#so now i was trying to fix it and i though i had more or less done it

[flaxen-phoenix]

I used to work as a self checkout attendant for a certain Sammy's Bargain Bastion Boutique during the pandemic in 2020. Because no one was spending cash, we eventually went into a coin shortage. To compensate for this, we turned all the self checkout registers to card only. Now, the thing about SBBB's self checkouts is that when they're card only, they have two key differences:

1: they say "CARD ONLY - NO CASH PAYMENTS - NO CASH BACK" in big, bold white letters on a dark blue background on the title screen. I'm nearsighted to the point where my computer screen, less than elbow length away from my face, is completely illegible. Even I could read it without my glasses, from the opposite corner of the self checkout bullpen.

2: When you scan your first item, it doesn't go right to the item-scanning screen. Instead, it pops up with a dialog box warning you that the register is card only, and the narrator asking "Do you wish to continue?", and you can't scan your second item until you acknowledge the dialog box.

I swear to god I got so many people asking me "Why won't it let me scan my items?", and I had to point them to the dialog box preventing them from scanning any more items. It got to the point where they actually removed the dialog box because nobody would read it.

Naturally, that was even worse.

I had so many customers who didn't read the title screen, would go up to a register intending to pay with cash, and then they get to the payment screen, only to find that it doesn't accept cash.

In most cases, this was a simple fix: I could suspend the transaction and send them to a staffed register, which always accepts cash. The terminal would print out a suspension slip with a barcode on it, and then they could scan it to pick the transaction up at another register, exactly the same as where they left off.

However, I couldn't do this for transactions where part had been paid already.

Cue one customer pulling me aside and asking why he couldn't pay. I tell him the register he's at was card only. He had already paid partially with EBT, so I couldn't suspend the transaction, and there was a line forming for the ONE (1) register that still accepted cash. He only had six items, so I aborted the transaction, and he got in line. He was pretty pissed by that point, but then, four items into his transaction on the new register, he pulls me aside again and asks why his peppers aren't scanning. I scan them properly, first try, and he says "You wanna be a smartass, we'll take this outside".

My boss, meanwhile, was standing at another register, filling it with cash to try and clear the line up. On his way out, he turns to her and says "This place looks like shit, you better clean it up." Once he was out of earshot we both had a good laugh at his expense, though.

never forget the universal rule of the order of things: People Will Not Read It

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales IIII

Summary: Princess!Reader tries to convince her mates to leave the Empire, but they have other ideas.

Content Warnings: Mentions of Slavery/Abuse

Part 1, 2, 3

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Anise is right; I do look like shit. No attempt at washing my face or fixing my hair or changing my clothes changes the sickly color that remains on my skin from the time spent with my head in the toilet. Secluding myself in the house these last couple months have already sapped the color from my cheeks, but today’s events have not helped bring any life back into my features. The dull, lifeless gray of my eyes, the limpness of my hair, the way my dress hangs limp off me… I do not recognize the face in the mirror.

“Anise?” She’s still pacing in my chambers, biting on her weathered thumbnail. Her anxiety makes the vines sprouting from her head grow, leaves and tiny, yellow flowers blossoming as the thick strands slither down her waist. 

“You shouldn’t see them alone,” she persists.

I brush a strand of hair over my yellowing cheek, then push it back behind my ear. I can explain away a bruise. Besides, it is not as if I can expect them to care enough about me to ask how it got there.

I sigh as I push the hair back in front of my face. I do not want to appear weak and frail, not in front of my mates. Not in front of anybody. I need to remain strong.

“Anise,” I try again, turning away from the mirror. There is nothing I can do to change it now, the damage is done and it’s too late in the evening to call for one of my lady’s-in-waiting to come help me fix it. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Get the guard? Yes, a splendid idea!”

I snag her arm as she goes for the door. “No, Anise.”

She huffs her irritation. “You’re being foolish, Little One.”

Probably; she won’t hear that from me though. “I need you to look into something for me and I need you not to tell a soul about it.”

She goes still at that, her emerald eyes widening in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to see if there is passage out of the Empire and into the Wastes through the sea.”

Her bark-like features twist in surprise as I continue. “I need a passage my Father doesn’t know about, and I need it quickly.”

“What have you done?” She whispers. 

“Nothing. Not yet anyway.”

Anise fights her way out of my grip so she can take my face in her hands. “Now you listen to me, child! I have already lost your Mother, do not ask me to sit here and lose you too.”

“It’s not for me.”

Her eyes flick to the door and back. “Them?”

I nod.

“Why?”

“They’re dead men if I don’t,” I say, hoping the heaviness in my voice is enough to keep her from pressing further. I do not have it in me to admit what they are after what I’ve done, not even to her. Her loyalty was always to my Mother first, and I trust her more than anyone, but there are some secrets best kept close to the vest. Maybe she’d never tell anyone, but her mouth wanders sometimes, and if it were to slip… any number of the staff would sell me out to my Father in a heartbeat. I have to be careful. This is all I can tell her for now.

“I don’t like this,” she whispers. “You are entering a dangerous game. If your Father finds out…”

“Don’t let him find out,” I counter, pulling free of her grip. If I linger any longer, I will lose my nerve. I need to see them now.

My hands shake as I open the door. Moonlight spills into the hallway from the high, open windows on either side of me. I’d kept the heavy, silk curtains pushed against the far walls closed for months and months, refusing to accept that time was moving on without me. Anise had opened them this morning, when I’d announced I was finally ready to go out again. She’d hoped the fresh air would be good for me, truth be told, so had I. I didn’t expect so much to change in such a short time frame. 

There are guards on patrol outside the windows. A couple torches had been lit along the path through the gardens, bathing their armored heads and ridiculously large horse hair plumes in an orange glow. As a kid, I’d thought they were monsters when I’d see them in this light, stalking through the palace grounds; maybe I hadn’t been so far off.

Anise trails after me. “I will do it, but you will let me accompany you for this first.”

“No.” I should head out the side door and follow the footpath to the guest house, but I make a show of walking towards the kitchen instead. There is a servant’s passage through the cellar that will keep me out of sight. As far as the guards are concerned, I’m getting a snack in the kitchen with my maid. No one needs to know that I’m meeting the Illyrians. 

“Why are you…” she stops when we come to the kitchen. All the lights are off. The staff asleep earlier than usual so they can, undoubtedly, rise earlier in the morning in order to prepare bigger meals than they’re used to. They have to be in an uproar over the sheer amount of guards they’ll have to feed every day now. The House has not seen much attention in the last couple of months; I certainly wasn’t hosting any parties. 

“Is this a sex thing?”

I am grateful the dark hides the blush working its way up my neck and cheeks. “What!?”

“It’s not like you to sneak around, I’m just wondering if there’s something happening here between you and them?” She is the only other person that knows about the secret passages in the house. Mother had them built as a safety measure against intruders, and promptly found an excuse to execute the architect before he could show Father the plans. There are a number of false doors and hidden hallways throughout the house, a couple of secret exits and a panic room only accessible with a key I keep around my neck at all times. She was as paranoid as my Father, but at least hers had practical applications. And could now serve as a means to move around my house without arousing suspicion. 

“This most definitely is not a sex thing!” I hiss. 

I mean, yes, some sponsors do sleep with their champions. Hels, some sponsors sell their champions for a night of pleasure to the highest bidder. Amarantha and my cousins included. It was an abhorrent practice that I tried not to think about in the past, but the mere suggestion of it has me clenching my fists. Did she truly think I’d stoop to that?

“You’re being strange is all I’m saying,” she returns. 

“I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to insist on hovering, just make it look like we’re in here making a snack, will you?”

“Will you tell me why this is necessary?”

I pry the door that leads down to the cellar open slowly, conscious of how loudly it squeaks and trying to minimize the noise as best I can. “No.”

“Then I’m coming with!”

I slip behind the door and hold it nearly closed as she approaches. “Fine, we’ll talk when I get back. Happy?”

Even in the dark I can see her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Don’t get pregnant.”

“I’m not fucking them!” I hiss as I close the door. She’s impossible! Once she sets her mind on something, she just can’t let it go. At least she doesn’t try to follow me. 

There’s a slim set of stairs that leads down into the cellar lined with fae lights that flicker to life as I descend. Rows of dried meats and herbs hang from the rafters, casting eerie shadows over the shelf lined walls. The cellar is lined with rows of more shelves and barrels of wine, everything cataloged and arranged in alphabetical order. Our steward has always been exceptionally neat, and the concealed door in the backs sits connected to the wall where he keeps all his flour. I will have to remember to sweep the floor upon my return, just in case anything falls from the shelf and gives the door away. 

The door opens by turning one of the panels in the wood in a full circle, disturbing a sack of flour as it swings inward with a groan. The hallway is dark and dusty, a heavy layer of cobwebs disturbed by the door. I haven’t used this tunnel in years. 

I take one of the bobbing fae lights out of its perch on the stairs and carry it with me into the dark, making sure the door closes behind me, just in case any of the guards decide to come do a sweep of the place now that they’ve seen Anise in the kitchen. I can’t be sure of their orders, I have to assume that they will check on everyone in the house if there is the slightest deviation from the routine. Which also means I need to make this quick.

The silence of the tunnel is not good for my nerves, I find myself once again digging my knuckle into the knot in my chest. Without Anise to distract me, I’m once again consumed with the guilt of having to look at them after what I’d done. Not knowing why they’re asking to see me doesn’t help either. 

The tunnel slopes downward, filled with cobwebs and the occasional rat I startle back into holes in the walls. There’s some rain damage along the supports I should really have looked at, but updating these means having to tell someone about them, and that’s not an option. Not unless I wish for Father to find out about it, or worse, be forced into a situation where I have to consider killing an architect after rebuilding it as my Mother had done. There haven’t been any reasons for the tunnels since I was a child, I’ll avoid having to make any decisions on it until I absolutely have to. As long as the roof holds, I can make do.

Mother wanted to ensure that this place had multiple advantages, one of them being strategically placed and concealed vents for both air flow, and espionage. The vent hidden in the garden lets me hear the stomping of boots as the guards pass overhead. Some of them complain about the quiet as they pass each other, but it doesn’t sound like they’re yet suspicious of me moving around the house this late. 

I keep moving, comforted just a little by the fact that I don’t have to worry about dealing with them yet. 

The tunnel curves in a crescent shape to come around the back of the guest house, where there’s a door carefully hidden behind the lararium built for the Mother. The carefully carved statue of our beloved Goddess hides the door, and the altar serves as a deterrent to keep people from looking too close at the seams in the wall. It also hides the vent that lets me hear three, arguing voices, even in hushed tones:

“This is a bad idea, Rhys!” Cassian. 

“It is our only shot,” Rhysand shoots back. 

Their voices are so different: Cassian’s gruff and husky, Rhysand’s smooth and rich. Having them near soothes an anxiousness I didn’t know was inside me, I find myself drawn closer and closer to the door, just for a chance to listen to them speak. I’ve never had something as simple as a voice cause such an intense reaction before. All of this is so new and foreign; it will take some getting used to.

“I don’t care!” Cassian returns, the words sharp as a knife. “I don’t want anything to do with her.”

And just like that, my revelry is broken and that pesky knot in my chest returns. It is an effort to get a deep enough breath in, as if someone had sucker punched me right in the stomach. He really does hate me. It was one thing to think it, but it’s another to hear it so openly. I really have ruined this before it even had a chance to begin.

“She is our only chance,” Azriel chimes in, voice a hissed whisper. He sounds agitated, I can picture him pacing in front of the altar. 

“She’s his daughter! Am I the only one bothered by that?” Cassian protests. 

“That’s exactly why we need her,” Rhysand counters. 

Time slows to a crawl. Need me? Hope is a pesky, irritating, thing that I shove down inside me, even as my body moves to press itself against the door, waiting for them to continue. 

“We can’t trust her.”

“Yes we can,” Azriel retorts. 

I wonder if they can hear my heartbeat stuttering through the door--no matter that it’s waded so I can hear them and they can’t hear me, it’s so loud it still feels like a possibility. 

“What, because your shadows can smell that on her?” Cassian sneers. 

“Because I looked in her head,” Rhysand hisses, his voice rising. 

I know that I have a limited amount of time to do this, but I can’t bring myself to open the door, not with a confession like that. What does he mean he looked in my head?

“She’s terrified of him.”

“She could have fooled me. She didn’t look a bit terrified of branding us.”

“Because she didn’t brand us at all!” Rhysand snarls. “I did.”

“You hit your fucking head harder than I thought.”

“Asking for us to be spared threw Hybern off his game. Whatever plans he has for us got derailed because of her. And we need whatever edge we can get right now. When I slipped into her mind, she was panicking, she couldn’t do it and we would have all been fucked. I moved her hands around that iron, I touched it to your skin. Not her. She was so distraught over it I had to hold her upright the whole way back. Trust me, she liked it as much as you did.”

“But the collar…?” Cassian stammers.

“It dims a lot of my powers, but not all of them. I threw what I had out there. It only works when I’m close. Whatever she felt after we separated, whatever she’s doing now, I can’t get a feel.”

Rhysand was that invisible hand on me? I hadn’t just imagined it? How is that even possible? The twins are Daemati, but even they can’t reach into someone’s head and control them like that, especially with the gorsian chains in the way. At least, they’d never shown me they could. I suppose I’d never thought to ask.

“We have to act fast,” Azriel chimes in. “The quicker we get ahead of this, the more time we have to work around Hybern. Until now, he’s always been one step ahead of us. We’ve been playing his games on his terms. She… changes things.”

Does he know that we’re mates? Could that really mean something to him?

“Why are you so quick to trust her?” Cassian challenges. “Let's say what Rhys saw in her head is even real, because let's face it, she very well could be like the twins and been throwing those things up to see if you’d take the bait, but for the sake of the argument, sure they’re real. So what? What do you think she’s going to do here? Throw in her lot with us and help us overthrow her father?”

“Yes,” Rhysand says, as if it’s just that simple.

They can’t really be serious with this, can they?

“What could she possibly get out of it? She’s a spoiled princess who has not had to feel the effects of this Empire a day in her life! The best of this place has been handed to her and you think she’s just going to give that up to a couple of bastards like us?”

I dig my knuckle into my chest again, trying to ease the tension that feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my skin. 

“You don’t get it,” Azriel hisses. 

“Explain it to me, Az!” Cassian shoots back. “Explain to me how the limited interaction we had convinced you that she’s a good person who would help us for the hell of it?”

“You don’t have to trust her, Cass,” Rhysand interjects. “That doesn’t change the fact that we need her.”

I take my lower lip between my teeth. I’m supposed to be saving them; I’m supposed to be getting them as far away from this place as possible and they want me to what? Overthrow my Father? It’s delusional. No one can outmaneuver him. Mother tried and failed. How many rebels has Amarantha executed? How many slaves have been carted from the far reaches, having been defeated for daring to oppose the Empire? Everyone that has ever gone up against him has lost and paid for it with their lives. I can’t let them do this. It’s suicide!

I get my hand on the hidden lock and turn. It’s my responsibility as a mate to save them from themselves. I have to put this foolish notion to bed. By tomorrow, Anise will have an answer about a way out of here. I just need them to stay put for the night and this mess will be over. 

I get the impression they are not males used to being taken by surprise, if the way they stand their gaping at me is any indication. Dark shadows wreath Azriel’s, still bare, shoulders, curling around his ears like they’re living things whispering in his ear. His scarred hands twitch over his hip, as if he’s reaching for a weapon instinctively, despite there being nothing there. 

Rhysand grins wolfishly as he leans a bruised shoulder against the doorframe, violet eyes once again roving over every inch of me. “Aren’t you full of surprises, Princess?”

“What if we had been indecent?” Cassian retorts.

“You’re barely dressed now,” I blurt before I can stop myself, though it is true. He’s stripped down to his boxers, using what was once a white towel, but it’s now brown, to clean up a gash across his thigh. Judging by the color of the bruising and the still forming scab, the wound is from before the arena. He needs to have it cleaned and looked at by a healer. I should be focusing on that. I should not be focusing on how large his thighs are, or imagining what it might feel like to sit in his lap.

Rhysand’s grin broadens like he can hear my thoughts, and then I remember that he can. 

Shit! I need to focus. I need to put my shields up, just like I do when I’m around the twins. Just because they’re my mates, doesn’t mean they’re incapable of using their abilities on me. Who’s to say, if Rhysand really is powerful enough to move me around like a puppet, even with the collar, that he won’t simply reach in and use me as he sees fit if I don’t cooperate. I don’t know anything about them. I have to be careful.

“We can strip down if you’d like?” He purrs.

“Did you make me come all this way just to harass me, or…?” I let the question hang there so I can give myself an extra second to reinforce my mental shields. 

“Sorry to pull you from your ivory tower,” Cassian snarls.

I instinctively take a step away from him, the venom behind each word enough to make me flinch despite myself. Azriel moves away from where he’s been sitting on the edge of the altar, effectively putting himself between us. “No, we didn’t.”

“Then what do you want?” My shields are in place, but I feel my confidence waning. I thought that this would be easy, that the bond would make everything click into place for us. They could trust me and I could trust them and this thing that tethered us together would put us at an even playing field. But it doesn’t. Our goals are off and I don’t know how to get them even, I don’t know how to get them to listen to me. 

“We want your help,” Rhysand says. 

“We need your help,” Azriel corrects.

I should just tell them that I heard them and skip all the repetitiveness, but there is a piece of me that worries I was naive before, and that they will tell me something different to my face. Maybe I’m the only one who feels the bond and they merely see me as something to be manipulated and used. I have to be sure.

“With what?” I ask.

“We want Hybern off the throne,” Rhysand explains. He hasn’t left his perch against the wall; though his gaze lingers on me, he gives me space that feels intentional. As if I’m a rabid dog he thinks might bite if it feels cornered. “We think you do too.”

“And why would you think that?” It is only from years of training that my voice doesn’t shake. How can they be so flippant about this? Saying those words out loud is enough to have their heads removed from their shoulders. The thought that any guard walking past might hear has me shaking, yet they don’t even flinch.

“He scares you,” Azriel says. His voice is already a low whisper, but it softens when he looks at me. A tendril of shadows slithers down his leg and across the floor, tentatively drifting across the pale tiles to come poke around at my ankles.

“He scares everybody and for good reason.” I need to keep my original goal in mind here. I’m here to get them out. They need to see the necessity of it. “Do you know how many people are dead because they underestimated him? No one is safe.”

“That’s why he needs to be stopped,” Rhysand presses.

Cassian folds his broad arms over his tattooed chest, frowning, but he doesn’t jump into the conversation. While Rhysand’s gaze is assessing, Cassian’s is cold, unyielding. He’s made up his mind about me. 

The fact that the others haven’t gives me more hope than I know I should have. They will have to leave anyway. I should hope they haven’t felt the bond, hope that it doesn’t convince them to stay. They need to be far, far away. But there is a small, desperate piece of me that clings to it anyway. 

“He can’t be stopped.” I bite back all the bitterness and rage that threatens to escape out of me and try to keep my tone even, unbothered. 

“You stopped him this afternoon,” Azriel counters as his shadow brushes up my calf like a phantom cat. They feel like a slight brush of breath against my skin, gentle and strange and I might giggle against the sensation if I wasn’t so focused on keeping my composure. 

I don’t kick it off either. A broken, desperate piece of me claws after the attention and blatant need for affection like a lifeline. 

“He listened to you,” Rhysand presses, doubling down when he sees me hesitate. Azriel isn’t wrong, though he’s not, technically right either. Still, he sees an opening and he swoops down like a vulture to take it. “No one else has that kind of influence.”

“It was a fluke,” I retort. “He was surprised. That won’t happen again.”

“It will if you keep surprising him,” Rhysand counters. “He has you, and everyone else, in a quaint little box, but if you deviate from the script he’s written for you, you can maneuver him where you want him.”

