though his usual cockiness is nowhere to be seen. “I know you're mad and tired of gettin' pushed around, but trust me, this isn’t the way! You think I wanna lose my partner to some shadowy overblot nonsense?”

His little paws are clenched into fists as he edges closer, determined. “We’ve gotta fight this! You’ve still got me, right? I’m not lettin’ you go without a fight!”

Masterlist

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tqlepatiia · 2 months ago

Text

words we can’t take back | b. barnes

masterlist | pt.2

summary: after a mission gone wrong, bucky lashes out, leaving y/n hurt by his harsh words. now drowning in guilt, bucky must find a way to apologize before it’s too late, but y/n isn’t ready to forgive so easily. can he fix what’s been broken?

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: angst, emotional distress, heartbreak, toxic relationship dynamics, arguments, mention of mental health struggles, potential triggers related to emotional abuse, strong language, and feelings of inadequacy.

word count: 5.9k

The mission had been a disaster from the start. Tension crackled in the air, the kind that always seemed to precede trouble. Bucky Barnes felt it in his bones, a tightness that grew with every wrong turn. It had been a simple extraction, but when they walked into a trap, chaos erupted. The sounds of gunfire ricocheted around him, the explosions reverberating through his chest like a war drum, drowning out his thoughts. But when he glanced at you—his partner, his anchor—something twisted in his gut.

In the aftermath, the wreckage of what had gone wrong stretched before him. Bodies lay scattered, their lifeless forms stark against the smoky haze, and the acrid scent of burning metal stung his nostrils. You stood there, bruises marring your skin, and your eyes, once sharp and defiant, now dulled by exhaustion. Bucky had seen too much, been through too much, and the anger inside him simmered, ready to boil over. How could this have gone so wrong?

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, his voice a harsh whip in the stillness. His jaw was clenched, and his glare could’ve burned holes into you. “You almost got yourself fucking killed, you know that?”

Your breath caught, heart sinking at the venom in his tone. “I was doing my job, Bucky. I thought you had my back.”

“Had your back?” He stepped closer, fists clenching at his sides, every muscle taut with pent-up fury. The adrenaline from the fight morphed into something more destructive. “You’re a goddamn liability! You keep throwing yourself into danger like you can’t be hurt. What the hell is wrong with you?”

The words hit you like a punch, each one a jagged edge cutting deeper than the last. You could feel the weight of his anger pressing down on you, suffocating. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter,” you shot back, bitterness lacing your voice. “Maybe I’m the one who should be questioning if you’re fit to be my partner!”

Bucky’s expression hardened, eyes narrowing like a predator’s. This isn’t just about the mission, he thought, grappling with the frustration of watching you walk into danger. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have to worry about saving your ass all the damn time. If I wanted to deal with this shit, I’d find someone who actually knew how to handle themselves. I’m sick of dragging you through every godforsaken fight!”

Every accusation felt like a dagger, twisting in the wound he had just opened. You could see the pain and anger simmering in his eyes, but it was all directed at you. “You think I wanted this? I’m not the one who fucked up in the field! I thought we were a team!”

His laugh was bitter, devoid of humor, echoing against the wreckage around you. “Team? That’s a joke. You don’t get to call it a team when I’m the one stuck cleaning up your shit. I’m done with it. You’re not my equal; you’re just a goddamn burden.”

The air grew thick with tension, and you fought back tears, the tremor in your hands betraying you. “Maybe I should just leave, then,” you said, voice trembling but defiant. “If I’m such a problem, why don’t you find someone who doesn’t drag you down?”

The silence that followed was deafening. You turned away, trying to keep your composure, but you could feel his gaze burning into your back—a mix of anger and something softer, more vulnerable, that he refused to acknowledge. His heart pounded as the realization hit him: I pushed her away when she needed me the most. What the hell was I thinking?

As you walked away, the weight of his words hung heavily in the air between you, suffocating. Each step felt like a fracture in your heart, the distance growing more unbearable with every inch. Bucky stood there, feeling the echoes of his harshness fill the void where your connection once thrived. The realization settled in, and he knew this wasn’t over. How the hell do I fix this?

