#there is more where this came from (threat)

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 6

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

The mess inside your head is interrupted by noise. Noise coming from the entrance and sounding suspiciously like the twins. And you smile. Dealing with them and whatever nonsense they’ve gotten themselves into will provide a great distraction. So you pick up the pace and hurry to them.

The sight before you is a bit comedic: Miss Hunter and the twins. Or rather, Miss Hunter walking towards the exit of the base with the twins snickering behind her.

“Luke. Kieran. Whatever in the world are you doing?”

All three of them turn to face you. Miss Hunter has a brief look of relief on her face before it shifts to guilt.

“I… can explain?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

You laugh a little at her startled expression; you just couldn’t help teasing her. The way she freely expresses herself is adorable. You can read her like a book. And she provides something to take your mind off Sylus, despite being his soulmate.

Stop that. Don’t go there.

You shake off your thoughts as you watch Luke waves what appears to be a pen behind Miss Hunter.

“Apparently this was meant to be a new dangerous weapon made by the Hunters’ Association. Mean ole Miss Hunter here threatened us with it, so we had no choice but to bring her here, Lady Boss.”

Normally, any threat to the twins would set you off. And judging by Luke’s smug attitude, he expected as much. Kieran just walks over to you while shaking his head at his twin’s actions.

You just laugh. Not a full belly laugh, but a small one. Luke pouts (not that you can see his face, but you can just tell). Kieran tilts his head at you, and it reminds you of Mephisto. You imagine he’s somewhere observing this interaction.

And Mephisto means Sylus. And Sylus means heartbreak, the exact thing you came out here to avoid.

You chastise your thoughts, straighten your back, and face the chaos before you.

“What?” Miss Hunter’s so flustered you can’t hold back a smile. “I wanted out.”

“You could’ve just called for me. I told, I’d let you go anywhere. No questions. No fuss. And no “dangerous” new hunter weapons needed.”

The twins snicker. You take the pen from Luke, and pretend to look at it carefully.

“Wherever did you get such a “weapon” anyway?”

“You’re asking me where I got a pen?” She’s incredulous.

“Yes. Luke and Kieran don’t tend to carry them. And there certainly isn’t any as dastardly as a pen lying around the base.”

The twins snicker more. Miss Hunter’s cheeks puff out before she huffs.

“Oh. You’re making fun of me.”

“Am I? I’m genuinely curious.”

Miss Hunter just stares at you. You stare back, smile on your face and twirling the pen between your fingers.

“I had it on me,” she finally coughs out.

“Ah. I see.”

You walk up to her, and slip the pen into her pocket. Miss Hunter just gives you a look.

“What? I’m returning your weapon to you.”

“Are you ever going to stop with that?”

Her tone doesn’t match the smile that threatens to cross her face. She even turns to face you more, relaxed and open, even with the glares she occasionally shoots the twins. Said twins are just cackling behind you.

“The pen is mightier than the sword, my friend. Or, I guess gun would be more appropriate for you. You don’t seem like the sword type.”

Miss Hunter playfully shoves you. And you briefly wonder what it is you did to get her to be so… normal and fun with you.

Maybe some good can come from my little episode earlier.

Your throat still tightens at the thought. The sword in Sylus. Your own feelings of desperation. The way the world seemed to squeeze and chain your lungs.

It’s not something you’ll be forgetting any time soon.

A familiar sound thankfully brings you out of your thoughts. You’re not so thankful for it once your brain registers what’s causing it. Or, rather, who.

Sylus leans against his motorcycle at the entrance. Your eyes skim over his appearance. He’s far more put together than he was just a few minutes ago. And his face is hard, completely void of the pain and worry he had earlier.

One second, you two are locked in some strange staring contest. The next, his Evol is wrapping around Miss Hunter and pulling her away. You reach out for her. She just shakes her head at you, so you stop.

Sylus tosses a helmet at Miss Hunter. He looks at you with pleading eyes, as if searching for your reaction. You ignore him and instead try to comfort his struggling soulmate. You do deign to give Sylus your gaze like he clearly wants. But you only do so to give him the coldest look you can muster.

He flinches. The twisted side of you is happy. He gets to feel a fraction of the hurt you’ve been carrying.

“We’re going out,” he turns to face the twins as he forces her onto his motorcycle “We’ll be back soon.”

Sylus doesn’t even spare you a glance before they speed off. You stare at the place they once stood with a wistful expression.

“Um… Lady Boss?” Kieran taps his hand on your arm cautiously, his brother fidgeting beside him.

“Hmm?” You respond, heading back inside and towards Sylus’ room.

“Are you and Boss-man fighting?” Luke asks this time.

His words make you falter. While it isn’t entirely surprising that the twins would notice something is up between you and Sylus, it still messes with you. They have to suffer because of your issues. They’re affected by the adults in their in lives not getting along.

And here I thought this would never happen.

The boys have known nothing but instability and pain before you took them in. And you vowed to make sure they never experienced that again. Yet here you were, scrambling for the right words to convince them that everything is fine and nothing was wrong.

“Luke!”

“What? They’ve been acting weird for a while.”

Kieran puts his head between his hands, a gesture not unlike the one you do when Sylus says or does something especially stupid. Luke ignores him, much like Sylus does when you put your head in your hands because of his stupid actions.

“How so?”

Luke and Kieran look at each other for a moment.

“Normally you two can’t your hands off each other. Now, you can’t even stand to be in a room with Boss-man for long.”

You wince at Luke’s words. Kieran elbows his twin before he turns to you.

“You make us sound like trashy romcom couple.”

“You are,” they both say.

You chuckle at them, “We are not.”

Silence falls between you three for a moment. Then, Kieran speaks up.

“Doesn’t change the fact that there’s something go on between the two of you.”

He and his twin both step closer to you. Even Luke has dropped the joking atmosphere. So you do too, ready to convince them.

You mean lie to them, the annoying voice in your head says.

“Why do you say that?”

“I just told you Lady Boss: you avoid Boss-man like the plague.”

Because he is one, you almost say, clinging to the usual banter and silliness you have with the twins. But you stifle yourself before the words come out.

“Give me examples, boys.”

“You don’t sleep in the same room,” Luke says.

“You don’t eat off each other’s plates,” Kieran speaks this time.

“Boss-man isn’t standing right beside you right now,” the two speak together now.

“So something’s up,” Kieran concludes.

“Alright, alright. You got me.”

The boys puff out their chests in pride. You smile.

“But in case you haven’t noticed, we have a unique guest in our house at the moment. And I don’t want to give the poor woman the wrong impression of my relationship to Sylus.”

“Why’s that?” They both ask.

Because she’s his soulmate. Because she’s everything to him, and I’m just his business partner that’s tragically in love with him.

“Because I need her to trust me. You three fools already kidnapped her. Nothing good will come out of her thinking she’s all alone with no one to support her.”

“Okay. That makes sense.”

You almost let a sigh of relief pass your lips. But Luke’s question stifles it.

“But than why is Boss-man groveling to you?”

“Groveling? He has not been groveling.”

“He makes your favorite meals more often,” Luke says.

“He plays your favorite records,” Kieran speaks up.

“He stays out of fights,” they speak in sync again.

Your hear warms at their words, little reminders of what Sylus has done over the past few days. He’s always been weirdly doting of you, even when your partnership was new. When you got closer, it got more intense.

Random days off. Card games and wine at 3 am. Karaoke and dancing that he swears he hates but does because it makes you smile. Him giving you new gems and equipment to make whatever piece strike your fancy. The list goes on and on.

It’s been more intense since your fight. Any business you have is up to your discretion to attend. He results to violence only when absolutely necessary, and not when he’s bored. He does the boring parts of his job: paperwork, meetings, the works.

He tells you everything, even when you don’t ask. The smallest detail and the biggest plans are all things you know. He talks to you despite the fact that you don’t say anything to him. He texts you even though all you do is leave him on read.

He just won’t broach one subject: Miss Hunter. It’s as if he’s trying to make her disappear from your life.

“We had a fight about Miss Hunter,” is all you can think of to say.

The twins go silent at that. And you regret your words instantly.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“What exactly did he do? Because if he upset you, we can avenge you.” Luke, the chaotic boy that he is, has an eager voice when he suggests this.

“Yeah. Boss-man won’t know what hit him.” His brother, while more calm, is just as eager.

“He’ll be begging for mercy,” they say together.

You imagine the sparkle in their eyes as they say this. You imagine it, and you mouth widens from the smile that image causes.

The twins look at you expectantly. They’re waiting, hoping, for you to say something. To tell them what happened. To let them help you as you’ve helped them.

You almost tell them. You almost tell your boys about the words Sylus told you and the pain they caused. They’d understand. As two people who grew up with no one but each other to rely on, they’d understand.

But the more you look at them, body language telling you that they’re desperate and want to help you, the more you shove that feeling down. You couldn’t do that to them. So instead you do something else.

“Your mask is crooked,” you adjust Luke’s mask as you speak, patented smile on your face; Luke lifts his own hands to cover yours, something he and his brother have seen Sylus do to you multiple times.

It gnaws at. Claws and scrapes like the talons of the bird the mask is based on.

That simple touch reminds you of why starting over this time would be so hard: the twins. Luke and Kieran respected and listened to you more than Sylus at times. You were the one to save them. You made them their masks. You helped them pull their first prank. You bandaged them up after their first job.

The twins were your family far before you loved Sylus. And they’ll be your family far after he abandons you for his own love.

That’s why you say, “Everything is as it should be between me and Sylus. Things have just been a bit hectic with Miss Hunter’s arrival, and it caused a bit of an argument. Everything’ll be back to normal in no time. I’ll even go right now and make something for a new prank you can pull when it does.”

It’s a lie. A cruel and unjust lie. The “normal” of you and Sylus’ relationship has been shattered.

But a slower transition is needed.

You can’t just go cold turkey; your heart won’t handle it, and the twins will just ask more questions otherwise.

With your plan in place, and the twins satisfied for now, you leave. You pass by the room Miss Hunter’s staying in, and a thought occurs to you. And you make mental sketches of your plan on your way to your destination.

Alone in your workshop crafting a gift for Sylus’ soulmate isn’t a position you thought you’d ever be in. When you first came to work for him, his soulmate was the last thing on your mind.

When you began to get closer to him, you vowed to make the two of them happy no matter the cost.

When you began to have a crush on him, you selfishly wished for all your heart that his soulmate would never appear.

When you fell in love with him, you cried yourself to sleep knowing that once again you’d have to break your own heart for someone else’s happiness. And that this time, you’d do it with a smile on your face, with no regrets. You’ll play your part in their love story, and then you’ll leave.

But how?

Because unlike all the other times you’ve packed up your life, you’re needed here. As a business partner and for the twins. They deserved better than you walking out simply due to a falling out between you and Sylus. And, judging by your conversation from earlier, they already sensed something was off. They already feared the worst.

Your hands remember the grip they both had on them. Strong and unwavering. Much like the grip they had the first night they stayed at the base. Much like they still do to this day when you had solo missions. Sure, they worked for Sylus, but they were your boys.

You gave them their masks when you found out they were afraid of their own reflections. You built them all their tools and gadgets, even the more outlandish ones you knew were solely for pranks. You gave them their freedom.

So how in the world could you just leave?

As you stare at the earrings you’re making, an idea hits you. Miss Hunter. She’ll be your protege.

She’s already taken my place in Sylus’ heart. Why not extend that?

You smile to yourself as you set the jewels. It’s a grim and hopeless smile you haven’t had for quite sometime. But you cling to it all the same. You need this smile. Just like you need to leave your family behind. Again.

Tears fall down your face, but you ignore them. It’s what you do best.

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[cafelattaes]

let love bleed red | geum seongje

summary: in which you got yourself tangled up with geum seongje. at first, it was trouble. then, it became routine. until, somehow, you became the only thing he would bleed for—willingly, violently, without regret.

pairing: geum seongje x fem!reader

genre: romance, hurt/comfort, angst

word count: 6.2k

playlist: he was chaos, he was revelry

you were crouched by the side of a quiet alley behind a convenience store, setting down a paper plate with tuna and a cup of water. a tiny stray kitten had been hanging around there lately, mistrustful, but hungry. you've seen it a few times and started bringing food when you pass by.

the kitten was peeking out from under a box, inching closer. you kept still, one hand out, speaking low and soft.

then, there was a crash. a loud bang echoed from farther down the alley, and the sound of something—someone—getting slammed into a wall.

the kitten bolted instantly, disappearing into a gap between buildings.

you groaned under your breath, standing up with an irritated huff. not only did it startle the kitten, but it also startled you. you almost stumbled from the shock of the loud noise, your heart pounding rapidly.

"what the hell..." you stepped a little farther out to see the source, and then you saw him. a tall guy, maroon uniform jacket slipping off one shoulder, face stretched, hair a mess. bloodied knuckles and eyes wild.

he wasn't from your school. and by the looks of it, his opponent was already down. two more stood at a distance, too afraid to move.

the man lifted his head once, cracking his neck. then his eyes landed on you. you didn't flinch. just stared with narrowed eyes.

"go start your fight somewhere else," you said evenly. "you're not from around here."

he raised his brows and stared like he hadn't heard you right. then he smiled, crooked and wild. the kind that says, 'you've just made things interesting.'

you turned your back on him and walked off, not giving him another glance.

he stared after you. not many people talked to him like that. even fewer walked away before he decided the conversation was over.

you didn't run, but didn't linger either. just walked like you had somewhere to be, like he wasn't worth wasting another second on.

his eyes remained on you, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. a faint cut on his knuckle stung, but barely noticed.

'go start your fight somewhere else.'

'you're not from around here.'

not a scream. not a plea. not even a threat. just pure irritation. like he was some dumb dog that pissed on your shoes.

his grin curled slowly, something unhinged hiding just beneath it. he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it. the flame briefly flickered across his face before he took a drag and blew the smoke out lazily.

he'd seen people cry, scream, and beg. he'd seen how most people either froze or ran when they saw him, faces tight with fear, eyes darting around. but you?

you looked at him like he was an eyesore.

his laugh came quiet. brief. half-laugh, half-breath.

feeding a stray cat, he thought, like it was some ridiculous joke the universe threw at him. you looked too soft for your own good, too normal, too boring.

so why did you stick?

he leaned his shoulder against the wall, just for a second. watched the street where you disappeared. his blood was still warm from the fight, but that moment? that edge in your voice?

it was the first time he felt interrupted.

not threatened, not challenged. just... like someone reached into his noise and pulled something to the surface.

he didn't know your name. but that was fine. he had time.

it wasn't the next day, or the day after. but seongje still found himself wandering near that same alley. always around the same time. leaning against walls with a cigarette between his lips, smoke curling above his head like a restless thought that wouldn't burn out.

he wasn't waiting, he told himself. he just happened to be here, just passing time.

he was mid-drag when he caught a flash of familiar movement. dark hair, a recognizable bag slung over one shoulder. you were crouched near the alley's corner again, opening a can of tuna. next to your feet was the same stray kitten from before, now a little less wary, its ears twitching.

you didn't notice him at first. he said nothing.

he watched you feed the kitten. your expression wasn't anything special, just calm, focused, lips pressed together in a straight line. but he stared like it was the most peculiar thing in the world, like you were something unreal.

then you sighed and sat back on your heels, that's when your eyes flicked up, and landed right on him. you tensed slightly, like you were trying to figure out if it was him or just some other delinquent in a maroon uniform.

it was definitely him.

"you again? you muttered, standing slowly, brushing off your knees. "don't tell me you're here to start trouble again."

seongje let the cigarette dangle loosely between his fingers, gaze half-lidded. "don't flatter yourself. this is my spot now."

you snorted. "your spot? pretty sure this alley existed before you."

a grin pulled at his lips, slow and amused. that sharp glint in your eyes was still there. that same irritation, not fear, not interest. just a girl who didn't give a damn who he was.

"you always talk this much when feeding cats?" he asked.

"no. just when someone interrupts." he laughed, quiet but real.

you moved to step past him, clearly done with the conversation. but before you could, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and said slowly, "you don't scare easy, do you?"

you paused. "i don't like getting caught up in situations like this."

you walked off before he could say anything else. same calm steps. same complete disinterest in him. he stared at the kitten as it ate.

for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel bored.

you were coming out of the convenience store with a yogurt drink in hand when you felt someone matching your pace beside you.

you didn't even need to look. you felt it, like the air shifted, a shadow slipping in just a bit too close.

"miss cat-feeder," came the drawl, smug and lazy.

you rolled your eyes and kept walking. "seriously?"

"you remembered me," he said, hands in his pockets, leaning slightly sideways to peer at your face.

"no. i remembered your stupid voice."

"ouch," he grinned. "you wound me."

"what do you want?"

"just walking. not allowed to exist now?"

"not next to me, preferably." he chuckled at that, keeping stride with you anyway.

he walked like he owned the sidewalk, like even the cracks made space for him. he kept glancing at you, amused by how hard you were trying not to look.

"don't you have school?" you muttered.

"skipped."

"of course you did."

there was a beat of silence before he casually reached out and tugged at the hem of your sleeve. "what flavor?"

you jerked your arm away. "touch me again and i'll pour this on your head."

his grin widened, eyes gleaming with delight. there it is. "you're fun."

"i'm really not."

"exactly."

you stopped in your tracks. he looked at you, curious. "look," you said, eyes flat. "i don't like hanging out with loud people. so if you're looking for someone to flirt with, pick someone else."

seongje stared at you for a second, unreadable. then he smirked.

"i'm not flirting."

"good."

"i just like watching you get pissed." and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, hands back in his pockets like he didn't just drop a live wire into your day.

you watched him go, jaw tight.

god, he is annoying.

and worse, he knew it.

your shoes pounded against the pavement, too loud, too fast. the voices behind you were still getting closer. slurred words, the kind that came with guys who had too much time and nothing to lose. you'd told them off when they first approached, sharp and dismissive like always. but these ones didn't like hearing 'no'.

you darted around a corner, trying to cut into a side street you didn't usually take, and slammed straight into a body.

you stumbled back from the force, hands catching yourself on the person's chest, eyes wide and breath caught in your throat.

"whoa there," a familiar voice started, light and teasing.

your eyes shot up.

geum seongje.

of all people.

he was in his usual disheveled uniform, cigarette tucked between his fingers, a faint smirk already creeping up like instinct. "you really can't stay away from me, huh?"

but you weren't listening. you glanced over your shoulder, eyes scanning the street you just came from, anxiety tightening your features.

seongje's smirk faded, just a bit. his eyes narrowed.

"what happened?"

"none of your business. i need to go."

you stepped to the side, trying to move past him but his arm shot out fast, catching you by the wrist. not hard. not enough to hurt. but firm.

his voice lost all its humor.

"who."

you jerked against his grip, frustrated. "just let me go. jesus christ."

he didn't. instead, his eyes flicked toward the corner you came from. and for a brief second, something flickered through him, that thing he tried to keep under the surface unless it was time to let it loose.

then he heard footsteps and voices getting closer. the guys rounded the corner, laughing, loud, eyes scanning.

and then they saw you.

and then him.

one of them started to speak, some dumb threat halfway out of his mouth when seongje stepped forward and flicked his cigarette.

"alright," he said, eyes gleaming now. "which one of you thought chasing her was a good idea?" his tone didn't rise. he didn't shout. but it was enough.

the shift in the air was immediate, like a wire pulled taut. the guys slowed, uneasy.

"you with her?" one of them muttered, trying to size him up. seongje's lip curled in amusement.

"nah," he said, rolling his shoulder. "but she ran into me. so now you've got a problem."

one of them laughed nervously, already starting to backpedal. but it was too late.

you didn't say a word. his posture changed, loose and wild, but sharp, like the crackle before a fire starts.

"stay behind me," he muttered without looking at you. you almost snapped at him.

i didn't ask for help.

but something in the way he said it—flat, final—made you stay put.

he didn't do it for gratitude. he did it because someone pissed him off. and right now, that someone was anyone who looked at you wrong.

they didn't get the chance to react further. not really, because seongje's already on them.

the first one barely managed to raise his arm before seongje slammed his fist into his jaw, the sound cracking through the alley like a gunshot. he didn't stop, he grabbed the guy by the collar, slamming his head against the wall once, twice, three times until he crumpled like dead weight.

the second guy tried to pull something, maybe a pocketknife, but he was too slow. seongje grabbed his wrist and bended it the wrong way with a sickening snap. the guy howled, dropping the knife, and seongje grinned wider.

the last one tried to run. he got maybe five steps before seongje tackled him from behind, dragging him down like a wolf ripping through prey. there was nothing clean about the way he beat him. just pure rage unleashed in fists, knees, elbows, and feet.

the alley was quiet again. the three guys were groaning, two on the ground and one stumbling away. none of them dared to look back.

seongje stood in the center of it, breathing a little heavier, the scrape on his knuckles raw and fresh. blood trickled slowly down his arm, but he didn't seem to care. not even a glance at it.

you stared. not because you were scared of the violence. you'd known what he was capable of. you'd just never seen it up close. not like this.

there was a kind of stillness around him now, but it wasn't peace. it was the kind of stillness right after lightning hits the ground. charged, dangerous, humming under the surface.

he turned toward you, running a hand through his hair. eyes sharper now, less unhinged than before, but still wild.

"you good?" you hesitated.

"you didn't have to do that." he shrugged.

"i didn't do it for you." you frowned, annoyed.

"then why-"

"they looked at you like they could touch you," he said, voice low and quiet. "i didn't like that."

it came out too calm. like he was just stating a fact. like it was that simple.

you stared at him. "that's not normal."

he tilted his head. "i'm not normal."

you stood there in the silence again, tension thick between you both. then he looked down at his hand, flexed his fingers once.

"you gonna keep staring, or you gonna say thank you?"

you exhaled sharply. "i didn't ask you to help."

his lip twitched. "you didn't have to."

you started walking past him, brushing your shoulder lightly against his arm. "don't follow me."

he didn't. but he watched you go. watched like a wolf who'd just caught the scent of something that didn't run fast enough.

and this time, it wasn't about teasing you for attention anymore. it was something else. something worse.

something's changed. it had been days. you hadn't seen him near the alley, near the store, nowhere. and honestly, you were glad. the fight had left a sour taste in your mouth. not fear exactly, but it reminded you of the line he walked. the kind of line that most people never went near.

so when you saw him again leaning against the vending machine right outside the store, your steps faltered.

he noticed, eyes tracking you immediately. not grinning, not talking. just watching.

you stiffened, but kept walking. no use turning back now. you passed him without a word.

"you're avoiding me," he said. you didn't stop. "smart," he added after a beat.

that did it. you turned slightly, arms crossed, tone flat. "what do you want now?"

he looked you over, slower this time. less playful. like he was measuring something invisible.

"you said don't follow you," he said. "so i didn't."

"and yet, here you are."

"i was here first."

you hated that he had a point.

he pulled out a soda from the vending machine and cracked it open, taking a lazy sip. "i scared you."

"no you didn't."

his head tilted. "but you looked at me different after that day." you didn't reply. "you don't like people like me," he went on. "you don't like what i do. the way i fight. the way i look at you."

your throat tightened. "you make it sound like i'm supposed to like it."

he smiled, small, almost secret. "you're not."

you sighed and turned away again, but this time, his voice became lower. less teasing.

"you're not scared of me," he said. "but you're careful now." you paused. "i get it," he added. "but you should know something."

"what?" you asked warily.

"i'd kill for you without thinking."

the words didn't sound romantic. they didn't even sound intense. they were just real.

heavy. simple. dangerous.

you looked at him. at the bruised knuckles, the lazy posture, the eyes that never stopped watching you. and for the first time, you didn't see an annoying prick. you saw the storm behind his grin.

you didn't say a word as you walked away. but you walked slower this time.

the sky was gray, and the wind carried that dry chill that always came with autumn.

you didn't mean to come this way. really, you didn't. but this street was quieter than the main road, and your head was already aching from a whole day of voices, noise, and pressure from everyone around you.

your friends had found out. not just about anyone, but him. a certain delinquent hanging around you. not just anyone either, but someone from the union.

they kept telling you the same thing. stop meeting him, cut him off, stay away before things got worse. that's all you've been hearing for days. from different mouths, but the same message, over and over. as if you hadn't thought about that already. like you hadn't been trying.

you were tired. bone-deep, soul tired.

and there he was.

same place. same vending machine. like he'd been waiting, but not really. like he knew you'd come eventually.

seongje glanced up, surprised, but only a little. his cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, his jacket loose, like he didn't care how cold it was getting.

you stopped a few steps away and didn't say anything.

he raised a brow. "lost?"

"no," you said, too flat, too fast.

he stared. then blew out smoke in a low exhale. "you look like shit."

you snorted faintly. "thanks."

he nodded toward the chair beside him. "sit if you want."

"i didn't come to hang out with you."

"didn't say you did."

still, you sat. not close, just near enough to feel the warmth of someone else existing beside you. near enough to not feel completely alone. you stayed like that for a while. nothing said.

then, without looking at him, you muttered, "why are you like this?"

his brow quirked. "like what?"

"crazy. violent. all of it."

a beat. then a shrug. "it's fun."

you sighed, frustrated but not surprised.

and then, so softly that he almost didn't hear it, you said, "you make everything worse. but today... i don't know. you don't feel loud." that caught him off guard.

he turned to look at you, cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

you didn't meet his eyes. you just sat there, face turned to the street. like this, quiet and tired and not trying to prove anything, you looked different.

more fragile. not weak, never that. but human.

seongje flicked his ash away. "stay, then," he said. "if it helps."

you didn't answer. but you didn't leave either. and for once, he didn't push you to speak. he just let you be. which, for someone like him, was a kind of affection.

the unspoken kind.

the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.

another day, and there he was again. it wasn't often that you saw him alone like this. really alone. no noise. no laughter. no fights.

just seongje, slouched low on the steps behind an old building, elbows on his knees, head tilted back like he was trying to drown in the grey sky. he didn't notice you at first, too wrapped in whatever chaos lived behind his eyes.

you should've kept walking. you meant to keep walking. but something stopped you. maybe it was the stillness. maybe it was the fact that for the first time since you met him, he didn't look like someone trying to stir shit up. he looked tired.

you approached slowly, footsteps soft. he heard you eventually, turning just slightly to glance your way. his usual grin didn't show up.

"you stalking me now?" he said, voice low, like he couldn't be bothered to make it sound playful.

"i was just walking by."

"uh-huh."

you didn't sit beside him. you stood a little off to the side, arms folded, eyes scanning his face. there was a bruise on his cheekbone, not fresh but healing, and a split on his lower lip.

"what happened this time?"

"some idiot." he muttered. "deserved worse than what he got."

you rolled your eyes. "that doesn't narrow it down."

he smirked faintly. but it didn't last. he looked back up at the sky. "ever feel like you're stuck in a room that's too small, and the only way to breathe is to break something?"

you blinked. that wasn't the answer you expected. you said nothing.

he let out a low breath. "yeah. never mind."

you hesitated, then stepped closer. not sitting, just standing near him.

"i don't get you." you said finally.

"good."

"but i care."

that made him look at you again. not with that lazy, cocky grin. not with the sharp glint he gave the people he was about to wreck.

just... eyes. dark, unreadable, confused.

"you care?" he repeated, almost mocking, but there was no real heat in it.

you nodded. "i don't want to, but i do."

the silence that followed was heavier than anything he could've said.

you rubbed at your sleeve, eyes darting away. "it's stupid."

he stared a second longer, then tilted his head. "i'm not gonna be good for you," he said flatly. no apology in it. just fact.

"i know."

"i'll hurt people."

"i know."

"i might hurt you."

your gaze snapped back to his. "then i'll leave."

a pause.

and for the first time, his expression shifted, something sharp flickering behind his eyes, like the idea of you leaving physically bothered him.

but you held his stare. "i don't deserve to be hurt by you."

he didn't answer. when you turned to go, he didn't stop you. he didn't grab your wrist. he didn't make a scene. he just watched you leave like someone who'd been left too many times before to call out now.

and that was how you knew it wasn't just some sort of game to him anymore.

it was supposed to be just another normal day. you were going to meet up with a friend from a different school. but somehow, word got around that you'd said something snappy to the wrong group of boys the other day, boys who thought they could intimidate you into taking it back. you didn't.

but now they were standing in front of you in the alley near the rear exit of the building. three of them, too close, too smug, and too stupid to understand that they were walking into something far worse than your sharp tongue.

because seongje had seen.

he wasn't supposed to be there. you didn't even know why he was around this part of the city. but the second his eyes locked on the scene, on you cornered, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched, something dark lit behind his expression.

he didn't run. he didn't shout. he just walked, calm as anything, like he had all the time in the world. the sound of his steps echoing on the pavement made all three boys turn.

