#angst with no happy ending

[sagesturns]

Live Photo

Summary: Matt had never hated a live photo more, yet deep down, he knew he'd always love it to the core because it was something he could never fully let go of. Something he couldn’t erase, no matter how hard he tried.

Contains: angst

The party was loud. The bass of the music rumbled through Matt's chest, vibrating the couch he was slumped on. Lights flashed in chaotic patterns, streaks of red, blue, green, white—blinding him in every direction. The people around him seemed to disappear into the rhythm of the music, swaying and moving in sync, their voices rising and falling in a blur of laughter and shouts.

But he didn’t care.

Nick had vanished along with most of his friends out on the patio, and Chris was somewhere else with his own friends, gossiping about something which really did not concern Matt. The crowd was too much, too overwhelming, too loud. The air felt thick with sweat, the smell of cheap beer, and something else—something he couldn’t name. But it didn’t bother him. Not anymore.

He just released his body into the old sofa cushions, hugging the sleeves of his hoodie tighter as if it might save him from anything. He could still feel the vibration from the speakers under the floor, the pulse of the beat, but he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t there, not really.

It was all noise—just background to the silence inside his head.

He got his phone out of his pocket and idly scrolled around. Scrolling through social media, he briefly skimmed a couple of comments from his friends without engaging with any of their notifications, like annoying little electronic flies buzzing around his head. None of it interested him. The screen was just a way to distract himself from everything happening around him—and, more importantly, from everything happening inside of him.

He idly swiped the thumb over the app one by one until it reached the photo gallery.

It was instinct, a part of him that reached for the past without even thinking. He tapped it open.

At first, there were just random pictures—some blurry shots from parties, selfies with his brothers, a few candid moments with friends. But then, something stopped him.

A photo of you.

It was an old one. One from before everything had changed. A time when things felt… easier. The memory of it hit him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

His chest tightened. He hadn't meant to stumble on it, hadn't meant to open it. But there it was. You were smiling—really smiling—in that picture. Your eyes were bright, like you were in on some private joke that only the two of you shared. Your laugh, captured in that moment, was so genuine, so alive. The strobe lights flashed in his peripheral vision, but they appeared out of reach, even unreal. The voices, the laughter, the wild beat of the party—all mellowed. He couldn’t even hear the music anymore. All sound was swallowed up by the vision of your smile, your face, the picture of pure joy, and it was almost impossible to take in.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed you—how much he’d been avoiding that feeling. He fixated on the photo, as if he was being choked by the lack of something he didn't know how to restore.

For a brief second it got stuck in a pause, his thumb touching the screen, hesitant. He wasn't willing to revisit that portion of his life. Not now. But the longer he stared at your face, the harder it was to look away. And when he swiped along the screen he, spontaneously, tapped on the photo.

And then it happened.

The photo blinked. The screen flickered. And the sound came back—your laugh. It wasn’t loud at first, just a soft giggle, like a memory drifting through the air. But then it grew. Clearer. Louder. Real.

It was as if he could also hear it, even now, even with the music at such great volume, your laugh felt like the loudest melancholy in the world. Just then, the world around him started to blur.

His breath caught in his throat. It was like hearing a ghost—like you were suddenly right there with him. It was a joke he hadn’t heard in ages and yet it seemed such a fresh, real, experience, as though to experience the heat of it.

The sound of it did something to his heart. Something sharp. Something heavy. His breath became caught, and he felt himself to be somberly holding his breath.

He looked back over the photo, experiencing the burn in his throat. The image was alive. You were so alive in it, your smile stretching wide, your eyes full of happiness, your face glowing with something so pure, so real. It was a snapshot in time, an almost forgotten memory.

And then, the sound of your laugh… it hit him like a wave.

It wasn’t just the sound of you laughing anymore. It was a force, almost overwhelming. The music from the party seemed to fade out completely, as if it couldn’t compete with it. The laughter filled the entire space around him, even though no one else could hear it. It was the loudest object in the world, as a sound effect of something so beautiful this was almost unbearable to recall.

He shut his eyes for a moment, and did his best to resist a feeling of lump in the pit of his stomach.

The laugh was so familiar, yet so foreign now. It felt like he’d forgotten how much it meant to hear it. Forgotten how it used to make his heart race, how it made everything feel lighter, simpler. Like everything was okay. Like you were okay.

The more he listened, the more his heart twisted.In that moment, everything he’d been avoiding—the regret, the guilt, the silence that had come after—suddenly rushed back to him. It was all so clear.

He missed you. More than he was ready to admit. More than he was willing to let himself feel.

The picture was still on his phone. The smile, the joy, the love that seemed to radiate from it. He almost didn’t want to look at it anymore. It was too much, too painful to see something so perfect, something so real, that was lost now. That was gone.

He sat for ages, thumb poised over the glass, the sound of laughter still ringing in his head, and the world kept going, ticking to a beat. But to him, it was all a blur.And as the sound of your laughter faded away, he knew he would never forget it. Never forget how it made him feel.

He just didn’t know how to get it back.

Word count: 1k

a/n: first matt angst. hope yall like ittt! tysmm for all the love on my recent fics, cant be more grateful, love you all <3

Tags: @sweetshuga

@sagesturns

[incognit0slut]

was i stupid to love you?

in which a lingering glance at Rossi’s wedding threatens your engagement.

content: angst, 4.8k, takes place right after truth or dare (14x15), a lot of dialogue, mention of prison arc, emotional distress, relationship conflict, not proofread a/n: when was the last time you saw me write angst? exactly. this is inspired by malcolm & marie bc i really like the idea of having an argument while moving around the house (also disclaimer i have nothing against JJ i just like being dramatic)

The lock clicks open. The door swings with a creak. Your heels tap against the hardwood in a hollow rhythm that feels almost too loud. There’s a tightness in your chest, that prickling behind your eyes, and a familiar ache pressing up from the pit of your stomach, churning into a faint nausea that you try to ignore. You’re trying to hold it back.

Not here.

Not now.

Spencer doesn’t even look up. The keys slip from his hand with a soft clink as they hit the side table, and he turns away with a quiet sigh that reverberates deep in your bones.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “Think we could order something?”

You trail after him, the sharp click of your heels echoing as you step onto the kitchen tile. “We just came back from a wedding.”

He’s rifling through the cupboard, his fingers brushing over the mismatched mugs and neatly stacked plates before he pulls down two glasses. “I barely ate anything at the reception.”

You watch him, biting back a response as memories flicker to mind. The slice of cake he’d poked at absentmindedly, washing it down with sips of water instead of real food.

It wasn’t hunger he seemed focused on tonight. No, it was his quiet glances across the room you keep on catching from the corner of your eye, and that conversation he’d had at the bar. The one where his posture softened, his gaze so intent you’d found yourself staring at the back of his head, trying not to read too much into it—and obviously failing.

“Why didn’t you eat?”

He shrugs, his back still to you as he fills the glasses with water. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost absent, like it’s something he hasn’t really thought about. “I didn’t get around to it, I guess.”

The muscles in your jaw ticks as you bite the inside of your cheeks.

Spencer turns, offering you a glass. “I was thinking of Chinese, or maybe we can check if that Thai place you like is still open.”

You take the glass from him, barely sparing it a glance before setting it back down on the counter. “Whatever you want is fine.”

A subtle crease appears between his brows. “You sure? You usually have some opinion when it comes to food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t want to eat anything?”

You suppress a sigh. "No. I'm tired."

The soft amber of his eyes dims slightly as he studies you. There's a flicker of uncertainty passing through them before he nods. “Alright,” he concedes. “We don’t have to order anything.”

A faint, humorless laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It tastes bitter, a little unfair, but it slips out before you can pull it back, “You don’t have to change your plans on my account, Spencer.”

“I’m not changing any plans,” he responds. “I’m just making sure you have something to eat in case you’re hungry.”

Your shoes dig uncomfortably into your feet. You shift your weight, starting to pace a few steps back and forth. "It's dinner, you don't have to check on me for every little thing. Do whatever you like."

He blinks, looking genuinely perplexed. "What are you saying? I was trying to be considerate."

"Right. Considerate.”

There’s an unmistakable bite in your tone.

“Yes, because we like doing these things together," he observes, watching your uneasy pacing. "Am I missing something here?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

"Honey."

The term of endearment lands softly, slipping from his lips like he believes it has the power to melt whatever tension has suddenly crept between you. But it only tightens the knot building in your stomach. It’s stirring the words you’re trying to hold back, tangling them somewhere between your chest and throat.

He calls your name this time, his eyes narrowing into sharp lines. “You’ve been awfully quiet on our way home, and now you’re… honestly, I don’t know why you're acting this way.” His voice dips with a tinge of exasperation. "What’s this really about?"

The words you’ve been biting back feel like a stack of stones in your throat, rising up, up, up, each one pressed tighter by the gnawing nausea in your stomach. You can feel them gathering, and before you know it, they tumble out messily.

“I’m just saying, don’t let me hold you back from getting what you want. I wouldn’t want to stop you from anything—or, god forbid," you add, letting your gaze drift away as if a little distance might soften the blow, “anyone.”

The soft, almost stifled inhale he takes is audible. You don’t even have to look up to see his expression shifting. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows as he processes your words. You know his reaction by heart, yet right now, you wonder if saying this was a mistake, if this is the start of something neither of you can take back.

His fingers twitching at his side slip into your line of sight. He's angry.

Maybe this isn’t the time to start a fight.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Your heels click softly as you turn.

“Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything,” you mutter, already moving toward the bedroom that’s been yours, too, for the past year. Although it feels strange tonight, like a space that belongs to someone else. A life you’re not entirely sure you belong in.

“No." His voice is somewhere behind you. “I think you should explain to me what you mean by that.”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to sink onto the edge of the bed, hands fumbling as you try to undo the straps of your heels. You twist the stubborn leather with more force. His shadow fills the doorway.

“Honey.”

Not again.

You decide to ignore him.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

You tug harder at the strap. “No.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’re clearly bothered by something.”

You shake your head, fingers still fumbling, the leather cutting against your ankle with each pull. “I’m just tired. Can we leave it at that?”

There’s a flicker of frustration in his gaze now, a crease forming between his brows as he studies you. He moves into the room. You barely have the chance to react before he lowers himself, bending one knee to the floor as he reaches toward the strap you’ve been fighting with. “Here, let me—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, pulling your foot away. “I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. But let me—”

“I can do it myself!”

Your heartbeat thuds loud in your ears, each pulse feeding the frustration that’s wound its way up from your chest. He rises slowly, not a word passing his lips, but the tension radiates off him like heat. He’s close enough that his warmth presses against your skin, although it’s not the kind you usually find comforting. It’s almost suffocating.

You turn your focus back to the stubborn strap, your fingers trembling slightly as you struggle to grip it. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping off his shoes, one after the other, the soft thuds barely audible over the rush of your own heartbeat. He pulls off his suit jacket, carefully smoothing the crumpled fabric before hanging it in the closet. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go… until his gaze drifts back to you.

You can tell his patience is fraying, and you’re proven right when he asks again, “What did you mean by that? When you said you wouldn’t want to stop me from anyone… what was that supposed to mean?”

You finally manage to tug the strap loose. The heel drops to the floor with a muted thump. “It was nothing.”

“I don’t think you’d say something like that if it was nothing.”

Your focus shifts to the other shoe. “Just drop it, Spencer.”

"How am I supposed to drop it when you're implying... whatever it is you're implying?"

You keep your eyes down, wrestling with the strap in silence. He cuts through the quiet before it has a chance to grow.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t brush it off like it’s nothing when it clearly means something. I need to know why you said that.”

You kick off the other heel and meet his gaze for the first time since you walked into the room. “You really want to know?”

He reaches for his bow tie, yanking it loose it with one hard pull. “Do I want to know why you’re giving me this attitude right now? Yes. Yes, I do.”

Oh. So this is going to be that kind of fight.

You hadn’t expected it to go here. Fights with Spencer are very rare, usually more a clash of misunderstandings that you both laugh about with limbs tangled between sheets by the time you’ve made peace. But seeing him standing there with the tie hanging loosely around his neck and his five o’clock shadow casting an even darker line along his jaw, it hits you differently.

This is real. And this time, you don’t know if brushing it off will fix anything.

“Fine, let’s talk about it then.” You rise from the bed, tension carrying you to your feet. “Emily’s speech tonight.”

His brow furrows, not quite a scowl, more a cautious crease as he processes your tone. “Emily’s speech? What about it?”

“What do you remember of it?”

There’s a slight pause, and you can tell he's clearly caught off guard by the question. “She mentioned how Rossi and Krystal are twin flames."

“Right. Two souls that are always meant to be together.”

His face is still marked by confusion, but there’s something else creeping in. A subtle tightening around his eyes tells you he’s starting to piece it together. “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“You looked at JJ the second Emily made that speech,” you cut him off. “Spencer, you didn’t even spare a glance at your future wife because you were too busy making eyes at the woman who’s apparently been in love with you all these years.”

There. You said it. The words that have twisted around your insides all evening are finally out. And maybe they taste a little bitter, but at least they're not choking you anymore.

A second passes, then another, and by the time the fifth heartbeat ticks by, he’s standing there with his hand on his hip.

“That’s not what happened."

“Then what was it?” you demand. "I sat beside you the whole day, you didn't even try to hide it."

“That’s not—you’re twisting things.” His hand moves through his hair, fingers digging in as his curls tumble forward onto his forehead. “And you know what happened that night wasn’t real. It was a forced confession. She was under duress, we both were. JJ and I are just friends.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You look at all your friends like that?”

His hand drops to his side. "I don't know what else you want me to say. JJ said what she did because she thought we might die. She has a family, and a husband who she loves. We already went through this, I don't understand why this is suddenly an issue again."

“Maybe I wouldn’t be bringing this up if you didn’t look at her tonight like you were ready to break up that marriage yourself.”

A flash of shock and anger crosses his features.

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice sharper than you’ve heard in a while. “Do you really think I’d disregard everything I have with you because of a look? Because of a history that has never gone anywhere?”

“I don’t know what to think. It's not like it happened just once, I saw you looking at her the same way at the bar." You step forward, accidentally kicking your discarded heel as you move. "What were you two talking about, anyway?”

He lets out a tight breath. “She was checking in on me. She… we haven’t talked much since then.”

The corners of your mouth pull down. “Mhm. Another round of truth or dare?”

“I can’t believe you’re using that against me." His hair flops forward as he shakes his head, falling messily over his brow. "If there were anything unresolved with JJ, I would’ve said something. But I didn’t, because there’s nothing there."

“And yet, she’s always been an important part of your life, hasn't she?"

He tilts his head. "What are trying to say now?"

Your tongue darts out, briefly brushing your lips. You're not sure you should say it, but it feels like a door has swung open—a door to words that have been waiting for their moment.

You take a slow, deep breath, filling your lungs with as much air as you can.

“When you were in prison, you put her on your visiting list ahead of almost everyone else. Doesn’t that say something about where she stands with you?”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

“She’s part of the team,” he says, as if he’s trying to spell out something he’s already explained a dozen times. "There were strict rules, I already told you that only a handful of people were allowed to visit. It wasn’t like I could just put anyone on the list.”

“But you could’ve put me on there!”

The familiar burn of tears prickles at the edges of your eyes, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. An explanation or protest is poised on his lips, but you’re already moving, closing the distance with a single, decisive step. A finger lands on his chest.

“I was your girlfriend, Spencer. Were you that determined to keep me out? Was the thought of seeing me really so unbearable? Do you even understand how hard it was to sit at home, knowing you were locked up, feeling completely helpless? Do you have any idea how much I hated myself day after day because I couldn’t do anything to help you?”

Your lips quiver. You feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

“I was out here, just… waiting. Wondering if you were okay, if they were treating you alright, if you even had someone to talk to. And meanwhile, she’s there, with you. Every single time, she’s the one who gets to be by your side.”

Your nail digs into the fabric of his shirt.

“So forgive me if I can’t just let that go. Because when it mattered, it felt like you didn’t want me to be there for you. And now… now I don’t even know if you need me the way you seem to need her.”

Your breathing turns shallow, each inhale catching in your chest. The tears you’ve been holding back are dangerously blurring your vision. You swallow the knot lodged in your throat.

“I need a minute.”

Without another word, you turn and walk out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. You slip back into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you finally reach for the glass of water that’s been sitting there untouched. You take a sip, barely feeling the cool water on your lips, when you hear his footsteps behind you.

“You think I don’t want you in my life?” he demands. “You think I somehow need her more than I need you?”

You set the glass down. “What part of ‘I need a minute’ do you not understand?”

“You really expect me to wait quietly after you unloaded every doubt you’ve ever had about us?”

You life your chin up. “Yes, I do. I need space to think right now.”

“What more do you want to think about when you’ve already convinced yourself that I’m always going to fall short? Is it so hard to believe that you’re the one I want?”

“You want to know why it’s so damn hard to believe?” You turn towards him. “Because every time I try to let this go, there’s always something. A confession. That—that not-so-subtle look. And when those things happen, it reminds me that I’m not as close to you as she is. I’m fucking tired of feeling like I’m fighting for space in your life.”

“Do you think I want you to feel like that? Do you think I’d go through everything we’ve been through if you didn’t matter to me?”

“Then explain to me why I wasn’t on that list!” you cry out. “Explain to me why, in one of the hardest times of your life, you couldn’t make space for me?”

“Because I was trying to protect you!”

A heavy, dreadful silence falls between you. He takes a step back, his eyelids fluttering shut briefly, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that mirrors the gentleness now threading through his voice.

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, and maybe it never will, but I couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing me like that. Living through it was hard enough, but having you there, seeing me so helpless… It would have crushed me. I didn’t want that to be your memory of me.”

His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, a quick, almost anxious movement you’ve witnessed countless times.

“And when JJ came to see me,” he continues, “the way the inmates looked at her, the things they said after she left… it was disgusting. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to you. I couldn’t live with thought of you being subjected to that because of me.”

You lower your head with a sigh. “I don’t care if they looked. I don’t care what they would’ve thought.”

“But I care,” he fires back, taking a step forward. “Because you mean more to me than anyone. All I wanted was to keep you safe, and maybe I didn't handle it right, maybe I made the wrong call... but it was only because I—" His voice drops into an even more gentle note. "Because I love you."

Your heart stumbles, an uneven beat that feels almost bruised, pounding hard against your ribs.

"I-I love you so much. More than I know how to put into words." The ache in your chest sharpens as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. "I don't like fighting with you. I hate it, actually. I hate seeing you look at me like this."

You also hate the way he’s looking at you. There’s a depth to his annoyingly pretty eyes that makes it impossible to hold up your defenses without feeling them crumble. You let your eyes flutter closed.

“Why don’t we… call it a night?” He suggests. “Let’s lie down. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

The blackness behind your eyelids does little to quiet your mind. Nor does his voice. Or his touch. Instead of offering peace, his presence throws every glance, every moment of tension from tonight into sharper relief.

You draw in a breath, trying to find some comfort in his palms against your cheeks. Yet, even this can’t smooth away the doubt that’s settled in. With a resigned sigh, you release the breath you’ve been holding along with the words that have been pressing at the back of your throat.

“You haven’t explained it to me.”

The shadows in his gaze seem to deepen when you open your eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been going in circles, but you haven’t explained to me what happened tonight,” you say quietly. “Why did you look at her, Spencer?”

His thumb absently strokes your cheek in a way that feels more hesitant than reassuring.

“Be honest with me,” you press. “Was there a part of you, even the tiniest part, that still wanted something with her? Some small part of you that… wondered what it might be like?”

The silence between you presses in from all sides, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled ticking of a clock on the wall. It’s the kind of quiet that sharpens even the smallest sounds, yet his lack of response feels like the loudest thing of all.

You pull back from him with an incredulous laugh.

“Unbelievable.” The word barely makes it past your lips, then louder as you start to move, pacing the length of the apartment. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait,” he says, trailing after you, “I didn’t even say anything.”

You stop short by the couch and whip around to face him.

“You didn’t need to! You—you hesitated," you stammer, searching his face for any flicker of denial, but it’s there, plain as day, that split-second of doubt you caught. “That was already an answer.”

He inches closer. A hand closes in on you. “Please—”

You flinch, pulling back, and every muscle in your body tightens. “Don’t. Don’t touch me right now.”

His hand falls to his side. “Please… let me explain."

You watch his hand drop, fingers twitching like they’re not sure if they should retreat or reach out again, but he keeps them there, hovering in some invisible line you’ve drawn. He looks at you with those big, pleading eyes, and for a split second, you almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

A bitter sort of smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. "So now you want to explain?"

He takes that as permission, and his voice comes in low, almost cautious. "When I first started at the BAU, I had… maybe a crush. A passing thing, barely anything, really. But that was fourteen years ago.” His hand scrubs through his hair in a frustrated sweep. “Fourteen years."

Your brows pull into a frown. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it was nothing,” he says, almost too quickly. “I was young, it didn’t matter. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”

“Oh, I get it now. All those old feelings came rushing back the night she confessed, didn’t they?”

He mirrors your frown, a visible line of tension etching itself between his brows as he protests, “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” you press. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot like you’re caught between us because some part of you is still hung up on what might’ve been with her."

He shifts uncomfortably, and you notice the muscles in his jaw clenching the moment his gaze falters, dipping away for just a heartbeat before he looks back at you.

“It’s not that I don’t know what I want,” he starts to explain. “I didn’t expect her to say those things, and, yes, it threw me off for a moment. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking back, or that I want her. I want you.”

You shake your head, feeling a tired sort of frustration settle over you, and walk over to the couch. The soft cushions give slightly beneath you as you sink down.

“If you really wanted me, this wouldn’t be happening. You wouldn’t have let her get into your head like that. And now, you expect to believe that none of it meant anything?”

He’s quick to follow, closing the distance in a few tense steps. “It’s not—” His hands flex open and close at his sides. “You’re acting like one single look tonight is enough to decide I’m not committed to you. Do you really think I’d let some confession I didn’t even ask for get in the way of what we have?”

“It’s not just about that single look. It’s the way she could say something and suddenly, you’re pulled back to something you swore you’d put behind you. How am I supposed to feel secure when she still has that power over you?”

“And what am I supposed to do, then? Apologize for things I don’t even feel anymore?”

You flinch at the sharpness in his voice. A low, frustrated noise rumbles in his chest when you don’t respond.

“You’re always going to question me no matter what I say, aren’t you?"

You glance over at him, catching the disheveled strands of hair falling over his forehead, and it pulls you back to that night he came home after that dreadful night. He’d walked in looking worn in a way you’d never seen before, his whole posture weighted down as if he was carrying more than just the fear of being held hostage.

You remember sitting with him on this same couch, fingers brushing his, and asking what was bothering him.

JJ said she loved me.

Your heart lurched, a quick, quiet ache that you tried to swallow down. Really?

Don’t worry. It’s not true.

But with that same haunted look in his eyes right now, you can’t help but wonder if it really was just a well-intentioned lie.

“One glance and you’re accusing me of things that are never going to happen,” he starts again. “Do you really think so little of me? After everything we’ve shared, you really think I’d betray you like that?”

In true honesty, you don’t believe he would ever cross that line. But the doubts still linger, fed by those small hesitations, the moments when his eyes seem somewhere else. It’s not that you think he’d betray you. It’s that a part of him might still be holding onto something he won’t let you see.

“It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Now those words you might actually believe.

“Maybe I don’t,” you say quietly, eyes drifting to the ring on your finger. You twist it absently, remembering the night he proposed. How he’d stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing as he tried to make the moment perfect but ended up rambling in that endearing, nervous way of his. You’d laughed, reassured him that it was exactly right, that you didn’t need grand gestures. All you needed was him.

And yet, you don’t think he needs you as much you need him.

A hollow ache settles around your hand as you slip the ring off.

“What are you doing?”

You stare down at the gold band in your palm, blinking back the sting of tears.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

Panic. Desperation. There’s a sudden rush of melancholy in his voice, a heaviness that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “I—I don’t know anything right now.”

His face crumples, and in a sudden, almost instinctive movement, he drops down to his knees.

“No, no, you do know me. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Isn’t this—” he stops, then dips his head, trying to catch your gaze. “Isn’t that what couples do? They argue, they mess things up… but they work through it, right? Right?”

You look down, feeling the cool weight of the ring pressing into your skin.

“Spencer…” you begin. “I trust you. I do, and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I didn’t. But… I need to feel secure. I… I need to know that I don’t have to wonder or worry about where I stand. I never thought you’d be the one to make me doubt that.”

There’s a sharp ache in your chest.

“I didn’t think it could hurt this much. Not from you.”

Your pulse ring in your ear.

“I can’t—” The words catch in your throat, a stinging burn rising as you force them out. “I can’t be your wife when I’m constantly questioning if I have all of you. When I feel like… there’s always a part of you that isn’t mine.”

“I’m yours, honey. I’m always yours.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

There’s a slight falter in his voice. “Don’t—please don’t do this—”

“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

He falls silent, and for a moment, the only sound is the rough, uneven rhythm of both your breaths filling the space between you. Then, like something inside him finally cracks open, he sinks down, pressing his forehead against your lap. The sudden weight of him forces a broken sob from your throat.

“Please,” he begs, fingers clutching at your sides. His chin presses deep into your thigh. “Tell me how to fix this. I can’t— I can’t lose you.”

“Spence…”

“I love you,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from him in a rush. “I love you.”

But what is love, really? Is it just a word people reach for when they’ve run out of things to say, a way to patch over bruised hearts and broken promises? Or should it feel like something more solid, something that doesn’t leave you questioning or aching? You can’t even tell anymore.

You wonder, too, if maybe you’ve been wrong all along. If this feeling in your chest isn’t love but something dressed up as it, something that fills the gaps while slowly hollowing you out. Because here you are, clinging to a love that somehow makes you feel like you’re both needed and unseen. Everything and nothing all at once.

You feel like a fool.

“I want to go to bed.”

His head lifts from your lap, a flash of surprise darting across his face, as though he hadn’t expected you to say anything at all, let alone that. “Yeah, okay, let’s go to bed. We’ll… we’ll figure this out in the morning.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

The words hit him visibly. His mouth opens, an argument forming there, but he catches himself, letting the silence stretch before he nods slowly.

“Then… I’ll stay out here. On the couch,” he offers softly. “Just… in case you need anything.”

A pang cuts through you at the thought of him stretched out on the couch, his legs too long, his shoulders folded in to fit the cramped space. But the idea of sharing a bed right now feels impossible.

You reach down, holding out the ring towards him.

“No,” he says firmly, gently pushing your hand away. “Don’t do that. This… it doesn’t mean we’re giving up. It just means we need time. That’s all.”

You’re not sure if your mind will change in the morning. The ring presses into your skin, but finally, you close your hand around it, nodding faintly before you peel away from him.

The tears start the moment the bedroom door clicks shut behind you. It spills over in a jagged, helpless cry that sounds nothing like you imagined heartbreak might sound. It’s messy, a kind of aching grief that feels too big for your chest, clawing its way out with no grace at all. You can practically hear how pathetic you sound, and yet you can’t seem to stop.

Even when the hem of your dress trails across the floor. Even when you finally collapse onto his side of the bed. There’s no stopping you. With the ring sitting cold in your hand, your tears keep coming, soaking into the pillow as you cling to the last trace of him woven into the sheets.

[sleepymothafterhours]

Torture to Love You, Can't Live Without You

Zayne x Reader angst

Reader is not MC, MC Dies so I guess you could call it major character death? Angst with kind of no ending?

---> Part two here <3

Fic warnings: Death, grief descriptions, unhappy marriage but they're literally just grieving,

This fic is not beta read, and has been edited to the best of my ability,

Word Count: 4,000

Divider credit in my pinned post <3

Full fic under the cut, I have a part two planned out if this fic does well,

At the end of the day there was always you and her. You'd never be her but you were content with that, in school she was a good rival and maybe at first it used to irk you how special everyone seemed to think she was but as you got closer you realized she never asked to be treated that way. Tara had introduced you, such a social butterfly that girl. On missions you fought well, you worked together with ease often getting paired up on more dangerous outings. The day she died it was like part of you went missing. You could only imagine how it was for her close friend.

The day she died haunted you like a ghost. It would've been you, i could've been you. She didn't have to do that for you.

She didn't have to do that for you.

You sat in front of Jenna's office with a letter in your hand. You'd been on leave for months, stuck with office work to do at home to ensure you at least got paid so you could live while you were recovering. The time was fast approaching for you to either go back to the field or pick something else. Everyone you knew expected you to go back. In a lot of ways it felt like a dishonor to your dear friend not to. But you just couldn't. No amount of therapy took away the nightmares and so far no amount of meds was taking away the pain in your body from your own injuries. No doctor could clear you for the field with the level of pain you were still experiencing. You didn't want to go back anyway, you were scared. You waited outside her office for her other meeting to finish.

What you hadn't expected was for Dr.Zayne to walk out of that room. Too busy staring at him and wondering why he was here you entirely missed what he was saying to you. "Are you alright?" He asked kneeling down to your level, he held a cup of water out for you. You took it gratefully, "I'm alright. Thank you, Dr.Zayne." You two only spoke in passing, even out with your mutual friends. "I trust you've been well? Since.." He trailed off like it pained him to talk about the accident, you nodded. "As well as I can. That's why I'm here. I'm leaving the field." You said, a hint of regret in your voice. Zayne nodded, by the time his mouth opened to say something the doors to Jenna's office were open, and you were already on the way inside.

