#op: [code: final will] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

clementineinn · 1 month ago

Text

before you fade

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

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

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

word count: ~4.4k

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

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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lotuswish · 5 months ago

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˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 4 - ignihyde) ☠︎︎ .ᐟ

summary: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective-how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): idia shroud (no ortho).

content warning(s): none.

a/n: no ortho here—he’s baby, and that’s final. what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) (pt. 4 - you are here) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - octavinelle) (pt. 7 - diasomnia)

idia shroud

loving you feels like stumbling into a storyline idia shroud never thought he’d get to be part of. love was something he dismissed as a fantasy, the kind of thing that belonged in fairy tales or cheesy RPGs—dramatic, improbable, and definitely not meant for someone like him. but then you appeared, and it was like an unexpected cutscene he didn’t see coming, pulling him out of his predictable, carefully controlled world and into something that felt both heart-pounding and deeply, unmistakably real.

idia has always lived in the safety of the familiar. his world is a perfectly crafted routine, a place where he knows the rules and controls the outcomes. but loving you throws all of that into disarray. you’re the unscripted event, the glitch in his carefully coded reality, the variable that changes everything. it’s overwhelming, like trying to navigate an intricate maze with no clear path, but he finds himself drawn deeper, unable to pull away, even when it feels like he’s completely lost.

loving you is a paradox he can’t quite figure out. it’s frightening—letting you see the parts of himself he’s spent years hiding, the awkwardness, the insecurities, the crippling fear of rejection. but at the same time, it’s the safest he’s ever felt. with you, he finds a kind of security he’s only ever known with ortho, a sense of belonging in a world that’s always felt too loud, too chaotic, too much. you don’t try to change him or push him out of his comfort zone before he’s ready. instead, you meet him exactly where he is, offering patience and understanding he never thought he deserved.

being with you feels like logging into the ultimate co-op campaign. every challenge becomes less daunting when you’re by his side, every obstacle a little less intimidating. you make things fun in a way he didn’t think was possible—turning the toughest battles into adventures and making him actually want to keep playing, no matter how hard the level gets. it’s the kind of bond he’s spent his whole life wishing for but never thought he could actually have.

what catches him off guard is how much you make him want to change—not because he feels he has to, but because he genuinely wants to. for the first time, he feels like stepping out of his comfort zone might be worth it, even if it means facing things that scare him. being with you gives him a sense of hope, a belief that he can be someone stronger, braver, and better than the person he’s always seen himself as.

for idia, loving you feels like uncovering a hidden level he never expected—something challenging and unpredictable but offering a reward far beyond anything he ever imagined. the world is still overwhelming, but now there’s something in it that makes the struggle worthwhile. with you, he starts to see possibilities he never thought were meant for him, and that alone changes everything.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

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ketbra · 2 years ago

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I'm but a humble programmer but if you want to shut up a tech bro for real ask them if someone who never once wrote a line of code alone in their life is a programmer if they ask chatgpt for coding. Ask them if they'd agree with someone calling themselves ai-programmer if they don't know classes or malloc or bubblesort or pointers or this or constructors. "but my code works" 'yes, but you don't know how or why'

FireflySummers’ Guide to Arguing Against the Use of AI Image Generators

(AKA I hate AI image generators so fucking much that I published a whole ass academic article on it)

Read the Paper: Art in the Machine: Value Misalignment and AI "Art"

Citation: Allred, A.M., Aragon, C. (2023). Art in the Machine: Value Misalignment and AI “Art”. In: Luo, Y. (eds) Cooperative Design, Visualization, and Engineering. CDVE 2023. Lecture Notes in Computer Science, vol 14166. Springer, Cham. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-43815-8_4

The purpose of the original paper and now this post is the following:

Provide at least one academic article that you can cite. (Full paper + citation available below)

Make explicit community values that have previously been implicit, in order to better examine your own perceptions of the online artist community, and where you sit within it.

Provide rebuttals to common pro-AI talking points, with the intention of shutting down the conversation and reclaiming the narrative.

What this paper and post cannot do:

Act as a sole authority about the online artist community and its values. We are not a monolith, and it is up to you to think critically about what, exactly, you want to take away from this discussion.

Provide a way to convince AI Evangelists that what they’re doing is wrong and bad and needs to stop. You will never convince them. Again, focus on shutting them down and reclaiming the narrative.

Final Disclaimer: I'm a very fallible researcher who is still very much learning how to do academia. I cannot speak for the entirety of the online artist community or fanartist community. We all have different lived experiences. I have done my best to include diverse voices; however if you have concerns or critiques, I am open to hearing them.

If you show up to debate in favor of AI image generators, you will be automatically blocked.

Credits:

Editors, Meme Experts, and Annotators: @starbeans-bags, @b4kuch1n, @cecilioque.

Tutorial Examples: @sabertoothwalrus, @ash-and-starlight, @miyuliart, @hometownrockstar, @deoidesign, @cinnamonrollbakery

If you have read this far, thank you very much. I hope that you have found a constructive lens for approaching the war with AI image generators, as well as a new tool for shutting down debate and reclaiming the narrative.

#And also op not to bother you but I think there's a definition for art #It's a process. Art it's the skill to translate an idea into a visual #The final product is a consequence of the artist's thought process #Ai starts from the final result but has no thoughts behind it #And honestly it's fucking annoying that techbros believe they're making art bc like this they don't even understand how the coding works #So i don't think they're programmers

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sunshineangel0 · 14 days ago

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TO HAVE AND TO HOLD —﹙ K.SM ﹚

⌁ wc 9.1k warnings marriage of convenience, single dad!seungmin, nsfw content, unprotected intercourse, light choking, emotional tension, slow burn, fake marriage, mild angst, soft comfort, small town meddling. a/n wow i didnt think i would write almost 10k words!! but here i am and got carried away with seungmin (i should study but lets ignore that). ive just finished reading "wild side" by elsie silver and this idea immediately sparked in my head!! this was so seungmin coded and i just needed to write it. i hope you all like it!! 💕 ⌁ part two of the "twin heart series"

The sky over Summerdale wasn’t just darkening, it was bleeding out. A deep lavender haze rolled in slow from the water, swallowing the last threads of daylight like it had something to say and no rush to say it. The tide lapped against the cliffs below the bluff, whispering its secrets through the pine trees that edged the shoreline, soft and rhythmic, like breath against a sleeping body.

Down on Main Street, the neon sign above The Scallop Heaven blinked in its usual broken pattern "Sca op Heaven" thanks to the leftmost ‘L’ giving out sometime back in February. Nobody had fixed it. Nobody cared. That was the thing about Summerdale: things broke, people shrugged, and life just went on. You either made peace with the cracks or you left. Most people didn’t leave.

You pulled into the back lot, headlights sweeping over the dumpsters and salt-stained siding. The gravel under your tires made that familiar grinding sound, like bones rolling in a socket. You turned the engine off and exhaled a breath that felt like it had been aging in your lungs for years. Your body slumped just slightly in the driver’s seat, caught in that strange twilight stillness where movement felt like too much to ask.

The envelope on the passenger seat stared up at you, sealed but scuffed, the corner bent, the weight of it far heavier than the ounces it contained. It wasn’t just paper. It was intention. Agreement. Consequence. It might as well have been a brick.

You didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Just kept your hands on the wheel and watched the lights flicker off in the upstairs apartment, one room at a time. Soft glows blooming behind worn curtains. Minseo’s bedtime routine was unfolding exactly as expected: the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon staying on, the lullaby playlist humming from the old Bluetooth speaker, and three bedtime stories, in the same order every night. God help you if you swapped them. She was stubborn like that. Solid in her routines. Maybe because everything else in her life had already shifted too much.

Finally, you picked up the envelope and stepped out into the thick, salt-touched air. The car door shut behind you with a quiet, final thud.

Inside the bar, the world was dim and warm in a way that didn’t invite questions. The lighting came mostly from mismatched neon signs advertising brands like Schlitz and Genesee, none of which had been stocked in the fridge since at least 2014. The air smelled like lemon cleaner, spilled whiskey, and wood soaked with too many conversations people pretended not to remember. The kind of place where silence spoke louder than music.

A TV in the corner muttered through a baseball game, the announcer’s voice low and static-filled. Nobody was paying attention.

Behind the bar, Seungmin moved like a man trying to keep from unraveling. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms tensed as he wiped the countertop in slow, punishing strokes. His face was unreadable, carved from quiet resolve and low-grade irritation. Like he was always one memory away from breaking something he couldn’t fix.

He didn’t look up right away when you walked in. Just kept working the cloth like it had insulted him personally.

Then the bell over the door jingled, and his head lifted. His eyes met yours. No smile. There never was, not lately. Not with you. Not because he didn’t want to—but because with you, he didn’t allow himself to slip. Not even for a second.

“You’re early,” he said, voice even, low.

You lifted the envelope slightly. “You’re always here.”

That earned you a shrug—one of those quiet, almost imperceptible movements that said more than words could. A shrug that meant so what, what else is new, what choice do I have.

You crossed the room and slid onto the barstool closest to the register, dropping the envelope between you like a gauntlet. He looked at it like it might bite.

“Everything’s in there,” you said. “License forms, witness sheet, affidavit, notarization schedule. We just need two signatures. And someone willing to lie with a smile.”

He nodded once, then reached for a clean glass and started drying it, gaze fixed somewhere behind you.

“Minseo asleep?”

“Out cold after book number three,” he said. “Same one she always picks. The penguin with the astronaut helmet.”

You smiled without meaning to. “She likes the ending.”

“Because it makes sense,” he said. “It’s the only part that does.”

And there it was again—that stretch of silence. The kind that settled in when two people didn’t know how to name the space between them. Or maybe they did, and neither one wanted to say it out loud.

“I talked to the social worker today,” you said, voice quieter now, like it might spook something. “She asked if we’d set a date.”

His hands paused for just a second. A flicker.

“And?”

“I told her February fourteenth.”

That got his attention. He looked at you for real this time, not just the flick-and-glance. His stare pinned you—focused, assessing, familiar in its intensity.

“Valentines day,” he said. “Day of lovers. Good omen.”

“It’s also three weeks from now.” “I know.”

You studied him—jaw clenched, scar on his knuckle still visible from the bar fight last spring, a faint smear of blue ink on his wrist. Minseo’s markers. Her favorite color.

“You still okay with this?” you asked.

For a beat, he didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly, folded the towel, and leaned forward onto the bar.

“I’m not doing it for me.” Soft. Quiet. Unflinching.

“I know,” you said, almost on a breath.

Because this wasn’t about him. Or you. It wasn’t about whatever unfinished history lived in the way he never quite met your eyes when you got too close. This was about the girl upstairs, whose parents had vanished under the weight of their own failures. About keeping her out of the foster system. Out of the trauma mill. Out of courtrooms that didn’t care if she still slept with a stuffed giraffe.

You’d offered your name. He’d offered his time. Together, you’d offered a lie that looked enough like stability to pass as truth.

