#her sitting there going 'but why? why does it have to be that way?' because the adults in her life have only ever supported her questions

[luvergirl-535]

meet cute, but, like, wayyy worse

part - 2

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 8.3k

c/w - smut (iktr), paige is a loser in the streets and a freak in the sheets (lol), horrifically unedited to the point where idek if it’s legible so bear w me 🥀

a/n - writing this made me realize i’ve literally forgotten how to write smut 😔 bc why’d i keep trying to make it funny. i’m actually a little concerned that ive been doing too much unserious stuff i won’t be able to go back to normal writing anymore lmao maybe i’m the problem…

paige has had an absolute shitshow of a night. actually, scratch that—the entire year has been a shitshow. maybe even the past two years. she doesn’t like to dwell on it.

she hates the way her friends look at her these days, with cautious smiles and sympathetic eyes, like all they ever do anymore is feel bad for her. she hates the way they speak to her when she starts drinking, like she’s an unpredictable, wild thing. like they’re afraid of what she’s doing to herself.

honestly, she’s fine. they just don’t get it. the fame, the work, it’s a lot. she’s in shape. her basketball has never been better. she’s bringing girls home every night.

it’s not like she’s addicted to coke or anything. since when is it a crime to need a few beers every now and then?

(it’s every night. and some mornings, too.)

(she finds herself forgetting—birthdays, anniversaries, names—more than ever.)

(she used to fucking hate alcohol.)

(she is a little afraid of herself, too.)

anyway.

the cruise has been fun. a team-bonding experience, meant to build their chemistry off the court, to take their minds off the upcoming season for a little while. a week of relaxation. a week to destress. for paige, it’s been hard. she cannot justify sneaking off to day drink to her teammates, and they’ve been steering clear of alcohol like their lives depend on it. she only gets to drink at night, after the rest of the girls have gotten too drunk to care about what she does. the rest of the time, she’s forced to be painfully sober.

it all goes from ‘difficult’ to ‘burning gates of hell’ when she throws up on the love of her life—who does not know she’s the love of paige’s life—azzi fudd. an angel on earth, the most beautiful girl paige has ever seen. like, better than zendaya. for real.

after that, she wants nothing more than to jump off ship and be lost at sea forever. when kk offers to take azzi back to paige’s room, she swears she could kill her.

and then, almost consecutively: her stupid little crush is exposed, she’s forced to cut a dress off azzi’s body, and then—this.

her first thought, after the phone call, is mental image of her fist pumping, because, duh. and then comes the, oh my god, i get to fuck azzi fudd, followed by a brief moment of panic, followed then by the realization that of course she is not going to fuck azzi tonight. or ever.

she is both relieved and disappointed by this knowledge.

“i’m…” azzi says, staring at her phone as if she could magically make chad call her back again. paige expects something, like maybe an explanation on why the fuck she’s telling her ex-boyfriend they are going to fuck tonight, but instead, azzi just tosses the phone onto the bed as if she’s been burned and says, “i’m going to change.”

paige has half a mind to leap in front of the door and barricade azzi in the room with her until she gets an explanation. she doesn’t, because she can barely act like a normal person around azzi, let alone confront her like that.

azzi disappears into the restroom. paige sits. and waits—not so patiently.

she pulls at a fray in the comforter until it comes loose. taps her foot against the bedframe. thinks about how azzi’s voice changed on the call—quieter, but not exactly embarrassed. maybe satisfied? there was something in it that didn’t sound like regret. that’s the part that’s screwing with her the most.

she gets up from the bed to pace, the back-and-forth a feeble attempt at wrapping her mind around what just happened. when that doesn’t work, she drops to the floor and does some sit-ups, because when she was a kid her dad told her if she let the anxiety build in her body she’d explode and that the only way to get rid of it was to do sit-ups. he’s a bitch for that, but she’s also spent a lifetime with nice abs, so she can’t really be too mad. but not even the magical sit-ups really work, so she does the last thing she can think of:

she pounds on the bathroom door.

“jesus!” azzi’s voice is high-pitched, nervous. “you tryna knock the door down?”

“uh, no,” paige says, a little unsure of what she’s going to say now that she’s here. “you’ve just been in there for awhile so…”

“don’t worry about it.”

oh, she’s worried. though not particularly about azzi. “can you just come out?”

“why?”

at this point, azzi is just playing in her face. because what does she mean, ‘why?’. is it not a normal thing to come out of the bathroom once you’re done?

the most alarming thing about all this is that paige has yet to question her undying crush, even as azzi is turning out to be a possible psycho. actually, even worse—it might be turning paige on?

now she is doubly worried. perhaps she should focus on one thing at a time.

paige’s silence must have stretched long enough to spark concern, because azzi speaks again, a hesitant, “paige?”

paige sighs, a hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose, a pose she might have adopted from her coach. “you know you owe me an explanation, azzi.”

another sigh, as equally annoyed as paige’s, from the other side of the door. and then, its opening, and azzi’s standing there in paige’s clothes, looking altogether too soft and sweet for the diabolical things she did ten minutes prior. “i know, i just…i don’t really have one.”

paige’s eyes flick down azzi’s body without permission. the loose uconn t-shirt hangs too long on her—paige knows that shirt, it’s the one she used to let her ex borrow. something about azzi in it makes her stomach twist. not in a bad way. in the worst possible way.

paige steps back, allowing azzi back into the bedroom. “you mean you don’t have an explanation for telling your boyfriend we’d…” paige isn’t usually shy about sex, she’s a grown adult, for god’s sake, but this is azzi fudd and she can’t really find her words in normal conversation, and certainly not this one, “you know…” she trails off awkwardly.

azzi bites her lip, half-sheepish, half-trying to charm her way out of it. and, yeah, maybe it’s working a little.

paige realizes with a little bit of a start that she’s staring at azzi’s lips. she glances up and away quickly, turning around to give herself something to do before motioning to the phone on the bed. “you should…call him back.”

“hell no,” azzi sneers.

“well it’s either that or we fuck,” paige retorts before she can think. she’s glad she’s faced away so azzi can’t see the way blood flushes her cheeks.

azzi’s silent for a moment. almost long enough that paige turns around, but then she speaks. “maybe there’s another option,” she says.

paige senses trouble.

❀❀❀

kk’s jaw is on the floor.

she looks between a guilty-looking azzi and a tomato-red paige before letting out a shocked laugh. “now why would you tell him that?”

kk asking all the most important questions.

“it was the first thing that came to mind!” azzi says, voice high and defensive. paige can’t help but think it’s adorable.

“why, though?” kk asks, a small, suspect grin spreading over her face.

azzi gives her a look, something that clearly says cut it out, and paige doesn’t doubt that kk spilled all the beans about her crush to azzi earlier.

“uh-huh,” kk responds, making a small ‘mcht’ sound.

azzi gives that warning look again. “shut up, kk.”

“that isn’t even the main thing,” paige points out, jumping between their tense interaction. “what we came to tell you is azzi had an idea.” an outlandish, admittedly odd one, but an idea nonetheless.

“an idea,” kk repeats.

azzi nods. she’s hesitant, clearly, but paige has already assured her kk will be on board. she’ll laugh in their faces first, sure, but then she will help them go through with azzi’s little…plan.

“okay,” she says doubtfully. “tell me this lil’ idea.”

azzi glances nervously at paige. “well, i can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right,” she explains.

kk nods. “obviously.”

“and i can’t go back to my room tonight.”

“okay…”

“so i’m going to stay here,” she continues, taking a deep breath as in gathering courage for the teasing about to come. “and i’m going to take…suggestive pictures with paige, in paige’s bed. and we’re just hoping you can help.”

before azzi’s finished, kk’s eyebrows have already raised to her hairline. she lets out a half-shocked, half-ifuckingknewit scoff. it’s enough to have paige jumping in to try and make it look better. “her boyfriend’s really an ass, kk, like, she needs to get him back.”

azzi nods. “paige heard him on the phone. she knows.”

“i know,” paige agrees.

kk looks between the two of them, both so earnest and oh-so oblivious, and just laughs. “i believe you. oh, i believe you.”

“so are you going to help us?” azzi asks.

“help with what, exactly? do i need to ref? do i need to make sure it stays pg in there?”

paige immediately blushes, squeaking an awkward “what? no!” before azzi can even react. when she does, it’s a much more nonchalant, normal person answer: “don’t be weird, kk. answer the question.”

kk gives paige a pointed look. “for the record, this is stupud. y’all are stupid. and i don’t condone such behavior.”

“oh, shut up, kk,” paige says.

“but i will help,” kk finishes, getting up from her kitchen stool. “i’ll make sure y’all look as, what’d you say? suggestive, as possible,” she grins.

azzi, bravely, doesn’t so much as redden. “cool. thanks.”

“what friends are for,” kk replies easily. she walks toward them, slinging an arm around both their shoulders and pulling their heads close. “and after tonight, we are definitely friends,” she tells azzi.

“except on the court,” azzi points out.

“unless you come to uconn.”

“you tryna recruit me? to a team that always loses against us?” azzi laughs, pushing away. “you’re funny.”

“trust, we wouldn’t lose with you on our team,” kk says.

paige rolls her eyes. “can we just get this over with?”

“aight, cranky pants. let’s get it.” kk motions toward the bedroom. “go start taking y’all’s clothes off. i’ll get the camera ready.”

“oh, brother,” azzi sighs, at the same time paige mutters, “worst fuckin’ idea,” under her breath.

❀❀❀

azzi looks—fucked out, to be perfectly honest. more specifically, like a scene straight from one of paige’s many azzi-centered wet dreams. not that she has azzi-centered wet dreams or anything. but if she did, like hypothetically, azzi would look exactly like this.

lips plumped with oil. braids pulled back messily. mascara re-applied and then carefully smeared. she studies herself in the mirror as she adds the final touch: a dark bruise above her collarbone, created with deft fingers and dark blush courtesy of kk. paige sits on the toilet seat, watching azzi work. she’s been staring for the past thirty minutes. azzi has yet to notice. kk, on the other hand, has spent the entire time sending her not-so-subtle signals, such as disguising a ‘talktoher’ with a cough, and whispering ‘go offer to do that for her,’ when azzi started applying the hickeys.

paige has not taken this advice. she’s still a little tipsy and azzi looks too enticing and she’s awkward enough that she’d much rather observe than try to interact at the moment.

before azzi finishes applying the final fake hickey, kk is fiddling with angles, mumbling about “golden hour lighting” even though they’re inside and it’s past midnight. paige’s gaze is caught in the mirror—not on herself, but the reflection of azzi in front of her. she imagines reaching over. just touching azzi’s wrist. she doesn’t. she clenches her hands together in her lap instead.

“you know,” azzi says idly, still dabbing at her collarbone, “you’re not nervous enough.”

paige blinks. “about what?”

“pretending to fuck me. in pictures. that we’re going to send to a real person.” azzi’s voice is light, teasing, but there’s something layered beneath it.

“what, you want me to panic?”

“a little. would make me feel better.”

paige laughs—quiet and dry. “i’m panicking plenty. just…internally.”

“uh-huh.” azzi licks her thumb before dabbing at her neck, turning her chin this way and that in the mirror. “do i look good?”

“you look bad,” kk says, nodding appreciatively. “as hell.”

azzi smiles a little shyly. “thanks.”

she knows it’s stupid, but a pang of jealously hits paige. she wishes she had kk’s natural instinct to flirt with girls. and it’s true paige has this instinct sometimes, but with a girl she really likes? with azzi fucking fudd? it’s best for everyone if she just keeps quiet and lets kk charm her instead. after this whole thing, she’ll go back to her indulgent bedtime fantasies of she and azzi in domestic situations and wet dreams.

“okay,” azzi says, pulling her phone out of her pocket and snapping a quick selfie in the mirror before turning to the two of them. “we ready?”

“i been practicing my photography skills,” kk says (she got a new camera app last week and has been taking candid, objectively bad photos of the team ever since). “never been readier.”

“don’t think that’s a word,” azzi points out, then looks at paige. “paige?”

“yup,” paige says, slapping her thighs before standing up in an attempt to get rid of the chalant written all over her face right now. “super ready.”

“now why you sound all excited to cozy up in bed with fudd?” kk quips. paige gets warm all over, glancing furtively at azzi to see her reaction—seriously, kk’s going to make azzi think paige is weird or something—but she just gives a little laugh before leading the way into the bedroom. “okay, let’s do this then.”

paige is maybe beginning to reconsider the this in question—their great plan. nothing’s even been done yet, for god’s sakes, with phase one—making azzi look as fucked out as possible—barely being finished. yet still paige is already uncomfortably damp between her legs: hence, the reconsidering. but, lord save her, azzi is already crawling into paige’s bed much too seductively, and it would look downright suspicious of her to pussy out now. no, she’s going to go through with this faux-sex photoshoot like a man, goddamit.

“get in there, twin,” kk says, pulling her phone out from her back pocket.

paige gingerly sits on the edge of the bed while azzi lays back, propped up on her elbows as they watch kk navigate around the device. “you know,” azzi says, “i wasn’t thinking you’d actually take the pictures for us. i thought you’d just, like, tell us what looks good.”

paige is a little surprised to hear this, and at the offended expression on kk’s face, she panics—her friend has a liking for dramatic storm-outs, and paige cannot have her leaving right now. “but this works too,” she jumps in, shooting azzi a warning look. “right?”

azzi places her palms upright, surrendering. “i mean, yeah, i guess. i was just sayin’.”

“well i ain’t here to be a third opinion or nothing,” kk says haughtily.

“you’re not,” paige says quickly. “you’re our creative director.”

“yeah,” azzi adds, already settling deeper into the pillows like this is just another thursday night. “we trust your vision.”

kk narrows her eyes at them like she’s sniffing out sarcasm, but apparently decides she accepts it. “creative director,” she repeats, pleased. “i like that. okay. azzi, scoot a little more to the left. paige, behind her. lean in like you just got done doing something y’all shouldn’t have been doing.”

“we haven’t even started yet,” paige mutters.

“don’t kill the vibe,” kk says. she gestures wildly. “go on. get close. more. closer.”

paige shifts behind azzi on the bed, legs folding automatically. azzi leans back slightly to rest against her, and the contact sends a shock through her skin like she’s short-circuiting. this is fine. totally fine. normal behavior for two near-strangers in a definitely-not-suggestive photoshoot.

“hand on her waist,” kk calls, adjusting her phone. “and azzi, tilt your head back, like you’re worn out.”

paige’s hand finds azzi’s hip, fingers splaying across the soft cotton of her borrowed t-shirt. azzi does as told, and for a second paige’s vision blurs. the curve of her neck, the flushed heat of her skin from alcohol or earlier makeup efforts—it’s all a little too real.

“jesus,” kk mutters, half to herself. “this looks…kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

paige groans. “can we not—comment on that?”

“okay, okay,” kk says, still snapping. “let’s switch it up. azzi, crawl into her lap. yeah, like that. lean back a little, like you’re laughing at something she said. paige, smile. not like you’re being tortured.”

“so, you are taking the pictures for us, then?”

“i’m close enough he won’t be able to tell it was taken by someone else,” kk huffs. “now, go. c’mon.”

“i’m not a model,” paige mutters, but she does her best to grin.

azzi wiggles into place, her thigh slotting between paige’s legs. “sorry,” she whispers.

“don’t apologize,” paige says automatically, which is a mistake, because then azzi looks at her, and they’re way too close for that.

“aaaand pause,” kk says, not looking up from the phone. “i think i need y’all to look a little messier. paige, mess up your hair. azzi, can you tug the shirt off your shoulder a little? you look too put together.”

paige drags a hand through her hair, trying not to stare as azzi obliges, the shirt slipping just enough to expose the faux-hickey she’d applied earlier. kk catches it in the next snap and lets out a sharp whistle.

“he’s gonna cry when he sees these,” she says gleefully.

azzi’s lips twitch. “that’s the goal.”

more posing. more directions. at some point paige gets bolder, draping an arm around azzi’s stomach. azzi leans back into her without hesitation, as if it’s natural, like they do this every day.

kk crouches to get a shot from below and then pauses, frowning at her screen. “hold up,” she says. “jana’s calling. gimme a sec.”

she stands and walks out, phone already at her ear, voice lowering as she steps into the other room.

the silence she leaves behind is heavy.

paige shifts slightly. azzi doesn’t move off her lap.

“so…” paige starts, voice low. “this is probably the weirdest way i’ve ever spent a night.”

azzi chuckles softly. “same. but kind of… weirdly fun?”

“yeah,” paige admits. “yeah, it kinda is.”

they lapse into another pause. paige thinks she should move, but azzi hasn’t, and she’s scared that if she does, she’ll mess up whatever weird little truce they’re holding onto.

“hey,” azzi says suddenly, voice softer now. “can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“do you hang out with your team very often?” she asks. “because, i mean, i see y’all on tv and at social events and stuff but—i dunno. you’re never in any of their tiktoks or anything.” azzi winces. “not that i’ve been paying attention.”

paige stiffens slightly. “uh. i dunno. just—trying to focus. this year’s important.”

“yeah,” azzi says quietly. “it is.”

azzi looks down, to gather her thoughts, maybe, and seems to realize that she’s still on top of paige because her breath hitches and then she moves, rolling off so she’s sitting beside her. “sorry,” she murmurs.

“you’re good.”

the quiet stretches again, heavier this time.

“truth?” paige says suddenly.

azzi turns toward her a little more, her thigh still between paige’s, their knees brushing. “truth.”

“i’ve been drinking too much,” paige blurts. “i’m not like an alcoholic or anything,” she’s quick to defend, because alcoholism is for deadbeat dads and stuff, right? not for celebrity college athletes. “it just, lately, it got kind of bad, and people started noticing, and it’s hard to be around them now. they all look at me like they think i’m gonna…i dunno. fall apart or something.”

azzi’s eyes soften. “i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay. i mean—it’s not,” paige shrugs. “but it’s…i had this breakup a few months ago. really bad. i thought it was going to be forever, you know? and when it wasn’t, i guess, and it was kinda my fault, and i—the team took me to parties, to get my mind off it. i learned pretty quick that drinking helped me forget. and now, i mean, i’m mostly over it, i guess, but it helps with other things, too. like when i’m stressed about an exam, or worried for a game, or something. it helps.”

she stares off into space, then catches herself, glancing over at azzi, who’s staring her with an imperceptible look on her face. “damn, my bad. didn’t mean to overshare with a stranger like that.”

“you’re not a stranger,” azzi says, her voice quiet. “not to me.”

paige blinks. “i didn’t think you knew anything about me.”

“i do,” azzi says. “we’re not close, but…i’ve kept up with you, since usa. i’m a people-watcher. very perceptive.” she elbows paige, raising a smug, teasing eyebrow. “and i think i’ve got you all figured out.”

paige exhales, glad for the mood lightener. “oh yeah? and who am i?”

“you’re…a twenty-two year old college student,” azzi starts.

paige laughs. “wow, super perceptive. how’d you figure that one out?”

“shut up, smart-ass, i’m not finished,” azzi snips, and paige is almost surprised at the sass, at the teasing that she herself loves so much. “lemme continue. i think you’re someone who likes to think you’ve got your life together. you walk around like you’re so sure of everything, like your whole future is planned out, and you know it’s all gonna end well for you. so you act like you don’t worry, like you don’t…care.”

paige raises an eyebrow. “but…?”

“but,” azzi says, “you’re a twenty-two year old college student. of course you don’t have your life figured out. you get stressed out trying to decide what you’re gonna eat for your next meal. your shoulders are constantly tense. you’re always wringing your hands before games, did you know that? during time-outs, too.”

paige looks over, startled, to find azzi looking just as surprised. “you watch me play?”

azzi fumbles for something. “i’m a basketball player. you didn’t expect me to watch basketball?”