But as the dust settled around him, all he could feel was emptiness, a tidal wave of regret crashing over him, leaving him alone in the aftermath of his own making.

Days blurred together into an indistinguishable mess. The tension between you and Bucky hung thick in the air, suffocating, wrapping around him like a vice grip. He paced the empty halls of the compound, the rhythmic echo of his boots against the cold metal floors mirrored the chaos in his mind. Each step felt heavier than the last, a relentless reminder of the moment that played on a loop in his head—the hurt in your eyes when his careless words had cut deep.

Memories flooded back: your laughter in the training room, the way you encouraged him during his darkest moments. He had crossed a line he never intended to, letting his anger spew out like poison, each word a dagger aimed straight at your heart. Guilt clawed at him, a beast gnawing at his insides, turning his stomach into knots. Every time he caught a glimpse of you, it felt like a punch to the gut, the weight of regret settling like a stone in his chest.

The silence of the compound was palpable, broken only by the distant hum of machinery. He’d find you in the training room, pouring every ounce of your energy into your workout, the fierce determination radiating off you like a fire. Your tear-streaked face haunted him, a ghost he couldn’t shake. You weren’t just a teammate; you were everything to him. The thought of losing you felt like ice water dousing his heart, leaving him gasping for air, desperate to rewind time.

“Hey, Buck,” Sam said one day, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, the faint scent of sweat and metal mingling in the air. “You good, or are you just gonna sulk like an old man all day?”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky shot back, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue, his eyes averted. He could feel Sam’s scrutinizing gaze piercing through his façade.

“Seriously, man, you think I can't see through that? There’s a damn storm brewing in that head of yours,” Sam pressed, his tone a mix of concern and teasing familiarity. “You gotta talk to her. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s like watching a damn dog chase its own tail—ain’t gonna end well, and I’m not about to sit here and watch you make a mess of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the weight of his guilt felt like chains wrapped tight around his heart, squeezing the air from his lungs. What the hell could he even say? The fear of facing you loomed larger than any mission he’d ever tackled—a monster lurking in the shadows, making him feel weak and exposed. He clenched his fists, jaw tightening, as he fought against the rising tide of anxiety.

Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall, fighting the urge to scream. He remembered how you had stood by him, even when the nightmares clawed at him in the night. You deserved better than his careless words, better than the pain he had caused. The metallic scent of sweat mixed with the lingering aroma of stale coffee filled the air, reminding him of the countless nights spent together, talking and laughing. Those memories felt like a beacon, drawing him closer to the confrontation he dreaded yet craved.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pushing off the wall, each step toward you heavy with uncertainty. His heart raced as he imagined your reaction—would you forgive him? The thought of laying his broken heart bare to you, the one person who meant everything, filled him with dread and hope.

As he approached, the distance between you felt like a chasm. He was ready to confront the mess he’d made, but the fear of your disappointment loomed over him like a dark cloud. Sam watched him go, shaking his head with a faint smile, knowing his friend was finally stepping up to make things right.

It was time to face the music, to turn back the clock on the mistakes he had made. The symbol of his guilt—the small, worn-out dog tag you had given him before a particularly tough mission—burned in his pocket, a constant reminder of the bond he desperately wanted to restore.

In that moment, he knew he had to find the courage to bridge the gap between them, to reclaim what was lost before it slipped through his fingers forever.

After what felt like a damn eternity, Bucky finally gathered the guts to knock on your door. Each knock echoed in the silence, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you two. He stood there, heart pounding, fists clenched, feeling the weight of guilt that had settled in his chest like lead. Memories flooded his mind—your laughter during training sessions, quiet moments together in the compound, and the way your smile had once lit up even the darkest days. It all felt so far away now, a reminder of how easily he could lose it.

“Go away,” you called, your voice muffled but laced with hurt.

“Y/N,” he pleaded, desperation creeping into his tone. “I need to talk. Just… let me in, alright?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his mind racing with all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t quite grasp.

Silence hung in the air like a noose, heavy and suffocating. Each second stretched into an eternity, amplifying the tension until, finally, the door creaked open just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your face—red and puffy from tears, eyes shadowed with pain. It felt like a punch to the gut.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you said coldly, arms crossed defensively, trying to shield yourself from the storm he had caused.

