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harrywavycurly · 3 days ago

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Worth the Fight: Disagreement

Masterlist: Here

CW: Pregnancy stuff, minor jealous Harry (him and Patrick have an issue lol), smut (fingering, thigh fucking and dirty talk).

Word Count: 5.8K

A/N: We are getting closer to the twins arriving and I’m so excited, there’s only 2 parts left after this! Also if you don’t want to read the smut just skip the last section, you won’t be missing any details just the spice!✨

Tag List: @kookjipao @msolbesg @lomlolivia @namoreno @outofthisworl-d @mema10 @watarmelon212 @natykn @sassamanda77 @st-ev-ie @ghayda0 @hannah9921 @indierockgirrl @chaoticthoughts2022 @lizsogolden @gmikaelson @styleswithaseaview @sofaritsalrightt @babegoals @fangirl509east @one-sweet-gubler @stylesftcher @umadirectioner @last-saturday-night @montgomery-929496 @laughterismytherapy @hisparentsgallerryy @jerseygirlinca @behindmygreyeyes @mads3502 @tpwkdpr @unfuckwitablenarry @itscoucouharry @latedirectionerera @ell0ra-br3kk3r @cumuluscranium @donutsandpalmtrees @silastylesswift @prettygurl-2009 @blueleonor @daphnesutton @angeldavis777 @harryssunflower17 @blckburd @tinawritesstuff @inlikea-coolway @mothersversiononly

Summary: Harry asks you a question, feelings are discussed and the two of you spend a day in bed✨

There’s a silence in your apartment that has you feeling on edge as you sit at your kitchen table rubbing your lips together as your mind begins to shuffle through all the check lists you have full of things you need to finish preparing and buy before the twins arrive. You flick your eyes over towards your kitchen where Harry is standing with a hand on your counter and the other holding a green apple that’s placed on the same cutting board he’s been using ever since he started making your juices months ago. You can tell by the way his eyes are looking straight ahead and not at the fruit in his hand that he is lost in his thoughts, probably thoughts very similar to the ones racing through your own mind so you just allow the silence to linger for a few minutes longer before you decide to break it.

“What’s the first thing on your list?” You ask as your hands rest on top of your very big pregnancy belly that has you not able to do much of anything without assistance these days. Harry blinks a few times before shaking his head as if to clear his mind before turning his head to look over at you.

“Sorry did-what did you ask me?” You let out a chuckle at his confused expression as his grip on the apple tightens ever so slightly.

“Your list of things you feel like you need to get done before the twins get here.” You look down at your belly and give it a gentle rub with both hands before looking back at him. “What’s the number one thing you-”

“Figure out where you’ll be staying once they’re here.”

“What do you mean? I’ll be staying here. In my house.”

“Okay.” You watch him as he carefully decides how he wants to articulate his next question as he lets go of the apple and turns around so he can lean his back against the counter. “And uh am I allowed to-uhm possibly also stay here with you?” He doesn’t look at you as he fumbles his way through asking the question, instead his eyes are glued to a spot on the tile floor near your refrigerator.

“Gee let me think about this.” You tilt your head to the side and tap your chin with your pointer finger as Harry lifts his head to look at you with a quirked brow at your playful tone because he is on the verge of a panic induced sweat while you seem very calm. “Can my boyfriend who also happens to be my baby daddy who doesn’t really let me get more then five feet away from him without him shouting my name to see where I’m at stay with me after our twins are born?” You question as you act as if you’re mulling the idea over in your mind but the slight upturn of your lips tells Harry you’re trying to hold off a smile and that can only mean one thing. “Yes Harry. Of course you can stay here because I’m sure as hell not going to your house right away with all those-”

“Stairs. I know love.” He says with a smile as he walks over to where you’re sat at the table. “I’d like to point out I let you get at least ten feet away from me before I’m shouting for you.” You roll your eyes as he holds his hands out for you to take so he can help you out of the chair.

“I was right behind you the other day and you shouted-”

“Baby I couldn’t see you I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”

“You still shouted-in a library of all places.”

“It wasn’t even a real shout it was just a loud whisper.” You glare at him while his hands rub the sides of your belly as the two of you stand in the middle of your kitchen. “That lady didn’t need to be so mean about it.” The moment the words leave his mouth he knows he has royally messed up, so he just braces himself for you to let him have it as his hands continue to rub at your belly, lightly scratching it through the fabric of your t shirt since he knows you’ve been a bit itchy lately.

“That lady? You mean the librarian who was just trying to do her job of keeping it nice and peaceful in a place people come to read and learn?” You let out a huff as you swat his hands away from your bump making him frown at bit at the loss of contact. “You’re dating one of those ladies Harry and you’re lucky she just gave you a harsh shush and didn’t kick you out.” Harry knows you wish so badly that you could just storm off and leave him standing in the kitchen to think about what he just said but you can’t, you haven’t had your juice yet and you can’t exactly get around very easy and have been relying on Harry’s annoyingly toned arms for support so you’re stuck in the small space with him, annoyed and dangerously on the verge of becoming hangry.

“I’m sorry love it won’t happen again.”

“I would’ve kicked you out.” You mumble in a half annoyed and half serious tone, not ready to acknowledge his apology you keep your eyes focused on your bump making Harry bite down on his bottom lip in order to fight off the smile that wants to form on his face at your stubbornness. “And ban you from ever being able to step foot in any public library in the country.” You add making a scoff slip out of Harry’s mouth as he tries to sneak his hands back to the sides of your bump without you noticing.

“Now sweetheart that’s a bit much don’t you think?” You just shrug as you try to shove his hands away but this time he doesn’t let you, keeping them firmly on the sides of your belly making you huff in annoyance. “That would mean I’d never be able to bring you lunch at work or take the twins to story time or-”

“They wouldn’t be banned.” You correct him, finally looking him in his eyes that are a soft shade of green that has you wanting to let out a soft sigh but you don’t because there’s a point to be made here and you refuse to be distracted by his big dumb eyes. “Just you.” Harry lets out a chuckle as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Well good thing you weren’t the librarian on duty then.” You roll your eyes as he leans in, and when you go to turn your head so his lips land on your cheek he pauses. “Come on Cranky gimme a kiss so I can get back to making your juice before you get really upset.” You let out a sigh as you turn your head allowing him to press his lips against yours for a quick and sweet kiss.

“I really would’ve kicked you out.” You mumble with a small pout as he pulls away with a smile on his face.

“I know.” He states as he leans in to press his lips to your forehead. “I love you.” You freeze as the words slip past his lips making him immediately pull away and take a step back from you with wide eyes and red cheeks, embarrassed he just accidentally let those words tumble out of his mouth so easily.

“You-”

“I uhm I meant I love them like-the twins yeah yeah I uh love them.”

“That’s not what you meant and that’s so not okay to say in the middle of an argument Harry that’s-that’s cheating.”

“What? How is that cheating? This wasn’t even an argument?”

“If it wasn’t an argument then why were you apologizing?”

“Because that’s-uh well that’s a good question.” You stare at him as he runs a hand through his hair as you try to come to terms with the fact he just casually admitted he loves you while in the middle of your kitchen. “So maybe this was just a disagreement over how I handled a situation in the library and also for me rudely referring to the librarian as just some lady so-so that’s why I was apologizing.”

“But do you know you were wrong?”

“I know you feel like I was wrong. Yes.”

“Harry.”

“Okay fine. Yes I know I was wrong and that’s why I was apologizing. I shouldn’t have shouted in the library and I should have more respect for librarians because I just so happen to be in love with one.” You feel your eyes well up as a lump forms in your throat as Harry stares back at you with a hopeful expression on his face.

“Does your therapist know you’re a cheater as well as a narcissist?” Harry lets out a chuckle and shrugs a shoulder as he reaches his hand out to grab yours that’s resting on top of your bump.

“I’m sure he’s well aware of all my flaws but I’ll ask when I talk to him next week.”

“Good.” You feel his hand cup the side of your face just as the first few tears fall from your eyes. “You really love me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not just saying that because you’re panicking over the fact we have five weeks until the twins are here and-and we haven’t even packed a hospital bag or-”

“Hey sweetheart look at me okay?” You swallow thickly as your eyes meet his. “I love you and I’m not telling you this because I’m in pre twin arrival induced panic.” He gives you a smile as you sniffle and try to blink back a new wave of tears. “I’m telling you this because it’s how I feel or- how I’ve felt ever since you let me take you on that horrible first date a month ago and you know I’ve always been bad with timing and-”

“I love you too Harry.” Your voice is watery and the tiniest bit squeaky as it cuts off his rambling but Harry doesn’t mind, all he can focus on is the fact you’re saying it back.

“Yeah? You’re not just saying that so I’ll go and make your juice?” He teases as a grin spreads across his face making his dimples pop out.

“No I’m saying it because it’s how I feel. Besides I can make my own juice.”

“You can?”

“Yes I’ve done it before.”

“What? When?” His eyebrow raise as he looks over at the relatively large knife resting on the cutting board next to the apple he left on it. “I don’t like the idea of you using knives when I’m not around. I know that sounds-”

“Harry.” He turns to look back over at you as you reach over and cup his face with both of your hands. “Don’t ruin the moment.” He smiles as you pull him down for a kiss as his hands fall to your hips.

“Won’t happen again love.”

“Oh I’m sure it will.” You joke as you give his cheeks a small squeeze before dropping your hands from his face. “Also that was quite a declaration of love you just made- have you been reading my romance novels?” You ask making him roll his eyes as he turns to head back into your kitchen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You laugh as you watch him grab the knife and begin cutting up the apple.

“Whatever you say.” You stand there for a moment, looking over your shoulder to the chair you were just sat in and then through the doorway of your kitchen towards your couch.

“Harry can-” before you can finish your sentence Harry is by your side with his arm out for you to grab onto so you can begin walking towards the living room.

“Comfy?” He asks after helping you get situated on the couch. You just nod making him smile as Paris walks into the room causing his bell the jingle having woken up from his mid morning nap he no doubt took in his new favorite spot, the middle of the rug in the twin’s nursery.

“Paris your stepdad told me he loves me in the middle of an argument.” Harry playfully rolls his eyes as he leans over and presses his lips to the top of your head before turning to go back into the kitchen.

“Wasn’t an argument Paris it was a disagreement.” He corrects, Paris pauses to watch Harry disappear into the kitchen before he turns to walk over to where your feet are propped up on the coffee table with a pillow underneath them.

“Want to snuggle with your mom?” You asks the orange colored cat who just purrs as he leaps onto the couch and instantly plops down next to you so his back is firmly pressed against your hip. “Oh Paris things are about to get a little crazy around here.” You tell him with a sigh as the sound of Harry chopping fruit and the gentle purrs of your cat start to gently lull you to sleep.

This is something Harry has gotten quite used to, you just randomly dozing off for a quick Power Nap while he’s off doing something in another room. So he just smiles and places a kiss to your forehead when he walks back into the living room a few minutes later with your juice in one hand and a bowl of grapes in the other, not wanting to disturb your morning nap so he just puts your goodies on the table next to the armrest of the couch and picks up Paris so he can place him in his lap after sitting down next to you.

“Your mom loves me too mate so that means no more biting.” He whispers to the orange ball of fur currently curled up in his lap. “Or at least start biting my other ankle.”

“Love?” You turn your head at the sound of Harry entering your bedroom, when you get a good look at the sweatshirt he has on you bring a hand up to cover your mouth to hide your laughter. “What’re you giggling at over there?” He asks as he walks over to what has now become his side of the bed, the one closest to the door claiming it’s so he can rush off and go grab whatever you need in the middle of the night but you know it’s one of his safety things.

“Nothing I just really like your shirt that’s all.”

“Do you really? I picked it myself.”

“Oh that much is very obvious.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He questions with a quirked brow as he looks down at the front of his sweatshirt. “It says daddy.” You just nod as you try to get comfortable, Harry looks over at you as you roll over so you’re facing his side of the bed.

“I’m aware of what it says Harry I do know how to read thank you very much.” You say with a huff as you fluff your pregnancy pillow a bit before resting your head on it.

“I don’t get why it had you in a giggle fit? It says daddy and I’m going to be a daddy.” You let out another round of giggles as he gets on the bed after kicking off his shoes.

“I’m just curious have you been wearing that all day?” You wonder as he scoots over so his arm is resting on the side of your pregnancy pillow.

“Yes because you keep it bloody freezing in the house thanks to your-”

“You’re the reason I’m dealing with hot flashes so don’t be sassy about how cold it is in here.”

“Right. Of course.” He gives you an apologetic look as you reach over and flick him in the shoulder. “But yes I wore it to run a few errands and went to see Niall at the studio.” He answers making you just rub your lips together as his hand finds your wrist and begins tracing little circles on it with his thumb while he holds his phone in his other hand and is scrolling through his emails.

“You ran errands and went to the studio in a sweatshirt that says daddy on it?”

“Yes now can you tell me why that’s an issue?”

