#Is it because I love to fight? The violence...the bloodshed of it all...

[buckyseternaldoll]

Code Red

Summary: The mission was intel. But when you went dark, Bucky lost all control—and the code turned personal.

Disclaimer: graphic violence, captivity, non-consensual restrain/touch, implied sexual threat, psychological trauma, physical degradation, feral violence (Bucky), verbal abuse, violent confrontation, bloodshed, reader described as plus-size, TB* members appearance, happy ending

Word Count: 8,558

Author's note: I'm sorry for the dark theme. I'm at the hospital, drowned by my own unsafe thoughts due to my surroundings. I understand this would trigger many things so please, please scroll away if this is not for you.

Bucky had been tense ever since the mission briefing with Valentina.

You and he had been assigned to extract intel from someone out of his worst memories—someone from the part of his past he’d spent years trying to bury. And as fate would have it, you were going to be the one sent in close. Personal.

The cherry on top? No one else in the building—except Walker—knew you and Bucky were married.

It hadn’t been a deliberate secret at first. You both just liked the simplicity of it. No questions, no gossip. Quiet. Private. You’d meant to tell the others eventually, maybe once things calmed down between missions. But three years and numerous near-death assignments later, it was still just you, Bucky, and that worn silver band threaded through the chain of his dog tags; kept tucked beneath his shirt, close to his chest where no one ever thought to look.

Walker had only found out by accident—he’d overheard you both talking, low and domestic, about decorating the new apartment Bucky had gotten you. Being a married man himself, he clocked it immediately and, to his credit, had kept his mouth shut ever since.

But the issue wasn’t the secrecy.

It was the mission.

You were going undercover to get close to Volkov—a former HYDRA taskmaster who’d gone dark for years, now resurfacing through underground ops and illegal tech smuggling. Worse still, the tech in question was rumored to be more powerful than both vibranium and adamantium combined.

And Volkov?

He had a type. Curvy. Plus-size. Long, wavy red hair.

And within a heartbeat, Valentina had already decided it would be you—hair dye on standby before you even left the room.

Bucky hated every second of it.

Not because he didn’t trust you, but because he knew Volkov.

Volkov had been there during the brainwashing. Watching. Smiling. Not the man who gave the orders, but the one who enjoyed watching them followed. Bucky remembered him leaning in from the shadows, jaw sharp, eyes gleaming with control like it made him feel divine.

He wasn’t just another piece of the HYDRA machine.

He was proud of what Bucky became. Of how many he broke.

Volkov had chosen him to fight other enhanced soldiers. Had studied him like a weapon. Had whispered twisted encouragement while the programming crushed him over and over again.

And Bucky hated the idea of you having to flirt with the demon from his past.

He understood the mission’s importance. He really did. But logic had never stood a chance against this—being forced to stare down the man who once stripped him of everything, while watching the woman he loved play nice to get information.

There was no good place for him in this. No role that didn’t make his blood boil.

You noticed the tension winding through him as you both walked back to the common room. His steps were stiff, calculated. His jaw had been clenched since the briefing. He hadn’t said a word.

You knew why. You always did.

Bucky had told you pieces of his nightmares—never the full picture, but enough. The burn of restraints against his skin. The cold metal table under his back. The sterile sting of alcohol. And Volkov’s voice cutting through the silence like a blade, low and proud and amused. Watching. Always watching. Like a man admiring a piece of art that he thought he owned.

The moment you stepped into the common room, Bucky blew out a harsh breath. His eyes were distant, like he was already somewhere else. The muscles in his neck and jaw were drawn tight, veins standing out starkly against his skin like they could split open.

Without a word, he dropped onto the couch, his body sinking in as if gravity had gotten heavier. The worn leather creaked beneath him as he leaned his head back against the cushions, eyes slipping closed for just a moment.

Valentina wasn’t going to change her mind. That much was written across his face. She never did.

You followed, settling beside him, the fabric of your tactical pants brushing softly against his. The air between you still carried the faint antiseptic scent of the briefing room—cold, clinical, suffocating.

Your hand found his, and you laced your fingers through his metal ones, your palm warm against the chill of the vibranium plates. He flexed just slightly, like even that much touch reminded him he was here. With you. Not in that chair. Not in the red room.

“You okay?” you asked gently, your thumb sweeping over the knuckles of his hand.

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled again, slower this time, like he was trying to pace himself through the storm still building inside his chest.

“I’m not,” he admitted at last. His voice was gravel-thick, barely above a whisper. “But…”

He turned toward you, his blue eyes heavy with something unreadable—part awe, part ache. He took you in like you were the only stable point left in the room. Your hair still its natural color, your body warm and solid beside him, your expression carved with concern. Your wedding band, stacked with a few others, caught the low lighting just enough to glint—hidden in plain sight.

His gaze lingered there for a second, and then moved back up to your face. You looked worried. You looked like his, and that was what kept him grounded.

“But I’ll be fine,” he said, his tone softening just enough. He gave a quick glance around, then lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, lingering there like he could breathe you in.

“We got this.”

He wasn’t saying it for you. He was saying it for himself. To remind himself that this time, he wasn’t going in alone. That even if you had to play nice with the monster, it was your mission. Not theirs. Not Volkov’s.

He’d been fighting demons for years.

And maybe he hadn’t slayed them all.

But he’d survived them. And now, he had you.

That was all that mattered.

─

Your jaw went slack the moment you saw the dress that Valentina had personally picked—laid out on the bed.

Red.

Not just red—blood red, silky, and scandalous. The neckline plunged lower than anything you’d worn outside of your own bedroom, and the hem looked like it might start a fight with gravity if you so much as bent over. You didn’t even have to lift it to know it would barely cover your ass.

You didn’t bother hiding your disgust. “Is she serious?”

You turned toward Bucky, dress still dangling from your fingers like it might bite. He hadn’t moved. Just sat there on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the garment with unreadable eyes. His face was a perfect mask—stone-cold, emotionless—but the vein ticking in his jaw betrayed him.

“I can ask for another one,” you said, your tone careful. “Too sexy for a married woman.”

You added a dry scoff under your breath, “Not like she knows, but—”

Bucky cut in, voice low and rough. “It’s nice.” A pause. “Should work on him.”

Another pause—longer this time—and then, his mouth twitched at the corner. “Definitely working on me.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light smack on the arm, but heat curled in your chest at the compliment. No smirk followed his words, no leering grin—just that quiet, reverent tone he saved only for you. The kind of tone that made you fall in love with him all over again.

He could’ve raged. Should’ve, maybe. But instead, Bucky just stood up and helped you with steady hands. Held out the necklace, clipped the clasp. Watched you with hungry eyes but never crossed a line. You knew he was mentally filing this all away—every curve revealed, every breath you took in that sinful dress—for when the mission was over and you were safely back in his arms.

You stepped behind the privacy divider and changed quickly, tugging the soft silk over your skin. The fabric clung like it had been sewn onto you, stretching taut across your hips and hugging the dip of your waist. You stepped back into view, adjusting the neckline in vain, before reaching for your hairpins.

Bucky helped you curl a few strands loose around your face, fingers gentle, eyes tracking every movement like he was touching something sacred.

You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and froze.

The red was devastating against your skin tone. Your curves poured into the fabric like molten gold into a cast, the neckline dipping low enough to hint danger and promise. Your breasts rose and fell in time with your breath, almost spilling over the fabric with every inhale. Your hair was gathered to one side in soft, tousled curls—polished, sultry, lethal.

And in the mirror, you saw him.

Bucky, still behind you, watching. His reflection stared like he wanted to devour something—someone. Like he was holding back a war.

His hands found your waist slowly, possessively. He pulled you back against him, his vibranium arm firm and cool against your side, his flesh hand sliding along the curve of your stomach. He pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, the heat of his breath scattering goosebumps across your neck.

“So fucking gorgeous, doll,” he murmured.

You felt the soft drag of his lips as he kissed down to your pulse point, then the gentle scrape of his teeth as he sucked lightly—just enough to tease, not enough to leave a mark. Professional. Barely.

The urge to melt into him nearly overrode the mission entirely.

“Your necklace,” he murmured, pulling back slightly. “Camera’s built in. I’ll be your eyes.”

He passed you the earpiece—small, skin-toned, nearly invisible. “For comms.”

You nodded, slipping it in, but your hands trembled just slightly from adrenaline or nerves—or the way he was still looking at you like the mission could go to hell for all he cared.

He took a step back and made you twirl once.

The silk flared high with the motion, fluttering like smoke around your hips. For a breathless second, the hem rode up just enough to expose the curve of your ass—barely covered by the black tactical shorts beneath. A teasing flash. A threat. A promise.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto the sight, and a low, guttural sound tore from his throat—half groan, half growl. He dragged a hand through his hair, like he was trying to keep himself from losing it right there.

“Fuck me, doll…” he muttered, voice thick. “You tryna kill me before the mission even starts?”

You gave him a soft, steady look—part smile, part shield. “You ready?” you asked.

But it was really him asking you.

His fingers brushed your wrist—once, twice—like a final tether before the storm. His voice came low and sure.

“With you?” His lips quirked. “Always.”

─

The nightclub, VØLT, was buried beneath a defunct hotel in the heart of the city—a forgotten husk above, but alive and feral below. Coded entry only, shielded from satellites, and loud enough to shake the bones in your chest. The air was thick with secrets and sin. Shadows clung to the corners, pierced only by strobes and flashing crimson lights. Bodies moved like smoke across the dancefloor, heat and perfume curling in the air like incense. The bass thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless, primal.

You walked through it all like you owned the place. Head high, hips steady. The red dress painted on your curves, your heels clicking sharp across the concrete floor. The music pulsed low and sexual, the bass vibrating through your ribs.

Bucky’s voice was in your ear—steady, low, grounding. “Cam’s good. I’ve got eyes. You’re clear to move.”

You didn’t answer. Just exhaled slowly and zeroed in on the booth near the back.

Volkov looked different, but not enough. His hair was grayer, his jawline looser, but his posture—relaxed, draped across the velvet like he owned the room—was the same. A monster’s throne.

He was smoking something sharp and spiced, the bitter tang of his cigar mixing with the scent of the club. It made your throat itch. His smile was practiced, sculpted into something that almost passed for charm. Almost.

He watched you approach like a man dissecting prey.

“Evening,” you said, voice wrapped in heat and silk.

He didn’t return the greeting. Just looked you up and down with a hunger that made your skin crawl. “You’re late.”

“I like making an entrance.” You sat, legs crossed slowly, the hem of your dress sliding up to reveal just enough thigh. “I heard you’re holding something I want.”

His eyes dropped lower. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, tapping a fingernail against the glass in front of you. “I have the money. I want the weapon.”

Volkov watched you with unsettling calm, blowing smoke sideways. You could feel the nicotine cloud brush against your cheek.

“You ask for quite a bit,” he said eventually. “Trust doesn’t come cheap.”

“Then tell me what does,” you countered.

He smirked, teeth glinting behind his cigar smoke like a wolf sizing up a meal.

“Come closer, принцесса (printsessa). Let me feel what I’m selling to.”

Your breath hitched. Just a split-second delay, but it was enough.

The music felt louder now, bassline pounding through the soles of your heels, up into your spine. Your blood thudded in your ears, hot and slow, like it was being pulled toward danger. You could feel every eye in the room watching you, sizing you up the way he was. Like meat. Like leverage.

Bucky’s voice sliced through the comm, low and razor-sharp:

“Don’t do it. You don’t have to—”

“I got this,” you whispered back. It was the only thing you could say. You had to say it for both of you.

Volkov patted his thigh, thick fingers spread. His smirk widened. His gold ring caught the red light like blood in moonlight.

Your feet moved on instinct, each step heavy with something coiled in your gut. You slid into his lap like silk stretched over barbed wire—fluid on the outside, jagged underneath. You perched carefully, your weight held taut in your thighs to avoid giving him too much.

But it didn’t matter. His hand snapped around your waist like a shackle, possessive and greedy. His palm was hot through the thin silk, rough where the rings dug into your flesh. A predator’s grip.

Then the second hand came up—slow, deliberate. It skimmed along the bare skin of your back where the dress dipped low, each finger a cold brush of oil-slicked arrogance. Your breath caught. The nausea started in your stomach and crept higher.

He leaned in close, his breath warm and sickly sweet from brandy and smoke.

“Mmm… you smell like sugar and sweat. Dangerous mix.”

His voice dropped, coiled around your throat like a rope.

“Do you make sounds when you wear red like this? Or do you just lay there and kill slowly?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You forced a smile, teeth aching from the tension in your jaw.

In your ear, Bucky’s comm had gone silent.

Then: a sharp inhale. Metal hitting something solid.

CLUNK.

You could hear it—his vibranium fist slamming the edge of a table, or a wall, anything to keep from tearing the comm from his ear.

He wasn’t speaking. But you could feel him—burning, locked down, seconds from detonation.

Volkov’s hand crept lower on your spine, fingers dragging over your skin in slow, possessive circles. He lingered at the small of your back, thumb teasing just beneath the fabric now, pushing boundaries with the casual boldness of a man who’d never been told no.

His breath rasped against your ear, faster now—he was getting off on this. On the power. On you.

“Such a soft thing,” he murmured. “You ever had someone ruin you just to rebuild you sweeter?”

Your body went cold. You kept the mask on, but your fists were curled in your lap, nails digging into your skin to keep the rage from surfacing.

Then he raised his voice, just enough for the nearby guards to hear. Mocking.

“She’s the kind that moans when you just touch her. Right here—”

His hand pressed hard against your lower back, fingers flexing, suggestive.

“—and she melts.”

And that was it.

Bucky’s voice cracked back through the comm, no longer calm. He sounded wrecked.

“Pull out. Now. I swear to God—”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, through clenched teeth. “Just another minute.”

But he wasn’t fine. You could hear it now—his breath was short, shallow, furious. He was pacing, maybe. Staring at your feed. Muscles bunched and twitching, jaw locked so tight it probably ached.

His voice returned, low but raw, like it scraped up from his ribs:

“You’re not a pawn,” he hissed. “You’re my goddamn wife.”

Those words landed low in your chest, sharp and full of heat.

You inhaled slowly, steadied your hands, and leaned in just enough for Volkov to think he’d won. Close enough to feel the heat of his neck.

“Dock 65,” he finally whispered. “Tomorrow. Midnight. Alone.”

You smiled, soft and slow. Then you rose—graceful but fast, sliding off his lap like a knife from its sheath.

His hand didn’t leave you until the last second, dragging over the curve of your ass like he had the right. Like he owned even the air between your bodies.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look back.

You walked toward the exit with your chin high, every muscle taut, your dress swaying around your hips like liquid flame. But your legs trembled from effort. Not fear—restraint.

Then his voice filled your ear again, low and ruined.

“Come back to me. Now.”

─

You entered the hotel room, hit by the a of heat that had nothing to do with temperature. Rage hung in the air—thick, suffocating. Something acrid and metallic burned your nose. The air felt charged, like a thunderstorm was caught in the walls.

Your eyes dropped to the corner where your shared luggage sat—shredded, the zipper teeth split wide like a scream. One of the hard cases was caved in, the shape unmistakable. That was the sound you heard through your comm. The clunk. His fist.

Bucky stood near the window, shoulders heaving like a man coming down from battle. His chest moved fast, his breathing ragged. The moonlight through the blinds glanced off his metal arm, glinting off the knuckles that were still clenched, twitching. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding so hard you thought you could hear the bone creak.

Then his eyes found yours. And the fire there almost knocked you back.

“Goddamn doll,” he growled, voice barely human, thick with rage. “I swear to God, I’m going to rip that fucker’s head off with my bare hands.” His vibranium hand flexed again, sharp and jerky. “I’ll carve his spine out and feed it to him.”

But you were already crossing the room. No hesitation.

You threw your arms around him before he could move again, before he could spiral deeper into that dark place. Your cheek pressed to his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp with sweat, heart pounding like a war drum beneath it.

“I hated every second of it,” you whispered, your voice raw and tight. “That wasn’t easy for me.”

His arms wrapped around you a beat too late, stiff and tensed—as if he was afraid he’d break you. You held him tighter, anchoring both of you. His body trembled—not fear, not grief. Fury. A possessive, helpless rage that had nowhere to go.

“Baby,” you whispered, tilting your face up to his, “shhh. Baby, look at me.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His eyes were still far away—still watching that bastard touch you, still hearing the way he spoke to you like you were something he owned. You knew the image was carved into Bucky’s mind like a scar.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your fingers over his jaw. “He didn’t get me.”

His eyes finally snapped to yours. Hungry, desperate, searching for proof. For any sign that Volkov had left a mark.

“He touched you,” he said, voice hoarse, almost childlike with the weight of it. “He fucking touched you. I watched it—I felt it, like it was me.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But we got what we needed. Dock 65. Tomorrow. He bought it. It worked.”

His hands came up slowly, cupping your face like you might vanish if he let go. He exhaled a long, shaky breath against your forehead. The scent of him—sweat, adrenaline, and the lingering trace of that smoky cologne he wore on missions wrapped around you like armor.

“We can kill him later,” you whispered with a small, bitter smile.

Bucky still didn’t smile. He pulled you tighter against him, one hand sliding to the back of your head, cradling it.

“You’re not bait,” he murmured, voice low and guttural. “You’re not some decoy for men like him. You’re my wife.”

The word cracked open something raw between you.

Wife. Not asset. Not agent. Not distraction.

Just his.

You didn’t speak. You just stayed pressed against him, holding his trembling body as he tried to cage the storm inside him.

His arms were iron around you, but the tension in him was raw, barely contained fury simmering just beneath the surface. Yet somehow, he held you like you were fragile glass—his fingers digging into your sides not to hurt, but as if afraid to let go, afraid you’d slip away. You wanted more than anything to let yourself be crushed by him, to be pressed into his heat so hard that every memory of Volkov’s filthy hands was scorched away.

You pulled back just a fraction, enough to look up into those icy blue eyes—eyes that burned with a jealousy so fierce it made your skin tingle. Your voice was low, smooth but thick with emotion, a threadbare mix of exhaustion, defiance, and need.

“Bucky…”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away a phantom tear you didn’t realize you’d shed. You saw the flicker of guilt, the sharp edge of helplessness. But there was no brokenness in you to find, only fire.

You stepped closer, letting the soft rustle of your dress brush against his worn tactical vest—the fabric whispering secrets of where you’d been, what you’d endured.

The red silk clung to your curves like a second skin, a promise, a warning. The slit teasing open your thigh, the low back bare and vulnerable, but now reclaimed, like a battlefield you’d already won.

You reached up slowly, your fingers threading into the thick strands of his dark hair, pulling him closer—closer than the sharp scent of gunmetal and sweat that clung to him after every fight. His breath hitched in a way that made your heart shatter and heal all at once.

“I don’t want to remember him,” you said, voice a velvet thread laced with steel. “Not how he touched me. Not how he looked at me like I was a prize to be bought or broken.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched until the muscle twitched. But you pressed your hand to his chest, feeling the steady, heavy beat of his heart beneath the fabric, slow and sure under your palm.

“I want to remember you.”

His breath was shallow, erratic, like he was drowning in everything you were saying—and everything you weren’t.

You carefully removed your earpiece—the faint click breaking the silence between you like a vow. You set it aside, eyes never leaving his.

You slid your hands down the ridge of his collarbone, across the hard planes of his chest, tracing the line of muscle and scars that made him whole—the man you loved.

You stepped close, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper that barely brushed his skin. “You know,” you murmured, eyes locked on his, “when we were in front of the mirror earlier… I couldn’t stop noticing you.”

His gaze sharpened, dark and dangerous, like a storm about to break.

“You were so hard, pressed against me like you wanted to claim every inch of me. Like you wanted to tear me apart and make me yours right then and there.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, thick and ragged. His chest rose sharply beneath his shirt, muscles taut, pulsing with a tension that was almost unbearable. You could feel it—his need, his fury, his desperate hunger—all radiating off him in waves.

You lifted your hand slowly, deliberately, and pressed a featherlight kiss just below his ear, where his pulse beat wildly. The heat of your lips sent a shiver racing down your spine and made his whole body tense against yours.

His breath caught, low and rough, a sound raw with longing and restraint. His metal hand slid to your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

You trailed your fingers up the curve of his neck, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your touch, the scar beneath his jaw like a secret you were privileged to trace.

Your lips hovered over his skin, voice husky with need. “I want you, Bucky. Right here. Right now.”

His lips crashed against your neck, hot and demanding, searing a trail of fire down your skin. His mouth was hungry, worshipful, each kiss a claim—a promise and a warning.

But then his eyes flicked to the door, the weight of the mission pulling him back like a chain.

You pulled away slowly, breath mingling with his, your fingers still curled possessively against his neck.

“We’ll finish this,” you promised, voice thick with heat and something deeper. “I’d rather die tangled in your arms than spend one more second remembering Volkov’s filthy hands on me.”

His jaw clenched, voice low and rough, trembling with rage and need. “You’re mine, doll. No one’s going to touch you like that. Not while I’m breathing.”

His grip tightened around your waist, holding you close as if letting go might make you vanish.

And in that fierce embrace, you both found a fierce kind of sanctuary—a quiet promise that no matter what came next, you belonged only to each other.

─

You’d arrived at Dock 65 before the promised time, hidden beneath the skeleton of an abandoned shipping yard on the outskirts of Salzburg. The salt from the sea clung to the air, sharp and metallic, biting into your nose with every breath. Bucky had come with you, shadow-silent and lethal, staying just out of range to avoid compromising your cover. His presence was a tether, his voice in your ear a steady heartbeat.

“This feels off,” he murmured, low and tight. “Too quiet. Too clean.”

He was right.

The plan was simple—classic infiltration: see the tech, verify it, grab what we need, then vanish. You’d done this a dozen times with him. It should’ve been routine. It felt like muscle memory.

But the silence was heavy. Not tactical—vacant.

You padded across concrete in soft boots, slipping between rusted containers and steel pylons slick with dew. Your heartbeat matched your footfalls—measured. Focused.

Bucky’s voice hummed in your ear again. “Back’s clear. But I don’t like how easy this is.”

You were already at the final checkpoint—a thick steel door sunk into the loading bay, blinking with a red biometric scanner. The security was laughable. Almost like an invitation. A bad joke wrapped in confidence.

Still, you knelt and worked the panel, fingers flying. “Almost in,” you whispered.

The door clicked. The metal whirled and groaned as it peeled open.

And that’s when it hit.

A sharp prick—hot and thin, like fire beneath your skin. You gasped, stumbling back.

“Fuck,” you hissed, stumbling back instinctively. You reached for your weapon, but your fingers fumbled.

Bucky’s voice snapped in your comm. “What happened? What was that—?”

Your limbs went liquid. Your knees buckled.

You saw the hallway shift and blur. Lights smeared into streaks. A cold wave swept over you, then nothing.

Everything went black.

─

You woke up to cold. Not just in the air, but in your bones.

The scent hit first—rust and sweat and old blood. Your head pounded, dull and heavy, like you were underwater. Every sound was muffled.

Then came the sting in your wrists. The raw burn of rope—tight, too tight. Ankles too. Spread just far enough that it made your muscles ache.

Your gear was still on. Mostly.

But it didn’t feel like armor anymore.

The sleeves of your tactical suit had been shredded—slashed open by a knife meant to scare more than wound. Your zipper had been dragged halfway down your chest, the thick material parting under Volkov’s probing hands. One shoulder was bare where the fabric had been tugged aside, revealing the flush of your skin beneath the cold air. Your belt hung lopsided—holsters gone, gear stripped like trophies. Gloves missing. Boots scuffed from a fight you barely remembered before the sedative hit.

The chill in the room clung to your exposed skin, humid and damp like sweat that didn’t belong to you. And those cameras—silent red eyes blinking from the corners—watched you without blinking. Recording every breath. Every tremor.

You were still conscious. Still aware. And that was the worst part.

Volkov wanted you lucid for this.

Your arms ached from being bound above your head—metal cuffs cutting into your wrists, slick with sweat and blood. Your legs were tied at the ankles, the chair cold beneath you, bolts secured to the floor like this was always part of the plan. Like he’d been waiting to catch you like this. Waiting to make a spectacle of you.

Of course he was talking. He always talked first—like the sound of his voice was foreplay.

“I told them,” he muttered, dragging a chair toward you with a long, grating screech that raked across your skull. “Told them you’d fall. Doesn’t matter how trained you are. Everyone breaks. Especially the pretty ones.”

He sat. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Staring at you like you were already bleeding. Like you were his.

“You’ve lasted longer than I expected,” he said, his tone almost admiring. “But it’s coming. The breaking.”

His fingers reached forward again—those same thick, ringed fingers that had unzipped your suit, that had ghosted down your neck when you were half-awake. The scent of cigar smoke and synthetic cologne still clung to them, mixing with the tang of sweat and metal in the room.

His knuckles brushed your cheek. You flinched.

Not because you were afraid. But because you were furious.

And that fury—white-hot and blinding—was the only thing keeping you upright. And Bucky. Out there. Closing in like a storm beneath your skin.

But you couldn’t let Volkov see that.

So you swallowed the bile in your throat, forced your limbs to sag like the sedative still held you. You let your eyes flutter, like you were slipping under again. You made your voice small. Weak.

Why me?” you rasped, voice thin but laced with just enough bait. “What is it you want, really?”

He chuckled, the sound low and cruel. “Why not you? You were on my list the moment I saw you in that club. All that attitude, all that strength. It’ll make the footage better.”

Your stomach turned, a leaden knot of disgust and rage.

Still, you kept your face slack. You played your part.

“You kill me,” you whispered, slurring the words just enough, “you lose what I know. HYDRA vaults. Weapon caches. Secure lines. Things your people couldn’t even find.”

He paused.

There it was. That flicker of greed in his eyes. That hesitation.

You leaned into it.

“Let me talk,” you said, breathing shallowly, trembling just right. “Water. Hands free. Just a little. I’ll give you something.”

He stood again—slow and amused—and crossed to a small metal table at the side of the room. Tools. Restraints. Maybe something sharper. You couldn’t see all of it, but you heard the clink of something metal. A chain. A blade.

You clenched your teeth. Not yet.

A drop of sweat rolled from your temple down to your jaw, and you caught your reflection in one of the black-glass camera lenses. You barely recognized yourself.

But your eyes—your eyes still held fire.

You could see it.

And somewhere out there, Bucky saw it too.

Because you knew. You felt him like gravity. The echo of his fury, the weight of it marching toward you. He’d tear through walls for you. And he was close. So close.

You just had to survive a few more minutes.

Volkov picked up something—something you didn’t want to look at—and turned back toward you.

“You think you’re stalling,” he said with a grin, eyes glinting like broken glass. “But this? This is the good part.”

Your jaw tightened.

You let your chin drop forward, your eyes go dull again.

But inside, you were coiled wire, stretched thin. Every heartbeat was a countdown.

You weren’t stalling for your life.

You were setting the stage for his execution.

─

(Bucky's POV)

He heard it—the faint pop of compressed air, like a dart or a silenced shot. Then a low thud.

Your voice followed, barely audible in the comms—one last breathy fragment before the drug pulled you under. Slurred. Straining.

“Sweet, sweet printsessa. I’ll ruin every tight little hole until you’re nothing but broken.”

Volkov.

That voice.

That fucking voice.

Bucky didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Every muscle in his body locked, like a tripwire had snapped taut in his chest. The world around him went sharp and silent—no more footfalls, no night breeze, no humming electricity from the docks.

Then—

Static.

Your line went dead.

Gone.

And Bucky snapped.

He was moving before he even realized it—sprinting, boots pounding against the dock’s gravel and steel. The radio in his ear buzzed, someone trying to hail him, but it was just noise. White noise. Meaningless.

His blood roared like fire through his veins, hot and bitter, his heartbeat hammering so loud it drowned out everything but the image—you, helpless, in danger, with that bastard’s voice still echoing in his head. That threat. Those words.

It wasn’t just rage. It was something deeper. Older. Something that lived in the marrow of his bones, coiled like a beast.

But he didn’t lose himself.

Not this time.

No—he harnessed it. Focused it. Weaponized it.

The Winter Soldier was awake—but for once, he wasn’t in control. Bucky was. And that made him even more dangerous.

His metal hand clenched so tightly the plates creaked, servos humming under strain. He leapt over the low railing between two shipping containers, landed in a crouch, and kept going—his movements faster, heavier, more brutal with each second.

He tore through a bolted gate, didn’t even feel the sting of metal slicing his palm. Pain didn’t register. Nothing did. Just the map in his mind—your last known location. The building ahead. That thick steel door.

He saw it, even as his breath fogged in the night air—what Volkov must’ve done. You’d been careful. So fucking careful. But he’d planned for this. Had something in place. A trap meant for you.

The woman he loved.

His wife.

Mine. Mine. MINE.