My hand goes instinctively to my bruised cheek, right as Azriel’s shadow comes slithering up my shoulder. It lets out a soft huffing sound as it follows my wrist to see what my fingers are doing. The shadow still curled around Azriel’s ear hisses softly, like the two are communicating. Maybe they are, given the way his eyes darken. 

“You cannot fight him.” I pull my hand away from my face a little faster than I mean to, and the shadow curls into my palm, inspecting the indents my fingernails had left earlier.  “You might as well quit while you’re ahead.”

“I wouldn’t call this being ahead,” Cassian huffs, turning his wrist to flash the brand I put there.

“I can find passage out of the Empire for you.” We’re going to run out of time if we keep standing here talking in circles. The guard will get curious eventually. They are bound to wonder why the lights are still on and no one is preparing for bed soon. “I should know by morning when it will be here.”

“If that’s true, why haven’t you taken it?” Cassian challenges.

Azriel takes a tentative step towards me. For someone so large, he’s surprisingly quiet on his feet. “I was terrified of my father too,” he says gently.

I can’t help but look at his hands. Had his father done that to him?

“I thought it was normal, how he treated me. I thought everyone was afraid of their father. I didn’t know any better until I got out. Until I met these two jackasses.”

Rhysand snorts a laugh behind him.

Cassian grumbles out a retort that sounds like it’s in another language. 

Azriel stops when he’s only a few inches away from me. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. “Sometimes you just need a little help. We can help each other, like you helped us earlier, right?”

I’ve lived around the ass kissing and political games of the palace long enough to know when someone’s trying to work an angle on me, and this isn’t one of those times. He means it. As hard to imagine that someone his size, someone who just took down a Giant and a bunch of Wargs, even with his wings broken, could be scared of anything, I believe him.

The bond warms, just a little. It’s nice, after years of feeling like no one could hear me when I whispered my complaints, to have a kinship with someone. I cling to that little shred of warmth like it’s a roaring fire amidst a blizzard. How long have I begged the Mother for even a shred of solace like this?

Perhaps that makes me weak. Perhaps I am a fool, but I want this. I want them. 

“A lot of good my help did,” it comes out in a whisper, like it’s dragging itself out of my throat. 

“But it does help,” Rhysand interjects. “Being your champions gives us an excuse to be close, and it gets us into places we couldn’t get before. You give us direct access to your father. That’s all we need.”

Azriel reaches out and brushes that loose strand of hair I’d pushed over my cheek behind my ear, scarred fingers brushing over my jaw with a feather light touch that is not unlike the one his shadow gives me. My whole body trembles all the same. 

“We won’t let anyone hurt you,” he promises.

I am entirely unprepared for that kind of promise. I’m supposed to be protecting them, not the other way around, but I’ve been on my own for awhile now, and I can’t help the way my body leans into that faint brush of his hand over my skin. Am I so starved for affection that even this feels like some grand gesture?

“We’re not asking you to do any fighting. You’re not challenging him.” Rhysand assures. “We merely need you to use these brands to your advantage. Drag us around with you. Show off the prize you’ve claimed like anyone else in the Empire would.”

My stomach twists. 

“Play the games the rest of the court plays, and we will do all the rest,” he assures. 

“I don’t understand how that helps you?” 

“For now, we need to observe his habits. There’s a parade tomorrow, right?”

Shit, I’d forgotten about that! 

“Yes.”

“Take us with you,” Rhysand explains. “Lots of people bring their champions out like bodyguards or trophies, right?”

“Or dogs,” Cassian hisses.

I wince. “Yes.”

“We don’t know much about the city. Just act like you’re showing us off so we can get a look around.”

He makes it sound so simple.

“And then what?”

He shrugs as he finally pushes off the wall. Though the touch had been brief, Azriel hasn’t moved out of my space, and seeing that it hasn’t sent me running, Rhysand takes this as a sign that he can move closer too. He’s just barely shorter than Azriel, and despite the fact that I inherited my Mother’s height, I cannot help but feel small next to them. I don’t think I entirely mind though.

 “Leave the strategies to us. The less you know what we’re doing and when, the safer you are. This is a long game, we have to take it one step at a time.”

“I don’t think you realize how dangerous playing this game with my Father is,” I warn. If anything were to happen to them because I didn’t insist on getting them on that ship in the morning, I’d never forgive myself!

He grins, flecks of starlight glinting in his eyes. He really is the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, even with all the grime and blood on him. Which reminds me, they still haven’t seen the healer. Ember will never let me hear the end of it; I’m surprised she didn’t come with Anise to bust down my door. 

 “Let us do the worrying, Princess.” He’s very confident for someone who had just been thrown into a pit and been forced to fight a bunch of monsters. I hate to admit it, but that confidence worms its way through the bond like a rat chewing through a wall. No matter how hard I try to fight it back, a bit of it hits me anyway. Even without his presence inside my head, I feel safer when he’s near. 

My gaze flicks from him to Azriel for confirmation that this is something they have both agreed on, and he nods reassuringly. 

“You really think you can win?” I ask.

“Darling, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my people,” Rhysand vows. “Whatever it takes to see them free, I will do it.”

So much for me finding a way to get them out of here, they’re pretty determined to stay, influence from the mating bond or not. On one hand, if I do this, I can keep an eye on them; maybe I can find ways to rig another Game, can make sure they have everything they need to survive. On the other hand, this is crazy! We’re talking about taking on Hybern. Take him being my Father out of the question, no one has ever won anything against him, he’s always two steps ahead, always sees the outcome before it happens. 

I take my lower lip between my teeth again. I’m going to need a dark shade of lipstick in the morning to hide all the teeth marks I’ve undoubtedly left in it today. 

“Let’s say I agree, but only on a trial basis,” I begin, trying and failing to organize all my thoughts. The bond pulls me one way and rationale pulls me the other. I cannot find a happy middle ground. “If tomorrow goes poorly, will you get on the boat and leave the Empire behind?”

“Happily,” Cassian huffs.

Rhysand shrugs, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

I have a sinking feeling it’ll be the same answer tomorrow, but I’ll take whatever I can get, as long as it means there’s a shot at keeping them alive.

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Tag List: @sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe , @raisam

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[cinnamanz]

# ONLY ON CAMERA — chapter fifty-one!

when katseye's main dancer daniela avanzini accidentally throws shade at chart-topping singer y/n l/n on an interview, the internet erupts in chaos. with y/n already in hot waters with the press over her latest scandal, both their pr teams scramble for damage control. the solution? a 'picture-perfect' fake relationship to turn the headlines in their favor.

wc: 720 (its the last written chapter bro dont be lazy nd read it😔)

SHE

THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR WAS FAINT AT FIRST, almost swallowed by the roar of the rain. y/n glanced up from her phone, a furrow forming on her brow. another knock—firmer this time, more urgent. she sighed, setting her phone down and making her way to the door, her pulse quickening despite herself.

when she opened it, she froze.

there stood daniela, soaked to the skin, rainwater streaming from her hair and dripping off the hem of her jacket. she looked as messy as the storm outside—eyes rimmed red, lips trembling, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

y/n’s voice caught in her throat. “what are you doing he—”

“i’m sorry.” the words tumbled out of daniela’s mouth before y/n could finish, her voice breaking. “i’m so sorry. “just let me talk. let me—let me explain.”

y/n stepped back slightly, her hand tightening on the doorknob. “you shouldn’t be here,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

“i know,” daniela said, her voice breaking. “but i couldn’t stay away. i can’t—” she paused, dragging a hand through her wet hair, her shoulders trembling. “i can’t keep running from this. from you.”

y/n didn’t move, her hand gripping the door frame as she tried to steel herself. “why now?” she asked, her voice quieter than she’d meant it to be, the hurt bleeding through despite her effort to hold it back.

daniela blinked, tears slipping free and mixing with the rain still streaking down her face. “because i’ve been a coward,” she said, her voice raw. “because i’ve spent every second since i left you trying to convince myself i was better off alone, that i didn’t need this—didn’t need you. but i do. i need you, y/n.”

“i know i hurt you. i know i pushed you away, lied to myself, lied to you. i told myself it was better that way. that it was safer. but all i’ve done is destroy the one good thing i’ve ever had. you don’t deserve this,” daniela continued, her voice trembling, raw and unguarded. “you don’t deserve to be someone’s second choice or their escape. you deserve to be loved the way you love—completely, without hesitation. and i was too much of a coward to give that to you.”

y/n closed her eyes. “you think an apology fixes this? that just saying you’re sorry makes it all okay?”

“no,” daniela said, her voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t expect it to. but i had to try. because i love you. and if there’s even the smallest chance that you’ll let me prove it to you, then i’ll take it. even if it means standing here all night in the rain.”

y/n’s eyes opened, locking on daniela’s, and for the first time in weeks, she saw something in her gaze that felt genuine—raw and unguarded in a way daniela had never allowed herself to be.

she stepped back, the door swinging wider. “you’re an idiot. come in,” y/n said softly, the words catching in her throat.

daniela hesitated for a moment, as if she couldn’t believe it, before stepping through the threshold. y/n didn’t speak as she shut the door behind her, didn’t look at her, but when daniela turned, y/n’s arms were already around her, pulling her into an embrace that was as much a lifeline as it was a question.

“you’re a huge idiot.” daniela let out a sound at y/n’s words—a mix of a sob and a laugh—as y/n pulled her into a hug, the warmth of her embrace cutting through the chill. the rain from daniela’s skin and clothes attached themselves to y/n’s own clothes, fabric darkening as daniela pulled her closer, hug tightening.

“i love you.” the words fell from daniela’s lips, soft and certain, like they’d been waiting their whole life to find their way to y/n. they settled in the air between them, filling the space with something tender and warm, spreading through y/n’s chest like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

y/n’s cheeks flushed as a slow, uncontainable smile spread across her face. she hid her face in daniela’s neck, her voice barely above a whisper but full of passion that seeped through the seams. “i love you more.”

masterlist 🎸⋆⭒˚.⋆ next

is that... FLUFF??????

taglist : @meganskiendielsbtc @rosiehrs @artrizzler19 @goofymickeyr @sunshinez4 @urmom2314 @meizinisnumberone @yeetaberry127 @xochitlisbest @ssamlovr @saysirhc @nyssalvr @ninguitar @kristalag @1luvkarina @idleyuri @kathleenmikaelson @sed7ction @hazel-tanthamore22 @yazzyminny @vrtualstar @meiphobic @cassiespoiler @yjiminswallet @gtfoiydlyj @taikabui @cceanvvaves @c-yerim @waitsobs @firstclassjaylee @bowforgodjihyo @thepurin @chaepu @bandaidss320 @manonsmartini @haerinkisser @esccecvp @blushmimi TAGLIST CLOSED!

[revelboo]

I’m really want Waspinator smut, I’m waiting for it

I doubt reader is, though 😂 Or for his really confused attempts to court, because he’s in love. Reader… still thinks of him as their dumb, ugly puppy, but they’ll figure it out pretty soon

Worker Bee Pt 15

Waspinator x Reader

• Unfortunately, he’s healed enough to go back to being aggressively clingy. As soon as you’d tried to squirm out from between him and the back of the couch, he’d just wrapped his arms around you and pressed his face against your chest. And whined. Making you feel guilty about carefully pushing his head away to get free, because you can’t just sleep on the couch all day. You have work to do and you’re not looking forward to that at all. Normally working from home is a good thing, but the idea of trying to do Zoom calls with him around? That’s just terrifying.

• Venting as he loses the warmth of you, he follows along behind you waiting on you to stop so he can snare you again. Little touches teasing him like when you’d brushed his antenna with your soft fingers to nudge his head away. Reaching up to run his servos over one, he watches you grab a bag and carry it back to the couch before pointing at him. “Don’t touch,” you say and his wings flick at your strict tone.

• Eyeing him as he keeps running his servos over an antenna, you sigh and head into the kitchen for some cereal. It’s hard to tell if he’s listening, let alone understanding you when he just stares at you like that. Fixing a bowl, you turn and almost run into him, frowning up at him in exasperation and going around him to sit at the table. “Not touching bag,” he says, dragging your chair out to insinuate himself between your thighs. Again. He’s touching everything else, though as he lays his head in your lap and just stares up at you. There’s no brain cells in that ugly bug head. You know there aren’t. He doesn’t know he’s doing anything wrong and he’s just going to aggressively follow you if you move. You’ve already fought this war with him and lost before. So you try to ignore him and eat your cereal.

• Wrapping his arms around you and the chair, he watches you eat. Not rebuking him this time and he buzzes softly at you, mandibles snagging your covering. “Are you eating my shirt?” You ask, looking down at him. Feels you slowly inhale and then you lay a soft hand on his head, fingers brushing his antenna to make him freeze. Not pushing him away. Touching him gently. No one has ever touched him with such kind hands before except you. Never belonged anywhere but here with you. “Why are you whining now? Cause I don’t want you eating my shirt?”

• Exasperated as he just keeps whining, still chewing the bottom hem of your shirt, you give up on trying to figure out what’s going on in his head. He’s obnoxious, but you don’t think he means to be. And no matter how annoying he is, you had been worried when you’d found him out there in the snow unmoving. Because he’s yours. Your problem. “Waspinator’s little friend,” he whines, the words more buzz than intelligible and you hear something in your chair crack under his clawed servos. And you nearly fall backwards when the back of the chair just comes loose, broken. Optics wide, his immediate reaction is to hide and cringe down. With nowhere else to go, he shoves his face between your thighs, antennae flattening against his head as you yelp and both of your hands land on his head.

Previous

[taffywabbit]

I've been thinking about this song a lot again since yesterday, and if you'll indulge me in being overly wordy and a bit sentimental, I kinda wanna share some of my thoughts here:

so I alluded to this a bit while rambling on bluesky earlier, but early in the process of composing this song I REALLY wanted it to have lyrics. I tried writing some, and having looked at them again this morning, frankly they're kinda garbage and I stand by my decision to scrap them and let the music just speak for itself. but I only really wanted to write lyrics in the first place because I got ONE specific line (and subsequently a chorus, or at least one version of it) stuck in my head and wanted the rest of the song to kinda revolve around it.

the scrapped verses were sorta loosely about how, when you're younger, you tend to have a very straightforward and simple sense of optimism and justice - kids generally believe that things WILL just work out somehow, and often have surprisingly obvious and on-point responses when they learn about societal issues, but adults will often talk down to them and tell them they just don't understand how the real world works yet. and as you get older, that optimism gets conflated heavily with childlike naivety and kinda gets metaphorically beaten out of a lot of people over time, until they're just kinda consigned to the status quo and thinking of societal problems being too large/permanent for them to fix or influence.

this song was meant to embody a sense of rebellious optimism - a stubborn belief that we have a say in the kind of world we live in, and furthermore that our inner child would never forgive us for shrugging and giving up now that we're finally Adults and Adults are supposed to be the ones with the power to actually Fix Things. it was meant to evoke some nostalgia too, sure - thus the title "Grass Stains", which came from the scrapped first verse about childhood, and also just the general musical style being reminiscent of pop punk music I really liked as a kid and still tend to associate with summertime and old video games from that era. but more than that, I wanted to convey the idea that, sooner or later, we have to stop waiting for the Adults to decide how to fix things and get a hand on the ball ourselves; the idea that growing up should empower us, not make us cynical and detached and too tired to care anymore.

anyways, I will spare you most of the unfinished lyrics because I really do promise they're not interesting or good at all, but here's the chorus part and the specific last line that I was really fixated on back then and (for reasons that are probably not hard to imagine) thinking a lot about again now:

you keep pacing

so sullenly facing

away from the task left to you

why can't you see it?

if you want hope, then be it

those gears aren't just going to move

you gotta change the world, before it changes you

so yeah. shit's rough out there right now. shit's been rough for a while and it's gonna continue being rough for the foreseeable future. like I mentioned in the original caption, i wrote this song when I was feeling pretty awful (both mentally and physically, actually - I'm pretty sure I had covid for the second time when I made this lol) and needed something to perk up my mood, and it... kinda worked honestly? and now when I listen to it again I still kinda get a boost from it, especially if I let myself think back to the original message I was trying to imbue it with. it's hard for me to feel totally hopeless or unmotivated while I'm listening to it, and I hope that energy sorta comes through for other people too (though I would obviously be just as happy that people like the music I made anyways, without deeper context or ideas attached to it).

I guess i just wanna say this: remember that the world's gonna change one way or another, but your contributions to it are never meaningless, and their absence would be felt. and you also have the power to embolden and support those around you to become a stronger force for good together. the only real way to fail in all of this is to give up and lay down and let whatever happens wash over you, to believe them when they treat you like you're too small to be a threat or a challenge. and even if you don't believe your efforts matter to anyone else, let them matter to you. if you want hope, then be it. strive to be a force for good in spite of all opposition, and that goodness will in turn continue to propel you forwards.

ok I think that's about as sappy I can stand to be, I'm going to bed lol

hey i finished a new song!! check it out!!

my prompt for starting this was essentially "i'm in a bad mood and i want to make music that'll fix that". apparently what that translated to was whatever genre "music that would make 9-year-old me think they could do a backflip off the swings at the park" is, but like... it DID cheer me up? so, mission accomplished? i hope you enjoy it too!

♫ made with OpenMPT! ✎ cover art by me!

[gigiszn]

saw u asking for different shows to write abt and if you like squid games i’d love ANYTHING abt player 388🥰 kang dae-ho ml

FOREVER — kang dae ho x fem!reader.

tw: idk if there is any, mentions of debt, mentions of pregnancy, a kiss

FLUFF!

wc: 2.3k

ask and you shall receive! heres a fluff on kang dae-ho, a turn from what i usually write lol! request for any show and any character! i write fluff, smut, angst, etc. :)

۫ ꣑ৎ ｡°‧⭑.ᐟ

The moment you discovered her pregnancy after the first game, a primal instinct surged through you—sisterly protection, fierce and unwavering. She reminded you of your own sister back home—quiet, yet impulsive, and always acting without thinking. In that, you felt an overwhelming need to protect her the way you would your own blood.

But it was more than that. The man who had impregnated her, the crypto scammer, lingered in the back of your mind. You couldn’t forget that he, too, was in the game. The weight of your circumstances hit you all over again—the crushing debt, the loan sharks breathing down your neck, the money you borrowed to send your sister to school, to keep food on the table, all while you had no means of repayment. The reason you were in this game, a nightmare you hadn't asked for, was in part because of him.

And yet, as much as your mind raged, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him—not when you, too, were desperate. Not when you, too, were fighting just to survive.

So you stayed by Jun-hee’s side as she stubbornly refused to join Myung-gi’s team, even though his group was probably the safest option. Safety didn’t matter when it came to her. Not now.

You walked the room together, rejection after rejection from every team you approached. The ticking clock was an ever-present reminder of how little time you had. Doubt gnawed at you, an icy presence. Hope was slipping away, like water through your fingers.

Then, a voice broke through the haze of your thoughts.

“Do you... need a group?”

You turned, startled, and saw a group of three men standing just behind you. The one who had spoken seemed almost nervous, his voice shaking slightly, as if asking felt like an intrusion. But there was something in his eyes, something hesitant but sincere.

You glanced at his companions—two men who looked just as cautious. One of them, a wild-eyed figure, looked as if he might burst at any moment. He had the air of someone who had lived through madness before, someone whose grip on reality was tenuous at best. You, like everyone else, had assumed he was crazy, his mind lost in withdrawal from the lack of drugs in his system.

But in that instant, you didn’t have the luxury to second-guess. There was no time to analyze the situation or consider the risks. The clock was ticking down, the seconds slipping by like sand through an hourglass.

You bit your lip, your heart pounding in your chest. Then, with a tight breath, you nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

The two other men, though clearly wary, shared the same understanding. There was no choice. You had to make it through the next round, together.

The game blurred into a haze of frantic movements, strategy, and quick reflexes. You barely remembered the moments between each challenge, each game feeling like a blur of adrenaline and fear. For a brief moment, you stumbled in the jegi game, your foot missing the ball—but somehow, with a burst of luck and panic-fueled desperation, you made it through.

