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arilevenatz · 4 months ago

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Ateez as dark entities

Pairing: ot8!Ateez x reader

Genre: Dark shit

Warnings: dark and twisted themes, yandere themes, damn I suck at writing warnings, please lmk what I can add here

Synopsis: Ateez as dark entities who are obsessed with you. How would that go? (I would be writing this in the third perspective)

Masterlist

Hongjoong: The Puppeteer

A sinister mastermind who controls people’s actions like marionettes, manipulating reality with strings of fate. His words weave deception, pulling the world into his chaotic play.

He saw her in a crowd, but unlike the others, she wasn’t swayed by his unseen strings. Her free will intrigued him, an anomaly in his perfectly controlled world. He watched her for days, testing how much influence he had over her actions. When he realized she resisted, his obsession grew. He needed to break her, to weave her into his masterpiece—his perfect marionette.

At first, she wouldn’t even realize she was being controlled. Hongjoong would make subtle changes—her thoughts, her actions, her choices—until everything she did led her straight back to him.

Her friends would start acting differently, nudging her toward him. Strangers would mention his name as if he was always meant to be in her life. It was a web of manipulation, and she was tangled in it before she even knew.

The moment she tried to break away, she’d feel it—the invisible strings tightening around her wrists. She’d find herself going back to him, no matter how much she resisted. Even when she thought she was making her own choices, they all led back to Hongjoong.

By the time she realized she had never truly been free, it was too late. She was already a puppet in his hands.

Hongjoong wouldn’t resort to mindless violence. No, his punishments would be calculated—surgical.

A single flick of his fingers, and her limbs would move without her consent, forced into painful contortions. She’d feel the strain in her muscles, the stretch of her tendons beyond what they were meant to endure. But he wouldn’t let her break. Not yet.

“I don’t like hurting you,” he’d say, watching as she trembled under his control. “But if you insist on disobeying, I will teach you.”

And just when she thought she’d collapse from the pain, he’d release her—only to hold her close, stroking her hair as she whimpered. “See? If you just behave, you won’t have to suffer.”

Seonghwa: The Phantom Monarch

A cursed ruler who lingers between life and death, draped in shadows and whispering forgotten prophecies. His touch brings both solace and despair, a ghostly presence haunting his own kingdom.

She entered the ruins of his long-forgotten kingdom, unaware of the ghostly presence watching her. When she touched his throne, a flicker of warmth pulsed through his cold existence for the first time in centuries. He had been a ruler without a queen, a soul without purpose. Now, he had one. If she could make him feel, then she belonged to him.

Seonghwa’s trap was patience. He didn’t chase—he lured. Whenever she left a place, she’d feel his presence lingering behind, just out of sight.

She’d hear his voice in the wind, see his reflection in darkened windows. He became an inescapable part of her world, an unseen force watching her every move.

Then, one night, the world would shift. She’d wake up in a place that looked like her home but wasn’t. The furniture was the same, the air smelled familiar, but the sky outside was an endless void. The door wouldn’t open, the windows showed nothing but darkness.

She’d turn—and there he’d be, standing in the doorway. “You wandered too far,” he’d say, tilting his head. “Now, you can never leave.”

Seonghwa wouldn’t strike her. He wouldn’t even touch her.

But he’d make her feel like she was dying.

He’d whisper a few words, and suddenly, the air would vanish from her lungs. No oxygen, no relief—just the slow, creeping suffocation of her own body betraying her. He’d watch her fall to her knees, eyes wide in terror, clutching at her throat as she silently begged for mercy.

Only when she was on the verge of unconsciousness would he allow her to breathe again. He’d catch her before she hit the floor, his voice a soothing lullaby.

“I hate doing this,” he’d murmur, wiping away the tears streaking her face. “But you need to understand. You are mine.”

Yunho: The Hollow Jester

A deceivingly cheerful trickster whose laughter hides an empty soul. He thrives on others’ misery, playing twisted games that always end in despair, his mask concealing a haunting void

She laughed. It was a sound so genuine, so full of life—something he lacked. He saw her in the reflection of a shattered mirror, a place where only twisted souls should exist. But she was untouched, pure. He had to change that. He wanted to see how long she could keep that smile once she stepped into his world of madness.

Yunho would make her question reality itself. It would start small—objects moving from where she left them, voices whispering from places they shouldn’t be.

She’d see glimpses of him in mirrors, but when she turned around, he wouldn’t be there. He wanted to break her mind before he claimed her.

Then, one day, she’d wake up in a world that wasn’t hers. The people around her would wear empty smiles, their laughter hollow and unsettling. No matter where she ran, she’d always end up back at the same place—a grand, eerie carnival with no exit.

And at the center of it all, sitting on his throne of illusions, was Yunho, grinning as he held out his hand. “Welcome home.”

Yunho would turn it into a game—a cruel, endless game.

She’d wake up in a room she didn’t recognize, doors stretching in every direction. “If you can find the real exit,” his voice would echo from nowhere, “I’ll let you go.”