The thought pulsed with every stride, every heartbeat.

He hit the access panel beside the locked door with the full weight of his vibranium fist. It shattered instantly. Sparks rained as he jammed a wire into the circuitry, bypassing the system with muscle and rage, not finesse.

The door creaked open—and what Bucky saw beyond it turned his fury into something nuclear.

Cameras. Chairs bolted to the ground. A metal table with restraints. Tools. Blood.

And your scent—faint, but there.

He felt his soul fracture for half a second.

Then he moved.

Fast.

Silently.

A predator.

He would tear Volkov apart piece by piece—not for the information, not for revenge. But for you. For every breath he stole from your lungs, for every second of fear he put in your eyes, for daring to think he could touch you.

And if there was a god—he hoped Volkov would scream.

Because Bucky wanted him to scream.

─

The second Bucky breached the reinforced door, the scent of blood, sweat, and fear punched him in the gut.

You.

He felt you in the room before he saw you—your pain, your rage, your heartbeat fraying at the edges. Something ancient and monstrous twisted inside him.

The air changed. He knew before he looked. And then he saw you…

Strapped to a bolted-down chair. Tactical gear torn open. Skin bruised and shivering under flickering light. One wrist raw where the rope had bitten deep. A trail of dried blood traced the curve of your neck. The air hung heavy with copper and mildew, and the blinking red cameras watched like silent executioners.

You looked up—just barely. Your eyes found him.

Fire behind glass.

Tears unshed. Fury held in trembling muscle.

Then Bucky saw him.

Volkov.

Standing just feet away, an iron rod clutched lazily in one hand. A SIG-Sauer P226 slung at his hip. His lips curled into a grin that didn’t quite hide the madness beneath. He hadn’t touched you again—not yet. But the look on his face said he planned to.

“You should’ve brought flowers if you wanted to interrupt,” Volkov sneered. “Didn’t know they let backup dogs run loose these days.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

Not yet.

He walked forward—slow, deliberate, methodical. His breaths were sharp and clipped, like drawing air through broken glass. A predator’s prowl. Precision in every step.

“You here for a trade? A martyr’s end?” Volkov taunted. “C’mon then. Let’s make it cinematic.”

Still, Bucky said nothing.

He moved until he stood directly between you and Volkov—shoulders squared, stance rooted. His left hand—vibranium—automatically reached back, as if shielding you by instinct alone.

Then—

He snapped forward.

His voice tore through the room like a thundercrack.

“This woman—” he roared, pointing directly at you, body shaking with raw fury, “—is my wife!”

The word wife detonated in the air.

Your head jerked slightly. Even through the haze, even through the pain—you heard him.

“MY FUCKING WIFE! Not your toy. Not your hostage. Not something for your sick little games.”

Volkov’s smirk cracked. It slipped—just slightly—but enough to see the twitch in his jaw.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers curled into a fist. The sound was like metal grinding on metal.

“You touched her,” he seethed. “You looked at her like she was yours. I’m going to make you regret ever drawing breath.”

Volkov moved first—fast, confident, stupid.

Bucky met him halfway.

He pulled his sidearm mid-stride and fired. Two shots. One aimed for Volkov’s shoulder, the other for his thigh. Volkov twisted with inhuman reflexes—the first bullet grazed his bicep, the second slammed into a steel support behind him.

Volkov returned fire—a sharp, calculated double tap.

Bucky slid sideways, felt the bullet nick the edge of his arm. Didn’t matter. He was already moving.

They collided like freight trains.

Bucky’s knife flashed out from his belt—a matte black combat blade, narrow and deadly. He slashed upward, fast, aiming for Volkov’s abdomen. The Russian twisted, caught the blow with his forearm—blood sprayed in a fine arc.

Volkov spun, boot kicking Bucky square in the chest. He staggered back one step—just one.

Then launched himself forward again.

Knife to knife now.

Volkov drew his own—shorter, serrated, HYDRA-issued. Their blades clashed, metal sparking, skimming skin and armor. The room filled with the sound of grunts and steel colliding. Bucky’s body was pure muscle and memory—every move learned in blood, every strike meant to kill.

Volkov ducked a slash and drove his blade into Bucky’s left side, just under the ribs.

Shit.

Bucky grunted. Twisted. Let it dig an inch deeper—then used it. He grabbed Volkov’s wrist and pulled, driving his own blade straight into Volkov’s thigh, burying it deep.

Volkov howled.

But he was trained. He didn’t drop.

He struck back with his elbow, cracked it into Bucky’s jaw. The blow rattled Bucky’s brain for half a second—enough for Volkov to sweep his leg under Bucky’s and take him to the floor.

They rolled—grappling, snarling, blades scraping armor and bone. Bucky’s metal hand caught Volkov’s throat. He squeezed—hard. Volkov gagged, slammed his elbow into Bucky’s side, but Bucky didn’t let go.

“You think pain makes you strong?” Bucky growled. “You don’t know pain.”

He slammed Volkov’s head into the ground. Concrete split beneath.

Volkov, bloody and furious, managed to roll away. Pulled a hidden pistol from his ankle holster and fired.

One shot went wild.

The other grazed Bucky’s shoulder, slicing through the edge of his suit.

Bucky dove low—shoulder-first—tackled him against the metal table. It folded in half under their combined weight. Chains rattled down like rain.

Bucky disarmed him in a heartbeat—knife spinning across the floor. Pistol kicked away.

Now it was just them.

Fists.

Steel.

And rage.

Bucky landed a blow to the ribs that bent Volkov sideways, then drove a knee into his gut. Volkov coughed blood, still fighting, still moving. He threw a headbutt. Connected.

Bucky’s vision flashed white. But his body kept going.

He ducked under a punch and drove his metal arm up into Volkov’s chin.

Crack.

Teeth scattered.

Volkov dropped.

But Bucky wasn’t done.

He grabbed him by the collar and threw him across the room—into the steel wall. The impact echoed like thunder. Volkov slumped, dazed, broken.

Bucky moved in.

Each step was deliberate. Measured. Deadly.

Volkov made one last move—limping, bleeding—toward a blade still on the floor.

Bucky stepped into him.

And drove his vibranium fist into Volkov’s gut. Deep. Bones snapped. Blood spattered.

Then came the uppercut. Vicious. Perfect.

Volkov flew backward. Hit the floor. Didn’t get back up.

Bucky stood over him, breathing like a war engine, sweat and blood dripping from his brow, muscles flexing with each ragged inhale.

He could kill him.

One more hit.

One.

But then—

He looked at you.

Your bruised wrists. The blood on your neck. The silent strength in your eyes.

And the fury softened—just enough to make room for control.

Bucky stepped back.

Grabbed one of the thick cargo chains from the floor. Industrial. Cold.

He wrapped it around Volkov like a vice. Again. Tighter. Again. Until Volkov’s ribs creaked and his mouth filled with the taste of metal.

Bucky looped it through the floor bolt. Yanked it tight.

Then knelt, voice low and lethal in Volkov’s ear.

“You’ll live just long enough to rot in a black site,” he hissed. “Every day knowing you lost to me. That you never got to touch her again.”

He stood.

Wiped the blood from his mouth.

Then turned.

And saw you.

Bruised. Bleeding. Breathing.

Still you.

And in that instant, everything else in the world disappeared.

—

The moment his eyes met yours, something in him shattered.

He crossed the room in a heartbeat.

“Doll—” His voice broke, hoarse with something primal.

His hands were already on the restraints, fingers shaking as he worked through the tight buckles with mechanical precision. The cold touch of his vibranium palm met your bruised wrist, and you winced—more from reflex than pain.

“Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He flinched like he’d hurt you.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “It’s okay. I’m—”

“No,” he rasped, his gaze sweeping over you like he was cataloging every mark, every scratch, every tear in your clothes. “It’s not. Look at you. Fucking look at you.”

His breath hitched. Blood smeared his temple, a gash cut across his jaw, and the left side of his torso was soaked in red—where Volkov’s blade had torn beneath his ribs—but he didn’t register it. Didn’t care.

He knelt in front of you like a soldier before an altar, pulling the bindings off your ankles with a desperate kind of tenderness. Every time the rope gave way, he touched the skin beneath, thumb brushing gently across raw flesh like he could erase it.

“I should’ve gotten here sooner. I should’ve known.” His voice cracked again. “I heard what he said to you over the comms—I heard—God, baby, I should’ve fucking—”

“Bucky,” you said again, firmer this time. You leaned forward weakly, your hands finding his bloodied face and cupping it between your palms. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He shook his head like he didn’t believe you. Or couldn’t.

“I saw your face when I walked in,” he whispered. “I saw what he did.”

Your lip trembled, but you forced it still. “He didn’t… get far. I was drugged, restrained—but I don’t think he…” You swallowed hard, bile rising. “I think he wanted to wait. To make it worse. I could feel it.”

Bucky’s entire body stilled. Frozen.

Then his jaw flexed, and a tremor rolled through his shoulders.

“I was going to kill him,” he admitted, voice like shattered glass. “Right there. Would’ve torn him apart with my bare hands and smiled while I did it.”

“I know,” you said softly. “And if you had, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

His eyes met yours again—steel blue, raw. “But you did stop me, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “Because I still need you, Bucky. I don’t need vengeance. I need you.”

For a long second, neither of you moved.

Then he slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His blood mixed with your tears. His hand—metal, unyielding—cupped your jaw with a touch softer than silk.

“You’re my whole goddamn world, doll,” he whispered. “They can take the mission. They can take the tech. But they touch you—”

“I know.” You closed your eyes. “They didn’t.”

You sat in silence another beat. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to feel your body again. It hurt—every inch—but it was still yours.

And you were still his.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him again. “Can you move?”

He nodded, wincing as he stood. The stab wound was clearly more than a graze now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

“Good. Because we’re not done yet.” You exhaled and braced a hand on the chair, pushing to your feet.

He immediately steadied you.

“Hey—slow. You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I’m upright. I’m breathing. We came here for more than him.”

Bucky looked at you like you’d just grown wings. Like maybe you were the strongest person he’d ever met.

You gestured to the side door—half-open, dimly lit.

“Volkov said he kept it behind security doors. Tech that could outrun vibranium and adamantium. We find it, we finish this. Together.”

He gave you a long look. Then nodded, bloody and steady.

“Together,” he said.

And this time, it wasn’t a promise.

It was a war cry.

—

You settled beside Bucky, your fingers still trembling from the adrenaline, but your voice stayed steady as you pulled out your comms. The sterile hum of the damaged room was pierced by your quiet command.

“Val, I need backup. Volkov’s down, but his intel’s too valuable to lose.”

Your words felt heavier than air, each syllable soaked in urgency and the weight of what you both had just survived. The faint crackle in your ear answered with Val’s cool, unwavering voice—a beacon cutting through the dark.

“Copy that. Bob and Yelena are on standby in the city. They’re moving in now.”

Relief unfurled inside you—a fragile thread of hope amid the storm. Familiar voices. Reinforcements racing through the city’s shadows toward your location. A lifeline tethered to survival.

You glanced at Bucky, whose breathing had slowed, chest rising and falling like a war drum now beating for peace. Your touch found his bruised shoulder, gentle but grounding—an unspoken promise that this fight wasn’t over, but you’d face it together.

Meanwhile, Bucky turned back to Volkov, seizing the moment to inflict just enough pain to crack the enemy’s stoic facade.

Codes and coordinates spilled out under Bucky’s relentless pressure—every word a strike against Volkov’s will. The new tech’s location was now clear, an ominous prize tucked in a forgotten warehouse.

Without hesitation, Bucky led the way.

Your mind raced as you scanned the data, heart pounding in your chest. The place was rigged—dangerous. Lethal. But destruction was necessary.

Bucky moved with purpose, expertly setting charges that would erase the tech and any trace of its existence.

Explosions roared behind you, shaking the ground. The acrid scent of burning metal and plastic filled the air.

Back in the quiet aftermath, you knelt beside Bucky. Your hands moved carefully over his wounds—bruises blooming purple, cuts still fresh. You ignored the heat of your own exhaustion, focusing on him.

The metallic taste of blood still lingered on his lips, but his skin was warm under your fingertips—healing fast, fueled by sheer will and some stubborn human resilience.

Your touch was gentle. Deliberate. Calming the storm inside him.

His wild eyes softened. He exhaled. The tension in his jaw eased under your care.

Volkov lay unconscious, wrapped tight in steel chains—conscious enough to curse in his dreams, but powerless.

You met Bucky’s gaze.

And in that look, shared a quiet understanding:

The worst was behind you.

For now.

—

The low hum of the jet thrummed around you, the tension from the mission fading like smoke.

Bucky lounged back in his seat, that cocky smirk never leaving his face as he nudged you gently with his metal arm.

“You comfortable now, wife?”

The moment the word left his mouth, Yelena shot upright like a firecracker had gone off beside her. She slammed her fist on the intercom button with enough force to rattle the entire jet cabin.

“You two were fucking?!”

Your cheeks flushed a hot, creeping red, heat blooming across your neck as all eyes snapped to you and Bucky.

Bob burst into delighted applause, grinning ear to ear like he’d just won the lottery.

Yelena’s glare sharpened, her voice dripping with playful disgust.

“Seriously? You could do so much better than some grumpy, hundred-year-old man.”

She shot you a smirk full of challenge.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the soft smile tugging at your lips, your voice low and teasing as you leaned into Bucky’s side.

“I’m too down bad for him already, Lena.”

Bucky caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles, his steel-blue eyes sparkling with a tenderness that made your heart thud painfully in your chest.

The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the sterile hum of the jet’s engines.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

“I’d rather die than witness all this PDA shit in real life. Please, no more!”

Before you could respond, the intercom crackled to life.

Ava’s voice came through, shocked and high-pitched:

“Who—what??”

Then Walker cut in, with his usual dry edge:

“Is the cat out of the bag now?”

Bob chimed in happily, clapping again.

“Finally! Took you two long enough.”

Suddenly, the intercom blasted again, this time it was Alexei—loud, exuberant, completely unfiltered:

“YESSSSSS, AVENGER PAPA AND MAMAAAAAAA!! AVENGER BABY IN MAKINGGG!!”

The cabin exploded into laughter.

Yelena groaned as she slammed the intercom button once more, shaking her head at the glorious madness surrounding you.

Bucky smirked down at you, eyes soft but mischievous.

“Looks like we’re famous now, love.”

You nestled closer, hand tightening around his, feeling the rare calm of being home amidst the chaos of your lives.

[lazy-ahh]

I THOUGHT OF YOU BETWEEN THE BLOODSHED

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

jason todd comes home to you with bruised knuckles and a heart too full to name. the red hood is all sharp edges and violence, but with you? he's just jason—achingly tender, disarmingly soft, hands that break bones cradling your face like you’re something sacred.

"you taste like gunpowder," you murmur against his lips, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer. his breath is warm, a little ragged, like he’d sprinted up the stairs just to get to you.

"that’s ‘cause i was shootin’ people," jason huffs, but there’s no bite to it—just that low, rough voice curling around the words like smoke. his hands are big where they settle on your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of your hip bones like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

you hum, tilting your head to kiss him again, slow and lazy. his mouth is chapped, the faint metallic tang of blood lingering from where he’d bitten his own lip too hard earlier. but he sighs into it, lets you lick into his mouth like you own it, like he’d let you take anything from him if you just asked.

when you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, dark with something that makes your stomach flip. the white streak in his hair is mussed from your fingers, and you reach up to smooth it back, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. he leans into the touch like a cat, a quiet rumble in his chest.

"missed you," he mutters, like it’s a secret. like he’s embarrassed by it.

you snort. "you saw me this morning."

"still missed you."

his nose bumps against yours, clumsy with affection, and you can’t help but smile. jason todd, red hood, the crime lord who’d put a bullet through six men’s kneecaps tonight, is nuzzling into your hand like he’s starved for it.

his fingers trail up your sides, over your ribs, like he’s counting them. when he speaks again, his voice is softer. "thought about you. when i was out there."

"yeah?" you tease, but your heart stutters anyway. "what, in between breaking bones?"

"especially then," he admits, and his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, catching on the swell of it. "kept thinkin’ about how you’d laugh if you saw me. how you’d roll your eyes at me for bein’ dramatic."

you do roll your eyes now, but he just grins, that crooked, boyish thing that makes him look younger. makes him look like jason, not the red hood, not the ghost of robin. just yours.

"you’re such a sap," you tell him, but your hands are gentle where they frame his face, where your thumbs trace the scars on his cheeks.

he turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. "only for you."

and god, if that doesn’t make your chest ache.

for some reason, tonight felt more... intimate. more warm and safe. soft and right. so right. the two of you sitting on the couch, with you situated on jason's lap as you cuddled and shared soft, tender kisses.

and you can’t help but stare.

because up close, he’s beautiful.

the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks, long and dark like ink smudged on paper. the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, a story he’d shrug off if you asked but you love anyway. his nose, slightly crooked from one too many fights, and the way it brushes against yours when he leans in, clumsy and sweet.

his lips are chapped, but they’re warm, and they part so easily under yours—like he’s been waiting for this, like he’d let you take and take until there’s nothing left.

and his hands. god, his hands. big and rough, knuckles bruised and fingers calloused from years of gripping guns and knives and the edges of his own rage. but right now, they’re gentle. one cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious, the other tracing idle patterns on your hip like he’s memorizing you.

you reach up, thumb brushing over the white streak in his hair, the strands soft between your fingers. he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second—like he’s savoring it, like he’s starved for it.

and you think, this. this is the jason no one else gets to see. the one who sighs into your touch, who lets you trace the scars on his skin without flinching, who kisses you like he’s trying to say something words could never hold.

"what?" he murmurs, catching you staring.

"nothin’," you whisper, but your fingers don’t stop tracing the curve of his jaw. "just thinkin’ about how pretty you are."

his breath hitches, just a little, and you watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows. "pretty?" he echoes, voice low, disbelieving. like no one’s ever said it to him before. like he doesn’t know what to do with the word.

"yeah," you murmur, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. "so pretty it hurts."

his cheeks flush, just a little, and he ducks his head like he’s trying to hide it. but you catch it—the way his lashes flutter, the way his grip on your waist tightens, just for a second. like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

"shut up," he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. just that quiet, aching vulnerability he only ever shows you.

your hands reach for his face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the high curve of his cheekbones. his skin is warm under your palms and you tilt his head up just enough to see the way his lashes flutter, the way his lips part—just slightly—like he’s already waiting.

and god, he’s beautiful like this.

you press the first kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and teasing, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips. the second lands on the bridge of his nose, right over that little scar he never talks about. the third finds the dip under his eye, where his skin is unfairly soft, and he lets out a quiet, shaky exhale, his fingers tightening where they grip your waist.

"fuck," he whispers, voice rough, and you can feel the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips.

you don’t stop. you kiss the crease between his brows, the spot just below his ear, the sharp line of his jaw—every touch feather-light, reverent. and jason melts, his shoulders slumping, his head tipping back against the couch like he’s surrendering. like he’s letting you take him apart piece by piece.

when you finally press your lips to his, it’s slow. sweet. his mouth is warm, yielding under yours, and he makes this quiet, desperate noise in the back of his throat when you suck gently on his bottom lip. his hands slide up your back, fingers trembling just a little, like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or hold himself back.

you pull away just enough to murmur against his lips, "let me worship you, dearest."

his breath catches, and for a second, he just looks at you—eyes dark, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and parted. then he’s surging forward, crashing his mouth against yours like he’s starving for it, like he’s trying to say yes, yes, yes without words.

and you let him. you let him take, let him press you closer, let him kiss you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world.

he kisses you like a man starved, all rough edges and clumsy hunger, but you slow him down with a hand fisted gently in his hair. "easy," you murmur against his lips, and he whines—actually whines—high in his throat, his hips jerking up against yours like he can’t help it.

you swallow the sound, kissing him deeper, slower, until his frantic movements still and he’s just shaking beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. his breath comes in ragged bursts against your mouth, his chest heaving, and when you pull back just an inch, his eyes are blown black with want, his lips slick and parted.

"please," he gasps, and it’s wrecked, broken, like he’s begging for something he doesn’t even know how to name.

you shush him with another kiss, this one lingering at the corner of his mouth, then trailing down to his jaw, his throat. he tilts his head back with a groan, baring the column of his neck to you like an offering, his pulse fluttering wild under your tongue. you bite down—just a tease, just enough to make him curse—and he arches off the couch, a strangled "fuck—!" tumbling from his lips.

his hands scramble at your waist, tugging at your clothes, but you catch his wrists, pinning them gently to the cushions above his head. his breath hitches, his thighs tensing beneath you, and when you finally meet his gaze again, he looks ruined.

"let me take care of you," you whisper, and his throat works around a swallow, his lashes fluttering.

he nods, once, sharp and desperate. "yeah. yeah, okay—please."

and so you do.

…1.4k full of soft jason- WHAT CAN I EVEN SAY TO THIS AHHHH I NEED MORE BUT MY BRAIN IS SO AHHHHHHH sorry, guys—i'm hopeless at writing anything steamier than slow kisses and yearning glances and whatever this is. maybe someday, when i've deemed that my skills are worthy enough, there'll be a part two. maybe-

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

frontman x reader whos a player but not because of debt but because she was investigating with gi-hun and ju-hon and got in the limousine and then in-ho falls in love with her and gets her out of the game with him like at the end of the season

can u also like not write it like a hate love relationship? like readers conflicted but still likes in-ho

Keeping you safe

Hwang In-ho x reader

hiii, pleasure writing your request! hope it’s the way you imagined :)

Word count: 3,3k

Warnings: violence, murder,…

Requests are open! i would also like to write something about Jun-ho or the salesman, so hmu

When you jumped into the limousine after Gi-hun you didn’t consider its consequences. Jun-ho trusted you to keep your eyes on Gi-hun at all costs and you were going to keep your word, even when it meant making yourself vulnerable.

The gas was sweet on your tongue and Gi-hun already slumped down on the plush leather of the limo seats. But you were wide awake, somehow defying sleep’s influence, shaking, still processing what the deep voice implied and Gi-hun demanded. “Put me in the game. But leave her out of it.”

Those words were followed by a dry laugh. You knew that meant there was no way out of it now. You started whispering into the intercom to Jun-ho, saying how sorry you were. His panicked voice was cut off by you turning off the device while you prepared yourself for the Frontman’s reaction, closing your eyes and taking shallow breaths.

“No. Those are my games and my rules. Might make them more interesting, don’t you agree, player 456?”

Then the gas started rising up from the floor. Gi-hun grabbed your hand, rumbling about how sorry he was. You smiled wearily, pressing his hand. “It’s okay, Gi-hun.” You both knew it wasn’t. It was as far from ‘okay’ as possible.

His fingers went limp and you resigned, waiting for the inevitable. With muted senses you watched the tinted protection shield go down. Behind it was the man in the mask himself, looking at you over his shoulder. Just when his gloved hand hovered over his mask, shrugging it off, you were engulfed in darkness.

***

After the first game, you thought that nothing could surprise you anymore. As much as Gi-hun tried to keep you from all the bloodshed, even he couldn’t cover your eyes and ears every time there was a gunshot. Still pale and shaken, digging dirt and blood from beneath your nails, you sat on your bed with the provided food in your lap, watching your surroundings. At least Gi-hun could be happy he found here his long lost friend, with whom he was now talking. You still didn’t speak to anyone else. You were scared that if you did, they would be dead by tomorrow.

You barely noticed there was any commotion until the sudden silence peaked your interest. There was a skirmish between three guys, two of them working together, which made the outcome of the fight quite obvious. There was another player stalking towards the group, trying to break up the fight.

“I said save the lecture for your own damn kids.” one of the guys shouted at him. That’s when you noticed the player’s still frame, like a cat before launching at its prey. And you were right; within a blink of an eye, he put both of the guys on their backs, not even breaking a sweat. You looked closer at him, reading the number 001 on his back. Even from afar you could see how deadly calm he was while choking one of them. After a moment the rage left his body and he released his grip. You didn’t expect the applause that followed his actions. You exchanged a look with Gi-hun. Were you the only one who sensed something foreboding?

You turned your attention back to the food in your lap and decided that even though you weren’t hungry, you desperately needed the energy. But in your mind, all you could think about was the player 001. Was he a police detective like Jun-ho or a former marine like Jung-bae or Dae-ho? Or something else entirely?

It took you a while to get out of your head and notice that his bed was right next to yours. With a sigh, player 001 sat down, grabbing his unfinished food. Just then he noticed your searching look and gave you a tentative smile.

“Hello, sir,” you began, looking down at your hands. A sudden wave of nervousness came over you. “I’m Y/N. Do you mind telling me your name?”

“No bother, Y/N,” he replied and you stared at his lips, at how perfectly they formed your name. “I’m Young-il. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” you grinned at him in response, holding out your hand that he tentatively shook.

“Nice moves there,” you pointed your chin to the middle of the dormitory where the fight took place. “You could teach me if you had time, I’m terrible in combat.” A lie. Jun-ho himself taught you how to hold yourself and how to hold a gun. You were just trying to find out who Young-il was.

“If we have time, yes.” he nodded absentmindedly, scooping up a mouthful of rice.

“Do you mind me asking? I was just wondering if you have any children.” you said carefully.

“No, I don't.” Young-il replied, suddenly his gaze sharp.

“Well, I just thought that, based on your reaction to what that other player told you-“ you searched for the answer in his closely guarded expression. “You lost your child, didn’t you?”

Young-il didn’t say anything to that, his cutlery going limp in his hand.

“I just- I’d know that look anywhere. I know it’s not something to bond over,” you gave a startled laugh, fidgeting under his everlasting gaze, “but if you’d like to talk about it-“

“Thank you.” He reached out and squeezed your hand. His touch was calloused and warm. “I mean it.”

You smiled softly, squeezing his fingers in response. “I know.”

Preparing yourself for lights out, you couldn’t ignore his lingering gaze following your movements. Thankfully Gi-hun approached you and sat next to you on the bed, guilt visible in his expression.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never wanted to drag you into this. And I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe-“

“Don’t worry about that, sir. I can take care of myself. Anyways, I was only following Jun-ho’s orders. It had nothing to do with you.”

Unconvinced, Gi-hun sighed and moved to his own bed, not having the energy at the moment to argue with you. You finally lay down, moving the thin blanket over your body, curling up on your side.

“I overheard you talking about Jun-ho, and I couldn’t help but notice how familiar that name sounds to me,” Young-il broke the silence, looking at you with curiosity in his eyes.

“Well, he used to work as a police detective so that’s why you might know him.”

“Oh, yes, that might be possible,” Young-il gave you a restrained smile. “And he is to you-?”

“A friend. I used to work as a secretary in his department, that’s all.” you smiled back.

“Oh, sorry to pry.” he looked at his hands.

“Not at all.” He looked into your eyes and your eyes crinkled with another smile. Only when he looked away did you turn around in your bed. A few minutes later you heard Gi-hun and Young-il talking and even though you didn’t want to, it was impossible to not overhear. Young-il was explaining the story of why he’s in the games and why he chose to continue playing - how his pregnant wife was gravely ill and he needed the money due to her medical bills. Somehow, this answer shocked you, even though you shouldn't have been thrown off by it. Of course he was married.

Only after the whole dormitory fell silent did you finally fall into a fitful sleep.

***

“Thank you, Young-il.” you whispered to him, gratefully touching his shoulder. Young-il turned his gaze your way and the corners of his eyes crinkled under the influence of a smile. Only his supportive words during the six legged pentathlon could calm you down, which resulted in you successfully completing your mini game. The memory flashed through your mind - tears welling in your eyes, hands shaking as you reached again and again for the gong-gi pebbles. You could sense your teammates’ growing unease but that even worsened your situation. After the third attempt, Young-il grabbed you by the elbow, leaning closer as he said: “Ignore everything else okay? Just listen to me and focus.”

You nodded, bewildered eyes setting again on the pebbles. You were kneeling in a puddle of blood, which didn’t exactly help calm your nerves.

“Just concentrate. I know you can do it. Look at you, all flushed red and focused. This look suits you.” The pebbles balanced on the knuckles of your hand, just one more throw. You looked up at Young-il, lips slightly parted. Were you hearing correctly? Maintaining eye contact, you threw the pebbles op with a sudden surge of confidence and caught them flawlessly. Everyone cheered and you were hoisted up by your team, but all you could hear were Young-il’s last words whispered in your ear: “Good girl.”

Now he was looking at you, this new tension between you two palpable.

“Anytime.”

***

While you tried to act nonchalant, it was just impossible. The way Young-il now watched you at all times drove you crazy, feeling his gaze like a branding on your body. You were grateful for keeping a watch during the lights off, thinking that it could distract you from your own dirty thoughts. But it was quite the contrary.