When dinner time arrived, the weight of exhaustion settled on you. You found a quiet corner with the rest of your group, trying to make yourself small and invisible as you huddled together with your new team. A man named Young-il joined you, his eyes fixed on Gi-hun with an almost religious intensity. You couldn’t quite understand the fascination, but there was something about Gi-hun—his calm demeanor, his quiet strength—that seemed to draw people in.

You handed Jun-hee your drink and half of your food, your heart heavy with concern.

“You’re eating for two,” you said, pressing the plate into her hands, despite the reluctant frown she gave. “You need a second meal.”

Her protest was immediate, but you only shook your head, ignoring her discomfort. You couldn't bear the thought of her going hungry—not now, not when she was carrying so much more than herself. Even if she resisted, you had made your choice. And if you had to fight the whole world to keep her safe, you would.

The others followed suit, and you couldn’t help but smile at their quiet initiative. Their willingness to stick together, despite the madness around them, felt like a small spark of hope in the midst of all the darkness.

But before you could indulge in the rare moment of peace, a tap on your shoulder broke the spell. You turned, and there was Dae-ho, his eyes carrying a weight of something you couldn’t quite name—longing, maybe? Admiration? He extended the last half of his food toward you, a silent offering.

"Oh, I couldn’t," you said, shaking your head and gently pushing the food back toward him, placing it in his lap.

"No man should ever let a woman go hungry," Dae-ho said firmly, his words simple yet filled with something tender that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. His voice was steady, but there was a softness there that made your heart beat a little faster.

You offered him a gentle smile, your fingers brushing the side of his hand as you took the half-split food. Without another word, you broke it into two pieces and handed him one. It was a small gesture, but it felt monumental in the suffocating silence that surrounded you.

You ate in quiet company, the weight of the game pressing down on each of you in different ways. As the minutes slipped by, you noticed how your body seemed to inch toward Dae-ho, as though the space between you two had silently shrunk. There was a warmth in his presence, something comforting amidst all the chaos.

The night was thick with silence, the occasional sound of heavy breaths or the muffled snores of the others filling the otherwise still air. Sleep was evasive. You lay awake, the anxiety of the next game gnawing at you, a constant buzz in your mind. It was like trying to guess the next wave of disaster, only to have it keep you from ever truly resting.

"Can’t sleep either?" A voice whispered from the bed to your left, low and soft.

You jumped, your heart racing as you instinctively slapped a hand to your chest. "Gosh, Dae-ho, don’t scare me like that," you sighed, the words half-teasing, half-serious.

He gave an apologetic grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement even in the dim light. Then, raising an eyebrow toward your bed, he gestured to the space next to you. You nodded, the corner of your lips curling into a small smile as you scooched over to make room. Without another word, he climbed down from his ladder, then up to yours, settling beside you with quiet grace.

You both sat in the dark, knees drawn to your chest, your backs leaning against the cold, unforgiving brick wall. You felt lucky to have a bed at the back of the bunks—it offered the illusion of safety, a small semblance of control in a world that had none.

“I have a sister,” you murmured, your voice softer than usual, almost as if you were telling a secret. "She’s 18."

Dae-ho nodded, his gaze drifting down to the worn-out uniform issued shoes he was still wearing. “I have sisters too. Four of them. All older than me. That’s why my dad made me join the Marines. Wanted me to... ‘toughen up,’ I suppose.”

You both fell into a comfortable silence, the kind where words weren’t always necessary. The sound of your breaths seemed to echo louder than usual, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was shared, almost intimate.

Slowly, your knee brushed against his. You paused, waiting for a shift, a moment of awkwardness. But it never came. Instead, his shoulder gently brushed yours, and the small, simple connection felt like a quiet promise. Your head tilted slightly, resting on his shoulder. You felt the tension leave his body, felt him relax just a fraction as his hand came to rest lightly on your knee.

"I... wish we could stay like this," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You smiled, the softest of sounds escaping your lips as you nodded, your forehead resting against him for just a moment longer. “Forever.”

He repeated the word softly, a quiet reverence in his voice. “Forever.”

You noticed then, in the stillness, that his finger had started to tap gently against your knee, the rhythm slow but deliberate. A subtle pattern. You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. "Is that... morse code?"

His movements stilled instantly, and when he turned to look at you, there was a flicker of something you couldn’t place—a hint of nervousness, maybe even fear.

"Do... do you know morse code?" he asked, his voice suddenly smaller, like he was worried you might somehow decipher it.

You glanced at him, then back at his hand. The simple, almost childish rhythm of the taps seemed so out of place, yet so perfectly in sync with the quiet moments you shared.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his words, before a teasing smile tugged at the corner of your lips. "No," you said, your voice soft but jovial. "Why?"

He looked down for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, as if he were weighing his next words carefully. Then, with a soft exhale, he stared at your knee, his finger resuming its rhythm.

“I,” he began again, tapping the first letter with deliberate slowness, “love,” he continued, each tap resonating against your skin like a heartbeat.

You could feel the weight of each letter as it sank into you, each tap bringing you closer to an unspoken truth. He paused, his fingers lingering for a moment before finishing the final word, and you already knew—knew what he was saying before the last tap even landed.

In this place, bonds were formed quickly, forged under pressure, either becoming unbreakable or twisted into something dark and dangerous. But this... this bond, you could already sense, was different.

You took a deep breath and, with a steady hand, completed the final sequence of taps on his knee. The air around you seemed to hold its breath as you finished, your finger resting softly against his skin.

His gaze was fixed on you, his mouth slightly parted, waiting for your response. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you looked into his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the world around you felt far away. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and despite everything, you allowed it to settle into place.

"You."

You move closer, each subtle shift in position drawing you nearer, the air between you thick with anticipation. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back to his gaze, the unspoken tension palpable as your breaths mingle in the silence.

With every inch you close, the world around you seems to fall away, leaving only the soft beat of your hearts, echoing the unacknowledged yearning between you. His lips brush lightly against yours, the contact so delicate it almost feels like a dream, a teasing promise that hangs just out of reach.

You hover there, the barest touch igniting a fire you didn’t expect, as if the very act of waiting, of drawing this moment out, makes it all the more meaningful. Finally, with a quiet exhale, you close the distance, your lips pressing against his in a slow, deliberate kiss. It isn’t rushed, but filled with intention—a tenderness that speaks of everything you’ve yet to say.

The kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, each movement charged with a quiet intensity, as if your souls are speaking through the press of your lips, exchanging words you don’t need to say aloud. In that kiss, time seems to stretch, each second more profound than the last, a connection that is as much about the pause as it is about the embrace.

You slowly pull away, the warmth of the moment still lingering on your lips, but the quiet space between you now feels just as intimate. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, as if he’s trying to hold onto the softness of what just passed, before you gently settle back, your head finding its place once more on his shoulder.

You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the solid presence of him grounding you in a way nothing else can. The tension in your body begins to melt, replaced by a sense of calm you hadn’t realized you were missing. You let out a soft sigh, the weight of everything you’ve been holding onto slipping away.

“Yeah, forever,” you whisper, the words feeling like a promise, a quiet certainty that somehow fills all the empty spaces in between.

He chuckles softly, the sound like a soft breath of relief, and you can hear the smile in his voice as it washes over you. The sound pulls a faint smile from your own lips as you close your eyes, and for a moment, there’s nothing left to do but just be.

The world around you seems to fade, the worries, the fears, the uncertainties, all slipping away with each steady breath you take. You both close your eyes, drifting back into the comforting quiet of sleep, the closeness between you settling into something deeper than you can quite explain.

The unsureness that had clouded your mind before feels distant now, replaced by a quiet peace that only he could bring. As long as you have each other, nothing else matters. In the soft cocoon of his arms, you let yourself fall into the safety of the moment, the weight of the world no longer pressing down on you.

You fall asleep with a heart full of quiet certainty, knowing you’re not alone in this, that the world can wait, as long as you have him by your side.

[zhelin-thames]

Death’s Gentle Touch

@demonic0angel thank you for letting me write this.

Ps. This is not a dead silent ship but a dead on main ship. I am way too much of a dead tired, dead on main and dead serious fan🫣, so..... Srry😇

Danny hadn’t planned on staying in Gotham for long. The city was overwhelming, a swirling mess of emotions, crime, and shadows that never seemed to sleep. But something about it called to him—a faint pull in the back of his mind, like the restless murmur of ghosts who hadn’t yet crossed his path.

And then he started noticing them.

The kids.

Each one had a presence that whispered of death’s touch. Not full-on ghostly, but close. Too close. It tugged at Danny’s core, a strange mix of familiarity and concern. The first was a quiet boy, barely seven, with hollow eyes and a haunted expression. Danny found him huddled in the shadows of Crime Alley, shivering and alone.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision. He couldn’t leave the kid there.

And so, the warehouse became home.

The old building wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but Danny had poured what little ecto-energy he could spare into reinforcing it, patching up leaks, and making it livable. Inside, it was surprisingly cozy. Rugs covered the cold floor, mismatched furniture filled the space, and shelves lined with books and trinkets added a sense of warmth.

Within weeks, Danny’s little family had grown.

Five kids now called the warehouse home, each one with a story that left Danny seething with quiet rage. Abusive parents, neglectful guardians, and the harsh streets of Gotham had taken their toll on each of them. Danny couldn’t fix the past, but he could offer them something better: safety, warmth, and the promise that they’d never be alone again.

One of the kids, Sam, was from one of Gotham’s elite families. He’d run away after his parents’ cruelty pushed him too far. When Danny had found him, Sam had been too weak to argue.

It was Cassandra Cain who stumbled upon them.

She’d been tracking a lead on a missing child—the wealthy parents had finally reported Sam missing after weeks, though their concern had seemed more for appearances than genuine worry. Her trail led her to the refurbished warehouse.

Cass slipped inside silently, her every movement a shadow. What she saw stopped her in her tracks.

Danny was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a tattered storybook in his hands. The five kids were gathered around him, leaning against him or huddled close, their faces rapt with attention. Danny’s voice was soft, animated, bringing the story to life.

“...and the brave knight faced the dragon, not with a sword, but with kindness.” Danny smiled, looking down at the youngest child, a girl clutching his arm. “Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is try to understand someone else.”

Cass didn’t move for a moment.

The scene was so achingly peaceful, so pure, that it seemed impossible in a city like Gotham. She could feel the protective energy radiating from Danny, the way the kids seemed to trust him implicitly. It wasn’t just a man taking care of children. He was their anchor, their safe harbor.

Still, she stepped forward.

Danny looked up, his glowing green eyes meeting hers. For a second, Cass tensed, ready for a fight. But Danny’s expression softened, and he raised a hand in a calming gesture.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You must be one of the Bats.”

Cass tilted her head, curious but cautious. “Who... are you?”

“I’m Danny,” he replied simply, closing the book. “And these are my kids.”

Her gaze flickered to the children. Sam had tensed at her presence, but Danny placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“They’re safe here,” Danny continued, his voice calm but firm. “I promise. I know you’re probably here for him.” He nodded toward Sam. “But he ran for a reason. And I’m not about to let anyone hurt him again.”

Cass reported back to Bruce and the others. The revelation sparked an intense debate in the Batcave.

“He’s just a kid himself!” Damian snapped, glaring at the screen showing Danny’s image. “What gives him the right to take in strays like this?”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Tim muttered, earning a scowl from Damian.

Bruce, arms crossed, studied the footage Cass had captured. Danny’s protective aura was undeniable, as was the bond he’d formed with the children. “We need to know more about him,” Bruce said. “His intentions, his background, his... abilities.”

Jason leaned against the wall, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re just mad someone’s beating you at the whole ‘adopting strays’ thing, B.”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Master Jason, perhaps we should focus on how best to ensure the children’s well-being.”

When the Bats finally confronted Danny in the warehouse, they were met with calm defiance. Danny stood his ground, the kids huddled behind him.

“I get it,” he said, arms crossed. “You’re the big, bad vigilantes of Gotham. But these kids? They’re not just cases or numbers. They’re people. And they deserve better than what the system gave them.”

Bruce stepped forward. “We’re not here to take them from you. But this isn’t sustainable. You’re their age. How do you plan to provide for them long-term?”

Danny hesitated, then sighed. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

Jason, watching the exchange, stepped closer. “What’s your deal, Danny? You’re not just some random guy.”

Danny met his gaze, his glowing eyes narrowing slightly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Jason smirked. “Try me.”

The Bats weren’t ones to leave mysteries unsolved, and Danny wasn’t about to spill his life story to a group of masked vigilantes without some trust first. It took weeks of cautious interactions and reluctant cooperation for things to come to light.

It was Jason who finally got Danny to open up.

One night, after dropping off a bag of supplies Bruce had insisted the kids needed, Jason stayed behind. He found Danny on the roof of the warehouse, leaning against the railing as he stared at the Gotham skyline. The night air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city.

“So,” Jason began, hopping onto the ledge beside him. “You’re not just some ordinary kid with a big heart. What’s your story?”

Danny let out a long sigh. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

For a moment, Danny said nothing. Then he raised his hand, letting a soft green glow surround it. “You ever hear of Amity Park?”

Jason frowned. “The town with all those ghost rumors? Thought it was a bunch of tabloid nonsense.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not,” Danny said, his voice quieter now. “I grew up there. My parents were... ghost hunters. They built a portal to another dimension—the Infinite Realms. Something went wrong, and I ended up... connected to it. Half-ghost, half-human.”

Jason blinked, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. “Half-ghost? Like, you died?”

“Sort of.” Danny’s tone was light, but his eyes reflected the weight of the experience. “It’s complicated. I didn’t plan to stick around Gotham, but then I started noticing these kids—how close they were to death, how much they’d suffered. I couldn’t just leave them.”

Jason studied him for a moment, then nodded. “You’re a weird guy, Danny. But I get it.”

Danny smirked. “Thanks, I think.”

Each child Danny had taken in had their own struggles, their own pain that had led them to him.

Sam: The son of a wealthy Gotham family, Sam had been raised in luxury but at a terrible cost. His parents cared more about appearances than his well-being, and the pressure to be perfect had been crushing. When Danny found him, Sam had been wandering the streets, bruised and desperate for escape.

Mia: A street-smart girl with a sharp tongue, Mia had grown up in foster care, bouncing between homes that never cared for her. She’d survived on her own for months before Danny found her, stealing food to survive.

Leo: Barely six, Leo had been abandoned in Crime Alley. He didn’t speak much, but he clung to Danny like a lifeline.

Ella: A bright-eyed girl with an affinity for art, Ella had been living in a condemned building with her older brother, who’d died protecting her. Danny found her crying over his body, her face pale and haunted.

Max: A quiet, thoughtful boy who had a near-death experience after falling into Gotham River. His brush with death had left him sensitive to the supernatural, and he’d been drawn to Danny almost instinctively.

Danny had given them all a second chance, teaching them to trust again. The warehouse became their safe haven, a place where they could heal.

Despite their initial skepticism, the Bats couldn’t deny that Danny was doing good. Bruce offered resources to help with the kids, on the condition that Danny let them monitor the situation.

“I’m not looking to turn this into a charity case,” Danny had said. “I just want what’s best for them.”

“And that’s what we’re offering,” Bruce replied evenly. “Whether you like it or not, we’re invested now.”

Danny found himself working with the Bats more often, whether it was coordinating efforts to help other at-risk kids or teaming up with them during ghost-related incidents.

Cass became a frequent visitor, quietly helping with the children and bonding with Danny over their shared love of storytelling. Tim couldn’t resist asking questions about ghost tech and the Infinite Realms, while Damian begrudgingly admitted that Danny wasn’t as useless as he’d assumed.

Jason, however, became Danny’s closest ally. The two shared a mutual understanding, both having faced death and come back changed.

Years passed, and the warehouse evolved. The children grew, some eventually striking out on their own while others stayed close. Danny became a pillar of the community, the once-abandoned warehouse now a thriving community center.

Jason remained a constant presence in Danny’s life. Their friendship deepened, and somewhere along the way, it turned into something more.

The wedding was a quiet affair, held in the Infinite Realms. The guests were a mix of humans and ghosts, an unusual but fitting reflection of Danny and Jason’s lives.

Sam, Mia, Leo, Ella, and Max—now young adults—stood by Danny’s side, their smiles bright and proud. The Bats, dressed in uncharacteristically formal attire, watched with a mix of fondness and exasperation as Jason said his vows.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance at a family,” Jason said, his voice steady but soft. “But with you, Danny, I found something I didn’t even know I was looking for.”

Danny smiled, his eyes glowing faintly. “And I found a home—in Gotham, in these kids, and in you. You’re stuck with me now, Jason.”

As they exchanged rings, the Infinite Realms shimmered around them, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond they’d forged.

And as they stepped into their future together, hand in hand, they knew they’d face whatever came next—together, as a family.

Over the years, Danny and Jason’s “kids” grew into remarkable young adults, each finding their own path while staying connected to the family they had built together.

Sam: The Voice for Justice

Sam’s upbringing in Gotham’s elite circles gave him unique insight into the city’s upper class. As an adult, he used that knowledge to challenge the corruption ingrained in Gotham’s wealthy families.

By day, Sam became a successful lawyer, taking on cases for those who couldn’t afford proper representation. By night, he used his connections to help Danny and Jason uncover and dismantle illegal operations hidden behind Gotham’s polished facade.

Despite his serious demeanor, Sam never forgot the kindness Danny showed him. He often visited the community center to mentor at-risk kids, giving them the guidance he wished he’d had.

Mia: The Protector

Mia’s sharp tongue and street smarts made her a natural fighter. She trained with Cass and Damian, honing her skills until she became a formidable vigilante known as Specterblade.

Unlike most of Gotham’s protectors, Mia embraced her ghostly side. Danny taught her how to channel ectoplasmic energy, giving her an edge in combat. She patrolled the streets with a ferocity that even Damian respected, targeting human traffickers and abusers with relentless determination.

Though she worked in the shadows, Mia also took an active role at the community center, running self-defense classes for women and teens.

Leo: The Guardian of the Realms

Leo’s quiet nature hid a deep connection to the Infinite Realms. Over time, his near-death experience evolved into a unique ability to sense disturbances between dimensions.

Danny noticed this early on and trained Leo to become a Realmwalker, a protector of the delicate balance between the mortal world and the Infinite Realms. Leo embraced the role, splitting his time between Gotham and the ghostly dimension.

He became a key figure in handling supernatural threats that even the Justice League struggled with. Though he was often away, Leo remained fiercely loyal to his family, returning whenever they needed him.

Ella: The Healer

Ella’s love for art evolved into a passion for design and restoration. She studied architecture and urban planning, eventually becoming a key figure in revitalizing Gotham’s neglected neighborhoods.

Her ghostly sensitivity gave her a unique perspective on spaces and their emotional resonance, which she used to create safe, welcoming environments. The community center was her first major project, and she expanded its reach with satellite locations across the city.

Ella’s gentle spirit made her a comforting presence in the family, and she often acted as the mediator when tensions ran high.

Max: The Tech Genius

Max’s brush with death left him fascinated by technology and its potential to change lives. He became a brilliant engineer, blending ghost tech and human innovation to create devices that pushed the boundaries of possibility.

Working alongside Tim, Max developed tools to help Gotham’s vigilantes fight crime more efficiently. He also created gadgets to help people with disabilities, inspired by the struggles he witnessed during his time on the streets.

Despite their busy lives, the kids never forgot their roots. They visited the warehouse-turned-community center regularly, helping Danny and Jason with new initiatives and staying connected to the city that had once failed them.

Max was the quiet brain behind many of the family’s operations, preferring to let his work speak for itself.

Family dinners were a chaotic but cherished tradition, with everyone gathering around the table to share stories, tease each other, and reaffirm their bond.

In their own ways, each of Danny and Jason’s kids carried on their legacy of hope, proving that even in a city as dark as Gotham, second chances could bloom into something extraordinary.

I might make this a series and show each kids journey. Hope you guys liked it.