"oi," he said, voice low and slow.

the boys stiffened. one of them scoffed. "the hell are you?"

seongje grinned cockily. "me? i'm geum seongje. you fuckers."

his name dropped like a dead weight. the air shifted. one of them paled a little, while another took an unconscious step back.

"oh—shit—" one of them muttered under his breath, recognizing it too late.

then his eyes flickered to you. "you okay?"

you swallowed. "i've got it."

"wrong answer."

he passed the boys like they weren't even there, stepping between them and you, like drawing a line they couldn't cross anymore.

"you wanna explain why the hell you're trying to corner mine?"

the word slipped out like instinct. your breath caught.

the boys hesitated. one of them backed up. the dumbest one laughed nervously.

"you serious, man? you dating this chick or something?"

seongje didn't answer right away. instead, he pulled out his glasses, the metal catching the light for a second. then, without a word, he took your hand gently, almost unnervingly so, and placed them in your palm.

"i don't repeat myself."

and that was the only warning they got. it wasn't a fight. it was a statement.

a clear, brutal, one-sided reminder that you were off-limits. that if they so much as looked at you again, they'd wake up in pieces.

he didn't let it last long. he didn't need to.

when it was over, and the three of them were groaning on the pavement, he turned to you, no grin now, just quiet breathing. without a word, he took the glasses from your hand and slid them back on.

"you didn't need to do that," you said quietly.

"they shouldn't have looked at you like they could."

"that's not how this works."

he glanced at you, sharp. "it is now."

you looked away, jaw tight. "you act like i'm yours."

another beat of silence. the only sound was the wind through rusted fences. and then,

"you are," he said simply.

you stared at him, your heart thudded too loud.

"you can't just—claim people."

"i can."

"why?" he held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his.

"you're the only thing i don't want broken."

he said it like it bothered him. like the truth of it irritated the hell out of him.

you didn't know what to say. so you didn't. you just walked beside him as he left the alley, silent. but this time, you stayed close.

and this time, he didn't grin. he just walked with you like he always meant to.

the day had been long. longer than you thought it would be. school, people, life. everything felt suffocating. your body ached, your mind was frayed, and every little thing seemed to pile on top of you until you could barely keep your head above water.

but then, through the haze of exhaustion, you saw him.

seongje, leaning against your school gate. unbothered and detached. his posture was casual, his eyes scanning the crowd of students coming out of school. but the moment your gaze locked onto him, your heart gave a small jolt of relief.

there. him. the one person who, for reasons you still couldn't fully understand, made you feel safe. your body seemed to move on its own, your feet carrying you toward him without a second thought.

and then before you could even process what you were doing, you were already running toward him, arms outstretched, chest tight from the strain of everything you'd been holding inside all day.

the moment you reached him, you didn't stop. you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face against his chest.

you hummed. the noise was quiet, like a soft sigh of contentment, and for the first time all day, your muscles finally relaxed.

his scent, the familiar warmth of him, it was like home. a feeling you hadn't known you were missing until it was there, pressing against you in a way you couldn't explain.

for a split second, everything felt peaceful. you could rest now. let everything melt away. with him, it felt like nothing else mattered.

seongje froze. his first instinct was to step back, to pull away, because this wasn't how things were supposed to be. but when you stayed against him, not saying anything, just holding him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, something inside him twisted.

what the hell?

he couldn't breathe for a second. your arms around him, your face buried against him like you needed him. like he was something more than just some mad dog. he didn't know what to do with it.

you were so soft against him. so warm. his heartbeat, which had been steady, quickened as your arms tightened just slightly. and his body, despite the automatic urge to pull away, instinctively responded, his hands hovering at his sides, unsure of where to put them, but not wanting to make you pull away.

his reaction was slow. he was staring down at you, his usual detached expression gone, replaced with a mix of confusion and something closer to... discomfort. he didn't know how to handle it.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, he placed his hand awkwardly on your back, barely enough to return the gesture, but it was something. just a gentle pressure, like he was trying to let you know he wasn't going to push you away. but he wouldn't pull you in either. not fully.

his voice came out rough, not because he was angry, but because he didn't have the words to make sense of what was happening. "you... okay?" he asked, his voice low. it was like he was trying to understand you better. trying, in his strange way, to care.

and when you hummed again, your body still pressed against him like you needed nothing more, he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through him. subtle, but undeniable.

he didn't say anything else, but he did one thing he never thought he would. he let you stay there, his hand still on your back, just enough to show that maybe, just maybe, he didn't mind you being this close.

thoughts had been swirling around your head. people already knew who you were, and the kind of connection you had with geum seongje. you'd been hearing disapproving remarks from people you knew, left and right.

but that wasn't what was bothering you. it was when one of your friends asked, "when did you even start dating geum seongje?"

you didn't know how to answer that. you weren't dating. were you even together? you'd been so focused on how you felt about him, so content with the time you were spending together, that you'd forgotten to ask the most important question.

where do you stand in his life?

so you finally asked, quietly. on a cold night, after one of his disappearances. you looked at him and said, "what are we, seongje?"

he didn't look at you right away. he just lit a cigarette, sat back like you didn't just ask something that's clawing at your ribs.

then, after a long pause, he said, "you don't need a label for something i'd kill over."

still too vague. so you pressed. "so that's it? you can show up and disappear and wreck people and i'm just... what? someone you know?"

now he's irritated. not because you're wrong, but because his feelings itch under his skin worse than blood.

he dragged you close by the wrist, eyes burning, voice low and rough. "you're mine. you're not like the others. you don't walk away from me. and i'll kill anyone who touches you."

it became even clearer in actions. he doesn't flirt with others. he doesn't sleep around. he shows up when you're hurt, when you need help, or even just when the silence gets too heavy. his violence becomes more controlled around you. his chaos pauses for you.

and if you ever try to walk away, not out of fear, but heartbreak, he doesn't beg. but he follows.

he shows up in the dark and says, "you don't get to leave. you're the only thing i don't want to break."

so no, you don't get a title. but you get certainty. the kind that claws into you and never lets go.

you were at seongje's place, curled up in the corner of his bed, wearing one of his hoodies, watching something on your phone. occasionally, you laughed, your brow twitching, your mouth tugging in little ways. you probably didn't know he was watching.

he was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall. a cigarette rested between his fingers, forgotten halfway through.

it should've been just another moment. just another afternoon with you near. that's all it was. but it wasn't.

something cracked. it was quiet. internal. sudden.

he looked at you, really looked, and it hit him like a pipe to the chest. he'd always known you were different.

you didn't scream like the world did, you didn't beg to get closer to him, or flinch when he tore the world apart with his bare hands. you didn't reach to fix what couldn't be fixed.

you just were. and he couldn't fucking breathe.

he'd thought what he felt for you was already obsession. he thought the way he needed you around—the way his days didn't start right unless he saw your face—was already too much.

but this? right now? it was worse.

because you weren't even doing anything. you were just there, in his space like you belonged. and he couldn't stand it.

he didn't blink, didn't move. his heart was beating too fast, too heavy. like it was trying to get out of his chest, like it was trying to claw its way toward you.

you looked up at him, catching the stare.

"what?" you asked, your voice soft, lazy with comfort.

that was the final hit. his cigarette dropped to the floor. he stood and crossed the room in two strides.

you blinked and sat up, shifting to the edge of the bed. confused, then mildly concerned, because he wasn't saying anything. just looking at you like he was on the edge of something ugly.

"what is it?" you asked again.

he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands braced on the mattress like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"you," he muttered, low, dangerous, barely holding back the quake in his chest. "you don't even fucking know, do you."

you blinked in confusion, "know what?"

"that i'm already gone."

he leaned in close, breath warm against your skin. his hands were clenched on the sheets beside your thighs.

"i didn't think it could get worse," he said, tone ragged. "but it did. just now. just looking at you."

"seongje-"

he didn't let you finish. his voice came out lower. hoarser.

"i'd burn down everything. rip open anyone. just to keep this. you. whatever the fuck this is—"

he pressed his forehead against your knee. his voice dropped, barely a whisper now, like it hurt him to say.

"—it's mine."

your fingers moved before your words did. you reached out, slow and certain, and slipped your hand into his hair, like you knew something inside him was coming apart at the seams, and you needed to keep it from unraveling further.

you didn't flinch. didn't pull away from the sharpness in his voice or the weight behind his words.

instead, you curled your fingers gently against his scalp and said, soft but steady, "you don't have to break things just to prove you want to keep me. i'm not going anywhere."

that did something to him. his breath hitched, quiet, jaw clenched. you didn't treat his madness like something to be pitied or feared. you didn't try to fix it. you didn't flinch from the wreckage. you just understood it was there and touched it anyway.

his arms wrapped around your waist almost without thinking, head still pressed to your knee like it was the only place he could breathe.

then you said it, quietly. not to tease, not to demand. just honest. like it had always been true.

"you are my home."

and that was the thing that shattered him. because he didn't have a home. not really, never did. he was a creature built from chaos and flame and blood. the idea that someone could look at him and find rest?

it wrecked him in a way no fist ever could. his grip tightened. not out of fear of you leaving. but because you just gave him something he didn't know he'd been starving for all his life. and now that he had it, he'd kill the whole world before he let it go.

he didn't know what to say yet. so when you gently pulled him toward the bed, he didn't resist. he didn't say something cocky or crass like he usually would. he just let you.

you lay down first, guiding him beside you. he collapsed next to you like a man thrown off balance. arms still around your waist, his head buried against the curve of your neck. as if he could crawl inside your skin just to get closer.

your fingers ran through his hair, slow, rhythmic, soothing. the storm inside him didn't vanish, but it quieted. simmered.

your voice cut through the quiet, soft and careful. "do you love me?"

he froze. he didn't pull away, but he did stop breathing for a second. his gaze locked on yours, heavy and unreadable. then he took a slow breath, jaw tightening.

love? what the hell was that supposed to feel like? that was too unfamiliar. too soft.

he didn't know. he'd never had it. not from anyone. not for anyone. all he'd ever known was survival, pleasure, and pain. wanting things so badly he broke them just to feel something. hurting because it was the only way to know he was alive.

but this? this thing in his chest, this raw, aching, burning thing that only grew worse the longer you touched him, it was something else.

so he didn't lie. he didn't pretend. he spoke against your skin, voice hoarse and quiet.

"i don't know what love is. but i know i can't fucking stand the thought of you not being here."

another breath. he pulled you closer.

"you're the only thing that makes me feel calm and insane at the same time. you—" he exhaled, shaky now, like it hurt to say, "—you make me feel too much. and i can't stop it."

his fingers dug into the back of your shirt. possessive. desperate.

"i don't know if it's love, but i know this—you're mine. you've been mine since the moment i saw you. doesn't matter if you run, or scream, or try to tear me out of your chest. you're still mine."

"you're the air that i breathe," he said, voice dropping to a whisper, like a confession no one else was meant to hear. "and i'd tear the world apart to keep you. no hesitation. no mercy."

"when i look at you, it hurts." he said. "but i want that hurt. over and over again. you're the only thing i'd bleed for without thinking twice."

he let the silence stretch, like he wanted the weight of his words to press against you. crush you, mark you, bind you to him in the only way he knew how.

it was not a confession, but a surrender.

your chest tightened. your eyes stung. and you hated that they did, because you weren't sad. you weren't broken.

you were just... full. full of him. of this.

a shaky breath escaped you as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing just beneath his eye, like you needed to touch something solid to believe any of this was real.

you smiled. small, trembling, but true.

"whatever it is you feel for me, let it consume you." your voice was steady, despite the trembling in your chest. "break for me. burn only for me. want no one else—because i don't want anyone but you."

he stared at you like you'd just taken the air out of his lungs.

"i don't care if it's wrong, or selfish, or if the world thinks i've lost my mind." your hand slid back into his hair gently. "you're mine, geum seongje. just as much as i'm yours."

his hands were already on your waist, but they tightened at those words, like something inside him finally snapped.

and he kissed you. it wasn't soft. it wasn't careful. it was desperate, like he needed to feel everything at once, like if he didn't press every inch of you into him, he might fall apart.

you kissed him back just as hard, just as aching, fingers curling in his hair like you could anchor the both of you with the weight of your want.

and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

not the danger in his eyes. not the chaos in his soul. not the way the world would look at you.

because you knew him. and you would choose him—still. every time.

for you, he would bleed himself dry a thousand times—willingly, completely, because he didn't know how not to.

[headspace-hotel]

i spent like 5 hours deep diving into the blog of some guy who self identifies as a "rationalist" and looking at the array of opinions/ideas being expressed on the blog and in the comments

made me think about how "the left" is actually really, really homogeneous in terms of beliefs that are acceptable to express and discuss, whereas with "centrist" and "the right" you see written out the internal variety and incoherence that I think characterizes most peoples beliefs and ideas

i forgot the name of the blog, i'll find it again later. basically the guy self identifies as "anti-woke" at the same time as being progressive on some aspects of society, "centrist" on others, and...definitely not fascist but kind of "reddit evo-psych" on a few, pursuing a general open-minded approach to things.

it definitely made a few things click for me in terms of right wing stereotypes of "leftists" and concern with "cancel culture." At one point he discusses his experience being ""cancelled"" for a comment that got misunderstood, and from the description, the harassment, threats of harm and isolation that ensued were genuinely traumatic.

It honestly reminded me of my experiences on Tumblr, where since I was 18 I've been writing posts about whatever I happen to be learning or thinking about at the time--- some of which were ignorant or poorly worded or offensive--- and getting hate for it.

Before I turned off asks completely and sort of walled myself off from engaging in discussions with people, I got messages constantly telling me to kill myself, or that the world would be a better place if I was dead, or that [speaker] hoped I would die, or that I was virtually every kind of bigot you could imagine, and at least some number of political bloggers on here nursed enough of a long-term hatred of me that I actively came to mind as someone they despised.

This was in fact distressing, especially the fact that I could never predict what kind of post would elicit this reaction and nothing I did would make it stop.

It's easy to dismiss this as just, like, the typical online experience, and I dismissed it myself like "yeah yeah who hasn't gotten a bunch of suicide bait for making a poorly worded joke"...but it really shouldn't be. It occurs to me now that normalizing receiving harassment also normalizes participating in it. And if my real life face and name were attached to this account, that kind of harassment would be fucking terrifying.

It also occurs to me that "the right" despite having an incomprehensible array of beliefs on non-essentials, are not constantly acting like they want to kill each other with hammers.

Jack Posobiec's Unhumans, despite being a work of fascist garbage, had a gleam of genuine insight in it: when suggesting strategies for countering the "left," it mostly recommended not directly engaging and instead waiting for the left to rip itself apart internally. It seems like multiple right-wing writers and bloggers have suggested walking back the criticisms of "cancel culture" simply because leftists harm other leftists much more with "cancel culture" than they do their actual political enemies.

I'm thoughtful about it...

[aleese1111]

more seong je 🙏🙏

bruises & glances | geum seong je x fem!reader

summary: in a cramped tteokbokki shop near a shadowy bowling alley, a girl spends her nights serving bloodied high schoolers without asking questions—until one night, something crosses a line. when a stranger touches her, geum seong-je, a boy known more for his fists than his words, retaliates without hesitation, leaving behind shattered tables, silence, and a stare that says too much.

warnings: [fluff i think] physical violence , sexual harassment (non-explicit but invasive behavior and unwanted touching) , mild language and verbal threats .

author's note: requests more seooongg jeeeee !!! i posted three times today... i need a life. request pleaseeee!! bmf.. heh.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

the scent of chili paste and frying oil curled into the air, familiar and warm. the kind of smell that clung to hair, to clothes, to memories. most nights were loud but manageable—tables full of boys too beat-up to sit properly but still hungry enough to eat like wolves. she’d grown used to the noise, to the bruises, to the way no one said what really happened just down the alley where the underground lights flickered.

grandma never asked questions. just fed them. scolded them. patched a split eyebrow here and there. she treated them like stray dogs that knew how to come home.

and like clockwork, they kept coming.

the restaurant sat just a few minutes from the old bowling alley buried under a laundromat—half-forgotten unless you were a teenager looking for a fight or a place to disappear. she never went down there, but she knew what kind of things happened in the dark. you could always tell who came from the alley by the way they limped in, the blood on their collars, the way they tried to pretend they weren’t hurting.

but when he walked in, it never felt like routine.

he didn’t come every night. didn’t need to. just his presence made the walls feel narrower. the tables quieter.

he always moved like he didn’t care who was watching. like he was looking for something to break or someone to dare him. but tonight, something about him was more frayed. his lip was split. his knuckles raw and red like they’d never had time to stop bleeding.

he slid into his usual seat, his two friends following behind without a word.

she looked up just as he glanced over. neither of them looked away quick enough.

her heart tugged in her chest like it forgot what pace it was supposed to be on.

she grabbed her notepad, walked over.

“usual?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

he looked at her longer than normal.

“…unless you got something sweeter,” he said, voice low and lazy, a grin playing at the edge of his mouth.

her cheeks warmed instantly. she scoffed under her breath, half a laugh, and turned away before he could see too much.

she didn’t know what they were to each other—barely spoke, barely looked—but it was there. in glances. in how their eye contact always felt long and intense before he left. in how he didn’t let anyone else take his order.

the bell above the door jingled again.

two guys walked in. too old for high school. too confident. they sat near the middle table, legs wide, arms thrown over the chairs like they belonged there.

they didn’t.

she could feel their eyes before they even said anything.

she kept it neutral. polite. brought water. took the order.

and as she turned to walk away—

“damn,” one of them muttered, eyes on her legs. “this place got real good lately.”

his friend chuckled, louder. “think she’s on the menu?”

she kept walking, shoulders stiff.

then—

a hand. fast. grabbing.

a squeeze.

the tray hit the floor with a crash. water spilled out in every direction.

her breath caught.

she spun, slapped the hand away hard. “don’t touch me.”

there was no room to think. no time to process.

a chair screeched.

he was already up.

no warning. no noise.

he moved like something had snapped in his chest.

within seconds, the creep was on the ground—throat grabbed, a fist already crashing into his face.

again.

again.

no yelling. no insults. just the dull thud of bone and skin and table legs shifting from the weight of it.

his grin was back—but this time it was wild. dangerous. like he was enjoying every second of it.

his friends didn’t move at first.

only when blood started smearing the floor did one of them speak.

“hyung—”

“don’t.”

his voice was flat.

“i’m not done yet.”

the man on the floor groaned, face swollen, one eye already shut.

she stepped forward, heart racing. “stop—please.”

he didn’t even look at her.

his fist came down again.

“you shouldn’t have touched her,” he said, like he was speaking to himself more than the man below him. “fucking dumb move.”

Blood splattered across the linoleum. The man beneath him whimpered. Hands up. Seong-je didn’t care.

His two friends rushed in, grabbing his shoulders. It took both to drag him off.

he stood, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.

grandma stormed from the kitchen, spatula in hand, yelling curses only old women and gods understood.

smack!

she hit the guy on the back with a force no one expected. “you low-grade eel! you dog-faced worm!”

smack!

“get out! if i see you again i’ll stir-fry your intestines!”

the man scrambled out, barely conscious, his friend dragging him like a bag of trash.

and then—

silence.

the chairs were still crooked. her tray was still on the floor. blood still dripped from his hand.

she picked up a napkin and stepped toward him.

“you’re bleeding,” she said softly.

he looked at her for a moment like he hadn’t heard. then down at his fist.

“…it’s nothing.”

she gently reached for it anyway, dabbing the cuts.

he watched her.

not her hand. not the cloth.

her.

“you always fight like that?” she asked, voice quiet.

his jaw twitched.

“only when they deserve worse.”

her eyes flicked up. “you think he did?”

his lips curved, slow. “you don’t?”

she hesitated, then shook her head. “i didn’t say that.”

his grin widened just slightly. “good.”

a pause.

“you really didn’t want me to stop, did you?” he added, voice low, nearly teasing.

her breath caught. “that’s not what i—”

“i could tell.” his eyes glinted, dangerous but amused.

her face flushed, and she looked away, trying not to smile.

“you’re messed up,” she muttered.

“i know,” he said. “you don’t seem to mind.”

the corner of her lip twitched despite herself.

he stepped back, turned toward the door. the moment hung too long, the space still too charged.

but then he stopped just before the threshold.

and he looked back.

his breaths were deep now. measured. like he’d been holding something in the whole time.

his gaze wasn’t teasing anymore.

not wild. not cruel.

just… focused. unreadable.

something flickered in it—something that didn’t belong in a boy who enjoyed breaking people.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

[ultralightpoe]

I'm Confessin' That I Love You - Bucky Barnes

Authors Note: This has many parts already written but I was always scared to release it. Now or never y'all.. Next part queued up soon. -Ultralightpoe

Word Count: Over 5k

Warnings: Mind control.

Description: Bucky and You find yourself trapped in the hex. 50s start.

Main Masterlist Here - - Marvel Masterlist Here

[Thank You For The Gif @whimsicalrogers ]

Enjoy!

“You don’t understand-” The words are rushed out between sobs, your throat squeezing in on itself as you push to speak. Pushing the rain out of your eyes is no easy task, with the way your hands were shaking and the wind was making the weather beat down harder. It was even more of a struggle to see through it all, and yet the eyes you stared into were magnetic enough that you’d probably be able to find them in even the darkest nights. “I n-need Steve. Something is wrong.”

“I get that.” His voice soothes you, reaching a hand out before something shudders across his face and he draws a hand back with a flinch. “But he’s not here. And he left you my information for a reason….”

He was right, you knew he was right. But a part of you was breaking, something in your chest caving in. Thunder cracked behind you loud enough to make you shudder as the ground beneath you shook, and you could see the man before you move as if he was preparing to block you from whatever threat was coming. 

“You can trust me here….”

“Something is wrong and I think-” Another sob racked through your body, making your ribs ache a bit. “Steve would know how to talk to her.”

“We can go together, just take a look.” He offers, bending a little to catch your eye. “Once we see where the problem is we can come up with a plan. Yeah?”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re never a bother to me.” Bucky whispers, shaking his head. “And if you think something is wrong then something is wrong.”

- 

The clock at the bottom of the stairs rang out just as the sun was beginning to climb its way up the sky, stretching the light across half the bedroom in a villainous motion that had Bucky Barnes turning for cover, using the pillow to cover his eyes before he reached his hand across the bed in effort to grab you, only to feel the chill of your side empty. With a betrayed sort of look he manages to hoist himself into sitting up, eyes still closed and leaning all his weight on his left arm as he calls out, “Doll?”

He waits a moment, then another, and once he realizes there would be no answer a small groan escapes him knowing there was no way he’d get back to sleep if you weren’t there with him. So he shifts his weight, hauling himself out of the bed and finally managing to crack his eyes open to the new light of the day. 

Your bed sits untouched in the side of the room, not surprising since the second you both moved in here it became useless. Two newlyweds who refused to sleep apart, many said it would pass, and yet you were still going strong. Instead you both slept in his, and he took care to at least somewhat make his side so you would have less to do today before he shuffles his feet down the hall and down the steps, breathing in the smell of your cooking. 

“Please tell me you did not abandon me to make breakfast.” He whines, leaning on the doorway of the kitchen as he takes you in, chest tightening at the way the early morning sunlight seems to wrap around you like a glow. 

“Of course I did.” You huff back, a smile cracking across your face that makes one slide across his own in response as you move gracefully to his side of the room to try and kiss his cheek in a greeting. Ever the greedy husband he moves until your lips land on his, and it doesn’t take you long to melt into it. 

And just like that, all his dreams came true. The way your body seemed to melt into his own as his arms wrapped around you to pull you in as close as possible, lips glued together as if both think if you separated now you would never be able to kiss again. And Bucky just wasn’t willing to risk that.

Ever since your first kiss, which was….. 

As if you could hear how fast his head was moving you pulled back, pulling a slight whine from him until you looked up at him with the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen and all worries seemed to vanish from him immediately. 

“I've been dreamin’ about you since the moment I met ya.” He drawls out, leaning his forehead to touch yours, and nothing could fight off the smile that spreads across his face when he feels you hug him. 

That was before the smell of burning filled the kitchen and you gasped out, pushing away from him with enough force he let out an “oomph” before you dash to the stove and try to pull the bacon off the stove. 

“Damn you and your magnetic eyes.” You huff, whirling around with an accusatory look. “You better shake a leg, dreamboat. Or else you’re gonna be late again.”

“Or we can turn everything off and head up for another couple hours of sleep?” He counters, attempting to grab you into his arms again before you stop him with a shake of your head. “You have work. Now go.”

He does what you tell him, rushing up the stairs to find something to wear only to see that you had already laid out clothes for him on the bed….. Only…. Had they been there when he woke up? Why would you have laid them on the bed and not hanging on the wardrobe door if he was still in the bed earlier? And he swore he hadn’t seen the suit….. 

A pulsing fills his ears as he stares down at the fabric before moving to slide a finger over the left sleeve, until his gaze rips from the jacket to his arm where flesh now sat. 

Something felt odd. 

There was a feeling sitting on the back of his spine as he whirled to take in the room, but he recognized everything. Your hairbrush on the dresser, his dog tags hanging on your lamp where you insisted you keep them. Your honeymoon photos decorating any open space he could find when you moved in…. Only…. 

This didn’t feel right. 

Where had you both gone for your honeymoon? Sure the photos showed you both in some suits at a beach, you on his shoulders posing with the sun behind you both, but he couldn’t remember the day at all. 

And when he wracked his brain he couldn’t remember your wedding, or your first date or first kiss. 

“James!” Your voice calls up the stairs, snapping his attention to the door. He hadn’t even realized it but he had walked until he was right in front of the pictures on the nightstand, and his heart was thundering.

“Be right down.” He calls back, casting one more look to the photo before rushing to get dressed as he had promised you. 

His chest felt tight, and he kept casting paranoid looks around the room until he was back down the stairs with you waiting for him with a plate, and when you kissed him all his worries vanished. “You took too long. It’s a little cold.” 

“And I’m sure it will still be delicious, Doll.” 

“Come sit, let me get you some orange juice.” You boss him around, leading him to the table before moving to grab the glass pitcher. 

“Hey Doll, you remember our honeymoon?” He blurts, eyes watching you with nothing but adoration as you cross the room to sit by him at the table. 

“Of course! We had the best time in……” Your smile remains wide but he notes something flashing in your eyes as your eyebrows pinch in. 

“But not as much fun as our first date I’m sure.” He supplies, watching your face pinch up even more. 

“Oh, our first date… when we…”

A moment of silence hits the table, both of you staring at each other with round eyes before a laugh escapes you. “I’m having such a frazzled morning. Please ignore me darling.”

“Me? Ignore you?” He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could if I tried, Angel.” 

And just like that the morning was fixed, you made sure he ate, and he put up a fit until ate with him, before grabbing the lunch you packed and walking him to his car. 

“Have a wonderful day.” 

And it feels like heaven when he gets to lean in and kiss you goodbye before getting into his car and heading off to work, but the second you vanish from his sight that tight feeling in his chest returns once more. 

He was being absurd, and a terrible husband. Oh how his Ma’ would kill him if she found out he had forgotten these things. 

The wedding had been in… 

“Watch out!” Someone calls out, a moment too late for the metal arm that had already wrapped the hand around the agents neck, squeezing tightly as panic filled her eyes, her nails clawing in a desperate attempt to get some air. 

You had forgotten to pack a swimsuit and you dragged him to go buy a new one when you were on your honeymoon out in….. 

The Soldat was so intent on watching the woman choke that he missed the shield thrown at him, the metal throwing him back, and since he had a firm grip the agent came with him. Only he let go at the last second to try and catch himself. And once he had his footing he moved to reach her only to realize she was already gone. 

Oh golly, he was being a terrible husband. He should know these things. And frustration was beginning to claim him as he tried to think of anything at all. 

Tension rose on the back of the Soldats neck, and he turned just in time for the agent to attack him, her legs wrapping around his shoulders as she used the momentum and her own body weight to lay them both out. Both of you managed to catch yourselves at the same time and he was quick to try and punch you only for you to block once more. A field hits him, and it takes a moment to realize the agent had shielded themselves with an energy barrier he had never seen before, and the second her hand touches his now exposed cheek he collapses with exhaustion. 