“This place smells like regret and fried seafood,” you muttered, fingers tapping on the bar. “We couldn’t have met literally anywhere else?”

Seungmin lifted an eyebrow. “This is where I work. This is where I live. This is where she eats.”

He didn’t add and this is all I’ve got, but it echoed anyway. Subtext carved into every breath.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” you said. “I figured.”

“And if you snore, I’m buying noise-canceling headphones.” “Be my guest.” “And if this gets weird—” “It’s already weird,” he said. “But we’re still doing it.”

You looked down at the envelope again. It didn’t look heavy anymore. Just final. Your name, written beside his, in ink that wouldn’t wash off.

“You ever think we’re gonna wake up one day and regret this?” you asked.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. “Every day.” And then, with the same calm he used to pour drinks, he peeled the envelope open, pulled out the first form, and flattened it against the counter like it was just part of the job. You watched him. The steadiness of his hands. The restraint in his voice. The quiet ache tucked in the corners of his expression. This wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something. Duty. Survival. A pact made over coffee and desperation. And somewhere beneath all of it—rising, quiet and patient—was the beginning of something else. Not fake. Not anymore.

You watched Seungmin slide the paperwork out of the envelope like it might disintegrate if he moved too fast. His fingers were steady, precise—the kind of steadiness that comes from trying to hold it together when everything else is coming apart. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. This wasn’t someone signing a few forms for convenience. This was someone about to step out onto a high wire, fully aware there was no net.

He didn’t speak. He almost never did when the stakes were high.

Instead, he read. Line by line. Eyes scanning the page like every word might bite. That was Seungmin’s armor—silence. Careful, controlled, and sharp-edged. But you saw the way his gaze caught on a single line near the top of the form:

Minor child: Minseo Kang.

The name was printed in a government-issued font, uniform, cold, sterile but it still made his jaw tighten. His shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly, like the weight of her name landed somewhere real. Somewhere that hurt.

He didn’t say Yeji’s name. You didn’t either. That part of the story lived under your tongues now, heavy and unspoken. But the memory didn’t care about silence. It showed up anyway.

Three months ago, your phone rang out of nowhere. The name on the screen stopped you cold: Seungmin. It looked like a mistake, like a ghost dialing from a part of your life you’d already packed away.

You hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Not really. Just a handful of polite holiday texts. A few heart reacts on mutual friends’ photos. Enough to say we still exist in the same orbit, but nowhere near enough to call it closeness.

Back in high school, you’d barely lived in the same world. You ran with the loud ones, the party crowd, the kids who cut class and vacationed in the Hamptons like it was a birthright. Seungmin had been the quiet boy in the back row, always scribbling in the margins of his textbooks, always turning in homework on time even when no one else bothered.

Then, junior year, he surprised everyone by trying out for the baseball team. Surprised them even more when he became the best batter your school had seen in years. His swing was clean. Focused. Brutal. You remember someone saying he hit like he had something to prove.

But after graduation, when the rest of your class scattered, NYU, UCLA, study abroad programs, gap years in Europe, Seungmin stayed in Summerdale. That always stuck with you. That he stayed. Like the town had something left to hold him, even when most of you couldn’t wait to run.

You picked up expecting awkward small talk. Instead, his voice hit like a car crash. No hello. No lead-in.

Just: “She’s gone. She left her at the apartment and she’s gone. Might need a lawyer at hand.”

She was Yeji. His ex-wife. A hurricane of a woman with pretty lies and a self-destruct button she kept pressing. You remembered her as beautiful, brittle, always halfway out the door. Addiction clung to her like a shadow, quiet at first, then louder, then everything. It had eaten her slow, until there was nothing left but smoke.

Minseo had been six. Alone in the apartment. Crying. Clutching a crumpled lunchbox and a handful of crayon drawings like they could keep her safe.

By the time CPS showed up, the caseworker took one glance at Seungmin, a bartender, single, rent two weeks overdue, and started filling in the foster home recommendation before he’d finished his sentence.

That’s when he called you. Not because you were the best option. Not because you were qualified. Not even because you were particularly close anymore.

He called because you were the only person who wouldn’t ask why him.

Minseo wasn’t his, not on paper. Not biologically. But Yeji had been four months pregnant when she and Seungmin met and got married a few weeks later, and that had never mattered to him. Not once. He’d been twenty-three and drowning in side gigs, barely making enough to cover groceries, but when Minseo was born, he’d signed the birth certificate without hesitation. He’d rocked her to sleep at three a.m. He’d learned how to braid hair. He’d shown up for parent-teacher meetings when Yeji stopped pretending to care. He’d never called her his stepdaughter. He never would.

That night on the phone, you remembered his voice cracking just once. Then he swallowed it down and said, “She’s mine. Even if the paperwork doesn’t say it. She’s mine.”

And before you could even think it through, you said, “Then I’ll make the paperwork say it.”

And then, a breath later: “We’ll get married. For you to get custody.”

There was silence on the line. Heavy. Shocked. Real. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask if you were joking. He knew you didn’t joke about things like this.

Finally, he said: “Okay.”

And now, here you were. In a half-lit bar that smelled like regret and lemon cleaner, watching him flip slowly to the last page.

The pen between your fingers felt heavier than steel. He paused. Voice low. Careful. “You don’t have to keep doing this. If it’s too much, if you want out, say so now.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m serious.” “So am I.”

You stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just moved, steady and quiet, around the bar until you were close enough to see everything. The faint hollows under his eyes. The smudge of ink on his wrist, still there from Minseo’s last doodle session. The scar on his chin from the fight two springs ago, when some drunk said something about Yeji and didn't walk away fast enough.

“She’s a kid,” you said. “A good one. She says thank you when people hold doors. She remembers birthdays. She cries every time Bambi’s mom dies even though she knows it’s coming. She’s still soft. Still kind.”

His throat worked once. He didn’t speak. “She deserves more than being handed off to a stranger just because the system can’t figure out what love looks like without a blood test.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. “And you deserve more than a fake husband with joint custody trauma.”

You huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly bureaucratic foreplay.” A beat of quiet. Then—dry, but soft:

“Liar.” Your stomach flipped.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

But you didn’t let it show. Instead, you held the pen out between you, steady and certain. “Let’s get married, Min.”

He looked at you.

Really looked. Like he was cataloging every piece of you—hair, expression, the resolve in your spine—so he’d remember what you looked like before things changed.

Then he took the pen. And signed.

The Marigold House looked like a set designer’s fever dream, whitewashed clapboard siding gleaming under the late afternoon sun, every window framed with blue shutters that matched the hydrangeas blooming in the front garden. The walkways were lined with crushed shell gravel, crunching lightly under dress shoes and kitten heels, and a trellis of marigolds curled over the gate like the house had grown into the name. It smelled like vanilla, orange blossoms, and something sugary-sweet, like a candle shop or a memory you couldn’t quite place.

You hated it.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was. Everything was, too much so. Too coordinated. Too pretty. The kind of place where people threw real weddings, not legal chess moves disguised in tulle.

The courtyard out back was a honey-drenched watercolor, rows of white folding chairs, cream ribbons fluttering in the breeze, mason jars full of wildflowers perched on every other aisle. It was staged to perfection. Like someone had tried to manifest joy with Pinterest boards and afternoon light.

You stood just off-center from the archway, draped in gauze, strung with fairy lights, clutching a bouquet you didn’t like. Too much lace. Too many peonies. But Minseo had gasped when she saw it that morning and whispered, “You look like the fairy queen from the movie,” and that was the only reason you kept it. Not taste. Not tradition. Her.

Your hands didn’t shake. But your stomach was a war zone.

Across the aisle, Seungmin stood like a man sentenced, navy suit crisp, jaw locked, posture stiff like he was daring the moment to knock him down. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink. Just watched the archway like it might collapse on him. Like maybe he was hoping it would.

He looked good. Too good. Tailored in ways that were unfair, broad shoulders in clean lines, throat dusted with stubble he hadn’t shaved close enough. A bruise-like shadow under one eye from too many sleepless nights. Still, somehow, he looked like gravity. Like a person you’d follow off a cliff if he asked with that voice of his.

In the second row, Chan leaned toward F/N with something snarky on his tongue. She elbowed him before he could finish. You caught her looking at you, and for a moment, her smile softened into something almost tender.

You looked away.

The officiant, a woman named Dottie who gardened with combat boots and baked lavender scones for the PTA, stepped forward with a clipboard in one hand and dirt still under her nails. She cleared her throat with theatrical warmth. “Let’s begin,” she said, a little too loud, her consonants clipping like she was used to reading storybooks to children. “Today, in front of friends and family, we gather to celebrate the union of Kim Seungmin and Y/N L/N”

Union.

The word hit your chest like an elbow. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to leave.

Instead, you felt the small, certain tug of a hand at the hem of your dress.

Minseo. She sat in the front row in a white cotton dress and a flower crown too big for her head, eyes wide, face glowing with the kind of happiness that didn’t know how to question itself yet.

She beamed up at you like this was the best story in the world, and you were the hero.

And just like that, the ache in your stomach stopped mattering.

The ceremony became a blur. Words like commitment, home, forever washed over you like fog. You didn’t hear half of it. You nodded in the right places. Smiled just enough. You remembered the feel of sunlight on your cheek and the way your bouquet weighed heavy against your wrist. You remembered the moment Seungmin reached for your hand.

His touch was calm. Unflinching.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t acting. He looked at you, not like a friend, not like a partner in some plan, but like someone seeing something for the first time that he’d known all along. Dottie smiled like she could feel the shift. Like she’d seen it before in other people and was already rooting for you.

She turned to Seungmin. “Did you prepare something?” He nodded. Slowly. Pulled a folded page from his jacket pocket. But he didn’t unfold it. Didn’t read it. He just held it. Like he needed to know it was there. Then he spoke. Low. Steady. No theatrics.

“You already know I’m not good at this. I don’t do speeches. Or… gestures. But I do what matters. I show up. I stay. I try. Even when it’s hard. I know Im not the best man or... lover or father. But as long as were married I promise to give my best to ensure that you, and Minseo will always have a warm home and a... person you can come home to. I know Im a hard guy. But you said yes. When you didn’t have to. When no one else did. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be someone who deserved that.”

Silence. Thick and dense. No one moved. No one breathed. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat sharp and unfair. Your chest ached like someone had pulled it open and replaced your ribs with strings. His words were so honest. Raw, Truthful. It made you wonder how long he had thought about them. About what to say. An now you felt bad.

Because you didn’t have vows. You weren’t supposed to have anything.

But then Dottie looked at you, that warm-patient-knowing expression, and suddenly you were speaking. You didn’t remember deciding to.