[bwat5-blog]

Caitlyn Kiramman: The Perfect Scapegoat

*Spoilers For Arcane*

Good morning all! So continuing my slow descent into insanity let us discuss Arcane once more. Last night trying to fall asleep I was scrolling Archive and came across another of what I think I have seen being called "aftermath" works, just meaning it is the particular author's spin on Cait and Vi's life fairly immediately following the end of season two.

I am not going to name the work or the author because fan-fiction is literally creative art for the author to do with as they please, and I certainly don't have to read anything I don't want to, so I have no desire to call this person out. But I have seen this sort of thing a lot and wanted to discuss it.

"Caitlyn has to face the consequences for her crimes"

Now I have read some truly abhorrent concepts of "justice" people have put Caitlyn through for her actions, and won't be going there. Some are downright inhuman and others just display a hilarious lack of understanding. But the reason this one stuck with me and really had me thinking is that even though it was not the author's intent based on their notes, I actually think they actually did a fantastic job sharing another side of how Caitlyn was utterly failed by almost everyone around her.

In this particular work, the surviving councilors and the prominent people of Piltover have Caitlyn arrested and conduct a tribunal. Including Mel and Shoola. She is called to answer for a host of charges such as allying with a foreign power against her own people, wrongful imprisonment and so on. You get the idea.

So why does this particular idea stick out to me? Because the audacity of the same people who practically fed Caitlyn to Ambessa, as well as surrendered Piltover while pounding their chests and cheering blaming Caitlyn is so nauseatingly realistic it hurts.

QUICK THING ON MEL:

Now let me clear. Mel would never. And had she been there she would have put a stop to that shit or at the very least nodded along while her mother called Caitlyn up then went to Caitlyn afterward in private and started fixing things. But, it is worth noting that Mel knew full and completely what her mother was planning in terms of starting a war to weaponize hex-tech. And as far as we are aware (I think we can assume she told Alora but we don't know for sure) didn't tell anyone. She was trying to stop her behind the scenes through her shadow games. And there are reasons and justifications for that certainly. In fact I think it's safe to assume Mel may have been afraid her mother would just outright attack if Mel was too aggressive in opposing her. Mel was a politician only at this time, and solved problems through more cerebral methods. Even when her magic manifests it is one primarily of protection and deflection, not head on aggression. Not to mention Mel's unavoidable conflicting emotions opposing her at all. But we will never how things could have been different if the rest of the council were aware of Ambessa's plan to begin with.

WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED:

This is primarily about her actual time as commander but I wanted to touch on the task force. I recently was discussing the task force/use of The Grey with another user and they stated Caitlyn staged a coup to lead the task force. This of course is in no way true, but as my wife put it:

"She didn't stage a coup but not a single one of those spineless adults thought to look at the emotionally sandblasted college kid and say -No. You haven't even taken a beat since you were abducted and terrorized by your mother's killer and you have just survived another fight. We will figure this out but you don't need this right now. Go hug your incredibly hot girlfriend and take like a fifteen hour nap- instead they let themselves take the easy way out and pinned it all on Caitlyn."

The Commander:

I am not gonna do a whole recap or a break-down of how Ambessa plays these people like a fiddle again. If you are interested I'd love to hear your thoughts on the documents where I have covered those topics!

In Summary: Caitlyn has returned from her mission with the strike team ending in heartbreak and failure in terms of Jinx at least. Totally isolated and alone, not having healed from any of the trauma she has suffered since the beginning of S1 A2, she stands with the other Enforcers while Ambessa expertly manipulates the prominent families of Piltover, the two surviving councilors, and a large amount of Enforcers you would have to assume included leadership (given their presence here and that there clearly many more than this total) into not only agreeing to Martial Law, but to Caitlyn as their commander.

"Caitlyn could have said no"- This is certainly true. I don't think anyone is arguing that myself included. Bu it is extraordinarily important to factor in Caitlyn's mental state at this point which includes a completely mind-boggling amount of trauma. As well as the fact that her people are angry and afraid, and as a Kiramman even at her young age she is someone they look to. Now sprinkle in a healthy amount of mob mentality and manipulation by Ambessa, as she is standing in a crowd of people thumping their chests while the only speaking member of her team stands by her side smiling and encouraging her to go up and accept. And then just to seal the deal Ambessa promises what Caitlyn wants most "your mother will have justice". She absolutely had the choice to say no. I am not negating that. But I do think unless you are intentionally disregarding all of the other factors involved in order to demonize her it is quite clear that things were not so simple. She ultimately made the choice, but ignoring the context doesn't make you righteous. Only ignorant, unfeeling, or both.

And for all those who love rolling out the old "Caitlyn jumped at the first chance to take power and punish all of Zaun just because her mom died" speech, lets take a look at how Caitlyn is actually feeling:

I can only speak for me, but let me tell you what I see playing out in these images point by point:

Shock

Fear

Conflict

Reassurance

Nervousness

Stoic sadness

Acceptance of responsibility

A FUCKING FIFTY SOMETHING YEAR OLD CONQUERING WAR-MONGER SEEING HER DREAM COME TRUE

But! Stepping away from Caitlyn for a moment back to more of my original point. Caitlyn and Ambessa were not alone during this moment. Ambessa had instructed Salo to summon all people of prominence and power or something to that effect. Basically the people who had a say in how things go. These are the people she puppets into agreeing to Martial Law and Caitlyn as their commander. Let's take a look at these heroes:

*Salo was there but I couldn't get a great still of him and I will give him a pass at least in the moment because Rictus was threatening him*

There were more people than this but these were the ones that I could grab in decent quality. And these were the people to make the decision. Otherwise Ambessa would not have needed them all there and gone through her whole song and dance. And I understand the argument that some of them were probably afraid due to the Noxian's doing their stomp dance, but guess what? If the adult politicians and people in power get that grace so does the college kid who recently got emotionally and mentally nuked back to the stone age.

Every single one of them let this happen. They could have stepped during it, they could have taken action after. Salo and Shoola were on the council with Cassandra. They both watch her daughter get served up on a plate to Ambessa so everyone can go about their lives feeling safer and pretending its all handled. There were enforcers there more than twice Caitlyn's age. Someone there was a position of leadership at some level. Not a single damn one made a move? Questioned? An assembly of probably between 30-50 people made up of Piltover's elite all bury their heads in the sand and let the grieving, inexperienced, young, recently returned from violent conflict college kid take the heat so they can go back to easy street and blame someone else if things go wrong.

AWARD FOR SPECTACULAR FAILURE:

We of course cannot touch on the prominent people of Piltover who might as well have spartan kicked Caitlyn into Ambessa's open maw without talking about Tobias. Listen, Anyone who has been following me for any length of time has seen my relentless attempts to get people to recognize the importance of understanding how grief and loss hits people. This man lost his wife. His entire world got turned upside down. And I don't deny that at a point even if he had stepped in Caitlyn may have shut him down as she became the leader of house Kiramman anyway. But he does.... nothing... Part of this probably just comes down to the decision by the writers for him to kind of vanish but we see him defending her efforts to help early on and then when she has so clearly lost her way we get nothing from him.

Martial Law:

So as I said, I have been through all of this in detail. Not doing it again. But since we are talking about it what did Caitlyn actually do?

Establish Checkpoints and take martial control of Zaun.

Arrest people who violated the law.

.............

Piltover elite willingly agree to Martial Law

Piltover elite agree to Caitlyn being made leader

Zaun falls under Piltover jurisdiction regardless of Martial Law or not

Somewhere in Zaun is a dangerous terrorist guilty of multiple political assassinations, the deaths of several enforcers, tremendous destruction of property, multiple attempts to murder Caitlyn herself, and violent abduction of Caitlyn who at the time was a councilor's daughter from her own home.

Zaunite fighters conduct devastating attack on memorial service in what is supposed to be a secure location. Jinx would almost certainly be suspected of involvement but even if not once again the threat comes from Zaun.

The leader they chose, who is the leader because of the martial law they agreed to, places Zaun under occupation until this clear and unquestionable threat to public safety is located. She challenges unlawful arrests, unnecessary violence, bans the use of the worst cells in Stillwater she found Vi in, and has no part in Ambessa's secret experiments and brutality in the bowels of the prison.

None of this is to say that Caitlyn did not make mistakes, did not lose herself to her rage and hate, or does not share in the blame to a degree for the suffering Ambessa caused. I think it is fair to say that Caitlyn, much like those who failed her so spectacularly, looked away from the truth because it was easier to do so at first. And that is not even factoring the massive manipulation of Ambessa upon Caitlyn during this time to keep the occupation going while she continues to try and crack hex-tech, and attempting to control Caitlyn and bend her to her will.

But the idea of the people who all turned away while Caitlyn was made Ambessa's scapegoat so they could sleep peacefully at night condemning her from on high is both disgusting, and sadly all too believable. They have already proved their cowardice and stupidity. And it would be the final betrayal of someone who wanted above all else to protect her people to subject her to some sort of tribunal/punishment in the wake of surviving her cities complete abandonment of her. Especially considering her massive life-changing injuries sustained in the defense of humanity itself while setting things right.

Regarding Zaun:

The people of Zaun are for obvious reasons another matter. There is the larger picture ongoing oppression of Zaun by Piltover to consider, and even considering all the above factors the people of Zaun:

A- Would not have any way to know how much of part Ambessa played behind the scenes until someone made it all public

B- Were the ones who actually suffered during the occupation that Caitlyn did authorize regardless of reasoning.

And just like above, I am not saying Caitlyn does not share in the blame for what occurred. While everything she did was within her scope of authority, an authority lawfully granted to her, and in response to a very legitimate threat to Piltover's safety, it does not change the fact that people imprisoned during the occupation were potentially subjected to Ambessa's brutality. Never mind the day-to-day brutality enacted by Rictus and his men.

But again there are other factors that need to be considered before constructing the gallows:

Piltover's oppression of Zaun is unquestionable. But neither is Piltover's current legal jurisdiction over Zaun. Every action Caitlyn took and was knowledgeable of was completely legal, no matter how wrong you find the law.

The Grey- I am absolutely not doing my whole breakdown again. But through the use of the grey they helped take down Shimmer and the Chem-Barons, which were both enormous threats to the under city. And while it uncomfortable and clearly dangerous when exposed over long periods of time, there is absolutely no evidence of it being dangerous from short term exposure how Caitlyn used it.

And of course, the biggest factor: JINX.

I'll make all of you a deal. Caitlyn gets a noose if Jinx hops up next to her. I love Jinx but it serves no purpose to pretend she's an angel. Jinx is the one who kicks all of this off to begin with. It is because of her that Piltover retaliation is guaranteed, because of her Caitlyn's entire life so violently and radically changes course. And let's be clear here, before you start with all that Jinx was striking out against the oppressors who had ruined her peoples lives in the name of justice and blah blah blah. Nope. Know how I know that? She hid during the entire occupation until Isha got taken. She wasn't speaking truth to power in the name of her people. She was a mentally ill child lashing out at a symbol of her rage in a moment of extraordinary grief and pain. And regarding her hiding by the way, I applauded her for it. Getting away from all of that shit is how she started to get better. As far as I'm concerned I would have cheered to see she and Isha leave that temple fight, board an airship, and head off for adventures far away from Piltover and Zaun forever (Same for Caitlyn and Vi but that's a different document).

So all that said, while Caitlyn certainly has a debt to the people of Zaun, we need to take care not to wrap that up with the debt Piltover owes to Zaun.

Caitlyn is not to blame for the entire history of the two cities. She only played a part in this series of events. And it would be dishonest not to admit that it was a Zaunite that started in the first place, the same Zaunite who changed Caitlyn's life forever through her violence and terrorism. And that the same woman who manipulated Zaunite warriors into attacking Piltover to help kick the war off manipulated Caitlyn herself.

If Silco's mad daughter can become their symbol of hope, and his most trusted lieutenant can become their first councilor, perhaps the people of Zaun can find mercy in their heart for a young woman who recently almost gave her life to make things right. Not to mention her families seat on the council.

Anyway. You have all heard most of this from me before in some form or fashion. So I apologize for that. And again I really am not coming for fan-fiction. I would be the ULTIMATE hypocrite given my recent small efforts. The particular story that got my attention just made me think about it, and then realize it would be sickeningly true to form for the Piltover elite to try and turn on Caitlyn when it was all said and done when they abandoned her the first time. And spawned into this. Thank you for reading.

Have a great day!

[gf2bellamy]

enough — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you don't think you're enough for spencer content warnings: mention of working on a case, feelings of insecurity / not feeling good enough, spencer and reader argue , alot of angst ( pretty much all of it) a/n: currently sick in bed :( hope you guys like this <3

You knew Spencer Reid had feelings for you. It wasn’t exactly a well-kept secret. In fact, everyone on the team seemed to know—how could they not?

The way his gaze lingered on you just a fraction longer than anyone else, the way his words stumbled over themselves when you caught him off guard, the subtle softness in his voice when he said your name.

Spencer was careful, meticulous in everything he did, but when it came to you, his emotions were a little too obvious. 

There were the small, thoughtful gestures—the extra cup of coffee waiting on your desk when you’d been up late on a case, or the way he always seemed to know exactly when you needed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

Then there were the bigger things, like how he always volunteered to partner with you in the field, or how he fiercely defended your theories in meetings, even when they weren't perfect. 

But maybe the most telling sign of all was the way Spencer looked at you.

Like you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

It was like he was memorizing every detail of your face, committing you to the library of his mind. And every time he looked at you like that, a warmth bloomed in your chest—a warmth you weren’t quite ready to name, but one that you felt more often than you cared to admit. 

Penelope had asked you multiple times about the situation, her curiosity impossible to suppress. “So, when are you and Boy Genius making it official?” she’d tease, wiggling her eyebrows and leaning across your desk.

Each time, you laughed it off or deflected with a joke. “What are you talking about, Pen? Spencer and I are just friends,” you’d insist, even though the words felt more and more like a lie with every passing day. 

Pretending to be oblivious to Spencer’s feelings had once been easy. A flick of the wrist, a casual smile—it had been enough to convince everyone, including yourself, that you were completely unaware. But lately, it was getting harder.

Much harder. 

Because now, every time you caught him staring at you, every time his fingers brushed yours while passing a file, every time he leaned in just a little too close when he explained something in that excited, rambling way of his, you felt it. That same warmth in your chest, that same ache you’d been trying so hard to ignore. 

The truth was, you weren’t just aware of Spencer’s feelings for you.

You also felt the same way. 

Your fingers tapped absently against your desk, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet bullpen. Your eyes were unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular, as your thoughts wandered far from the case files scattered in front of you. 

Across from your desk, Spencer was watching you. He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in concern as he debated whether or not to say something. 

“Are you okay?” His soft voice cut through the quiet, pulling you back to the present. 

“Huh?” You jumped slightly, your hand pausing mid-tap as your head whipped around to face him. Your wide eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you added quickly, your words rushing out. 

Spencer didn’t look convinced. He leaned forward just a little, resting his elbows on the edge of his desk as his gaze searched yours. “You seemed... distracted,” he said carefully. 

You laughed nervously, waving a hand as if to brush off his concern. “Just zoning out. It’s been a long day.” 

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at you for a while, his hazel eyes soft but searching, like he could see through the thin veil of your words.

The weight of his gaze made your pulse quicken, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. 

“I’ll be right back,” you blurted suddenly, pushing your chair back. Without waiting for a response, you rushed out of the bullpen, your footsteps echoing down the hallway until you reached the bathroom. 

Inside, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and stepped into the nearest stall, closing the door behind you. Sitting down on the closed toilet lid, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees and your head in your hands. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d run away like this. You weren’t proud of it, but sometimes it felt easier to escape than to face the thoughts that clawed their way to the surface when Spencer was near. 

People might call you stupid.

Stupid for ignoring the feelings of someone so gentle and sweet.

Stupid for pretending not to notice how much he cared for you, how much he had done for you.

Stupid for not taking the first step when it was obvious to everyone, including you, that Spencer Reid had feelings for you. 

But it wasn’t just Spencer’s feelings, was it? No, the truth was much harder to ignore now: you had feelings for him, too.

And yet, here you were, hiding in a bathroom stall, running away from everything. 

The reason felt silly—childish, even—but it was there, and it was real.

You were scared.

Scared that if you took that step, if you let yourself fall into the warmth of what Spencer was offering, you’d ruin him.

Spencer, who was so sweet and intelligent, so thoughtful and patient. He was everything good in this world, and you couldn’t help but feel like you’d taint him with your flaws, your insecurities. 

You didn’t think you were enough for him. 

The thought sat heavy in your chest, and no matter how much you tried to push it down, it always came back.

Spencer deserved someone extraordinary, someone brilliant and perfect—someone who wasn’t you. 

Before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. 

You were so lost in your thoughts that you almost didn’t hear the bathroom door creak open. 

A familiar, soft voice called out your name.

You quickly straightened up, dabbing at your cheeks with trembling fingers, but it was no use. The tears had already left their mark. 

You opened the stall door cautiously, revealing Penelope standing there in all her vibrant glory. Her floral skirt swirled around her knees, and her cardigan was adorned with her signature pins and patches.

Her warm, concerned eyes locked onto yours the moment the door swung open. 

“There you are,” she said gently, a small smile playing on her lips as she tilted her head. “Spence sent me to check on you. He’s worried.” 

Of course he did. The thought made your chest tighten. 

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the obvious evidence of tears. But Penelope wasn’t one to be fooled, especially not by you. 

She raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Sweetheart, you’re standing in a bathroom stall looking like you just had a tearful heart-to-heart with yourself, so forgive me if I don’t take ‘I’m fine’ at face value.” 

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky and weak. “It’s just... been a long day.” 

Penelope crossed her arms, giving you that patient, knowing look that only she could manage. “I know there’s more to it than that. Spence wasn’t just worried about you zoning out—he was worried about you. And judging by those red eyes, I’m guessing he’s not wrong for being worried.” 

You sighed, leaning against the stall door for support. “It’s nothing, Pen. Really.” 

Penelope softened, she placed a comforting hand on your arm. “If it’s nothing, why were you crying?” 

For a moment, you considered brushing her off again, but something about her warmth, her openness, made you pause.

Maybe it was because she was Penelope, the team’s heart and soul, or maybe it was because a part of you was tired of holding it all in. 

“It’s... about Spencer,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Penelope’s eyes lit up in understanding, and a soft smile crept across her face. “Oh, honey. Tell me everything.” 

You let out a shaky breath, walking over to the sink and staring at your reflection. The person looking back at you seemed fragile, her emotions etched plainly on her face.

Penelope followed, standing beside you, her vibrant presence grounding you as she waited patiently for you to speak. 

“I have feelings for Spencer,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of the bathroom’s fluorescent lights. 

Penelope didn’t gasp or exclaim. She simply tilted her head and nodded, her soft smile growing into something more knowing, like she’d been waiting for you to admit it. 

“I figured as much,” she said gently, her tone free of judgment. “But what’s got you hiding out in here instead of doing something about it?” 

You met her eyes in the mirror, hesitating for a moment before answering. “Because I’m scared, Penelope.” Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink tightly. “I mean, he’s Spencer. He’s brilliant and kind. He deserves someone amazing, someone who can keep up with him. I just—I don’t think I’m enough for him.” 

Penelope frowned, her brows knitting together as she turned to face you fully. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up. First of all, I am going to stop you right there, missy. You are more than enough for anyone, especially Spencer Reid. Don’t even try to argue with me on that.” 

You opened your mouth to protest, but she held up a finger to silence you. 

“Second,” she continued, her voice firm but still warm, “have you met Spencer? That man practically worships the ground you walk on. Do you know how rare that is? To have someone like Spencer look at you the way he does? Trust me, sweetie, he doesn’t see anyone else but you.” 

You blinked, Penelope’s words hitting you harder than you expected. “But what if I mess it up? What if I ruin everything?” 

“Sweetheart,” Penelope said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “life is messy. Love is messy. But if you keep letting that fear hold you back, you’re going to miss out on something incredible. Spencer wants you. Not someone perfect, not someone else. You.” 