“James? Are you alright?” Someone asks, snapping Bucky out of his…. Dream? Drawing his attention to where his coworker now stood. 

“How…. When did I get to work?”

“You parked a couple minutes ago pal. You have been standing here since.” 

“Right…. “ He nods, clearing his throat before a calm ease overtakes him. “Let’s get a move on. The quicker I get this day over the quicker I get back to my best gal.”

“No need to rub it in hotshot.” 

- 

The conversation between you and Bucky from the morning had stuck with you for some reason, and it was all you could think about as you watched him drive down the street on his way to work. 

Oh what a terrible wife you were. 

What kind of wife forgot her wedding?! Or her honeymoon?! Even the first kiss! 

“Is everything all right?” Someone asks, pulling your attention to a woman with black hair and an oddly knowing smile, her plaid dress swishing at her calves as she took you in. “You look like you’ve lost the plot of this whole show!”

“I…. I’m sorry?” 

“Agatha. Friends call me Aggy, you can call me Agatha.” She teases, holding out her hand for you to shake, only the second your skin touches hers she jumps a bit in surprise. “Oh golly, aren’t you just a ball of energy? Even I could feel it.”

“The study is showing great signs, no one has fed off the energy the way this subject has.” Your father explains, not quite managing to look at where you stood behind him, his entire body tense. “The mutant blood mixed with the dna from the-”

“I understand, but it doesn’t make a difference. Hydra does not want…. Energy… they want super soldiers.”

“She can supply or take energy in just a second with just a simple touch, Ray. She can make plants grow without so much as breaking a sweat. You have to show them. I wouldn’t have put my own daughter down as a subject if I didn’t believe it.” 

“Your daughter is the only one to come out alive. And you’re lucky she had. I recommend you grab her and get as far away from here as possible. They are sending…..” The words muffle out for a moment as you look around the room but you pay attention once more when your father grabs your arm. 

“The Winter Soldier is a myth.” 

“You need to run. There is no way out. Hydra does not forgive easily.”

“Hellooooo?” Polished nails snap in front of your face, pulling your attention back to Agatha. “I was asking you questions, dear. Where are you from? Are you married? Are you single? Not for me of course, maybe for my husband if it gets him out of my hair.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” You laugh, casting your eyes down to the empty garden plot behind her before looking back at her, or more specifically the broach on the collar of her dress. “Isn’t that nice? Family heirloom?”

For some reason you could feel nothing but energy coming off of it, almost like if you touched it then you’d see something, and without even fully knowing what you were doing you reached a hand out to try. 

The woman in front of you stepped back sharply, eyes slashing a moment of fury before her face fixed back to the smiling happy look she started with. “Look at the time, I gotta run. And I don’t want to be a wet rag on your morning now. Have a good day!” 

And with that she is off, walking down the street in a hurry before you look down to the garden plot once more and lean forward. You really should plant something, it would be perfect weather for it. 

You allow your hands to get a feel of the dirt, breathing in the smell before looking up at the house with narrowed eyes as you try to decide. Maybe roses, though you wanted something with a bit more of a pop. And Bucky worked so hard to find a house you wanted to make it look good. Bushes were boring, maybe some poppies? But those were so closely related to the military you didn’t want them to upset your husband. 

Maybe Catmint or Azaleas? Both of those had a brilliant color and you were sure Bucky would-

You felt the shift in the air, and the moment a zing passed through your ribs in a way that made your breath hitch, looking down just in time to see both Catmint and Azaleas begin to grow at a rapid pace from the once barron dirt. 

Panic claws through you as you jump away, landing in the grass beneath you as you continue to stare at the flowers with wild eyes. 

“What are your seduction techniques?” A familiar voice calls out and you turn to find Wanda standing by your fence- Wanda! 

“Oh Wanda! I was looking for you!” You exclaim, jumping up to rush and hug her. 

“Whatever for?” 

“I….. well I have no…..” Why had you been looking for Wanda? “Oh enough about me. Why are you asking about seduction techniques?”

“Oh you will never believe the mess I’m in.” She begins, and you link arms with her to lead her inside, casting one last look at the flower bed before shutting the door behind you. 

- 

The screen flickers to life in black and white, framed with soft static. A cheerful jingle trills in the background, all xylophones and harmony that you could hum along to.  The camera pans over a pristine kitchen: floral curtains, sparkling countertops, and a smiling housewife. Her hair is curled to perfection and her dress moves at her calves with every slight move she makes.  She’s humming as she waters a potted plant, which droops sadly.

The narrator's voice is chipper and crisp, unmistakably male:

“Feeling a little wilted, darling? Has your energy been drained by the day-to-day grind?”

The housewife pauses, a perfect housewife smile frozen in place as she glances at the drooping leaves. Her brows pinch together, just a touch. Then she reaches out. As her fingers brush the plant, something pulses. The leaves twitch. Then swell. The entire flower perks up, too fast, too bright, glowing faintly at the edges.

She smiles again, but the corners of her eyes don't join in.

“Introducing VitaRays! The only household tonic that gives and takes, with just a touch!”

Cut to animated line art of a flower smiling wide, then cut again to the same flower draining the sun dry like a straw.

“Infused with the latest in scientific innovation, and thoroughly family-tested!”

A black-and-white photo fades in: the housewife as a young girl, standing beside a man in a lab coat. Her smile is small. His hand rests heavy on her shoulder. Behind his glasses, his eyes are unreadable.

“Why, with VitaRays, you’ll be the brightest bloom on the block! Whether you’re tending your garden, keeping your husband happy, or bringing back what ought to stay gone…”

The audio warps the slightest notch, pausing on the word gone before stopping.  A breath of static follows, ringing in your ears. But before anyone could realize a jingle takes its place, the harmony once again keeping beat. But there is something there…. A voice under the jingle, too low to make out but almost familiar. The screen skips.

The housewife stares into the camera now. Just for a second. Too long. Her smile doesn't change, but her eyes are pleading.

Then the screen cuts to a bright, spinning logo: “VitaRays It’s not magic. It’s inheritance.”

A final chime plays. High-pitched and grating, like the ringing in your ears after a bomb.

Then black.

- 

“She was found by shield as a kid, in the laboratory her father worked in. Hydra owned, they were paying for everything in his experiments. Intel says that they… “ Natasha starts, a look of guilt passing over her face as she takes in Steve’s angry face.

“Got tired of waiting?”

“No one ever saw him go in and out, it just fed into the Winter Soldier myth all the more. But he was definitely there. Killed them all.”

“Then who is that standing over Fury?”

“The lead scientist was…… using his daughter as a trial. She was found in the lab, unharmed but a bit confused. Fury said that she didn’t have a scratch on her but she swore she had been shot. And her father had been shot as well but he was walking around the lab with her.”

“She brought him back?” 

“Not fully. He was like a walking zombie.”

“And we are bringing her in to heal him?”

“He’s not dead and she’s not a scared five year old. He was shot and she can help.”

“I figure there are more important things for you both to be doing than hiding in this snack room gossiping about me.” You sigh, leaning on the doorframe as they both whip around to spot you. “Aren’t you both supposed to have heightened senses? Couldn’t hear me standing here the whole time?”

“What do you know about the winter soldier?” Steve asks, something a lot more gentle in his voice than he had a minute ago. 

“I know he’s dangerous, and broken.” You shrug. “But we all have been at some point, right?”

You leave them there, walking back to Fury’s room as you try to forget everything. 

- 

“Oh honey,” Bucky trills as he swings in at the door, a large smile plastered on his face as he takes you in. “I’m home.”

“You’re late.” You huff, turning your chin just the slightest bit to perform a fake dramatic moment that has him chuckling. “I have been waiting far too long.”

“Oh don’t I know it. Every moment from you feels like torture.” He moves closer with an easy stride until he is kneeling in front of where you sit, pulling your chin until you look at him. “How about we make up for lost time with some backseat bingo?”

“James Buchanan Barnes, you are fast!” 

“Can you be fast when you’re married? Or is it just following your vows?” 

“Yes! Our….Vows…..” You nod, a fog in your eyes making his chest ache with nerves. 

“Which…. Were….” He continues, leaning up a bit to press his nose into yours as his brain racks. 

“Absolutely wonderful!” You rush, leaning forward to press your lips into his before he can object, allowing a small moan to slip out when he immediately kisses back which just makes his arms wrap a little tighter around you as your legs wrap around him to pull him in. 

It deepens more and more, almost like both of you are desperate for this, like you need it to breathe. But just your luck the phone shrills out, making you both jump and pull apart before he moves to answer it. 

“Barnes residence.” He sighs, wiggling his eyebrows at you as you giggle. “Well ain’t that a bite….. Uh huh…. Alright now, easy…. No need to flip your lid now. You know the Mrs. and I will be right over.” 

He hangs up quickly before standing up and extending a hand to you, which you gladly accept. “Wanda needs us.” 

“Something is wrong with Wanda.” You gasp out the second Bucky Barnes opens his door, the rain pelting on you as he took in your appearance with wild eyes. “S-Steve promised and he’s not here and I can’t find Sam or Clint or- And Steve told me where to find you when I saw him at the home- I don’t-”

“Easy now.” He tries, reaching his arms out to try and touch you only for you to flinch away. He feels like he has just been stabbed as he watches you, but it’s not entirely surprising considering everything he has done. “Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything. That’s the problem! I can’t feel her! All I feel is this odd shifted energy but none of Wandas…. It’s just….. Chaos.”

- 

“Alright goose it.” You laugh, watching Bucky dramatically hit the gas before guiding the car down the street in the direction Wanda lives. “Remind me again why we drove?”

“To make it seem like we are not last minute invites, Doll.”

“But we are?”

“Optical illusion I believe.”

“I won’t question your judgement.”

“And yet I think you will.” He laughs, hopping out of the car before dashing to open your door. “Milady’.”

“Oh what a gentlemen.” You laugh, allowing him to help you out before grabbing the bowl of fruit you had rushed to cut.

“Say, Doll, where’d you get all this fruit anyways?” “I…. went to the garden?” The garden in the backyard, that had been empty before you touched it.

“You’ve really been working hard while I’m at work.” He smiles, grabbing your hand and letting you lead him up to the door. “Is that a lobster?”

“It’s Wanda and Visions home, are you surprised?” He shrugs at your words, reaching to use the lobster as a door knock before Vision opens the door with a wild look. 

“Oh! Look dear, another couple!” An older woman yells, pushing past Vision to greet you both at the door. 

“Aren’t you two just the apple of ones eye. Oh my.”

“I’m James and this is my wife.” Bucky greets, allowing her to pull him but not before giving you a helpless look. 

“I do believe that Wanda might need a bit of help if you would.” Vision mumbles under his breath, pushing you to the door gently. You reach up to pat his hand in comfort, and the second your skin touches his something feels funky. 

The energy is not…. Human? It feels…. Like a machine. 

“Are you alright dear?” The older woman calls and you place a smile on your face before exclaiming some excuse about hating running late before pushing into the kitchen to find Wanda. 

“Oh don’t you look dolly!” You smile, rushing to hug her tightly. “I brought fruit!” 

“You are my saviour. Let’s get to work.”

- 

Bucky was placed besides Mrs. Hart at the table, across from you which he could not complain about. Who could complain when they were staring at an angel? No matter how weird the night had been so far. 

A weird night indeed. Between Vision breaking out into the song yakety yak, and Mrs. Hart claimed she was beginning to feel woozy due to lack of food. 

But it was all done, and they were seated at a the dinner table in front of a brilliant spread of breakfast for dinner. 

“Very european.” Mrs. Hart compliments, giving Bucky a little giggle as he smiles at her. 

“So where did both of you couples move from? What brought you here? How long have you been married? Why don’t you have any ankle biters yet?” She asks, her cheeks tinted with a blush that could be seen through the black and white film. 

“Oh! We moved from….” Wanda starts, fixing up her napkin nervously. 

“Yes! We moved from….” Vision continues for her. 

“We got married in…..” Bucky starts, his head spinning a little as he looks to you for an answer. 

“Yes! Way back in…..”

“Well?” Mr. Hart asks, his voice layered in aggravation. “Moved from where? Married when?”

“Oh easy now, they are just building up the story for us!” Mrs. Hart defends, reaching forward to pat your hand across the table before moving to pat Vis’ arm right next to her. 

But when no one could think of a thing to say Mr. Hart could only get more aggravated, looking at Wanda as he began to ask. “Why did you come here? Why?”

Wanda was frozen, her eyes holding a glassy look that had you freezing as well as that feeling of Deja Vu pushed in a bit. 

Mr. Hart slams his hands on the table, and Bucky snaps straight with a firm look in his eyes as he assesses any threat and how quickly he could get to you. He notes the exits and anything he can use as a weapon before looking at you. 

“Damn it, why?! Why did you…” And just like that Mr. Hart begins to huff for air, his eyes growing panicky. 

“Oh Arthur, stop it!” Mrs. Hart giggles, but the energy coming off of her was nothing but fear as he continued to struggle for breath. “Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT. PLEASE STOP IT!”

Each time she said it the words turned more and more into a plea as she looked at Wanda, tears beginning to slip from her eyes while Arthur Hart continued to choke right beside you and yet you were frozen to your seat. You wanted to reach for him, but a red haze blocked your mind's decision as you merely watched it all. 

Bucky was in the same boat, fighting to get any piece of his body to move but being stuck in the motion. 

It isn’t until he collapses to the ground that the spell breaks and Wanda looks to Vision, finally ordering him to do something. 

And he does, phasing his hand through to grab the sausage that had lodged in Mr. Harts throat. 

And then the room shifts completely, no more clock chiming, nothing but a happy serene moment. 

“Well, would you look at the time?” Mr. Hart chuckles, without a single hint that he had just been choking. “We best be off.”

“What?” Bucky asks, blinking at them as they both rush to leave, giggling and jolly once more. 

He makes it to your side of the table, a hand on your back rubbing up and down to comfort you before you both head to grab your jackets. 

“I’m glad you came.” Wanda hums, hugging you a bit before pulling back. Bucky moves to lead you away, face strung up in confusion before Wanda calls your name once more. His hand clenches where it sits on your back, gripping at your dress like he is afraid she’ll snatch you away and his energy looms over you like a comforting blanket. 

“Do you mind?” She asks, using her finger to gesture around the room where each and every plant is wilted and dying. 

“Oh….” You gape, blinking slowly at them before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in. You hear Bucky’s breath hitch and by the time you open your eyes the plants are blooming beautifully. 

He pushes you out quickly, casting a quick goodnight before gripping his hand in yours. 

“That was….”

“It was.” You agree, nodding blankly as he watches the sidewalk before you both as you walk home. 

“I don’t remember seeing Mr. Hart take a bite of food.” You hum, head spinning a little. 

“I don’t either.” Bucky nods before stopping in front of your shared home. “Do you remember when we moved in?”

A part of you wanted to rush out a lie, not ready to be caught for the terrible wife you were, but you were so tired. “Not a bit.”

“Odd.” He comments, leading you in. He stays close, a panicky feel to him and you can see him studying every angle, every door and window like he was waiting for a threat. But then a pulse of chaotic energy fills the air, and an easy smile fills his face as he turns to you. 

“Come on snake, let’s rattle.” He offers out a hand, which you gladly accept as he leads you to the middle of the living room as music from your records begins to play. 

“I’m confessin’ that I love you. One of my favorites.” He sighs, keeping his forehead pressed to yours as the song plays out. 

“I must confess, Buck, I don’t seem to remember anything about our romance. The years must have gotten to me.” You mumble, eyes watering a bit as you wait for his reaction only for him to laugh out. 

“Doll, I can’t remember a damn thing myself. We must be too stressed.” 

“Then we need to make a deal to stop being so stressed. I waited too long for you not to remember.” You smile, gazing up at him as he gazes back down at you. 

“I don’t remember, but I know that I have waited far too long for you as well.”

And when he leans down to kiss you it feels like home. If only you could figure out why it was wrong. 

- 

The next morning you wake up wrapped in your husband's arms, only something has shifted. The first thing you notice is his arm, the metal humming under your hand as you trace a finger up until you get to the shirt sleeve. The next thing you notice is that the room has shifted ever so slightly. A 60s look now. 

And when you gaze out the window you see that a car is parked in the driveway, even though you were sure you and Bucky had walked home. 

“What is going on here…..?”

- 

You had met Bucky Barnes three times in your life. 

The first being as a child, stuck in your fathers lab the night the winter soldier had been sent to kill you all. And he had. You remember the taste of iron, the way your throat burned from screaming so much, slipping in the blood spilling from your father as the Soldat followed you easily. 

He completed his mission of course. But how was he supposed to know that the girl would come back to life after draining all the plants in the room? How was he supposed to know she would try to bring her dad back?

The next time you met him was right on the edge of Bucky and the soldat. Brought in to heal Fury, and Steve had thought that maybe you would be able to help heal his friend once it was confirmed that the soldat was his friend. 

But you had felt so guilty, in a moment of panic you had drained the energy from him and made him pass out. It had been years since you had lost control so blindly and as you gazed down at him, sleeping at your feet, you will yourself not to get sick. 

You were a monster. Your father had made a monster. 

And you had promised to keep your distance from him at that point on, not willing to accept the look of fear that would surely meet his eyes when he saw you next. Only he never did. 

The next time you saw him he was Bucky Barnes, not the winter soldier. And he was a broken man. 

“We were hoping you could help him.” Steve mumbles, a guilty look in his eyes. You were friends now, after Ultron and the mess of that war. He hated asking this of you, but Bucky needed help. 

Bucky refused to meet your eyes, caving in on himself a bit and flinching whenever someone came near. 

“I can try….” 

If only you had known it would all go wrong.

Next Part : Something [Out SOON]

[pepsoui4]

Where I Want to Be

The strong willed, fierce and independent reader learns she may feel too much when Bodhi Durran is around.

I'm thinking of doing a part 2, thoughts? I need more Fourth Wing fics, cmon now!

Word count: 4,971

Warnings: sparring, unsaid feelings, threats

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783108795206451200/where-i-want-to-be-part-2?source=share

-

No one ever questioned why Y/N walked alone. In fact, most people seemed to prefer it that way. She wasn't the type anyone approached lightly, not with that clipped stride and expression set in practiced indifference. She carried her family name like armor: heavy, polished, and meant to intimidate. FlameWalker. It echoed in the halls of Basgiath like a warning bell. The kind of legacy that demanded perfection, that turned heat into a weapon and raised its children to burn weakness out of themselves. And she had learned early and brutally that loneliness was safer than defiance.

As Tail Section Leader of Fourth Wing and in her second year, she had eyes on her from every angle. Commandants, legacy families, her own brutal bloodline, and the cadets under her.  Her squad ran on precision. She was known for being harsh, efficient, emotionally distant. And she liked it that way. Or at least, she told herself she did. She was a model of everything her family expected. Focused. Efficient. Distant.

The FlameWalker name carried weight. Her parents, her brothers, even her distant relatives were all expected to be leaders if they weren't already. They were brutal, fanatics for purity and power. Her family’s ideology burned through generations: strength is order, order is control. 

Her reputation preceded her: sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, and unapproachable. Her lineage was synonymous with power and an unyielding disdain for marked ones. This legacy was both her shield and her shackle. Her orders were followed without debate, not because of any natural charisma, but because she didn’t tolerate questions. Legacy riders weren’t raised to be liked. They were raised to lead. Efficiently, coldly and without attachment. Of course, she had taken that lesson to heart.

She had mastered the art of isolation. She didn't make friends. She didn't laugh in public. She didn’t bother pretending to be anyone but the hard-edged girl she’d been molded into. People steered clear, not just because of her attitude nor title, but because the FlameWalker name came with rules. Written and unwritten. The most sacred of which was this: do not fraternize with the marked ones.

Her family loathed them. Those who bore the magic-stained scars of being chosen. They saw it as impure. Unnatural. A flaw, not a gift. They said marked ones were dangerous, unstable. That even the best of them were ticking bombs with smiles. She’d repeated it like scripture. Believed it, at least enough not to question it out loud. That was the line she had never stepped over. Never let herself. Her loyalty to her family was supposed to be unquestionable.

Which made her second-in-command an ongoing problem she didn’t know how to name.

Bodhi Durran, the Tail Section Executive Officer, was supposed to be a headache. At least, that’s what she expected when he was assigned to her team. Son of a rebellion leader, marked one, and a cadet known more for his sharp mouth than diplomacy. He wasn’t supposed to be competent. He wasn’t supposed to fit. And yet, somehow, he did.

He handled strategy meetings with a strange mix of intensity and humor, never missing a beat even when she threw last-minute changes at him just to test his adaptability. He pushed back when it counted, stayed quiet when it didn’t, and always seemed three steps ahead. He read people fast. Sometimes faster than she did and called out weak spots in training routines with brutal honesty and no concern for ego.

She didn’t like how much she respected him. Worse, she didn’t like how easy it was to slip into a rhythm with him.

-

There was ash in the air. Not literal, but in the way heat clung to the breath between bodies and soaked into the worn grit of the sparring mats. The sun cast long lines across the yard, catching on the shimmer of flame-marked gauntlets and the dull gleam of sweat. Y/N FlameWalker stood at the edge of the rotation lines, arms crossed, her posture as immovable as her reputation. The leathers clung to her shoulders, blackened by flame use and time, branded with the sigil of legacy and command.

Her section moved through drills under her watchful eye. Pairs locked in rhythmic strikes and counters. She’d fought harder than most to get this time slot, and even harder to keep it. The training schedule had been chaotic since the term began, with the Gauntlet looming and the Threshing yet to come. Instructors overlooked the Tail Section unless blood stained the wall. She refused to be overlooked.

She noticed everything. Every missed beat. Every falter in stance. She called them out without mercy. Because mercy didn’t forge riders. And her surname meant something. It weighed on her shoulders like a mantle woven from fire and bloodline. There was no room for softness. Not for her.

And yet lately her gaze kept drifting. Slight. Subtle. But always toward the same direction. The Marked Ones.

Not just the inked relics on their skin, but the way others reacted to them. Cold glances. Whispered judgments. Muted sneers passed like notes between cadets. She caught it more now, in the raw tension that followed someone like Imogen crossing the mats, or the way silence trailed behind Garrick’s clipped orders. She noticed it in the way first-years bristled when Liam Mairi passed—still unbonded, still observing, but already too familiar with contempt.

They didn’t deserve it, not like she did.

She had earned the disdain. With her sharp tongue and flint-edge demeanor. With a legacy family that preached loyalty to the Crown and whispered poison about rebellion behind closed doors. The disdain wasn’t new to her, it was expected. Welcome, even. She’d worn it like armor. Made people fear her before they could dismiss her.

But the Marked Ones? They bore hatred they hadn’t asked for. They trained harder than anyone, carried centuries of betrayal on their shoulders, and still showed up.

And none more vividly than Bodhi Durran.

He moved through the sparring rings like wildfire in silk. Lean, fast, sharp. He didn’t bark commands like she did. He offered sharp humor, smirks, and easy laughter. Cadets listened. Relaxed. Fought better under his guidance. He was her second-in-command, appointed as Executive Officer of Fourth Wing Tail Section at the start of second year. A Marked One. A rebel son. And the one who had, somehow, slipped under the cracks of her armor.

She never spoke to him more than required. Never gave anyone a reason to think she was softening. But she listened when he gave instruction. Watched how effortlessly he led, not with authority, but with respect earned through action.

And it burned, didn’t it? That quiet shame. That sick twist in her gut when someone muttered “traitor” as Bodhi passed. She said nothing. She never did. Not when the same words were hurled at Imogen. Or Garrick. Or even Xaden Riorson himself.

She could justify her own bitterness, her isolation. Her family had made her what she was. But the Marked Ones? They carried judgment like a noose and still walked tall.

Why did it bother her so much? She didn’t flinch when others hated her. Why was it different now?

Across the yard, Bodhi flipped a first-year flat onto the mats with effortless grace, landing in a crouch, his smirk wicked and sharp. The younger rider lay stunned, groaning, as Bodhi stood and brushed off his leathers like he hadn’t just humiliated someone in five seconds flat. The section around him went quiet. Someone behind her muttered under their breath.

“Marked bastard.”

The words hit harder than they should have. She didn’t turn. Didn’t respond. But something in her chest coiled tight. Hot. Ashen.

She told herself it didn’t matter. And still, her gaze lingered.

The hum of sparring filled the yard like a living thing. Grunts of effort, the sharp crack of palm against wrist, the scuff of boots pivoting across the mats. Y/N hadn’t moved in minutes, hadn’t spoken since assigning rotations, but her eyes were everywhere. Watching. Calculating. Measuring the potential of every fighter in her section. This was the time she’d fought tooth and claw for. Petitioned up the chain of command, argued with Wingleaders in louder wings who had dismissed Fourth Wing as the underdogs they always were. She’d earned this block of uninterrupted sparring through sheer force of will, and she would not have it squandered.

Still, even her focus couldn’t drown out the whispers.

They started like static. Low murmurs behind her right shoulder, a ripple of ill-contained amusement from two first-year cadets who thought the tail end of the mat was far enough from her line of vision. She didn’t need to turn to know who they were. She’d clocked every name, every face, and more importantly, every attitude in her section. One of them laughed, just a little too loudly. A scoff followed. Then a voice, male, smooth in the way that made her think of oily charm and the kind of confidence that came from too much privilege and too little humility.

“Cocky little rebellion rat. Figures he thinks charm makes up for dirty blood.”

The words struck something inside her. Not like a blade or a blow, but like flint against stone. A spark. Small, bright, hot. For a moment, she said nothing. Years of upbringing held her still. Don’t engage. Don’t lower yourself. Don’t defend the disloyal.

Her father’s voice again, stern and hollow: Their weakness will reveal itself. Stay above it. Stay true to the FlameWalker name.

And yet, she couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t pretend the words hadn’t curled beneath her skin like smoke looking for a fire to feed. She hated how it lodged itself in her chest. How it burned deeper than it should have. Not because she cared what they thought of Bodhi. Not because she was soft on the Marked Ones. 

Gods no. But because it was happening in her section, under her leadership, during her time. And that she could not abide.

Her boots scraped across the mat as she moved, each step sharp, deliberate, echoing over the din of practice. Cadets turned to look. Some went still. The tension shifted like metal drawn tight. She made a beeline toward the cadet who had spoken, a broad-shouldered, golden-haired first-year with a too-white smile and the arrogant posture of someone who hadn’t been humbled yet. He straightened the moment her shadow hit his shoes, his chin twitching up in something that almost passed for pride. But his eyes gave him away.

“Repeat what you just said,” she said, her voice clipped and laced with fire.

The boy blinked, feigning confusion that didn’t suit him. “I’m sorry?”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, the motion precise as a knife drawn slow from its sheath. The section knew the look. They’d learned to fear it the first week of being under her command. “Did I stutter? Or should I assume your mouth only works when you think no one with rank is listening?”

The boy paled, lips parting uselessly before his gaze darted toward the others as if hoping someone would bail him out. None did. Her presence turned them to stone. 

“It was just a joke,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just locker room talk, right?”

Gods, the weakness in his voice was an insult on its own. She arched one eyebrow, slowly, as though drawing blood with expression alone. He stumbled again under the weight of her silence.

She let the tension stretch like a bowstring, letting him squirm in the trap he’d set for himself. Then, evenly, voice cool as banked embers, she said, “Strange. Because it sounded like you were wasting the valuable sparring time I fought for us to have. Time that does not come easy for our Section. Time that Flame and Claw would never bother to share.”

Her steps brought her closer, enough that he had to tilt his head back to meet her eyes. “So tell me,” she said, almost a whisper now, the threat in her tone razor-thin and gleaming, “why are you standing here polluting the air with nonsense when you should be on the mat proving you even belong here?”

The boy opened his mouth, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to grovel. She didn’t care.

“Get your ass on the mat,” she snapped, and shoved him. Not hard, but enough. Enough to make him stumble forward, lose his balance, and feel the full weight of the watching eyes behind him.

He caught himself, barely. Face flushed red. Mouth tight with humiliation.

She felt it. The shift in air pressure, the awareness that prickled across the back of her neck like static. She didn’t have to look to know Bodhi Durran’s eyes were on her. There was a stillness to his presence that always made her uneasy. Like he could sense the moments she didn’t mean to reveal, the cracks in her armor she kept sealed under discipline and disdain. And yet, this time, the weight of his stare held something else. Curiosity. Surprise. Amusement, maybe. The familiar glint of mischief she’d grown used to ignoring. Across the sparring yard, he stood with his arms folded in that infuriatingly relaxed posture of his, body half-angled as if he had all the time in the world to watch her unravel something in front of an audience.

