#because i want you to know what it feels like to be haunted

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, tension, Christmas, ghosts, mentions of ptsd,

A/N: i'll be so honest. this is not edited i will come back during the day and edit this. it's 3am here man. welcome to Christmas in may

Previous part || Series masterlist

It was two nights before Christmas. 

Not to get too festive, but Bucky was already ho-ho-h-over this shit.

As with everything, the Avengers refused to be normal when it came to planning Christmas. A giant tree had already been brought into the living room, with the bottom 3 feet already decked out in ornaments. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments– customised, traditional, passed down for years, new– lay at its base, waiting to be set up. 

Stockings had arrived in the mail, hot cocoa was being purchased by the pound, and the damn Christmas playlist had gotten boring 3 days into the month, but continued to play every single day like they were working in a grocery store. 

Bucky doesn’t really feel the cold as much as the others– spending 70 years in nothingfuck Siberia will do that to a guy. So while everyone wears ugly sweaters that you’ve gotten them with enthusiasm, he sticks to an ugly Christmas t-shirt you had custom made for him.

And felt-antlers. With bells. Because you stuck it on him and he never bothered taking it off. 

He’s fended off several attempts to get him to go carolling through the Tower. He did go to the soup kitchen to serve people the whole month, and shovelled snow from driveways for free. 

He thinks that’s good enough for Christmas Spirit.

“Bucky Barnes,” you announce, gliding into his personal space once more with practiced ease. “I have an idea for you.”

“Of course you do,” he says, voice like gravel after not using it the whole day. “Are you going to make another animal talk and then lie to me for months?”

“Lie to you for months?” you scoff, dropping your head into his lap, feet kicking up. “I literally fucking told you she talks, like multiple times. You’re the one who didn’t believe me.”

His hand instinctively moves to run over your scalp. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ll start taking everything you fucking say literally.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

He narrows his eyes. “Starting now.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“Starting now.”

“You’re my-–”

“Stop it. Get help.”

“You will never learn from your mistakes,” you tsk lightly, unperturbed. “I even told you she picked Alpine as her name, why the fuck would I lie about that?”

“I thought you talked to her like– I don’t know– an imaginary friend or some shit.”

“She’s not imaginary.”

“I know that now,” he hisses. “She’s been calling me a little bitch for the last 2 weeks every chance she gets.”

“Have you considered that perhaps it’s because you are, in fact, a little bitch?” you ask brightly. 

“I know that, doesn’t mean I wanna hear it every time she wants food.”

“You should get her one of those dispensers where she hits the button and it gives her food.”

Bucky grumbles, adjusting so you can be more comfortable, “It’s her Christmas present.”

“You’re a big ol’ softie,” you say approvingly, patting his thigh. “Speaking of Christmas presents, what did you get me?” 

“Didn’t get you shit.”

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t need to ask me for permission, ‘s a free country.”

You push up from his lap, glaring at him. “Did you get anyone presents?”

“I got Steve socks.”

“What about Sam?”

“Socks.”

“Nat?”

“So–”

“If you say socks, I’m gonna kill you.”

Bucky shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Did you get me socks too?”

“No, they didn’t deliver in time. You'll get them next month.”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“You sound like the fucking Grinch.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like Scrooge. You’re gonna have a 200 year old Bucky Barnes show up tonight and make you change all your ways and then you’ll be nice to me,” you say, laying your head back down on his lap. 

“I’m always nice to you,” he scoffs. Which is true. He even made sure the fucking temperature was to your liking, even though everyone had complained about it. 

“Liar. Anyway, that reminds me of what I came here to talk about. It’s so convenient that your personality is a natural segue into Scrooge. I think that says a lot about you.”

He stares at you. You grin at him. 

He rolls his eyes, glare dropping in favour of a small smile instead. 

“I found a Reddit post about how to summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future,” you say, pulling it up on your phone. “All you need is 2 red candles, and some blood and stuff.”

“Feel like you’ve skipped over a lot there.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m gonna get red candles delivered for the Tower anyway, and I’m sure the chalk from the seance we did a few months ago will be enough.”  

“While you’re at it, you can get yourself socks too and I’ll pretend it’s from me.”

“Stop.”

“I’ll put a note on it, if it helps.”

“It does not, I hate you.”

“Guess I’ll cancel the socks then.”

“I’ll kill you, Barnes.”

Finally, after a marathon of Die Hard, the Tower retreats into quiet. Everyone gets back to their floors, leaving only soft lights on and the faint hum of Eartha Kitt in the background.  

Bucky sits at the counter, waiting for you to get on with your scheme. 

There’s a plate of cookies beside him that was definitely supposed to last the whole week, but was depleting rapidly at a pace that was unjustifiable.

He looked comfortable. In a good mood, even.

You slid onto the chair across from him, a candle in each hand and your phone tucked between your shoulder and ear.

“Did you know,” you said, striking a match, “that if you perform a Yule invocation on the night of a waxing moon–”

He only chooses to listen, chewing absentmindedly. 

“—and speak the ancient lines passed down by account owners on Reddit—” The flame on the candle lights up your face. “—you can summon the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.”

He thinks you look nice in the candlelight. His head tilts lightly as you light the other one.  

“You mean like the story?”

“No, like the tax auditors. Yes, like the story.”

He slides a cookie over to you, which you accept. “It’s two nights before Christmas. I should be resting.”

“You’ve been resting all day.”

“I shoveled a driveway this morning.”

“For five minutes.”

You place the candle in a chipped ramekin you stole from the kitchen. The second one wobbles slightly before finding its balance.  

“You know,” he said eventually, “for someone who claims to hate rules, you love rituals.”

“Completely different.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, taking another bite before asking casually, “How’s this month been for you?”

You look at him with an eyebrow raised. “Is this a performance review?”

He shrugs. “Christmas tends to be a lot. Family this, family that. First year here was incredibly claustrophobic.”

You draw a little diagram on the counter with a sketch pen. He’d have to wipe that off later.

“It’s been alright,” you say after a while. “This is probably the first time I’ve been a part of something like this.”

“You can fuck off somewhere quiet.” He offers you another cookie from the plate, watching as you take this one as well. “No one would say anything.”

“Sam’s got me learning some choreography with Cass and AJ, so I’m pretty sure he’d mind.”

“No one cares what Sam thinks.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, you can’t fool me.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at you. The corner of your lip pulls in a smile.

“Besides– maybe all this ‘family this, family that’ will help me get what you meant by silent blenders.”

He stops chewing momentarily, trying to place what you’re talking about. It sounded familiar, just on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it.

“Clock tower,” you remind him.

Oh.

God, that was so long ago.

So many things have changed since then. Looking back, he thinks he’d have done things a lot differently.

You handing your phone over to him snaps him out of his quick flashback.

“What?”

“This is a two-person ritual,” you tell him. “I need you to read it so that they come haunt you too.”

Bucky’s nose twitches.

Did he really want more people after him.

He skims through the Latin line on the screen with the same energy as reading a rental agreement. 

“This is too much effort.”

“Um.”

“It’s the middle of night, I don’t want to learn Latin.”

“You’re such a pain,” you whine. “Fine, just repeat after me then.”

“What if I say it wrong?”

“Well, then you’ll probably summon something else, Buck. You looking forward to that? You wanna make a new friend?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, watching you over the rim of his mug. The light from the candles flickered across his face. It made him look softer. The quiet suited him.

 “Repeat after me. This is the oath,” you announce. “I do.”

“I do,” Bucky says dryly.

You nod your head. “We’re married now.”

 His lips stretch into a thin line, casting a wry look at you. 

“I’ll get you there some day, baby.” You grin. “Alright anyway. ‘Si spiritus circumvagantur–”

He says it, not sounding even remotely interested. 

“Monstra nobis praeteritum, praesens et futurum.”

“Monstra nobis– how long is this thing,” he interrupts. 

You send him a pointed look. He says the stupid line.

“Ut quod fractum est reparare possimus.”

Bucky feels a sudden sense of unease as he says it. He may have thought of it as a joke before, but did he actually want more people haunting him? Did he want the one person who was haunting him to show up once more.

“Sana quod vulneratum est. Muta consilium Parcarum,” you read, glancing over at him. 

He says it, but his words get more faint, shoulders tensing.

“Melior homo esto ante lucem,” you finish.

You look at him expectantly.

“Good night,” he says instead, chair scraping against the floor as he pushes away from the counter. 

“Did you just quit on me at the last second?”

“Got bored.” 

“I cannot believe–”

“It was too long. Get a shorter spell next time.”

“I can’t believe you made me summon ghosts alone.”

He raises his hand in mock salute. “Hope your visit goes well.”

“I hope you get visited by the Ghost of Being Lame.”

“Maybe he’ll bring socks.”

You stand up, blowing out the candles as look at him. “You're lucky you’re cute.”

His face suddenly feels hot, which is stupid, because the candles were already extinguished. 

Nothing happens.

You declared it was because you were literally perfect and there was nothing to change ever, so they didn’t even bother making the trip to see you.

Bucky’s sort of glad he doesn’t have to see his sister on her favourite holiday. 

The next morning, the Tower was already loud before a reasonable time. 

And much like a fucking minefield, there was mistletoe everywhere.

All over the ceilings, every doorway, hanging from sticks on top of basic necessities like the fridge. 

Bucky noticeably avoids walking under any of the mistletoe, which only made it more fun.

“Are you allergic?” you ask innocently, trailing behind him into the kitchen.

“To you, yeah,” he muttered, swerving clear of opening the fridge like it might save him.

You lean on the counter. “What would be the worst thing that happened? Someone kisses you?”

“Someone sees it happening,” he says.

He turns around, only to immediately bump into Nat. Bucky whose lets out something similar to a screech and has the look of a cat who accidentally touched water, books it. 

You’d never seen him leave a room faster.

Afternoon is spent at a volunteer event downtown. 

Distribution tables, hot meals, paper hats. A photographer from some local paper follows Sam around for three hours. 

Bucky stands beside you and quietly refills the cider table without being asked.

“You know, just because you haven’t mentioned the thing you said on the ship, doesn’t mean I forgot it,” you pipe up.

Bucky pauses, grip tightening on the ladle. “I was seasick.”

“Yeah. Which is why I think you were telling the truth.”

“Wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I’m not gonna push you, Buck,” you tell him. “I’m just sayin’ that if there’s something you want to talk about, you can.”

He stays silent, instead focusing on whether every glass was filled the right amount. 

You squeeze his shoulder and go to find Nat to help with blanket distribution.

Bucky barely moves from his designated table. You show up occasionally to make sure he steers clear of the photographs being taken at random. 

On your way out, he silently hands you a candy cane and doesn't look at you when you take it.

Clint catches him under the mistletoe in the garage.

Bucky physically recoils when a sloppy, wet kiss is pressed to his forehead. 

By the time the sun dipped behind the Tower, dinner was long done and half the team had changed into progressively worse pajamas. 

The living room smelled like cinnamon and pine. The movie was something old and animated, the volume low enough to talk over.

You were on the floor with your back against the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Bucky had been using until you’d stolen it.

Steve flips through a catalog Wanda had brought back from a Christmas market. He keeps holding up strange ornaments and asking if they were “a thing now.”

“That’s a mushroom,” Wanda said flatly.

“It has a face.”

“They all do.”

“It’s smiling at me.”

“Smile back.”

On the other couch, Sam had Alpine on his lap. She was tolerating it with visible judgment.

You weren’t really talking. Not in full conversations. Just that easy holiday haze of noise and small jokes and unfinished thoughts.

“Who keeps changing the thermostat?” Steve asked without looking up. “The hallway’s freezing.”

You didn’t say anything, biting back a smile at Bucky very pointedly staring straight ahead. 

You bump your knee into his.

He bumps it back.

It’s too late when everyone disbands. 

By the time the lights switch off, Bucky’s too drowsy to drop you to your floor the way he usually does, instead groggily making his way back to his room. 

You told Nat you’d be there in a while, that you’d set up your presents and then come upstairs. 

You can’t sleep.

There’s a restlessness in your limbs, like something’s trying to shake loose inside you.

So you walk.

You grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, draped it over your shoulders, and stepped into the quiet, humming the last carol that was playing when you left.

No point in really paying attention to where you’re going, it’s not like it matters.  

The only light came from the window, where the skyline buzzed faint and gold against the glass.

The hallway beyond the common room was empty.

As you shuffle along, something shifts.

It’s faint, but there.

And though you’d had variations of it over the last few days–something about it is so familiar, it slows your stops. 

A trace of cinnamon, baked sugar, worn wood, and warm cloth. Scents buried under years, suddenly so vivid.

You stop walking, whipping your head around to look at the kitchen.

It was empty, the leftovers stuffed into containers in the fridge.

The hallway is the same–quiet, washed in soft light.

But the scent is unmistakable.

Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

And when you turn to look back at the path ahead of you.

She’s already there.

At the far end of the hallway. 

She’s just there, the way she used to be at the end of a long shift, standing in the kitchen doorway of the bakery with a dish towel in her hands and something cooling on the counter behind her.

Same cardigan, same sleeves rolled to the elbows. Same soft shoes, same patient gaze. The way she used to watch you when you thought you were being subtle.  

You’re not sure if your body moves first or your voice.

“Mrs Mullens?” 

She smiles, and it feels like the world has opened up to swallow you. 

You can’t remember the last time you saw her. You’re not sure you even remembered what she looked like. 

You’ve had years of impossible things since then. Cities falling. Rooms shifting. Time and space slipping out of your grasp. But this makes your throat ache in a way none of those things ever did.

When you don’t take a step towards her, you still find that she’s closer. Like you have no choice but to meet her midway. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, voice airy. It reminds you of wind chimes. 

Your voice cracks, just slightly. “You look exactly the same.”

“Well,” she says, tilting her head, “you slouch more now, so it evens out.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft, unsteady.

“Walk with me,” she says. 

You  find yourself nodding before it even registers. 

Moving down the hallway you’ve done hundreds of times in the last year now feels like the floor of the café again. 

The air warm with sugar and vanilla. The low sound of a radio playing something old. You, legs aching from a double shift, watching her knead dough like it was nothing.

“How long has it been?” she asks.

You shrug, but your eyes sting. “Too long.”

She nods once, small smile teasing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“I meant to come back,” you say, quieter. “I really did. I told myself I would.”

“I know,” she says.

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Working at the cafe was the first time I didn’t feel like– you know.”

“I know that too.”

You stare at her. “I shouldn’t have taken off like that suddenly. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“You were scared,” she says gently. 

“I should’ve said goodbye.”

“You weren’t ready to.”

“Should’ve tried.”

Her voice stays level. “You stayed longer than I thought you would.”

You glance at her.

She smiles again, soft. “And I hoped you’d stay longer still. But I also knew what it looked like when someone was running.”

Your throat closes.

“I was going to give you a raise,” she continues, just conversational. “I’d already had the envelope.”

You blink hard.

“I think I hoped,” she adds, “that if I gave you enough reason to stay, you would.”

“I know,” you say, without meaning to. The words just slip out. “I’m sorry. Everything felt like it was closing in on me.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

You look away, not knowing what to do about the guilt grabbing hold of your ribs. 

“Why are you here?” you ask after a while. 

She shrugs, lightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Same old.” Your shoulders rise in half a shrug. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a biscotti as good as the one you used to make. Used to steal them right out of the display case.” 

She chuckles. “I knew. Why’d you think we never ran out? I started making extra.”

You grin, despite yourself. 

You’re not quite sure you’re awake. Everything feels hazy and unclear.

Like it’s a reminder that this is actually happening, she reaches over, resting a hand on elbow.

Your fingers tighten around hers. It feels like the guilt was going to eat you alive. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to say thank you,” you say. “I should have stayed.”

“You can still do that,” she tells you gently. 

Your eyebrows furrow.

And when you look at her to respond– 

You come up empty. 

Just gone.

But the air still smells like cinnamon.

You blink hard a few times, looking behind you. 

The silence fores you to keep moving down the hall. 

The elevator ride up seems unusually short, but you cant say for certain that you were focusing on anything but what happened. 

It dings, the door opens up and you step out to more quiet.

As you walk down the hall to your room, the smell of cinnamon fades. The touch of her hand on yours also begins to ebb away, as much as you don’t want it to. 

You take a turn to your room, walking past picture frames and more mistletoes– until you come to an immediate halt.

There’s a bench you don’t remember being there before.

Someone’s sitting on it.

You stop, hand at the ready at your sides. 

The person on the bench slowly turns to look at you. 

It damn near knocks the breath out of you. 

They look like you. 

Well, it’s not exactly you– there’s a lot more lines and…fatigue. 

Enough to unsettle. Not enough to feel like a mirror.

“What the hell,” you whisper.

Other You raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Gonna take a seat?”

You don’t give an answer immediately. 

“Well?”

You cautiously slip onto the bench, watching from the corner of your eyes.

“Well at least we’re still hot,” you mumble.

Other You has a thin smile, nodding along. “One of the constants of life.”

You give a sidelong glance. “You’re from the future, I’m guessing.”

They lean forward a little, elbows on knees. You match it.

“You here to warn me?” you ask. 

“Not exactly. Life’s fine.”

You furrow your brow. “Then why are you here?” 

Other You shrugs. “What, we can’t have a conversation? This should be the most interesting talk in the world.”

“Do we ever win the lottery?”

“No, but we waste a lot of money buying tickets.”

“What stocks should I invest in?”

“Chicken. Bouillon.”

“Do Bucky and I ever–”

You don’t even finish your sentence before Other You’s head is shaking with half-smile. 

“Seriously?” you ask. “Not even once?”

“Nope.”

You honestly asked as a joke but the answer has you feeling more dejected than you’d anticipated. Which was wild. Because what the fuck.