“I know. I messed up,” he replied, his voice thick with regret. He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. “And I can’t—” He faltered, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I can’t take back what I said. I was scared, and I lashed out. You mean too damn much to me for that. Just… let me explain.”

You stepped back, letting him in but hesitating, your anger and hurt crackling in the air like static electricity. Bucky could feel the tension radiating off you, could see how you trembled with barely contained rage. The faint hum of the compound’s machinery buzzed in the background, underscoring the silence between you.

“Bucky, you can’t just waltz in here and throw around apologies like they’re candy. It’s not that fucking simple,” you said, your voice shaking as emotions boiled over. “Do you even get what your words did to me? They cut deeper than you can imagine.”

The memories of your last argument flashed in his mind—how he had yelled, how his words had sliced through the fragile trust you had built. He could still hear your voice trembling, see the hurt in your eyes. It haunted him.

“I know it’s not,” he said, voice rising as frustration bubbled to the surface. “But you have to understand—I never meant to hurt you. I was scared as hell of losing you. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I took it out on you. I thought I could keep you safe, but I fucking failed, and I can’t live with that.” He avoided your gaze, staring at the floor, ashamed of the turmoil he had caused.

You turned your gaze away, fury igniting. “You think being scared gives you the right to hurt me? Those words stick with you. They don’t just disappear because you suddenly want to make things right. You shattered something in me, Bucky, and you expect me to just let it go?” The air was thick with the weight of your words, each one a dagger aimed at his heart.

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of his regret. “I’m not gonna pretend this doesn’t matter. I want to make things right. You’re not just some partner in this crazy shit; you’re everything to me. I’m so damn sorry, Y/N.”

A heavy silence fell between you, thick with unprocessed emotions. Tears glistened in your eyes, anger mixed with pain as you struggled to hold back the flood. Bucky could see your fingers trembling, as if you were fighting against the urge to reach out for him, to seek comfort from the very person who had hurt you.

“You’re sorry? That’s it? Do you think that’s enough? You can’t just toss around ‘I’m sorry’ and act like everything’s fine! Do you have any idea what it feels like to have the person you love turn on you like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but the truth of your feelings hit him like a freight train. It shattered him, the realization crashing down harder than any blow he’d ever taken. “I didn’t mean to fuckin’ hurt you like that. I—”

“Didn’t mean to?” you snapped, frustration boiling over. “But you did! You meant every single word when you said I wasn’t enough! It’s like a poison, Bucky! Every time I look in the mirror, I see your words haunting me!”

“Y/N…” he pleaded, stepping closer, but you backed away, shaking your head fiercely. The space between you felt like an insurmountable chasm, filled with hurt and distrust.

“No! You don’t get to touch me. Not after what you said. I don’t want your pity. I want my trust back! I want to feel safe with you again, but how the hell can I when you’ve torn me apart like this?” The pain in your voice twisted like a knife in his gut.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he begged, desperation bleeding through his words. “I can give you space. I’ll listen—just don’t shut me out. I can’t lose you.” He reached out, almost instinctively, but stopped short, respecting your boundary. The small bracelet you used to wear, the one he had given you, lay forgotten on the table—its absence felt like a symbol of the trust now shattered between you.

“Maybe… maybe I need time,” you finally said, voice soft but resolute, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I can’t keep waiting for you to figure out how to treat me with the love and respect I deserve. I can’t be your punching bag.”

“Take all the time you need,” he replied, his heart sinking deeper. “I’ll be right here, waiting for you. Just… I hope you can find it in you to forgive me.” His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fears of a future without you.

You nodded slowly, the weight of the moment hanging heavily between you. Bucky turned to leave, each step dragging him down like a lead weight. The distant sounds of the compound faded as he walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He wanted to scream, to punch the walls, to erase the hurt, but he knew he had to be patient. You needed time, and he would wait, even if it felt like forever.

As he walked away, the door closing behind him, Bucky felt a hollow ache settle in his chest—a deep emptiness that screamed for your forgiveness, for your presence. But he also knew he deserved the pain, the anguish he had caused. The only thing that mattered now was making things right, even if it took an eternity.