“I...", you looked up, directly into Seungmins steady brown eyes. They look like hot chocolate swirls, the ones after you stirred the liquid in the mug for minutes with a spoon. They look warm. Sincere. And like theyre holding the world together. Your troath went completely dry, but you continued talking:" I didn´t say yes because someone had to, but becasue I wanted to. Because you never asked for anything, even when everything hurt. Because you carry more than you should. Because the second you said Minseo was yours, I believed you. Ive known you since high school, Seungmin. Even though I didn´t always acknowledged you back then, ignored you most of the time in class, to be honest, I still always had an eye on you. On the hardworking student doing his homework inbetween classes, trying to keep his 90 average just so he can get a scholarship for college. I always saw more in you than just the quiet boy. I always knew you deserved more. And I hope that I will be the one who can give you that”.

Seungmin’s hand gripped yours just a little tighter. Behind you, Minseo sniffled. “That was so good,” she whispered. Way too loud. Someone laughed. Someone else wiped their eyes. You smiled, small. But real.

Dottie beamed. “By the power vested in me by the great state of California and the overwhelming desire of everyone here to see you kiss already—kiss your wife.”

Seungmin didn’t move. Not at first. Then, slowly, like gravity had to decide for him—he stepped in. Closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone, and he leaned in like he was stepping over a line neither of you had dared touch before.

And when his lips met yours, it was quiet heat.

He kissed you passionately. Not like he was following a script. Not like he owed anyone anything. But like he was choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

His hand stayed steady, fingers curled at your neck. Your mouth opened slightly—only slightly, and he breathed into it, like he was trying to remember the shape of you. It ended before it could deepen.

But you knew. He was choosing you. Choosing this. Like you daydreamed about in class when you were a teenager. About the quiet boy, whose plush lips you wanted to feel against yours so so desperately and who you just wanted to feel close to you. And how you punished yourself back then for being this dumb and not befriending him because you belonged to the popular kids.

But now, he was choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

No lie. No paperwork. Just lips. Just warmth. Just the sound of your heart saying finally, finally, finally.

The sun was sinking fast behind the cliffs, casting long shadows over the bluff as guests trickled into the reception space—once a quiet garden, now transformed into a makeshift ballroom draped in paper lanterns and fairy lights. Tables sprawled beneath the open sky, centerpieces spilling with late-summer blooms, wax-dripped candles flickering in rhythm with the coastal breeze. Someone had already hit play on the playlist: soft indie-folk weaving between clinking glasses and easy laughter.

You didn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand right away. Neither did he.

Then Minseo came bounding toward you, arms flung wide, crashing into his side like she’d waited all day for this moment. He caught her without flinching—solid, instinctive—one arm around her tiny frame. The other let go of yours. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. Like maybe he shouldn’t have.

Back to the plan.

You slipped into the crowd like a shadow in tulle. Smiling when you had to. Nodding through small talk. Thanking people for coming. Hugging people too tightly or not tightly enough—people who didn’t know half the story. Most of them thought this was love. That was the point, wasn’t it? Selling the illusion. Convincing them. Convincing yourselves.

Chan found you by the dessert table, which had already been ravaged—cupcake casualties thanks to sugar-hyped toddlers and nostalgic uncles. He had a wine glass in one hand and that unreadable smirk in place.

“So,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “That kiss?”

You gave him a flat look. “Let me guess. Looked fake as hell.” Then, quickly, to not raise any suspicion, you added: “You know… because we had to do it in front of family and all.”

He tilted his head. “Well actually? Looked pretty damn real.”

You took a sip of champagne instead of answering. Not because you were hiding anything—because you didn’t know what the answer was. Not anymore.

Across the patio, Seungmin caught your eye.

He was crouched by Minseo again, adjusting the strap on her glitter-covered sandal while she chattered wildly, arms slicing the air. He nodded along, completely absorbed. Like nothing else existed. Like this—her, now—was the only thing that mattered.

F/N came up beside you, slipping her arm through yours. Quietly anchoring you.

“You okay?” she asked. Light tone, but real. You nodded. “I think so.”

She glanced toward the empty arch where the ceremony had been, lights still strung across its frame like stars caught in the wood. “You looked happy up there.”

You followed her gaze. “I was.” Just for a moment. Just long enough to think—maybe you weren’t pretending anymore.

Dinner passed in a blur: speeches you half-heard, bites you barely tasted. The dance floor opened. Chan spun Minseo until she collapsed into laughter. Seungmin stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, eyes on her like she might vanish if he blinked.

You drifted off again—habit by now. Toward the edge of the garden, where the lights thinned and the music turned into a distant hum. The grass felt cool under your bare feet when you slipped off your shoes. Finally, the air had cooled too, kissed with salt and stillness.

Then came footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Seungmin.

He stood next to you, saying nothing at first. Just quiet presence. Shoulders a little tight. Hands in his pockets.

“She had fun,” he said eventually. “Said she felt like a princess.”

“She looked like one.” You both smiled. Yours faded first.

“This is going to get harder, isn’t it?” He didn’t play dumb. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” You turned to look at him. “What does it feel like?” He didn’t answer right away. So you did.

“Like I’m in something I don’t know how to want… but I don’t want to lose it either.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

The silence between you didn’t stretch awkward—it stretched heavy. Full. Like it had weight. Like it was holding everything you couldn’t name. Everything that kiss had awakened, shifted, stirred. Then he said, “Thank you. For today. For… all of it.”

You didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Instead, you said, “If this is what faking it feels like… I’m scared to know what real would even look like.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just stepped closer.

Close enough for you to smell the faint citrus of his aftershave, the warmth rising from his skin, the lived-in softness of him that always felt a little like home.

“Then let’s find out,” he said—so soft you almost missed it.

You didn’t kiss him again. Not yet. But you didn’t walk away either.

The bridal suite looked exactly how a stranger would imagine it: One bed, drowned in rose petals you didn’t ask for. A bottle of unopened champagne sweating in a silver bucket. A clawfoot tub in the corner, positioned like it was waiting for a romance novel cover shoot. Everything white and soft and staged, like someone tried to force intimacy into the decor.

You stood in the doorway for a moment too long, shoes dangling from your fingers, unsure what to do with all that... expectation. It hung in the air heavier than the jasmine-scented diffuser on the vanity.

Seungmin stepped in behind you, hesitated, then shut the door with a soft click. The noise of the party downstairs vanished, sealed off in an instant.

Silence, now. Just the two of you. No Minseo, no guests, no cameras, no pretending.

Only you. And the one bed.

He scratched the back of his neck, already tugging at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “So... this is what we’re working with.”

You gave a short laugh. “It’s aggressively romantic.”

“Feels like a setup.” You glanced at the petals on the bedspread and snorted. “That’s because it is.”

He didn’t answer, just moved toward the window and cracked it open an inch. The sea breeze filtered in immediately, tugging at the curtains and carrying with it the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. You walked to the armchair in the corner, dropping your heels beside it and sinking into the cushion.

Your feet were sore. Your back ached. Your head buzzed with champagne and things left unsaid.

“We can flip for the bed,” you offered after a beat.

Seungmin glanced over his shoulder. “Flip?”

“Yeah. Winner gets the bed. Loser gets the... uh.” You looked around. “The chaise lounge that looks like it’s built for Victorian fainting, not sleep.”

He gave a half-smile. “Or, hear me out, we’re adults. Were... officially married. It’s a big bed. We can both fit.”

You stared at him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

You stood and padded toward the bathroom, peeling out of your dress with practiced movements. You folded it neatly over the back of the chair and pulled on the hotel-provided robe, soft, oversized, impersonal. The makeup wipes felt cool on your skin, like an eraser dragging away the bride mask you’d worn all day. You shortly cleansed your face and dabbed on a serum and moisturizer, before fiddling your hair into a quick braid.

When you stepped back into the room, Seungmin was already on his side of the bed, facing the window. Still in his dress pants and undershirt. The top three buttons undone, tie tossed over the bedside table. He hadn’t touched the champagne either.

You crossed to the opposite side, climbed under the covers cautiously. The sheets were crisp and cold and smelled faintly of bleach.

The mattress dipped with your weight. The room felt smaller somehow.

You lay on your back at first, arms pinned close, staring up at the ornate crown molding. He did the same. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then “Can’t sleep?” His voice was low. Barely more than a murmur.

You smiled at the ceiling. “Didn’t even try yet.” More silence. Not awkward. Just... thick. Pregnant with whatever was pressing at the edges of this whole night.

“I keep thinking about earlier,” you said eventually. “The kiss. What Chan said.” Seungmin’s voice came slower this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you. Eyes open. Vulnerable. Like he didn’t know what the hell to do with how close you were now, physically or otherwise.

Your knees bumped under the covers. Neither of you moved away.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you admitted. “Me neither.”

Another beat. Then you asked, “What did it feel like to you?” He licked his lips, eyes darting across your face like he was searching for the safest way to answer. “Like I was breaking a rule... but it was a rule that never made sense in the first place.”

That stopped your breath for a moment. The quiet pressed deeper between you, wrapping you both in it. Your fingers shifted beneath the covers, brushing against his by accident—or maybe not. He didn’t pull away. His pinky grazed yours. Then lingered.

A whisper of contact. Stupid and small and devastating. Your breath hitched.

He heard it. Of course he did. His hand turned palm-up, open. Waiting. You didn’t think. You just slid your fingers into his.

The sheets rustled as he shifted slightly toward you. Closer. So close now, your knees aligned. The line of his body was heat and muscle and hesitation.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” you whispered. He shook his head, the motion barely visible in the dark. “No. I think not doing anything would be the mistake.”

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding so loud it felt like he could hear it. Then he said, “Can I touch you?”

The question landed like a drop of warm honey in your chest, slow, deliberate, sweet.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers lifted to your face, brushing your cheekbone. Gentle, reverent. He traced the line of your jaw, then your bottom lip, his thumb barely grazing it.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in the room faded—the rose petals, the champagne, the fake romance. What remained was something quieter, rawer. The truth, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

You shifted closer, chest to chest now, knees tangled.

You could feel his breath on your skin, the hitch of it as your hands explored the space between shoulder and waist, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Every inch felt like a confession.

Neither of you rushed it. But the ache was building. Slow and hungry.

And this time, when you kissed him, there was no audience, no plan, no pretending.

Just you. Just him. Just real.

The kiss started slow.

Cautious. Soft. A testing of boundaries neither of you had dared cross before now. His lips brushed yours once, featherlight, almost reverent. Like he was asking permission even as your bodies already answered.

You kissed him back. That was all it took. Something inside Seungmin snapped, some invisible thread that had held him in check all day, through the ceremony, the photos, the act. It unraveled in a heartbeat.

He surged forward, mouth hungry, hands threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss like he wanted to climb inside you. His tongue licked into your mouth, desperate and sure. You moaned, breath caught, thighs instinctively parting beneath the sheets.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at you, hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen. “Sorry. Im so sorry, but gosh, Y/N. Do you know how long ive wanted to do this? Do you know how hard it was all day, marrying you, making you my wife and having to pretend you haven´t been showing up in my wet dreams since high school?", he growled. "Pretty, popular Y/N L/N. You know how bad I wanted to fuck you back then? Do you know how bad I want you right now?"