“We leave soon, I suppose,” you pose.

“A week after Christmas. Another roadtrip someplace, but this time, you don’t come back to the tower with him.”

“Well that’s fucking bleak.” You blow out an exhale. “We ever stop anywhere?”

“Couple months. Year, maybe.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “What does life look like now?”

Other You scratches a spot on their jaw. “You meet a lot of new people. Mediocre coffee. See new places. Thirty two new jobs.”

You nod slowly. “Sounds pretty–”

“Lonely. Yeah.” 

You exhale. “I don’t want to be tied down.”

“Nor did I.”

Another silence.

You look at Other You, a little sharp, but their face is calm, unbothered.

Other You stretches out their legs, ankles crossing. “It’s not a tragedy, you know. The way we turned out. We’re not a cautionary tale or anything.”

You look away. “Do you want people?”

“Yeah,” they say simply. “I have them. For a while, anyway. Life isn’t bad. I don’t answer to anyone. I can go wherever I like. It’s fun.” 

You sit with that. “Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know anything else.”

You fidget with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know if I do either.”

“Yeah.”

You glance at them.

“But you’re asking. That’s more than I ever did.” Other You stands then, stretching a little. “Any other questions?”

You look up. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough,” Other You says. “If you’ve got no more questions, I’m gonna head out.”

“Can you tell me what the lottery numbers are?”

“What makes you think we remember random fucking lottery numbers?”

Your face cracks into a smile. 

The lights above you flicker, demanding your attention for  split second. 

When you look back down, you’re on your feet. 

No bench in sight.

And no you.

You sigh, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you continue down the hallway to your room.

Past the floor common room, and by the kitchen, until you catch sight of flaming red hair. 

The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove.

You don’t turn anything else on. Just walk in, barefoot, letting the tile cool the heat in your skin.  

Nat’s perched on the counter, feet tucked under her, arms crossed. Her hoodie’s too big and her hair’s still damp, like she just got out of the shower and couldn’t be bothered to dry it. 

There's a jar of olives open next to her. She picks one out and eats it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really. You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”

She nods once, popping another olive into her mouth. 

You open the fridge and stare into it like it's going to offer you something new. It doesn’t. 

You grab the first thing that makes sense. Half a juice box. 

Nat watches you for a second. “You’re the only one who drinks those.”

“That’s not true.”

“No one else touches the purple ones. You keep pretending someone else is buying them but I’ve seen the receipts.”

You snort quietly. Toss the empty box into the bin. It misses. You let it.

She offers the jar of olives. You shake your head.

“Why are you up?” you ask. “What’s bugging you?”

“You remember that guy we met on the roof last month?” she asks. “The one who said he knew me from the Red Room but kept calling me Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“I still don’t know if I knew him.”

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “That’s what’s keeping you up?”

“Not really. But I’m thinking about it.” Nat picks another olive out of the jar, inspects it, then eats it. “Steve was trying to wrap presents earlier. Took him two hours. He’s probably used all the tape in the country..”

You smile, just a little.

“He put your name on one of them,” she adds, chewing on another olive.

 “You spy on everyone’s gifts?”

“I notice things.”

You pull a chair out and sit. It creaks a little. 

“You didn’t have to stay up,” you say.

“I agree.” She slides the olive jar closer to you.

You still don’t take one.

“Do you think I’m strange?” you ask, not really sure where it came from.

Nat doesn’t blink. “Yeah.”

You laugh, soft.

“Not in a bad way,” she continues. “Just– specific.”

You chew that over.

Nat kicks her heel lightly against the counter.

There’s a crack in one of the tiles. You wonder how long it’s been there.  

“You used to be on the run too, right?” you ask her finally. “But you’ve been here for a while. Why’d you stay?”

“Helps if the government isn’t trying to hunt you down.” She shrugs. “Besides, I figured if you ever stopped long enough to look behind you, someone should still be here.”

You don’t reply.

Nat screws the lid shut on the jar. “This place suits you.”

The haziness that’s been following you around all evening suddenly swells around you, reminding you of its presence. 

Hesitantly, you call after her, “Are you real?”

She shrugs again. “I’m always real when it counts.”

The radio hums from nowhere. The lights flicker once more.

And you’re back in the hallway in the common room downstairs.

The living room is silent. The lights from the city glimmer. 

You stand quietly in the centre of it all. 

Bucky wakes up to Alpine pawing at his ribs.

It’s too bright out. 

He rolls onto his side. She chirps. Climbs over his shoulder and plants herself by the window like she’s keeping watch.

He gets dressed. Stretches. Rubs at the back of his neck until the worst of the stiffness fades. 

Alpine judges.

Downstairs is warm, loud, and already a mess. Wrapping paper underfoot. Someone’s spilled cocoa.

He takes a lap, slipping in and out as unannounced as he can. 

Doesn’t see you.

You’re probably just late.

He sits on the couch.  

He gets up again.

Checks the kitchen.

Your mug’s still in the sink from last night.

He opens the fridge like it might contain a clue. It doesn’t..

He pulls out his phone.

No texts.

He scrolls. Finds your name. 

Types ‘Where are you?’

Deletes it.

Tries again.

‘You skipping Christmas?’

Deletes that too.

He settles on ‘You good?’

Sends it. Doesn’t wait for the read receipt.

Wanders down the hall. Checks the gym. Empty. 

He walks back to the common room. Nat’s lounging on the arm of the couch, chewing on a candy cane.

He sits beside Steve, who’s halfway through a puzzle that no one asked for.

“You alright?” Steve asks.

“Yeah.”

The word comes out before he even thinks about it.

He takes a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. Someone messed with the settings again.

The snow keeps falling.

You’re not here.

He’s not worried.

He’s just… watching the door.

In case.

Just on time, it swings open loudly.

The chatter in the room dies down until everyone’s looking at who just barged in.

“Oh shit– was that too loud? Sorry,” Peter’s words trip over themselves. “I thought I was late– the bus didn’t come. I didn’t want to–”

“Hey, kid,” Sam calls. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

Peter grins wide, bounding into the room with two giant bags. 

“May sent pie. D’you guys wanna eat some– actually, it’s pretty early. I can just leave in the kitchen for later,” he rambles, pausing when he catches sight of Bucky stretched out on the couch. “Oh hey, Mr. Barnes. I wanted to talk to you about something when you have the time–”

“Presents first, conversation later,” Clint announces. “I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of dawn.”

“You woke up ten minutes ago.”

“I’ve been waiting since the crack fuck of ten minutes ago.”

Bucky settles in, eventually.

Takes the mug Steve hands him, warm and too sweet, and the plate of cut apples.

You’re still not here.

The living room’s already littered with opened boxes, half-crumpled wrapping paper, that one roll of tape Clint lost and blamed on everyone else. 

Bucky’s got his own small pile tucked in the corner. Nothing dramatic. Just things he picked out with intent, which is about as much holiday spirit as he can manage.

Sam gets a replacement for the book Bucky accidentally dropped in a puddle three weeks ago. Same edition, leatherbound this time. 

“Fancy,” Sam says, flipping it over. “Trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Just stop threatening to sue me.”

He gives Wanda a little wind up music box, with some tune he remembers her humming months ago. 

Peter gets everything ranging from Legos, to a promised trip to the NASA headquarters, to gummy bears. 

Nat’s gets a knife. Obviously. Custom handle. Something he shaped himself. She doesn’t say anything. Just runs her fingers along the spine of the blade, nods with a smile, and taps his shoulder as thanks.

Steve actually gets socks, because he’d found the limited edition signed copy of a Gid Tanner CD in Bucky’s room already by mistake. 

Clint gets socks that don’t fit him. 

There’s one more box left in the corner. Wrapped more neatly.

He doesn’t touch it.

Steve reaches under the tree and pulls out a package marked with Bucky’s name. The paper is pink. The tag has hearts drawn in glitter pen.

“What the hell is this,” Bucky mutters.

A tie.

With each Avenger’s face on it, stitched badly in red and green thread. Alpine’s head is on one. 

He stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then folds it carefully and tucks it back into the box.

“That’s what you get for not telling us what you wanted.”

But they do get him plenty of things. It’s enough to last him a year and more. 

Noise canceling headphones, a subscription to National Geographic, more tools for woodworking and a new set of gloves. 

The gifts keep coming.

And somewhere in the room, tucked under the tree, your box still waits.

By the time the sun dips, the Tower has thinned out.

Alpine has claimed Bucky’s lap like a throne. He doesn’t argue. She won’t mov either way.

The snow is still falling.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

Dinner came and went. Steve made something that tried to pass as stuffing. 

Your name was mentioned twice, but only in passing. 

It’s getting late now.

He lets his hand rest on the box still tucked behind the tree. Doesn’t unwrap it. Doesn’t move it.

Thirty minutes to midnight.

He gets up, Alpine protesting with a growl, and walks out of the room.

She, of course, calls him a little shit once more.

The elevator hums softly on the way up.

He reaches your floor. Pauses at the door.

You’d always told him to just come in. He knocks anyway. Waits.

Nothing.

He lets himself in.

The lights come on with a soft click.

Your room is… mostly the same. Bare, except the weirdly bent lamp.  

Bucky looks around now, trying to decide if you’ve taken anything.

There’s nothing obvious. But then again, he wouldn’t be able to tell if you did.

He looks at the clock.

Still time.

Karaoke has entered the equation.

Steve is halfway through “Blue Christmas”. Clint’s howling along in a key that doesn’t exist in music theory. It’s a disaster.

Bucky watches it all from the corner of the room, nursing the last of his lukewarm coffee, one leg bouncing under the coffee table.  

He gets up finally, under the guise of grabbing something sweet. 

Half the table’s been picked over, but there’s a bowl of wrapped caramels shoved into one of the stockings over the fireplace. 

He leans down, reaches in–

And hears the door open.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Took your time.”

Your voice follows, breezy and a little wind-chapped, “You’d think I’d never left.”

You’re still in your coat. A box under one arm, big bag in the other. You’ve clearly been outside a while.

“Presents are in the bag,” you tell them, “Help yourselves.”

Clint’s already shoving a mic at you, demanding a duet. 

“In a minute. I’ve got a thing to do.”

They elect to finish off the monstrosity that was Blue Christmas. 

You sway into the living room where he is, ruffling Peter’s hair on the way.

“Hey,” you say, smiling at him, small and familiar. “Sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something.”

“What was it?” 

“I drove next state over to find the cafe I used to work at. To see if the lady I used to work with was still there,” you inform him with a sigh. “Turns out they moved years ago.”

“Why’d you look for it?”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” you admit. “Got stuck in the holiday rush on the way back. Sorry for not answering your texts. I was driving pretty much the whole day.”

He stares at you.

He knows you’re impulsive, but something about this felt like it was…off. 

It was too short, you looked too distracted. 

You weren’t telling him the whole story, for whatever reason it was, but it was enough to make you drop everything and go look for something you’d left behind in the past. 

“Got you something,” you add, pulling out the box from under your arm.

You hold out the box.

He doesn’t take it right away.

Instead, he says, “You almost missed karaoke.”

You step further in. “How would I have lived?”

You stop in front of him. Still holding the box. You’re a little out of breath, like you came straight here without thinking.

“I’m fine, by the way,” you say.

“I know,” Bucky replies.

You finally offer him the box again. He takes it this time.

He lifts a brow, when he shakes it to get a clue of what’s inside. Something rattles around, but he draws a blank on what it could be.

You drop down onto the floor, sitting cross legged. He elects to join you, bringing the big box you gave him along with him, 

You reach toward the tree, like you’ve known exactly where your gift’s been this whole time. You grab it, navy wrapping, a little crooked at the edges, and hold it up.

It’s heavier than you were expecting, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

You look at him. “From you?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s socks I’m gonna jump out the window.”

“I’ve left it open.”

“Thanks,” you snort. “Go on, then.” 

He peels back the paper carefully and opens up the lid. 

There’s another smaller box in there, which he finally flips open to reveal a collection of drink sachets. Every kind imaginable. Weird flavors. Strange colors. A handwritten label on each one. 

Some are just jokes. Others are things you actually thought he’d like.

He stares at them.

“Fuck coffee. We’re gonna figure out what drink you really want,” you say, grinning. “You can play beverage roulette.”

He picks one up. 

“Lemon hazelnut cinnamon tea,” he reads, before  looking up at you. “This sounds terrible.”

“You’re gonna try it anyway.”

He shakes his head, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” you say, “Second one’s a little different.”

Bucky reaches into the box to find a flat, thin package wrapped in dark red. 

He runs his finger under the tape and pulls out a frame.

He freezes.

Inside are two yellowed tickets. Old. Worn at the edges. 

Not quite the originals he remembers. But close.

“I tried to find the real ones,” you say. “They’re not in circulation anymore. But these were the same ride. Same year. Closest I could get.”

The Miniature RailwayDreamland – Coney IslandAdmit one – 10c

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

You watch him a beat too long. “I thought maybe… you’d want a piece of that day.”

His fingers are still resting on the glass.

After a long second, he says roughly, “You remembered.”

“Well, yeah. How could I forget Becca Barnes dragging you five times onto a tiny train?”

He looks at you with something flickering behind his eyes. For once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

He sets the frame down gently. 

“Thanks,” he says softly.

You beam at him. 

He leans over to push the box he got you towards you. 

Unlike him, you tear off the paper.

He’d have rolled his eyes with a smile if he wasn’t about to– well, he doesn’t know. He can’t name a single thing running through his head right now. Al he knows is that his chest feels like it’s going to explode.

You find a flimsy cardboard box inside, which you also essentially yank off, but significantly gentler this time. 

It takes a while to register what it is. 

Inside is a miniature house.

Not a dollhouse — not quite. 

It’s rough-hewn, handcrafted, clearly made in a workshop, not a factory. 

Each room is lined with pieces to match. Sinks, a bookshelf made from matchsticks, a tiny coat by the door that looks suspiciously like the one you always wear.

The doors all open. The windows too.

And there are people. Tiny replicas of the rest of the Avengers in their costumes, each in a different room. 

You lift up the box wordlessly to have a closer look, when you notice everything is glued down, including the rest of the team.  

Except for one little figure. Not much bigger than a thumb. Untethered. Looks a lot like you. Like someone specifically took extra time out to carve it to be as authentic as possible. 

You turn it over in your hand slowly. “Are these…?”

“The team.”

“They’re glued down. Mine isn’t.”

“Figured you wouldn’t want to be.” Bucky clears his throat.” Point is, they’re always there. Even when you aren’t.”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the box. “You built this?”

“Tried to.”

You swallow hard. “I love it.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches.

You trace the edges of the house again, fingers catching on the little imperfections in the wood. The weight of it sits in your lap, solid and strange and oddly warm.

“You asked me what it feels like,” he murmurs. “To have people like that.”

You glance up. He doesn’t meet your eyes, just watches the house.

“When I first moved in, I was in the kitchen and someone was making a smoothie. The blender made this awful noise when it powered down. And it sounded so much like… something else. One of the chairs they used in Siberia, or something.”

His voice stays even. Distant, almost. 

“Threw up all over the breakfast table. Everyone was there. Sam. Steve. Nat.”

You stare.

“They didn’t say anything. Just… cleaned it up. Gave me water. A different shirt. And the next week, there was a new blender. And it made no noise.”

You feel your throat go tight.

“They make fun of me constantly,” he says. “For everything. The way I eat, the way I breathe. But they’ll clean up the table. Replace the blender.”

You look at him now. Really look.

“So when I think of what it feels like– that’s the closest I’ve ever come to naming it.”

“Silent blenders,” you say, voice quiet.

He nods once. Eyes still on the little house.

You don’t say anything for a while.

And neither does he.

You close the box gently. Rest your hand over the lid like it might keep the warmth inside.

When you look back at him, he’s already looking at you.

The noise of the team still going strong in the background.

“Come on,” you say softly. “We got some karaoke to do.”

He exhales out a laugh in the form of a small breath, accepting your hand as you tug him to his feet. 

“Did you sing?”

“I don’t sing.”

“Nonsense, I know you got a set of pipes in you. Michael Buble’s gonna bring it right out.”

He’s about to respond when something rustles overhead. 

You glance up.

Sure enough, mistletoe hung slightly askew on a sliver of garland, taped with what looks like medical adhesive.

It swung dangerously, like it was just about to give up. 

You look back at Bucky. “That was completely coincidental.”

He raises an eyebrow. 

He’s not smiling. But his mouth is doing that thing it does when he’s fighting one.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters. 

You stare at each other.

Neither of you moves.

“You gonna do anything about it, or just keep calling it names,” you challenge with a dumb smile on your face.

Bucky exhales through his nose. Looks like he might say something else. 

Instead, he just steps closer.

The smile you have on falters. 

Honestly, it’s not like you were expecting him to do anything about your stupid flirting because– well– he hadn’t done anything in months. 

But he’s looking at you with something unreadable on his face and you can smell the remnants of the day on him.

“What?” he asks, voice low, taking a dangerous step closer. “No comment now?”

Your mouth opens and closes. 

God, he may look like he wants to commit homicide, but nutmeg smells real good on him.

“Well,” you breathe out, and add nothing more.

His eyebrows raise in amusemuent for just a second before his face changes into something else. Something more serious. 

He’s close enough that you can tell that he’s controlling his breath. 

“It’s tradition,” Bucky murmurs, like you need any sort of justification whatsoever. 

Your eyes dart down for a split second, but he still fucking catches it, the corner of his mouth upturning just minisculy.

Your hand reaches up to fist his stupid sweater–

“Hey! Good, great, you’re both here. Finally.”

Both of you jump apart like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous. 

“Peter,” you say, blinking repeatedly as you attempt to catch your breath. “What’s wrong?”