“i didn’t expect you to watch me,” paige says.

azzi opens her mouth. closes it. looks away, at the wall ahead. “i guess i didn’t realize i was doing it.”

paige doesn’t know what to say to that. she feels seen and it’s terrifying.

“truth?” azzi says after a moment.

“truth.”

“chad’s been cheating on me,” she says. “i haven’t caught him, but i know. it’s been obvious for weeks.”

paige looks at her, waiting.

“and he’s mean,” azzi continues. “not, like…evil. just sharp. cold. the kind of mean that makes you feel stupid for crying or asking to be treated better. tonight was just—my last straw, i think. i didn’t want to go back to that room and feel like shit again. so i came here.”

“you didn’t have to come with us,” paige says. “i would’ve just, like, venmoed you for the shoes.”

azzi meets her eyes. “i think…i think i wanted to come here.”

paige’s breath catches.

before she can figure out what that means—what to say—kk’s voice cuts in from the hall. “yo! i gotta bounce for a sec, emergency meeting. jana’s constipated for real, imma bring over some laxatives. i’ll be back in like twenty.”

they hear the cabin door open and then click shut.

“you think we should keep going?” azzi asks after a beat.

paige nods, voice suddenly thick. “yeah. okay.”

wordlessly, they rearrange, moving closer. azzi sits with her knees up now, leaning into paige’s shoulder, one hand splayed across her thigh.

they take a few selfies this time. azzi guides her hand behind the camera, adjusting the angle to catch just enough skin, just enough closeness. their shoulders press. their cheeks touch. at some point, paige’s hand finds azzi’s knee, and azzi doesn’t move it.

by the time kk returns, azzi is in paige’s lap again, one hand hooked around the back of her neck.

kk pauses in the doorway. “well damn.”

“we figured we’d keep going,” paige says, eyes wide.

“uh-huh,” kk says knowingly. “y’all definitely got the shots now.”

she walks around, checking a few pictures. “these are good. like…y’all could win a grammy for best fake situationship or something.”

paige laughs, a little too loudly. “we just wanted to sell it.”

“mission accomplished.” kk pockets her phone. “i’ll edit mine and get them to you, azzi.”

“thanks,” azzi says. “seriously. for everything.”

kk just grins. “get some sleep, y’all. and don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

when she’s gone, paige and azzi look at each other.

“that was—” paige starts.

“insane,” azzi finishes.

they laugh, even though nothing’s really funny.

❀❀❀

the clock on the stove reads 4:36 a.m. the suite is dark and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. paige is sitting at the counter, a half-empty glass of water in her hand, the condensation dripping slowly down to form a ring beneath it.

she can’t sleep. her skin’s still buzzing, brain too full. not from alcohol—for once—but from azzi. from the way her voice had gone soft. from the weight of her in paige’s lap. from the echo of that not-quite-confession: i think i wanted to come here.

the room creaks. faint footsteps pad across the floor.

paige looks up.

azzi appears in the doorway, her braids wrapped in kk’s spare bonnet, bundled in one of paige’s old huskies sweatshirts that’s big enough to swallow her whole. she looks warm. sleepy. somehow both tentative and certain.

“couldn’t sleep,” azzi says, voice scratchy.

paige offers a quiet smile. “same.”

azzi shuffles forward, hugging her arms around herself. “can i hang with you?”

“uh-huh.”

azzi climbs onto the stool next to her. their knees knock under the counter and neither moves to pull away. azzi steals a sip from paige’s water without asking, and something about that—something about the easy familiarity of it—sends a warm, unsteady ache through paige’s chest.

they sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that settles between people who are too tired to lie but too uncertain to speak first.

finally, azzi says, “i didn’t think today would end like this.”

paige snorts quietly. “me either.”

“i thought i’d be crying to some emo playlist and wondering why i ever trusted him.”

“and i thought i’d be drinking alone in my room, again,” paige admits. “so…silver linings, i guess?”

azzi turns slightly to look at her, and the light from the fridge reflects in her eyes, soft and shimmering. “i meant what i said earlier. about wanting to come here.”

paige looks at her. “yeah?”

azzi nods, then smiles softly to herself. “it’s been a lot of fun, despite…everything.” she gestures at their surroundings. “i don’t think i’ve laughed like that in months, to be honest.”

“i don’t think i’ve felt…wanted like that in months,” paige says, quieter now, fully aware that what she’s saying is pathetic and induced by the last dregs of alcohol in her system. “even if it was fake.”

azzi’s voice is even softer. “it didn’t feel fake.”

that—that does it.

paige’s breath catches, heart thudding loud in her chest. she glances at azzi, who’s already looking at her, mouth parted, gaze open in a way that makes something deep inside paige tremble.

“can i—?” paige starts, voice hoarse.

“yes,” azzi breathes.

paige leans in slowly, giving azzi every chance to pull away. but she doesn’t. she leans in too, and when their lips meet, it’s soft. hesitant. careful, like they’re both afraid of shattering something delicate.

azzi’s hand finds paige’s hoodie, clutching at the fabric. paige cups her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. the kiss deepens in quiet pulses, not rushed, but heavy with the weight of something new.

when they finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, paige whispers, “sorry. i didn’t—i wasn’t trying to make this weird.”

“it’s not weird,” azzi says, eyes still closed. “it’s…good. i think it’s really good.”

they sit like that for a long beat, breathing the same air.

then azzi whispers, “can i stay with you? i just…don’t want to be alone tonight.”

paige nods immediately. “yeah. of course.”

azzi takes her hand. her fingers are cold, but her grip is sure.

they walk quietly through the dark apartment. it’s a short walk, but it feels like it takes years. the lights are all off, but paige’s room glows faintly with the soft blue light of the tv she’d left on, a 2000s sitcom playing on mute.

paige opens the door and lets azzi step inside first. she watches her for a second, silhouetted against the light—still in the oversized hoodie, bare legs, face bare and soft. she’s never looked more unreal.

paige swallows hard, her pulse thudding in her ears.

azzi turns to face her. “you coming?”

paige steps in and closes the door behind her. something buzzes under her skin, in both a turned-on way and a bug-crawly way.

it’s dawning on her, now, with azzi standing there giving her bedroom eyes in her bedroom—she just kissed azzi fudd. she threw up on her then proceeded to be incredibly awkward for the entire tonight before trauma-dumping and has now pulled her.

azzi fudd. the fucking—love of her life. the celebrity crush of her goddamn dreams. is standing before her like some kind of bisexual goddess waiting to receive the best head of her life. and oh, will paige make sure it actually is the best head of her life. much better than chad’s, that’s for certain. if he even gave her head. he seems the type of guy to say it’s ’too gross’.

“paige?”

oh god. she’s been staring.

“hey,” azzi frowns, stepping towards her. “you okay? i can leave, or…”

“no,” paige says vehemently, also stepping forward, closing the gap between them. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi in, but she’s not sure if that’s what azzi really wants. maybe she just wants to sleep? not that paige isn’t down for snuggling, but she’s already hyped herself up for that whole head thing, and she’s not super willing to back down now. “i just…”

azzi looks at her, eyes searching her face before she looks down. her lips quirk up, and when she looks back at paige, she’s clearly amused. “i clocked you so hard earlier.”

“i…what?” paige asks.

azzi points. “your hands.”

paige looks down, and sure enough—she’s wringing her hands. like a nervous little wimp. she scoffs, pulling them apart and wiping them on her sweats before making a split-second decision, pulling azzi in by the waist. “you didn’t clock shit.”

“no?” azzi asks, smile growing a little. her hands are soft as they roam up paige’s arms before circling around the back of her neck. “so you’re not super nervous right now?”

“i’m not nervous,” paige is quick to correct. “just wondering what you want.”

azzi’s eyebrows rise, just a little. “oh?”

paige hadn’t really meant to say it, but what the hell. “uh-huh. you wanna tell me?”

“hm.” azzi looks up at her like she’s deliberating something, then smiles, coy and dimply, before stepping back slowly, taking paige with her. “i think…” she whispers, walking them back as if the room were her’s, until her thighs hit the edge of the bed. “i think i want you to give me some real pictures.”

paige quirks an eyebrow, sitting azzi down before kneeling in front of her, playing into the game. “for chad?” she wrinkles her nose as she says it. even his name is a turn-off. paige has no clue how azzi managed to have sex with that man. she imagines azzi saying something like, “oh, chad, yes!” and it turns her teasing smirk into something more like a barely-contained laugh.

azzi’s expression breaks, and it looks a little like she’s fighting a smile of her own. “ew, don’t say his name.”

unable to help it, paige chuckles, leaning her forehead against azzi’s thigh. “what do we call him, then?”

“nothing,” azzi says firmly, lifting paige’s chin and bending down so their nose-to-nose, biting her lip slightly as she studies her face. “i want you to give me those pictures,” she mutters, “let me prove him wrong. and then i want you to make me forget him.”

oh, paige can definitely do that.

without another word, paige surges forward and kisses her. it’s surer this time, steadier, now with the knowledge of what’s to come, not just tonight but tomorrow, and maybe—if paige lets herself dream—maybe even longer than that. based off the way azzi presses her tongue against the seam of her lips, paige thinks she might feel it, too.

paige opens up for her, pliant and willing, ready to do whatever azzi asks of her. azzi’s tongue is warm, wet, slippery against paige’s own and she groans at the feel of it, at the minty freshness of her own toothpaste that azzi had used.

“paige,” azzi breathes against her lips. paige hums, leaning forward again to close the small amount of distance. but azzi pulls back, just slightly, and when paige blinks her eyes open azzi’s looking at her urgently, pulling her up by the shoulders. “paige,” she repeats.

paige swears, she usually has so much more finesse in the bedroom. she once made a girl come in under sixty seconds. she convinced her ex to call her daddy, for god’s sakes. but this—this is azzi. and thus, she just stares blankly at her, mind trying desperately to figure out what azzi’s saying while her cunt pulses desperately in her boxers. “…huh?” she says after a moment.

azzi sighs, but there’s something in her eyes, and when paige looks hard enough she thinks maybe it’s fondness? but she doesn’t have time to discern that properly because then azzi is hooking her arms under paige’s armpits and all but hoisting her up into her lap, and that’s just…really fucking hot. paige doesn’t think she’s ever been hoisted before.

hands finding their ways to azzi’s shoulders, paige exhales, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to regain some of her rizz. “you’re really strong,” she says instead.

azzi presses her lips to the hinge of paige’s jaw, mumbling against her skin, “good observation.” her arms are steady around paige’s waist, holding her close, allowing for the best access, and paige shifts, hips moving subtly against azzi’s thighs.

azzi’s lips trail higher until she’s nipping at paige’s earlobe, and paige can so clearly hear the little noises coming from her now; soft pants and exhales like she’s trying hard to contain herself. and that just—that does it.

wordlessly, paige presses against azzi’s shoulders, urging her to lay down. azzi looks at her quizzically but goes willingly, getting comfortable against the pillows as paige crawls on top of her. she leans down for another kiss but azzi presses a hand to her chest, stopping her.

“want this off, first,” she says, tugging at the hem of paige’s shirt. “wanna feel you.”

paige is quick to oblige, reaching behind her head to pull the neckline, azzi helping her until the shirt’s off, discarded somewhere to the side. azzi’s eyes roam shamelessly, but not as shamelessly as her hands, which trail over her abs, her ribs, the taut muscles in her back.

“you’re—” she swallows hard, “you’re pretty strong too.”

paige mentally fist-pumps. “good observation, baby.”

shivering against the cool air of the room, paige presses one last kiss to azzi’s lips, lingering there and thinking she could stay like that forever before remembering her job. photos. head. make azzi forget chad.

she shifts down, dipping her head into azzi’s neck to kiss the warm skin there. she smells good, like hair products and perfume. her hands wander of their own accord, lifting azzi’s shirt just enough to reveal a small sliver of skin, a glinting belly piercing. god, she doesn’t think she’ll get enough of this girl.

“want this off you, too,” paige instructs quietly, searching azzi’s eyes for any hesitation, but there’s only heat as she pulls her shirt off in one swift motion. it take’s paige’s brain a few seconds to catch up with what her eyes are seeing—azzi, topless, skin dark against the white bedding, nipples pebbled from the temperature change.

paige makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat, completely aware she’s staring but unable to do anything about it, because she’s surely not going to look away. not when azzi is staring up at her like—like that, with hooded eyes and a small, teasing smile. she knows exactly what she’s doing, exactly what it’d do to paige by letting her find out for herself she isn’t wearing a bra, and it’s going to drive her fucking insane.

“paige,” azzi says.

paige’s eyes snap up from azzi’s chest, somewhat guiltily. “yeah?”

“you have me really fucking worked up right now,” azzi says bluntly. “and as much as i love watching you stare at me, i need you to actually come here and do something about it.”

that gets paige moving.

it’s instinctual, the way she dips her head down, nuzzles into the valley between azzi’s breasts. the way her tongue darts out to taste her skin, the way her palms cup the underside of azzi’s tits and push them up before she takes the stiff peak of one into her mouth.

azzi sighs, this small, satisfied sound which only serves to encourage paige further. she relaxes a little, allowing herself to get out of her own head because she knows this. she’s good at it. she knows without a doubt she can make azzi feel good and if she dies tomorrow, then she’ll die happy knowing she at least got to have this first. got to flick her tongue over azzi’s nipple and revel in the soft moan it elicits from her.

the sound sends a jolt of heat through paige’s stomach, straight to the apex of her thighs. she’s acutely aware of the way she and azzi’s legs are slotted together, the sinewy muscle of azzi’s bare thigh between her own, hovering just beneath her. paige has to make a conscious effort not to bear down onto her, not to search for any of the friction she so desperately needs.

paige pulls off azzi’s tit with a slight pop, admiring the way it looks now, glistening with her saliva. she had planned on making her way down the length of azzi’s body, but now she’s stuck here, watching intently as she rolls azzi’s nipples between her fingertips, loving the way azzi arches up into her. she glances up to catch her expression, and what she finds—mouth slightly ajar, eyes fluttered shut—has her leaning back up to capture her lips in another searing kiss. azzi groans, surprised at the contact, and when paige licks confidently into her mouth, she groans again, this time sounding a little strangled.

paige chuckles against her lips, trailing away to nose against her cheekbone. “what, you need sum’?”

azzi huffs, arms around paige’s neck pulling her insistently closer. “you’re teasing me.”

“well, i’on know what you want,” paige says, pressing soft kisses against azzi’s jaw.

azzi’s nails scratch a little punishingly into paige’s back. “i told you what i want.”

paige shudders at the pain, the starkness of it, the shivers it sends down her back. “yeah,” paige agrees, leaning up on her elbows to look into azzi’s eyes, “but you ain’t told me how you want it.”

azzi’s eyebrows furrow, a slight pout forming on her lips, and the expression is so cute compared to the compromising situation they’re in that paige almost gives in then and there. but she’s a spent the entire night making an absolute fool of herself in front of azzi, and this feels like her only opportunity to show her just what she can do, what she can be, when she wants to.

and, shit, does she want to.

“gotta use your words, mami,” paige tells her, looking down at her with something like sympathy even as her tone is commanding, and it has the desired effect: azzi’s breath hitches, cheeks flushing, eyes squeezing shut like she’s collecting herself before she meets paige’s again.

“want your mouth, paige,” she whispers, almost like she’s embarrassed to be saying it out loud. “your tongue.”

somewhere in her aroused haze, paige registers that this must mean they’re soulmates or something, that they both want the same thing. she tucks that little thought away for later (she knows kk will agree when she tells her about it) and then nods, pressing a kiss to azzi’s forehead, just below her bonnet. “good girl,” she murmurs, testing the waters, and based off the way azzi exhales this shaky little whimper, she figures she’s probably into it. also good to know.

paige takes azzi’s forearms in her hands and withdraws them from around her neck, sitting back on her knees in between azzi’s legs. she hooks her fingers around her own basketball shorts, which sit tantalizingly on azzi’s hips—she doesn’t think she’s ever described basketball shorts as tantalizing before—and raises her eyebrows at azzi. azzi nods, lifting her hips off the bed, just enough that paige is able to easily pull them over the swell of her ass. azzi lifts her feet up, allowing paige to pull the fabric completely off and toss them away before she presses a kiss to each of her ankles. azzi watches her closely, hands fondling her own breasts in a way that makes paige want to put her mouth back on them, but then she’s glancing down at the exposed core between azzi’s thighs and there is nothing else that could possibly be more important than that, ever.

she sets azzi’s legs on the bed before shifting, laying herself flat on her stomach with her arms propped up beneath her until she’s hovering over azzi’s pelvis, admiring the smooth skin there and the belly ring that sits a few inches higher. she bends down, nuzzling her nose against the soft, curly hair she finds there, pressing a kiss and then many more along the expanse of skin until she reaches a hipbone. she bites, just roughly enough to make a mark, and azzi hisses above her.

paige’s eyes flick up, double-checking, but azzi looks more than okay—in fact, she looks downright impatient. when their eyes meet, she nods urgently at her. “get on with it.”

paige raises an eyebrow at the attitude but doesn’t comment on it just yet, instead pressing a kiss to the other hipbone before saying, “oh, you want more?”

azzi sighs at the coy tone in paige’s voice. “paige.”

“mm,” paige hums. “you sound frustrated, baby.”

“yeah, well,” azzi shifts uncomfortably, “it’s frustrating when you tease me like this.”

“yeah?” paige asks. she rests her cheek against azzi’s thigh, allowing her fingers to trail up and down the inside of her other one, getting close to where she needs her but never close enough. “you’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” she muses.

“fuck you,” azzi says, no real venom there as annoyance mixes with amusement in her eyes.

“i will,” paige promises, kissing her thigh, “princess.”

azzi opens her mouth to speak again. paige cuts her off with a harsh bite to the place she just kissed, turning her almost-sentence into a high-pitched whine instead.

“fuck,” azzi mutters.

paige inspects the bite—that will definitely be a mark tomorrow—and then shushes her gently, brushing her lips over the spot. “if you catch an attitude with me again,” she murmurs, almost sweet, “you’ll find how much worse i can be.”

azzi’s hips lift, surprise etching itself slowly into the lines of her face as she registers the words, but paige doesn’t take the time to look too close. azzi is spread before her, enticing, dripping, caramel brown giving way to soft pink, and she finally lets herself do what she’s dreamed of doing since she was in high school—she buries her fucking face in it.

azzi’s reaction is immediate and more intense than paige expected it would be, her back and hips arching off the bed as she groans, loud. paige doesn’t even care that arousal has just been smeared all over her forehead. she’s far too busy committing the way azzi tastes, sweet and salty, to memory.

the build-up paid off, as it always does, and azzi’s soaked. paige’s tongue laves wet heat from her entrance to her clit, building her up to a slow rhythm. she lingers a little each time at her entrance, where the taste is the strongest, unable to conceal her own choked sounds as azzi grinds against her face. she glances up to where azzi is playing with her nipples, propped up on her elbows to get a better look at what paige is doing, and the knowledge that she’s being watched so intently has her doubling down on her efforts.

when paige’s movements speed up, azzi’s head tips back, rolling against her shoulders. “oh, paige,” she breathes, sensual and dirty, “oh, baby. feels…”

paige presses her own thighs together at the pet name before flicking her tongue back and forth against azzi’s clit, applying pressure until azzi falls back completely, head thumping against the pillows as she whines. distantly, paige thinks kk could almost definitely hear them if she were to listen for it. she finds she doesn’t really care at the moment.