"Show me,” you whispered. That did it.

He moved fast, tugging the robe off your shoulders, baring skin inch by inch like unwrapping something sacred. His hands didn’t fumble. They claimed. Traced. Gripped.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your throat, over your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful. My wife.”

The word sent a jolt straight through you. You weren’t used to hearing it like that, hot and reverent in the same breath. You didn’t think it would turn you on the way it did. But Seungmin said it like a vow. Like a right. Like he was ready to worship you with his mouth and his hands and every sharp edge of him.

“If we’re already married,” he said against your chest, licking a slow stripe up your sternum, “we might as well act like it.”

Then his mouth closed around your nipple and your back arched hard.

He sucked deep and slow while his fingers slid between your thighs. No teasing. Just heat and friction and filthy, slick pressure. You were soaked already—your whole body trembling, wrecked from a day of pretending.

He kissed lower, dragging the sheets with him, settling between your thighs with a low groan.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you today,” he admitted, breath hot against your core. “That little white dress. You didn’t even know how good you looked, did you?”

You whimpered as his mouth found you, tongue firm and greedy, licking you open like he was starving. You couldn’t stay still, hips grinding, thighs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop. He held you there, hands anchoring you down as his tongue fucked you deeper and his voice vibrated against your skin:

“Take it, baby. You can take it. That’s it... that’s my girl.”

You were already close, embarrassingly fast, but he pulled back just before you tipped over.

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet. I want you to come on my cock first.”

He crawled up your body again, his chest flush with yours, cock heavy and hard between you. One hand grabbed your jaw, angling your face to meet his eyes.

“Last chance,” he said, voice dark and low. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head fast, desperate. “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He growled and kissed you again, messy and deep, grinding against your core like he was already inside you.

“I’m going to fuck you raw,” he whispered into your mouth. “I’ll pull out. I swear. For now. But I need to feel you. All of you.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, yes, just do it, Seungmin, please.”

The blunt head of his cock slid against your entrance, wet, hot, perfect. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might snap.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You feel... fuck, baby, you feel like heaven.”

You weren’t quiet either. You dug your nails into his back as he bottomed out, the stretch too much and not enough all at once. The feeling of him bare, skin to skin, filled some kind of void you hadn’t realized was aching.

Then he started moving. And the rhythm wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was raw.

He fucked you like he owned you, like he’d earned it after every second of pretending, every fake smile, every polite touch that meant nothing compared to this.

The bed creaked. Your moans turned high and desperate. His grip bruised your hips as he drove into you harder, faster, head pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re mine tonight,” he groaned. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “All yours.”

“Fucking right you are.” One hand reached up and wrapped around your throat, not tight, but enough to claim. To hold. To make your breath catch as he pounded into you, each thrust snapping something loose in your brain.

You clawed at him, pulled him closer, whispered his name like a prayer.

When your orgasm hit, it was violent, body locking, back arching, vision gone white. You sobbed his name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

Seungmin cursed low and pulled out just in time, spilling hot across your stomach with a strangled noise that sounded half-pain, half-devotion.

He didn’t collapse immediately. He stared down at you, panting, flushed, ruined and whispered, “You’re everything.”

Then he kissed you again. Slow now. Gentle. Full of wonder. And for the first time all day, the act was over. This was real.

The room was warm now. Too warm.

The air felt thick with sweat, breath, and everything unsaid. Your heart still pounded in your ribs like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of your body yet. Your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted whistle of the breeze through the cracked window.

Seungmin was still above you, braced on his elbows, forehead resting gently against yours like he couldn’t quite let go yet. Like if he moved, the spell might break.

You weren’t in a rush either. His breath ghosted over your cheek. Warm. Human. Steady. “I wasn’t supposed to do that,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You didn’t move. “But you did.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself. “I did.” His thumb brushed your jaw. Just once. Soft. Reverent.

“I should’ve taken it slower,” he murmured. “You deserved more than that.”

You turned your head, met his gaze in the dim light. “That was more,” you said, quietly. “That wasn’t nothing, Seungmin.” He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for days. You reached up and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

He nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah. I just—”

His mouth opened. Closed. He rolled onto his side, pulling you gently with him so your body settled into the curve of his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist. Not tight, but firm. Protective.

You felt safe. It startled you a little, how safe. “I kept thinking about it,” he said into your hair. “All day. You. Us. I told myself I wouldn’t... not unless it meant something.”

You pressed your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. “And did it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It did.” Silence stretched between you again. This time, it felt like a blanket. “I used to think about you,” you said, your voice a murmur in the dark. “In school. In class. I’d pretend I didn’t notice you, but I did. Every time.”

He let out a quiet breath, the hint of a laugh buried in it. “I used to imagine you were way out of my league.” You smiled into his chest. “I kind of was.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You were. And now you’re... my wife.” The word made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to keep calling me that,” you said, light but careful. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his expression unreadable.

“I want to.” You swallowed. “Okay.”

His hand stroked down your back, slow and soothing. “This doesn’t have to be anything we’re not ready for,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend anymore, either.”

You blinked. “Pretend what?” “That I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for a long time. That this... doesn’t feel like the start of something.”

Your throat tightened. “We made a plan. For Minseo. For—”

“I know,” he said. “And I meant it. I’ll keep my promise. We’ll raise her right. We’ll keep her safe.” His hand slid under the blanket, palm warm against your spine. “But I’m allowed to want the rest too. If you want it.”

You turned in his arms, meeting him fully, heart raw and exposed. “What if I’m scared?” you asked.

He cupped your face again, his touch almost unbearably gentle now. “Me too,” he whispered. “But if we’re going to build a lie that feels this real... maybe it’s not a lie anymore.” Your breath hitched.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “You didn’t have to say yes. But you did. And I want to be the man who makes that mean something.”

You felt the tears sting before you could stop them. “Seungmin...”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “Whatever this turns into. However long it takes. I’ve got you.” He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth. Slow. Tender. Nothing urgent, just connection. Just care. He held you like something precious. Like something he’d finally been allowed to keep.

THREE WEEKS LATER

The mornings had started to find their rhythm.

Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But real.

You woke to the smell of pancakes, again. Seungmin had a thing about breakfast, apparently. Said it anchored the day. You suspected it was more about giving Minseo something constant, something warm to start from. She still clung to her routines like a life vest.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, robe slung haphazardly around your body, hair in a loose braid that had barely survived the night. The sound of cartoon voices filtered in from the living room, Minseo’s Saturday morning ritual, and over it all: the low sizzle of batter on a skillet, and Seungmin humming some unidentifiable tune under his breath.

He looked up when you walked in.

His hair was a mess. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour on his wrist and a smear of something syrupy on the hem of his shirt. He looked like someone who belonged in a kitchen at 8:07 a.m., tired but present.

His eyes lingered for a beat too long on your legs. “Good morning, wife,” he said, voice still sleep-scratchy.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels right.” You walked over and stole a piece of half-cooked pancake off the spatula.

“Hey,” he protested, swatting at your hand half-heartedly. “That’s illegal.”

You shrugged, mouth full. “Sue me. But as far as Im concerned Im the lawyer in this household. You can punish me if you want, though”

“I already married you. Isn’t that punishment enough?” Behind you, a tiny voice shouted from the living room: “I heard that!” Seungmin snorted. “She’s always listening.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him flip the next pancake, his movements efficient and quiet. You could tell when he was tired, he moved slower, less crisp. There were new shadows under his eyes. He’d been picking up extra shifts again, covering for a coworker who disappeared without warning.

You crossed the kitchen and slipped your arms around his waist from behind.

He paused for half a second, then relaxed into it, leaned back slightly so your cheek fit into the curve of his shoulder.

“This okay?” you murmured. “Yeah,” he said. “Better than okay.”

He turned the stove off and let the last pancake settle in the pan. Then he turned around, arms sliding around your waist now, pulling you in close.

It was still new, this touch. Familiar and strange at once. Domestic. Intimate. The kind of thing people didn’t notice when they’d been doing it for years. But for you, every brush of skin still felt like a step forward.

He looked down at you, eyes soft. “I like this,” he said. “Us. Here.”

“Even with Minseo insisting on watching that weird octopus show every morning?”

“Even then.” You reached up, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You could sleep in once in a while, you know.”

“And miss Saturday pancakes?” You rolled your eyes again, but your heart ached a little. With love. With guilt. With everything you still didn’t quite know how to say out loud. Minseo called from the couch, “Is it ready yet?”

Seungmin kissed your temple. “That’s my cue.” You watched him go, watched the way he moved toward the small girl sprawled on the carpet in her dinosaur pajamas, plate in hand, grin already blooming.

She squealed when she saw him. He sat cross-legged beside her, balancing the plate on his knee, feeding her bites between episodes like it was the most natural thing in the world. You leaned against the doorway and just… watched.

Watched the man who used to be a stranger to you, now barefoot in your house. Watched the girl who used to cry herself to sleep, now giggling through a mouthful of pancake. This wasn’t love yet. But it was something. And it was growing.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The laundry never stayed folded.

Minseo had this habit of digging through the baskets looking for the dress, the blue one with the sparkles and the spaghetti straps and the small ink stain that hadn’t washed out. It didn’t matter that there were six other perfectly fine outfits. That was the one. Always had been.

So when you walked into the bedroom and found her standing triumphantly on the bed, arms up, mismatched socks already on, blue dress clinging to her sides like a second skin, you didn’t bother arguing.

Seungmin looked up from the dresser with a crooked smile and no energy to stop her.

“You wanna tell her it’s not weather-appropriate?” he asked.

You looked at Minseo’s messy braid, her socks pulled up to her knees like legwarmers, and shrugged. “I’m not trying to die today.”

“She’s terrifying when she’s committed.”

“Gets that from you.”

He smirked and walked past, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw on the way to the kitchen. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. It wasn’t new anymore, this casual touch, this quiet affection. It happened all the time now. In the mornings, when you passed each other at the bathroom sink. At night, when you reached for his hand in the dark. Mid-conversation, when he tucked your hair behind your ear like he’d been doing it forever.

It had crept in slowly. The love. It hadn’t arrived like fireworks. It hadn’t needed to.

It came in the form of grocery lists and hair detangler and "I already took out the trash" and “Did you eat today?” and the way Minseo had stopped correcting people when they called you her mom. It came in the form of a fully lived-in life.

The apartment reflected it. Messy in the corners, clean where it mattered. A basket of crayons on the coffee table. Three jackets by the door. A fridge full of leftovers in takeout containers labeled in Seungmin’s blocky handwriting. Pictures on the wall, Minseo in the park, Seungmin asleep on the couch with her on his chest, a blurry photo Chan had taken of the three of you, laughing so hard it looked fake. But it wasn’t.

You spent Sunday mornings in bed now, all three of you, tangled in sheets and limbs, cartoons playing quietly in the background. Seungmin called it “the family puddle.” Minseo insisted on pancakes every time. Sometimes he burned them. You still ate them anyway.