Desperation would push her to run, to fling open door after door, but each one led somewhere worse—a room full of mirrors reflecting her worst fears, a hallway that stretched infinitely, a pit of darkness with no end. The sound of his laughter would follow her, amused and patient.

Finally, when she was broken, exhausted, curled in a corner with silent tears, he’d crouch beside her, brushing her hair back. “See?” he’d whisper. “You’re always safest when you stay with me.”

Yeosang: The Watcher in the Mirror

An entity that exists within reflections, observing silently and waiting for the right moment to step into reality. Those who meet his gaze feel their deepest fears manifest before them.

She looked into the mirror, and he looked back. Unlike the others, she didn’t turn away in fear. She stared, as if searching for something. That was the first time someone acknowledged his existence without terror. He had been watching her long before she noticed him, but now, she had seen him. And once you see the Watcher, he never lets you go.

Yeosang never had to chase her—she was the one who kept looking for him. Every time she passed a reflective surface, his eyes were there, watching.

She should have stopped looking, should have turned away. But she didn’t. Curiosity turned into obsession, and that was his trap.

One day, she’d reach out to touch the glass, and it wouldn’t be solid anymore. Instead of her reflection, it would be his hand reaching back. A single pull, and she’d fall through, tumbling into his world—a place made of endless reflections, where only he could find the way out. But there was no escape.

“You searched for me,” he’d whisper, his lips brushing against her ear. “Now, you’ll never stop seeing me.”

Yeosang would make her lose herself.

The first cut would be shallow—a single line down her palm, bleeding just enough to stain the floor. But the reflection in the mirror? It would be so much worse.

In the glass, she’d see herself covered in wounds, skin marred by deep, jagged gashes. Her breath would hitch—was it real? She’d feel no pain, but the sight alone would break her, make her wonder if her body was even her own anymore.

“Which version of you do you think is real?” Yeosang would ask, voice soft, cruel. “The one standing here? Or the one who’s already been ruined?”

By the time he was done, she wouldn’t be sure if she was whole anymore.

San: The Wrathborn Beast

A relentless, cursed creature with uncontainable fury, lurking in the darkness and striking with unmatched ferocity. His hunger for vengeance keeps him shackled in eternal torment.

She was the first to step into his cage without trembling. His rage had driven everyone away, but she stood there, eyes locked with his, unafraid. He hated it at first—the way she didn’t cower. But then, he realized something. If she could stand before a monster without fear, then she was strong enough to endure him. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, and she was the only one worthy of staying.

San knew she was drawn to him despite the danger. He let her think she had control, that she could leave whenever she wanted. But every time she walked away, something inside her ached. She craved the thrill, the way his presence sent a shiver down her spine.

That was his trap—making her believe she chose him when, in reality, he had chosen her from the start.

The day she finally tried to leave for good, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he let her feel the emptiness, the unbearable absence of him. And when she inevitably returned, desperate for the chaos only he could give, he was waiting.

“You walked into the lion’s den, little lamb,” he murmured, arms caging her in. “You should’ve known you’d never walk out.”

San wouldn’t hold back. He wouldn’t lie to himself about what he was doing.

When he was angry, when she had truly pushed him too far, his grip would be punishing. His fingers would dig into her skin hard enough to bruise, his voice low with fury.

“You want to run? Fine. Let’s see how far you can crawl.”

A single shove would send her to the floor, and he wouldn’t help her up. Instead, he’d watch as she struggled, as she realized how weak she was compared to him.

And when she finally gave up, when she curled up at his feet, he’d sigh—exhausted, but satisfied.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he’d whisper, pulling her into his arms despite her flinching. “I don’t like hurting you. But I won’t let you leave me either.”

Mingi: The Nightmare Poet

A being whose words shape reality, crafting dreams that turn into horrifying nightmares. His voice echoes in the minds of those who hear him, driving them to madness.

She dreamed of him before they ever met. His words had slipped into her mind, shaping her thoughts, her fears, her desires. He whispered stories in the dead of night, and she listened. When she finally saw him in the waking world, there was no shock—only recognition. She had belonged to him from the first nightmare, and now, he was here to claim her.

Mingi’s trap was set long before she ever met him. He had been in her dreams for weeks, whispering poetry laced with shadows, planting fears only he could soothe.

Every night, she dreamed of him. Every morning, she woke up with the lingering echo of his voice in her mind. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. She was drawn to him, to the way his words made her feel like she belonged in his world of nightmares.

Then, one night, she wouldn’t wake up. She’d open her eyes to find herself in a realm made of her own fears, with Mingi standing at its center.

“You kept listening,” he’d say, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “And now, you’ll never wake up without me.”

Mingi’s cruelty would be subtle—a slow, creeping thing.

She’d wake up with her memories altered. One moment, she’d remember everything—the pain, the fear, the desperate attempt to run. The next? She’d remember nothing but warmth, love, the softest touch.

Which was real? Which was a lie?

She’d claw at her own skin, desperate to remember what was true. And Mingi would watch, amused, patient.

“You’re overthinking,” he’d coo, pulling her hands away so she couldn’t hurt herself further. “Just trust me. I’ll tell you what’s real.”