Days turned into weeks, and Bucky kept his distance, lurking on the edges of your life like a goddamn ghost. He was always there, a shadow in the background, never truly present, waiting for the moment you’d find it in yourself to forgive him. It was a tormenting cycle for him, hanging around the periphery of your world, the weight of his own mistakes bearing down like an anchor. He often caught himself recalling the laughter you once shared, memories of late-night talks and quiet moments that now felt like a distant dream. Those memories twisted in his gut as he watched you from afar, stealing glances during training, his gaze lingering near the kitchen where you used to share coffee and laughter, searching for a connection that felt like it was slipping through his fingers. But every time he made a move, the pain in your eyes sent him retreating, a constant reminder of the hurt he’d caused and the love that now felt so fragile.

One evening, the hum of the common room enveloped you, filled with the clatter of dishes and faint laughter from the team, but all you could focus on was the ache in your heart. You were scrolling through your phone, desperately trying to distract yourself when Bucky appeared in the doorway, hesitant and guarded. Your heart clenched at the sight of him—a mix of longing and sorrow flooding you, drowning out the world around you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, as if he was still wrestling with the demons of his past.

“Hey,” you replied, your voice flat, a careful mask of strength concealing the turmoil inside. You wanted to scream, to let him know how much his presence hurt, but part of you still craved the warmth he brought.

“Can we talk?” His words hung in the air like a fragile lifeline, one you weren’t sure you could grab onto.

You nodded, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you. “Make it quick,” you shot back, your tone sharper than intended, trying to keep the emotions at bay.

He stepped closer, eyes searching yours with a desperation that twisted your gut. “I need to say it again—for everything. I know it doesn’t mean much after the shit I pulled, but I swear I’m trying to fix this. I’m really working on myself.” As he spoke, he clenched his fists, fingers digging into his palms, a physical manifestation of the guilt that gnawed at him. “I just… I can’t keep running from this. I need you to know that.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the pressure of his words weighing down on you. “I’m trying to work through it, Bucky. But I can’t pretend everything’s fine just because you say you’re sorry.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said, frustration cracking his calm facade. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to meet your gaze. “But you need to understand how damn much you mean to me. I can’t lose you, Y/N. I won’t let that happen.”

Your heart ached at his confession, but anger flared within you. “You hurt me, Bucky. You can’t just wipe that away with a few nice words.”

“I know, I know! I’m fucking sorry, alright?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the walls. “I didn’t mean it. I was scared, and I lashed out. But you’ve gotta see how much I regret it, damn it!”

“Scared?” you spat, bitterness thick in your voice. “You don’t get to use your fear as an excuse for the pain you caused me!”

“Then what the hell do you want from me?” His voice rose, desperation lacing every word. “You’re acting like I’m a goddamn ghost! I’m right here, trying to fix this!”

“Because I need to protect myself!” you yelled back, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Every time I try to forgive you, you mess it up again! I can’t trust you when you keep hurting me!”

The silence that followed felt like a chasm between you, both of you breathing heavily, emotions spiraling out of control. Bucky’s shoulders sagged, the weight of your words crushing him. He thought of the little trinket you gave him once, a small metal star—a reminder of a bond that felt irreparably broken.

“I fucking hate this,” he admitted, his voice cracking, tears shimmering in his eyes. “I hate that I hurt you. I hate that no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix this. You mean everything to me, and it feels like I’m losing you more and more every damn day.” His gaze flickered to the floor, and for a moment, he was just a man haunted by his past, the soldier who had lost so much.

Your heart shattered at the sight of him, raw vulnerability spilling out. “You don’t get to say that after everything. You’ve made me feel worthless, like my feelings don’t matter. I can’t keep letting you walk all over me and expect everything to be okay.”

“I don’t want to fucking hurt you!” he cried, frustration and anguish battling within him. “I never asked for this! I just… sometimes I don’t know how to be better, okay?” He clenched his jaw, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill.

“Then you need to figure it out!” you screamed, your voice trembling with pain. “I can’t keep waiting for you to get it right while I’m left feeling broken!”

As your words hung in the air, the truth of your reality crashed over you both. The love you once shared felt suffocated by the shadows of anger and disappointment. You were both drowning in a sea of sorrow, hearts beating in sync but desperately out of tune.