“It’s not an issue but does Mr. Popular really not understand how funny it is that he was seen walking around in a shirt that just says the word daddy on it in big block letters? I mean come on you-”

“Oh.” You watch Harry place his phone down on his chest as the realization hits him. “Well I mean-I can’t help what people call me and-and the sweatshirt is soft and I’m not ashamed to wear it.” You just give him a smile when he looks over at you.

“It’s cute.” You tell him making him smile as he leans over to place a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re cute.”

“Thank you-oh guess what I finally got today.” Harry’s thumb pauses its tracing on your wrist as he takes a quick look around the bedroom for any signs of what you could’ve gotten while he was out running errands.

“Uh did you pick their coming home outfits?”

“Without the opinion of their ultra fashionable daddy? I’d never.” The glare he sends you makes you laugh. “But it does have to do with the twins.” You tell him as he gives the room another subtle scan and his eyes go wide when he sees it, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room is a black backpack with the name “Styles” embroidered in white on it in a pretty cursive font.

“Holy shit.” He says out of shock making you reach down with your free hand and place it over your bump as you playfully glare at Harry.

“Harry Styles watch your language in front of the children.”

“Sorry but you finally picked a diaper bag? You’ve been looking for one for months.”

“I just wanted to make sure it was going to something that I could use for years and wasn’t too bulky.”

“You mean like that monstrosity you call a purse?” He questions as he leans over to place his phone on his nightstand.

“You’re the only one who hates my-”

“Nope not even close to being true my love because tons of people hate your purse I’m just the only one willing to be honest with you about it.”

“Whatever.” You huff making Harry lean over to he can place little kisses to your cheek until you let out a giggle. “You’re lucky I like you because I got you one too.” He smiles against your cheek as you tilt your head so his lips are now hovering above yours.

“Oh come on sweetheart we both know you love me.” He murmurs against your lips before capturing them in a sweet kiss.

“Sorry it doesn’t say daddy though.” You say with a smile when he pulls away making him let out a groan as he rests his forehead against yours.

“M’never gonna hear the end of this am I?”

“Nope.”

Harry sits up and crosses his arms over his chest as he turns and glares at your side of the bed, not at you but at the plush object you’re currently cuddling with as you lay on your side with a book in your hand. Your pregnancy pillow has somehow worked its way onto Harry’s list of things he can’t stand, now he’s happy you’re comfortable he wants you to be as comfortable as possible but he hates how the soft plush pillow gets in the way when he tries to snuggle with you. He can’t even fully get his hand on your bump when laying on his side at night before going to sleep, the pillow wedged between the two of you. Now he knows he’s being a tad bit silly and dramatic but in this moment when all he wants to do is cuddle up with you while you read your new book, he doesn’t really care how dramatic he seems.

“I can feel you staring at me.” Harry lets out a sigh as you turn the page of your book, not bothering to look over at him.

“Do you really need this right now?” He asks as he pokes the side of your pillow making your eyes glance down to the spot his finger just jabbed.

“Yes I need him.” You answer as you go back to reading while Harry just stares at you with a raised brow.

“Him? Your pillow is a him? Tell me you didn’t name him.”

“I did. His name is Patrick.”

“Patrick? Why-why would you name it?”

“Because it felt weird to cuddle with something and it not have a name so I named him Patrick the pillow but you can just call him Patrick.” You explain once again without looking up from your book, you just snuggle deeper into the pillow making Harry let out a huff.

“Well isn’t Patrick for sleeping? You’re not sleeping.”

“Keep talking and that’ll change in a few minutes.” You tease dryly causing Harry to send you a glare that you don’t even notice due to how intently you’re focusing on the book in your hand that you checked out from the library a few days ago and sent Harry to go pick up for you.

“Baby.” He doesn’t mean to sound so whiny as he leans his head back so it’s resting against the headboard of the bed. “I just want to cuddle and he gets in the way and you don’t even seem to care.”

“You’re the one who bought him for me.”

“Well yes but-”

“But now you want me to kick him out? That’s rude.”

“He was bought before we started sleeping together-as uhm as in we sleep in the same bed together not that we sleep together even though we-we have done that as well but the point is Patrick has got to fucking go.” About halfway through his little rant you lift your head and close your book sliding it to the middle of the bed, you look at him with a small smile on your face as he fumbles his way through explaining his frustrations with your pregnancy pillow.

“You really don’t like Patrick?” Harry looks over at you as you begin to try and sit up.

“I don’t like how he gets in the way when I’m trying to cuddle you and now you’ve gone and named him so it’s-it’s weird having Patrick in the middle of us when I’m trying to-”

“Spoon me?” He lets out a huff and sends you a playful glare that makes you laugh as you reach your hand out for him to take. “And is that what you’re wanting to do right now?”

“Is it so wrong that I want to spend a day in bed cuddling my girlfriend?” He asks as he takes your hand so you can give it a little squeeze.

“Of course not.” You say with a smile as you let go of Harry’s hand so you can maneuver yourself to where your feet are dangling off the side of the bed. “Now help me up so I can go get a snack while you get rid of Patrick.” Harry is already getting out of bed and walking to your side by the time you’re done talking.

“No more grapes okay? You’ll give yourself a tummy ache.” He tells you as he helps you up, you just roll your eyes as your hands rub the top of your belly.

“So bossy.” You mumble on your way out the door making Harry chuckle as he hears the sound of Paris’s bell jingling letting him know the cat is following you to the kitchen, leaving his napping spot in the rocking chair in twin’s nursery.

“Sorry Patrick.” Harry tells the pregnancy pillow as he grabs it off your side of the bed. “But you’ve gotta go mate.” He says as he tosses it in the closet before shutting the door.

What feels like half an hour later but is really just ten minutes later Harry’s face breaks out into a grin when you waddle your way back into the bedroom licking your lips and carrying your water bottle. He is laying on his side of the bed, now in just a tank top and athletic shorts having ditched his sweatshirt since he knows you tend to always run a little hot and he doesn’t enjoy sweating while trying to get some quality cuddle time with you. You give him a smile as you place your water bottle on your nightstand and sit down on the edge of the bed with a small huff.

“And what did you three agree on for a snack?” He asks as you swing one leg at a time onto the bed, Harry has to practically hold his hands together to stop himself from reaching over and helping you but he knows if you want his help you’ll ask or simply look at him with that dramatically adorable pout. He knows you’re trying to still be as independent as possible without pushing yourself too far so even though it nearly kills him, he will politely sit and watch you take a few minutes to get comfortable on the bed.

“A slice of watermelon and two bites of cantaloupe.” You answer as you roll over to your side so you’re facing your nightstand. Harry takes your queue and wastes no time in scooting over and laying down next to you on his side.

“I thought you didn’t like the cantaloupe? Said it was too sweet?”

“I forgot.” You admit making Harry let out a chuckle as one of his arms slides under the pillow your head is on and his other wraps around your middle so his hand is resting on your belly. “But that’s why I only had two bites and not the whole container.” You explain with a yawn as Harry places a kiss to the top of your shoulder.

“I love you.” He whispers into your ear as he moves so your back is up against his front earning him a soft sigh of content from you.

“I love you too.” He knows by the way your voice sounds that you’re only a few minutes away from falling asleep so before he gets too comfortable he reaches towards the end of the bed and grabs the thin throw blanket and tosses it over the lower half of the two of you because he knows your feet and legs will get cold since you’re just in maternity bike shorts and an oversized t shirt. And even though it might not look it given how he tossed Patrick in the closet for the afternoon, he still wants you to be as comfortable as possible while cuddled up in his arms.

Harry is curled up behind you, his hand gripping your hip keeping you pressed together, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. It’s not that he tries to intentionally wake you up, but he has his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck and he can’t help himself when he places a kiss to the spot below your ear earning him a small giggle from you. He smiles against your sensitive skin and it’s not until you begin to stir and arch your back making your backside press against him that he realizes just how much he’s been enjoying having your warm body pressed against him during your mid day nap.

He knows you can feel him begin to harden as you unconsciously press yourself against him again as you stretch your limbs. The breathy sigh he lets slip passed his lips has you pausing as his hand on your hip tightens its grip ever so slightly. He’s prepared to slide out of the bed and head to the bathroom to deal with his growing issue, not wanting to disturb your post nap bliss. But when you place a hand over his on your hip and slowly drag it up to slide under the waistband of your bike shorts his hips jerk making him let out a moan that’s muffled by his face still being nestled in the crook of your neck at the pleasant friction he gets from his shorts against his now fully hardened length.

“You’re so warm.” He says softly, his breath hot against your neck as his hand slowly travels down over your hip and under the band of your panties letting him feel your skin against his fingers. “And soft.” He mumbles as his hips grind against your backside causing a tiny gasp to leave your lips.

“Harry.” You say with a sigh, voice still slightly thick with sleep but now mixed with a burning need that has you instinctively pressing yourself back against him.

“Can I take these off baby?” He asks, breathing into your ear, when you just nod he doesn’t waste any time before he’s sliding your shorts and panties down your legs until you can kick them off letting them land on the floor. You reach a hand behind you and give the band of his athletic shorts a small tug letting him know you want them off which he quickly does and soon you’re letting out a soft breathy moan when you feel him gently lift your top leg so he can slide himself between your thighs.

“God you feel so good.” He lets out a moan at how good the friction of being nestled snuggly between your warm soft thighs feels against his length.

Slowly he begins to move his hips, gliding against the silky heat of your skin. The friction sends waves of pleasure pulsing through his body, each thrust is slow and deliberate, as if he doesn’t want the intimate moment between the two of you to end too soon.

“Fuck baby- I love feeling you like this.” He moans, his voice strained as his hips maintain their rhythmic pace, his cock sliding smoothly between your thighs.

His grip gently tightens on your hip as he pulls you closer against him, intensifying the sensation. He hears your breath hitch as his fingers slip down until his thumb is gently circling your sensitive bud, matching the slow pace of his thrusts.

“Harry please.” You beg as you press yourself firmly against his hand, seeking more of his touch. He knows what you need from him so he moves his hips faster and adds a bit more pressure to your clit. “Need-oh god.” He doesn’t let you get the rest of your request out before he’s slipping two fingers inside your warm center making a deep moan of pleasure bubble up from his chest when you grind down hard onto his hand, your backside meeting his hips.

“That’s what you needed isn’t it baby?” He whispers breathlessly before placing a kiss to the side of your neck, nipping at the spot below your ear. “Fuck-you’re so wet and-shit so warm I can feel you squeezing my fingers.” Your thighs clench tighter around him as he thrusts his fingers deeper inside your wetness while he continues giving your clit gentle circles with his thumb.

Harry lets out a groan as his hips begin moving faster, losing himself in the intoxicating rhythm, his fingers matching the pace making your eyes shut as he feels you tighten around his digits that are tucked inside of you.

“H-Harry I’m so-oh I’m close.” Your words have his thrusts becoming urgent and fervent, driven by pure instinct and passion. He pumps his fingers in and out of you with a new found determination, needing you to get your release before he can get his own.

“Just let go for me sweetheart. Make a mess all over my fingers.” He urges tenderly before his lips attach to your neck.

When his thumb adds more pressure to your clit you begin moaning his name as you let the pleasure overtake you in waves, your body is arching into Harry’s embrace as your climax leaves you slightly overwhelmed. The tightening of your thighs and the way you’re clenching around his fingers sends Harry spiraling over the edge, his release spilling warmly onto your thighs as his body shudders with an intense wave of pleasure.

“Shit.” He breaths heavily as your hand wraps around his wrist to stop his thumb from rubbing at your sensitive bundle, he slowly removes his fingers from inside you making you let out a soft sigh. He lifts his head just enough so he can bring his glistening digits up to his mouth, he can’t help the moan that leaves him as he tastes you on his tongue.

“You’re so dramatic.” You say with a giggle as you turn your head so you can get a better view of Harry’s face just as he takes his fingers from his mouth with a pop.

“Can’t help it I like the way you taste.” He tells you with a smile as he leans down to place a kiss to your lips.

“You made a mess.”

“Oh I made a mess? I think you meant to say we made a mess.”

“Now we need a shower and new sheets.” Harry just lets out a chuckle as his hand goes to the hem of your t shirt, slowly sliding under it letting him feel the softness of your belly.

“Might as well finish getting undressed then.” He whispers against your lips, his hand going higher until he’s cupping one of your bra covered breasts.

“Did you have another sex dream about me or something? What’s got you all horned up?” You tease as he gives your breast a soft squeeze when you turn your head to look over at the clock on your nightstand that lets you know your nap was a little over an hour.

“You’re just-so fucking sexy I can’t help it.” He answers as his lips kiss their way down your neck. “But let’s get you cleaned up and then I’ll change the sheets.” He gives your shoulder a kiss over the fabric of your t shirt before he slides his hand out from underneath it, he sits up as you roll over to your back.

“I love you.” Harry grins as you stare up at him with a smile on your face, when his eyes meet yours he finds himself almost getting lost in them.

“I love you too.” He says as he leans over so he can place a kiss to the top of your head. “Now come on let’s get you in the shower before you start to get cranky from missing your post nap snack.” This has you rolling your eyes but the smile doesn’t fall from your face and Harry knows it’s because you know he’s right. And in someway it has your heart wanting to melt because he knows you so well and despite all your little moody moments and the need to have eight snacks a day, he still loves you and you love him just as much.