And by the time he was done, she wouldn’t even realize she had ever wanted to leave.

Wooyoung: The Siren of Shadows

A deadly seducer whose beauty and charm lure souls into eternal darkness. His whispers are irresistible, drawing victims into an abyss from which they can never escape.

She heard his voice first, a soft melody in the dark. It called to her, leading her deeper into the unknown. He watched her hesitate, but her curiosity won. When she finally laid eyes on him, she was already too far gone. He smiled. She had walked willingly into his grasp, and now, he would never let her leave.

Wooyoung’s voice was her downfall. It was everywhere—in the music she listened to, in the whispered words she thought were her own thoughts.

He sang her name in the wind, in the rustling of leaves, in the quiet hum of the night. The more she listened, the more she needed to hear him. That was his trap—addiction.

By the time she realized she was bound to his melody, she was already too deep. His voice was the only thing that felt real.

And when he finally stood before her, holding out his hand, she didn’t resist. “You’ve already fallen,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Now, let me pull you under.”

Wooyoung wouldn’t need to use force. Love itself would become her prison.

He’d kiss her through the pain. His lips would trail over bruises he had left, his fingers tracing over the bite marks he had carved into her skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he’d whisper against her lips, voice trembling with emotion. “But you keep forcing me to.”

And the worst part? He’d be so gentle afterward. He’d hold her in his arms, press kisses to every wound, wipe away her tears with shaking hands. Guilty. Apologetic.

But he’d do it again. And again.

Until she stopped trying to fight it.

Jongho: The Titan of Ruin

A monstrous force of destruction, his strength shatters worlds. He is an unstoppable force, cursed to bring devastation wherever he treads, his very existence a harbinger of doom.

He found her in the aftermath of destruction—standing amidst ruin, untouched by the chaos he created. She should have run. She should have feared him. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out, as if daring to touch the force that could crush her in an instant. He had never hesitated in destruction, but for the first time, he held back. If she was unafraid of his power, then she was the only one worthy of standing beside him.

Jongho didn’t need tricks or illusions—his trap was raw, undeniable power. He was a force of nature, and she was the only one who dared to stand before him.

He let her believe she could handle him, that she could walk away whenever she wished. He admired her stubbornness, but he knew the truth—she was already his.

When the time came, he didn’t give her a choice. The ground beneath her feet would shatter, the walls around her would crumble. There would be no escape, no safety. And when she turned to him, the only solid thing amidst the chaos, he’d hold out his hand.

“The world is too fragile for you,” he’d murmur. “Stay with me. I’ll make sure nothing ever takes you away.”

Jongho wouldn’t need tricks or illusions. He would simply remind her of who was stronger.

The moment he caught her, he’d pull her against his chest, his grip firm—unbreakable. “Are you done?” he’d ask, voice calm, but with an edge that sent shivers down her spine.

And when she refused to answer, when she still clung to the last scraps of defiance, he’d hold her tighter. Until she gasped for air, until she realized there was no winning against him.

Only then would he let go, letting her crumble to her knees. “Next time,” he’d murmur, crouching beside her, “I won’t be so gentle.”

But she knew there wouldn’t be a next time. Because now, whenever she even thought about running… she’d remember the feeling of his arms caging her in, and she’d know—

She’d never escape him.

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clementineinn · 1 month ago

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before you fade

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

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

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

word count: ~4.4k

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

part one. part two.

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

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

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

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

And he knew her tells.

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

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

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

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

Spencer hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”

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

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

“Yeah,” she said softly, “I know.”

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

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

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

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

She didn’t know.

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

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

She wasn’t whole, however.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Agent Y/L/N?”

She turned.

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

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

Y/N frowned. “Dropped off by who?”

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

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

She turned it over.

No seal.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

No letterhead. No date. No signature.

Just one line, typed:

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

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

Eyes and the curve of a mouth.

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

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

But something in her stomach dropped.

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

Not now.

Not yet.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

That quieted the room.

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

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

No one moved for a moment.

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

The team kept talking.

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

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

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

A silence settled again, deeper this time.

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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

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

Prentiss watched her go, something flickering in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They both fell quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She paused, then stepped back, her voice softening.

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

Spencer nodded. Once. Tight and sharp.

Then they moved — together — toward the board.

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

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

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

“We need to talk,” Spencer said.

Hotch motioned for them to continue.

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

Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

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

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

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

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

Hotch looked between them. His jaw tightened.

“She hasn’t acknowledged it?”

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

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

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

Then he faced them, all hesitation gone.

“Get the team.”

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

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

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

That froze everyone.

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

That landed like a weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just then — footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The door opened.

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

Like armor.

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

She didn’t seem to notice.

But Spencer did.

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

And Spencer knew.

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

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

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

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

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

The room had fallen into a contemplative hush.

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

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

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

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

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

The room quieted further.

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

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

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

Y/N continued, her voice soft but certain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was automatic. Too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, a pause. A slight shift.

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

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

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

One line of typed text.