---------

That was all you saw of him for a year and a half. You didn't keep up with him, and it wasn't like he actively sought you out. It was probably a miracle you even found each other again. He found you in your favorite coffee shop of all places, after you'd finished teaching your classes. Teaching exhausted you, but it kept food on your table, and in the words of others, ensured you could still honor your friend. Regardless, you sat in your corner of the building sipping hot chocolate and working on a research paper about protocores. You'd written a few things on wanderers, architecture in Linkon, whatever seemed to catch your interest for the moment. You spotted Zayne first, though you almost didn't recognize his face. It was strange how someone could change so much after just 18 months.

Had you changed that much?

Or did you still look the same as you had that day.

The thought of it made your skin crawl and you focused on your computer to get it out of your mind. You didn't notice his approach.

"Do you make a habit to tune out everything around you?" His voice brought you out of it, closing a tab as you looked up at him.

"Doctor, what a pleasant surprise." You said moving your computer to invite him to sit down. "I don't mean to ignore you. I was just focused, I do a lot of work here. Do you come here a lot as well Doctor?"

Zayne gives you a slight smile and you can't help but cheer internally at the gesture, "Please, just call me Zayne." He says, his gaze lingers on you as you slip your computer into your bag. "Don't let me interrupt your work. I should be off anyway." He says moving to stand again, you still don't know why you stopped him.

"No. No trouble at all. You can only read so many articles about the rise of protocore modifications before your head starts to spin. Sit with me? Please?" You don't know why you keep talking and Zayne doesn't know why he's sitting, he really ought to be heading back to the hospital.

Maybe you were both drowning and maybe it was just easier to sink together.

Maybe that was why things happened the way they did.

The two of you talked for hours. It was refreshing the way he didn't bring the accident up. The way he didn't bring up losing her. You suspected it was as much for your benefit as it was for him. After a year and a half of pulling yourself through the trenches you finally found yourself talking to someone who made you feel, normal, it was like coming up for air after being trapped in a lake.

"I am happy to see you well after everything." Zayne says after a moment. "Is teaching future hunters as fulfilling as you found hunting to be?"

The truth? It nowhere close. But you don't hate it.

"It has its moments. I do enjoy what I do. And after everything I.." You trail off, struggling to find the right words. "I'm happy I could find a way to stay in this career. Regardless of what I'm doing." It was the most roundabout way you've ever told someone no, and you can tell that Zayne sees right through it. You wished you could have stayed.

He nods, "Maybe fate will take you back." He said giving you an almost soft look.

"You've written quite a bit about your research on Protocore syndrome right?" You ask, the silence that had drawn between the two of you becoming too much to bear. He nods, "Are you going to the gala in a couple weeks? They're celebrating some of the works that recently came out. I thought I saw you on the list they sent out."

He nods again, "I admit I was hoping to see you there." His ears redden as he says this and you can't help the smile that comes to your face.

"i was hoping the same. Everyone else is some old far or some posh snob who's never actually seen what its like out here, Ya know?" You take a sip of your drink, now long cold, "It'd be nice to have someone there that I know." Zayne nods his agreement to this and the conversation moves on for another hour, until you have to leave.

You thank him for sitting with you for so long, picking up your bag and discarding your drink. He stops you again before you can leave the table.

"Do you wanna go to the Gala with me?" his words make your heart skip and you find yourself nodding before you can even really put thought into it.

---------

Zayne came crashing into your life similarly to the way a snowstorm did, expected but sudden. He was always there in a lot of ways during your time as a hunter, you had enough mutual friends to at least know of him. The transition from acquaintance to friend was so subtle you didn't notice, you met weekly for coffee at the cafe when you could, or he'd find you there after work.

Then suddenly you knew his coffee order, and were taking him coffee and dinner during late nights in his office.

There were nights you would talk, and the two of you would have dinner in his office, you'd never been around someone who was so easy to talk to, Zayne just understood.

At one point you'd stayed to talk so long that you ended up eating dinner together, it was dark by the time you went to leave, and Zayne had insisted on taking you home.

He'd kissed you that night. After months of you thinking he was uninterested in anything more than simply colleagues.

You both got so busy that after you could do hardly more than text each other, it took a month of wondering if he'd meant to do it or not, a month for him to ask you out.

He proposed after four years, conveniently the night before another gala much like the one you'd gone to together before you got close.

Once again you were both being recognized for a lot of your work and researches, him, a deeper dive into protocore syndrome, you, a paper on how Evols affect personality traits and how that can be managed for people with more explosive evols and personalities. You used your relationship with Zayne a lot in that paper, with two completely clashing evols it was hard sometimes to get by.

Fire and ice,

maybe that was a sign you should've thought about before.

---------

You looked like the perfect couple. For awhile you felt like it too. You couldn't tell what happened. The two of you were doing better finally. You honored her every year on the day, holding each other and helping each other get through your grief everyday. You knew he loved you. You knew he loved her and you respected that. You understood as well as you could.

After your honeymoon you fell back into your routine, teach in the day, take Zayne lunch during your time to plan, go home and grade papers until he gives you a call that he should be home within the hour. You made dinner and the two of you spent time together until you fell asleep on the couch. Zayne would carry you to bed despite the countless times that you told him to wake you.

You couldn't pin point the day it all started going down hill. But you knew that it had something to do with the mission that dragged you back into hunting, the intercom ringing in your ears and the voice of an OTTO bot calling for every trained hunter in the building. Every student was to go back to their dorm. You tried, to leave with the students, with a soft spoken, "I don't do that anymore." said mostly to yourself as you followed students out to the dorms.

That was until you heard the cry. A little girl trapped under a building, you ran before your feet could keep up with you, the grace you learned in your training never left you, a hunter caught up with you, a student from a few years back. He helped you lift the bean that had trapped the girl and looked to you for direction. "Get her to safety and meet me a few blocks up." You ran the other way the minute he nodded right towards danger, right where you weren't supposed to be going.

Right where you wanted to be.

After the fight you assisted with cleanup, carefully avoiding the eyes of your old boss as you helped a little boy step into an ambulance. Zayne found you shortly after, sitting on a stump and bandaging your arm, people had begun to go home but the cut was pretty bad and you wanted to take care of it before you left.

"You're hurt." He said kneeling down to take the bandages out of your hands, "This is too tight, let me help?" His voice was soft, you couldn't tell if he was worried, angry or both. You nodded and carefully he unwrapped the bandage and began to clean it. "Sorry I broke routine tonight." you blurted, you weren't really thinking when you said, wrapped up in the crackling of a fire somewhere near you, and his laugh filling your ears. A laugh?

"My love. You're bleeding, but you're sorry for..breaking routine?" He looked up at you befuddled, his hands stopping their work on your injury. You shrugged, "You never cease to amaze me." He said after a moment. "We're going home. And we're ordering whatever you want for dinner and you are going to rest." His voice was more firm than normal and when your boss came over to you finally he seemed to stand slightly in front of you as if to keep her from taking you from him too.

She joked about you coming back, you told her you were just following instruction. The announcement called for all hunters. You politely declined her offer and stiffened when she joked about how you could make more if you came back. Zayne brushed her off for you, saying something about getting you home to ensure your arm healed.

The silence in the car home was almost unbearable. "She's right ya know." You said softly, "I'd make a lot more back in the field." Zayne kept his focus on the road but you could tell the words bothered him.

"We don't really need it. You and I are doing just fine." You slumped back in your seat at his words. "You never did it for the money anyway. Do you want to go back?" He asks and you can't answer right away. The answer used to be no, you used to be too scared but somewhere down the line you missed the danger, you missed the fire you had within you that had dimmed after the accident. Your evol felt suppressed from only being used to heat the forgotten teas you took to work or occasionally to light a gas stove.

You'd smothered your fire as best you could all these years but yet it still seemed to roar within, and consume you with every passing day. The answer should have been no but you couldn't bear lie to the man next to you.

"No." You waited too long to say anything,

"You've always been bad at lying." He's stopped at a light and turns to you to move a piece of your hair, you can see he almost looks defeated when you say nothing in response to this.

--------

If you could have pinpointed the minute, maybe even the second that he had started being distant from you, colder even, maybe you could have prevented it, but it was so hard to realize it was happening when he acted the exact same in public as he had before. He followed his routines almost to a T but he spent more and more time at work. Often coming home to you asleep on the couch waiting for him, until eventually he found you already in bed when he got there, always careful not to wake you when he climbed into bed. You could pinpoint the night he stopped holding you by the way your heart began to ache for it immediately.

It took 3 months to transition back into your old job and ever since it was like you lived with a ghost. He was gone when you woke for work, he was gone when you came home but there was always a dish in the drying rack and a paper on the counter that he had left behind to prove his existence. At least you could be sure he hadn't moved into his office even though every other piece of evidence told you otherwise. The times he was home with you it was like he was on another planet, that was if you could get him out of his office at the house for more than two seconds. His affection had a cold bite to it that made you stop seeking it and when he looked in your eyes it was almost clear all he saw in them was her. His coldness did nothing but make you more persistent at first. But after so long you just grew tired, you loved him with everything in you couldn't he understand that?

You liked to imagine that there was another life where you both weren't so different. But maybe in another life he ends up with her in the end, maybe there's a universe where she isn't a wedge in your relationship maybe you won't be together in this life, not the way you want but in the next... Maybe you just have to wait. What a cursed thin g love was.

He stood in front of you now for the first time in months, Tara had invited you both for drinks after work, a nice little place just a block away from your house, you were gonna walk together.

"You look lovely." He says and there's a flicker of something in his eyes that gives you hope that maybe he's looking at you for real this time, but then its gone. He's looking right through you.

Your response is as calm as you could manage to be, "I'm surprised you noticed."

The two of you left, making the walk there in a comfortable silence. Zayne played the dutiful husband role well. He held your hand, he held open the door for you, took your coat, pulled out your chair. To anyone else he looked so smitten with you, and you him. You shook your thoughts out of your mind, you were here tonight to have fun.

You didn't drink often, nor did you drink much. You figured offering him a sip of your drink would be fine, and he must've too because he took it. The way he scrunched his face in disgust made you giggle, he took a bigger drink than you thought he would. "Here, have some water, are you okay?" You ask pushing a glass of ice water to him. He waves you away, takes the glass and drinks but tells you to focus on your friends.

You forgot how much of a lightweight he was. One drink was enough to get him at least tipsy? It would have been funny, if you weren't concerned.

You'd been talking to Tara. who gushed over the two of you whenever she saw you. "Really i don't know how you two do it. You looks so happy all the time." She's smiling as she speaks, the only time you've seen her without a smile on her face was just after incident, it used to annoy you how one person could be so happy but you found yourself unable to frown whenever she's around now.

"Trust me Tara I don't know how we do it either sometimes." She doesn't know how much truth there is to your words. How this is the first time in almost a year that Zayne has been so close to you. How this is the first time in months you've seen or talked to him for more than five minutes. That this is the first time he's wanted to be around you since you became a hunter again.

+++

Zayne only seems to get drunker as the night progressed despite the fact that he hadn't had anything else but water.

"I think I should get him home." You said giving your friends a smile, you'd paid for your drink, the one you hadn't finished, too busy making sure your husband doesn't fall out of his seat. You help him up, he's not exactly hard to move but the man is stubborn. "Baby c'mon, lets home, I'm tired." He concedes finally at your words and you walk home. He's leaning on you for support the whole way out of the bar, even as you nod to your friends and wish them a good night.

You have to stop for a little while, sitting him down, the air is cold. You try not to shiver. "How'd this even happen huh?" You tease him softly, holding his face in your hands. It feels normal for once.

"I'm sorry my love." his words are slurred and he notices your failed attempts to hide your shivering, wrapping his coat around you clumsily. "I love you." He's looking straight through you again through unfocused eyes.

"Do you." Its not a question. You two walk leaning on each other until you reach the house. You drop your keys trying to unlock the door. When he hands them to you, you hear it. A mistake. A slip of the tongue. Maybe he could claim he was drunk but it was clear.

He'd called you by her name.

You didn't say anything. He tried covering his mistake, you said nothing. Pushing past him into the medicine cabinet in your kitchen you grabbed water and ibuprofen and took some. You slid past his attempts to be close to you guiding him to your room.

He's distraught, you feel like you're falling to pieces. "Lie down." You instruct. "You're not gonna feel good in the mor-" He interrupts you as you're trying to cover him in a blanket.

"Talk to me. Please." He's pleading, his voice breaking, it used to hurt your heart to hear it, maybe it still does but you can't feel anything right now other than anger, you feel like your on fire.

"You're drunk."

"Talk to me." There are tears in his eyes.

"What is there to say, Zayne. You called me, by your dead best friends name." You sit at the edge of the bed. "I can't b angry I know you loved her. I know you want her. I just wish you wanted me the same way." You get up and go to make your way out of the room. You need to calm down, maybe you'll go for a walk, or have some tea.

Flicking the light off you hear it. A quiet sob, and a small "I'm sorry."

You can't help the words that leave your mouth. "Don't bother."

The light is off and the door is shut and you the minute you sit down on a stool in your kitchen island you break down. You felt like two puzzle pieces that fit together just fine but were from two separate puzzles. You took time to put yourself back together, eventually getting up to go to your room, apologize if he was still awake and go to bed hoping to fix whatever rift has been growing in your relationship. Your hand is on the door, you just need to open it.

Your phone rings.

You can see the light come on from your hunter watch in the bedroom.

Ignore it. Go to sleep. Fix this. That's what you're telling yourself.

You answer it before you can stop yourself.

"Hello?" Your voice cracks from your breakdown.

"Hey." Its a newer hunter, you'd been working with her for months. You were too scared to get closer to her but for now you didn't mind mentoring her. "Got a mission. You're on the way can I come get you?"

Her words are so scarily similar to what you told your best friend that night. You turn away from the door. "Let's go then."

How strange the universe was in the way it worked. How strange the parallel was. You put on your uniform in silence. Zayne had fallen asleep as far as you knew. You stopped by his side before you left, kissing his head softly. You don't say anything else as you leave.

Unbeknownst to you. He wasn't asleep, he heard the whole thing. He too noticed the parallels. He wouldn't sleep that night. Or the night after.

He was losing you and he didn't know how to stop it.

You were losing him and it felt like someone was carving your heart from your chest.

Sleepy moths after thoughts: Everytime i went to work on this fic I either got called into work, or my friends wanted to hang out, thats why it took so fuckin long. Hopefully the wait was worth it, Thanks for reading and thank you everyone who supported this fic <3

Taglist: @theink-stainedfolk , @alfredosaws , @sylv-1a , @cordidy , @leighsartworks216 , @midiplier , @melonssoup , @sw3etfawn111 , @dhunhdchrih , @i-messed-up-big-time , @fandomenbylover , @notisekais

@theophxbia cus i know pookie probably wants to read it (ILY BESTIE)

[inkedinshadows]

Until the Last Breath

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel is injured in battle. Badly. You try everything you can to save your mate, but sometimes, it might still not be enough.

Warnings: heavy angst, blood and injuries, death

Word count: 4.3k

A/N: I finally finished it! My gosh, this was... a journey. And a real challenge. But I'm very satisfied with how it turned out. Huge thanks to Rae @illyrianbitch for giving me a first opinion on this, you're an angel and I love you 🫶🏻

Azriel had shut down his side of the bond. He always did when he went into battle so that you wouldn't feel his fatigue and his anger. His pain.

You hadn't sensed it. He had shut it down so well that when you heard Rhysand's voice in your head, you lost a few years off your life.

Azriel was hurt. They're taking him back to camp. Rhys paused, and you braced yourself. Y/N, it's… it's bad.

You raced past tents and injured soldiers, pushing people out of the way, not caring about the mud clinging to your shoes and shins. You were already calling out for a healer, and when you noticed one stopping in her tracks to look at you, you grabbed her hand and pulled her into a run.

But when you reached your tent, despite your slight panting, your breath caught in your throat.

Three soldiers had helped carry Azriel back, and as they walked past you to leave, they cast you sorrowful glances. But your eyes were fixed on your mate.

Azriel lay on his stomach on the table, his labored breathing echoing through the small space. He was covered in dirt and blood that wasn’t his own. But his wings…

The healer quickly walked up to him to assess the damage. Azriel didn't even open his eyes.

You were frozen in place. You couldn't move. What had once been majestic, powerful wings that Azriel had taken great pride in were now shredded to ribbons. You had seen him hurt before—he had taken arrows, ash-made and poisoned—but this… this was worse. So much worse than any other injury he had ever sustained.

Bile rose in your throat, but you pushed it down. You refused to let tears prick your eyes. You glanced at the healer as her hands hovered over the remnants of your mate's wings, then you finally took a step forward.

“Azriel?” you called, his name little more than a whisper. “Az?”

His eyes fluttered open and immediately settled on you. But they were glazed over with pain.

He tried to move, to lift a hand and reach out to you, opening his mouth to say something. A rasping breath was all that came out.

You were by his side in an instant. Ignoring the constant dripping of his blood on the ground, you crouched down in front of him and cupped his dirty face.

“Don't talk,” you murmured. “It's alright. We're going to save you. You understand? You won't get away from me that easily.”

The lie rolled off your tongue effortlessly, but Azriel knew better. Every breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a reminder of the agony that coursed through his veins. He couldn't feel his wings anymore. His whole back, actually. There was only pain—a blinding pain that threatened to overwhelm him and pull him under.

Your eyes found the healer's, and Azriel didn't need to see her to know she was shaking her head. He'd walked beside Death most of his life, had heard its call more times than he could count, and he knew he couldn't ignore that call any longer. The periodic dripping of his blood on the floor seemed to remind him of it, ticking away the few minutes he had left.

But a new determination settled onto your features. He was your mate. He was yours—yours to love, yours to have, and yours to save. And you would save him. There was no other option.

Standing back up, you grabbed the healer and dragged her to the other side of the tent. You avoided her gaze and that look of sorrow and resignation that only made you want to punch something.

“There must be something you can do,” you gritted out through clenched teeth. She wasn’t at fault for this, you knew, but she was a healer. It was her damn job to save lives. She had to save the most important one. “Anything.”

“He’s lost too much blood,” she replied calmly. “I can't save his wings.”

How could she remain so composed and professional when your whole world was shattering?

You glanced back at Azriel. Even though he couldn't hear what you and the healer were saying, he could tell you were trying to find a way to do the impossible.

He wanted to call you back to him. He needed you by his side in these last few moments. He clung to that thought, to the feel of your hands on his face just seconds ago, fighting against the darkness blurring the edges of his vision.

“Can you save him, though?” you asked, turning back toward the healer. Seeing Azriel like this, struggling just to keep his eyes open, was breaking your heart.

The healer looked confused, and you clenched your jaw. “Can you save him?” you repeated slowly, punctuating each word as if she couldn't understand you. “You said you can't save his wings. But can you save him?”

She finally caught on, and her gaze shifted back to your mate. Azriel didn't even strain to try and listen in on your conversation. He only wanted to ask you to hold him again, but his tongue was sandpaper in his mouth. He couldn't get the words out.

“Maybe,” the healer finally said. “But he's weak. It might not make a difference. He might not survive it.”

Maybe. You could work with a maybe. It was better than nothing.

“Alright, then.” You were already turning to walk back to Azriel. “Let's get to work.”

But the healer placed a gentle hand on your arm, stopping you. You gave her a questioning look.

“I…” She hesitated, glancing at Azriel. “I’ll have to cut them. But the chances of him surviving are still very low.”

You didn't let your heart drop. You didn't let yourself consider what that might mean. If Azriel survived, he might very well hate you for the rest of his life for forcing him to live without his wings. It was a selfish choice, but if the alternative was letting your mate die when there was still some sliver of hope… It wasn't really a choice. You would gladly endure his hatred if it meant he was still alive.

“Do it.”

The healer gave you a sharp nod. “I'll go get what I need.”

Azriel watched her leave, fighting to keep his heavy lids from closing. It would be so easy to just let go, to let the darkness claim him. It was where he had always belonged, and his shadows had gone already. No tendrils swirled around him, curling near his ear to whisper secrets and truths.

But you were still standing too far away from him. Still staring at the tent entrance where the healer had disappeared.

He tried to say your name, but a ragged cough racked his body, sending a new wave of pain through what was left of his wings. Everything hurt. Blood bubbled up from his lungs, its coppery taste filling his mouth as it trickled down his chin.

At last, you turned and raced to his side, grabbing a wet cloth to wipe it away. “I'm sorry,” you whispered. He didn't know what you were apologizing for. He was the sorry one—for failing you, for causing you this pain when he had promised he would never hurt you.

“The healer is coming back,” you continued. Your voice cracked despite your efforts to sound calm and steady. “She'll fix you. You'll be alright.”

You had always been a terrible liar. Azriel knew it, and you knew it too. Neither of you believed your words, but you both clung to them because you had nothing else to hold on to.

“Let me in,” you murmured. Your hands were on his face again, your thumbs gently brushing his cheeks without a care for the dirt smudged on them. “Open the bond, my love.”

Azriel shook his head as best he could, trying to speak again. He wasn't going to let you feel his agony, even if it was watered down through the bond. You were suffering too much already, and though he wanted to let that invisible thread stretch between you, he wouldn't put you through that ordeal.

“Azriel,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. Your eyes locked onto his, and you let him see the raw need to feel him in their depths. “Azriel, please…”

He looked at you for a long moment, but in the end, he let the wall come down. He needed to feel you too—his mate, his love, and right now, his only anchor to this world.

Relief flooded you as he finally opened his side of the bond and the love you shared flowed freely between you, weaving through your very souls. But with it came his pain.

It hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. Azriel saw your eyes widen, heard the little gasp that escaped you, and was ready to shut you out once more. But as if sensing his intention, your trembling hands steadied on his cheeks.

“Don't,” you said firmly. “Let me share your burden.”

Sparing you from it was what he should have done. He shouldn't have let you feel it in the first place. Yet the selfish part of him wanted to keep the bond open, to feel your love and affection pouring into his straining heart—sweetness in the pain, warmth in the cold.

Even as you tried to hide it, panic rose inside you, twisting your gut and threatening to overwhelm you. Where was the healer? Your gaze darted to the entrance again and again, expecting her to walk in at any moment.

Azriel coughed once more, another trickle of blood spilling from his lips. You wiped it away quickly, but you knew more would come. You knew he needed help before it was too late.

“Hold on, my love,” you whispered as you leaned closer. “Just a little longer and then you'll be fine.”

“Li–” His voice was so feeble, interrupted by another fit of cough before he could even finish the word. “Liar…”

Before desperation could root itself in you, the healer finally came back. She placed an array of tools on a smaller table next to the one where Azriel lay, and you looked up at her, hope battling against dread.

Surely, she would get to work. Surely, she would cut off what was left of his wings and save him, and then he would hate you, but he would be alive and that was all that truly mattered.

An older healer walked in. Azriel caught only a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye, but the table with the tools was close enough for him to see what had been placed on top. He had seen enough clippings during his years at Windhaven to know what was about to happen.

Despair twisted his gut, adding to his pain and his fear. If losing his wings meant he had a chance of survival, would he take it? Would a life without his wings really be life?

Suddenly, he was back in his father's dungeon, a helpless child who couldn't fly even though his very blood longed for the skies. Then your face emerged from his memory. Your smile, your bright eyes, all the moments together, the life you had built over the centuries.

Could he do it? Could he give up his wings for his mate? Give up one love for another?

He didn't know what he would choose. But he never got to choose.

“You didn't tell me he was in such bad condition,” the older healer said, giving the younger one a sharp look. “There's nothing we can do here.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. You weren't sure you were still breathing as you stared at them, disbelief and anger building inside you.

“What do you mean there's nothing you can do?”

The older healer turned her gaze to you. Her stern features softened for only a second before she sighed. “He lost too much blood.”

Her hands glowed a faint yellow light as they hovered over the torn membranes of Azriel’s wings. She placed one on his back, and though her touch was warm and gentle, Azriel had to bite back a scream. The pain was blinding, sharp enough to steal what little breath he had left. And whatever she was trying to do… it wasn't working.

“His heart is beating too slowly already,” she stated, pulling her hand back. Azriel let his head fall against the table once more, his breaths shallow and ragged. “My apprentice shouldn't have given you false hope.”

Rising back to your feet, you turned to the younger healer. She'd said there were low chances, but chances nonetheless.

False hope.

The words echoed in your mind, cold and final like a death sentence. Azriel’s death sentence.

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. The apprentice backed away a step, well aware of the raging fury that you didn't bother to conceal as it kept building inside you. But before you could do anything, Azriel groaned, and your attention snapped back to him. He reached out with a shaking hand, the movement slow and agonizing, yet he wrapped his fingers around your wrist.

“It’s alright…” he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

It wasn’t alright. But to him, this was just confirmation. He had known it would be his end the moment those soldiers had picked him up, broken and bleeding, from the battlefield. He was holding on, barely, just for you. To see your face, to hear your voice, to feel your love one last time. But he was so tired, and the darkness was pressing in, and now the healers had spoken aloud what he had already understood.

“No,” you snapped. “No, it’s not alright, Azriel.”

You regretted yanking your hand free the instant you saw the flicker of pain on his face. Guilt surged through you, and you dropped to your knees before him again, taking his scarred hand in yours. Gently, you brought it to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I’m so sorry, my love. I just…”

Your voice broke, the words dying on your tongue. You couldn’t stop the tears then, and they rolled down your cheeks in waves. A terror unlike anything you had ever felt clutched your stomach, and you clung to the mating bond as though you were the one who needed a lifeline.

Neither of you noticed the two healers leave, probably to give you some privacy. Your sobs drowned out the clashing of the battle just a mile away from camp, each of them hitting Azriel like a stab in the heart. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what you were going through. For him, it would be over soon. But for you, it would last much longer. He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of living in a world where you had died, and yet you had to suffer through the same thing because he hadn’t been fast enough to avoid an attack from behind.

He wished it didn’t have to be this way. He wished he could go back in time and turn around one second earlier, or stay with you, in this world, forever. But no matter how much he tried to hold onto life and will his heart to keep beating, he was growing tired. The little strength he had left faltered and diminished with each passing second, and you were still crying and sobbing, still grasping his hand as though it could save him.

“My love…” he croaked before being interrupted by yet another cough. You blinked, lips wobbling as you tried to stop your crying long enough to hear his weak voice. But even without the usual light in his hazel eyes, you still understood what he was about to say.

“No,” you said before he could even start. “Don’t say goodbye, Az.”

You shook your head, and your hands moved to cup his face once more. He closed his eyes, as if feeling your touch was all he wanted.

“Don’t leave me,” you pleaded. You kept pulling on the bond between your souls as though it would keep him here, silently praying and begging the Mother not to take him from you. “You can’t leave me… please, my love, I still need you.”

Azriel felt your desperate tugs on the bond, but all he could do was send his love down the bridge to you. He couldn’t feel his body anymore. There were only your delicate hands on his cheeks, and though he was so damn tired, he opened his eyes to look at you one last time.

“I’ll always be with you,” he whispered hoarsely. He couldn’t even lift his arm to point to your chest, to the heart he had cherished and cradled for centuries, the heart he knew was now breaking, just like his own. “I’ll always be in your heart.”

“Please,” you repeated. It was the only thing you could do—hold on to the childish hope that pleading would mean something. “I can't lose you, I… I can't…”

Right then, a gentle hand pressed against the walls of your mental shield. You let it come down, expecting to hear Rhysand’s voice, but it was Feyre who spoke into your mind.

How is he?

You almost let out a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of the question, but when you answered, your voice sounded as broken as you felt. Forget the battle and get over here. All of you. He’s not… he’s…

You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, even now. But Feyre understood, and you could hear the pained note in her voice as she said, We’re coming.

“You have to be strong,” Azriel murmured. It was just a whisper, barely audible, and it drained him to speak, but he needed to reassure you, to make sure you were as alright as you could be. He’d seen your eyes glaze over for a few seconds and knew you’d talked to either Rhys or Feyre. They’d probably be here soon, and they’d take care of you in a way he couldn’t anymore.

A sob shook your whole body. “No,” you replied. “No, just… no.”

You weren’t sure what you were trying to refuse—his plea to be strong, the inevitability of what was about to happen, the unfairness of it all? Did it even matter anymore?

Azriel grasped at the little life left inside of him. His body was already floating on a cloud, and the beautiful features of your face—the lines he knew like the back of his hand—were nothing more than a confused blur. He couldn’t hold on anymore, and he knew it.

“I love you…” he managed to rasp out. He wanted those to be his last words to you. The only words that had ever mattered.

You could see the way his eyes grew distant, the light slowly abandoning them. “I love you too.” Your voice broke as you said them, desperation clawing at your insides like a living beast, sharp nails digging deep into you until nothing else was left. “I love you, but please… please, stay with me.”

You tried to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t look at you. He didn’t have enough strength.

“Stay with me…”

His eyes fluttered close.

“Please, my love… stay with me.”

His heart stopped beating.

“Please…”

And you felt the mating bond shatter.