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biteyoubiteme · 18 hours ago

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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.

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—"

"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.

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 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.

"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."

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.

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."

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.

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."

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.”

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.

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?"

taglist: I love you @.beombunni @.lovingbeomgyudayone @.virtaideen @.hyukascampfire @.fancypeacepersona @.bamgeutori @.lilbrorufr @.beomieeeeeeeeeeees @.xylatox @.yunverie @.imlonelydontsendhelp @.moagyuu @.soobinbunnie5 @.usuallyunlikelyfox @.txtzyallinme @.younbeanz @.fatbixchwithanopinion @.bakudon @.readinmidnight @.flowzel @.zaynspidey @.joieouioui @.kiyof @.tubasmiracle @.bamgyuuuri @.heechwe @.takimakiiiii @.whatblop @.frankghgr @.lostgirlysstuff @.philijack

#cams!bookshelf #never forgiving you for this actually (I love it sm it’s not funny)

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deesseshesca · 1 day ago

Text

PAC :What will his friend think of you ?

(SINGLE SINCE BIRTH - ERA ~5 )

No ... because I actually want to crash out !

PILE 1

Page swords (reverse), 5 swords, magician, 2 pentacles

His friend is going to think of y’all as an old couple. Y’all would be the dad and mom of the group. Don’t be surprised but you will often have a third wheel between y’all. I also get a feeling that this is going to be an union between the dad and the mom of each respective group. Y’all may both be the oldest sibling in y’all respective household since you are unfazed by the people surrounding you constantly. If you need to bicker which you will, it will look like two old heads going at it. Y’all know the Bambi and Druski dynamic that’s exactly y’all. You guys have so many inside jokes. You guys are only this comfortable around each other. Both, you and him have past situationship/relationships … Yet it was the first time for his friend group to see him so comfortable in public. You guys may walk around in matching pjs, which he would never have done on his own not because he found it cringy but because of some kind of social anxiety. Also social anxiety stops him from being his authentic self way too often. So to see him express emotion, be talkative and affectionate with you is actually going to warm the heart of his bros. Little do they know how comfortable he makes you feel 2. To add on that, you are a safe place for his inner child. Not holding him to the high standard which he was born in because of his role as the oldest sibling. Y’all also act like you both can’t stand each other. Bickering and all while cuddling … lol. I see his friend looking around … like : ``Are these guys serious rn?``.You guys are very vulnerable with each other and you both put a lot of effort in this relationship. Your person would never expose y’all problem in the daylight but they are not ashamed to say : `` Damm y’all wish I could stay but little mama is on her period.``, ``Shit we argued yesterday, we are cool but I need to go check on her if everything is good frl frl`` or even `` Sorry for the bad play gang, my lady is mad at me … I am scared she will block me …``.They see the effort on your part 2, coming to his games, making his lunch box, walking around with his fav snack, playing with his hair and hugging him. They really feel like you are wifey material, which is great because one of your goals in life in all seriousness is to be a MILF . They also know you are here to stay.

PREVIOUS READING

PILE 2

3 swords, King wands (reverse), Magician (reverse), Knight wands (reverse)

You and your future person will take a break. No worries there no fuck up. I think this person got really scared of how deep the relationship was going and they respect and love you too much to hurt you. So they just sit you down and express their real feelings and you welcome them with no fight, letting them go. You work on yourself in the meantime. Did a lot of journaling and work on your standard & self concept. One day you will post and they will catch on after spending weeks off socials and they will run back with so much excitement. Not in the way, like : `` Damm nobody can have her but me …`` . Nah this person genuinely enjoys the chase. So they come as an evolved person. Knowing that you may be cuff or you just don't want them but they don't care because it was always supposed to be you. While all this is happening their friends are watching on the side lines. His friend will often remind him of the mistake he made by letting you go. Not in some sneaky way (me:believe me, you would be surprised how many of the friends of my situation were in my DM) but more on some real shit. They saw the happiness, joy and love that was pouring from y’all connection like sweet honey. They will probably help him get you back. Some will literally set up a christmas carol to get you back. Anyways regarding any specific thought… they think you are high maintenance. You are clingy and very sensitive. Like it matters to you the tone that he uses, the words that he uses or even the way he touches or even looks at you. You are quite an emotional woman. Is very easy for you to cry. They also think you are high maintenance, they saw their boy pay for your nails and hair more than once. They know damm well that when y’all become official, he’s going to pay for the trip and your shopping spree because of all that they will never hit on you because in their books, you are too demanding as a gf.

PREVIOUS READING

PILE 3

8 wands, King wands (reverse), 7 wands, Sun (reverse)

Most of y’all reading this have a sagittarius rising. Since that came strong I decided to do my little search. Most of y’all may have a sleeper build (quite literally using their slang) or have a plus size/very curvy pear body. You know the body Doja Cat had. When she was way curvier, where she was very heavy down but less up. Also you may have big animated eyes like the character that Tim Burton wrote about. Is almost mystical. Y’all may play a sport, maybe cheer or volley. Some are runners whatever it is you are an athletic babe. Maybe you even play a more masculine sport like baseball or handball. You also have a specific feature in your face aside from your eyes that big, could be your lips or even ears. One last thing … you are a tall gyal. Minimum : 5’7,8 to even 6ft. All this to say is that your looks strike them. They also think you are a cool girl because they saw you do the first move with your future person. You were quite straightforward in what you wanted with them. They also think you are chill because even tho you have not played a boy sport, you are passionate about it so it is easy to build a connection with you. Since you share the same hobbies. You may be sharing the same soul tribe. Meaning there's a high chance that you and this person are friends rn.Y’all are just part of a big friend group which would make you sincere on the ease in which you connect with his friends. Since y’all are all friends ! I think your bff dont want y’all to be together because she knows how much you want a serious relationship and y’all know how much of a womanizer he is. How much he is afraid of commitment. I think you know why because y’all are quite close. Something to do with a father's wound. Unlike the other women, he allows you to see the boys hiding behind the mask but you don't know if he can hold up to a good relationship. Even tho he often voices that he will treat you verrrrrrrrry good. You know he can because the way he treats you is completely different (more gentle and loving) than the way he treats others. Like he treats you even better than the other girls in the group. Is giving everybody can see it but y’all. Y’all both know there's a tension and I think (looking at the cards) that you will be the first one making the move.

PREVIOUS READING

#tarot #tarotcommunity #divination #tarot reading #tarot cards #pac #pick a card #pick a picture #pick a pile #divine timing #divine guidance #intuitive messages #intuitive guidance #intuition

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transmutationisms · 3 days ago

Note

historical writing followup anon here. ackk i thought the link got pasted but it mustve gotten sucked into the void. i was referring to this ^^ https://www.tumblr.com/transmutationisms/777831995879374848/

oh my god i literally meant to circle back to that like a month ago. my drafts are where posts go to die.

yeas for anyone who cares & missed it—the question was for any historical texts that have influenced how i think about the formal practice of writing history, and/or that are simply enjoyable reads on a mechanical prose level. i'm listing in no particular order, & with more of a focus on style & general methodological orientation over the substance of the arguments. also these are probably all going to be in history of science/medicine but that's rly just because those are texts i've spent a lot of time with lol.

ill composed: sickness, gender, and belief in early modern england by olivia weisser -- primary sources here are largely personal writings: journals, business records, marginalia, she spent a LOT of time combing archives here and it allows her to really straddle the line between history of medicine and history of affect/emotions, which is not typically a topic i find treated this persuasively

doctoring traditions: ayurveda, small technologies, and braided sciences by projit bihari mukharji -- loved this on a prose level, and is also a useful demo of how histories can look once we move past the unidirectional basalla-style model of colonial knowledge dissemination & deal with eg the interests of these upper-caste colonial administrators in the creation & defence of an 'ayurvedic tradition'

medicalizing blackness: making racial difference in the atlantic world, 1780–1840 by rana hogarth -- both the periodisation and the geographic delineation are very very strongly chosen here, she brings together a number of atlantic-world episodes often treated in isolation from one another. treats each in its specificity but succeeds in pulling from the aggregate a strong analysis of the overarching concept (antiblackness; the creation of race via medical science) that she's after

baron de vastey and the origins of black atlantic humanism by marlene daut -- brought me back to seeing how close literary textual analysis can be historicised / integrated into historical analysis productively, after several years of mostly trying to curb my impulse toward the former

victorian sensation: the extraordinary publication, reception, and secret authorship of vestiges and of the natural history of creation by james secord -- classic of history of the book, history of readership / popular audiences, &c

the fall of robespierre: 24 hours in revolutionary paris by colin jones -- i found this boring & its specific topic means it's not really beating the great man allegations but it did certainly get me thinking about how we narrativise/periodise in history, and why

the physician-legislators of france: medicine and politics in the early third republic, 1870–1914 by jack ellis -- prosopography is hard to write and usually kind of boring to read but the payoff is worth it i fear

ideals of the body: architecture, urbanism, and hygiene in postrevolutionary paris by sun-young park -- working in traditions of urban history, architectural history, anthropology à la rabinow, really gorgeous granular analysis of the creation & design of the actual physical spaces comprising a city. esp shines where she treats pedagogical institutions, incl paris deaf-blind institutes

mining language: racial thinking, indigenous knowledge, & colonial metallurgy in the early modern iberian world by allison bigelow -- super super fun & fruitful moves here bringing together discourse analysis, history of the book, economic history, and history of technology in colonial mining & the creation & circulation of knowledge in those colonial networks

engineers of happy land: technology and nationalism in a colony by rudolf mrázek -- i have issues with this book but stylistically it is really a pleasure & got me thinking a lot about how we write history & how style and ideology inform one another in that process. like if the arcades project was about colonial indonesia

what nostalgia was: war, empire, and the time of a deadly emotion by thomas dodman -- more people should spend half this effort on historicising 1) affects and 2) psychiatric descriptions of those affects. history is so fun when it's fun

the expressiveness of the body and the divergence of greek and chinese medicine by shigehisa kuriyama -- this is so so fun on a prose level in a way academic history rarely is. it's a comparative history, which in general i don't love, and is markedly much more detailed in the exposition of greek medicine than chinese

#book recs #hps

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popthebop · 1 day ago

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*minor correction

death in the family is post crisis.

pre-crisis is from before 1986! 1986 is the start of post crisis! as it happens after Crisis on infinite earths.

a lot of the post crisis stories were way darker in tone one of my favourites is this arc

‘most of the stories of the 70s and 80s were actually very dark at times. in that era the dc comics war thriller’s-

(men of war, Sgt rock, weird war stories, star spangled war stories, unknown soldier and more!)

Were THRIVING, and as someone who loves reading the older comics things tended to get way darker around the 70s.

they really were cooking (like firestorm,,, I love… firestorm)

The reason why the 60s were so silly at the time was because noir and detective series were kinda just different.

I’m the 30s and 40s and 50s and pre-comics code, THINGS WERE DARKER. There was literally I am not lying when I say this, true CRIME everywhere, the fbi even jumped in on the trend (here if your interested in an official FBI comic)

In the lates 50s and early 60s things got really silly, mostly because the comics code has everyone in a vicegrip.

but the human target story referred to here actually I think was a 80s pre-crisis one lol, and a lot of the writers liked to make fun of comics and dc media which HILARIOUS HONESTLY.

one of my favorite moments is from Sgt rock where the entire issue was just taking the piss out of golden age comics 😭, it ended with a comic book being so thick it saved Sgt rock lol.

but they do that sometimes.

I do not remember where I was going.

mostly TLDR: comics code was the reason why Batman was so silly

Ok this paper thin metaphor showing Adam West as a type cast has been and Burt Ward as a nasty ingrate hits a REAL wrong note coming FROM DC Comics Action Comics 641

#batman #dc comic #dc comics #batman comics #the human target comics #human target #CHRISTOPHER CHANCE THE HUMAN TARGET MY BELOVED

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homemadesterekpie · 3 days ago

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4k+ words fic where Stiles and the betas go out shopping together and Stiles gets a cute pair of pink underwear… some very fun things ensues lol

ao3 link

~*~

Stiles and the betas go out shopping to a big mall a few towns over one rainy saturday just for something to do.

They invite their Alpha of course but he waves them off saying he has things to do (he has a meeting with Deaton and then he wants to work out in peace and maybe catch up on some reading).

Stiles is a little disappointed but he’s too excited to go shopping to let it damper his mood and seeing Derek slip his credit card to Boyd as they leave make him forget his disappointment altogether.

They four of them pile into the jeep and go on their way. Isaac whines until they let him have the aux so he can put on the playlist he made for the hour or so of road they have to travel to get to the mall.

Boyd is Stiles' gps in the passenger seat and Erica talks over him every time so they end up missing an exit and she hollers in laughter as Stiles threatens to leave her at the side of the road to which just make her laugh harder because they both know she'd just make it to the mall faster by running there.

They finally get there and start their shopping. They could separate and all go to the places they want to check out alone but they stick together, as they always do these days.