Overlooking the silent dark room, those words echoed in you even more soundly. Good girl. With a sigh you stretched out your legs, trying to ignore the tightness in your underbelly. You were annoyed with yourself. Why did the words of a stranger make you feel this way? Words of a married stranger, more like it.

“You seem distracted.”

You jumped at that impassive raspy voice. Thankfully, once Young-ho sat down next to you, he couldn’t notice your flushed cheeks due to the impassable darkness. Your shoulders touched and to your surprise he didn’t immediately move away.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” you smiled with your head bowed, nearly chuckling at how clueless he must be.

There was an awkward silence following your reply, so, without thinking about it, you said: “Thank you again for today, truly. You helped me a lot.”

Young-il looked at you, searching for something in your expression. Apparently he found it. “You think about that a lot, don’t you?”

“Sorry?” you stumbled over your words, not knowing how to react, what to say.

“My words alone made you quiver. Now imagine what my tongue could do.” he whispered, teasing you, a spark in his eyes.

“Young-il-“ you breathed out, suddenly aware of how close his face was to yours. You felt your underwear getting wetter by the minute. But you put that all in the back of your mind as you said: “I know you are married. Expecting a child, even. You shouldn’t say things like that.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Does that bother you? Or are you bothered by the effect I have on you?”

You sighed, looking away from his handsome face. Was he sent here just to test your boundaries?

“I still have enough self control to know right from wrong.” But your body wasn’t in line with your thoughts.

Young-il stared at you for a moment, then sighed, irritated. “My wife and my child are gone. I just don’t enjoy talking about them in past tense. I joined the games out of misery, nothing more. Are you happy now?”

You froze, looking at the way his arms formed into fists at his sides. It was like having ice cold water poured all over you.

“Young-il, I’m so-“

“Don’t be. It’s been a long time.” Eyes meeting, he smiled at you tentatively. You squeezed his warm hand and he relaxed, loosening his fist.

“Right now, I don’t care about anything but you.” He caressed your cheek with the back of his hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Moving closer, he kissed the bruise already blossoming on your jaw. And you let him.

“I don’t want to scare you away with my… infatuation. But right now, I’m so desperately weak for you.” Your breathing hitched as he moved his lips to your ear.

Just when you thought he would kiss you, he suddenly pulled away.

“I’ll take over the watch. You should sleep, muster some energy for tomorrow.” You nodded as if in a trance. He helped you stand up and led you to your bed. Young-il left you standing there, leaving only the whisper of his lips branding your cheek.

***

The third game was a whirlwind of movement. Only thanks to Young-il were you still alive and breathing. Every time a number was announced, he firmly grasped your wrist and dragged you with him wherever he went. Not that you were complaining - you were so overstimulated by all the commotion that you were glad you could keep up with him.

When one player tried to separate you from him, Young-il bared his teeth and kicked him square in the chest. “She’s mine,” There it was, the cold expression and clenched jaw. Even though you were on the brink of dying, a shiver ran down your spine.

You made it safe with your group into one of the rooms and soon were walking out to play the last round. You knew exactly what the woman’s voice was going to announce and you were right: “Two.”

Young-il was already moving, pushing people out of your way. Everything seemed to go smoothly, until you reached the room; a player was already inside.

“Get out.” Young-il growled and reached the man, trying to get him on his legs and out of the room.

“We were here first,” the player whimpered. You noticed other players running to the door you were standing next to and panicking, you closed it, pushing your whole body against it.

You looked over your shoulder at Young-il, wanting to see if he was any closer to pushing the player out through the doors. But you froze when you saw he was holding the man in a headlock, choking him. All you could do was stare.

Young-il was looking straight back at you. And with one smooth motion of his arms he broke the man’s spine, leaving him staring at the ceiling, going limp in Young-il’s grip.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N.” Young-il said, slowly getting up. You couldn’t tear your gaze from the lifeless body on the ground.

Only when he knelt in front of you did your eyes meet his. He grabbed your cold, shaking hands, kissing the knuckles while staring into your eyes.

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“You poor thing,” Young-il said absentmindedly, wiping your tears away. “I can keep you safe, Y/N. I promise. All I’ve done was to prove that to you.”

“It’s scaring me how far you’re willing to go for me,” you sobbed, fighting the urge to flinch when he caressed your cheek. Still, you couldn’t find a reason to hate him. All the things he was saying were true, he did all of this for you, he killed a man for you, for your own safety.

The lock on the doors clicked and you closed your eyes, letting yourself be guided by Young-il out of the room. You knew that if you looked once more at the corpse, you would never let Young-il touch you again.

So you kept your eyes closed, choosing the easier path.

***

When the lights went out, all you could do was hold Young-il as hard as possible and count the minutes until the slaughter was over. Head against his chest, you concentrated on the sound of his heartbeat, every other sound pushed into the background. His hand was on your lower back, holding you as close as possible.

“I want to go home.” you whispered, clutching the front of his T-shirt like a small child. It was all a mistake. You shouldn’t be here.

“Okay, you will, okay? When we disarm the guards, you stay hidden, but once we take control of the rest, you have to come to my side, you understand?”

You nodded into his chest. Young-il kissed the crown of your head before leaving you under the bed as the guards tried to take control of the situation.

After many gunshots fired, you were crawling to the group of players formed in front of the main doors. Without hesitation you claimed one of the smaller guns for yourself. Somehow, the familiar weight of it calmed you down a bit. Young-il looked at you with tenseness.

“Keeping secrets, I see.” In reply you just loaded the gun, staring back.

Gi-hun looked your way over his shoulder, sending you a quick nod. The group exited the room, moving quickly down the corridor. Young-il stayed back, moving slower than the rest. Once the first guards got in your way, he pushed you to the side, saying: “This way!” Looking over your shoulder, everyone was shooting at the enemy, moving the other way. You looked back at him, unsure.

“You wanted to go home, didn’t you? Well, this is it.” seeing how indecisive you were, he sighed, “You trust me, don’t you?”

Hesitant, you followed his lead. You took the side stairs up and you got a bad feeling in your stomach. Young-il didn’t bother to check the corners, nor the other stories as you climbed the stairs. He walked like someone who knew this place, someone who wasn’t scared that he might be shot.

You stopped in your tracks, aiming your gun with a trembling hand. Young-il, upon noticing you were not following him, turned around. There was something like betrayal shining through his demeanour.

“You’re going to explain.” you said, trying to keep your voice and hand steady.

“Oh, Y/N, I think you already know.” Young-il pointed out, a corner of his lips curling up. He took one step towards you.

“What. Is. Your. Real. Name.” you said through gritted teeth, cocking your gun.

“Hwang In-ho.”

All this time, he was the long lost brother Jun-ho was trying to find. You felt the sting of betrayal in your bones.

“Was any of this real?” Tears stung in your eyes and you hated yourself for being so vulnerable.

“Oh, baby,” In-ho sighed, walking to you, kneeling in front of you again. The muzzle of the gun touched his forehead, which he seemed unbothered by.

“Everything.” he said, looking up at you.

“I keep trying to hate you,” you whispered, trying to muster at least some hatred that would make you pull the trigger. “It would be so much easier if I did.”

In-ho reached out and gently took the gun from your trembling hand. He threw in on the ground, making it slide on the floor.

“I know,” he whispered, grabbing your hips with his hands. He stared at you yearningly. There was a burning ache in your chest clawing its way into your throat.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“I can’t. And I don’t think you want me to either.”

The worst part was that he was right.

“I know I should stay away from you, but I can’t. It’s not that simple.” A sob tore out of your throat, making it hard for you to breathe. There were so many emotions in you that your head was spinning. All you knew was the fact that you couldn’t hate the one person who deserved it the most.

“Stay with me, love. I beg you,” In-ho said hoarsely, gripping you harder, trying to make you understand. “You will be safe with me. I will not break that promise.” His eyes were filled with hope. “You felt it too, I know.”

You closed your eyes, composing yourself and your thoughts. You knew it was wrong. But you always had a weakness for the forbidden.

In-ho stood up, taking your face in his hands. He kissed your forehead, your temples, your jaw. And when he kissed you on the lips, you let yourself melt into the touch, forgetting everything else.

“You’ll be the death of me.” you whispered against his lips and he smiled into the kiss, knowing you were his.

[ama3003]

Silver Springs

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ (A bit of Fluff)

Summary: The tragic yet beautiful love story of a District 12 Victor and a Capitol Princess.

Song based fanfiction: Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Also it's really long lol whoops.

You could be my silver spring Blue-green colors flashin'

Most Capitol kids couldn’t wait for the annual Hunger Games. It was the highlight of the year—dressing up as their favorite tributes, pretending to fight, and cheering on the bloodshed like it was just another sport.

But your family was different. They understood the Games weren’t just about people killing each other. It was the raw, unrelenting violence—too much for children to witness. That’s why your mother and father refused to let you and your younger sister watch, no matter how many times you begged. It was hard, though, knowing your father was one of the arena makers. But even he agreed it was too much for you to see—at least, not yet.

It wasn’t until you were fifteen that you finally saw the Games. Your sister, at thirteen, was still too young in their eyes, but after years of asking, you finally convinced your father to let you watch. Your mother was reluctant, but your father, almost too eager, finally gave in. It was his favorite pastime, after all.

You sat in front of the screen, hesitant, unsure of what to expect. The moment the Games began, you knew you’d made a mistake. The bloodbath at the Cornucopia was enough to turn your stomach.

This wasn’t entertainment. These were children, kids just like you, fighting for their lives. Fighting for survival. The thought of it made you sick. How could anyone watch this, let alone cheer for it?

You hated the Games. Hated how your friends, even your own family, seemed to feed off the violence. The spectacle of it all disgusted you, and for three days, you refused to watch, unable to stomach the brutal chaos. But then, your mother asked you to bring your father a drink—such a simple request, nothing special—until you walked into the room and saw him.

There, on the screen, was a flash of blonde—Haymitch Abernathy, District 12’s tribute. He wasn’t like the others. You could feel it the moment he snapped. The rawness, the desperate anguish in his eyes when his friend died. He wasn’t just surviving the Games. He was broken. And you couldn’t look away.

That was when it happened. A pull, something you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t pity, it wasn’t just sympathy—it was something deeper. His pain, his strength, his defiance against the system, it all drew you in. You found yourself on the edge of your seat, barely breathing, as you watched him fight—not just for survival, but for something far more fragile. Maybe hope. Maybe revenge.

And just like that, you were hooked.

As the days wore on, you found yourself more and more absorbed. Your father noticed, too, but it wasn’t for the reason he thought. It wasn’t because you were becoming one of those Capitol kids, eagerly watching the bloodshed. No, it was because you were clinging to the hope that Haymitch, that broken boy from District 12, might just survive.

You prayed, each day, that he’d make it. You wanted him to win, not because of the Games—but because you couldn’t bear the thought of him becoming just another casualty of the Capitol’s cruel entertainment.

Day six came, and your heart was in your throat. The thought of watching it all unfold was unbearable, but you couldn’t tear yourself away. You needed to know if he made it. Needed to know if he could fight his way out of the nightmare.

And you realized, as the games dragged on, that you weren’t watching to see who’d win—it was because, in that moment, the boy from District 12 was the only thing that kept you from giving up on the Games entirely. The only thing worth watching.

“Father, what are they doing?” you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of shock and fear as you watched the District 12 pair discuss splitting up.

“There’s only five left, my little star,” your father replied, his voice quiet but firm. “Friends don’t want to hurt each other. All we can do is hope that someone gets to them before they do it to each other.”

Hope? That’s all you could do? Hope that the one you’d been watching—your tribute—wouldn’t die? You couldn’t accept that. The odds weren’t in his favor, but you weren’t about to let that be the end. Not without trying.

“Do you think I could send him something?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. You could feel your heart pounding as you spoke, watching your father’s face change.

He shook his head almost immediately, the lines around his eyes tightening. “You know I don’t do that. Not with my position.”

You hesitated, but the urge to help him was too strong. “I know... but he’s my favorite. It’s my first Games... I just thought... maybe it would be nice to give him something, you know?”

Your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap, betraying how much this meant to you. Your father had always avoided sending gifts to tributes—after all, he helped design the arena, and it was frowned upon for him to interfere. It felt like a long shot, but at this point, anything felt better than doing nothing.

He must have seen the desperation in your face because he stared at you for a long moment, his gaze sharp, searching. “I see what this is.” He raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got a little crush on him, don’t you?” You remained silent.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, and then his expression shifted. “I don’t think that little crush is going to win, my dear,” he said softly, almost gently, but there was a sharpness to his words. “So I think you should start looking at others.”

His words stung, but you couldn’t let it deter you. You needed to get this to him. You could feel your face flush with frustration, but you forced a sad smile. “I know, Dad. But I was just hoping I could give him a toy. Something small. Something that could keep him busy before the end. Every kid deserves to be a kid, at least being that close to death.”

He stared at you, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he would cave. But then he sighed again, resigned, and nodded. “Alright. What do you want to send him?”

You breathed a sigh of relief and quickly whispered the idea in his ear. You wrote a quick note, and then, with all the sincerity you could muster, you looked up at him. “Please, Dad.”

You gave him your best puppy-dog eyes—the same ones that always made him relent—and he finally rolled his eyes with a playful smirk, defeated.

“Fine. I’ll get it sent,” he muttered before walking out.

You waited, heart in your throat, as the camera panned over to Haymitch, perched alone on a cliff, staring into the distance. He looked like he had given up. His posture was slouched, and his eyes were hollow with defeat. It hurt to see him like that.

But you weren’t giving up. Not yet.

And then, there it was—the parachute. You held your breath as it floated down toward him, delicate and slow, carrying your small offering.

He reached for it, opened the package. Your heart raced as he pulled out the small bouncing ball. He stared at it for a moment, annoyance flashing across his face. Clearly, he was expecting something different. Something more useful.

Then, he unfolded the note and read it:

‘Sometimes things just bounce back out of nowhere. Trust your gut – it’s gotten you this far. I believe in you. – Star’

He scoffed, bouncing the ball on the ground in irritation. This was what sponsors thought he needed? A toy?

He sighed, then threw the ball off the cliff with force, clearly hoping to see it disappear into the abyss.

But then it came back. Bounced. Right back to him.

He froze, staring at the ball in disbelief, then threw it again. This time, with more curiosity. It bounced back. Again.

And again. He caught it, his face shifting from frustration to realization.

Looking back at the note, his eyes narrowed. Trust your gut.

And that’s when it clicked.

It wasn’t just a ball. It was a signal. A clue. There was something there—a forcefield. It was the only explanation.

He took a deep breath, nodding to himself. Maybe the odds weren’t so hopeless after all.

I would be your only dream Your shinin' autumn ocean crashin'

The ballroom hummed with the usual crowd—an ocean of glittering gowns and sharp suits. The air was thick with forced laughter, the kind that never quite reached the eyes.

Haymitch was tucked away in a quiet corner, nursing a drink that was far too strong for his age, trying to drown out the noise.

It was his Victory Tour party—supposed to be a celebration. But Haymitch wasn’t celebrating. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked to be here, surrounded by people who didn’t have the slightest clue what he’d endured.

His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the faces—smiles too wide, too perfect. It made his stomach twist. This wasn’t his world. None of it was.

He’d survived the Games, sure, but the real battle felt like it was just beginning. He was already dreading the next few months—endless speeches, the same tired handshakes, pretending he wasn’t counting the minutes until he could escape back to District 12.

Survival had a price. And right now, it felt like a cruel joke.

For the last fifteen minutes, Haymitch had blended into the background, unnoticed by the crowd, their attention elsewhere. For once, he didn’t feel like a spectacle. But then—tap. A hand on his shoulder.

Instincts kicked in. He grabbed the wrist before he even realized what he was doing, his fingers tightening around it. When he looked up, ready to snap, he froze.

There you were—standing there, a nervous little smile on your lips, already looking like you regretted interrupting him. And something in your eyes made him pause.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft, almost apologetic. “That was really stupid. I hate when people touch me, and I figured… well, I guess I didn’t figure... after everything you’ve been through, you’d probably hate it too.”

He stared at you for a moment, still holding your wrist, but slowly let go, his fingers relaxing. You weren’t demanding anything. You weren’t fawning over him like everyone else. You weren’t telling him how amazing he was for surviving the Games, or how lucky he should feel to be here in the Capitol. You just seemed... real.

You stepped back, folding your arms behind your back, unsure of what to do next. An awkward silence stretched between you until you spoke again.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” You held out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

Haymitch stared at your hand for a moment. He hesitated, but there was something about you that made him push aside his usual cynicism, if only for a second. He took your hand, his grip a little rough, a little unsure.

“I’m Haymitch,” he muttered, pulling his hand back quickly. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He just wanted to be left alone. The drink in his hand was the only thing that helped him pretend, just for a little while, that none of this mattered.

But you didn’t leave. You stayed there, watching him, waiting. Then, you asked, “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharper than he intended. He glanced at you, eyes narrowing, but it wasn’t malice—just exhaustion. “After everything I’ve been through, I doubt anyone’s gonna care if I drink at sixteen.”

“I guess you’re right,” you said quietly, but the words felt heavier than they should have. A beat passed before you hesitated and then asked, “Can I drink with you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

You’d never had alcohol before. But tonight, with your father off in his political world and surrounded by people you didn’t care to speak to, you just wanted something—anything—to make you feel less out of place. And Haymitch seemed like he could use someone to talk to, even if he didn’t realize it.

He actually laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that caught you off guard. “You?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “The little Capitol princess wants to get drunk with District 12?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Oh, right. Because I’m a victor.” His eyes met yours, intense, cutting. “Is it to gloat to your friends? Or maybe to get in my pants? Because newsflash, sweetheart, I’ve had hundreds of people coming up to me for everything and more. So no,” he spat, voice low, dangerous. “I don’t need some drunk Capitol girl to go home to Daddy and get me killed for it.”

You blinked, stunned by the harshness of his words. You’d never been spoken to like that before—so blunt, so cruel. It felt like a slap in the face, but worse—because you couldn’t figure out what you’d done to deserve it.

Haymitch didn’t care that you weren’t like the others. He didn’t care that you’d felt a flicker of empathy for him, wanted to reach out, to connect. He was too wrapped up in his own bitterness to see it.

And you… you felt vulnerable, exposed, but you didn’t want to force him into a conversation. You weren’t going to beg for his company.

So you did the only thing you could think of. You swallowed your pride and, with quiet sincerity, said, “I’m really sorry about your friends. I just wanted to tell you that. The Games... they’re horrible. It’s not fair for any of you. That’s all. I’ll leave you to it.”

You turned to leave, but before you could take a step, you heard him speak again.

“Give me a whiskey on the rocks,” he said sharply, voice commanding.

His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. The grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm—insistent. You met his eyes, surprised by the sudden shift. His face was unreadable for a moment, then he gave you a half-smirk, something in his eyes that might’ve been humor—or maybe just resignation.

“Let’s drink,” he said, almost like an invitation to something he knew he didn’t want, but couldn’t refuse.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. But you couldn’t back down now. You gave him a small, almost nervous smile, and after a beat, you sat down beside him.

The bartender placed a drink in front of you, the amber liquid shimmering under the low lights. You stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to do. You’d never tasted alcohol before.

Haymitch raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “You’re really gonna drink that?” he asked, a challenge in his voice.

You gathered every ounce of courage you had and took a sip.

The second the liquid hit your tongue, your stomach lurched. It burned like fire, sharp and bitter. You coughed violently, gagging, your face flushing with embarrassment. “What the hell is that?” you gasped, struggling to catch your breath.

Haymitch’s rough hand landed on your back, giving you a couple of quick, reassuring pats. “Atta girl,” he said, his voice low. For a second, there was something warm behind the edge of his tone. “You’re okay.”

A glass of water appeared in front of you, and you eagerly drank it, trying to wash away the burn. You looked back at Haymitch, still incredulous. “How do you drink that? It’s like drinking fire.”

He laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that was somehow more comforting than anything else. “After you play the Games,” he said, lifting his glass in a half-toast, “this? This is nothing.”

You stared at him for a moment, still catching your breath. "I guess you’re right," you murmured, trying to regain some composure. You’d expected to feel awkward, but now that you were sitting next to him, something about it felt oddly... real.

That’s when you noticed something strange. Haymitch was bouncing a small ball off the space between his legs, the rubber making a quiet, rhythmic sound against his chair.

"You still have it?" you asked before you could stop yourself, your voice softer than you intended, filled with curiosity.

Haymitch looked up at you, and for a split second, there was something flickering in his eyes—something unexpected, almost vulnerable. He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on the small ball in his hand.

“Well, it did save my life,” he said, holding it up between you. “I was mad at first, thought it was stupid... But this little thing... It saved my life.” His voice softened, weighed down by the truth. “I wish I could meet the person who gave it to me. Even just a ‘hello’ and a ‘thank you.’”

You found yourself staring at him, a tightness forming in your chest. There was something raw about his words, beyond the anger he wore like armor. For a moment, the bitterness faded, and you saw the scars beneath it—the real Haymitch.

A pause lingered between you, heavy with unspoken understanding. You felt his eyes on you, the weight of them like a quiet pressure. Then, almost instinctively, you smiled—a small, soft thing that you didn’t try to hide. It wasn’t grand, but it was real.

“Hello,” you said, almost as if offering more than just a greeting.

Haymitch didn’t quite understand at first. His brows furrowed in confusion, but then, slowly, something shifted. His gaze darted from the ball back to you, and the realization hit him with almost comical force.

“You’re Star?” His voice came out incredulous, as though he couldn’t believe it. There was disbelief, yes, but also something else—a warmth, an unspoken gratitude.

You nodded, your smile growing shy, almost embarrassed now. "Yeah. I am. My dad calls me little star. I wanted to stay hidden."

He stared at you for a long moment, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. Then, bit by bit, his surprise faded, replaced by something softer, more genuine. A half-smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, accepting something that had been held back for too long.

“Hello… and thank you.” His voice was quieter now, no sarcasm, no bitterness—just the raw honesty he kept hidden beneath his rough exterior.

And in that moment, amidst the noise and chaos of the Capitol, something shifted between you two. The crowd, the flashing lights, the hollow smiles—they all seemed to blur into the background. It was just you and him, two people in a corner, sharing something no one else could understand.

The silence lingered, but it was comfortable now. You found yourself humming softly, the melody flowing out before you even realized it.

“What song is that?” Haymitch asked, breaking the stillness. He leaned in slightly, his brow furrowing in mild curiosity.

"Just something I’ve been working on,” you replied, your tone lighter now.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You’re a songwriter?"

You hesitated for a second, then nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Trying to be. I hope one day I can be a famous singer and songwriter.” There was an edge of longing in your voice, a quiet dream that had always seemed out of reach. “But for now, I just need someone to listen to my songs.”

For some reason, those words hit him harder than he expected. Maybe it was the way your eyes sparkled with quiet hope or the vulnerability that slipped through your smile. Maybe it was the way you wore your dreams so openly, like they were part of you.

Without thinking, he said, “I’ll listen.”

His words hung between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You weren’t sure what surprised you more—the promise itself or the sincerity with which he spoke. Either way, it made you smile wider, a real, unguarded smile.

You nodded slowly, warmth spreading inside you like sunlight. “Thank you.”

And just like that, in the midst of a Capitol so full of lies and pretense, you found a little spark of something real—something you hadn’t even known you needed until now.

So I'll begin not to love you Turn around, see me runnin' I'll say I loved you years ago Tell myself you never loved me, no

It had been five years since you met Haymitch that fateful night, and in all that time, he became more than just a friend. He was your anchor, your constant in a world that never stayed still.

You were his star in the darkness. A rare gem in a place where everything felt fake. The Capitol was suffocating, and he loathed every moment he spent there, but seeing you—seeing you made it bearable.

For Haymitch, you were the first face he needed to see when he arrived, and the last one before he left. There was something about your presence that steadied him, that made him feel like he wasn’t completely lost, like he could survive the next battle, whatever it was. Being a mentor had taken its toll on him, and he had two things he relied on now: alcohol and you.

And you had become so much more than a friend. You were his escape and his comfort.

At eighteen, you had your first hit song, and since then, your career had skyrocketed. The Capitol adored you. You were their Princess, the one everyone wanted to hear, to know.

You performed regularly, your songs filled with emotion and truth, and people clamored to figure out who you were singing about. But you kept that secret locked away. You couldn’t bear to let the world know the truth—it was your perfect bubble, and you weren’t ready for it to burst.

Haymitch, however, was a different story. He knew everything about you. He was your first fan, your most honest critic, and your confidant. You needed him in ways you never thought you would need anyone. He was always there to listen, to help, and to offer feedback. Your songs were written for him, in a way. He inspired them, made you feel like you could pour out your soul without fear.

You had fallen in love with him long ago, but you’d never said it. You never dared to, because you were certain he didn’t feel the same. He’d been through too much, and you didn’t want to risk losing the friendship you both shared. So you kept your feelings hidden, wrapping them in the lyrics of your songs, in the quiet moments you shared together.

Tonight, you found yourself in your apartment with him again. Your songbook spread out in front of you, and Haymitch was leaning over it, scribbling notes and offering his usual feedback. He was so comfortable here, so at ease with you.

“I like this verse,” he said, his voice low as he underlined the lines in your song. You leaned over his shoulder to see which part he was referring to, your hair brushing his cheek, a closeness that made your heart race, even though you’d been here countless times before.

"Which one?" you asked, a smile tugging at your lips as you poured yourself a glass of wine and handed him his usual drink.

“We’re two broken stars that the world can’t hide,” he read aloud, glancing at you. You nodded, humming the words softly as you sang the line for him.

“I think my favorite is this one,” you said, pointing to another part of the page.

“They’ll never understand, they’ll never see, how your pain is my pain, how you’re saving me.”

Haymitch stared at the words for a long moment, his expression softening. “It’s absolutely beautiful,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “You, sweetheart, are a beautiful genius.”

You smiled at him, warmth flooding your chest at the compliment. “Do you like the song?” you asked, your voice a little unsure.

“Of course I do.” He took a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair. “This is amazing. It’s going to be a hit.”

He paused, then added with a wry grin, “Though you’re definitely not helping with the ‘boyfriend’ situation you’ve got going on. Everyone already thinks you have a secret boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Definitely do not,” you said, nudging him with your elbow. “You would be the first one to know.”

“I really can’t imagine you with someone,” he muttered before he could stop himself. It was true, though. He couldn’t picture you in anyone else’s arms. Not after all these years, not after everything. He’d come to rely on you so much that the thought of anyone else being close to you—really close to you—filled him with something he couldn’t quite name.

You raised an eyebrow. “Ouch. I’m offended,” you teased, though you couldn’t help the slight flutter in your chest. “I get it, though. I really can’t see myself with anyone either…” You paused, meeting his gaze.

“Oh, shush.” He rolled his eyes, though there was a faint blush creeping up his neck. “You have every man at your feet.” You shook your head, letting out a small laugh. “Please. You’re a beautiful and talented woman. Everyone either wants to be you or be with you.”

You stared at him for a long time after that, your heart pounding in your chest. “And on which side are you on?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, Haymitch didn’t answer. He looked at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, as if he was wrestling with some unspoken desire. Finally, he shook his head, his voice rough as he replied, “I... I don’t know. I can’t imagine you with anyone else, but I also can’t—”

“Cross that line?” you finished for him, your voice catching in your throat.

He met your gaze, and for a moment, everything around you faded. It was just you and him, the years of friendship, the quiet longing, the unspoken words hanging between you.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I can’t cross that line.”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching in your chest. “But what if I want to?” you whispered.

His eyes darkened, and for the first time, you saw the conflict in them. “Then we’d both have to admit something we’ve been denying for years,” he murmured, standing up and walking over to the window, looking out at the city below.

You stood up too, taking a few steps toward him. “What’s that?”

“That we’re both terrified of what’ll happen if we cross that line,” he said, turning to face you, his voice almost a whisper. “Because if we do, there’s no going back.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. You took another step toward him, your heart pounding so loudly you thought it might burst. “Haymitch…” you whispered, your voice trembling with the desire you’d kept locked away for so long.

He closed the space between you in a few swift steps, his hand brushing yours, then cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And then, slowly, he leaned in.

The moment your lips met, it was everything you’d both been avoiding, a collision of longing and restraint, two hearts breaking through the walls they’d built around themselves.

It was gentle at first, a tender exploration of what you’d both kept hidden. But as the kiss deepened, it became urgent, as if you were both finally giving in to the desire that had been simmering for so long.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathless, both trembling.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” Haymitch whispered, his voice raw, “but I didn’t know how to make it real. Didn’t know if you felt the same.”

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I’ve always felt the same.”

And in that moment, everything changed. The line you had never crossed was no longer there. It was just you and him, tangled in a world of your own.

Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could have loved you But you would not let me

It had been a few years since that first kiss—the one that had changed everything. You still remembered the way his lips had felt against yours—hesitant at first, then warm and sure as his arms had wrapped around you. It was the kind of kiss that made the whole world outside disappear, leaving only the two of you. And nothing had been the same since.

You and Haymitch had come a long way since then. The world didn’t know the truth—the truth about the quiet moments, the shared smiles, the stolen touches in the dark corners of the Capitol. They had no idea that Haymitch was even in your life. He was your constant, your anchor, the one person who always knew how to make everything feel okay.

Tonight, you were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs as you looked over the lyrics for your next song. You were on your third glass of wine, trying to find the perfect words for the melody in your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t focus. Your mind kept drifting back to Haymitch.

He was in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. He’d promised to make you dinner, but that usually meant the whole process involved a lot of cursing and muttered complaints. You smiled to yourself, knowing exactly how the evening was going to go.

“I swear, every time I try to make something, it turns into a disaster,” he called from the kitchen, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

“You say that every time, Haymitch,” you teased, not bothering to look up from your notebook. “But I’m pretty sure you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not exaggerating,” he said flatly. You heard a loud clang, followed by a frustrated grunt. “This pan's out for me. I swear it’s cursed. Maybe we should switch. I’ll be the famous pop star, and you can save us from this kitchen disaster.”

You chuckled softly, setting your pen down and glancing toward the kitchen doorway. “You need me to come rescue you?”

A long pause followed, then a familiar, exaggerated sigh that made you smile even before he spoke. “I think it might be beyond rescue at this point,” he muttered, his voice tinged with a reluctant laugh. “But yeah, I’d appreciate the help.”

You stood, the blanket slipping from your lap as you walked into the kitchen. Haymitch was standing by the stove, glaring at the pan as if it had personally wronged him.

The mess around him wasn’t much better—spilled ingredients, an open box of pasta, and the unmistakable smell of something burning. Or maybe it was just the wine you’d been sipping. Either way, it was chaos in there.

You walked over to him, your hand gently landing on his shoulder. “Maybe I should take over before you set the whole place on fire,” you teased, trying not to laugh.

He glanced up at you, his expression softening for a brief moment. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. “If I had to cook for myself every night, I’d probably starve.”

You grinned, nudging him with your shoulder. “Well, lucky for you, you’ve got me. Cooking’s my thing, remember?”

He chuckled quietly, his gaze lingering on you, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world outside didn’t exist. There was just this little space, the two of you, and nothing else mattered. In this tiny corner of the Capitol, you didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but yourselves.

As you started to take over the cooking, Haymitch moved to stand behind you, slipping his arms around your waist. It was the kind of touch that had become second nature, yet it still made your heart skip every time.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

You froze for a moment, your fingers pausing over the counter. You hadn’t expected that. But when you turned to meet his eyes, they were soft, and there was a sincerity there that made your heart flutter.

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice gave you away.

He didn’t respond immediately, instead meeting your gaze like he was weighing his words. For a moment, he seemed lost, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes that he rarely let anyone see.

“I don’t deserve you,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I’m damn glad I have you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Without thinking, you reached up to gently cup his cheek, grounding yourself with the warmth of his skin. “You do deserve me, Haymitch. More than anyone I know.”

He held your gaze for what felt like an eternity, his expression unreadable for a moment before he leaned down to kiss you. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a fiery, desperate kiss. It was slow and soft, like he was savoring the moment. You did the same. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, so quietly it could’ve been drowned out by the soft hum of the record player in the background. But you heard it. And you felt it in every part of you.

Your heart stopped for a beat, the weight of his words filling you up. You couldn’t help but smile. “I love you too, Haymitch,” you said, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I’ve loved you since that first kiss. And I’ll love you to our last.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you. “You’re a godsend, you know that?”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his eyes again. His gaze was full of so much love, it felt like it was lifting you off the ground.

“We’ve been hiding for so long,” you murmured, your fingers tracing lightly along the edge of his jaw. “I just want everyone to know how much I love you. How much we love each other. I want the world to know that you, my beautiful District 12 blonde troublemaker, are the muse behind every song I’ve written.”

Haymitch laughed, his expression amused. “Beautiful District 12 blonde troublemaker, huh? You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

You smiled up at him, loving how playful he was, even in moments like this. “Well, it’s the truth. You’re my muse. The reason for every lyric, every note. And everyone deserves to know that.”

His expression softened, and he brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin. “The Capitol isn’t ready for that, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We can’t let them see this. Not yet. You being with someone from District 12 would start a riot. I can handle myself, but I don’t want you to have to worry about it.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling in. “I know. But maybe someday, when it’s safe, I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to keep this secret.”

He smiled, his hand gently cupping the back of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin in slow, soothing circles. “We’ll get there. When the time’s right. I promise.”

You leaned in and kissed him again, this time deeper, more certain. It wasn’t about anyone else right now. Not about the Capitol, or the world beyond your little apartment. What mattered was that it was just the two of you, in this moment, safe and away from it all.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, and he smiled, kissing you back with that same quiet intensity.

“I love you too, sweetheart. More than you’ll ever know.”

And in that moment, you realized that this love—the secret, hidden love you shared—was all that truly mattered. Nothing else in the world could compare.

Was I such a fool? I'll follow you down til' the sound of my voice will haunt you Give me just a chance

You were about to turn thirty, and apparently, that meant people had a free pass to get all up in your business about when you were going to get married.

It wasn’t like you could really get mad at them. You found yourself wondering the same thing sometimes. You’d been with Haymitch for almost a decade now, and every time you tried to broach the subject of marriage, he’d change the topic like it was some sort of game.

You didn’t get it. You were secure in your relationship—deeply secure. You loved him. He loved you. What was the hold-up? You didn’t want to be just another Capitol couple with a glittering wedding and a big spectacle, but you also didn’t understand why he kept dodging the conversation. Marriage was a way to make your relationship real in the eyes of the world, something more than just whispers behind closed doors.

But not for Haymitch. And so, you just kept pretending the question didn’t bother you. You smiled through the constant barrage of nosy questions.

“Do you have someone special in your life?”

“When are we going to see little Y/n’s running around?”

“Thirty’s almost here—when’s the wedding?”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want those things. You did. You wanted a future with Haymitch, a life together. The more they asked, the more you felt the pressure tightening, even though you knew it wasn’t something they could help.

And then there were your parents. Especially your mother.

“I don’t get it,” your mom said one night, running her hand through her hair in frustration. “You have so many options, Y/n. So many good men. You could’ve been married years ago, but now? You’re getting older, and the good ones—they’ll be gone soon. I can’t just sit here and wait forever for you to make up your mind.”

You sighed, leaning back into your chair. “Mom, we’ve been through this before. I’m handling it.”

“Handling it?” She gave you a pointed look. “You’ve been saying that since you were twenty-five. It’s not like there’s a shortage of men who’d love to marry you. You could have any of them.”

Your patience was starting to fray. You loved your parents, you really did, but you hated that they couldn’t understand.

“I don’t want any of them,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice calm. “I don’t want some Capitol bachelor with his polished smile and perfect life.” I want Haymitch.

Her eyes softened, but the frustration still lingered. “Look, I understand, but—”

“No, you don’t,” you interrupted. “You don’t get it, Mom. I’m not looking for a perfect life. I’m looking for the one that feels real.”

Your mom opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but your father finally spoke up. “What your mother’s trying to say is, maybe you’re not really opening yourself up to the idea of someone else. We’ve been talking with the Crane family, and—”

“I’m not marrying Seneca Crane,” you said before he could finish, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Your father raised an eyebrow, trying to hide his surprise. “Well, not Seneca. His older brother, Cassius. He’s a few years older than you, and he’s been the Head Gamemaker for a while. He’s a good guy, Y/n. We’ve worked with him before. You can trust him. The Crane family is well-respected.”

You crossed your arms, your heart sinking. You’d met Cassius before. He was kind, charming, but he wasn’t Haymitch. He wasn’t the man you wanted to spend your life with.

“No,” you said firmly. “I’m not doing this.”

“Y/n,” your father said gently, leaning forward. “Cassius is a good man. And your marriage would be a big deal. It would bring both our families joy, not to mention the whole Capitol. You’d be the ‘It’ couple, Y/n. Even President Snow would likely attend the wedding. This could be huge for all of us.”

You shook your head, the lump in your throat growing. You didn’t care about any of that. You didn’t care about appearances, about being the Capitol’s ‘It’ couple. You cared about him.

“I don’t want to marry someone for the sake of a good match. I want to marry for love.”

Your father sighed, looking helpless, while your mother was now giving you that look—the one that said she was done.

“Little Star, we’re just trying to make sure you’re not closing yourself off. We want what’s best for you. We just want you to be happy.”

You stood up, the weight of their concern suddenly too much to bear. “I’m not doing this. I’m done talking about it.”

Before they could say anything else, you grabbed your purse and headed for the door. You needed to be anywhere but here, away from their expectations, their pressure. The only place you wanted to be was with Haymitch.

You needed him. His arms around you. His voice, his presence, his unspoken understanding of you.

You kissed your parents on the cheek quickly, not trusting yourself to say more, and walked out without another word. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you could feel the tension start to ease, knowing that soon, you’d be with the one person who did understand. The one person who made it all feel like it was going to be okay.

Haymitch. Your Haymitch.

When you finally made it to your apartment, you immediately noticed the bag slung casually on the couch and the open bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table—his whiskey. He’d arrived. Haymitch was here.

You quickly made your way into the living room, and there he was. Sitting on the couch, bottle in hand, swirling the amber liquid, lost in thought. His weary eyes lifted when he heard your footsteps, and for a second, everything else in the world disappeared.

“Haymitch…” You said softly, a smile creeping onto your lips.

He didn’t speak immediately, just set the bottle down on the table and opened his arms for you. You ran to him without a second thought, collapsing into his embrace. His scent—whiskey and something else that was unmistakably him—wrapped around you like a familiar, comforting blanket.

“I’ve missed you,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest.

Dinner came and went, the two of you falling into the comfortable rhythm you always did. The kind of quiet that spoke louder than words. But after, when the dishes were cleaned and the night had settled into the soft hum of your apartment, you found yourself nestled on the couch again. His fingers gently threaded through your hair as you laid your head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat grounding you.

This was your place. Your perfect, stolen moments together.

“Haymitch…” you said, your voice quiet, almost tentative. He hummed in response, the sound low and soothing.

“I’ve been thinking,” you continued, lifting your head slightly to look at him. “What if you stayed?”

His hand froze, his fingers stilling in your hair. He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the tension in his body. He didn’t even need to speak for you to know what was coming.

“…here in the Capitol,” you added, trying to push through the nervous lump in your throat. “You come back every year, and I’m sure if we tell the public, they’ll let you stay. They would. They love you here. You could have your own life—our life. Together.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. And in that silence, you felt your heart start to sink. You knew what he would say. You always knew. He couldn’t stay here. Not for you. Not for anyone.

“I can’t see myself living here full-time,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You understood. You did. You always had. He hated the Capitol. He hated everything it stood for. You couldn’t blame him for that. It wasn’t fair to ask him to be part of it.

But still, you couldn’t help but try. “What if I went to District 12?” The words spilled out before you could stop them. “I can always come back here for performances, for everything I need to do, but… I’d be with you. We could be together. I can make it work.”

“I don’t think you’d like District 12,” he said, his voice sounding almost sad as he looked at you.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Well, I’ve never been. And I want to be wherever you are.”

There was a pause. A long one. He didn’t speak. And you waited, holding your breath.

“And if you don’t want to live here and you don’t think I’d like it in the districts… where do you suppose we live when we get married?”

There. You said it. You let it slip. That word. And as soon as it left your lips, you saw the shift in his expression, the subtle stiffening in his shoulders.

“We are going to get married, right?” Your voice cracked, just slightly, betraying the vulnerability you didn’t want him to see.

The silence in the room felt like it could suffocate you. His eyes were downcast, and you could feel your stomach drop, your heart pounding in your chest, as the weight of the moment settled over you.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you,” he said, each word weighing on him like an anchor. “I just don’t see myself getting married… in general.”

And then it hit you. Like a punch to the gut. You could barely breathe.

“Not even to me?” You whispered, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

He met your eyes then, and you saw the pain in his gaze, the unspeakable regret. His hand fell from your hair and he looked down at his lap, fingers twitching at his sides.

“I love you,” he said softly, his voice breaking as the words left his lips.

“And I love you…” You responded, your throat tight, tears starting to sting your eyes. “But I want to marry you. I want to have kids with you. I want to be a family with you. And I thought you wanted that too…”

You could feel the tears welling up, but you held them back as best as you could. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me,” you whispered, barely above a breath, your voice breaking.

His face contorted in a mixture of frustration and helplessness. He closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to make sense of everything. But there was no sense to be made. Not in this. Not now.

“I can’t do it.” His voice was barely a murmur. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your cheeks despite your best effort to hold them back. “Cassius Crane wants my hand in marriage,” you said, your voice shaking. You couldn’t stop yourself from adding the words. “I said no. I said no because I want you. I want us. Please don’t take that away from me.”

His eyes snapped open, but they were filled with the same sadness as always. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t give you marriage.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “Dammit, why not?” You snapped, your voice rising despite yourself. “Am I not enough?”

“God no,” he hissed, his hands suddenly gripping your face with such force it made your breath catch. “Of course, you’re enough. You just… you don’t understand.”

“Then let me understand,” you cried, the words tumbling out of you like a dam breaking. “Talk to me. Stop running away from this.”

But he couldn’t explain it. Not in a way you could understand. Not the way you needed to.

“I can’t!” He yelled back, his voice breaking, the emotion raw. “I just can’t. I can’t let you be part of this world. This world that’ll just take everything from you. You don’t have to face it. You’ll never have to. And I can’t let that happen to you.”

“I want marriage. And I want kids.” Your voice was barely a whisper now, a soft, desperate plea. “I want to share that with you.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, and it almost shattered you.

“Please,” you whispered, grabbing his face, your hands shaking. “Just talk to me. We can talk about it. What are you scared of?”

You looked into his eyes, searching for something—anything—to give you hope, to give you an answer. “We can talk about marriage and kids later then. But can we at least go public?” You tried, your voice almost pleading.

But you could see his answer in his eyes. You knew. It was a no.

“What does that mean for us then? I’ll do anything to make this work. But how?” You felt your voice quiver as you said the words, the hollow ache in your chest growing by the second.

And then he spoke, his voice barely audible, full of sorrow.

“I think you know what that means for us,” he said, looking down, tears welling up in his eyes.

You shake your head, your breath coming out in broken sobs. "No. Haymitch, no..." Your voice cracks, desperation choking the words as you try to grasp onto something, anything, to stop the inevitable.

He reaches out and gently caresses your face, his touch soft, like he’s trying to wipe away the pain, but it only seems to deepen the ache in your chest. “You deserve to be happy,” he whispers, his voice strained, like the words are as heavy as stones in his mouth.

You look at him, helpless, and your voice trembles with all the emotions you’ve been trying to keep bottled up for so long. “I’m happy with you,” you cry out, the tears flowing freely now, unstoppable. “I don’t need a wedding, I don’t need kids... Hell, we don’t even need to go in public. We can stay like this. Just don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.” You feel the words spilling out in a frantic rush, your grip tightening on him as if you can hold him together with just your hands. “Please...”

He pulls you into his arms, his embrace tight, almost desperate. But it’s not enough. It never feels like enough. His tears fall too, mingling with yours, his voice breaking as he speaks. “You don’t want that. I know you don’t. And I’m so, so sorry...” His words are a confession, a silent admission of the things he’s never been able to give you. His body shakes slightly, as if the weight of what he’s saying is slowly crushing him, but he can’t stop.

You cling to him, holding onto him like a lifeline. “Please... don’t leave me. We can work it out. We can fix this,” you cry out, the words coming from a place deep inside, where your love for him feels like it could tear you apart if it doesn’t come out. You can't breathe without him. You can't imagine a world where he's not there beside you, where his touch is just a memory, fading with time.

He pulls back, his hands trembling as they hold your face, his eyes full of sorrow. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have made you wait. I should’ve been honest with you from the start, but I didn’t want to hurt you. And I know I’ve already done that, but... I can’t give you what you need. What you deserve.” He pauses, his gaze distant, almost lost. “You deserve to have the most beautiful wedding, to have a family, to give your children everything you’ve dreamed of.”

The pain is unbearable. You feel it twist inside you, but you can’t stop, can’t let it go. You can’t let him slip through your fingers, not like this. “Have it with me,” you beg, your voice raw with emotion. “Let’s have that life. Together, Haymitch. You deserve that too. We deserve to be happy... We deserve to be a family. Please...”

You see the shift in him, the way his shoulders tense, how his expression softens into something painful, something almost regretful. But it’s too late. His voice is low, barely audible as he speaks again, the weight of his words sinking into your skin. “My family died many years ago,” he whispers, the words like shards of glass against your heart. “And I will not go through that again. I can’t. I won’t.”

You reach for him, your heart shattering. “Haymitch... I don’t want to have that life without you. I can’t...” Your hands tremble as you touch his face, your tears falling onto his skin, but he doesn’t look at you. He can’t.

“You’re going to be fine,” he says softly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. “You’re going to be happy. You’ll find someone who can give you everything you need. Someone who can make all your dreams come true.”

“But I love you,” you cry out, your chest aching with the rawness of your words. It’s all you have left. You can feel him breaking, too. You can see it in his eyes, the way his walls are starting to crumble, just like yours.

He kisses your forehead, and for a moment, everything feels like it used to—perfect. Safe. But then the moment ends, and reality crashes back in. His voice cracks as he speaks again. “And I love you more than you’ll ever know,” he whispers, his lips pressing against your skin with a tenderness that feels like goodbye. “And that’s why I need to end this. It’s not fair to you, to keep you here, to give up your dreams of being a wife and a mother. You deserve someone who can give you everything you want, everything you need.”

You shake your head, the words sticking in your throat. “I’ll do anything for you,” you whisper, your voice desperate. You feel it—this is the moment. The one where everything changes.

He stares at you, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He needs to be strong. For both of you. And you know that, even as your heart is cracking open. “And I’ll do anything for you too,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but there’s finality to it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He pulls away then, and your heart feels like it’s falling to the ground. You reach out, but he’s already stepping back, grabbing his bag. The weight of it is almost too much to bear. His footsteps sound so hollow against the floor. You feel like you’re suffocating, but you can’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his voice cracking, before he turns and walks to the door. You can’t stop the sob that rips through you, can’t stop the way your chest burns as you watch him go.

You hear the door close behind him, the sound of it echoing in the emptiness of the apartment, and then—silence. The silence that he’s left behind. The silence that feels like a void in your heart.

He’s gone. And with him, a part of you is gone too.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could've loved you, but you would not let me I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice

Haymitch absolutely hated being in the Capitol. He couldn’t stand the fake smiles, the bright lights, or the smell of wealth and excess in the air. He needed to be at least semi-plastered to survive it, but even then, it barely helped.

It had been years since he walked out of your life—since he made that decision to never look back. Walking away was the worst thing he’d ever done. The loneliness that followed was a constant ache in his chest. Life without you? It wasn’t life at all. It wasn’t worth living.

But he couldn’t just leave. Not entirely. He had to stay for District 12. They needed him as their mentor, even though he felt like he’d failed them. He couldn’t abandon them, even if he already felt like he had.

The 70th Hunger Games were upon him, and Haymitch found himself waiting in the crowd for the tribute interviews. His flask was clutched tightly in his hand, his stomach already knotted at the thought of the upcoming disaster. He had seen it all before, and this year would be no different—he’d be cleaning up someone else’s mess again.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the voice of the announcer boomed across the stadium, “Your Master of Ceremonies, Caesar Flickerman!”

Haymitch’s eyes narrowed, and he rolled his own eyes at the sound. He hated these events. He hated the whole thing.

“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” Caesar’s voice was almost too bright, too fake. “The 70th Annual Hunger Games! How marvelous!” The crowd roared with excitement. “Are you excited to meet your favorite tributes?” More cheers. “I am too! But before we get to that, we have a very special surprise for you all.”

Haymitch took a long swig from his flask, bracing himself for whatever ridiculous Capitol guest they were about to unveil.

“And now,” Caesar’s voice grew even more enthusiastic, “please put your hands together for the most beautiful and beloved couple of the century, the genius head game maker, Cassius Crane, and the brightest star in all of Panem—Y/N Crane!”

Haymitch froze. His heart hammered in his chest, and the world around him seemed to fall away. He hadn’t expected this. Not in a thousand years. You—you—were here. He hadn’t seen you in years, not since that night. And he had worked hard to avoid you ever since.

When you and he were in the same vicinity, it was like a silent agreement: you went one way, and he went the other. You kept your distance. He kept his.

But now, here you were.

The crowd erupted into applause as you stepped into view. There you were, as stunning as ever. The Capitol lights made your skin glow, and the smile on your face was everything he remembered—warm, bright, perfect. Your hand was firmly entwined with your husband’s, and they looked so... complete. Together.

And then Haymitch’s eyes fell to the ring on your finger. The simple band, a symbol of a life you’d built without him. His throat tightened, his stomach lurching.

“My dears,” Caesar greeted, his voice dripping with his usual fake charm. He shook Cassius’s hand and kissed both your cheeks, pulling you into his world of manufactured affection. “Thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you for having us,” you replied smoothly, your voice calm and collected. You sat down beside Cassius, your fingers still intertwined with his.

“So,” Caesar crossed his legs, settling into his seat with his signature grin. “How’s married life treating you?”

Cassius smiled at you, the picture of a perfect husband. “It’s marvelous,” he said, his gaze never leaving you. “She’s an absolute dream. I thank my lucky stars every day for her.” The crowd melted at his words, a chorus of "Awws" echoing through the stadium.

Haymitch had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, his fingers tightening around his flask. Perfect. That was exactly what you had. The life you always deserved. A life he couldn’t give you.

You smiled, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “It’s amazing,” you added, your voice steady. “We just celebrated our fourth anniversary, and we’re still going strong.”

The words stung. You were happy—with him. And Haymitch had no right to be angry. He had walked away.

But it still hurt. It hurt more than he cared to admit.

“And how are the kids?” Caesar’s voice cut through the haze of bitterness in Haymitch’s mind.

You lit up at the mention of your children, and Haymitch’s heart sank further.

“They’re absolutely perfect,” you said, your eyes glowing with pride. “Cassius Jr. is three, and Aurora just turned one.” You handed a photo to Caesar, who held it up for the audience to see. “Here they are.”

The crowd awed at the picture, and Caesar’s voice grew even more syrupy. “Oh my! Look at these precious babies!” he said. He turned the photo towards the audience, allowing the cameras to zoom in. “Where are our babies? We need to see them!”

Cassius grinned like a proud father, looking down at the photo with a soft smile. “Well, funny you should ask,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “Because we have some very special guests for you all.”

And with that, the nanny walked on stage, carrying both of your children. The crowd went wild, and even Caesar seemed overwhelmed with excitement.

Cassius Jr. was placed in his father’s arms, and Aurora was handed over to you. You smiled at her, holding her with tenderness.

“Can you say hi, Junior?” Cassius asked, holding the little boy up for the crowd.

“Hi,” the boy said, and the crowd erupted in cooing sounds.

Haymitch’s chest tightened painfully, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. From your perfect life. From your perfect family. He never should’ve walked away.

Caesar, still fawning over the family, turned to the crowd. “What a surprise! These children are so beautiful. Obviously, they come from the most beautiful parents. I really should be thanking the gods for putting you two together—our Head Game Maker and our beloved Pop Princess!”

The crowd laughed. The cameras flashed. You smiled. And Haymitch... well, Haymitch was dying inside.

He should’ve been the one standing beside you. He should’ve been the one holding your hand. But he wasn’t.

And that, more than anything, felt like the hardest part to bear.

“So, what comes next? Should we expect a new album soon?” Caesar asked, his voice practically bubbling with excitement.

You laugh softly, the sound genuine and warm. “Actually, I think the new album will have to wait for a little while longer. I’m sorry.” A playful glint flickered in your eyes as you turned to your husband, smiling brightly. “Because…” you said, your hands gently resting on the curve of your stomach, “I’m pregnant.”

The words sent the crowd into a frenzy, their cheers so loud they seemed to rattle the very air around them. The lights above seemed to shine even brighter as you spoke, as if the Capitol itself was celebrating this new chapter in your life.

“Are you trying to kill us?” Caesar exclaimed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air with a wide grin. “How far along are you?”

“I’m about three and a half months,” you replied, your voice calm and steady, but there was a joy in it that couldn’t be hidden. As you sat back down, Cassius immediately took your hand again, his fingers wrapping around yours possessively.

“Well, congratulations are definitely in order,” Caesar said, his voice full of warmth. “I love having new babies to love. Don’t you?” He turned to the audience, inviting their enthusiastic response.

Haymitch’s heart clenched in his chest, but he didn’t look away. Cassius—your husband—seemed so perfectly at ease, as though he had everything figured out.

He was the man you had chosen, the man you had built this life with. The thought of you raising children with him, his children, twisted something inside Haymitch. And yet, here he was, an outsider, holding a flask instead of his family.

Caesar turned back to Cassius. “So music is clearly on the back burner for now, but what about you, Cassius? You’ll still be the head game maker, right?”

Cassius squeezed your hand, his voice deep and full of care as he looked at you with a soft, loving gaze. “Actually, I’m planning on bringing my little brother Seneca into the role. This is our third child, and I want to be there for my wife.” His hand briefly brushed over your stomach, his eyes filled with affection. “We both want our children to be raised with both parents in the household, so I’ve decided that this role can be split. I trust Seneca completely. I can promise you that the future Games will be even better than before.”

Haymitch’s grip tightened around the neck of his flask, his hand shaking ever so slightly. He stared at the two of you, the image of the perfect family.

You, so radiant, your life so beautifully mapped out, and Cassius—Cassius—the man who had everything Haymitch had once dreamed of. The love you shared, the life you built, it was all so perfect. And Haymitch was nothing. Not to you. Not to anyone.

And then the children. They were perfect, too. Cassius Jr. looked like a miniature replica of his father, with that proud, confident smile, but your features were there too—the nose, the smile. And little Aurora. She was the image of you, small and delicate, with your sparkling eyes and soft skin. It was everything you’d ever wanted, everything you deserved.

And Haymitch had let you slip through his fingers. He had ruined it.

He should have fought for you. Instead, he pushed you away. And now, here you were, with everything you ever wanted… without him.

Haymitch felt the weight of his decision crush him all over again. He knew, as he sat there in the back, nursing his flask, that he had failed you. And no matter how many years passed, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, it would always hurt. The ache in his chest never went away. Not even after all this time.

But then, as if the universe itself wanted to rub salt into his wounds, your eyes found his.

The breath left Haymitch’s chest in a strangled gasp. He saw it—the moment your body stiffened, just the slightest, your smile faltering as your gaze locked with his. The recognition. It was there, in your eyes. He could see the way your heart gave a little lurch, the way your face softened ever so slightly.

You hadn’t forgotten. You never had.

For a long moment, neither of you broke eye contact. Haymitch couldn’t read your thoughts. And, in some strange way, he didn’t want to know. Because if he did, if he truly understood just how much you still carried for him—he might lose the fragile control he had left. You had moved on. You had built a life without him. And as much as it hurt, that was the reality he had to accept.

You broke eye contact when your son reached out for you, his tiny hands stretching towards you. You immediately pulled your eyes from Haymitch’s and went to him, your arms instinctively wrapping around the child. The bond between you and your son was undeniable, and Haymitch couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He watched as your fingers gently played with your son’s hair, his content little face snuggling into you. For a brief, bitter moment, Haymitch smiled—though it was more out of sorrow than anything else. He had lost. He had lost you, and now, there was no going back.

Caesar’s voice interrupted the fragile moment. “Thank you to the Crane family for joining us tonight. It’s been an absolute pleasure. To close this segment, would you two be so kind as to share a kiss with us?”

Cassius and you stood together, your children in your arms. Cassius’s free hand wrapped around your waist, his palm resting on the curve of your stomach. He pulled you into his arms, and in front of millions, he kissed you—a soft, tender kiss that was filled with a love Haymitch could never understand.

The crowd erupted in applause, but Haymitch barely heard it. He only saw you. Your smile. Your joy. And the knowledge that it wasn’t for him.

As you pulled away from the kiss, your gaze didn’t even flicker back in his direction. It stung, but Haymitch accepted it. You had moved on. He had no place in your life anymore.

What he didn’t know was that, even as you smiled at Cassius and turned your attention back to your family, you watched him. You watched him as he slowly turned his back on you once more. It was subtle, but the familiar ache tightened in your chest, too. You told yourself, over and over, that you had made peace with the life you had. You had built it, you had chosen it. And yet, as he walked away, it felt like another part of you slipped away with him.