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

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

Spencer’s blood went cold.

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

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

His jaw tightened. “He knows.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

But she didn’t.

“I promise,” she said.

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

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

He followed.

But his eyes stayed on her a second too long.

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

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

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

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

So he watched.

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

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

She stepped close and kept her voice low.

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

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

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A brief silence fell.

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

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

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

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

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

“On it,” she said, already dialing.

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

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

Everyone went still.

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

Spencer swallowed. “She was just here.”

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

“She didn’t leave with anyone.”

Morgan stood, tense. “I’ll find her.”

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

Then JJ’s phone buzzed sharply.

She checked the message. Her face went pale.

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

The air drained from the room.

Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Where’s her phone?” he asked.

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

Silence. Immediate. Heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming,” Spencer said immediately.

Hotch nodded. “Go. Now.”

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

At first, it felt like nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

That was her first warning.

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

Still.

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

But the man didn’t answer.

The second warning.

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

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

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

Gone.

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

And then — the cruiser slowed.

Not at the hotel.

Not anywhere near it.

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

A thin, wavering breath escaped her lips.

She reached for the door handle. Locked.

The driver turned to her.

And for the first time, she really saw him.

Wrong eyes. Wrong age. Wrong badge.

Not Officer Greeley.

Not a cop.

Just the unsub wearing his uniform like a second skin.

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

And before she could scream, move, or fight —

The needle was already at her neck.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

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

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

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

Spencer sprinted forward.

“Y/N!” he shouted.

Nothing but the howl of wind.

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

Then he saw the needle cap in the snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the clock had started.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer fic #reid fic #spencer reid fic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst

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vincentvangoghs · 2 months ago

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When Tommy saved Bobby for the second time—this time eight years in the past—it flashed me back to last summer, when Tim Minear posted a BuckTommy video to his facebook.

In that video, a fan effectively highlighted the concept of 'Invisible String Theory' and how it related to BuckTommy as a pairing, while also pointing out how this made Tommy Kinard stand out as not just a unique and effective love interest for Buck, but also an influential character for the direction of the show in general.

So, having a new flashback where Tommy is the one to save Bobby in the past, when it could have just as easily been anyone else who saved him, adds even more contextual layers to the concept. Because had Tommy not intervened at this moment, Bobby likely would have fallen into the inferno and died, leading to the alteration or complete erasure of just about everything we have witnessed in the show since 1x01--never mind just Buck no longer meeting Tommy. It makes me consider that the concept of ‘Invisible String Theory’ may have actually resonated with Minear in a truly influential way once it was brought to his attention, via that video or elsewhere, and that he didn’t just post that video for mere fandom points. Because with this latest development, we have veered away from ‘accidental Invisible String Theory’, to what appears to now be intentional. With this latest development, the writing continues to integrate Tommy into the show’s past and present, while further establishing a strong foundation for his place in the show’s future. It's yet another solid piece of evidence pointing to true longevity for the BuckTommy pairing.

Hen has her Karen, Maddie has her Chimney, Athena had her Bobby, and Buck will have his Tommy.

#911 abc #bucktommy #yet another reason why i do not understand the skepticism surrounding a reconciliation. it's very clear minear loves tommy as a character #and wants him with buck. they're obviously going to work through their troubles and become a stable long term couple.#i mean... it's not even just a blueprint anymore. there is brick and wood and glass forming a very solid foundation here.#personally? unless oliver and/or lou decide to leave the show - i see them moving in and getting engaged in season nine.#and a wedding in season ten.#too optimistic? as a thirty-four-year-old viewer who has been down the film and television road for decades - i don't think so.#i think the set up is overwhelmingly there and tim minear isn't even trying to hide it at this point.#any major skepticism and negativity is a you problem.#that’s not to say things can’t go wrong - like an actor choosing to step away or minear being replaced with a showrunner who wants to #take buck in a different direction. but the intent to reconcile the pair is CLEARLY there - as it currently stands - with STRONG signs of #longevity rooted within the intent.

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kingofmyborrowedheart · 2 years ago

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I know this is probably unrealistic but I would love a version of the Eras Tour movie that includes all of the songs that have been a part of the main set list in it.

#taylor swift #the eras tour #eras movie #so like including both ttds and nbnc/invisible string and the 1/nothing new and anything else she might add in

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sknyuz · 2 months ago

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threaded to you | h.j.s. (joshua)

synopsis — the one where joshua plans a week-long getaway leading up to your birthday—and a little more. pairing — joshua hong x gn!reader tags — fluff, established relationship, proposal!, joshua is a sweetheart, domestic callbacks to ur relationship, comfort cw — usual skinship, aside from that, just hold onto ur hearts ❤️‍🩹

wc — ~2k a/n — another tooth-rotting fluff to add to the collection, requested by @teddy08-09 (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

masterlist

for the next five days, you would wake up to the sound of waves crashing softly outside your window and the scent of warm pastries already drifting in from the kitchen.

it’s your birthday week, and joshua insisted on whisking you away—somewhere private, cozy, sun-drenched. the kind of place where time slows down and mornings start with sleepy kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. each day has its own little adventure. joshua doesn’t overload the schedule, he knows you ‎too well for that. instead, he’s curated moments—quiet, intentional ones.

day one is exploring a hidden beach he found months ago, the two of you building little towers from driftwood and shell fragments. that night, he gives you the first bracelet. it’s made of woven cord and tiny beads, and on it is a date—the day you met.