The kid skids to a stop. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to ask this for like, months, and nobody’s been answering me, and I figured since I’m technically an Avenger and it’s Christmas, I can just—wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Bucky stares at him, dry as all hell as he asks, “Why would we be mad at you?”

You flick at him, telling him to behave.

Peter frowns. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you were ignoring me on purpose? Because I’ve tagged you both, like… a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Tagged us where?”

“On Twitter.”

There’s a moment where you all stare at each other like you’re speaking in an alien language. 

“I’ve been tweeting at you since you started this series,” Peter continues, eyes darting between the both of you. “You even read one of my tweets in your videos. I thought you knew.”

Bucky’s head turns slowly toward you. You’re already staring at Peter like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly.

“Well, it’s my alt. I didn’t want people from my school to see that I was tweeting at you guys.” He scratches the base of his neck. “Sk8rboy02?”

“Wait,” you say, jaw dropping. “You’re sk8rboy02?”

“Yeah,” Peter drags in confusion. “I thought you knew?”

“You’re the one who kept replying to the giveaway post with ‘I deserve this because my cousin died in a haunted Chuck E. Cheese’?”  

Peter nods, completely sincere. “And also ‘if you give me the EMF reader i’ll use it responsibly (lie)'.”

“You entered the contest seventeen times,” you say slowly. 

Peter brightens. “So you did see me!”

“Of course we saw you. You called that guy from the Daily Bugle a balding fuck.”

“Oh yeah, he’s my boss. He sucks.” Peter waves off. “Wait, so you just… didn’t realize it was me?”

“No?” you ask incredulously. 

“I said I knew someone in the Avengers in like four different tweets!”

“Everyone thinks they know someone in the Avengers,” Bucky mutters. 

“Okay, yeah, fair.”

You shut your eyes. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been tweeting at us all year. You’ve been defending us online. You fight random reporters.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to just… say it to our faces?”

“I honestly thought you guys knew.”

“No,” you and Bucky both say at once.

Peter shrugs and flips open a small, folded notebook from his hoodie pocket. “Okay, cool. Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I’ve got some questions I’ve been collecting on behalf of the internet.”

“No,” Bucky says again.

“Just a few!” Peter insists. “They’re good questions! Like have you ever brought home something cursed by mistake? Or if a ghost starts following you, how do you tell it to leave? Or—this one’s from me—have you ever faked a haunting just to win a bet?”

Silence hangs in the air. 

“Or not,” he says, closing his notebook. “I’ll just– head out.”

You glance over at Bucky. 

He rolls his eyes.

“One question,” you say, turning back to the kid. “Holiday spirit.”

Peter practically vibrates. “Okay. Okay. This is a good one. What’s the most haunted place in the Avengers Tower?”

“Laundry chute on the south side,” you say.  

Peter scribbles something into his notebook like it’s the gospel truth.

“Thanks, guys.” He beams at you. “I’ll see you out there.”

Before you get a chance to reply, he zips away, already calling for his shot at the mic.

You and Bucky just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in the lull left behind by Peter’s hurricane.

You glance up.

More mistletoe. Hanging smugly from the beam above you like it planned this.

You both clock it at the same time.

“Again?” he says. Tired. But not really.

“Second time today,” you reply, hands stuffed in your hoodie. “Third if you count the one in the elevator.”

“Which I don’t.”

You turn slightly to face him. 

“You know,” you start, tone carefully casual, “for a guy who once took a full round to the ribs and still had the energy to toss a grenade into a Hydra facility, you sure are squeamish about a little mistletoe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just glances at you sharply, like he’s assessing something. 

“I’m just not trying to do something halfway,” he says finally, tone even.

You open your mouth. Close it. 

“Okay.”

You step closer.

Just enough that your hands brushes his. That shared warmth again. Static in the space between.

You lean, slow. 

Your lips press gently to the corner of his mouth. 

Barely there, more cheek than kiss, but close enough to make him inhale through his nose like he didn’t mean to.

When you pull back, you say nothing.

He blinks once.

“You missed.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Little to the left next time,” he mutters.

“Maybe,” you say, already turning to leave. “Next Christmas.”

Bucky exhales, shutting his eyes for a second before he follows right behind you.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC. I BOUGHT MYSELF SOME CAKE.

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[kxsagi]

Welcome back kxsagi. In lights to the latest Blue Lock chapter, I'm here with an angst Reo request. May I request: Reader breaks off her arranged marriage with Reo because of his ambiguous relationship with Nagi and it didn't take long for her to accept the overseas scholarship to the US. After Nagi gets eliminated from Blue Lock, Reo begins to wonder if wooing Reader back is worth it.

“𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟”

a/n: who hurt you 💔

ngl i liked writing this one tho, i love a reader who knows her worth (title inspired by greedy by queen tate mcrae)

you don’t cry when you break off the engagement. maybe you should’ve. it would’ve felt more cinematic, more like a love story falling apart. but you don’t even raise your voice. you sit across from reo in his sleek black dining room, stare at him through the steam of untouched tea, and ask him plainly, “do you love me?” 

he doesn’t answer. not in the way that matters. instead, he says, “nagi’s important to me.” 

and that’s all you need. 

you don’t ask how important. you’ve heard it in his voice when he talks about nagi, seen it in the way his eyes trail after him, like he’s gravity. like everything in reo’s world orbits him. and you? you were the well-packaged life plan. the trophy girl he could fall in love with eventually. 

but love shouldn't feel like a delayed payment. 

you slip the ring off your finger and set it on the marble counter. you don’t look back when you walk out of the house, or when his mother calls the next day in a panic. you’ve already accepted the overseas scholarship by then – full ride, prestigious university in the U.S., a future that has nothing to do with boardrooms or arranged marriage portfolios. 

it surprises you how easy it is. you thought it would hurt more. but it’s like slipping out of a coat that never quite fit right. you feel lighter. untethered. 

reo doesn’t try to stop you. 

and that, in its own way, is the loudest answer of all. 

weeks pass. months. blue lock rages on like a firestorm back home, and you don’t keep up with it, at least not publicly. you pretend you’re too busy with midterms, frat parties, finding new favorite coffee shops and running late to everything. but in the quiet hours of the night, you still check the scores. you read the headlines. you don’t search for reo’s name. you search for nagi’s. because you want to know when it happens. 

and it does. 

eliminated. early. 

no fanfare. no post-match interviews. just a name in the footnotes of a sports article you have no business reading. and the moment you see it, you know – reo must’ve watched that game. must’ve felt something twist in his chest when the person he built his whole life around walked off the field, not with a bang, but a shrug. 

maybe reo expected to be there, waiting for him. maybe he thought nagi would find him again. 

but he never does. 

and reo… reo’s left standing in a stadium that suddenly feels too big, surrounded by ghosts. 

he starts seeing you in strange places. not really, you’re thousands of miles away, but in flickers. the way a girl holds her coffee, the exact pitch of laughter from behind a bookshop door, the scent of that perfume you wore only on weekends. he doesn’t realize it at first, but you start haunting him. 

he opens your old texts. never responds. scrolls through the pictures he never deleted. you smiling up at the camera, hair a mess, lips stained with strawberry gloss. you holding up a peace sign in front of the mikage family summer house, eyes crinkled, wearing his hoodie. 

he wonders what he’s supposed to do with all this regret. 

sometimes he thinks about messaging you. once, he even types it out. hey. are you happy there? he stares at it for a long time, thumb hovering over send, before deleting it and tossing the phone across the couch. 

because what would it change? 

he made his choice. chose something undefined over someone real. and now nagi’s gone, and so are you, and all that’s left is the echo of what could’ve been. 

he goes to your favorite bakery one morning without thinking. the owner recognizes him but says nothing. he buys the cinnamon bun you used to love and eats it alone in his car. it doesn’t taste the same. 

he wonders if he should try to win you back. wonders if the fantasy of redemption is better than the reality of rejection. 

across the ocean, you’re thriving. not because you’re trying to prove anything, but because you finally feel like yourself. no one’s fiancée. no one’s backup plan. just a girl who learned how to leave before someone forgot to ask her to stay. 

you think about reo sometimes. in the quietest moments. in that gentle, faraway way you think about a chapter that ended too early. 

if he ever reaches out, you don’t know what you’ll say. 

but you do know this: you won’t wait in the stands. not for him. not for anyone. 

you’ve got a new game to play. 

and this time, it’s yours alone. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[spinecouture]

꒰ jerk off ꒱

themes: nsfw, gn!pov, male masturbation, sub!daryl, dirty talk, use of ‘good boy,’ handjob

a/n: i’ve had this cooking for awhile. sorry i’ve been inactive. coming back slowly!

to get daryl into a comfortable enough headspace to even consider letting go of control, is no easy feat. getting a dixon to open up is like trying to break a brick wall with a plastic spoon. he’s hard-headed, stubborn and cold. so why do you have the feeling he’s a whimpering mess underneath it all?

it started on accident. you were looking for someone else, and frankly, daryl was the last man you wanted to run into. but on your hunt, you stumbled across daryl, leaning against a tree. a hand clasped over his mouth, muffling the whines as his other hand pumped his cock, leaking pre-cum all over the forest floor. what a mess, you thought. there’s no way that’s…

but oh, yes it was. daryl dixon, eyes watery and fluttering, hips bucking like a wild animal. shit, you’d never seen him so desperate. hell, you’d never seen him expressive at all, let alone gasping and moaning like a total man-whore.

of course, the show was short lived, as daryl came minutes after you found him. spurts of hot, white load spill onto the grass, and daryl’s soon huffing, puffing, flushed and guilty.

the image haunted you for weeks, plaguing your mind like a sick disease. of course, you let no one know what you saw. because hell, you’d be called a pervert for it, despite daryl being the one jerking it in the woods.

but it’s not an easy thing to get over. when you saw him wandering away from the crowd next, you had to follow. curious.

back against the tree, eyes fluttering, zipper pulled down. daryl was at it again, like a dog in heat. you didn’t know what to think, what might’ve gotten into him that made his libido spike—you weren’t even sure he could get it up before now—but something had him whipped.

which was all fine and dandy until you slipped and hit your face on a rock. blood pooled, spilling from your nose with a groan, one that had daryl pulling his pants up, stuffing his aching dick away as he saw you struggling.

“jesus H. christ,” daryl growled, before marching over. “the hell y’doin’?!”

you blinked, a goofy, messy grin on your face. “totally not watching you jack it,” you said bluntly.

daryl scowled, ready to rip you a new one. “oughta leave y’here to rot,” he grumbled.

“you oughta,” you spat, grass and dirt coming out of your mouth as you stood. “but you won’t.”

“says who?” the man snapped, glaring accusatorially.

“says the boner in your pants,” you replied with a shit-eating grin. “you ain’t just gonna leave yourself hangin’, are ya?”

daryl debating smashing your face into a tree. but lord knows he ain’t one to start something he can’t finish. instead, he stared at you with a beet red face, trying to process what just happened.

“are ya?” you repeated, taking a step closer.

daryl meant to move back, to lean away from you, but he was frozen. “shuddup,” he spat.

“nah,” you snickered, cupping his chin. “y’know what i think? heh… i think you wanna keep going. think you’d like an audience, someone to push you while you desperately try t’cum.”

daryl grumpily moved his head out of your hold, but felt his pants tighten further. goddamn, where did this side of you come from?

“c’mon, dar,” you cooed, smirking something fierce as you stepped even closer. “you know how irritable you’d be if you just… walked away? how pent up and stiff?”

you let your hand rub up and down his arm, feeling him shudder against your touch. damn, this man was a mess—a broken wreck who’d never been given an ounce of love in his life.

“i could help you,” you breathed, brushing your nose against his ear. “c’mon, jus’ lean up against the tree… let me help…”

you pushed him until his back hit the wood, and your fingers danced around his belt, mocking him. the man wanted nothing more than to bash your head in, to scream at you, call you a sick pervert and fuck off somewhere for the rest of the day.

unfortunately, he couldn't seem to move. he stood frozen, allowing your hands to undo his belt, unzip his fly. "damn," you snickered. "still hard as a rock, doll." "don't fuckin' do that," daryl grumbled, looking away with a flushed face.

"why?" you cooed, licking a stripe up his neck as your hand wrapped around his aching cock slowly. "can't take it?"

"ain't no doll," the man spat.

you couldn't hold back a laugh. it was adorable, how shy he got like this. you never knew him to be hesitant, to be nervous. but here, now, with his cock in your hand, slowly stroking him... god, he was a wreck.

it was inevitable that he'd start giving in. soon, daryl's hips were bucking into your hand, nails digging into the bark, breath heavy. your hand moved faster, but not fast enough to give him what he needed. curse you and your taunting ways.

"fucker," daryl snarled, still unable to make direct eye contact.

"oh, c'mon," you purred, leaning in close. "you can do it, baby, c'mon. cum."

daryl shook his head. not because he didn't want to finish, but because christ, he was humiliated. and that fact only got him closer.

"f-fuck off," he growled.

you scoffed, hand slowing until it came to a stop. "heh. okay," you replied, letting go of his swollen dick.

daryl huffed in frustration, suddenly looking you dead in the eye, a hint of desperation hidden beneath the anger and irritation. "what..." he panted.

"you said to fuck off," you smirked, stepping back. "so... i'll go."

daryl let his head fall back against the tree, catching his breath. his dick was throbbing, twitching, uncomfortable in the cold air without a hand to grasp it, to keep it warm. daryl knew this game. he was going to have to admit it. kill me now, he thought.

"please..." he muttered under his breath, looking down in defeat.

"hmmm?" you leaned back in, mocking him with your expression. "what?"

daryl groaned, wiping his face and debating whether or not to go through with this. his own hand grasped his cock, desperately attempting to relieve that tension. but he knew what he wanted.

"please," he repeated more firmly. "jus'... fuckin'..."

he grunted, stroking faster. he had to. he couldn't stop now.

"you want... hm?" you tilted your head, eyes glazed over with lust as your hands traced his sides. "ohhh... you wanna cum, huh?"

"fuckin' please," daryl roared, heart pounding. "don' care anymore, just fuckin' do it, god, fuck-"

"shhh," your face moved into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. "relax, baby. let me take care of you..."

daryl sighed, a breath of relief, as you replaced his hand. slowly, you matched his pace, your grip god-sent. it was humiliating, horrendous and gut wrenching, being degraded like this. and yet, he was letting you do it.

“you got it,” you praised, squeezing him just right, letting your thumb swipe across the tip. “jus’ drippin’ for me, ain’t ya?”

daryl whined, nails digging into the tree bark. he felt his stomach churning, that familiar coiling. he almost wanted to draw it out, to feel your hand forever. but god, he needed to cum. his hips thrusted involuntarily, eliciting a snicker from your lips. he glared up at you through wet lashes, but you only went faster. he tensed, panting and gasping like a pathetic dog.

“gonna cum?” you breathed, biting his neck gently.

daryl only nodded.

“got it,” you smirked, moving at the perfect pace, just enough pressure. “go ‘head. cum for me.”

daryl’s head fell back, scraping his scalp on the rough wood of the tree. he didn’t even feel the sting, just the pounding in his chest and his balls tightening. “fuck, fuckin’, fuck, i’m–“

his words were cut off by a strangled snarl, something deep and primal as he let go. your hand slowed, but didn’t stop as you milked his orgasm out. he spilled onto the forest floor, tainting it with his seed as he wheezed, breathless.

“ohhh, there ya go,” you cooed. “so good for me, doll. so good. such a good boy.”

soon, your hand left his cock, and daryl nearly collapsed. his legs were jelly, mind blank. you looked over his disheveled appearance, how the sweat stuck strands of hair to his forehead. he looked utterly wrecked. it was beautiful.

daryl finally looked up at you, flushed and spent. “fuck… fuck you,” he grunted.

“you would,” was your only response.

[a-bad-case-of-the-stephs]

What do you think of Bryan Q. Miller’s characterisation of Stephanie Brown?

Mixed feelings!! On one hand, I have a huge soft spot for Batgirl 2009 and Steph’s narrative of perseverance and dragging yourself up and to bigger and better things after what should have been total destruction is just so so important to me. It’s great for that, and for giving Steph’s character a proper spotlight and ‘redemption’ when she very well could have been relegated to the sidelines, forever haunted by her brutal fridging. And I understand why BQM might not have wanted to dredge up War Games- Batgirl 2009 is a chance for Steph’s character to move past the shitty sexist torture porn story she was killed off in. But on the other hand, the almost total absence of it to the story feels conspicuous and strange, and I really wish we could’ve gotten a characterization of Steph that felt a little more grounded in it. If that makes sense?

She’s sort of at an all time low before Batgirl 2009. Not only has she survived the brutality of War Games, the fake death retcon returns her in uncertain graces with the other characters. Her life is uprooted, the future of her character is unsteady, and to top it off she ends Robin 1993 portrayed as disgraced and foolish, as having proven Yet Again, that Steph is proven absolutely not good enough to be a vigilante.

But none of that emotion fully carries over into Batgirl 2009? Steph seems fine enough, and while I can (and do!) read that as a repression fake-it-till-you-make-it thing, a more explicit thing might’ve been nice?

I have a few small, line by line nitpicks, for example the whole ‘forgetting Steph sews’ thing rly bothers me because it’s just such a consistent trait and to me it’s so so essential that Steph makes her own OG costume - it really communicates her self-starter ‘I’ll do it myself’ personality and how it works with her vigilantism.

Also, for a comic where Crystal has so many appearances and so much potential power in the story, I feel like we missed out on a lot of Steph and hers relationship, I don’t know if I love how Steph is characterized in relation to Crystal and would have loved something a little more attached to her history with her mom.