He drained the rest of the flask, the burning liquid doing nothing to ease the ache in his heart. Turning away from the stage, Haymitch made his way to the exit, the weight of the decision he had made years ago pressing down on him with crushing force.

He had told himself time and time again that never turning back had been his biggest regret, but now he knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Because, in the end, it had led you to this. It had led you to happiness.

And, for that, he could never regret it.

With a final glance at the memory of your smile etched in his mind, Haymitch walked away—away from you, away from everything. His heart shattered with every step. And for the first time in years, he knew what it truly felt like to lose you.

Forever.

But as he walked, he knew deep down that he’d never truly escape you. The haunting image of your smile, the sound of your voice, the way you had looked at him that night, would linger in his mind like a shadow.

Even as he tried to drown it with another drink, the memories would cling to him, relentless and unforgiving. Every corner of his mind, every moment in the day, would be haunted by you—by the love he once had and lost. And for the rest of his life, no matter how much he tried to move on, he would carry you with him.

You were the one thing he could never outrun.

[tacticaldiary]

A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

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Part 2

(11/10/2023)

[starcurtain]

"The Lion Has Its Own Historian:" Parallels Between Gorgo and Aglaea

While re-reading Mydei's "As I've Written" stories recently, I was intrigued again by the (seemingly impossible) section in which Aglaea unknowingly echoed Gorgo's words to Mydei, and this led me down a rabbit hole of thought: The roles of Aglaea and Gorgo--not only in Mydei's life but also in the story overall--form some interesting parallels that are worth looking at in closer detail.

Seize the Means of Control

Gorgo's ascension to a position of authority was predicated on power--not only on her martial prowess, which was expected in her culture (i.e. slaying a lion with her bare hands), but through her courage to meet the existing symbol of authority, Eurypon, in single combat and not concede. In Kremnos, status is conferred and maintained through violence. Though on the surface Gorgo defies this belief, she ultimately remains an active participant in Kremnos's tradition of "might makes right" through the Kremnos Festival, reinforcing rather than rejecting her culture's military-centric social structure.

Although Gorgo originally took part in the Kremnos Festival with the intention of beating Eurypon and seizing the throne of Kremnos for herself (presumably because she thought she could rule better), she ultimately chooses to accept his continued leadership and become queen instead, even granting him an heir to cement his legacy. In this way, despite presumably wishing for a less wasteful (of life) philosophy for the Kremnoans, Gorgo becomes one of the foremost beneficiaries of the very mindset she opposes. She clearly wants to reduce the meaningless bloodshed in Kremnos--she strongly rejects the notion of patricide, for example--but she doesn't (at this point) reject the overall structures of the Kremnoan culture, including the belief that combat ability should determine who leads.

In short, her position of authority was achieved strictly through her ability to oppose her foes.

Despite coming from a wholly different culture, one which (ostensibly) values debate, diplomacy, and the rule of law as the primary tools for establishing status, Aglaea's rise to power was remarkably similar to Gorgo's. The game confirms that the prominence and influence of the Chrysos Heirs in Okhema is no lucky accident--instead, Aglaea has clawed her way to the top, fighting tooth and nail to establish herself as a figure of authority in the Holy City.

We're told she exerts her pressure both through economic means, amassing wealth via monopoly on resources such as Amphoreus's internet, and through literal bloodshed.

The story dances around it, but Star Rail's marketing embraces it: Aglaea represents not just the joy of love but also the "deadliness" of romance, the figure of power in Okhema "pulling the strings" and making others dance to the tune of her vision for the future. She basically rules the roost in the Holy City in large part because of her capacity for violence, because of the literal physical and political power she wields as a demigoddess and the leader of the strongest group of fighters on their entire planet.

This "silk concealing steel" behavior reflects not just how she approaches any who oppose her--the Trailblazer and Krateros, for example--but also how even the NPCs throughout Amphoreus view her:

It's particularly Krateros's view of Aglaea which intrigues me, because the very same things he accuses her of are the things Castrum Kremnos is famous for (being warmongers, usurpers of power, etc.). By all rights, he should admire a "queen" such as Aglaea who rules by force and who is leading her people into the greatest war Amphoreus as ever known. And yet he and the rest of the Kremnoans seem to revile Aglaea for the very same things they saw as virtues in Gorgo.

The context is the key: Gorgo seizing power for herself is viewed as honorable and good because it happened in the context of Kremnos, while Aglaea's power struggle and military dominance occur within the so-claimed peaceful structure of Okhema's democratic society, casting her in the role of a "power-hungry tyrant" for the people living in Okhema, even those who should most appreciate her mindset.

Comparing Gorgo and Aglaea in this way highlights a key double standard in the way the Amphoreans react to women who rise to power, and makes it clear how thin the veneer of Okhema's "peace" really is. Stepping to the top rung of the social ladder through the threat of martial retaliation, Aglaea's battle against the Council and the Flame Chase's foes is no different from Gorgo tearing a lion apart with her bare hands, challenging a king, and taking her place at the top of Kremnos's hierarchy by seizing her weapon and making her stand. All that differs is how violence is received in their contrasting cultures, resulting in two diametrically opposed reactions from the "mere mortals" around them.

With Violence as Your Tool

I think it's important to emphasize that Aglaea and Gorgo also parallel each other not just in their rise to authority through physical power itself, but also in their stances on the necessity of that power: Both Aglaea and Gorgo (at least at first) view bloodshed as a necessary evil, an unpleasant facet of life that one must accept in order to achieve a goal. Violence, for both Gorgo and Aglaea, is a tool.

We see this clearly with Gorgo throughout her flashbacks, both in her initial fight with Eurypon (where she claims she would embrace the notion of death only so long as it is not "unnecessary") and in her other confrontations with Eurypon: Gorgo insists that the tradition of regicide must be broken and makes Eurypon promise not to lead Mydei to that path--yet later, she goes so far as to scold Eurypon when he shies away from his fate, essentially calling him a coward for fearing the prophecy that Mydei would one day kill him. "What prince of Kremnos hasn't killed his father?" she taunts, implying that, even as Gorgo fought to change the violent history of Kremnos, she still believed--at least at that moment--that refusing to face violence when it was foreordained made Eurypon a weak and unfit ruler.

However, we ultimately see this stance change. In Mydei's dream of training with his mother, Gorgo reveals that nearly losing Mydei completely changed her perspective on Kremnos's beliefs, finally killing any faith she had in their system of rule and their constant pursuit of Strife for strife's sake. She rejects the notion of combat being the ultimate test of a person's worth, explicitly casts aside her title and role as queen of Kremnos, and embraces a kinder identity as strictly "Mydei's mother." This is a crisis of faith brought on by experiencing the impacts of Kremnos's faith firsthand--by being forced to experience grievous loss, Gorgo is implied to have grown as a person, from one who is willing to accept violence as a tool to get ahead, into one who solely values peace.

These views, too, mirror Aglaea's pursuit of the Flame Chase Journey and her "hidden" feelings toward its necessary loss. We know already that Aglaea views the threat of violence as her go-to "means to an end" when it comes to achieving the Chrysos Heirs' goals.

She is not at all above putting people into harm's way to pursue the prophecy, such as letting Phainon take the Strife trial even knowing that he would fail, and she tells us players over and over again that her own humanity has nearly vanished, claiming that she now no longer has sufficient empathy for humankind to be swayed away from the path of Era Nova.

This is clearly not true (given how deeply she cares for Tribbie, how kind she is to Castorice, and how unwilling she is to actually bring any harm to Anaxa), but Aglaea insists on this emotionless illusion likely because it makes it easier to tolerate the cruelty required to continue pursuing her goal--she needs it to be true that the last of her humanity has already waned, because this is what makes it easier to accept that the Flame Chase Journey is a journey of "loss," one that is fueled by bloodshed.

It is an unfortunate truth of the prophecy that people will die in pursuit of the dream, that capturing all the coreflames and pushing the world forcibly into its next cycle will cost lives and require cold, rational decisions that will crush people's happiness and freedom. Aglaea cannot hesitate, cannot waver, cannot choose kindness over action.

But, like Gorgo, we know that accepting violence as a tool does not mean that the person wielding the tool is always happy to do so. As Gorgo loses her genuine faith in Kremnos's beliefs and begins to view training Mydei for war as nothing more than a rote requirement, devoid of meaning, Aglaea too struggles to uphold her emotionless facade, a protective cocoon whose cracks reveal the enormous weight she is bearing and how deeply the inhumanity of her own decisions wounds her.

We see this clearly in her character stories, where the actions and then later loss of her maid completely reshape her definition of "beauty":

And we also see it very clearly in her behavior toward Anaxa, where she hesitates at the crucial moment, unable to commit to the course of action that she herself set in motion:

Like Gorgo who longs for a softer world where she can simply be Mydei's mother, Aglaea too (no matter how much she claims) has not lost the part of herself that cares not only for the people closest to her but even for the innocents of the world, the boy who wants to bring his sister something beautiful, the girl who shares her bracelet...

Her nature, no matter how much of it has worn away, is at its core humble and kind--reviling the pain of others.

It's this fundamental conflict between love and what must be done that lends both Gorgo and Aglaea their depth as characters, that grants them both an air of nobility, in the way that everyone good who suffers is noble. Being forced to cause harm without a desire to do so creates quintessentially contradictory characters, making the audience privy to both their external mettle and their internal hesitation, easily humanizing both of them. Aglaea and Gorgo are virtuous women whose cruelty is justified for the greater good. Yet in watching both of them struggle under the immense pressure of that cruelty, we recognize the inherent evil of a world that forces kind-hearted people into positions where bloodshed is their only path forward.

Both Aglaea and Gorgo are not women who normally hesitate to seize the tools available to them, or the kind of women who will shy away from wielding their strongest weapon--the threat of death--with impunity. The reaction to female characters who are willing to exert this kind of power over others (including over the men in their lives) both in-game and in the fandom (where Aglaea in particular is treated poorly for her "coldness") demonstrates how unique this particular type of female character still is, and suggests interesting overall power dynamics in Amphoreus that privilege women willing to utilize violence even above men who choose the same route, despite the strong patriarchal bent one might expect of a story with ancient Greece as its primary influence.

Mydei is not the son of Eurypon, but explicitly and always "the son of Gorgo" even in flashbacks where Eurypon is still alive; in Okhema, both the Chrysos Heirs and the Council appear to be primarily directed by women (Caenis occupies the more visible role of Aglaea's opponent than Lygus does), with all of Okhema's demigods (including Cipher) being female. Gorgo's violence is regarded as honorable; Aglaea is met with disapproval from her peace-loving society but no one ever actually dares to stop her. Perhaps Krateros comes closest, by defying Aglaea's will and entering the Strife trial without her permission, but even he ultimately has to be rescued from Aglaea's clutches by Mydei, who explicitly invokes his mother's name to ensure Krateros's safety. Say it with me: The male character with the highest social status in all of Amphoreus has to rely on the power and reputation of his mother to rescue another man from a powerful woman. Amphoreus really said "Ladies first." 💯

Anaxa's reactions to Aglaea are humorous but are also a perfect example of this overall social structure in Amphoreus which assumes strong women in power have an automatic degree of legitimacy because they are willing to seize violence as their means, despite violence being, in real-world cultures at least, stereotypically the domain of men. In 3.1, Anaxa simply accepts it as a given that he will become Aglaea's prisoner and that she will be able to do whatever she wants to him, because nothing in Okhema's social, political, or military structures would enable him to genuinely oppose her (if he even wanted to).

Even in his (sort of) fake-out "siding with the Council" phase, all Anaxa does is move himself from the grasp of one powerful woman to the next, shifting from being Aglaea's prisoner to Caenis's ace. Cerces even has an entire voiceline where she points out word-for-word that Anaxa is functionally just moving from one woman's cage to the next. Caenis in particular seems to view Anaxa as an object, a biting dog she can keep on a leash until she sics him on her enemy. Anaxa obviously is not so easily manipulated, but Caenis's threat about karma eventually comes true, and he nevertheless suffers the final wrath of the Holy City's society, being judged more harshly than anyone else for his seeming unwillingness to submit to the power of either woman in control of Okhema.

Both literally and thematically, the game tells us players that Aglaea and Gorgo are courageous and effective leaders because they live by the blade, because they are willing to harden their hearts and do whatever it takes, whether that means taking another's life--or their own.

To Usher in a New Era

Of course what really distinguishes both Gorgo and Aglaea's willingness to cause harm from malevolent forces in Amphoreus is their ultimate intent. Although both women are willing to do whatever it takes, they do so only in service to a greater purpose, one that they believe will better their world. In this way, Amphoreus's writers reinforce the underlying impression in Amphoreus's plot that women are more trustworthy and reliable leaders than their corresponding male counterparts. Slight side note on this, but it's kind of funny just how consistent this is--even "outside" of Amphoreus, Welt and Sunday had to turn to Herta to save the day, while inside Amphoreus, Trailblazer is still relying on Acheron's advice to get them through. (When you cater to the incels so hard you somehow loop back around into writing staunchly feminist plotlines...)

The message, repeated and unsubtle, is that there is a link between women's leadership and righteousness, with both Gorgo and Aglaea representing an idealistic desire for a better future for Kremnos and Amphoreus as a whole--one by opposing fate and the other by enforcing it.

Both Gorgo and Aglaea face prophecies that promise to reshape the world as they know it, prophecies which require them to make decisions that will ultimately cost them their lives in a desperate bid to influence history toward the best path. Gorgo rejects the prophecy she is given, determined to protect Mydei despite the destruction the omens claim he will bring to Castrum Kremnos.

Because of the players' predilections for Mydei, this choice to reject fate paints Gorgo as a heroine, an unselfish and moral person who will choose the life of an innocent child over she own safety. Her willingness to fight to the death to prevent Eurypon's atrocity against their son flies in the face of fate itself, attempting to stop an inevitable, self-fulfilling prophecy.

And, in fact, the game even teases us with the idea: What would Kremnos have been like if Gorgo succeeded? When Mydei returns to Kremnos, he either "envisions" or actually experiences (via timelines bleeding into each other), a seemingly parallel universe where Gorgo succeeded in saving him from the Sea of Souls, and where she clearly rallied the people of Kremnos to her cause. The Kremnos we see in that vision is entirely different from Eurypon's:

The people are happy, rejoicing and at ease, talking about pomegranates and writing and playing games with kids, while the sun paints the whole city in a soft and gleaming gold.

Contrast that with the Kremnos that Trailblazer and Castorice find when they travel back into the past where Eurypon betrayed his wife and left Mydei in the sea:

In the seemingly alternate timeline where Gorgo lives long enough to raise Mydei, the Kremnos we're presented with... looks a lot like Okhema. Looks a lot like the peaceful, idyllic Holy City where children frolic in the streets and the people are still full of light and life. By defying fate, we are shown (at least in some fragment of Amphoreus's timeline) that Gorgo achieves what she had longed for in Kremnos from the start, creating a better, gentler future for the people, prosperous and free of the cycle of Strife and meaningless violence that had plagued their kingdom for thousands of years. In this way, we can say that, for that lost timeline at least, Gorgo essentially achieved the Era Nova for Kremnos, ushering in a time of peace for her people. What Aglaea seeks, the game shows us that Gorgo was capable of achieving.

Conversely, Aglaea's path forward involves taking the complete opposite road: Rather than rejecting fate to create a better future, Aglaea seeks to embrace it. She has fully invested herself and her resources in the prophecy of the Flame Chase. She has to, because if there's no Era Nova to look forward to, then there's no hope at all for Amphoreus, and how can it be that something so beautiful is doomed to total destruction? If the Flame Chase Journey will end in a new start, if someone--anyone--will get to live to see the world born anew, then every sacrifice, every burden, every agony will have been worth it.

By embracing her prophesied fate instead of rejecting it, Aglaea is taking the same decisive stand as Gorgo, seizing the future of her world in her own hands and forcing Amphoreus along the path toward what she believes will definitely be a brighter future.

Not only does the description of Era Nova match the idyllic Castrum Kremnos we see under Gorgo's likely rule, but even the moments where both women truly make their stand and reckon with fate reflect each other as well: Gorgo demands her fellow Kremnoans stand with her, hoping they will see the wickedness of Eurypon's decision and reject blind faith in the prophecy they've been given. With her own strength, if even just Krateros alone had stood with her, she easily would have been able to push back against Eurypon's scheme. She lays out her vision for a different future, rejects the notions of the past, and is met with silence.

Meanwhile, Aglaea faces the Council of Elders in Okhema, where the decision about the Flame Chase Journey hangs in the balance, waiting on the final vote of a single person to join up with her cause. Just like Gorgo, the alignment of even one person to Aglaea's cause will make proof of her righteousness, prove the she's right. Aglaea lays down the gauntlet, demands the loyalty of her allies--and her leadership and vision are rewarded when Anaxa joins up with the cause, tipping the literal balance of the scales towards the new era Aglaea believes her efforts will bring to fruition.

(In essence, at the end of 3.2, we get to watch Anaxa do exactly what Krateros failed to--stand on the side of the woman who wields justice.)

Ultimately, through they do it through diametrically opposite paths--rejecting and embracing prophecy, respectively--both women are characterized by their drive to create change, their refusal to accept a quiet descent into cruelty and darkness. Both take a stand, outlining their vision for the right way to go on, for a better, softer, brighter world, seeking the loyalty of comrades to legitimize their causes, and--failing that--willing to make the ultimate sacrifice of themselves to further their truly noble causes.

The strength of both women lies not just in their martial prowess, but in their unwavering dedication to a just cause, no matter the cost to themselves.

Generational Influence

What actually started me off on this whole look at Gorgo and Aglaea as thematic parallels was Mydei's scenes with Aglaea, particularly how he clearly considers her a role model for ideal leadership. While I won't go so far as to say Aglaea perceives herself filling any sort of maternal role for Mydei, I think the connection is obvious on Mydei's end: Having never gotten the chance to truly meet his mother, Mydei is almost certainly projecting "the leader my mother would have been" onto Aglaea. (Or perhaps we should say the opposite: The empty spaces in Mydei's mind when he thinks of "Gorgo" are sutured closed with Aglaea's golden filigree.)

Does this sort of praise sound a bit familiar? It ought to, because this is how Krateros describes Gorgo:

Both women are characterized by their ability to move people's hearts, to inspire hope, and to model ideal strategy for others.

So how could Mydei do anything but link Aglaea's leadership with the life he imagines his mother would have led if she had had the chance to rule Kremnos?

Consider the entire situation from Mydei's perspective: His people have just been (forcibly) rescued from an insane king whose true downfall began with his betrayal of wife, their nation's one genuinely noble leader. If Gorgo had been their ruler, none of this suffering would ever have happened. Fleeing the madness and death Nikador is bringing to Kremnos, the entire surviving host of his people migrate to the "Holy City," the (supposed) last bastion of light and peace and happiness in Amphoreus--which is effectively ruled by a woman so powerful that she knows and sees all.

Seemingly effortlessly, she commands respect and fealty, marshaling her forces to do battle with the might of her own sword, while fighting to maintain the very same values Mydei's mother wanted to bring to her own nation. While being unafraid of bloodshed, she treasures life more than anything else. She's honest, direct, and unflinching, but still, despite everything, kind and dedicated to protecting the world she loves.

Mydei doesn't know his mother but there she is. There's the "queen" that his mother should have had the chance to be. There is the leader that Kremnos needed. There is the powerful woman whose dream for the future could have single-handedly changed the course of fate.

Clearly, for lack of personal experience, the Gorgo in Mydei's mind is less a real person and much more an idealized figure. His only direct knowledge of her comes from one "dream," where she tells him that he's more important than the world to her (undoubtedly leaving Mydei to grapple with the question of whether that is something she truly felt or something he just wishes to be true, by the way). Mydei's only other frame of reference for his mother is Krateros's blind veneration, with Krateros constantly holding Gorgo up as the standard Mydei should meet.

Gorgo is clearly on an achingly high pedestal for Mydei. He shaped his entire youth around the need to avenge her, and then he shaped his entire adult ideology around her vision for Kremnos. In "our" timeline, Gorgo may not have lived to create the change she hoped for, but her goal was ultimately achieved nonetheless, through the inter-generational influence her memory had over Mydei. It was Gorgo's hatred of wasteful bloodshed that helped Mydei to hate it too. It was Gorgo's desire to change Kremnos's traditions that led Mydei to consider tearing down its dynasty. It's his mother's gentle love for her people that echoes in Mydei's same affection.

And through Aglaea, all those views and lessons were enforced. Before joining up with the Flame Chase Journey, the game tells us that Mydei's life was effectively still a hellscape even when he had his friends: They wandered the land with nowhere to call home and were attacked by (or themselves attacked) everyone they met, engaging in endless violence just to keep existing, while he watched his companions be brutally murdered one by one. At the risk of extreme understatement: Mydei was not living the life his mother wanted for him.

After joining the Flame Chase Journey, Mydei becomes one of the "heroes" who dedicates himself to protecting innocents and serving as a guardian; he finds a cause, does his best to create a new home for his people, and works to reshape their views towards the beliefs his mother espoused. Like Gorgo putting down her weapon and taking up the role of "just your mother," Mydei gets to (temporarily, briefly) let down his guard and live as just a person, cooking sweets, roleplaying with kids, and cuddling with chimeras.

He inches closer to the dream of finding meaning in finding peace.

And if it was Gorgo who inspired those choices, then it was Aglaea who made them possible--Aglaea who accepted the Kremnoan Detachment into Okhema, Aglaea who literally put aside her fear of Mydei to accept him as a fellow Chrysos Heir, Aglaea who guided him, Aglaea who modeled transformational leadership for him, Aglaea who gave him the final (if forceful) push he needed to commit to changing his people's future, destroying the bloodstained Kremnos of the past. In all his struggles to move forward, the threads of Aglaea and Gorgo's mirrored ideology lead Mydei through the labyrinth of uncertainty.

All things considered, Gorgo might actually be the character with the single most significant impact on Amphoreus's current plot other than the Trailblazer, because the guidance and beliefs she instilled in Mydei will live much longer than Gorgo and even Aglaea herself--may even live on through the end of the world and the rebirth of all of Amphoreus, because it is her exact ideology that becomes the backbone of Mydei's life advice to Castorice. When Castorice reveals their future, telling him the demigods of today's Amphoreus will become the titans of the new cycle, Mydei looks her in the eye and tells her the exact thing he learned from his mother and Aglaea:

Don't accept defeat--defy despair with everything you have and weave the future with your own two hands.

Perhaps nowhere do we see the parallels between Gorgo and Aglaea more clearly than in the "As I've Written" chapter, where we are told that what ultimately swayed Mydei's decision to join the Flame Chase Journey was when, completely without knowing it, Aglaea spoke the exact same words as his mother.

Though the organization of "As I've Written" is often unclear, making it difficult to determine which passages are actually linked to each other and which are entirely separate, I'm going to personally interpret the quote included in Mydei's third chapter as that special sentence once spoken by both Gorgo and Aglaea:

"The lion has its own historian, and the history of the hunt should not be held by the hunter alone."

Putting aside that all of this is completely impossible in the timeline as we know it (Mydei has no way of remembering the sentences his mother might have spoken to him, and none of the sentences in any flashbacks or her letter to him have anything to do with lions or historians), if this is the line echoed by both women, it is an obviously poignant phrase that would immediately signify to Mydei that Aglaea's ideology matches his mother's.

Although the English translation of "As I've Written" leaves A LOT to be desired (sometimes to the point of being entirely incomprehensible; I legitimately have no idea who okayed those translations, rife as they are with just straight up grammar errors lol), the origin of this phrase is unmistakable. It comes from the African proverb that is normally translated as:

"Until the lion has its own historian, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter."

Essentially, "History is written by the victors."

If we take the English translation seriously, what Aglaea and Gorgo would have been saying is that "the defeated" (which, by the way, is symbolized by the lion repeatedly in Kremnos's history) should have their own historian, and that no one should get to speak for them. That is, of course, that no one should get to speak for Mydei except himself--that he should take charge of his own destiny and write his own history into the books.

Krateros repeatedly insists that Mydei is the hunter, the one who should be controlling the whole hunting ground:

But Aglaea sees through Mydei in the first moment of meeting him--sees that he's not the victor but the victim, not the Kremnoan king-to-be but the "wandering lion" who is at risk of being slaughtered on the altar of Kremnos's glory. Kremnos's history is not the "hunting lion"--it's the lion hunt. Gorgo the founder killed the lion, Gorgo the mother killed the lion... So where does that leave Mydei, the symbolic lion?

This line is saying, Aglaea and Gorgo would both have been saying: I see you. I see that there's an entire unspoken legacy weighing on your shoulders, a horror you're fleeing from like wounded prey, a fierce desire in you to refuse the tale this world is writing for you. And in supposedly echoing Gorgo's words, Aglaea would also have echoed the very core of Gorgo's faith:

Those who have lost everything still deserve the chance to shape their own futures.

Those who have faced impossible odds, those who Fate itself has marked for death, those who would martyr themselves to secure the futures of others can and should still rage against the dying of the light, still fight with every tooth and nail to bring about a different ending.

When no one but (apparently) the ghost of Gorgo in his head had ever said it to him, Aglaea told Mydei:

If you want a different history, you can write it.

Of course he joined the Flame Chase Journey after seeing that its leader carries the very same deep-rooted goodness as his mother.

And while we're here talking about the mirrored ideologies and guidance both women have offered to Mydei, I also want to add a tiny aside about Aglaea's symbolic leadership of the other Kremnoans as well.

Although of course Mydei remains their de facto leader even in Okhema, Mydei himself makes a big deal out of the Kremnoans having submitted to Aglaea's authority, repeating in several places that the Kremnoans have a duty to follow her commands.

This isn't an off-hand statement; for someone who should have already been crowned king to state in his own words that his people should submit to someone else's authority is effectively tantamount to ceding his throne specifically to her--Mydei has essentially handed over the reins of Kremnoan leadership to Aglaea. He's the crown prince, but she's effectively the queen (that his mother never got to be). The promotional materials even label Aglaea and Mydei as occupying the same role ("King"). This is especially clear in how the Kremnoans refer to her. In multiple places, Aglaea is referred to as "the golden-haired usurper."

You don't get called a "usurper" unless people believe you're attempting to undermine their current ruler. In all but flat out saying it, the other Kremnoans perceive Aglaea as usurping Mydei's authority, despite Mydei himself willingly giving that power to her. Mydei isn't careless with the Kremnoans' futures, he doesn't shirk his duties as their crown prince, and he certainly would never surrender his power to a weak, unfit ruler. Undoubtedly, Mydei is comfortable with the idea of ceding authority to Aglaea in part because he recognizes his mother in her, sees the qualities that elevated Gorgo to royalty in Kremnos alive and well in Aglaea's Okhema. In this way, perhaps we could say that another factor contributing to Mydei's hesitance to take up Kremnos's throne might be a subconscious sense that the Kremnoans are already in the right hands, that Aglaea--embodying the ideal leadership Mydei projects onto the memory of his mother--is a better fit than he could ever be to lead them anyway?

Heck, while we're at it, I think it's even interesting that the cities of Okhema and Kremnos mirror each other so much, down to things that honestly don't make sense: We're told the legend explaining the lion heads on the walls in Kremnos, but... why are there are also talking lion heads all over Okhema's walls? Gorgo who tore the head off the Tretos lion is echoed in Aglaea, who rules a kinder, softer city still symbolized by the lion, where the talking lion heads get to be gossips and riddle masters instead of war strategists.

Okay, and the last silly thing I want to say: Aglaea would definitely not call herself a mother figure for Mydei, but after 3.2 reveals Gorgo's tough love methods, Aglaea's attempts at scolding him start to look pretty familiar, from her exasperated chiding to her genuine criticism:

Mydei has it tough, having to meet the expectations of women like these lol.

To Fade from the World

Sorry, that was a bit too light-hearted for me, so time to end this post with some more pain:

A final point I think worth comparing between Gorgo and Aglaea is the ultimate fate that both of them face in the story: Gorgo is already gone, but Aglaea is not far behind.

Gorgo's death in particular is treated as abominable. Kremnoans may be warmongers and Strife worshipers, but they're supposed to be honorable about it. Key to their obsession with combat is the idea of noble combat, between contestants who are each given a fair chance. Despite being Gorgo's greatest ally, Krateros does not stand up and join her in her revolt against Eurypon, likely because of that same "might makes right" mindset that shaped so much of Kremnos's decision-making: If Gorgo's cause was truly righteous, then she should have been able to stand up for it herself and win a duel against Eurypon. If it had been a fair contest as expected by Kremnoan cultural standards, then whoever won would have been considered the "correct" person, and no one could have contested the fair results.