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. For a moment, all you could do was stare at her, overwhelmed by her kindness and sincerity. 

“Thank you, Penelope,” you whispered, your voice soft and earnest. 

She gave you a bright, reassuring smile, squeezing your arm gently. “Don’t stay here too long, okay? Boy Genius is worried about you, and you know how he gets when he’s worried.” 

You managed a small smile, nodding as she opened the bathroom door. “I’ll be out soon.” 

“Good,” she said with a wink, stepping out into the hallway. The door swung shut behind her, leaving you alone once again. 

You turned back to the mirror, your reflection staring back at you with the same doubts you’d walked in with. Penelope’s words were honest, comforting, and so full of truth that they made your chest ache. And yet... the doubts didn’t leave. 

They stayed. 

What if Penelope was wrong? What if you tried, and it all came crashing down, leaving your friendship in ruins? 

You pressed your lips together, inhaling a shaky breath. There was a part of you—a small, fragile part—that wanted to believe Penelope.

But the larger, louder part of you couldn’t let go of the fear. 

“Get it together,” you muttered to yourself, gripping the sink tightly. 

You couldn’t stay in this bathroom forever, hiding from the man waiting for you outside.

The man who cared enough to send someone after you when you disappeared.

The man who had always been there, quietly offering you the kind of unconditional support you never thought you deserved. 

And yet, your feet felt like they were cemented to the floor. 

The days that followed felt heavier, even after Penelope’s heartfelt pep talk. Her words lingered in your mind like an echo, but they weren’t enough to silence the whirlwind of emotions.

Everything seemed harder now that you’d acknowledged your feelings—now that you couldn’t hide from the truth. 

Sometimes, it felt like your heart was about to burst with how much love you held for Spencer.

You’d catch yourself staring at him across the bullpen, watching the way his lips moved as he explained something in that fast, excitable way of his, or the way his fingers traced invisible patterns on the edge of a file when he was deep in thought. 

And then there were the moments when you were near him—too near. Your hands would tremble when they brushed his by accident, or your breath would hitch when his cologne lingered in the air between you.

But you didn’t do anything about it. 

You convinced yourself it was for the best, that keeping things the way they were was safer. You couldn’t risk crossing that line and ruining the friendship you’d come to treasure so much. 

Still, there were cracks in your resolve. 

You weren’t sure how long you could keep this up—pretending you didn’t feel what you felt, pretending you didn’t want to close the gap between you and let yourself fall. 

One day, the tension came to a head while you and Spencer were working on the geographic profile to catch an unsub. The bullpen was unusually quiet, the rest of the team out gathering leads.

It was just the two of you, standing side by side in front of the board, the scent of coffee and marker ink filling the air. 

You reached for the same photo pinned to the board—a shot of a potential target area—and your fingers brushed his.

It was barely a touch, but it sent a jolt up your arm, and you immediately pulled back as if burned. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. You avoided his gaze, letting him take the picture as you stepped back. Not just one step—several, putting unnecessary distance between the two of you. 

Spencer hesitated, holding the picture in his hand as his eyes flicked to you. His brows furrowed slightly, concern shadowing his expression as he noticed how much space you’d suddenly created between you. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft and careful, like he was afraid of startling you. 

Your throat tightened. “I’m fine,” you said, the words automatic and unconvincing. 

Spencer wasn’t buying it. He tilted his head, his gaze searching yours in that way that always made you feel like he could see right through you.

“You’ve been... distant,” he said, his tone gentle. “Not just today, but for a while now.” 

You froze, your heartbeat quickening. “I don’t know what you mean,” you said, even though the words felt hollow in your mouth. 

He stepped closer, closing some of the space you’d put between you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “If I did, I—I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t be around me.” 

Your chest tightened painfully at the vulnerability in his voice. The idea that he thought he had done something wrong, that he might blame himself for the distance you’d created, made your stomach twist with guilt. 

“No, Spencer,” you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just work has been getting to me.”

You turned away quickly, pretending to focus on the map pinned to the board. Your heart hammered in your chest as you felt Spencer’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he finally turned back to his own work. 

He let it go—for now. 

Later that evening, you were back in your hotel room, sprawled on the bed with the TV remote in hand. The case was successfully closed, the unsub in custody, but the team had decided to stay one more night before flying home.

You flipped aimlessly through the channels, barely registering the images flashing on the screen. Nothing held your attention for more than a few seconds, and the quiet hum of the TV did little to drown out your thoughts. 

With a loud yawn, you tossed the remote aside, letting it land on the bed. You leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.  

Then came a knock at your door. 

Slowly, you got up, smoothing down your clothes as you walked to the door. 

When you opened it, your breath caught. 

Spencer stood there, hands in his pockets, his expression a mix of nervousness and determination. He was still in his dress shirt and slacks, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been pacing or thinking too much, as he often did.

His hazel eyes met yours, and you saw a flicker of hesitation before he finally spoke. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice gentle but steady. 

“Spencer?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?” 

“I—I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice laced with hesitation. He shifted his weight nervously, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. “Can I come in?” 

You stared at him, your heart racing as you tried to decipher the look in his eyes. Finally, you nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you took a couple of deep breaths, trying to prepare yourself for whatever he wanted to talk about.

Turning back around, you walked a few steps toward him, stopping just a short distance away. You were close enough to notice the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, the tension in his posture as he stood there, clearly working through whatever thoughts were racing in his mind. 

You found yourself fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, your fingers twisting and untwisting the fabric as you waited for him to speak.

Finally, Spencer cleared his throat, his eyes meeting yours. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this,” he began, his voice soft but steady. “And I know I’ve been overthinking it, probably more than I should. But I—I couldn’t keep waiting.” 

Your fingers stilled, your breath catching as his words hung in the air. 

“I’ve noticed you pulling away,” he continued, his brows furrowing slightly. “And I’ve been trying to tell myself that maybe I was imagining it, but... I don’t think I am.” He paused, his gaze searching yours. “Are you sure I didn't do something wrong? Because if I did, I’ll fix it—I want to fix it.” 

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, guilt and affection warring within you. “No, Spencer,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He looked relieved for a moment, but the tension didn’t fully leave his face. “Then what is it? Because I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” 

His honesty was disarming, his vulnerability leaving you with nowhere to hide. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, the words caught in your throat. 

“It’s... complicated,” you finally managed, your voice barely audible. 

Silence stretched out between you, thick and heavy. Spencer stood still, watching you intently, as if trying to piece together a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. His gaze flicked to your hands, noticing how they still fidgeted nervously with your clothes. 

And then he spoke. 

“I’m in love with you,” he said, the words falling from his lips so suddenly and so earnestly that they cut through the air like a blade. 

Your hands stilled immediately, your breath hitching as you raised your head to meet his eyes. The room seemed to shrink around you, everything else fading into the background as his words echoed in your ears. 

You hadn’t expected him to say it. Not like that. Not so bluntly, with no preamble or hesitation. And now, faced with the weight of his confession, you found yourself frozen, unsure of what to do or say. 

Spencer’s eyes darted nervously, meeting yours and then flicking away before returning.

He was waiting—for your answer, your reaction, anything. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, your mind racing too fast to form a coherent response. 

The silence stretched on, and you saw something shift in his expression. Disappointment. 

“I’m sorry,” he began, his voice tight, the hurt evident as he took a small step back. “I shouldn’t have—” 

“Stop,” you said, shaking your head, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and uncertain as he looked at you. 

“Don’t apologize,” you said softly, your voice trembling but resolute. You took a shaky breath.

You weren’t sure what to say to him, honestly. It was like your heart was trying to escape from your chest, but the words just wouldn’t come out. 

You looked at Spencer, his hair falling into his face just the way it always did when he was anxious or lost in thought. You had this overwhelming urge to reach out, to gently push his hair back behind his ear, but you didn’t.

Instead, you just stood there, staring at him, feeling more unsure than ever. 

"Spence, look, I—" you started, your voice faltering as you tried to gather your thoughts. 

His eyes were fixed on yours, waiting. He was so patient, so willing, and it made your chest tighten even more. You tried again, your words tumbling out as you fought to explain. 

“I didn’t want to mess things up with you. I’ve been scared that if I told you how I feel, it would ruin everything. Because... you deserve someone better than me, Spencer. You deserve someone who can give you the world, who can keep up with you... not someone like me.”

You caught yourself, blinking rapidly as the words tumbled out of you, not sure if you were even making sense anymore.

But it was like you couldn’t stop.

“I’ll ruin you, Spencer. I’ll drag you into my mess, and you’ll wake up one day and realize you could’ve had someone better. Someone who doesn’t second-guess every little thing or put up walls because they’re too scared to let anyone in.”

“That’s not how I see you,” Spencer said, his voice soft as he took a step closer to you. “You’re not a mess. You’re not some burden I’d have to carry. You’re—”

“Stop,” you cut him off, shaking your head as tears pricked at your eyes. “You don’t get it. You think I’m this... this version of me that you’ve built up in your head, but I’m not that person. I’m not perfect. I’m not enough.”

“Stop saying that!” His voice rose slightly, the frustration finally breaking through. You looked at him, startled, as he ran a hand through his hair. “You keep telling me what I should feel, what I deserve, like you get to decide that for me. But you don’t. I know what I want, and it’s you.”

“Spencer—”

“No, let me finish,” he said, stepping closer. “I don’t care about perfect, okay? I don’t care about whatever doubts you have about yourself, because none of that changes the fact that I love you. I love you for you, not some idealized version. And if you think for one second that I’m going to stand here and let you push me away because of some fear that you’re not ‘enough,’ then you don’t know me as well as I thought.”

His words hit you like a wave, but instead of feeling comforted, you felt overwhelmed. The emotions swirling between you both—the love, the fear, the frustration—felt like too much all at once.

“You’re not listening to me,” you said, your voice rising. “You think this is just me being insecure, but it’s not. This is me being realistic. You deserve someone who doesn’t bring you down, someone who doesn’t doubt themselves every time they look in the mirror.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You’re the one bringing yourself down, not me. You’re the one who thinks you’re not good enough, but that’s not the truth. It’s your fear talking, not reality.”

“And maybe my fear is right,” you shot back, your voice cracking. “Maybe it’s telling me what I already know—that you’re too good for me, and I can’t be what you need.”

He stared at you, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling as he took a deep breath. “You think you’re protecting me by pushing me away, but you’re not. You’re just hurting both of us,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. “You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like this—like I’m not alone. Like I’m more than just... me. And I’m not going to let you stand there and tell me you’re not enough.”

The room felt suffocating, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.

But still, the doubt clung to you, thick and unrelenting. “Spencer, I just... I can’t,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His shoulders slumped slightly, the frustration in his eyes giving way to something softer—something sad. “I don’t know how to convince you,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with defeat. “But I can’t force you to believe me.”

For a moment, he just stood there, silent and still, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I don’t know what else to say,” he finally murmured, his voice low and filled with a quiet hurt that made your chest ache.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. You felt paralyzed, the fear and doubt swirling inside you.

Spencer looked back up at you, his hazel eyes searching yours one last time, as if hoping to find something—anything—that might give him a reason to stay.

When he didn’t, a faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Goodnight,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

And then he turned, walking toward the door with a heaviness in his steps that you’d never seen before.

Your heart twisted as you watched him reach for the handle, every fiber of your being screaming at you to stop him, to say something, to fix this.

But the words refused to come.

Spencer paused for a fraction of a second as he opened the door, his back to you. It felt like time stood still. Then he stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him.

The sound of the latch clicking into place was deafening.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the closed door, your chest tight and your head spinning. The room felt unbearably empty without him.

And yet, you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Instead, you sank onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears you’d been holding back finally broke free.

You didn’t know what hurt more—the fear that you’d pushed him away for good or the possibility that you’d been wrong about everything.

[upon-sunflower-trails]

it cries a soft weep like mine

nam-gyu x reader | oneshot | 1965 words

songfic, i guess? based on eric by mitski. if i'm being honest, this fic was really cathartic for me to write.

warnings: nsfw. pretty fucking toxic relationship, nothing physically or sexually abusive, but it's really toxic. fairly graphic depictions of sex. emotional abuse. manipulation. dacryphilia.

You like control, well, I do too

Take off my clothes and watch me move

You can come closer, I'll let you hurt me

How you choose

It had been a little over six months since you decided to pursue a relationship with Nam-gyu. You'd met him through a mutual friend, where the attraction was almost instantaneous.

That's all it seemed to be. Purely physical attraction. You knew you wanted more, to have a relationship that was full of genuine intimacy. You wanted the sort of love that led to late night conversations in bed, with your hands threaded in his hair as you both looked up at the ceiling, gentle smiles on your faces.

Nam-gyu was not that kind of lover. It was all about how far he could take things without you pushing back. He used you for sex and not much else— it's not like he was ever home. You couldn't tell if you preferred the crippling solitude that settled in your gut when he was out doing god-knows-what during the day, or if you wanted to cling to him despite the ways he made it clear you were of no importance to him.

In the beginning, you pushed back. You two would constantly argue over the smallest of things. He wanted to be his own person, even if it meant disrespecting his relationship with you. You still had enough strength to stand your ground, to yell back as he slammed his fist against the counter. 

You still remembered the first time you had come home to him in bed with someone else, as they scurried out of the door as Nam-gyu laid still in bed with a smirk on his face, disregarding the angry tears streaming down your face as you shouted at him like a rabid dog barking at its owner. 

You wanted to leave then, but he convinced you to stay the same way he always did. Pleading with you, pretending he cared in that moment— promising he would change, that he had a moment of weakness. Things had been so difficult for him, he wasn't in the right state of mind. And then he'd have you bare in front of him, knowing he would be able to reel you back in any time.

Help me with the zipper on my skirt, it's stuck

As you kneel, I'll be watching you fix me

This view of you, of the top of your head

Makes me forgive you

After a few months, even your mutual friends could tell things weren't right between you and your boyfriend. You had become more withdrawn and careful with your words. You refused to drink, knowing it would lead to you breaking down and spilling your guts to anyone in proximity to you. 

Nam-gyu paraded you around as if you were an exotic pet on a leash. He would shut you up if you even dared to speak in front of the people who were no longer your friends, but his. He convinced you that their worried glances were instead glares of disgust, that everyone knew how mean you were to him behind closed doors. You believed him; how could you yell at him when he had been trying so hard to get better?

At one get-together, the same person you had caught him sleeping with was there. Even in your wounded state, it festered— festered until you could feel every rational part of you become infected with blind rage. You snapped as he placed an arm on theirs after ignoring you all night, even though to anyone who was watching it was obvious he was simply helping to steady them after they had fallen.

You were made to be the fool. Onlookers saw you as insecure, jealous, crazy. Nam-gyu played the part of the hurt boyfriend who couldn't believe the accusations you were throwing at him. Everyone believed him, because why would they trust you? You had been acting strange and distant for months now.

That night, Nam-gyu hadn't berated you. He simply helped you undress, murmuring that he would make it up to you.

"Don't know why you always make me out to be the bad guy, baby." "I was just tryin' to help them. Didn't you see them fall?" "We already talked about this, why do you keep bringing it up?" "Am I not allowed to have friends now? I'll just stop talking to them, if that's what you want. In fact, I'll stop going out entirely."

He said it all as he helped you out of the shoes that were blistering your feet, unzipping the skirt you had been fiddling with all night. He looked up at you through his lashes, eyes glistening as he did his best to seem hurt by your accusations. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he jutted out his bottom lip, wailing that the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.

So you let him back in again. You turned a blind eye yet again to all the trouble he had caused you, because at least he was a good fuck for the night.

But how long, how long can we play this way?

I'm tired, I'm tired of not loving you

My heart, my heart wants to hold you

But I know, I know, I know the rules

Six months in, you knew you held nothing but an odd mix of sorrow and contempt for Nam-gyu. You tried to rationalize it, that this was what love was really supposed to feel like. 

The only physical intimacy he engaged in with you was sex. It was never gentle, or soft, or tender; it was bordering on violent and possessive, despite you not truly belonging to him. And as soon as he had spilt himself into you, he would turn away and not allow you to hold or touch him. He claimed he never saw the point of cuddling or any sort of aftercare.

You knew he heard the sobs that racked your body every night. As you clutched the comforter close to your bare chest, pillow wet as the thick seed between your legs served as a constant reminder of what you were putting yourself through.

Some nights, you would reach out as he was sleeping, desperate to brush the stray hairs from his face. He truly looked peaceful like this, his resting state making you forget how cruel he could be. Every time you outstretched your limbs, craving any sort of loving embrace, you retracted at the last minute. You knew to roll back over and force your eyes shut, praying that perhaps this was all just a bad dream you were going to wake up from. That you were in such a happy relationship in real life, you were forced to have constant nightmares of what a terrible relationship would look like.

And every morning, as harsh sunlight beat in through the blinds on your face, you were reminded that this was your reality. That you would turn over, and Nam-gyu would be gone— not in the way that he had never existed, as the divet in the mattress suggested, but that he left without bidding you farewell as any good lover should.

You knew you weren't in love with him. How could you be? You despised him, deep down, even if you never admitted it to yourself. But you had promised yourself to him at some point down the line, and he hadn't dumped you on the side of the road yet.

So, for now, you stayed.

Blue light, dark room, the white of your teeth

As you smile at my trembling shoulders

But your skin, did you notice your skin?

It cries a soft weep like mine

You always tended to cry during sex with Nam-gyu. Perhaps he had just gotten used to it, or he had twisted in his mind that they were tears of pleasure. Either way, it didn't matter.

You enjoyed the release, yes, you only stayed with him for the pleasure. Well, that was what you told yourself. 

You wept as he thrust into you, because it was the only time the relationship felt real. His presence was overpowering, as the stench of his cologne settled into your nostrils while the cold sensation of his rings against your sides were the only thing keeping your mind tethered to reality.

He would growl into your shoulder as he bit and nipped at you, leaving marks that you never hesitated to cover (since they were a reminder that you were with him). His teeth shone in the low light of your "shared" bedroom, amusement coming out as a hiss as you cried out his name, a mix of pleasure and despair at your current situation.

Insults and degradation would be hurled your way under the guise of him "getting too into the moment." You always tried to ignore when he would moan out someone else's name. It only made you cry harder, and that only made him rougher. You guessed that your sobs spurred him on, that in some twisted sort of way seeing you in such a broken state aided his arousal. You never wanted to think too much into it, lest you begin to bawl even more.

Every once in a while, on extremely rare occasion, he would let a tear slip as well. Maybe it was a sign he was still human, too. That deep down, he felt sorry for what he had put you through. He was always quick to hide it as soon as it happened, and just like that he would go back to the same Nam-gyu he always was.

Those nights, you would always hear sniffling and muffled sobs beside you as you wiped your silent tears away.

I'll sell, I'll sell my whole to you

What's my, what's my, what's my price?

How about, how about just a part of you?

You were too deep in to leave when Nam-gyu finally began investing your money in things as well. He had lost everything already, and now needed your financial aid to pick him up off the ground. You wanted to be the perfect partner to him, to support him in his time of need. You tried to find any positive you could about him as you got deeper and deeper into the relationship, making decisions that would only solidify your inability to leave him.

You had lost everything alongside him, drowning in debt as he made even more irresponsible decisions with your money. You couldn't even stick up for yourself, let alone get out of the situation entirely. You were stuck, practically entrapped with a barbed-wire engagement ring digging into your finger. You laughed at the idea, but realized the metaphor didn't seem so far-fetched.

You weren't sure what it was that you did that finally pushed Nam-gyu over the edge. He abandoned you without a word, one day muttering something about making up his debts and the next day vanishing into thin air. You weren't sure if he'd ever return. Deep down, you knew you didn't want him to. But as it stood, you were crushed. Lost and hopeless without him, simply going through the motions everyday with no solace in pretending he loved you at night while being shoved against the headboard.