He never said I love you with words. But he said it when he kissed your shoulder in the kitchen. When he pulled you back into bed after the alarm. When he wrote “get home safe” on the inside of your wrist with a marker before you left for court one morning.

One night, long after Minseo had gone to bed, her nightlight casting blue stars on the ceiling, you sat on the couch, half-draped over Seungmin’s chest, and whispered, “Do you ever think about how this all started?”

His fingers kept tracing slow circles on your back. “All the time.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. “Do you think we were faking it at first?” He shook his head. “I think we were afraid to believe it was real.”

Silence passed like a heartbeat. “And now?” you asked.

Seungmin looked down at you. The smallest smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s just us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, over the spot where his heart beat slow and steady. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Minseo stirred in the next room. The wind rustled the trees outside the window. The clock ticked. The radiator clicked.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t extraordinary. It was real. And for the first time in your life, real felt like enough.

The windows fogged faintly from the heat inside and the chill of the ocean air outside. Salt crusted the edges of the glass, and the soft clang of pans echoed faintly from the open kitchen. The smell of frying bacon, buttery toast, and strong coffee settled into the booths like an old friend.

It was early enough that the rush hadn’t started. Just a few regulars with coffee cups refilled without asking and a waitress wiping down the sugar dispensers with a rhythm born from muscle memory.

Minseo sat in the booth, legs swinging, a chocolate chip pancake face-down in syrup, her cheek smudged with powdered sugar. She was in one of her moods, singing quietly to herself, narrating her breakfast like a cooking show host. You and Seungmin sat across from her, shoulder to shoulder, a shared cup of coffee between you, half-sipped.

You were barefoot in sneakers. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. This was your life now. Breakfast booths. Sticky menus. A child quietly humming a melody to her strawberries. And it felt… good. It felt settled.

“Be honest,” Seungmin said, leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial, “You think she’s going to finish that pancake or wear it as a hat first?”

“She’s definitely wearing it,” you whispered back. “Excuse me,” Minseo said through a mouthful, “I can hear you.”

You both laughed, one of those quiet couple-laughs, full of shared language and affection that didn’t need names. The bell over the diner door chimed.

Yang Jeongin stepped through, carrying a clipboard and a half-zipped jacket, his hair still damp from the ocean air. He moved with the kind of ease you only earn when you’ve come home and decided to stay.

“Hey,” he called, nodding toward the booth as he passed. “Morning, folks.” Minseo perked up immediately. “Mr. Jeongin! You’re late!”

Jeongin grinned. “I prefer fashionably delayed.” He ruffled her hair as he passed and headed behind the counter, slipping into a soft rhythm, checking the order forms, restocking napkins, greeting the cook with a backhanded high five. The place already looked more alive under his care, like it remembered how to breathe again.

Seungmin watched him for a moment, then leaned toward you. “Can you believe he came back?”

You raised a brow. “You mean the boy who once said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather eat my diploma than run a diner in Summerdale?’”

Seungmin smirked. “The very same.”

“You guys still talk?”

“Sometimes. Late shifts. He’s… different now. Softer. In a good way.”

You glanced over to see Jeongin talking to F/N by the pastry case. Her eyes lit up in that way that was half surprise, half defense, like she hadn’t expected him, and yet somehow always had. Something unspoken passed between them.

Seungmin followed your gaze. “He’s not here just for the diner.”

“No,” you agreed. “He’s not.”

Then Seungmin turned back to you. Minseo was now constructing a pancake tower with a level of engineering brilliance that might win her a scholarship someday. The diner clinked and buzzed around you. And suddenly, everything slowed.

You looked at Seungmin, and he looked at you, and it wasn’t one of those cinematic, heart-racing, swell-of-music moments. It was quiet. Steady. Earned.

“I love you,” he said. Just like that. Your breath caught, but you didn’t freeze. You just smiled. Slowly. Like something inside you had clicked into place.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured. He kissed the back of your hand, soft and sure. “I know.” From across the table, Minseo looked up.

“Is this one of those gross love moments?” she asked.

You both nodded, grinning. “Good,” she said. “Because I want waffles next time.”

You laughed, leaned into Seungmin’s side, and let the moment settle.

Outside, the sea crashed in its usual rhythm. Inside, your family ate pancakes in a booth under flickering fluorescent lights. And it was perfect.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub @slut4junho @bobaluvzz @channiesbaby1433 @wonniesjungdimple @mythicmochi @m-325 @rockstarkkami @felixleftchickennugget @oceanz7 @seungminsbest @fackeraccount @takuoshuji @xoxomanicpanic @catsforlife6864 @lezleeferguson-120 @angellcvkes

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jamminvroomvroom · 1 year ago

Note

I absolutely adore your writing,

For the celebration, could you please do virgin reader first time with Oscar?

sunshine.

op x fem!reader - 4k celebration

in which oscar arrives home to an unexpected guest…

hi hi hi! thank you so much anon, i hope this is what you wanted!! trying to get through requests, loving hearing from you guys! this one is so cute i think, let me know ur thoughts 😚😚

songs to set the mood: fall in love with you by montell fish, fade into you by mazzy star, like real people do by hozier

warnings: 18+!! minors dni!!! smut, fluff, friends to lovers, sleepy baby oscar, teeny tiny bit of angst, mutual pining, r’s first time, swearing

2.9k words

oscar’s exhausted, shoulders sagging beneath the thick material of his mclaren hoodie. he’s glad he left it in his carry on, the miserable london weather not even remotely living up to the warm glow of the middle eastern sun.

he craves his bed, dreamless sleep, entering the code to get into his building and slumping against the cool mirrored wall of the elevator. his eyes droop as the lift travels up, and the ding that sounds when he reaches his floor breathes life back into him.

the double header that kickstarted the season has knackered him, and he longs for alone time and silence to recuperate before he has to deal with the noise of going home and racing in front of a familiar crowd.

his key slides into the lock and he pushes the door open, throwing his bags by the door - he’ll deal with them later. the hoodie is shrugged off and dropped haphazardly on the floor next to the shoes he kicks off. his bed is calling. dazed, he trudges down the hallway, but he’s spooked by a faint sound coming from his bedroom.

as he primes himself to investigate, he hears footsteps, light and quiet against the floorboards. he goes to open his bedroom door, breathing heavy, but he just about jumps out of his skin when it swings open before he gets there. he yelps, and so do you, leaping into the air.

“you scared the shit out of me.” you shout, hand over your thumping heart.

“i scared you? what are you doing here?” oscar bites back, running his hand through his brown locks.

“sorry, sorry, i didn’t mean to be here without your permission but… it’s a long story. i didn’t think you’d be home yet.” you smile apologetically.

“sofa.” oscar mumbles, stalking past his bedroom and towards the living room. “what’s goi- are you wearing my shirt?” he splutters, finally looking at you properly.

your face heats up, and you cross your arms awkwardly.

“um, yeah? god, this is all so embarrassing.” you cover your face, falling onto the sofa. he plonks down beside you.

“tell me what happened.” oscar sighs.

“he dumped me.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“why?” oscar asks softly. “ugh, i knew i hated him for a reason.” he wrinkles his nose.

“i don’t know how to explain this without wading into major tmi territory.” your voice is small, quivering slightly.

“you can tell me, love.” he encourages gently.

“he found it weird that i’m, uh, a virgin?” you squeak, your voice raising into a question. oscar goes as red as you are.

“oh. oh.”

“oh god, you’re freaked out too. is there something wrong with me? like, why has this not happened? i thought i was ready with him, but then when it came down to it…” you ramble, trailing off.

“there’s nothing wrong with you.” oscar states, firm and serious. “him, on the other hand.” he shakes his head, disgusted. “he wasn’t good enough for you.” he spits.

“do you mind if i stay here?” you whisper, leaning into his side. “or, keep staying here?” you laugh softly. oscar joins in.

“you know you can always stay here.” he smiles sleepily. you’re just about the only person in the world he can stand right now, and always, actually. “but i need a nap, you coming?”

you nod and follow him to his room. the tv is still on, the one with monica and chandlers wedding playing quietly. oscar smiles. he knows it’s your favourite.

he flops onto his side of the bed, dropping off almost instantly. you watch over him, enamoured and sympathetic, in awe of him and the life he lives. you slip into bed beside him, leaving a respectable distance between you and the aussie.

you pass out right around chandler’s vows.

you stir between two thick arms. pale, warm skin is wrapped around you, oscar’s soft breath fanning your face as he sleeps.

you watch him, scanning each and every mole on his face, trying to ground yourself. you combat the anxiety of being in his arms, choosing to enjoy the moment, while he’s still peaceful. it’s nice to feel wanted, even if he’s unconscious.

for the first time, you’re glad your ex broke up with you, because how does it make sense that you feel safer, more wanted in the arms of your best friend?

“stop staring, ‘m gonna blush.” oscar mumbles, clearing his throat. his eyes are still shut, but he just knows you too well.

oscar opens his eyes slowly, blinking away sleep. you stare at each other, comfortable silence eating away at the palpable tension.

you kiss him.

because why wouldn’t you? it’s oscar, your oscar, and he’s sleepy and cosy and gorgeous, and you’ve waited too fucking long. you can’t resist it any longer, free from the bounds of being someone else’s.

his lips are warm, and he’s startled, but the surprise doesn’t falter him; just as quickly as you kiss him, he’s kissing you back. his large hand finds your face, and the other finds your waist, pulling you closer. you melt into him, impossibly closer than you already were.

he’s gentle with you, tentative but firm and you part your lips, letting him lick into your mouth. his tongue strokes softly over yours and you keen at the sensation. he pushes you onto your back, balancing on his elbow half hovering over you. your hair fans out onto the pillow, his soft fingers running through your strands, pushing them away from your flushed face. oscar pulls away, scanning your face.

“sorry.” you smile up at him, breathless.

“apology very much accepted. i’ve been wondering when that would happen.” he laughs incredulously.

“really?”

“what can i say? i’m irresistible.” he replies dryly, exercising his sense of humour that was a foundation of your friendship.

“yeah. you kinda are.” you giggle bashfully.

and then he’s kissing you again, pressing himself even closer to you. you welcome him in, wrapping your arms around his lean frame, feeling over his shoulders. he’s tense, restrained, groaning into you at the feeling of your hands raking over his back.

“we should stop.” he mumbles, noses bumping. you frown.

“why?”

“because you said earlier, you’re not ready for this and i’m… well, things are gonna get real awkward if we keep going.” he chokes out half a laugh, glancing down at his-

“oh.”

“yeah, i just, i don’t want to make you uncomfortable. we can go slow.”

“osc, i wasn’t ready with him,” you pause, collecting your thoughts. “but you’re not him.”

“i suppose that’s true.” he shrugs.

“then you better do something.”

oscar lays you back, climbing over you completely this time. his trails over your jaw, taking your chin between his fingers.

“are you sure about this? we can stop anytime, just say the words.”