But Eurypon's cowardice drove him completely from the path of Kremnos's sacred virtues, causing him to betray their values by betraying his wife, using poison to deny her her fair chance in the duel. This action--forsaking the core tenets of Nikador's divinity--marks the truest extent of Eurypon's downfall, and cements that he is utterly unfit to rule, lacking both the courage to confront his wife in fair combat and the honor to reject under-handed schemes to ensure victory.

Gorgo's death is treated as a tragedy, an act that entirely shapes the course of the story through Mydei's loss to the sea and his subsequent quest for vengeance. It was cowardly betrayal that took away Kremnos's path to a brighter future, locking the self-fulfilling prophecy of Kremnos's downfall into place.

And this, of course, is a perfect mirror to the prophesied end Aglaea is going to face, possibly sooner rather than later. Upon their ascension as demigods, each Chrysos Heir is told how their life will end. Aglaea's prophecy states: "You shall have your final bath in warm and radiant gold."

As Aglaea is most often seen there, the assumption is that she will literally die in the baths--Mydei states this in-game, saying "If a normal person heard that prophecy, they'd probably just stop coming to the baths." Aglaea effectively dismisses this threat (in a very Kremnoan fashion even, lol) by simply saying "Well, who cares? I like baths!" Whatever will be, will be; if her assassin has the strength to end a demigoddess, then truly, it doesn't matter where she goes in Okhema or across the world--fate will find her.

Of course, there's also the possible interpretation that "final bath in gold" refers simply to bathing in her own golden Chrysos Heir blood...

But in either case, the prophecy, Mydei's comments, and some plot leaks I've seen all point towards a violent and unexpected end--likely at the hands of a betrayal.

Like Gorgo, Aglaea will not live to see the world she wished to create, the softer, golden future she wanted to bring to her people. At the hands of her enemies, either facing it with honor or in an unexpected moment of vulnerability, Aglaea will be eliminated before the final hour, fading from Amphoreus's memory as the survivors succeed--or fail--to usher in the new era she sacrificed everything to create.

Although both unique characters on their own, entirely separate from each other, examining Aglaea and Gorgo's parallel plot points, core character traits, and their roles and influences on others throughout the course of the story reveals yet another incredible "echo effect" in Amphoreus's writing, aligning opposites--Okhema and Kremnos, Beauty and Strife--through eerily similar patterns and revealing the enduring thematic threads that bind together the separate portions of Amphoreus's tale.

More than anything, Amphoreus feels to me like a very Hamilton-esque "Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?" plot, one that hinges on the question of who has the power to shape and reshape the future of their world, who has the power to break through a pre-ordained structure and bring about a better end--who has the courage to sacrifice it all to seize the reins of fate itself.

Through Aglaea and Gorgo, the story reinforces a message about women in power, women who perfectly balance violence (the traditional domain of male figures) with love, with beauty, and with righteousness to shake the foundations of their world. In what they value and how they lead, the story mirrors and mirrors again, mise en abyme, the message that those who are willing to give it all for the greater good are the true crafters of our story.

(Perhaps all this is preparing for the presence of another woman, one just as willing or more to do all that must be done to usher in a brighter future for her world?)

The history of the hunt should not be held by the hunter alone.

The lion has its own historian--and so too does the lioness.

Although Gorgo and Aglaea will both fall before that golden Era Nova can be achieved, the marks they have left on Amphoreus's plot, through their legacies of defiance and grace picked up and carried, torch-like, by other characters, demonstrate just how central both women were to all that happened in the world's past and all that will happen in its future.

[nmakii]

Yan!Alastor with a sweet little doe reader that loves to stay close to them and is rather clingy? Cuddles are a must, light kisses on the chin, wanting to walk together with held hands, physical contact is basically their love language! 🥰 even going for his fluffy ears cause who wouldn’t?? I love your writing btw! It makes me happy whenever you have something new for us ❤️

SAY YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE ME!

— yandere!alastor x clingy!reader

— AGH!! this made me scream thank you sm i love you!!! violence warning! pure yandere fluff 😲

is in love with how clingy you are! you refuse to leave his side, and he didn’t even need to force you! alastor loves a submissive darling who’d do what he desires without asking

not to mention how innocent you are! how did such a sweet little doe such as yourself get into hell? st. peter must have been mistaken!

because of your pure nature, alastor would only want the best things for his darling! just promise him to be his forever, and the rest of hell will be in the palm of your hand.

alastor himself isn’t one for physical touch though. he doesn’t mind keeping you at his side nor does he mind the kisses, don’t get it wrong, he adores your kisses! touching his ears though may be harder to adjust to.

he hates the reminder that he is a prey animal, he himself enjoys being the predator. your gentle touch against his fluffy ears and antlers as he twitches under your touch makes him quite uncomfortable to the fact you’re touching his weakest and most sensitive spot.

eventually, he grows to accept the fact that to be yours, he must make some sort of sacrifice. and if it’s this, so be it…

although, because of your clingy behavior, it only raises his possessiveness. seeing you even talking to someone else would make his blood boil.

especially if it is someone alastor has conflict with; seeing you even be approached by lucifer or vox would make him jealous; his smile would grow strained, his murderous intent thick in the air, enough to cut with a knife.

against lucifer or fellow overlords, alastor wouldn’t act upon it. despite his huge ego, he knows better than to pick a fight with demons who are more powerful than him.

to those who are lesser than him… unfortunately, they’re not as lucky.

of course though, being the gentleman he is, he refuses to taint your soul with all the carnage and bloodshed he commits to keep you as his sweet doe.

‘LIVE ON AIR’ the neon sign in alastor’s broadcast station lit up as the speakers across pentagram city came to life. a man begging for his life, screaming as various noises were heard. one could only assume the radio demon was tearing his soul to pieces.

the sound of flesh being ripped apart was gruesome as the sinner’s bloodcurdling screams grew weaker. the sound of his corpse being hit against the walls of the station at least 40 times until alastor threw the body onto the floor.

when the man screamed no more, alastor’s voice was heard, sighing deeply, as if all his pent-up stress had just been released before joyful music started playing in the background. “good evening, sinners! take this broadcast as a reminder not to mess with what belongs to me! lest you’d like me to feast on your screams.” alastor warned before he laughed maniacally. and then he was gone once more.

after releasing all of his fury, he returned back to your shared bedroom, his cute little doe in pretty jammies he bought for you. so comfy in bed while hugging a plushie of a manically-cute red kitty, the antlers on its’ head resembling alastor’s. “alastor, what took so long?” you pouted as he began to retire in his nightwear, first taking off his bowtie.

“forgive me, my doe. there were many things to cover tonight on my radio broadcast…” he smiled, pinching your plump cheeks; so yummy and jiggly under his touch. “could i make it up to you tonight?” he smiled widely.

“ugh, then hurry up, please?!” you hit the sheets in frustration. “ahaha… just be patient, my darling.” he patted your head, getting into bed with you. turning off the lights before he wrapped his lanky arms around your waist, burying his face in your hair and leaving a trail of light kisses over your head.

the next time you’d see alastor’s broadcast station, a peculiar skeleton is pinned, adding a grotesque look to the hotel

[serenity-ren-bliss]

A single splash of blood can kill an Angel

Fandom: Gladiator II

Prompt(s)/Premise: Emperor Geta x fem!hemophobic!Reader

Translations (Latin):

Carissima = dearest

Amor = love

Mea Columba = my dove

TW: Mention of blood, fainting

____________________________________

When Geta first set eyes on you, a lowly seamstress’s daughter, he knew immediately you had to be his. When you heard of his wish for your hand, you had no choice but too accept. He was the emperor, you found yourself too scared to say no to him.

He moved you into the palace, gave you a room across his for the six months before your wedding. He showered you with gifts; gold and jewels and silks. He spent all of his free time at your side, asking you all kinds of questions, and the two of you quickly grew endeared.

But there was one big secret you kept from him: you are afraid of blood. It’s no secret your soon-to-be husband loved the games, he loved the fighting, the bloodshed, and the violence. He was ruthless like that.

However you hated it all. Even the smell of blood was enough to make you gag. The sight of it? It would make you faint. But you never told him, if you didn’t he would surely scoff in your face and call you pathetic. He would call of the marriage, which as time goes on is becoming a worse and worse fate for you as you grew to love the ruthless king.

You came up with every excuse you could think off to not accompany him to the games. You would tell him you were sick, busy, not feeling it, wanted to sleep in, everything. But now, after five months of this, you’ve run clean out of lies.

So now here you are. Sitting on a golden throne, your emperor to your right, and you could feel the eyes on you, even as the games are about to begin. He could see your trembling and reached out to hold your hand. He didn’t say anything, just held it.

Then the fighting started. It wasn’t too bad at first, there was more yelling then you’re normally comfortable with, but you were okay. Then the first hit was landed. Then the second. The smell of blood permeated the air and dark red liquid spills all over the floors. You feel sick.

Geta doesn’t notice at first, too caught up in the games. Good, you don’t want him too. You don’t want to spoil his fun. You know any minute now he’ll notice. He’ll force you to admit it. And then-

There was a loud scream, accompanied by the loud squelch of a particularly nasty stab. The scent got stronger and then it all went black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t know how long you were out. You awoke in a soft bed, something warm wrapped around your hand. As you came too a little more, you recognized your emperor’s face looking up at you.

“Carissima!” He spoke with relief, “Thanks the gods you’re awake!” His free hand went to cup your face, tilting it so you would sit up. “What happened back there?”

“Geta, I…” You were silent for a moment, considering your words. Should you lie? He’d see right through you. “I was just a little sick, Amor. You do not need worry.”

He shook his head. “Do not lie to me, mea columba. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” You looked away, unable to look him in the eye when the words started spilling out of you.

You told him everything. How you fainted because the smell and sight of blood makes you sick, how you didn’t alert him because he was having fun, how you didn’t want to tell him about your fear because you were worried he’d find you pathetic and call off the marriage.

“And I’m sorry that I lied and I tricked you and I understand if you’re mad and if you really want to-“ You were interrupted by a soft hand on your cheek yanking your head to face him. He looked pissed. Not the fiery kind of pissed like he was about to yell at you. His gaze was cold, calculating, and that was so much scarier. You gulped, bracing yourself for the worst.

“Tell me, Carissima, who clothes you in silks and adorned you with gold?”

“Y-you do, my emperor” You barely heard your own voice, shaky and unsure.

“Who brought you to this palace, gave you everything you can ever imagine, made sure you slept on the softest sheets?”

“You did, my emperor”

“Who makes sure you eat the finest, freshes food, whenever you require?”

“You do… my emperor.”

“Then tell me, Amor, why you think so low of me. Why you’d think I’d consider, for a second, leaving you over something so petty.”

You weren’t sure what to say. Geta’s reputation precedes him, but when it comes to how he treats you… he’s rarely that violent.

“I…” He looked at you expectantly. You tried to avoid his gaze. He didn’t like that. “Look at me.” He yelled. You jumped.

“You should not think even for a moment that I’d leave you. For any reason. You are my wife, Columba! Not some girl I keep just because. I’m not going anywhere! Neither are you. Do you understand?!”

You were still trembling from his screaming. He seemed to notice, calming down just a little. He pulled you into a tight embrace. “I’m not leaving you, Mae Columba. I need you to tell me when you’re ill. I am not going to be mad at you. You’re safety is more important than the games. Do you understand?”

You took a deep breath, you’re voice still shaky. “I-I understand.”

He sighs. “We’ll find other things to do. I will not be taking you to the games anymore. You need rest.”

You slumped back on the bed. “Cuddle me?” He chuckled, sitting on the bed and letting you rest your head on his chest.

[theeoriginals]

a Klaus fic with this gem from Ozark “look, I know I kissed you last night but I thought I was gonna fucking die”. Change to fit however you want 😘

the last thing i'd do | klaus mikaelson

author's note; whoever sent this im so sorry it's been in my inbox for seven months

warnings; hybrid!reader, mentions of violence, violence against reader, themes of death, klaus gets crazy :), then there's fluff, a bit of angst still sprinkled in, but there's a happy ending

It's a blood bath, is the thing.

She can't tell what blood is hers anymore, and the ache in her body has done nothing but grow steadily over the past ten minutes. It feels like it's been hours since it all started.

She doesn't remember who threw the first punch, just knows that someone had come at her and she had no choice but to fight back, fight for her life.

There's blood under her nails, and she thinks maybe some in her eyes because they're burning, but it might be the tears shining in them.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Klaus had, for once, been hoping for peace. He was always braced for a fight, but he'd truly been hoping for a painless, quick negotiation.

Of course, it's turned into the worst fight they've had in a while.

She's always been on Klaus's side of things; fights, family, life. She's always had her place here, carved out by none other than the Original Hybrid himself. She's never understood just what he saw in her that earned her this place, but she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Some– most– call her loyalty a form of naivety. Perhaps the sire bond still lingering, despite the fact that she'd broken it years ago. His siblings call it blindness, or ignorance, in their harsher moments. Her friends, the few that happen to be immortal, too, think she's reckless and just asking for him to kill her. Klaus Mikaelson turns on everybody, eventually, they say. The paranoid, hybrid king trusts nothing and no one. He killed his parents, multiple times, and he's kept his siblings in and out of coffins for most of their immortal lives. Why would he ever enjoy the company of one of his sires?

She's never thought he was perfect. That's something people always get wrong. They think she sees no flaws in him, when really she sees them all for what they are, she sees him for who he really is. She still loves him.

Some days she thinks he knows how she feels for him. Sometimes she can't keep it out of her eyes, and he'll catch her looking at him and his eyes will narrow slightly, like he's warning her to contain it.

Other days, she thinks there's no way he knows, because if he knew the capacity of her adoration, he'd surely have to say something. Tell her to move on. Compel the feelings away, possibly. If he were that cruel to her.

She doesn't think he would be. Since that first day he found her in the woods with what was left of her pack, they'd all watched him in fear. Some confused. Angry. But she was mystified. Enraptured by him and the power that radiated off of him.

She spent a long time feeling weak when she was younger. Even after she triggered the curse. But when Klaus told her she could become immortal, be strong, be at his side, she was the first to accept. The only one in her pack to ask him to turn her.

He'd set his eyes on her, something unidentifiably dark gleaming in his blue eyes, and when she latched onto his wrist to drink his blood, he hadn't looked away from her.

When he cupped her cheeks, he'd brushed his thumbs along the curve of her cheekbones and told her he'd make it quick and painless for her, and when she opened her eyes, he'd be there.

He'd kept his word, then. And he'd kept it ever since.

This, though. He'd given her his word, knowing her hesitance to fight, knowing that unless it was life or death, she'd rather avoid conflict. He promised her there would be no bloodshed here today.

It's not his fault, this time. She needs to tell him that. She needs to be at his side to make sure they're still fighting together, like they have for so long, yet so little time.

She throws a vampire off of her, with nothing but his heart in her palm and she quickly drops it to the ground at her feet. Turning, she pushes through the chaos, trying to cross the room to where she last saw him.

"Klaus!"

Her voice echoes over the mess and she sees him turn in the direction of it, and the fire in his blue eyes has her stopping.

He has blood smeared around his mouth and chin and she knows he's torn out more throats than he can count. The numbers are dwindling on both sides, barely anyone left standing, and she goes to close the space between them when a blinding pain stops her in her tracks.

Her choked off grunt is nearly silent amidst the yelling, but to Klaus it's like a gunshot.

He watches the point of the stake stab through her chest and feels his breath stall in his chest, fingers going numb all the way to the tips.

Her hand comes up, trembling as she skims her fingers over the blood blooming on her shirt around the stake. When she looks back up at Klaus, she tries to say his name but it's suffocated by the blood bubbling up in her throat.

Her knees give out from under her and she hears his hoarse voice yell her name as she goes down.

She can't see it, but she feels the pain that refreshes when he rips the stake from her back and throws it into the heart of the vampire that had attacked her.

She can't see it through the blur of her tears, but the sounds of retreat echo in her ears around the waves crashing.

When Klaus speaks again, his voice is closer and she blinks blearily, finding him hovering above her with wide eyes, looking uncharacteristically scared.

Her brows furrow when she sees the look on his face and when his fingers brush hers, she's quick to intertwine them with hers.

He whispers her name, the sound broken with emotion, and she squeezes his hand unconsciously.

"You're alright," He tries, valiantly ignoring the graying color of her skin despite the fact that he got the stake out of her. "You're alright, love. The pain will go away in a minute,"

She frowns, shaking her head against where he has it cupped with the hand that she's not holding. "Doesn't hurt," She whispers, swallowing roughly around the copper in her mouth.

"What?"

She repeats herself. "Doesn't hurt. Can't feel anything,"

Klaus makes a noise that she thinks might be grief. "No, no, it's alright. Here," He rips his hand from hers and his fangs tear into his skin, and he shoves his wrist against her mouth, letting as much blood drip into her mouth as he can before he heals.

She swallows it dutifully, but that numbness doesn't quite go away, and she wonders why he's so worried about it.

"Sit up," He commands her, though his voice is nowhere near as firm as it can get. "Sit up, and I'll help you the rest of the way. We'll go home, and you can rest."

"Klaus," She says his name, smiling around the syllables. "Come here."

He leans down at her request, eyes fluttering shut on a shaky breath when she lifts a blood-smeared hand up to his cheek. He whispers her name and her smile gives way to bloody teeth.

She uses what strength she can to lean up and kiss him, the pads of her fingers pressing into his pale cheek when he inhales sharply but presses back instantly, deepening the kiss.

She lingers as long as she can until she has to pull away, gasping for a full breath that she can't quite reach.

Still, a smile sits on her lips and when she meets Klaus's worried gaze, she doesn't falter. "Thank you,"

Confusion flutters on his face for a moment, but he jostles her when she starts to go limp in his arms, hand falling from his face. "No," He pulls her weight up, lifting her against his chest as her eyes flutter shut. "No. Wake up. Wake up!"

Silence follows his demands, his pleas, and through the blood on her cheek, a single tear falls from his eye, cleaning as it slides down her skin and falls into nothing.

Despite the silence surrounding him, he feels deafened.

When she opens her eyes again, she can feel her body again in a way she couldn't before. Luckily, she can't feel any pain.

Her eyes go down to her chest where she knows a gaping wound had been, but there's nothing left, not even a scar its wake and she takes a deep breath, relieved that it's not followed by a throttle of blood coming up her throat.

"You're awake,"

The voice startles her, but she isn't scared when she turns her head against the pillow to look at Klaus. A frown sprouts on her face when she sees him sitting in a chair at her side, looking like he hasn't slept in days. It's not always necessary, but they have to take breaks sometimes, and she hasn't seen Klaus look this tired in a long time.

"I am," She says, swallowing a mouthful of spit in an attempt to wet her throat. "I don't think I should be, though."

"I owe many people a great deal of things, so you'd better stay that way."

His voice is dark and she can hear the anger in it, but she's not used to it being focused on her. "You didn't–"

"Do not," He cuts her off, his words nearly a growl that has her eyes widening. "Do not tell me that I shouldn't have saved you."

He leans forward, grabbing her hand in his, and she shrinks with embarrassment when she remembers how she'd touched his cheek and kissed him.

"Klaus," She squeezes her eyes shut, huffing her humiliation out. "I am– so sorry that I–"

"Don't," He cuts her off again, hand pressing pointedly against hers. "Don't apologize if you don't mean it."

She falls silent for a moment, lost as she looks at him. "I just... I thought I was going to die. And I just– I had to have it at least once."

He visibly swallows and she watches that pretty shine light up his eyes again. "You thought you were dying, and the last thing you wanted to do was kiss me?"

She nods despite the toe-curling embarrassment coursing through her.

He cuts a sharp breath out of his nose, shaking his head.

Before she realizes it, he's hovering above her, cupping her cheeks gently. "Silly little thing," He quietly scolds her, not giving her time to argue before he kisses her, ever so softly, softer than she ever thought he could be. Like she'll break beneath his touch if he doesn't treat her like glass.

When he pulls away and she forces her eyes open, she finds herself fighting off a tingling sensation from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. "What'd you do that for?"

He smiles, small and fond. "The next time you kiss me, you don't have to be dying to do it."

"Oh,"

"Don't ever do that to me again," His voice has a warning in it, but she's already smiling too hard to pay attention to it. "You know how I feel about people disobeying my orders."

Her grin is audible when she responds. "Yeah, I do."

[theyluvlyss]

𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 & 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲...

my head is all but consumed with thoughts only of wade wilson, logan howlett, and remy lebeau. they're all I can process in my head (besides shazam, but that's a given considering no one loves shazam the way I do, so🤷🏽‍♀️) and I y e a r n desperately for an influx in "wade x y/n x logan" fics and the "remy x y/n" fics... dare I even ask, humbly ofc, hear me out... for a splash of "wade x y/n x remy". genuinely, I'd kill for some of that ngl.

and I bet you're wondering, "lyssa, why not do it yourself🤔?"

short answer: I am swamped with requests, and even if I wasn't, I'm not ready yet lmao I fear I do not possess the skills to capture them in my writing perfectly😔 ... yet😈.

in the meantime, tho *😈evil little laughter😈* may I plz suggest the following prompts and pairings to and for anybody willing to work with them or wanting ideas (begging any writers that see this to please write these and tag me plz plz plz plz plz 😭🙏🏽😃plzplzplzplzplzplzplzpl-)...

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

⚠️trigger and content warning btw lol -

mentions of fighting/violence/bloodshed, death, gore, (like c'mon,,, bffr, look at who you're reading about😐🤨), anxiety/panic attacks, harsh words/themes/elements/physical injuries, abuse and/or negelct, separation anxiety, mental disorders, brief mention of sickness/illness, drugs (just 🍃 and painkillers), age gap (nothing illegal, chill out🤨✋🏽), use of a derogatory term (not used in a negative sense tho lol), and some semi-common smut themes that I won't list here, but be wary if that stuff makes you uncomfortable :)♡. also, these are all under the pretense that the reader is a cis girl, she/her/hers pronouns (so ig you could think of this as one, big, mass request to all writers willing from me lol🤭🥴🫶🏽).

𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭/𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 :

- reader having a panic/anxiety attack and ofc being comforted (causes my vary; maybe right after a fight/battle, or because of over-worrying or too much pressure, maybe after a fight with another loved one, etcetc). definitely wanna see this with all three of them, but separately, tho. like, one fic or list of "preferences/headcannons" for logan, one for wade, and then one for remy.

- near death or death (followed by resurrection swift after). it could be reader almost dies or dies (then gets resurrected, get creative with it/how, fr, yk?) or the reverse; the POI (person of interest) dies, although given two of the three's abilities, y'all might have to get creative if you want it to translate for logan and/or wade so this one would be mainly for a remy x reader.

- I personally love a good "POI says sumn mean/outta pocket, hurts reader's feels, stuff happens idk, but they eventually kiss and make up" trope. I'd eat that up, especially cuz OHHH,,,, wade taking a joke or playful argument or something too far? logan being a little too mean/angsty to you for comfort?? remy saying something that gets lost in translation, so it comes out harsher than intended??? 😫😫😫‼️‼️ AND IF YOU WANNA GET MESSY WIT IT, RUNNING TO ONE OF THE OTHER THREE FOR COMFORT🙈🙈⁉️⁉️⁉️.

- a classic; reader getting injured (mildly or worse, doesn't matter), needing to be taken care of, but is stubborn about it?? always a good one.

- getting a little crazy and silly here, but I like a good "abusive and/or negelctful ex/current partner" trope. like hell yeah, one of you big, strong men get over here and save me, whisk me away and show me what I really deserve😻‼️. NOT romanticizing/glorifying it obvs, like no, I mean that wade, logan, and/or remy would not be the red flags in this scenario, they're the one(s) doing the saving FROM the red flag ex/current partner lol.

- getting a little crazier and sillier with this one, but one where reader gets snatched up🙂? oouuuu, miss girl got kidnapped?! once again, somebody come save me, and if "somebody" is not wade, logan, and/or remy, then don't bother, I don't want it. matter of fact, just gon' on ahead and leave me, I'll figure it out myself🙂✌🏽. I think I'd want these separate, actually, bc I wanna take in the individuality of their reactions, like,,, logan going feral?? pretty predictable tbh lmao but still hot. remy?? idek ngl, y'all gon' have to figure him out. BUT WADE BEING SERIOUS AND NOT AS TALKATIVE FOR ONCE UNTIL HE KNOWS YOU'RE SAFE???? OOOHOOHOOOOOOO, GIMMIE🖐🏽👹🖐🏽✊🏽👹✊🏽!!!

- ig this could be put in the panic/anxiety attack category, but I also feel like this might be it's own separate thing, so idk, but... separation anxiety on reader's part. whatever the circumstances may be to breed it, reader is just (not in a unhealthy way) attached to the POI(s), so them leaving for whatever reason is pretty hard on her (and the POI(s), too, because hello, they don't wanna make their reader upset, but things gotta get done fr yk😫🥲),,, lots of reassurance, comforting, and maybe distractions ensue??

- reader with an alter ego/inner beast, whether that be a result of her powers or a mental disorder (think like,,, split personality or maybe DID or something like that, but I do wanna say, if you're gonna go the mental route, make sure you do your research so that you're representing it - not only accurately - but you're not dehumanizing or dumbing it down as well) or just anything that would cause the reader to, as I said, have a different side of themself,,, werewolf type deal, yk? "normal" for the most part, but then has her moments where she be on demon time and then when she's back to herself, she's just like "???" while everyone else is like "!!!". I suppose this could then be followed up/solved with a "the sun's getting real low" typa thing/moment from the POI(s), but that's neither here nor there, do what feels right fr♡.

- reader (just barely) escapes cassandra nova??? that could be cool (a.k.a. very, very angsty bc surely the encounter has messed the reader alllll the way up both mentally and physically, especially knowing what typa timing cass be on lmao😃). love a good hurt/comfort, I can't get enough, actually. this one (given the movie context) may or may not work with wolvie and/or pool (again, up to the writer to get creative), but gambit?? he's been in the void his whole life, he knows cass, sooo it'd make more sense for him to have a higher understanding of the situation in full, but do what y'all want, I'm just the idea woman🤷🏽‍♀️.

𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 :

- morning cuddles and softeness and ughghfhfhdjd♡!!♡!♡!!♡!♡!!♡!! and then the opposite, night/bedtime cuddles and softness and uugjfjdkwkfke♡!!♡!♡!!♡!♡!!♡!!

- height difference teasings and shenanigans. we can always stick to the classics, ofc, short reader, tall wade, logan, and/or remy. maybe its an advantage in fights - fast, lethal, and small + big, shielding, and strong - but sucks in more domestic/calm cases like reaching for shit on the top shelf or wanting to kiss somebody. but I'd also love some tall gworl reader type shit, miss strong, lean, runway model energy, stepping on any heads and wooing any men that are in her path🥴😻. bending down with a smile so she can hear him, mindlessly playing with his hair, occasionally makes a quip here and there on the difference without thinking lol and he haaaaateeees all of it (but he looooveeeessss all of it🤭).

- reader being THAT GIRL, literally being in a 1v26 or sumn crazy like that and she's just kicking ass and shit the whole time, and then there's the POI(s),,, gawking and in love like "damn that's MY GIRL fr\😻/!!".

- *imagine a vine boom after every bolded word, okay, go* teen/minor/young PLATONIC NONSEXUAL NONROMANTIC (literally I can not stress this enough) NOT DATING AT ALL EVER reader and one/two/all of them. I think it'd just be silly seeing them (wade, logan, and or remy) working/paired with/having a bond with this little gremlin yet sweetheart of a reader who's somehow able to tolerate/put up with/ignore/maybe even indulge in their craziness lmfao. maybe just as or is even more crazy than they are, chaotic and desensitized type shit. you could even get ansgty with it, have this teen reader need saving or something like that, yk?

- sparring match and reader BEATS POI(s) in said spar cuz she's cool, awesome, and mega baller like that. lots of tension and goofiness, especially from the reader, cuz she knows damn well she's the shit. or, a different route!!... total dumb luck that she beat him/both/all of them, and is very obviously playing it off/acting like she won on purpose lmfao, cockiness ensuing.

- can't go wrong with a sick-fic lol. who doesn't wanna be taken care of?

- reader needs/wears glasses🤷🏽‍♀️. it can be the discovery of actually needing them, reader always squinting tryna read/see shit, or nearly getting herself in and out of danger bc again, she blind lmao. or it's just the case of reader never wears them out and about, but in calmer moments (where she doesn't run the risk of breaking them) she'll put them on, so she decides to bust 'em out one day and it's just the POI(s) being like ":O...😻😻!!".