Six people rushed into the tent just as you cried out in pain, despair, and heart-wrenching loss. Your screams and wails carried through the whole camp, maybe even the battlefield and the world at large.

Your family knew then. They had come too late.

A clattering sound echoed as Cassian dropped his helmet and then fell to his knees, his wings slumped on the ground and heartbreak written on his dirty face. Mor began sobbing, wrapped in Rhysand’s arms as tears streamed down their faces. Amren brought a hand to her mouth, her eyes shining. Nesta looked like she was about to throw up, but she silently knelt next to her mate and drew him close to her side. Only then did they both start crying.

You didn’t notice any of it. You didn’t notice Feyre approaching you slowly, weeping like all the others and yet trying what she could to be there for you.

“Y/N…” she called gently, reaching out to you.

You shook off the hand she laid on your shoulder as if the touch had singed you. “No,” you growled, the sound more animalistic than anything. Your hands were still on Azriel’s cheeks, and you had no intention of letting go. “Don’t.”

He would open his eyes soon. Your mate wouldn’t abandon you. Not like this. Not when there was still so much more you had to experience together. The centuries you had had with him weren’t enough. You wanted—needed, craved—more, and Azriel would open his eyes, and he would tell you that it was alright, that he would heal and you would keep trying to have the family you both dreamed of.

The minutes passed. Your cries got louder and more desperate, drowning out any sound that came from the rest of your family. You were barely aware of their presence. You were waiting for Azriel to open his eyes.

But he didn’t. You reached for the bond in your soul only to find broken shards of what once was a golden connection built on love and understanding and mutual respect.

He was really gone.

Your Azriel.

Your mate.

Dead.

Dead.

You must have said the word aloud because Feyre reached for you again. Your head snapped up, ready to lash out at her again, to yell at her and everyone else to leave you alone because how could they ever understand what you were going through? How could they ever understand what it meant to lose the love of your life?

But it wasn’t Feyre that was now standing next to you. She had retreated back to where the others stood, her hand clasped with Nesta’s as the two sisters held each other close and wept together.

“Y/N.” Cassian’s voice cracked, but his hand on your shoulder was steady as he crouched down in front of you. “Come here.”

He pried you away from Azriel and pulled you into a hug, even as you fought him. You didn’t want his touch, didn’t want anything that wasn’t hearing Azriel’s breathing and feeling the mating bond come back to life.

You screeched and struggled against his embrace, hands fisting to push him away, to hit him for a reason not even you understood, hoping it would bring you some wicked kind of comfort. But Cassian didn’t let go. He kept his strong arms around you, and the little fight you had left soon disappeared.

You collapsed against him, slumping against his chest as if life had been drained from you too. Maybe it had. Maybe you wouldn’t mind if it did. Your tears soaked into Cassian’s bloodied leathers, your sobs muffled by his embrace.

“I know,” was all he murmured. You could feel his own tears fall on your hair as he tucked you close and rested his cheek on your head. “I know…”

Somehow, the simple acknowledgement of what you were going through soothed you. Just a tiny bit. Enough for you to choke out, “I can’t do this without him, Cass.”

His hand rubbed slow circles over your back. If he was trying to get you to stop shaking, he was failing miserably.

“It’s alright,” he replied quietly. “You don’t have to figure it out now.”

It was reassuring knowing you didn’t have to. Cassian was giving you a chance to grieve, to let it all out, to scream and cry and sob because he knew you needed it. 

So you did.

Emptiness grew inside you until it threatened to swallow you whole, and you let it. You didn’t have to figure it out now. You didn’t want to. You could just let yourself feel, even if it killed you. A part of you had already died, and, just like Azriel, you would never get it back. You would never be whole again.

“We had so many plans,” you whispered. Someone was sniffling, but you couldn’t tell if it was Cassian, someone else, or maybe even you. “I thought… I thought we’d have many more centuries together.”

Cassian’s arms tightened around your trembling form, but before he could reply, another pair of arms slid around you both. You didn’t bother lifting your head to see who it was.

“We all did,” Mor said, her voice weak and broken. “But we’ll be alright, Y/N.”

Shuffling steps drew closer, and then you couldn’t tell who was where, but you still sensed all your friends gathering together to hold you and each other close.

We’ll be alright. You weren’t sure you would ever be alright, not without half of your heart and soul, but… we. Mor had said “we”, not “you”.

You had lost your mate, but they had loved Azriel too. They had lost a brother, a friend, and they were suffering just like you. With you.

“We’ll be alright.” Rhys. Somewhere to your left.

You finally opened your eyes and found him staring at Azriel, still on the table. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at your mate.

“In time,” Rhys murmured. His teary eyes found yours, a quiet understanding in them. “But not now.”

For you, it was most likely never. Without Azriel, the future was black and empty. There was nothing to look forward to. You couldn’t face it without him, and you didn’t want to. But you didn’t have to figure it out now.

For now, you let yourself grieve.

2nd a/n: how do writers kill off their characters? Writing this destroyed me. Now I know why SJM always finds way to bring them back to life... my soft little heart longs for a HEA whenever I write, so I'm never doing this again (maybe idk)

General taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon

@booksbypisces i know you asked me to tag you in this months ago. Hope you're still interested! I didn't think it'd take this long 🫣

[deathbyday]

-'⁠🫧*⁠.⁠✧mouthwashing✧.⁠*⁠🫧'⁠ -

P7

“How could we end up here…?”

Daisuke x implied F!Reader

TW: OD’ing, death, suicide, mouthwashing deaths in gen

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Written By: DeathByDay

(Also written on Mobile)

4 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

After 10 minutes of being away from the medical room, you figured it was time to go back and check on Anya and Curly. You walked up to the door, gently knocking before waiting for an answer. But to your surprise, the black haired woman didn’t respond.

You became confused. You pressed your ear against the door, your skin glazing the metal. You heard breathing. You couldn’t make out whose it was, causing you to continue knocking, hoping for a response.

“Anya? Are you there?” You asked, raising your voice in case she couldn’t hear you. You heard light footsteps behind you, so you turned your head to see Daisuke walking towards you, a confused expression on his face.

“Is Anya okay?” He raised a brow, pressing his hand against the door. “I don’t know.. she isn’t responding.” You replied, voice soft and filled with worry. You keep your eyes on Daisuke, swallowing the bad feeling inside your gut.

“Anya! You okay?” He shouted, banging on the door. The two of you subconsciously stopped breathing, hoping to hear her reply.

“..Yeah.” She whispered, her voice muffled. Your eyes lit up, hearing her speak. “Is the door stuck?” You asked, feeling a knot get tighter in your throat. This was definitely something more than just a jammed door.

You heard a slight sniffle, causing you to slightly purse your lips before speaking once again. “Anya, we’re going to get you out of there.” You promised, glancing over at Daisuke, his face mimicking yours.

That was until his eyes lit up, remembering something that he paid little attention to before. “Oh, I’ll be right back! I saw Jimmy in the lounge just a couple minutes ago. I’ll go grab him!” He hurriedly explained before turning around, ignoring your calls to wait.

If anything, Jimmy would just make things worse for Anya and the two of you. You knew that, but why didn’t he? You quietly groan, turning back towards the door and banging on it once again.

“Please, Anya, I’m not dumb. Come on out, alright? We can talk this over. Just don’t do anything stupid!” You shouted, feeling the corner of your eyes sting with tears. You shook them away, knowing it wasn’t the time.

After a few seconds, you heard the sound of four feet run against the ground. You glanced behind you before stepping off to the side of the metal door, Daisuke settling beside you.

“Anya? I brought Jimmy!” His voice was filled with urgency, not knowing what to do. Hell, you didn’t know either. “We’re here to rescue you, so don’t worry.” He reassured, his hand on the wall. Jimmy takes a step closer to the door, causing you to shuffle your feet to the side even more.

He gently knocks on the door with his knuckles, the side of his face against the metal. “Hey. Heard the locks broken.” He confirmed, keeping his sentence short. Anya doesn’t speak, causing him to shout her name.

You stood off to the side, one hand resting on your forearm. As you did so, Anya finally replied, causing him to let go of a soft sigh. “The rest of our medicine stash is in there too. Damn, this could be bad..” He muttered. “Did you try to really put your back into it?” He asked, his voice raising.

You rolled your eyes before pushing past the man and hammering your fist on the door. “Anya, this isn’t a game. You need to come out!” You plead with her, not wanting this to go on any longer. Daisuke placed his hand on your shoulder in attempt to calm you down.

“Any wrenches laying around? How heavy is the med kit?” He called out, gently pulling you behind him before getting in front of the door, placing his two hands on it. “Anya, is the door stuck?” Jimmy whispered, wondering if she could hear him through the door without raising his tone.

She didn’t reply for a few seconds before muttering a small, “No”. Your blood ran cold. You opened your mouth, but Daisuke cut you off before any words came out.

“What do you mean?” He asked, raising a brow. Anya didn’t have any chance to reply before Jimmy spoke up. “Look, we’re all stressed. But, you can’t go breaking down at every little hardship.” You glanced towards him, seeing his brows furrow, clearly becoming frustrated.

“Open the damn door.” Your leg subconsciously shook, knowing where this was going to go. “You were right. You were right all along.” Anya’s soft voice felt heavy as she spoke. “I should’ve done this from the beginning.” You turned back towards the door, keeping your eyes locked on it.

“I always believed that our worst moments didn’t define us. Didn’t make us beyond repair.” The three of you stayed silent, the only sound being her echoing voice. “You think i wanted this either? Make no mistake. This isn’t my worst moment.. far from it. It’s the best one I’ll ever make.” She chuckled.

You heard the gentle sound of pill bottles being opened, causing you to immediately panic. Before you could even begin to talk, a firm hand gripped your bicep, causing you to back down.

You shook the hand off, not wanting the man to touch you anymore. “Open the door.” He demanded, hands forming fists. You were just glad he wasn’t holding you in his grasp anymore.

“I’ll take care of it.” Anya promised. Suddenly, Daisuke was the one to panic. He banged on the door with his palms, shouting at the woman inside. “What does that mean?!” His voice was shaky. You couldn’t help but just stare at him, feeling hopeless.

“Curly is still in there with her, right?” Jimmy mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. Daisuke turned around, nodding his head. “Yeah. You don’t think-..” He cut himself off, realization creeping into his skull.

Jimmy took a deep breath in. “Daisuke. You and Swansea know the internals of the ship better than anyone. There’s absolutely no other way into Medical?” He started, raising a brow. You turned to him, curious as to where his plan was going.

Daisuke thought for a moment, sounding hesitant. “Swansea said it was strictly off limits..” He stated, fully turning his body around. “Like, super, mega not allowed above all else.” Jimmy’s face twisted to realization. “The utility room.”

Your breath hitched, words getting caught in your throat. “That busted vent in there loops into Medical. But, technically a person could totally fit through it.” The brunette confirmed, causing you to finally budge in, glaring at Jimmy.

“That vent has been busted for a long time now. Someone could get seriously injured if they went inside it.” You warned, taking glances at the two men. “Y/N, if that’s the only way, we’ll make it work.” Your eyes widened, surprised by the boldness of Jimmy.

He then turned his body towards the door, keeping his eye locked on you. “You listening, Anya?” It felt as if the whole ship went silent as you three waited for her reply, but she never spoke. “Fine.” He gave up, relaxing his face. “Come on, Daisuke.”

He motioned for him to follow, causing you to grasp your boyfriend’s arm, making him stop in his tracks. “Daisuke, c’mon. You can’t be serious.” You whispered, keeping your voice low. He was clearly hesitant to go with him, but he gave you a smile nonetheless.

“Trust me, babe. I got this.” He promised. You shook your head, glancing back at the man who waited for the two of you. You slowly let your boyfriend go, resting your arms at your sides. “Fine.” You grumbled. “I’ll stay here, I guess..”

The brunette just chuckled, almost forgetting his task before Jimmy cleared his throat, growing impatient. Daisuke nodded towards him, quickly hurrying towards him, you hesitantly staying back.

If only you fought harder.

______

8 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT

“Jim-.. what the fuck did you do?!” You shout, dragging out his name. As you did so, your voice became louder and more intense. Glancing down, in your arms laid an almost lifeless Daisuke. He gasped in shock, clutching his stomach as you continued panicking.

Jimmy ignored you, staring down at the man in your arms. “Don’t do anything!” He demanded before muttering; “stop” over and over. “I can fix thi-..” He spoke, causing Swansea to cut him off. “Why do you keep fucking saying that?” He asked, hands on his hips.

Daisuke groaned softly, causing the two men to shut up. “I-..I’m s-sorry..” He mumbled, shaking his head in sorrow. You leaned down, hugging his head to your shoulder like he was a baby. “It’s going to be okay, just stay still. I’ve got you, I promise.” You reassured, planting a light kiss on his temple.

“We still have disinfectant, right?” Swansea turned back towards Jimmy, his hands now over his chest. “The one from the extra medical stash?” He asked quite frantically before demanding he grabbed it.

“The cocktail..” Jimmy trailed off, glancing down at Daisuke. “The cocktail?!” Swansea shouted. “What are are blabbering about?” As the two men bickered, you drowned their voices out. You kept your eyes on your boyfriend, watching him squirm in your arms.

“You need to stop moving around!” You cried, almost pleading for him to stop. Jimmy stood up before walking away with Swansea, you being left alone with Daisuke.

______

After about 20 minutes, the two of them came back. Jimmy held a bottle of mouthwash in his hand, causing you to shout at him as he sat down in front of you, taking the bottle cap off. “Are you crazy?” You asked, knowing what he was about to use the blue liquid for.

“It’s the only thing we have.” He replied harshly. He tore the cap off, tossing it to the ground before turning it to the side. You pull Daisuke back, not letting Jimmy touch him. “You can’t!” You plead, shaking your head.

The brunette only glared at you, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Let him go, Y/N.” He demanded. You shook your head once again, not wanting him to touch the man in your arms.

“No..” You mumble, holding Daisuke to your chest. “Godammit, let him go!” He yelled at you, causing tears to flow down your cheeks. Hesitantly, you obeyed. Jimmy let out a deep breath, turning the bottle onto its side once more, letting the liquid fall out and onto Daisuke’s wounds.

It sizzled as you covered your ears with the palm of your hands, hearing your boyfriend’s screams. You hiccup, curling in on yourself.

You just couldn’t bear to listen to his raspy voice cry.

______

3 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

You stayed behind, watching the door to medical. There was a chance she could change her mind and unlock the door, making you the first to see her after the incident. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her guilty face as she stepped out of the door, accepting your attempt to hug her.

But your thoughts were cut short by a loud scream echoing behind the automatic door. You recognized that scream almost immediately. Your face twisted from pleased to panic in an instant as you gripped the side of the door, your fingernails barely grasping the metal.

As you groaned, you pulled as hard as you could. But to your dismay, it didn’t budge. You silently waited, knowing you couldn’t do anything. The only thing swirling inside your mind was the hope that Daisuke got to the other side of the vent, let alone was still alive.

You heard a grunt before Daisuke spoke up. Your muscles tensed, hearing his voice. It was raspy; sounding like his vocal cords could explode any second now. “Anya..? Wh-..What did you do?” His voice was shaky, hinting that he was crying.

Your breath became faster, anxiety rushing through your veins. “Daisuke, that’s you, right? Baby, I need you to open the door for me right now!” You shouted, banging on the door in hopes he would obey. You heard shuffling inside the room before the click of the door, causing it to automatically open.

The sight in front of you was unbelievable. Curly laid on the medical bed, staring directly at you. Anya sat on the ground beside him, pills scattered around her, making the cause of her death easily visible. Overdosing.

You fought the urge to scream at her to wake up, knowing that if you did, it would only be a waste of time. You then glanced at your feet, seeing your boyfriend with cuts all over him.

You instantly react, lifting his body up by the arms. You drag him out of the room, a light blood trail following. Rough footsteps came from behind you, but you couldn’t bother to turn back, already knowing it was Jimmy.

“What the fuck?” He muttered in shock, causing you to yell at him. “Don’t just stand there, what is wrong with you?! Help me!” You cried, feeling a deep gash on Daisuke’s chest. The older man took him from your arms, carrying him into the lounge.

You stayed close behind, noticing that Daisuke’s blood was all over your arms and hands, and even your jumper. You stared in shock, but you didn’t say anything. You knew panicking wouldn’t do anyone any good.

______

7 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT

After Jimmy used the mouthwash as disinfectant, Daisuke’s wounds didn’t seem to get better. You ended up blowing up at the older man, screaming at him, saying what a shitty job he’s done.

You almost broke skin from your knuckles from smashing the metal floor, trying to let your frustration out.

Swansea was the one who had to comfort you. He didn’t hold you, but he did have his arms loosely wrapped around you, guiding you to sit on the floor as Jimmy kept muttering random words to Daisuke.

He sat you against the wall on the other side of the door, letting you glance over at the wounded brunette whenever you felt like it. You continued sobbing, not caring if you were ugly crying or not. That was the least of everyone’s concerns.

Everything came crashing down on you like a train. You hadn’t registered Anya’s death until now, along with how serious Daisuke’s injuries actually were. You couldn’t believe what was happening. You couldn’t escape this nightmare.

Your body faced Daisuke, your arms wrapping around your own body in attempt to ground yourself from lashing out at Jimmy once again. You hiccuped, feeling Swansea’s hand gently caress your back. He was seated next to you, his body also facing the two men.

“It’s going to be alright.” You heard him mumble. You weren’t sure if he was muttering those words to you or him, but you nodded nonetheless.

You lowered your head into your arms, feeling the dried blood of Daisuke flake off. You snuffled, resting your head against the metal wall.

“I know.” You replied, your voice raspy. It hurt to speak after shouting for a minute straight, but that was the consequence of your own actions. After a few minutes, you felt the tears that fell from your eyes finally dry.

You muffled a sob as Swansea pat your back, giving you one last glance before standing up. He walked back towards Daisuke and Jimmy, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You quickly decided to follow suit, feeling your legs wobble as you stepped towards your boyfriend. It hurt you to stare down at him, knowing the paining backstory as to how he got so injured.

You sat down in front of Swansea and Jimmy, Daisuke lying in between. You held an expression of someone who’s exhausted, yet still fighting for worth. That’s exactly where you were at now.

Except the only person who made you feel like you were finally worth something was bleeding out in front of you. And you can’t do anything about it.

The three of you stayed silent as the brunette continued groaning in pain. You couldn’t help but feel tears sting the corner of your eyes, wishing you could do something to take his pain away.

Letting out a soft sigh, you lean over and wrap your arms around Daisuke before resting his head to your chest, cradling him like you were doing an hour ago.

You felt his fingers loosely grasp around your clothed skin, causing you to let out a soft whine, trying not to break down again. You hid your face from the two men’s view in Daisuke’s hair, your forehead to the top of his head.

You knew his time would be over soon, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. And so, you cradled him in your arms like a baby, not ready to let go. Suddenly, you heard Jimmy’s harsh tone of voice.

“I can fix this.” He muttered, his expression calm, yet his body language stated otherwise. He was shaky, twitching out of hesitance.

You lifted your head, watching as he let out a deep sigh. His eyes were set on Daisuke’s stomach, seeing blood continue to flow out of his body.

You then turned your attention towards Swansea, who already had his eyes set on you. Your brows upturned, seeing his saddened expression. He knew what you were thinking.

You gave Daisuke a short lived kiss on the top of his head before placing your chin in that exact spot, careful not to put any pressure. You advert your eyes to the side, ignoring the older man’s stare.

“It’s going to be alright.” You whisper to the man in your arms, repeating what Swansea had said earlier. You felt a lump in your throat, feeling the tears continue to sting your eyes.

“I know it hurts, but p-..please, I can’t do this without you.” Your voice was so soft that Daisuke could barely hear you.

He knew he didn’t have much time left, seeing as blood was gushing out of his chest. But he continued fighting, not ready to leave you alone on this space freighter.

______

6 HOURS UNTIL JUDGEMENT.

“The bleeding won’t stop.” Jimmy’s voice rang through the intense air. Daisuke still laid in your arms, his eyes glancing towards you from time to time. He could see your expression and how dead you looked.

“Just try to stay still, Daisuke. I-..I need a second to think. We can fix this.” The man with stubble on his chin whispered, causing your body to tense up.

He always said the words, “I can fix this”. Most of the time, he always screwed it up. Why was this time any different?

Swansea stared down at the wounded man in your arms, wondering how he could help. At least he was actually doing something instead of mumbling that he could fix this mess.

Then you. You. You caressed Daisuke’s cheek, causing him to glance up at you again. You can see the pain in his eyes, his suffering to keep himself alive. It was draining him, and it was obvious to everyone nearby.

You couldn’t bear staring at him any longer. The men beside you were stalling, not knowing what to do. But you did. You slowly lowered him to the ground, careful not to make any sudden movements.

As you did so, Daisuke began coughing. He wrapped his arms around himself, blood seeping out past his lips. This only drove you further to do what was necessary. You glanced back up at the older man in front of you, leaning over and holding out your arm.

“Give me the axe, Swansea.” You uttered, your other arm resting at your side, hand running through Daisuke’s sweaty hair, almost like an attempt to comfort him. To soothe his pain.

Swansea hesitantly set his axe in your hand, not wanting to believe what he was thinking. But in the back of his mind, he knew exactly what you were planning. And so did Jimmy. He instantly shouted at you to stop. To think about what you were doing.

But you couldn’t.

Not when the only person you ever actually cared for was in pain. Not while he’s lying in front of you helplessly, waiting for the suffering to end.

Your hand parted from Daisuke’s hair to help support the weight of the axe. You glanced at the weapon in your hands, then at your wounded boyfriend, then at the men who sat in front of you.

One held a stern look on his face, the other pleading with you to think about what you were doing. But you knew exactly what you were doing. You lowered your head, lips parting from each other as you spoke, staring at the brunette through a pained expression.

“It’ll be okay, Daisuke.” You muttered, ignoring Jimmy’s words that fled your head.

“I don’t want to make the same mistakes I’ve made with keeping myself here. I don’t want to make you suffer with the consequences of something that isn’t your fault, Daisuke.” You somberly shook your head, keeping your eyes locked on him.

“You deserved a better life, not one that requires going to space to make the people you love proud.” Your voice cracked, tears finally breaking free from the tiny glass wall in front of your eyes once again. The liquid fell down your cheeks, planting themselves onto the hard metal ground.

“You should’ve been out there on earth having fun.. but instead, you got stuck with the people who only put you down when you needed them most. And for that, I say sorry. I say sorry for everyone who ever hurt you. And to that, that includes me.”

You held your shoulders high, lifting the axe in your hands and setting the sharp side beside your head.

“Close your eyes, Daisuke.” He obeyed almost instantly, your voice being the last thing he ever heard before you smashed the axe across his face, ending his life.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

authors note

so um.. how do we like this chapter?

(crashing out ASAP as if I didn’t write this entire fic.)

obviously there’s more chapters to come, so be on the look out for that!! chapter eight will be out in a week or two.

like half of this chapter was supposed to be in chapter eight, but I couldn’t stop myself from hitting you all with more angst after each sentence. I got carried away

nonetheless, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! I definitely enjoyed writing it<3

(and crying while doing so)

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝐵𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Genre- Angst

Word count- 5423

A/N:Okk so I’ve been in a writing mood recently. This is one of my fav angst fics by far even though I only have like two other fics rn..

The first time Jimin broke down in front of you, it wasn’t loud. It was quiet—so quiet, you almost didn’t notice.

She sat at the edge of your bed in her hoodie, makeup smudged beneath her tired eyes, phone gripped loosely in her hand. Her schedule for the week still blinked across the screen. Practice. Recording. Interviews. Fan sign. Repeat.

You had just come out of the shower when you saw her there. Back hunched, head down.

“Jimin?” you asked softly.

No answer.

Only the softest shake of her head.

You sat beside her, towel still around your neck, and waited.

That’s when the first tear slipped down her cheek.

She didn’t sob. Didn’t wail. Just crumbled. Like something inside her gave up.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered.

You reached for her hand. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice cracked, bitter and hollow. “I give everything, Y/N. Every part of me. I rehearse until my legs shake. I smile until my jaw aches. I sit in interviews and tell them what they want to hear. I never complain. I’m perfect for them. But it’s never enough.”

Your fingers curled around hers tighter. “You’re not alone.”

She looked at you like she wanted to believe that. Like she needed to.

“I just…” she breathed, “I wanted this. I chose this. But I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”

You pulled her into you then, arms wrapping around her tightly as she trembled in your hold. You let her cry into your shoulder, words spilling between shallow breaths—about the weight, the pressure, the loneliness.

She told you how she didn’t feel like a person anymore. Just an image. A machine with glitter and gloss painted on top.

And when she was done, when her voice faded to a whisper, you whispered back the only truth that mattered:

“I love you. All of you. Even the pieces they don’t see.”

⸻

That night changed everything.

She clung to you like a lifeline after that—small touches, soft kisses in the dark, quiet good mornings whispered against your collarbone. She found peace in your silence, safety in your arms.

And you… you fell.

Harder than you meant to. Deeper than you thought was possible.

You weren’t sure when it shifted from love to something more. But one night, in the dark, as her fingers brushed against your cheek and she said “You’re my home,” you knew you’d never feel that kind of love again.

Of course, it didn’t last.

The world never lets girls like you and her stay soft.

It started with rumors. A blurry photo. A thread on Twitter that gained traction too fast. Fans dissected every second of her eye contact, every matching accessory, every shared moment that had slipped through.

Jimin didn’t say a word at first.

Not to you. Not to her team.

She just… distanced.

She’d kiss your forehead instead of your lips. Text less. Stay longer at practice.

And when the company called her in, you already knew what was coming.

That night, she came to you with her hands in fists and her voice shaking.

“They’re making me choose.”

You stared at her. “Between what?”

She didn’t answer.

You already knew.

Between the career she gave her soul to…

And you.

The only place she ever felt like a person.

⸻

You didn’t make her choose. You wanted to—wanted to scream at her to pick you, to stay, to fight. But the look in her eyes… it wasn’t indecision.

It was grief.

She had already chosen.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I love you. But I— I can’t walk away. Not now. Not after everything. I worked so hard for this.”

You didn’t say anything.

Because there was nothing left to say.

You didn’t go to her debut stage afterward. Didn’t watch her variety appearances. Didn’t check her fancams.

You tried to erase her from your life like she’d been forced to erase you from hers.

But some things don’t leave so easily.

Months passed.

You saw her face everywhere. Storefronts. Billboards. Ad banners. She looked happy in them. Almost.

But when the tour dates dropped, something inside you ached.

You weren’t sure why you bought the ticket.

Maybe part of you needed closure. Maybe part of you still hoped she’d see you in the crowd and feel the same thing you did—this constant, unbearable longing.

⸻

And then the night came.

You stood in a sea of fans, lights waving in the air, chants echoing like thunder. Jimin was front and center, radiant, flawless, glowing.

But her eyes scanned the crowd like she was looking for something.

And then they landed on you.

You saw her freeze.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t wave.

But your eyes held hers.

And suddenly—everything shattered.

You saw it in her face. The cracks in her perfect mask. The flicker of pain in her smile. The way her next note wobbled just slightly.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You were supposed to be gone.

Forgotten.

But she hadn’t. Not really.

And neither had you.

The concert ended, but the silence between you and Jimin was deafening. Despite the distance, your eyes had met, and in that fleeting moment, a thousand unspoken words passed between you.

Backstage, Jimin sat alone, the weight of her choices pressing down on her. The cheers of the crowd still echoed in her ears, but they felt hollow. She had achieved her dream, but at what cost?

Her phone buzzed incessantly—messages from fans, her agency, and the media flooded in. The news of her relationship had spread like wildfire, and the backlash was swift and brutal. Fans felt betrayed, accusing her of prioritizing personal happiness over their support. Protest trucks with electronic billboards displayed messages of disappointment outside her agency’s headquarters, demanding apologies and questioning her loyalty.

Under immense pressure, Jimin released a handwritten apology on social media, expressing remorse for surprising her fans and promising to be more mature and hardworking in the future.

Despite her efforts, the damage was done. The agency presented her with an ultimatum: end the relationship or risk her career. Torn between her love for you and her dedication to her fans and team, Jimin made the painful decision to prioritize her career.

You, on the other hand, were left in the shadows, grappling with the loss of the woman who had been your anchor. The memories of shared laughter, whispered dreams, and tender moments haunted you. Every song on the radio, every billboard, every social media post was a reminder of what you had lost.

Your world had become a monochrome canvas, devoid of the vibrant colors Jimin had once painted into your life. The pain was a constant companion, a dull ache that refused to fade.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, both of you tried to move on, but the void remained. Jimin threw herself into her work, masking her pain with rehearsals and performances. You attempted to rebuild your life, seeking solace in familiar routines and the support of friends.

Yet, neither of you could escape the lingering question: What if?

You told yourself you wouldn’t cry again.

But as you lay on your bed weeks after the concert, staring at the ceiling in the dark, her voice came back to you—not from your phone, not from a video, but from memory.

The way she whispered your name.

The way she said “I’m sorry” like it cost her everything.

And it did, didn’t it?

She gave you up. For a dream.

A dream you always knew she loved first.

Still, it didn’t stop the hurt…

The world didn’t stop when Jimin told the truth.