“i remember everything you said that day,” he tells you quietly, brushing sand from your knee. “i knew you were the one.”

day two is filled with laughter at a local artisan market. he buys you snacks from every stall you glance at for more than five seconds, and you both get henna tattoos for no real reason other than why not? later, when you’re back in the villa, he brings out another bracelet. this one has a string of characters: 2 0 2 1.

“that was the year that i asked you to be mine,” he says, threading it gently around your wrist. “still the best decision i ever made.”

day three, he drags you to a pottery class. it’s a mess. joshua’s clay bowl collapses into itself with a dramatic flop and you laugh so hard you almost fall off your stool. he pouts, dramatic as ever, but when you finally get your wobbly creations back to the villa, he asks you to check inside the pot you made, and there it was, the third bracelet:

this one simply reads: lovey. your favorite nickname for him.

“because you say it with that tone that makes me feel like the softest version of myself,” he says, resting his forehead against yours.

day four is calmer. a boat ride at golden hour, your hand resting over his on the railing as the wind tangles through your hair. there’s no rush, no noise. just the two of you, floating along the water while the sky shifts into warm hues of orange and pink. as the boat drifts, he pulls out his guitar, strumming softly.

the sound of the strings, delicate and intimate, fills the quiet air, and you find yourself leaning closer, your head resting against his shoulder. joshua plays a few songs for you, some soft melodies you’ve never heard before, others familiar tunes he’s played just for you on nights when you both stayed up too late. each note feels like a thread weaving your hearts tighter together as the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon.

that night, after dinner, he gives you a bracelet with your initials. simple. classic. still enough to make your heart flutter.

and finally—the night before your birthday.

you think the surprise is the private chef joshua hired for the night, who’s currently serving you perfectly grilled steak and pouring deep red wine into your glass. the lights are dim, the candles flickering, and joshua’s wearing your favorite cologne. the setting is straight out of a movie.

but he pauses before dessert. “wait,” he says, slipping away for a second. when he returns, he’s holding a small, velvet-lined tray with a single bracelet resting in the middle. it’s similar to the others, handmade by him, soft threads twisted together with care. but this one says:

marry ♡ me?

the question is spaced by a tiny heart charm, delicate and golden.

your eyes lift to his—wide and glimmering, the candlelight catching in them like tiny stars. your breath catches. the rest of the room fades.

it’s not just the bracelet. it’s what it means. what he means. every little moment leading up to this—every inside joke, every early morning coffee, every soft look across a crowded room—they all rush back in like a wave crashing at once. and suddenly, it all makes sense. you’re still holding the bracelet in your hand like it’s fragile, sacred. like it holds your whole history woven between the threads.

as you take the bracelet from him, your fingers brushing against his, joshua looks at you—eyes full of something deep, something tender. there’s a quiet longing in the way his gaze lingers, like he’s been waiting for this moment all along, holding onto something bigger than just a question. it’s not the kind of look that just says “i love you”—it’s the kind of look that speaks to a lifetime. you feel your chest tighten at the weight of it, the tenderness of the unspoken words hanging in the air.

he watches you carefully as you fasten the bracelet around your wrist, his fingers lingering just a little too long when they touch yours. his smile is soft, almost wistful, and there’s a faint glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s holding back, like he’s been waiting to ask you this for longer than either of you realize.

“it’s not a ring just yet,” he says softly, voice a little shaky, “not until you say yes.”

his gaze doesn’t waver from you, filled with the quiet ache of someone who’s ready to give everything, just waiting for you to take that step with him. your chest tightens, and your eyes blur. your heart—god, your heart is racing in the best possible way.

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the actual ring box—simple, elegant, shining just like his smile when he kneels in front of you.

your hands fly to your mouth before you even realize it, lips trembling as your tears fall freely, but there’s no panic behind them. no hesitation. only something so sure it feels like gravity itself.

he’s kneeling, waiting. but not with fear in his eyes—just love. the soft, steady kind that’s always made you feel like you could finally breathe. you lower your hands, heart thudding like a drumbeat under your ribs, and blink away just enough tears to really look at him. and you say it—like it’s the only answer that’s ever made sense.