They're in a small fancy-ish clothing store Erica wanted to go in to look when Stiles spots a cute little pair of underwear he suddenly really wants to get. They're simple but they're pastel pink, feminine and so soft that Stiles almost weeps. He knows they'd feel heavenly on his skin. He spends long minutes at the clothing rack, just hovering and feeling the fabric with his fingers.

Isaac comes up at his side so quietly Stiles jumps when he tells him to just fucking get them. Stiles blushes and sends him a heatless glare. Isaac just rolls his eyes. Even if he feels embarrassed Stiles takes the hanger with the underwear in his size and sends a ‘here! happy?’ look to the beta before marching to where Erica and Boyd are looking at clothes together.

Erica has a few hangers in her hands already and is asking Boyd's opinion on some of the dresses she's looking at when he and Isaac walk up to them.

Boyd immediately zeroes in on what Stiles is holding and lifts a subtle eyebrow but Stiles stubbornly doesn't look at him. Erica doesn't finish the sentence she's saying and takes a look at him then at his hands and immediately says "ooh good choice, Stiles" in a genuine tone, making him blush harder but somehow it also makes his shoulders relax a little too.

Not long after that they go to the register and Boyd pays with Derek's credit card. Stiles blushes harder.

He spends the rest of the shopping trip in a bit of a daze. His thoughts always circling back to the cute underwear wrapped up nicely in the dainty little bag he's carrying.

He can't wait to try them on. He really hopes they're as comfortable and as soft as they look. He wonders what they'll look like on him and he has to think of something else because his face already feels hot and he knows his cheeks are probably red and blotchy.

He's grateful for the distraction when they stop at the food court to grab something to eat and drink.

They regroup and talk about the things they bought and where they want to go next. Boyd mentions Derek asked him to grab a few things and how he needs a new pair of running sneakers. Isaac says he still wants to check out the music store while Erica says she still hasn't found the dress she's been eyeing online.

They all grab themselves slushies before going back to their shopping. Stiles and Boyd go over the stuff Derek wants them to get and then direct their little group to the related stores. After that they hit the music store and Isaac is in heaven getting himself some CDs. Then Erica finds the dress she's been looking for and Boyd finds a really cool pair of running sneakers and then everyone is happy.

They're all in a really good mood and pleasantly worn out when they make their way back to the jeep. Boyd helps Stiles storing the bags in the trunk.

Then Boyd holds out a hand to Stiles, silently asking for the keys and Stiles doesn't hesitate and passes them over. The beta drives them back home while Stiles dozes in the passenger seat.

He's alert again when Boyd turns into the loft's parking lot. The betas don't let Stiles take any bags as they unload the trunk only passing him the little one containing his purchase and brutally reminding him of it.

He debates leaving it in the jeep to take home later but then something very much alike boldness makes him clutch the bag harder and follow the betas into the building and up to the loft with it in his hands.

Derek immediately lets them know he ordered pizza when they slide open the door. Stiles deduces that Derek felt them enter the territory again and acted accordingly making him the best Alpha in the world.

He smiles a little dopily as he delicately puts down the dainty bag on the coffee table in front of Derek and goes to sit beside him on the couch.

He watches Derek from the corner of his eyes so he doesn't miss it when Derek gives the little bag a look before putting away the book he's holding.

The betas join in around them, chatting away, mostly Isaac and Erica, Boyd just puts down the bags he's holding and sits on the lazy boy near the couch, sighing happily like the old man he is. Erica joins him right away, sitting in his lap while Isaac sits on one of the armrests, sliding an arm around Boyd's shoulders comfortably.

The atmosphere is so warm and cozy Stiles almost starts dozing again but the idea of pizza keeps him awake. He just lets the betas tell Derek all about their shopping trip while he unwinds.

Eventually the food comes and they're all rejuvenated by the power of pizza and soda.

After eating the betas start pulling their purchases out of the bags and butterflies start fluttering in Stiles' stomach.

He hesitantly stretches himself to grab the small bag from the coffee table and just sits there fidgeting with it with his fingers for a few moments.

He doesn't look to check but he's certain Derek is looking at him as he does so, his gaze always feeling like a physical weight to Stiles.

Suddenly coming to a decision, Stiles stands and goes to the bathroom. He doesn't second guess himself as he quickly takes off his pants and underwear and changes into the new ones. He takes only a few seconds to look down at himself and marvel at how cute they look on him and how soft they are on his skin, exactly how he wished they would before putting his pants back on.

He puts his old underwear in the bag and leaves it in the bathroom out of the way before going back into the living room, sitting right back down beside Derek.

The betas are chatting together but when Stiles looks at them, Erica sends him a small knowing smirk and he blushes. He tries to brush her off but he can't really manage it, he's too riled up and obviously she's right. Stiles is doing this for one reason only, they all know it.

Erica then announces she wants to go for a run. She pulls Boyd and Isaac up with her as she gets up to leave. The two other betas don't give any protest and both give Stiles sidelong glances as they follow Erica out of the loft.

The door slides shut and immediately the air starts feeling heavy even to Stiles' human senses but even so he makes himself wait a few minutes before finally asking Derek if he wants to see what he got today.

He doesn't look at Derek when he does because if he looks at him Stiles will lose the little resolve he has.

Derek clears his throat before assuring Stiles that he does want to see.

So Stiles stands and takes two little steps to put himself in front of Derek, practically in between his legs and with shaking hands he undoes his pants and pushes them down slowly before stepping out of them, still looking anywhere but at Derek.

His t-shirt is short enough that he knows Derek can see the underwear fully. Pink and soft on his pale skin.

The moment drags on and Stiles starts playing with the hem of his t-shirt nervously. He stutters a little when he asks Derek in a whisper if he likes them.

Not a second later, Derek's hand is on one of his thighs, thumb brushing the fabric of the panties gently. The touch makes him gasp and forces Stiles to look down at the Alpha but the Alpha isn't looking at him.

He's looking at Stiles' panties with such intensity that it makes Stiles fidget a little self-consciously but at that, Derek looks up sharply and breathes out the words ‘so pretty’.

Stiles blushes pleasantly at the words, under the heavy gaze and slowly he moves to straddle Derek on the couch, sliding his arms around his strong shoulders.

Derek welcomes him in and immediately goes to palm Stiles' ass, gently feeling the fabric and the curves there, making Stiles let out a small pleased sound.

When Derek seems content just kneading his ass and running his fingers on the soft fabric, Stiles settles his head on his Alpha’s shoulder and starts playing with his hair gently.

It lasts until two of Derek’s fingers sneak into his panties from one side to lay at the cleft of his ass, making Stiles shiver pleasantly in anticipation.

The other hand at his ass leaves altogether and there’s a small wet sound. Stiles knows what that means and he can’t help the little wrecked moan from escaping his lips, his dick hardening in his panties.

In the next moment, Derek’s second hand sneaks into his panties as well, sliding fingers to his crack then down to his hole.

Stiles gasps as Derek spreads the wetness of his spit there, rubbing and massaging the ring of muscle until it’s all soft and wet.

Derek’s other hand is entirely into his panties now too, kneading and pulling the cheek to the side a little, giving his other fingers better access.

A thick finger finally breaches him and Derek starts thrusting it in and out of him gently but oh so firmly and Stiles hides his face into his Alpha’s shoulder, muffling his little whines.

A second fingers joins the first, thrusting back in more insistently and a little faster and Stiles can’t hide his face anymore, he needs to breath. The friction and stretch is almost too much but it’s also so fucking good he can’t think.

Then Derek curls his fingers on a particularly hard thrust and Stiles grunts, bucking his hips, seeking friction for his now rock hard dick.

With his eyes tightly shut he can just cling on to Derek’s shoulders and moan brokenly as Derek does it again and again.

When a third finger is added to his hole, Stiles knows he’s going to come. He’s going to come just like this on Derek’s fingers. He’s going to come untouched, his dick completely forgotten.

Derek is breathing hard into his neck and that’s one of the only signs Stiles has that proves just how much his Alpha is enjoying this just as much as he is.

It doesn’t take long until he’s is on the edge and he clings to Derek desperately and starts begging incoherently. It’s only when Derek finally says the words “do it, come for me, baby.” that Stiles goes over the edge, coming hard into his panties, feeling completely wrecked.

It takes a while for his breathing to get back to normal, to come back down from his high, boneless in his Alpha’s lap. He hums happily a few times as Derek rubs a hand up and down his back comfortingly.

He shifts a little to get more comfortable and he feels it. His Alpha’s hard on pressing right under his ass. His own dick gives an interested twitch and familiar heat floods his lower stomach.

He grinds his ass down on it experimentally and Derek lets out a chuckle and puts his lips to Stiles’ ear to call him insatiable to witch just makes Stiles grind down harder and more insistently because yeah he is insatiable.

Derek made him come on his fingers and now he wants to come on his dick and he wants Derek to come inside him.

Derek’s fingers go back to his hole gently and with his lips still at his ear he asks Stiles if he wants his dick in his ass. Stiles nods enthusiastically and whines out that yes he wants Derek’s dick in him, he wants it so bad.

Derek shushes him with a chuckle and pulls the panties to the side as much as he can to reveal Stiles’ hole. Then Derek shifts and there’s the sound of his belt being undone and his zipper lowering and Stiles shakes with anticipation.

Another wet sound as Derek gathers more spit on his fingers to slather on his dick before bringing the wet tip of it to Stiles’ hole.

He teases him a little, rubbing the tip up and down’s Stiles’ hole spreading spit and precome all over and making Stiles absolutely crazy. He grips Derek’s hair in his fingers and tells Derek through gritted teeth to fucking fuck him.

Derek lets out a laugh but he doesn’t need to be told twice and slides the head inside Stiles with no problem. He’s is so stretched from his finger fucking that there’s barely no pain from the stretch or from the harsh friction from the lack of lube.

It’s just wet enough to make everything hot and dirty and he’s speechless, his mouth slack with pleasure as Derek holds him in place by the waist and thrusts up into him with little movements until finally he’s balls deep and Stiles is seated on his dick.

He’s so big inside him, Stiles can feel him everywhere and it’s like his brain became mush the moment Derek seated him on his dick. He might say some of it out loud because Derek puts a hand at the back of his neck, thumb rubbing and hums a few times as if answering to what Stiles is babbling on about.

Stiles melts into him even more, letting his Alpha enclose him with his hands, with his body and his mind goes almost blank, all thoughts gone where all that’s left is Derek and all of his body’s sensations.

He’s not sure how long Derek stays motionless, letting him adjust and rubbing his neck tenderly but eventually he thrusts up into Stiles gently as if unsure and Stiles mewls with pleasure and buries his hands into Derek’s hair again, gluing his open mouth to his tanned neck, panting.

The next thrust is firmer, much more sure and the next one after that even more so and Stiles starts petting Derek’s hair almost mechanically with shaking fingers while making small encouraging noises right under his ear.

The harder Derek fucks into him the more desperate Stiles becomes, he’s practically glued to Derek but it still doesn’t feel close enough. He clings to Derek harder and shifts a little to start moving his hips in time with the thrusts as much as he can with Derek holding him in place by his neck and waist. He pants wetly into Derek’s stubbled cheek as they move together, feeling the soft growls of pleasure there at his jaw, driving him Stiles even more desperate.

Only a few moments later he’s whining in discomfort because his thighs start aching and he still doesn’t feel close enough to Derek.

There might be tears involved and he’s whimpering pitifully and immediately Derek shushes him gently moving the hand at his neck to his hair and he says something but Stiles doesn’t understand him. The words are distant and almost distorted.

Derek pulls Stiles away from his body just enough so he can look at him but Stiles starts protesting because no, why, what’s happening, did he do something wrong? But Derek takes his face into one hand and takes a good look at him. Stiles blinks slowly a few times to try and see Derek properly and when he does he gives his Alpha a dopy little smile.

He’s so handsome like this, Stiles loves him so so much. Can he continue to fuck him now? please? He’s pretty sure this time that he’s saying all of that out loud.

Derek cups his cheek gently and pulls Stiles’ face to his to give him a little kiss on the forehead before kissing him on the lips. Stiles shivers into it and then moans because it makes Derek’s dick inside of him shift a little. His moan automatically deepens their kiss and Stiles goes back to clinging to Derek’s neck with his hands but his thighs still aches and he whines again.

In the next moment, there’s a swift movement of air and Derek is standing with Stiles tight in his arms not breaking their kiss or pulling out as Stiles is distantly aware of Derek walking away from the livingroom.

He’s delicately deposited on the bed onto his back and again Derek doesn’t break the kiss. Stiles feels him pushing down his jeans more before thrusting into him again making him gasp into their kiss. Stiles automatically hugs his legs high around his Alpha’s waist and the next thrusts are deep and hard and so perfect.

Their kiss breaks naturally as Stiles pulls Derek down flush against him, circling his arms around his neck while Derek buries his face into his neck and starts mouthing at it, nibbling and sucking, marking him all up.

Like this Stiles’ voice rings out around them, unbidden and mixing in with the obscene sound of their skin slapping together, the creaking of the bed under them and Derek’s rumbling growls that grows louder the longer he fucks Stiles.