“feels good?” paige asks, pressing a few soft kisses to azzi’s cunt.

“mm-hmm,” azzi hums, eyes closed as she focuses on the feeling. her hands travel south until they’re gripping the back of paige’s head, and then she’s tugging her closer, back into her heat. “keep going, baby. please.”

“since you asked so nice,” paige teases, letting azzi’s hands guide her forward. she opens her mouth a little wider, sucking hard against azzi’s hole as if trying to draw more precum out of her before she kisses sloppily against it. azzi’s legs fall further open at the feeling, but paige quickly misses the feeling of thighs pressed against her head and loops her arm under the brunette’s legs, surrounding herself with soft brown skin.

the new angle brings her impossibly closer to azzi’s center, and paige sticks her tongue out, seeking azzi’s entrance before pressing inside as far as she can.

“oh my fuck,” azzi groans, gripping paige’s head tighter, almost possessive. “keep doing that, right—“ she chokes on her own words as paige begins a slow thrust, “right there.”

paige nods, unsure whether azzi can feel the acknowledgment, but it has her nose bumping up against azzi’s swollen clit and azzi cries out. she moves her tongue, feeling around the spongy inner walls of azzi’s cunt, a new wave of arousal pumping out until it’s dripping down paige’s chin onto the bedsheets below.

the room isn’t quiet, but it sounds like sex, azzi’s breathy moans and the filthy wet sounds of her cunt filling the room. she sounds so good, tastes so good, smells so good—paige is only vaguely aware that she has her own pelvis pressed into the mattress, absentmindedly searching for friction as she gets off on pleasing azzi.

she’s so focused on tonguing her that she doesn’t notice the way azzi’s breathing changes, becomes more rapid, or the way her fingers fist up paige’s hair in a way that’s almost painful. in fact, it’s not until she presses her thumb to azzi’s swollen clit while she tongue-fucks her that azzi manages a broken, “oh my god, i’m fucking—!“ that paige realizes she’s going to come.

azzi’s orgasm hits her in waves, it seems, with her hips pressing into paige’s mouth so intensely she can’t breathe for a solid thirty seconds before she’s abruptly pulling away, thighs shaking with the effort. paige watches in something like amazement as her stomach tenses, her cunt pulsing and clenching around nothing, clit twitching almost imperceptibly. it is—fucking beautiful, actually. a work of goddamn art. an image that belongs in the louvre right next to the mona lisa and the venus de milo.

she’s about to dive back in and get another taste of it when azzi uses her grip on her hair to urge her up. reluctantly, paige lets herself be pulled, kissing a gentle path up azzi’s stomach before coming face-to-face with her, thumbs brushing her cheeks as she comes down. eyes still closed, azzi pulls her closer, bumping their foreheads together.

“so pretty,” paige can’t help but mutter, watching azzi’s lashes flutter against her cheeks, lips plump and shiny and parted. “so good for me, baby. did so good.”

after another few moments, azzi opens her eyes, looking at paige like she hung the stars in the sky or something.

“i think i just fell in love with you,” she croaks, and paige laughs, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead. “heard that one before.”

azzi smacks her lightly, then pulls her head down, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before urging her to lay on her chest. paige presses her cheek to azzi’s heartbeat, their breathing gradually syncing up as they lay together. azzi’s nails scratch light patterns against paige’s back, nearly lulling her to sleep, before she abruptly stops and says, “oh, shit.”

“what?” paige asks sleepily.

“we forgot to get pictures.”

paige swears her ears perk up, and she thinks she might be just a little insatiable because she doesn’t feel so tired anymore as she lifts her head with a wicked grin. “damn,” she says. “guess we’ll have to go again.”

the next day, kk gives them hell for keeping her up all night, and gives azzi many earfuls about how she ‘told her so.’ paige offers up their room for the rest of the trip, even though they ultimately proved chad wrong with some certain photos, and azzi is all too quick to take her up on it.

and when, a year later, azzi transfers to uconn? let’s just say kk will swear up and down that she’s the reason they never lose another game to ucla.

[asahehskafah]

every time I saw this post, I felt strange. It didn't feel like it applied to me, but I couldn't help pausing to stare out of the window for a moment.

It wasn't until last month that I realised it did.

A local transmasc had noticed me simply nodding along and saying 'same' when he was briefly summarising some of his trauma, instead of looking mildly to moderately shocked like everyone else at the meet-up. He pretty much cornered me in my DMs a while later when I was having a bad day and said 'hey do you wanna like. get into any of this?'

By that point I had already kinda figured out the deity identity stuff, but wasn't really that confident in owning it properly, nor had I figured out some of the more specific reasons why I felt it fit. He systematically deconstructed over 26 years worth of parental and societal trauma over a few days and it has made me realise how completely my internal structure is made up of nothing but a lattice barely-working beams that were never meant to be load-bearing, carefully constructed around a space of nothingness.

Lacking a sense of self is horrifying to me. My core is a void around which barely anything exists, except for a handful of preferences (I like specific times of stories, i dislike specific types of food, etc). I hadn't realised that I'd gone through so much of what I did until he literally ripped down the curtain shielding my introspection from going near that part of the room.

So seeing this post again, with the magnitude of mine own folly at last laid bare? It hurts. I am repressed. I've denied myself for nearly three decades. I've avoided doing anything to try to be myself because I've learnt from my past experiences that all it does is gets people hurt, and they hurt me back in the process. I feel like anything I'd do that would result in me taking up space endangers those around me, and thus endangers myself in response.

Making this account was a way for me to figure out what lays beneath the shell. I hesitate to even call it a mask, I don't think it's even vaguely reminiscent of humanity. I know it'll take time for me to find myself, but now that I'm aware of this wound at the centre of the world, it hurts so much to have to live with it.

I want to get through this. I need to live and survive and figure out what's on the other side of this barrier. I need to get out of my landlord(mother)'s house and cut her out of my life, have a space where I can actually figure out who I am and who I'm meant to be. But there's so much waiting involved while the 'affordable' housing company im on the waiting list for (and have been for over 6 months) does their thing, and I don't know how much longer I can hold out.

As I'm writing this, I'm AFK in FF14, listening to one of my favourite melancholy songs and sitting in a field of Elpis flowers, blooms meant to represent hope. The song is about the journey we've already walked, and how we've survived it. 'Unbroken promises we made so long ago. You're still here.' It makes me sob wretchedly to think about how I've survived this far, through the lens of this song. 'Always, night follows day. The sun will shine again. Walk on, never look back.'

I hope I can keep going.

i keep meeting transfems whose personalities are like, gaping wounds. girls who've been stomped on over and over until they start thinking they're uniquely evil and they deserve it. people shouldn't be allowed to treat us like this.

[iamthatonefangirl]

So I’m not completely sure how requests work but I NEED a fic where the reader like gets into an argument with the winter soldier about something small or big like how he never opens up to her (whatever you prefer) and then some HATE sex after (not really hate just frustrated yk)

disconnect - nsfw winter soldier

I received a few asks that inspired me to develop a story combining them. this is my interpretation of them.

pre-established relationship. if you're new here, there's a mention of a prior event.

disclaimer: fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated. dark/sad themes, similar to depictions of depression. read at your own discretion.

~~~

it's stupid, really.

the mud boot tracks all over the entryway when you get home. the huge disaster area the kitchen is.

is it really that difficult to not leave a mess everywhere?

you make your way to the bedroom and drop your bag somewhere on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed to chuck off your shoes and jacket.

you sit there for a moment, head buried in your hands.

the weight of your situation gets to you more often than not. a lot of those thoughts in your head go unsaid for a number of reasons, particularly because he doesn't have the emotional capacity to care, in your opinion.

is this really the life you thought you'd end up living?

if you wanted to quit working, you could. he brings in more than plenty.

and you'd never have to worry about being sexually frustrated a day in your life.

is that really the sum total of your relationship?

you let out a sigh.

you feel stuck.

~~~

he comes into the bedroom ten minutes later, fresh out of the shower, covered in water from head to toe minus the towel wrapped around his waist.

he goes straight for the bed, lying down on the fresh sheets, soaking them.

"seriously?" you ask, looking up at him, exasperated at this point.

he tilts his head in your direction and gives you a blank stare as though he has no clue what you're talking about.

you take a deep breath and shove down your anger. he's been gone for a week, cut him some slack, you tell yourself.

"everything go okay?" you ask.

you don't want to know the gory details, and he wouldn't tell you, anyways. his face contorts, giving you a disgusted look as though you're crazy for even asking.

he proceeds to shove his hands behind his head, closing his eyes to get some rest.

another deep breath.

"are you hungry?" you offer. the mess in the kitchen tells you that he's not, but you're seriously trying here.

he lets out a low grunt, which you take to mean 'no.'

"can you stay awake for five minutes to fucking talk to me?" you say, anger rising in your chest as you struggle to keep your head straight.

"not talking to you about work," he grumbles, not even opening his eyes.

"clearly, you're not talking to me at all! fuck, I mean, when do you ever?" you yell, standing and walking over to the side of the bed next to where he's laying.

in your anger, you grab his arm and roughly yank it out from under his head, surprising him. his eyes shoot open and he glares up at you as though you've just personally offended him.

"you never fucking talk to me! I- I don't even know if you like me! it's like you just live in my apartment so you can fuck me whenever you want!" you yell at him. your emotions are getting the better of you, your insecurities and your anger twisting in your head. you're completely helpless to stop your mouth from speaking them into reality.

not a word in response. his face is completely devoid of any emotion.

"I don't even know why I expect anything different from you," you scoff. "you're a heartless motherfucker. you don't even care about me."

you feel so empty inside. all the sacrifices you've made, all the times you've cried over the fact that you can't just be normal, all because of what he does for a living, who he is.

all while having to stomach the nausea of simply knowing why you have to keep him a secret.

it's too much to deal with anymore.

he watches as you drag an empty duffel bag out of the closet and begin throwing various items of clothing inside it. it takes a few moments, but it finally clicks in his head: you're leaving. and he doesn't know when, or if, you'll be back.

he stands, grabbing your arm as carefully as he can, stopping you from continuing to pack. "no. stay," he tells you. he sounds so calm, his voice is void of its usual sternness.

he's only calm because he's panicking inside.

you take his calm demeanor to mean that he genuinely does not give a fuck.

"get off me. I'm leaving," you tell him, pulling your arm away from his grasp. that's all you can say, because that's all you know right now. you have no plans for where you're going or when you're coming back.

if you're coming back.

you shove a few more things in your bag as your eyes tear up.

what has your life come to?

~~~

the door slams behind you on your way out, shaking the whole apartment. eerie silence follows.

no sounds of pans clattering in the kitchen. no music blaring while you shower. no keyboard clicking while you work. no more of your laughing as you watch videos on your phone.

no more you.

all there is is dead silence.

he used to live in the silence. he took comfort in it; he'd be able to hear a threat coming from a mile away as long as he lived in the silence. it was his way of protection, his entire way of life.

it doesn't have that comforting effect anymore.

because now?

he's alone.

now, alone, in the silence he once reveled in, he roams the apartment in contemplation. he sees everything he didn't see before.

the mess he left everywhere, destroying the effort you put in every day to keep a tidy home.

but more importantly? he sees the disconnect. the stark contrast between your carefulness and his tendency to act as a bull in a china shop opens his eyes to reality.

he always saw you as a team.

but now?

he realizes that you're not.

you're normal. he isn't.

he never could be.

~~~

your best bet for now is to go to a friend's place, you think. you sob your eyes out as you sit in the driver's seat of your car, and you come up with a lie that's at least semi-believable.

you take a few deep breaths as you click her contact on speed-dial.

"hey, so you'll never believe my luck," you begin, trying to hide your sniffling from the microphone. "my building is infested with rats. I don't know how long it'll be until they've dealt with it. at least a week, probably. do you think I could spend a few nights at your place?"

your voice is choppy as you speak, and it's clear you've been crying, but she doesn't question it. she gives you the 'okay' to come over, and you hang up quickly before the tears start again.

that's how you end up sleeping on her couch that night, sobbing silently into your hoodie as you try to determine what the hell you're supposed to do now.

for so long, you've put up with his bullshit, kept his secret, kept your mouth shut, all for one reason: you love him.

but he's not capable of loving anyone.

~~~

for a while, the feeling of isolation doesn't bother him. all he feels is indifference.

yet as he finally cleans up after himself, the ache in his chest begins. he almost wonders if he's having a heart attack; he's never felt this before.

yes, he has.

he freezes in place, the memory coming to him. he injured you, once, purely by accident. that's when he's felt this helplessness, this emptiness, this deep-seated pain in his chest.

guilt?

he's not sure.

he kneels on the cold hard tile of the entryway, not bothering to put on longer pants or a towel to protect his knees as he wipes up the mud he tracked inside. he doesn't deserve that comfort.

he lays in bed alone that night, mind empty. sleep never finds him.

the following morning, before the sun has risen, he makes a decision.

he opens his bank account and navigates to the most recent transfer, forwarding it back to the sender with one message: deal's off. busy.

~~~

the next morning, you wake up, still feeling terribly nauseous. you look in the bathroom mirror to find your eyes are puffy and bloodshot from crying.

you never should've gotten involved with a cold-hearted killer.

every bone in your body is saying to leave. get out of New York, quit your job, leave him and this whole life behind.

instead, you make a cup of coffee and force some yogurt down your throat before going to work.

you're up early, and don't care to deal with the traffic driving further into the city, so you might as well take the train.

~~~

he has absolutely no clue where you are.

he knows none of the addresses of your friends where you might have gone, not even a single one of their names.

if you didn't have to work, he wouldn't even be sure that you were still in the state.

work.

he doesn't even know the address of your workplace. he has a vague sense of the name of the company, how hard can it be to find?

so that's where he starts.

he camps out down a side street near your office, giving him a narrow field of vision to the entrance while staying hidden. it's the end of the workday, you should be coming out soon.

normally, scouting out a target is easy. he takes a short amount of time to watch them, determine their routines, and find the best course of action to take them out in the most efficient way possible.

there's always a plan, an end goal there. here?

he has no plan. there is no end goal.

for now, he needs to know where you're staying. so he watches and waits for you to come out of the one place where he can count on being able to find you.

he's not prepared for the pang of some unfamiliar emotion that he feels when he sees you come out of the building. you look exhausted; clearly, you didn't sleep last night, same as him.

you still look perfect.

he assumes you're heading to the parking lot, and he realizes he didn't think this far ahead. he doesn't have a fucking car, how is he supposed to follow you to find out where you're going?

he would never make this kind of bullshit mistake on a job.

he's scanning the area, trying to find the most inconspicuous car he can find that he thinks he might be able to hotwire-

you walk right past the parking lot.

he begins to trail you from across the street, mind working through all the possible answers as to where you're going. for now, his focus is keeping his eyes on you at all times.

he refuses to acknowledge the way his chest hurts even more as he follows you down the street and into the train station.

he hates when you take the train, hence why you always drive. to him, the train isn't safe. there's too many variables, too many things could go wrong. today, though, it works to his advantage.

all he can do for now is get on the train car behind you and wait to see where you get off at.

~~~

you're so tired, it's probably for the best you didn't drive today, lest you wanted to accidentally total your car by falling asleep at the wheel.

you want nothing more than to go home to him.

you don't. you get off the train and walk into the first bar you see.

it's after the workday, just past 6pm on a Tuesday, so it's packed, full of both blue- and white-collar workers in need of a drink.

you sit at the bar with the rest of the men as you all contemplate your life choices. you drink way too much, consuming more alcohol than is safe for you to have in your system while walking back.

oh well.

as you walk in the darkness, your head feels heavy, your body warm from the alcohol. you're being reckless, you know you are.

you don't have it in you to care. you feel like your entire life is being ripped apart at the seams, and it's all your fault. you're aware of the reality; you shouldn't ask for more than he can give. that's not fair to him.

no. this isn't fair to you.

~~~

he hates every fucking second of this. you're acting stupid, putting yourself in danger, getting drunk in public while operating under the assumption that you're all alone on these dark streets.

is this how you feel every day? do you feel alone even when he's there?

is he nothing more than a nuisance to you, a reminder of all your fears and all your lost dreams rolled into one?

at least he knows he's there to protect you.

to him, you were his savior.

but to you, he's nothing more than a ball and chain around your ankle.

his chest grows even tighter.

once you get inside the place you're apparently staying at, he relaxes somewhat. you're inside, you're safe.

that means nothing to him. to him, you're only safe within the confines of your own home. you're only safe when you're with him.

does he make you feel unsafe?

he finds another dark alley to hole up in. he's not going anywhere, not going home, not sleeping until you've got this figured out.

~~~

days go by. he learns your friend's schedule, learns the area, learns that you're drinking every day after work.

he knows he doesn't have the right to approach you. he'd lose you for good if he did, he thinks.

except on the fourth day of you being gone, after all these sleepless nights of him sitting on the cold, hard ground, you don't go into work. he watches your friend leave, but not you.

something's wrong.

in the back of his head, he hears your voice from your fight, if he could even call it a fight, saying,

"I don't even know if you like me!"