Just generally, I find it unfortunate that much like a lot of Tim’s characterization in the early post-Flashpoint was heavily influenced by his portrayal in Red Robin, Steph’s more blatant bubbly-ness of Batgirl 2009 became sort of her baseline post new 52. Of course, Steph’s character has always been a little silly, and she’s always told her jokes, but a lot of her other (really important!!!) traits like her anger, and her grit, and her angst, and her pessimism have been much less prominent. But I rly don’t blame Batgirl 2009 for that so much. Just an unfortunate side effect of the reboot that has unfortunately really stuck around.

So I guess, overall my biggest thing is I wouldve prefer if BQMs characterization of Steph was just more grounded in her history.

Would love to hear others thoughts on this bc I fear I probably have my biases and preferences interfering here to a degree. Thank you for the ask!! 💜

[ankababy]

A Home (part 31)

Part 1 Part 30

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

Short chapter bc it needed the tragic end.

AN: Sorry guys that this is later than usual. In Another Universe took up my time and I even wrote more of it, so I’ll post another part of that after this is done. Love y’all <3

The Beach’s leftovers jumped at Aguni. One by one, they surged at him. And Aguni—Aguni tore through them.

Chishiya watched it all from above. Motionless. God, how understandable it was. The violence. The grief.

Because now he saw it.

Why you’d always talked about Aguni with a strange kind of reverence. Not loyalty, no. But there was that edge in your voice when you spoke about him. As if he wasn’t a person, but a monument. A constant. Something worthy of surviving. Something bigger.

And watching Aguni now? Yeah. Chishiya finally got it. The man wasn’t just strong. He wasn’t just terrifying. He moved like someone who had already died a hundred times inside. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose—which made him invincible. Unkillable.

Someone lunged at him with a broken bottle. Aguni slammed him down with one arm like he weighed nothing. Another came at his side and got a boot to the chest so hard it sounded like ribs cracking.

Blood smeared the floor like spilled ink. Bodies piled in twisted heaps.

And of course you didn’t fight. Of course you stood there, above it in your own way. Breathing heavy, trembling, lip bitten, hands slick with someone else’s blood—but not striking. Not clawing. Not losing yourself.

You were above it. Like always.

Even in the middle of all this fuck, you looked like something out of a fever dream. Bloody knees, dried streaks of tears on your face.

Chishiya saw it and hated it. Hated how you were still the most beautiful thing in the room. Hated how Aguni, a man currently crushing someone’s collarbone with his foot, got to be someone you once trusted. Looked up to. Loved, even—maybe not in the way you loved others, but deeply.

He watched you flinch when Aguni elbowed someone hard enough to knock a tooth out. He saw how your lips parted when the blood sprayed. And he saw how you didn’t move. No running. No screaming. Just watching. Feeling it. Carrying it. All of it.

God, you were so human.

And Chishiya? He felt like a ghost. Cold and unwanted. Haunting the place where he lost you.

There was too much happening. Arisu trying to stand, all bloody. Tatta’s useless hands shaking at his sides. You—at the center of the world again, torn and tired, and out of reach.

Wrong.

Everything was wrong.

And worse, it was too late to fix it.

Chishiya didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when he saw you run—stumble—to where Tatta had collapsed. Tatta had been pushed, thrown, maybe grazed by someone else’s fall. It didn’t matter. You were already there. On your knees again, bruised and bloodied. Not caring about the slick floor beneath you or the danger still in the air. All you saw was your friend, and that soft thing in your chest refused to go numb even when everything else told it to shut off.

“Are you okay?” you said, hands fluttering over Tatta like you didn’t know where to touch. His arm, his face, the shoulder he fell on. “Are you—are you hurt? Tatta, look at me—”

Chishiya watched it all from above, and it hit him. You were unreal. Still choosing kindness. Still choosing people. Still bleeding, but more worried about someone else’s cuts than your own.

God, how much Chishiya felt.

It was disgusting.

Because what was he supposed to do with that kind of emotion? Bottle it? He’d already tried that, and it shattered like glass the moment you kissed him in the security room. Or maybe it was before that. Maybe it was when you picked him. Maybe it was when you left.

Whatever the timeline, one thing was very clear now: you were no longer his.

And yet, he wanted to crawl down there and take your hands in his. Check your knees.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because when he saw your face—wide-eyed, scared, gentle—he also saw the wall you’d built between you and him. It was invisible, but it might as well have been made of reinforced steel. You’d placed it there with purpose. Rage. A sense of betrayal.

Chishiya had no one to blame but himself.

He thought he was playing the long game. Keeping his distance, staying clever, never caring too much—until he did. Until you.

You, with your too-big heart and too-soft voice. You, crying as you helped Tatta sit up. You, shaking as you said, “You’re okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re safe now.”

You were traumatized and exhausted and perfect.

God, he hated how much he wanted to be the one you clung to. He hated that it wasn’t him. That he’d built the steps to lead you closer only to watch you jump off the edge. It was funny, in a sick way.

Then suddenly, that crackling, high-pitched sizzle of a laser slicing through air and then through skull. Of the girl who came with you. That sickening, too-fast drop of a body before it even finishes the sentence. The wet thud on the ground. The way her body didn’t even jerk.

Chishiya blinked.

Fascinating.

It always was. The game master, the higher power, whoever was up there pressing the button—they didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. Not for youth, or fear, or humanity. Not even when someone volunteered to die.

She told the truth.

And it killed her.

Hilarious. Beautiful, even. If you were a sociopath. Which Chishiya maybe was.

But he barely got to savor the morbid splendor of it all, because there you were again.

You’d flinched. Hard. Like the sound of her dying had split something in you open again, and now you were holding your breath, hand clutched over your mouth, eyes wide with a horror that Chishiya couldn’t name anymore. You weren’t shocked because someone died. No, no. You’d seen too much for that.

You were shocked because someone chose it.

And for what? A truth? A confession? Fuck off.

God, it broke him. In the softest, quietest way.

You had blood on your face. Someone else’s, maybe. It didn’t matter. It only made you more human. More you. And still, you hadn’t lost your heart. Still, you gave a fuck. And that was the cruelest part of it all.

Because Chishiya never did.

And now, in the middle of all this, watching a girl’s body slump forward with a burnt-out hole in her skull, the only thing he could think about was you.

How warm you were.

How you spun in that chair in the security room.

How you kissed him.

How your knees were bleeding and you still went to help someone else.

How you left him, and he deserved it.

This was the punishment.

Not the games.

You.

Chishiya never believed in karma. But watching you right now, he wondered if this was what it felt like to finally be on the losing end. To feel everything.

To fall in love too late.

And now, of course, he couldn’t even say it. What good would it do? You wouldn’t believe him. You’d look at him with those eyes, angry and red and disappointed, and maybe you’d laugh. Or cry. Or leave again.

So he just stayed where he was. Silent. Watching.

The girl’s body still warm on the floor, blood creeping in every direction. And you—his heartbreak personified—clutching someone else’s hand. God, was he so unbelievably fucked.

One moment, just movement in the smoke. Then—there Kuina was. Arm slung tight around Ann, who looked half-conscious, dragging her toward the center of whatever was happening.

Ann just told all the people down there that the witch killed herself.

And that was that.

The witch. The answer.

The crowd didn’t cheer. Not really. Some sighed. Some collapsed. One or two cried.

Chishiya didn’t care. Not about that.

Because Kuina was looking at you.

Dried blood streaked your skin, your knees were raw, your mouth parted like you were about to say something but forgot how.

Kuina had no clue.

No clue you’d stood in the crossfire between two men who’d cracked your mind open and ruined you. No clue you’d begged, screamed, snapped, bled. No clue you’d saved people and been betrayed and kissed someone you shouldn’t have and watched another girl burn from the inside out. She didn’t know that you weren’t even standing there anymore. Not really. You were shattered into a thousand invisible pieces.

And Chishiya—

God, Chishiya.

He’d never felt more in his life.

It was unbearable. Almost stupid. He was angry at himself for it. For feeling this much. For letting you crawl under his skin so deep that now even your exhaustion cracked him apart.

Because you were done. Anyone could see it. Even in that crowd, even from this distance, you looked like someone who’d survived something that would never leave. Someone who wouldn’t ever fully go back to the version of herself that walked into the Beach weeks ago. Someone who was changed.

And it wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t poetic.

It was cruel.

He was part of that change.

It made him sick. And it made him want.

Kuina glanced upward, then. Saw him. Their eyes locked.

She frowned. It wasn’t judgmental. It wasn’t scolding. But it was like a silent, stabbing question. What did you do?

And Chishiya had no answer.

Because he didn’t know.

Because he did.

Because it didn’t matter now.

You had looked up too, just for a second. Not at him. Just at the hallway he was on. And he swore his heart stopped—not because you saw him, but because you didn’t.

You didn’t look for him.

Like he’d already been filed away in your head, locked behind a door labeled “never again.”

That was a death sentence, too.

But no laser came for him.

Only silence.

And the echo of your eyes looking somewhere else.

The crowd had started moving. The girl’s body was about to get lifted. The flames were still burning, everything orange. The fire had spread. No one was watching it. No one was thinking. They were just going.

Gunshots.

Everyone froze.

And from the fire—Niragi. Burned. Shirtless, skin blackened in patches and slathered in a sheen of blood and soot, mouth twisted into something that wasn’t human.

He was holding a gun.

He was shouting. Something incoherent at first. Then words. And then—BANG BANG BANG BANG—shots. Real ones. Screams erupted. Some people got shot. Others fled. The crowd fractured instantly, like glass.

And from above, Chishiya watched.

He wasn’t watching Niragi, he was watching you.

You looked like your soul had been pulled out of your chest by the sheer sight of him. Because even like that—burned and fucked and dangerous—he was still Niragi.

Your Niragi.

And you were still you.

Chishiya’s stomach dropped.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t run. You looked—and for a split second, your entire face collapsed into a portrait of heartbreak so pure, it made Chishiya dizzy. Your mouth opened, closed. You reached out and took Tatta’s hand again.

Chishiya could feel it. Your panic. Your guilt. Your love. Still there. Still rooted, no matter how wrong it all was. And for the first time in his life—first time—Shuntaro Chishiya felt sympathy. Real, ugly, gut-wrenching sympathy.

For you.

For Niragi.

For the complete fucking disaster of everything.

Because look at you.

Look what they’d done to you.

Look what he’d done to you.

It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. You, with your therapist heart and smart mouth and kindness that wasn’t ever performative. You didn’t belong in this.

You were good.

And now you were standing in the middle of a burning building, watching a man who once loved you—still did—melt from the inside out and shoot at anything that moved.

Chishiya wanted to puke.

And still, still, a little voice inside him whispered—You did this too.

He did.

He fucking did.

Chishiya would’ve enjoyed the show. Truly. The chaos, the poetry of the witch hunt eating itself alive. But not like this. Not while you were down there. Not with your heart in your throat.

God, you were his favorite person.

And you were ruined.

Niragi was shouting at everyone and no one. Foam practically at his mouth, fire reflecting in his eyes like hell had made him its messenger. His gun barked with each spasm of his rage. People ran. Some dropped. A few screamed. Most didn’t even get the chance.

His eyes landed in your direction.

His girl.

The one who slipped through his fingers like smoke. The one who left him standing in his own madness. The one who loved him—he knew you did, even if you were too soft to say it now.

Even Chishiya, watching from above, stopped breathing.

Niragi raised the gun and fired in your direction.

Tatta had already launched himself forward, dragging you behind a bar or part of a collapsed wall—he couldn’t quite see. Smoke had swallowed the lower floors. And you—you were gone in the gray.

No flash of your hair. No sound of your voice.

Nothing.

Chishiya stared.

Hard.

Unmoving.

He scanned the crowd again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Still—nothing.

And that was when it hit him. That was when the stupid, awful, dumbass realization kicked in:

You were out of sight.

No. No no no no no.

BANG.

Another shot.

Then another.

Chishiya didn’t see if it hit.

And he didn’t move.

Because that’s who he was, right? A fucking coward. A too-smart-to-die observer. The chess player on the sidelines. The man who never got dirty. The man who never made real moves.

Lazy fuck. That’s what he was.

Not emotionally lazy, no. That would have implied he had emotion to begin with. But now? Now, there was something in his chest clawing to get out. Like a rat locked in a glass box. Panic? Dread? Something so feral it didn’t even have a name. Something that screamed at him for just standing there as someone he lo— someone he needed disappeared in smoke and gunfire.

And still. Still. He didn’t move. Because Chishiya didn’t do desperation. He didn’t do love. Except, he did now, didn’t he?

God, he hated himself.

He actually hated himself.

You were gone. That was all he could register now. The weight of it settled on his spine like lead.

You were out of sight.

And he let it happen.

~

The witch hunt ended.

The building was still on fire.

It wasn’t urgent about it anymore—more like a slow, rolling burn, like even the flames had grown tired of it all and were just finishing their shift.

Chishiya stood in the middle of the lobby, hands in his pockets, looking like someone had asked him to pick a wine for dinner. Kuina stood at his side, arms crossed. She watched him casually pick up the card from the little table.

“…Have you seen her?” she asked.

No answer.

Oh, okay. So we’re doing the selective hearing thing now. Fine.

Kuina scoffed quietly, shaking her head and stepping back a little. It was always like this with him. “Where is she?” she asked again. She really would’ve let it go, but this was about you. Kuina didn’t play about Y/N.

“I don’t know.”

And that was the truth. (Which is why it felt like a fucking lie.)

Kuina narrowed her eyes at him. “She was with you a hour ago.”

“And then she wasn’t.” he replied. “It’s what people do.” Silence between them, the sound of the flames. “You liked her.” Chishiya said casually, folding the card into his palm like he was tucking a receipt into his pocket.

Kuina blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “You liked her. I knew.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

He hummed, looking at the flames licking what used to be the bar. “Probably will.”

Kuina scoffed, crossing her arms.

“You gonna tell me I’m delusional now?” she muttered, still breathless from running and fighting and the unbearable weight of maybe losing you.

But Chishiya only shrugged. “We broke up.”

Kuina blinked. “You—what?”

“She and I.” he said, shifting his weight to one foot, flicking a glance over at her. “We broke up. Tragic, really.”

“You were never together.”

“Hm.”

She stared at him. Hard. “You’re such a dick.”

“Absolutely.”

But Kuina wasn’t stupid. She saw the way he hadn’t stopped fiddling with the card in his pocket. The way his hand shook just once before he locked his joints again. The way he still hadn’t asked anyone else if you were okay—because that would make it real, wouldn’t it? If he said your name out loud and no one answered?

So instead, he deflected. Mocked. Threw little knives at the air to distract himself from the gaping hole in his chest.

He didn’t say that his heart had dropped out of his ribcage when you disappeared. He didn’t say he’d imagined every single worst-case scenario in the span of five seconds, each more vicious than the last. He didn’t say that the sight of you running to someone else—that idiot Tatta, of all people—was enough to make him feel like he was made of glass being stepped on.

No.

Instead, he made breakup jokes about a relationship that had never technically existed. Just to keep his ribs from caving in. Because feelings are optional, apparently. Because watching the girl he might—might—have loved almost die in a hail of bullets wasn’t enough to crack that wax doll exterior.

Kuina didn’t laugh. She just shook her head, the way you do when someone’s too far gone to slap back into shape.

“Idiot.” she murmured.

“Genius.” he corrected.

~

You walked.

The Beach was behind you.

Burning.

And fuck, did you wish it would burn faster.

Niragi shot you in the upper arm. You were wet and warm and sticky with blood that soaked you right down to the ribs. Your knees were a wreck. Torn open, raw, pulsing. Your feet dragged through the dirt and grass like they didn’t belong to you. Because nothing belonged to you anymore. Not your body. Not your mind. Not your fucking heart.

They’d taken that.

He. They. Them.

Chishiya and Niragi, Niragi and Chishiya, two sides of a sick, fucked-up coin, tossed in the air and caught between your palms. You loved them—idiot. Idiot.

You had loved them. Had trusted them. Had been toyed with like some little rubber-band plaything that bounced back no matter how many times they pulled it to the brink.

And the worst part? You’d liked it. You’d liked it. The attention, the heat, the danger, the fucking games. The way Chishiya looked at you. The way Niragi wrapped his existence around you. You’d swallowed it all down, like a masochist.

And it cost you everything.

Hatter was dead. The Beach was gone. You were bleeding, alone, and broken in more places than just your skin.

Your mouth hadn’t opened in minutes. Maybe hours. What the fuck was time, anymore?

But inside your skull?

Inside your chest?

You were screaming.

They fucking used you. Played you like a violin. Pulled the strings, sweet little therapist girl, smart little observer, let’s see how far we can push her before she breaks.

And you broke.

Oh, you broke. Snapped like dry bone. Caved in under the weight of all the things they didn’t say out loud. All the little manipulations. All the conversations you were meant to overhear. All the times you were asked to choose—between them, between yourself, between safety and destruction. And you’d chosen them. Time and time again.

God, what a loser.

Your breath hitched. The pain in your arm spiked and you hissed between your teeth, slapping a blood-covered hand to it. It wasn’t a deep wound, probably missed anything that would kill you. Niragi wasn’t trying to kill you. He never would.

Not his girl.

No. Just shoot near you. Shake you. Rattle you.

See if you’d crawl back like a dog.

And Chishiya? Oh, he didn’t need a gun. He just needed a whisper. A kiss. A little truth dropped like acid in your ear, right when it would hurt the most.

He knew what he was doing.

Fucker.

You stumbled now—legs giving out under you for just a second—and caught yourself on a dead tree, gasping. Breathing so hard your chest trembled. You looked like a corpse with a pulse. Hair matted to your face, sweat and blood and soot all over your hands, arms, collarbone.

Was there anyone left to care?

Tatta. Arisu and Usagi. Kuina, Ann… gone. Everyone was gone.

Even them.

Especially them.

You weren’t their girl.