With his dick rubbing on both of their shirts in between their bodies and the way Derek is fucking into him so perfectly, Stiles knows he won’t last. He’s already flirting with the edge of his second orgasm and some of his earlier desperation comes back. He doesn’t want to come again so soon.

Derek’s thrusts stutters to a stop abruptly when Stiles suddenly shouts at him to stop. He lifts himself on one arm to look down at Stiles, asking if he’s okay and his hair is a mess, his eyes glowing red, fangs poking at his lower lip a little.

Stiles admires him for a few seconds before nodding and pushing at Derek’s shoulders insistently until the Alpha rolls off of him, inevitably pulling out of him in the process. Immediately, Stiles rolls onto his belly, pushing his hips up a little on wide spread knees then tells Derek to fuck him like this.

Slowly, Derek lifts a hand to run it through Stiles’ hair and Stiles pushes into the touch without thinking, enjoying the soft touch.

Then he leans in and kisses Stiles on the shoulder before moving back and out of sight behind Stiles.

Big hands caresses his back, pushing his t-shirt down to his armpits in the same movement before going back to his hips, his panties.

Derek grips the panties firmly with one hand before lining himself up to his hole again with the other and Stiles lets out a curse. The head goes in and Derek’s other hand is back to his hips and he thrusts back into him way too gently for Stiles’ liking.

But he doesn’t have to say anything because the next thrust is hard, so hard that Stiles lets out a strangled shout that kind of sounds like a YES! and that’s all Derek needs because he starts ramming into him wildly, so hard and fast Stiles can’t make a sound or even breath for the first few seconds.

Then, finally, air enter his lungs and he lets out a litany of incoherent words that are half praise and half cursing. Somehow that makes Derek growl dangerously behind him and the grip on the panties tighten and Stiles knows they won’t make it through this and somehow he fucks into Stiles harder.

Stiles can’t do anything else but take it but that’s exactly how he wants it. Face down into the bedding with his dick bobbing under him he knows he won’t even need to touch it. He’s at the edge again and this time he embraces it because Derek is making those wild growling sounds now and they can only mean one thing. They’re both close, so close, he can almost taste it.

Derek lets go of his hip, instead grabbing the back of his neck and pushing down and Stiles is lost, he comes abruptly, soiling the bed under him, his eyes tightly shut, grunting.

Derek doesn’t stop fucking into him at his wild pace, fucking him through all of it until he’s scrambling for purchase on the bed desperately and whimpering, the sensations getting too much and on verge of painful.

But then Derek lets out the loudest growl Stiles has ever heard from him, thrusting one last time into his hole hard and deep and he’s coming. Stiles can feel it, warmth filling him up down there and he whines.

After a moment of stillness, Derek pulls out gently and lets go of him and Stiles crumples down to the bed, boneless and breathing hard. He’s worn out but he’s so sated. He feels high, so fucking high it’s like he’s on a cloud and he has the awareness that he’ll be coming down soon and hard.

The bed dips a little beside him and he shifts onto his side towards it tiredly, seeking his Alpha.

He’s pulled into a warm naked chest and he snuggles into it, humming happily when Derek’s arms enfolds him tightly. He’s sure he’s going to fall asleep in a second but somehow he doesn’t, his body somehow too aware to let him fall asleep.

He’s aware of Derek is rubbing a thumb at his neck absentmindedly, he can hear the soothing sound of his heart beating in his chest under his ear, he notices that Derek lost his henley because only now he remembers that Derek had it on earlier. He starts playing with Derek’s chest hair faintly.

As he feels himself coming down from his high cloud, a weird nagging feeling of worry creeps onto him. He worries that somehow what they’ve just done was wrong or not wrong exactly but somehow bad. He can’t really figure out why he’s feeling this way or where it even roots from.

As soon as he’s come down enough that he can form complete sentences again he asks Derek if it was good. Derek just hums back sleepily and Stiles tries again and asks if Derek enjoyed it.

There’s a silence and Derek stops rubbing his neck with his thumb and now Stiles feels like crying a little and he’s starting to be aware that it’s not normal and that upsets him more.

Derek shifts until he can look at Stiles’ face and he cups his cheek gently before asking Stiles if he’s okay. He calls him baby as he does and that helps him calm down a little but he asks Derek again if he enjoyed it, in a little unsure voice Stiles is sure he’s never used before.

Derek rubs his thumb on his cheekbone and searches his eyes for a moment before assuring him that he more than enjoyed it. That Stiles had been perfect and so good for him and that he couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Flooded with sheer relief, Stiles tells Derek that he’s so glad because he loved it, he loved it so much, that it had felt so good and so right.

Derek gives him a fond smile before kissing him softly on the lips and the nagging worry Stiles felt a moment ago dissipates entirely.

Derek continues to hold him and nuzzles his skin from time to time until Stiles has fully come down and he’s so exhausted. He feels Derek take the ruined panties off of him then his shirt before cleaning him up and tucking him into bed and joining him.

He’s just about to fall asleep when he remembers he wants to say something and he whispers the words softly. I love you, Derek.

Soft lips brush his forehead and the words are said back to him just as softly. I love you too, Stiles.

He’s asleep not a second later.

#this is so self indulgent yall #sterek #eternalsterek #ficlet #fic rec #my writing

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cacoetheswriting · 2 days ago

Note

Please more Congressman Bucky and his assistant - I beg of you. I love your writing so much, been a silent follower for a long time!

stop it omg! i'm glad you're here and i hope you enjoy this <3

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!fem!reader word count: 1.5k

content warnings: suggestive & mature themes, adult language, workplace romance in the making (aka slow burn), power dynamic imbalance (boss/employee), age gap (although not necessarily specified, reader would be mid 20s and bucky is obviously over 100 lol), mutual pining, use of pet names, fluff, jealousy and slightly possessive bucky - unedited - if i missed anything, pls let me know!

a/n: technically part 2 of this fic, but can be totally read as a standalone.

A document remains hidden in the bottom drawer of Bucky’s desk, under some random paperwork that no one will ever need.

You’re his assistant. Nothing more, nothing less. That’s how it should be — despite said document itching at the back of his mind. The blank Consensual Relationship Agreement (just in case, or whatever bullshit he’s telling himself).

Days pass as normally as they can. Following a rather flirty lunch, you’re careful around him, not wanting to say anything untoward. Bucky notices this shift immediately and ultimately decides, despite the overwhelming urge to ask what’s on your mind, if you’re as confused as he is, equally lost in the possibilities, not to point it out.

News of a job opportunity in London spreads through the office like wildfire. Working for the Prime Minister, now that’s experience Bucky can’t guarantee and he makes himself forget about the document along with the attached attraction and one conversation that led to almost… nothing. It led to nothing.

You don’t say anything to anyone, until the day of his big speech.

Karen, Head of Personnel and human resources police, informs the future congressman you took a couple of personal days. She doesn’t give any details, but Bucky suspects it has something to do with London. A pain in his chest, a crack.

Luckily, the event goes without a hitch. Bucky is a hit. His speech was impressive, jaw muscles relaxed — a vast improvement from the last couple of times, and there's only one person to thank.

Afterwards, he’s redirected to a different room where a portion of the attending voters, who are also big campaign sponsors, gather to meet with him personally for a further discussion. He’s circling the crowd, shaking hands and waving.

There, amongst the few, Bucky’s gaze immediately latches itself to you. Like a magnet. Surprise graces his otherwise brooding features and he chews the inside of his cheek, fighting back a smile.

You wave. Fingers dangling one by one.

“Excuse me,” he says to one of the sponsors currently accosting him, “I’ll be right back.”

All eyes are on him as he crosses the room, but he doesn’t care. You’re with him, not in London, like he suspected you might be.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is pleasant, welcoming. “It’s your day off.”

“I’ve been told to remind you about a charity dinner for Survivors of The Blip.”

“You could have called,” he says simply, “I’m a pretty relaxed boss. You don’t need to uproot your day to do your job, especially during your time off.”

“I know you don’t really check your phone when you’re attending these things,” you say, tilting your head sideways. “So I figured it’ll be easier to come here and remind you personally.”

You smile sweetly. And because silence stretches, as he holds your eye contact a little too long, you add:

“Plus I have a date in the area.”

Bucky’s jaw locks at the word ‘date’. The sting of jealousy is worse than thinking he may never see you again.

“I watched your speech on my way here,” you tell the brooding man, not letting him stew. “You did good. Definitely an improvement from last time.”

He drops his shoulders, relaxing, and lets out a low, breathy chuckle.

“I took your advice.”

You arch a brow. “Had S-E-X?”

“No, no.” Bucky shakes his head, smirking. “To test that theory, I’m waiting for a uh…”

“Worthy mate?”

He snorts. “Something like that.”

There’s another beat of silence. Charged with something far beyond platonic. He’s fighting the sense to reach for you, here in front of all these people.

“You should get back to mingling,” you say. “There will be a car waiting for you out front in an hour taking you to the hotel. You have a room, number 313. Here’s the key and you’ll find your tux hanging on the wardrobe door.”

“And you?” Bucky asks unintentionally. The key in his Vibranium palm, your fingers still gently pressing against the plastic.

“Me?”

“You know where I’ll be. Shouldn’t I know where you are?” He’s testing the waters. You can tell him to fuck off, he’ll understand. He’ll hate every second of it, but he’ll understand.

Instead, you roll your eyes. “I’ll send you a location pin, boss.”

And with that, you saunter out of the room.

He watches you go off on your date with a sinking feeling in his chest. Rationally, Bucky knows it’s ridiculous. He’s got no claim on you. Aside from occasional light flirting, there’s nothing else going on between the two of you. He may want there to be — especially late at night, when he’s in bed all alone — but from what he hears, London is on the table and he won’t hold you back from chasing a dream.

The charity dinner is just more politics.

Bucky is bored out of his mind. He wishes for a friendly face. Sometimes Wilson attends these things, but tonight doesn’t seem to be on Captain America’s agenda. So he sits alone at the large banquet table and nurses a whiskey.

Someone will approach the odd time. Thank him for his good work or wish him luck in the upcoming election. He politely shakes their hand, makes small talk, and lets them walk away to the next table.

He thinks to thank you tomorrow. For the work you do. All these people, telling him how great he is for the personalised emails with detailed information on campaign progress. The meeting reminders, and the efficient follow-ups with transcribed minutes. The overall care. You do that.

Uncharted feelings aside, losing you to London would be a blow to his campaign.

And just as Bucky is thinking of possible ways to influence you to stay, his phone buzzes. He retrieves it from the inside pocket of his tux. Your name graces his screen and the brunette man can’t help the smile that circles his lips.

The text is simple. A location pin, as promised, to a restaurant a block away.

He types: Received with thanks.

Three dots appear, then disappear. One minute passes and nothing. Bucky thinks you must be enjoying your date and is about to lock his phone, put it away, when it vibrates in his grasp once more.

You: In case charity becomes too boring.

Bucky blinks at the words. He re-reads the text a couple of times to really make sure you’ve sent it, and even after he’s done so, he’s not sure what to make of it.

He sends: Am I faking a work emergency?

You: ???

Bucky: What about your date?

You: I wouldn’t be texting my boss if I was enjoying myself.

Then, a few seconds later.

You: No show.

The brunette man’s grip tightens around the glass in his hand. Anger rises, bubbles up inside his chest, waiting to burst. He does his best to suppress the feeling, but the thought of you sitting alone at a restaurant, stood up by some dickhead, makes it difficult.

He’s up on his feet, making his way through the crowd before he can talk himself out of the idea.

Outside, the air is chilling. Bucky hopes it’s not a sign of what’s to come. He walks down the dimly lit streets of the city, phone in one hand because even though he’s got your current location memorised, the blue dot is enticing. He can’t let it disappear.

He can’t let you disappear.

There it is again, the thought of losing you to London. Creeping up on him, then falling like a ton of bricks. Bucky quickly shakes his head. Trying to suppress what he’s feeling about this particular scenario. Now is not the time.

Nearing the restaurant, Bucky’s movement falters. He sees you standing outside. One arm hugging the long coat closer to your body, the other down your side, flicking ash off a cigarette. You lift your head in his direction, almost as if you can feel his gaze on you, and a smile flashes across your features.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you say as he approaches. Honey-like tone, although a splinter of sadness.

“There’s only so much mingling I can handle.” Bucky’s careful with his words.

You raise a brow. “I suppose I’m flattered. Not every boss would choose his PA over a fancy dinner.”

He swallows. I’d choose you over everything, seems like too loaded of an answer. But the words are there, at the tip of his tongue. He just can’t push himself to say them. Yet.

“Should we go in?” Bucky asks, hand at the back of his head, uneasy, not wanting to let silence win because when it’s quiet, you might decide this — whatever this is — is a mistake. He’ll unintentionally push you towards London.

“I uh, I actually gave the table up,” you answer, putting the cigarette out, and he tries to hide his disappointment.

He swallows a breath, arm falling back down to his side. Then, Bucky looks around. Some passers-by point, whisper. His lips purse into a tight, fake smile. He waves and mouths hello, as always polite because that’s how he was raised, but truthfully, he wants you alone.