"you don't even care about me."

the words float around his mind, amplifying the tightness in his chest by 100 times.

that's it. he's done waiting, done watching you like you're a target, done pretending like you're both not miserable. he's done pretending he doesn't care.

~~~

you don't go into work on Friday.

you've spent all week ignoring your problems, ignoring the nausea in your stomach, drinking so much alcohol that you're lucky you don't pass out in the street, alone.

it's time to make a decision.

you don't get up from the couch until mid-morning, getting up to take a shower before heading to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

as you finish preparing your drink, staring down into the mug, you think you hear something in the distance. but the noise is so faint, you attribute it to your lack of sleep and food. you're fine, there's nothing there.

you hear it again, louder this time, and you turn towards where you hear the noise coming from-

from behind you, a hand slips over your mouth, and an arm wraps itself around your waist. you're about to panic when you hear the figure speak,

"it's me."

you let yourself relax against him. he scared the absolute shit out of you, making you fear for your fucking life, but you don't care. he's here.

but then your anger returns with a vengeance.

you put all your weight into throwing yourself forward, out of his grasp, and he lets go.

"how dare you!" is the first thing you say, and then you turn to face him.

woah.

if you thought you looked like shit from lack of sleep, it was nothing compared to how he looked.

you pause your yelling at him for a moment to take in the fact that he looks so tired he might be ready to collapse, that he looks like he hasn't showered or eaten in days.

you push past your worry and begin again, your anger boiling over as you continue yelling.

"how do you know I'm here? have you been fucking following me?"

he forces himself to speak.

"yes."

you scoff. of course he has.

"I'm not a child! I'm a fully grown adult, James!" you yell.

"then why the hell have you been acting like you're a goddamn child?" he yells back.

you've never heard him raise his voice like this before.

"you could have gotten yourself killed. you're lucky I was there. you did everything wrong, against how I taught you to keep yourself safe!"

your entire body is vibrating with the range of emotions you feel right now. you're so pissed off at him, but you've finally gotten him to speak to you. you hate that he's been watching you like his prey all week, but it means that maybe, in his eyes, you're worth losing sleep over.

you both stand there for a minute as you delay responding. your hair is soaking through your pajama shirt, which you realize as you stand there, is one of his t-shirts. your coffee is spilled everywhere from when he startled you, the mug flipped on its side on the counter.

you try to gather your thoughts to respond. you end up coming back to the one thing that you haven't been able to forget about all week, the one thing that breaks your heart more than any of it.

"you didn't even fight for me," you say quietly. you do everything in your power to take deep breaths, blinking your eyes quickly to stop the tears in their wake. "you didn't even fight for me to stay. you just let me go."

you give him the benefit of the doubt when he doesn't respond immediately. you know he needs to gather his thoughts.

you wipe your eyes a few times, listening to the silence, just praying that you mean enough to him that he'll respond.

"I'll never make that mistake again."

you've missed him so much, even in your rage and despair, that those words are all the reassurance you need to hear from him. he steps closer to you, slowly, waiting for your permission to approach.

you take in his appearance once more. he clearly hasn't eaten or slept in days, and he looks dirty. you connect the dots in your head: he hasn't even gone home, hasn't left your side once all week.

the idea of him following you all week pissed you off only minutes before. but now?

your tears spill from your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck, embracing him as though he's your entire world.

he's never felt as relieved as he does when you cling to him. the aching in his chest finally begins to dissipate for the first time in a week.

you may be in some random apartment, but he's finally home.

he wraps his arms around your waist and picks you up. you get the hint and wrap your legs around his hips, holding onto him as he walks you over to the couch you've spent the last few days crying on.

he lays you down and begins to peel his shirt from your body, revealing every inch of your beautiful skin to him.

he knows has to show you how sorry he is, the only way he knows how.

he adjusts your positioning so you're sitting face forward on the couch, legs dangling over the edge, and he spreads your thighs as he gets to his knees in front of you.

it about takes your breath away.

this man, who is so possessive over you, so afraid of showing even a sliver of weakness or vulnerability, so against the idea of giving up any form of power, is on his knees for you in apology.

you know this isn't easy for him. this is the biggest display of trust you think you've ever seen from him, and your fears about not meaning anything to him begin to disappear.

you're the most important thing in his life. he wishes he had the words to tell you that.

he wraps his hands around the back of your knees, bringing you closer to him, and he pushes his tongue between your legs so softly.

his mouth is wet, and warm, and he hasn't eaten in days, but he'd rather you be the only thing he tastes for the rest of his life, anyways.

a few more involuntary tears spill from your eyes as he laves his tongue over you. you feel so sensitive, the combination of lacking his touch for so long and the emotion behind his actions is making you so much more conscious of his every movement.

he buries his tongue in you over and over again like it's his only mission in life.

he feels the entire lower half of his face, having gone unshaved for the last week, is soaked, covered in you. he hopes he leaves you with a mild rug burn between your thighs so you feel him for days afterwards.

you're so perceptive to his every move, you feel it distinctly when he begins to trace shapes over your clit.

A, E, S is all you make out.

James.

he's writing his name on your skin with his tongue.

you let out a whimper when you realize it, and your gentle hold on the back of his head tightens, pulling his face closer against your cunt.

"James," you whisper as he begins to work you faster, "please."

that's all it takes for him to push you over the edge. your thighs close on either side of his head, and he can mostly hear the way you whine his name as you come for him.

you barely have a second to relax your muscles before he's crowding you on the couch, repositioning you so you're laying underneath him.

his mouth begins to attack your neck, your rules against him putting hickeys on your neck be damned. and you gladly let him, you don't care right now.

he takes no time at all to shove the fabric of his pants out of the way, wrapping your legs around his hips once more, pushing himself down into you.

"fuck," you whisper at the stretch.

he continues his assault on your neck, marking you up and down all the way to your breasts, anywhere he can reach.

he bites back a groan every time you moan so perfectly, filling his ears, repeating his name every few thrusts.

but there's still something in the back of his head he needs you to know.

he doesn't stop, doesn't quit fucking you so beautifully as he brings his mouth to your ear.

"of course I like you," he admits so quietly, and his tone makes it sound like it's the most obvious thing in the world. you're brought back to the other night when you expressed your deepest vulnerabilities to him, and now, he's making up for what he should have told you then. "and of course I care about you."

you clutch him against you as tight as humanly possible until you're both letting yourselves go, feeling the comforting warmth as he releases inside you.

his body gives out, collapsing on top of you, exhausted from the physical and emotional toll of the week.

you finally feel tired too, more so than you have all week. it's as though your body is finally poised to truly rest now that he's with you again.

you can't sleep yet.

"take me home, James," you whisper, and he doesn't hesitate.

~~~

(guys as I'm writing this I'm about to cry)

yeah so I think I spent about six hours on this total y'all

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[kissandtellus]

Give me another, Sweetness

Synopsis: Post-Shibuya Nanami Kento counts every new day as lucky, especially with his beautiful wife and perfect little girls. What’s wrong with giving him another daughter…and another one…and another?

Warning: Kento is a FREAK, Bweeding Quink, Overstim, Talk of Postpartum bodies, Insecurities, Praising.

Nanami Kento was a doting husband, the best. Even after his battle in Shibuya, he was still the ever-present rock in his wife’s life. He was back from work, his face pale and exhausted. He walked into the small, traditional Japanese-style home, his suit jacket hanging loosely on his shoulders. As he entered, he saw his wife sitting on the couch, feeding the twins. "I'm home." He said quietly, his voice strained.

She looked up at her husband, cradling their 7 month old girls in the crook of her arms. She looked even more tired than he was, but she immediately stood with the twins in her arms. “Hi honey. I fixed you what I could for dinner. It’s still in the oven to keep it warm.”

He watched her carefully, her gentle eyes and her soft features. She was the complete opposite of him - calm and sweet while he was dark and dangerous looking. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves slowly, trying not to wince at the movement. He knew the burns hurt like hell today.

His wife frowned. It hadn’t even been a year since he got his scars and here he was, trying to work at a desk job in an office now, retired from Sorcerery. “Did you put on the cream for your scars this morning?”

He paused, his hands still on the buttons of his shirt. "Yes," he replied shortly, not meeting her eyes. He knew she worried about him, but he hated seeing that concern in her eyes. It made him feel weak. "How are the girls?" He changed the subject quickly.

She gave a soft frown. “Hana is refusing to be breastfed because every time she does, Hikari starts crying.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips despite the pain. "Sounds like Hikari is jealous." He walked over to his wife, his steps slow and deliberate. He reached out gently to touch Hikari's tiny hand, her little fingers curling around his index finger instinctively.

He looked at his wife, his eyes softening. "You look tired, sweetness. Have you slept at all today?" He asked, his voice gentle. He knew how much she struggled with sleep, especially with the twins keeping her up at night. "Why don't you go to bed?"

“Absolutely not. And miss bathtime? Never.” She said with a smile, even though Nanami knew it was because she didn’t want to leave him alone with their girls

He noticed her subtle refusal immediately, a small smile tugging at his lips. She was always so careful not to offend him, but he could read her like a book. "You don't want me to handle them alone, do you?" He said teasingly, reaching for Hana now.

He scooped Hana up into his arms effortlessly, despite the pain in his burned torso. Hana giggled and kicked her feet, reaching out for him instead. Nanami laughed softly, a deep sound that made her heart swell. "See? She missed her papa"

Nanami watched her carefully as she stood up with Hikari in her arms, her breasts slightly visible through the nursing bra. He quickly looked away, feeling an unwanted stir in his pants despite his pain and exhaustion. He was used to seeing her like this - breastfeeding and tired - but his body still reacted sometimes.

His wife could see the way he reacted and blushed, pulled up his tshirt she was wearing over her nursing bra. “How was work?”

His eyes darkened slightly as she pulled down the shirt self-consciously. He knew her body was different now - fuller breasts from breastfeeding and wider hips from giving birth. He found it sexy as hell, but he also knew her self-esteem dropped after having kids. He answered the question carefully.

"It was fine," He replied softly, watching his wife bounce Hikari on her hip to make her laugh.

God, she was beautiful.

He watched her round hips sway slightly and her full breasts jiggle as she laughed with the baby.

Between Nanami’s injuries and the birth of the twins and everything in between, there had been no sex between the two. Not even a feel over the clothes.

Over 8 months without sex. No wonder he was hard as a rock watching her breastfeed or bounce the babies. He looked at her body again - full hips, large breasts. She was a walking wet dream. Yet, he hadn't touched her in forever.

He walked up behind his wife, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against him. His hardness pressed against her lower back and he nuzzled her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of baby powder and something unique to her. “You smell good," He murmured, his hand slowly inching up to cup her breast through the shirt.

She gasped and pulled away, Hana still in her arms while Hikari was in his. “Kento! Not infront of our babies.” She stuttered.

"Then let me bathe them and put them down for bed," he whispered huskily, his eyes meeting hers meaningfully. "It's been way too long, My Love.” He gently took Hikari from her arms and headed towards the nursery, balancing Hana carefully on his other arm.

He put the babies down gently, checking their diapers and giving them their pacifiers. He turned off the lights and closed the door softly. He walked back to the living room where she was still standing, looking unsure and beautiful. He locked the front door and turned off the lights in the living room too.

Always the doting and protective husband.

He stalked her slowly in the dark living room, his eyes glowing with intent. He reached out and pulled her into a sudden, deep kiss, his arms wrapping around her body tightly. He walked her backwards until her legs hit the couch, breaking the kiss only to push her down gently. "Shh..."

He climbed on top of her on the couch, his body pressing her down gently. He captured her mouth in another passionate kiss, his hands sliding up the shirt to finally touch those aching breasts properly after so long. He broke the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses down her neck and chest.

She shivered under his mouth. She carefully placed her hands on his shoulders, careful of his burn scars. “K-Kento…”

"Hmm?" He unhooked the bra one-handed like a pro, pushing up her milk-filled breasts. He lowered his mouth to one dark nipple, sucking softly. He knew she was sensitive there since breastfeeding. He spread her legs with his thighs carefully, settling between them. "You taste divine.”

He continued suckling gently, feeling her arch against him. One hand slid down her stomach to cup her sex through the pajama bottoms, pressing firmly. "Missed this body," he murmured against her skin, grinding his obvious erection against her core. "Want me to stop?"

His beautiful wife shook her head. “If you stop I’ll kill you.” She huffed.

He chuckled lowly, a sound that rumbled in his chest. "That's my girl," he murmured, his fingers hooking into the waistband to pull down the pajama bottoms. He slipped them off along with her panties, tossing them aside by the children’s colorful toys that decorated the living room floor.

He lifted his head from her breast, looking down at you spread out on the couch below him. He bit his lip, taking in her naked body. He was gentle with her during pregnancy and after birth, barely touching her these past months in fear of injuring her. He was suddenly very hungry. "Fuck... My Girl..."

His wife closed her legs, covering her postpartum belly with her hands. “Don’t look…”

His expression immediately softened. He gently grabbed her wrists, pulling them away from her belly. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses all over her stomach - the stretch marks, the roundness, everywhere. "Shh... You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered. "Open your legs for me."

He was being extremely careful and gentle, knowing her body had changed. He spread her open with his thumbs, looking at that soft core - it was different now after giving birth. He swallowed hard. "So pretty... even changed."

She felt her heart sink. Had birth really changed her so much?

She felt like she could pass away. “S-Stop staring! H-how is it different…?”

He smiled gently, pressing a kiss right above her throbbing clit. "It's different... softer, more plump. More beautiful, honestly. The whole area is..." He gently spread her lips with his fingers. "Swollen." He blew some cold air over her exposed clit.

She yelped and tried to push those blonde locks out from between her legs. “Kento you perv!”

He laughed deeply, nuzzling against your sensitive flesh. "Am I? Then why can I see how wet you're getting?" He gave your clit a gentle lick, making you jump. "I've missed this pussy so much, baby. Missed tasting you every morning..."

He pushed her legs further apart, lifting them over his shoulders. He dove back in, licking that wet slit hungrily. "Fuck... even taste different. Softer, sweeter..." He buried his face between her legs, sucking gently on her clit. "So fucking pretty.”

He ate her out like a starving man - gentle but intense. His tongue worked her clit expertly while his fingers carefully slid inside those gummy walls, testing how sensitive she was post-birth. He moaned against your flesh when he felt how wet and ready she was despite everything her body had went through to bring their beautiful girls into the world.

He started moving his fingers inside her slowly, feeling those inner walls flutter around him. He crooned softly when he felt your wetness dripping down onto the couch. "Goddamn, how am I supposed to last inside this pretty little cunt?" He added another finger, spreading her open.

His wife felt like a schoolgirl again, it reminded her of the first time they had slept together back at Jujutsu Tech. Why was Kento always such a gentleman? Even when he had his tongue buried inside of her

He continued licking and sucking on you, keeping his touch gentle despite how aroused he was - something about becoming a father had made him extra careful with his. His soft brown eyes glanced up her body while his tongue worked her clit. "Remember when I first ate you out like this?”

He was kneeling on the ground in front of the couch, her legs thrown over his broad shoulders.

He slowed his fingers down, curling them inside her gently to hit that sensitive spot. "On the floor of my room at Jujutsu Tech. You screamed so loud that Gojo came knocking." He licked around his fingers inside, watching her face flush. "You're even prettier now.”

He suddenly sucked hard on your clit, pushing his fingers deep inside you - hitting that spot perfectly. He knew exactly how to make you come from oral alone. His free hand reached up to squeeze your breast gently. "Come on Sweetheart. Come for your husband like you used to at school.”

He kept sucking hard on her clit, his fingers curling inside rapidly to hit her spongy tissue over and over. Within seconds, she was moaning loudly and coming all over his face and fingers, just like she used to back at Jujutsu Tech. "There she is…”

He slowly pulled his fingers out of her, licking them clean with a satisfied smile. "Fucking delicious. Just like I remember." He gently lowered her legs from his shoulders, kissing the inside of her thighs softly before moving up to kiss her tenderly.

He broke the gentle kiss with a playful smirk, his hand sliding up to gently cup her breast. "Though I must say, these are definitely fuller now." His thumb brushed over your nipple softly. "Motherhood really suits you My Love.” He nipped at her bottom lip teasingly.

He spread her legs wider without warning, pushing them back so her heels were on the couch. He looked down at her body - fuller breasts, wider hips, softer stomach with stretch marks, and a wet swollen pussy. He hardened considerably, unbuckling his belt slowly. "You’re so beautiful.”

He stood up, unbuttoning his pants to free his hard length. He was always big, but seeing her like this - all post-pregnancy and sensitive - had him extra thick and veiny. "You know what's crazy?" He grabbed his base, giving it a slow stroke.

"I'm so fucking turned on right now seeing you like this... all round and soft... I feel like I'm gonna get you pregnant again just by looking at you." He stepped closer, running his tip through her folds. "Is that okay? Your husband filling you up raw again?"

His wife pouted. “No way! You got your two girls. You were an overachiever and gave us two girls at the same time!”

He chuckled deeply, his grin turning mischievous as he leaned down over her. “Oh really now? So I'm not allowed to knock you up again then huh? Two's enough for Mr. Nanami?” His tip teased at your entrance again deliberately slow “Because fuck Sweetheart-“

Kento groaned at the gushing entrance welcoming him home.

"You know how much I fucking love making babies with you.” He slowly pressed forward, entering her inch by inch "One more wouldn't be so bad..." His voice got deeper, the glasses on his face fogged up.

He hated those thin framed fucks, thought it made him look old. His one good eye was failing him, but his wife cooed at him, telling him how sexy they were. "Especially seeing how beautifully your body already changed.” He buried himself fully inside.

He moaned softly at how warm and wet she was, gripping those hips possessively. "I swear you got even tighter after having my kids." He slowly pulled out, only to thrust back inside deeply. "Fuck... I wanna shoot a third baby inside you right now..."

Kento was usually a man of view words. Until he had a pretty pussy wrapped around his aching length.

He started thrusting harder and deeper, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Let me fucking breed you again. Give me another cute little girl to add to our family.”

Kento was strong, wired forearms flexing with the force he was holding her. "Mmm... Or maybe twins again?"

If his wife wasn’t cock drunk she’d probably smack his upside the head. Two little girls were so much already, but the way Nanami was drooling over her she could hardly say no. “A-another girl? Why do you want another girl?” She breathed out between harsh thrusts, her knees in her chest now in a filthy mating press.

He chuckled darkly, leaning down to capture her lips in a brutal kiss as he snapped his hips forward. "Because you look so goddamn beautiful pregnant. Havin’ another little girl running around after her sisters would be so fucking cute.”

His wife gasped out short and quick breaths, her body jolting with those powerful thrust.

He grunted with each thrust, his voice husky and deep. "Plus, think about it... another little girl to spoil... another little princess to dote on..." He kissed her neck, sucking gently on the sensitive skin. "Another little version of you running around.”

Kento chuckled, the eyepatch covering his missing eye slipping under his glasses. "And another little girl to fuckin’ worship her daddy.” He moaned softly against your neck. "Another little princess who'll love her daddy so much. Another cute little thing to hold and kiss and cuddle..." His words made her heart flutter and her pussy clench.

His wife curled her toes, back arched like a bow ready to snap. He growled softly at her reaction, knowing how much she loved hearing about him being a good dad. His mouth found her nipple without warning, suckling deeply.

Like daughter like father. Hikari had to get it from somewhere

“Sweetheart, one more girl-ah G-God- so we have an even number.”

His wife stuttered under his punishing cock. “K-Kento three isn’t an even number!” She yelped at a hard thrust into her cervix.

He groaned at her protests, biting down gently on the sensitive peak. "No, but four is." He pushed you harder, hitting her bullied cervix repeatedly. "Fucking hell, you'd be so fucking beautiful pregnant with twins again." He moaned.

"Your stomach all big and round, this pretty pussy so sensitive and wet. I wanna see you pregnant again so badly." He buried his face between her bouncing tits, sucking a dark mark between them. “Give me four kids Sweetness. I’ll get another job, I’ll sell everything I own. I want you barefoot and pregnant in my front yard until the end of time.”

Kento was mumbling nonsense, he wasn’t even sure he WASN’T literally drooling on her tits.

When Nanami spilled his seed inside of her again, he pulled out quickly before shoving his index and middle finger inside her leaking hole, grabbing her hips and nearly folding her in half as he finger-fucked his seed back inside.

His wife weakly protested from her over-sensitive core, smacking his unburned arm through bleary eyes.

"Fuck... Fuck... Take it all back in, baby... Gonna get you so fucking pregnant." He fingered her rapidly, his knuckles hitting her clit with each thrust. "Gonna pump you full of my cum until you're definitely carrying my kid again."

He moaned softly as he watched her pussy eat up his fingers so greedily. His thumb pressed down on her clit, making her squirm and moan. "Goddamn... You're so fucking eager to get pregnant again... So fucking hungry for my baby.”

Her hair was sticking to her forehead, the humid heat of the Summer night. But she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

"Your pussy is so happy to be full of my cum again..." He slowly pulled his fingers out and watched his semen overflow from her winking entrance. "Look at how greedy she is! Already trying to keep it all inside so my sperm can hit the mark." He pushed her legs further apart.

He watched intently as some of his white, sticky cum spilled out, running down her crack and onto the couch. He immediately pushed his fingers back inside, forcing more of his hot semen back into her womb.

“There, keep it inside Sweetness. Fuckin’ stay pregnant. Give me another kid.”

[before-it-felt-like-a-sin]

Better Kind of Best Friend [1]

Summary: Shauna asks you to fake date her to make Jackie jealous. 3.3k words. (fem reader)

Warnings: not proofread

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“I want you to fake being my girlfriend.”

“What?”

You were sitting on your bed, working on a project for your English class when Shauna suddenly asked you to be her fake girlfriend. The question came out of nowhere, and it caught you completely off guard. 

“Pretend to date me, you know. To make someone else jealous.” She shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. And you guess it isn’t, at least not to her. Why would it be? It would all be fake. 

You give her a look, stretching your legs out. “Yeah, I got that. But why me? Who are we making jealous? Is there an upside to this for me?”