Bucky stood there, shattered, eyes glistening with unshed tears, as you turned away, the battle within you raging. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unprocessed emotions, and for the first time, the thought of walking away felt more appealing than the pain of staying. But just as you took a step, a sliver of hope flickered in your chest—a feeling that perhaps this confrontation could lead to a path forward.

“Y/N…” he started, voice thick with heartbreak, but his words got lost in the chasm of hurt between you, leaving only a haunting silence in their wake. Yet somewhere deep within, the possibility of healing lingered, waiting for the courage to break through.

Weeks dragged on in the compound, each day feeling like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. The faint hum of machinery surrounded you, a constant reminder of the tension in the air. Despite Bucky’s promises to change, shadows of his past returned, casting a gloom that enveloped you both. Memories of laughter and shared moments felt like distant echoes now, buried under the weight of unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. You tiptoed around him, hyper-aware that every little thing could set off alarms in your mind.

The moment of impact came like a bullet, unexpected and cruel. During a mission briefing, Bucky’s voice cut through the air like glass shattering.

“Why the hell can’t you just focus?” he snapped, eyes ablaze with fury that had nothing to do with you, yet somehow landed squarely on your chest. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and metal, making it hard to breathe. “You’re not some damn rookie! You should know better than this by now!”

“Bucky, I—”

“Just shut the hell up!” he roared, the words echoing off the walls, raw and menacing. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening as he struggled to contain the storm inside. “You’re making this way harder than it needs to be!”

Each word felt like a blow, carving deeper into your heart. This wasn’t a new dance; it was an exhausting routine, and the suffocating weight of your shared history felt more unbearable than ever. You remembered the moments when he had opened up, how he had let you in, but they felt like faint memories now. “Maybe you should take a good, hard look in the mirror,” you shot back, your voice shaky with a mix of hurt and anger. “I’m not the one with the issue here.”

He glared at you, frustration boiling over, muscles tense, jaw clenched tight. You could see the flicker of his inner turmoil, the fear of losing you clawing at his composure. “You keep pulling this shit! It’s like you can’t see past your own damn feelings! Just focus on the mission for once!”

Your chest tightened, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I’m not your damn punching bag, Bucky,” you said, voice breaking under the weight of raw emotion. “You can’t keep exploding at me and expect me to take it like it’s nothing. I’m sick of this!”

“Maybe if you actually gave a damn about the mission instead of whining about your feelings, we wouldn’t be in this mess!” His words cut deeper than you thought possible, and you recoiled as if slapped. You remembered the way he used to care, how he used to fight for every person he loved, and it stung even more to see him like this.

“I care, Bucky!” you cried, tears spilling over as you fought to hold it together. “But it’s hard to keep my head in the game when I’m constantly worried about when you’ll blow up at me next! You say you’re trying, but nothing changes! It feels like I don’t even matter to you anymore!”

For a moment, his expression shifted, a flicker of regret flashing across his face, but the damage was done. “You think this is easy for me?” he shouted, voice raw and desperate, filled with unfiltered anguish. “I’m trying to be better, but you keep dragging me back into this shit!” You could see the pain behind his bravado, the memories of his past haunting him, and it broke your heart.

“Don’t act like I’m the fucking problem!” you yelled, heart racing as reality crashed down around you. “I’m not the one who can’t confront his demons! You push me away and then blame me for not being there when you do!”

Pain flickered in Bucky’s eyes, the cracks in his stoic facade deepening. “You’re right,” he admitted, voice shaking, the weight of his confession crushing him. “I don’t know how to deal with this… how to deal with you. I’m scared shitless of losing you, and honestly, I don’t know if I can fix it.” The vulnerability in his voice was a fragile thread, hanging in the air, and you felt a flicker of hope amidst the chaos.

“Then maybe you need to sort your shit out,” you replied, heart breaking as you watched his despair unfold. “I can’t keep waiting for you to figure it out while I’m left feeling shattered.” You recalled the shared moments, the promises made, and the weight of them felt unbearable now.