In some strange way, you missed him. It wasn't as though he completed you, but you had become so wrapped up in a life not with him, but of him, that you weren't sure how to exist outside of being Nam-gyu's. 

You weren't sure how to survive without the assurance of him being in your life.

'Cause I want, I want, I want, I want

I want, I want, I want, I want, I want.

[redroomreflections]

Paint It Black Chapter 2 - Fractured Authority

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary, Reader disrupts Natasha’s rigid training routine, introducing her to small acts of rebellion while hinting at the dangers of being Dreykov’s favored.

W/c: 5k

A/N: It only gets rougher from here

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Mornings were for intensive training. A rigid schedule kept the girls in line. It wasn’t like the mornings back in Ohio, where cartoons blared at full volume and Yelena sang along to every theme song, her voice bright and off-key. Here, the only sound is the low buzz of chatter, conversations Natasha couldn’t bring herself to join. No Yelena, no music, just the restless shuffle of girls preparing for the day. She hadn’t seen her sister in months.

Natasha sat on her bunk, head down, wrapping her hands with sharp, practiced movements. The gauze bit into her fingers, the tension grounding her. She wasn’t focused on anything in particular. Couldn’t keep her mind from going every which way. It was just one of those days. 

“I would like to fight y/n,”  A girl by the wall stood out, leaning with her arms crossed and a smirk that’s too sure of itself.

Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. The girl’s voice was sharp, cocky, the kind of bravado that gets broken quickly here. Natasha tugged the wrap tighter around her hands and tested her fist. No mistakes. Not today.

"Not a chance, she's Dreykov's girl. Have you seen her fight? That's too dangerous," A second voice replied, belonging to the girl Natasha knew as Lorna.

Natasha had heard the rumor about you and your fighting style. The other girls' whispers and snide comments were more unbelievable than the last.

"I heard y/n's parents are in prison; war criminals. The authorities don't know what to do with her, so they put her here," The pixie girl said. "She's the only one of us whose parents have a known place, and they still don’t want her."

"Really? I heard her dad died in a freak accident when she was a kid, and now her mom is sick or something. I don't know. Y/n barely speaks. Do you think they're trying to fix her here? Make her into the perfect weapon."

"Whatever, I just know if I'm fighting anyone, I want to fight her."

Just then, the door swung open, and a stern-faced trainer stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate silence. “All recruits to the evaluation room,” he barked, his voice echoing off the cold, sterile walls. “Now.”

The girls scrambled to their feet, and the atmosphere was suddenly tense. Natasha stood, her heart racing as she glanced at her bed. It could be the last time she saw it.

She followed the other girls along the hallway and into the observation room. As Natasha stepped into the room, the sterile smell of antiseptic and sweat hit her, a familiar scent that had become synonymous with the Red Room. Rows of hard plastic chairs lined the walls. Recruits whispered among themselves, but Natasha’s gaze was immediately drawn to you, standing amongst another group of girls.

Your posture was confident, though Natasha could see the tension in your shoulders. You stood tall, facing the front, your hair framing your face as you watched Madam B. approach the center of the room. The older woman radiated authority, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor as she strode forward.

“Welcome, recruits,” Madam B began, her voice smooth but chilling. “Today, we’ll be evaluating your progress and pushing your limits. In the Red Room, we teach you to fight and prepare you to survive. You will learn to harness your skills, not just for the mission, but for the kill.”

A shiver ran down Natasha’s spine at the coldness of Madam B's words. She’d heard this speech before, the hollow promises of strength cloaked in a veneer of empowerment. But beneath it all lied the stark reality of what they were being trained to do.

Madam B. scanned the room, her gaze sharp and calculating. “Today, I need a demonstration of what you’ve learned. Y/N!” she called, her tone suddenly commanding.

Natasha’s heart dropped as you stepped forward. “Yes, Madam B?” You replied, your voice steady.

“You will demonstrate your fighting technique against one of our newer recruits. Let’s see if you can handle the pressure.” Madam B. gestured toward a girl Natasha recognized from the dorm, one of the less experienced recruits who hadn’t had much training yet.

A ripple of surprise flew through the group of recruits, and Natasha could see the uncertainty on your face. But you didn’t hesitate, and within seconds, you were both standing in the middle of the room, squaring off against each other. Natasha's mind raced, and she felt her palms beginning to sweat as she watched the scene unfold.

Madam B. stood to the side, observing the two of you closely. The recruit lunged, and you ducked and weaved, the two of you falling into a natural rhythm. Something was mesmerizing about how you moved, your movements precise and controlled, as if you were dancing rather than fighting.

Suddenly, the recruit landed a blow to your abdomen. You stumbled but regained your composure quickly and retaliated with a swift kick to her leg, knocking her off balance. As the fight progressed, you gained the upper hand, landing blow after blow until the recruit was backed against the wall, defenseless.

Your fist flew forward and landed squarely on the girl’s jaw, and the sound of bone crunching echoed in the small room. The girl crumpled to the ground, and Madam B. ambled forward, her expression unreadable.

There was a sudden, intense pressure in Natasha’s chest, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Something felt wrong. It all felt wrong. 

"Kill her," Madam B. demanded from you.

"What?" You asked.

"You heard me. Kill her. That's an order."

There was silence, and then the recruit let out a strangled cry. Her hand reached up, blood dripping from her mouth. "Help me, please!" she whimpered. It was a mistake allowing her to fight you. 

For the slightest second, you hesitated. Your hand tightened around the knife tucked into your belt, but the movement was barely perceptible. "No," you finally replied, your voice steady. "I won't."

The room eruptd into surprised mutters and gasps, and Natasha watched in horror as Madam B. struck you across the face for your defiance. "Disobedience will not be tolerated!" she shouted, her voice raw with anger. "You've been spoiled. You think your place here is valuable."

She’d struck you again and your lip split. Your only confirmation was the taste of copper coating your tongue. 

Natasha's eyes never left you as Madam B's next strike was more brutal. She couldn’t look away, even as the room filled with the sickening sounds of flesh meeting flesh. Almost like it was personal. 

Finally, the blows stopped, and the room fell silent again. Your harsh breathing unsettled them. You couldn’t seem to catch your breath. 

Madam B. turned toward the rest of the group. "Widows," she said, her voice dangerously low, yet commanding. She was a leader. "We must be ruthless in our pursuit of perfection. Only those who can handle the pressure are fit to serve the Red Room. Anyone who falters will be eliminated."

The meaning of Madam B's words were clear: those who can't survive will kill or be killed. 

Madam B. towered over you, her heels clicking as she circled like a vulture. Her voice was sharp and clipped, cutting through the tension in the room. “Y/N, you have failed to meet the expectations of the Red Room. Do you even comprehend what that means?”

"That's enough," A voice with chilling authority caused every head to turn.

You sat on your knees, staring at the floor, your breath ragged. Blood dripped steadily from your chin, pooling on the hardwood. The ache in your body made it hard to hold yourself upright, but you refused to fall. Not here. Not in front of her.

The weight of her words hung in the air until the door creaked open.

Silence fell.

His presence filled the room before anyone even dared to look. The sound of measured footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, like a ticking clock counting down.

Dreykov didn’t say a word as he approached, but every girl instinctively straightened, their eyes dropping to the floor. He stopped just in front of you, his polished shoes catching the faint light.

Your gaze flickered up, only for a moment. A dark suit, pressed to perfection. Rings glinted on his fingers, gold and heavy. His face was expressionless, but his eyes... they pinned you down, dissecting you like a specimen under a microscope.

He knelt slowly, his hand brushing your cheek, his thumb smearing the blood there as if studying it.

"Stand," he said finally, the single word low and heavy.

Madam B. stiffened beside him, stepping back as if to blend into the shadows. You rose to your feet, your knees trembling, the iron in his voice giving you no choice but to obey.

Dreykov adjusted his cuffs, his movements precise and unhurried, before turning to the rest of the room. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His silence was command enough.

"She's my best girl. She deserves a second chance," He stated.

"With all due respect, General, I believe she is a liability. Her disobedience is a threat to the program."

The General didn’t flinch. "Let me worry about that," He said. His tone was firm, but there was a hint of something else—an underlying anger impossible to miss. "I've already given my orders. Y/n is a valuable asset. She's not going anywhere."

Madam B's expression remained unchanged, but there was a subtle shift in the room's energy. She gave a curt nod, her displeasure evident.

"Yes, sir," She replied, her tone clipped. She watched as Dreykov’s fingers pressed into your chin, tilting your face up to scrutinize you. His gaze flickered over your expression, but your eyes remained carefully blank, giving nothing away. Natasha watched for a brief, disorienting moment, wondering if he was almost…fussing over you. 

There was something in the silence that made Natasha feel like she could finally breathe again.

"As for the rest of you," The General continued. "This is your first and final warning. Don't disappoint me."

With those words, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the silent room.

Madam B. snapped back into action the moment he was gone, barking orders and arranging the next fight. Natasha couldn’t help but look at you again. She went to reach out and help, but something held her back. You were a liability.

And for some reason, Natasha didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

***

It was late, the moon hanging low in the night sky. The next time Natasha saw you, you had bandages on your cheek. She didn’t dare to talk to you. Instead, she kept her distance, watching from afar as you walked through the cafeteria, her curiosity piqued.

But Natasha wasn’t the only one keeping tabs on you. Everywhere you went, you were watched. Rumors flew, and the older girls made their distaste known, casting you looks full of venom. You didn’t notice. The bandages on your cheek starkly contrast your skin, a physical reminder of the earlier evaluations that had gone wrong. You sat alone at a table, your gaze fixed on your untouched plate of food.

As the seconds passed, Natasha’s worry deepend. You brought a fork to your lips, but your hand trembled slightly, and the fork slipped, clattering against the plate. You winced at the sound, your shoulders tensing as if the noise was a reminder of the eyes on you. Glancing around, you caught a few older girls snickering, their whispers loaded with disgust and malice. The venom in their gazes fet like a physical blow, and Natasha saw your posture shift, the slightest crumple of your resolve.

You took a deep breath, trying to regain composure, but Natasha saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes as you stared at your food, willing yourself to eat. Your appetite has vanished, replaced by the gnawing anxiety from being at the center of whispered rumors. You pushed your food around the plate; the motions were mechanical and lifeless. 

 She shouldn't have cared so much. She knew you could not be friends.

But still, Natasha did.

She wanted to know your story. She wanted to know you.

*******

The training room was a different beast than the evaluation. The stakes were higher than ever, and after that day you battled, the competition was fierce.

Natasha sat on the bench, wrapping her wrists again. As the fabric covered her knuckles, her attention shifted to you.It seemed like you were everywhere.

You were standing by the punching bags, practicing your technique. You were quick. Powerful. Precise. Natasha watched as you hit the bag repeatedly, your movements fluid. 

She was about to approach you when ‘pixie-cut girl’ beat her to it.

"Hey," Pixie cut girl said, her voice smug. "Nice work out there."

You paused, glancing over at her, your expression unfazed. "Thanks," you replied, a hint of skepticism lacing your voice.

"But seriously," the pixie-cut girl continued, stepping closer with a challenging glint in her eye. "How do you get away with so much? Dreykov's favorite and all that. Must be nice to have special treatment, huh?"

Natasha held her breath, unsure how you’d respond. 

You straightened your back, the confidence radiating from you. “It’s not about getting away with anything,” you said, your voice steady and assertive. “I’ve just learned to make the most of what I have. This place tries to break you, but I refuse to let it.”

The pixie-cut girl raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Is that so? Sounds a little naïve, don’t you think?”

Natasha bit her lip. She wanted to see how you would handle this situation. 

"Maybe," you replied, an edge to your voice. "But I'm not the one making excuses for my poor performance."

A ripple of murmurs echoed through the gym, and the pixie-cut girl's cheeks flushed pink. She stared at you, her jaw clenched, the tension between you building. Natasha felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, a chill running down her spine.

She'd seen this scenario play out before. It was a precursor to disaster, a ticking time bomb.

"You're right," the pixie-cut girl said, her tone dangerously calm. "I haven't been giving it my all. But maybe I should." She stepped forward, her fists clenched. "You wanna spar? Let's go."

Your gaze shifted from her face to her hands. "I don't need to prove myself," you stated, your voice calm and confident.

"Oh, I think you do." Her grin was cruel, her eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. "We saw what happened with your last match. You're not a widow."

The jab hit you hard, and Natasha could see the briefest glimpse of pain on your face before you schooled your features, the mask of indifference returning. "No, but I am a recruit. And I know how to fight."

"Well, then, let's put it to the test. Unless you're scared."

The challenge hung in the air, and the other girls waited with bated breath.

"You don't want to do this," You shook your head. "Whatever hangups you have about me. Put them to rest."

"Don't tell me what I want."

You gave her a hard stare, then sighed, rolling your shoulders and flexing your hands. "Fine," you muttered.

“Tatyana,” One of the usual girls she’s with called to her. 

“No, it’s time someone puts her in her place.” Tatyana said. 

The two of you stepped forward, squaring against each other, the tension crackling between you. The older girl moved first, throwing a punch which you dodged easily. It's then you got angry. Not necessarily at Tatyana. But at the system. At the fact that you had to fight every single day of your life. 

You struck, aiming for the older girl's face, the force of the blow sending her reeling backward. Tatyana staggered, catching herself, then charged again, her shoulder colliding with yours, her momentum carrying the two of you to the ground. You were a blur of movement, both grappling for the upper hand.

Natasha watched, her pulse racing. The older girl landed a few blows, but you were relentless, throwing punches and kicks as fast as possible. You were on the offensive, fighting with a ferocity and determination Natasha had never seen before.

She was captivated.

The sound of a blow landing drew her focus, and Natasha watched as the older girl stumbled back, her lip bleeding. "You'll pay for that," Tatyana growled, her expression feral.

"I'd like to see you try." You threw another punch, and Tatyana blocked, countering with a kick to your leg.

The two of you were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to give ground. You were a whirlwind of fists and fury, the older girl's movements growing more desperate.

Suddenly, Tatyana threw a wide punch, her arm flying past your face, the momentum unbalancing her. A fatal mistake.

Your hand snaked out, grasping the older girl's wrist, and you twist, bringing her to the ground. Within seconds, you're on top of her, pinning her down.

"This isn't worth it," You muttered, your voice low and menacing. You know what you have to do now. You know what they want from you. “Whatever you have against me throw it away. If you know what’s good for you.”

"Get off me," Tatyana spit, struggling under your weight.

"I'm trying to save your life," you replied, your grip tightening.

The older girl glared up at you. She knew she was cornered. She knew what happened next.

"You have a choice," you continued, your tone cold and uncompromising. "Survive or die."

Your words hung in the air, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone in the room. The choice was clear. You know that if Dreykov or Madam B. Caught wind of this,you would suffer. The guards on one side of the room seemed to ignore all this happening. But the other side. The girls in the other corner were watching.

Tatyana hesitated, then nodded her defeat.

"Good." You released your hold, rising to your feet. “Next time, I won’t be so merciful.” 

The older girl scrambled up, glaring daggers at you. She brushed off her uniform, her gaze never leaving yours.

Natasha stared at you, her heart pounding, the realization hitting her like a ton of bricks.

You're the one to beat.

Tatyana sulked, her glare lingering but her steps faltering as she retreated to the other side of the room. The watching girls averted their eyes, murmuring amongst themselves. Natasha didn’t move, frozen in place, her mind racing as she tried to process what she’d just seen. 

“You did not have to do that to her,” Someone challenged. Another girl from your class. 

“Это всё,” A woman’s voice said in Russian, her tone icy and final. That’s over.

The words cut through the air like a whip. The watching girls froze for a split second before breaking apart like scattered birds. No one lingered; no one dared. The crowd thinned as they slunk back to their stations, their whispered chatter fading into the background. Even Tatyana, still seething, shot you one last glare before disappearing into the throng.

The room seemed to exhale, the buzz of drills and muted conversations resuming, but Nora’s focus never wavered. Her gaze fixed on you, cold and unrelenting.

“You,” she said, her voice sharp enough to make you flinch. “Come.”

The command was curt, absolute. Without hesitation, the remaining girls stepped aside, parting like water to make way as Nora turned on her heel and strode out of the room.

You glanced at Natasha out of the corner of your eye. She stared back, her face pale, her expression unreadable. You didn’t have time to dwell on it. Nora didn’t wait for you to follow—she didn’t need to.

As you trailed after her, the murmurs behind you faded into nothing, swallowed by the sterile hallways of the Red Room.

You didn’t say anything as she led you into the empty room. The silence between you was thick. You couldn’t escape that antiseptic smell. You sat on the bed, back straight, arms folded across your chest, eyes following the motion of her lab coat as it swayed with every movement.

She moved efficiently, methodically, gathering supplies without sparing you a glance. Her hands were quick, but steady, like someone who had done this a thousand times before.

“This is my second time patching you up this week,” Nora commented casually, her voice holding a hint of frustration but not quite pity. She turned to face you, her hazel eyes meeting yours for the first time since the confrontation. Her expression was unreadable, a practiced mask of professionalism.

You stayed silent, your lips pressed together in a thin line.

Nora shook her head slightly, as if disappointed, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she set down the bandages she’d been holding and picked up a sterile wipe, her fingers moving with precision as she began cleaning the gash on your cheek. “You’re reckless,” she muttered, but there was a sense of reluctant admiration in her voice.

You couldn’t help but let out a short, bitter laugh. “Reckless?” you echoed. “Isn’t that what they want from me?”

Nora didn’t answer right away. She worked in silence, her brow furrowed as she focused on her task. Finally, she spoke, her tone softer this time. “Not like this.”

You glanced up at her, caught off guard by the slight change in her demeanor. “What does that mean?”

She paused, meeting your gaze once more, and for a brief moment, you saw something flicker in her eyes—something human, something more than just the cold, professional persona she wore so well. A look she usually reserved for you. 

“Don’t make it easy for them,” she said quietly, almost as if she was speaking to herself more than to you. "You’re worth more than that."

You didn’t respond. There was no need to. You knew exactly what she meant.

"You're not my mother." You swiped her hand away from your face, the motion sharp and angry, but it didn’t seem to faze her.

She didn’t argue, didn’t react with anger or defense. Instead, her eyes softened, a brief flicker of something almost tender in them. She dropped her hand to her side, giving you space to breathe, space to cool off.

"No," Nora’s voice was quiet, almost sad. "I'm not."

The silence hung between you, thick with the weight of unspoken words. She didn’t press, didn’t try to make you talk, and for a moment, you almost felt a flicker of gratitude.

But you quickly buried it.

"Just... just do what you need to do," you muttered, turning your head away from her, focusing on the dull flicker of light overhead. Anything to avoid looking at her.

You weren’t sure what kind of words you wanted from her—maybe none at all. Maybe you just wanted to be left alone.

****

You were cocky, but she knew it was just a mask. She’d seen those rare cracks in your composure, moments when the swagger faded and something more vulnerable flickered beneath the surface. The other girls didn’t like you, and Natasha understood why. You were fast, smooth, and relentless in training; you never faltered in evaluations. No one could beat you.

But you were distant, never lingering with the others. Natasha often saw you slipping away, and she knew where you went. Dreykov kept you close.

It was another week she'd survived in the Red Room. The atmosphere in the evaluation circle was tense and charged with anticipation as the girls surround the mat, their eyes focused on the center. Natasha stood with her heart pounding, a cocktail of fear and adrenaline surging through her veins. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath as she watched the trainers move among the group, assessing each girl with a critical eye.

“Next up,” a trainer barked, breaking the silence. “Romanoff versus Mikhailova.”

Mikhailova, the girl she’s up against, strode confidently to the center. Natasha knew her by reputation: fierce and unyielding, a girl who thrived on intimidation. The two of them stood face to face, both about the same size; Mikhailova was only an inch taller and a year older.

Natasha took a deep breath, trying to steel her nerves. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation, but she knew the fight was inevitable.