Shauna rolls her eyes, finally looking up from her book. “I know you, and we’re friends, but Jackie really doesn’t. Perfect for a fake relationship, no one’s going to think anything of it.”

“You still haven’t answered my other questions, Shauna.”

“Jackie, okay? I want to make Jackie jealous.”

“I have more questions now, actually.”

“Just agree, it’s not a big deal.” “Shauna, this shit is crazy. I’m not just going to say yes because you asked me to.  So answer my questions, and maybe I’ll say yes,” you urge, waiting for her to give you permission to ask more of your questions. 

“Fine, okay.”

“Great. Why are we making Jackie jealous?”

“I think you know the answer to that question, dumbass.”

“Yeah, duh, you’re into her. But why now? Is she doing something that makes you want to make her jealous, or..?”

She sighs, sitting up. “She’s been super in my face about Jeff lately. More than usual. And I can’t deal with that. It feels like she’s trying to make me jealous.”

“Well, clearly it’s working.”

She shoots you a glare, and you hold your hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry, okay. Low blow, I get it. So fake dating me is going to make her jealous because..?”

“She’s going to think she’s not my top priority anymore. She’ll realize how much she actually likes me once I have someone else, and she’ll lay off with the Jeff shit. Maybe she’ll even break up with him.”

“So, you don’t even want to date her?” You’re confused now, feeling like Shauna’s reasoning is a bit off. There’s no way this plan is going to end up working out for her, and you hope she realizes that soon, or you may actually be stuck fake dating her.

“Of course I want to date her.”

“But you just said you just want her to lay off with the Jeff shit.”

“Yeah, I do. But I don’t really expect her to break up with him and immediately start dating me.”

You look at Shauna, assessing her. “You know this plan is shit, right?”

She glares at you, clearly annoyed by the callout. “Yeah, okay. It is. But she’s also been fucking nagging me to start dating. Every time we talk, she brings it up, and she’s always suggesting the worst guys.”

“Does she not know you’re bi? I thought that was like, common knowledge. She’s not throwing in any girls?”

“She knows I’m bi, she just thinks it would be better for double dates with her and Jeff if I was dating a guy. I guess so Jeff has someone to talk to.Plus, all her sorority friends are straight. She has talked about setting me up with girls before, it’s just a lot of guys recently.”

“So you’re telling me I’d not only have to fake date you, but I’d also have to go on double dates with Jackie and Jeff where I’d be stuck talking to Jeff. And don’t say I won’t, because everyone knows that you and Jackie get lost in your own little bubble when you’re together. This literally sounds like my nightmare scenario. Is there no one else you could ask? You’re on a fucking girl’s soccer team, there has to be at least a few gay people.”

“None that I’m really close to. And Jackie would freak out if she thought I was dating anyone on the team. She’s weird about that shit, even though like half of us have hooked up by now.”

“If I say yes, will you at least admit that this is a horrible idea? And I’m not taking any credit for it. Like at all.”

She nods, looking at you expectantly. As much as you want to say no, tell her to find some other girl to fake date, you know you aren’t going to. You really weren’t getting anything out of it, but you weren’t losing anything, either. Everyone knew you were gay, and you did like Shauna as a person, even if the two of you weren’t super close. 

“How committed are we going to be here? Like, obviously we’ll be pretending around Jackie, so we’ll have to pretend to like, everyone we know. But like, what about dates? Kissing? PDA and all that?” If you were going to say yes, you were at least going to figure out how much she wanted you to put into this. 

“We’ll go out once a week to parties or whatever, plus a one-on-one date once a month, I guess? Plus just like, normal hanging out. And whatever Jackie wants to do with the double dates. Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“What do you want to do about PDA?”

“No cuddling or whatever. Couples that do that piss me off. Holding hands is fine.On dates we can do kisses on the lips, I guess. We’ll probably have to actually make out at parties, at least to make it believable. Depends on the situation. Shit changes depending on who we’re with. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something. You should probably do the same.”

She nods, mentally noting down everything that you’re saying. “That sounds fair.”

“And you’re paying for dates.” If you were going to fake date someone, you were at least going to get a free dinner out of it. Sue you. 

“Fine.” Shauna doesn’t sound happy about it, but she knows this was her idea, and she needed you to agree. 

You smile, somewhat satisfied. “When do we start this?”

“A couple weeks? A month? I have to convince Jackie I actually have a crush on you, and that I asked you out. She won’t believe it if I just show up with a girlfriend tomorrow.”

“Okay, that works. Just like, let me know the exact day. And warn me when I first have to meet Jackie. I need to brush up on my acting skills. If I’m doing this, I’m making it believable.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A month later, you were sitting with Jackie and Shauna in one of the cafes on campus, Shauna’s hand on your knee. Jeff wasn’t there, thank God, but the whole thing was still unbearably awkward. You knew Jackie, of course, but only through Shauna. 

There was also the aspect of being in a fake relationship. That wasn’t super easy for you to ignore. 

You and Shauna had only gone on one “date” so far, but you’d had to commit to a decent amount of buildup. Going to parties or bars so you could flirt with Shauna where Jackie could see her, hanging out with Shauna alone so Jackie really believed she liked you. It was fucking exhausting.

Two days after your first real “date” (although Jackie thought you’d been on more), Shauna had told you that Jackie wanted to meet you for real. So there you were, in what was possibly the most awkward situation of your life. 

“Shauna hasn’t shut up about you in like months, you know,” Jackie chattered, clearly trying to make you feel secure in your relationship. You highly doubted Shauna talked about you that often, and especially didn’t believe she’d been talking about you for months. 

Instead of telling Jackie that, you smiled, looking at her before turning to Shauna. “Good to know.”

Shauna, to her credit, does blush at this. It’s faint, but noticeable. She was a better actress than you originally thought. 

Jackie laughs, and you relax a bit. She was nice, if a bit energetic. You could see why Shauna liked her. Maybe she wasn’t exactly your type, but you saw the appeal. They’d make a cute couple, if Shauna’s plan did end up working. 

The issue was, Jackie didn’t seem jealous at all. Shauna had been telling you how excited Jackie had been when she told her about her crush on you, and you’d noticed her looking happy when you fake flirted with Shauna at parties. It was cute, really, but Shauna’s plan didn’t seem to be working out for her. 

“Shauna says you’re majoring in communications,” you say, looking up at Jackie. 

“Yep!”

“And you’re in a sorority, right?”

Jackie absolutely beams at this, clearly happy that you know a little bit about her. “Shauna’s told you a lot, huh?”

“Yeah, she has.” You laugh, squeezing Shauna’s hand under the table. She hasn’t said much since you’d gotten there, and you were starting to worry. 

“I had to brief her on you, Jax. I couldn’t let her walk in blind.”

All three of you laugh at that, and you feel better now. Shauna’d finally spoken, which relived you of some of your anxiety. It still wasn’t your idea of fun, but it wasn’t complete torture, either. You’d be able to deal with whatever this was until: A) Shauna’s fake dating plan worked, or B) she got bored. 

“Well, thanks,” you reply, grinning at Shauna. “But I don’t think I needed a briefing. Jackie’s great.”

It was weird to say, but you did really like Jackie. She seemed sweet, and very supportive. Maybe a little over the top sometimes, but it worked on her. 

They both seem happy when you say that, Jackie especially. “Thank you! Shauna, she’s really sweet. I can’t believe we haven’t really talked before.”

“She’s been keeping you away from me on purpose, I swear. She thinks you’re going to tell me embarrassing stories from when you guys were little.”

Shauna looks at you, slightly annoyed look on her face. You know she doesn’t really mean it. “I didn’t mean to, you guys are always free at different times.”

“That’s a lie, and we all know it,” you reply, still smiling at her. 

Jackie giggles, and Shauna looks exasperated. “You guys are ganging up on me.”

You and Jackie exchange a look, both used to Shauna’s antics by now. You couldn’t tell if she was being serious, though. She was hard to read sometimes, especially times like these, when you couldn’t just ask. 

“Relax, Shipman. We’re just messing with you.” Jackie looks only somewhat apologetic.

“I’m relaxed.”

You squeeze her hand, letting her know that you could go whenever she wanted to. “We’ll stop, okay?”

Shauna takes a moment to collect herself, regretting bringing you to meet Jackie so soon. It was an experience she wasn’t used to. She’d never seriously dated anyone before, which meant she’d never had to introduce someone to Jackie. Maybe the first time being fake wasn’t exactly her best idea. “It’s fine.”

You can tell she wants you to drop it, so you do. Instead, you focus on just talking with both of them, trying to get to know Jackie, and trying to understand the dynamic between the two girls. 

“You guys met when you were in like, kindergarten, right?”

They both nod, and Jackie gets super excited when you bring it up. “We’re from a kind of small town in New Jersey, which you probably already knew. Anyways, we met in Kindergarten, but didn’t really become friends until second grade. But we’ve been inseparable since!”

“Yeah, I had fallen or something, I don’t remember, but she came up to me and told me that I shouldn’t be sad because there were a bunch of worms in the dirt that we could play with.”

You laugh at that, turning to face Jackie. “You don’t strike me as much of a tomboy.”

Jackie laughs, shaking her head. “I’m not, now. But I used to love all of that stuff. I used to spend hours in my mom’s garden looking for worms.”

You nod, sipping your coffee. Trying to imagine Jackie as a little girl searching for worms was difficult. It didn’t match the image of her you’d created, not even a little. “Did Shauna join you?”

“Never. She’d sit next to me, nose stuck in a book. That hasn’t really changed.”

“I can appreciate that.”

Shauna smiles at you, more sweetly than you’d anticipated. “I’m consistent, at least.”

“You’re also an English major, right? That’s how you two met?”

“Yeah, we were in a few classes together last semester and got to talking. Then it just kind of snowballed into this.”

Jackie smiles. “She seriously would just not shut up about you. Still doesn’t. Literally, she’s brought you up to me every day since you met. I’d never seen her so interested in someone before.”

She had to have been lying. This whole thing, your whole relationship with Shauna, it was all fake. You were sure it was purely platonic. Either way, though, it was sweet that Shauna liked you enough to tell Jackie all about you. 

“Okay, don’t exaggerate, it’s not every day.” Shauna looked sheepish, like you weren’t supposed to know that. 

“Shipman, she’s already dating you. I don’t think you have to pretend like you’re uninterested.”

Shauna just rolls her eyes, looking apologetic. You’re not sure why. Yeah, Jackie said she talked about you a lot, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. You talked about your friends all the time, too. If anything, you thought it was sweet. Maybe the two of you were closer than you’d originally thought. 

The three of you keep talking, bringing up childhood stories, talking about professors, how it was living in the dorms, how you all couldn’t wait to move into an apartment next year. It was nice, honestly. You did really like both of them. There were a couple times where you felt like a third wheel, but that was to be expected when you were talking to people who’d known each other since childhood. In all honesty, they were really good at including you, and you appreciated that. 

“One of the frats is throwing a party tonight, you should come!” Jackie looked directly at you, hoping you’d join her. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I was just planning to stay in. Watch a movie, catch up on some homework. Maybe next week.”

Jackie looked disappointed, but smiled at you anyway. “Well, if you change your mind, just let Shauna know. The more the merrier!”

You nodded, turning to Shauna and silently asking her if she wanted you to be there. Subtly, she shook her head, enough that you knew she didn’t mind. You’d feel more guilty if she were actually your girlfriend, but she seemed fine with you not going. 

“Do you want me to stay home with you?” She asked, really seeming interested.

“Nah, you and Jackie already planned to go out. I don’t want to fuck that up for you.”

“I’m sure Jackie won’t care if I stay in tonight.” Shauna was much more committed to this than you thought, which was throwing you off a bit.

“Shauna, it’s fine. Seriously. I don’t mind being by myself.”

She let it go, finally. “Just tell me if you change your mind.”

“I will, I will.”

Jackie watched your entire exchange intently, trying to figure out the dynamic between you and Shauna. She seemed to be wondering what her best friend acts like when dating someone, and you wonder if you’re Shauna’s first serious relationship. Sure, it was fake, but Jackie was supposed to think it was real. Shauna hadn’t said anything about you being her first serious relationship, but she didn’t have to disclose that to you. None of it was real, there was no pressure for that sort of deep conversation. 

Suddenly, Jackie spoke up. “Shit. I’m gonna be late. It was nice meeting you!” 

She stands up, giving Shauna a hug goodbye before hurrying out of the coffee shop. You assume she has a sorority thing, or maybe had a date with Jeff. Either way, it wasn’t that big of a deal. You’d already spent a couple hours together. 

“Sorry I sprung this on you.”

You shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “It’s fine. Low stakes, just Jackie. I knew it would have to happen at some point.”

“She’s definitely buying it, which is good. Only a matter of time until she ropes us into a double date.” Shauna looks mildly worried at the prospect of this.

“It’ll be fine. She already believes us, and Jeff is absolutely stupider than she is. You could tell him the sky is green and he’d believe you.”

“I know, I just don’t want him to be weird about me dating a girl. Well, not really dating, but he won’t know that.”

“Well, if Jackie’s dating a homophobe, I’m sure you would’ve known by now. And if you didn’t, maybe that’ll be the reason Jackie breaks up with him. Has Jeff ever been a dick before? To you, specifically, I mean.”

Shauna shakes her head, taking a drink of her tea. It must have gone cold by now, but she didn’t seem to care. “No, not really. At least not on purpose. He’s said stupid shit, but only because he’s ignorant, not because he’s an ass on purpose.”

“It’ll be fine, then. She hasn’t even asked about a double date yet, anyway. You have plenty of time to let him know you’re with a girl.”

“You’re right. I’m just stressed.”

“This was your plan, you know. We can call it off whenever.” You don’t tell her that Jackie doesn’t seem jealous at all. If she can’t tell already, she’s probably beyond saving. 

“We can’t just quit a week in. Jackie would get suspicious.”

“Yeah, true. But if this doesn’t work after a couple months, I’m out. I don’t have time to be fake dating you for longer than that. I’d like to find an actual partner, you know.”

She sighs, running a hand through her hair. She knows you’re being serious, even if she doesn’t want you to be. Her whole plan was proving harder to pull off than she’d originally thought.

“Yeah, okay.”

You finish your coffee, standing up from the table. “If you want an out for this party, we could watch a movie. You made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to go.”

“Jackie might kill me if I skip.”

“Blame me. That’ll really make her jealous.”

Shauna smiles for a moment, then her face falls. “You said you didn’t want me to stay in with you. She heard that.”

“I changed my mind. Just go back to your dorm, tell her that after she left, we talked about it and I want you to stay in with me. It’s a double win for you. You don’t have to go to the party, and you have another chance to make Jackie jealous.”

She stands up, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”

You don’t hug, or kiss, instead electing to just go your own ways. If Jackie asked, Shauna could just say she walked you back to your dorm. She didn’t need to actually do it. 

On your way home, you kept replaying the day in your head. You didn’t know what it felt like, not really. On one hand, you felt like you were just hanging out with two of your friends. On the other, it almost did feel like Jackie was third wheeling a date between you and Shauna. The whole thing was confusing and annoying. 

Whatever. You’d power through, even if you couldn’t place your finger on why you were so dedicated.

[biteyoubiteme]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

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

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

☐ Yes ☐ No

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

wc: 13k — playlist.

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

a big thank you to my beta reader.

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

"Sweetheart."

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

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

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

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

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

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

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

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

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

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

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

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

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

"I love you," you whisper.

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

"I love you more."

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

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

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

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

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

It's always easy with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N."

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

"I am, Mom."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

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

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

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

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

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

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

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

And then you slipped inside. His room.

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

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

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

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

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

But pretending could only take you so far.

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

A name that no longer had a future.

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

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

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

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

Your hairbands.

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

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. Then, softer this time—

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

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

It happens more often than not.

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

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

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

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

Because it means moving on.

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

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

That terrifies you more than anything.

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

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

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

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

His breath catches. And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N!"

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

"I missed you," she murmurs.

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

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

It’s too much.

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

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

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

But he's not. He never will be.

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

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

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

Except for his sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

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

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

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

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

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

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

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

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

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

[clovercap]

unsaid (part 2)

2.4

note: hi!! thank you guys for all the love on part one, oh my gosh!!◝(ᵔᵕᵔ)◜ i think i'm gonna make 1-2 more parts and finish up this little series! please let me know what you'd like to see and send me asks! reblog and like if you liked this and lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next part ᵔદᵔ okay luv u all hope you enjoy!!

pairing: bfs!rafe and bsf!y/n

summary: y/n is heavily overthinking and rafe seems perfectly fine

warnings: this is 18+. alcohol use.

“You aren’t gonna surf?” 

Everyone is at the beach, and it’s mid-afternoon, the day after the party. Rafe’s sitting next to you, sunglasses on as he frowns at the ocean. It’s obvious that he’s hungover, which typically makes him irritable. You’re used to it, but it was hard not to take his attitude personally after last night.

I always need you. I can breathe when you’re around. 

What the fuck did he mean by that? 

You glance at him in the beach chair beside you, your hand playing in the sand between your chairs.

“No,” He replies hoarsely. “I feel like shit.” 

He hasn’t mentioned what he said last night. You wonder if he even remembers. It doesn’t seem like it, considering how fucked up he was. By the end of the night, you were dragging him onto Kelce’s couch because he could barely walk.

You, on the other hand, were unfortunately sober enough to remember. The more you thought about it, the more you spiraled. You couldn’t help but wonder if his words meant something more. Combined with all the things he had been doing, acting a bit more protective, being a bit more touchy and sweet. It all makes you think that maybe he does feel something more for you, like you do for him. 

It’s been eating away at you, ever told you he needed you, like the porch swing had become a confessional for just a moment. You have an aching feeling in your gut begging you to just ask him about it, but you restrain yourself. The logical reasoning that tells you he was just drunk, just being nice, holds you back. 

“Yeah, you were gone.” You finally respond, hoping to cover your distress with a soft laugh. 

You feel his gaze on you as you mess with the sand. It feels heavy, like molasses has suddenly enveloped you. He doesn’t respond, which doesn’t surprise you. There wasn’t anything else to say regarding his hangover, and there was no way in hell you would bring up what he had said. 

“Hey! What’re you guys doing out here? The water’s great.” You look up from the sand to see Ruthie walking in front of you both, her wet hair dripping down her shoulders with a hand on her hip and a seltzer in her other hand. 

“I’m hungover,” Rafe says simply, looking up at her through his sunglasses. “Swimming won’t go over too well.” 

“I totally get that,” She giggles like he was trying to be funny.

Her eyes drift to you, and her tone is much less friendly. “Why aren’t you in the water?” 

“M’tanning.” You reply, keeping your voice level. 

She tilts her head and smirks. “You can’t tan like that.” 

She’s not wrong. You’re hunched over in the beach chair, playing with the sand. The way you were sitting was not suitable for a good tan.

“I guess.” You say, and you stand up. Maybe swimming would help get your mind off things. “The water better be as nice as you’re making it out to be.” 

“Oh, it will!” She calls to you as you walk towards the shore. You look back and see she’s taken your seat, leaning over and talking to Rafe. You snap your head back to the ocean and keep walking like your chest didn’t heat up in the disgusting way it usually did when you saw Rafe talking to other girls.

When your feet hit the water, you realize Ruthie was unfortunately right. The water was great. Just cool enough to escape the blazing heat, and just warm enough to feel relaxing. You head further in, closing your eyes and dipping under the waves. You hold your breath and count to 30. You gasp for air as you come back up and see the waves have pulled you even further out. Your toes barely touch the bottom, so you lie on your back, letting the gentle waves bring you closer to shore. 