Their eyes met for less than a heartbeat. Hers sharp and unreadable, his lifting slightly with unspoken commentary she refused to invite. She severed the moment before it could breathe. Turned her back to him like it meant nothing. Like he didn’t matter.

She stepped onto the sparring mat with purpose, the space still buzzing from the suddenness of her earlier command. The boy, twenty, smug, and still blinking through the sting of humiliation stood at the edge with one foot hovering just off the padded floor. He was trying to recover what little dignity he had left, trying to mask the panic behind a mask of stiff bravado. She recognized the type. Fourth Wing, Tail Section saw more than its share of would-be warriors who thought their age or height bought them power. But she’d been shaped by a bloodline where power had to be earned. And today, she was going to remind everyone that legacy alone didn’t make her dangerous.

Her boots hit the mat with a satisfying thud as she squared off. No sword. No elemental flash. Just her body, her fists, and the rhythm that had kept her alive long before she earned her dragon’s flame. She bounced lightly on her toes, shoulders loose, her stance coiled and exact. There was a violence to her stillness, something that promised consequence in the smallest of shifts. She fought like a boxer, light on her feet and heavy in her hands, and she’d never needed brute strength to dominate. Precision was her weapon. Timing, her blade.

The boy hesitated as he stepped in. His pride begged him to make a move, to reclaim control of the situation she’d shattered. But his instincts screamed retreat. She saw it in his shoulders, the tension drawn too tight, his balance a second too slow. He was already lost.

“Come on,” she taunted, voice low and confident, her mouth curling into a slow, cruel smile as she gestured him forward with a single curled finger. “Let’s see if you’re as fast with your hands as you are with your mouth.”

It was the final shove. He lunged, heavy and forward, his form all aggression and no thought. He came in hard, trying to overpower, trying to silence the shame with force. He was too loud. Too slow. Too easy.

She pivoted cleanly to the side, her weight already shifting into the next step before his foot fully planted. Her left hand caught his wrist mid-strike, her right sweeping behind his knee in one swift motion. The world flipped beneath him. The mat met him with a brutal, satisfying thud. He didn’t even have time to register the fall before the breath was knocked from his lungs.

She was already standing over him and not even winded.

The entire section had gone silent, the kind of silence that sinks deep into skin. She didn’t bask in it. Didn’t milk the moment. But she felt it, how the tension warped into something else. Respect. Fear. She crouched slowly, letting her eyes lock onto his, and the boy so smug just minutes before couldn’t even meet her gaze.

“If you can’t fight with respect,” she spat, her voice loud enough the entire crowd could hear, especially Bodhi. “you’re not just a coward. You’re useless.”

She straightened and stepped back without ceremony, walking off the mat with precise, grounded steps, her back straight, her chin high. She didn’t look at Bodhi again. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But she felt his gaze still lingering, sharp and searching. Not mocking like the others. No smirk now.

The flush in her chest wasn’t from exertion. It was something else entirely. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

-

The archives were near-empty at this hour, which was exactly how she liked it. The sun had long since dipped behind the mountains. The halls of Basgiath quiet now, save for the occasional laughter drifting from the dining hall or the far-off echo of boots on stone. Most riders used Friday nights for blowing off steam. Drinking, sparring, or finding warm bodies to forget how brutal their days had been.

Not her.

She was curled into a deep armchair in the back right corner of the Archives. A thick leather-bound volume resting in her lap, her boots planted firmly on the seat. The overhead light cast a warm halo on the open pages, tactical strategy layouts for Gauntlet formations and squad combat drills. She read them not for the first time. Markings lined the margins in her narrow, sharp script. Even now, her brow furrowed as she revised a rough plan for the following week’s maneuvers.

Her body ached from training, her knuckles still raw from striking the mat too hard earlier that day, but she didn’t notice. Not really. Pain was a constant. It was the silence she needed. Space to think, to plan. Being section leader was more than commanding a ring. It was shaping the squad beneath her into something stronger, smarter, and worthy of surviving.

So she didn’t notice him at first. Not until the chair beside her shifted slightly with weight and warmth, and the unmistakable scent of worn leather and wind-touched pine cut through her focus.

Bodhi. Of course it was him.

She didn’t look up, not right away. She stayed rigid, her eyes tracking the same sentence twice on the page, even as the air around her shifted.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just leaned back, a little too comfortably. As if this had been his plan all along. He didn’t look like someone who spent the day getting flung around mats or thrown under whispered insults. No, Bodhi looked maddeningly at ease. His arm rested against the side of the chair they now shared space between, closer than he normally sat in group briefings or training discussions. Close enough she could feel the heat of him through her sleeve, though she was certain he’d act like he didn’t notice.

Then, finally, his voice cut softly through the quiet, threaded with amusement. “Didn’t think you were the type to go feral in defense of a disgraceful rebellion rat.”

Her eyes didn’t lift from the page, but her lip twitched. “I did no such thing.”

“No?” he drawled, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Because it looked a whole lot like justice to me.”

“I was defending the sparring slot I nearly dislocated a shoulder to win from Claw Section. I’m not in the business of babysitting egos, especially not yours.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and it slid down her spine like a touch she wasn’t prepared for. “Ah. So I’m just an unfortunate footnote in your schedule, then?”

“Exactly.”

“And here I was thinking I owed you my life,” he said, teasing. “Or at least a drink.”

She finally looked up, eyes narrowed but calm, meeting his gaze full-on. His face was unfairly handsome in the dim light. Shadowed in all the right places, mischief softening into something sincere just beneath the surface. He didn’t look like someone baiting her for fun. He looked grateful, curious and a little too close.

She leaned back slightly, if only to collect herself. Her voice was softer when she replied. “You want to thank me for doing my job, Bodhi? Then show up tomorrow with a section plan that doesn’t involve you charming half the recruits into slacking off.”

“That’s a lot of words for you’re welcome,” he said, and smiled. An actual cheek splitting smile, not the cocky slant he wore during training. This one was softer. Real.

She hated that it made her heartbeat hiccup.

He leaned back, his hand brushing the armrest between them like he wasn’t thinking about it, but of course he was. Bodhi never did anything without calculation. He was all casual grace and practiced unpredictability. But tonight, here, beside her, quiet and still? It felt different. The teasing was still there, sure. But beneath it, a thread of sincerity curled like steam between them.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I’ve heard worse. Ignoring it would’ve been easier.”

She looked at him again, and this time she didn’t hide the tension in her jaw. “It’s not any easier. It’s about standards. Mine. And theirs.”

“You still didn’t deny it,” he murmured.

She gave him a flat stare. “If you’re looking for some kind of poetic confession, Durran, go find a scribe.”

His laugh was soft, but it lingered. She didn’t push him away. Didn’t shift to reclaim the space between them. For once, it felt earned. Like the silence meant something other than avoidance. Like maybe he wasn’t the only one trying to make sense of a shift that had already begun.

“I don’t need a confession,” he said after a long beat. “Just wanted to say it meant something more. Coming from you.”

She didn’t respond. Not right away. Her gaze drifted back to the pages in her lap, the words now blurred by thoughts she wasn’t ready to face. She didn’t do vulnerability. Didn’t know how to receive that kind of thing without burning a hole in her chest.

But she didn’t push him away, either. And she didn’t ask him to leave.

Instead, she turned a page she hadn’t finished reading, more out of habit than focus. Her eyes flicked down the line of text, but nothing stuck. Not the formation pattern. Not the movement analysis. Not a single godsdamned word.

Bodhi was still watching her.

And not in the usual way. The way men looked when they were calculating, when they were peeling back armor to find a weakness to press. No, Bodhi’s gaze wasn’t hungry or cruel. It was maddening in its patience. Soft, even. Like he was waiting for her to stop pretending this wasn’t affecting her.

She hated that it was affecting her. “I told you,” she muttered, voice clipped as she flipped the page again. “It wasn’t about you.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. Bodhi never accepted the first answer. He always peeled back the first layer, then the second, until whatever was left stood naked in the light. She’d seen him do it with recruits in training, even with instructors..

But it was different when it was her.

“Right,” he said, drawing the word out just enough to make it irritating. “Totally unrelated. You stormed across the yard and knocked a first-year flat on his ass just to defend, what? Scheduling?”

She didn’t respond as her jaw twitched.

“And that little speech about respect?” he continued, tilting his head as if he were genuinely pondering it. “Sounded real personal. Almost like you gave a damn.”

“I give a damn about structure. And cohesion. And not letting entitled little bastards poison the section I’m responsible for.”

He leaned forward slightly, close enough now that she could smell the salt of dried sweat clinging to his collar, the worn scent of leather and something just undeniably him. He rested one arm along the top of her chair and smirked, but his voice softened.

“Come on, FlameWalker. You’re not fooling me.”

She hated the way her breath caught at the sound of her name on his tongue. Not sneered, not barked. Spoken like it meant something more than the legend wrapped around it. Like it was hers and not her family's.

She glared at him, forcing her voice not to waver. “And what exactly do you think I was doing, Bodhi? Hiding a secret crush under all that righteous fury?”

His smile spread, crooked and utterly infuriating. “Nah. I think you’re uncomfortable with the idea that you care. That somewhere between hating my guts and tolerating me as your executive officer, I stopped being a Marked One to you. Started being something else.”

Her lips parted, words on the verge of forming but none came. And gods, he saw it. Saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The war she waged against herself in the space of one breath. The way she turned her face slightly as if it would shield her from how exposed she suddenly felt.

“You really are an arrogant bastard,” she said instead, but it lacked venom. It was breathy, uneven. Off her rhythm.

Bodhi leaned in just a hair, his voice low and teasing, but softer now like he knew exactly what line he was walking and liked it.

“And yet here you are. Letting me sit too close. Not barking orders. Not flinching when I get under your skin.” He paused. “Kind of sweet, actually.”

That broke her. Her head snapped to him, eyes sharp with disbelief. “Sweet?”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Admit it. You’re going soft.”

“Don’t push your luck, Durran.”

He laughed, full and bright, and something inside her cracked a little further under the sound. Because it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t mocking. It was honest.

“Too late.”

She hated how the edges of her mouth betrayed her. How she almost smiled. How her fingers clenched around the book in her lap, grounding herself in something tactile, because otherwise she might have leaned into him.

The heat was crawling up her neck now. Slow, traitorous, and unmistakable. She shifted slightly in her seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the book in her lap like it might anchor her back into herself. Back into control. She’d mastered a thousand ways to shut people out. A hundred more to bury what they made her feel. But Bodhi was like water slipping through cracks. Always finding the places she didn’t guard. 

She tilted the book upward, hiding behind it even though she wasn’t reading anymore, hadn’t been for several minutes now. Her voice was steadier when she said, “Shouldn’t you be off charming someone else by now? It’s a Friday night. I’m sure there’s at least three first-years still breathless from watching you fight.”

Bodhi didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t tease. He just stayed where he was. His arm still draped across the back of her chair, his shoulder warm beside hers, his presence steady and unshakable. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” he said simply.

The words struck deeper than she wanted them to. No clever tone. No sarcasm. Just honesty, dropped like a pebble into a still pond, rippling through her ribcage in places that had been untouched for far too long.

She lowered the book again, turning her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye and finally closing it. He was watching her again, but the grin had faded into something gentler now. Open, but not demanding. Patient, but not waiting for her to be anything other than what she was.

And gods, that was worse because she knew how to fight insults. Knew how to command, how to discipline, how to dominate a sparring mat. But this? This quiet kind of softness? She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t know what to do with him.

“You’re insufferable,” she said again, but this time it was barely a whisper. There was no bite to it. Just breath and uncertainty.

“And yet you haven’t told me to leave,” he replied, voice barely louder than hers.

She opened her mouth to deny it, to say something sharp, to retreat behind the armor that always worked. But it didn’t come. Her breath caught instead. Her lips closed around nothing. And her heart betrayed her with a single, quiet truth: She didn’t want him to go.

He seemed to feel it too. That final surrender she didn’t speak aloud. “Then you better make yourself useful, Durran.” She sighed, rolling her eyes in faux annoyance. 

He shifted slightly, and without a word, he leaned just a little closer. Not enough to press, not enough to crowd but enough for his shoulder to brush hers, warm and solid and real. They sat like that for a long while. The silence between them wasn’t tense anymore. It had softened into something fragile and tentative. Something sacred. She kept her eyes forward, but every inch of her was aware of him beside her. Of how still he was now. Of how he didn’t need to say anything else. He just stayed.

And for once, she didn’t push him away. She let herself breathe. Let herself exist in the quiet without flinching from it.

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XIV: Static

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

THE WAITING ROOM THEY GAVE HER WAS barely bigger than a broom closet—just big enough for a chair, a mirror rimmed with soft bulbs, and a garment rack pushed into the corner.

Someone had tried to make it feel welcoming—there were a few snacks on the side table, a tiny humidifier puffing away in the corner—but it still felt clinical. Temporary. Like a guest room you weren’t meant to stay in for long.

Her makeup was already done. Hair pinned back. Mic checked.

Her outfit wasn’t flashy—black high-waisted cargo pants paired with a fitted white crop top, cinched at the waist with a simple belt. A lightweight black bomber jacket hung loosely off her shoulders, balancing the sharpness of the top with something more casual. It matched the boys’ Levanter stage outfits almost eerily well—coordinated, sleek, minimal. But the slight shimmer of her top under the dressing room lights made her stand out just enough.

All that was left was waiting.

She sat in silence for a long minute, hands folded in her lap. The kind of quiet that lets every doubt creep in. She tried to ground herself—to focus on her breathing, on the feel of the mic pack at her waist, on the cool press of the floor beneath her feet.

And then came the noise.

Through the thin walls, she heard it—barely muffled chaos erupting from the main waiting room next door.

Loud laughter.

A clatter.

Someone shouting, “FELIX, THAT’S NOT WHERE THE SNACKS GO.”

A sharp yelp that was unmistakably Jeongin’s. Seungmin’s voice cutting through dryly: “Do you all lose your minds the second we put on eyeliner?”

There was a bang—probably Minho kicking something he wasn’t supposed to. Then a muffled chorus of Chan’s exasperated “Focus, please!” followed by Han’s mock imitation: “Focus, please! Let me just adjust my wrinkles real quick!”

A startled bark of laughter escaped Iseul’s lips before she could stop it.

The noise continued. Messy, ridiculous, alive.

For a second, she let herself imagine being in that room. Sitting between Seungmin and Jeongin, stealing jelly candies before Felix could hoard them. Nudging Han’s elbow as he freestyled nonsense into his mic. Watching Chan’s forehead crease with stress while Minho did exactly what he told them not to do.

She wasn’t with them now. Not yet. Not fully.

But she could hear them.

The door creaked open before she could psych herself out any further.

“I knew you were hiding in here,” Changbin announced, poking his head in with a grin. “What, trying to skip out on pre-show chaos bonding?”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Iseul protested, though her voice came out soft.

“Mmhm. Tell that to the six hyperactive idiots bouncing off the walls out there,” he said, stepping inside. His eyes widened as he got a proper look at her. “Whoa. Hold on.” Changbin blinked, eyes sweeping over her outfit like he needed to double-check he wasn’t hallucinating. “Is this what you’re wearing on stage?”

Iseul’s brows pinched. “Do I look weird?”

“Weird?” he scoffed, flailing dramatically as he stepped back. “No! You look like you’re about to debut as the final boss of a spy movie. In the best way.”

She blinked. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a threat.” He pointed at her crop top accusingly. “You can’t just walk out there looking like that. Do you want to give the crowd collective heart failure?”

Before she could form a reply, Changbin was already at her side, gently tugging her toward the door. “Come on. You can’t show up like this alone. The boys need to see this. Preferably before we go on stage so they have time to recover.”

“Changbin—”

He ushered her out of the room, ignoring her half-hearted protests as they made their way down the short hallway. As they neared the boys’ room, the sound of muffled chaos turned into full-on shouting.

“MINHO HYUNG, THAT WAS MY LAST GUMMY—”

“You didn’t label it; therefore, it is communal.”

“Stop stealing my water, Jeongin!”

“It was there! It looked unloved!”

The moment Changbin pushed the door open, the chaos ground to a halt.

All seven boys turned to stare.

And for a beat, there was only silence.

Han’s jaw actually dropped. “Wait, what the fuck?”

Jeongin blinked in stunned disbelief. “She’s gonna steal the whole stage.”

Felix let out a slow whistle, tilting his head with a grin. “Iseul, you look so cool.”

“Dangerous,” Han corrected, already circling her like a cat. “Like you’re about to assassinate us on live broadcast. Can I borrow your jacket?”

“I—what?” she asked, overwhelmed.

Minho, lounging on the couch with his arms crossed, added, “I want to sue our stylists now – we all look like backup dancers now.”

“Minho,” Chan warned, though he was clearly biting back a smile.

“What?” Minho shrugged. “I’m not wrong.”

“Speak for yourself,” Seungmin deadpanned. “I refuse to be outshined by someone who still flinches every time the mic squeals.”

“I don’t flinch,” Iseul muttered under her breath, flustered.

“You do,” Changbin confirmed, grinning.

Chan, finally rising from where he’d been checking over his earpiece settings, gave her a once-over and nodded in quiet approval. “Perfect. You’re ready.”

The compliment was simple, professional—but his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary. Enough to tell her he meant it.

Iseul was still processing the whirlwind of attention when she felt it—a shift in the energy.

She turned just slightly—and found Hyunjin standing a few steps behind the others.

He wasn’t staring, but he wasn’t ignoring her either. His gaze was steady, searching. And then, as if realizing she’d caught him, he cleared his throat and looked away.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. Voice low. Muted. But not unkind. And then added, “You look confident. It suits you.”

Her heart thudded softly. She nodded, unsure if he saw it.

The moment passed—quiet, but not bitter.

Just... tentative.

“Alright, alright,” Chan clapped, breaking the beat. “Group huddle in ten. Don't hurt yourself before we go up.”

As the boys shuffled into motion—checking batteries, adjusting sleeves, swiping last bites of snacks—Iseul stood still for a moment, the sound of their voices rising again around her like static.

Warm. Familiar.

Loud in all the right ways.

She wasn’t just hearing them through the walls anymore.

She was here. With them.

And then they were stepping out into the hallway together, walking side by side. Toward the stage. Toward the noise. Toward the lights and the crowd and the fear and the thrill.

Her first performance as one of them.

Even if not everyone saw her that way yet.

Even if some days, she wasn’t sure herself.

She was still walking toward it.

The screen dropped.

A burst of lights cut through the dark, white and gold, timed perfectly with the bass drop that shook the floor beneath her.

And then—cheers.

A wall of sound crashed into her chest. Screams so loud they felt physical, like waves of heat and wind and disbelief. For a second, she froze. Not visibly—her feet moved on instinct, mic raised, steps hitting their mark—but her mind stalled.

She couldn't see their faces, not really, but she could feel it. The sea of phones lifted high, lightsticks waving in rhythm. The unmistakable shift in energy as the crowd registered that this wasn’t a dancer or a backup vocalist or a guest trainee.

This was someone new. Someone real.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she kept her gaze locked on the crowd, trying to push down the sudden wave of nervousness that threatened to swallow her whole. The beat pulsed through the air, every note reverberating against her skin. She could hear the boys around her, their voices blending together as they powered through the choreography, but it was her own voice that felt distant.

She blinked, disoriented.

The IEMs, which had been giving her perfect clarity moments before, now felt off. The sound she was hearing wasn’t quite right. A strange static buzzed faintly in the background, and her own vocals sounded muffled. She adjusted the earbud, hoping to correct it, but the static remained, crawling under the music.

Her feet carried her through the next few steps of the routine, but her focus wavered. Without the perfect feedback she needed from the IEMs, it was harder to stay in sync with the others, harder to gauge whether she was hitting the notes correctly or missing them entirely.

She tugged at the wire behind her neck in frustration, hoping the IEM would just fall into place, but the static persisted. The sound was now warping, distorting the melody she should have been following. Her throat tightened, a sickening mix of frustration and fear curling in her stomach. The crowd was still there—still screaming, still singing along—but she was losing control. She could feel it.

Her chest tightened. She couldn't stop. She had to keep going. Her mic was fine. The lights were fine. The crowd was still with them, moving to the rhythm—but she had to hear her own voice. She had to hear the music to stay grounded.

She felt the cold sweat on her palms, her pulse loud in her ears, but she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t be that rookie, the one who faltered in the moment.

Her part was approaching – she knew it as they shifted the formation. She needed to do something. And quick.

She tore the IEMs out of her ears, yanking them free in one swift motion.

The noise around her intensified, swelling, drowning her. The roar of the crowd was no longer a distant hum, but an overwhelming wave crashing into her ears. Her heart raced with every cheer, every scream. The lights, the floor beneath her, the bass—they all hit at once, layering over each other in a chaotic symphony that sent her senses spinning. She could hear every single sound around her, every beat, every movement, and yet none of it made sense.

The thumping bass in her chest. The shuffling of feet. The boys' voices blending in the air, indistinguishable. The flashing lights blinding her in every direction.

She couldn’t hear herself. She couldn’t find the rhythm. Every step felt wrong; every note pulled out of reach.

It was too much.

Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t breathe through the noise. The feedback from the IEMs was gone, but the rush of sound that replaced it was suffocating, too much for her to handle in the moment. Panic rose in her throat, thick and bitter, making her pulse quicken.

She couldn’t hear the music clearly. She couldn’t hear her own voice. She couldn’t hear the others. She was drowning in it all—the sound, the pressure, the expectation. She needed to stop. She had to take control.

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to focus.

Her part was coming up. She knew it. Her throat tightened as the music surged, and she caught Seungmin’s eye. He nodded at her, a small gesture, but it was enough to ground her for a second. They were in this together. He had her back. He was always steady.

She took a deep breath, counting silently in her head.

One. Two. Three. Four.

She started counting, the rhythm in her head guiding her as the chaos of the crowd roared in the background. She felt every beat in her chest, her feet finding their place on the floor despite the distortion. She didn’t need the perfect sound to move. She didn’t need the IEMs to remind her of the beat.

They shifted, and Iseul found herself at the center of the formation, a position she had dreamed of, but now it felt like the weight of a thousand eyes were on her. Her heartbeat raced in her chest, every muscle tensed. Then the signal came—her cue to sing.

She opened her mouth and the notes spilled out, not perfect but raw. Her voice soared, harmonizing with Seungmin’s, the melody sweet and clear. Her voice was fighting to rise above the chaos, to find its place amid the overwhelming flood of sound. But as the music flowed through her, the distortion started to fade. She could hear it. She could feel it.

The crowd was still there—distant but alive, thrumming with energy. She didn’t know if they could hear the slight imperfection in her voice, the tension she was trying so hard to hide, but it didn’t matter anymore. This was her moment to stand tall, to prove she could keep up, even without the crutch of perfect sound.

And when Seungmin shot her a quick, encouraging glance as their voices soared together, she could feel it. That flicker of reassurance. Maybe she didn’t need to be flawless. Maybe she just needed to be.

She held her breath as the final note approached, trusting the connection between them, between her and the music. The beat hit, and as her voice and Seungmin’s melded in the air, she felt it—the weight of the performance, the pressure of the crowd, the rawness of being here and doing this, all finally lifting.

The harmonies landed, and she let out a shaky breath.

The rest of the song blurred past, the final chorus ringing in her ears, and when the song ended, there was only the sound of her own breathing, her heartbeat still racing in the aftermath.

Iseul stood frozen for a second, her chest heaving, hands trembling at her sides. The others had already moved into their positions for the fairy ending pose they’d decided backstage—Felix lowering himself into a crouch with that angelic grin, Seungmin tilting his head with a wink, even Hyunjin tossing a strand of hair dramatically like he didn’t just sweat through three layers of fabric.

She was supposed to step forward too, smile into the camera, lift her mic and strike the pose they’d rehearsed with laughter only hours before.

But her knees felt unsteady. Her lungs burned. The adrenaline that had carried her through the last chorus had vanished the moment the music cut out, and now there was only noise—deafening cheers, flashing lights, her own heartbeat hammering through her ears like a warning.

Move, she told herself. You have to do it. You’re part of this too.

But her body wouldn’t listen. Her arms hung limply by her sides, her posture uneven. She hadn’t even picked up the IEMs still dangling at her neck. Her lip trembled, and she fought to steady it before the cameras zoomed in.

The big screen above them flickered with the first close-up—Felix’s fairy ending.

The arena erupted.

A wave of cheers so loud it almost rattled the floor beneath her. The sound was unmistakable. Deafening. Earned. Loved.

Then the camera shifted.

Iseul barely had time to register it before she saw herself onscreen, projected in front of thousands. No pose. No wink. No playful tilt of the head. Just her, breathing hard, flushed and dazed, strands of hair sticking to her cheeks, lips parted in exhaustion as she stood off-center.

And just like that—the cheers quieted. Not completely. But noticeably.

The difference was sharp. Immediate.

Her stomach sank.

She could still hear some light claps, scattered whistles, a few cheers that tried to push through. But the shift in the room was impossible to ignore. Like the crowd had tilted their heads, unsure, or worse—disappointed.

They still don’t see me as one of them.

The thought slammed into her with more force than the bass drop ever could. She gripped her mic tighter, swallowing down the lump rising in her throat. Her chest still ached from the performance, but the pain had shifted. It wasn’t physical now—it was personal.

Iseul could swear the camera lingers—just long enough to savour her pain. Logically, she knows it’s no longer than the time Felix had. Somehow, that only makes it worse.

At last, the lens pulls away, shifting its gaze elsewhere as the boys move around her, giving the crowd something new to scream for. Something they actually want to see, she thinks bitterly, forcing herself not to meet any of their eyes as she joins the casual, practiced drift offstage.

It takes everything just to keep her steps steady, to stay inside her own fragile bubble. The effort not to bolt is already immense—she knows that one look of sympathy, even well-meant, might be enough to crack her completely.

All she could hear was the fading sound of the cheers that weren’t for her.

The second they’re out of the spotlight and behind the curtain, the boys erupt into laughter and noisy relief, their adrenaline still high. Hyunjin throws an arm around Han, Minho is already tossing his mic to a waiting staff member, and Felix lets out a breathless cheer. Someone says something to her—Changbin, maybe, or Jeongin—but it lands dull and distant, like sound underwater.

She blinks, her feet still moving forward automatically.

“Iseul, you killed that bridge—wait, were you—”

“She didn’t have her IEMs in, hyung, did you see? She tore them out.”

“No way—the whole second half?”

A rush of exclamations follows, pieces of awe and concern tumbling over each other. Someone reaches for her shoulder—Chan, maybe Felix—but she sidesteps without even realizing it.

Their voices swirl around her like muffled wind, their praise warped and distant, as if she’s underwater. She knows they mean well. She knows they’re trying. But her ears still ring from the crowd, from the overload, from the sheer force of enduring it all.

She can’t take it. Not now.

Without a word, she peels away from the group, head down, steps silent and fast. No one follows. Or maybe they do—she doesn’t look back to check.

The bathroom door swings open with a hollow click behind her. Cool air greets her flushed face, sterile and quiet. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly above her. The cold white of the bathroom felt too clean, too sharp, too unforgiving. She stared at her reflection, willing herself to pull it together. Her chest still rose and fell in uneven waves, the adrenaline refusing to let go, even now.

She should call them.

Her phone was waiting in the backstage room, maybe already buzzing with notifications.

She should call her parents. Hear their voices. Let them say you did it, we’re proud, you were beautiful. She knew they’d been watching the livestream—her mom with the laptop on the kitchen counter, probably wiping her eyes with a paper towel. Her dad pacing in front of a flatscreen in some polished boardroom, his schedule cleared just for this.

They were watching. She knew they were watching.

Her mom would’ve been screaming along during the chorus. Her dad would’ve taken screenshots every time the camera caught her face. And her grandparents—if her grandmother hadn’t caught that last-minute fever—would’ve forced all of them to come to the concert, even though they silently didn’t approve of her career.

They would’ve cheered for her.

They had cheered for her. Somewhere, across the distance, she was loved loudly.

So why couldn’t she feel it now?

Why was the silence of the crowd still ringing louder in her ears than anything else?

The way the cheers dipped when the camera cut to her—the subtle, undeniable lull that said everything they didn’t have to.

She had sung. She had danced. She had survived—without her IEMs, without backup, without a lifeline—and still, all she could remember was the hollow ache of that moment.

Not the music. Not Seungmin’s look of encouragement. Not the harmony they’d landed together.