“‘m sure, oscar. i want to do this with you.” you coo, reassuringly.

his lips run over your neck, your collarbone, and he mouths at the collar of the t-shirt that you’re wearing. his t-shirt. his.

“gonna take this off, yeah?” he asks, whispering low, right by your ear.

“yeah, please.” you say, your own hands running under his t-shirt and up his muscular back. he’s relaxed now, no tension between his shoulder blades, and so you push the material up, and he slips it over his head. his warm digits peel your shirt off, too, and you’re warm all over when his eyes trail over your chest.

you’d forgone a bra, ditching it when you’d arrived at his place, and his pupils are blown wide, hazel hues sparkling with desire. his hands slide up your ribcage, thumbing at the underside of your breasts, while he plants open mouthed kisses down your chest. your eyes flutter shut, gasping softly as he skims your nipple.

“oscar.” you breathe, the light whimper sending his blood rushing south.

“does that feel good?” he asks, searching your face for answers.

“more.” you sound strained, desperate, and he aches.

his sucks your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the swollen bud. he toys with the other one, massaging your breast with his skilful fingers, tweaking and pulling until you’re panting beneath him. he pulls away with a pop, licking over to the other side, deciding to test your limits when he nips delicately at the peak. you moan, bucking your hips, hypersensitive to his every move.

you can feel how hard he is, his grey joggers growing tighter with every passing second.

“want all of you, osc.” you plead.

“need to get you ready for me first, okay honey?” he rubs circles into your sides, warm and calloused. you relax fully, lifting your hips.

oscar mouthed over your belly, peppering sunshine-like kisses down your abdomen until he finds the band of your loose shorts. he mumbles something into you navel about taking them off and you nod, enthusiastic and frantic. you can feel his smile branding your sensitive skin. the material glides down your thighs, pooling at your ankles, and you kick them away. he parts your thighs, making himself comfortable on his belly, and thumbs at the crease of your leg, toying with your panties.

he drags his pointer finger over your covered slit, up and down slowly, applying more pressure every time he brushes over your clit. oscar can see where you’re starting to seep through your panties and he stifles a low groan, anxious to peel the cotton off of your body, the final barrier separating him from you, so he does, pulling them slowly down your legs. he studies your face as he does, keeping his eyes firmly on yours. your lip catches between your teeth, aching as you watch, helpless and wet.

oscar kisses your hip bone, sucking gently until he’s stained it purple, and then his warm breath is fanning your cunt. your eyes squeeze shut.

“look at me, baby. gotta keep your eyes on me.” oscar mutters. your pussy clenches around nothing at the tone of his voice. you pry your eyes open, just about managing to prop yourself up on your elbows. “that’s it, honey. has anyone ever done this to you before?”

you shake your head, no. he smiles to himself, like he knows something you don’t, and dives in.

his tongue works in slow strokes, dragging through your slick with intent, eyes locked with yours. you must look like a deer in headlights, pupils blown, shocked with pleasure when you collapse against the mattress. he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking, tasting, and your legs go weak, splayed open all for him. you whimper as he tugs your clit between his teeth, just enough to graze over the sensitive nerves. it sends your hips flying, bucking wildly against his face.

“osc…” you breathe, squeezing your eyes shut.

“‘m gonna give you some more, is that okay?” he asks, nose bumping your clit.

“yes, please.” you don’t know what more is, but you need it like air.

you feel a finger glide over your sodden flesh, rubbing over your entrance. you sigh out, oh, anticipation and bliss sending white heat down your spine. he circles his finger around your opening, coating it in you, and carefully slides it in, feeling out for any sign of tension or discomfort. when you grind your hips onto the single digit, he knows you’re okay.

it feels good, better than anything you’d ever felt on your own, and you writhe against his bedspread. he thrusts a couple of times, experimenting, seeing what makes you squirm for him the right way, and when his finger curls, hooking deliciously, he knows he’s struck gold. you arch off the bed, searching for more, more, anything.

“another one.” you cry, begging, and oscar’s not one to tease. not yet, anyway.

a second finger joins the lonesome first, and he finds some pace, fucking into you faster. he scissors the digits, stretching you out for him, enjoying the pretty view. he’s achingly hard now, rocking discreetly into the mattress, losing his mind as he watches how you drip around his fingers. he wants another taste of you, addicted already to sweet, salty honey, so he has to finish you off, lap your mess off of his long fingers.

“i think- i think-“ you can’t get the words out, they’re lost on your tongue, but oscar knows what you mean.

“that’s it, baby. so good for me, doing so good. cum for me.” he spurs you on, drawing it out of you.

you let go, crashing biblically, the high sending you to heaven and back, two times over. he grinds his fingers, softer, just enough to help you through it and you chant his name like you’re praying at an alter. you know that you’ll never be over this. your oscar.

“holy shit.” you giggle, smiling lazily as you return to the world of the living. he’s licking his fingers clean; you could black out so easily.

“did you enjoy that?” he punctuates with a kiss to your belly, crawling up your body until he’s hovering over you.

“maybe you should do it again, just so that i can really make sure that i did.” you tease. your hand rakes through his hair, pushing it back off of his face. he’s grinning down at you, eyes fluttering shut. “that was amazing.” you whisper. he’s blushing when he kisses you, and then you are too, when you taste yourself on his tongue.

he moans against your lips, making you pull back. your hand leaves his brown strands, joining your other, which is currently voyaging down his back.

“you’re wearing too many clothes.” you whisper, lips bumping his as your hands slide under the waistband of his sweats. something desperate emits from the back of his throat. you push them over his hips, fisting the thick fabric, eager to have him bare on top of you once and for all. oscar helps, kicking them away, boxers too.

you can feel him, thick and wet between your thighs, his breathing uneven. your nails graze his hip and he jolts, collapsing on top of you, his full weight covering your keening body. he kisses into the crook of your neck, frantic; you need him deep, immediately, his urgent change in form leaving you flushed.

“you want me?” he whispers into your ear, leaving you shivering.

“so bad.” you pant.

“i’ll be gentle.” he promises.

he guides himself through your folds, slippery and warm, all for him. he nudges the head inside of you, hips stuttering at the blinding tightness. you gasp, but he catches it in his mouth, softly moulding his lips to yours as he pushes further. you open up for him, pliant, and when he eventually bottoms out, he holds himself there, letting you adjust.

“oh, fuck.” your eyes roll back, nails leaving crescent marks in his shoulders.

“so good for me, so pretty.” oscar grunts. “say when, baby.” he breathes, rubbing soothing circles into your hip.

“move.”

oscar rolls his hips, rocking you into the mattress. he hooks your knee over his waist, driving himself deeper and deeper with every thrust. you’re boneless, lost to the delectable stretch, to the way his cock seems to touch every part of you that makes you quiver.

“tell me how it feels.” oscar murmurs, grip tightening on your thigh.

“fuck, oscar, it’s so good. ‘m so glad it’s you.” your voice shakes, raw with emotion.

“me fucking too.” he mumbles, increasing his pace ever so slightly.

his thrusts lull into more of a grind, reaching your depths and revelling in the way you only get tighter for him. you’re spilling around him, already so close to meeting your end, and all it takes is the calloused pad of his thumb brushing your bundle of nerves to have you convulsing. you’re somewhere else entirely, on a whole other spiritual plane, utterly and completely his as he fucks you through your second orgasm.

when he spills, white hot and sweat slicked, he gushes endless hushed whines of your name. it sounds perfect when he says it like this, rolling off of his tongue with dire urgency.

his dampened hair falls over his darkened eyes, full of stars and total adoration. you’re smiling sleepily up at him like he’s made of sunshine. you always thought he was, and now you know that he most definitely is.

the most beautiful sunshine man.

“hi.” he whispers.

“hi.” you whisper back.

an intimacy, different to the one you’ve just shared, blossoms between you, encapsulating you here with him endlessly.

“i’m gonna clean you up, ‘n then we’re gonna order food.” he gazes fondly, stroking your hair.

“perfect.” you agree.

“put friends back on, i’m gonna run you a bath.” he begrudgingly stands from the bed, trailing towards the en-suite.

“you’re gonna join me in there, right?” you admire his naked frame as he disappears into the bathroom.

“obviously.” he pokes his head out once more to scoff, and you lay there, grinning like the worlds most lovesick idiot, your thoughts dulled by the sound of running water.

when the bath is full of hot water and too many bubbles, he gets in first, and you sink into the revitalising heat. oscar pulls you close, your back to his chest, kissing over your hairline as you mould yourself against him.

“thank god you broke in.”

oh i’m soft

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @welld0nebaku @thegirlinthefandoms @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne

lemme know if you wanna be added or removed <3

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galaxy-stardust · 2 months ago

Text

💀 TF141: Absolute Professionals - Group Chat 💀

🔥Soap: Alright, lads. Real question. If we ever got matching tattoos, what would we get?

🦅Gaz: …Why is this even a thing?

🔥Soap: Team spirit, Kyle. Brotherhood. Commitment. Plus I found a guy who’ll do it for cheap.

🧢Price: That sounds safe.

💀Ghost: Sounds like a disaster.

🔥Soap: C’mon, Ghost. You wouldn’t get a little skull somewhere for the team?

💀Ghost: I am the skull. I don’t need another.

🦅Gaz: What if we got something subtle? Like… coordinates of our first op together.

🧢Price: That’s not bad.

🔥Soap: Boring.

💀Ghost: Sensible.

🔥Soap: We need something iconic. Like a goat riding a missile. Or a bullet. Or maybe a flying armadillo with night vision goggles.

💀Ghost: …What?

🧢Price: Nobody’s getting an armadillo tattoo, MacTavish.

🦅Gaz: What the hell is wrong with you?

🔥Soap: Hear me out. It’s a metaphor. Chaos. Power. The bond of four men who—

💀Ghost: If you say “defy gravity,” I’m leaving this chat.

🧢Price: No goats.

🦅Gaz: No missiles.

🔥Soap: Fine, what about just “141” in a cool font?

💀Ghost: Already have it.

🦅Gaz: Of course you do.

🔥Soap: On your ass?

💀Ghost: I’m not answering that.

🧢Price: Do not get matching ass tattoos.

🔥Soap: So where would you get one then?

💀Ghost: I'm not discussing body placement with you, Johnny.

🦅Gaz: What about something subtle? Morse code. One dot. One dash. One dot. 1-4-1.

🔥Soap: That’s actually kinda sick.

💀Ghost: …Yeah, alright. That one’s not terrible.

🧢Price: Finally. Sanity.

🔥Soap: BUT—if I did get a goat riding a missile, I want y’all to know it’s for you.

💀Ghost: If you do that, I’m getting a tattoo of your face regretting that decision.

🦅Gaz: I’d get that tattooed too.

🧢Price: No one’s getting anything until we’re sober.

🔥Soap: So… tomorrow then?

💀Ghost: Absolutely not.

#cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish #task force 141 #cod fanfic #cod fandom

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cannedbabs · 6 months ago

Text

Hey yeah uhm. “(8-Bit Growl)”? 😀 we lost Turbo growling? WIR voted worst movie of the year 👎 /j

I come back with some redraws

Let me tell you when I saw the recent storyboard drop I had the biggest spur of energy and excitement just from the idea of imagining the final KC with his storyboard counterpart (I'm not sure if it's recent or not I just saw it today)

Here are the four frames that I redrew (apologies if it's blurry)

Anyways thank you elusivemilk on TT for making this storyboard known it's probably one of my favorites of the bunch 🙏

#AMAAAZING ART OP #THANK YOU FOR FINDING THE STORYBOARD ALSO #IM GOING INSANE #I have no words for this at ALL actually #THE SUGAR RUSH TRACK?#THE CHEAT CODES?#TURBO ACTUALLY FEATURED IN A STORYBOARD??#HELLO??#the announcing bit is SOO dynamic and cute 😭#I COULD GO ON FOR HOURS #king candy #king candy wir #wreck it ralph #(dare i say i like this 75% better than what we go)#(but only if it ended with Turbo vs Vanellope like the final film)

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emacrow · 1 day ago

Text

Gotham the build a city game.

Danny as he finally nearly finished 1/20 of his ghostly infinite king reports is tasked to help/dragged a nearly core crumbling addicted Spirit who refused to go to her check up and is a code core red to be in full chamber for recovery for the past centuries or three over a City building board game named Gotham, with Fright Knight as his backup.

It took Danny and Fright Knight about an agonizing hour and 20 minutes to wrangle her from the board game with her screaming, biting, kicking like a feral starving raccoon from the streets under a deal that He promised to play her board game in her stead while she goes back to her recovering.

The Lady explained the game with trembling hands that she watches over the city as the status piece, moves her character pieces here and there, items, and stuff around to built a utopian with random cards of consequences selected that take her ectoplasm as wild card if a character died and if she pick the wrong thing at the wrong time, but she been raking her core a bit after several mistakes, but her knights has been doing well so far.

She been playing for a long long time because her friends played their and bragged about their board game repeatedly resetting if a bad end for all their city that connected to hers, they have Central City, jackasshole holding the obvious cheatimg Gateway city, and her biggest frenemy/nemesis being that *itch with her Smallville and Metropolis just because she got a a few op characters doesn't mean her knights can't beat their ass if they were so busy!

The Lady's green glowing eyes and sharp teeth gritted hard with hatred, but her hate melted away due to how weak she was before continuing to speak.

He simply had to touch the status to continue the game, and please to the all mighty anicent, if her knights die under his watch, she will find a way to destroy him even if he is the current infinite King.

Danny can see pretty clear what Frostbite meant with crumbling game addicted Spirit, her skin was a sickly grayish green with obvious condensed rotting barely renew ectoplasm keeping her stable, her dress obvious tattered blacken to a tar like state that her own haunt was crumbling around her and the board game on the table.

Danny agreed though soup her in the thermos as Frostbite warned him about her little successful escape acts nearly up 4k times even with help that she crawl right back to the board game.

Danny glanced back at the board game after giving Fright Knight the thermos containing the patient spirit for Frostbite.

His hand touch the statue that change from a crowned women with wings holding a board game in one hand and sword in the other to a tall statue replica of him in his infinite king outfit holding a the solar systems of metal planets, his crown hover over his head like a halo simmered with star games and a scythe in the other hand.

It just a board game about building a city name gotham. How hard can it be.

....

Danny hisses like a possessed feral creature who just saw the light from being in darkness at Fright Knight who brought Jazz from starting summer break to see Danny hunch over renovated Gotham city mumbling about dastardly curses trying to latch on his ectoplasm but this time, this time he got the right item to fuck them up

His eyes look crazed and wild with a calculation burning desire to get a good ending, and white hair with dripping Tar, his crown was envelope in a icy fire, his nails sharper then diamond as he gripped and nearly chewed up clown character, the Spirts Haunt look like Danny's wail went through it several times before all cause that fucking *itch holding the Gateway fucked up the timeline again with the speeder character.

I got inspired by this post <-

#dpxdc #danny phantom #dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt #danny is the ghost king #lady gotham is a struggling game addicted to a board game name gotham #Frostbite been got centuries of overdue check ups for lady gotham to uphold #her core is nearly crumbling at this points #danny made a deal to play her game in her stead #beat that metropolis city *itch for her danny #danny gonna ended up addicted too #other spirits play the game board game connect to gotham and keep replaying whenever some idiotic give them the bad ending #the dc universe dont know they are a board game collaboration like dnd

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sugarcherris · 3 months ago

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Narancia who looks up to reader headcanons

Brotherly & Older sister bond

Aka: chaotic sibling energy, platonic, wholesome, domestic, fluff, a bit of angst, and Mista being Mista mentions his own dick

(Reader is a chainsmoker... don't smoke kids)

Narancia “borrows” (Reader)’s eyeliner

(Reader) has the perfect winged liner, sharp enough to cut someone. Narancia starts trying to copy it. He sucks at it at first and pokes himself in the eye. She doesn’t help him right away,just watches with that smug little grin.

When he finally nails it, (Reader) gives him a smug, approving head pat.

“There you go. Didn’t even stab yourself in the eye with my eyeliner this time.”

He flips her off but preens the rest of the day.

Team reactions:

Fugo: “You two are unhinged.”

Mista: “I’m stealing this look too. Pass the mirror.”

Abbacchio: Glares in disgust but looks just a second too long at the wing.

(Reader) calls him “ragazzino” (little boy) when shes feeling playful or condescending

It infuriates him.

“I’m not a kid, dammit!”

“Then stop kicking the back of the van seat or I will tie your knees with your bandana!”

He still lets her ruffle his hair right after that.

They have stupid secret handshakes

Not one. Multiple.

They change it every month and forget half of it mid-handshake and just turn it into a slap fight.

Somehow it always ends with (Reader) flicking Narancia in the forehead.

They make “mixtapes” for each other

Narancia starts writing her tracklists of songs he thinks she’d like—rock, metal, dramatic anime OPs he won’t admit he loves.

(Reader) writes hers on torn napkins in lipstick: metalcore breakdowns, and “old people music,” according to Narancia.

Bonus

Fugo: (Secretly steals one of (Reader)’s playlists. Pretends he didn’t.)

Narancia hides behind her when Bucciarati’s mad

Classic younger sibling move. Bucciarati raised his voice, and Narancia ducks behind (Reader)

(Reader) just raises an eyebrow, does not protect him, and says,

“Don’t drag me into this. He’s mad at you, not me.”

Narancia stares in betrayal

Bonus:

Later she sneaks him a sweet from her pocket when Bucciarati isn’t looking.

They graffiti stuff together

They tag alley walls with little stylized versions of each other’s names or dumb phrases like “(stand name) was here (so was Aerosmith)”.

(Reader)’s handwriting is elegant and sharp. Narancia’s is chaotic. Together it looks unhinged.

Team reactions

Bucciarati: “You tagged our safehouse?”

Narancia: “It’s ART.”

(Reader): “It’s coded. They won’t know what it means.”

Fugo: “You used your stand names! They’ll know exactly what it means!”

Abbacchio: “I hate you all.”

They try to cook together once. Just once.

The kitchen never recovers. Powdered sugar on the ceiling. A knife embedded in the floor. Fire extinguisher was used. Twice.

Bucciarati puts them on kitchen probation. (Reader) sneaks in anyway. Narancia just watches for lookout and giggles.

Narancia “guards” her cigarettes

She left her pack behind one time and he grabs it, dramatically guarding it like a chihuahua.

“If you want them, you have to answer three riddles.”

“Narancia, I will kick your ass.”

She gets them back by pulling his bandana down over his eyes and just taking them.

He once tried to steal a cigarette from her. Never again.

(Reader) had left a half smoked cigarette on the ashtray, and Narancia, wanting to be cool, took a quick drag.

Immediate, violent coughing fit. Red watery eyes. Almost fell off the chair.

(Reader) didn’t even look up. Just chuckled

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The whole team laughed except for Bucciarati, who just sighed.

Bonus:

Narancia still tries to act like he smokes sometimes, resting an unlit cigarette between his fingers like she does with her lit one. He gets so mad when she calls him out on it.

Narancia falls asleep next to her during long car rides.

She lets it happen. Doesn’t shove him off.

He sleeps with his head leaning against the window at first, but eventually, when he gets really exhausted, his head tips onto her shoulder.

The first time, she smirks and mutters, “Comfortable?”

The fifth time, she just sighed and quietly adjusts her jacket so it drapes over him a little. Doesn’t say a word.

Team reactions:

Bucciarati: Says nothing but notice with a warm smile.

Mista:Giggling, thinking it’s cute but will draw on narancia face and (Reader) lets him.

Fugo: Mild disgust. “You’re drooling on her.”

Abbacchio: “Wake him up by pushing him out of the car. Do it. For me.”

(Reader) hates it when Narancia pulls reckless stunts.

Few times, he jumped into a fight headfirst before backup arrived.

He came out fine, but (Reader) was furious. She never yells at him except that time. After much built up frustrations because of his mistakes and words entering his ear out the other.

“Do you wanna die? Huh? That’s your goal?”

He snapped back at her “What the hell are you my mom?shut the hell up bitch!”

Silence. Tension. He stormed off, but later that night, she threw a bag of sweets at his head.

They never talked about it, but the next mission, she covered him a little closer.

if (Reader) has tattoos? Narancia wants to get a tattoo because she has them.

“What if I get something cool? Like a knife? Or a skull? Or or or A PLANE!”

(Reader), blowing out smoke “You’d cry.”

“No, I wouldn’t!”

He drags her to a parlor once. The moment the needle comes close, he flinches hard.

“I’m not ready yet,” he mutters. She crosses her arm looking amused and pays the guy off.

If (Reader) has piercings? Narancia tries to copy her piercings

• He gets a second ear piercing by stapling his ears (Staplers were stolen from Bucciarati office) just because he saw hers glinting in the sun one day. She just chuckled at his stupidity whilst treating the infection.

• "Thought it looked cool on you... So..."

•She just hums, but she's clearly smiling. She took him to the piercer parlor the next day.

Team reactions:

Mista: "Sickkkk, should | get a dick piercing?"

Fugo: "You're all stupid."

Bucciarati: Groaning mentally. Locking his office next time.

Abbacchio: "Jesus Christ."

Giorno: (Standing on the side ready to give him a new ear)

"If you died I'd go feral.”

•(Reader) stares at him with an unreadable expression" Good."

• It's said like a joke, but the silence after it hangs a little longer than it should.

“If I go first, you better not cry, ragazzino.”

Mafia life is dangerous. They joke about it sometimes.

Narancia, scoffing: “You’re not gonna die before me.You’re much stronger and smarter than me!If anything it’ll be me.”

(Reader), tilting her head: “Mmm. You sure?”

He hates that answer. He doesn’t know why, but it sticks with him longer than it should.