You don’t know how long you’re in the water, switching between floating and swimming, all while never looking back at the shore. You hear your name being called as you float on your back. His voice is so familiar it almost hurts, and you sigh as you let your legs sink back to the ocean floor, watching Rafe wade towards you. 

“What’s up?” You ask, swimming towards him.

“You’ve been in here for like, almost an hour.  Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.” He says gruffly, crossing his arms. 

The water reaches your thighs as you stand. You force a smile, running your thumb under your bikini strap. “I didn’t realize I was out here for so long, sorry.” 

“It’s fine, just—you should really be paying more attention.” 

It’s like he’s admonishing you, and you feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. 

“Sorry.” You mumble, looking away from him as you rub your arm.  It’s a weak attempt to settle your nerves.

His face twists. “No, don’t be sorry. I shouldn’t’ve—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. He glances down and drops his arms, bending down to feel the water on his hands. “Water’s nice.” 

You nod and smile tightly at his deflection. 

“Maybe it’s your turn to lie out in the ocean for an hour.” Your chest bubbles as you attempt to lighten the mood.  

He looks up at you from the water, and his gaze penetrates you. It’s like he knows something you don’t. You swallow. 

 Then he shakes his head, looking back towards shore, and the feeling is gone. “Nah, I just wanted to come check on you.”

You still, and the waves hit against you. You can’t help how the most casual sentence from him sounds like the most meaningful thing you’ve ever heard. Even though you know it’s not. Since last night, though, it feels like everything he says just…means more. 

“Wanna head back? Maybe you can actually tan.” He breaks the silence you barely even noticed.

“Maybe.” You say, looking over towards the shore. Ruthie is still in your chair, and you bristle at the sight. 

Rafe follows your gaze. “Okay,” He says gently. “Well, I’m gonna head back.”

He looks back at you expectantly. You really didn’t want to follow him back to shore. You felt like you followed him everywhere and hated yourself for it. 

“I’m gonna stay in the water a bit longer.” 

He nods with a small smile. “Try not to float away.” 

You let out a strained laugh and watch as he turns around. 

You look out towards the horizon, swimming towards it. You had always been independent, but as long as you’ve known Rafe, you’ve always just been by his side. You had become attached to him in a way that scared you. 

You weren’t sure when you started feeling more for Rafe. All you knew was that your feelings were recent and overwhelming. You had never been the type to need someone as much as you need him in your life. Maybe that’s why the thought of possibly—most likely— ruining things between you felt so heavy. 

You grew up with everything handed to you, everything decided for you, and the only thing you could control was your feelings. That’s partially why you and Rafe had gotten as close as you did. He struggled with the expectations placed upon him to be the perfect Cameron, while you felt the pressure to be just as successful as your family was. It was a perfect match of privileged teenagers dealing with overwhelming expectations.

But now, you couldn’t control your feelings. Now they had taken a hold over you, and you felt like a puppet being toyed with by his hands.  And ever since that stupid fucking party, it’s been even worse. The rule you had over your emotions had been overthrown. Stripped from you, leaving you with this hollow feeling in your stomach that only Rafe could fill. 

Thinking of him only deepened that emptiness, and you look at the distant horizon. An abrupt barrier between the sky and sea, a wall that isn’t real, but is always there. Sometimes you felt like that with Rafe. He’s never let you in entirely. Maybe that’s why his words at the party hit so hard. 

You can’t help yourself as you look back towards the shore, and your eyes immediately find him without even trying.  You see Rafe sitting in his chair, Ruthie still in yours. Maybe it’s time you just go home. 

You swim towards the shore and walk up onto the sand. Ruthie doesn’t bother moving from your seat as you get closer. If anything, she’s ignoring you, focusing solely on Rafe. You try not to look at him and grab your beach bag. 

You take a few steps away and pull your towel out, wrapping it around yourself. You attempt to keep your composure as you hear her laugh at something he says, but you can’t help that flicker in your chest. It shouldn’t get to you the way it did. 

“Hey, are you leaving?” 

You look over to see Rafe's eyes on you. He looks slightly disappointed. 

“Yeah, I’m tired from last night,” You shrug. “Think I’m just gonna go home and take a nap.” 

The emotionless expression on his face morphs into a small frown. “You alright?” He asks. 

You nod and force a smile. “Yeah, can you just?” Your eyes dart to Ruthie in your chair, now looking at her phone. “Grab my chair when you leave?”

He grips the armrests like he was about to stand, but he doesn’t. He stays seated, and his lips twitch in annoyance. “Yeah.” 

“Thanks, I’ll uh, I’ll see you later.” You lift your hand in a feeble wave, and he just nods. 

You walk to your car parked not too far away on the sand.  You and Rafe were just friends. That’s all. You just had to keep telling yourself that. You just needed to get over it.

———

A few days later, you find yourself at the country club. Rafe and you had texted occasionally, and he was the one who told you that you should come, but as you stand next to Kelce and sip your iced tea, you see Rafe leaning against the bar, talking to Ruthie again. 

You decided after the beach that you had to keep some distance between the two of you. Give yourself time to just get over it. Over him. But it was getting harder and harder to do so when it felt like the two of them were rubbing…whatever it was they were doing, in your face.

You thought he didn’t like her. He had even told you once how her voice irritated him to no end, and she was a ‘pick-me’. But there he was, smirking as she babbled on about something you couldn’t even follow. You tear your gaze from them and focus back on Kelce, who was rambling on about something with his boat. 

“…and my dad’s pissed ’cause I didn’t ask him before I got it wrapped, like it’s his fuckin’ boat,” Kelce scoffs, sipping his whiskey as he looks at you. “Are you even listening to me?”

You blink. “Yeah.”

Kelce looks over at Rafe and Ruthie, and a small grin crosses his face. “Oh, I see.” He nods like he knows something. 

“See what?’ You frown, praying Kelce hadn’t picked up on your increasing jealousy. 

He laughs a bit and crosses his arms. “Man, if you thought you were obvious before…”

Your brows furrow. “What?” 

“We all know, y’know.” He says, a little less teasing now. 

Your heart starts to beat a little faster. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “Know what?" Your words come out slow.

Kelce just looks at you like you’re stupid. Like he knows that you know what he means. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Whatever you think, you’re wrong.” Your voice is tight, and you sip your tea as if it would help. You didn’t want Kelce knowing about whatever it was Rafe made you feel. You weren’t even fully sure yourself.

“Sure. I won’t say anything, don’t worry.” He laughs and pats you on the back. It’s then that you feel Rafe’s presence. He steps next to you and looks between you and Kelce. 

“Worry about what?” He asks, eyes darting over you. His voice is casual, but his body is tense.

You just look at him, unable to attempt a lie with him standing so close. 

“Me getting in trouble for throwing last week, and trying to throw again this week.” Kelce shrugs as he saves you, and you look back at him, thankful. 

Rafe just looks between the two of you for a moment. “Why would you worry ’bout that?” He chuckles, rubbing his knuckle under his nose, something he only did when he was bothered. 

“I just—I don’t know,” You shrug. “You know how his neighbors are sometimes.” You sip your iced tea again, like it can help the heat that flows through your chest as he stares you down. “Two parties so close might be too much.”

Rafe nods, and he seems to loosen up. “You need to stop overthinking.” He grins and pokes your arm. His small touch feels like a gut punch, and you instinctively take a small step back.

“Yeah.” You laugh and nod like that’s not what you’ve been trying to do for the past 4 days. Like you haven’t been cursing yourself internally every time you’ve caught yourself thinking back to Kelce’s last party. 

He looks at you for a second, and you hear Kelce get wrapped up in a conversation with one of your friends, but you can’t take your eyes off Rafe.

“We were gonna go to the beach after, do you wanna come?” He asks, leaning down, just so you could hear. 

His closeness makes you feel overwhelmed, and you shake your head. “No, I think I’m actually gonna head home. I’m tired.” You smile at him. 

His gaze softens. “You sure? I can come with you.” It’s a simple offer.  It’s casual and friendly, but you start to think maybe it’s more. You shake your head, more at yourself than anything.

You hate how fast you were about to say yes. But you couldn’t allow yourself to become any more disillusioned with him. 

“It’s okay, I’m just gonna nap. But I’ll see you later.” You say quietly, setting your now empty iced tea on the counter, hoping your rejection of his offer landed well. 

He’s silent for a second as his eyes narrow. “Alright, I’ll see you later.” He nods slowly.

You feel his eyes on you as you say bye to everyone else and push open the country club doors. You can finally breathe as you walk towards your car.

Distance, distance, distance.

taglist: @my-name-is-baby

(lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next part!! thank you for the love :') @my-name-is-baby)

[mandarinmoons]

Too Close for Comfort

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gender neutral reader Summary: Being stuck in a closet with your best friend evokes some feelings you hadn't felt before, leaving you both confused and questioning where you stand Words: 877 Warnings: None A/N: This is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins "Stuck Together Challenge"! It's also my first time taking a part in a writing challenge and I really enjoyed it <3

“Whoa, Emily, careful!”

Emily snickered behind you as she pushed you along to the closet, Morgan trailing behind her while doing the same to Reid. Morgan laughed as Spencer nearly tumbled to the floor because of the force he used to push the lanky man ahead, causing Spencer to huff and regain his balance.

The two of them had been teasing you and Spencer for a while over how close you both were, constantly telling everyone that you were going on a date whenever they heard you make plans to see each other after work and making kissy faces when they saw you talking to each other during work hours. It was something you could easily brush off, but now it was getting ridiculous.

After a long case, Rossi invited everyone to his place for a get-together and a few hours later, Penelope suggested playing some party games. Of course, Emily and Morgan being the evil geniuses that they are, threw out the idea to play seven minutes in heaven and it ended up with them rigging the game to make sure that you and Reid were stuffed in the closet together. You knew they could be sneaky, but this was hitting a new nerve.

“Have fun!”

Before you had a chance at a comeback, the door was slammed in your face and you and your coworker were surrounded by darkness. Blinking a few times to get used to the lack of light, you saw Spencer awkwardly looking from side to side, taking in his surroundings. To you it seemed as if he was doing his best to avoid eye contact with you, even if you could barely see one another.

“Rossi’s coats seem nice.”

“It’s Rossi, pretty much all of his belongings are imported from Italy.”

Spencer chuckled and lifted his head to catch your gaze. The smiles faded from both of your faces as reality of the situation set in. You were stuck in a cramped closet and the tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. You didn’t think you could ever feel unease with Spencer, if you were to ask who was the one person you felt most comfortable with your answer would always be him, but something about this situation felt different. It felt as though you hadn’t been this close to him before and it was unearthing some new feelings.

It might have been dark, but there was just enough light coming in from the crack of the door that you could make out the features on his face that you loved so much. The golden hue in his irises, the crows feet surrounding his eyes whenever he squinted, it was the things that came to mind at first whenever you thought of him. Why were you thinking of him this way?

“This was not what I meant when I said I wanted to be closer to you.”

“Oh really, genius, what did you have in mind then?”

“I don’t know, sitting beside you on the couch while we watched a movie?”

“Yeah and then have Emily and Morgan poke fun at us again throughout the film.”

“Well that certainly sounds better than being stuck here.”

“It’s only for seven minutes!”

“You never know if they decide to “forget us” in here.”

“That does sound like something they would do.”

Faced with the fact that your coworkers might play a prank and keep you locked up for longer, you sat on the ground to be more comfortable and Spencer followed suit. As he sat down, the tip of his shoe hit yours and you nudged him back gently, making each other chuckle by continuing the action.

“You know behaviour like this is what makes them tease us.”

“I know but it’s hard not to do.”

“What? Not getting on my nerves?”

A chuckle leaving Spencer’s lips again, he moved across the closet so he was now sitting next to you, his shoulder brushing yours and feeling his breath on your face. Your eyes locked once again and the tension felt as strong as before.

As you kept your sight on him the hotter the closet seemed to get. It was hard to look away, you swore you saw Spencer’s pupils dilate and you were arguing with yourself in your head whether it was true or not. 

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I um…”

Before Spencer had a chance to finish his sentence, the door unlocked and you winced at the sudden light pooling into the room.

“You two seem comfortable.”

Shaking your head at Emily’s comment, you stood up and offered Spencer a hand, feeling your cheeks heat up feeling how warm his hand was in yours. 

With Emily striding back to the kitchen to the rest of the team, you and Spencer stood there for a moment taking in the situation, holding hands and trying to look away to hide the obvious blush on both of your faces.

“After you.”

Smiling at his manners, you let go of his hand and made your way back to everyone, leaving Spencer to stand by himself for a second, cursing Emily in his head for the intrusion, and for not letting himself finish what he wanted to say.

You can find my masterlists here! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[jyn-mother-fucking-andor]

Thinking a lot about the ending of Andor and my own little head canons.

Honestly, the more I sit with it the more I think that both things can be true in that Cassian loved Bix but also is at peace with how they left things. Of course he misses her. Of course he thinks about her. Of course he wonders what their life could have been. And yet, once she’s gone, he just seems so much lighter.

There’s no question that they loved each other deeply and that he was devastated when she left. How she left. But ultimately so much of their relationship was him “saving” her or trying to protect her from the empire, from her trauma, from herself. The poor man was exhausted and was desperately clinging to the idea of a life with her that he couldn’t see the life they actually had. How isolated they were together, even on Yavin 4. While I take some issue with the way Bix left him, the “I’ll wait for you” speech, and the pregnancy… I’m grateful that she took that step back. Sometimes the most profound act of love towards another person is to let them go. She loved Cassian but I think she was also honest with herself about what their relationship had become. That ultimately they were not in a space to be healthy together.

When we see Cassian about two years or so after she’s gone, he’s more relaxed than we’ve seen him in the entirety of when they were together. He has built a little life for himself, a community, a home on Yavin 4. Maybe isn’t exactly what he envisioned, but it’s the life he needs. Sure, he’s lonely but he also just seems to be at peace. When Vel tells him to reach out to Bix, he shrugs. He says maybe but it feels like he’s saying no. Why? Because he’s moved on! He’s finally feeling like he can let her go, that their story is over. I’m sure he still has love for her but it’s shifted into something else and he’s found peace with her on his own way.

Then Jyn comes along.

She’s so different from Bix and yet the love she feels and the heart she brings to the rebellion reawakens something in Cassian. Hope was fading away, then there she was, bringing it home. It knocks the wind out of him and you can see it in every look he gives her. He’s impressed and terrified and transfixed. She’s a walking hurricane and yet she’s his mirror. She’s the echo in his shadow. Jyn’s the partner he needs to make that last push against the rebellion. As Luthen said, they burn for a sunrise they’ll never see and it’s a beautiful thing that they can hold each other when the end does come.

In that final scene, we learn Bix’s fate and see that she also found a home and community as well. She gets to take solace in knowing that in making the choice for her and Cassian, she saved him in a way. She saved herself. She finally found her peace. I like to think she met someone and that they reignite something she felt was long gone or that she’d never have after Cassian. I hope she was able to move on too and that they help her raise her baby and that she feels seen and cared for and loved. Of course she’ll tell her child about their father and the legacy he left behind with the rebellion. But at the same time, I have no doubt that that child will grow up in a better world because Bix left.

Who knows, maybe if the Rogue One team had lived, maybe Cassian and Bix would have reconnected? Maybe. Maybe not. But I like to think that if they had, it would be as friends. Sure, their family wouldn’t be the most conventional and there would undoubtedly be some awkwardness in the beginning, but they’d find their way. They’d co-parent and I do honestly believe that Jyn and Bix would have a lot of respect for one another and would be great friends. Jyn would love that child like her own and would be a bad ass step mom.

All this to say, at its core, Rogue One and Andor (pretty much all of Star Wars for that matter) is all about hope. Hope through rebellion. Hope through friendship. Hope through love in all forms.

[peanutalergy]

Mr. Winston - SR x reader

The BAU doesn't really need your help with the case. Spencer does. tags: post prison! spencer, fem! child psychologist! reader. cm type violence (blood, murder, etc), traumatized child. pre-relationship yearning MAYBE ? maybe fluff also sorry i still don't know how to classify these things. the synopsis doesn't really make any sense because this is kinda spencer's pov but idk guys sorry im really tired. w/c: 1.5k (this was originally 5.4k words but then i reread it and found that i actually hated every single one of them so...) a/n: okay so wow... i had so much fun writing this (let's ignore most of my posts from the past two weeks) THE THING IS i sorta already had a pt2 to this but then i thought well we can't have that without the beginning so i did kinda write this in a rush im really sorry that it's so short and shitty. . . ALSO i really love this reader & i'd love to write more of her but if you don't like it then i don't like it either and i'll never write again if you tell me not to. i do not think this is good by any means. i do hate it but if i stared at the google docs page for any longer i'd go insane.

Spencer doesn’t treat her like she’s made of porcelain because she’d be easily broken (though, she would, but neither of you say that since you can tell how hard she tried to look strong before coming to the precinct). He treats her like she’s fragile because he can’t remember the last time he didn’t break something like this — wide-eyed and shaking, holding onto something soft like it’s the only real thing around.

He was the one who convinced the team to ask for your help when the kid got involved — he always is. They insisted it wasn’t needed, you can deal with her yourself, you’ve always been good with children, or whatever, but your office got a call from him anyway.

No one knows why he sticks around. Maybe it’s the way you hold her; the gentle hand that runs through her hair, much warmer than the tiny fingers with chewed off nails and blood stains. Maybe he’s trying to memorize the tone of your voice — soft and sweeter than the apple juice she didn’t open, rambling about the silliest things you can think of — to imitate it next time he finds himself having to question kids. Maybe it’s the teacup in your other hand (the one he made you) and the way you so casually sip from it. As if this delicacy came to you as easily as taking a breath, while he struggled even with breathing.

Either way, despite his hesitance, he’s always sure to be around if you’re working on a case with them. Watching from the corner in a way that might have seemed creepy if only you didn’t smile so often back at him.

Amelia Murphy, 6 years old.

She sits at the end of the couch, legs tucked up to her chest like she’s trying to make herself as small as a crumb on the untouched sandwich going stale by her side. Spencer stands at the edge of the room, a smile threatening to peek through as he listens to your stories about the stuffed animals on your bed.

“You can’t tell any of his buddies, okay?” she nods, small but enough for you, “Mr. Winston is my favorite teddy out of all the ones I have.”

“Why?” You and the agent have to hide a surprised expression at the sound of her quiet voice, ragged and hoarse, coming out for the first time tonight. 

“Because he’s been with me since I was very, very young.” You chuckle lightly, “I must’ve been around your age when my grandma gifted him to me.”

“How do you know my age?”

You look at Spencer. He takes that as an ask for help (it really wasn't) and moves before you can speak again, still as careful as possible as he sits on the armchair next to the couch and joins in on the conversation like you suggested to him so often. “We don’t, actually.” She doesn’t flinch like he feared she would, so he continues with a soft smile, “I’m sure my friend was just trying to say she was young, like you are.”

Amelia tilts her head, small brows furrowed as softly as she mutters, “Really?”

“Yeah.” He nods, “We don’t really know how old you are.”

“I’m… six.” Her fingers, miniature sized when compared to Spencer’s, struggle for a second before arranging into a six, “This much.”

You smile and pretend to write it down on your clipboard, “That’s a lot.”

He laughs in half disbelief, half joy when she asks, “Well, how old are you?”

“Do you want to guess?”

“Uhm…” Tiny hand scratching her chin, she examines him like she knows what she’s doing. He looks to you in pure confusion during the seconds she stays quiet. “A hundred?”

He holds back a snort, “Not quite, no. Do you wanna try again?”