The internet broke, yes. Headlines ran wild. Her company scrambled. Fans argued.

But the world itself kept turning.

And so did yours.

You waited in your apartment that night, curled up on the couch, watching the livestream end with shaky breath.

She had said it. Your love—tender, fragile, true—spoken into the world.

You didn’t ask her to.

But she did it anyway.

_________

It took you a week to work up the courage to call her.

After the livestream. After she said she’d been in love. After she looked at the camera like she was staring through the screen and into your bones.

You needed to know. For sure.

So you called.

She answered on the third ring. “Hey.”

Your heart stuttered.

You tried to sound casual. “So… the livestream.”

Silence.

Then, her voice—flat, practiced. “Yeah. That.”

“Did you do that… for me?”

Another pause. Too long. Too careful.

“No,” she said. And it landed like a blade. “It was spontaneous.”

You froze.

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly. It was stupid.” She forced a laugh. “I mean, look at what happened. Fans leaving. Sponsors dropping. People turning their backs.”

You didn’t say anything.

And still, she kept going. Digging the knife deeper, even though her voice cracked like it didn’t want to.

“If anything, I kind of… hate you for it.”

There it was. The final blow.

You swallowed back the scream. “Right.”

“I have to go,” she said quickly. “Sorry.”

Click.

The line went dead.

You stared at the phone for a long time. Breathing slowly. Shaking.

You didn’t know she was crying too. That she had turned off her phone and curled up on her dorm bed, clutching the pillow she once stole from you. Whispering the things she couldn’t say out loud:

“I did it for you.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

“I just… didn’t know how to be brave twice.”

But she never called back. And you never asked again.

And that was how it ended.

Not with hate. Not with closure.

Just with silence.

And all the words left unsaid.

Days passed, but you still couldn’t shake the weight of the phone call.

You went through the motions of life—work, eating, trying to be social—but everything felt numb. The laughter of your friends was too distant, their smiles too bright, too unaware of the ache that gnawed at you. You sat alone at night, watching the moon drift across the sky from your window, as if time itself were mocking you.

Jimin’s words kept replaying in your mind, each syllable stabbing deeper than the last. She had been so sure, so distant when she said them. “I kind of hate you for it.”

The bitter taste of her words filled your throat, leaving you gasping for air as you clung to the only thing that remained from her—the memory.

You tried to reach out after that. Another message. Another call. But nothing came of it. No apologies. No explanations. Just silence.

⸻

Jimin, too, had her own demons to wrestle with.

The aftermath of her decision was crushing, but she hid it well. The public still adored her. She was still the star. But each smile felt like a mask, each performance a hollow echo of what it used to be.

She had built her world on the approval of others, on the adoration of fans who would turn on her in an instant if they knew the truth. And now? She was paying the price. She’d made a choice, but the cost was more than she could have ever prepared for.

In the quiet moments, when the stage lights dimmed and the cameras were turned off, Jimin would find herself staring at the walls of her dorm room, heart aching for something she couldn’t reach anymore. For someone she had lost in her desperation to hold on to everything else.

Her phone sat on the bedside table, but she never picked it up. She couldn’t. Not after what she’d said. The damage was done, and no matter how much she wished she could take them back, they lingered in the space between them like a toxic fog.

What hurt the most was that she knew she’d never be able to say the truth. Not to you, not to anyone. She had let fear and insecurity guide her, and now, she had lost you for good.

⸻

It was a week before you saw her again.

It happened by accident. You had gone to a concert, just to escape the suffocating loneliness that had taken over your life. You hadn’t planned on seeing her, and you certainly hadn’t planned on feeling your heart twist in your chest when you saw her on stage.

She was there, right in front of you, smiling at the crowd like she had everything under control. The crowd cheered. They adored her.

But you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

Her eyes flicked to the crowd for a moment, and when they landed on you, everything seemed to stop. Her smile faltered for just a second, but it was enough. The recognition was there, clear as day.

You felt your heart stop.

And in that moment, you knew she hadn’t moved on. Not really.

⸻

After the concert, you walked through the parking lot, hoping to slip out unnoticed. But you couldn’t escape. You heard footsteps behind you, hesitant and unsure.

“Y/N,” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.

You froze.

Her presence was like a storm. It flooded your senses, and suddenly, you were back in that space—the space where everything had once felt possible. Where you had been her world, and she had been yours. But now, it was all shattered.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you said, your voice shaking more than you wanted to admit.

Jimin stepped closer, looking lost. “I… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Too late for that,” you whispered, turning away from her, not able to face the pain in her eyes.

“No, please,” she begged, catching your arm gently, pulling you back to her. “I didn’t mean it. You have to believe me.”

You stared at her hand on your arm, warmth radiating from her touch, but you felt cold. You pulled away, a part of you wanting to run. “Then why did you say it?”

Her eyes filled with regret, tears brimming at the corners. She blinked them away quickly. “Because I was scared. Scared of losing everything. My fans, my career. I thought that if I was honest about us, everything would fall apart. But now I realize… it already did.”

You shook your head, the anger and hurt bubbling up inside you, too much to contain. “You had everything, Jimin. But you let it go. For your fans, for your career… and now, for your pride.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” she said quietly, the words barely above a whisper. “I can’t undo the damage.”

You looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the hollow pain in her expression. She had broken herself trying to hold everything together, and now there was nothing left to give.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said, your voice breaking. “I can’t keep waiting for you to realize what you threw away.”

⸻

Days turned into weeks. The space between you and Jimin remained vast. She tried to reach out, sending messages, trying to explain herself. But each one was a pale imitation of what she truly wanted to say.

And every time, you pushed her away.

It wasn’t until months later that you finally found the courage to send her one last message.

“Do you still love me?”

There was no response for a long time.

Then, finally, her reply came.

“No. I don’t.”

You stared at the message, the words searing through you like a final betrayal.

She hadn’t loved you. Not in the way you had hoped. She never had. She had been scared of what she could have lost, and in doing so, she lost the one person who had always loved her without condition.

“I did it for them. I did it for me.”

The message was a lie. A carefully crafted lie. And you knew it.

You stared at her name on your screen, your fingers trembling. The weight of everything came crashing down, and you realized there was nothing left. Not for you. Not for her.

The truth would never be said. You both would remain stuck in this endless loop of regret and silence.

And as you sat in the quiet of your room, the finality of it all settled in.

You would never be what you once were to her.

⸻

The nights were the hardest.

Jimin found herself lying awake in the stillness of her room, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. But sleep never seemed to come when her heart was so heavy. The silence between her and you, the words she had said, lingered in the quiet. It was as though everything had faded, and the only thing she could hear was the echo of her own mistakes.

She had said it was spontaneous. She had convinced herself that it was a decision made on impulse, that she hadn’t meant to lose you. But deep down, she knew the truth. It wasn’t just about her career or the fans—it was about fear. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of letting herself love someone so completely, so fully, that there was no way to come back from it when it was gone.

And now it was gone.

Her phone sat on the desk, unopened. No messages from you. No calls. Every time she thought about reaching out, she froze. What would she even say? How could she undo the damage?

She had made the choice to protect herself, to protect everything she had built. But in doing so, she had destroyed the one thing that could have been hers forever.

She stood in front of the mirror one night, her eyes swollen from yet another round of tears. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to piece together the shattered parts of herself, but the reflection staring back at her felt foreign.

Could I ever be loved again?

The question haunted her.

She had always been the center of attention, adored by her fans, her team, and the world. But none of that ever felt real—not in the way it had when you were by her side.

You had been hers. Her safe place. The person who knew her better than anyone. The one who saw the sides of her no one else could. And now, there was an empty space in her heart where you used to be.

A few weeks later, after everything had quieted down, Jimin sat backstage at a photoshoot, her mind wandering. The team was bustling around her, but she was distant. The words from that last conversation with you, the message that had ripped through her like a storm, kept replaying in her mind.

“I did it for them. I did it for me.”

But it wasn’t true. She had done it for fear. She had done it because she couldn’t imagine a life without her career, without her fans, without the identity she had spent so long building. But in the end, all of that had crumbled away.

Her eyes fell to the floor, to the scattered notes from the stylist, the makeup artist’s bag, and the mirror where she once saw the reflection of someone who had it all.

And she wondered—Could I ever be loved again?

Could she find someone who would see her the way you had? Could anyone truly understand her like you had?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. A familiar voice called out to her. “Jimin, you’re up next.”

She stood up, wiped away the traces of her tears, and forced a smile. The mask went back on, but it didn’t feel the same. It felt heavier now. It felt like something she had to wear, not something that came naturally.

As she sat in front of the camera moments later, the bright lights almost blinding her, the image of you appeared in her mind like a haunting. Your smile, the warmth in your eyes when you looked at her, the way your hands held hers, grounding her.

You were mine.

She could almost hear her own voice whispering it, but the words felt impossible now. You were gone, and she had pushed you away.

But in the silence of the photoshoot, in the cold, bright lights, she realized something that tore through her chest like nothing else ever had.

You were hers.

Her soulmate. Her lover. Her safe place.

And she had let you slip through her fingers.

The thought of someone else holding your hand, laughing with you, loving you in the way she never could anymore, crushed her.

Jimin had always been afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of giving herself fully to someone. But the truth was, you had given her the courage to do it. You had shown her a love that was so raw, so real, that she couldn’t imagine giving it to anyone else.

Could I love someone else the way I loved you? she wondered, and the answer was clear in her chest.

No.

She would never love anyone the same way. No one could fill the space you had left. No one could be hers like you had been.

⸻

The photoshoot ended, but Jimin couldn’t shake the feeling. It gnawed at her every time she saw a smile, heard a laugh, or felt the emptiness of the world around her. Every song she performed, every interview she gave, was just a reminder of how far she had fallen from the person who had made her feel whole.

And the worst part? She couldn’t even bring herself to fix it. Her pride, her fear, all of it stood between her and the one thing she wanted more than anything: you.

But you were gone now.

⸻

Jimin stood in front of her bedroom window that night, the city lights twinkling like a distant memory. She couldn’t help but think of the time you had spent together—the late-night talks, the shared laughter, the closeness that had felt so natural.

Was it always meant to end this way? she wondered.

She wrapped her arms around herself, the ache inside her chest threatening to swallow her whole.

No matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, Jimin knew the truth now.

She had lost you. And nothing in this world could bring you back.

Jimin’s Perspective:

It had been weeks since she last saw you, and every day felt like she was drowning in a sea of unspoken words, regrets, and heartache.

Jimin’s world had gone silent. She had become a puppet, moving through the motions of her life but never truly feeling anything. She put on her mask for her fans, for the cameras, for the public who still adored her, but behind the smile was a heart that had been shattered by its own hands. The image of you, the one person who had made her feel loved, was all she could think about. She couldn’t escape it. No matter how hard she tried to fill the void with the endless applause or the flashing lights of her performances, there was only one thing missing: you.

She had let you slip through her fingers—she had chosen her career, her fans, her image, over you. Over the one person who would have loved her endlessly, despite everything. But it was too late now. She knew that. The damage had been done. And now, in the silence of her room, she couldn’t deny the truth anymore.

I lost her. I lost everything.

She had tried to tell herself that she had done the right thing, that her career was too important, that she couldn’t risk everything for one person. But the hollow feeling inside her was unbearable. No matter how much she tried to distract herself, the truth clawed at her: I can’t love anyone else the way I loved her.

Every time she went to pick up her phone, every time she thought about reaching out, her heart would stop. She couldn’t. She had already hurt you enough. The lies, the silence, the distance—it was too much. You deserved more. You deserved someone who could give you everything, without hesitation, without holding back.

But Jimin wasn’t that person anymore. Not for you. Not after everything she had done.

She paced back and forth in her room, her thoughts spiraling as she gazed at the phone on her desk. She had the power to contact you. She could send one message, one call, and maybe everything could change. Maybe you would forgive her. Maybe there was a chance for them, after all.

But she knew better. Deep down, Jimin knew the truth: This was for the best.

She had to let you go. For both of you.

She could never hurt you again. She couldn’t drag you through the pain of loving someone who couldn’t give her all. And no matter how much it hurt her to think about it, she knew this was the only way.

The thought of losing you forever felt like a wound that would never heal, but it was the price she had to pay for her selfishness, for her fear.

With trembling hands, she wrote the message. Her fingers hovered over the screen, the words so heavy that she almost couldn’t bring herself to type them.

“I really hate you, you know? I hate the fact that I’m so in love with you. That I’m so incredibly selfish, I can’t commit to you, I can’t love you the amount you deserve to be loved, the amount you should be. And I don’t want to burden you with having an unworthy lover. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, and I know that we’re already split but this is my final message to you, forever. I love you, so so much, but I want you to be happy. Even if it means, without me.”

⸻

The finality of it hit her harder than she had expected. As soon as she hit send, she felt as though her heart had been ripped from her chest.

She cried herself to sleep that night, knowing that the pain wouldn’t go away. She had made the choice, but it was a choice that would haunt her forever.

She had loved you. She had loved you with every ounce of her being. But love wasn’t always enough. Not when the price of that love was too high.

In her heart, she knew that she had to leave you alone. It hurt. It always would. But it was the only way she could protect you—and herself.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d find happiness without her.

Your Perspective:

You hadn’t expected the message.

To be honest, you hadn’t expected anything from Jimin. After everything that had happened, you had come to terms with the painful truth: she had made her choice. She had chosen her fans, her career, over you, and there was no way to go back. You had tried to move on, tried to distract yourself with work, with friends, with anything that would keep your mind from thinking of her, but it never worked. Every corner of your life reminded you of her. Every quiet moment felt empty without her laughter, her smile, her touch.

And then, out of nowhere, her message appeared.

The words were like a punch to your gut, as if all the air had been sucked from your lungs in one go. “I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.” You read those words over and over, your vision blurring as tears welled up in your eyes. She’s really doing this. She’s leaving me for good.

You had been so sure—so convinced—that you would get a chance to talk to her, to understand her side of things, to maybe find a way to fix what had been broken. But now, in the cold silence of your room, you realized that wasn’t going to happen. She had made up her mind, and this time, there was no turning back.

You clutched your phone tightly, the words burning through your chest. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream or cry. You wanted to fight back, to beg her to stay, to tell her you still loved her. But part of you knew it wouldn’t change anything. Part of you knew that she had already decided.

It was like the final chapter of a book you didn’t want to end.

Jimin had been your everything. She had been your light in the darkest times, the one person who made you feel seen, heard, and loved. But now, she was choosing to walk away. She was choosing to bury that love, to let it go because it hurt too much to keep holding on.

And you couldn’t blame her for it. Not really. She was doing what she thought was best, and maybe it was. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

The next few days passed in a haze. You didn’t reach out to Jimin. You didn’t try to make things right. You couldn’t. You had to respect her decision, even if it broke you in ways you didn’t think possible.

But you couldn’t help but wonder, in the quiet moments, Did she really love me?

And in the end, that question would linger in your mind forever. Because love, as beautiful as it was, wasn’t always enough.

⸻

You never saw her again.

There were no phone calls. No accidental meetings on quiet streets. No backstage visits, no anonymous letters slipped under doors. Just silence.

Jimin disappeared from your life like a ghost — a phantom that had once been everything. The days bled into each other, the weight of her absence shaping your world in new and painful ways. You’d wake up expecting a message that never came. You’d catch your breath every time a familiar song played, or when the scent of her perfume clung to someone else in passing.

You wondered what she was doing. If she ever smiled the way she used to. If she lay in bed at night and thought about you — about what you were doing, about how you were surviving. About how she had ripped your heart out and walked away.

You tried to hate her. You tried to forget her.

But you couldn’t.

Because love like that doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape — becomes something heavier. Something hollow. Something you carry with you like a wound that never quite heals.

And Jimin?

She rose higher than ever in the public eye. She smiled for the cameras. She stood in glittering lights, singing lyrics that once belonged to both of you, her voice steady, her image untouchable. She became everything the world asked her to be.

But no one saw the way she stood a little too long on stage after each encore. No one heard the way her voice cracked when she sang the songs you loved. No one knew that the girl in the spotlight had left the only piece of her soul that mattered behind.

She had made the choice. And she lived with it.

But it wasn’t living. Not really.

She told herself she did it for you. For your freedom. For your healing. But late at night, when she sat alone in a sea of hotel rooms and fleeting company, she knew the truth.

She did it because she was afraid.

And now you were gone.

Not dead, not disappeared — just unreachable. Untouchable. A name she would never say again, a memory she would never stop grieving.

And even as the world praised her, Jimin knew she had lost the only thing that ever truly mattered.

You.

And you — you were learning to breathe again. You smiled sometimes, even laughed. But nothing ever tasted the same. Not coffee, not the sky, not your own name. You moved forward because you had no choice.

But in your quietest moments, you still wondered what would’ve happened if she had stayed.

And in hers, she still whispered apologies to the silence.

There was no reunion. No second chance.

Only the ache of almost.

Only the echo of a love that couldn’t survive the world.

Only the two of you, still loving each other in a language that could no longer be spoken.

[koalaflower]

Midnight Love

pair. michael kaiser x fem!reader

genre. angst, smut, ANGST, in that exact order. mention of abuse. desperate, whiny man. mature. brief penetration and fingering. complex situationship. kaiser cries for you.

synopsis. he needs you. irrevocably.

a/n. my stomach was in knots writing this. yes, the title is inspired by girl in red. i like pain and suffering idk. in my mind, kaiser is just a little boy that wants to be loved.

word count. 4.6k

You met Kaiser in a bar late at night. You were busy celebrating a work promotion, and he was there to forget, seeking refuge from his father and his fans. Your paths crossed under the haze of alcohol, stumbling towards each other in a crowd of unfamiliar bodies. He worshipped you, and you held him close, pressing tender kisses onto his skin.

What began as a fling became a regular occurrence.

Once or twice a week, you’d find yourself in his arms. Always late at night and always vanishing by the morning. It was a simple, unspoken arrangement. You didn’t pry into his life, and he didn’t ask for anything more than the solace your touch provided. It was convenient and mutually beneficial. A well-deserved break from reality.

He didn’t need you. You were just another girl. Someone he found during a lonely night. Someone quick and easy.

So why did his heart ache when you called it off? Did you find someone new? Something real? Why did Kaiser, the picture of confidence, a man so callous and detached, find himself grappling with emotions he couldn’t name? You’d given him something he never thought he deserved—a constant love, even if it was physical, even if your kisses were in the heat of the moment.

Your presence filled a void he’d buried for years, and now, without you, he had no one to hold onto. No family to return to, nothing to call home. Kaiser wasn’t supposed to care. And yet, he couldn’t let you go.

The room falls silent when the words leave your lips. The last time. You said this was the last time. Your naked body curled around his, head on his bare chest as a thick blanket covered the mess you two made. But he didn’t feel warm. Not anymore.

“No.”

That’s all he could manage to say, voice lowering to an imperceptible whisper. His fingers tipped your head back to look at him, a glint of desperation in his deep blue eyes.

Your lips part, trapped in his forlorn gaze. You’ve never done anything more than touch, the two of you agreeing to avoid intimate conversations, even if your actions were anything but. Your mouth goes dry, unsure of how to respond.

“What?”

His thumb brushes your cheekbone gently, reverently, as his other hand pulls you closer to him. The desperation was seeping into his voice, despite how deep and composed it was. He couldn't let go of you. He couldn't let you slip through his fingers and end up in the arms of another man. He needed you.

“Don't leave,” he says, swiping his thumb over your lips, still swollen and rosy from his love.

“Kaiser,” you whisper, taken aback by the emotion in his voice, the way his lips quiver and eyes threaten to spill. “Our relationship isn’t professional. I don’t need it anymore. Not like I used to.”

You don’t need it anymore. You don’t need him anymore.

The words felt like a slap to his face, and it stung. You were going to leave him because of your pride and professionalism. He was ready to beg and plead for you to stay, throw away all his dignity and sink down to his knees. He would bring you pleasure again, to prove his worth, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, his thumb continues to trace circles on your skin, feeling the way goosebumps prickle under his touch and how your breath catches for the last time.

“Professional?” he echoes, a quiet, sardonic laugh escaping his lips. That was it? Professional?

“That’s what we agreed to. To.. prevent whatever this is.” Your voice is level, calm. You talk to him like he’s a child that needs lecturing. “I can’t keep meeting you whenever one of us has a bad day. What we’re doing isn’t healthy.”

He wants to grab your shoulders and plead with you, but he doesn’t. Why? Why isn’t it healthy? How, when your presence silences and soothes the thoughts in his mind? When he drops into your arms like he belongs there? Like you’re his home after a long, desolate day.

The pain in his heart is too much to bear, his eyes locked onto yours as he listens to you speak those cruel words. You’re more than a fling, but the words are lodged in his throat. He couldn’t even defend himself, knowing you were right. He never saw you as anything but a convenient escape, someone to warm his bed, yet here he was, begging for more. How pathetic.

“Is that…” He pauses, tongue flicking over his lips. “Is that all I am to you? A fling?”

“That’s what we agreed to be, what you wanted this to be. Until we don’t need it anymore.”

He knows you’re right. He gave you the terms, listed the conditions. He set the boundaries and named the price. He was a fool, for not thinking it would lead to this.

His arm that was wrapped around you tightened, as if his embrace would reason with you and make you stay. His gaze never left yours, the intense blues of his eyes desperate. ‘Stay with me. Come back to me. Look at me like this. Forever,’ they whisper.

“And what if I need this?” He’s aware he sounds like a petulant toddler throwing a tantrum at their favorite toy being taken away, but he doesn’t care. He’s losing you, the only constant in his life, and it’s scaring him. “What if this is the only thing I live for?”

You run your fingers through your hair, an exhausted sigh escaping your lips. It makes his heart wrench because he’s the reason. Yet he can’t help but admire the way you look, skin still littered in his hickeys and hair a wild mess as the covers cling to your frame. You’re covered in his lips but you’re not his, and it’s a tough pill to swallow.

“Kaiser, you’re a celebrity. There’s countless other girls out there. Hell, you have so many fans, so many op—“

“They're not the same,” he says. Stern.

He didn't want any girl. He wanted you. He wanted you in his bed every night, to share whispered words in the dark, the softness of your lips on his. He wanted to feel you next to him, the warmth of your body against his own. No other girl could make his heart race and head spin the way you did. No one else could fill the void within him.

“Don't leave me,” he whispers again, lips tenderly pressed against your neck.

He couldn't believe the words coming from his mouth, the words his pride would have never let him utter.

“What are you saying?” You sit up, looking at him like he’s frail. Fragile.

He slowly sits up as well, the blankets pooling at his waist, leaving his bare chest exposed, blue roses traveling up the length of his arm. His hand reaches for yours, lacing your fingers together. This feels right. He can feel your pulse, the blood thrumming beneath your skin.

“I’m saying I don't want any other girls in my bed,” he murmurs, inhaling your scent. It makes him feel all tingly inside, all warm and fuzzy.

His thumb continues to rub your hand as he waits for you to say something. Anything.

“Only you,” he says.

He brings your intertwined hands up, placing your hand over his heart. He lets you feel how it beats quickly and hard.

He thinks, for a moment, that he’s gotten to you. That you’ll reciprocate. But you just let out a sharp exhale, your hand slipping from his.

He was disappointed with himself. How pathetic could he be? Showing his true self to someone who never saw him as anything more than a convenient body to sleep with. Someone to call when you’re lonely and need a distraction.

“You could've just said no.”

He can't believe that he allowed himself to be so vulnerable just for you to leave him behind. His fingers curl into the sheets as he bites back the pain in his chest. The covers aren’t warm. Not like your hold. They don’t kiss him and breathe life into his body.

“I’m sorry. This was a mistake,” you say, crushing him again. He feels the air drain from his lungs.

A mistake. The word feels like a knife twisting in his chest. A mistake. That's what he was to you. He swallows the lump forming in his throat, the bile threatening to rise.

He thought he had finally found someone who loved him, flaws and all. The way his mother hadn’t, the way his father hadn’t, and the way the world hadn’t. Yet here he is, reliving every rejection he’s ever faced.

He was abandoned. Again. Rejected, cast aside, replaced with someone who could give you what he couldn't.

“I can’t be with you,” you say, like it’s as natural as breathing and he was the one making a big deal out of nothing.

“You’re a celebrity,” you continue. “And I’m not anybody.”

Was that it? Were you scared? Scared of being thrust into the unknown? Scared of leaving everything behind? So many solutions ran through his head, things he wanted to say to convince you to stay, that you were somebody to him. But he stayed silent, foolish, because the finality in your tone was hurting him. His jaw tensed as he fought to keep his composure. He didn't trust himself to speak.

“I shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have done anything that night,” you whisper. He can’t do anything but watch as you slip out of bed, even though it’s midnight. Even though you had just made love.

He needed an answer. He needed to know why all of this was a mistake, why you wanted to leave him, why he wasn't enough. Why he was never enough.

Not for you. Not for anyone.

“Why?” he asks, his voice weak and cracking. He’s never felt more humiliated in his life.

“I can’t love you.” You don’t even look at him as you speak. His heart shatters, fingers curling in and creasing the sheets. “I can’t possibly love you.”

Why? Why can’t you? He wasn’t asking for anniversaries or gifts or fancy dinner dates. He just wanted you to hug him, kiss his lips, soothe his loneliness like you had been. Only an hour of your day, a quarter of your time. You could set the conditions, you could negotiate the terms. He’d give it all, if only you’ll stay.

“Then why do I love you?”

Silence. The words hang in the air.

He couldn't cry, not now. He couldn’t bear seeing that look of pity on your face.

Kaiser was used to disappointment, used to being abandoned. But he had hope. He had hope that you loved him. Hope that you saw him as he saw you. He was a fool to believe you would love him, too. And now, you were leaving, and he was paying the price for it.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, fingers fumbling with the buttons on your shirt. It was wrinkled, crumpled from the way he slid it off of your body. You were a mess, and now he’s ruined.

“Just go,” he says, tearing his gaze away from you. “Don’t apologize.”

You get dressed, clothes covering all the reminders he’d left of his existence on your body. You spare him one last glance before leaving his condo.

He lays there, in silence, in the bed that still faintly smells like you. No matter how much it hurts. No matter how bad the ache is. He couldn't bring himself to move.

He feels his chest ache in a way he's never felt before. It was agony, pure torture. He never wanted to feel like this again. It was worse than when his mother abandoned him or when his father raised a fist against him. Because at least with you, he had something to lose.

Rejected. Abandoned. Unloved. Again and again. His entire life. He had no one. He was disposable. He wasn't worthy of love. He wasn't worthy of being loved. Not even by you.

The ghost of your touch still tingles on his body. The warmth of your skin against his still sears in his mind. He feels like a fool, an utter, pathetic fool, laying in an empty bed, clinging to a heavy blanket, and wishing it were you.

The season passed by in a blur. The February sky reminded you of his eyes, and the night, the dark highlights in his hair. You can’t ignore the guilt that churns in your stomach whenever his face flashes on television—advertisements, season highlights, news outlets—you couldn’t escape him. You think you imagine the way his laughter fades when the camera pans away from his face, but you don’t give yourself time to think about it, about him, as you switch the TV station. You don’t want to know if he’s hurting or not. His success is intact, and this is for the best.

It'd been a little over a month. A month that felt like a year. His mind was occupied by thoughts of you, consumed with the pain of the loss.

Nothing makes it better. He works day and night. Music, acting, interviews, anything to fill his days and distract himself from this dull ache. But it's all useless.

The tabloids are spiraling with rumors about his love life. New girls occupy the empty side of his bed, yet none of them stay long. They're just random hook ups that fill the void.

Kaiser has been drinking. More than before. Drowning in alcohol as a way to dull his pain. He wants to drink until he can't see. Until he can't think or feel.

So he blames it on the whiskey, when his feet drag him to your place during a particularly lonely night. He’s a drunken mess, broken and shivering, but it’ll all be over once he sees you. The air is crisp, his fingers trembling as he forms a fist and knocks on your door.

He's exhausted. He's miserable. He doesn't know how long it's been. But he can't forget you, can't move on. His mind is clouded with thoughts of you.

It’s 2 in the morning when you open the door, about to tell whoever it is to leave until you see him. He’s a mess. His eyes are glazed over as he leans against a pillar for support.

“Kaiser?” you ask, eyes wide. You can hardly believe what you’re seeing.

His shirt is halfway unbuttoned, his skin flushed, hair a mess, and his eyes are bloodshot. He can't cope by himself. He needs you. He needs your touch, your voice, and your presence. His heart, which he tried so hard to ignore, thumps hard in his chest, like it’d jump out of his body if you didn’t hold him.

“What—What happened to you..?” The question is so innocent, so simple, that it makes him want to cry, because he knows you know. He knows you’re just denying it, like how he’s denying the way his insides twist just by breathing near you.

He doesn’t resist when you pull him inside. You shut the door behind him in case someone sees you together. A fan, maybe. Or the paparazzi. He didn’t care once he felt your fingers brush against his skin, buttoning his shirt back up. Your brows were knitted in concern, and his fingers itched to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Each graze left behind a trail of heat, a feverish combination of heaven and hell.

He stays still, his eyes fluttering and struggling to stay open, but he feels it. He feels the butterflies in his chest, and the knot in his throat tightens. It's been so long. He had tried so hard to forget you. But he couldn't do it.