Silence fell, thick with the unsaid and unresolved. You were both drowning in a sea of sorrow, love suffocating under the weight of his rage and your hurt. Bucky’s shoulders sagged as he stepped back, the chasm between you widening, feeling more insurmountable than ever.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face, anguish spilling over. “It’s killing me.” The vulnerability hung heavy between you, and for a fleeting moment, you saw a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

His breath hitched, and he looked like he might reach for you, but the distance remained unbridgeable, a stark reminder of everything that felt lost. Yet, beneath it all, a small part of you held onto the hope that one day, you could navigate the darkness together.

The clash felt inevitable, like a storm building for days, ready to break over the fragile space between you and Bucky. The tension in the air was suffocating, each breath heavy with unspoken anger and hurt. You stood in the middle of the training room, fists clenched, trying to hold yourself together. Across from you, Bucky stood rigid, muscles taut, his hands balled into fists. The weights he had been using moments earlier now lay forgotten on the floor, a sharp reminder of the growing chasm between you.

The silence was unbearable. Then, without warning, Bucky's voice cut through the room like a blade. “Can you just—stop fucking around? You think this is a game?” His voice cracked, but his anger was palpable, radiating from him in waves as he hurled the weights down with a force that rattled through the room, the echo reverberating like a punch to the gut.

You flinched at the sound, the weight of his words hitting you just as hard. “Maybe if you’d stop yelling for one second, you’d see I’m trying!” Your voice shook, barely holding steady under the pressure. You were trembling, the knot of frustration and hurt in your chest threatening to unravel completely.

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “Damn it, you’re not trying hard enough!” he snapped, his fists tightening at his sides, knuckles white. His voice—usually so steady—was strained now, as though he was fighting to keep control. The anger in his tone felt like a punch, but you could see the tremble in his hands, the way his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

The sting of his words twisted in your chest. You could feel the pressure building in your throat, choking you with the weight of unspoken feelings. “I’m trying, Bucky. But it’s never enough for you, is it?” you said, the words tasting bitter in your mouth, laced with all the exhaustion you’d tried to suppress.

His face contorted in anger, but for a brief second, you saw something deeper flicker in his eyes—something haunted. You recognized that look. It was the same one he wore when he woke up from nightmares, drenched in sweat, guilt seeping from every pore. But it vanished just as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by his fury. “Get your shit together,” he snapped, voice low and intense. “I’m not your babysitter. You really think I can hold your hand through every goddamn thing?” His voice wavered, but he squared his shoulders, hiding the vulnerability underneath. “You want to survive? Toughen the hell up or get out of my way.”

“Then maybe you should just go!” The words burst out before you could stop them, raw and jagged, cutting through the tension. You hated how sharp your voice sounded, like a part of you was shattering with every syllable.

For a split second, his expression faltered—just long enough for you to see the crack in his defenses, the fear creeping in behind the anger. But the moment passed, and his face hardened once more, the distance between you widening.

“Enough is enough, Bucky.” Your voice trembled as you blinked back the tears threatening to spill over. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m tired of forgiving you just so you can hurt me again.” Each word felt like a physical wound, reopening scars you thought had healed.

Bucky’s hands dropped to his sides, but his fists remained clenched. “You’re being dramatic,” he muttered, turning his gaze away as though refusing to face the weight of your words. “I'm pushing you because you damn well need to be better. I can't afford to lose you.”

There it was. The fear he refused to name. He was terrified of losing you, but he couldn’t say it. Not out loud. So instead, he buried it under anger, under demands that pushed you further away.

“You twist everything, Bucky,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve tried to be there for you, to understand you—but I can’t keep pretending that this is okay. I can’t be the person you take everything out on.”

His jaw tightened, but his hands trembled at his sides. “You don’t get it,” he said, voice quieter now, almost broken. “I’m trying to protect you. I just… I don’t know how to do this without pushing people away. I’m not good at this shit.”

“And what do you think you’re doing right now?” you asked, your heart aching. “You’re pushing me away, and I’m too tired to hold on.”

The silence that followed was deafening, thick with the weight of unsaid things. Bucky’s breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The echo of the weights hitting the ground earlier still rang in your ears, a haunting reminder of how quickly things had spiraled.