Mikhailova smirked, her gaze sharp and calculating. Natasha braced herself, waiting for the attack. Mikhailova stepped forward, her confidence radiating from her as she smoothed her hair, a bright red ribbon tied neatly at the back of her head. They were both just girls, barely teenagers, yet here they are, pitted against each other in a brutal test of strength and skill.

And it came. Mikhailova struck first, a blow to Natasha's abdomen. The pain was immediate, but Natasha pushed it down, and her determination to survive pushed her forward.

The fight escalated quickly, both girls throwing punches and kicks, their movements fluid and instinctive. Mikhailova was a skilled opponent, but Natasha was quick, and her reflexes were sharp and precise. The two of them were well matched, the battle raging on for what seemed like hours, but both girls were determined to win.

Mikhailova threw a punch, and Natasha ducked, countering with a swift kick to the older girl's shin. The older girl faltered, and Natasha seized the opportunity, slamming her elbow into the older girl's chest.

A flash of pain crossed Mikhailova's face, but she recovered quickly, grabbing Natasha by the throat and pinning her to the ground. Natasha's eyes widened as the older girl's fingers tightened around her neck, cutting off her air supply.

As the seconds passed, Natasha's vision blurred, the edges fading to black. Her lungs burned, her chest heaving, the struggle to breathe growing more desperate with each passing second. She fought, trying to free herself, but Mikhailova's grip was too firm. In a final attempt, Natasha made a move that made the older girl loosen her grip just enough for her to slip free.

Natasha gasped, taking a deep breath, her lungs burning. She was on the ground, her heart racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She had to do something that she couldn’t come back from.

Her hand closed around a knife that's been tossed aside. Without a second thought, she drove it into Mikhailova's leg.

The older girl screamed, collapsing to the ground, her blood pooling on the floor.

The room was silent, the shock of the attack reverberating.

Mikhailova glareed at Natasha, her eyes full of hatred and pain. They know what happened next. Natasha's hand didn’t even shake. She quickly removed the knife from Mikhailova's leg, and the older girl let out a muffled cry, clutching at the wound.

"Put her out of her misery," One of the trainers demanded.

Mikhailova looked up at Natasha, her expression a mixture of fear and defiance. "Do it," She growled, her voice thick with anger and pain. "End this."

Natasha paused, her mind racing. The knife felt heavy in her hand. This was where you and Natasha differed. For her, if she said no, there would be no one to save her. You had the General. She had nothing.

So she did.

She plunged the knife into Mikhailova's heart.

The older girl gasped, her eyes widening as the life drained from her body.

Natasha stared down at her body, the realization of what she'd done sinking in. The blood rushed to her ears as she forced herself to remain upright. Her first kill. She'd done it.

"Congratulations, Natalia," Madam B's voice cut through the silence.She sounded almost proud. "You've proven yourself."

The older woman's words sent a chill down Natasha's spine.

Natasha looked up, her eyes locking with Madam B's, the older woman's gaze cold and calculating. "Don't get too comfortable," Madam B. continued.

Natasha didn’t respond. She looked down at Mikhailova's lifeless body again. Dedicated her face to memory. She had freckles.

The thought was fleeting but enough to bring her back to reality. She knew she's just won an important battle. But the war was far from over.

"Clean up," Madam B commanded.

Natasha's gaze snapped up, and she nodded, the movement mechanical and robotic.

She sknew she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, the consequences would be devastating.

********

In the shower, Natasha cried quietly to herself. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mikhailova. About the look in her eyes as she died. She'd been trained for this. She was a widow in training. This is what they do.

But it didn’t feel any better.

Minutes passed, she wiped away the tears and straightened her shoulders, her resolve firming. She couldn’t afford to break. She dressed quietly, ignoring the girls stepping in and out of the shared shower room.

Her mind was numb as she walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared.

"Y/n," Natasha whispered.

"Natasha," you replied, your tone equally soft.

"How are you?"

You hesitated, a flicker of emotion crossing your face. "Fine," you stated, your expression guarded. "You?"

"Same," Natasha answered, a lump forming in her throat.

You both paused, an awkward silence filling the space between you.

"I should go," Natasha said, her voice quiet.

"Wait," you replied.

Natasha's eyes met yours, and for a moment, the tension faded.

"You did great," You continue, a hint of pride in your voice. "Dreykov is pleased."

"Thanks," Natasha replied, her cheeks flushing.

"You deserve it," You added.  Before she could walk away you turned to her. "It's always hard. Your first kill." You elaborated.

"Is it?" Natasha asked, the question slipping out before she could stop herself.

"No," you replied, your tone somber. "I've found that the second one is worse. One time is an order. The second time is a choice."

"Oh."

The weight of your words hung in the air, the truth sinking in.

"Be careful," You added. "It will only get harder from here."

"I will," Natasha answered.

You give her a curt nod and turn, disappearing down the hall.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; leah rests as you confront laswell over her clear interference. later, a heartfelt plea for the pack’s forgiveness stirs conflicted emotions, forcing you to grapple with resentment and the weight of leadership.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Leah stayed the rest of the day and night. After finishing her tea and sandwiches, she’d curled up in your room, exhaustion pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sybil stayed by her side by your instruction, her large form pressed protectively against Leah as though sensing the fragility of her state.

You watched her for a moment before stepping out, closing the door quietly behind you. When you found Fiona in the main hall, you stopped her with a firm look. “Leah is resting in my room. No one goes in—no one—unless I say so. That includes my Mother.”

Her eyes widened briefly, but she recovered quickly, her expression smoothing into the composed professionalism you’d come to expect from her. “Understood,” she said with a small nod.

As you walked back to your studio, the weight of everything pressed down on you—your thoughts swirled, torn between the boundaries of what you could do now and what you could risk for later. You needed clarity, or at least a good understanding of how things had turned out this way. 

The decision solidified as you reached the door to your studio. Pausing briefly, you raised a hand and muttered an incantation under your breath, weaving a ward around the door. The faint shimmer of magic settled over the frame, ensuring no one would disturb you inside.

Once satisfied, you stepped in, closing the door behind you and locking it for good measure. You crossed the room to your desk, the weight of the moment settling heavily in your chest as you reached for your phone.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, the weight of everything unspoken pressing heavily against your chest. The hesitation was brief. With a sharp breath, you tapped the call button.

The line rang twice before her voice came through, tinged with an edge of surprise she couldn’t fully conceal.

“This is unexpected,” Laswell said, her words crisp but laced with curiosity. There was a brief pause, and then she added, more composed now, “How can I help you?”

The neutrality in her tone grated against you, stirring the embers of frustration you’d been holding back for far too long.

“I don’t need your help,” you said firmly, each word clipped.

The silence on her end stretched just long enough to let you know she was regrouping, processing your tone.

“You helped her, didn’t you?” you continued, not giving her a chance to deflect. “You helped Leah get to the coven.”

She exhaled softly, though whether it was in resignation or something else, you couldn’t tell. “She needed closure—”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you interrupted sharply. “I was clear with the pack, and I was clear with you. You don’t get to meddle in my business, Laswell. Not anymore.”

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was steadier, more guarded. “She was desperate. I made a judgment call.”

You closed your eyes, willing the anger simmering beneath your skin to stay in check. “A judgment call,” you repeated bitterly. “Just like the last time? When you brushed off my concerns? When you refused to see what was happening until it was too late?”

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence on the line louder than anything else.

“I made mistakes,” Laswell said finally, her tone softer but still holding that iron edge. “And I’ve spent every day since trying to fix them.”

You shook your head, though she couldn’t see it. “This is the last time, Laswell. The last time you get involved. I’ll take care of Leah for now because it’s the right thing to do. After this, I’ll see to it personally that she gets back home—safely, where she belongs.”

Laswell didn’t respond immediately, and you imagined her pinching the bridge of her nose in that way she always did when she was trying to decide whether to push back or let it go.

“In a way,” you added after a beat, your tone cooling slightly, “you respected my wishes by not coming to the celebrations. For that, thank you.”

Another pause. Then, finally, her voice came through, subdued but steady. “You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say. With a sharp flick of your thumb, you ended the call, the screen going dark as the weight in your chest shifted—not lighter, not heavier. Just there.

For a moment, you stood in the silence of your studio, the faint hum of the warded door the only sound. You set the phone down on the desk with a quiet sigh, the conversation leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

. . .

Laswell stood outside your former apothecary, her phone still in hand as she let out a slow, steady breath. The conversation with you had left her more rattled than she cared to admit. Even though she’d managed to hold her composure, your words still lingered, sharp and cutting.

Around her, the scene was bustling. Farah and Alex were inside, sorting through what remained of your belongings. They had accepted her offer of the space—not happily, but only because they respected your wishes. Their sadness was palpable, laced with a quiet anger that neither of them had voiced directly.

Whatever you had left behind, Farah and Alex treated it with care. They tucked away your tools and keepsakes for safekeeping, their movements precise and deliberate. The pack lingered around, their gazes lingering a little too long on certain items, and it wasn’t long before Soap and Gaz tried to sneak something.

Soap, ever the opportunist, had spotted a small trinket—a small wolf charm you’d crafted long ago—and pocketed it with a practiced ease. Gaz, less subtle, had picked up one of your old notebooks, flipping through it with a wistful look before tucking it under his arm.

Farah, already on edge, caught them both in the act. She turned sharply, her glare cutting through the room like a blade.

“Put it back,” she snapped, her voice firm and unwavering.

Soap gave her his best puppy-dog eyes, the kind that usually got him out of trouble. “C’mon, lass,” he said, his voice soft and pleading. “It’s just a wee thing—something to remember her by.”

Farah’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, her glare deepened, her hand resting protectively over the small swell of her belly. “I said, put it back,” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Gaz hesitated, glancing between Soap and Farah, but the weight of her stare was too much. With a sheepish nod, he placed the notebook back where he’d found it.

Soap lingered for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the charm in his pocket. Farah stepped closer, her presence towering despite her smaller stature.

“Soap,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With a resigned sigh, he pulled the charm from his pocket and set it down with exaggerated care. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, backing away with his hands raised. “No need to get cranky.”

Her glare didn’t waver, and Soap quickly retreated to the other side of the room, muttering something under his breath about “pregnancy hormones.” Alex, who had been silently watching from the corner, hid a smirk behind his hand. Farah shot him a look, and he quickly busied himself with organizing another box.

Satisfied, Farah returned to her work, tucking your belongings away with even greater care. 

Back outside, Laswell turned toward the door just as Ghost emerged, a large box balanced effortlessly in his arms. He moved with his usual precision, quiet and efficient, his gaze fixed ahead as though nothing else existed but the task at hand. He didn’t linger, carrying the box to Alex’s truck without a word before heading back inside.

Price followed a few moments later, stepping out with a smaller box tucked under one arm. He set it down near the doorway, dusting off his hands as his sharp gaze settled on Laswell.

“That was her on the phone, wasn’t it?” he asked, his voice low but laced with a pointed edge.

Laswell hesitated, her grip tightening slightly on the phone in her pocket. For a moment, she considered deflecting, brushing him off. But Price’s eyes told her that wouldn’t work.

“Yes,” she admitted finally, tucking the phone away as though trying to put the weight of the conversation out of reach.

Price exhaled heavily, his jaw tightening as he looked toward the apothecary. His fingers brushed over the edge of the box he’d just set down, the movement almost absentminded. “And?”

Laswell squared her shoulders. “And nothing,” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended. “She doesn’t want me—or any of us—involved any further.”

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze hardening as he nodded slowly. “Yes, I figured as much,” he muttered, glancing toward the doorway where Soap had lingered earlier, his usual energy dampened into something far more subdued. “And yet here we are.”

Laswell folded her arms, her gaze flicking toward the truck where Ghost had disappeared moments ago. “She made her wishes clear,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “We’re doing this because it’s what she wanted—for Farah and Alex to have this place, for them to have help.”

Her eyes drifted back toward the apothecary’s open door. “Whether we like it or not.”

Price studied her in silence, his sharp blue eyes as unreadable as ever. After a moment, he gave a curt nod, his posture easing slightly. “Fair enough,” he said gruffly, turning toward the doorway as though considering whether to follow Ghost back inside.

Laswell stayed where she was, her hands slipping into her coat pockets as she stared at the apothecary, her thoughts churning. Ghost had returned to his task with his usual quiet intensity, and Soap had retreated to lean against the wall, his troubled expression a stark contrast to his usual demeanor.

The pack was subdued, their energy tempered by the weight of your absence and the silence of things left unsaid. But as Laswell observed them, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they wouldn’t back down anytime soon.

Something about the way they carried themselves, the way their gazes lingered on your shop, told her this wasn’t the end for them. They’d find a way to keep trying. 

Whatever. That was their business now.

Laswell exhaled softly, brushing off the thought. She had done the best she could, made the decisions she thought were right at the time. Hopefully, with time, the strain between you and her might heal. But for now, she wouldn’t hold her breath.

Her gaze drifted back to the apothecary’s weathered sign hanging above the door. The carved wooden depiction of Sybil stared back at her, elegant and protective.

Laswell hesitated, her hand hovering near the sign, before she finally reached up and carefully unhooked it from its place. The wood was smoother than she expected, its edges worn from time and weather. She brushed off the faint layer of dust that had settled on it, her fingers lingering on the carved lines of Sybil’s regal form.

For a moment, she simply stood there, the sign in her hands, her thoughts tangled between regret and resolution.

This, at least, she could keep safe.

Tucking the sign under her arm, Laswell turned away from the apothecary, her steps steady as she moved toward the truck. She didn’t look back.

. . .

The soft crackle of the fire filled the room as you sat on the sofa, a stack of letters balanced on your lap. Each envelope bore the mark of a coven leader or an influential figure, their words congratulating you on your confirmation and, in some cases, making subtle overtures for future alliances.

You worked methodically, reading through each one and making notes on who deserved a reply, a gift, or a polite dismissal. This was just the beginning, one of many responsibilities you’d have as your Mother’s heir, and though it felt overwhelming, you tackled it with quiet determination.

Sybil lay curled at your feet, her coat gleaming in the firelight, her slow, even breaths a comforting rhythm.

A stir from the bed caught your attention, and you glanced over to see Leah shifting, her eyes fluttering open. She sat up slowly, her movements more assured than they had been earlier. Her cheeks, once pale and hollow, held a hint of color now. It wasn’t surprising—the food, tea, and subtle spells you had cast were meant to revitalize her, to help her heal from the inside out.

Now, as she stretched and blinked at the firelight, she looked better—if a little hesitant. Her gaze shifted to you, her head tilting curiously as she noticed the stack of letters.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice soft but steadier now, carrying a confidence that hadn’t been there before.

“Replying to letters,” you said absently, flipping to the next one. 

Leah swung her legs over the edge of the bed, watching you carefully. The silence stretched, but you let it. You were too absorbed in the task at hand to press her further.

To your surprise, she broke the quiet with an abrupt question, one that made your pen still over the paper.

“Do you think you can forgive the pack?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting hers in the flickering firelight. For a moment, you weren’t sure you had heard her correctly.

“Excuse me?”

Leah shifted uncomfortably but didn’t back down. Her light brown gaze held yours, steady despite the tension that suddenly filled the room. “I said… do you think you can forgive them? The pack. For what happened.”

Your expression hardened instinctively, the calm you had been cultivating unraveling in an instant. 

She bit her lip, glancing toward the fire before looking back at you. “It wasn’t their fault. Not entirely.”

You sighed softly, setting the letters aside as you straightened in your seat. “Not entirely,” you echoed, your tone sharper now. “That doesn’t change the damage they caused. To me. To themselves. To you.”

Leah hesitated, but there was a flicker of determination in her expression as she pressed on. “I’m not saying what happened was okay. It wasn’t. But they’re… broken. And I think—no, I know—they’d do anything to fix it if you’d let them.”

You stared at her, your thoughts churning. It wasn’t an easy thing to consider, not after everything.

Leah’s voice softened, her earlier confidence faltering just slightly. “I’m asking because… if you don’t forgive them, I’m not sure they’ll ever forgive themselves.”

The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, the only sound was the fire’s crackle and Sybil’s soft breathing.

You took a long, measured look at Leah. For the first time, you saw her clearly—not the broken, haunted version she had been when she arrived, but the person she truly was beneath it all. Her beauty wasn’t just in her features, though those were striking; it was in her kindness, the quiet determination in her voice as she spoke on behalf of others.

She wasn’t pleading for herself, not really. She was pleading for them—for the pack that had been as much victims as they were perpetrators. It was selfless, genuine, and painfully earnest.

It made the weight of your resentment feel… pitiful.

You glanced toward the fire, your thoughts swirling as you turned her words over in your mind. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps forgiveness could give them something they couldn’t find on their own.

But even as you considered it, a familiar truth settled heavily in your chest. Forgiveness was one thing. Forgetting was another entirely.

Your gaze returned to Leah, and you let out a quiet sigh, your voice softer now as you finally spoke. “I may forgive them one day, Leah. But I won’t forget. I can’t.”

Leah’s expression shifted, her lips parting slightly as though to protest, but she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she seemed to accept your words.

“That’s fair,” she said quietly, her hands resting in her lap. “I just… I hope, for their sake, that forgiveness will be enough.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you leaned back against the sofa, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the room. Sybil shifted at your feet, her dark eyes watching you intently.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, your tone carrying more weight than you intended. “That’s all I can promise for now.”

Leah nodded again, her gaze dropping briefly to Sybil before returning to you. “That’s all anyone can ask for.”

The room fell quiet again, the crackle of the fire filling the space as Leah settled back onto the bed. You returned to your letters, but your thoughts lingered on her words—and the truth of what they might mean for you, the pack, and everything that lay ahead.

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[adumbratrapedme]

BABY BUMP | teen pregnancy series

Synopsis. after revealing your pregnancy to your boyfriend a few weeks passed and you finally realize the baby bump is here o.o

characters (all separated): tsukishima, kenma, kageyama wc.x words aprox. | genre. pure fluff !|cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, baby bumps. teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

important ! im sorry y'all, i promise in working on the other guys too, btw you can check out the teen preg. masterlist to get a little spoiler over the next chapters <3

Kenma

It was a quiet afternoon after school. Kenma had just finished a round of gaming in the clubroom, and you were both sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall as you chatted. You had been trying to keep your pregnancy low-key for the past few weeks, but the signs had become undeniable. The nausea had subsided, but a deep sense of exhaustion still lingered, and you found yourself eating more often.

You hadn’t thought much about it until recently—until now.

Kenma was fiddling with his phone, looking over some stats for an upcoming game, when you stood up suddenly. The simple act of standing made you realize something had changed. You placed a hand on your lower abdomen, feeling the slight roundness there.

“Kenma,” you said softly, your voice laced with hesitation.

He looked up from his phone, the usual nonchalance in his eyes, but something in your tone made him pause. “What’s up?”

You shifted uncomfortably on your feet, lifting your hoodie slightly to reveal your growing belly. You hadn’t really noticed the change until today, when the fit of your clothes felt tighter. Your stomach now had a visible curve, small but undeniably there.

Kenma’s gaze immediately shifted to your stomach, his eyes widening slightly as he absorbed what you were showing him. He blinked twice, his mind catching up with the situation.

“I think… it’s growing,” you said quietly, trying to keep your emotions in check. The reality of it was becoming more and more real every day, and now, seeing the bump clearly, it was like a weight settling in your chest.

Kenma didn’t say anything at first, his gaze still fixed on your stomach. He seemed lost in thought, his fingers twitching as if unsure whether to touch or not. You waited in silence, your heart racing.

Finally, he spoke, his voice soft but steady. “Yeah… it is.” He reached out cautiously, his hand hovering near your waist before gently placing it on the curve of your abdomen. The warmth of his hand felt reassuring. “It’s really happening, huh?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I… didn’t think it would show so soon.” The reality of being a first-year high school student and carrying a child was overwhelming, and now, your body was unmistakably reminding you of the responsibility ahead.

Kenma’s eyes softened as he looked at you. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this.” His hand rested more comfortably on your stomach, as though offering silent support.