Just that dip in sound.

Just the emptiness.

Iseul swallowed hard. Her eyes burned, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to let it spill over. Not yet. Not here.

She gripped the edge of the sink. Counted. Inhales. Exhales.

This was just the first performance.

Just the first.

But even as she told herself that, the quiet swallowed her whole.

A soft knock at the bathroom door startled her.

“Iseul-ssi?” A voice—gentle, hesitant. One of the stage crew, maybe a junior manager. Not one of the boys. Not her manager. “Are you okay in there?”

Iseul blinked back into the present, realizing how long she’d been standing there with her hands braced on the sink, her reflection flushed and glassy-eyed.

“Yeah,” she managed, her voice hoarse. Too quiet. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yeah. Just—just needed a second.”

There was a pause on the other side. Then the voice returned, quieter now. “Take all the time you need. They’re moving to the vans soon, so… just let me know if you want me to wait.”

She nodded even though they couldn’t see her. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Another soft beat of silence. Then, kindly, “You did really well.”

The words landed like a pebble in a still pond. Gentle. Honest. Uncomplicated.

Not loud enough to erase the crowd’s silence. But enough to remind her she wasn’t completely alone in this moment.

“Thanks,” she whispered, too late, after the footsteps had already faded down the hallway.

She turned back to the mirror, the remnants of adrenaline still fizzing beneath her skin. Her pulse had finally started to slow. Her hands were steadier now.

One performance down.

She could survive this.

Just not tonight. Not all of it.

She wiped her palms against her jacket and finally stepped toward the door.

The hallway lights felt too bright after the dim, tiled hush of the bathroom. Iseul kept her head low, her steps quiet as she walked back toward the waiting room. Her limbs were heavier now, no longer running on performance adrenaline, just soreness and ache.

She turned the corner and paused.

The door to the waiting room was slightly ajar—and from inside came voices. One loud. Frustrated. Familiar.

“I don’t care why it happened,” Chan’s voice snapped. “She had no audio for half the set. You realize how dangerous that is? She could’ve been seriously hurt.”

There was some muffled reply—one of the tech staff, probably trying to defend themselves—but Chan cut in again, sharp with a rare, unfiltered edge.

“She didn’t miss a beat. You think that was luck?” His voice dropped, but not enough to hide the anger coiled under every word. “She ripped the IEMs out in the middle of the performance. And still kept going. She shouldn't have had to.”

Something thick twisted in her chest. She didn’t move. Didn’t know how.

“I know it’s the first show, but this can’t happen again,” Chan continued, more controlled now but still furious. “Not to her. Not to any of us.”

There was a silence after that. Heavy. She could picture the staffer nodding stiffly, avoiding his eyes.

Then: “She’s not just some extra you throw on stage and hope survives. She’s one of us.”

Something in Iseul’s throat caught. She didn’t realize how much she’d needed to hear that until it left her breathless.

Soft footsteps came up behind her. Hyunjin appeared at her side, saying nothing as he looked between her and the door.

“You should go in,” he said eventually, voice low.

Iseul blinked. “I don’t want him to stop yelling on my account.”

He gave a half-smile, tired and crooked. “He won’t. But he’ll feel better seeing you.”

She hesitated.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he added.

So, she took a breath, straightened her spine, and pushed open the door.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra

STORY HINT: Only when Iseul was safely back in her room at the dorm did she dial her parents for a conference call. Her mom was already there, along with her grandparents, congratulating her and showering her with praise. Her dad wasn't a step behind, enthusiastically planning a vacation and dismissing Iseul’s protests. But when her grandparents joined in, offering their pride in their own quiet, hesitant way, something inside Iseul broke. A full sob escaped her, not the silent tears or the quiet sting behind her ears, but a raw, heaving cry. And in that moment, her family—messy, complicated, and imperfect as they were—let her cry, offering soft words of comfort and encouragement, reminding her that she would always be loved.

Lol double update yay! This was actually supposed to be one chapter with the prev chapter but the words were around 7000 and I decided to break it. Kinda proud of myself 'cause I wrote it in 2 hrs. ANYWHOOO I HOPED U ENJOYED IT BAHAHAHAHAHA. (also pls im beggin yall to send yer ideas, I need filler chapters bahahahahaha) Stay safe ~candy

[misshoneyimhome]

"If you don't change out of those shorts, I'll have them around your ankles by lunchtime." QUEEN may i request this prompt for Willy??

Oh, did anyone see the sun shining and the temperature rising? Cause apparently, reader did 😉

Note - no, William hasn't proposed yet, that part is still in the works 😉💕

Tropes & warnings: Inexperienced!reader x Willy, established relationship, 18+ smut: semi-public - physio room, unprotected vaginal penetration, cum inside

word count: 1.9K

➼｡ﾟ

What goes around comes around | Inexperienced!Reader x William Nylander ✐☆

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the apartment, warm sunlight filtering through the blinds and casting lazy stripes across the hardwood floor. You were humming softly to yourself as you moved around the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a fitted pair of grey dress shorts and a white silk blouse.

You felt him before you saw him—heard the heavy, familiar sound of his footsteps behind you, the rustle of gym clothes as he padded into the room, towel slung over his shoulder and damp hair still tousled from the shower.

“You’re really gonna wear those?” came his voice, rough and sleep-warmed, still gravelly from the early hour.

You didn’t turn around. Just reached for your mug and brought it to your lips. “Good morning to you too, Nylander.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. It was more of a low huff, like he knew what you were doing and wasn’t quite sure if he was annoyed or turned on by it.

(You knew it was both.)

“Seriously,” he said, coming up behind you. One hand rested on your hip, firm and possessive. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

You took a slow sip. “Brunch with Tessa and Aryne.”

“In that?” His palm slid down, fingers grazing the hem of your shorts. “You do realise those barely count as clothing, right?”

You turned then, just slightly, just enough to glance over your shoulder and grin. “They’re comfortable. And it’s hot outside.”

His eyes dropped instinctively to your legs—long, bare, toned—and then back up to your face, his jaw clenching.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, stepping in closer, his voice dropping as his hand curled just slightly into the waistband. “If you don’t change out of those shorts, I’ll have them around your ankles by lunchtime.”

You bit your bottom lip, feigning innocence. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

William’s gaze darkened, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “You want to test me, älskling?”

Your stomach fluttered—god, that tone.

But instead of backing down, you gave him a little shrug and slipped out from under his grasp, heading toward the hallway to grab your bag. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Behind you, you heard him groan under his breath, followed by the sound of him muttering in Swedish—probably something about how you were going to be the death of him.

You tossed your phone in your bag, glanced at yourself in the mirror. Blazer. Shorts. Smug little smile. Perfect.

William appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and brows raised as he looked you up and down. “Don’t forget, I’ll see you at the game tonight.”

You batted your lashes. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And don’t think I’ll forget those shorts.”

You were already walking toward the door, keys in hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And as you slipped out the door, you heard him laugh—low, exasperated, and entirely laced with affection.

He was in trouble.

You were already planning to make it worse.

_

Brunch with Tessa and Aryne had been a blur of mimosas, gossip, and stolen glances at your phone. Mostly because you kept catching yourself rereading William’s texts from training.

Willy: “Thinking about those shorts.”

You: “You should be thinking about drills.”

Willy: “You’re gonna be in trouble when I get home.”

You: “Can’t wait.”

You were lying. You could wait. You were dying to wait. You loved the way he got when he was held back—coiled tight with tension, hungry from hours of wanting and not getting. And you knew exactly what you were doing when you wore those shorts. You’d even crossed your legs slowly at brunch, made sure they hit mid-thigh when you walked to the counter to grab your coffee refill, felt the heat of every stare.

But none of those looks mattered. Not really.

Only one did.

Now, the train ride back to your apartment was blissfully quiet—mid-afternoon sun filtering through the windows, the rhythmic hum of the tracks lulling the other passengers into a content silence. You had snagged a window seat in the corner, legs crossed, blazer folded over your lap, and your phone in hand.

You weren’t trying to tease him. Not really.

Except… maybe you were.

You snapped a picture—your thighs, bare and glowy in the sunlight, the hem of your shorts riding up just enough to give a flash of skin beneath. You didn’t include your face. Just enough to set him off.

You: “Still comfy. Still hot out.”

Photo attached.

It didn’t take long.

Your phone lit up with his name. A FaceTime request.

You declined.

The next text came in immediately.

Willy: “Answer the damn phone.”

You smirked, leaning back, tapping out your reply.

You: “Busy. Commuting. In public.”

Willy: “So help me god, if I see those shorts again tonight—”

You could almost hear the growl in his voice.

You: “What? You said lunchtime. It’s later now.”

The bubble on his end flickered. Typing. Stopped. Typing again.

Willy: “You’re a fucking menace.”

You tucked your phone into your bag and bit your lip, glancing around. A businessman in a suit was dozing three rows away. A teenage couple was whispering over earbuds. No one cared. No one noticed you shift just a little in your seat, press your thighs together, the dull throb of anticipation building low in your belly.

_

The hallway outside the locker rooms buzzed with post-game energy—equipment being packed, trainers wheeling carts, security quietly ushering out press. You leaned against the wall by the private entrance, phone in hand, legs crossed just so.

And of course, you were still wearing the shorts. Perfectly combined with the jersey with ‘NYLANDER’ across your back.

Once more, you heard him before you saw him—heavy footsteps, low laughter with teammates, the scrape of skates being dragged behind him in a gear bag. The second he turned the corner and saw you, everything shifted. His eyes locked onto your legs like a homing beacon.

He stopped mid-sentence.

“Fuck me,” William muttered, drawing out the words like a prayer, like a curse. His gaze dragged up your body, jaw tight, a bead of sweat still clinging to his temple. “You did not.”

You tilted your head, smiling sweetly. “I told you it was hot out.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Just closed the space between you in three long strides, his hand grabbing your wrist like a magnet snapping into place. “But it’s not hot inside a fucking hockey arena. Come with me.”

You let out a small laugh. “You’re not even going to say hi?”

“No.” His voice was low, firm. “I told you what would happen. And you’re still wearing those fucking shorts.”

You opened your mouth to tease him again, but then he was pulling you down the corridor, past the equipment bins and stacked crates, toward a dimly lit side hallway you hadn’t noticed before. The hallway that led to the trainers’ treatment rooms.

Empty now.

Silent.

Until he dragged you inside and kicked the door closed.

“You’ve been playing me all day,” he muttered, backing you toward the padded table in the center of the room, his eyes never leaving yours. “Texting me. Ignoring my calls. Wearing this little outfit like you don’t know what it does to me.”

“I knew exactly what it would do to you,” you breathed, voice light despite the thudding of your pulse.

William stepped in close, his hands settling low on your hips. “And you think that doesn’t come with consequences?”

You shrugged. “You said lunchtime. It’s after the game.”

His eyes darkened, his hands sliding around to cup your ass, squeezing once—hard. “Baby,” he growled, “lunch is whenever I decide it is.”

And then he spun you around, guiding you with practiced ease until your front pressed against the cold vinyl of the treatment table.

Your hands braced on the edge.

Your breath hitched.

William leaned over you, his body flush with yours, his voice rasping against your ear. “You think teasing me in public is a game?” His fingers slipped under the hem of your shorts, dragging the fabric down slowly, deliberately, inch by inch. “Wearing these out like you wanted someone else to notice?”

“I didn’t,” you said, voice shaking. “Just wanted you to notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” he growled. “And now you’re gonna take what you’ve been begging for all damn day.”

The shorts hit your ankles.

And then his hands were on you—gripping, spreading, dragging up the backs of your thighs like he was memorising the shape of you with his palms. You felt him pause behind you, his breath heavy, warm against the nape of your neck as he cupped you between your legs. His fingers pressed through your slick folds, stroking slowly, deliberately, until a groan rumbled low in his chest.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, almost reverently. “You’ve been like this all day?”

You nodded, biting your lip, pressing back against his hand with a soft grind that had your breath catching in your throat. “Wanted you so bad.”

William let out a dark chuckle. “Yeah? That why you kept pushing me?”

“Wanted you frustrated,” you gasped, your voice already wrecked. “Wanted you rough.”

He didn’t need another word.

The sharp sound of his zipper filled the quiet room, followed by the unmistakable shift of his clothes. Then the heavy heat of him was pressing against your backside—thick, hard, and twitching with anticipation.

“You wanna be a brat?” he growled, voice thick with control. “You want to drive me insane all day, just so I’ll take it out on you now?”

You whimpered, nodding again.

“Then take it,” he snarled—and thrust in with one sharp, deep stroke.

Your cry was instant, your body jerking forward as his cock filled you completely, so sudden and so full it nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Your fingers scrambled for purchase on the edge of the treatment table, your nails biting into the vinyl as he pulled back and slammed into you again—harder.

William didn’t let up. Didn’t ease into it. He gripped your hips like a man possessed, using your body to fuck out every ounce of tension he’d been carrying all week. The rhythm he set was brutal, relentless, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in the small room.

“You want to tease me like a brat?” he bit out, hand sliding up your spine to clamp over the back of your neck. “Then you take me like this.”

Your moans were a mess of broken sounds—pleas and gasps and whimpers all tangled together. He was hitting just right, his cock dragging perfectly over that spot inside you with every punishing thrust, his other hand slipping between your legs to circle your clit in tight, deliberate strokes.

Your body was already trembling, the pressure building too fast to stop. You could barely think—could only cling to the edge of the table as your thighs started to shake.

“Willy—” you gasped, your voice breaking into something high and desperate. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, his voice raw with heat. “You’re gonna come, baby. And I’m not gonna stop. You’re gonna take everything.”

And you did.

Your orgasm slammed into you, wild and consuming, ripping through your body like a live wire. You sobbed his name as your walls clenched hard around him, your legs nearly giving out from under you. Your whole body shook, bent over that table like something shattered open inside you. But William held you—kept you grounded. His hand never left your neck. His voice never stopped whispering praise.

“That’s it. Let go for me. So good for me. Just like that.”

You were still trembling when he slowed his pace—just enough to keep you riding the high, to draw it out until you were whimpering from the intensity.

And then he pulled out—just slightly—only to thrust in again with a rough, growled, “Mine.”

You gasped, dazed, still wrung out. “W-Wait—too much—”

He leaned over your back, kissing your shoulder gently. “You can take it,” he murmured, his voice suddenly softer but no less commanding. “Just breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”

He gave you a moment. One long, slow thrust at a time. Just enough to help you recover. His hand dragged soothing circles across your spine while the other slid down to squeeze your hip. His lips brushed over the back of your neck, damp with sweat.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, like he couldn’t help himself. “So tight. So perfect.”

You whimpered, slowly grounding again, your breath syncing with his. Your body still hummed from the orgasm, but there was something grounding in the way he held you now—in the heat of his body pressed against yours, in the way his voice melted into your skin.

“Ready?” he asked, nuzzling behind your ear.

You nodded. “Please.”

His pace picked up again—still rough, still deep, but tempered by a kind of reverence now. Like he’d taken what he needed, and now he was savouring the rest. He kissed along your shoulder as he drove into you, groaning into your skin with every thrust.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna—”

His movements turned frantic, desperate. His hips stuttered and he let out a long, guttural groan as he came hard, spilling inside you with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of him. He collapsed over your back, chest heaving, arms curling around your waist to hold you close.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and shallow. The aftershocks. The weight of what just happened.

Eventually, William leaned forward, brushing your hair back from your sweaty face, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His fingers traced lightly along your sides, grounding you with every pass.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice thick with tenderness.

You nodded against the table, spent but full, and so utterly his.

He helped you upright gently, turning you to face him. His eyes were soft now—no more dominance, just love. He tucked your hair behind your ear and rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You smiled, breathless. “Even when I’m a brat?”

He chuckled, kissing you slow and deep. “Especially then. Guess I really did keep my promise.”

You leaned into his chest, smirking. “You mean your threat?”

He kissed your forehead. “Same thing.”

And as he led you out of the room with a hand resting proudly on your ass, you knew he’d remember this little outfit forever.

But you also knew something else.

You’d never stop teasing him.

Because no matter how wild he went for it, he’d always want more.

[twistedheartsclub]

You Belong to Me Dark Male X Female Reader PT2

⚠️ Warnings: psychological manipulation, emotional abuse, non-consensual confinement, obsessive behavior, power imbalance, threats, coercive control, dark romance/yandere themes. Reader discretion is advised.

The SUV moved like a coffin through the city—silent, sealed, smooth.

Y/N was wedged in the far corner of the backseat, her wrists raw from fighting off the guards, her chest heaving with panic. Her eyes stayed locked on the door handle, even though she already knew it was useless.

Child-locked. Reinforced. Just like him.

Across from her, Xander sat relaxed.

Legs crossed. Gloved hands resting in his lap. Eyes fixed on her like she was the most delicate thing he'd ever held.

She couldn’t breathe.

"You’re safe now," he said softly.

That was when she snapped.

“You fucking monster,” she hissed, launching across the seat, her fists hitting his chest, her nails clawing at the fabric of his coat. “You took me!”

He let her.

He didn’t even flinch—until her nails caught his jaw.

Then the switch flipped.

Fast.

His hand caught both her wrists and slammed her down against the seat, body hovering over hers like a storm.

She screamed and kicked, but he pinned her easily, face inches from hers.

“I gave you time,” he growled. “I gave you space. And still, you spit in my face.”

Her breath came in shaky bursts, her wrists straining under his grip.

“Let me go—let me go!”

He didn’t.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear, voice like a blade dipped in honey.

“I am not going to hurt you. But if you try to fight me again, I will remind you who I am.”

Y/N froze.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“I’m not Alex,” he whispered. “I’m Xander Moreau. The man who built a kingdom. The man who owns everything—including you.”

Her eyes widened.

Her lips quivered.

And just like that—he saw it.

The flicker of fear.

The sting of reality.

She had no power here. Not anymore.

His grip slowly softened. His voice did, too.

“You're tired,” he said sweetly, almost tender. “You're scared. I know. But this... this is where we start over.”

She stared at him, stunned.

He brushed a tear from her cheek with maddening gentleness.

“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Just like I always have. You’ll see.”

And then, like flipping a switch—he smiled.

That familiar, soft, crooked smile she once thought belonged to someone kind.

Someone safe.

He tucked her hair behind her ear.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

She didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

And he leaned back into his seat like everything was perfectly fine.

Outside, the city began to disappear.

And ahead, their new home waited.

The car curved up a long, winding drive flanked by black iron gates.

Y/N sat frozen, her eyes locked on the massive estate ahead. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the pristine lawn and tall hedges that looked more like walls than decoration.

The house was enormous.

Not warm. Not like the glasshouse where he once made her feel safe.

This was something else.

Stone. Steel. Cold.

A modern fortress carved into perfection. The kind of home you didn’t leave without permission.

Her breath hitched when the front doors opened before they even parked—staff already waiting. Silent. Head bowed. Not looking at her. Just at him.

As the SUV rolled to a stop, the world suddenly became too quiet.

Y/N hesitated.

Then a guard opened her door.

She didn’t move.

Until Xander’s voice came from beside her.

“Come on, sweetheart. You’re home.”

She walked stiffly beside him through grand hallways lined with rich wood, marble, and glass. High ceilings. Chandeliers. Art she didn’t recognize but knew cost more than her life.

Everything was clean. Controlled. Chosen.

There were no personal touches.

No laughter.

No freedom.

He walked ahead with ease, like he’d brought home a new piece of furniture.

And she—barefoot, exhausted, numb—followed.

At the top of the stairs, he pushed open a double door and gestured inside.

“This,” he said, “is our bedroom.”

The word hit her like a slap.

Our.

Her spine went rigid. She stepped inside on shaking legs, her eyes scanning the room. A massive bed. A balcony. Velvet curtains. Cream bedding. Everything soft, expensive, perfect.

Everything wrong.

“I’m not staying here,” she whispered.

Xander’s voice came calmly behind her. “You are.”

“I’m not—” she turned around, heart pounding, “—I’m not sleeping in here with you.”

“You will.”

She opened her mouth to protest—

But he was already walking toward her.

She stepped back.

He followed.

“You’ll feel better once you rest,” he murmured, taking her hand and leading her with terrifying ease toward the bed.

“Don’t—please—”

He sat her down gently on the edge of the mattress, then stepped between her knees.

Straddled her.

Cupped her face in both hands.

His thumbs brushed under her eyes.

“You’ll adjust,” he said, like it was a promise. Or a sentence. “And one day, you’ll thank me.”

Then he leaned in to kiss her.

And she turned her head sharply away.

His lips landed on her cheek instead.

The rejection was loud in the silence.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then his fingers tightened around her jaw.

“Look. At. Me.”

Her eyes flicked toward him—wet, angry, trembling.

“You don’t get to run from me in my house,” he hissed. “You don’t get to flinch from the man who loves you.”

Then he grabbed her face and kissed her hard—forceful, claiming.

His hands slid from her jaw to her waist, exploring her like she belonged to him. Like she always had.

She gasped into his mouth, hands shoving at his chest.

“No—don’t! Don’t!”

Her palm cracked against his face.

He jerked back.

Stunned.

She was already crawling away on the bed, breath ragged, trying to get to the other side like the mattress might protect her.

“I said no!” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “You don’t get to touch me!”

For a beat, the only sound was her crying.

And the ragged sound of his breath.

Then—he smiled.

Not amused.

Not gentle.

A smile full of patience rotting into obsession.

“You’ll get tired, baby,” he said softly. “You’ll break before I do.”

And with that—

He stood.

Left the room.

And locked the door behind him.

Y/N jolted awake hours later, unsure if it was evening or dawn. The room was still—too still—and she lay on the same bed she had cried herself to sleep on.

The air smelled faintly of her perfume and something warm and masculine beneath it.

His scent.

She sat up slowly, scanning the room.

The door was still closed.

But when she stood and turned the handle—

It opened.

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t locked.

She peeked into the hallway, heart hammering.

Silence.

No guards.

No footsteps.

She stepped out barefoot, hands curled into the sleeves of her sweater, every step cautious. Her eyes flicked over the polished floors, the tall doors, the golden light pouring in from the skylight above.

The house was beautiful.

But it wasn’t hers.

The further she went, the clearer it became: no phones, no intercoms, no windows that opened. No keys. Just hallways and silence. Like a dollhouse where everything looked real until you touched it.

Then she heard a voice.

Soft. Humming.

Y/N turned a corner and stopped in her tracks.

Luna.

Standing by a window with a teacup in hand, her long dark hair loose, her expression relaxed—almost bored.

She didn’t look surprised to see her.

In fact, she didn’t look up right away.

Y/N stared, heart racing.

Finally, Luna glanced her way and smiled.

“Oh—morning. Or, afternoon. I think. Time gets weird here.”

Y/N stepped back slightly, confused and tense. “You’re here?”

Luna took a sip of tea. “Mhm. Just for a few days. I like to check in when he brings someone home.”

Y/N flinched.

She suddenly felt too visible. Too vulnerable.

Luna tilted her head. “You thought we didn’t know?”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “He kidnapped me.”

Luna blinked once. Then, calmly: “He loves you.”

“That’s not love.”

Luna shrugged. “Love looks different for everyone.”

Y/N's chest rose sharply. “You're not going to help me leave?”

At that, Luna smiled. Pitying. “Sweetheart… you're already home.”

Y/N's legs went weak.

She didn’t even realize she was crying again until Luna gently placed the teacup on the windowsill.

“If it’s any comfort,” she said quietly, “he’s never brought someone here and called it ours. That… that means something.”

Y/N stared.

Luna gave her one last look, then stepped past her with graceful ease, heading toward the stairs.

“Enjoy the house,” she called gently over her shoulder. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore.”

Y/N was left standing in the hall.

Frozen.

Breathless.

And more trapped than she’d ever felt.

The house was silent again.

Too silent.

Y/N moved like a ghost through its grand halls, arms wrapped around herself, sleeves tugged over her hands.

She’d passed two kitchens. A piano room. A conservatory. A marble staircase that led somewhere she didn’t dare explore.

And finally, the front entrance.

Tall, arched double doors. Golden handles. Sunlight pooled against the glass like hope itself.

But two guards in tailored black suits stood motionless on either side.

They didn’t glance at her.

Didn’t speak.

She stared at them for a long time, heart pounding.

Then turned away.

Back up the stairs.

Back to the room.

Back to his room.

The second she shut the door behind her, the tears came.

Quiet. Sudden.

She sank to the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, trying to stop the way her chest heaved.

She couldn’t get out.

Not without him.

So she did what she always did when she was afraid.

She started thinking.

How do I fix this? How do I get out without running? Without making him angry?

She’d seen the rage in his eyes. The gentleness turned sharp.

She couldn’t survive that again.

So maybe… she could explain.

She could say she panicked. That the magazine, the kiss, the silence—it all just overwhelmed her. That she never meant to run. That she was confused. She still loved her studies. Her job. Her life.

Maybe he’d believe her.

Maybe he’d let her go home.

Just for a while.

She rehearsed it in her head, whispering through shaking lips.

“Xander… I was confused. That’s all. I wasn’t ready. I just… I need to finish school. I need to breathe. Just for a little while. I’m not saying never. Just… not right now.”

She swallowed hard, pulling her knees to her chest.

“Please let me go home.”

But as she said it, the words felt thin. Weak. Empty.

Because somewhere deep in her chest, she already knew—

He had no intention of letting her go.

Not now.

Not ever.

And when the door finally opened behind her—

She didn’t even turn.

She just whispered,

“Please… let me finish school…”

And held her breath.

The door creaked open behind her.

Y/N sat still, perched on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped tight around her body like she could hold herself together with pressure alone.

She didn’t turn.

Not until she heard the soft rustle of fabric.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Xander stood near the wardrobe, removing his coat.

Then his shirt.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His back. His chest.

Strong. Defined. Scars along his ribs and shoulder that looked like stories no one was allowed to ask about.

She tore her gaze away, her cheeks burning, heart pounding with panic—and something else she hated herself for.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“C-Can we talk?” she whispered.

There was silence behind her.

Then footsteps.

Soft, slow, intentional.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than usual. Gentle.

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

She exhaled, shaky.

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to make things worse. I just—”

Her voice cracked. She fought it down.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “I saw the magazine. I felt stupid. Like… like I didn’t know who I was kissing. Who I trusted.”

Xander stopped a few steps from her.

She still didn’t look up.

“I should’ve let you explain,” she added. “And I shouldn’t have slapped you. I’m sorry. For your face.”

His voice came quiet, soothing. “I deserved it.”

She looked up—startled.

He was standing just in front of her now. Bare-chested. Barefoot. Hands calm at his sides. His expression was open, vulnerable even.

“I hurt you,” he said. “Even if I thought I was protecting you… I should’ve told you who I was.”

Y/N blinked at him, lips parted.

He crouched slowly—graceful, slow enough not to startle her—and settled on his knees in front of her, hands gently resting on the mattress at either side of her legs.

“You have every right to be scared.”

Tears welled again. “I just… I’m not ready. For any of this. For here. For you.”

He reached up and cupped her cheek, slowly, carefully.

She didn’t move.

Not yet.

“I know,” he said, thumb stroking her skin. “That’s why I’ll go as slow as you need. As long as you stay.”

Y/N’s breath shook.

The softness in his voice made her want to believe him.

Made her want to hope.

“I still have school,” she whispered. “My work. My friends—”

His thumb paused.

But only for a moment.

“You can study here,” he said easily. “I’ll bring your books. Your laptop. You won’t lose anything.”

“I need… normal.”

He smiled gently. “This will be normal. I’ll make sure of it.”

She looked at him—really looked.

He sounded like Alex.

He looked like Xander.

And she didn’t know which one would speak next.

“Okay,” she breathed.

Just for now.

Just until she could think.

The room was too quiet.

Y/N stood near the vanity, arms wrapped around herself, still trembling from the conversation that had felt almost—almost—safe.

She’d told him the truth.

That she wasn’t ready. That she’d never shared a bed with a man. That she just needed a little more space, a little more time.

And he had smiled—softly, kindly.

But the air had shifted the moment she said it:

“Can I sleep in a different room?”

The silence that followed had been sharp.

Xander sat on the edge of the bed, one hand flexing slowly in his lap.

She watched the muscles move in his jaw.

“I just…” she whispered. “I’m not saying no. I’m just scared. You said we’d go slow.”

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t speak.

She took a step back toward the door, her fingers curled into her sleeves.

“I’ll still be yours,” she said, almost choking on the words. “I promise. I won’t try to leave. I’ll be good, I’ll—just give me this. Please.”