“My god. How much did you drink?” You ask, a disapproving, chastising tone in your voice, and he almost smiles. Words that would have annoyed him before, he’s now grateful for. He’s been missing you. It feels so good to see you.

You’re about to slip away from him again, muttering something about a glass of water. It’s all muffled in his ears, blurry in his vision. He holds your wrist, keeps you rooted to the spot, and he doesn’t let go.

His breath smells like alcohol and cigarettes when he kisses you. It burns, singes, scorches even, like you’ve done something forbidden. But neither of you pull away.

He kisses you until his lungs burn. And then he kisses you harder. He’s moving on autopilot, his tongue slipping past your parted lips, seeking you out, seeking your taste, so familiar and engrained into his senses.

He's missed the way he feels when you're right there in front of him, sighing against his lips and tugging his hair. His lips press a trail of sloppy kisses down to your jawline and across your neck. He kisses and bites like he’s trying to devour you, his fingers slipping under the fabric of your shirt to feel your skin.

“Mm… you’re drunk,” you say as you pull away, chest rising and falling as a string of saliva connects your lips. His cheeks are flushed, and your hands are cold.

His voice is low, a mere whisper. And his head is pounding, but he doesn't care. Not right now. Not when he’s so close to you again.

“Don't care,” he replies, kissing your neck once more before lifting his head up to look at you. His mind is a drunken mess, his thoughts running a mile a minute. Everything he wants to say, he can’t.

“This isn’t a good idea.” Your hands cup his face, breaking through the haze of influence when your eyes bore into his. He searches for it, but he can’t see the love reflected back. He can’t, and it hurts all over again.

Just one more night, and maybe he'll sober up. Just one more. That's all he needs. Another night of being able to hold you and hear your soft noises as he makes love to you.

“Kaiser.” His thumb brushes against your cheek. He wants to tell you to stop looking at him like that, with pity and concern. But all that comes out is a soft whisper.

“Please…”

He hates that look in your eyes. He hates how you see him now. Why can't you love him the way you used to? He doesn't deserve your pity. He needs you, and it's killing him that you don't feel the same.

You nod, and the relief breaks through him like a dam. The butterflies, the spark, it’s all there again. His hands move to the back of your thighs, picking you up and carrying you to your bedroom.

He knows this place. He's been here many times before. He’s memorized the portraits, the trinkets, and the decor around your room. He knows how to get to the bed without pulling away from you, his fingers already tugging your shirt up and off. He can't wait to feel everything all over again, can't wait to feel whole, to feel good again.

His kisses travel from your lips down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin and leaving marks in his wake. His hands move from your waist to the back of your thighs. They wander, memorizing every inch. Remembering.

You moan when he dips a finger into you, and he groans at the sounds tumbling from your lips. He wanted to hear you come undone, wanted you to cry his name, just as you used to.

It’s so easy. To slide another finger in. To curl it against the spot you’re most sensitive. He knows every flutter of your eyes, every buck of your hips as your hands pull him closer.

He’ll take his time to savor the feel of you. Every curve, every dip, every scar, every inch of your perfect body. He wanted to memorize you the way he first did when this all started, so many months ago.

Your legs are tightly wound around him when he pushes the head of his cock inside. He’s gasping, breathing heavily against your skin as your heat welcomes him so readily. Like you were made for him. His head is still fuzzy, but nothing compares to how he feels in this moment.

His fingers dig into your hips, forehead pressing against yours. He can't look at you, not yet. He'll lose himself if he stares into your eyes for too long. He just wants to focus on this, on the warmth of your body against his own.

His eyes open just a little, seeing you, and you look so pretty, so ruined as you gasp and grip at his arms. He almost cums on the spot, with the way your body squeezes around him like a vice. The way you looked and felt and sounded is just like he remembers.

You're ruining him, and he’s letting you.

He knows he can't stay like this forever. He knows this isn't real and he'll have to feel that loss again tomorrow, but for now, for tonight, you’re his.

You beg for him to move faster, and he can't deny you. You, who looks like an angel, cries like a siren, and pulls him in like a vixen. He wants to ruin you the way you're ruining him.

He's a fool. A fool who comes back to you time and time again, who loves you more than you'll ever know. He doesn't stop, no matter how much his chest burns or his head aches.

And then he’s ruined it.

His stupid, drunken self lets the three words slip from his lips, in a moment of passion and lust. He lets them tumble into existence, lets them tear from the depths of his being.

They're drunk and sloppy and inaudible, but you hear them as a muffled groan against your lips. Then he realizes, and time comes to a standstill. His eyes widen, heart thumping against his chest, but he doesn’t feel it. He feels nothing at all.

“I love you,” he said. And he knows he’s ruined it all again.

It’s over. The moment is broken. You heard him, and reality is crashing down.

The words hang in the air between you. He knew he messed up. He was drunk. He didn’t mean to say it, yet here he was, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. Words were stuck in his throat, an apology ready at the tip of his tongue. He waited for you to tell him to leave, but you didn’t.

It hurts more than imaginable when you close your eyes and tell him to keep moving. His lungs burn because you don’t say it back.

His hips rut faster, fingers almost bruising your skin. You cry out and he can feel that you’re close, but it’s not the same as before. You’re tense. You’re pretending. And he knows your thoughts are far from him.

It's wrong. It’s all wrong. Nothing feels as good as it did. He can tell by the way you aren't as responsive to him as before. He tries to get it over with quickly, hoping it'll end soon because it hurts more than helps now.

He wants to feel that same spark of love and passion he’s been craving so badly since you left. He wants it to ignite all those butterflies in his stomach, but he's only left with a hollow ache in his chest.

He needs release, even though it hurts. He can't bring himself to look at you, afraid of the look you're giving him. He wants you to cry his name, but it won't happen. He can tell by the way you're laying. Your body is like a coil, so stiff and wound up.

His thrusts are faster, but you look so detached. Tears slid down his face.

“Why, Y/n?” he asks through grunts and the sound of skin against skin. His breathing grows more ragged as silent tears continue to stain his face.

You close your eyes, unable to look at him. Even as his tears slip onto your skin, even as he kisses your neck.

Kaiser can't bring himself to open his eyes either. He never should've come here, never should've kissed you, never should've let himself get his hopes up.

You both came undone. Your walls are fluttering around him, and his eyes are glued to the way his fluids seeped out of you. You’re both panting, wrapped in a blanket of post-clarity.

He lay beside you, his chest heaving. His vision is blurry, yet he can still see you. He can see that you’re not looking at him, and it only makes him feel worse. He’s fantasized about this since the day you left, and yet here you are, not looking at him. Not speaking to him.

He tries to catch his breath, but every inhale burns like he’s underwater. God, it hurts. His hands curl into fists as he waits for you to do something. Say something.

“…I’ll get you water,” you murmur, standing before slipping out of the room.

His heart sinks the moment you get up. You're right in front of him, yet he feels so far from you. He feels so numb, his hands trembling as every emotion seems to sweep over him at once.

When you return with a white mug in your hands, he’s already dressed. Already stumbling past you and heading for the door.

He needs to get away. He wants to stay forever, but he needs to go. His fingers curl around the handle of your front door.

“Kaiser, wait.”

He freezes, listening. He won’t look back. He can't, or he’ll never find the strength to leave.

“Just… drink this before you go,” you say.

He hesitates, but he couldn't deny you, not even now. His hand releases the door handle, fingers curling around the handle of the cup of water you offered him instead. He doesn't meet your gaze. He has to look down, afraid that he'll do something he'll regret as you button up his crumpled shirt for him.

“Stay.” Your voice is quiet, and he has to strain to hear.

He stills, lips parting. Maybe he heard you wrong. Maybe you meant something else. His mind, despite how cloudy it felt, filled with hope again. Or maybe, just maybe—

“Stay safe.”

Stay safe.

Not stay.

Just stay safe.

You didn't want him to stay. Why would you? You didn't love him.

You look away, leaning against the counter as he gulps down the water like it’ll salvage him.

His grip on the cup tightens, so badly wanting to throw it against the wall. He stays silent, placing the cup down on the counter with a trembling hand.

Your fingers wrap around the ceramic, rinsing it underneath the faucet. He watches as you wash away his touch, his lips, and his love. The way you do so easily since the first night.

He can't look at you as he opens the door and leaves.

He had hope that you’d say it back, that you’d tell him to stay the night. He was naive enough to believe you'd love him too if he’d stayed. No. You just wanted him to stay safe. He was just a drunk hook up to you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

:D

[tofu1217]

Dining Table

[chillypowder]

A Future Without You

Pairing: Ekko x Reader

Word Count: ~2,050

Genre: Angst, Tragedy

Summary: Years after encouraging you to leave the violence of the Undercity, Ekko discovers you’ve returned—as an Enforcer. Old wounds reopen as duty and ideology threaten to pull you apart once more. In the end, love may not be enough to bridge the divide between your worlds.

Warnings: Violence, major character death, emotional conflict

Ekko sat on the rickety railing of a Firelight hideout, the glow of the Undercity flickering below. The humming engines of passing drones were drowned out by his own thoughts—visions of a face he hadn’t seen in years but could never forget. The reader. You.

He’d told himself he had done the right thing back then, encouraging you to leave. “This place ain’t safe for you,” he’d said, his voice trembling under the weight of unspoken fears. Back then, you’d both known that staying meant being swallowed by the violence that consumed the Undercity. You’d begged him to come with you, but Ekko had stayed. He had a cause. A family. A purpose.

But what was the point of fighting for tomorrow if you weren’t in it?

He sighed, his thumb tracing the edges of the Z-Drive strapped to his wrist. It was a constant reminder of the choices he couldn’t undo and the moments he couldn’t relive, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Boss.” One of his scouts interrupted his thoughts, climbing up onto the railing. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”

Ekko leapt down, his boots landing silently on the metal grating. “What is it?” he asked, trying to push the pang of longing back into the recesses of his mind.

The scout hesitated. “Enforcers. We spotted a squad near the border. They’re armed, but they don’t look like a raid party. One of ‘em… they look familiar.”

His heart stopped for a moment. He followed the scout to a hidden vantage point. Through the scope of his makeshift binoculars, he spotted a small group of Enforcers patrolling the alleyway below.

And there you were.

You moved with confidence, your armor glinting in the sickly green light of the Undercity. The years had hardened you; the softness he remembered had been replaced with a sharp, almost dangerous resolve.

Ekko’s breath caught. It had been so long since he’d seen you. So long since he’d heard your voice. So long since he’d broken his own heart by letting you go.

The confrontation came faster than he expected. The Firelights intercepted the Enforcers before they could make it further into the Undercity. Ekko stood at the forefront, his mask hiding his face but not the determination in his stance.

“Enforcers don’t belong here,” he said coldly, his voice amplified by the modulator in his mask.

Your hand hovered over your weapon. “We’re not here to fight.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

The tension crackled like a live wire. Ekko’s crew had their weapons drawn, and the Enforcers shifted uneasily. Then, you stepped forward, lowering your weapon—a gesture of trust.

“Please,” you said, your voice softer now, more familiar. “We just want to talk.”

Ekko hesitated. He could feel the eyes of his crew on him, waiting for his decision. After a moment, he gestured for them to lower their weapons.

The conversation took place in one of the Firelight hideouts, a dimly lit room filled with the hum of machinery and the faint scent of oil. Ekko removed his mask, and the shock on your face was impossible to hide.

“It’s you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“It’s me,” he replied, his tone flat.

You reached out as if to touch him, but stopped yourself, your hand falling back to your side. “I thought you were…”

“Gone?” Ekko finished for you. “Yeah. I thought the same about you.”

The room seemed to shrink around you as the weight of everything unsaid hung in the air. Your comrades stood awkwardly in the background, but Ekko gestured for his crew to give you space.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked, crossing his arms.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back. “The Firelights, the raids… This is what you stayed for?”

“This is my home,” he said simply.

“And look what it’s done to you.”

The bitterness in your voice cut deeper than you intended, and Ekko flinched. You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. “I joined the Enforcers to make a difference, Ekko. I thought… I thought I could help. But seeing you here…”

“Seeing me here makes you what? Guilty?” His voice was sharp now, laced with anger he hadn’t meant to show.

“No,” you said firmly. “It makes me remember why I left.”

The argument spilled out like a storm, years of frustration and heartbreak fueling every word.

“You don’t get to lecture me about choices,” Ekko snapped. “You think I wanted this? You think I didn’t want to leave with you?”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because someone had to stay and fight for the people who couldn’t leave!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You don’t understand,” Ekko said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You don’t know what it’s like to watch everything you love fall apart and not be able to do anything about it.”

“I do understand,” you said, your voice trembling. “Do you think leaving was easy for me? Do you think I didn’t hate myself every day for it?”

“Then why did you come back?”

“Because I thought I could save you!”

The words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered.(like the air😭)

The reunion didn’t end in resolution. You left with your squad, and Ekko let you go, his heart heavier than ever. But the encounters didn’t stop. Over the next few weeks, you crossed paths again and again—on the battlefield, in negotiations, in quiet moments stolen from the chaos around you.

Each time, the old feelings resurfaced, tangled with the new scars you both carried.

One night, you found yourselves alone in the ruins of an old factory, the only sounds the distant hum of Shimmer labs and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe.

“I never stopped loving you,” Ekko admitted, his voice barely audible over the din.

You looked at him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then why does it feel like we’re further apart than ever?”

He didn’t have an answer.

In the end, it was duty that tore you apart for good. The Firelights and the Enforcers collided in a brutal skirmish, and Ekko found himself face to face with you once more.

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded, his weapon lowered.

“I have to,” you said, your voice cracking. “This is bigger than us.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s not. It’s always been about us.”

For a moment, it seemed like you might lower your weapon. But then, a shout from one of your comrades broke the spell.

“Stand down!”

The explosion that followed sent you both flying. Ekko woke up to find the battlefield eerily quiet, the smoke and debris settling around him. And then he saw you.

You were lying a few feet away, blood pooling beneath you.

“No,” he whispered, scrambling to your side. “No, no, no…”

Your eyes fluttered open, and you smiled weakly. “Ekko…”

“Don’t talk,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll get you help. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you both knew it wasn’t true.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“For what?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“For leaving. For coming back. For everything.”

“No,” he said firmly, his hands trembling as he held you. “You don’t get to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”

You reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek. “I’m glad… I got to see you again.”

And then you were gone.

Ekko sat alone in the hideout that night, your words echoing in his mind. He stared at the Z-Drive on his wrist, the temptation gnawing at him.

He could go back. He could save you.

But no matter how many times he replayed the moment, no matter how many ways he tried to change the outcome in his mind, he knew it wouldn’t work. Some things couldn’t be undone.

Some things had to be let go.

Ekko’s grief became a part of him, woven into the fabric of who he was. But so did your memory. He carried it with him, a reminder of what he’d lost and what he still had to fight for.

And though the future felt emptier without you, he vowed to keep moving forward. For you. For the Undercity. For a tomorrow where love and sacrifice wouldn’t have to be the same thing.

Masterlist

[cupidsblonde]

so do i look like him?

after katsuki’s death, the only thing your parents can see in you is him

when you used to imagine giving a speech about your younger brother, you have imagined it everywhere but here.

maybe a wedding

at an award show  

anywhere but here.

“i remember when katsuki first got his quirk, we all knew he was destined for greatness… but he was ripped away from us to soon.” you say lip quivering.

“he will never be able to live out his dream. or live out the life that had so many great things ahead of him. ripped from the arms of his loved ones, from his greatness, from his determination.” voice breaking, tears falling down your face.

“tomura shigaraki, i promise that if i ever find you, you will be ripped from the hearts of the people motivated by you, just as you did my brother” you say staring straight into the broadcasting camera, which was showing your brothers funeral all across the world.

since he was a nation wide hero. but he never got to be the hero he wanted to be, rich, famous, doing what he loved. 

for he was famous. this just wasn’t how anyone imaged it.

 was this all he was going to be to the world? a dead kid, who had a dream of being a hero and died on his way there in a war he had no place fighting in? 

is that kid the only thing your parents will ever be able to see in you?

being the eldest was great, until katsuki was gone. 

incident one

 you where all sitting around the dinning table. katsuki’s spot next to your empty. nothing but his lingering smell of caramel, which was fading, and quickly. it was quite. you just wanted to eat, and go to sleep. 

you pick up your fork and go to put the food into your mouth, clamping your mouth around the fork and unbeknownst to you, the scratching food. 

you groan, grimace and catch your parents eyes. they’re both staring at you. like you did something wrong. you can see the tears welling in their eyes. your mom slams her fork down and gets up from the table 

“excuse me” she says in a hushed tone. you didn’t know what happened. you looked to your dad for an answer. 

“you just looked a lot like him right then” you dad almost whispers to you.

incident two

you missed katsuki a lot.

his grunts

his anger

his determination 

his want 

his excellency.

you and everyone in your house avoided his room like the plague. scared that if it was changed even a little bit, something would happen. 

but you just couldn’t take not even smelling his scent around the house anymore. you went into his room one day. 

16 years of coming into his room, annoying him, crying to him, watching movies with him. had come to end. you sat on the floor, sat in his bed, sat at his desk and you made your way to his closet. that’s where it smelt the most of him. aside from his bed, but even that was fading.

all you wanted to do was cry. there was no way he was coming back, you know that. right? 

you continue to go into his spaces. just hoping your going to find your younger brother there. watch him study maybe, even hope you would be able to hear him yell at you to “get the f out of my room”. 

but you would never get to have that’s again. 

this time it was your dad. 

you had said something that you picked up from katsuki and your dad froze where he stood. 

you could tell he had been cracking his shell he made when katsuki died. push everything down to hold the family together. so he needed to get away. he stopped what he was doing and went to he and your mothers room. 

“you just looked a lot like him, with that look on your face, saying that.” your mother quivered out to you. sobbing and choking at the end of her sentence.

incident three

you had been falling back into a place that katsuki an you both worked so hard to get you out of mentally. 

you where drinking again

back on drugs

it started slow. just how it always did. 

you had been clean for nearly 2 years. you obviously didn’t need your younger brother to keep you a normal ass person, who wasn’t drinking all the time, sleeping all the time, back on drugs.

bakugo katsuki, your younger brother, your best friend. was one of the only things that kept you on the earth. 

but now, it was your parents. not because you where happy all the time with them as you where with katsuki. 

but having to bury both of their children? you couldn’t do that to them. 

so you began getting sober again. the drugs stopped and the drinking stopped, you had been reminded that katsuki helped you out of that dark, dark place and if he saw you just fall right back into it as soon as he’s gone, he would be disappointed.

it was hard, because it wand ike he was gone on a trip. he was gone, for good.

this time, it was both of them. both of your parents. 

you grabbed any random hoodie one day, not even realizing it was your brothers. you came down the stairs and your parents where right in the view of the stairs, and stopped when you came down. 

you then realized. 

you wouldnt ever be your own person now. atleast not to your parents. 

you understood, their child was gone. and you reminded them of him. and that’s … hard.

not only for them but also for yourself.

this is the first time you started to catch on 

“do i look like him?” 

both of your parents nodded quickly, tears filling their eyes and they both walked away very quickly. 

of course you went to go change.

but that’s when you realized, 

his scent wasn’t on the hoodie anymore 

the more that you thought about it. his scent wasn’t anywhere around the house anymore, aside for his room, which was fading. 

incident four

you where going through an old photo album, you all missed katsuki in with all of your hearts. 

there where a bunch of pictures of katsuki but it started getting easier to look at them. easier to, accept.

but there was this one problem, this one picture. that had your mother sobbing, your dad with tears streaming down your face and you, your face plastered with an a thousand yard stare. your mouth fell open, you wanted to say something. 

anything, but you couldn’t. it felt like your vocal cords had been ripped out, your throat was burning. your eyes where being filled with tears. you closed the picture book slowly. 

you don’t remember much after that.

 all you feel right now is the pain in the balls of your feet from the heels your wearing, continusally having to pull your to short and to tight dress down and the feeling of your back side grinding up against a man that you meet at the bar merely a half hour ago.

“wanna get out of here ma?” the man who you didn’t even know who’s name.

next morning

you woke up next to this man, who you still didn’t know the name of. 

these type of nights continued on for weeks. 

you didn’t see your parents much, you where staying with your friends more and more and they are worried about you. they are always supportive, they understand what your going through. but they are worried.

and they had every reason to. especially tonight. 

when you didn’t come home, after you sobbed in mina’s arms are the first time. saying you wished it was you who was gone and not your brother. she was first your brothers friend, but she ended up being yours as well. 

you missed him, so so much. and you didn’t know how to handle it.

you had taken care of him for his whole life. being the eldest was hard. it was always hard. it was so much harder when the one thing keeping you going was now gone. 

you could see it in your parents eyes. the only thing in their eyes was sadness. so the only you could ask yourself now was 

“do i look like him?”

[ladybyakuya]

| SILVER SOUL + RAFAYEL. 

+cw. —f!reader, reincarnation au + modern au + soulmate au, angst, yearning, one-sided pining, mature content. hints if love triangle if you squint | +wc. — 1k | +syn.— with that money,power and status your client had you thought this would be your breakthrough after working as bodyguard for a while now but it tore your heart apart instead.

+notes. — i’ll say this again. bodyguard job is no joke. insert that meme of [ “do a bodyguard mission.”they said, “it would be fun.” they said.] | redirect to blog navigation. | thanks to @purpleqilinwrites & @hayatoseyepatch for beta reading this piece.

"I love you," Rafayel blurted out as he stared at the painting, part of him wanted to take it back, but the other half knew it did not matter since you must be sleeping somewhere here in this giant Mo Art Studio, in his home while he is drinking wine from the bottle he excavated from the wine cellar. Even though you should be awake and be by his side, you are not. He is all alone in his studio in the dead of night. His face contorts as he takes a few gulps from the bottle and keeps it on the nearby table. He hates it. He likes the taste. He would probably feel chipper and trippy by now but something happened this morning, something he did not expect, and all of this, this unfathomable sealike sadness stemmed from you. He is the God of the Sea, you can’t hurt him yet you did. Even the moon which was full has now turned into a slice, hiding behind the clouds. Even the moon is afraid of him. He scoffs at such sentiment. 

“Ser Rafayel. . . what’re you—

“Shhhhh!” He shushes you with his index finger over his lips. The sound almost comes as sharp as a whistle. His eyes linger on you, fluorescent it seems under the pale moonlight coming through the windows. He is standing in front of a painting almost five feet apart from you as you stand at the entrance of the studio. There are so many questions you want to ask him. What happened when you fainted? What happened to the gigantic sea creature? Why can’t you remember anything? — but all you could ask was, “Are you still mad at me?” voice as feeble as broken shells on the shore. It took you almost an hour to find him since you could not go back to sleep after what happened this morning. So, you’re not going back until you say your thing. Fuck work. Fuck professionalism. You want answers.

Rafayel turns his head in a flash. Mad at you? How could he ever? He is just . . . hurt. Why you ask? He turns his head back to the painting. He blames himself for the way you act now but he can not admit that to himself. Yeah! He is a coward. 

He did not expect you to be so cold after he saved your life. He hired you as your bodyguard for a reason, diluted the boundary of professionalism for a reason yet you have the audacity to tell him off? You might not remember your past life with him but he does and it is so vivid that it hurts to look at the same face that has totally such hostile feelings towards him. You do not know how many human lives it took to meet you again. Ah! This wretched curse. Humans are such vile creatures and it feels like a silver dagger in soul to have you as human in this life while he is a lemurian. If only he knew the way to make you remember . . . why can’t he just add some memories just like he wiped yours when he saved you from the Deluge Wyrmlord?

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be asleep?” you swallow as he questions back realizing how dry your throat has become. It seems that he is still mad.

“As should you be too.” He looks at you, eyes red like running lava ready to swallow lives on earth  with a visible crease amongst his eyebrows. “Ser Rafayel.” you add.

Rafayel walks towards the sitting stool that he generally uses while painting but he tumbles in his way and you instantly run at light speed to hold him. “I’m fine. am fine.” He assures raising his hand in the air blocking your way to come to him for any aid he requires now. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything Ser.”

“Am I that appalling to you? He asked his heart aching since it still beats. The question hits you like a stone on a metal door. You do not. You clearly do not. It is just that . . . at that moment you weren’t thinking straight. You thought he did something to you. why do you think so little of me that you thought I did something to you while you were unconscious?"  

Your lips part for a second trying to form an answer that could ease his soul, soothe his mind. The answer is nothing but silence frustrates him to the point that he leaves his seat and stands up. You scoot a little closer fearing he would tumble again. Even though you emptied the wine cellar he managed to find one bottle. He must have a secret place or something. The state he is in, you think, Rafayel is going to forget all these what is happening right now. So, gathering all the courage you had left in your body standing as close as possible to him so that you can catch him if he falls. "You don't have any idea what you're doing to me." The amount of slur in his voice and the way his feet are wobbly he is gonna fall any second. . .and as you expected he falls like a withering petal in your arms. With utmost ease, you jock down on the floor. There is still a little bit of consciousness in his body but not enough to reject your help as he did just a while ago. 

He lulls into slumber with his head lying on your lap as he mumbles being under the influence of alcohol. "I'm in love with you," He snuggles more into your lap like a cat; so much for being afraid of them. "I'm in love with you and it sucks because I know you'll never love me back. Not in this life." As you hear his even breathing followed by slow purrs. You poke his cheek a little. He is asleep. Ah! Perfect timing.

[incognit0slut]

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

This isn’t a love story. This isn’t a fairytale. This is about a woman bent on setting the world on fire and the FBI agent assigned to her case, drawn to the very flame she ignites.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader

Warnings: (18+) Typical CM violence, mentions of sexual assault and trauma, implied sex, fire/arson, and this is basically angst with no happy ending

A/n: For once, I am writing outside my comfort zone. This is heavily based on John Mayer’s song with the same title, Female Rage, and Megan Kane (she did nothing wrong!). Constructive criticism is welcome since I rarely write angst, but please be nice, it's my birthday🥺 (yes my birthday appreciation post is heartbreaking)

You wanted the world to burn.

You wanted to watch the ashes drift through the air. You wanted to smell the acid scent of smoke. You wanted to feel the heat envelop you, to wrap your body like a suffocating blanket. Because simply sitting in silence wasn’t enough for the rage that consumed you, the smoldering anger that craved the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath.

You craved the chaos, but the man lying defeated before you was enough for now. His eyes, wide with horror, stared up at you—the look of a man who knew these were his final moments. He pleaded, his voice cracking in desperation, his hands bound tightly behind his back as you stood there, unfazed.

Please.

I have a family. Think of my children.

Just let me go—I'll disappear, you'll never have to see me again.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? How a man could beg for mercy, could invoke the sanctity of family only when facing his own end. How a man could think that running away could solve everything, believing that his disappearance would erase the past and the suffering he caused.

No, that was a choice you didn’t have. The luxury of forgetting, of escaping the shadows that clung to your every step. Not only was his pleading in vain, it was insulting, as if the depth of his misdeeds could be washed away by mere absence. You wanted him gone. You wanted him dead.

So you gave him a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. Your expression was serene, almost angelic, but it belied the reality of your intentions as your heels echoed through the empty warehouse, a jug of gasoline in hand.

He screamed. Your smile widened. It was useless—no other soul was near enough to hear his cries, too far away to save him. His desperation filled the empty space once again as you poured the gasoline around him, drenching him in its sharp, pungent scent.

Then you took a step back, your hand reaching for the lighter in your pocket. There was a moment of hesitation as you watched him struggle. Could you really do this? Could you cross this final line?

But then the memories surged forward, vivid and painful. He was one of them, one of the people who had taken advantage of your innocence when you were young and naive, who had shattered your trust and left you to pick up the pieces alone, leaving scars that never truly healed.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Your fingers tightened around the lighter. What a foolish man, who was he to think that a forced apology could undo the damage? With a steady hand, you flicked the lighter, the flame springing to life. His apologies continued, increasingly frantic, but they were nothing more than the desperate noise of a man who had run out of options, out of time.

You threw the lighter. The small flame sailed through the air, landing amidst the gasoline-soaked ground with a burst of fire. The flame caught instantly, erupting into a roaring blaze that engulfed him in a matter of seconds, drowning out his piercing scream.

You continued to watch his body burn, and perhaps for the very first time in your life, you felt a terrifying peace.

~*~

“This is the third body in a week,” Derek mentioned, stepping into the old factory as he slipped his sunglasses on top of his head, scanning the scene before him. It was disturbing. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

Spencer looked up from where he was crouched near what was left of the victim. “It’s getting more deliberate,” he observed. “The Unsub is trying to send a message.”

Derek moved closer, carefully stepping over a piece of evidence marked by the forensic team. “What are you thinking?”

He slowly stood up, his eyes assessing the place. There were actually a lot of things on his mind, and one of them being how this third victim seemed more calculated, more precise than the others. It was a stark contrast to the first victim, whose remains were found in a haphazard, chaotic state in that old warehouse.

But this one… everything was meticulously arranged, from the positioning of the body to the burn patterns that radiated outwards in a controlled manner. The Unsub was trying to perfect their methods in a short amount of time, and as much as Spencer hated to admit it, it was almost impressive.