You took a deep breath, feeling the chill of the room settle into your bones, as if the air itself was colder now, heavier. “I feel invisible, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of your confession. “Like I’m just a shadow, someone to absorb your anger when things get too hard. I can’t live like this anymore.”

Bucky’s eyes widened for a moment, and his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t. His lips parted, but no words came. His shoulders slumped slightly, a tiny surrender in the face of your pain.

He opened his mouth, his voice hoarse and desperate now. “Y/N, don’t do this,” His voice cracked, but his body was still tense, like he was holding something back—something he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit. “You don’t need to make this harder than it already is.”

“I don’t want to walk away, Bucky. But I have to, for my own sanity,” you said, stepping back as if putting physical distance between you would somehow make it easier.

He reached out, his hand hovering in the air between you, unsure. “Damn it,” he rasped. “I’m trying, okay? I need you to believe me.”

“It’s too late for that,” you whispered, your heart breaking at the sight of him so vulnerable, so raw. His hand dropped, and the space between you felt like a canyon now, too wide to cross.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his gaze dropping to the floor as though he couldn’t bear to look at you anymore. He clenched his fists again, nails biting into his palms. The weight of his guilt was suffocating, and you could see it in the way his shoulders sagged, the way his eyes dimmed with the realization that he had pushed you too far.

The room felt too quiet, the air thick with the aftermath of your words. You could feel the memory of every touch, every smile, every moment of laughter between you two slipping away like sand through your fingers. There was a photo—one he had kept tucked away in his jacket—of the two of you on a day when everything had felt perfect. He had carried it with him, a reminder of what he was trying to protect. But now, it felt like just another symbol of something irreparable.

“I loved you,” you whispered, stepping back one final time, tears blurring your vision as you turned toward the door. “But I deserve better.”

“Y/N!” His voice broke, desperate, as he took a step toward you, hand outstretched. His body was trembling now, fear etched into every line of his face. “Don’t fucking walk away from me! I can change. I swear, I can be better for you!”

You hesitated, your back to him, feeling the weight of his plea. For a moment, you almost turned back. Almost. But the words he had said still hung heavy in the air between you. And you knew—deep down—that you couldn’t survive this cycle anymore.

As you walked away, the echo of his voice followed you, the pain lacing each syllable a reminder of what could have been. But you didn’t stop. The silence after you left was deafening, and it swallowed Bucky whole, leaving him alone with his regrets, the weight of his own mistakes pressing down on him like a physical force.

He watched the door close behind you, his heart sinking with the realization that he had lost you. And for the first time, he didn’t know how to fix it.

476 notes · View notes

shy-writer-999 · 3 months ago

Text

Surrender: Ace cries at night and you comfort him

A/N: This is angst that turns into lovey-dovey stuff. SFW. CW for self-loathing (on Ace's side). ~1,250 words. (´ω｀*)

Surrender: Ace cries at night while you comfort him

Sometimes Ace engages with the deep pit of loneliness and self-loathing that festers inside of him. He tries to avoid it as much as he can, but that part of him can only be ignored for so long until it demands to be heard. In the visceral moments of reconciliation with that neglected part of himself, Ace has to surrender. He has to allow himself to feel and accept the open wounds still gaping inside of him—the wounds in his heart, in his core, in that pit of despair and unimaginable solitude.

There are certain memories of hurt and trauma in your past that you can never forget. Even if these moments are from decades ago, they can sting and haunt you just the same. They flash into the mind, unprompted, intrusive, glaring, and horrible. On a good day, those memories fly under the radar for Ace. They don’t get in the way of how intensely and relentlessly he loves people, nor do they obstruct the happiness he feels in the small moments of joy that every day brings.

When the memories finally surface, when they refuse to go away, not only does Ace have to surrender, but more often than not, he breaks. These days, it’s rare. To be clear, Ace is not broken; the sheer weight of the hurt that he quietly suffers can just get to him. It’s like a watershed—the second that he has to surrender, his repressed emotions and memories detonate like a bomb in his heart. Surrendering to the pain, surrendering to that festering pit, sometimes looks like curling up in fetal position and sobbing for however long he needs; historically, it’s been anywhere from 10 minutes to a couple of hours. Other times that he breaks he is despondent all day—he shuts down, and though there are no tears, the pain is just as torturous.