He’d even settle for alone-ish.

“But I’m assuming you didn’t eat?” The brooding brunette wonders, catching your eyes once again.

You shake your head in response.

“Then let’s go, sweetheart.” Charming tone and that damn moniker making your cheeks bloom with blood.

Bucky proceeds to turn on his heel and starts to walk, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re following — which, to his delight, you are.

With a bright smile on your face.

as always, thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

#bucky barnes #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #congressman bucky #congressman barnes

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wingfleur · 18 hours ago

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holy shit i love both your grayson fics (both graysons). i like imagining either one jealous cuz theyd have such different reactions. lemme read the jason todd one too. i love your work ong

eee, hello, nonnie! thank u for the kind words! i really hope u enjoyed the jason fic— i got a brainworm, blacked out, and emerged w 1000 words of freak shit... whoops! and i’m about to do the same thing here! 😛

but as for the graysons... i don't think jealous!mark has ever really crossed my mind for real up until now. kinda shocking, honestly, bc i think about him a lot, but i think it's because i always imagine him in scenarios where he and reader are both young, dumb, and totally into each other. like, there's never much room for jealousy bc there's never much room for anybody else. but now that i'm thinking about it... mark would be so whiny and pouty when he's jealous, LMAO. like, if you're not together, but kinda got something going on and are intentionally trying to make him jealous? you'd literally be able to see his frustration bc he carries it in his shoulders, but it would take him a while to crack and say smth about it. oh, and william shoulders the brunt of his whining. like, if it gets to a certain point, he'll actually start hitting ur phone and beg u to stop ducking mark so yall can sort this out and he can go back to living a peaceful life. but in a jealous!mark x mean!reader scenario? like one where u don't really gaf about him fr, but that's exactly what makes his dick hard 😭? omg... all the other people you've gone on dates with and came to class with hickies from have not been in spite of mark at ALL bc u don't even register he exists half the time. it's literally just u living ur life, and he knows this!!!, but he still gets his panties in a twist over it </3 and i promise u that william is sick and tired of his bullshit in this au too, LOL. he's literally this 🤏🏽 close to telling mark to take his girl problem— singular— and his humiliation kink— bc that's what it is at this point— and get tf on!

as for dick, canonically, i don't think he's the jealous type. he's more of a "tell me if u want me fr, bc if not, lets break up so u don’t cheat on me and i’ll have to compartmentalize it, move on, and break down about it a year later" type of guy. no harm, no foul, but a bit of love lost. but ex-bf!dick? oh bitch, he's another story... and i don't even know if i would call him the jealous type or not bc if you and him are/were fucking around and you tried to push him out of the picture, he'd be nothing but annoying and invasive about it, LMFAO. his reaction is purely situational: the circumstances are what will tell me if he's actually jealous and lowkey-highkey super butthurt about it, or if he doesn't gaf fr and is solely doing this out of spite 😭. and ex-bf!dick doesn't really care about what you want fr either, bc what you need is him, and he knows you know that, yet all you do play... :/ worst part is he's ridiculously confident about it, too. like, he has absolutely no issue forcing himself back into ur circle and poking at ur boundaries bc he knows whoever you're seeing right now doesn't hold a candle to how good he can treat u; its only a matter of time before u drop ur guard. but its okay! what u like is the chase, and luckily, he does too!, but play time is over, sweetheart, so quit messing around and take off them drawls 🤷🏽‍♀️

# — navigation

#— alexis answers ꒰ঌ ໒꒱#i want them both though #its bc im a gemini its the duality in me #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #invincible x reader #invincible x you

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alexanderlightweight · 2 days ago

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For writing Wednesday:

I know you only just posted the first part an hour ago, but maybe malec meeting and bonding in your new sentinel/guide au? Or magnus reacting to alec's childhood in the new sentinel/guide au. I really liked the first part and I'm weirdly fond of sentinel/guide AUs.

If you don't want to write any more sentinel/guide stuff, maybe something about how Alec growing up in the New York Institute made him weirdly connected to the wards or angelic core.

Your writing is a major highlight of my week! Please make sure to get some proper rest and dring lots of water!

Either nsfw or sfw is good

no you're good! I ended up having a flareup last night that hit pretty bad. I took my meds and got through it but I couldn't think straight so I'm finishing now, today lol there's a piece that goes before this here because you are not the only one who asked for more! and I love sentinel/guide au's so like, I definitely get being weirdly fond since i'm extremely weirdly into the trope.

thank you! I am definitely working to hydrate and drink water not just tea today! I hope you hydrate as well and have a good day and everyone who reads this! drink and rest <3

i hope you enjoy <3 lumine

currency of fate

Magnus frowns at the way his magic is tugging frantically at his levels, trying to beg for more magic yet he refuses. Recognizing exactly which one of his many wards are currently running out and unwilling to assign more of his magic to shadowhunters.

Fifteen minutes later, Magnus catches a fire message out of the air and when he goes to ignore it, Cahya’s growl deters him.

There’s a moment where Magnus meets eyes the same blue as his magic and then he rereads the message carefully.

“You want us to go there, despite insisting we ignore everything to do with the Institute for almost two decades?”

Cahya growls, a stubborn note to the rumble.

“Then off we shall go.” Magnus steps into his closet to change and instead, his clothes are magically swapped. Cahya is unrepentant as they impatiently nudge Magnus and well, they have impeccable taste and are unwilling to wait.

Magnus’ outfit is dark, elegant and deadly. It’s a statement piece of power and wealth and Magnus wears it with ease as he summons a portal and appears just outside the Institute doors. It’s with a sigh that he straightens his back and lets a smirk grow across his mouth.

The doors don’t open until Magnus flares his magic but there’s no one on the other side, in fact it isn’t until he’s already down the corridor that he hears voices at all.

“Sentinel Bane!” There’s a call of recognition as a shadowhunter with dark, shoulder length twists greets him. He’s clearly worried even as he nods to Magnus, politely refraining from offering his hand.

“There’s a problem with the power levels of the wards, correct?” Magnus doesn’t want to waste time, he wants to get to the bottom of the issue so he can hunt down whatever is causing the restlessness in his soul to wake up.

“No, the wards are a problem but the real problem is Alec and his guide abilities and how the wards are isolating him.”

“What?” Magnus needs to be certain he heard that correctly.

“Alec Lightwood, the Head and Commander, he’s a guide. We can’t get anyone close to him and the wards are shutting down in a pattern that’s locking us in our Institute but away from him. Medical can’t reach him and everyone who got past the wards before lockdown started are already unconscious from Alec’s abilities.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

None of it.

Magnus would have known if there was a nephilim guide on his territory, he couldn’t have been hidden under Magnus’ own wards. There is no reason for his own magic to betray him so intimately. There’s a slim chance the guide recently came online, or is visiting from Idris, but Magnus still should have been able to feel or at least notice them.

“Why wasn’t his pride called?”

“He doesn’t have one. I can’t tell you why, it’s classified and I don’t personally know.” The implication is he’d tell Magnus if he did know is not unappreciated. “They said restraining and healing magic are our best hope and as local Archon, you shouldn’t be overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed?”

“He’s powerful and the sentinel who caused this had been decently powerful. The Clave sent him through from Idris but he was sent back catatonic before the wards started to rampage.”

Cahya growls and flicks their round ears before knocking a large paw into Magnus’ calf followed by a hurried snap of their teeth in the air. Impatience suddenly sharp as the frost beading on their silver fur.

“Oh.”

There would be a reason, and not one that could be considered a betrayal. In fact it explains why Magnus magic is so desperately trying to sequester the guide, to hide him away from intruders or other sentinels.

Sentinel’s who aren’t Magnus if what Magnus thinks is right.

Magnus portals through the shuddering and quickly closing wards.

They are locking in on themselves, just as the nephilim at the entry said. The fragmented magic was running out of power and it latched on the angelic core like a leech. Layering shields around the shadowhunter guide, his surroundings and finally the very Institute.

—

Alec tries to forget the rage trembling through his body, tries to clear his mind and ignore the fact that the Clave is pushing their agenda on him. There’s a strange noise that the wards don’t react to and a presence Alec doesn’t recognize is suddenly in the same space as him.

Alec’s mind reacts first and yet instead of a foreign intrusion, he’s met with nothing but familiar comfort and his mind unravels, reaching out to pool against the stronger power. It’s slightly different from what already guards his mind, but it’s too familiar for Alec to be thwarted.

It’s exactly what he needs after the slick, disgusting feeling of someone else's mind trying to influence his own from earlier.

“Oh darling, do you even know what you’re asking for?”

The voice is rich and makes Alec feel like he can do or ask for anything. It also doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know the words for what he wants, when he knows instinctively it’s what he needs.

“I’ll settle you enough to get you out of here. Then I’ll bond you properly.”

—-

Magnus' mind luxuriates in the feel of rich, raw energy nestling against him and his senses instantly calm. Layers upon layers of Alec... Alexander's mind wraps around him in protective defense. The restlessness is purged, instead being replaced by urgency.

Magnus frowns as his guide growls, clearly displeased by the suggestion and the fact that Magnus isn’t yet touching him. However, the last thing Magnus wants to do is bond to his guide in an unfamiliar and dangerous location, no matter that his magic is wreathed about the Institute.

The euphoria of being right, of having his guide here and now and already begging to be his — as if he hasn’t always been. Considering that Magnus can already feel the reciprocal energy of shields on his boy’s mind and doubts Alexander’s ever been anything but his.

Magnus knows that with his own tendency to go feral and the way Alexander’s rage coils like veins of lava bubbling beneath the surface that he should go for the kind of bond that will stabilize them. However Magnus has always been accused of being ‘too much’ and perhaps, he wants to prove people right.

In his own special way, of course.

After all, it’s a gift from Magnus, a choice that he’s making, to ensure someone else is correct for once.

So as much as Magnus wants to fuck Alexander through the Institute’s floor and sear their bond into existence and would be happy to do so. He also doesn’t want to share a single moment of their bonding euphoria with any shadowhunter beyond the one that’s his.

“I’m going to leave a note and then I’ll take you somewhere we can bond.”

Alexander grumbles at the delay, his familiar echoing displeasure and then a sharp-toothed maw and soft muzzle nudge Magnus’ fingers as if in acceptance.

Which is sweet, because no how much Magnus wants to sink his senses into Alexander here and now, he can’t with the knowledge and sense input of all the enemies around him.

AN:

typically sentinel/guides kind of project emotions when bonding etc and Magnus doesn't want to share that sensation. he could share it with his own pride as like a morale boost but he might not ever share that.

Alec is dissociating right now because after another year of ignoring attempts, the Clave sent one of the sentinels who work more directly under their influence to uh... seduce him. It didn't work and Alec's mad and the wards had a panic because they don't want to risk losing Alec for Magnus' sake and Alec's safety.

i'll get more into descriptions later, Cahya is ice natured as a representation of Magnus' future guide and Jayr is fire natured for the same reason

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #currency of fate #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #shadowhunters

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clementineinn · 2 days ago

Text

before you fade

abstract: a string of disappearances in a snowbound town pulls the BAU into a chilling case — one that hits too close when the next target is personal. chosen not for weakness, but for the strength that's been buried, hidden away in the depths of a person. as a team races against time, secrets resurface, and the line between subject and survivor begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (some usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff (a little dark i won't lie, but it resolves i swear fmskdjs)

word count: ~4.4k

note: this is my first time posting my writing on here,,, kinda nervous LOL. but huge thanks to all the writers here on tumblr that have inspired me to finally post some of my writing! i really hope you enjoy! :p

The jet was quiet — the kind of quiet that hangs between two people with too many unsaid things. Y/N sat near the back of the plane, tucked into a corner, a case file sitting open in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the frost-laced window, watching the clouds pass like bruises over a pale sky. One hand toyed with the edge of the folder absently, her thumb flicking the corner rhythmically. Tap, tap, tap. She hadn’t flipped the page in ten minutes, a fact that Spencer quickly noticed.

Across from her, he was trying — failing — to read the same profile paragraph for the third time. His eyes kept tugging back to her like gravity, focused on the shadows under her eyes, the soft, focused line between her brows, the way her fingers rested against the page as she focused intently on the case file in her lap. Her brows were furrowed in concentration – he wanted to press his finger to the wrinkles between her eyebrows and ease her worries away. A pencil caught between her lips. Reid pretended to read the victimology section again, but his eyes kept drifting up — watching the way she tilted her head when something just didn’t add up.

She always read case files too fast. She annotated them in shorthand code that only Garcia had once dared to decipher — and even she had given up after the third sticky note label “internal triangulation, subjective anchor.” But today—nothing. No highlighter, no pen. Just stillness.

Spencer knew how many sugars she took in her coffee (zero, but only because she hated the grainy texture). He knew she double-knotted her boots because once, on an op, her laces had snapped mid-chase. He knew she kept her phone on silent unless her mom was sick or the team was in the field. He knew she hummed soft rock songs when she thought no one was listening. He even knew her heart rate elevated whenever he stood too close.

And he knew her tells.

She hummed when she was bored. Quizzed herself on bone fractures when she was nervous. Flipped her pencil in her hand when she was thinking — and now, she wasn’t doing any of that.