“yes,” you breathe, voice cracking from the tears. then again, louder. firmer. lighter. “yes, joshua. of course i’m saying yes.” you’re already nodding before you can stop yourself, laughing through your sobs, reaching for him because you just need to feel him. need to hold him. need him to know you mean it with everything in you.

his watery grin breaks into something helpless and radiant, and he stands up to wrap you in his arms, holding you like the world could fall apart and he’d still be okay as long as you’re here. you bury your face into his shoulder, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating off into the stars.

you feel him slip the ring onto your finger with trembling hands, and it fits perfectly. and you whisper one more time, right against his ear, like a secret you’ve been carrying for years: “i’ve always known it was you.”

later that night, after the excitement, after the tears, after the thousand kisses and the way he tucked your hand in his like it was meant to be there forever—you sit out on the deck, gazing fondly at the stars and the shoreline below.

joshua steps out onto the deck, “ooh, careful, my love. hot, hot. hot!” a bowl of steaming hot ramen he carefully brought over to you.

his secret recipe. the one he made you on your third date, when it rained and every restaurant was closed. it’s not what someone would call fancy, not even close to the meal you just had—but it tastes like home. like all your shared laughter and late nights and whispered dreams rolled into one warm, savory bowl. a tradition at this point.

“still your favorite, right?” he murmurs, resting his head on your shoulder. you nod, tasting the broth, bringing the bowl down onto your lap, and nudging his side. “always.”

you’re curled up beside him on the wooden deck, barefoot and wrapped in the cardigan he swore you stole from him years ago (well, you never denied it). your legs are tucked under you, the bowl of ramen resting between the two of you. and even after everything—the private chef, the wine, the whole trip—this is the part of the night joshua loves most.

you, with sleepy eyes and ramen broth on your lip. you, still giggling every few seconds like you’re not sure this is real.

you’re his fiancée.

his heart thumps all over again.

he watches you sip from the bowl, humming quietly in approval. and that’s when it really hits him—not in the grand gestures or the spotlighted proposal—but here, in this tiny, tender moment. when you’re completely at ease, barefoot and glowing under the soft moonlight, still wearing every bracelet he made you like you just came out of a taylor swift concert.

oh, how he loves you. his deepest affections braided into every thread.

not in the fleeting, dizzying way he used to think love had to be. not like the songs that burn out by the third chorus. this is something else. something rooted and warm. love, to him, is you in this exact moment—humming with ramen in your mouth and one sock missing.

he can see it all in his head now, clearer than ever: mornings with your bedhead and grumpy pout, years from now. road trips where you fight over playlists and still end up singing together at the top of your lungs. anniversaries where you both forget the date and end up laughing on the couch with takeout. matching mugs. matching rings. the soft click of your shared key turning in the door

he thinks about how you always reach for his hand in your sleep, how you trace little hearts on his palm when you’re nervous, how your nose scrunches every time you tell a lie (you’re a terrible liar, by the way), how you say his name like it means something softer than just syllables.

he leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’re really gonna marry me?” he asks, half-whisper, almost like he’s checking.

you glance at him, wide-eyed, soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “mm... i think i already did. haven’t we been married this whole time? maybe only i knew, though.” you huff proudly, flashing him a cheeky grin.

he laughs, breathless. the kind of laugh that comes from deep in his chest, where he’s been holding everything in since he met you.

she’s gonna be mine forever, he thinks. i get to love her for the rest of my life.

and he swears, in that moment, he’ll never take it for granted. not one second. not one sleepy morning or late night argument or grocery store trip or forehead kiss. he’ll love you through all of it—your quiet, your chaos, your every version. he’ll love you even when you leave your mug in every room of the house, even when you steal all the blankets, and even when you forget to charge your phone and panic about it three times a week. he’ll love you through the ordinary, and make it feel like magic.

because you’re it. his home. his heart.

and tonight, under the stars and surrounded by the bracelets you now wear like a timeline, joshua knows—there’s no version of forever he wants without you in it.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm

#sknyuz #⋆˚࿔ 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢’𝐬 🍮 𝜗𝜚˚⋆#seventeen x reader #joshua hong x reader #joshua hong x you #hong jisoo x reader #joshua x reader #svt x reader #svt fanfiction #seventeen fluff #joshua fluff #joshua hong x y/n #joshua hong fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen #svt #joshua hong fanfiction #Spotify

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astrologicallyserene · 26 days ago

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synastry + composite notes

RELATIONSHIPS + BREAKUP EDITION: I recently got out of a karmic relationship and felt compelled to write some synastry and composite notes!! Lmk if you have insights to add/advice for moving on from karmic attachments

lilith synastry (conjunctions) - Lilith person often gets scapegoated in astrology circles as being controlling and obsessive over the planet person. While this can be true, it's usually because of boundary misalignment between them. Something that crosses the line for lilith is a part of the planet person's lifestyle. The planet person's way of life is thus threatened by Lilith's standards.

Meanwhile, the planet person unknowingly brings out lilith's worst insecurities and fears. Planet person fears lilith's demands for more consistent treatment, and they either get drawn in more to rise to the challenge or they run away. Chaser/runner dynamic. If the planet person runs from the dynamic, they often leave karmic lessons unfinished between them.

venus conjunct north node synastry - North Node can be heavily invested in Venus, but both parties simultaneously know what they have together won't last forever. It's like they are trying to elude the relationship's expiration date. Regardless, Venus teaches North Node so much about love for better or for worse, and what North Node needs to feel and receive love. Venus breaks them out of their comfort zone. This relationship helps North Node clarify what their standards, boundaries, and non-negotiables are going forward.

south node/north node synastry - SOUL RECOGNITION IS REAL HERE. Especially on the node person's side. Think invisible string and "we meet people twice" theory. It's that person who catches your eye, but you don't give much thought to until you fully meet and they shake your world up completely.