During most of the time he talks to her, you stay quiet. He often looks to you, hesitating, asking for some sort of reassurance that he’s doing this right — you always give it to him with a barely there nod and a big smile.

Always, except for the moment he started talking about his job in almost too much detail when she prompted what are you?. Though, that time, he didn’t need your confirmation or denial to figure it out. All it took was a different knit to her eyebrows for him to go back into smaller than regular talking tone, from the bordering robotical lecturing mode.

“I wanna be a model when I grow up.”

“Oh, yeah?” you giggle breathily. Thankfully, she doesn’t take it as an offense like both of you thought she would. She just nods back at you with a proud smile. 

“And do you know what models do at their job?” Spencer inquires.

“They sit pretty in their pretty clothes for the people to watch,” the girl shrugs, speaking in the same way one would say the sky is blue. “Like her.”

He laughs when she points at you. “Being pretty isn’t all she does, though, Amelia. She’s not really a model.”

“She should be,” she whispers and you pretend you don’t hear it.

“Yeah, she should.”

He’s still careful even in the way he looks at her. Like she’d feel his cold hands if he said something too loud, too much. Every time she shows any sort of reluctance, he goes even softer — like he’d learned from uncountable hours of watching you do this over the years.

The very first time you met — interrogating an unsub’s daughter, before all of it happened. Before Mexico and Maeve and Gideon and Dilaudid and Emily. Before his jaw was screwed permanently clenched and his brain painted foggy. When he didn’t think of himself as a ticking time bomb and wasn’t scared of what he saw in the mirror.

Even when he didn’t feel this way about children as well as every other aspect of his life, he admired your work and yourself. So, it only makes sense (to him) that, when he sees himself as some sort of monster, you look like you’ve hung the moon and the stars even though the only thing you’ve ever been is yourself.

“And, uh, Amelia…” he mutters, pointing to the stuffed bunny in her hands, all love stains and frayed stitches, “Your friend over there. Does he have a name?”

She shakes her head, then spins it around to show the bow hidden on the back of its head, “She’s a girl.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m so sorry,” he laughs awkwardly.

“She doesn’t have a name.”

“Is there a reason for that, sweetie?” you ask as soon as there’s a pause from both of them.

He just watches with a grin while you work with her to find names for her teddy.

The markers were Spencer’s idea. He didn’t mean for it to be anything more than a way for her to express herself — you’d both been drawing animals and trees and numbers. Though, when her page became full of red scribbles and what seemed to be portraits of her parents, you realized she might have more to say.

“Who are those people, Amelia?”, he places a hand on her shoulder. She’s so focused on her tiny fingers wrapped around the marker, that she barely shows any reaction to him. When her bottom lip goes wobbly and her hands impossibly shakier, he takes away the paper with a “Okay, that’s enough.”

She fell asleep on his shoulder after half an hour of sobbing while telling what she remembered of the story.

He can’t help the warm feeling that floods his chest when you tell him, “You did a good job.” after getting as much as one can out of a kid who just witnessed her parents’ murder. His expression and words go against it, though. With a small shrug, he mumbles, “Oh, it was nothin–”

“No, don’t do that,” you cut him off, “You did really well.”

“You would’ve gotten her to say a lot more in a lot less time. It takes you an average of five minutes and for–”

“Shut up,” a giggle.

“Would you please stop cutting me off?”

“Not until you admit that you are actually still amazing with kids.”

He sighs. “How’s Mr. Winston?”

“No, no!” you slap his arm playfully, “You don’t get to change the subject by mocking me for my friends.”

“I’m not mocking you,” Spencer raises his arms in defense, a smile brightening his face. “I’m trying to get to know you and your friends better. I can’t do that anymore?”

“Not if you’re mean about it,” arms crossed over your chest and a half fake pout on your lips, you mutter.

“When was I mean?” he cocks his head to the side.

“I can tell from your tone of voice. It gets higher and weirder when you lie. You’re not the only one who knows about psychology here, buddy.”

He just shakes his head with a laugh. “I’m being serious. How are they doing?”

“Well, if you must know, they’re doing amazing.”

“I’m glad.”

It takes 43 (he counted) chimes of the clock on the wall for anyone to say something again. It’s him, in a whisper, “Do you really think she liked me?”

00:09 doctor reid genius guy

Amelia’s aunt just picked her up. She said her bunny was now named Mrs. Winston.

[alexanderlightweight]

A continuation of i think its called to be or knot to be would be cool if youre still taking the writing wednesday prompts? Or literally anything with malec having a freak4freak dynamic because thats straight fire. Dealers choice for whether its sfw or nsfw. I hope you’re having a great day :)

dear Anon! I hope you enjoy this because they are definitely freak4freak in most of my universes but there are some where its particularly obvious and this is 100% one of them and it was still prompts open when I got this! thank you i'm having a day that's getting better the more I write so filling this prompt actually helped <3

first part btw

i hope you enjoy!

lumine

to be or knot to be

Magnus wakes because of the wards flaring but from the way his instincts snarl and snap, he’d wake regardless.  There’s too many strange presences in his home. Scents and emotions littered about his personal space by people he’s not actually familiar or comfortable with.

While Magnus did set up a quick ward maze that makes Clarissa and her little guard dogs unable to wander, that doesn’t mean he likes them there at all. Not to mention the magick he’s wasted healing Lucian and the time Magnus will have to spend smoothing over local politics and power balances. No one is going to be happy about a former shadowhunter having so much power in the downworld, especially one who was so close to Valentine.

The imprint of Alexander’s teeth on his shoulder throbs as he sits up and Magnus pauses, ignoring the wards and his thoughts for a moment. He touches two fingers to the sore, raw wound and presses on the deep marks immortalizing itself on his skin. It’s with a smirk that he pulls on a thinly spun silk blouse and summons a drink to his side table.

The shirt is smooth and soft enough that he’ll feel on the bite but won’t overly distract him with the temptation in his bed and the drink is strong enough to hopefully keep his tongue from craving Alexander.

Alexander is still asleep and when Magnus starts to leave the bed but he whines and nuzzles closer. 

It’s both utterly endearing to see and infuriating to not be able to indulge.

However Lucian is awake and from the way the wards are acting, emotions are high and lacking sense.

Magnus snaps his fingers, ensuring that no one will be able to scent exactly what’s been going on.  He doesn’t diminish the scent of Alexander mingled with himself, but he does conceal it. 

Alpha pairings are rare enough that it won’t be long before they’re exposed, but Magnus can at least give Alexander the courtesy of letting his boy pick where he wants it to happen. 

Clary, Simon and Jace are utterly headache inducing and there is a rather large amount of nonsense that Magnus learns, rather than anything interesting.

“Why don’t you just glamour yourselves?” Magnus asks, because cameras don’t pick up magic unless made with magical glass and connected to a node or runestone. “Even if the cameras pick up on it being opened it won’t matter as they can’t see you. If you’re worried about Luke then it’s obvious. You can stash him somewhere else where he can have an alibi. A non-obvious one this time.  He should go to a coffee shop half an hour before the rest of you start your little espionage mission and then have him leave, casually, before you’re finished. Somewhere he normally goes, like he’s trying to get back into a routine, you can have Simon go with him.”

That seems to shock all of them, Lucian included.

It’s getting to the point where Magnus is beginning to wonder if all the common sense Lucian’s learned since becoming a werewolf is gone simply by proxy of Clarissa now being a shadowhunter.

“You’ll come to Pandemonium tonight and give your vows.” He reminds Lucian as he gets up and the now alpha werewolf winces but nods and Magnus files that reaction away. “If you’re healed enough to play with shadowhunters, you’re healed enough to swear your fealty.”

Lucian will remain pack leader for as long as it’s convenient for Magnus, otherwise he’ll just become another problem to solve. Magnus prefers to take care of things before they become problems, not after.

“Now out, I have more important business to attend to.”

“It’s the mortal cup!” Clarissa sounds like she doesn’t know whether to be offended on her own, the shadowhunters, the cups, or her mothers behalf the most.

“Yes? A shadowhunter relic that’s been missing for two decades, stolen before that and untouched for centuries before that. Life continues on despite a single cup lost, so begone and try to remember to finally get your little mundane looked at. He smells off.”

And he did. He smelled disgusting in a way that should be familiar but thankfully Alexander’s scent muffles it, making it impossible to confirm but also keeping Magnus' mind off of it. 

—-

“Wake up kitten,” Magnus murmurs once new wards have been set and his lair is once again relocated. Something a bit more private this time, with an entry and appointment room, since Magnus now has a mate to protect.

 Alexander is taking up the space Magnus left behind and has abandoned his own pillow to possessively curl around Magnus’ own.

He’s like a large, fierce predator and yet when Magnus touches him, he melts like a housecat.  Half asleep and newly bonded, he should at least be wary of his still unfamiliar surroundings.  Instead he curls into Magnus’ touch and rumbles, nearly purring with delight as he whuffles half asleep snores.

Magnus fingers scratch through soft, sleep-tangled curls and then Alexander is tiredly blinking at him and rudely pulling away... ah.

Magnus lays next to him in the space made and instantly has half of Alexander draped across him. Lips press insistently against the bitemark on his shoulder, Alexander licking over it as if to reassure himself it’s there.

It should set Magnus off, to have Alexander's maw so close to his jugular and yet he wishes his kitten would bite again. Magnus rather enjoyed licking his own blood from Alexander's lips.

“I’m letting it scar naturally.” Magnus tells him and then he rubs his fingers and magic down the first mark he left on Alexander, nearly bisecting his defense rune. “I used a little magic for yours.”

Because while Magnus doubts it can actually happen, he’s heard rumors of newly formed mating bonds being forcefully healed from existence via an iratze. Despite the fact that it’s unlikely, Magnus is taking no chances.

Magnus gave Alexander an out last night. 

He won’t give the Clave even an ounce of the same right or courtesy to hold over their relationship.

There’s a tired, quiet relief in Alexander’s gaze and then he’s reaching up and brushing calloused fingertips over Magnus’ mouth. Magnus kisses them and then leans forward to kiss Alexander.

Just because he can.

Because Alexander is his, now.

AN:

Magnus can smell Camille’s blood in simon. It pisses him off and sets his instincts off.

Legally, there’s nothing against alpha/alpha pairings it's just not socially done especially in shadowhunter society. the clave is especially weird in a/b/o there is a lot of drama about reproduction. Maybe for warlocks who are sterile it's more common and vampires as well, but nephilim are still very rigid even if the rigidity has changed somewhat to just having more babies because limites supply of warriors. 

Magnus having an a male alpha mate isn’t that weird. Alec having a male alpha mate is pretty fucking weird, he’s supposed to be a shadowhunter stud basically.

Which is like, none of what he wants. Alec is very happy to be an alpha and he doesn’t want to be an omega or a beta he just also wants things most alphas dont that also go against normal instincts. However he still has those instincts.

Kink things, what a shock.

They did do mutual claiming bites, Magnus’ can’t be erased and he’s kinky like that in wanting to feel it heal. He’s overly paranoid about Alec’s half of the bond staying intact tho, because the clave won’t like this. So he’s not gonna take any chances even if they are only baseless rumors. 

They haven’t had sex yet because magnus isn’t going to fuck him when he might be interrupted by luke and clary etc. or when anyone is in the house. Magnus was very unsettled and only managed to sleep at all because he was wrapped around alec and they were both wrapped up in magic. Alec does not join the mission this time. He spends it in bed with Magnus and when he shows up at the Institute and everyone tries to ask whats going on and he’s like ‘i was covering unpaid expenses.’ and throws clary’s ass under the bus.

Alec: how much did this cost the institute btw?

Magnus with a smirk looking between them naked in bed: ...

Alec: NOT THAT! By raziel magnus, you know what i meant. The whole clary issue and thing with luke and potion. How much did it cost the institute so i know how to handle my mother?

Magnus: well i’d say i got to look at your lovely face quite a bit

Alec: haha, funny. So how much

Magnus: ... that wasn’t a joke, kitten

Alec: ... they’re taking advantage of my mate??

Magnus: of course no— yes. Yes they are. 

Alec getting increasingly more angry: *rumbling in Magnus’ lap while aggressively cuddling him*

Magnus with glee: yes, they did take advantage of my services and i even had to move my lair because otherwise they’d know where we are since they just barged in without respect for my territory 

Alec is really angry at this point because his alpha instincts very much include protecting his territory which is now also Magnus territory which means that things Magnus doesn’t like should never be in that territory.

Magnus knowingly making this worse: i even had to pay for Luke’s potion ingredients myself and fix Simon’s van.

Alec to himself: we can kill them. It's allowed. Probably. Most likely. We can figure it out. The law is hard and there are a bunch of them that they’ve broken I can nail their assess with.

Magnus did not give the necklace to Izzy in this btw, that could have been taken as a courting gesture and no ty for him. However, that's just payment for the initial meeting and everything else. Clary got her memories back in this but there wasn’t anything useful.

[acourtofthought]

Sure, SJM included information on how certain bonds aren't well matched but why do people read that excerpt and stop there? Since when are single lines meant to be taken as the only evidence that someone needs when trying to build an intelligent argument?

We are told that the bonds that are poorly matched are ones given to a pairing that are not ideal in spirit. They are not an indication of true, paired souls.

Let's think on what the author has told us about Elain and Lucien as individuals. Lucien suffered extreme cruelty and violence at the hands of his brothers and father yet learned to keep his cool. He vomited at the sight of the fairies wings (or lack thereof) because of what happened to Jesminda. While he is trained as a warrior, he does not prefer that life and said that he hopes he never has to fight in another battle as long as he lives. Compare all that to the Inner Circle who has no issues torturing their enemies in extremely creative ways. Az and Rhys who did not "keep their cool" when it came to Az's step-brothers, or the Attor. Az when it came to Eris's soldiers or Cassian when it came to those who played any part in what happened to his mother. Cassian and Az who continue their training as warriors and train others (perpetuating the cycle of battle / war). Even Nesta when it came to Hybern when she decided to cut off his head and stood there staring at it. Which of the above does Elain's "spirit" most closely match? Elain who is absolutely willing to save those she loves but is still bothered by cruelty. Elain who returned TT and walked away without looking back. Elain who made Feyre swear not to harm Graysen no matter what. Elain who has been rejected by two different guys yet never did anything cruel in retaliation, she didn't even raise her voice to either one. Let's also consider the author's own words. It's fine to say, "they don't need to end up together just because of an interview!" but why would Sarah lie about what Elain and Lucien enjoy? "They are pretty much happy to be out in nature the most." Not only do we have the interview where she says the above but the books support it what with evidence of Lucien having had a campsite, with his ease at killing and cleaning fish, with the references to his hunting, with the mentions of him glowing under the sunlight, with him looking as if he were crafted from the forest. And of course we know that Elain is our resident Earth Goddess as she's a gentle grower of things who looks alive when out in her gardens, who believes the world needs more of them, who is always sitting by the sunniest windows as if any bit of darkness is abhorrent and for whom Night Court black sucks the life out of. Have we been given any confirmation that Az is at ease out in nature? That he embodies the great outdoors? That he comes alive under the sun? Quite the contrary actually as we're told only one single shadow was brave enough to face it and the shadows are as much a part of Az as Az himself. Sure he listened to Elain talk about her gardens but has he ever gone out to help her because he also enjoys it? (And no, sitting outside in the sun one time with Elain does not equal enjoyment of nature, that's like telling a sunbather at the beach they enjoy nature as much as someone who enjoys hiking the Appalachian Trail and has a Rewards Card at REI and Bass Pro Shop). Lucien and Elain both readily apologize whereas I think the only person Az apologized to was Nesta in a different series. Lucien and Elain are quick to let go of past prejudices where Az hangs on to them like his favorite blankie. Lucien and Elain are both affectionate and forthcoming with praise for their friends and family where Az is often reserved and stoic. Lucien and Elain are also both fairly humble where Az is definitely not, he's fairly arrogant at times.

So really, when Elain and Lucien's core values match on a much deeper level than what we see compared to Elain and any other character, how can anyone doubt that their bond is one that is matched in spirit? That they are one another's other half, a mirror reflection? That doesn't necessarily mean they have to end up together but I don't think anyone can argue that they wouldn't be well matched. Therefore constantly referring back to the discussion Feyre and Rhys had only further supports why Elain and Lucien were give a truly matched bond and why her personality is much more suited to Lucien than Az.

[hollyhomburg]

(Tw: talk of rape/trauma) You know I think in the second version of BILY I want there to be a moment where either the m/c and hobi are talking or the m/c and tae, and they’re kind of pointing out the fact that the m/c doesn’t do anything like- hardly even chores- beyond her laundry and the dishes once or twice a week, and the m/c being all nonchalant about how little she wants for her life beyond that quiet life with yoongi where she goes to bed in their room and gets to hold his hand and kiss a little at nighttime and sit next to him when he’s fixing something like- that truly is her whole world.

and idk if I want to write hobi’s snide comments about how booring she is or taes quiet prodding to go out with her (him at that point) but I do want them incredulous about her saying that she doesn’t need any more than this, I want them to talk about how they’d go crazy if they didn’t go out and have a full life and her being like “this isn’t bad. This isn’t the worse I’ve had it.” And them still pushing and then her shutting them up by saying “everything’s better than getting raped every night. As long as that’s not happening to me, I’m fine with everything being boring. I can control things this way. I’ll take silence and nothing any day over shouting and pain.”

And then I want maybe hobi watching her and yoongi fucking through the door feeling very conflicted and like he should apologize but he never does. And I want to write tae’s intake of breath as she realizes /oh/ she’s entirely unfairly misunderstood the m/c and why she goes non-verbal and is kinda shut down from the world. And then I want maybe tae trying to get the m/c out and about and the m/c totally rejecting it at first. To the point where maybe the m/c and tae are like- a little tense. Maybe the m/c saying. “You don’t have to try with me just because of yoongi. You don’t have to try you can just ignore me and I’ll be alright.”

And meanwhile tae can’t ignore the m/c because of gender reasons, And tae asking “don’t you want to get out of this room?” And ofc this is heavily inspired by thunderbolts but the m/c saying “it’s a nice room. There’s nothing bad in here but me,”

And tae standing in the doorway with a conflicted look on her face, a little broken hearted. And yoongi is just there at her shoulder pulling her back by her elbow asking if the m/c wants him to shut off the lights and tae might actually be a little angry thay he’s just leaving her there. Maybe they talk it out and yoongi reassures her that healing takes time and if that’s what the m/c says she needs then yoongi wants to give it to her (mostly because he’s aware she’s hurting and doesn’t have any idea how to help her other than not abandoning her)

I also think the first few times yoongi pushed and tried to get the m/c to go out and function she also went complete non-verbal shutdown and got really scary like not eating/not sleeping/ constantly on look out and too on edge to even blink- so yoongi decided never to try again and let’s the m/c go at her own pace.