He leaned forward slightly. “You haven’t turned that page in a while,” he said gently.

Y/N blinked, slow and unfocused. “I know.” Then her voice dipped, dry as the cabin air. “The words stopped making sense.”

She didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window.

Spencer hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” she said easily, popping the “p” with forced cheer, then gave him a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But thanks for asking.”

He watched her for another beat. Then: “You’re allowed to not be okay, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, “I know.”

She finally turned to face him — eyes shadowed, tired, but sharp. “You ever feel like a case is talking to you, not just at you?”

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“Yeah.” She looked back at the file, thumb pausing its rhythm. She said it like a joke, but the tension behind it wasn’t funny.

He loved her. In the deepest, quietest part of himself. The part he didn’t dare let breathe.

She didn’t know.

Or maybe she did. Maybe she felt it too — the tension strung between them like an invisible thread, pulled tight and trembling with everything unsaid. But neither of them moved and neither of them reached.

Their case in Vermont had gone cold long before the team arrived. Cold in every sense of the word — the kind that sunk into bone and refused to leave. Barre, Vermont was blanketed in an oppressive hush, the streets buried beneath layers of old snow and older secrets. The town itself felt suspended, frozen in time and temperature. Over six weeks, three women had vanished without a trace. No witnesses. No forensic evidence. No behavioral patterns to chase. Just absence. Until Isabel Warren came back.

She wasn’t whole, however.

Isabel had survived, but only technically. In the sterile fluorescent light of the hospital room, she looked less like a patient and more like something plucked from the ruins. A porcelain figure fractured at the seams, held together by instinct alone. Her voice, when it came, was dry leaves crushed underfoot — barely audible, brittle. Her eyes darted, flickering to corners and shadows as if expecting them to bite.

“He didn’t hurt me like you think,” she whispered, voice trembling like frost-laced glass. “He studied me.”

Morgan and Prentiss had taken the lead in her interview, giving the rest of the team space to process the implications. The story Isabel shared didn’t come all at once — it unraveled slowly, painfully, like unraveling gauze from a fresh wound. There was no rage, no screaming. No sudden violence. Instead: metal restraints that gleamed under surgical lights. Stainless steel trays. The cool pinch of needles. A camera that blinked silently in the corner, recording her every flinch.

And the man behind it was calm – precise. He didn’t shout – he asked questions. He didn’t hurt her in the way they expected. He violated her humanity in silence. Conversation filled the spaces where screams should have been.

What Isabel described wasn’t just captivity. It was dissection — of the mind, of identity, of control. And that made it worse.

The cold hit hard when they stepped out of the SUV — the kind that cracked at skin, settled in bones. Snow clung to the rooftops and drifted in thin sheets across the pavement, whispering over the soles of their boots as the team moved toward the small-town police station.

Y/N lagged behind slightly, scanning the street. Her breath fogged in front of her lips. Everything about Barre felt like it had stopped mid-sentence — frozen storefronts, shuttered windows, barely a sound beyond the wind.

Inside the precinct, the air was warmer, but only marginally. The heat came from space heaters along the hallway and the bitter scent of old coffee.

They’d just finished introducing themselves to the lead detective when someone behind the front desk called her name.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

She turned.

A uniformed officer — young, no older than twenty — held something out toward her. A plain white envelope.

“This came for you,” he said. “Dropped off about ten minutes before you arrived.”

Y/N frowned. “Dropped off by who?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t leave a name. Just walked it in. Said it was for you and left.”

The envelope was unmarked except for her name in neat, block print. No return address. No smudges. Just… clean.

She turned it over.

No seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

No letterhead. No date. No signature.

Just one line, typed:

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

Beneath it — in ink — was a small, hand-drawn smiley face.

Eyes and the curve of a mouth.

Y/N stared at it, the paper crinkling slightly between her fingers.

Her pulse didn’t spike. Her face didn’t change.

But something in her stomach dropped.

She folded it carefully, tucking it back into the envelope — then into the inner pocket of her coat.

Not now.

Not yet.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The precinct’s makeshift war room buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights and muted voices. It was late — the kind of late that slowed movement and turned everything grainy – and the team had been investigating for days. Half-drunk coffee cups cluttered the table. A printer sputtered in the background. The map of Barre, Vermont, glared back at them from the board, dotted with red pins that marked where the victims had been taken. Three so far. All in two weeks. All women. All gone without a sound.

“He didn’t leave anything behind,” Morgan said, dragging a hand down his face. “No fibers. No prints. He’s not improvising. This is controlled.”

JJ’s brows furrowed as she laid out the victim photos. “All three women had similar emotional profiles. Independent, intelligent. Lived alone. Minimal social entanglements. Their trauma histories go back to early adolescence. They’re survivors, but just barely holding themselves together.”

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speakerphone like an apology. “And I pulled medical records like you asked. Isabel Warren? PTSD flagged in her file three years ago. She’d been in and out of counseling. So had the other two.”

“So he targets women who’ve already been broken,” Rossi murmured, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Spencer said quietly, his voice threading through the room. “He targets women who’ve survived it. Who’ve spent years putting themselves back together. He doesn’t want destruction. He wants erosion. He doesn’t abduct them at their weakest — he waits until they’re strong enough to matter.”

That quieted the room.

“Observation,” Hotch said flatly as the details were laid bare. His voice was calm, but there was a tension in the set of his jaw — a rare betrayal of emotion. “He’s not in a hurry. He studies them. Prepares the environment. Then waits until the right moment to break them down.”

Emily crossed her arms, staring hard at the psychological profile. “He doesn’t kill them quickly. He watches them fall apart. Slowly. Deliberately. He chooses subjects that are already primed to fracture.”

No one moved for a moment.

Y/N sat at the edge of the conference table, spine arrow-straight, the collar of her coat still pulled close around her neck. Her eyes were on the photos — lined side by side, the faces of missing women caught mid-smile, mid-blink, alive in one frame, vanished in the next. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. But she wasn’t seeing them anymore.

The team kept talking.

Morgan cursed under his breath, pacing. “The guy’s using psychological stress like a weapon. Cages, lights, silence. It’s about control."

“And emotional isolation,” Spencer added. “He mimics safety — gives them just enough normalcy to confuse them. Then watches what they do with it. He’s cataloging survival behavior.”

Hotch nodded. “He builds trust just enough to remove it. Then he watches what’s left behind.”

A silence settled again, deeper this time.

Spencer glanced at Y/N — and that’s when he saw it.

She still hadn’t moved. Not once. But her hands, under the table, had shifted. Her fingers curled into fists. Small. Tense. Controlled.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The crime scene board loomed like a ghost in the center of the precinct — faces, names, timelines. Victims rendered into data. But no one was speaking anymore. The weight of the profile sat heavy on all of them.

Y/N had left the room a few minutes ago. Silent. Swift. She’d said she was getting some air, but her expression hadn’t changed — just locked down tighter. More precise.

Prentiss watched her go, something flickering in her eyes.

Then she turned toward Spencer, her voice low. “Have you noticed something… off with her today?”

Spencer looked up from a page of victimology notes. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not reacting,” Emily said, stepping a little closer. “Not the way she usually does. She’s not asking questions. Not checking in. It’s like she’s watching the case from the inside out.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “I thought maybe she was just tired,” he said — but even to himself, it sounded like a lie.

Emily gave him a look. Not sharp. Just knowing.

“You know her better than the rest of us,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Spencer’s shoulders lowered slightly. “She’s… quiet. Too quiet. During Isabel Warren’s statement — she didn’t move. Her hands were clenched under the table, but her face didn’t change. Not once.”

Emily nodded. “Exactly. She was holding it in. And she’s too good at it.”

A beat passed. Then she added, voice careful now: “That’s the kind of woman he goes after, isn’t it?”

Spencer froze. Not because it was a surprise — but because it wasn’t.

“She hasn’t said anything,” he offered. Weakly.

“She wouldn’t,” Emily said. “Especially not about something like this. Not after what happened before she came here.”

They both fell quiet.

Everyone in the BAU knew that Y/N had come from Interpol. That she’d spent nearly two years undercover. That something had gone wrong — badly enough to get her pulled from the field and quietly reassigned to domestic ops. But the details? Those were sealed. Even Garcia couldn’t pull them.

Prentiss had always respected that silence. But now, that same silence felt like a liability.

“She doesn’t talk about it,” Spencer murmured. “Whatever happened overseas… I think she’s still carrying it.”

“I think he’d see that,” Emily replied. “He’d read it in her body before she ever said a word.”

Spencer looked toward the hallway where Y/N had disappeared. His chest tightened.

“Do you think he’s already noticed her?”

“I think he noticed her the second she walked into town,” Emily said quietly. “And if we don’t act like that’s a possibility, we risk everything.”

She paused, then stepped back, her voice softening.

“Keep her close. Even if she pushes you away. Especially then.”

Spencer nodded. Once. Tight and sharp.

Then they moved — together — toward the board.

Hotch stood at the front, arms folded, studying the regional map with a crease forming between his brows. Red pins marked abduction sites, discarded belongings, last-known locations. They looked like wounds.

“Hotch?” Emily’s voice was calm, but steady.

He turned. Both she and Spencer were standing too straight. Too still.

“We need to talk,” Spencer said.

Hotch motioned for them to continue.

“We think Y/N might be at risk,” Emily said. “Not just as a profiler. As a potential victim.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Spencer stepped forward, voice quiet but precise. “All of the victims had histories of trauma — long-term, deeply buried. High-functioning women who survived something early, then spent their lives masking it. They weren’t fragile. They were contained.”

“And that’s how he chooses them,” Emily added. “Not because they’re vulnerable — because they’re strong. Because they hide it so well, no one sees the cracks.”

“She fits the pattern,” Spencer said. “Even if she hasn’t said it out loud… she knows.”

“I saw it,” Emily said. “The moment Isabel started talking. Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She recognized it.”

Hotch looked between them. His jaw tightened.

“She hasn’t acknowledged it?”

“No,” Spencer said. “And I don’t think she will. Not until it’s too late.”

Hotch turned back to the board. Something clicked into place.

“If he’s watching her — if she’s already on his list — he won’t wait long.”

Then he faced them, all hesitation gone.

“Get the team.”

The air felt heavier as the team reconvened — everyone on edge from the tension radiating off Hotch’s stance alone. He waited until they’d all settled: JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss, and Spencer. Y/N wasn’t in the room — not yet.

Hotch spoke low and firm, voice carrying weight but no panic.

“We believe the unsub may be targeting someone on this team.”

That froze everyone.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You saying he’s made us?”

“I’m saying,” Hotch continued, “he may have identified someone who fits his selection criteria. And we’ve determined that the agent most at risk… is Y/N.”

A beat of silence.

JJ’s eyes widened. Rossi’s expression hardened. Morgan leaned forward slightly, voice tight. “Are you sure?”

“She fits the behavioral profile to a T,” Spencer said, his voice almost too fast, like he was racing his own thoughts. “Trauma survivor. Emotionally reserved. Isolated but highly adaptive. She’s everything he’s been selecting for.”

Prentiss added, “And she hasn’t said a word about it — because she doesn’t want to be seen as vulnerable. Which only reinforces the pattern.”

Morgan swore under his breath, pushing away from the table. “We should’ve seen this sooner.”

“She did,” Hotch said quietly. “She just hasn’t said it.”

That landed like a weight.

Everyone knew Y/N had been through something in her Interpol years. Something she never talked about. Something that changed the course of her career and quietly followed her into every room.

Hotch’s eyes swept the room, sharp now. Focused.

“I want eyes on her every hour,” he said. “No one goes anywhere alone. Especially not Y/N. She doesn’t need to be scared — she needs to be covered. Discreetly. We don’t lose one of our own.”

Everyone nodded, a silent current of agreement moving through the room.

Spencer’s jaw clenched slightly. “If he’s already watching her... he won’t wait long to escalate.”

“Then we won’t give him the chance,” Hotch said. His voice was calm — but even Spencer could see the storm behind his eyes.

And just then — footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The door opened.

Y/N stepped into the room, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place. Her stride was even, composed — but to those who’d just been told to look closer, that composure now felt different.

Like armor.

Spencer’s eyes found her immediately. So did Emily’s. JJ’s smile faltered as she looked away and busied herself with her notes. Morgan leaned back, arms crossed too tightly. Everyone shifted — subtly, instinctively — forming an invisible perimeter around her.

She didn’t seem to notice.

But Spencer did.

As Hotch launched back into the debrief, picking up where he’d left off, Y/N settled at the edge of the table. Not beside anyone. Just slightly apart. Her coat was still on. Her coffee sat untouched. Her face didn’t move, but her shoulders gave away the truth — pulled up just a little too tight.

And Spencer knew.

Spencer watched her out of the corner of his eye as Hotch continued listing behavioral patterns and forensic gaps. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, but they were no longer following. Her breathing was even, but too shallow. Every muscle in her shoulders was drawn tight, and her jaw flexed once, twice, like she was swallowing words she didn’t trust herself to speak aloud.