Since you had started seeing Ace and regularly sharing a bed with him, you had yet to witness one of these moments of surrender. Ace was a force to be reckoned with. He was strong, formidable, talented, and terrifying, yet at the same time he was charming, polite, and astonishingly kind. You had a baseline understanding of what he’d been through in his life and who he was, so you understood that he held pain in his heart. But understanding that fact was different than witnessing that pain in real time.

When you woke up to Ace crying next to you, his back was turned away from you. You realized that he was sobbing as quietly as he could. You could hear the sound of his breath hitching in between the waves of anguish and tears. He was trying to hold as still as he could, be as quiet and as small as possible, so he wouldn’t wake you up. He preferred to suffer these moments of anguish alone—he didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. He shouldered too much, far more than any one person should or could deal with. As the shuddering sobs wracked his body, his heart and core twisted. The watershed of grief had started, and it wouldn’t stop until it all came out.

When you watch someone that you love sob like that, it breaks something in you, too.

For someone to be so vulnerable, so sincere, showing you a part of themselves that they keep locked away… it is nothing to take lightly. Having the privilege of being close to someone like this is precious. It is invaluable. To be trusted completely and without refrain, to be recognized for who you are and to recognize someone for who they are, completely, through thick and thin… this is what love is about.

You stirred and Ace held his breath, worried that he had disturbed your sleep with his break down. No matter how still or soundless he tried to be, the hot tears streaming from his eyes refused to stop.

You shifted, facing his back and scooting closer so you were spooning him. Ace tried to slow down his gasps for air to feign like he had been asleep.

Not only was he worried about being a burden, but he was worried that you would look at his pain and refuse to recognize it—that you would scorn him. As he tried (and failed) to self-regulate, he felt you lean forward to kiss the back of his head. You threw an arm over him, holding him, letting him know that he was cherished here. You nuzzled into his neck and felt his body alongside yours.

“I’m here, Ace. And you are safe.” You spoke gently into the back of his neck.

Upon hearing your recognition and reassurance, Ace fully yielded to the explosion of emotions assailing him—he let himself feel the hatred for himself and for others, let himself feel the suffocating loneliness of his solitude and isolation, let himself feel the desperate need to be loved and assured constantly. He surrendered.

Ace sobbed for a long time. The safety he discovered while you comforted him was beyond anything he knew. Your love radiated on the pit of sadness and despair, managing to lift Ace out of what felt like a molten, toxic, and boiling lake of self-hatred and sorrow.

While he cried, you kissed his neck, shoulder, and the back of his head softly. You held him. You asked for nothing from Ace. You didn’t come from a place of wanting to “fix” him or to figure out exactly what he was upset about—you were there because you profoundly, truly, ardently loved him. You were safe, you understood, you did not judge. He could grieve as much as he needed to and you would be there, always.

When his breath slowed and the tears stopped rolling down his cheeks, Ace felt calm, clear headed. He turned over to face you, getting so close that your foreheads were almost touching. His cheeks were soaked with tears, his eyes were red, and his hair was a mess. He took one of your hands tenderly and entwined his fingers with yours. He spoke three words, his voice hushed and hoarse.

“I love you.”

Ace kissed your forehead softly, his lips still wet from the paths forged by tears down his skin; he peppered the rest of your face with soft, damp kisses. He couldn’t put into words how grateful he was for you or how significant and impactful your care was to him. He didn’t say anything because he knew that you were already aware. This moment didn’t need words.

You fell asleep nestled together, hands held. The love you felt for Ace and the love he felt for you was the same—it was a peaceful acceptance, an attunement, a harmony, and a burning flame.

After this night, anytime Ace felt like he was going under, like he was about to be swallowed by that excruciating weight on his shoulder, he knew that he could find solace in you. You were an anchor for him, as he was for you. You recognized all parts of him and loved each one; he told you about all of the mistakes he had made, the people he had wronged, the regretful and hurtful memories simmering, and you told him that every mistake he ever made led him here—you both agreed that you’d never have it any other way.

(◕︿◕✿) (>_<) ૮ ˙ ﻌ˙ ა

thank you so much for reading, i appreciate it so much!

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

-- Z

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