7th house/8th house synastry - As much as we romanticize it, even alongside binding aspects, it's sometimes still not enough to make someone stay. Someone you thought was your person can easily turn into the person who runs with these placements, which makes the fallout that much harder. We forget 8h also focuses on loss and 7h can point to "enemies".

venus conjunct mercury synastry - Yes, Venus can be affectionate with Mercury, but it's often quite superficial and doesn't go too deep unless Moon synastry is involved.

neptune squares in synastry/composite - Can often signal emotional cheating/betrayal on at least one person's end. Even if it's not outright cheating, there is some lying by omission, withholding information, or downplaying at work here that both parties should be aware of. Both parties need to be clear about what they consider cheating/betrayal.

saturn squares in synastry - Karmic baby. Saturn makes planet person feel inadequate or like nothing they do is enough. Like lilith synastry, Saturn gets scapegoated, but sometimes this boils down to incompatible standards. What Saturn considers vital to the health of a relationship is something the Planet person might not be willing or even able to provide. Depending on the planet person's willingness to fight for the connection, they either keep toughing it out or the strain becomes too much for either party to bear.

The funny thing is that Saturn usually wants to keep fighting to make it work, but the Planet Person is more realistic about when to call it quits. In my case (as the Saturn person), I was already struggling in the relationship and felt like my needs weren't being met. I knew the relationship wasn't sustainable, but I couldn't walk away. Planet person (his Venus and Ascendant) was understanding about my needs, but realized he just kept hurting me. He didn't have the capacity to make me happy long-term.

Usually, some sort of external circumstance contributes to the end of their relationship. Such as distance, third party, or other priorities.

mars in 3rd house synastry - Phew the dirty talk is crazyy and often becomes the basis for the intimacy. House person is more into it, and mars knows it lights them up, then runs with it.

eros conjunct lilith synastry - The intimacy will be the death of you. Lilith can feel how badly Eros wants them. Intoxicating.

moon square uranus composite - So emotionally volatile it's unfathomable. Usually, the feminine gets easily triggered and the relationship becomes a minefield of hurt for her while the masculine might have to walk on eggshells.

amor conjunct a personal planet in synastry - Amor loves the Planet person unconditionally. This can be hard because the Planet Person can foul Amor repeatedly, but Amor chooses to see the light in this person even when shown their darkness consistently. Even now, as the Amor person, I find myself still making excuses for the Planet Person's behavior or trying to be extra empathetic with them.

ANYWAY, this was so therapeutic to write and get off my chest and I might do a part two soon with some overlays!

#astro notes #astrology #astrology notes #astro observations #astrology observations #synastry #composite #synastry notes #karmic relationships #north node #lilith

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natsrealgf · 23 days ago

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Queen’s duty

Natalie Scatorccio x fem!reader

Summary: in which Natalie’s role as queen takes a toll on your relationship

Wc: 1.5k

Authors note: happy pride month my lovelies

You know it’s childish unfair even but some part of you just can’t help but be hurt by it all.

You try to pinpoint the moment your relationship changed when it started deteriorating when you started wondering if things would ever go back to the way they were.

All your life Natalie was your person and you were hers it never mattered that you came from different backgrounds, had personality’s that were almost the exact opposite of one another or how many people asked you how you two were even “friends” to begin with, unaware of the true nature of your relationship with Natalie. It was like you two were connected by an invisible string that always managed to pull you to one another, if you believed in that kind of thing you’d say you two were fated to each other.

You go to your shared hut to grab the riffle to go hunting. Now that Natalie is queen the responsibility of keeping a team of starved slightly insane teenage girls and one Travis Martinez falling completely on you. Not that you mind any excuse to be away from any of them feeling like a blessing to you.

You can’t help but roll your eyes as you see Natalie talking with Lottie again since the latter had nominated your girlfriend queen of the insane she’d been glued to her, quietly worshiping her, drinking in her every word it made you sick to your stomach. Before the sudden change of roles the two couldn’t stand each other to the point you had begged your girlfriend to give Lottie a break how you regret it now.

You’re so entranced in your own thoughts that you don’t see her approaching you, the person responsible for your inner turmoil.

“Hey, wait up.” She calls out to you attempting to grab your attention.

“What.” You respond in a monotone voice.

She catches up to you, falling into step beside you. "You’re not going to watch Vans show?" She questions with a glimmer of hope in her eyes that makes your stomach sink even if only a little bit.

“Do I have to?” You counter. Another thing that’s been pissing you off having to do whatever she tells you to. Sure, you’re aware that your relationship with Natalie doesn’t give you special treatment over the others or at least it shouldn’t but it still stings to get treated like everyone else like, you’re just like everyone else, a mere subject or another mouth to feed.