“They want attention,” Spencer finally said, breaking the silence as he mulled over the crime scene. “They’re not just doing this for the sake of it; they’re communicating. Whatever message they’re trying to send, it’s getting closer with each victim.”

“You think they’re trying to tell us something?”

“No, I don’t think it’s aimed at us.” Spencer bit his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing in thought. “They’re trying to make a statement.”

“Like a public declaration?”

“Could be,” Spencer acknowledged, stepping back to view the scene from a different angle. “Or it could be a form of protest or revenge.”

“Burning people for revenge,” Derek mused, crossing his arms. “Now that’s a hell of a way to get a point across.”

“It’s deeply symbolic. Fire consumes everything, leaving nothing but ash. It’s final.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Derek’s. “Whoever is doing this is not just angry, they’re trying to erase their victims from existence.”

“Well, they’re doing a pretty good job at it, we haven’t identified any of them yet.”

Spencer frowned, his gaze dropping back to the scene in front of him. Identifying the first two victims had been nearly impossible due to the extent of the burns. The flames had consumed everything, leaving behind little more than brittle bones and ash. Dental records and DNA tests had been their only hope, and even those couldn’t identify the victims.

He continued to study the body, looking for anything that could help them. The burns were severe, almost total, but then something caught his eye. A faint mark, barely visible under the scorched skin. He leaned in closer, squinting to make out the details. There, peeking out from the blackened flesh on the victim’s forearm, partially obscured by the burns, was a small tattoo.

“I think we might have something,” he said, pointing to the mark.

Derek leaned in, his eyes widening slightly. “That looks like a tattoo.”

“You think we can get this to the lab?”

“We can,” Derek replied as he took out his phone and took a quick photo of it. “But we also have Garcia.”

Spencer watched as Derek quickly navigated through his contacts, his fingers moving with practiced ease. He tapped the screen, putting the phone close to his ear. It didn’t take long for the call to connect, and almost immediately, a familiar voice filled the brief silence through the speaker.

“I knew you couldn’t go a day without me,” Penelope’s unmistakable cheerful voice greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this delightful interruption?”

Derek couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “Garcia, we need your magic on a photo. There’s a partial tattoo on our latest victim, and we need to know if it matches anyone in the system.”

“Send it over and I’ll sprinkle some of my digital pixie dust on it.”

Derek attached the photo to a message and sent it directly to her. “It’s on its way.”

“Got it,” Penelope replied, her fingers already flying across her keyboard on the other end. “Okay, this might take a while, but I do have more information on our first victim, or I guess you can say, I have all the information that you need.”

“Our first John Doe is identified?”

“Rick Sullivan,” she confirmed. “He was reported missing a week ago by his wife. Turns out he has a bit of a past—multiple arrests for minor offenses, but nothing that would usually make him a target for this kind of violence.”

Spencer leaned closer to Derek’s phone. “Does he have any known associates or enemies that stand out?”

“Not on record,” Penelope said, her voice slightly muffled as she sifted through more files. “But listen to this, his bank transactions show some pretty hefty sums being spent regularly. Guess where most of it is going?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

"To an exclusive strip club on the east side of town called The Velvet Curtain,” she revealed. “Seems our Mr. Sullivan was quite the regular spender there.”

Derek smiled, shaking his head slightly. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Not nearly enough,” she replied with a playful lilt in her voice. “Keep the compliments coming and maybe I’ll dig up even more dirt for you.”

“We’ll need all the dirt we can get. Thanks, Garcia.”

“Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll keep you updated if I find anything else,” she said before ending the call.

Derek turned to Spencer as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Ready to see some strippers, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer glanced back at the charred remains. He’d seen too many bodies, too much senseless violence. There was nothing left that could shake him—not even the neon lights and dark corners of a strip club, or even the thought of being in a room surrounded by half-naked women. He could handle that. He could definitely handle that.

With a slight nod aimed at Derek, he followed him out of the building.

~*~

“Scarlett!” A voice rang through the dressing room. “You’re up in five!”

You swiped the red lipstick across your lips one last time, perfecting the bold arch that had become your signature look as your eyes swept over your reflection, eying the thin straps of your costume. The fabric was a deep, seductive red, almost the color of freshly drawn blood, and barely covered your skin. The material was sheer and see-through, leaving little to the imagination, something you preferred. Because the more skin you showed, the more you felt in control.

This was your armor, the persona you donned to hide the secrets buried beneath your glamorous exterior. As Scarlett, you were a siren. Untouchable. You had power and control, something your life outside these walls lacked.

“Scarlett!”

“I’m coming!” You snapped, capping the lipstick and placing it back in your makeup bag. You stood up, smoothing down your outfit, and made your way to the stage entrance.

The stage coordinator eyed you up and down. “No props for today?”

You shook your head, giving a confident smile. “Not today. I can manage without them.”

He nodded approvingly, moving to the side. “Alright, it's your cue."

You brushed past him and headed down the dimly lit corridor leading to the stage, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through you. Taking one last deep breath, you finally stepped into the glow of the spotlight. The crowd's attention shifted to you, and you felt the power you had grown accustomed to, the control you desperately craved. The music pulsed through the air as you sauntered toward the pole at center stage.

You started to move.

Your fingers around the cold metal, and your body naturally found the beat as you began to dance seductively, letting the red fabric of your costume shimmer under the lights. A flirtatious smile played on your lips as you glanced around the room, locking eyes with a few patrons who watched. You slid down the pole, bending your knees and arching your back gracefully, biting back a smile as you heard the cheers and whistles from the crowd.

You took in the familiar faces and the usual gazes of admiration and desire, from the sleazy grins of regulars to the guilty looks of married men stealing away from home. But then, two men caught your attention, standing out starkly against the backdrop of the usual patrons.

One of them exuded confidence, his gaze steady and assessing as he watched your performance. The other, however, seemed out of place, his eyes darting around the room awkwardly. At first, he appeared uneasy, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and avoiding direct eye contact. But as you moved, dancing with the pole and letting your body sway to the rhythm, his gaze gradually settled on you. 

You had never seen him before. He was unexpectedly handsome, with soft curls that danced along the edges of his face and soft features that made him beautiful, almost angelic. But there was something more about him that intrigued you. Maybe it was the way he seemed to blend in with the shadows, making him nearly invisible among the brasher, more excited crowd. His presence was so out of place and yet so focused on you that it spurred you on. 

With a teasing smile, you tugged at the thin strap of your top, playing with it as you danced. His eyes followed the movement, his breath catching slightly as you slowly slid the strap down your shoulder. The fabric slipped further, revealing more of your skin as you twirled around the pole. 

You then arched your back and bent low, the thin strap finally gave way, allowing your top to slide down your body, exposing your perky breasts to the crowd. His eyes widened slightly, but he couldn't look away. Neither could you. For a moment, it was just the two of you, locked in a silent exchange as the cheers and applause became a distant hum in the background.

You could see the conflict in his eyes—part fascination, part restraint—and it only made you bolder. You slipped the last piece of fabric down your legs, and with each sway of your hips, you drew him deeper into your world, determined to leave a mark on his memory.

~*~

“Just talked to the club owner,” Derek mentioned as he walked over to where Spencer stood, hiding in the corner of the room. “He gave us permission to question the dancers.”

Spencer nodded, but didn’t say anything. Derek raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… fine.”

Derek gave him a knowing look. “Your first time being at a place like this?”

Spencer’s gaze lingered on the stage. That would be a good excuse for why he was acting this way, but it wasn’t the truth. He grew up in Las Vegas, after all. Even though he rarely found himself in these types of scenes, he knew what went behind the walls. He was aware of what happened inside clubs, the performers, and the whole spectrum of human behavior. But he had never seen someone so… mesmerizing.

His mind was still processing the way you moved, the way you commanded the room with such effortless confidence. The way you shamelessly captivated everyone’s attention, including his.

No, it wasn’t the setting that threw him off—it was you.

“Reid?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here,” he managed, snapping back to the present. “So the dancers?”

Derek nodded, sensing Spencer’s momentary distraction but choosing not to comment.

“Yeah, we need to start talking to them. With these many dancers, I think it’s better we split up.” His eyes scanned the room. “You take the bar out here, and I’ll handle the lounge area. If any of them seem to know more or are hesitant to talk in front of others, we can bring them aside for a more private conversation.”

“Got it,” Spencer agreed. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath as he made his way directly to the bar, nodding politely to the bartender before turning to address the group of dancers gathered nearby.

“Excuse me, uh, hi there,” he greeted, showing them his badge. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI. I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions.”

The dancers exchanged glances as Spencer cleared his throat, trying to appear composed. One of them, a tall woman with striking pink hair, stepped forward. “What do you need to know, Handsome?”

Spencer felt a flush creep up his neck, momentarily flustered by the directness. “Have any of you noticed anything unusual or seen anyone acting suspiciously in the past few weeks?”

The pink-haired woman looked him up and down, taking in his crisp suit and tie with a playful smile. “Well, the only unusual thing I’ve seen lately is a handsome FBI agent in a place like this.”

Her comment drew a few chuckles from the group, and Spencer felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him. He usually could handle a bit of teasing—he’d even interviewed sex workers who blatantly flirted with him before—but being surrounded by half-naked women, one of whom was actually topless, was making him feel distinctly out of place. His usual confidence was slipping away, replaced by a deep, uncomfortable blush.

Before he could respond, another dancer, this one with blue hair, joined in the teasing. “Aww, look at him blushing. Aren’t you just adorable?”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to refocus. “I, uh, appreciate your… observations. But really, any information about unusual behavior could be very helpful.”

One of them, with a mischievous glint in her eye, leaned closer and asked in a flirty tone, “Would you like to find a private room for questioning, Doctor?”

His eyes widened. “W-What? No, no, I—”

“Ladies.”

Spencer turned around, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw you standing close to him, your sweet fragrance enveloping him. His heartbeat quickened, and he found it hard not to stare. You had changed from your performance attire into something slightly less revealing but no less captivating that Spencer had to remind himself to blink.

“Stop teasing the poor guy,” you said, addressing the dancers with a slight smirk.

“We were just being nice,” one of them protested, feigning innocence.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, let’s give him some space.”

The rest of the dancers giggled, picking up their drinks and retreating to another part of the club. You watched them leave before turning back to Spencer and gracefully took a seat on a stool where one of them had been.

“So,” you began, crossing one leg over the other, and Spencer made a conscious effort not to focus on how the fabric rode up your thighs. “I can’t help but overhear you’re with the FBI. I’m Scarlett.”

He stared at your outstretched hand but made no effort to take it. “Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ah,” you said, retracting your hand and placing it on your lap. “You’re that type of guy.”

“What do you mean?”

You tilted your head slightly, a wry smile playing on your lips. “You know, the type who might think less of this kind of job, of people who work in places like this."

Spencer shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I grew up in Las Vegas, places like this don't surprise me. It's just that—l don't do handshakes. Personal preference, not a judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Well, studies show that handshakes transfer a significant amount of pathogens. It’s actually safer to kiss someone than to shake their hand.”

An amused smile played on your lips. “Is that your way of trying to kiss me, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. “Uh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” he stammered. “I just meant, scientifically speaking, it’s… safer.”

“Of course.” You chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what brings the FBI here?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “We’re here to gather information about one of your customers.”

“Who?”

“Do you know anyone by the name Rick Sullivan?”

“Know him? He practically lives at the end of the bar some nights.” Your eyes swept over the empty seat where Rick usually occupied. “Although he hasn’t come here in a while, his wife probably decided to put her foot down."

“Do you remember anything unusual about his behavior or if he mentioned anything out of the ordinary recently?”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged. “He was always pretty quiet. But now that you mention it, a few weeks ago, he seemed more on edge than usual. Kept looking over his shoulder like he was expecting someone.”

“Did he ever talk to anyone in particular, or did anyone strange approach him?”

You shook your head. “Not that I noticed. But then again, it gets pretty busy here. Hard to keep track of every interaction.”

Spencer nodded at the information. “Is there anyone who seemed particularly close with him here?”

“I don’t think so. He’s friendly with some of the regulars, but no one stood out. He mostly keeps to himself unless he’s buying drinks for the dancers.” You watched him, noticing the way his brow furrowed slightly in thought and you couldn’t help but ask, “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but don’t you have to write all this down?”

Spencer glanced at you, a small smile forming on his lips. "I have a good memory. I'll remember everything you've told me."

"Really? Do you have a photographic memory or something?"

"Eidetic, actually.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s impressive. So basically you’ll remember anything?”

Spencer nodded. “Yes, I can recall detailed images and information with high precision.”

“Alright, I want you to remember this then,” you said, leaning in slightly. You recited a series of numbers, your voice smooth and confident.

He looked genuinely confused. “What’s that?”

“My number.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh.”

“There’s a rule against sharing personal information while working here,” you explained, leaning in a bit closer, “But you can save it under Y/N. That’s my real name.”

Spencer found himself momentarily mesmerized by your proximity, the scent of your perfume, and the intensity of your gaze. He blinked, trying to maintain his composure.

“Y/N,” he repeated softly, as if committing it to memory.

You smiled. “Exactly. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” he assured you as you slipped off the stool and the space between you momentarily vanished. For a brief, unexpected second, your body lightly pressed against his. The contact was fleeting but there was an unspoken tension that seemed to pause the noise around you.

The closeness brought a rush of warmth, and your eyes locked with his. “Do you like jazz music, Dr. Reid?”

He frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Um, I don’t really listen to music.”

“Well, that’s a pity,” you replied with a playful smile. “There’s a great spot not too far from here. They have live bands on the weekends.”

“What… what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to ask you out on a date.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly as he processed your words. “Oh,” he stammered, clearly taken aback by your boldness. He hesitated, his mind racing to catch up with the situation. “I, uh, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?”

He swallowed, looking a bit flustered. “It’s not that. It’s just… there are boundaries, and I’m supposed to remain professional.”

“Ah, I see. But if you decide to change your mind…” You moved closer, reaching out to fix his crooked tie, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric. “I’ll be at the Blue Moon on Saturday around 9 p.m., sitting at the bar in a red dress with a drink in my hand.”

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly as he tensed but didn’t pull away, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do, Dr. Reid.” You took a step back, your hand lingering for a moment before you let go of his tie. “You know where to find me.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there as he watched you blend into the crowd, conflicted and unexpectedly aroused.

~*~

You weren’t sure what you were trying to do. Asking an FBI agent out on a date went against every rule you had set for yourself. You were supposed to keep your distance, to remain anonymous and untouchable. It was safer that way, for both you and your secrets. Yet, here you were, sipping your drink as you waited for a man who represented everything you should be avoiding.

A part of you questioned your sanity. What was it about him that made you break your own rules? It was reckless, foolish even. Getting involved with someone like Spencer Reid could only complicate things.

But there was something about him. Maybe it was the curiosity in his eyes, the way he seemed both out of place and perfectly composed at the same time. Or perhaps it was the way he treated you with a respect and sincerity that you hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever it was, it had been enough to make you take this risk.

But now, as you sat by the bar alone an hour later, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been a mistake. The minutes had ticked by slowly, and you tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that maybe you had misjudged him. Maybe he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, and maybe that was for the best.

Just as you were about to give up and leave, the door to your side opened. You turned, not daring to hope, and there he was—looking slightly disheveled and out of breath, but undeniably there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a small, relieved smile crossed his face.

“Hi,” he said, a bit breathless. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got held up at work and I didn’t want to come empty handed, so…”

Your eyes drifted towards the simple bouquet of white lilies in his hand. “Are those for me?”

Spencer nodded, extending the flowers towards you. “Yes, they are,” he replied. “I didn’t know what you’d like, and I thought lilies are a safe choice because they’re elegant and not too overwhelming, but then I started thinking maybe roses would have been better, but then roses can be a bit too—”

You cut him off with a warm smile, gently taking the bouquet from him. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

He let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like them.”

You placed the lilies on the bar and gestured to the seat beside you. “Come here, you look like you just ran a marathon.”

“It felt like it,” he admitted, taking the seat right next to you. “I really didn’t want to be late.”

“You’re here now, that’s what matters.” You slightly leaned back and studied him. “I’m actually surprised you changed your mind.”

Spencer glanced at you. “I… I guess I realized I didn’t want to miss the chance to get to know you.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “What do you want to know about me?”

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, actually. He wanted to know your story, why you chose your job, and who you were beneath this confident exterior. But that was all too much for a first date. Glancing around the room, he decided to start with something simpler and said, “Start with how you know this place.”

You smiled, looking around the familiar setting. “I found it a few years ago. I was walking aimlessly down the road one night after work and stumbled this place. It’s become my little escape since then.”

“I can see why." His eyes drifted towards the band playing live music and the few patrons mesmerized by the soft tune. "It’s definitely got a charm to it.”

You leaned in slightly. “Do you have any secret escapes?”

He looked back at you. “Not really. My escapes aren’t quite as charming. Mostly books and chess. They're not exactly thrilling.”

“Books and chess?” you asked, tapping your finger on the bar. “You really are a nerd.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a man of knowledge,” he replied with a shy yet proud smile.

“Well, intelligence is attractive, and not only that, it’s also very sexy." You laughed when you noticed him slightly squirming. “Do you have any other hidden talents I should know about?”

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “I’m actually pretty good at magic tricks. It’s something I picked up as a kid.”

“Now that’s a talent I didn’t expect,” you observed, your eyes lighting up. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“I’d be happy to,” he replied enthusiastically. “What about you? What’s your hidden talent?”

You grinned. “I can make a pretty mean lasagna. And I’m good at dancing, but you might have already guessed that.”

Spencer suddenly felt the warmth spreading along his face as he remembered your performance on stage the other day. His mind flashed back to the way you moved with such confidence, the undeniable sex appeal you exuded effortlessly, and he could feel his cheeks heating up.

“Yeah, I, uh, definitely noticed,” he admitted.

“I hope that means you were impressed.”

Spencer nodded, still a bit flustered but managing a smile. “Very impressed.”

“Why, thank you,” you noted, leaning closer to him. “How about you? Do you dance, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly at the question. “I’m not nearly as skilled as you are,” he confessed. “My dance moves are more… theoretical. More of an exercise in coordination than something you’d want to see in action.”

The image of this authority figure awkwardly dancing in his suit made you smile.

“Now this I need to see.” Sliding off the stool, you extended your hand towards him. “Dance with me.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, glancing around the room. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

You waited, half-expecting him to decline considering he didn’t even want to shake your hand the last time you saw him. But then, to your surprise, he took a deep breath and placed his hand in yours.

You couldn’t help but smile as he stood up and let you lead him to a small open space near the bar, slipping in between other couples swaying to the music as the band played a lively, upbeat tune.

“Okay, put your hand here,” you instructed, guiding his hand to rest lightly on your waist. You took his other hand in yours and began to sway gently to the rhythm, leading him in a basic two-step.

Spencer tried to follow, his movements slightly awkward at first. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right.”

“You’re doing fine,” you reassured him, smiling up at him. “Just trust your instinct.”

“My instinct is to find the nearest exit door.”

“No escaping tonight. You’re stuck with me,” you teased, your other hand holding onto his shoulder. “Besides, I think you’re doing pretty well for someone who claims to be bad at dancing.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his confidence growing slightly. “You think so?”

“Yep,” you replied, giving him a grin. “In fact, I’d say you’re almost a natural.”

“Almost?” he echoed, a teasing note in his voice. “What do I need to do to earn the proper title?”

“Maybe a spin?” You suggested, already positioning yourself lightly. With an encouraging nod, you prompted him, and he took the cue, lifting his arm and carefully guiding you into a smooth spin under his hold. You twirled gracefully and came back into his arms, beaming up at him.

“How was that?” He asked.

“Pretty impressive.”

He smiled, and a warmth spread through you, a sense of happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was wrong, you knew that. You knew you were stepping into dangerous territory, blurring lines that should remain clear. But at that moment, all those concerns seemed distant and unimportant, especially when the music suddenly turned slower.

The soft, sultry notes of a saxophone filled the air as you moved closer to him, gently grabbing his hands before guiding them to rest behind your back.

“Now this,” you began, moving your arms around his neck. “Is how you dance to a slow song.”

Spencer smiled, a genuine, soft expression that made his whole features light up. He pulled you gently against his chest. “I think I prefer this type of dance better.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. “Me too.”

You felt a hand press gently on your lower back, drawing you even closer as you took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of fresh soap and something sweet, like vanilla or honey—a combination that you could easily find yourself getting addicted to.

The thought surprised you. For someone who loathed men, who had built a life around a cold, calculated revenge against them, you found Spencer oddly comforting. It was unsettling how natural it felt to be this close to him, how safe he made you feel.

You could almost laugh at the irony. Here you were, a woman fueled by a desire for vengeance, finding solace in the arms of a man. It was reckless. Dangerous. You needed to keep your head in the game. Allowing yourself to get distracted, to feel these warm, tender emotions, was a risk you couldn’t afford.

But as you pressed your face closer to the crook of his neck, it became increasingly difficult to push him away. You knew you had to be cautious. You knew you needed to keep your head clear, your focus sharp, and you promised yourself that you would.

But not now. Not when his touch made you feel something you hadn’t felt in years. For now, you allowed yourself to surrender to the moment, to the warmth of his embrace, to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, and to the fleeting sense of peace that felt so foreign yet so desperately needed.

~*~

Spencer wasn’t sure what he was trying to do. He found himself awkwardly moving close to you, then pulling back, reaching out as if to take your hand, then stopping himself. The hesitation gnawed at him, torn between wanting to hold your hand and maintaining a respectful distance.

Was it too soon? Was there a rule about holding hands on the first date?

He mentally sifted through his limited experiences, trying to recall any useful advice or guidelines. But all he could think about was how natural it had felt to dance with you, to be close to you. He glanced over, catching the soft glow of the streetlights across your face. You looked serene, content, and he wished he could just follow his instincts without second-guessing every move.

“What?” You asked without looking at him. “Why are you staring at me?

He quickly directed his gaze away from you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You turned to him with a small, amused smile. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. I was just curious.”

He hesitated as you both continued to walk, the rhythmic sound of your footsteps blending with the quiet night. Finally, he decided to be honest. “I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment. I guess I’m not very good with this sort of thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I wanted to hold your hand,” he blurted, his face flushing slightly. “But I wasn’t sure if it was too soon. I didn’t want to seem too forward or make you uncomfortable. I’m sure there’s a whole rule to this that I don’t know about, and I’ve been overthinking it the entire walk.”

You chuckled softly. “Spencer, you don’t need to worry so much.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… can I hold your hand?”

“Of course, you can,” you replied. “I’d really like that.”

His face lit up as he reached out, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. You laughed at his boyish smile. “So this is why you’ve been silent this whole time?”

“I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

“And here I thought you didn’t want to talk to me because you didn’t enjoy my company.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, not at all! I was just worried about doing something wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong tonight.”

He looked at you, relief washing over his face. “Really?”

“Well, except for making me wait for a whole hour.”

He winced at your words. “Sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Don’t worry. The flowers were worth the wait,” you said, holding up the bouquet in your other hand. “And besides, I enjoyed dancing with you, I had a great time talking to you, and now you’re walking me home, which is definitely a bonus point.”

“So you’re keeping scores?” He asked, finding this conversation amusing. “What’s my score now?”

You pretended to think, a smile playing on your lips. “Well, punctuality could use some work, but excellent choice in flowers, charming dance skills, and chivalrous escort service? I’d say you’re doing quite well. Maybe an eight out of ten?”

“An eight? What happened to the last two points?”

“You need to earn them.”

“How?”

You slowed your pace, pulling him to a stop under a streetlight.

“Close your eyes,” you instructed. He hesitated for a moment, then complied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shut his eyes.

“Okay. Now what?”

You stood on your toes, trying to match his height, and leaned in close. Then, with a quick flutter of excitement, you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.

His eyes widened in surprise. “I—uh, what—”

You just laughed, a light and carefree sound that cut through the night. “You just gained another point, Dr. Reid.”

Before he knew it, you turned and dashed away, your laughter trailing behind you playfully. He couldn't help but smile at the sound, and, almost without thinking, he started chasing after you.

Spencer wasn't sure why he was running, or even why this felt like the most natural thing to do, but he didn't care. Your laughter was infectious, and when he finally caught up, wrapping his arms around your waist, he couldn't stop laughing.

"Got you," he said, grinning as he met your gaze.

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, taking in the way you looked up at him with those pretty eyes. There was a certain glow about you, a warmth that seemed to radiate across your face. His gaze then drifted down to your lips, slightly parted and still bearing the sweetest smile he had ever seen, and he felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest.

He liked seeing you like this. You always looked so confident and poised, but now you seemed... happy. There was a lightness in your eyes that he hadn't seen before, and like a moth to a flame, he wanted to bask in your warmth.

Without thinking, he slowly closed the gap between you, his eyes flicking down to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again. The world seemed to hold its breath as he leaned in, and then, gently, he kissed you.

Your lips were so soft.

He had imagined they would be, but not like this—not as delicate, not as perfectly in sync with his. The sensation was more than he had ever expected, more than he had allowed himself to hope for. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, and the soft moan that escaped you urged him even further.

He pulled you closer, and you parted your lips to invite him in. The moment his tongue slipped inside your mouth, he was lost in the rush of flavors and sensations. Your tongues danced together, exploring, tasting, savoring every second while everything around him started to blur into shadows and muffled sounds.

He was so engrossed, so utterly consumed by the taste of you, that he completely forgot he was standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk. It wasn't until he heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared that reality snapped back into focus. Pulling slightly away, he turned his head towards the sound and met the stern gaze of an older woman passing by.

“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling incredibly flustered. The woman simply huffed and continued on her way, shaking her head.

You giggled as you reached up to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “I thought you weren’t good with this sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” he assured you, his thumb gently brushing your sides. “This is... definitely a first for me.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you don’t usually make out with girls on busy sidewalks?”

The laugh he let out sounded almost ludicrous, as if the image of him kissing girls in public seemed completely out of character, out of place—until now, to his surprise.

“Nope, can’t say that I do.”

You smiled and tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

You walked together, and Spencer took your hand again. His grip tightened slightly, almost unconsciously, as if he wanted to imprint the way your hand felt into his memory. He was acutely aware of the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers fit perfectly with his. And this sense of wanting to hold onto you grew even stronger when you finally arrived at your building.

“This is me,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked down at your intertwined hands. “This is you.”

There was a brief, tense silence before you softly called out his name. He met your gaze, and dear god, how could he let go when you looked at him like that? He was mesmerized by the way your eyes sparkled under the light, the soft curve of your smile, the gentle confidence in your stance.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how you can earn your last point?”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your question, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Alright,” he said. “How can I earn my last point?”

Then he saw it, the same glint in your eyes that he had noticed when you were dancing on stage. It was a look filled with flirtation, exuding sex appeal and confidence. The way your eyes sparkled under the ambient light, the subtle but assured smile playing on your lips, all pointed to someone who knew exactly what they were doing and enjoyed the game just as much as the outcome.

“Well,” you started. “How about you come upstairs and we can figure it out together?”

Spencer’s heart raced at your words. He might not have had much experience when it came to dating, but he knew the look on your face all too well because he was sure he had the same expression. His eyes fell to your lips.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Because you’re trying to remain professional?” You asked, recalling his exact words the other night. “Spencer, I think you’ve long forgotten about that the moment you agreed to spend the evening with me.”

He felt a rush of warmth at your words, realizing just how right you were. The boundaries he usually upheld seemed irrelevant now, replaced by the desire to be closer to you. He sighed, the tension easing slightly as he admitted, “I guess you’re right.”

You stepped closer, your smile seductive. “So, how about we stop worrying about what’s appropriate and just enjoy ourselves?”

He was going to regret this.

“What do you have in mind?”

He was really going to regret this.

“I think you already know what I have in mind.”

Oh, screw it. If regret was the price he had to bear, then he was willing to pay it.

~*~

The crowd pulsed when you stepped out into the main area, heels clicking sharply against the floor. You took in the scene before you, passing sleazy men, some slipping tips to a dancer on stage, others getting lap dances in the dimly lit corners. A group of men in sharp suits whistled when they spotted you, and you winked at them, flipping your hair back with a playful gesture before continuing on.

You could feel heavy stares watching your every move, but despite being in a room full of men, there was only one man you had your eyes on.

You spotted him by the bar with a drink in his hand, and despite your meticulous planning to bring him back here to observe him, the sight of the man who ripped off your dreams as a naive sixteen-year-old girl never failed to ignite a burning rage within you. You wondered whether his memory was as vivid as yours, if he remembered the disgusting things he had done. But there was never any sign of recognition in his eyes, just as there hadn’t been in the eyes of the three before him.

They all thought you were just a woman trying to make ends meet, working every night in this dark place by taking your clothes off on stage. To them, you were just another pretty face, another body to gawk at. They believed you were just another girl trapped in the cycle of survival, oblivious to the deadly game you were playing.

You had crafted this persona carefully, every move, every word designed to lure them in, to make them feel comfortable, even powerful. They had no idea that you held their fate in your hands. You made them think they were taking advantage of a desperate woman, but in reality, they were the ones being manipulated, guided like pawns towards their inevitable downfall.

And tonight, it was his turn. The last of the men who had tainted your innocence.