You smiled, trying to steady your breathing. Despite the nerves and uncertainty that loomed over you both, his steady presence always calmed you. Even though this was a huge change for both of you, you felt a sense of calm in knowing that Kenma was there by your side.

“Yeah, we will,” you agreed, your voice growing more confident.

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft sound of your breathing, the quiet stillness of the room, and the warmth of Kenma’s hand. The world outside seemed distant, and for now, it was just the two of you, facing the next steps together.

Tsukishima

It had been a few months since that day. Things weren’t perfect—far from it—but Tsukishima was trying. He showed up to appointments, asked questions about the baby’s development, and even begrudgingly helped pick out a crib.

Today, though, everything felt ordinary. The two of you had agreed to spend the afternoon together, sorting through some of the baby things Yamaguchi had been helping you collect.

You were in the kitchen, struggling to reach something on the top shelf. Tsukishima, standing nearby with his usual unimpressed expression, sighed and walked over.

“Couldn’t you have just asked me?” he muttered, grabbing the item with ease.

“Maybe I like the challenge,” you shot back, though the slight smirk on your lips gave you away.

As you turned to set the item down, the hem of your shirt caught on the edge of the counter, riding up slightly. Tsukishima’s sharp eyes caught the sight instantly.

“Wait.” His voice stopped you in your tracks.

“What?”

He motioned for you to stay still, his expression shifting as he stepped closer. For a moment, he simply stared at you, and you followed his gaze downward. That’s when you noticed it—a subtle curve below your navel that hadn’t been there before.

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Oh…” you whispered, placing a hand over the small bump.

Tsukishima’s hand hesitated, hovering near yours. “Can I…?”

You nodded, and he carefully placed his palm over the swell of your stomach. His hand was warm, and the touch was so gentle it made your chest ache.

“It’s real,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I mean, I knew it was real, but… this…”

You watched his face as he stared at your stomach. The usual sharpness in his features softened, replaced by an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“It’s weird,” he finally admitted, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “In a good way, I think.”

You laughed softly, resting your hand over his. “Yeah. Weird in a good way.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there in silence, the weight of the moment settling over you.

“Do you think it’ll kick soon?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Maybe. It’s still early, though.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” he admitted. “But I want to be. For you. For… them.”

Your chest tightened at his words. “You’re doing better than you think, Kei.”

He glanced up at you, meeting your eyes. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

His lips quirked into a small smile—a rare, genuine one that made your heart swell.

“Thanks,” he said simply, his gaze flickering back to your stomach. “I guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “We are.”

Tsukishima leaned down slightly, his hand still resting on your stomach. “Alright, kid,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Don’t make this too hard on your mom, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, tears pricking at your eyes. In that moment, despite all the challenges ahead, you knew you wouldn’t be facing them alone.

And as Tsukishima stood there, his hand protectively over your growing bump, you knew he was starting to believe it too.

Kageyama

It had been weeks since Kageyama promised to try. He hadn’t been perfect — far from it, actually. There were still moments he’d retreat into himself, overwhelmed by fear of the unknown. But he was showing up, and that mattered more than anything.

One afternoon, the two of you were walking home together after school. It was unusually quiet between you, but not uncomfortably so. The crisp autumn air rustled the leaves, and the faint scent of baked goods from a nearby café filled the air.

Kageyama glanced at you, noting how bundled up you were in your oversized hoodie. “Aren’t you hot?” he asked, gesturing to the layers you had on.

You shook your head, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself. “No, I’m fine. It’s cozy.”

He frowned slightly. “You’ve been wearing that a lot lately.”

You hesitated, unsure how to explain it. It had been getting harder to hide the small swell of your stomach. You hadn’t mentioned it to him yet, partly because you were still processing it yourself. But his sharp gaze caught your hesitation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stopping in his tracks. His tone wasn’t accusatory — just concerned.

“Nothing,” you replied quickly, but your voice betrayed you. You tugged at the hem of your hoodie, avoiding his eyes.

Kageyama stepped in front of you, effectively blocking your path. “Y/N,” he said firmly, his blue eyes narrowing. “Tell me.”

You sighed, realizing there was no escaping this. Slowly, you lifted the hem of your hoodie just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your belly. “It’s… starting to show,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kageyama’s eyes widened as he stared at the small bump. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was deafening. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know if he should.

“Tobio?” you prompted nervously. “Say something…”

He blinked, finally snapping out of his daze. “That’s… our baby?” His voice was quiet, almost reverent.

“Yeah,” you said, your cheeks heating up. “It’s real now, huh?”

Kageyama hesitated for a moment before lifting a shaky hand toward your stomach. “Can I…?”

You nodded, holding your breath as his hand gently rested on your belly. His touch was hesitant, as if he was afraid he might hurt you or the baby. But then his fingers relaxed, and he let out a quiet breath.

“It’s… warm,” he muttered, his brows furrowed in concentration. He stared at your bump like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I didn’t think it would feel… like this.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his awe-struck expression. “It’s not kicking or anything yet. But soon, maybe.”

He nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. You could see the gears turning in his head, the weight of the situation sinking in even deeper. But then he looked up at you, his eyes filled with a quiet determination.

“I’ll do better,” he said firmly. “For both of you.”

You placed your hand over his, resting on your belly. “You’re already doing better, Tobio.”

The two of you stood there for a moment longer, the world around you fading away. For the first time, the future didn’t feel quite as scary.

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@chilichopsticks @dreadnoughtus101 @starykari @staygoldsquatchling02

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter twenty-three: Beneath the Mask

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

previous | 23 | next

Series Masterlist

The evening was heavy with silence, the kind that fills a room like a storm waiting to break. You sat across from In-ho, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your glass, watching him as he worked through papers at his desk. There was a subtle tension in the air, one that neither of you had addressed but both could feel. It wasn’t the same distance as before—no, this time it was more like an unspoken wall between you. You could feel his eyes on you, every now and then, like he was trying to decipher something about you.

But even as he remained immersed in his work, there was an unsettling vulnerability to him, an unspoken weight hanging over his usually stoic expression. You knew he was lost in his thoughts. There were still cracks in his armor, though he tried so hard to keep them hidden. You couldn’t help but feel the urge to bridge the gap between you—to understand what he wasn’t saying, what he was keeping from you.

The hours had drifted by, the soft hum of the quiet night only broken by the sound of his pen tapping against paper. But you couldn’t ignore the knot in your stomach any longer. The connection between you, however fragile, needed to be addressed. You had no idea what this was—this pull you felt towards him, this subtle but undeniable thread of something more. But one thing was clear: you couldn’t keep pretending that things were fine when the tension between you both only deepened.

“In-ho,” you said, your voice breaking the stillness. It felt strange saying his name, but it also felt like the first step toward something more. You didn’t wait for him to acknowledge you before continuing. “I need to ask you something.”

His pen paused mid-tap, and he finally looked up, his gaze flicking to yours with a cool indifference, but there was a softness there now—something hidden beneath the hard mask. He didn’t speak, just gave you a subtle nod, waiting for you to continue.

“You’ve been pulling away,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “And I don’t understand why.” Your voice wavered, but you couldn’t stop yourself now. “What’s going on, In-ho? I feel like there’s more to you than what you’re letting on. You’re holding something back. And I… I need to know why.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning cold again, as though your question had triggered something within him. For a moment, he didn’t speak. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he folded his arms across his chest, his eyes now fixed on some distant point beyond you. The silence stretched between you both, thick and suffocating. You felt exposed in a way, unsure if you had crossed a line you weren’t meant to cross.

“You don’t want to know,” he finally said, his voice low, his tone flat. “Trust me.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, a chill running through you as the walls around him seemed to rise higher. But you weren’t going to back down. Not this time.

“I think I do want to know,” you said, your voice steady despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “I’m not asking to pry, but if we’re going to keep pretending like nothing is going on, then I don’t know how much longer I can stay here. I can feel it, In-ho. The distance between us.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes—a flash of pain, fleeting but unmistakable. It was enough to make your heart race, even as he closed himself off again.

“Let it go,” he said, his voice sharp now, a command. “You’re better off not knowing. I told you before… this isn’t the life for you. The sooner you accept that, the easier it’ll be for you.”

But something inside you pushed back against that notion. You weren’t ready to let him shut you out—not when you could feel the depth of his emotions beneath that cold, calculated exterior. He was trying to protect you, but it wasn’t just that. You knew it. He was afraid. Afraid of losing someone else. Afraid of loving again.

“I’m not afraid of the truth, In-ho,” you said softly, standing up from your seat, closing the distance between you. Your gaze locked with his, and this time, you didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to protect me from it. I want to understand, even if it scares me.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. His eyes searched your face as though trying to gauge whether you meant it, whether you were truly prepared for whatever he was about to say.

For a long moment, the tension hung heavy between you, the weight of his past pressing down on both of you. Then, In-ho stood up slowly, his movements careful, like a man preparing to reveal something dangerous.

“You think you want to know,” he began, his voice quieter now, as though he was telling himself more than you. “But the truth is… I lost everything once. My wife, my unborn child. I thought I had a future. A life. And then it was all ripped away in the span of a few months.” His voice cracked ever so slightly, but he quickly masked it, turning his back to you, walking toward the window. “It broke me. And now… now I don’t know how to love anyone anymore. Not like that. Not after everything.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the confession more vulnerable than you ever expected to hear from him. The realization that In-ho, the frontman, the powerful man who seemed to control everything, had been shattered by a loss so profound made your heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You wanted to reach out to him, but something told you he wasn’t ready to be held.

He shook his head, the darkness of the night outside reflected in the coldness of his eyes. “It’s not your problem,” he said, his voice laced with a quiet bitterness. “I can’t let anyone in again. You wouldn’t understand. You’re not part of this world. And I can’t—”

“You’re wrong,” you interrupted him softly, your voice trembling but determined. “I’m already here. I’m already a part of it. And I’m not leaving, In-ho. Not because of this.”

For a second, you thought he might say something more, but instead, he exhaled sharply and turned away from you, his jaw clenched tight.

“You should go,” he said, his voice thick with finality. “I have things to handle tonight.”

You didn’t say anything else. You simply nodded, heart heavy, as you turned to leave. But as you reached the door, you glanced back at him. There was something different in the way he stood—something that hadn’t been there before.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” you said quietly, then walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar behind you.

In-ho didn’t follow. He didn’t say anything more. But you knew, deep down, that something had shifted. Whether it was a step forward or a step back, you weren’t sure. But you could feel it—the quiet promise that things between you had just begun to unravel, for better or worse.

———————

Chapter twenty-three!! Wooow let’s goo! More progress?? As always lemme know what you think! Thank you! :)

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[diamonddaze01]

us, again

pairing: ljh x reader genre: angst, vaguely hurt comfort? | wc: 1.3k warnings: none | rating: pg a/n: for my 400 follower celebration -> @strxwberry-skiess requested lyrics lab + “until the day we sing together again, my path to you will never end” (us again) // love you rachel, i hope you enjoy!

Jihoon stood frozen at the door of your apartment, his hand lingering on the doorknob, as if somehow he could will the moment to freeze in place. The warmth of the room, which had once been his sanctuary, now felt unfamiliar, too quiet, too still. You had said you needed space, that you both needed time to sort things out, and in his heart, Jihoon had convinced himself that it was just a temporary pause. He could understand it, after all—relationships were complicated, messy even. He had always been a man of logic, of clear thoughts and precise decisions, but now, with your quiet voice echoing the words that seemed so final, his certainty was unraveling, thread by thread.

The apartment felt too small now, the walls pressing in on him as he stood in the space that used to feel like home. Everything was the same—your favorite blanket tossed on the couch, the cup of coffee you never finished on the counter, the books stacked neatly on the shelf. Yet nothing felt the same. The silence between you both had weight, like a third presence in the room, and Jihoon could feel it crushing him, suffocating him in a way that no amount of air could fix.

He didn’t want to turn the handle. He didn’t want to leave, not when everything inside of him screamed that staying was the only thing that made sense. But here you were, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across your chest, avoiding his gaze. His heart ached at the sight of you like that—distant, guarded, yet so painfully vulnerable. Jihoon wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and remind you of the quiet moments that had made up the rhythm of your life together. But he knew better. He knew that if he pushed too hard, you’d only pull away further.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, his voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. He was trying to convince both of you, but the words felt like a lie. He wasn’t sure what he meant by them, but it was the only thing he could think to say. The last thing he wanted was for you to think that you were losing him, that somehow this—this break—meant the end.

But you didn’t answer him right away. You just stood there, arms still crossed, eyes downcast as if contemplating something too painful to voice. Jihoon hated that he couldn’t read your expression, hated how far you seemed to be from him, even though he was standing right in front of you.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” you said finally, your voice small, fragile, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself more than him. The words were a whisper, but they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. Your eyes flickered up to meet his, but it was only for a brief moment before you looked away again, as if you couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his face.

“I just… I need to figure things out,” you continued, your voice steady now, but there was a crack in it—something Jihoon couldn’t ignore. “I need time, Jihoon. I think we both do.”

The ache in Jihoon’s chest deepened at the sound of your words. He had always thought he understood you, that you both had something unspoken, a connection so strong that it could weather anything. But this… this felt like something he hadn’t prepared for. It felt like an earthquake, a tremor in the foundation of everything they had built, and he didn’t know how to stop the aftershocks from tearing them both apart.

His throat felt tight, constricted by an emotion he couldn’t put into words. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly, betraying the uncertainty he felt. He had to ask, even if he was terrified of the answer.

You nodded, but it was the smallest movement, almost as if you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Jihoon felt something shift in the pit of his stomach—something heavy, like the beginning of a storm. He wanted to reach out to you, to make you understand that he would do anything, anything at all, to make this work. But how could he when you were so determined to step back?

“I’m not going to lose you, am I?” Jihoon whispered, his words barely audible, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear your reply. He didn’t know what it was—desperation, fear, or the quiet realization that you might not be there when he turned around—but it hit him all at once.

You looked at him then, and it was the kind of look that broke him. Not with anger or frustration, but with the quiet understanding that this was something you both had to go through. Something that wasn’t his fault, but was still a result of everything you’d been through. You stepped closer to him, close enough that Jihoon could smell the faint trace of your perfume, the soft scent of your skin, the little things that made you, you.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not really,” you said, and this time, there was a steadiness to your voice that made Jihoon’s heart twist. “But we have to take a step back, Jihoon. We need to figure out who we are outside of this… outside of us. I need to find myself again, and I think you do too.”

Jihoon closed his eyes at the words, as if shutting them out would make it less real. He wanted to scream that you didn’t need to do this, that he was here, ready and waiting to help you find yourself, to find your way back to him. But the words never came. He couldn’t force you to stay. He couldn’t make this decision for you, no matter how much it tore at him.

When he opened his eyes again, you were standing there, close enough that he could feel the heat of your body, but still not close enough to erase the distance that had quietly grown between you both. Your fingers brushed against his arm, a fleeting touch, and for a moment, Jihoon thought it might be enough to make everything go back to the way it had been before. But you didn’t say anything else. The touch was gentle, tender, but so final in its own way.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you repeated, this time more for yourself than for him, as if reminding yourself that this wasn’t goodbye.

Jihoon nodded slowly, his lips parting but no words coming out. He wanted to say something, anything, to keep you close, to hold onto the love that had once felt so easy. But instead, all he could do was whisper, “Until the day we find our way back.”

You didn’t reply right away, but Jihoon saw the way your eyes softened, the way the lines of tension in your face began to fade, if only just for a moment. It wasn’t an answer, not the kind he wanted, but it was enough for now.

He turned slowly, opening the door with a soft click, the cool air of the hallway rushing in. But as he stepped out, as the door closed behind him with a quiet thud, Jihoon didn’t feel like he was leaving you behind. Not completely. Not yet.

The path between you two hadn’t ended. It was just… paused. And no matter how long it took, no matter how far apart you both might grow in this time apart, Jihoon knew—his path to you would never end.

[itsnesss]

could you do sub!jun ho. like his usual composure just absolutely crumbles and he's just desperate

𝐯𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 | hwang jun-ho × fem!reader

summary | the request. junho, emotionally vulnerable, seeks guidance and surrender in front of you

warnings | emotional vulnerability, mild language, themes of internal struggle and surrender

word count | 1.05 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You find yourself in front of him, the tension in the air palpable, while Junho keeps his gaze fixed on you. It’s hard to read his expressions, but there’s something in his posture, the stiffness of his body, that gives you an idea of what he feels. Though he is usually the type to control the situation, today he doesn’t seem like that. In fact, he seems... vulnerable.

"What do you want from me?" Junho asks, his voice somewhat broken, as if he fears the answer.

Your presence intimidates him, even if he doesn’t openly show it. He tries to keep his composure, but something in his gaze betrays the agitation that’s consuming him from the inside. He can’t help but show his desperation, as if he’s waiting for you to say what he already fears.

"I want you to listen to me," you reply, your voice firm but gentle. There’s nothing aggressive in your words, but the way you say them makes him feel as if he’s about to crumble.

He breathes deeply, trying to maintain his control, but his eyes can’t help but follow you as you take another step closer. His body tightens, and you realize his patience is at its limit. He’s not like the other men you’ve known, the ones who fight to show their power. Junho doesn’t want to fight, nor prove anything. He just wants... something he doesn’t know how to ask for.

"I can’t keep doing this," he mutters, almost in a whisper, and you notice his hands shaking slightly. The officer, always so confident, now seems like a man on the verge of losing everything.

You step closer, just close enough for him to feel your warmth, but you don’t touch him yet. It’s as if the space between you and him is charged with static electricity, waiting to explode.

"What can’t you keep doing, Junho?" you ask, your tone gentler now. Whatever is going on in his mind, you want him to share it.

He bites his lip, his eyes can’t hold yours for long. He’s struggling with something, something he hasn’t wanted to face. But finally, his gaze meets yours, and for a brief moment, you see the fear in him, the fear of being vulnerable, of being who he really is beneath all that facade of security.

"I can’t keep pretending to be who... who I have to be," he says, and there’s a surrender in his voice, a whisper of anguish that had been hidden behind his usual composure. The Junho you see now isn’t the same one who always watched you from a distance with a cold, calculating demeanor. This is a Junho who’s letting himself be swept away by something he doesn’t understand.

You lean in slightly, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You just look at him, letting the silence between you speak more than any words could.

"Then, who are you, Junho?" you ask softly, letting the question sink into the air.

The answer doesn’t come immediately. He closes his eyes, as if the question has struck him right in the center of his being. Then, after a long sigh, he finally speaks.

"I’m... I’m someone who needs to let go of all of this," he says, his voice broken by frustration and vulnerability. You can see how the mask he’s been wearing for so long begins to crumble right before you.

"And what are you going to do with that?" you ask, feeling a strange mixture of compassion and power as you watch him confront his own demons.

"I don’t know," he replies, and the sadness in his tone cuts deep. "I don’t know what to do, but... I want to stop fighting. I want... I want you to tell me what to do."

Those words hit you in an unexpected way. Though you’ve seen him strong and determined before, here, in front of you, he’s completely exposed, emotionally vulnerable. It’s as if he’s waiting for your direction, waiting for you to guide him. And that changes everything.

"You don’t have to fight, Junho," you say, and for the first time, a trace of calm washes over his face.

"But I need you to tell me," he insists, almost pleading, as if he can’t bear the uncertainty any longer.

You look at him intently, and in that moment, you know that words don’t matter as much anymore. What truly matters is what the two of you can give to each other in this moment of shared vulnerability.

"Let yourself go," you whisper, and the way you say it is all he needs to finally give in.

He doesn’t respond with words. Just a deep sigh escapes his lips before he closes his eyes and lets his facade fall apart completely. It’s a Junho who no longer fears showing himself for what he truly is. And you, in that moment, understand what he’s been seeking: someone who sees him without judgment, someone who expects nothing more from him than his truth.

The silence between you fills with a new understanding. "I’m here," you say, and it’s all he needs to hear.