#How To Disappear Completely and Never Be Found

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

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Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 19: New Boundaries

The morning sun streaming through the guesthouse windows found eight bodies sprawled across your bed in various states of peaceful exhaustion. What had started as a reconciliation cuddle pile had evolved into an impromptu sleepover, with limbs tangled together in a way that defied physics and personal space boundaries.

You woke slowly, consciousness returning gradually as you registered the warm weight of Yunho's arm across your waist, the solid presence of Seonghwa's chest against your back, and what you were fairly certain was Wooyoung's foot somehow pressed against your shoulder.

"Morning, Tulip," came Hongjoong's soft voice from somewhere near your feet, where he'd apparently claimed a small corner of the bed.

Opening your eyes, you found yourself looking directly into Mingi's face, his dark eyes already alert and watching you with that same protective intensity from the night before. His arm was wrapped securely around your middle, as if even in sleep he'd been afraid you might disappear.

"How did you sleep?" he asked quietly, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Better than I have in weeks," you admitted, and it was true. Despite the emotional chaos of the previous evening, sleeping surrounded by your pack felt like the most natural thing in the world.

A gentle stirring around you indicated the others were beginning to wake up as well. San made a soft grumbling sound as he shifted against Jongho's shoulder, while Yeosang carefully extracted himself from what appeared to be a pretzel-like position with Wooyoung.

"My arm is completely numb," Wooyoung announced cheerfully, sitting up and shaking out his left arm with exaggerated movements. "But it was totally worth it for the pack bonding experience."

"You volunteered to sleep at the foot of the bed," Yunho pointed out with amusement, stretching carefully so as not to disturb you.

"I was being chivalrous," Wooyoung defended. "Making sure everyone had room. Very selfless of me."

"Very something," Yeosang muttered, though his tone was fond.

As everyone slowly untangled themselves and the bed began to return to normal proportions, you noticed something different about how your body felt. The heat symptoms that had been building steadily for days—the restless energy, the heightened sensitivity, the way your omega had been responding to your alphas' presence—all of it felt muted, manageable.

You sat up slowly, taking inventory. The urgency was still there, but it felt... controlled somehow.

"Is everything alright?" Seonghwa asked, immediately noticing your contemplative expression with that uncanny ability he had to read your moods.

"I feel... different," you said slowly, trying to identify what had changed. "Better."

Before anyone could respond, there was a knock at the guesthouse door. Hongjoong frowned, checking his phone.

"That's probably Dr. Kim," he said, looking slightly sheepish. "I... may have called her early this morning. After everything that happened last night, with your heat symptoms and the stress..."

"You called our doctor?" you asked, though you weren't upset—more curious than anything.

"I was worried," Hongjoong admitted. "About how the emotional trauma might affect your cycle, about whether we needed to do something to help you through it safely."

You frowned slightly, ready to make a comment about how this was exactly what had happened yesterday when everything went crazy—decisions being made for you without your input. But before the words could form, you felt a soft kiss pressed to your neck.

Yunho’s lips lingered there for a moment before he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “He’s trying,” Yunho said quietly, his voice gentle but carrying the weight of understanding. “He’s still head alpha, baby steps.”

The tender gesture and his words made you pause, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it had risen. You looked at Hongjoong’s worried face, saw the genuine concern there rather than the controlling energy from the night before. 

Yunho was right-Hongjoong was trying to find the balance between protecting you and respecting your autonomy. And if you were going to be part of this pack, you had to accept that sometimes the head alpha would make decisions he felt were necessary for everyone's wellbeing, including yours.

You let out a soft breath, your shoulders relaxing. “Okay,” you said simply, and watched relief flood Hongjoong’s features.

Dr. Kim's voice called from outside. "It's Dr. Kim. May I come in?"

"Please," you called back, and the door opened to admit a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a professional demeanor that immediately put you at ease.

"Good morning," she said, taking in the scene of eight alphas and one omega in various states of post-cuddle-pile dishevelment with practiced calm. "I brought a few things that might help stabilize your cycle while you all work through these new mate bonds."

She set her medical bag on the small table and pulled out what looked like a small patch, similar to your scent blockers.

"It's a hormone regulator," she explained, seeing your curious expression. "Designed specifically for newly mated omegas who are dealing with cycle disruptions due to stress or multiple alpha bonds. It won't stop your heat entirely, but it will slow it down and make it more manageable until your body adjusts to the pack dynamics."

"Is that what I'm feeling?" you asked. "The difference from yesterday?"

Dr. Kim looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned on her face. "Ah. You're probably responding to their combined scents even through your blocker. Eight mated alphas in close proximity can have a naturally stabilizing effect on an omega's cycle. Your body is recognizing the pack bond and adjusting accordingly."

"So the cuddle pile actually helped?" Wooyoung asked with delight.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Dr. Kim said with a small smile. "Extended contact with bonded alphas can help regulate omega hormones. Though I'd still recommend the patch for additional stability while you all learn to navigate these new dynamics."

She turned to you. "It's completely optional, and it's temporary—maybe a few weeks while you establish better pack communication and trust. Think of it as training wheels for your omega biology."

You looked around at the faces of your mates, all clearly concerned for your wellbeing and comfort. "What do you think?" you asked them.