[pomegrancran]

this is exactly why i’m a shauna hater and apologist. we have to remember what makes this show so good is the depth of the characters. there is no black and white villains and good guys. and that’s EXACTLY what makes this show so so beautiful. it’s raw and real. all of us have done fucked up shit in our life and it would literally destroy us if we sat here comparing the bad things we’ve done with our friends trying to decide who’s worse… so why do that with the yellowjackets? are some clearly more at loss of sanity that others? obviously. but do the writers show us exactly why that is? yes. postpartum depression is VERY real ESPECIALLY when you lost the baby. now imagine that immediately after losing your best friend, you’re stuck in the woods, you can’t give a proper burial to your baby, it’s freezing and your stuck in a small cabin with a shit ton of other girls, you’re starving, and you haven’t seen your family in over a year. it’s going to destroy even the strongest of people.

same with lottie. her parents were never really there for her and they DEFINITELY aren’t there for her now. she is a diagnosed schizophrenic and everyone around her is believing and feeding into it. a main symptom of schizophrenia is delusions. so how can we sit here and blame her for believing all she did about the wilderness when everyone else around her was agreeing with her and fueling the fire? it’s the same as telling someone paranoid that someone’s stalking them that you saw someone outside their house last night. obviously it’s going to enforce that belief in their head.

also i think we forget that couch being an adult does not equal mentally prepared to watch the teens you care about eat their friend. that entire experience is extremely traumatic no matter who you are. and honestly him being older probably made it harder for him in my opinion. he had no way to connect to the girls emotionally because the age gap. he had no one his age and to talk to. he most likely felt like none of the girls would understand. was it wrong for him to leave shauna completely alone? yes. can we completely judge him knowing he had a sensitivity to blood and no experience in anything doctory. NO!

i support and love each character in their own ways even if some are “more flawed” that others.

My Coach Ben post was shared on yjtwt and it’s causing Shauna vs Coach Ben discourse and I’m watching with a box of popcorn🍿

[supercorpkid]

Speak Now

Supergirl. Baby Danvers. Lena Luthor x B!D. Kara Danvers.

Word Count: 3.3k

Whoa.

She looks beautiful.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. No warning, no mercy. Just Lena. In white. Standing there like she’s already someone else’s, and it guts you in a way nothing else has.

Her dress is too bright. Too clean. Like it’s trying to blind you into looking away. Her hair’s pulled back, every pin a quiet little soldier holding the shape of a future you were never invited into. Pearls catch the light in her dark hair; tiny, glinting things that look like memories you never got to keep.

She’s staring at herself in the mirror like she doesn’t recognize the reflection. Like she’s trying to fake it. Make it real. Make this hers. She looks perfect, even though is shaped like a heartbreak.

No. Worse. 

She looks like your dream—wrapped in silk and promises. A dream you’ve carried so close inside your mind it’s rewritten your memories, reshaped the way you breathe around her.

You don’t say any of that. You can’t. So you swallow the words like you always do, and it burns like bile when they go back down your throat.

Instead, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you try softly, like your heart isn’t screaming. “You sent for me?”

She turns. The smell of lavender hits you first. Hers. Familiar. Warm. But tonight, it smells like endings. Like something soft being whisked away.

The smile she offers is an imitation of a painted curve on lips you know so intimately. Tight, automatic, polite. Like another piece of jewelry she’s carefully put in place. You’ve lived entire days inside her real smiles, and this—this isn’t one of them.

“Yeah,” she says, her fingers tracing the delicate edge of her veil as if it’s made from thorns. “I couldn’t get this stupid thing to sit right. I could use your help.”

You cross the room without thinking. Like gravity. Like your body remembers her more than you do. Your hands move on autopilot while fixing, adjusting, pretending to focus on anything except her watery eyes. Pretending her skin doesn't burn your hands.

“Nervous?” 

It slips out. You want to take it back the second it does.

She laughs. Sort of. A thin, shaky sound she tries to pass off as ease. “Everyone gets cold feet, right?” But she doesn’t believe it. Not for a second. You can see it in the way she studies her own reflection not with excitement, but like she’s checking for visible cracks.

“He’s good,” she says. “It’ll be fine.”

You nod quietly, even though you want to scream. Good isn’t enough. Fine isn’t love.

Why is she settling for so little, when love is standing right in front of her in a stupid pastel bridesmaid’s dress?

She’s twisting her hands together now. You want to reach out, hold them still, tell her it doesn’t have to be this way. The silent plea echoes in the hollow chambers of your heart. Don’t do this. Don’t marry him. Pick me instead. Please pick me.

But you don’t say it and you certainly don't reach out. Instead, you smile.

Because you love her. And sometimes, loving someone feels like a slow, agonizing death. Sometimes it feels like selfless acts. It feels like walking her to someone else and pretending your heart isn't breaking beyond recognition.

You’re still fiddling with her veil, your fingers clumsy and useless, tugging at nothing, smoothing edges that are already perfect, when her warm hand closes over yours. The touch sends a jolt through you. A painful reminder of the intimacy you’re about to lose.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft, so achingly soft, it nearly unravels the last threads of your composure. “It’s fine. I don't think this is ever going to be perfect.”

You freeze. The delicate lace suddenly burns against your skin.

And you can’t breathe. Because Lena always does this. Always says everything while saying nothing at all. Always gives you just enough to keep you guessing, but never enough to be sure.

Is she talking about the veil? The wedding? Her heart?

You wouldn’t know.

She’s looking at you now. Really looking. And you know—you know—she feels it too. That dangerous pull you've always felt around each other. The gravity of something you’ve both refused to name for years.

There’s a raw vulnerability in her eyes, something fragile and scared that says she’s one breath away from shattering. One breath away from saying something that would change everything. Something she might never be able to take back.

And for one unbearable second, the desperate urge to beg her overwhelms you.

Say it. Say it. Please just say it.

But she doesn’t.

So you blink, and the moment slips merciless. 

You step back, a coward retreating from the battlefield of your own heart. You step back like you haven’t loved her quietly, fiercely, for years. Like your whole soul isn’t screaming her name into the silence of the room.

“Why didn’t you ask your maid of honor for help?” 

A flicker of surprise crosses her face, quickly masked by a familiar politeness. She looks away, fingers smoothing her dress like she could iron out the wrinkles with sheer will alone.

“I didn’t want to stress Kara out,” her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “She already cried over the font in the Save the Date cards.”

She’s trying to make you laugh. You do. Sort of.

“Besides,” she adds, her gaze still averted, “I figured you’d be the one to tell me if I looked like a mess.”

Yeah, right. Like she would ever look like anything less than perfection.

“Still mad I didn’t pick you?” she teases. A light jab. She didn’t mean to sound like that, didn’t mean for it to ache. But it does. It always does, with her.

Because yes. Rao, yes. Every fiber of your being aches with the injustice of it. But not for the reason she thinks.

It’s not the Maid of Honor title that stings. Not the label. Not the rank—best friend after Kara and Sam, but still before Alex.

It’s that you were not considered for the part you wanted most.

It’s his title —Her partner, her lover, her future— you want. It's the name. The one she’ll sign beside his, over and over, a permanent reminder that she does not belong with you.

You want to scream your feelings, shatter this illusion, ruin this carefully orchestrated day. You want to rip the veil away and make her look—really look—and see the truth in your eyes.

But instead—

“No,” you say, the lie a lead weight on your tongue. “Kara would’ve cried if you didn’t pick her. I know my sister.”

She laughs again, a sound that’s real this time. A sound so yours it makes you furious that you’ll have to share it.

And then, before you can stop yourself…

“You look stunning.” You don’t even mean to say it. It just tears out of you, raw and reckless.

Her breath hitches, an almost imperceptible gasp.

“Yeah?” she asks, the word no louder than a hope. A fragile plea for reassurance.

You nod, your throat tight with unshed tears, your heart bleeding a slow, agonizing trail down your spine.

“Yeah. Beautiful—like you always do.”

Because that word—beautiful— encompasses everything: Her spirit. Her laughter. The way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she’s really, truly happy.

And you’re just supposed to let that go.

Lena’s gaze falls, her eyes locked on the way her hands twist in her lap. The white dress she was so careful with this morning is creased now, bunched between her fingers like she’s trying to wring the nerves out of herself. 

The air thickens. Words hang there, unsaid, choking both of you.

“I don’t feel like me,” she says, so quietly you would've missed it if you weren't kryptonian.

You freeze. Every part of you goes still.

“I should,” she adds quickly, like she's trying to outpace the doubt. “I should. I’ve been planning this for months. I’m supposed to be glowing. But instead I just… what if I’ve been pretending so long I forgot what real even looks like?”

Your hands shake. The pin you’re still holding slips through your fingers and clinks against the floor, the sound so small that if the world hadn't stopped just now, no one would hear it.

There it is. The truth. The crack. The real Lena Luthor you've always known.

And every instinct in you screams: Reach for her. Hold her. Kiss her until she forgets his name and only remembers yours. Tell her: Then don’t go. Stay. Stay here, where real is waiting for you.

But you don’t. You bend down, slow and clumsy, and pick up the pin. You press it into place, sealing her into a future that has nothing to do with you.

“Lena, come on,” you say, and your voice sounds like someone else's, flat and distant, like it’s echoing through a tunnel. “You know what you’re doing. You’ve got this. This is what you've been preparing yourself for so long.”

Every word tastes like ash.

“Stop.” She jerks her head away, her voice sharp, sudden, desperate. Her eyes flash like something breaking open. “God, Y/N. Don't do that. I called for you because I thought—” Her voice cracks, and the sound of it feels like it physically tears into you. “I thought you’d tell me the truth. If I wanted that speech you're giving me, I would've called Sushine Danvers. ”

You look at her. At the mess of her dress, her trembling hands, the chaos flickering in her eyes. You look at her the way you always do. And it hurts.

“What do you want me to say?” Your voice is small, barely there.

“The truth.”

But the truth—the real, whole truth—is still locked inside you, pressed down beneath fear and history and the knowledge that loving her out loud might ruin your lives.

So you don’t give her all of it. You give her nothing.

“About what?” you ask, the deflection weak, your last defense already crumbling.

“This.” She waves at the room, at the dress, at herself, at everything closing in. “Tell me. Am I making a mistake?”

Your arms fall to your sides, useless. The veil you just pinned shifts, like even it knows it doesn’t belong here. She’s watching you with that look that sees too much. That quiet plea: Please. Please just say it so I don’t have to.

“Lena,” you whisper. Just her name. It feels like stepping up to the edge of something you won’t survive.

Because anything more—anything real—would break it all wide open.

She lets out a breath of a laugh, but there’s nothing soft about it. Just bitterness, just pain.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, and her voice is shaking now. “Don’t you dare look at me like that, with that look like you see right through me, and still lie.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to pick her up in bridal style and fly away. Find a way. You want to take her somewhere where no one’s waiting and everything is quiet and honest and just for the two of you.

But instead, you give her the lie that finally kills you.

“No. You’re just nervous.”

And something breaks. Not loudly—but deeply. Quietly. Something that was beautiful in its almost-ness, that could’ve been something more, cracks and falls apart in both of you.

Lena closes her eyes, and a single tear escapes, trailing slowly down her cheek like it doesn’t want to leave either.

And you know that something inside her, something soft and brave and maybe yours, probably just died right there.

“I thought if you said it was right,” she says, her voice wrecked now, thick and trembling, “I’d believe it. I always believe you. But, alas…”

And you realize—too late, always too late—that she would’ve stayed. If you’d just been brave. If you’d given her something to hold on to.

But you didn’t.

And now she’s going to marry someone else, with your name still caught somewhere in her throat like something she never got to say.

And you’ll sit there, front row, with a smile that doesn’t belong to you. You’ll clap when they kiss. And the sound will echo inside the hollowed-out place where your heart used to be.

Before you even find the words, the ones that could undo whatever mistake you just made—

“Hey guys!”

A too-loud interruption slices through the suffocating silence.

Your sister bursts into the room like artificial sunlight, breathless and beaming, her cheerfulness too bright to be real. She’s nervous too—you can tell by the way her smile twitches at the edges. But when her eyes land on Lena, they soften instantly. That part is genuine.

“Ten minutes!” she announces, her voice falsely bright. “Oh, Lena, you look perfect. He’s going to absolutely lose it when he sees you.”

She beams, then points at you with mock sternness, missing entirely the raw ache clinging to the air.

“You—make sure she’s not late. I’m still trying to convince Esmé to toss the petals like a flower girl and not a tiny assassin.” 

She turns to Lena, softening instantly, like she’s worried the joke might’ve gone too far.

“But don’t worry,” she adds, smiling. “Either way, it’s gonna be cute.”

Lena only nods. You manage a weak smile, your chest tight with pain.

“Don’t worry. I've got this.” The words feel cruel. You've got nothing.

Kara nods, satisfied, her mind already half-back in the chaos outside. She squeezes Lena’s hand, a final stamp of approval on a future that doesn’t include you and floats away, all light and nerves and misplaced hope.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Silence folds in again, heavier now, more aware of what it’s covering.

“Okay! Ten minutes! Let's make this sit right, so you can walk down the aisle.”

You reach for the veil, that delicate thing you tried so hard to fix, but Lena catches your hand mid-air. 

“So,” she says, her voice too light, too fake, “you’re in charge of getting me to the aisle, huh.”

She laughs once. A single breath, sharp with irony.

“To be honest,” she whispers, voice lined with something aching, “I always thought you’d be the one to keep me from it.”

Your heart stutters. You search her face, desperate for some clue that this is a joke, a mistake, anything. But all you find is the raw truth—unhidden, undeniable. She’s stripped it bare. No more polite pretending.

Time stills. The air is thick, suspended between the before and the after.

“Lena…” you start, your voice barely there. Your fingers are still caught in hers—this fragile thread between you—and you don’t pull away.

Then, before fear can clamp down, before loyalty or logic or the memory of his face can stop you, it all cracks open.

“What do you want me to say?” you whisper, voice thick with unshed tears. “Tell me. I’ll do whatever you need. It is your day, after all.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Small. Barely visible.

“If you need me to get you to that aisle,” you go on, your voice trembling, “I will. In nine minutes. I’ll fix your veil. I’ll hold your bouquet. I’ll smile when you say yes no matter how I feel.”

She doesn’t let go of your hand.

“But if you don’t. If you want the truth—here, now, before you vow yourself to someone else…”

Your voice breaks. 

“I’ll give you that too.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Electric. Years of longing collapsing into this breathless moment. You can feel your pulse everywhere. In your throat. Your hands. The space where her skin still touches yours.

“Which one do you want, Lena?” you ask, your voice low and breaking. “The lie—where I play the supportive friend? Or the truth—insane and real and bound to destroy everything? You have to choose, because I can’t give you both.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“The truth. Finally tell me the truth.” Her voice is paper-thin, unraveling. “Please. I need to hear it. Just once.”

Her gaze drifts to the door. That future, so close she can almost touch it. But she’s still standing here.

Your chest tightens like a trap. Each breath is a struggle. You step closer, careful. She looks like she might shatter.

“I’m in love with you,” You confess.

The words land like a confession and a curse altogether. A prayer and a funeral bell. Not hope. Just the truth. Raw, sacred, inevitable.

She gasps, soft, sharp, believing. For the first time, her gaze drops. Then she looks up again—and the mask is gone. What’s left is Lena. Not the bride, not the one who's gonna take his last name. 

“I know,” she says. Quiet. Broken. “I think… I think I’ve always known.”

And the unspoken question bleeds between you like smoke: Then why are you still giving yourself away?

“So what now?” you ask, barely holding it together. “Now you go out there and promise yourself to him? You walk down the aisle with him waiting at the end and not me?”

Each word is a blow, and she takes them all—flinching, silent, her throat working around something she can’t quite say.

“Is this what this is, Lena?”

 “I—”

 “Speak now or forever hold your peace. We have two minutes until go time. What’s gonna be?”

Your voice cracks on the last line. She looks at you, and there’s something new behind her eyes—something sharp and bright and terrified.

She exhales. And the breath she lets go isn’t a sigh—it’s surrender.

“I can’t do it,” she says, so quietly it doesn’t sound real. “I can’t walk down that aisle. Not when it’s not you.”

You blink once. Twice.

Her fingers tighten around yours, the veil still dangling from your other hand like some ghost of what almost was. She looks at it, then at you, and when she speaks, her voice is steadier this time, threaded with adrenaline and something that sounds dangerously close to resolve.

“Run away with me.”

“Lena, wait—”

“I mean it,” she says, stepping closer, closer, until there’s no air between you at all. “Take me anywhere that isn’t this. Anywhere I don’t have to lie with every step I take.”

The world narrows. Just her face. Her voice. Her hand in yours.

And you don’t think. You just act.

You drop the veil.

You pick her up.

You run.

Through the side door, past startled sisters and an unsuspecting Sam holding Lena's bouquet like a question mark. Down the corridor where laughter echoes in the wrong direction. Out into the sun, where the world still dares to be bright and blooming, unaware of how you're about to destroy this wedding.

You don’t look back.

And Lena laughs—really laughs—and it’s breathless and wild and so full of life it feels like the first time you’ve heard it. You glance down at her, her heels in one hand, the veil flying around you like a flag of rebellion, and she smiles at you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. 

You don’t stop running until your lungs burn and your laughters dissolves into gasps. You stop behind a brick wall, out of sight, hearts pounding in sync. The silence after the sprint is loud in your ears—like the world’s holding its breath with you.

She turns to you, flushed and radiant, hair wild, veil long gone. And when her eyes meet yours, everything stills.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You kiss her. Soft. Certain. Not a question, not a maybe—just yes. Just finally.

She melts into it, one hand at your jaw, the other still clutching her shoes like she can’t let go of the ridiculousness of it all.

When she pulls back, her eyes shine. And she nods—smiling, radiant, real. Like someone who finally ran toward the right thing.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispers. “I think I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

And in that moment, you're so glad you finally told the truth.

[all-pacas]

OKAY so i want to talk about Cuddy for a bit, because there's something i think fandom tends to overlook with her, and that is: Cuddy gets it. (@choco-worms)

CUDDY: You don't explain this, I'll cancel the surgery. HOUSE: Can I explain why you're here? CUDDY: Think I just told you why I… HOUSE: I scheduled a diagnostic patient for a boob job, which is ridiculous. So obviously you had to confront me. CUDDY: With you so far. HOUSE: But I'm going to give you a reason. CUDDY: Not a good one. HOUSE: No. Not even close to a good one. But here's the drag from your point of view. My explanation will make sense. Not to the board, not to a judge, but to you. So you'll let me do it. Then you're going to have to sit next to me at the administrative hearing. Don't you have better things to do? [Cuddy hesitates] It's in the best interests of the patient. (the right stuff)

The thing about Cuddy, the entire reason she hired House, tolerates House and the team's antics, does what she does, is that she has always understood and even appreciated House's logic. This doesn't mean that she always appreciates House's methods, and she tries to reign him in when he goes too far on a limb or takes too many risks*, but we see time and time again that Cuddy is much more on House's side than not.

I don't mean this in terms of she lets him do what he wants because she likes him; that's probably a factor, but that's not the point. The point is that deep down, Cuddy is exactly the same. We see it time and again when she runs her own cases: in Humpty Dumpty she immediately pushes an insanely risky treatment, in Fetal Position she does the same thing to save the patient's child. She is a risk taker! She appreciates House's experimental approach, she does it herself! She doesn't let House walk all over her because she's weak, she does it because, as House himself points out: it makes sense.

At the same time, Cuddy is still House's boss. She's still in charge of the hospital. She gives him a long leash, but it's still a leash, and rather than straight boss/employee antagonism, we see this dynamic time and again: Cuddy rarely shuts House down, but she does require an argument and evidence before she allows him to proceed. And the thing is, House actually does listen to her: his usual reaction to her telling him no is to prove his case another way, which is exactly what she wants; the rare times she does draw a red line (Damned if You Do, Meaning, Fetal Position etc), he actually does listen. And the lines get blurry: there are times Cuddy gives a 'soft' no and House tramples over her anyway, but he very rarely openly defies her. It's as he points out in The Right Stuff (and many other episodes): she believes in his methods. She trusts his answers. This makes it hard for Cuddy to say no and makes it easy for House to trample her boundaries (medically, as an employee), but that reasoning is important to bear in mind. Her objections are weak not because she's weak, but because they both know she agrees.