“I mean Van’s been working so hard…” She starts voice guarded like she’s talking to a wild animal.

“Are you asking me to go or telling me I have to ?” You question unable to hide the slight irritation in your voice.

"I’m not forcing you to do anything I was checking in." Natalie replies, voice deceptively sweet.

“And I deeply appreciate it. My queen.” You add as you bow to her mockingly.

Natalie laughs, short and cold. There's an edge to her gaze now, bitter and cutting. "Real nice." She responds.

You look at her for a few seconds pondering if you should respond before you decide against it and turn around heading into the dense forest. Natalie doesn’t try to follow she knows better so she just runs a hand through her hair, slightly tugging at the roots in frustration as she watches you leave again.

You wonder aimlessly for hours strutting through the woods with practiced ease. You can’t help but think of happier times before your hope turned into fear. Before survival was your only goal if this is survival does it matter surviving at all? Even after the plane crashed you still had Natalie through the dread and uncertainty she was your constant like she always had been. You missed the time when you were her only worry how she’d run to you after an unsuccessful hunt looking for comfort, how she’d kiss your head before leaving at dawn, you missed the sound of her voice, the way she held you steadily through the night like you were something worth holding on to.

You notice the sun setting and decide to head back to camp meat in hand for Shauna to prepare you were absent during dinner unable to face Natalie.

When you decide to return to your shared hut she’s already inside curled up in a ball staring at the wall of the enclosed space.

You lay next to her hoping she’ll initiate some form of contact with you. She turns her head, her eyes landing on you. In the dim light, her face is soft, and it hurts to look at. You look at her expectantly trying to convey what you want through your gaze. Your face touches her shoulder as you give her the best puppy dog eyes look you can muster. Natalie ever unable to say no to you or resist your pleading sighs before she moves, turning her body to yours completely. Her hands reach for you, tugging gently on your clothes as she pulls you close. She wraps her arms around you and buries her face into your shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of you. In this moment, nothing else matters but this and you cling to her like holding on will keep her from slipping further away.

“You’ve been nothing but an absolute asshole the whole entire day and now you come here asking for cuddles." She huffs but you don’t miss the way her hold on you tightens. You don’t have an answer to that so you just melt into her further closing your eyes for a second relishing in the comfort and familiarity she brings.

Because what were you supposed to say? That you miss the time when she was just yours when she didn’t have the responsibility to care for the entire team instead of just you?

Natalie can’t help but scoff, a humorless laugh escaping her. “Asshole” She repeats before she tightens her arms around you, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space between the two of you. She relishes the feel of your body against hers, the way your breath tickles her skin and your heart beats against her chest.

She runs a hand through your hair, her touch gentle. "You don't gotta play cute to get me to forgive you, you know ." She adds.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness.” You counter.

"No, just asking for attention then. That it?" She snorts, an edge of bitterness creeping into her voice.

She relaxes a little, her fingers tracing light patterns on your back. It's an unconscious gesture, a habit she's developed over the months of being stranded here. You’re still mad at her though- that much is clear.

“I didn’t know my presence was such a burden your highness” You blurt out. Getting increasingly irritated by her dismissal.

“That’s not fair. You know that’s not what I was saying-“

“Isn’t it?”

Natalie narrows her eyes, the earlier exhaustion giving way to irritation. She doesn't appreciate being misunderstood, or having her words twisted. "You’ve been distant. Ever since I took over. You won't tell me why. You avoid me. I reach out and all I get is attitude. You wanna know why I called you out? Because I’m tired. I’m tired of trying."

You’re eyes fill with tears at that there it was tired tired of trying tired of you.

Her expression falters upon seeing your tears. Her anger fizzles out, replaced by a feeling like an anchor weighing heavy on her chest.

"Hey- no, I didn’t- I-" She stutters, feeling guilt well up inside her.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t mean it? Yes you did.” You say making a poor attempt at maintaining your voice steady.

"Yes. But not like that. Look- it’s been hard. Being in charge, trying to keep everyone together. Trying to keep everyone alive. And it’s harder when you do nothing but give me attitude all day."

“You’re the one acting like our relationship is another one of your chores.” You say as you attempt to wipe the tears that slide down your face without your permission.

Natalie's expression hardens, pain flashing in her eyes. The words send a jolt through her, hitting a nerve. "You know that's not true." She retorts, her voice sharp. She can’t believe that you think she sees being with you as a chore. "I'm trying. I'm doing my best, and I don’t need you making it more difficult."

“Or maybe you don’t need me at all”

“What are you saying.” Now it’s her turn to start crying. The thought of losing you one unbearable to her.

But you don’t respond before leaving your shared hut both you and her knowing what it meant. Natalie just stands paralysed inside what was previously your shared space unable to understand what happened, how could she let it happen, how she just lost the best thing in her life only because she failed to realised how much she was neglecting you.

Morning comes, she searches the camp asks for you there’s no sign of you, an uneasy feeling settles into her chest. Before she lets it linger she makes a decision.

She will get you back.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #nat scatorccio x you #nat scatorccio x reader #nat scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio

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