You slipped into the empty stool beside him, a coy smile playing on your lips. “I thought I saw a familiar face.”

He turned towards you, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you replied, your voice a soft purr. The words were easy, almost natural.

“You’ve been quite the distraction for me,” he admitted. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

You laughed lightly. “Good, because I aim to please.”

“And you’re very pleasing to look at,” he agreed, his eyes tracing the curve of your smile. “You have a way of captivating an audience.”

“Well, it’s nice to know I have such a dedicated fan.” You leaned loser so your shoulders brushed. “What brings you here tonight? A fight with the missus?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, nothing like that. She’s out of town.”

You knew that already. You knew his schedule as well as he did, if not better. But you feigned innocence, like you always did.

“Lucky me then,” you replied with a flirtatious tilt of your head. “It means I get to have you all to myself tonight.”

“That’s the idea,” he said, his eyes roaming over you with undisguised interest. “I really couldn’t stop thinking about you lately.”

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Really? What exactly have you been thinking?”

“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to spend some real time with you. Away from the club.”

You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what exactly would we do with that time?”

His hand brushed against your thigh under the table, a bold move that was more telling than any words. “I think you know what I mean.”

You pulled back slightly, giving him a flirtatious look. “You know it’s against the rules to do anything too... personal here. The club has strict policies about that sort of thing.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping for more than just a dance.”

You smiled slyly, your eyes locking onto his with a promise. “Who says we have to stay here?”

His grin widened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your fingers along his arm. “We could go somewhere else…” you murmured, your hand continuing a path up his shoulder, tracing the line of his suit jacket. “Somewhere we can really enjoy each other’s company.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your suggestion. “Like where?”

You let your lips brush his ear. “How about your place? Your wife isn't there, we can use it however we want.”

There was a pause as he considered your words. You could see the wheels turning, the temptation playing across his face. Sensing his uncertainty, you placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under your fingertips.

“Think about it,” you coaxed softly, your voice a seductive whisper. “Just you and me, no rules, no eyes watching...” Your body inched closer to his. “It’ll be our little secret.”

His eyes darkened with anticipation, the earlier reluctance fading away under your touch. “Alright,” he said after a brief pause. “Let’s go back to my place.”

You smiled triumphantly, standing up, brushing the nonexistent dust on his shoulders. “Meet me at the back exit in five. I need to grab my purse.”

He nodded excitedly as he watched you walk away, mesmerized by the confidence in the sway of your hips. But the moment you stepped into the dressing room, your façade cracked.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, taking a deep breath as you fought to keep your composure. The walls seemed to close in, the air thinning around you as if suffocating you under the weight of your own emotions. Your breath became shallow, the world spinning slightly as a wave of dizziness and anger overwhelmed you all at once.

You slowly forced yourself to move, your feet dragging you over towards the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable. The confident, seductive woman from moments was now replaced with a figure trembling under the weight of her memories.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the past rushed back in a wave of emotion. The image of the young girl you once were, the girl whose dreams had been shattered by the man waiting for you outside, seemed to blend itself over your reflection. The pain, the anger, the helplessness—it all came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm you.

But you couldn’t let it. Not now.

Wiping away the tears with the back of your hand, you straightened up, forcing yourself to take deep, steadying breaths. You grabbed your purse and checked its contents one last time, making sure everything was in place, and checked your phone.

There was a message.

Your eyes welled up with tears again as you saw the name glaring back at you.

Dr. Reid :)

Just seeing his name was breaking your heart. He had been trying to contact you for days now, ever since that night you spent together. The night that had been a brief, beautiful distraction from the dark path you were on. He was kind, gentle, and you couldn’t stop thinking of the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. 

Each message was harder to ignore than the last, and he wasn’t just reaching out; he was trying to reach in. His words were always kind, always thoughtful.

I had a great time. Can we meet again?

Just thinking about you. Hope you're okay. 

Did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart?

His random messages of facts always made you smile because it was so authentically him—something you had never encountered before. And every time he tried to contact you, the walls you had carefully constructed around your heart began to crack. You longed to reach out to him, to relive those short moments of happiness that had brought a rare light into your life. But you knew that if you allowed yourself to see him again, it would only weaken your resolve.

So you had been avoiding him, giving excuses about being busy or not feeling well. His presence had a way of grounding you, and you couldn’t afford that now, not when you were so close to the end.

Your eyes fell to your phone again. Despite the knot tightening in your stomach, despite knowing how much it would hurt, you clicked open the message.

Can I see you tonight?

The words on the screen blurred as your grip tightened. A part of you wanted to see him again, to have his arms wrapped around your body, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours. But surrendering to these desires would only put you in danger. It was only a matter of time until he saw through your act, and until then, you needed to move fast.

Because you knew that if you let him in, if you opened that door, you wouldn't be able to follow through with your plan. The plan that had consumed you for so long, and now with the final act right in front of you, you couldn't afford any distractions.

So you took a deep breath and crafted another lie.

I have work tonight. I'm sorry.

~*~

Spencer stared at the message, a frown creasing his forehead. Had he done something wrong?

He couldn't shake the feeling that you were avoiding him. He replayed the evening in his mind, analyzing every detail, every word exchanged. It had felt perfect to him—the connection, the chemistry. But now, your constant excuses and distant responses gnawed at him. Had he misread everything? Had he been too forward, or was there something he had missed?

"Reid?" Derek's voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbled, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You were saying?”

Derek opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Penelope entered the conference room with a laptop in her hand. "You guys are gonna love me," she sang, setting the device down.

“You found anything?” Derek asked.

“Remember that blurry picture of the tattoo you sent me a few days ago?” she turned her laptop screen towards them, showing a detailed emblem that was now clearly visible. "This isn't just any tattoo—it's mandatory for the members of a local club known for their… exclusive membership.”

“What kind of club?”

Penelope clicked through a few more screens, bringing up information she had compiled. “It’s a bit underground, not your typical social club. It appears to be part social, part cultural, but there are hints of something more... let's just say, illegal activities.”

“And all members have this tattoo?”

“Yep, it’s like a symbol of loyalty, almost like a badge of honor.”

Spencer felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “Is it… The Velvet Curtain?”

Penelope shook her head, typing quickly to bring up a comparison on her screen. 

“No, The Velvet Curtain is just a fancy, exclusive strip club. This one, on the other hand…” She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she chose her words carefully, “...is much more secretive and, from what I can tell, much more dangerous. Think less about glamour and more about power and control."

“What kind of activities are we talking about?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual gambling and trafficking,” Penelope said dryly, scrolling through her screen. “I think you guys should check this out after we wrap up the case.”

Derek ignored her jab and crossed his arms. “So our victim can be anyone, which doesn't narrow it down much.” He turned to Penelope. “How many members are we talking about?”

“Over three hundred registered members.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of numbers.”

“Have you tried cross-referencing the members with Rick Sullivan?" Spencer suggested. "He might be our best lead.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Penelope’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up new data. After a few moments, she exclaimed, “Got it!”

Derek leaned in. “We have a name?”

Penelope quickly brought up a profile. “James Dalton, went to college with Rick. Mid-30s, a manager at a tech firm, lives in the suburbs with his family…” She trailed off, her eyes widening. “...and was reported missing a week ago.”

Spencer frowned, piecing it together. “He could be our John Doe.”

Penelope nodded, already typing away. ���I’m cross-referencing his dental records and fingerprints as we speak.”

“You can do that?”

“You underestimate me, pretty boy,” she quipped with a smirk, her fingers flying over the keyboard. It didn't take long for her screen to flash with the confirmation she needed. “It’s a match. James Dalton is our John Doe. The dental records line up perfectly.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as they absorbed the news. Derek ran a hand over his face, breaking the silence with a sigh. “Did Rick and James ever contact each other after college?”

Penelope shook her head, scrolling through her data. “No, there’s no evidence of any recent communications. It looks like they hadn't been in touch for years until... well, until whatever pulled them back together recently.”

Spencer leaned closer to get a better view of Penelope’s screen. “Can you check his bank records? There could be any mutual transactions between them.”

“Pulling up his financials now,” she said, her eyes scanning the data that populated her screen. Moments later, she pointed at a series of numbers. “There are no mutual transactions… oh wow.”

“What is it?”

“He spent a lot of money over the past few months,” Penelope continued, her eyes wide with surprise. “We’re talking significant amounts.”

“Where?”

She looked up at him. “The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt the blood drain from his body. It was as if a heavy, sinking feeling took hold, the kind that grips the stomach and pulls down hard. At first, he thought of your safety. The club you worked at was linked to the case, and worse, even directly to the victims. This connection sent chills down his spine, filling him with dread.

But the more he thought about it, especially when his mind replayed how you had been avoiding him lately, the worse his feelings grew. His concern turned into suspicion, and then that suspicion morphed into a sense of betrayal. Were you involved in this? Were you hiding something from him?

He shook his head. No, he couldn’t let his mind go there. You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t. You were too kind, too genuine. There had to be another explanation.

“Reid, let’s go.”

Spencer looked up to see Derek standing by the door. “Where?”

“We need to go back there,” Derek said firmly. “We’re missing something.”

Spencer’s badge felt heavier than usual, the gun on his hip weighing him down. His mind was clouded with doubt, his heart pounding with anxiety. He always considered himself as someone who was confident when it came to his job, a man of knowledge who could win an argument with facts and logic. But now the lines of right and wrong seemed to blurred and he found himself questioning even his own judgment.

He let out a heavy breath. There was nothing else he could do but to follow Derek out of the room. He needed to see this through, for justice, for his peace of mind, and perhaps, for your innocence he hoped to prove.

~*~

You weren’t here. 

I have work tonight, I’m sorry.

You weren’t here.

Spencer was trying to come up with excuses for your disappearance. Maybe you got sick. Maybe there was an emergency. His mind went through plausible scenarios, but none seemed to fit quite right, and his curiosity continued to gnaw at him. He braced himself and approached the club owner, hoping to gain some information under the pretense of connecting you as a witness.

The man, with a burly frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and a scowl etched on his face, barely let Spencer get the words out.

“She was here,” the owner grumbled. “Her set was half an hour ago and I haven’t seen her since. If I find out she’s skipping out on work again…” He trailed off, shaking his head in frustration.

Spencer felt his heart sank. “Again?”

He nodded gruffly. “Yeah, she’s been a bit unreliable lately. Shows up late, leaves early. It’s becoming a problem.”

“Did she mention anything to you?”

“She never says much. Keeps to herself mostly. If she’s in some kind of trouble, she’s not talking about it.” He gave Spencer a once-over. “You know her personally?”

Caught off-guard, Spencer quickly shook his head. “No. I’ve just heard she might have some useful information on the case we’re working on.”

The owner seemed to accept this, nodding slightly. “Well, good luck with that. If you find her, tell her she’s got some explaining to do.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him even more. The pressure in his chest was almost suffocating. He knew he needed to focus on trying to find out anything about James Dalton, but his mind kept turning to you, unable to shake the fear that something terrible had happened, or worse, or worse, that you might somehow be involved. 

“What was that all about?”

He looked up to see Derek watching him closely. “Nothing.”

Derek studied him for a moment, noting the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his eyes darted away. “Reid, is everything okay?”

“I’m fine."

“You know you can talk to me if something’s up, right?”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he sighed, his expression softening. “I’m fine, really. Let’s just focus on the case.”

Derek studied him for a moment longer, wanting to press further, but was stopped when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, saw Penelope’s name, and quickly switched it to speaker.

“Found something new?” Derek asked.

“Yes,” Penelope's voice came through with urgency. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

“No, nothing solid on our end,” Derek replied, glancing at Spencer who remained focused but visibly tense. “What did you find?"

“I think you should take this somewhere private,” Penelope suggested cautiously.

Derek nodded, catching Spencer’s eye and motioning for him to follow. They navigated through the bustling backstage area, moving past busy staff and performers until they spotted an empty dressing room. He ushered Spencer inside and shut the door behind them.

“We’re out of earshot,” Derek confirmed, his tone low. “Go ahead.”

“Alright, listen,” Penelope began, her voice serious. “I’ve been digging into the pasts of the two victims we identified and I found something disturbing that was buried deep in their college history. It took a lot of digging because it was almost completely erased from the public record.”

“What did you find?”

“There were reports of a group of men, including Sullivan and Dalton, who were accused of sexually assaulting a high school student who was a minor. The details were sketchy and it seems there was a significant effort to cover it up. The case never went to trial, the reports were sealed.”

“How many men were involved?” 

“Four. Sullivan, Dalton, Mark Eldridge, and Robert Lawson.” There were some clicking noises in the background before Penelope continued, “Mark Eldridge was reportedly missing a few days ago, and I cross-checked his dental records with our second John Doe—it was a match.”

Derek let out a sigh. “This looks like some kind of revenge plot.” He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the situation sinking in. “What can you tell us about Lawson?”

Penelope quickly typed in a few commands. “Robert Lawson lives on the outskirts of town. He’s maintained a low profile over the years, but nothing in his recent history suggests he’s aware of the danger he might be in.”

Derek nodded, absorbing the information. “Alright, send us his address. We need to get to him before the Unsub does.”

“Sending it now,” Penelope confirmed.

“Garcia?”

Derek looked up to see Spencer standing at the edge of the room, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. His posture was tense, his face pale, and his breathing uneven. It was the most uncharacteristic of him Derek had ever seen.

“Who was the victim?” Spencer asked, his voice low, almost strained.

There was a brief pause as Penelope searched through her files. “Y/N L/N,” she answered quietly. “She was a high school student at the time, just sixteen. The case was buried deep, but it’s all here—she was threatened, her family was paid off, and the whole thing was hushed up.”

Derek felt a chill run down his spine. “And where is she now?”

Another pause, this one more tense, as Penelope gathered the final piece of information.

“She’s a dancer at The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt his world tilt. The realization hit him like a freight train, his heart dropping like a stone into the depths of his stomach. It was as if the ground beneath his feet had turned to ice, sending him slipping into a dizzying spin of shock and disbelief. The pieces clicked together with the painful precision of a knife twisting in his gut. All the clues that had seemed disconnected before suddenly formed a clear, devastating picture. 

“Reid.”

He couldn’t breathe, his chest tight with a constricting panic. The room closed in around him, the walls seeming to press closer with each labored breath.

“Reid.”

The reality made him feel sick.

“Reid!”

He needed to get out of here.

His feet carried him toward the door, pushing him outside to breathe. The fresh air hit his face, but it did little to ease the heaviness in his lungs.

“Reid, I need you to talk to me,” Derek’s voice followed behind him.

Spencer leaned against the cool brick wall, trying to steady his racing heart and chaotic thoughts. He struggled to find the words, the horror of the situation crashing over him like a relentless wave.

“What happened?”

He stared at Derek through blurry eyes. “It’s her,” he managed to choke out. “I-I didn’t know it was her…”

“Reid.” Derek stepped closer, gripping his shoulders. “Breathe.”

Spencer looked up at him, the pain suffocating his chest, building up inside until he couldn’t hold it back any longer. The words began tumbling out of his lips.

He told him everything. How you approached him that first night they came to the club, how you stood out in the crowd. He described the spark in your eyes when you had asked him out on a date and how hesitant he was at first until his curiosity got the better of him.

He recalled that night, how he felt a connection he hadn't known was missing. He told Derek about the conversations you shared, the laughter between you, and how deeply fulfilling it felt to be with someone who seemed to truly get him, a happiness he hadn't known before.

Derek stared at him when he finished. There was no judgment in his eyes, far from it, but what Spencer saw was even worse—it was pity.

“Reid…”

Spencer shook his head, trying to dismiss Derek’s sympathy that made him feel so exposed. “I know what this looks like,” he cut in quickly. “But you have to understand, it felt—everything with her felt real.”

“I know, I know. I believe you, man, it’s just—”Derek sighed. “You’re too involved in this.”

Spencer met his gaze. “I never wanted to be this involved.”

Derek let out another sigh, something he couldn’t stop doing when the person he considered as his little brother was going through so much pain. He took out his phone from his pocket. “Look, let me call Hotch and tell him to send someone else—”

Spencer quickly grabbed Derek’s arm, stopping him from dialing. “No,” he insisted. “I need to do this. I want to see her.”

“I don’t think—“

“I have to,” Spencer pleaded. “I need to. I can’t… I just… I need to see her.”

“Reid, she’s dangerous. She’s killed three men before, and there’s a chance she might do the same to you.”

Spencer shook his head. “What she’s doing is for revenge, you said that yourself. She won’t hurt me.”

“But—“

“Morgan, please,” Spencer interrupted, the desperation clear in his voice. “Let me talk to her. This might be my only chance.”

Derek watched him closely, seeing the pain and determination in his eyes. It was clear Spencer wasn’t going to back down, and understanding this, he finally gave in.

“Fine. But we’re taking every precaution, okay? You’re not going in alone.” Spencer nodded gratefully. “And I’m still calling for backup.”

“Of course,” he agreed, watching Derek turn around.

Spencer silently followed him back to the car as he replayed every moment without you. He tried to search for any clues he might have missed, wondering how he had been so blind, so caught up in his feelings. The thought of you being the one behind those murders was too much for him to bear, yet he knew he had to confront you. He had to know why you did it. He had to know whether any of those moments you shared together was as magical for you as it was for him, even though he was scared of the answers, of this new, cruel reality.

He just had to see you, no matter how painful it might be.

~*~

Your last victim was the easiest. You’d think he would have struggled a bit, or maybe he’d see right through your act. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had seen you, and sure, you might have looked different, but you still had the same features from when you were young. Your eyes. Your smile. You were still you, just older.

But he never noticed, because as soon as you started to seduce him, he was just like the others. All they sought was your body, or the thought of it, the fantasy they spun so easily in their minds. You realized that another thing that hadn’t changed was their disgusting perception of you, not as a person, but as an object for their desires.

Despite their oblivious nature, it came to your benefit. It was easy to put the drug in his drink, not much, but enough to make him drowsy. Enough for his body to go limp so you could tie his hands behind his back easily. You could see his brows creasing as he struggled to keep his eyes open. You knew the sedative was starting to get to his brain.

You managed to drag his body to his study. You had pulled him by his feet, his head occasionally bumping along the floor. He groaned but didn’t do much, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. His eyes, heavy and confused, flickered with a dim recognition of his state, a useless attempt to grasp the situation that was slowly escaping his control.

And you loved it.

“W-What…” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “…help…”

You left him there to struggle as you grabbed the can of gasoline from his backyard, which you had hidden there that morning when he was at work. You wondered briefly if he had noticed it when he came back home, but just like the others, he was oblivious. It was still right where you left it.

You carried it back into the study and noticed his eyes widening slightly, a fear starting to seep through his confusion. You unscrewed the cap, the pungent smell filling the room, and stared down at him.

That was when you heard the ringing.

It was a loud, jarring noise and your eyes settled onto the house phone sitting on his desk. The sound was out of place, cutting through the tension-filled silence like a knife as you waited for it to stop. It kept on going, on and on, until the answering machine clicked on, and a familiar voice cut through the room, calling out your name.

You let out a cry. The sound of Spencer’s unmistakable voice echoed in your ears, the voice you had hoped to avoid was now invading this moment.

“Pick up the phone,” he pleaded. “Please.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was already starting to shake your defenses.

The call ended not long after that. You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain your composure. But then the phone rang again. This time, his message was more desperate.

“Talk to me, please, I know what you’ve been through... I just want to help.”

The gasoline can shook in your grip. Help was the last thing you needed. “I don't want any help," you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible over his voice cutting through the answering machine.

“I-I’ll be here if you need me, you don't have to go through this alone.”

"I don't want any help.”

But he kept on, his voice calm yet insistent. "I know you're in pain, but this—this isn't the way to solve things. Answer me, please, let me help—“

It was your last straw. You finally snatched up the phone. "I don't want any help!"

You were met with a stunned silence on the other end. It was deafening, stretching out long enough for the reality of who was on the other end to sink in.

“…Spencer?”

“I’m here,” he replied softly. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hearing his voice, so familiar and filled with genuine care, made you pause. For a split second, the walls you had built around your heart trembled. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, but a part of you longed for his presence.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why are you not going anywhere?”

“Because I…” There was a pause. “Because I care about you.”

Your heart felt like it was going to burst. “You do?”

“I do,” he confessed. “More than I should have.”

You sniffed, gently placing the gasoline on top of the wooden surface of the desk. “Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?” You wondered, recalling the same question you had asked him days ago.

“You know it was never about that,” he said. “But you’re smart enough to know the real reason.”

You glanced back at the man lying on the floor, barely conscious, his breaths shallow and labored. Spencer’s voice rang in your ears again.

“Don’t do this… please.”

You swallowed, your heart beating fast. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you three,” he responded quickly. “One, you’re not a bad person.”

Your grip on the phone tightened.

“Two, you deserve a chance to find real peace.”

Your eyes welled up with tears, the resolve in your heart wavering.

“And three,” Spencer’s voice softened. “Because I want to dance with you again.”

The memory of that night, the connection you felt, rushed back, overwhelming your rage that you couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “Yeah?”

“I want you to teach me again,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m still not very good at it.”

The image of the two of you dancing at the bar brought a bittersweet ache to your heart. But it wasn’t enough to overwhelm the anger, the deep-seated rage that had driven you for so long.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the phone, the words escaping in a breath so faint it was almost swallowed by the silence of the room.

Spencer heard it, though. “Don’t say that. It’s not over,” he pleaded. “We can still have more nights out, more dances.”

“Spencer, stop.”

“Think about it,” he continued, his voice softening as he tried a different approach. “Your family, they would rather take the money than fight for you. They left you to fend for yourself when you needed them the most.”

“Spencer…”

“And you’ve carried that weight for so long. You’ve been so strong, but now you’re not alone, you have me. So don’t let their choices define you,” he muttered. “You’re better than this.”

His words struck a nerve.

“Better than this?” You suddenly snapped, anger flaring up again. “You don’t know me. Just because we had one date, it doesn’t mean you understand what I’ve been through.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve been through,” Spencer admitted. “But I know pain. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned and betrayed.”

He paused, the line silent for a moment before he continued with a heavy sigh.

“When I was in school, a girl asked me to meet her by the school field one day… only for the football team to show up instead. They tied me up to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of all the students.” He took a deep breath. “Everyone laughed and stared, and no one did anything to stop them.”

You knew what he was trying to do. And partly, it worked. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. You imagined how sad it must have been for him, how traumatic and devastating that experience must have been. It was heartbreaking to picture him in that situation. But despite your sympathy, it didn’t suppress the anger inside you.

As painful as his story sounded, you knew you’d rather take his place instead of enduring what you had experienced.

“Spencer, it’s not the same,” you said, your voice trembling. “What they did to you was horrible, but what happened to me… it destroyed everything.”

“I know it’s not the same,” he replied quietly. “But pain is pain. And it doesn’t have to define us. We can choose—“

“Pain is pain?” You cried, finally letting go of the tears you had been holding back. “You know what’s painful? Hearing your story and the first thing that came up to my mind was how I’d rather take your place, because unlike you, those men didn’t stop after they stripped me naked.”

The anger boiled over, and you couldn't stop yourself, tears streamed down your face as raw, unfiltered pain poured out in your words.

"Do you know what it feels like to be young and helpless? To have four men twice your size assault you?" You screamed, losing any semblance of control you had left. "Do you fucking know how it feels to see these disgusting men get away with everything while you have to endure the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fear every single day?"

Your voice broke, heavy sobs wracking your body.

"Do you know how it feels to be broken, to be so destroyed that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror without hating what you see?”

Silence fell, your heavy breathing the only sound in the aftermath of your outburst. Spencer's voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course, you didn’t. Because you’re a man, after all.” You picked up the gasoline again, the weight heavy in your hand. “You’re just like them… all you want to do is to save them.”

“That’s not what I—”

“And you’re fucking wasting my time.”

You slammed the phone down, cutting off the connection.

You moved on instinct. You looked down at the man on the floor, his eyes half-open, barely conscious. You regarded him one last time before you poured the gasoline over his body. The fumes rose in the air as you spread the liquid around the room, creating a trail that led to the door. At some point, one of your heels cracked, and you kicked them off, feeling the cold ground beneath your feet. It was a minor inconvenience, nothing compared to the gravity of what you were about to do.

When you finally reached a safe distance from the house, you paused, taking one last deep breath, throwing the empty can onto the ground. The weight of your past, your pain, and your anger all converged in this single moment. You took out the lighter, your hands trembling as the reality of what you were about to do settled in.

You flicked the lighter, the small flame dancing in the night air. For a moment, you were transfixed by it, the flickering light a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding you. Everything you had endured, everything that had brought you to this point, seemed to hinge on this tiny flame.

With a flick of your hand, you let it fall to the ground.

The flame kissed the trail of gasoline, igniting it instantly. The fire took life, racing along the path with a hunger that matched your own rage. It moved back toward the house, consuming everything it touched, fueled by the fume and your deep-seated desire for retribution.

The flames grew and the fire roared louder, its crackling sound filling the silence of the night. The house began to catch, the flames eagerly climbing the walls. The sight was mesmerizing yet horrifying, and you stood rooted to the spot, the fire reflecting in your eyes, casting light on the tears that streaked down your face.

You felt a smile forming on your lips.

So this was what it felt like, to watch the ashes drift through the air. To smell the acid scent of smoke. To feel the heat envelop you, wrapping your body like a suffocating blanket. To hear the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath. It was beautiful, and you were mesmerized by the flames, the destruction—they were your creation, your justice.

But deep down, it was so much more than that. This wasn’t just for you, but for everyone else who had been silenced, who couldn’t do anything. You realized your anger was more than just a personal vendetta. It was a voice for the voiceless, a stand against those who had used their power to hurt and destroy.

You thought of all the others who had been through the same hell, who had been left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives alone, who had been dismissed by a system that should have protected them.

The fire was for them, too.

You continued to watch the flame dance through the night sky, and that was when you heard it, the distant sound of vehicles approaching you. The crunch of gravel under tires grew louder and you stayed rooted where you were.

There was no running from this, no escaping what was to come. You had chosen this path, you had already accepted the consequences long before the first match was struck.

As you turned around, a group of people in FBI vests came rushing out, some frantically calling for backup as they watched the fire consume the house, while a few others pointed their weapons towards you. But your eyes were fixed on the man who had given you a glimpse of hope, the man who had tried to save you.

You felt tears streaming down your face as Spencer approached you, and you sobbed uncontrollably, the reality of what you had done sinking in.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice breaking. “I-I had to do it.”

“Reid.”

An older FBI agent standing close called him, his tone a clear warning, but Derek, the other agent who you had also seen at the club, placed a hand on his shoulder. The older agent hesitated, then remained silent, allowing Spencer to approach you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Spencer’s eyes took in your appearance. The confident woman he had always known was nowhere to be found, replaced by this version of you—vulnerable, sad, and angry at the world. The sight of you barefoot, the dirt and grime clinging to your skin, made it even more heartbreaking. Your hair was disheveled, your face was streaked with tears. The raw emotion in your eyes tore at his heart.

“I—I’m sorry too,” he whispered.

You let out a choked sob. “I… I-I really had fun that night.”

Spencer nodded helplessly. “It was the best night of my life.”

Your sobs grew louder, feeling the air restrict your lungs. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get to do it again.”

He shook his head. “We could.”

“You know well we couldn’t,” you murmured. The pain in his eyes after those words left your mouth was too much—that raw, unguarded hurt—and you had to close your eyes, not wanting to see it.

In that brief darkness you wondered what would have happened if you had never gone through with any of this. Would you still have crossed his path? Would things have been different? But no, your rage was too consuming, too deep-seated for you to second guess the path you had chosen.

His soft voice whispered your name, and you blinked your eyes open, noticing his outstretched arm.

“Dance with me.”

You let out a painful cry. “Spencer… don’t make it harder than it already is.”

“Please, I… I just want to hold you.” You stared at his hand trembling under the firelight. “Please.”

You had never felt so much pain, a crushing weight on your heart, and against your better judgment, you took his hand. He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as if trying to memorize every detail of your body pressed against his.

The world seemed to pause. You let your mind be happy for a while, you let it travel to the simple, mundane things you wished you could do with him—walking hand in hand through a park, sharing quiet breakfasts, laughing together over something silly, and feeling his comforting presence beside you during the small, quiet times in bed.

You dreamed of a life where your past didn’t haunt you, where the weight of your decisions didn’t crush your spirit. You dreamed of waking up to his smile, of whispered conversations in the dark, of his naked body pressed against yours as he whispered sweet nothings to your ear. You allowed yourself to fantasize of a life filled with those ordinary, beautiful moments, a life that felt so achingly close yet so painfully out of reach.

But the fire’s glow around you was a reminder of the reality you couldn’t escape. Still, for a few moments, the night around you seemed to fade, the chaos and destruction reduced to a distant backdrop. His hands were gentle on your back, holding you as if you were something precious, something to be cherished, someone to be loved.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he murmured into your hair.

You pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, those deep brown eyes you knew you were going to miss. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

The sorrow there was mirrored in your own, a mutual recognition of the pain you both felt. His gaze held yours, intense and searching, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The color of your eyes, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice. He wanted to remember you for a lifetime.