- *olivia rodrigo voice* JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY, YEAA-aAAH😫😫‼️ ... reader who just,,, she don't play that shit, man, lmfao it's called you can prove yourself either friend or foe,,, stay tf away from my man or get your ass beat. pick one. and it's the POI(s) just absolutely flattered and amused with this energy from reader lmfao, reassurance ensuing quick after ofc. or, if you wanna get silly with it (and by silly, I mean violent♡), reader with a girl who can't take a hint😀 *eye twitch* so she finally makes shit clear one way or another (one way; does sumn with the POI(s) that makes the girl uncomfortable so she fucks off. another; reader pretty much beats that girl up and it's the POI(s) laughing but also trying to pry reader off of her cuz "stop it, I'm yours, I promise, you don't have to kill her, she didn't know any better😭!"). or just completely switch it up, vice versa, role-reversal POI(s) get jelly and it's reader having to deal with whatever may happen after/due to the fact lol.

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 :

- shameless flirt reader!!!! she's not obnoxious or out of character/proper timing with it, but definitely a reader with helllllaaaaa rizz. is mainly on some "is somebody gonna match my freak?" type shi. wade would find it very silly and he'd match the freak ofc. logan,,, maybe he'd start off annoyed by it, then get used to it, only realizing you've actually grown on him once you start to pull back a little/stop completely? REMY WOULD LOVE AND BE AMUSED BY IT, so all I'm gonna say here is this: rabbits🐇🥰. iykyk♡.

- a smoke sesh leading to some good, old fashioned high/sleepy sex🥰. that's it, that's the prompt♡.

- lord, free me from my sins🙏🏽, plz don't judge me y'all😔 ,,, age gap😃? NOTHING CRAZY, CHILL, but yk, like,,, just a little young thing in her 20s or sumn being scooped up by one (or two🤭) of these older, more mature, aged like fine wine, and experienced men,,, that's all🥰.

- that moment when reader is a whore and is actually literally prancing around without a care in the world, fucking three different guys (wade, logan, and remy obvs) because "they're hot lol" - not necessarily behind their backs - but no one's saying anything or telling her no, nor does anyone seem to have any issues with it/are opposed, sooo😗🤷🏽‍♀️.

- do y'all think,,, because wolverine is yk...wolf-like-ish-whatever.... do y'all think that he,,,, that maybe he goes thru... a rut🙂?? lmfaoGDHAKXKPQPRR okay that's enough, that's enough🥴✋🏽-.

- you know how some smut has certain labels/themes/tags that are gonna be, yk,,, in said smut?? well, cuz I'm out of any specific ideas for smut, I'm just gonna leave some here, m'kaaaay, and whatever y'all wanna dooooo is up to youuuu, just as long as I get to seeee😗☺️🫶🏽~...

⚠️ also don't say I didn't warn y'all, I mean, there's literally a whole ass trigger warning at the top, so do not start fckn trippin' because you disagree with me or saw sumn you don't fw, cuz tbh, I don't care and you can honestly block me if it's that serious♡.

dom-sub, daddy/praise/breeding/spanking kink, knife/gun/blood play (and/or just mutant/power ability play in general hehehe), food/wax play, cnc (I don't suggest full blown non-con seeing as none of them seem the type to do such, no matter the circumstances, plus it's just not my thing personally but hey, I'm not currently writing for pool, wolvie, or gambit rn, so that's up to whoever is🤷🏽‍♀️), hunter-prey (y'all might see this and immediately think wolvie, which is understandable fr, but I beg y'all to get creative and let remy and/or wade hunt reader down, it can be done and done right, I promise, plz, I need it, 😫PLEASE!!-), friends with benefits,,, OHHH ENEMIES with benefits🫢🫢!!, overstim, jealousy/possessive/yandere, unprotected/creampie/oral ... that's all that comes to mind lmao wow what a crazy note to end this on, anyways-

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

yeah, so, do with all of this what you will (and plz spread this around, I genuinely do wanna see these get written and myself tagged like I am PINING for these fic ideas to be turned into reality😭🙏🏽), I just had to get my thoughts out before I forgot (at least in the fanfic department), because if someone were to ask me my thoughts on the movie itself !!!!! OMG I could run my mouth forever, but I don't wanna do that (lazy) so lmao for now, that's all lol byeeee~ /ᐠ-˕-マ!!

[faelapis]

first three eps of the season were good. after that, arcane season two just completely fell apart.

it ignored all themes of oppression, police violence, cait's slip into fascism, the zaunite revolution, etc. all in its need to introduce a bunch of pointless league lore and create 762 new storylines, despite only having one season to tell them. and so it told zero of them well.

idgaf about the black rose. idgaf about it suddenly being about stopping the robot uprising. idgaf about warwick (vander is effectively already dead. the only purpose of this false hope was to bring him in line with league canon). ambessa started off as an interesting character, but as soon as the caitlyn storyline fell apart, so did any motivation of hers that actually made sense.

jinx became a tragically pointless character who ended up in the exact same self hatred-spiral she started the season in. except instead of being brought on by silco's death, now it's isha's death. sevika gets a pointless minority seat on the council, but it's only one seat, with no assurances that anything will actually change for zaun. ekko gets no character arc whatsoever. he's just a generic good guy who does good guy stuff. the viktor/jayce story had a sweet ending, but it took up far too much screentime in a show whose main characters are supposed to be vi and jinx. vi never gets to have a moment where she either accepts or learns from her failures. she ends up a surprisingly passive role the entire season, which could serve an interesting internal character arc, but that never happens. her only "arc" is to be comforted by her cop gf.

and really that is the original sin here. because the season's first three episodes promised so much about cait. it promised not just her slip into authoritarianism, but to explore why and what impact it has on her relationship with vi. who vi wants to be, in relation to this person and this system.

this image is the embodiment of what i wanted this season to be. it's a conscious reference to macbeth, the shakespearian tragedy in which the main character's obsession with becoming king and remaining in control results in war and bloodshed. if told carefully, it could be brilliant commentary on cait, on fascism, on social hierarchies, personal trauma and the nature of power.

we get none of that. instead, her fascism arc is lazily resolved by just undoing it as soon as she sees vi again - and no, this does not count as a "love conquers all" resolution. i'm not opposed to that ending! but cait's heel-turn came out of nowhere!! it felt like a cowardly move on the writers part, because they didn't want to make viewers uncomfortable with the main ship.

vi became a complete mush of a character. she just reacts to whatever others (mainly cait) does. she has no motivations of her own. and like i already said, this does not fuel a compelling arc about her depression or trauma. the question of whether she should believe in others never goes anywhere. except of course, to be comforted by cait. so vi, in her own right, does not exist for any narrative purpose this season. she just... is sad and looks good. she puts on her big punching gloves and does a few show fights. download league of legends. unlock the depressed punk vi dlc costume today.

[justchillgurl]

Hey, Hope you're doin' good.

I really love ur writing, and i was wondering if you can write a x reader, where she's part of Baku's band, and tries to approach Seong-jae to get information on how to destroy the Union. For a while things go well, but then the reader realizes she's gaining feelings for him and tries to dissuade her friends from carrying out the plan.

Of course im asking only if you're up, no worries if not. 💙

All I can say is damn, I'm not really sure about this one. Tried my besttt๑

> "The most dangerous lies are the ones you whisper to yourself until they sound like truth."

Warnings: Violence, psychological manipulation, emotional distress

Pairing→ Geum seong je x fem! Reader

A/N: Check my masterlist☆ → here!@.

Title☆: "Collateral Blue"

￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣

The first time she heard the name Geum Seong-je in a serious conversation, it wasn’t in the locker room fights or the casual hallway whispers—it was in a strategy meeting with Baku’s group behind the east stairwell, where voices were usually low and everyone knew to keep their backs to the wall. She’d been a part of Baku’s orbit long enough to know that names like Seong-je didn’t just come up. They slithered into plans like loaded weapons—risky, unpredictable, but sometimes necessary.

Y/N had earned her place in Baku’s inner circle not through brute strength, but sharp perception. She knew who was useful, who was reckless, and most importantly—who talked. That’s why they trusted her to get close to Seong-je, to draw information out of him like poison from a wound, then disappear before it spread. It wasn’t about liking it. It was about loyalty, duty, and her own debt to the group that kept her protected in a school run by violence and shadows.

Geum Seong-je was an enigma built of bruised knuckles and unfiltered cigarettes. The kind of boy whose laugh cut deeper than a punch, whose presence in a hallway made people reevaluate their schedules. He didn’t need to speak loudly—his reputation did the yelling for him. Known to work for the Union, known to enjoy bloodshed like a sport, and yet so elusive that even the Union didn’t seem to fully control him. Getting close wouldn’t be easy. But it had to be done.

Their first real interaction happened outside the corner arcade behind the convenience store. She hadn’t planned it—good plans never looked forced. She approached like any other bored student with a drink in hand, wearing the skin of someone carefree, teeth sunk into laughter, eyes bright with mischief. He noticed her, of course. He always noticed everything. She said something sharp about the game he was playing. He didn’t look up. She waited. He smirked.

It became routine.

She found him on rooftops, back alleys, arcade rooms filled with cheap neon, never asking questions—just letting the conversations trail like cigarette smoke, curling into something heavier. He talked more than she expected. Not about the Union, not about strategy or people. But about violence. About chaos. About how breaking something made it feel real. He was terrifying, but honest in a way that most people weren’t. He didn’t pretend. He didn’t ask her to either.

The information came slowly, in fragments, when he didn’t think it mattered. A mention of a name here, a meeting time there. Enough for her to compile something, send it back to Baku’s crew, watch the gears shift. For a while, everything worked. Her job was simple. Pretend, observe, report. And yet, somewhere between the tension of near-failure and the thrill of Seong-je’s sharp attention, something inside her began to shift.

He wasn’t supposed to feel real.

But he did.

Because Seong-je wasn’t just violence. He was layered—laughing one second, threatening the next. She saw the way he carried his bruises like trophies, the way he watched the world like it was already broken. He wasn’t looking to be saved, and she wasn’t looking to save him. But she found herself drawn to that emptiness. To the honesty of it.

When the group pushed for more—when they asked her to lead Seong-je into a trap—she hesitated.

That’s when everything began to unravel.

She stopped relaying certain details. Made excuses. Delayed meetings. Told Baku they needed more time. Her loyalty became split down the middle, bleeding into something messier than strategy could contain. She didn’t trust Seong-je—she knew better. But part of her feared what would happen if they really hurt him. Part of her feared what he’d become if he ever found out.

And he did find out.

Not through betrayal, but through instinct. Seong-je wasn’t stupid. He started asking questions with that dangerous smile. He began testing her—asking about people he’d never mentioned before. Watching her eyes too closely. She knew he knew. And he knew she was stalling.

Then one night, he cornered her in the back alley behind the school. Not violently. Not immediately. He spoke softly at first, leaning too close, his voice quiet but heavy with accusation. He asked her why she looked at him like she was waiting for a goodbye. Why she flinched when he laughed.

She didn’t answer. He didn’t need her to.

The next morning, Baku’s group was ambushed. Both Jun-tae and Hyun-tak were hospitalized. No trace of Seong-je, except the message he left with Hyun-tak.

→: "You should’ve used someone else."

She stopped sleeping. Friends noticed. Her grades slipped. He didn’t come around, but she knew he was watching. Sometimes she’d catch her window slightly open. Or her stuff rearranged. Subtle things. Psychological things. Like he was letting her know that this was personal now.

She tried to apologize. Left a note. Waited. Nothing came of it. Weeks passed. Then, out of nowhere, he showed up at her part-time job, leaned across the counter, and told her

:"You didn’t lie to me. You lied to yourself. That’s worse."

She didn’t speak.

He laughed.

And she knew the damage was already done.

￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣☆￣￣

[tori111777]

FRIGHT AND FURY 7

Part 6, Part 8

Summary: Death and Lust have a meeting with conflict

Warnings: Violence, Mentions of loss, Spoilers

Parings: Caracalla x wife!reader

As you walked through the shadowed corridors of the Colosseum, the weight of your past pressed heavily against you. It was the same grand structure, but everything felt different now. The air, thick with the scent of dust and blood, seemed to hold the echoes of your choices—the choices you had made, the betrayals you had committed. The empire was now your home and Caracalla, your husband.

You glanced at the stands, where the dust from the crowd seemed to hang in the air, like the weight of your own guilt. The bloodshed in the arena had always been a spectacle for the people, but now it felt like a reflection of your soul—messy, violent, and far too far gone to repair.

You didn’t dare to look next to you as Lucilla was sitting in a chair. Cuffed in chains, pleading to let her husband live and be let out of the arena. The chains clinked with each movement, a constant reminder of her fall from grace.

You had once called her a mother of sorts, someone who had guided you, shown you the ropes of this brutal court. Now, you had traded that affection for a place at Caracalla’s side. The one you to whom love.

“For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state… An enemy of the people.” The master of Ceremonies called out, signaling the start of the game today.

You saw the gladiator, Lucius step out into the sun bleached sand, the crowed loved him. His towering figure cast a long shadow across the arena as he stood tall, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath. He did indeed look like his mother, you saw it in him.

“From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum — the barbarian Hanno!” That is what they called him. They could never know the truth of it all.

On the other side another man was brought out. “Will challenge General Justus Acacius for his treasons against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the state.” Lucllia son would have to fight her husband. All because of you.

Lucilla’s pleading voice echoed in your ears, “whatever birth right I have it is yours-“ “Too late.” Emperor Geta had cut her off and quick. He was ready to see the game unfold and not listen to a pleading mother’s voice.

“—the Roman traitor, or the barbarian hero? Let the gods decide who will survive this contest.” The master of ceremonies finally finished his speech, letting the bloody battle that was about to begin unfold. But today, it was different. This was no longer just a game. It was personal.

Lucius raised his sword, charging at Acacius. He also hefts his sword and charged onwards as well. The clash of steel against steel rang out across the arena, drowning out the roar of the crowd.

“Acacius is a bull of a man. He may yet send that barbarian to the underworld.” Geta spoke out, he leaned against his chair.

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the combatants, even though every part of you screamed to look away, to turn your gaze elsewhere. But where else could you go? Your love always seemed to pull you back to place no matter what.

In the arena blow, Lucius and Acacius clashed with a ferocity. The general splits Lucius wooden shield, sending him back a bit and off balance. He charges forward anyways towards Acacius, unprotected this time trying to aim for his head.

The flat end of his sword, Lucius was able to catch Acacius broadside of his head. It sends him down a bit, catching him off guard as his helmet comes off and he drops his sword. The crowd's roar grew louder, a chaotic symphony of excitement and bloodlust.

Lucius stood over the fallen general, his chest heaving with exertion. Across the sand, Acacius stirred, shaking off the shock of the blow, his hand grasping for the sword he had dropped. He was a seasoned warrior, but he couldn’t stand for a man trying to survive. Instead the general raises his hand in surrender.

“Acacius has raised his hand! He surrenders!” You hear the announcement be called overhead. Though, the crowd goes silent. So do you, only hearing the pounding heartbeat inside your chest. You looked up and saw both Caracalla and Geta rise to address the people.

“Romans what do you say?” Geta shouts. You could hear the faint murmur of the crowd, their mixed emotions swirling in the dust-filled air. Lucius stood like a towering figure above Acacius, sword still raised but his body taut with uncertainty. The question had been posed, but the answer was unclear.

Some people chanted “Mercy!” Others shouted in a cry out, “Kill him!” You looked to Caracalla. His gaze met yours, cold and calculating. He was watching to see what you would do, he knew you better than anyone else.

Geta stood beside him, raising his fist. He holds it out in midair. There is silence as he waits for the ‘gods justice’ from high above. “The gods have rendered their judgment.”

He turns it over and gives a ‘thumbs down.’

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, their voices a twisted chorus of approval and bloodlust. Lucius's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable as he stared down at Acacius, the man who was now, in essence, a condemned soul. The sun seemed to burn hotter.

“Lucius!” You hear Lucilla yell out, but it was helpless. Yet, her son looked up and tossed his sword to the side.

The crowd, stunned by the unexpected turn, fell into a tense silence. Geta’s face darkened, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. Caracalla was no making a thumb’s down as well, “Kill him! Kill him!” He yelled.

You felt Lucllia gaze watch over you. She knew you had the power to stop all of this but you did not. She knew. She always knew, and yet, her faith in you had crumbled long ago, like everything else in your life.

“You were once a mother too.” She whispered. You turned to her at that, you had vowed to yourself to never bring up that moment again. “How dare you bring that into this.” You snapped back at her. The venom in your words seemed to hang in the air like poison, but it didn’t deter her.

You turned away, your heart beating loudly in your chest, drowning her out.

“Is this how Rome treats its people?” The gladiator cried out from below. “If this life has no value, what are yours worth.” You could see the two emperors getting more upset every second.

“The gods have spoken!” Geta called out in reply. It was a standoff and a ripple of excitement ran through everyone in the stands. One of the brothers closest allies whispered something in Geta’s ear that you could not hear.

“Kill him!”

The archers that surrounded everyone drew their arrows. Though the Centurions hesitate for a moment before Geta says something again. “In the name of Jupiter— kill him!” They release the arrows… striking Acacius right in the chest.

Time seemed to stop right there and then. What did you just do?

More and move arrows flew to his body. One after another. Lucius sunk down to his knees, most likely waiting for an arrow that would kill him. None did come for him though. The crowd’s roar had turned into an eerie hush, their bloodlust suddenly soured by the realization of what had just happened.

The arena was too quiet. Geta and Caracalla look at each other uncomfortably, you just starred at the floor in front of you. Hearing Lucllia’s tears break through her voice. “Damn you to the fire, forever.”

Your husband turned around quickly, “first you’ll get your turn in the pit!” He shouted at her. You could tell he was frightened, the crowd was still lingering in its silence. No one moved for a couple of seconds but the Praetorian started to lead everybody out of the Emperors box before fights started to break out.

———

“We’ve should’nt had killed him.” You said, back in the palace. You clutched your fingers close to your mouth, as you view over the city of Rome in the afternoon.

Caracalla’s voice cut through your reverie. He was standing behind you, the sound of his shoes on the marble floor making your pulse quicken. His tone was low, dangerous. "You're regretting it, aren't you? You’ve tasted your own betrayal now."

“No I’m not I just—“ You had no idea what you were going to say. You did this all for him. Turning slowly, you finally faced him and took his hand into yours and sighed.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. “I’ve seen it in your eyes. I’ve seen that moment of hesitation, that flicker of doubt. I know you better than anyone.”

“I did it for you,” you finally whispered, as though the words could somehow absolve the ache that was twisting in your chest. “I thought I could do it for us—for Rome.”

He moved his hand from your hand to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, yet the weight of it felt like a silent accusation. You closed your eyes, the bitter taste of regret still lingering on your tongue. "I don't know anymore," you whispered, barely audible, the truth slipping out despite yourself. "I don't know what I’m doing anymore."

"You're not the only one, you know," he murmured, his fingers still resting against your skin. You could feel his hot breath against your lips as he leaned in and kissed you.

You flinched at the kiss, though you didn’t pull away. After a second you leaned into him more passionately. The familiar taste of his mouth, warm and urgent, stirred something inside you. He needed more of you and you needed more of him.

You could feel Caracalla's hands grip you tighter, pulling you closer as though he could erase all doubts with his touch. You could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against yours, a reminder that despite the violence, the treachery, and the choices you had made, you were still bound to him, body and soul.

The kiss deepened, and for a fleeting moment, his hands trailing down your body and feeling all your curves when you pulled away. Caracalla's grip on you had not loosened, as he held onto your waist. You could not read him in this very moment nor tell what he was thinking.

“I do know that I love you.” You said to him. Caracalla's eyes softened for just a moment, "Do you?" His voice was quiet, almost tender, yet the question seemed to carry the weight of the entire empire. His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened just a fraction as if testing whether you truly meant those words.

You searched his eyes, trying to find the man you once knew—the one who whispered sweet promises into your ear before the bloodshed began and that moment, the one who held you in public, as if you were a goddess to him. “How could I not?”

And yet, as Caracalla’s hand lingered on your body, you still felt the pull toward him. The love you had for him wasn’t gone, but it was changing. It was suffocating. You didn’t know if you could survive in this world he was crafting, in this empire of blood and ash.

“You were always mine,” he said softly, his voice low and almost dangerous. “And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

You backed up, his hands softly leaving your body as you turned to look over the railing to see all of Rome in its glory. It was at your feet, what would your father have said? You remembered your wedding day and how he opposed it… yet he wanted you to be happy most of all.

The wind carried the distant hum of Rome, the faint echo of a city still alive. “You look so distant,” Caracalla’s tone was soft but sharp, like the edge of a blade. He was watching you closely, sensing the unraveling of something within you.

Were you happy?

Yes you had to be. Yes you are. The sound of Caracalla footsteps had faded away when he left the balcony, leaving you alone with your thoughts that attacked your mind. It seemed like everyday you were becoming more like him, but you turned him into what he is now. You still blame yourself for what had happened.

You breathed deeply, watching as the birds flew past in the sky, the way the bells rung and children laughing in the street. It was almost like you were young again as your mother read you a story about the gods or the great Achilles. You did not miss it.

You turned away and headed back inside, your fingers grazing over the stone as you left as well.

[stellaspectral]

Hey, I really love your work ❤️, I have a bit of a long one, and I'm sorry it's so longwinded, but I would really appreciate it if you did something with it. It's like an AU zombie universe but the future of the bayverse world they get transported to. So they get transported to the future where there are zombies, they go around a bit discovering and surviving, thinking its a different reality, when its actually the future, when they run into reader. Reader absolutely freaks out, and they think its because the fact they are mutant turtles. Then, future raph comes in because he's concerned for the reader, who is his best friend. He was upstairs, and she was downstairs in this house they were looking for supplies in. They are all surprised and shocked, and they get taken back to their base. A bunch of people live there, as the turtles kind of run somewhere like alexandria from the walking dead, and they meet future mikey, who is in charge of the gardens and farms and also a solider protecting this place and he has a one month old baby and a wife, future donnie who's a medic and is in charge of all the technical stuff while also ofc being a protecter and he has a wife that died and has adopted a kid whos 10 from the apocalypse, he could have a situationship going on or something like that. Future raph is a forager and has a gf for 2 years. All the turtles look older and worn down by the apocalypse, like, for example, raph is missing an arm. The present-day turtles find out that the reader was Leo's wife, who died protecting her and their adopted son, who's 4 now. Spliter died fighting the zombified shredder who bit him as the foot base was overrun by zombies. The rest is for interpretation but just like them living in the apocalypse with their future self while reader and their son feeling strange about the situation as leo died, and sort of treat leo like their husband/dad while also realizing it's not him. All the turtles are still ofc still grieving the loss of their brother, but Raph takes it the hardest and leo made them all promise to do everything to protect the reader and their son. Just mostly consisting of the turtles living the zombie apocalypse with their future selves and future partners, mainly focusing on reader and leo. Maybe it ends with the turtles going back to the Present and reader tells leo that he will meet his own present day reader, maybe some sort of scene where he recognizes a much younger version and rescues them.

A/N: Thank you so much for the compliment; it means a lot to me! 😊

I love writing horror, so I maaay have gone a bit overboard with the details/set-up for this request 😅 I really hope you enjoy it, anyway!

The Promise He Carries (angst/horror)

💙 Bayverse Leonardo/Female Reader 💙

CWs: Post-apocalyptic future setting, descriptive violence, blood/gore, zombies (including an implied child), grief/loss themes, major character deaths mentioned, attempted mugging, hopeful (for the most part) ending. All characters are aged-up.

One moment, the four turtle brothers are in the lair.

In the next, reality lurches. Colors bleed into nauseating streaks, the world warping, tearing away with a force that feels like being turned inside out. Then, it snaps back like a rubber band, flinging them down hard onto cracked pavement.

Heat presses in, thick and dry, the air heavy with the metallic reek of bloodshed and the cloying sweetness of rot. Towering skyscrapers stand skeletal against the sky, their windows dark. Cars lie overturned, tangled with the weeds reclaiming the broken asphalt.

Worse yet, an unnatural stillness blankets the city.

“Whoa, dude,” Mikey breathes in the oppressive quiet. “This place gives me the major creeps. Feels like a horror movie set gone way too real.” He sniffs the air. “And it smells like—”

“—something died here,” Leo finishes, cutting Mikey off before he can make an ill-timed joke. “A lot of somethings, maybe.” He scans his surroundings, his hands instinctively going to the hilts of his katanas.

Raph’s gaze sweeps over the ruined storefronts, his eyes narrowed. “Just focus, Mikey. Something feels way off.”

Donnie is already scanning the desolate landscape. “The ambient energy signature is highly unusual. Fluctuations are consistent with temporal displacement. Perhaps a tear in reality? Or spatial distortion.” He drops to one knee, examining a chunk of rusted metal. “Judging by the corrosion, it seems this place has been abandoned for a significant amount of time. Logically, this suggests …”

“Suggests what, Donnie?” Leo prompts impatiently.

“Suggests this is another dimension,” Donnie replies, pushing up his goggles as he stands. “A different reality.”

Mikey shivers, despite the heat. “Abandoned? More like apocalypse-ed. Look!” He points a trembling hand towards a toppled newsstand.

Raph goes over to it and picks up the paper. The headline, barely legible beneath layers of grime, sends a wave of unease through him. “Plague Sweeps City,” he reads aloud. “Military Retreats; NYC Declared Lost Cause.”

Mikey takes an involuntary step back, bumping into Leo. “P-plague? Like, zombie plague?!”

“The term is vague. It could refer to a multitude of infectious agents,” Donnie says. “However, given the pervasive signs of rapid decay and the complete absence of observed lifeforms—”

“Not helping!” Mikey practically squeaks.

Leo straightens, his gaze sharp and focused. “Okay. So, we’re in an alternate New York that got hit by some kind of apocalypse plague years ago. Great. Just great.” He points towards the nearest intact-looking building—a sturdy, brick-built library, its windows dark but mostly unbroken. “We need cover and a defensible position. Let’s move. And Donnie—keep scanning for energy signatures, life signs. Anything.”

“Way ahead of you, Leo,” Donnie murmurs.

Raph takes point, sai drawn, muscles coiled tight as he leads them towards the library entrance. The heavy oak doors are scarred but still hang on their hinges. “Locked,” he grunts, testing the handle.

“Allow me,” Donnie steps forward, pulling a device from his belt. He fiddles with the lock mechanism for a moment, before a soft click is heard, too loud in the stillness.

Raph pushes the door open, revealing an interior shrouded in shadow and thick with the musty smell of decaying paper. Dust motes float in the shafts of sunlight piercing through the dirty windows. Books lie scattered across the floor, shelves are overturned, and there’s broken furniture.

“Clear?” Leo whispers, peering into the gloom.

Raph nods slowly, scanning the immediate area. “Looks clear for now.”

They step inside, the door swinging shut behind them with a dull thud.

“Okay,” Leo says, his voice hushed but firm. “Donnie, see if you can get any systems online, find out more about this ‘plague’. Raph, secure the entrance. Mikey, check the surroundings. Stay close.”

While Donnie moves towards a computer terminal near the main desk and Raph wedges a broken table leg under the door handle, Mikey edges along a row of overturned bookshelves. He runs a hand along the spines, over the thick layer of dust coating them.

“Man,” he says to himself. “Talk about overdue library books …”

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic clatter echoes from deeper within the library stacks.

All four brothers freeze. Raph whirls around, weapons ready. Leo draws a katana while Donnie pauses his work, turning towards the sound with his staff extended. Mikey, meanwhile, flattens himself against a bookshelf, eyes wide. Another sound follows—a wet, dragging noise, accompanied by a low moan.

And it’s getting closer.

Leo raises a hand, fingers splayed. Hold. Raph remains still, sai gripped so tightly his knuckles are practically white. Donnie’s head whips back and forth, his goggles feeding him thermal and motion data. Mikey, still plastered against the bookshelf, doesn’t dare to move.

Then it lurches into view from behind a fallen stack of books.

It was human. Once. Now, its gray skin stretches like brittle parchment over jutting bones, slick with patches of oozing fluid. Twisted into an unnatural angle, one leg drags uselessly, scraping with each movement. Milky, cataract-filmed eyes somehow fix on their general direction.

“Shit,” Mikey breathes, his voice barely a squeak; he’s watched enough horror movies to know what that thing is.

Raph lets out a low growl. “What is that?”

“Biological entity confirmed,” Donnie reports, his voice low. “Minimal life signs, erratic neural pattern. Reads as highly aggressive. A zombie?”

The creature takes a shambling step, then another, its dragging leg catching on a pile of scattered pamphlets. It stumbles, its moan hitching into something almost like a pained snarl, before it rights itself. Its jerky movements pick up speed, launching into an uncoordinated but determined lurch towards them.

“Not exactly the welcoming committee,” Leo mutters grimly. “Alright team, tactical—”

He’s cut off by another moan, echoing from the shadowy depths of the periodical section to their left. And then a third, a wet, rasping cough that sounds disturbingly close, from the nonfiction stacks to their right.

“Multiple hostiles!” Donnie calls out.

The first zombie is almost upon them now, its arms reaching, fingers tipped with cracked, yellowing nails.