Finally, he looked up.

And smiled.

But it wasn’t soft.

Not this time.

“Okay,” he said. “You can have that.”

Relief cracked in her chest.

But then he stood.

And stepped forward.

She flinched as he reached for her face—but his hand didn’t land there. It landed on her waist, heavy and warm. His other hand followed, ghosting along her back.

“One condition,” he murmured.

She froze.

His hand slid slowly from her waist to her hip.

“I want something first.”

Her breath hitched. “Wh-What are you doing?”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I’m being patient. I’m letting you have space. But I need to feel that you’re mine.”

His hand moved lower.

To the front of her waistband.

Her whole body tensed.

“Xander—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “You said you’d be mine. Just give me this.”

Her eyes filled, lips trembling.

“You said we’d go slow.”

“I am,” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath warm against her cheek. “But even slow has to move.”

Her knees shook.

She didn’t stop him. Not yet.

But she whispered, voice breaking—

“Please don’t make me afraid of you.”

And that made him pause.

Just long enough to let her think he might step back.

“Please don’t make me afraid of you…”

Her voice was barely a whisper. Fragile. Like breath on glass.

And for one quiet second, Xander stilled.

His hand rested against the band of her pants—too intimate, too wrong—his thumb brushing against the trembling skin just above it. His chest rose and fell with calm, deliberate breaths.

Y/N didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

She thought maybe—just maybe—that small plea would reach him.

That he’d stop.

That the Alex she once believed in was still somewhere inside him.

Then—

“I would never hurt you,” he murmured. “But I will remind you what belongs to me.”

His other hand gripped her waist tighter.

That was the last straw.

With a burst of adrenaline, Y/N shoved him back—hard.

“No!” she screamed, her voice cracking from her own panic. “Don’t touch me—don’t!”

He stumbled a half step—more from surprise than force.

And then he looked at her.

Eyes wide.

Mouth twitching.

And something beneath it all… breaking.

“I trusted you,” she gasped. “I loved you. I believed in you—and you were never real.”

He took a slow step forward.

She stepped back, toward the far end of the bed, trembling.

“Y/N—”

“You’re a monster.”

His jaw twitched.

“I will never love you,” she spat, her voice thick with tears. “Not after this. Not ever.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet.

It was loaded.

Thick with the tension of something that couldn’t be unsaid.

Xander’s expression changed—not to rage, not yet—but to something far more terrifying.

Stillness.

“I see,” he said softly.

She took another step back.

He mirrored it forward.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His eyes darkened. “You’re scared. Confused. You say things you don’t mean when you’re cornered.”

“Stop gaslighting me.”

“I’m correcting you.”

He reached the bed just as she backed into it, breath caught in her throat. She had nowhere else to go. Her hands gripped the post at the bed’s corner like it might anchor her.

He hovered above her now, a shadow in the candlelight. Calm, composed, like the outburst hadn’t mattered.

But she felt it.

The shift.

The pressure in the air.

“You will love me,” he said. “Because I’m not going to give you a choice.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

She tried to sidestep him, to slip past—but he caught her by the wrist. Gently. Almost lovingly. He leaned in, voice low.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “Keep resisting. But the moment you tire of pretending, I’ll be right here. Waiting.”

She was silent.

Too afraid to scream.

Too smart to beg.

And when he finally let go of her wrist, it felt more like a leash than mercy.

He stepped back.

Not out of kindness.

But to make her think she’d won.

The days blurred.

She had stopped trying to count them.

Y/N wasn’t sure if it had been two weeks or five.

She had tried at first—writing dates into her mind, tracking morning light across the marble floor, checking how many times the maids changed the sheets.

But eventually it all collapsed into a grey, shapeless mess.

Wake. Eat. Shower. Stare. Cry. Sleep.

Repeat.

Her meals were brought on silver trays—always warm, always perfect, always untouched by human hands. She never saw who left them. She only knew the click of the latch after someone had opened the door, placed the tray, and shut it again.

She tried asking once.

The maid—a short, soft-eyed woman who smelled like rosewater—looked straight through her.

Y/N had said “please.” Whispered it. Sobbed it once.

Nothing.

They didn’t speak.

They weren’t allowed to.

So eventually, she stopped trying.

The bed became both prison and sanctuary.

She would lie on her back, staring at the ceiling, letting her eyes trace invisible lines through the chandeliers. She would build worlds in her mind, pretend she was in her old apartment again, that Dahlia was about to knock on her door with takeout and trashy reality TV.

She imagined sitting in class, sipping bad coffee, doodling in the margins of her notebook.

She imagined Alex, before he was Xander. When he brought her flowers. When he sat next to her at the park. When he made her laugh so hard she forgot she was afraid.

But imagination eventually turns on you when there’s nothing else to feed it.

Soon, even her fantasies were hollow.

Then came the tears.

Long. Quiet. Constant.

She cried in the bath. On the floor. In the corner. Into her pillow until the case was soaked through. She cried for her mother. Her friends. Herself.

She cried until crying became breathing.

Until there was nothing left.

That morning, she ate in silence.

Then showered.

The steam fogged the mirror. Her reflection looked like a ghost.

She stepped out of the shower, her skin flushed from heat, hair dripping, a thick white towel clutched around her chest. Her legs were weak—too much sleep, too little movement.

Her bare feet padded across the floor as she moved back toward the bedroom, ready to curl into her usual spot and drift into another nap she didn’t want.

And then—

She froze.

He was sitting on the bed.

Xander.

One leg crossed over the other, his sleeves rolled up, fingers interlaced in his lap like he’d been waiting hours. Maybe he had.

Her blood turned to ice.

Y/N backed against the bathroom door, one hand flying to grip the towel tighter.

He smiled.

Gentle. Calm.

Like he was greeting her after a long day.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Her mouth opened—but no sound came out.

He looked her over slowly. Not lewd—almost clinical.

“You’ve lost weight.”

Still, she couldn’t speak.

“You sleep too much,” he added softly. “And you don’t go outside.”

She swallowed, her throat dry.

“You locked me in.”

“No,” he said gently. “I gave you space.”

Her lip quivered.

He stood slowly.

Walked toward her—not fast, not threatening.

But each step rang in her ears like a countdown.

“You asked for time. I gave it. You wanted silence. I respected it.”

She pressed herself harder against the door.

“I needed to think,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“And now?”

She looked away. “Now I want to be alone.”

He stopped just a breath away from her, his hand rising—slow, deliberate—and brushed a drop of water from her shoulder.

She flinched.

“I missed you,” he murmured. “I missed us.”

“There is no us,” she said, a flicker of fire in her voice.

But it was exhausted.

It was weak.

He heard it too.

He leaned down, lips by her ear.

“I think you’re ready to come out now.”

“I want to go home.”

Her voice was small.

Tired. But clear.

It landed between them like glass—sharp, fragile, dangerous.

“I want to go back to my apartment,” Y/N continued, her arms clutching the towel tighter around her. “Back to my life. To my friends.”

Xander froze.

His face, for a moment, didn’t move. But something behind his eyes snapped. The line between calm and rage thinned—vanished.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You want home?”

Y/N nodded once.

That was her mistake.

He lunged.

In a flash, his hand clamped around her upper arm. Hard. Not bruising, but close. Her breath hitched as she stumbled, her bare feet struggling to find purchase against the polished floor.

“Then let me show you what cruel really looks like,” he hissed.

She tried to resist, but he dragged her across the room with terrifying ease.

To the bed.

And shoved her down onto the edge of the mattress.

The towel nearly slipped. She grabbed it in panic, holding it tighter against her chest as she looked up, trembling.

Xander stood before her, chest rising and falling.

His voice was colder than ever. “You had weeks to be grateful.”

She blinked, tears spilling. “Xander, please—”

“No. No more games. You made your choice.”

He turned sharply and walked to the massive wardrobe.

Pulled open the closet.

From a drawer, he retrieved something small.

When he turned back, her blood went cold.

A dress—navy silk, sleeveless. Matching bra and underwear—lacy, delicate, clearly new.

He dropped them on the bed beside her.

“Put them on.”

Her voice broke. “Please don’t do this.”

His eyes were flat.

“Change,” he said, “or I’ll do it myself.”

She clutched the towel harder, shrinking.

But she reached for the clothes.

Hands shaking.

The bra trembled in her fingers.

He stepped back—just a few feet—but sat on the edge of the bed, watching her.

She stood slowly.

Tried to retreat into the bathroom.

His voice cracked like a whip.

“Stop.”

She froze in place.

Her body stiff.

“Turn around,” he said. “Change. In front of me.”

Her stomach twisted violently.

“Xander—”

“Now.”

Her blood turned to ice.

Tears welled as she slowly turned back to face him. Every inch of her skin burned with shame.

Her arms trembled as she reached for the top edge of the towel.

Her fingers hesitated.

Then—

She pulled.

The towel dropped.

She stood bare and shivering, arms barely covering herself, her vision blurred with tears. Her breathing came in sharp, silent gasps.

Xander didn’t say a word.

But his eyes never left her.

She rushed to slip the underwear on, fumbling the clasp of the bra. Her fingers weren’t working. She couldn’t see through the tears.

He stood.

Moved behind her.

She flinched hard when his hands touched her back, brushing her dripping hair aside.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He fastened the bra slowly, almost delicately.

Then reached for the dress.

Held it open.

She stepped into it in silence, too broken to speak.

When he zipped it up, he did it slowly—pulling the fabric tight, making her jump at the contact. His fingers lingered too long.

Then he leaned in.

And whispered at her neck,

“Good girl.”

She hated herself.

Every. Second.

Every trembling breath.

Every time she let him touch her without screaming.

Every time she obeyed just to survive the moment.

Y/N sat frozen at the edge of the bed, silk dress clinging to her skin, her body still damp beneath it. Her fingers clenched in her lap as she stared at the floor, tears dried against her cheeks.

Get a grip.

Her jaw trembled. You have to think. You have to fight. But she couldn’t stop shaking.

He hadn’t hurt her.

Not physically.

But his touch still lingered like a bruise.

And worse—she had let it happen.

No, that wasn’t true.

She hadn’t let anything.

He took it.

He took everything.

“Lunch is ready,” he said calmly, like it was any other day. Like she hadn’t just stood naked in front of him shaking like a leaf.

She didn’t move.

He walked to the door and waited patiently.

She swallowed hard.

Then stood.

Her knees were weak. Her breath shallow. She stepped carefully into the soft satin slippers waiting near the bed.

They matched the dress.

Of course they did.

Everything in this house matched.

Including the cage.

The walk down the stairs was slow.

Xander didn’t hold her hand, but he walked close enough that she could feel his presence behind her, like a shadow stitched to her back.

The house was silent.

No voices. No music. Just the gentle hum of air through the vents and the soft clicking of her steps on the floor.

Y/N’s eyes darted everywhere—doors, corners, possible exits—but nothing gave her hope. The windows didn’t open. The doors were too thick. She didn’t even know where outside was anymore.

He led her down a long hallway.

Then through tall double doors.

The dining room was empty except for a table near the window set for two.

White linen. Silver cutlery. Wine glasses.

A small vase with pale blue hydrangeas in the center.

It looked... normal.

Too normal.

He pulled out her chair.

She sat, numb.

Xander poured her water before taking his own seat.

He began eating like this was a date. Like they were in a restaurant. Like nothing had happened upstairs. His sleeves were rolled, his expression soft—familiar.

Almost like Alex.

And that was the worst part.

That there were moments he still looked like the man she once trusted.

That part of her still ached for the version of him who brought her flowers and laughed in the park.

She picked up her fork.

Her hand shook.

But she needed to eat.

She needed to stay strong.

She needed to find her mind again before he erased it completely.

The clinking of cutlery was the only sound for a while.

Xander sat across from her, chewing quietly, his gaze occasionally drifting to where she held her fork—tight, white-knuckled, trembling slightly. She hadn’t said a word since sitting down.

She barely touched her food.

“Are you sleeping alright?” he asked gently, as though they were catching up after a long day apart.

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

“Fine,” she murmured.

His smile twitched, almost fond.

“You liked that dress once,” he continued, slicing his food with casual ease. “You stared at it in that shop window for ten minutes.”

She blinked.

Her throat tightened.

“I was window shopping. Not picking a uniform.”

His jaw flexed—but only for a second.

Then he chuckled softly.

“You’re getting bold again. That’s good.”

She said nothing.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower.

“I missed you. I’m glad you’re here.”

She didn’t look at him.

She just focused on her plate. Her food. The way the bite of salmon on her fork looked too perfect, too pink, too… false.

Then—

Footsteps.

Clicking heels.

Laughter.

And a new voice, ringing like glass.

“Darling, we knocked—but I told them you’d be dramatic and not answer.”

Y/N looked up.

And froze.

Luna.

Hair pinned in soft waves. A flowing lavender dress, designer heels, perfect posture and a sharp smile.

Vera followed, dressed in black silk, her eyes cool and amused as they landed on Y/N.

Then—

Isadora.

Regal. Cold. Beautiful.

She entered last, her chin lifted, her pearls gleaming, her heels echoing on the marble as she approached.

The room shifted.

Xander stood, moving to greet them with a calm nod. “I didn’t expect you until tonight.”

“You never expect us until we’re already in the house,” Vera replied dryly.

Y/N kept her eyes low.

But she felt them watching her.

“Y/N,” Luna said sweetly, pulling out a chair beside her. “You look radiant.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

She blinked hard.

Her fork scraped against the plate.

“Still shy,” Vera added with a chuckle. “Or maybe just shell-shocked.”

Xander gave them both a look.

Not a glare.

A warning.

Enough.

Vera only smirked. “Just making conversation.”

Isadora moved slowly toward the table, her eyes never leaving Y/N. Her expression was unreadable—almost pleased. Almost... curious.

Then she smiled.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ve kept her well-fed,” she said to Xander, though her gaze stayed locked on Y/N. “That’s good. She has a softness to her. He likes softness.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

She placed her fork down carefully.

Her hands were shaking.

Vera took a sip of water. Luna crossed her legs and hummed a soft tune.

And then—

Without warning, Isadora’s voice cut through the room, cold and smooth:

“Have you been working on an heir?”

The silence that followed was instant.

Xander’s jaw clenched.

Vera choked slightly on her drink. Luna froze mid-blink.

Y/N went still.

The back of her neck flushed hot. Her vision blurred.

Her appetite vanished.

The taste in her mouth turned to ash.

She didn’t dare look up.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Xander’s voice came low. Measured.

“Not now, Mother.”

“But eventually, yes?” Isadora’s tone didn’t shift. “You’ll want one. With her.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Her hands dropped to her lap.

She blinked away the tears—furiously.

Bit by bit, her food blurred on the plate.

And still she said nothing.

Because if she spoke—

She would scream.

The silence after Isadora’s question stretched thin and sharp.

Y/N still hadn’t looked up.

She couldn’t.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the edge of her plate, her hands clenched together beneath the table, her body stiff with shame, fury, and quiet despair.

That’s when Vera chuckled softly—elegant, amused.

“Careful, brother,” she said, casually spearing a grape from the fruit bowl. “You should act fast.”

Xander’s eyes narrowed. “Vera.”

But she wasn’t done.

“Who knows how strong your swimmers are with all that stress you bottle up. Maybe you’re firing blanks.”

Luna choked on her drink, snorting into her napkin.

Isadora did not laugh.

She simply took a slow sip of her wine and then, with the poise of someone born into cruelty, added—

“If she doesn’t give you one, you’ll just have to try again. First wives rarely last, anyway.”

The words struck like a gunshot.

The sound of the chair scraping against marble was sudden and violent.

Y/N stood.

Her napkin fell to the floor, forgotten.

Her eyes were glassy, wide, but burning.

She wiped at her cheek roughly, furious at herself for letting the tears fall.

Her voice shook—but she spoke clearly.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

She didn’t wait.

Didn’t ask.

She turned and rushed from the table, ignoring the sound of Xander rising behind her.

“Y/N—”

“Let her go,” Vera muttered under her breath, watching her leave with one brow raised.

Xander didn’t move. His jaw was tight. His hand curled into a fist at his side.

Isadora delicately dabbed her lips with her napkin.

“She needed to hear it eventually,” she said. “You’re building a future. Emotions are irrelevant.”

Luna didn’t speak.

But even she looked shaken.

Vera, on the other hand, grinned behind her wine.

“She’s fragile,” she mused. “But I’ll give her this—she hasn’t screamed yet. That’s more than I can say for your last one.”

Xander said nothing.

But his stare burned.

In the hallway, down the corridor—

Y/N ran.

Her slippers slipped on the marble.

She didn’t know where the bathroom even was—she just turned until she found a door and flung it open, closing it behind her with a hard thud.

Her back hit the wall.

And then she sank.

Down. To the floor. Knees drawn to her chest. Shoulders shaking.

Tears flooded again.

But this time, they weren’t just fear.

They were rage.

Something in her was starting to spark.

She couldn’t survive much more of this.

But maybe she didn’t have to.

The room was dim, lit only by the wall sconces on either side of the bed. The air was warm and still, the silence unnerving.

Y/N lay on her side, back turned to the door, her body curled slightly beneath the silk sheets. Her face was pale. Blank. Eyes open, staring at nothing.

When the door clicked open behind her, she didn’t flinch.

She knew it would be him.

Xander stepped inside quietly, his shoes soft on the polished floors. He loosened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves to his elbows as he approached, the way a man might prepare to crawl into bed beside a woman who already belonged to him.

He didn’t expect resistance.

Not tonight.

“Hey,” he said softly, slipping off his watch. “You disappeared after lunch.”

Still no reply.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her—faintly amused.

“Are you really going to stay mad about a few words from my mother?”

Y/N blinked slowly.

Then finally spoke.

Her voice was dull. Flat.

“I don’t want a child. Especially not with you.”

The air in the room dropped.

Xander stilled.

For a moment, it didn’t register.

Then it did.

His brow twitched, but he smirked through it, leaning over her slightly, brushing her damp hair from her cheek.

“You’re just upset,” he murmured. “You don’t mean that.”

She rolled onto her back.

Met his gaze.

Eyes cold.

“I mean every word.”

The smirk faded.

He stared at her—hard—searching her face for any sign of softness. Regret. Fear.

But there was nothing.

Just a mirror of everything he hated.

“You’ve always wanted a family,” he said, voice tight.

“I’ve always wanted to choose who gave it to me.”

He sat up straighter.

Tension rolled off him like heat.

“You think I’d let anyone else touch you now?”

She didn’t blink.

“I’d rather rot.”

That did it.

He snapped upright, eyes blazing.

“You ungrateful little—” His voice rose, loud, raw. “You think you have a say in anything anymore?”

She said nothing.

But inside—

Good.

Let him scream.

Let him curse.

Let him see the cracks.

Let him hate her.

Because that was the plan.

If she broke the fantasy, if she shattered the image he clung to—sweet, tender Y/N—then maybe...

Just maybe...

He’d let her go.

The fire crackled softly in the grand living room.

Evening cast the estate in gold and shadow, long stripes of dying light across the floor.

Xander sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

A crystal tumbler sat untouched beside him.

He didn’t want a drink.

He wanted control.

“She’s unbearable,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Across the room, Luna lounged on the chaise, arms crossed gently over her stomach, brows furrowed in quiet concern.

“She’s mourning her freedom,” she offered softly. “What did you expect?”

Vera sat perched on the arm of the sofa, swirling a glass of wine. “He expected gratitude. Or at least submission. He’s getting a brat with a martyr complex.”

“She called me pathetic,” Xander said coldly. “She looked me in the face and said I was weak for needing someone who hates me.”

“Oh,” Vera smirked, “delicious.”

“She won’t speak to me unless it’s to insult me. She refuses to eat at the table. She won’t let me touch her. She spits on everything I give her.”

“She’s testing you,” Isadora said from her chair near the fireplace, legs crossed, expression unreadable.

“She’s driving me insane,” he snapped. “I took care of her. I loved her.”

“She doesn’t want love,” Vera said. “She wants control. Rip it away.”

Luna looked up, shaking her head. “You should let her go. Before this turns into something no one can fix.”

There was silence.

Xander’s knuckles went white on the armrest.

Then—Vera laughed.

“God, you’re soft.”

“I’m sane,” Luna said coolly. “There’s a difference.”

“She’s not worth your name,” Vera said, ignoring her. “But she is worth breaking.”

Xander’s breath slowed.

He didn’t look at either of them.

“She wants to be the victim?” Vera continued. “Make her one. Ruin the version of herself she clings to. Strip her down. Remind her she’s nothing without your permission.”

Luna stood now, her expression disgusted. “You’re suggesting—what? Torture? Starvation?”

“Humiliation,” Vera said simply. “It works. Break her pride, and you break the rebellion.”

Xander looked toward the fire.

Quiet. Cold.

Then his mother finally spoke.

One sentence. Icy and final.

“If she won’t be your wife willingly… start treating her like your possession.”

Yards away, Y/N sat upstairs, staring at her reflection in the dark glass of the bedroom window—unaware that in the room below, her fate was being decided by monsters in silk.

The dining room glowed softly with candlelight and golden fixtures. Crystal clinked against porcelain. Wine flowed.

Y/N sat at the far end of the table, shoulders stiff, posture straight, her expression unreadable.

Her skin still ached beneath her sleeve.

Xander had gripped her arm earlier—twisted it just hard enough to send a warning, to make her wince and stumble, to show her what would happen if she refused to come downstairs again.

And so, she came.

But she did not speak.

Did not eat more than a few slow, reluctant bites.

She stared at her plate, tuning out the sounds of Vera’s lazy sarcasm, Luna’s attempts at civility, and Isadora’s cold assessments of the estate’s finances.

At one point, Luna leaned closer, her voice gentler than the others.

“You look tired. Maybe later we could walk in the garden?”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Didn’t even glance at her.

Luna’s face fell, but she didn’t push.

Vera smirked behind her wine.

Xander kept watching her.

He hadn’t touched her since forcing her to dress and come down. But his stare pressed against her skin more than his hands ever had.

She could still hear him from earlier.

“Put your fucking dress on and walk. Or I’ll carry you down those stairs by your throat.”

The meal ended.

Servants cleared the plates in silence.

As they moved to the lounge for coffee and dessert, Vera’s voice floated in the air like smoke.

“There’s a movie queued. Something classic. You should join us, sweetheart,” she said sweetly over her shoulder.

Y/N stood stiffly.

“I’ll pass.”

And turned for the stairs.

“Y/N,” Xander warned, standing behind her.

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

But her pace quickened.

The tension in the room coiled tighter.

Then—

A voice cut through the air. Not from Vera. Not Luna. Not even Isadora.

It was a cousin—or one of the distant male relatives from Xander’s side who had been invited for appearances.

The man leaned back in his seat with a laugh and said, almost casually:

“Xander, be a man. Be the man people used to fear. Drag her back down here and beat that attitude out of her.”

The air froze.

Luna’s mouth parted in horror.

Isadora looked mildly amused.

Vera smirked, swirling her wine.

Xander stood still.

No anger. No reaction.

Just silence.

But behind his eyes—something moved.

A shift.

A crack.

A very quiet decision.

Upstairs, Y/N’s door shut gently.

She exhaled in the dark.

And had no idea what she had just provoked.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the wall sconces. The house had gone still—no voices, no footsteps, just the faint echo of wind brushing against the tall windows.

Y/N lay on her side, facing the wall.

Her body still. Her breathing even.

But she was not asleep.

She hadn’t truly slept in days.

Not since the dinner.

Not since the bruises bloomed where his fingers had dug too deep.

Tonight, she had placed pillows in the center of the bed, stacked high—a soft barrier. A silent declaration.

This is my half. You are not welcome here.

She wore one of the silk nightgowns he insisted on—too thin, too soft, clinging to her skin like an apology.

Her heart pounded beneath it.

The door creaked open behind her.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t move.

Footsteps.

Steady. Slow.

Then stopped.

She could smell him—whiskey, spice, the faint scent of cedar clinging to his skin.

He had been drinking.

Not enough to stumble. Just enough to be dangerous.

She heard the soft clink of his belt as it unbuckled, the subtle sound of shirt buttons undone.

Then—

Stillness.

He stood at the foot of the bed.

Watching.

Breathing.

And without a word—

He grabbed her ankle.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open.

She barely gasped before he yanked her down the bed with one harsh pull, her body dragging across the silk sheets, the pillows scattering to the floor with a dull thud.

She cried out as she was pulled to the edge, the hem of her nightgown riding up her thighs, her hair falling wild over her face.

Xander loomed above her now, shirt open, his chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths.

“You thought that would stop me?” he asked, voice low—almost calm.

Her legs kicked, trying to push away, scramble up the bed, but he caught her again—this time by the waist—and pinned her in place.

She glared at him, shaking, but didn’t speak.

“I built this house for you,” he said. “Filled it with everything you could need. And still, you act like I’m the villain.”

“You are,” she spat, voice breaking.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t yell.

He just smiled—slow, bitter.

Then leaned down until his lips brushed her ear.

“You sleep in my bed, in my clothes, eat my food—and you still pretend you’re not mine.”

Her body trembled.

But her stare didn’t drop.

“I will never be yours.”

He inhaled slowly, his hands tightening at her hips.

Then whispered:

“You already are.”

His hand gripped her face, rough and unrelenting.

Xander’s mouth crashed into hers, swallowing her protests, smothering her scream, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His body was hot, solid, and heavy—an immovable force above her. The kiss wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tender. It was a warning.

A punishment.

Her fists pushed at his chest, her nails digging in, but he didn’t stop.

“Stop it,” she gasped, turning her face, her lip catching on his teeth as she tried to twist away. “Get off of me.”

He caught her chin and forced her to face him again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Say you’re mine.”

She stared up at him, her tears burning.

“I hate you.”

His jaw ticked.

She could feel his body tremble—not from sadness, but from fury. Control. Lust. Something twisted.

She kicked beneath him, but he caught her wrist and slammed it down beside her head.

“You think you’re still in control?” he whispered. “You lost that the second I brought you here.”

Her mind screamed, but she said nothing.

She was not going to give him the satisfaction.

His other hand dragged slowly down her side, over the silk of her nightgown, testing her resolve. Her stomach twisted with disgust, terror, and rage as he hovered just above her skin.

But she stared at the ceiling.

And willed herself to feel nothing.

He kissed her again—harder this time, bruising—and her eyes blurred.

But somewhere, deep down, she locked herself away.

He would not have her soul. He would not have her mind.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

“Do what you want,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “You’ll still never have me.”

And something in his face flickered.

Anger.

Confusion.

The deep, gnawing realization that no matter what he took—

He could never make her want him again.

The air between them was thick.

Xander hovered above her, his breath hot, his hand still gripping her wrist. His weight kept her pressed into the bed, the silk of her dress twisted beneath her hips. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she kept her eyes locked on his with everything she had left.

I won’t give him what he wants.

She said nothing.

Did nothing.

And that silence enraged him more than screaming ever could.

His lips brushed her ear again—too soft, too cold.

“You think I’m the one who’ll break first?” he whispered. “You think they’ll find you? Come save you?”

Still, she didn’t react.

Not enough.

So he changed tactics.

“You know Dahlia still walks home alone sometimes?” he said, slowly, like testing a blade. “Imani works late shifts. No one walks her to her car.”

Y/N’s body stiffened.

He felt it instantly.

The subtle give in her shoulders, the way her breath caught in her throat.

And he smiled.

“Mm. There it is.”

Her mask began to slip.

Her eyes widened, her lips trembling despite her efforts to steel them.

“Leave them alone,” she whispered. “They have nothing to do with this.”

“They have everything to do with this,” he said, tone still calm, still maddeningly soft. “You think I haven’t kept tabs on them? You think I haven’t considered what might make you behave?”

She swallowed hard.

Her eyes burned. “You’re lying.”

Xander tilted his head. “Am I?”

And as he leaned closer, his fingers brushed the side of her neck. Then lower, just above the edge of the silk strap of her dress.

“You weren’t scared enough before,” he said. “But I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

He tugged.

One delicate strap slipped off her shoulder.

Y/N jerked.

Tears welled, but she turned her face away, gritting her teeth.

“You touch them,” she said, her voice shaking, “and I’ll never speak another word to you. You’ll never see me again. Not even as your prisoner.”

He studied her.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he sat back—slowly, deliberately—and adjusted his shirt sleeves.

“I’m not a monster, Y/N,” he said, even as his smirk betrayed him. “But you’re turning me into one.”