You weren’t anyone’s fucking girl.

You didn’t even know who you were. Not anymore. Not after what they did to you.

But you would figure it out.

Step by step. Foot in front of the other. Through the wreckage. Through the pain.

You didn’t care where you were going. As long as it was away. Far away from what they turned you into. Far away from the monsters you once loved.

You kept walking.

Didn’t matter that the shoulder was bleeding. Didn’t matter that the joint throbbed, or that the bikini was disgusting with all the blood. Didn’t matter that the knees were both scraped open, rocks digging in, skin shredded. Your palms were wrecked, too. Burned. Cut. One was still shaking from the impact of the door you’d broken down.

But that wasn’t the part that hurt.

No, it was your chest.

Your chest was fucking hollow.

Like someone had carved your ribs open and scooped out your lungs and heart and left behind this—this—this buzzing, empty, furious static that filled your ears and blurred your eyes and made it so hard to even breathe.

You had to throw up.

Your heart was broken in a way that felt unforgivable.

Not “he didn’t like you back” broken. Not “we drifted apart” broken. But betrayed, stomped-on, you were never real to them broken.

You should have known. You did know. Somewhere, deep down, you’d known something was wrong, something was off. The way Chishiya never gave you the full truth. The way Niragi pulled and pulled and pulled on your leash like he thought he owned your fucking spine. And you’d let them. Because you were stupid. Because you thought they cared. Because you thought you were special. Because you thought—fuck—because you loved them.

You should have watched it burn.

You wanted it to burn.

The Beach. The memories. Their hands on you. Their mouths. Their flawless faces. Their whispered, fucked-up, manipulative little games. All of it. You wanted it gone. You wanted every piece of it reduced to ash. Let the smoke take it. Let the fire cleanse it. Let it all go up in flames so you never had to feel their names in your chest again.

You wanted Chishiya to burn with it.

You wanted Niragi to rot in it.

You wanted to be the one to light the match.

You kicked a rock as hard as you could, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached. The rock skipped once and then vanished into the trees ahead. Your ankle protested the motion. You didn’t stop.

You wanted the earth to split open beneath your feet.

You wanted the whole world to pay.

But most of all…you wanted them to hurt.

You wanted Niragi to feel even one percent of the ache he carved into your chest. You wanted him to wake up in a cold sweat every fucking night with your name in his mouth and his own guilt crushing his ribs. You wanted Chishiya to sit with that little face of his, controlled, until it cracked under the weight of realizing that he lost you. That he chose to lose you.

He had you.

And he let you go.

You clawed at your own shoulder, dragging bloody fingers through the sweat on your neck, trying to pull it together. You didn’t want to cry anymore. Crying was over. Crying was done. There was no room for softness in this body anymore.

You were everything they made you.

Everything they deserved.

They were nothing.

Not compared to you.

You were still alive.

Still breathing.

Still moving.

They could burn.

You wouldn’t.

The world didn’t deserve your footprints, but you gave them anyway. You pressed your rage into the dirt with every step. You carved your hate into the earth.

There was no forgiveness in you.

None.

If there was a god, you’d spit in its face.

You would take everything you were, everything they took from you, and twist it into something worse, something louder.

Now you saw it all.

And you hated.

Oh, you hated.

With every atom in your body. With the marrow in your bones. With the air in your lungs that you didn’t even want to breathe because they had breathed it too.

You wanted them dead.

Not out of revenge.

Not out of heartbreak.

But because they deserved it.

Because they earned it.

And the worst part? The most monstrous, terrifying part of it all? Is that if either one of them reached out for you again…if either of them said your name like it still meant something…you don’t know if you’d slap their hand away or fall into it.

Because they didn’t just break your heart.

They rewrote it.

And now it beat in a language you couldn’t unlearn. Their language. Their lies. Their fingerprints smudged into every syllable of your soul.

You stumbled sideways, half-blind, and crashed against a tree. Your shoulder smashed into the bark first—bad move. Hurt. You cried out, breathless, and your knees followed, they buckled. The dirt met you.

Your body was shaking.

Every breath was a fight, pulled through gritted teeth and a throat raw from screaming and smoke. You were trembling.

Nausea.

Your stomach heaved up into your throat. But you had nothing to give—hadn’t eaten, hadn’t drunk anything that wasn’t tears or adrenaline in what felt like days—so all you had was the gag. The horrible, choking, wrenching sound of your body trying to spill grief that had nowhere to go.

You doubled over.

Gagged.

Dry-heaved.

Sweat mixed with tears. Your mouth tasted like bile and blood and fire. You pressed your forehead to the bark, hands gripping the trunk. Your body seized up again and again, you clawed at the bark, heaving, shaking, gagging so hard your vision blurred.

Nothing came up.

Still, your body kept trying. Over and over. Your throat burned. You choked on your own spit. You tasted metal and dirt and that awful, sharp nothing of being completely emptied out.

And you cried.

Not soft. Not delicate.

You sobbed.

Ugly, gut-deep sobs that racked your whole body. There were no words anymore. No thoughts. Just the sound of your lungs being wrung out and the sharp stabs of betrayal pulsing in your chest with every beat.

You stayed like that for minutes. Maybe hours. No idea.

But something… strange happened, then.

Somewhere in the choking and the gasping and the heart torn wide open—

—you felt beautiful.

Not cute. Not hot. Not the kind of beautiful that came with lip gloss and a smile.

No.

Real beautiful.

You were bleeding and broken and not even sure if you were alive, but god, you’d never felt more yourself.

You wiped your mouth on your sleeve, smearing blood and dirt across your lips like lipstick. The shoulder still pulsed. The knees still bled. But you sat with your back to the tree. Slowly. Surely. Your hands were trembling so hard they barely even registered against the bark. Blood from your palms smeared onto the trunk like paint. Your head thunked against it next, breath coming in ragged, pitiful gasps.

You felt like dying. You wanted to live.

@lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango @bluerthanvelvet444 @risingofjupiter @enhasrii @potato-vagina @cherryyserenade @l5byrinth @soaplickerrr @sillyenemyarcade @miellette @sk1ndx0 @stopcallingmeimovedon @4ngeltrumpettt

[biteyoubiteme]

EEEEEKKKK im so excited to start this fic after you had told me about it because great minds think alike and soobin is so eternal sunshine coded like i dont know how to explain it and i just needed to sink my teeth into this and like im so ready to cry i feel like im going to cry after this and i already have my sleeve ready to catch my tears lol <333

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer? Yeah so what the fuck raya- FIRST LINE???? WHY WOULD YOU ALREADY START THE HURT NOT EVEN AN EASE INTO IT a suckerpunch kinda line that i love it really does just hook you in at first read like im on the edge of my seat just gagged wtf- 

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. Yeah i feel a world of hurt already coming like i love them already this is so unfair- 

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you. Oh im about to never forgive you after reading this raya- youre going to hurt me and you cant take it back and ill be here loving soobin and your writing forever but you have to pay the price of me bringing this up all the time because it already HURTS

you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door. He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold. Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us." Silence. Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words. "What's wrong—?" i fucking knew it the second the slippers got mentioned i was so like no no no no no this cant be but IT DID AND YOURE EVIL AND I LVOE THIS 

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe. For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone. CRYING CRYING CRYING 

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am." "Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son." You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her. "It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you." The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts. "But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?" WHAT THE FUCK RAYA when i tell you the pain i feel is real and in my chest rn i mean it like tears in my eyes and brimming to spill as i type this out you evil girl why whY WHY- i love it so much like you dont get it and your writing style- 

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?" yeah im never recovering- 

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real. No one was ever allowed inside. No one but you. THIS IS SO EVIL TO THROW YEONJUN IN THE MIX WTF- YOU WANT ME TO SOB SOB and to have his room frozen in time- no nope no and to only let reader in because reader knows- reader gets it- NO NO NO IM HURT- 

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob. This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend. Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone. But pretending could only take you so far. ‘YOU CROSSED THE THRESHOLD LIKE A SINNER ENTERING A CHURCH-’ RAYA pls have mercy on me i love your way with words im sitting here reading this and just gushing over the way its making me feel even if its sadness over whats happened because your writing makes up for it like wtf the lines and emotion omfg- 

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking. Sobbing i cannot- 

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby." Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily." You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser." Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick. AND HES CRYING GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT I CANT THINK ABOUT THIS OMFG-  the memories shared is just so heartbreaking like teasing him even while gone and just being hit with the realization that he is gone is just so- nope nope nope- 

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes. No i love this sm you dont get it like you know its just eating at yeonjun who wants to care for reader in place of soobin because he one knows how much reader meant to him but also knows what its like to have lost him and its like he lost the both of them in one swoop like ;-; no no no i cant i love this- 

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go." Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone." And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living." WHAT IF I WAS CRYING RN BC ITS HAPPENING- RAYA I HATE THE WAY YOURE MAKING ME FEEL (i love it a lot actually)

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand. Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you. HE WOULD UNDERSTAND- stop im actually crying like its not funny anymore this hurts like wtf- like honouring soobin would in turn be to help reader like please im so sad rn- 

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too. In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you. Except for his sister. I feel so bad for reader stop stop stop- she is just a girl like- 

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" OH! Stop id actually leave and be so sad like wtf- like i get how seeing reader would hurt them and i think even more so like seeing her hold on so tight to soobin if they are finding new ways to deal with his lost because of the passing time and she is still stuck as if he just died the day before and that would hurt them to see her but damn- 

the dent in the couch where he used to sit. No no no why does this line hurt sm- 

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be. No im crying real tears over this like wtf- ‘as if you were still hers. As if you always would be.” LIKE WTF why would you do this to me raya i thought we were cool?///

And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going." STTOOOPPPPPPP

You knew you would never see them again. I couldn't imagine knowing you were going to forget someone that you love and saying goodbye like mourning them even if knowing they will be alive but like gone from your mind you know like that's so wild to think 

"God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me." i hope you know the bill im going to send you for putting me through this pain is going to be hefty okay you won't be able to financially recover from the pain you inflicted on me 

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him. This is so evil why do you have me crying-

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs. NO YOURE GOIGN TO DO EACH ONE OMFG IM TOO WEAK FOR THAT HUH-

A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face. I love your writing sm omfg 

ten-year-old eyes THE MET AT 10 YEARS OLD THIS IS SO FUCKING SICK AND TWISTED WTF- 

Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy. Me saying ive been crying this whole time but like fr bc they are just ten and giggling and talking like you cannot take that away from me thats so sad thats not cool raya (i love it sm) 

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen. Im not well- 

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever." Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest.  You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides.  "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you." If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red. No no no no no no no no no i love them sm AND I KNOW HE DIES LIEK NO THEY ARE JUST LITTLE AND IN LOVE OR LIKE LIKE WITH EACH OTHER AND UGH NO NO NO NO NO NO

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you. Raya sleep with one eye open you are HURTING ME

Please let forever be like this. No its not funny face reveal to show you i have real tears like i cannot see the keys rn like im not kidding this si so not funny wtf RAYA I HAVE IT OUT FOR YOU WHHHHHYYYY THIS HURTS MY WEAK HEART THIS IS A SHOT RIGHT AT IT AND YOU AIM SO TRUE WTF- 

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" RAYA @ USER DAWNGYU I NEED YOU TO HAND WRITE ME A LETTER OF APOLOGY WHY WHY WHY WOULD YOU CONNECT TO THE START OF THE FIC LIKE A MONSTER AND RIP MY HEART OUT, STILL BEATING, FOR NOTHING MORE THAN A GALLON OF MY TEARS??? YOURE SO EVIL

"But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever." His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?" FUCK 

STOP THE NEXT LINE WAS ALSO FUCK AND I LAUGHED EVEN WHILE CRYING CAUSE I DIDNT SEE IT TILL I WENT BACK TO THE FIC LMAO 

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this." get this fic away from me i cant look at it anymore or i fear i wont be able to recover i love it sb 

“How many babies would you want?” AND THE PAIN GETS WORSE WTF 

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand. “I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—” His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything. In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate. Then—stillness. Dont talk to me DONT EVER TALK TO ME ABOUT THIS UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO BE A BLUBBERING MESS WTF- this also reminds me of the vow i was so obsessed with that movie in middle school lmao but IT KILLS ME 

Then his fingers find your face. No no no no no no no no nonono  onononononono this is actually not okay raya youre so mean! This is so mean! This is evil work EVIL im like real crying its not funny anynmore it was never funny but its like devastating like omfg-  HE REACHED FOR HER RAYA HER FACE WTF BLOODY AND ALL 

“It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?” never talk to me again 

but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.  No no no no no

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name. Your mother notices. "What is it?" You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful." STOP reader still remembering but not at the same time is so evil

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?” The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway. He’s cute. “It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting. He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?” You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs. Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.  Something... archived. "What's your name?" i know i just put a whole ass block of text but like i cannot i really do love this fic i love when things circle back to other things and this just hits so fucking hard TEN YEAR OLD THEM TO THIS  no im not okay like this hurts but like in a way that is like oh i think i needed it but like i didnt know i did like i dont know how to explain it but like i loved this fic i loved this i love raya but if i think about this while giggling with you i might but stop mid giggle and side eye you remembering what you put me through because omfg i cried sm like its not funny but UGH  thank you for this fic raya youre such a good writer i love love love love love it sm also how does it feel to now have made an enemy out of me??? Huuum raya??? Are you happy to have made me cry and feel things??? Hummm you like hurting us??? Huuummm??? Anyways i LOVED THSI SO FUCKING MYCH YOU DONT GET IT I LOVED IT AND CRIED TO IT AND JUST UGH 

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path. oh, and buckle up.

a big thank you to my beta reader.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this—unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail—an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table—the very spot where you left him—only to find it empty—a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. Two years since his funeral. Two years since you last stepped into your office. Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless. Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached��not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again. "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out. He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

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[0live-3vergreen]

something that is haunting me recently is the difference between fitzjames and crozier’s reactions to losing sir john. yes, obviously, some moments are at play like personal dynamics and relationships, as well as crozier’s ‘soberness.’ but this goes deeper than fitzjames losing a friend and crozier being a ‘good captain.’ they’re two halves of a whole with their reactions and this is one of the many examples of why the dynamics created between characters in the show continues to amaze me.

crozier’s first reaction is to immediately get his men in check and to safety, while james mourns and processes that they just lost their captain, he just lost a friend. this is james’ first polar expedition, so he’s personally unfamiliar with the danger of the arctic, but he has seen death and loss in great amounts in the war. he knows what it’s like to lose someone, but this is different. this loss was unprecedented in many ways: sudden and bloody and violent, but it’s different than war. he’s young compared to the others in command, he has a more “human” reaction. we see him try to rescue sir john, pointing and saying “he’s just there” and trying to climb in himself to reach. tears are freezing to his face as he weeps. he pleads. he yells. he never fully recovers. this breaks him. loss changes a lot for a man who is already on the verge of losing his mind.

francis, on the other hand, jumps into action. commands his men with the voice of someone who knows what to do, protects them. he even physically turns away from fitzjames trying to crawl into the hole after sir john. he does not give himself room to mourn. sir john had wronged him, he may have even held resentment for him after their last encounter, but he was still part of the franklin family. i think he recognizes this with his comment, “i never wanted anything as little as i want this now.” he both means the new seat of command as well as his captain dead in the most horrifying way. he slips deeper into his addiction before sobering up. this is what makes him a good captain.

they’re easily seen as opposites, especially with crozier’s stern demeanor in the great cabin scene vs fitzjames’ break down. crozier is entirely serious, plain yet clearly exhausted. fitzjames’ face is shriveled with tears, he pleads at crozier in frustration: “do you not feel what has happened?” rather opposites, i think they are mirrors of each other. i think they balance each other in their reactions; one needs to mourn for the other, who takes over command. james mourns enough for the both of them, francis takes the load of command and responsibility. not because they can, because they must.

[wren-kitchens]

uh. seven minutes in heaven?

1565 words

"what are we?" grian jerks upward in surprise, nearly banging his head on the shelf above him as he looks to joel. despite everything, it's funny. "you- what do you mean?" to his own frustration, joel hesitates. "i- we can't keep doing this." he says eventually, looking at anything but grian. he glances at his hands, which doesn't help matters in the slightest, because he went and painted grian's bloody eye colour on his nails like that was ever a good idea.

completely based on the wonderful comics and fics by @ludolka! i needed to make them kiss </3

"what are we?"

grian jerks upward in surprise, nearly banging his head on the shelf above him as he looks to joel. despite everything, it's funny. "you- what do you mean?"

to his own frustration, joel hesitates. "i- we can't keep doing this." he says eventually, looking at anything but grian. he glances at his hands, which doesn't help matters in the slightest, because he went and painted grian's bloody eye colour on his nails like that was ever a good idea. "we- we make out when we're drunk, we say that's just what people do, and then- then we pretend like it means nothing to paint each other's eye colour on ourselves." he huffs. "so- so what are we?"

for a moment, the sound of the old grandfather clock ticking is the only sound in the room. grian sighs heavily. "i don't- i don't know, joel. i won't even-" he cuts himself off, burying his face in his knees. "i’m sorry."

joel's heart sinks in his chest, and he wishes he'd never even brought it up. it was better, maybe, to have the possibility that his feelings were requited- that something could happen between them. but maybe he should just move on. "right. sorry, i didn't- i should have said something before, i just-"

"said what?" grian looks up so suddenly, joel has to blink. why would that make a difference- wait, does grian not know-

"i-" joel finds his voice failing him, and he can't say he’s too surprised. still, he’s not pleased. "just- how i feel? about- about you?" he still can't even say it.

there's a kind of intensity behind grian's eyes that reminds him uncannily of birdie as he stares at joel. "which- which is?"