“No time for tactics!” Raph bellows, surging forward. “Just bash ‘em—and don’t get bit!” He slams into the zombie’s shoulder, but it barely seems to register the impact as it swipes clumsily with surprising speed. Raph dodges back, aiming for the creature’s limbs, wary of whatever contagion it carries.

Leo moves instantly to Raph’s flank, katana slicing down in a precise arc, severing one of the zombie’s reaching arms at the elbow. It doesn’t scream, just continues its forward momentum, the severed limb falling to the dusty floor with a wet slap.

“Gross! So gross!” Mikey yelps, scrambling backwards towards Donnie near the main desk.

Another shambling figure emerges from the stacks on the right, this one smaller, perhaps once a child, moving with the same jerky gait.

“Donnie, status!” Leo calls out, parrying another clumsy swipe from the first zombie while keeping an eye on Raph and the emerging threats.

“Working on it!” Donnie yells back, tapping furiously at the terminal with one hand while using his staff to fend off the smaller zombie attempting to flank Mikey. “I can’t access anything! The system is ancient and mostly offline!”

The smaller zombie, ignoring the defensive sweep of Donnie’s staff, lunges past it with surprising agility, snapping its rotten teeth inches from Mikey’s retreating ankle.

“Eeep!” Mikey shrieks, scrambling backwards for a moment before adrenaline takes over, whipping out his nunchaku. “Get back, you freaky little ghoul!” He brings his weapon down hard, connecting solidly with the side of the zombie’s head.

It stumbles sideways, its jaw hanging loose and askew, fluid dripping onto the floor—before it recovers with unnatural speed, turning its blank gaze back towards him.

“Whoa, persistent!” Mikey remarks, swinging again—this time aiming for a sharp, decisive blow at the zombie’s temple. The impact sends it crumpling to the ground, finally motionless beside a scattered pile of poetry books.

Mikey pants, staring down at the small, still form. His eyes dart towards Leo and Raph, who are still battling the larger, one-armed zombie, dodging its clumsy but powerful lunges. Then his gaze flicks nervously towards the shadowy aisles, where the dragging sounds and low moans are definitely getting louder. Closer.

“Dudes!” he shouts, his voice tight with panic. “This place is zombie-central! Forget the computers, forget the info! We gotta get the hell outta here! Like, now!”

More shambling figures are lurching into view, their silhouettes framed by the dim light filtering through the tall windows.

“Mikey’s right!” Leo yells, dodging another swipe. He brings his katana up in a swift decapitating stroke. The head thuds onto the floor, rolling before coming to rest against a library card catalog drawer. The body collapses instantly, twitching for a second before falling still. “Donnie, forget the tech! Raph, with me! We need an exit, now!”

Donnie abandons the useless terminal and intercepts another zombie with his staff, knocking its legs out from under it. “Back here!”

“Go, go!” Raph roars, shoving past the downed zombie before barreling towards the corridor Donnie indicated.

Leo follows behind Raph, slicing at any reaching limbs that get too close. Mikey sticks near Donnie, creating a small zone of defense around them as they retreat down the hall. They reach a metal door marked ‘Emergency Exit’. A push bar spans its width.

Raph slams against the bar, and the door flies open with a screech. “Move!” He holds the corridor, watching for the advancing creatures.

Leo shoves Mikey through the doorway, and Donnie follows. “Raph, now!”

Raph disengages, kicking one zombie back into another, sending them flying before diving through the doorway. Leo slams the heavy door shut and looks at the others before darting down the alley, motioning for the others to follow.

“So where to now, fearless leader?” Raph asks as he closely trails his older brother. “Kinda exposed out here.”

“Agreed. Remaining in the open is tactically unsound,” Donnie says. “We still lack essential supplies—clean water, uncontaminated food sources, medical equipment.”

“A place to rest,” Mikey chimes in.

Leo sprints towards a familiar neighborhood. “Then we find what we need and figure out how to get out of this damn nightmare.”

Their search leads them to a promising target: a two-story house, seemingly less disturbed than the surrounding residences. Weeds grow thick and wild in the small front yard, strangling rose bushes that once might have been beautiful. It’s not exactly pristine, but the house might still have supplies worth scavenging.

“Alright, standard sweep,” Leo says, signaling. “Raph, Mikey, take the upper floors. Check every room, quiet as you can. Donnie, you’re with me downstairs. Priority is medical supplies but grab any usable food or water. Alert on any contact, living or … otherwise.” He grips his katanas, ready once more. “Let’s move.”

They enter, silent as a phantom. The air inside is stale, heavy with the scent of dust. Furniture lies askew, cushions slashed, drawers pulled out and emptied. Scavenged before, but perhaps not thoroughly. They move cautiously through the ground floor—before they see a figure crouched low, back towards them, shoving goods inside a backpack.

Human. Alive.

Leo raises a hand, halting Donnie. Then he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his voice calm. “Hello? We don’t mean any harm. We’re just looking for supplies, too.”

You flinch violently at the sound of his voice and spin around. Your eyes fix on Leo, the color draining instantly from your face. A strangled gasp escapes your lips as you rise, backing away, your hand flying to your mouth. You trip backwards over an ottoman, your gaze locked on Leo like he’s a ghost risen from the grave.

He might as well be.

“Whoa, hey, easy!” Leo says, holding his hands up placatingly. “We’re different, yeah. But we’re the good guys.” He assumes, like always, that the shock stems from their mutated forms.

“No …” You shake your head frantically, tears welling, blurring your vision. “No, i-it can’t be … Leo?” The name is a broken sob.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps pound on the staircase. “Are you alright? Did you find something?”

A figure appears at the bottom of the stairs—and all four present-day brothers freeze.

He’s a turtle. Raphael.

But older, broader, scarred. Deep lines carve paths around his eyes and mouth. Scars crisscross his visible skin. He wears rugged, patched leather and canvas gear—but most startlingly, his left arm is gone, replaced with a crude but functional-looking metal prosthetic.

His gaze snaps from you, now huddled on the floor, to the turtles standing before him. Recognition flickers, then ignites into stunned disbelief, his jaw dropping. He stares—first at Leo. Donnie. Then at the younger version of himself and Mikey. His mind struggles to process the impossible sight.

“What … what in the goddamn hell?” Future Raph murmurs, incredulous, his voice deeper than his counterpart. He then steps protectively in front of you, using his formidable frame to block the others, his glare fixed on them. “Who the hell are you? And how did you get here?”

“We … we got transported,” Donnie stammers, adjusting his glasses nervously. “We were in our lair, and then there was this energy surge. It seems we’ve ended up in another dimension.”

Future Raph lets out a short, harsh laugh devoid of humor. “Dimension?” He shakes his head, a grim, pitying look entering his eyes. “You ain’t in some other dimension. This is home. Or what’s left of it after the world went to shit. You’re in the future. Your future.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of the revelation. Their future—this is what awaits them?

Future Raph sighs, the fight draining out of him. “Alright. Come on, all of you. We’re heading back to base. Looks like we got a hell of a lot to talk about.” He turns back to you, his voice softening fractionally. “You okay?”

You nod mutely, still unable to tear your gaze from Leo. Future Raph offers you his hand, and you take it, letting him help you up.

“This way,” Future Raph says, nodding towards the back door of the house. “Streets are quieter back here, usually.” He leads the way, moving with a practiced efficiency that speaks of years navigating this broken world.

You follow close behind him, still trembling slightly. Your gaze keeps flickering back to Leo, who walks near the rear of the group, his expression a mixture of confusion and determination. Every time your eyes meet his, a fresh wave of shock washes over you.

It’s him, but … not him. Younger. So much younger.

The present turtles trail Future Raph. Present Raph watches his older self intently, taking in the missing arm, the scars, the grim set of his jaw. Donnie scans their surroundings while Mikey stays close to Donnie, his youthful energy completely extinguished.

“So,” Leo starts, his voice low, addressing Future Raph’s broad back. “The future, huh? How… how far?”

“Long enough for things to go sideways and stay there.” Future Raph glances back briefly, his expression unreadable. “About fifteen years.”

You emerge into a narrow alley choked with overflowing dumpsters and rusted fire escapes. Future Raph moves quickly, checking corners before waving everyone on. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the scuttling of unseen things in the shadows and the distant, mournful cry of the wind whistling through broken skyscrapers.

“Where are the others?” Mikey asks quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “Splinter? April? Casey?”

Future Raph’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t turn around this time. “Some made it. Some didn’t.” His voice is flat, which somehow makes the words hit harder. “We talk when we get inside. Too exposed out here.”

He leads you through a labyrinth of backstreets and crumbling alleyways, avoiding the wider, more open avenues. You pass skeletal remains of cars, graffiti from the old world, and faded posters. Once, a low moan echoes from a nearby building, causing everyone except Future Raph to freeze, weapons instantly ready.

Future Raph just puts a hand up, listens for a second, then shakes his head. “Moving away. Keep going.”

Eventually, you reach your destination. It’s a fortified section of the city, reminiscent of old apocalypse zombie fiction. High walls, constructed from welded scrap metal, shipping containers, and reinforced concrete encircle several blocks. Armed lookouts patrol makeshift walkways.

And inside, a semblance of a community survives.

Future Raph leads everyone into the command center, a converted warehouse. There, they meet the others.

Future Mikey is leaning against a wall, gently bouncing a tiny, swaddled infant in his arms. He looks older, the perpetual grin replaced by a more reserved, watchful expression. Though a genuine softness illuminates his face as he gazes at the baby. A woman with tired lines around her eyes but a warm smile stands beside him: his wife, Sarah.

Future Mikey’s in charge of the community’s gardens and farms, which are crucial for survival. But his worn combat gear speaks of his other role as a protector. Seeing his younger self, his eyes widen in disbelief, then fill with a profound sadness. He just shakes his head slowly.

In a cordoned-off section brightly lit by LED strips, Future Donnie meticulously cleans a wound on a survivor’s arm in the makeshift infirmary. He’s thinner and moves with an efficient, almost detached professionalism. His tech is a marvel of apocalypse engineering: salvaged computers, solar panels, jury-rigged communication arrays monitoring the perimeter and vital systems.

A quiet girl, around ten years old, sits nearby, drawing: his adopted daughter, Maya. Future Donnie explains that his wife, a fellow scientist he met after the outbreak, died during a supply run two years ago. Rumors suggest a ‘situationship’ with one of the other medics named Elena. Seeing his younger self, a flicker of his old curiosity sparks in Future Donnie’s eyes. But knowing what’s in store for his counterpart quickly overshadows it.

Future Raph puts a hand on the shoulder of a tough-looking woman with short-cropped hair and a kind smile. “This is Cara,” he introduces gruffly, but with underlying affection. “My girlfriend. Two years now.”

Cara offers a curt nod, her expression guarded but not unfriendly. They share a look, a silent communication honed by hardship and nightly watches on the wall.

Then Future Raph gestures towards you. You stand nearby, your four-year-old son now clinging tightly to your leg. He stares curiously at the newcomers—especially Leo.

“This,” Future Raph says, his voice thick with emotion. “This is—was … Leo’s wife. And their son.”

The present turtles reel. Air punches out of Leo’s lungs. He stares at you, then at the boy. His wife? His son?!

“Was?” Present Leo forces the word out, his throat tight.

Future Raph nods slowly, his gaze distant, lost in a painful memory. “Leo … our Leo. He didn’t make it. Died about six months back, protecting his wife and Leon during a breach on the west wall. He went down covering their retreat.” His gaze fixes on Present Leo. “He made us promise—all of us. To protect them. Keep them safe, no matter the cost.”

The grief emanating from the older turtles is palpable. Future Raph seems to carry it the heaviest and most visibly, his usual anger tempered into a deep sorrow.

The younger brothers learn about Splinter, too. How he fell fighting a zombified Shredder after the Foot Clan’s base was overrun in the early days. He took the monster with him, but not before receiving a final, fatal bite that forced their older counterparts to put him out of his misery before he turned.

As for Casey and April, they died years apart. Casey—a decade ago during a breach similar to Future Leo. And April, just shy of five years ago, during a supply run gone wrong alongside Future Donnie’s wife.

With all this information now known, the present-day brothers are determined to find a way back home—and not let their own world turn down this horrific path.

Life settles into a surreal, strange routine.

The present turtles integrate cautiously into the community, learning the brutal ropes of survival in this future. Present Raph joins Future Raph and Cara on foraging runs, learning how to move silently through zombie territory. Present Donnie spends hours with Future Donnie, working to figure out a way back home. Present Mikey works alongside Future Mikey in the gardens, finding a strange comfort in the repetitiveness of cultivation.

Present Leo, on the other hand, walks a tightrope of conflicting emotions.

Leon instinctively gravitates toward him—the one who looks, sounds, and moves so much like the father he barely remembers. He even starts calling Present Leo ‘Daddy.’ Each utterance is a fresh wound for you, and a confusing jolt for Leo.

Present Leo sees the life he could have had, the love he could have shared, shattered by this terrible future. He feels the weight of his future self’s promise; it manifests as an intense, almost overwhelming urge to protect you and the boy. He tries to be there for Leon—playing with him, answering his innocent questions about the ‘before.’ All while navigating the minefield of your grief and his own tangled emotions.

You struggle, caught between the sharp, persistent ache of grief and the presence of a younger version of the man you loved. You find yourself watching him—the way he moves, the cadence of his voice. So familiar, yet so different. But he doesn’t have the weight, the scars, the shared history.

And you sometimes slip, treating him like your Leo. Asking him about things he couldn’t possibly know, catching yourself starting to share a private joke. A memory. Or simply reaching out to touch his arm in a familiar way—before pulling back sharply, the reality that this isn’t him crashing down anew, as if it happened just yesterday.

Your grief is a constant, raw torment.

Weeks turn into a month. Then nearly two.

Future Donnie, working tirelessly amidst his medical duties, pores over the temporal data logged by Present Donnie during their arrival. After cross-referencing reading and residual chronal signatures, they believe they’ve isolated the specific energy frequency. And found a way to replicate the event by creating a controlled, localized burst.

Finally, they can return home.

The future turtles gather with their young selves near the Donnies’ temporal rig. Future Raph claps a heavy hand on Present Raph’s shoulder.

“Keep your head on straight, you hear me?” he advises. “Protect your brothers. Especially him.” He nods towards Present Leo. “Don’t let him be reckless.”

Present Raph can’t help but chuckle softly. “Isn’t that my job—the reckless part?”

Future Raph playfully smacks his head, grinning. “Smartass.”

Future Mikey offers Present Mikey a small, genuine smile. “Find your sunshine, kid. Even when it gets dark. Mine”—he glances towards where Sarah holds their baby, “is worth fighting for.”

Future Donnie adjusts his glasses, meeting his younger counterpart’s gaze. “Knowledge is power, but wisdom is knowing how and when to use it. Don’t let the logic blind you to what matters.” He glances towards Maya, who gives Present Donnie a small wave. “Protect what’s important.”

Finally, Present Leo stands before you. Leon reaches out, holding his hand, and Leo lets him one last time. Tears track silently down your face.

“He loved you all so much,” you say, meaning his future self, though your gaze remains fixed on Present Leo. “He never stopped fighting. For us. For this place.” You crouch in front of your son. “Say bye-bye, sweetie.”

Leon looks up at Present Leo, his small face serious. “Bye, Daddy. Be safe.”

The words twist in Leo’s chest. He kneels too, meeting the boy’s eyes. “You too, little man. Stay strong and listen to your mom.” He stands, his gaze finding yours.

You place a hand on his arm. “Leo,” you say. “When you get back, you’re going to meet her. Me. I won’t—she won’t know what you’ll mean to her, what she’ll mean to you. But you’ll find her. Keep her safe. Keep yourself safe.” You pause, before continuing, “Don’t let this happen.”

Leo can only nod, his throat thick with unshed tears.

Once the present turtles are near the pseudo-time machine, Future Donnie adjusts a few things before throwing the final switch. The energy field crackles before reality begins to blur and warm around them. The perpetual stench of decay recedes, replaced by the familiar damp smell of the sewers as they find their footing on concrete.

They’re back. Disoriented, shaken.

And fundamentally changed by the knowledge they now hold from the future they witnessed.

Weeks pass.

Training sessions are more intense. Leo feels the change most acutely. He pushes himself the hardest, the memories of you grieving and Leon’s trusting eyes burned into his mind. He carries the weight of his older counterpart’s sacrifice. The burden of the promise made by his future brothers.

One rainy evening, Leo moves across the rooftops near April’s apartment building. As he patrols, he hears a commotion in the alley below. Two rough-looking men have cornered someone against the brick wall, demanding their bag.

“Just give it to us, and nobody gets hurt!” one snarls, brandishing a switchblade.

Leo doesn’t hesitate. He drops down from the fire escape above, landing almost silently on the wet pavement behind them. “Leave her alone.”

The thugs whirl around, startled by his sudden appearance. The one with the knife lunges. Leo moves with blinding speed, disarming them with practiced ease, sending the weapon clattering harmlessly away. A well-aimed kicked to the man’s chest has him sprawling against the dumpster.

The other sees the writing on the wall and runs away into the night, his partner in crime joining him a few beats later once he’s gathered his bearings—and picked his pride up from the grimy alleyway ground.

Leo turns his attention to the person they were harassing.

You.

Younger, perhaps. Face streaked with rain, clutching a messenger bag protectively. Your eyes are wide, reflecting the dim alley lights. Fear lingers, but there’s also a spark of defiant anger under the surface.

You haven’t seen the end of the world yet. The deep lines of grief haven’t etched themselves around your eyes. You don’t know him.

You stare up at the towering mutant turtle, water dripping from his shell, mouth slightly open in stunned silence. Finally, you find your voice, though a little shaky. “Uh … wow. Thank you.”

Leo looks at you, really looks at you. The woman his future self loved and died for. The mother of their child.

His promise for the future starts now.

“No problem,” he says, his voice softer than usual, tinged with an emotion you can’t possibly understand. Not yet, anyway. “Just … be careful out here. This city can be dangerous.”

He offers a small, fleeting smile, imbued with a sadness that seems out of place. Then, with the same impossible silence he arrived with, he turns and melts back into the shadows of the fire escape, rappelling upwards and disappearing onto the rooftops.

You stand alone in the rain, staring after him, heart pounding, wondering about the melancholy you saw in the eyes of the giant turtle who just saved your life. A strange feeling settles over you, a sense that something significant just happened.

Though you couldn’t possibly guess what.

[lianadelune]

golden bars, fragile hearts

pairing: caracalla x reader

author's note: i have been working on this fic for a while but lately everything i write i kind of hate, i'm editing this so much i'm getting insane (also college doesn't help) so i decided to finally post it or this fic would stay on my drafts forever 😭

this is part 1!

the sun blazed down on the colosseum, the bloodstained sand reflecting its golden light making

the day feel more heated than anticipated, you remembered hearing on your way to the amphitheater that this was one of the hottest days of the year, that statement felt quite right as you walked the busy streets, sweat dripping from your nose wishing you had drank a glass of water before leaving your house, but your thoughts were elsewhere completely when you stepped outside. you would think that the heat would be a hindrance for the festivities that the people of rome looked forward to, but somehow that didn’t mattered, it didn't mattered for the bloodthirsty emperors, caracalla and geta, the infamous twins, that loved violence and brutality more than the people they should rule and it also didn't mattered for the crowd, the thought of seeing a gladiator fight was worth passing out from heat stroke, apparently.

you could hear their roar, a mix of jeers and cheers that echoed off the stone walls, from your seat you stood frozen hearing their excitement, your heart pounding against your ribs waiting for the moment your father would step into the arena.

you had promised yourself you wouldn’t go, your father made you promise when the praetorian guards came at your door saying the emperors demanded that the man that had won his freedom many years ago would fight again one last time to prove his worth.

when they utter those words you were the one that wanted to fight, fight the guards, fight the emperors and protect the only family you had left, but before you could deliver any profanity, your father lowered his head and expressed how honorable he was to entertain the people of rome once again.

he looked back at you with teary eyes, taking in the simple yet comforting house he was living in even before you were born, the one he worked so hard to build after he bought his freedom killing others just like him, spoils of war, it was poetic really, he thought, his life began as a gladiator and would end as a gladiator, a little chuckle left his lips, the gods really did worked in mysterious ways.

while you tried to come to terms with his decision, your father kissed your forehead lovingly and made you promise you wouldn’t watch before being taken by the praetorian guards.

and you agreed.

but now you were going against your dad’s dying wish.

your jaw tightened as you stood among the roaring crowd, people chanting and cheering for the gladiators, cheers that were as empty as the promises of rome’s twin emperors.

caracalla and geta ruled not through love or respect, but through terror and empty entertainment. the streets of rome were restless, simmering with rebellion that never seemed to fade completely. just weeks ago, riots had broken out in the forum, citizens torching statues of the emperors while shouting for justice. but now, here they were, packed into the colosseum, their rage momentarily silenced by the lure for bloodshed.

‘panem et circenses’ you thought bitterly, watching how easily the crowd forgot their oppression, the chants growing louder as a gladiator fell to his knees ‘bread and circuses are all it takes to dull their anger for a few hours’

but when the games ended and the blood was washed from the sand, the discontent would return. the people would rebel again - you were sure of it - because no amount of free grain or violent spectacles could suppress the desperation in their hearts.

you hoped the emperors were afraid for their heads because sooner or later the act of depredating their statues won’t be enough.

rome was a city on the edge, and your father was about to become its next distraction.

that was the first thought that crossed your mind while you saw your father walk towards the middle of the coliseum.

his gait was uneven, his shoulders hunched - not from cowardice but from the toll of age. the once-celebrated gladiator, who had won his freedom fairly, was now back at being paraded as nothing more than a relic for the crowd’s amusement.

he held his sword steady while raising it to salute the emperor’s box, but you could see the way his hand trembled. your father’s movements were slower than they once had been, but his pride remained unbroken.

your heart clenched. this wasn’t a fight - it was a death sentence.

the announcer’s voice boomed across the arena “behold! a veteran of rome’s might, returning for one last dance with death! will he rise as a lion, or fall as prey?”

the gates on the opposite side of the arena open, and a younger, stronger gladiator stepped forward, his muscles gleaming with sweat, his expression cold and unyielding.

you couldn’t let this happen.

you ran from your seating, hearing people behind you screaming to take your place closer to the bloodshed, pushing past every guard that standed if front of you especially the guards who blocked the lower level of the arena, you ignored their shouts and protests, they couldn’t catch you, too surprised to see someone run towards the arena of the colosseum, instead of run from it. every step felt heavier than the last as your decision bore down on you.

but you didn’t stop.

the sand was hot under your feet and your clothes were sticking on your skin as you stumbled onto the arena floor, drawing the collective gasp of the audience.

your father dropped his sword as his head snapped toward you, his eyes wide with panic.

“get out of here!” he shouted.

but you didn’t listen. you ran to him, your heart hammering in your chest, and threw yourself in front of him, spreading your arms wide as a shield.

the younger gladiator paused mid-step, his brow furrowing in confusion.

the crowd erupted in chaos, excited with something they had never seen before, someone willing to protect a gladiator from their deathbed.

high above, the emperor’s box stirred. you felt their gazes on you, your breath quickening showing your nervousness for having the attention of the infamous rulers of rome on you, but you didn’t back down and stared right back at them in defiance.

caracalla, one of the twin emperors, rose from his seat, the ornate red fabric of his toga trailing behind him as he stepped to the edge of the balcony.

“what is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise.

you almost didn’t listen to his words because of your own heart pounding heavily on your rib cage making you nauseous, for a moment you were sure you would pass out.

you ignored the nausea building up and the tremors in your limbs, looking up to the emperors with a steady voice, despite the fear you were feeling, you managed to say “i’m here… to take his place!”

a murmur rippled through the crowd. your father grabbed your arm, his grip strong despite his weakened state. “what are you doing?” he hissed.

without turning to him, you said loud enough for everyone in the colosseum to hear. “i won’t let them kill you!”

caracalla’s piercing gaze locked onto yours seeing determination on them, his expression went from furious to amused in a matter of seconds. “this is… unexpected,” he said, his tone laced with mockery “tell me then, what makes you think you’re in a position to bargain with me?”

“i’m not here to bargain,” you said, raising your chin, your voice cracking a little when you heard your father behind you, pleading with the other gladiator to get you out of there “i’m here… to offer myself. you want a spectacle, don’t you? my father is an old man - he’s no longer fit to fight. there’s no honor in his death. but me?” you gestured to yourself, your voice rising. “i’m young, untrained and foolish enough to face whatever fate you decide, i’m sure that’s far more entertaining than this.”

emperor geta, seated beside caracalla, chuckled “they have a point, brother, he doesn’t look like the legend we heard so much about” his fingers tapped the rim of his wine cup. “besides… they have spirit. i’ll give them that”

caracalla’s eyes narrowed as he studied you, his expression unreadable. the silence stretched, the weight of his decision hanging over the arena, like a storm cloud.

“bring them to me,” he commanded.

the guards dragged you up the steps to the emperor’s box, their grip firm on your arms to the point of bruising. you stumbled to your knees before caracalla, his imposing frame over you as he stepped closer.

you had heard so much about both emperors, how cruel and unhinged they were, how their reign would be marked in history by decadence, cruelty and chaos, a spectacle of blood and tyranny.

geta was the one everyone thought about when the matter was diplomacy, for he had a talent for weaving words as deftly as a spider spins its web. his voice, always calm and measured, could diffuse tensions or spark them, depending on what suited his ambitions.

geta could be terrible, but to you caracalla was far worse.

a man consumed by his appetites - for control, for blood, for the fleeting thrill of domination. his wrath was as unpredictable as it was unrelenting, unlike his brother, caracalla acted impulsively, driven by bursts of rage, if he felt insulted in the slightest- the emperor would order a village razed.

or several.

you considered him a monster.

a beast.

and nothing could change that.

“you would trade your life for his?” caracalla asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“yes,” you said without hesitation, lifting your gaze to meet his. “my father has served rome for long enough, let him go and take me instead”

“and what makes you think your life is worth more than his?”

“it isn’t” you answered honestly “but i’m still young enough to be at your service, i’ll do anything if you leave him alone”

“anything, you say?” caracalla’s lips curled into a faint smirk “even entertaining me?”

you shivered with the implied meaning of his question, but remained silent.

geta leaned forward, his interest piqued.

“perhaps we should keep them, they're a bold one, brother”

caracalla regarded you for a moment longer, his cold calculating eyes searching yours. then with a sharp nod, he gestured to the guards.

“release the old man, you are going to stay”

your father’s protests echoed beneath you as he was dragged from the arena, but you didn’t look back.

“welcome to your new life,” caracalla said, his voice dripping with mockery. “let’s see if your spirit lasts as long as your courage.”

the emperor barely had finished his sentence when you felt the guard’s ironclad hands gripping your arms once again with a force that left no room for argument, you could feel caracalla’s cold eyes following your every move as you were dragged from the arena, his lips curving into a smirk as though he has claimed a prize rather than a person.

please leave a like or a comment about what you guys are thinking about this fic! i'm kind of insecure with this one :(

[murder-cookie-dust393]

Ngl, I think the Yan Ancient cookies would start a whole War to see who can keep MC for themselves

They absolutely fucking would. It's almost like a sibling fight except with terrible morals and more bloodshed.

Tw: nothing too explicit, entrapment, controlling/overprotective behaviour, brief mentions of violence

I think it would start out with any of the ancients taking MC for themselves, (Probably Pure Vanilla or Golden Cheese) and then from there it's just different kingdoms fighting for MC.

Pure Vanilla preferably keeps MC in his castle, and rarely lets them do anything without him nearby. This delusional mother fucker is gonna be all like, "We're married MC! Don't be so cold!"

Hollyberry, honestly is the least problematic one. She'll let MC roam around and still have friends. But she wants them to stay within the kingdom for their own safety. She always shows them off at balls and juice parties because she loves it. "Oh and this here is my forever cookie, MC! Pretty cute they are, right?"

Dark Cacao...He is all about the violence. He's willing to hunt down any suitor and doesn't let anybody of his court stare directly into their eyes. He keeps them on his lap half the time while he's sitting on his throne.

If there's any threat within or outside the Citadel's walls, he's releasing an ungodly amount of soldiers to go fight it. He tries to be all softie when you're alone though. "You can never trust the outside world. There's one too many bad things lurking out there."

Golden Cheese, I've briefly discussed this, but basically similar to Pure Vanilla, she keeps them in her virtual world. Even after she quit, she'll never part ways with them. She spoils them like crazy and dismisses any of her problematic behaviour. She's also very insistent on protecting them. Going as far as to not let them consume any food that she hasn't checked. "Wait don't eat that! What if it's poisoned? You, my treasure, cannot be acting so carelessly!"

(Yay, I wrote more than usual)

- Celina