He stood.

He stood.

Y/N's heart was still racing, her hands shaking where they clutched the edge of the mattress.

He watched her for a long moment—eyes calm, hands resting at his sides like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just threatened her with the people she loved. And then, without a word, he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and let it slide from his shoulders.

She didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Her stare was hollow, defiant, locked on him like she could burn through him with her silence alone.

He dropped the shirt to the floor.

Then unfastened his pants.

They hit the floor with a soft thud. He stepped out of them and moved casually to the other side of the bed, completely unbothered by her gaze.

As if this were any other night.

As if this was love.

He climbed in without hesitation, settling under the covers, stretching his arms over the pillows between them—her barrier. With one swift motion, he grabbed them and threw them to the floor like they were nothing.

Then he looked at her again.

Voice low.

Final.

“Come here.”

Y/N didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“Y/N,” he said again, this time firmer. “Come. Here.”

Her breath caught.

She stayed frozen on her side of the bed, the covers clutched around her body, her spine taut with dread. Her mind raced. Would he drag her? Would he wait?

But he didn’t rise.

He just laid there, staring at her, waiting.

Smiling.

Not soft.

Not sweet.

That cold, unnerving smile of someone who believes he already owns the outcome.

“You want your friends safe?” he murmured. “You want peace tonight?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

But slowly—mechanically—she shifted under the blanket. Her limbs moved like they didn’t belong to her. Each inch across the mattress was a silent scream in her chest.

When she finally reached his side, she laid down, stiff and cold beside him.

He wrapped his arm around her waist like it was nothing.

Like they were lovers.

And whispered against her temple,

“See? You belong right here.”

She stared past him—into the dark—clinging to one last thought:

He might own the night... ...but he will never own my soul.

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @apoemtitledyoo

[sebstanaddict]

Prince Barnes of Broodovia

Bucky Barnes x Avengers & Avengerz One Shot

A/N: Bucky's new look at the end of Thunderbolts inspired me to write this hilarious story about the power of his new look on the Avengers and Avengerz ;) More hilariously, his new look can stop a war! XD How? Find out below ;)

Warning : none, just silly and hilarious story. Major Thunderbolts spoiler though. So watch that first.

Word count : 3.9k

Read more Bucky Barnes and Sebastian Stan one shots here.

Check out my master list here for more Bucky and Sebastian stories.

---

Okay. Let's rewind a bit.

Fourteen months ago a band of misfits, disposable delinquents and anti heroes who were calling themselves the Thunderbolts - well, at least one of them did - saved New York City from disappearing into a dark Void forever with the power of friendship and a group hug.

And then, like all heroic teams basking in post-crisis confusion, they were immediately manipulated.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine - CIA director, chessmaster, chaos goblin in expensive heels - swooped in. She rebranded them as The New Avengers before anyone could blink. Did they agree to it? No. Did she file the paperwork anyway and slap their faces on cereal boxes? Yes. Yelena found out via Instagram.

But... the weird thing?

It started to work.

Despite their bickering, their petty roasts, and Ghost's weekly threat to "phase through someone's kneecaps," they became capable. They grew into heroes. Not clean-cut ones. Not the public-darling variety. But they were effective. And the world noticed.

Fourteen months later, they had a new HQ, a begrudging respect for each other, and more or less stable friendships (Walker and Red Guardian still weren't allowed to do grocery runs together).

And then came the lawsuit.

Sam Wilson - Captain America himself and leader of the official Avengers - filed a copyright claim for the name Avengers. The nerve. The betrayal. The sheer pettiness.

So, the team did what they do best.

They rebranded again.

They were now... The Avengerz.

With a Z. Because apparently, that's "cool" now, Red Guardian insisted.

Today, they were scheduled for a simple mission briefing. Just a routine plan before meeting with Sam's Avengers for a joint op. Everyone was already on edge about having to deal with "the real heroes" again.

But then -

Bucky Barnes walked in.

And time. Just. Stopped.

He didn't so much walk into the room as he did materialize, bathed in invisible moonlight and the kind of wind you only get in hair commercials. His long, dark hair was freshly trimmed and gloriously wavy, brushing just past his jaw, and styled like it had been touched by some celestial hairstylist who only serviced Disney princes.

But it didn't stop there.

The man had grown a beard. Not a wild, mountain-man beard. No, this was an Aragorn-in-the-woods-but-somehow-clean beard - just scruffy enough to say I've seen battle, but neat enough to whisper women want to fix me.

And if that wasn't enough, he was wearing an all-black, tailored armored tactical suit - new and gleaming - with a bold red star emblazoned on his right arm, like a statement piece that said yes, I'm haunted, but fashionably so.

The team just... stared.

Yelena, who was mid-sip of coffee, very calmly lowered her mug and said, "So... I guess we're all in love with Bucky now?"

Bob blinked. "I thought I was having a stroke. Turns out it's just his hair."

Walker made a strangled noise and pointed. "What is this? Who let you walk around looking like this? There are rules, man!"

Bucky blinked. "It's just a new suit."

"You look like you came out of a romance novel," Yelena said, circling him slowly. "But one where you're secretly royalty and were cursed for a hundred years until you finally woke up, with perfect hair, a new beard, and an emotionally devastating past."

Red Guardian squinted at him. "Are we not going to talk about how he looks like he sings duets with forest animals?"

Ghost, arms crossed, tilted her head. "You're giving major Aragorn if he moisturized energy."

"You know what it is?" Walker said, nodding. "It's Disney Prince meets Leather Daddy meets brooding fantasy king who lost his homeland and now refuses to love again."

"Honestly," Bob added, "you look like if Aragorn and a bottle of hair serum had a baby. A really conflicted baby with great posture."

Yelena leaned in closer, studying the beard. "You realize this is the beard of a man who absolutely gets serenaded by woodland creatures."

"Or leads a rebellion while smoldering dramatically from a cliff," Ghost added.

Bucky frowned and ran a hand through his hair. Big mistake. His hair flipped in perfect slow motion like it had been choreographed. Everyone groaned.

"Oh my God," Walker muttered. "That flip just made me question my life."

"Prince Barnes," Yelena announced, bowing dramatically. "Of Broodovia. The First of His Name. Wielder of Conditioner. Slayer of Eyeliner."

"Seriously, what shampoo do you use?" Bob asked. "Is it like... enchanted?"

"Do you brush it with a comb made of unicorn bone?" Walker said, eyes wide. "Is there a hidden mirror you whisper your insecurities to?"

Bucky, now visibly regretting every decision that brought him here, muttered, "It's just a beard and a haircut."

"Just?" Red Guardian scoffed. "You look like you're about to declare war on a rival kingdom because they insulted your honor."

"You don't walk, Barnes," Ghost said. "You stride. Like you're about to rip off a cloak and reveal a legendary sword with a tragic name."

"Yeah," Bob nodded. "Like... Heartbreaker. Or Whisperfang."

Yelena grinned. "Or Silken Doom."

Walker was dying. "I can't breathe. This is who you are now. You wear leather and save people while whispering 'I'm no hero.'"

Bucky folded his arms, star glinting in the light. "You're all idiots."

Walker raised a finger. "Can I just say, this is like... if Batman got therapy and decided to start modeling."

Bucky sighed. "I knew I shouldn't have worn the new suit today."

"Too late, your majesty," Bob said, doing a mock bow. "We serve at the pleasure of the Crown."

"Long may he smolder," Ghost added.

"Fine," Bucky said, giving up and heading toward the door. "Next mission, I'm leaving you all behind in the enchanted forest."

"Oh no," Yelena called after him. "Don't abandon us, Prince Barnes! What if the wolves come and we need you to dramatically swing in on a vine and save us while your hair glows in the moonlight?"

Bucky stopped just long enough to say over his shoulder, "You're all terrible people. Now come on. The Old Avengers are waiting."

–--

One hour later

The Avengerz - strode into the Avengers Compound briefing room like they didn't just argue in the jet over who left an empty protein bar wrapper in the cockpit. Bucky walked in last, which was strategic. It gave his hair time to catch the wind.

He was in full glory: the beard, the waves, the red star gleaming on his black armored tactical suit, every step a slow-motion trailer for a fantasy series no one could afford to make.

The room was already half full. Sam Wilson stood at the front with his arms crossed, looking perfectly heroic in his Captain America suit. Around him: Thor in street clothes that still somehow screamed Asgardian prince, Ant-Man eating a bagel, Falcon sipping bubble tea, War Machine mid-checking his phone, and Smart Hulk adjusting his glasses.

Then they all looked up.

And everything stopped.

Scott Lang actually dropped his bagel.

"Whoa," he said, staring. "When did Bucky turn into a walking shampoo commercial?"

"Is that... hair?" Thor asked, stepping closer with reverence. "Like, intentional hair?"

"Goddamn," War Machine muttered. "He's got the beard too. We're in trouble."

Bucky gave them a tight nod. "We're here for the briefing, not - "

"No," Sam said, cutting him off, a hand raised. "No, no, no. You don't get to walk in here looking like a cursed prince who just broke the spell and act like everything's normal."

Falcon stared in pure admiration. "You look like you just stepped out of a dramatic flashback."

Hulk tilted his head. "His facial structure is mathematically unkind to morale."

Scott blinked. "Why is his suit tighter than usual? Is this... are we in a fanfic?"

Yelena, beaming, casually leaned against the wall. "Welcome to our nightmare. He moisturizes now. It's a problem."

"I knew it!" Sam shouted. "He used to look like a grumpy knife. Now he's the cover of a fantasy romance novel called Steel and Regret."

Ghost chimed in, "Or Midnight Soldier: A Love That Won't Be Forgiven."

"Leathered Vengeance," Bob added helpfully. "Coming soon to streaming."

Red Guardian took a deep breath, gesturing dramatically. "It's like Aragorn and L'Oréal had a very brooding baby."

Bucky groaned. "It's just a haircut."

Sam pointed at him. "That's not a haircut. That's a plot device. That beard? It's character development. That suit? Villain-turned-antihero-who-leads-a-rescue-mission-in-the-rain kind of suit."

"I agree," Thor nodded solemnly. "That's the armor of a man who carries the weight of destiny... and a three-step skin care routine."

Falcon clutched his drink. "I swear to God, if he flips his hair I'm quitting the team."

Bucky immediately shoved his hair behind his ear. Three people audibly gasped.

"That's it!" Scott yelped. "That was the move! The wistful tuck! He's doing it on purpose!"

"He always does," Yelena said. "We live like this."

Sam shook his head and turned to the Avengerz. "How do you even function with him like this?"

Walker snorted. "We don't."

Thor was still circling Bucky like he was inspecting a fine stallion. "This one," he said, voice full of admiration, "is ready for war and heartbreak."

Bucky looked at Sam, expression flat. "You called this meeting."

"Yeah," Sam said. "But I wasn't ready to get visually assaulted."

Scott raised a hand. "Okay but serious question: Do you do the conditioner rinse, or leave-in?"

Everyone went silent. Even Sam leaned forward.

Bucky sighed. "Leave-in. Coconut-based."

Falcon actually wrote it down.

Sam took a long breath. "Alright. Back to business. But just so we're clear - if anyone on my team suddenly grows a beard, starts brooding, or wears all black, I'm blaming you."

Yelena whispered, "He loves this."

Bucky muttered, "Shut up."

---

It took a while but finally The Avengers and The Avengerz managed to get the meeting started, despite Bucky being a major distraction.

"Alright, listen up, chaos gremlins," Sam Wilson said, standing at the front of the room with a pointer, a tablet, and a level of regret usually reserved for high school teachers on substitute duty.

Behind him, a map of Karoznya flickered on the big screen. A long, narrow Eastern European kingdom with an unfortunate number of goats, suspicious fog, and exactly one functioning Starbucks.

"We've been called in to stop a civil war," Sam explained. "Apparently, the Karoznyan royal family vanished a century ago in a snowstorm, the people split into royalist and republican factions, and now they're all mad and heavily armed."

"Like America," said Scott Lang. "But with better pastry."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, not saying a word, looking like he was seconds away from playing guitar in a medieval tavern - and his beard had entered "legendary Tumblr daddy" status.

Yelena raised a brow. "So, what, we fly in, hold hands, sing national anthem, make peace?"

"No," Sam said. "We split into teams. Disable the rebel artillery, secure the castle, and keep Red Guardian from adopting any more animals."

"I make no promises," Red Guardian said, stroking a stuffed bear he'd brought to the meeting.

Bob (a.k.a. Robert Reynolds, a.k.a. the Sentry, a.k.a. Guy Who Looks Like a Viking But Has the Anxiety of a Chinchilla) slowly raised his hand. "What if... we accidentally destroy the castle?"

Everyone stared.

"...I'm asking for a friend."

John Walker slapped the table. "Let's just go in hot and make America proud."

"Jesus, no," Sam muttered.

"Did someone say civil war? I love those. Great parties." Thor entered, holding a smoothie, no one knew when he left.

"Please define 'party,'" Smart Hulk added dryly, flipping through a stack of mission documents. "Because last time you said that, we ended up in a lava pit."

"It was warm," Thor replied defensively.

Joaquin Torres raised a hand from the back. "So quick question - what's the actual strategy for not getting immediately shot at by people who think we're invading their kingdom? Also, do we get ponchos?"

"Why would you need ponchos?" Sam asked.

"For dramatic effect," Joaquin replied, dead serious. "I feel like this mission needs some medieval flair."

Sam just stared. "God help me."

---

Karoznya – Edge of the Capital City

A sleek Quinjet roared above the foggy hills, cutting through Karoznya's cloudy skies like a drama queen's eyeliner. Inside, the Avengerz and Avengers were prepping like only they could.

Ghost was vanishing in and out of her seat like a strobe light. Red Guardian was trying to fit into a child-sized set of "Royal Guard" armor. Yelena was repainting her nails. Thor was braiding Bob's hair ("It helps him relax before battles, leave him be"). Scott was eating a sandwich with pickles inside a protein bar.

Smart Hulk sat near the cockpit, flipping through a dossier with one giant finger and adjusting his reading glasses. "Based on sociopolitical analysis and goat density mapping, this is going to be ridiculous," he muttered

Joaquin Torres was polishing his wing rig in the corner, half listening and half scrolling through Karoznyan airspace charts on his phone. "Are goats usually this aggressive in civil wars?"

"Only the elite ones," War Machine replied, tightening a gauntlet and eyeing the terrain through the window. "If one of them starts climbing me again, I'm charging that thing rent."

And Bucky?

Bucky sat silent, legs wide, gloves tightening, beard brooding, hair bouncing, with the undeniable aura of "I read poetry and probably kill people who litter."

The hatch opened. Sam gave one last warning. "No collateral damage. No flaming goats. No accidental weddings. And no impersonating foreign royalty."

"You act like we've done that before," Scott said.

"You have."

---

Karoznya – Royal Capital Battlefield

The Avengers and Avengerz touched down in the city square with a BOOM. Sam swooped through a crowd of rebels like a majestic bird of liberty, knocking rifles out of hands with his wings.

"Put the weapons down!" he shouted. "We're here to help!"

"Why does he yell like that?" Yelena muttered, throwing a smoke bomb directly into someone's pants. "You know what I do? Whisper intimidation."

Red Guardian charged straight into the fray, dramatically body-slamming a cart of turnips. "I HAVE COME TO RESTORE PEACE - AND STABILITY TO THIS REGION!"

"Are you holding a child?!" Sam yelled.

"Yes, her name is Katya and she is now my daughter."

Thor struck the ground with Mjolnir, sending shockwaves through the rebel line. "TO PEACE!" he bellowed, and then promptly electrocuted a gazebo.

Scott grew to thirty feet and accidentally knocked over a statue.

Bob exploded midair in a golden burst of anxiety-powered flight and immediately got stuck in a clocktower.

Smart Hulk calmly uprooted a howitzer, flung it into a lake, and sighed. "We need better conflict resolution protocols."

War Machine flew overhead and unleashed a series of perfectly placed sonic blasts, not enough to injure, but absolutely enough to blow off several enemy hats. "This is your ceasefire warning - and your last chance to upgrade your fashion sense!"

Joaquin zoomed in from above, tossing mini flashbangs like confetti. "Falcon Two inbound - someone tell Bucky to stop glowing like a Shakespeare prophecy!"

And John Walker just started punching.

Chaos.

Total chaos.

Then - just as one Karoznyan general ordered his troops to charge, and two political leaders were about to throw literal soup at each other - a shadow appeared at the castle gates.

Boots crunched over marble. The sound echoed through the battlefield like a slow-motion cologne commercial.

A man stepped into view.

Black tactical suit. Blood-red star. Vibranium arm glinting in the sun. Hair cascading over his shoulder like a shampoo ad during the Super Bowl. Beard glistening. Jawline sharp enough to violate the Geneva Convention.

A collective gasp rippled across the square.

A Karoznyan soldier dropped his weapon. "It's... it's HIM..."

Another knelt. "The Prince... the Winter Prince has returned!"

The royalist leader sobbed. "The prophecy!"

A street vendor threw roses. A goat fainted. A woman clutched her heart and yelled, "MY OVARIES!"

Bucky blinked. "What the hell is going on?"

A priest appeared out of nowhere, chanting. "He has returned! The rightful heir to the House of Broodovia! He of the tragic eyes!"

Sam landed beside Bucky, panting. "I leave you alone for two minutes and now you're king?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Bucky hissed.

"He has the cheekbones!" someone screamed.

"I knew it!" Yelena yelled and cackled gleefully.

Joaquin landed behind them. "Okay, but can I be the guy who writes his dramatic speeches?"

"I'll start printing flags," War Machine muttered.

Smart Hulk just shook his head. "We are going to have to file a full diplomatic report for this."

---

Karoznya – Royal Palace, 3 Hours Later

Bucky Barnes had been a lot of things in his life.

Assassin. Avenger. Amputee. Eye candy.

But this? This was a new low.

He was currently seated on a throne made of ice. Real ice. Like someone decided Frozen was a how-to manual. He was wearing an embroidered robe so heavy it had its own gravity. On his head? A silver crown shaped like antlers. On his lap? A goat named Archibald who would not stop farting.

"I'm gonna kill you," he muttered at Sam, who was doubled over laughing behind a gilded curtain.

Sam wheezed. "This is better than that time Scott got stuck in a vending machine."

"I don't want to be king!" Bucky hissed. "I want to go home! I want to eat leftover Chinese food in my sweatpants and not be worshipped by a bunch of people who think cheekbones equal leadership!"

A herald with a mustache that curled like a pretzel stepped forward. "Your Majesty, the Council awaits your decree on what to do with the rebel faction."

"I don't have decrees," Bucky snapped. "I have trust issues and a metal arm."

An old woman with three monocles wiped a tear. "Just like your great-grandfather..."

Yelena leaned against the throne arm. "You know, this is kind of sexy. Tragic royal vibes. You should get a velvet cape."

"I am wearing a velvet cape."

"Oh. Then get a bigger one."

Red Guardian marched into the room with a goat trotting behind him. "Prince Bucky, I have brought tribute from the villages. Potatoes, cheese, and one musical sword."

The sword let out a weak "ding" when he dropped it.

"Thank you, Alexei. That's.. very... confusing."

Bob poked his head in through the window. "Do we get to do a coronation ceremony? I Googled how to do one. There's incense!"

"No incense!" Bucky barked.

"Too late!" Thor boomed, kicking the door open. He was shirtless now for reasons unknown and was holding a bowl of fire. "Let the royal flame of the ancestors BURN!"

Ghost, halfway through stealing a decorative scepter, sighed. "This is why I don't work with normal teams."

"You say that every time, and yet here we are," Smart Hulk muttered, checking his vitals. "Do you know how hard it is to catalog all this for mission logs?"

Joaquin peeked around a velvet curtain. "The townsfolk are chanting his name and waving loaves of bread. Can I go hand out autographs?"

War Machine sat in the corner, sipping tea from a tiny royal cup. "I swear, this feels like the end of a Disney movie directed by Quentin Tarantino."

John Walker wandered in wearing half a guard uniform and a cardboard crown. "They said I could be 'Duke of Punching.' I didn't say no."

Suddenly, trumpets blared.

A servant ran in, panting. "Prince Bucky! The rebels... want to negotiate peace. They say if you give a speech from the balcony, they'll lay down arms."

Bucky blinked. "A speech? Why me?"

"Because you're the Winter Prince!" cried someone from the rafters.

"That's not a title! That's just... weather and trauma!"

---

Ten Minutes Later – Royal Balcony

Bucky stepped out to roaring applause.

Down below, thousands of Karoznyans waved flags, cried, fainted, and screamed things like "WE LOVE YOU, PRINCE BUCKY!" and "FATHER ME WITH JUSTICE!"

He looked back at the team helplessly.

Sam gave a thumbs up. Yelena mimed shoving him off the balcony. Thor waved his flaming bowl.

Smart Hulk was filming. "This is going in the debriefing video. I want the UN to see this nonsense."

War Machine leaned on the balcony rail. "You ever seen a man defeat political instability just by existing? 'Cause now you have."

Bucky took a breath. Stepped forward. And said the only thing he could think of.

"Uh... hi."

A pause.

Then a woman screamed, "HE SPEAKS!"

The crowd lost their collective minds.

Bucky continued. "So. War is bad. Real bad. Like... 1980's haircut bad. And I think maybe we could all just... stop stabbing each other? Go home. Eat some bread. Pet your goats. I dunno."

Silence.

Then someone shouted, "IS THAT AN ORDER, MY PRINCE?"

"I mean - sure?"

The rebel leader fell to his knees. "We are blessed by the Ice Crown!"

Thunderous applause.

A choir started singing. Fireworks exploded. Someone lit a goat on fire by accident, and Red Guardian immediately adopted it.

---

Back Inside

Sam stared at Bucky. "You ended a civil war... with vibes."

"I want to go home," Bucky said, dead-eyed.

Yelena patted his shoulder. "Sorry, Prince Pouty. You now belong to the people of Karoznya. And also possibly that goat."

Archibald bleated.

Bob peeked in again. "Does this mean we all get tiny crowns?"

Scott appeared holding three trays of royal pastries. "I already ate mine."

Red Guardian raised his cup. "To our Prince! Long may he brood!"

Everyone: "LONG MAY HE BROOD!"

Bucky sank into the ice throne.

"...I hate all of you."

---

Two Weeks Later – Avengers Compound, Upstate New York, where the Avengers and Avengerz formed an unofficial subcommittee dedicated to reminding Bucky he once ended a war with hair flips and cheekbones.

" - And in other news, Karoznya has declared today a national holiday: Winter Soldier Day, commemorating the moment their long-lost royal heir returned to stop a civil war with a speech that historians are now calling 'accidentally poetic.'"

Bucky threw a pillow at the TV.

It bounced off harmlessly and hit Bob instead, who was mid-yoga and somehow doing downward dog and crying at the same time.

"I said stop watching that," Bucky muttered, face buried in the couch cushions.

Sam strolled into the common room, sipping coffee. "You know, I've been thinking about growing my hair out. Maybe get one of those 'tragic royal buns.' Think it'll make a crowd weep when I say 'hello'?"

Yelena popped up behind the couch. "I have started receiving letters. Marriage proposals. Me. Because I once stood next to the Winter Prince. One guy offered three cows and a hot tub."

"I got offered a dukedom," Ghost added from the corner, where she was disassembling the toaster for fun. "In exchange for a blurry photo of Bucky sneezing."

Bucky groaned.

Scott wandered in eating noodles. "I've been writing a script. It's a romantic political thriller. The Man with the Silver Arm: A Kingdom of Yearning. Netflix might pick it up."

Bucky groaned louder.

Thor entered dramatically, wearing a purple velvet robe and an antler crown made of coat hangers. "BEHOLD! The Prince of Forgotten Promises! Has he returned to us from the snowy hills of Karoznya? Or has he ABANDONED HIS PEOPLE FOR TAKEOUT AND BROODING?!"

"I NEVER SAID I'D GO BACK!" Bucky finally yelled, sitting upright like a vampire coming out of a coffin.

"Oh, you totally did," Sam said. "At the coronation banquet. You were three glasses of plum wine in and gave this weirdly emotional toast like, 'I shall return when Karoznya needs me most.'"

"It was one glass," Bucky snapped.

"It was a jug," Bob corrected from the floor.

"Okay, well, I didn't mean it! It was polite!" Bucky shouted. "You think I'm flying halfway around the world to wave at people and be fed ceremonial turnips once a year?!"

There was a pause.

Yelena pulled out her phone. "Karoznya just posted your official royal portrait. They're calling you His Broodiness Eternal."

Red Guardian stormed in wearing full Karoznyan armor and holding up a ceremonial goat bell. "I brought Archibald! He has missed you!"

Archibald bleated and immediately pooped on the rug.

"OH COME ON - "

---

One Year Later – Somewhere in Karoznya

A snowy hillside. A stone statue of a man in a cape, boots, and beard stood majestically on a cliff, overlooking the capital.

The plaque read:

"Prince Bartholomew James Bucky Barnes - The Winter Prince of The House of Broodovia - Who Promised to Return."

Someone had crossed it out and added in spray paint:

"Still Waiting, Bro."

---

Back at the Avengers Compound

"Happy Winter Soldier Day!" Sam shouted as he tossed Bucky a party hat.

Bucky flipped him off without looking up from his cereal.

Long may he brood.

[sickskz]

Breaking point: Part 2

Sickie: Bang Chan

Caretaker/s: Mainly Lee Know + Hyunjin, eventually OT7 (?)

____________________________________________

"Sorry, Hyunjinnie… I’m fine..” 

Then, nothing.

“Hyung..Sorry–? What are y..” Hyunjin’s voice faltered, his hand tightening unconsciously around his phone.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest as the line went quiet, followed by the soft, unsettling sound of Chan’s laboured breathing rattling faintly into the microphone. 

“Channie-hyung? Hyung? Hey-!"

Panic coursed through him as Hyunjin urgently slipped on his shoes, snapping his head around to meet the lingering gazes of the other members, all equally as confused and imploring. “Guys-“

He didn’t need to say anything more, the distraught look in his eyes spoke volumes, casting a heavy, suffocating dread over them all.

“Come on.” Minho urged, already halfway out the door, Changbin following close behind.

Felix scurried over from the couch, reaching a shaky hand out to grab a coat from the rack, but Hyunjin stopped him mid-motion, his fingers curling around the younger boy’s wrist. 

“No.” He said, a little firmer than intended. His eyes softened instantly when he saw the panic in Felix’s eyes, his concern mirroring his own. 

“Lix… you.” Hyunjin let his gaze drift behind the other man, into the living room where the three remaining members sat frozen on the couch. “Stay. You need to stay with them, okay? We’re gonna get him home. We’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Felix gulped, hesitating for a moment, but gave a faint nod. “Okay..” his gaze flickered to the door, then back to Hyunjin, giving him a gentle push. “Go.”

Hyunjin almost fell over the threshold, ignoring the way the cold air stung his skin as he deliberately decided against grabbing a jacket on his way out. He didn’t have time for pleasantries, not when the faint sound of Chan’s crackling breath lingered in his ears. 

They had to hurry.

-

As soon as the car door slammed shut, Hyunjin buried his face in his hands, taking a few slow, measured breaths. His leg bounced restlessly, and the dread of what they might find at the studio made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

They had seen Chan run himself to the ground before, and they had heard stories of how he’d neglected himself so badly it became a threat to his own health.

But they had never faced the full brunt of it up close, never seen him at his absolute worst. Not because they didn’t want to be there for him, but because Chan would never let them.

No, when things got really bad, their leader ususlly buried it deep and carried on like nothing was wrong. 

None of them had ever known anyone so terrifyingly good at hiding their pain. 

Chan was a master at it; locking his struggles away, and wearing a smile so convincing it left the rest of them oblivious to the storm raging inside his head.

In a twisted way, it was almost impressive. But mostly, it was deeply unsettling. Infuriating, even. Because why did he get to decide that he didn't deserve the same care he so freely gave to everyone else? Why did he get to decide that his pain was a burden, when he was always the first to Insist that theirs wasn’t?

It wasn’t fair. It never had been, and it never would be. 

The ride to the studio was tense, eerily silent as the weight of the situation built to a crushing force. Minho was gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were turning white, and he floored the accelerator, careening through the streets as fast as he legally could. 

Changbin was in the backseat, tense and pale-faced, but with an unyielding determination in his eyes, as if he was meticulously preparing for each and every scenario his mind could conjure up. 

None of them said a word; none of them knew what to say. 