"i don't- why are you making me say this?" joel says, heart racing in his chest, though whether it's from panic or flusteredness, he can't quite say. it- grian's eyes are- are nice to look at, alright- don't judge him. 

grian doesn’t let up, doesn't even answer, and joel finds himself stammering out a response regardless. "i want to- to stop pretending that everyone makes out when they’re drunk, or that it's- it's a stupid bad boys thing when we call each other babe- not that you ever did it much." joel's breath is shallow, but he still manages a scoff. "i want to take- take advantage of the fact that we're stuck inside a fucking cupboard because of some ghosts that don't even exist-" he takes a breath. "and i want you to want that too."

grian is still staring at him, but it's different—like all the heat has been completely dissipated, leaving him with what joel can only describe as shock. he- he really hopes that's the good kind of shock. "oh."

joel waits, but nothing else comes. "you- i don't pour my bloody heart and soul out just for you to say oh." he half yells, not sure if he’s angry or just scared. "at least tell me what-"

it takes a second for joel to even realise why he’s not talking anymore, and why he feels like every problem he’s ever had have been solved. and then grian puts a hand on his waist, and joel's eyes flutter shut on instinct, and- oh. grian is kissing him.

and that's just insane, because grian- grian is kissing him. they’re in a random cupboard in a supposedly haunted house, and grian has pulled him in by the collar of his shirt, and is kissing him. why is this happening- how is this happening? joel almost tries to pull away, to ask what on earth is going on, but at the slightest push, grian whines in such a pathetic way that joel suddenly wants nothing more than to kiss him stupid- questions can come later.

their bodies press together, and joel has to relish how good it feels when he’s sober- how he can so easily categorise the sounds he manages to coax from grian, and just how he got him to make them. muscle memory seems to kick in, and joel is running his teeth across grian's lip before he even remembers how often grian would blush and turn away whenever joel bit his own lip, which- god, that has more of a meaning now, doesn’t it?

it occurs to him, vaguely, that they’re not doing a great job of hiding from ghosts in here—after all, grian is being rather loud—but honestly, joel doesn’t think he’s ever given less of a shit about anything. especially when grian breaks away to press a kiss on joel's collarbone, and suddenly, nothing else in the world has ever mattered more than this moment right here. alright- maybe they’re both being loud now, but grian is giggling to himself and joel would do anything to keep him laughing like that. 

grian pulls back a little, and god, is he gorgeous. joel can’t understand what it is that's making grian blush so much, when it occurs to him that- yeah, he’s really just staring at him, isn’t he? "joel- you can'tlook at me like that."

"why not?" joel says, feigning innocence as he glances at grian's lips. he'd like to say it's an intentional tease, but honestly, joel has very little self control right now, and he just really wants to kiss grian again. 

"because i’ve- i’ve spent so long trying to pretend i don’t- don’t love you, and now you’re just- you’re undoing all the work i’ve done!" grian says, running a hand through his hair, and joel can’t help himself- he just has to watch. "you’re- you’re doing it again!"

joel grins, a little dazed. "okay, but- i mean, have you seen yourself?" he reaches a hand up to trace the outline of grian's face. "and i've been- i’ve had to try to ignore that, every bloody day! i’m allowed a bit of staring time."

grian gives a flustered little huff, but he doesn't protest as joel cups his cheek. "you’re an idiot." he says, but the way he’s looking at joel kind of ruins his point. it also is maybe gonna make joel go insane, but that's- that's irrelevant. 

"yeah, but- i mean, i think i heard you say that you love me?" joel grins as grian rolls his eyes- and realises just how well the colour does in fact match with the chipping polish on his nails. "is that- is that right?"

grian leans forward a little, and joel has butterflies. he hums teasingly. "i dunno- not sure i said that, really." before joel has time to prepare, he gives him a quick peck on the lips, clearly proud of himself when he pulls back to see how much joel is undoubtedly blushing. "you’re pretty cute, though." he winks. "i might be convin-"

it's joel's turn to interrupt with a kiss, he decides, and honestly, why haven't they been doing this the whole time? grian melts into him, and joel rubs a thumb across his cheek, and grian bites at his lip like he just knows how much joel has wanted him to do that for fucking months. maybe he does- maybe he’s finally put two and two together and figured out just how much joel has been wanting him all this time. 

"you know," joel says against grian's lips, relishing in the way grian pushes closer as he speaks. "i think the ghost has gone."

"shut the fuck up." grian practically hisses, and joel doesn’t have time to laugh before the gap is once again closed, and all that matters is their hands on one another, skin pressed against skin in the most intoxicating way. joel doesn’t ever want to stop.

unfortunately- he kind of has to, because jimmy has chosen exactly this moment to burst into the stupid cupboard with his stupid camera, and all three of them freeze. 

"uh." jimmy blinks at them, apparently processing. "oh. oh- finally!" he laughs, and joel feels his face burning. "oh my god, you took so long!"

"i don’t know about you babe, but i’m ready to punch him." grian says, far calmer than what joel would expect considering the situation they've found themselves- wait, did he just call him babe?

as joel is losing his mind over this fact, grian has stood up and jimmy has run away, still laughing gleefully. "he’s totally gonna tell lizzie." grian sighs, turning around again. "i- joel? you okay?"

joel clears his throat, doing his best to seem even remotely normal. "yeah- yep, just- all good." he pushes himself to his feet, trying to pretend to himself that he’s not going to be thinking about grian calling him babe for literally the rest of his life. "that- nothing to worry-"

grian gasps, clearly overjoyed about something- yeah, he’s definitely noticed. oh god. "it's 'cause i called you babe, isn’t it?"

"um. no?" joel attempts, knowing his face is beet red. grian cackles in delight, and- y’know, maybe it's worth the embarrassment to see him laugh like that. 

"aw- well, c'mon babe, we've got some ghosts to hunt." grian takes joel's hand, and he can't help the smile that worms its way onto his face. 

joel gives grian's hand a squeeze, and his teasing grin softens into something so incredibly fond, it makes joel's head spin. "ghosts aren't real." grian just scoffs. 

"you’re not real."

[that-sudsy]

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader

Nobody bought the house because it was claimed to be haunted. It didn’t bother you when the owner insisted that the place was new but haunted by a ghost. You were never one to believe in spirits; if you did, you wouldn’t mind, because you thought there were too many troubles in the world to deal with the invisible.

The owner handed you the keys the same day you bought the house. It needed repairs here and there, but that wasn’t a problem for you. You were a girl who knew how to fix anything. You grew up taught to be independent for life.

As you entered, carrying a box of kitchenware with your handwriting on the front, you stood at the entrance. The house wasn’t big nor small; it was just right for someone like you to maintain. It had high ceilings and a wall where a rope was attached, as if it were meant for climbing, like at a gym.

But the owner said it was used to hang things.

You placed the box in the kitchen and moved to the living room. A strange feeling washed over you, as if you were being watched. You shrugged it off and went outside to grab your belongings before the rain started.

Later that night, thunder clapped loudly, making you jump out of your skin while cooking dinner in the kitchen. The counters seemed unused, the cabinets looked new, and the stove was working perfectly.

As you finished cooking, you settled in the living room, taking a seat on your sleeping bag near the fireplace while you ate. You watched an episode of *Supernatural* to cope with your fear. Maybe the owner was right; this place was haunted because you could feel eyes on you when no one was around.

CRACK!

The thunder clapped again, and suddenly the power went out, leaving you blinking in the dark. Only the fire illuminated the room. You quickly finished your food. “Just great, first night and now no electricity... I’ll contact the—”

You heard furniture move. You knew you hadn’t bumped into anything. Frozen in place, you didn’t want to look back, just in case something was actually there. Deciding to wash your plate in the kitchen, you tried to shake off the unease.

Afterward, you headed to the bathroom for a shower. You made sure to close the door tightly. But as you hopped in and closed the curtain, you caught a glimpse of a dark, tall figure. Swinging the curtain open, you found nothing but the door wide Open.

“Oh gosh, is anyone there?” you called out, swallowing your fear. Reminding yourself it was just a house, you finished your shower and returned to the living room, lying down on your sleeping bag. As you glanced at the TV reflection, you saw a man standing behind you. You sat up quickly, but there was nothing there.

“Oh, cut this crap! I’m not doing this. I’m going to bed,” you said out loud before lying back down. Then you heard the scraping of metal. Sitting up again, you were met with a pair of blue eyes peering at you from behind a skull mask, his hand covering your mouth.

“Shhhh.”

You looked at him in fear. “How did you get in here?”

Suddenly, his creepy and intimidating aura turned playful as he sat down beside you in your sleeping bag. “Oh, I live here.”

“No, I live here! I bought this place!”

“Oh, I know you did.”

“Are you a spirit? A ghost?”

“That’s a no and a yes. I go by the name Ghost, and this is my house. What are you doing here?”

“Wait, wait!” You waved your hands in front of you. “Time out! This is your home? Are you Jacob Jackson, the owner?”

“No, I’m not Jacob Jackson, whoever that man is. But this is my house, and I don’t know why that man sold it to you.”

“Oh... I just bought this house today.”

“I see. Are you really going to sleep on that?” He pointed to the sleeping bag.

“What do you mean? It’s soft!”

“A pretty girl like you sleeping on the floor? Nu-uh.”

“What do you expect me to do? I don’t have money to buy a mattress!”

He stood up and huffed, walking upstairs. The next thing you knew, he brought down a mattress for you. “Lie on this. I insist,” he said, making you roll your sleeping bag away before lying on the mattress he had provided. The two of you lay together, staring at the ceiling.

“It’s been a while since I lay on a bed,” you admitted.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you’re not a bad ghost, better than I thought.”

“Some ghosts have a good heart,” he replied with a grin, his playful demeanor easing your fears.

Now you understood why the house was haunted there is really a ghost living in it.

[salty-autistic-writer]

Tommy has something to say. (Sequel to: Say Something, I'm Giving Up On You)

Tommy watches Evan sleep, and something painful curls around his heart. Something that wants him to slip underneath the blanket, wrap his arm around Evan, and pull him close until he can feel his heartbeat.

But he can’t do that. 

He can’t hold Evan while he sleeps. But he could hold Evan while they were having sex weeks ago, when their lips were so close they were almost touching, the shared air between them hot and filled with unuttered questions.

They haven’t even talked about … what they are now.

Friends?

Friends with one-time benefits?

Friends for whom you steal a helicopter and get chased by the army and the FBI?

Tommy isn’t sure. He isn’t sure about anything right now, but the - probably pathetic - fact that he’s happy when he can be around Evan. Even with how fragile the ground they are walking on feels right now.

He gently closes the door to allow Evan to get some more rest and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

What a mess.

When Evan texted him, Tommy thought it was because of his grief. Because he needed someone to talk to about Bobby. He didn’t expect Evan to start talking about Eddie first.

“I think I fucked up, Tommy. I … I told Eddie to leave. Because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take him acting like I’m making Bobby’s death about myself. It made me so angry. I think I destroyed our friendship. I just couldn’t look at him anymore. He said he doesn’t know if I did enough to save Bobby, because he wasn’t there. It’s not fair. How can he say that, Tommy? He knows what Bobby meant to me. He does!

God. Everything is already so broken, and now I broke this too. I feel horrible. And I hoped Eddie would want to talk. That he would want to … to fix this. But he just left. I hate when people do that! Why do they always have to leave.”

Tommy winced at that.

But he was more focused on the way Evan was blaming himself.

“You did the right thing,” he said, pushing his anger away, running his hand over Evan’s back. “Your emotions are valid. And if you needed to be angry at Eddie in that moment. It was valid too."

Evan nodded, but he still looked so sad. So small. So haunted. "It still hurts so much," he said quietly. "And I can't see a future in which it will hurt less."

He cried, and then he fell asleep, exhausted without a doubt.

Tommy pours himself a glass of water in the kitchen and quietly wonders about what he’s supposed to do with himself now. Should he stay and wait for Evan to wake up? Should he leave? Maybe he should take care of dinner … It’s almost painful, though, to look at the fridge. To think back to the day he was making breakfast here. Not for the first time, Tommy curses himself. He shouldn’t have walked out so fast that day … 

Old habits die hard. Old fears, too.

His thought process is interrupted when he hears the front door opening. Surprised, Tommy perks up. His first suspicion turns out to be true.

“Buck?” Eddie walks in and falters when he discovers Tommy, confusion and surprise on his face. “Oh.”

The last time they saw each other, it was at the funeral. They didn’t exchange more than a look and a nod, though. Tommy didn’t have the energy to think about this friendship that ended so abruptly. Not that it was a surprise. He’s used to short-term friendships. But now, looking at Eddie, he feels anger bubbling up inside of him.

After a few heartbeats, Eddie forces a smile on his face, rubbing the back of his head. “Uh. Hey, Tommy. Didn’t expect to see you here. I forgot a bag. Just wanted to pick it up. Is Buck here?”

Tommy doesn’t even try to smile. “He’s sleeping right now.”

Eddie keeps that awkward smile on his face, putting his hands on his hips. “Oh. Alright. I was hoping I could tell him I’m not angry at him or something.”

Tommy grits his teeth. “I don’t think that’s what you should tell him,” he says coldly.

Eddie frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I think you should apologise,” Tommy says, crossing his arms over his chest. “For accusing him of making Bobby’s death about himself. You say that a lot, you know? That he’s making things about himself.”

Eddie looks a bit taken aback for a moment, but then he asks, “What, you keep a list?”, clearly trying to joke his way out of the conversation. 

Tommy looks at him deadpan. “Yes. I do, actually. The bachelor's party. The wedding. That one time when he was trying to communicate his feelings about Chris being in Texas, and you shut that down fast. Now. I keep counting.”

Eddie stares at him, lips slightly parted, brows furrowed. Finally, he scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “And? What am I supposed to say? I know Buck. I’ve known Buck much longer than you. It’s something he does. He’s very emotional. He always gets so worked up, and then he spirals. You have to tell him so he notices and pulls himself out of that. Bobby’s death hit us all hard, but I don’t feel like Buck can see that. He’s too deep in his own head for that …”

“His feelings are valid,” Tommy grits out, the rage pulsing in synch with his heartbeat now, his blood rushing in his ears. He can’t believe the things he just heard. “He’s grieving his father figure. He’s allowed to feel as much as he wants. How dare you talk about him like this? Like, he’s not constantly thinking about everyone else? About you and the 118? His friends, his family? He thinks about how he can help everyone, fix everything, hold things together, and you have the audacity to tell him he’s making things about himself?! And don’t get me started on Bobby’s death. You told him that maybe he didn’t do enough? What would you have done, Eddie, huh? What difference would it have made if you had been there? We did everything we could.”

“I never said Buck’s feelings aren’t valid,” Eddie says under his breath, his smile completely gone now, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “And you don’t know what would have been different if I had been there, because I wasn’t. You were there, though. And isn’t that interesting? Wasn’t it you who broke up with him? Wasn’t it you who left him alone in the loft? You walked out. You abandoned him. You didn’t text or call him. And you know who he came to? He came to me. He sat on my couch, and he drank my beer, and he told me what you did to him. So what are you doing here, Tommy, acting like you have the moral high ground?”

Tommy swallows. Eddie’s words do sting. He remembers Evan’s pain-filled eyes all too well. “Yeah, I broke up with him. I never stopped caring about him, though. So when he called, I came. I know what he lost. I know what he needs. Someone who listens. Someone who comforts him. You clearly couldn’t do that, even though you’re supposed to be his best friend. You couldn’t take a moment to listen to him and hug him? Really?”

Eddie chews on his lip, shaking his head. “You know, I’m tired of having this conversation with you. Maybe you should leave, Tommy. Didn’t you think of me as “competition” anyway? That’s how well you know Buck, huh? You think he was in love with his straight best friend all this time? That’s kind of sad, bro, I’m not going to lie.”

“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me bro,” Tommy bursts. “Not when you immediately stopped talking to me after I broke up with Evan, Diaz!”

“Oh, we are at Diaz now?” Eddie sneers. “Well, what did you expect, Kinard ? Did you really think I would continue being friends with you after you walked out on Buck? Really. How pathetic are you? Anyway. If Buck needs someone to talk to and someone to hug him, he will tell me. He’s a big boy.”

The pulses of rage change into a storm. Tommy takes a step towards Eddie, forcing himself to keep his voice low. “I’m not going anywhere. Evan asked me to come, so I did. He told you to leave, though, so you should do that. Plenty of hotels around here. And I’m warning you, Diaz, Evan comes first. He will always come first for me. His well-being is what concerns me, no matter if we are together right now or not. I care for him deeply. So I swear, if you ever act that aggressive towards him again, if you ever shove a finger in his face or invade his space or blame him for his emotions again, I will be there to put you in your place, do you understand me?”

“Oh, so now he needs protecting?” Eddie asks, raising a brow. “Is that what you are here for? Maybe you do see Buck as a child, needing you, big strong man, to fight his battles?”

“Shut up, Diaz, or I swear I will -” Tommy starts, but then stops because he sees Evan entering the living room, looking between them.

“Buck,” Eddie starts.

“I told you to leave,” Evan says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why are you still here?”

“He forgot something,” Tommy says coldly, glaring down at Eddie. “But he was just about to leave. Isn’t that right?”

Eddie’s working his jaw. He looks like he wants to say something else. But finally, he just nods. “Yeah. I’m on my way. This place doesn’t feel like home anymore anyway. Goodbye, Buck. Take care.”

He grabs his bag and then he leaves without another word or a look back, slamming the door.

Evan looks at Tommy, and Tommy wonders how much of the argument he has heard.

“I think we should talk,” Evan says quietly.

(AO3 Link)

[hbheavensent]

Eve/Charlie

The long awaited and requested Eve and Charlie post is here! HEAVY TW on the Eve side of things for: Grooming, Postpartum Depression, The Whole Cain Thing, and suicide

So lets roll into it!