With tears streaming down your face, you leaned into him, savoring the bittersweet moment. You ignored everything around you. The noise, the chaos, the destruction—all of it faded into the background. It was just the two of you, as if nothing else mattered.

And nothing else did.

So you danced for the last time, holding on to each other desperately, each step a silent prayer, each turn a tender goodbye, as the world continued to burn.

~*~

“Can't seem to hold you like I want to,

So I can feel you in my arms.

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We pulled too many false alarms.”

~*~

A/n: If you managed to make it to the end, I applaud you! Thank you from taking the time to read this fic. I’m very self conscious about this because not only does it have 14k words, the plot is also very heavy. But I’m happy with how it turned out and I hope you liked it too. Also, I could go on and on about why I chose this specific plot, but I’d be talking too much here. So if you want to further discuss this story, feel free to send me asks. I’ll gladly reply to them <3

[tarnishedsilverjewelry]

Missing you

A/N: Hello hello Ive had this idea for a bit now but I can FINALLY write it!!

Warnings: None!

Liu Kang sighed sadly. He had brushed life into his new era of peace millions of years ago now. He’d seen empires rise and fall, even the ones no one thought would. He had seen death in every form snuff out the light of someone’s eyes before another person was born.

But now, he was lonely. Sure, he had Geras. And he was always welcome in outworld…but it did not soothe the gentle ache in his chest. He knew exactly why, he had long since figured out why.

He missed his family

That was not to say his biological family, but the family he had made. Kung Lao, You, Kitana. His brother and sister, and his lover. The one he knew now worlds away from him living lives without him. And the ones who would rise up to become his champions were destined to see him as nothing more than a mentor. And if that did not sting.

In the back of his mind he could hear you giggling with Kung Lao.

“Liu! Liu! Come and join us! We’re going for a walk in the flower gardens!”

“Liu Kang, you are my brother and I will fight with you until the end. This time…stuff and my apparent death won’t change that. I’ll always fight beside you, brother.”

“Liu tell him the hat is dumb! He nearly cut off my head!”

“Liu Kang tell her that i had my hat under control!”

“Liu Kang! Tell us what you think; about what they said about—hey don’t walk away!”

“Liu Kang! Your friends call for you!”

“Liu Kang I am glad to have you beside me as I take the throne of outworld.”

“Your friends amuse me Liu Kang, tell me did you really fall into the river when you tried to ride a bike for the first time?”

Liu Kang wiped his tears. He was here alone, watching humanity and waiting for his champions to rise. And dreading their deaths. In any other moment, Liu Kang would say that he was glad to take upon this mantle.

But now, all he could think was that he was alone literal worlds away from his family.

[starsofang]

john price x reader angst

tw: blood, reader death, angst

John knew how much he had failed as a captain when he saw the way your body crumbled to the ground in a cloud of dirt and gunpowder. Your body, always so full of life and spirit, no matter the grueling mission it had been sent on, was now lying on the hard ground, unmoving and seemingly slipping away right in front of him.

A puddle of crimson began to form beneath you, and the sight of it was unnerving. You shouldn’t have ever been seen in such a state. You were somebody that deserved to lie in the comfort of his bed late at night, when missions and reports were put on the back burner, where he’d curl you up against his side. A thick arm wrapped around your shoulders, his soft voice murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, lips pressing against the top of your head. Treating you with such delicacy and tenderness — because that was what you deserved.

You didn’t deserve to lie on the dirty ground with your own blood pooling underneath of you, like a dam had burst open and he had no means of closing up the reservoir and preserving the flood.

You deserved softness and warmth, something that he had given you up until this very moment.

But now?

All he had given you was a failed promise of keeping you safe.

He failed.

“No,” John rasped out in affliction, voice hoarse and rough from the unsteady flow of emotions pumping through his veins. Anger, fear, dread — feelings he knew, as a captain, to keep locked up with the key tossed far away.

This time was different. It was you at the end of the ropes now, and that in itself was enough to have his resolve cracking.

John didn’t know how he ended up kneeled beside you. Everything in this moment had immediately felt like a blur, like it was all moving in slow motion. But there he was, knees digging into the earth, blood soaking into the fabric of his pants.

He could practically feel the warmth of your blood as it seeped into the material, and it wasn’t the warmth he’d grown so used to when you’d lay up against him, or wrap your loving arms around him in moments of secrecy.

Blood. Lots of it. Pouring out of you like a geyser from where the fresh bullet wound had captured in your chest. It wouldn’t stop leaking, soaking your clothes and tainting your soft skin with a ghastly sight that John knew would be permanently etched in the wrinkles of his mind.

John’s arms cradled you close, one arm under your shoulders and the other making desperate movements to feel for a pulse. Two of his fingers pressed along your jugular, a spot where he had spent countless nights kissing and sighing into with contentment. Your skin, cold and clammy to the touch, felt nothing like those nights, where your heart beat picked up through the veins and your honey laughter rumbled against his lips.

“No,” John gritted out more firmly this time when his fingers felt nothing but stillness from where they pressed against the underside of your jaw. “No, no, c’mon, love, c’mon.”

Your eyes were fluttered shut, mouth slightly agape, and John hated how peaceful you looked. This wasn’t how you should’ve felt peace.

Peace was in the secret kisses in his office when he’d be filing reports. The sweetness of your voice when you spoke of your adoration for him, like soft nectar rolling off of tour tongue. The lingering gazes before every mission that told each other the three words that neither of you dared to say, only because you didn’t have to. You knew, right? You knew he loved you.

“C’mon,” John urged once more, but his voice was more hopeless this time around. He knew the fate that had been sealed, but he didn’t want to come to terms with it, even with the lack of pulse beneath his fingertips. “C’mon, love, just need to patch you up, yeah? We’ll get you out of here, fly you back—“

“Captain.”

Kyle’s voice cut John off, and when John looked up, he could see the grim look on Kyle’s face. It was full of remorse, full of knowing, because how couldn’t he have known? They all knew.

With the sympathy and apologies that filled Kyle’s eyes as he stared at John, as well as the small shake of his head, John knew it was over.

John shifted his eyes away from Kyle to stare down at you. Your head rested comfortably in the crook of his elbow, body practically weightless as it laid limp against him. You fit as if you were molded for him, even in death, and he knew nobody else would fill in the puzzle piece like you did.

“Anyone but you,” John whispered to himself, eyes unable to tear away from your face as he took it in — engraved it in his mind, swearing to himself he’d never forget it. The soft fan of your lashes, the bridge of your nose, the way your brows were relaxed and at ease, showcasing just how placid you appeared. He couldn’t help the lift of his fingertips as they grazed along the softness of your skin, tracing every bit of your features to engrain them beneath his finger prints. “Fuck. Anyone but you, love.”

His men allowed him the time to soak in everything about you. They didn’t dare interrupt, nor did they make a sound, as they knew this would be the last time any of them would ever see you again.

And when John was finally ready to accept defeat, they were there with open arms as they took you back to the helo — because you didn’t deserve to be left there on the dirt floor of a country you could never call home, and John would be damned if you didn’t spend the rest of your death in the comfort of somewhere tranquil.

—

i’m an angst girly thru and thru so it was time to write it eventually

[deathbyday]

-'⁠🫧*⁠.⁠✧mouthwashing✧.⁠*⁠🫧'⁠ -

P6

“How could we end up here…?”

Daisuke x implied F!Reader

TW: mentions of suicide

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Written By: DeathByDay

(Also written on Mobile)

2 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

Daisuke laid down outside the entrance to the cargo room, mouthwash in hand. He was clearly drunk off of it. You sat beside him, rubbing his back in attempt to comfort him.

You found him like this, on the floor in agony. He didn’t need to say anything for you to figure that out. His body language gave it away. So, you did what any loving partner would do in that situation. Comfort him, listen to his words. Or just sit there in silence.

It hurt you to see him in pain. You’ve never seen Daisuke like this before, so vulnerable and fragile. “Daisuke, honey.. please tell me what’s wrong.” You muttered, leaning down as you continued to rub your hand against his back.

He quietly groaned, stirring at your touch. You stopped, hand resting on your lap. “Just leave me alone, Y/N. I’m sorry, I just don’t want to talk.” His voice cracked as he spoke. He sounded like he was trying not to cry.

You didn’t push him and instead stood up, not saying anything as you stepped away and went up the metal stairs towards the lounge area.

You walked through the automatic doors, not expecting to see anyone there. But surprisingly, you saw Anya and Swansea. Anya held the mouthwash, carefully examining the back of the bottle. Swansea was dancing beside the lounge’s couch, music blaring on the radio.

You didn’t bother saying anything to her, assuming she’d want to be alone as well. You passed by her without a word and laid down on the couch, feeling extremely exhausted.

You’ve been getting enough sleep lately, but you couldn’t find yourself getting any motivation. You’re still the same Y/N who came onto this ship. The only difference is that you have friends now.

You sighed, curling in on yourself. The loud sound of the music made your head hurt, but you knew if you said anything, Swansea would just end up getting upset at you. So, you backed off.

You felt like breaking down. You didn’t know how longer you could hang on, not with everyone becoming zombie-like. Ever since you all found the mouthwash, everything’s been going downhill.

Letting a small tear run down your face was a mistake. After a few seconds, there were multiple. You couldn’t bring yourself to stop. You muffled your cries by covering your mouth with both hands tightly, shutting your eyes and hiding your face in your knees.

You felt weak for crying, but you needed to get it out. You were always taught that crying helps people remember that you’re only human. But whenever you did, you were viewed as pathetic. Maybe just for once, you could cry without feeling guilty for it.

And so, you abused that power. You sobbed hard, not planning on stopping anytime soon. You just wanted to be done with this stupid nonsense and get back to your home. You just wanted to see your family again. You getting your own place didn’t even matter anymore.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen in fear, one glistening eye peaking out from your knee. It was Jimmy whose hand was on you. You opened your mouth, only a light croaking sound came out. But you pushed through and began speaking.

“What do you w-..want..?” You mumbled, hiding your face from his view as you wiped away your tears with your fingers. “Just wanted to see if you were alright.” He replied, letting your shoulder go.

“Well clearly I’m not.” You whispered harshly, fighting the urge to kick him like a child. “Go away.” You demanded, your voice soft and quiet. He didn’t say anything else and walked away, obeying your words.

You let more tears slip from the corners of your eyes, praying that this all ends soon. This could’ve just been a terrible, terrible dream. You were probably still asleep in your house, waiting for breakfast to be made by your guardian.

You snuffle, feeling the pain of your heart beating. It felt as if it were about to crack open in half and spill out blood. You heard light footsteps get louder, causing you to shove your face back into the couch cushion, hiding your face and covering your head with your arms, fingers latching onto your hair.

They couldn’t even speak before you weeped, your voice soft, yet filled with emotion. “Go away!” You pleaded, cradling your head in your arms. “Y/N?” Anya’s gentle voice rang out as she sat on the edge of the couch, sitting right beside you.

You fought back a cough, not replying to the woman. She hesitantly placed a hand on your shoulder, rubbing your clothed skin. “It’ll all be okay, I promise. Once we’re done with being stuck in this mess, you can go back to your regular life.” She softly reassured, not listening to your demands.

A light cough escapes your throat as you hiccup, feeling the air get pushed out of your lungs. You subconsciously sob louder, the music swallowing your cries. The black haired woman was quick to wrap her arms around you, codling your head to her chest.

You grab her biceps as you press the side of your face into her chest. She muffles your cries, shushing you.

“I-.. I don’t know how much longer I can do this!” You admit, feeling the pain get heavier and heavier every time you breathe. You gripped onto her clothed skin as if she were disintegrating from your grasp. She didn’t say anything, silently encouraging you to continue.

You shot her a glance, seeing her concerned face out of the corner of your eye before looking back down, your tears drying up on your cheeks. “I feel so p-..pathetic for wanting to kill myself, but it feels like the only solution right now..” You muttered, slightly stirring in her grasp.

It felt weird to confess your thoughts out loud, but you were relieved to get them out of your throat. Anya ran her fingers through your hair, giving you a small massage before speaking.

“Y/N..” She trailed off, a lump getting caught in her throat. She felt terrible for not noticing any signs earlier, but she was thrilled to know you felt comfortable enough to trust her with your mind.

“It may not seem like it right now, but it’s going to be okay. I know you’re going through a very difficult period, but you shouldn’t be giving up over something we can work through together.” She murmured, her tone of voice soft and gentle.

You felt tears sting your eyes once again, causing you to shut your eyes. The comfort of her presence mixed with her warmth made you feel like you weren’t alone. You tighten your grip on her, light hiccuping sounds coming from your lips.

Anya didn’t shame you for breaking down in front of her. It was like she understood you. You’ve been there for her in the past, and now she’s returning the favor.

After a few minutes, your cries finally stopped. You snuffled, letting Anya loosen herself from your grasp. She guided your head back down onto the couch, giving you a soft smile before walking away. You shut your eyes, drowning out the sound of the radio with static.

______

3 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

“Daisuke?” Your soft voice filled the comforting silence of the lounge room. He sat in his sleeping bag, playing with his Gameboy. You glanced around the room, seeing nobody else. He paused his game and turned his head, a grin plastered across his lips at the sight of you.

“Hey, Y/N!” He sat up, setting his device aside his makeshift bed. You gave him a gentle smile before stepping towards the brunette. You leaned over and sat down beside him, wrapping your arms around him.

He melted in your touch, giving you a short lived kiss on the forehead. “What’s up?” He muttered, seeing the hesitant smile on your face that disappeared as he spoke.

You looked away, causing Daisuke to lift his hand and guide your head to look back him, resting his palm on your cheek. “When you.. or, we get back to earth, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?” You tilted your head, leaning into his palm as you waited for his response.

He blinked for a moment in thought, his hand leaving your face and running down the side of your waist, gently grasping your hip. “Marry you!” He chuckled, his eyes lighting up at the idea of marriage. You became flustered, not expecting that answer.

But nonetheless, you giggled along, leaning in and planting a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. He wrapped his arms around you, resting his head in the crook of your neck. “I love you so much, my sweet boy.” You whispered into his ear, your voice soft as you laid your arms around his shoulders.

“I love you more!” He exclaimed, causing a light giggle to leave your throat. You rolled your eyes and let the topic pass, not wanting to argue about who loves who more.

“You win.” You sighed in defeat, causing him to pump his fist in the air, almost punching your throat.

______

4 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

You sit in a chair that laid to the side of the medical bed, your arms and head resting on the thin sheets as you stare at the burnt man lying down in front of you. You didn’t know why you were in there, but you felt like you needed to talk to him.

It’s been so long since you’ve even seen him, it almost felt refreshing. But alongside that, it was awkward. The captain and you rarely spoke before the crash, and you never spoke after. So what’s the point of doing this?

You gently cleared your throat and lifted your head, catching the eye of Curly. You took a deep breath in before speaking.

“It’s been a while, huh?” You chuckled, ignoring the tightening pain in your chest. “I guess I’ve just, I don’t know.. been wondering why you did it? Everything was going well, I think. But then the crash happened..” You trailed off, feeling your eyelids start to sting, indicating tears were forming.

You fought hard to keep them from falling out as you continued. “Honestly, Curly, I don’t know if I believe that you were the one who crashed us into that asteroid.” You admitted, resting your hands in your lap.

He stared at you, wishing he could do more. He wanted to reach out, to tell you everything was going to be okay, but he couldn’t. Even though the two of you barely spoke, let alone befriended each other, it was still his job to take care of his crew members.

If he knew this would be his destiny, he would’ve made so much more conversation with you. He knew you liked to be alone, drowning in your own thoughts without any interruptions. But he thought that he could possibly help you with social interactions. But with everything going on, he left that job alone.

You opened your mouth to speak, but got cut off by the sound of the door opening behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to recognize the sound of their footsteps.

“Y/N?” Anya’s soft voice ran through the silence of the medical room, causing you to turn your head towards her.

“I need to give Curly his pills.” She explained, hinting for you to leave. You gave a quiet nod in understanding, giving the captain a short lived wave before walking out of the room, glancing at the woman before doing so.

Oh how you wished you weren’t so dumb.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

authors note

welp, time to get your tissues out!

if you didn’t notice, I changed the banner for this story(and a few other things). the reason for that is because I just felt like it needed a change. hopefully you guys like it!

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, next one will be up soon <33

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢

Pairing- Kim Minjeong (Winter) x fem reader

Genre- Angst

Word Count- 2942

A/N: Uhh just a bit short, could’ve added more context and stuff but yk. I’m a lazy writer… mb

You remember the first time Minjeong looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

That was Minjeong. Always too tender. Always hurting more for others than for herself.

You didn’t know what love was then. You were five, and love was just the word your parents used when they kissed each other on the forehead after long days. You thought you loved Minjeong like you loved your mom’s soup, or the stars you could see from her bedroom window on sleepovers.

Years passed. You stayed inseparable. Two kids growing into teenagers, into adults, still orbiting each other like twin moons. You didn’t notice the way your heart beat differently when she smiled at you, or how you kept every letter she’d ever written—birthday cards, dumb little notes she left in your locker, even grocery lists with hearts dotting her i’s.

You didn’t notice until it was already too late.

The first time she told you about the diagnosis, she said it like a joke.

“It’s not that bad,” Minjeong said, eyes skimming over your face like she was trying to memorize you. “They caught it early. Just… a rare autoimmune thing. They’re figuring it out.”

You didn’t know the name. Still don’t. It doesn’t matter.

You believed her. Of course you did. She was twenty-two. People don’t die at twenty-two.

You remember the second time she looked at you like you were the only person in the world. It was the hospital room—the first one, not the last. The tubes were smaller then. Her hair hadn’t fallen out yet. You cracked a joke about the food tray, and she laughed, real and raw, then went quiet. Her eyes were shining. You thought it was the morphine. Now, you think it was goodbye.

But you were still in denial. Still pretending there would be a tomorrow. That this was just a temporary detour, and life would pick up again soon. The way you talked around the word terminal was almost impressive. An Olympic sport of omission.

Then came the night it hit you.

She was asleep beside you in the hospital bed, small and pale, her hand weak in yours. You were rereading one of her old letters—you used to carry them in your coat pocket, folded and frayed. In it, she told you about a dream she had when you were both thirteen. You were grown up, holding hands on a beach. The sky was full of stars. She said she thought it meant something.

You reread that letter three times. Then, you looked at her.

And it came like a wave. A crash.

You love her.

Not platonically. Not like a sister. Not like a friend.

You loved Minjeong like the world had been waiting for her. Like your life only made sense in the context of hers. Like every beat of your heart had been echoing her name since you were five years old.

You don’t know how you didn’t see it before. But you do now.

You told yourself you’d tell her the next morning.

_________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, she was unconscious.

She never woke up.

Her mother let you stay the night. You slept beside her, begging whatever god would listen. But morning came, and Minjeong didn’t.

She died at 4:17 AM. You had gone to the vending machine at 4:15.

Two minutes.

Two minutes late.

You remember the way her room smelled. Like antiseptic and lavender lotion. Her hands were cold when you held them. You kissed her forehead. You whispered the words you never got to say.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. I just didn’t know it.”

She didn’t answer.

_________________________________________________________________________

The funeral felt like a blur you couldn’t wake from. People cried, but not the way you did. Not the kind of crying that breaks something in your ribs. Her mother held you like a daughter. You couldn’t meet her eyes. You couldn’t meet anyone’s.

Days became weeks. Weeks, months.

You stopped answering calls. Moved out of your apartment. You visited her grave sometimes, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. There was no her in the dirt.

Grief is not loud.

It’s not the sobbing people do at funerals, or the polite condolences whispered into your shoulder by distant relatives who never knew her favorite color, or what song made her cry at 2 AM.

Grief is silent. It sits. It waits. It grows.

The first night after Minjeong’s death, you went home and stood in your bedroom doorway, staring at her sweater folded neatly on your chair. She left it behind the last time she stayed over—when she still could. She had fallen asleep watching one of those dumb sitcoms she loved, the ones you only tolerated because she laughed so hard her nose scrunched.

You walked over and picked up the sweater. Buried your face in it.

It still smelled like her.

You didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Or the next.

You told yourself you were just… processing. That soon you’d cry, and scream, and get it out of your system like they say you’re supposed to.

But the breakdown didn’t come like a storm. It came like rot.

You stopped showering. Stopped replying to texts. You ghosted your friends, your boss, your own mother. The world felt like background noise behind thick glass, and you were underwater, watching everyone else breathe like nothing had changed.

You wore her sweater every day. It stopped smelling like her by the second week. But you wore it anyway.

The nightmares started in week three.

Sometimes, they were vivid—Minjeong, calling out to you, trapped in a hospital bed while you stood frozen in the doorway, unable to move.

Sometimes, she was already dead, and you just sat beside her, whispering the things you should’ve said before it was too late.

You always woke up crying.

There were good days, or what passed for them. You’d manage to eat something. Open a window. Pretend she was just on vacation somewhere, phone broken, coming home soon.

But then you’d see something.

A bottle of her favorite tea at the store.

A commercial playing the song she once sang at karaoke, terribly and off-key.

Her handwriting in the margins of a book she lent you years ago.

And it would shatter you all over again.

The guilt was the worst part.

You left.

You left the room.

You went to the vending machine. For a stupid bag of chips. You were hungry. You thought she’d still be there when you came back.

Two minutes.

You were gone two minutes.

Sometimes, you imagine what she looked like in those moments. Did she open her eyes? Did she wonder where you were? Was she scared?

Did she die thinking you didn’t care?

That thought burrowed under your skin and stayed there, festering.

And then came the next regret, the one that stung deeper.

You never told her.

You had so many chances. How many sleepovers? How many late-night conversations where she looked at you like she wanted to say something too? How many times did she hug you longer than a friend should?

You were too afraid.

You thought you had time.

People like Minjeong aren’t supposed to die young. She was light. The kind of person who made everything brighter just by being in the room. You never thought the light would go out.

But it did.

And now every second you spent not telling her feels like a crime.

You tried to visit her grave.

The first time, you threw up in the parking lot.

The second time, you couldn’t get out of the car.

By the third time, you managed to sit beside her name, carved into granite like a lie.

Kim Minjeong. Beloved daughter. Cherished friend.

It didn’t say anything about you. There was no room for that.

You brought her daisies. They wilted in your hands before you even reached the stone.

You whispered, “I’m sorry,” until your throat went raw.

_________________________________________________________________________

Then one day, her mother called you. Said she’d found something.

A letter.

Addressed to you.

You drove over in silence, heart stuck somewhere between hope and dread. She handed it to you with trembling fingers. Said she hadn’t read it. Said Minjeong had asked for it to be given when the time was right.

The envelope had your name in her handwriting. You knew it instantly. You’d seen it a thousand times.

You took it home. Sat with it in your lap for hours. Then, finally, you opened it.

Y/N,

I’m sorry I couldn’t be stronger. I tried. God, I tried. I didn’t want to leave you.

I’ve loved you since we were kids. I didn’t know what it meant back then. But I knew that every birthday, every summer, every time you smiled at me, something inside me wanted to keep you safe. To hold your hand until we were old.

I wanted more time. Not just with the world. With you.

Ever since the day we’d met, it was like a connection. As if we had been interlinked, soulmates. I really wish I could’ve had more time, I wish that maybe, just maybe I could’ve plucked up the courage to tell you. I love you.

Even if I’m not alive, even if I have to watch you go on with life from afar.

Please live.

I know we didn’t have enough time, never got to see you walk down the aisle in your pretty white dress, but until death do us part.

-Minjeong.

_________________________________________________________________________

You don’t remember dropping the letter. Just the sound of your own scream. It tore out of you like fire.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t move.

She had loved you. She loved you. All this time. You could have had a life. A real one. You could have kissed her under the stars like she dreamed.

But you missed it.

Missed her.

You stopped leaving your apartment.

Her letter was on your nightstand. Folded. Torn at the crease.

You read it every morning. Every night.

Sometimes you read it out loud. Pretending she was there. Pretending she could hear.

Please live.

You wanted to honor that. You did. But it felt like a command given to a body without lungs.

How do you live with a hole in your chest?

How do you live when the person you lived for is gone?

The depression wasn’t cinematic. It was quiet.

You didn’t cry all day.

You just didn’t feel.

You lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the sound of her laugh. The way her fingers felt when they accidentally brushed yours. The little dance she used to do when your food arrived at restaurants.

Every memory was a blade. And you kept stabbing yourself with them just to feel something.

Sometimes you’d wake up reaching for her.

Sometimes you’d hear her voice in your dreams, whispering your name. The way only she could. Like a prayer.

But she was never there when you opened your eyes.

One night, you pulled out your phone.

Went through every photo. Every video. Every message.

The last one she ever sent: I hope you sleep okay tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you always, even if I don’t say it out loud.

You didn’t reply.

You had seen it. You just hadn’t known what to say.

You threw the phone against the wall. It cracked.

You stared at the damage like it meant something. Until coming to a decision.

You wrote your own letter. It was shorter. Messier.

You kissed her photo. Held the pendant she gave you when you were twelve.

And then, like sleep, the dark came.

But it wasn’t the end.

Not really.

Because you opened your eyes to light. Warm and blinding.

Minjeong was there.

Smiling.

She looked like she did before the sickness. Healthy. Beautiful. Ageless.

You ran to her. She caught you in her arms. You wept into her shoulder.

“I missed you,” you said.

“I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”

You didn’t know how long it lasted. Time didn’t work the same in that place.

But her arms around you felt like home.

And then, just as quickly—

The light turned to fire.

Her hands slipped from yours.

She screamed your name, voice cracking with desperation.

You tried to hold on.

But it was too late.

Again.

You were pulled down.

The heat came. The cold after it. The gnawing emptiness of consequence.

And her voice…

Fading into the stars.

You think of her still, in this place.

You wonder if she remembers you.

If she cries.

If she watches.

You don’t know if it hurts her to be without you again.

But for you, it is agony.

Because the punishment isn’t fire.

It’s separation.

It’s almost.

It’s the taste of her name on your lips with no mouth to say it.

It’s the eternity of silence between two souls that once fit together like puzzle pieces.

It’s the memory of a smile you will never touch again.

There is no clock here.

No sun. No moon.

Only the echo of things you once had, and the things you never said.

Hell is not fire.

Hell is remembering.

You sit in the dark with her name on your tongue like a forgotten hymn, whispering it over and over like it might still reach her, wherever she is.

Minjeong.

Sometimes, you hear your own voice ricochet through the silence. Like it’s trying to come back to you. But it never does.

You’re not sure how long it’s been. It could be years. Centuries. A second stretched forever.

Time doesn’t live here.

Only loss.

_________________________________________________________________________

At first, you screamed.

You begged whatever force was responsible. You pleaded to see her again. Just one glimpse. One moment.

One goodbye.

You said her name until your throat cracked. You tore pages from your mind just to rewrite your story—rewrite that vending machine run, that unsaid confession, that moment her hand went cold without yours holding it.

But nothing changed.

No one came.

No light. No forgiveness. No her.

And she is up there.

You know it.

You felt it.

Before the sky ripped you apart, her eyes met yours one last time. She smiled, even as you were dragged away.

Her smile didn’t hold anger.

Just sorrow.

And love.

You know she begged for you. You know she tried.

But heaven has rules.

So does hell.

Love can break hearts. But it can’t always break laws.

She watches you now.

You feel it.

Sometimes, when the air turns still, you sense her at the edge of everything. Like a shadow pressed to a window you can’t reach. Like the feeling of being watched by someone kind, someone aching.

You feel it when your heart—whatever’s left of it—twists. A warmth. A memory of light.

And then it’s gone.

Just like she is.

Minjeong is in the garden.

In the morning that never ends.

She sits on a bench surrounded by white roses that never die, looking up at a sky that never dims.

She holds your letter in her lap, creased and fragile from fingers that trace your name like a prayer.

And she cries.

Not because she’s angry.

Not even because she’s alone.

But because she still loves you.

Even here.

Even now.

Even with forever between you.

She speaks to you, sometimes.

Whispers your name into the wind.

Tells you stories you’ll never hear. Laughs soft and broken at jokes you would’ve made. Hums the lullabies you both used to fall asleep to in the hospital bed, when there was still time. When there was still hope.

She wonders if you can feel her.

She wonders if you forgive her—for not holding on tighter, for not saying I love you sooner, for being too soft and too quiet when it mattered.

But mostly, she wonders if you’re okay.

If wherever you are, you remember the way her hand fit in yours.

If you know she never stopped waiting.

And you—down here—you do feel it.

Every now and then, in the cold, you catch the faintest scent of lavender and sugar. You think it’s her.

Maybe it is.

Maybe there are cracks in the walls of this place. Tiny fractures in eternity where her love still seeps through.

But you can’t follow it.

You can’t climb back.

You made your choice.

And hell remembers.

You begin to forget your own voice.

But hers? Hers stays with you.

You say it every day like a spell.

Minjeong.

You write it in ash.

You carve it into stone.

You bleed it into the silence.

And still, she does not come.

Because she can’t.

Because forever means forever.

Because some loves are written in the stars.

And some are written in the spaces between them.

There is no ending here.

Only echoes.

Only distance.

Only love that couldn’t outrun time.

You are the ghost she dreams of.

And she is the light you were never meant to hold.

But still—across the great divide—

you both wait.

You both love.

And that will be your forever.

Apart.

But never unloved.