When the building finally came into view, the car seemed to surge forward, moving faster with an urgency that matched the adrenaline coursing through their veins. The tall concrete structure, which had always felt welcoming and simple, now loomed ominously before them. 

Inside, the once familiar hallways twisted into a disorienting maze before them, the walls closing in with every step, each new corridor stretching impossibly longer than the last. 

It almost felt like the building itself had turned on them, that for each corner they rounded, three more appeared in its place. The same path they had walked a million times suddenly made them feel like they were running aimlessly in circles. 

When they finally reached the door to the studio, Minho wasted no time. His hand slammed against the handle, yanking it open with a force that sent the door crashing into the wall with a resounding thud. 

It would, without a doubt, leave a dent.

The air inside the studio hit them like a brick wall; stuffy, stale, almost suffocating, like the room itself had been holding its breath for days. Beneath it all lingered something sour and vile, the unmistakable scent of sickness. 

Had Chan shut off the AC? Why was it so warm in there?

Too many questions immediately sprang to their minds, too many questions that would remain unanswered.

The three of them paused collectively, the sight that greeted them stealing all remaining air from their lungs. The entire studio was littered with crumpled papers, empty bottles and wrappers scattered across the floor. It was a chaotic wreck, so uncharacteristically disorganised that it was hardly recognisable. 

But it wasn’t the mess that caught their attention, it was the body slumped at the very center of the chaos, the heap of a man illuminated by flickering overhead lights. 

Chan.

“Hyung!” Hyunjin’s voice broke the silence, sharp and filled with panic, as he rushed to his side.

Changbin and Minho were quick to follow, almost tripping over themselves in their desperation to reach their leader, their friend, their brother. 

“Bang Chan–” Minho called out, his voice caught somewhere between a plea and a command as he knelt down beside their leader. “Channie-hyung, can you hear me?”

But there was no response. Only that unsettling rumbling noise that came from deep in his chest with each laboured breath.

As Minho gently rolled him over, the light fell across his face and illuminated his pallid features. Chan’s head lolled limply to the side, his body slack yet trembling relentlessly beneath their touch.

The state of him was horrifying to witness. 

Chan looked almost lifeless. His face was drawn and ashen, the sharpness of his gaunt features only accentuated by the deep, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. 

There was something so haunting about it. He didn’t just look tired, he looked like the life had been sucked out of him, like he’d been drained of all that made him human. 

If it weren’t for the small, uneven breaths, they easily could’ve mistaken him for a dead man.

Hyunjin instinctively reached out to press the back of his hand to Chan’s forehead, but he immediately jerked it back with a sharp hiss. “Shit— f-fuck!” he stammered, his eyes wide with terror. “Lino-hyung.. h-he’s burning up— he’s burning up..”

The heat radiating from Chan’s skin was appalling, a scorching heat unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It wasn’t like any fever Hyunjin had ever felt. No, their leader felt like a proper human furnace, like he was being melted from the inside out.

This wasn’t just exhaustion and overwork, not anymore. 

This was something far worse, something they had failed to catch in time. This was a desperate cry for help, one they had let go unanswered. They had let Chan slip too far, allowing him to fall off the edge with no one there to catch him. Not until now.

The realisation hit them like a sledgehammer to the head, brutal and unforgiving. 

How had they let it go so far? How had everything spiralled so quickly? 

Three days… just three fucking days, and this was the result.

They all knew Chan had been struggling; the last couple of weeks, months, even, had been rough on him… but this? 

This was beyond anything they could have imagined. Not even in their darkest, most twisted nightmares had they expected it to come to this.

Minho’s voice cracked, barely audible this time. “Hyung…” it was a whisper, more of a prayer than anything. There was no control in his tone anymore, no masking the raw, unrestrained fear in his voice. 

For someone usually so calm, so collected, to sound like that... It was enough to make Hyunjin feel as though the world itself had tilted on its axis, like everything he knew had been upended in an instant.

“I’m calling an ambulance.” Changbin informed them, his voice a touch more even than Minho’s, though Hyunjin could hear the tremor hiding just beneath the surface.

Changbin's fingers fumbled against his phone screen, trembling as he dialled the emergency number. Hyunjin could practically feel the numbers being tapped.

One. One. Nine.

Minho didn’t respond, his eyes never leaving Chan’s pale, limp form. His hands were shaking too, but Hyunjin knew it wasn’t from the cold, because the studio had never been warmer.

Hyunjin understood. He could feel it as well; the smothering heaviness in the air, the dread curling in his gut. The room was warm, too warm, yet it did nothing to thaw the icy panic creeping through their veins. 

This was worse than they had feared when they’d left the house. Far worse.

His eyes flickered to Minho, who looked frozen in place, staring down at Chan like his brain had gone offline and was scrambling to reboot. “Hyung.” Hyunjin called out, trying to keep his voice steady.

They couldn’t afford to lose control now, to let fear consume them, not when Chan’s life was hanging in the balance.

Minho’s head snapped toward him, his eyes wide, sharp, almost as if his brain couldn’t decide whether he was facing a friend or foe.

Hyunjin instinctively winced in return. Seeing Minho teetering on the edge of panic was something he never thought he’d see like this. “We..” he began cautiously, voice quivering. “His clothes.. we should…” 

His voice faltered, but luckily, Hyunjin didn’t need to say anything more in order to get his point across. Minho’s gaze hardened, less aloof, and he nodded, already moving to lift Chan up by his shoulders. “Take off his hoodie.” He ordered, voice clipped and authoritative. 

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate. 

Once Chan was untangled from the blanket he’d nestled himself into, he started stripping him of his hoodie. His movements were quick, but precise, careful not to jostle him too much.

Though that proved to be a struggle with Chan lying limply against Minho’s chest like a sack of potatoes. The fabric of his hoodie clung stubbornly to Chan's skin, sticking to him like it was on the brink of melding into his body.  

The moment Chan was dressed down to his drenched t-shirt, he let out a low groan, eyebrows twitching and eyes fluttering ever so briefly. 

The relief of seeing his response was fleeting, but instantaneous, slipping into the cracks like caulk trying to hold together a crumbling foundation, offering them a glimmer of hope at the brink of collapse. 

Chan was still there, still alive, still conscious– to some extent, at least. 

Hyunjin felt his breath hitch in his chest, and he quickly leaned in closer, cradling Chan’s face in his hands. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.” he soothed, swiping his thumbs tenderly over his sunken cheeks.

“Can you hear me, hyung?”

Chan’s eyes flickered open, but they didn’t meet Hyunjin’s. They stared dead ahead, vacant and glassy, drifting right through the younger as though he wasn’t even there. His gaze was unmoored, disoriented, like he was looking into some faraway place only he could see.

Minho splayed his hand across Chan chest, feeling the thready beat of his heart beneath his fingertips. It was fast, too fast, fluttering nervously like a bird trapped in a cage far too small. 

“The ambulance will be here in ten minutes… I-“ Changbin paused, like his breath got stuck in his throat, his fingers tightening their grip on his phone.

“Changbin-ah,” Minho said sharply, without looking up, as if Chan’s life depended on him keeping his eyes on him at all times. “Open the window. We need air.”

Changbin wasted no time to do as he was told, jogging over to the window and flipping it open in the blink of an eye. Once the window was opened and the fresh air filtered inside, Changbin hovered behind them, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“I’ll..” his gaze flickered between the three of them. He needed something to do, a task, but he wasn’t sure how he could be of assistance. Not here, at least. “I’ll go outside to meet the ambulance. Be right back.”

Minho gave a curt nod, and with that, Changbin was gone. 

Hyunjin stroked his hand along Chan’s arm as if trying to soothe the shaking, feeling the unrelenting rippling of muscle fibers beneath his fingertips. “It’s okay, Channie-hyung, you’re gonna be okay...” he whispered, though it was more to anchor himself than anything else. 

The minutes ticked by, feeling like hours, and neither of them could bring themselves to look away from Chan as he practically deteriorated before their eyes.

His skin was sickeningly pale, his muscles twitching involuntarily, each desperate, panting breath and soft whimper cutting through the heavy silence like a knife.

It felt as though time had stalled. 

And then, it just got worse.

Chan’s body gave a sudden, sharp jerk. His arms curled inwards toward his chest as his muscles stiffened and relaxed spasmodically, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. His eyes rolled back so far that only the whites were visible, and his expression locked in a silent agony that none of them could bear to watch. 

“Hyung-“ Minho said urgently, holding onto his shoulder as he noticed the shift. 

Chan still didn’t respond, not in any coherent way. His legs started shaking as if he had been struck by an electric current, eyes flickering erratically beneath half-lowered lids. Then, his entire torso tensed, his back arching off the ground as if some invisible string had been yanked too hard.

“Oh my god..” Hyunjin whispered, a sob tearing from his throat before he could even attempt to swallow it back. He didn’t even realise he was crying until he tasted the salt on his lips. His head was spinning, spiraling through every worst-case scenario. “What is– h-hyung, is he seizing?!”

Hyunjin felt like he was going to be sick, and seeing Minho’s matching panicked expression didn’t help. The older of the two stared wide eyed as Chan’s cramping grew harsher, turning into full-body convulsions in the blink of an eye.

“I-I don’t… yes, fuck, yes, I think so.” Minho growled, already rolling Chan onto his side and making sure his airways stayed open. “I-Give him space, d-don’t hold him down!” he ordered shakily, pushing away anything within close proximity and using Chan’s discarded hoodie as a makeshift cushion to brace his head from the floor.

The convulsions lasted no more than thirty seconds, but to them, it felt like an eternity.

Hyunjin’s fingers tightened around Chan’s hand, his thumb brushing across his knuckles as the violent spasms slowly subsided back down to subtle tremors.

Foamy saliva had bubbled up at the corner of his pasty lips, a thin line of drool trailing down and glistening as it dripped onto the floor. Without thinking, Hyunjin reached out, his hand trembling as he wiped the spittle away with the sleeve of his sweater.

And then, just as hope seemed to be slipping away from them, help finally arrived. The door slammed open, and Changbin reappeared, red-faced and breathless, paramedics rushing in behind him.

As the paramedics sprang into action, Hyunjin and Minho reluctantly stepped back, watching helplessly as they assessed Chan's condition with a fluidity that only came from years of experience.

They eventually finally lifted him onto a stretcher, and Hyunjin crumbled at the sight of their leader looking so impossibly small in a sea of hands and wires. 

His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, each one more frantic than the last. Hyunjin knew he should let the paramedics do their job, but all he could think about was how much Chan hated being at the mercy of others like this. He hated being out of control, he hated losing his sense of autonomy. 

And seeing Chan unconscious, strapped down by strangers, no matter how professional, unable to fight for his own decisions, twisted something deep inside Hyunjin. It was as if a switch had flipped in his mind, a deep-seated need to protect and shield Chan flooded his every thought.

Hyunjin staggered forward, but Changbin was quick to catch him, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist and pulling him back against his chest.

And as Hyunjin's knees buckled beneath him, Changbin supported his weight effortlessly, guiding them both down to sit on the floor.

“No, no-” Hyunjin choked on a sob, his mind lost to panic, no longer listening to reason. “He hates that, h-hyung, he..”

“Shh, Hyunjin-ah, they’re taking care of him, he’s going to be okay..” Changbin tried to soothe him, but Hyunjin saw right through his mask of calm, he heard the uncertainty lacing his words. They didn’t know that. They couldn’t know that. They could only hope and pray.

”Take it easy, Hyunjinnie… c’mon now, take a deep breath.” 

Hyunjin could feel the gentle rumble of Changbin’s chest against his back with each word, and he held onto that sensation for dear life, letting the familiarity of it ground him.

Changbin spoke again, a little firmer this time, but never losing his soothing edge. “Lino-hyung is going with him. We’re going to follow in the car, but you have to breathe first.”

Somehow, that calmed Hyunjin down a little. He saw the way Minho was gripping onto the gurney as they wheeled it out of the studio, sticking to Chan like an appendage, answering the paramedics with steady urgency. 

Okay. Chan wasn’t alone, and he wouldn’t be so long Minho was with him. Hyunjin could let go, just for now. 

The sound of sirens faded in the distance, and as urgently as the paramedics had rushed in, they were suddenly gone, having taken Chan and Minho with them. 

The studio went silent again, but it was different this time. It was emptier, heavier, as if something irreparable had taken place within those four walls. 

At last, Hyunjin managed to pull himself together, barely, only thanks to Changbin’s warm chest pressed against his back, grounding him to the present with soft murmurs reminding him to breathe.

Breathe, that’s it, breathe..

Hyunjin couldn’t remember how or when the transfer had happened, but soon enough, he was no longer on the floor.

He found himself sitting on the sofa, gripping the armrest with white knuckled hands, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Chan had been lying just moments before.

Changbin sat beside him, one hand resting on Hyunjin’s back while the other held his phone. His fingers moved shakily against the screen as he opened their group chat, typing with hands that barely listened to his brain anymore.

Changbin: Chan’s on his way to the hospital. He’s really sick. Lino’s with him.

Changbin: We’re going to follow in the car. Don’t know what's happening yet. 

Changbin: We’ll update you.

___________________________________________

Welp, posting this before bed without proof reading but ooooooo I guess I’ll see if I get around to it later sometime 😂 g’night 🫡 pls give me feedback and maybe some inspo for the continuation 🤣✨

[chaoticsolsworld]

Stay Here…? (Part 2 of “In the End, I Chose You”)|Manny Alvarez x Reader

Author’s Note:

Canon-divergent epilogue for a Manny x Reader fic where Joel lives. Set two years after the cabin, this explores healing, forgiveness, and how peace never comes without a cost in the Last of Us world. Ends with a dark cliffhanger—because nothing stays quiet forever.

Warnings: trauma mentions, PTSD elements, referenced violence, survivor’s guilt, and implied incoming threat.

Hope you enjoy! Let me know if you want a Part 3

(Two Years Later – Jackson)

It was spring in Jackson—muddy trails, cracked ice, and early sun filtering through pines. The kind of morning where peace came easy if you didn’t think too hard. You stepped onto the porch with a chipped coffee mug and exhaled slow, eyes tracing the frost just beginning to fade from the rooftops.

The cold was familiar, but not hostile. For the first time in a long time, your body didn’t feel like it was bracing for survival.

The door behind you creaked open. Manny stepped out barefoot, shirt rumpled, curls tied back in a loose knot. He looked at you with that soft half-smile he only ever wore when it was just the two of you—no patrols, no eyes, no past catching up.

“Didn’t even wait for me?” he asked, stretching.

You smirked. “You snored through three alarms.”

He leaned against the railing beside you, bumping your shoulder. “Lie. I don’t snore.”

“You do. Like a dying bear.”

He chuckled, low and quiet, and then lapsed into silence. The two of you watched the town stir to life—distant voices, a dog barking, the echo of horses being led toward the gates.

Two years ago, you thought you’d never hear those sounds again.

“Does it still wake you up?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on the trees.

You didn’t need to ask what it meant.

“Sometimes,” you answered. “Usually when it’s too quiet.”

He nodded. His hand found yours where it rested against the porch rail, fingers warm, steady.

You remembered the cabin—blood and screaming and smoke. You remembered the gun shaking in your hand as you turned on the people you had once called friends. You remembered Manny standing there, not stopping you. Letting you choose.

He never asked for forgiveness.

You gave it anyway.

And in return, he stayed. Through interrogation, through suspicion, through a thousand days of rebuilding a life no one thought you deserved. Even now, some didn’t trust you. But Jesse had vouched for you. Joel…God, somehow…had forgiven you. Ellie hadn’t spoken more than a sentence to you, but she hadn’t shut you out entirely. That was enough.

You’d built something here. Quiet. Honest.

You both had.

That night, after dinner and a shared patrol shift along the north wall, you lay in bed beside Manny, his head tucked against your shoulder, one hand resting on your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against your ribs.

“You ever think about leaving?” you whispered.

He didn’t open his eyes. “No.”

“Even if the past came knocking?”

Now his eyes opened. “It already did. We didn’t answer.”

You stared at the ceiling, heart a little heavier than it had been that morning.

“I don’t think it’s done with us.”

He didn’t argue.

You fell asleep like that, wound around each other, warm and safe in the kind of peace you’d never thought you’d earn.

Until—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not frantic. Not confused.

Just… waiting.

Your eyes snapped open. It was after midnight. No one knocked at this hour unless something was wrong.

You sat up. Manny was already reaching for the pistol beside the bed. His face had shifted, sleep replaced by something harder, sharper.

A second knock. Slower. Measured.

You crept to the door, pulse hammering in your throat. Manny followed, silent. You glanced down and saw something slid under the crack.

A folded piece of paper.

Your hand trembled as you picked it up.

Unfolded it.

Read it.

“We didn’t forget you.”

No name. No mark. No mercy.

Manny met your eyes.

Neither of you spoke.

But the quiet peace that had clung to the cabin like mist was already gone.

Outside, the wind picked up

It’s cold…

[rain-day-today]

Hey ! Do you have hcs about Gajeel and Juvia's brotp plz ? (Sorry if it comes out of the blue, I'm just curious...)

OF COURSE!!!

Gajeel and Juvia Brotp headcanons!

Juvia and Gajeel both came to phantom at the same time. Like jose went to pick up gajeel and on the way back found juvia. So like, they’ve been locked in since day one

Since phantom wasn’t a guild where you show your connection Juvia and Gajeel were never openly affectionate with each other or anyone else so their friendship really developed in private.

Juvia’s first language wasn’t the common one and neither was Gajeel’s, so they both had a horrible lisp and speech patterns. This led to them not talking in the common language when in private and learning a bit of each others instead

When they joined fairy tail they became more confident in their speech but still talked to each other in their first language.

Gajeel used to walk her home from jobs because “ course i'm not here for you, im just going this way” and “tch- you think a little rain’s gonna bother a tough guy like me?”

He made her little thumb caps for when she sews

Juvia bought gajeel his first guitar and has never regretted it

Juvia listens to heavy “metal” while Gajeel prefers “Blues”

They are both really good at baking

Juvia sewed Gajeel a dark blue apron with silver embroidery

Since neither knew how to cook or do laundry or anything else,they made up their own way of how to do it(Gajeel was too proud to ask for help and they were like 10), so now they both have the same really weird way of doing household tasks.

“Erza-san? What do you mean you don't punch the water out of the bed sheets when you do laundry?” “Of course it's normal! Gajeel-kun does it too!”

When Juvia moved into fairy hills Gajeel was SO pissed that he couldn’t visit her. he even tried to fight Erza to let him in until Juvia dragged him out.

Gajeel puffs up his chest whenever Grays around and tries to telepathically send death threats.

When gajeel first met juvia he instantly was reminded of wendy and instantly activated big brother mode.

Gajeel isn’t a big fan of being a destructive mage he prefers being a protective figure

Juvia used to focus alot on getting stronger and nothing else since she couldn’t do anything else. Now she gets to focus on what she likes and and finding what makes her happy

Juvia uses gajeel as a listening device. He picks up the best tea

Juvia had a cat when she was young and gajeel wishes he could have met her

They both like crunchy food the most

Juvia loves soap operas and forces gajeel to watch them too, now he can recite the plot of 560 episodes of desperate dames

They both hate crowded environments (dragonslayer senses + anxiety) but enjoy people so they suck it up.

They both runs cold and love sipping hot chocolate in the winter

Gajeel’s favorite month is the fall

Juvia is a late winter/early spring type of girl

They use the same hair care products

Gajeel cuts her hair

Juvia was there when Gajeel got some of his piercings and it made her never want to get another piercing ever agai

Juvia makes the costumes for gajeels shows( the white one in particular)

Juvia originally wanted to retire from magic after phantom lord arc because she since her rain stopped and she was beaten, she had lost her identity of being a sad and powerful mage

Gajeel convinced her to go stay in the game for a bit with him which led to her joining fairy tail and bringing Gajeel along

They both got that monochromatic style

Big collectors

Gajeel prefers vinyls and posters while juvia likes cds and photos

Gajeel is a Concert geek but now also goes to raves

Gajeel is lowkey a grandpa when it comes to abbreviations and juvia tries to explain it but in actuality she doesn’t know what they mean either she just thinks she does

Juvia is a music snob but she has incredibly weird music taste (she likes gajeels singing unironically)

juvia Tried to get into the fairy tail equivalent of kpop but couldn’t do it. All her stan stuff is in a box in one of gajeel's closet

Gajeel has 3 times as much clothes as juvia because she likes using him as a mannequin

Juvia convinced Gajeel to make a baby name book when they were like 13

Juvia is a dog person ( Gajeel doesn’t know)

Gajeel is a food snob and doesn’t like meat unless its like RARE

Gajeel never gets sick bit loves taking care of people, makes him feel useful and less destructive

Gajeel likes to hide peoples names in his lyrics and has a couple of songs with references to his friend

At his wedding Juvia is the officiant

At Her wedding Gajeel walks her down the aisle

Hope this was what you were looking for! If you want anymore my brain is a fountain of Brotps!

[loomingspector]

Little angst with Jason <3

I kinda HC that Jason when he’s more calm doesn’t have as much glowing green in his he’s as when he’s aggravated. More of a dark muddy green

So I want him to have these dark green eyes and downturned eyelashes. (I myself have these lashes so it almost looks like I don’t have eyelashes)

So! when he begins to integrate back into the family, and after a while the other kids wants to introduce him to their teams, he doesn’t understand why they still flinch away from him.

He was doing better right? He wasn’t doing the whole evil crime lord stuff, he was just helping the alley and its people out more.

So why?

It begins with Tim’s friends, a little dinner out in town to keep a calm atmosphere outside of the masks.

But Jason doesn’t understand why they don’t like making eye contact with him… they’re all sort of trying to look at him, but don’t meet his eyes.

They’re fine doing it when he has the domino mask on, with objectively more intimidating white lenses, so why not when it’s just his eyes?

He concludes that it most likely because they’re younger and don’t have as much experience with intimidating and haven’t entirely forgotten his crime lord days.

But when it also happens with Dick’s friends.

Kori doesn’t seem to have a problem with him, but Wally flinches every time eyes glance over to him. Why

They’re older and have seen far worse, so why

He gets angry and makes an excuse to leave, trying his hardest not to comment on the fact that he heard an audible sigh of relief when he turned his back.

Again, he tries to brush it off, but he goes over the edge when even Hal freaking Jorden scrunches his nose at him, and looks away.

He slams his hands on the table, stands up so abruptly that the chair behinds him clatters to the floor.

Bruce stands up and follows him out as Jason throws every curse word out into the room as he goes to leave.

Once in the zeta tube on the way back to the cave he finally lets his complains rain.

Jason: “What the hell is so wrong with my face that people seem to not even be able to meet my eyes??”

Jason: “they’re the strongest fucking heroes we have and they can’t even meet my fucking eyes?!”

Bruce sighs as he lets Jason get everything off his chest before turning himself towards him.

Bruce: “Lad, do you remember when you first came to the mansion?” Jason squints his eyes at him but nods nonetheless.

Bruce: “Because I also remember a conversation you had with Alfred about a week or two after you came there.” Even more confused Jason just continues his silent stares.

Bruce again sighs and relaxes his shoulders before continuing.

“You had asked Alfred why it always seemed like I was mad at you, always angry. You said it was a certain look in my eyes that had just a slight anger to it so you were always afraid that I was angry at you”

Jason only squinted harder, but also let his mind wander on how to connect everything.

“I was a lot taller than you, so I thought it was because I was always aiming my eyes down, so I changed that, but it was the same.”

Bruce caught Jason’s attention by nudging him slightly. They really did stand shoulder to shoulder now.

“But it ended up just being that I was used to never being able to show weakness, the feeling having created a certain need to always look prepared, always look quizzical of everything. But when I turned that same look toward my comrades, they thought it was because I perceived them as a threat.”

Jason remembered all of his time alone, every instance where he couldn’t show of scared he was, how out of his depth he was. Because that was showing weakness.

“It takes time to stop our instincts from looking at everything as a potential threat, especially after so many years of being on edge. But I’m sure they will get used to it. They did get used to me after all”

When Bruce finished, they both seemed to realize that it had already been some time since the zeta had returned them home.

Bruce patted him on the shoulder, making the first move towards the stairs up into the manor.

“I’m sure you find it unusual, but that’s also because the people you normally relax around don’t even notice it anymore, they know themselves that they can trust that you only want the best for them.”

Later, when Jason returned to the crime alley with a full belly of Alfred’s food and drained from the friendly sparring matches that always seemed to follow after.

Jason walked into the office ready to hit the hay, before getting swarmed by his goons.

“Hey boss! We heard you met the justice league, are they really as strong as they say??”

“I heard wonder woman is always there, was she even prettier in real life??”

“Is their base really located in space as the theories are saying??”

Bombarded with questions Jason felt bewildered as he both tried to listen and think of answers, stopping just short when he noticed.

They’re all looking into his eyes.

They’re not afraid of him.

“they know themselves that they can trust that you only want the best for them”

——

Hope you like this little head cannon, I myself have dark brown eyes, and a resting bitch face, so whenever I meet someone my friends introduce, my friend will then circle back to me and tell me that the new person thought I was really angry or thought they were annoying, or just in general that I was scary. Even if I’m actively trying my best to get along with them.

Used to bring me a lot of anxiety, but I know that the people around me who I don’t want to be afraid of me, know me enough to see through it.

It makes sense to me that the other kids’ teams would be uneasy around him, and along with eyes that are naturally inquisitive, combined with a very piercing gaze. That it could be interpreted like he was angry when he was just looking and listening.

[mysteriousxgirls]

Her chest was tight. Too tight. She hadn’t even realized how fast she was breathing until her vision started to blur a little at the edges, like the air was too thin to hold her anger, her fear—her helplessness. They knew where his family lived. Of course they did. It was the oldest threat in the book, and yet it still made her stomach twist into knots. Like his parents were nothing more than leverage. Like their lives didn’t weigh anything on the scale—just pressure points for compliance. It made her sick. Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder than the hum of the engine, louder than her own thoughts. And then he said that. That she had her life. That she wasn’t sticking around.

Liyana looked down, jaw tight, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. Because she had stuck around. Not in the ways he wanted. Not with her hand in his or her mouth on his or her life pressed up against his like it used to be. But she had stayed in her own way. Always circling back in thought, in memory, in grief. She had stayed in the silence. In the missing pieces. Her fingers curled into her lap, trying to hold onto something. "How much…" Her voice came out quieter than she expected, frayed like his. "How much do you owe them?" She looked at him finally, but his eyes were still on the road. Always the road.

If only… "If we could get your parents to move—what if we just…" She stopped. Her mouth stayed open for a second, then closed. Her eyes fluttered shut. It was useless. She knew it. They’d never leave. That neighborhood, that house… it was built from memories they refused to abandon. The walls were full of ghosts they didn’t want to exorcise. She hated how powerless it made her feel. "Fuck, Diego..." she whispered. She looked at him now, properly. Looked at the lines in his face. The way he didn’t flinch but was clearly hurting. And she wanted to scream. Wanted to shake him, tell him this wasn’t just his war. That she wasn’t some girl who left everything behind like it meant nothing. But what right did she even have anymore? Her lips trembled before she pressed them together, trying to swallow it all. Her voice cracked when it finally came. "I—I might not stick around…” she said, barely above a whisper. “But I still care.” It felt like a confession. Like bleeding in a room full of silence.

Diego didn’t speak at first. The hum of the engine filled the silence between them, steady but tense, like it was holding its breath right along with him. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale against the leather. He didn’t look at her—couldn’t. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, but his jaw worked, clenched like he was chewing on glass. “I hear you,” he said at last, voice low, hoarse. “Every word. Every fucking word.” The streetlights flickered across his face as they passed, casting shadows that made him look older, harder. Worn down. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and bitter. “But it’s not about what I owe really.” His grip shifted slightly, thumbs tapping the wheel like a nervous tell. His voice softened just a touch, not weak—never that—but frayed at the edges. “It’s about what happens if I don’t pay.”

He glanced at her then, just for a heartbeat, before turning back to the road. But it was enough. Enough to see how much this was tearing at him. “Theres no such thing as peace.” The car turned a corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a blade. He didn’t speed up. He didn’t slow down. Just kept driving like the road might offer answers. “I don’t want to lose you. Or my family. But they know where I live. Where they live. And that’s not something I can ignore.” He paused, swallowing hard, voice cracking now—raw. “You have a life now Li. A life without me. It won’t hurt you what happens in my future. We both know you’re not sticking around long.”

[maxedes]

texts from the grid

texts from last night x f1