When she’s out late, Narancia worries.

He’s not obvious about it, but if she’s gone longer than expected, he starts getting antsy.

Checks his watch. Paces. Cold hands.

If she comes back with blood on her glove, he doesn’t ask questions, just mutters, “You good?”

She grins, “Why? Miss me?”

He huffs, “Pfft No, just making sure you didn’t get your dumb ass killed.”

They both know he was actually worried.

This is my first time writing a fanfic/headcanon! Phewwww hope you guys enjoyed this!! Maybe I’ll write narancia and (reader) first meeting and how they bond grew to be 🫡

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thetrasha · 2 days ago

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Hello! I was wondering if i could get Ace, Marco, and Rayleigh, (maybe shanks, beckman and hongo if youre able to!) On their favorite thing they love about you!

Sure thing! I modified the request very slightly (just so I'm able to spin this into a short scenario with a catchy title🫡💕[you guys know I love my titles lol]), hope that's okay with you!! Thank you so much for such a diverse cast LOL I'm sorry I didn't include Hongo - it's just that I never heard him talk and saw him basically once in my life 😭But I included Kid and Mihawk instead just to balance it out (I was randomly inspired to choose these two), it's like a 2 for 1 deal so I hope it's not too bad (✿◡‿◡)

PS. German-speaking op fans...? My people 🤝

He Can’t Resist You…!

feat. ACE, MARCO, RAYLEIGH, SHANKS, BENN BECKMAN, KID, MIHAWK

ACE …when you listen to his troubles and comfort him!

Ace is often pretty hard on himself. He cannot count how many insults and beatings he had to take just because someone else thought the idea of the son of Roger existing was either a fabricated lie or that said child should have been killed on sight. That’s how Ace learnt to fight, took on much bigger and stronger opponents as the years went by, which eventually made him who he was. He earned his spot as one of Whitebeard’s commanders and has accepted this new family, but that doesn’t mean that rejection isn’t hard-coded into his brain. He fears not being enough and firmly believes that if he didn’t push himself so much, he’d be a disgraced pirate, terrible son and worse brother. But… he’s forgotten how to be kind to himself – he has plenty kindness for everyone around him, but Ace is a master at punishing himself for things that do not matter. It’s gotten better, though.

You’re suddenly there – and you care very much… about everyone, but mostly about him. This presence next to him that cannot be swayed is a great source of comfort for him. The first time he opened up to reveal some things about his upbringing, you were so upset that you were close to tears. How sweet… he hasn’t cried about these things in years, too intimately familiar with the pain to cope with its sorrow, but you decided to share his grief and pile it onto your own out of the pure goodness of your heart and love for him. Ace thinks it’s one of the greatest gifts he’s ever been given.

MARCO

…when you help him out!

Marco is a pretty busy man who’s always needed somewhere. Quiet days actually unsettle him; it’s like the universe is just out to get him and will decide to hand him a freshly infected open fracture if he can enjoy his morning coffee in peace… The crew is made up of excellent fighters and these men and women are just dying to test their strength time and time again, protecting their dad who’s very much capable of taking care of himself in a fight despite the chronic issues he’s dealing with. Marco has never lost his kind spirit though, meaning he’s willing to help anyone who needs it. Having you helping the man who’s vehemently trying to aid all the others is thus the best part of the day. You’re always there, even if you’re not physically present… you often leave him little snacks that remind him to eat, there’s always a pot of coffee waiting for him in the med bay, and – the best thing, honestly – at the end of the day, you come into his room just to make up for the time that you’ve lost throughout the maddening daytime. You talk, laugh and just exist together. It’s domestic bliss for Marco, who finally feels like he can wind down and relax with you curled up in his arms, chatting about your day and how you can’t look at Vista ever again because he shaved and he looks so weird and-

He listens to everything, but rarely offers his own commentary. He’s just happy you’re there with him.

RAYLEIGH

…when you look at him like he’s your hero!

Silvers Rayleigh – a name that strikes the fear of God in most people. His infamous image is that of a terrifyingly strong man who served as Gold Roger’s right-hand man; he’s amongst the few lucky men who conquered the Grandline and lived to tell the tale… at the same time, to most naive rookies on Sabaody, he’s a senile old man who keeps “escaping from” his handlers and ending up in the same auction house over and over and over again. You happen to know that strange man, though. “Dark King” Rayleigh… being in the same room as someone like him… what an honour! You couldn’t help but steal glances at him, alerting him of your presence immediately. At first, he thought you were looking for a fight. He’s seen your bounty poster near the port and wow, your picture doesn’t do you justice, sweetheart and wait a minute… oh, those eyes aren’t hostile at all. He flashes you a smile, noting how nervously you shifted around all of the sudden, looking at your crew to subtly celebrate this moment.

Well, Rayleigh cannot help but love an opportunity to show off in front of a pretty face, so… he just offers to teach you some tricks. That’s how you got to know him in the first place, having long realised that he’s just some man who know a thing or two about piracy… but every single time you come back to him, you look at him with the same look of reverence. It’s very flattering to know that he’s still got it… and he’s got the confidence and shamelessness to make a move on you. That hand on the small of your back? Oh, sorry, love, must’ve been lost in thought… You still give him the look and bashfully chew on your lip, though. Nothing’s changed. Hm… maybe the hearts in your eyes did become bigger… heh.

What a lucky man he is indeed.

SHANKS

…when you care for him like he needs it!

Shanks is just as much of a living legend who cannot go anywhere where people of a certain calibre won’t cower in fear before him. How ironic that a man like him just loves when you have to fight him just to go to bed before the daylight greets him, he absolutely adores when you repeatedly push your index finger against his bare chest to tell him that he cannot keep drinking like this if he wants to find the One Piece and he is so weak for you who berates him whenever you have the chance to do so. He could sigh like a lovesick fool at your stern eyes and firm words, knowing that your love for him runs so deep… that you’d be willing to not just take on your captain in protest, you’d take on Shanks.

He is free to be just… himself around you; he needs it more than he needs air. You respect him as a man but you don’t respect him for his status at all, you push him around more than he does his crew for God’s sake!

He loves it.

And whenever he cannot keep up the facade anymore, when flirtatiously telling you to drop it and let him keep his bad habits, you’re right there with him in his private quarters, letting his head rest on your lap as you play with his deep red locks. And you let this lovesick, drunken fool rant about his problems like he isn’t Shanks – like he doesn’t have to save the world all by himself.

BENN BECKMAN

…when you engage in deep conversations that stimulate the mind!

He’s far more dangerous than his broad frame would suggest since he’s both pure brawn and brain. His intellect is one of his greatest assets, but with such a crew… It’s honestly a trait that makes rather lonesome. Benn is extremely laid-back despite being such a serious guy – that’s many because he has never been challenged properly. Nothing is mentally stimulating enough for him to fully lock in. You’re different… Shanks, of course, didn’t recruit you because of your intelligence, that’s a skill much better suited for the city rather than the sea, but you happen to have both brawn and brain as well. Benn noticed that immediately, you’re just as resigned as he is and nothing can quite satiate that natural curiosity in you for all the sea offers are battles and fever dreams… Still, you chose this life for a reason and thus, Benn Beckman himself starts following you around. It’s weird to watch your vice captain hunt you down like you’re the enemy when you’re just trying to mind your business aboard the Red Force, but he cannot help but ask you what you’re up to. Your suspicion only ever goes away after a few times, after you noticed that he’s just… trying to talk.

His opinions are fascinating. He takes you stargazing and casually asks you what you think about the passage of time, what it means to be alive, what you hoped to become – he’s throwing all these deeply profound questions at you and instead of stammering through them like a silly child, you answer them with just as much seriousness as he hoped you would. You understand the gravitas of his words, process them quickly and you never say things without meaning them. You’ve become his happy place – a place where he can express himself.

KID …when you talk back!

Kid expects everyone to just fall in line with what he says… no matter how stupid his “suggestions” actually are. If he has a plan, he wants to see it executed. Someone else might offer up a better plan down the line, but Kid would be so bitter about not having the same thought first that he’d double down on his initial idea and make the crew work even harder just to prove a point. Everybody knows that he’s a complete and utter hypocrite, but they put up with him – they believe in his ability to lead and they all want to see him become King of the Pirates since he’s offered something very few captains could: Unconditional freedom. Regardless of how unconventional and socially unacceptable someone was, they’d have a place on the Victoria Punk as long as they managed to prove themselves worthy of being there and didn’t belittle anybody else’s aspirations.

…But you knew that Kid just couldn’t help dunking on people left and right due to his explosive anger. Once he feels slighted in any way, he’s making it everyone’s problem. So – after the captain called everyone on deck to rant about his loyal crew just minutes after reading that Straw Hat Luffy has acquired a new bounty in the Newscoo newspaper, you couldn’t help yourself either. As soon as the captain got to you, your unimpressed glance turned vitriolic – you went off on your captain, telling him that everyone here chose to follow him because he’s the best option, because they want to be around him and that he has absolutely no business being this upset over someone else’s bounty when he believes that he can conquer the Grandline first. He should suck it up and prove his frenemy wrong! You screamed at him, your passionate speech getting drowned out by the deafening silence of… Captain Kid…

Honestly, Killer and Heat thought you were toast.

But nobody anticipated that, with ruby red cheeks, Kid suddenly dismissed everyone on deck and gave all of you tasks that… didn’t make any damn sense!

MIHAWK

…when you trust him first!

Mihawk is the apex predator – lethal, efficient and an unprecedented danger. People instinctively know to keep their guard up around him… as does he. He would claim that he prefers it that way, but you happen to, after literal years of knowing each other, let him in, slowly but surely. Even if he can go no-contact for months on end, even if you have your own life to worry about, you both find yourselves returning to each other and maintaining a weird… friendship (?), if you could call it that. Mihawk isn’t one for talking to random strangers, but you’re no nobody. You’re capable of handling yourself and he’s seen your strength, secretly thinks you’re quite impressive even, but you’re certainly no match for him… Still, you seem to trust him to keep your secrets safe, to keep you, by extension, safe. You firmly believe that he wouldn’t abandon you.

And he wouldn’t. Trust doesn’t come naturally to someone like him. He distrusts the world and doesn’t tell anybody anything, but he does appreciate it when he isn’t viewed like a cold-blooded killer whose only goal is to maintain a reputation that came with a title.

You want to see him for who he is, you roll over and show him your belly; you basically gave him an opening to kill you – all voluntarily. You’re so vulnerable when you talk about your burdens, but you also look like confiding in… a friend (?) heals all those wounds.

Somehow, he’s determined to prove himself to you now. It’s a slow puncture wound, but your trust will eventually pierce his heart.

#one piece #one piece fluff #one piece x reader #op x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #marco x reader #silvers rayleigh x reader #rayleigh x reader #shanks x reader #benn beckman x reader #beckman x reader #kid x reader #kidd x reader #mihawk x reader #x reader #thetrasha writes #thetrasha requests

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