So we're actually gonna start with Charlie since she's on the lighter side of things lmao For her design, I mainly wanted to make her feel more like a main character when you look at her, add some interest to her look while still keeping it simple enough so The Viewer tm can project onto her and find her approachable. I also wanted her to look a lot more like a mix of her mother and father while mostly keeping the obvious "child of the devil" thing. I took away a lot of her red in favor of a bright yellow to make her stand out against most of the Pride Ring, and I added in the goat features with a heavier hand than the show does. She also distinctly has Eve's eyes with little hearts in each of them, because that's just. Cute as fuck. And as a bonus, her Eve-Like features down to her natural optimism and sweetness is HAUNTING for Adam. A huge reason why he's so aggressive with her is the only way he deals with his issues are to forget about them or get rid of them. (Apart of why Charlie has to deal with Adam at all is that Lucifer knows that it would upset the guy.)

Then there's Charlie's Demonic Form, she adds a total of 2 inches to her height (lmao) and gets a more hellish color pallet. I wanted it to feel magical girl-esk which is something I'm drawing from her original transformation sequence in the show. Really heavily leaning into the demon thing with her horns getting longer and that streak in her hair desaturating along with her skin. I really disliked that Charlie's Big Fight outfit was so simple so I may have overcompensated but I enjoy the colors. The one arm not having armor is because I imagine her still using the shield as her main weapon. Also, a small detail is her hands are a bit bigger and more claw-like on purpose.

For her story/personality, I'm keeping her naive attitude and her nearly sickening optimism. A lot of that has to do with Lilith desperately keeping her happy as a means of distracting herself until she "disappears" and in part due to Lucifer heavily sheltering her. I've mentioned it before but it does not make sense for Charlie to be 200 years old so I'm knocking it down to 20 years. She's wildly bright eyed and bushy tailed. The reason she has the idea to redeem sinners at all is because she wants Lilith to be able to see Heaven, which because Lilith is dead missing, isn't going to happen.

But she doesn't know that! So it's fine!

She meets Vaggie much the same way, though Charlie is nice enough to know what Vaggie is- it's more of a secret to everyone else in the Hotel than herself. This is also how they come up with the idea to attack back, which Charlie is hesitant to do until it comes down to the wire. She's not a huge fan of violence, naturally.

Charlie's relationship to her father is.. strained, because the second she becomes a person- starts having her own opinions and all that, Lucifer is no longer interested. Lucifer is especially uninterested in the Hotel, he doesn't believe sinners should have the second chance even if they could have it. So Charlie's secondary motive is to prove to him that anyone can be redeemed and that they deserve it, which is something she'll have to reconsider as she gets to know her residents.

For Eve, who makes me so god damn sad, I wanted to show the light leaving her eyes Post Apple Incident. I really wanted to give her curly hair and make her just an adorable cutie patootie. In her Garden Version I gave her these sort of magical birthmarks to symbolize that she came from Adam's rib. I also gave her a tooth gap, because I think it's just plain adorable.

Then as she gains free-will and is banished to Earth she loses that bubbly personality and becomes more and more curt as she becomes a mother. The scar on her hand is from getting it caught in a thorn bush, which admittedly I don't think it looks like that but I'll go back to fix it later. I also kinda deflated the volume in her hair to make her look a touch more downtrodden.

THEN there's her Hell Version, I completely desaturated her besides the red and made her hair more sharp and contained in two short twin braids. I tried to allude to Roo's original design as much as I could by keeping her checkered shirt and the thorn motif- but I wanted to show that her and Adam have very similar tastes, with their leather and spike, punk-like outfits. I also gave her "apple bottom jeans" (they're actually bell bottoms but hush), and a moon pendant that she turned into a bracelet that she got from Lilith.

I imagine Eve has a lot of plant/thorn based powers and can meld into shadows- but I really haven't got all of that sorted.

For her story, and this is where it gets intense so this is your final warning, I wanted to really showcase how wrong Lucifer did her. Not only does she have trouble making Adam happy in the garden, which was hard with his first wife currently being lured in by The Literal Soon To Be Devil... But she also was currently being tempted. Any time her mood soured, Lucifer was there to tilt her chin up and tell her everything she wanted to hear. So of course she trusted him, he was nothing but nice! He always talked about how much he loved her, loved Lilith, loved Adam... So when she was offered The Apple, she took a bite grateful to be included. Adam was a little too late to stop anything, not that he could have but what's one more pound of salt in the wound.

In the same breath Lilith and Lucifer were cast out, Eve was to be dammed to Earth. Adam demanded to go with her, he didn't want to be alone. God, he couldn't do that. So, off they went. They quickly had a Horrible Time, but soon they had Cain. Cain was a sweet child originally, maybe a bit rough with animals and intense with his feelings but.. it really got bad when he was seven and Able was born. Able was a golden boy, no doubts about it.. And he wasn't Adams. Eve had met once again with her fallen friend, see she had just been miserable since being on Earth.. and there was one Angel she reluctantly missed. He always said the sweetest things, after all. Adam didn't notice or care, he loved his sons and was... frankly, too exhausted to notice. Eve after Able was becoming more and more withdrawn into herself, not really caring for ether kid as much as she probably should of. Falling into a deep depression and rarely even feeding herself, it was around this time that Lucifer stopped making his visits to Earth. Both due to Heaven being watchful of the new child and that he wouldn't want to "deal with all that" as he would put it.

When Cain killed Able due to his jealousy, Eve strangled her firstborn and proceeded to cry for the remaining hours of the day. Until Adam came to bury them, she didn't have the strength to do so herself and ate hemlock that same night.

She woke up in Hell, taking a lot of solace in Lilith and Lucifer's company for many years. Lilith naturally missed her and Lucifer was happy to have his "toy" back. (His words, we hate him.)

It took her awhile to adjust but as humans started flooding into hell (post Adam death and then post evolution) she found solace in taking advantage of others, it made her feel powerful. Something she never felt, in control. Yet, she still ended up visiting her favorite couple from time to time for quick kisses and any kind of social engagement. At some point she takes on the nickname of Roo (short for Root, short for Root of All Evil) and is a sort of legend among Sinners.

Later rather than sooner, one of these meeting with just Lucifer ended up with Lucifer wanting a child from her, he promised that she could try again as a mother. She agreed to have her, gave birth to her... but once she saw Charlie's face? She couldn't do it. She couldn't raise a child again even after thousands of years, so.. she left Charlie with Lilith, who never got the chance to have a child and got out of there. Lilith was happy to raise the kid, have any sort of distraction from Lucifer's gilded cage. So, Eve went into hiding in hell and is currently still avoiding Lucifer's eye. Eve only really started killing, gaining souls, and becoming prominent again after Lilith's disappearance. Enraged and ultimately scared for her situationship/best friend, thinking that Lucifer must have done something so she needs real power to question him.

Naturally since being in Hell for a long time she'd learned that he's Actually Not Good and was Just Lovebombing her, but it doesn't stop her from missing him from time to time. And her literal soulmate (Adam) is forever out of reach unless he's in Hell killing Sinners, and she's not so sure he wouldn't hurt her after years of memories distorting and emotions being built up.

Anyway that's... pretty much all I have to say. It's hard to summarize so I apologize if anything is unclear. I want to talk about Eve so much but I find myself just Making Noise instead of having comprehensive statements sometimes. There's also a lot I still have to figure out with Cain/Able and Adam so, we'll get there eventually.

Also here's the line up as per usual.

And a zoom-in on the Morningstar family (+ Eve)

[ragnarockz]

Agatha All Along Week Day 1: Jealousy

Summary: Vidal cannot shake the past romantic relationship that Agnes and Alice once had.

Pairings: Detective Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal

Rating: Mature (NSFW)

Inspo: Girlfriend by Alicia Keys

*Italicized parts are lyrics from song inspo above*

@agathaallalongweek

Alice Wu Gulliver was like a haunting that filled the little spaces in Vidal and Agnes' home. The second Vidal thought Alice was just another thought in the wind; something else would pop up and place her alongside the two of them.

A dusty key chain with ALICE on it found in the basement tossed in a random box of decorations, a well worn band tee shirt that Agnes had shoved in her drawer and got it stuck so that Vidal had to take the entire drawer out to fix. The shirt fell out of its hiding place like a rotten tooth knocked loose.

There were so many things Vidal wanted to say to Agnes; to ask her. Vidal of course respected her girlfriends privacy and history; the very hard life she had to endure before they even met. There was a sadness in Agnes that Vidal knew she couldn't fix. But, why would she? That sadness made Agnes who she was and she loved the woman Agnes was; all of her. It was of course more than just accepting Agnes for the person that she was. Vidal wanted to understand the woman Agnes was and it was very rare Agnes allowed for that.

It wasn't anger or disappointment towards the detective and the longer Vidal mused about her feelings, she had slowly come to realize what the feeling was that burned in her chest. Jealousy. A whole lifetime away that Vidal knew she would never get to experience with Agnes. A whole eclipse of time that she would never be allowed to look back on with fondness or sadness simply because their paths had not crossed that early on.

But, of course, Agnes and Alice's paths had crossed and without a doubt, they could look back with fondness and sadness.

Vidal sucked in her cheeks as she refolded the shirt and tucked it at the very bottom of Agnes' messy tee shirt pile before fixing the drawer and slamming it shut.

Alice lived with them even if she didn't know it; wasn't physically walking around and touching their things.

Alice sat at the table during dinner whenever Agnes mentioned something about an 8 dollar steak and eggs meal she used to get just after Nicky was born and she was craving meat. That place no longer existed; no longer could one get a meal like that for that price.

Alice was in their bed whenever Agnes pulled out the Polaroid camera to take pictures of Vidal; always making them as graphic and pornographic as she could. Vidal did not mind; loved how they got Agnes off and loved how it was a little keepsake of their love, desire, affection, passion. Vidal only pouted and rolled her eyes when Agnes would position her in a certain way that Vidal had seen in the same fashion of the Polaroids of Alice that were tucked away in that box under Nicky's bed. Agnes knew that Vidal knew; knew that her girlfriend had seen the Polaroids. Agnes was aware that Vidal, most likely, knew she was being asked to pose in the same way Agnes once asked Alice to pose all those years ago.

Alice lingered around and inside the room that always had the door closed. She made her presence known in there as Agnes, if ever, opened that door to go inside. It was locked up like a secret; a burning, disgusting secret that Agnes never had the heart to spill out. It chewed at Vidal's heart and she knew, no matter how much prodding or coaxing, she could never get it out of the detective.

May be silly for me to feel/This way about you and her/'Cause I know she's been such a good friend/I know she had helped you through

"Why don't we ever talk about Alice?"

Vidal whispered as she peered between her legs and down at Agnes' face. She caught those blue eyes staring back at her; the bottom half of her face hidden by the mound of Vidal's pubis. There was embarrassment and fear in them that Vidal could recognize while she laid there with a smug look on her face. She wanted Agnes to feel slightly uncomfortable while she had her tongue swirling her current girlfriend's clit while her brain was rapidly forced to think about her ex-girlfriend.

Agnes pulled her mouth away and caught her breath before wiping her lips against the inside of Vidal's thigh. They were both silent as they stared one another down. Vidal's eyebrows rose in question and waited for Agnes to respond.

"...Do we need to?"

Vidal's eyes went wider as she blinked. She was staring Agnes down with a look of impatience that Agnes definitely received. Vidal watched as the detective let out a low and deep exhale through her mouth before clearing her throat.

"You want to talk about her right now?"

Vidal shrugged against the pillow as she brought her hands up to rest behind her head; propping herself up a little better. She gave Agnes a tight smile in response and waited.

It was definitely something, Agnes thought as her gaze drifted back down to the space between Vidal's open legs, to be asked about your ex while eating your current partner out.

"What...do you want me to say?"

Vidal's eyes narrowed as she jutted her chin forward a little; held her breath with the air of superiority. What did she want Agnes to say?

"How come she's still here? Why can't you let her go?"

Agnes opened her mouth to reply but no words, no sounds came out. She was struck dumb by the bluntness of Vidal's questions. Struck dumb because she knew Vidal was right. Why was Alice still here in little ways that didn't add much to anything? Why was she allowed to haunt this home alongside Nicholas as well?

Alice was alive; Nicholas was not.

Alice had moved on; Agnes had not.

"If it wasn't for her, Vidal...I don't think I'd be here right now...in between your legs...she shares a special part of me..."

Vidal remained silent as she shifted a little against the bed; shifted her legs so that they opened a little wider in invitation. Agnes' eyebrows rose as she bowed her head once more; tongue chasing before her mouth did as she made contact again with Vidal's clitoral hood. She made broad strokes with her tongue before pressing the tip of her tongue right down onto the tiny pulsing nub. Vidal let out a shaky, ragged breath as she sunk a little deeper and closed her eyes to focus on the sensation Agnes was providing her with.

You said that she's one who helped you see/How deep you're in love with me

Vidal was still tangled in the sheets at 5 am; deep in her sleep from another night of having nothing but being worshiped by Agnes. Agnes, on the other hand, was up and dressed and already in the kitchen grabbing a coffee and a granola bar before heading out with the box tucked under her arm. She closed the front door as quietly as she could behind her and locked it before heading to the car. She unlocked it, opened the passenger seat and placed the box there before quietly closing the door and making her way over to the driver's side.

She had woken up an hour ago and felt like Vidal was in her mind; talking into her ear. Why was she holding on so dearly to all of this? Why couldn't she let go? Why couldn't she fully direct all of her love and attention to Vidal? Alice was nothing more than the past and everything that physically lingered continued to hold Agnes back and she herself knew it. As quietly as she could, Agnes had gathered up all of the things she no longer needed and put them into a box.

Agnes drove with determination; the radio turned low with one of her CDs playing. The weather had changed within the hour from somewhat sunny to overcast with the promise of rain. It pulled Agnes right back to the day that she and Alice said their goodbyes in that coffee shop with the box Alice had gifted her in the chair between them.

Maybe, Agnes thought as she pulled into Alice and Jen's driveway, turning off and parking the car, it would be one less ghost haunting her and Vidal.

Agnes got out and made her way back around to the passenger side; opening the door and taking out the box. She grabbed it with both hands and walked up the walkway to their front door. She doubted they were even awake yet as she knew, from years ago, Alice loved to sleep in. Agnes placed the box on the welcome mat and gave it one last look before she took the envelope out of her heavy canvas jacket pocket and slipped it under the lid.

She backed up one step and then two, before she turned her back to head back to the car once more.

And you say that you feel/I'm the best thing in your life/And I know it's real/And I see it in your eyes

It had been more or less twenty five years since Agnes had walked into this coffee shop. Many things had changed and yet, a lot of it still stayed the same. New and upgraded appliances and seating. Old and weathered paint and floor tiles. Agnes pulled in a deep breath and then sighed it out; legs wobbly as she walked towards the counter to order. She stole a glance over to where that meeting had taken place all those years ago and realized as she was called next in line, that ghosts would follow her no matter where she went.

[samazing0831]

Take Me Back to the Night We Met - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky Barnes x Reader // Song Lyric Challenge

It's been five years since Bucky vanished. Five years since he turned to dust in the middle of an argument and took your heart with him. Left behind with only memories and grief that refuses to fade, you've clung to anything that makes him real - his hoodie, his side of the bed, the sound of his laugh echoing in your dreams. But grief doesn't play by rules. And neither does fate.

When the dust begins to settle - literally - Bucky returns, just as the world begins to put itself back together. But what happens after the happy ending?

1.2k words

I still wake up on his side of the bed.

Every morning, I roll toward the ghost of him, hand searching in the quiet. And every morning, I only find the cold.

I used to think grief came in stages. That once you made peace with one step, the next would come easier.

But that was five years ago.

And I still haven’t moved past that moment.

I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met

I felt so lost when he left.

And it’s selfish to say I was heartbroken - everyone lost someone that day.

Technically, I didn’t even have a reason to be - we broke up two weeks before the blip.

But how else could I explain the gaping hole in my chest?

Knowing he was gone, and there was nothing I could do to bring him back?

We were fighting.

Not about anything important. Something stupid.

Like who left the coffee pot on - again.

He laughed when I snapped at him.

He always laughed when I was irritated.

Then he pulled me into his arms anyway. Whispered, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

I rolled my eyes.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

People vanished mid-sentence.

Screams split the sky.

Dust danced through the air like ash from a war I didn’t understand.

And Bucky - my Bucky - just disintegrated.

I didn’t even get to hold him.

I tried everything to repent.

Like I could trade my soul for his.

I walked the streets feeling like the only one left breathing

Sometimes I’d catch my reflection and swear it wasn’t me anymore.

He died fighting for us. Again.

And I stayed.

Sometimes I dream of him.

Not as he was at the end, but as he was when we met.

It was a rainy night in Bucharest.

He was quiet. Guarded.

Eyes like storm clouds.

He asked me if I wanted to get a drink.

I said yes, even though I hated the bar.

That was the first time he touched my hand. Not romantic. Just a brush of fingers.

By accident.

And it was like something clicked into place.

And then I can tell myself What the hell I’m supposed to do And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you

I wish I could go back there.

Before he let me in.

Before I let him fill my lungs and take root in every part of me.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

Because maybe if I could return to that moment, I could stop myself.

Maybe I could be smarter. Safer.

Maybe I could survive this.

But then what?

Live without him, and never know what it felt like to be loved by him?

No.

I couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

I talk to him sometimes. Out loud.

Like he’s just in the other room.

I lie to myself a lot.

Pretend I’ve moved on.

Pretend I don’t stare at the door every time it opens.

Pretend my heart doesn’t ache when I see couples holding hands.

The truth is, I’m still here. Still waiting.