He could see it now — the slow unraveling. The tiny threads fraying at the edge of her self-control. It wasn’t visible to anyone who didn’t know her. But he did.

She hadn’t slept. He could tell. There were faint shadows under her eyes, soft as smudged graphite. Her hair was neatly pulled back, but a few strands had slipped loose around her ears, stuck to her skin from where she’d rubbed at her temples earlier. And the coffee in her travel mug sat untouched.

The unsub sought emotional containment — not chaos. He didn’t want hysteria. He wanted the slow, clinical breakdown of a subject too proud or too traumatized to scream.

Y/N fit the profile because she was composed enough to attract him — and haunted enough to keep him interested.

The room had fallen into a contemplative hush.

Garcia’s voice crackled through the speaker, listing trauma indicators pulled from each victim’s medical and counseling history.

JJ added, “They all presented as stable — no recent crises, no major relapses. But every one of them had years of quiet therapy behind them. There’s a pattern of early trauma, but also recovery.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “So what’s he hunting for? Strength? Weakness?”

Y/N looked up from her notes, finally speaking — voice calm, clear, steady.

“I don’t think it’s about strength or weakness,” she said. “I think it’s about endurance. The kind you don’t see unless you’re looking for it.”

The room quieted further.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, not rushed, just thoughtful.

“He’s choosing women who’ve rebuilt themselves. Not because they’re fragile — but because they’ve already been through something and survived it. He’s not looking for people who are breaking. He’s looking for people who know how to hold themselves together.”

Spencer glanced at her. There was something in his eyes — recognition, maybe. Respect.

Y/N continued, her voice soft but certain.

“He doesn’t want to destroy them. He wants to watch them try not to fall apart. To study the exact moment that strength starts to give.”

She didn’t say it with drama. She said it like she was laying something carefully on the table — something that mattered.

Hotch gave a small nod. “We’ll adjust the profile.”

And just like that, Y/N looked back down at her notepad and quietly underlined a single word: Endurance.

When the briefing ended, the team slowly dispersed to cross-reference victimology, revisit the scene logs, and check the geo-mapping data. No one said it out loud, but everyone lingered in her orbit. Just enough to keep her in their periphery. To follow Hotch’s directive without alarming her.

But Y/N lingered longer. Alone at the table, the light above her humming faintly.

Spencer didn’t leave. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She blinked. The motion was delayed, like a system rebooting. “I’m fine.”

It was automatic. Too fast.

“Y/N,” he said again, quieter now, stepping closer. “You don’t have to be fine.”

Her silence stretched. The room felt too big, too empty. Then she looked at him — really looked at him — and for a brief second, the glass cracked. The composure faltered. He saw it in her eyes. Not fear. Not yet. But recognition. Like she’d seen herself on that profile board, and couldn’t unsee it.

“He watches them fall apart,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, not really for him — more like a quiet realization rising from some place she’d kept sealed. “Like he’s waiting for something to break open.”

Spencer didn’t move. He just stood there beside her, close but not touching, like getting too near might crack what was left of her armor.

“He’s already watching,” she added, softer still.

Then, a pause. A slight shift.

She reached slowly into her coat pocket — careful, almost cautious — and pulled out a plain white envelope.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she murmured. “I told myself it was just local paranoia. A scare tactic. But... this was waiting at the precinct when we arrived.”

Spencer took the envelope gently, his brow furrowed. He opened it, unfolded the sheet inside.

One line of typed text.

“You can hide what broke you, but I can still see the cracks.”

And beneath it — a smiley face. Small eyes and the curve of a mouth. Inked by hand.

Spencer’s blood went cold.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I wasn’t sure it meant anything. And part of me didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of reacting.” She paused. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I read it. It’s not random. It’s not just a threat. It’s… intimate.”

His jaw tightened. “He knows.”

“I think he’s known,” she said. “Since the moment we stepped foot in Barre.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then Spencer slowly folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope — like returning it to its cage.

“I’ll tell Hotch,” he said, his voice low, careful.

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Not yet. Let me... let me handle it a little longer. Just until we’re sure.”

Spencer didn’t like it. Every nerve in his body told him not to let her walk that line alone.

But he nodded. “Only if you promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you see anything else — if you feel anything off, anything strange — you come to me. Not later. Right then.”

She met his eyes. For the first time all day, she looked like she might break.

But she didn’t.

“I promise,” she said.

And then JJ’s voice called out from across the room. Penelope had found something. Everyone was gathering again.

Y/N gave Spencer a practiced, quiet smile — the kind you use to keep people from looking too closely — and beckoned him toward the others.

He followed.

But his eyes stayed on her a second too long.

The case briefing had dissolved into murmured strategy and side conversations, whiteboards covered in red ink and shadowed photos. The team split off — Prentiss reviewing victim timelines with JJ, Morgan mapping out geographic overlays, Hotch and Rossi deep in behavioral cross-referencing.

Spencer hovered near the far wall, watching Y/N from across the room.

She sat perfectly still. Back straight. Hands folded. The epitome of focus. But he could see it — the hollow weight in her gaze, the way her shoulders sat too high, like her body hadn’t unclenched in hours.

He wanted to go to her. Say something. Tell her that she wasn’t alone — that even if she didn’t speak it aloud, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself, they knew. But something in her expression told him she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

So he watched.

And what he missed — just barely — was the moment she excused herself to the bathroom and slipped out the door. If he hadn’t been looking at a case file, he would’ve seen the look on her face – would’ve known it was something deeper than just having to take a break. He would’ve seen the way she refused to make eye contact with anyone from worry of them seeing through her lies.

Y/N moved quickly but calmly, coat already over her shoulders, bag slung across her arm. The snow was still falling hard — it pelted the front windows in a sideways blur. A local officer sat behind the lobby desk, sipping weak coffee and half-reading a report.

She stepped close and kept her voice low.

“I need an escort back to the hotel,” she said. “Discreetly, please.”

The officer looked up, confused for only a moment. Then nodded. “Absolutely. You alright, Agent?”

“I’m fine,” she said with a tired smile. “Just need some air. It’s been a long night.”

He stood, grabbed his keys, and followed her out.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

Back in the conference room, the team reconvened quickly upon Penelope’s sudden gasp, the undercurrent of tension drawing them together like gravity.

JJ stood near the monitor, phone pressed to her ear as Garcia’s voice poured through the speaker — clear, fast, and edged with adrenaline.

“Okay, family — grab your metaphorical Kevlar, because I’ve got a name. And it’s not just a name. It’s a history, an address, and a very suspicious paper trail.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice sharp. “Go ahead, Garcia.”

“Meet Benjamin Cyrus Milburn,” Garcia said. “Age thirty-nine. Former veterinary technician — licensed in Massachusetts and Vermont. Worked at several rural clinics, most recently in Waterbury. No criminal record, no major red flags, but there’s something weird here. He dropped off the grid about two years ago — no income, no property under his name, no bills. Like he went full ghost mode.”

Prentiss frowned. “That lines up with the timeline for the first disappearance.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia continued. “The last known address tied to him is a decommissioned vet clinic on the edge of Barre. Shut down three years ago for health code violations. He worked there part-time before it closed.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s within five miles of Isabel Warren’s last known location.”

Spencer’s head snapped up. “Does he have access to controlled substances?”

“Legally, not anymore,” Garcia said, “but based on the inventory records from the shutdown clinic, a whole list of sedatives and anesthetics went unaccounted for — ketamine, isoflurane, and acepromazine. It could easily knock someone out fast and keep them just conscious enough to know what’s happening.”

A brief silence fell.

Then Hotch asked, “Do we have a photo?”

“Sending it now,” Garcia confirmed. A moment later, her familiar digital sparkle sound effect echoed from the monitor, and Milburn’s DMV photo appeared on screen.

He looked unremarkable. Average build. Short brown hair. Clean-shaven. Wearing a collared shirt like he was applying for a job he didn’t want. But his eyes were wrong. Blank, but focused — like he was already watching something no one else could see.

Rossi exhaled through his nose. “That’s the face of someone who disappears in a crowd.”

Hotch turned to JJ. “Have local PD canvass the area around the old clinic. No contact. Not yet. I want eyes on it first.”

“On it,” she said, already dialing.

Prentiss shifted, voice lower now. “If he’s using the clinic as his hunting ground... and Y/N fits the profile...”

Spencer finished it. “Then he’s already chosen her.”

Everyone went still.

Hotch turned slowly to Spencer, eyes narrowing with precision. “Where is she right now?”

Spencer swallowed. “She was just here.”

Rossi spoke up. “She said she was going to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t leave with anyone.”

Morgan stood, tense. “I’ll find her.”

But before he could take a step, the lights flickered — just briefly. Long enough to make everyone freeze.

Then JJ’s phone buzzed sharply.

She checked the message. Her face went pale.

“That was the hotel desk clerk,” she said. “One of their officers was supposed to escort her back to the hotel. He never checked in. And Y/N’s not answering her room line.”

The air drained from the room.

Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Where’s her phone?” he asked.

Garcia’s voice chimed in a half-second later over speaker. “Last ping was twenty minutes ago near the main road out of Barre—before it went dark.”

Silence. Immediate. Heavy.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He stepped back like he’d been hit.

“She left,” he whispered. “She left without telling us. Alone.”

“No,” Prentiss said quickly, trying to stitch it together. “She wouldn’t—”

“She did,” Hotch cut in, sharp now. “And she’s not responding. That means one of two things: either she’s gone dark on purpose or someone took her.”

Morgan grabbed his coat. “I’ll take the road to the hotel.”

“I’m coming,” Spencer said immediately.

Hotch nodded. “Go. Now.”

As they rushed out, the room behind them fell to silence.

But no one said what they were all thinking: they’d profiled the next victim and let her walk straight into his hands.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

At first, it felt like nothing.

The cruiser glided over snow-slicked backroads, wipers beating steadily against the windshield. The officer beside her — nameplate reading J. D. Greeley — was quiet, focused on the road. Barre’s small-town streetlights flickered past in the rearview mirror, fading as they veered farther from downtown.

Y/N sat in silence, arms folded, her breath fogging faintly in the chill that leaked through the windows.

“You mind taking the long way?” she asked, her voice casual. “I just need to breathe for a few minutes before going back.”

The officer nodded once. “Sure. Not a problem.”

He turned down a road that dipped behind a line of tree cover, away from the main street.

That was her first warning.

She knew the town’s layout by now — knew this wasn’t the most direct route to the hotel. But maybe he was avoiding a traffic blockage. Or snow.

Still.

Her fingers tightened slightly on her coat sleeve. “You from around here?” she asked lightly, trying to place his cadence, his rhythm.

But the man didn’t answer.

The second warning.

Her stomach tightened. “Officer Greeley?” she tried again, voice sharper now.

No response. No acknowledgment. Her heart began to pound.

She reached for her phone, kept in her coat pocket. Cold leather met her fingertips — no phone. She checked the other pocket.

Gone.

Her pulse quickened. She glanced at the dashboard. No GPS. No radio on.

And then — the cruiser slowed.

Not at the hotel.

Not anywhere near it.

They were pulling into a snow-covered drive that disappeared into trees — overgrown, unlit, forgotten.

A thin, wavering breath escaped her lips.

She reached for the door handle. Locked.

The driver turned to her.

And for the first time, she really saw him.

Wrong eyes. Wrong age. Wrong badge.

Not Officer Greeley.

Not a cop.

Just the unsub wearing his uniform like a second skin.

“You’re everything I expected,” he said softly.

And before she could scream, move, or fight —

The needle was already at her neck.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The cruiser’s wheels screeched to a stop at the edge of the snow-packed drive. Blue and red lights flashed across the skeletal trees, illuminating the icy breath that left Spencer’s lungs as he stared through the windshield.

“There,” Morgan said, already out of the vehicle.

The escort car was parked at a crooked angle just off the road — doors flung open. Snow had started to fill the driver’s seat. The headlights were still on.

Spencer sprinted forward.

“Y/N!” he shouted.

Nothing but the howl of wind.

Morgan reached the car first, flashlight sweeping the inside. The cabin was empty. Spencer circled to the passenger side — door wide open, scarf still clinging to the seatbelt.

Then he saw the needle cap in the snow.

“Oh God,” he whispered, dropping to one knee. He picked it up with gloved hands — a faint glisten of residue clinging to the tip.

“Chloroform or a paralytic,” Morgan said, voice grim. “He took her clean. Quiet. Knew how much time he had.”

Spencer rose, eyes scanning the tire tracks. “He left on foot or transferred her to another vehicle. There's no exit on this road except back the way we came. It was a trap.”

Morgan cursed low under his breath. “She asked for a private escort. He knew. He either intercepted the real cop, or he was waiting for her to ask.”

Spencer’s throat felt like it was closing. The image of her smiling softly, tugging on her gloves, saying I’ll be fine—it punched through his chest like a fist.

“She’s gone,” he said, barely audible.

Morgan’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Not for long. I’m calling Hotch.”

They stood in the snow, breath hard and fast, the empty cruiser behind them glowing like a signal flare in the dark.

Somewhere in the forest, Y/N was already fading.

And the clock had started.