Because that was the last time I remember who I was.

Who we were.

Before the terror.

Before the fight.

Before his eyes filled with tears he wouldn’t let fall.

Before he turned to dust in front of me.

When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

Maybe one day he’ll come back.

Maybe one day, the dust will settle in reverse.

And his body will reform from the pieces.

Maybe I’ll get to hear his laugh again.

Until then, I’ll keep waking up on his side of the bed.

He came back in the spring.

I heard it before I saw it - rumors, headlines, whispers of people appearing out of thin air.

Then Sam called. His voice cracked when he said, “He’s asking for you.”

It was raining the day I saw him again.

Fitting.

It had rained the day he left, too.

He looked the same.

Maybe a little thinner. A little tired.

But those eyes - they found me instantly.

Like they’d never stopped searching.

He stepped forward.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

I’d imagined this moment a thousand times.

But none of my fantasies prepared me for how it would actually feel.

Not joy.

Not closure.

Just the overwhelming weight of everything we lost in between.

His voice was hoarse when he said my name.

Like he had to fight through the dust of five silence years.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

That’s what he had been.

All of him. Then most. Then some.

Then dust.

Then silence.

Then nothing.

And now?

Now he stood in front of me like time hadn’t chewed me up and spit me out.

Like the last five years hadn’t been a slow unraveling of every piece of my soul.

He reached out, like I could just fall back into step with him.

Like I hadn’t tried to bury the memory of tracing the lines of his metal hand in the dark.

Like I hadn’t sobbed on my bathroom floor, whispering into the silence, Take me back to the night we met.

The moment passed slowly - thick, heavy, full of everything unsaid.

His eyes glassed over.

I knew he was crying before I saw the tears.

God, I remembered that night too well.

I remember how terrified he was that he wouldn’t come back from that fight.

I remember holding his face and telling him we’d have time.

That time was the one thing we’d always have.

I lied.

Now he was here. And time felt like a cruel joke.

I wanted to run to him. Wrap myself around him and never let go.

But I also wanted to scream.

To punch him.

To ask him how it felt to leave me behind with an apartment full of memories and a heart full of ash.

Instead, I said, “You left.”

His head bowed. “I know.”

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t get to.”

Silence.

The wind blew. The rain softened. Somewhere in the background, the world kept turning.

But we stayed still.

“Do you still love me?” I asked.

He blinked. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

“I never stopped.”

And suddenly, I remembered the first time he kissed me.

How careful he was.

How his hands trembled like he was afraid he’d break me.

How I had whispered, “You’re safe with me,” and meant it with every atom in my body.

I took one step forward.

Then another.

And when I reached him, I pressed my forehead against his chest.

Just to make sure he was real.

Just to feel the thump of his heart beneath my fingertips.

He wrapped his arms around me like he was afraid I’d vanish next.

I whispered into his jacket, voice cracking:

“Please, don’t leave me again.”

[gayofthefae]

Expanding on this post and how by his own account, Mike does not believe in love at first sight. He doesn't even believe in love in the first week.

He believes that love can grow from there but that at the first week, what you have is a crush.

I do not think Mike's one-week crush lasted a year after he last saw her. I think his guilt did. And I think his grief did.

Mike used El as a means to find Will throughout the week, making his priorities clear, and at the end of the week, she sacrificed himself. He never asked her to do that or would have, but I'm sure part of him feels responsible nonetheless. With that survivor's guilt, he idolized - martyrized - their every interaction. She was always understanding and whatever is wrong would be right if she were just here right now again. He holds onto her memory and holds out just in case what he thought he saw of her was real and she is still alive.

But at the end of the day...he hasn't spoken to her in a year. And he was not in love with her. Joyce loved Bob and she asked out Hopper 6 months later. And by his own account, Mike doesn't believe it's possible for him to have loved her in that situation. So how could he have held onto those feelings for 12 months?

Simple answer, he didn't. He held onto their relationship. He held onto his care for her. He held onto his grief. He held onto his guilt. He held onto the idealized image of her he had in his head...But none of those are romantic feelings.

Simply put, Mike got over her in that time. And I'm sure he felt very guilty for it (see: Mike's Bassment Beats track 8 "absence makes the heart lose weight" "when love breaks down, the things you do to stop the truth from hurting you" "the lies we tell, they only serve to fool ourselves"). But with that, he was even more capable of falling for Will. Not just that, but much more strongly than he had for El. El met for the first time then had a week to develop feelings for. Will he had already known for 8 years and had up to a year for those feelings to grow. No wonder they're still lingering, haunting. (note: immediately following the above song falling out of love on his playlist is a song about being unable to stop yourself from falling in love with someone). He feels guilty for getting over El and who knows his awareness level on the feelings he had for Will, but he felt them, whether he had the name for it or not.

Then El came back. And he tries. And maybe he's able to develop those romantic feelings again but my theory is...he's not this time. He didn't move on from her, but he did get over her. After a year, he held out, but he was holding out for his friend. Because the friendship they built was great, but crushes are more fragile. His crush went away. And I think it didn't come back.

She tries to kiss him and he doesn't lean in, he doesn't even look down.

But from there, he is a victim of something so many of us are and have been. He wanted the Snow Ball more than anything, idealized in his grief, it was their beautiful plan. But he doesn't want it anymore...and of course, that's when it comes. Like most people, he takes it. It's all he wanted. He refuses to believe it's too late. He wills himself to want it again.

But we can see when we catch up with him in season 3...he doesn't.(see: Mike's Bassment Beats tracks 16 and 17 - an aimless relationship that you stay in despite the spark being gone)

Mike and El are laughing together when Eleven tells him she wishes he were still there - making out with her. I've also said before that this is the only possible "value change" in this scene and justification for it being included: we see his face fall and he becomes grumpy. After this, we see him enter the next scene irritable, tense, and unwilling to talk about El (when just before, he had been carefree and laughing)

That is my timeline. Mike had a crush on El. A year will make you get over any crush, let alone when another one is developing - and has the time to develop into love itself, whether you know it or not. When El comes back, he gets back together with her in the hopes that that spark will find him again, but it doesn't. And his love for Will grows, as does his fear of it, until in season 4, Will makes him not so afraid anymore. And that is when he is victimized by circumstance. He doesn't want El to die. And after she lives and they see what's become of Hawkins and Max, he doesn't want to leave her or even just add change to her life in any way on top of her existing grief. So he puts it off. As we know now, for a year and a half - until November 1987.

When I am very curious to see what inciting incident prompts this decision to come back up.

My take is that we last saw Mike have feelings for El in November, 1983.

God, the angst. The self torture. The self-"repair" attempts. The last time Mike had feelings for El was November, 1983.

This happened in March, 1986:

He is still with her as of November 1987.

I hope he's finding peace in between, as queer people have for centuries <3

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Traitors & Lovers (Hero & Villain) part 16

Warnings: alcoholic hero, villain calling him out on it, deep discussion talk, lots of romantic tension and conflicting emotions in this one, hero getting mildly drunk as a coping mechanism

Today had taken everything out of her. But at least the painkillers were finally starting to kick in, taking the edge off her suffering, and sleep followed not long after.

-------------------------------------------------------

Villain didn't get very much rest -- she knew that because she awoke at midnight, according to the clock perched on the nightstand. And she couldn't fall back asleep after that, tossing and turning restlessly, and haunted by dark thoughts and conflicted emotions.

She decided to give up when 3:15am came around, and resolved to wander to the kitchen to get a snack before trying to sleep again to see if it would help settle her nerves enough to let her get some rest. But as she padded through the house, she heard a quiet cough, and when she followed the sound... she discovered Hero, fully awake like she was and sitting on a stool-chair at the island counter in the middle of the kitchen.

And... to her shock, there was a wine bottle next to him, and he was nursing a glass full of it in one hand. Looks like he couldn't sleep either.

He was facing her, but not acknowledging her presence, staring dismally down into his wine, though he visibly stiffened when she approached.

"Since when do you drink?" Villain asked gruffly, and couldn't quite keep the surprise from her tone.

Hero wouldn't meet her eye.

"Since you left," he reluctantly admitted. "I only do it on the worst days though. Helps numb things. I'm not a consistent alcoholic or anything, not that you'd care."

Villain felt an unwanted prick of guilt poke her gut before she angrily banished it.

"And today counted as a 'worst day' for you?" She ventured, prodding.

Hero shrugged half-heartedly, and Villain didn't miss how he suddenly tensed up, his gaze darting over to the mahogany table nearby that was still stained with Villain's blood. The table itself had been cleaned, but the reddish hue the wood had taken on would be permanent.

"...Couldn't sleep," he mumbled. "Kept thinking about how I found you on the road the first night. It's stupid, I know, but it just... scared me, that's all. To think you were dead."

Villain knew him well enough to know when he was trying to brush her off and change the subject. She could tell she'd hit a raw nerve.

She found herself gravitating toward the island counter Hero was seated at, pulling up a chair for herself on the opposite side. And making the intentional distance well-known.

Hero sighed, shoulders slumping. "Do you want a drink too?" he offered wearily.

"On any other day I'd say no, but... I could use one too. To numb things," Villain whispered.

They both knew what she meant.

Hero got up and grabbed a second glass, filling it with wine and sliding it across the counter to her without a word.

Villain didn't say a word either, accepting the drink and savoring the burn of alcohol in her throat as she sipped it slowly. The pain was the good kind -- the kind that reminded her she was still alive, despite what she'd been through.

She glanced over her glass of wine at Hero, who was staring off into nothingness, lost in his head. He looked terrible -- dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes, and a deeply haunted look in them. Hair messy and unkempt, like he'd been constantly running his fingers through it.

Maybe he had.

Part of Villain hurt to see him so stressed and in such mental agony -- an old part of her that refused to die, no matter how many times she stabbed it trying to destroy it. Why did she have to keep feeling like this??

She didn't love Hero anymore... so why did it hurt to see him suffering, even if she wanted him to suffer?

The silence stretched between them, long and awkward and full of unspoken words and heartbreak.

Villain was the first to break it, clearing her throat quietly. A nagging thought kept bothering her, and she just had to know...

"Did you ever even... think about me? When I was gone?" She asked cautiously. It felt like walking on thin ice, to risk bringing up the past. Like she was one wrong question away from falling through into the frigid waters below and being swallowed up by despair.

"All the time," Hero whispered hoarsely, voice hollow and dull. "I couldn't not think about you. I have many regrets in life, Villain, but betraying your trust was the biggest one of all."

He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing heavily. "I wish I could fix it, but I can't. All I can do is... try to move forward."

"Like this?" Villain raised an eyebrow and scoffed, gesturing meaningfully with a hand at his haggard appearance and the bottle of wine beside him. "Drinking to avoid your problems? That doesn't seem very 'Hero' of you. And it's going to come back to bite you one day -- hard."

Hero shot her a glare, but there wasn't any real venom behind it. "What do you know about it?" He growled. "You ran away from your problems. So you're one to judge.”

Villain winced. Point taken. But it didn't mean her words weren't valid -- she knew from experience the consequences of avoidance after three years of being elusive and on the run once she left Hero. All the guilt and grief she'd been burdened with.

She hadn't expected Hero's raw confession, though, that he had thought about her when she disappeared. It complicated what she was feeling inside. And she didn't like that.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @written-in-the-stars135 @neverthelass

@starz8nk @redwinesupanover @whumpisgoodwhumpislife @theforeverdyingperson @whatwhump

@writing-with-olive @and-we-shake-the-iron-hand @art3m1zz @enigmawriteswhump

[spitefulsatanfics]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒

❝You know, I’ve been to Heaven, Hell, and everywhere in between — but this? This is the only place I ever wanted to be.❞ — Dean Winchester, Supernatural

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Y/N (She/Her Reader) From: Supernatural (non-specific season)

Tone: Domestic romance, fluffy intimacy, quiet humor, emotional vulnerability, slice-of-hunter-life, slightly angsty comfort

Rating: 17+ | 🔞 Warnings: implied sexual content, pregnancy, emotional vulnerability, language, minors do not interact.

Based on: Supernatural (series-wide, canon adjacent; show is rated 17+) Word Count: 3,829

Synopsis: Even monsters and Men of Letters can’t prepare Dean Winchester for the quiet chaos of fatherhood on the horizon. The bunker is still haunted — not by ghosts, but by craving runs, ultrasounds, and the occasional hormonal apocalypse. And somehow, in all of it, he’s never felt more alive.

𝙒𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙮: 𝙇𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 ♡ | 𝘿𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙒𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙋𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙: 𝙈𝙖𝙮 19, 2025 ™

𝙎𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝙄

𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 & 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

The bunker’s kitchen glowed in warm amber hues, a rare kind of peace leaking into its steel bones. Dean leaned back against the counter, brow furrowed in concentration as he inspected the plate of precisely arranged sliced apples in front of him.

“Too thin?” he muttered.

He was talking to the air, but also not. Y/N had become a kind of soft gravity in his orbit lately — even when she wasn’t in the room, he felt her presence like a pull. These days, he could time her footsteps, track the shift in the air when she was about to enter. And sure enough, there it was: the shuffle of socks over stone, a faint grunt of effort.

She waddled in wearing one of his flannel shirts and what looked like Sam’s hoodie tied around her waist, baby bump cradled protectively under her hand. She paused at the threshold with a sigh.

“I swear the bunker hallways are getting longer.”

Dean grinned, moving forward to intercept. “Or maybe it’s because you’re smuggling a whole human.”

“Feels like I’m smuggling a baby moose,” she muttered.

Dean laughed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Well, if it kicks like Uncle Sammy, I’m not surprised.”

She eyed the plate of apples and peanut butter waiting on the table. “Is that… cinnamon sugar?”

“I Googled,” he said, smug.

“And it’s not just apples. It’s Honeycrisps.” She sat with a content sigh, eyeing him like he’d summoned the holy grail.

Dean watched her eat with a kind of reverence he didn’t know how to name. For all the blood and chaos he’d seen in his life, nothing had cracked him open quite like this—watching her nourish a life they made together, his hand sometimes resting on her belly like he could memorize every future heartbeat.

“I didn’t think I’d make it here,” he confessed softly.

She glanced up. “Here?”

He swallowed. “This… us. Safe. A kitchen without sulfur. You. Still breathing.”

She reached for his hand, linking their fingers. “Dean, you didn’t just survive. You chose this.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of her, pressing his forehead gently to the swell of her stomach.

“Hey, little bean,” he murmured. “You’ve got the strongest mom in the world.”

Y/N carded her fingers through his hair, tears brimming at the edges of her lashes. “And the most stubborn dad.”

He smirked up at her. “Damn straight.”

= ° ✓ ™ \

𝙎𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝙄𝙄

𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘴 & 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵

Late nights in the bunker had a rhythm. Sam’s soft footsteps above. The whir of Dean’s favorite old radio. And lately, the soft complaints of a woman who could no longer see her own feet.

“Dean, I swear if you don’t rub my back, I’m filing for ghostly divorce.”

Dean, who had just come from cleaning Baby’s rims and was covered in grease, dropped the rag without protest.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was already lying on her side, one leg hiked over a pillow, looking as dramatic as a Greek painting. “Everything hurts.”

“Even your hair?” he teased.

“Especially my hair.”

Dean chuckled and settled in behind her, rubbing slow, firm circles across the base of her spine. Her moan was practically spiritual.

“God. I’m gonna marry you twice for this.”

His hands paused.

“You mean it?”

She tilted her head. “Mean what?”

“That thing you just said. About marrying me twice.”

Y/N blinked at him, heart doing a slow somersault. “Dean. I’d marry you seven times.”

He kissed the nape of her neck, a little lost for words. “Even if I leave socks in the sink?”

“Even then.”

“Even if I cry at Pixar movies?”

“Especially then.”

They stayed there in silence for a while, breath syncing like waves. Eventually, Y/N spoke again, her voice small:

“Are you scared?”

Dean considered lying — the brave Winchester thing. But he didn’t want to be brave with her. He wanted to be real.

“Yeah. Terrified. What if I screw it up?”

“You will,” she said lightly. “But you’ll also love her so much she won’t care.”

Dean buried his face in her shoulder. “She?”

Y/N smiled into the pillow. “She kicked when you talked earlier. Pretty sure she’s already a Daddy’s girl.”

Dean grinned into her skin, all heart and trembling hope. “Guess I better learn braids.”

= ° ✓ ™ \

𝙎𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝙄𝙄𝙄

𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 & 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴

Dean was building a crib in the map room.

Sam had offered to help. Cas had offered to smite it into existence. But Dean had waved them both off, muttering something about “doing it the dad way.”

It wasn’t going well.

“Instructions my ass,” he grumbled, glaring at the Scandinavian hex code of an assembly guide.

Y/N peeked in, munching trail mix. “Need help?”

“I’m fine.”

A beat.

“Fine as in broke the Allen wrench or fine as in you’ve been stuck on the same screw for twenty minutes?”

Dean didn’t answer, which told her everything.

She waddled forward, placed a kiss to his cheek, then sat down beside the pile of wood.

Together, they built it slowly. And by slowly, she meant she read the instructions aloud while Dean swore at tiny pegs and fumbled with dowels. When the final piece clicked into place, Dean sat back, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Look at that,” he said, pride blooming like wildflowers in his chest.

Y/N stood beside him, hand on her belly. “She’s going to sleep here.”

Dean nodded.

“And she’s going to grow up in this place. With books and pie and weird uncles.”

“And she’s gonna know what it’s like to be safe,” Dean added quietly.

Y/N turned to him, her voice trembling: “Because of you.”

Dean pulled her close, resting his forehead against hers. “Because of us.”

The heartbeat of the bunker pulsed around them — not from ancient magic, but from something rarer.

Hope.

= ° ✓ ™ \

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘴 — 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘵𝘰𝘰.