"Whatever you're comfortable with," Hongjoong said immediately. "It's your choice entirely."

"It might give us time to figure things out without the pressure of a full heat cycle," Seonghwa added thoughtfully.

"I think I'd like that," you decided. "Time to build trust and work on our relationships without biology overwhelming everything."

Dr. Kim nodded approvingly and handed you the patch. "Apply it like your scent blocker. It should help keep things stable for the next few weeks. And don't hesitate to call if you have any concerns or side effects."

"So it's our fault," Hongjoong said quietly, his voice heavy with self-recrimination.

"It's nobody's fault," you said firmly, turning to face him. "It's just biology responding to circumstances. And honestly? It might be a good thing. It gives us time to figure things out properly instead of being driven by heat hormones."

Seonghwa nodded thoughtfully. "A chance to establish better dynamics before dealing with that level of biological intensity."

"Exactly," you agreed. "We can build trust and work through our issues without the added pressure of heat cycles and rut responses."

Wooyoung, who had been unusually quiet during this exchange, suddenly perked up. "Does this mean we get to do normal couple things? Like dates? I've been planning dates!"

"You've been planning dates?" San asked with amusement.

"SO many dates," Wooyoung confirmed enthusiastically. "I have a whole list. Museum visits, restaurant tours, that new amusement park... I was just waiting for the right time to suggest them."

"We should probably start with something simpler," you said with a laugh, charmed by his enthusiasm. "Like figuring out how to live together without anyone threatening to leave or calling anyone crazy."

The reminder of the previous night's fight brought a more serious mood back to the room.

"Speaking of which," Hongjoong said, his leader voice reasserting itself, "we need to talk about practical things. Your work situation, living arrangements, how we handle the pack dynamics going forward."

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you knew would be a complex conversation. "I've been thinking about that. I don't want to give up working entirely, but I understand there are safety concerns and... complications."

"What are you thinking?" Seonghwa asked gently.

"Maybe a compromise," you said, looking around at all of them. "I could transition to a consulting role—helping with schedule coordination and management for ATEEZ specifically, but not being on-site for everything. I could work from home most of the time, join you for important events, but not be constantly in situations where I'm vulnerable to outside alphas."

Hongjoong's expression showed he was carefully considering your proposal. "That could work. You'd still be using your skills and maintaining your independence, but with more control over your environment."

"And," you added pointedly, "it would be my choice. My decision about how much and when to work."

"Of course," Hongjoong said immediately. "Completely your choice."

The quick agreement and the respectful tone made you relax slightly. Maybe the events of last night had actually created an opportunity for better communication.

"What about living arrangements?" Jongho asked practically. "Are you comfortable staying in the guesthouse long-term?"

You hesitated, looking around at the faces of your pack. The question touched on something you'd been thinking about but hadn't been sure how to bring up.

"Actually," you said slowly, "I've been wondering... maybe after we've had some time to adjust to everything, to make sure we can all live together without major conflicts..." You took a breath, gathering courage. "Maybe I could move into the main house? With all of you?"

Eight pairs of eyes fixed on you with varying degrees of surprise and hope.

"And then," you continued, the words coming faster now, "I could convert the bedroom in the guesthouse into a proper office space. I already have the office in the main house, but having a separate workspace where I could take calls and focus without worrying about disturbing anyone might be useful."

"You want to live with us?" Wooyoung asked, his voice pitched higher with excitement. "In the main house? Like, actually live live with us?"

"Only if you want to," Mingi added quickly, clearly still worried about overstepping boundaries. "We don't want to pressure you into anything."

You looked around at the seven faces surrounding you, each showing genuine concern for your comfort and autonomy mixed with barely contained hope. It was such a stark contrast to the controlling energy from the night before.

"I'd like that," you said softly. "Eventually. Having my own space when I need it, but being close to all of you most of the time."

"We could design it together," Wooyoung said excitedly. "Make it perfect for you. Good lighting, comfortable furniture, maybe a little mini-fridge for snacks..."

"A mini-fridge?" you repeated with amusement.

"Very important," Wooyoung said seriously. "Can't have our omega getting hungry while she's working. That's just poor pack management."

"Our omega," Yeosang repeated thoughtfully. "We should probably talk about that too. What it means, how we navigate the dynamics."

"What do you mean?" you asked, though you suspected you knew where this was heading.

"Eight alphas, one omega," Yeosang explained in his analytical way. "Traditional pack structures don't really account for this situation. We need to figure out our own rules."

"Like what?" San asked.

"Like how we handle jealousy," Yeosang said bluntly. "Because it's going to happen. When one of us is spending individual time with Y/n, when she chooses to confide in one person over another, when the mate bonds feel stronger with some than others at different times."

The honesty of his statement created a moment of uncomfortable silence as everyone considered the implications.

"I don't want any of you to feel like you have to compete for my attention," you said softly. "Or like there's some hierarchy of who I love more."

"But there might be," Jongho pointed out with surprising wisdom for the youngest. "Different relationships, different dynamics. That's normal, isn't it?"

"It is," Seonghwa agreed. "The important thing is that everyone feels valued and secure in their bond with you, even if those bonds are different from each other."

"So maybe," Hongjoong said slowly, "we need to be more intentional about individual time. Making sure everyone gets one-on-one moments with Y/n, not just group activities."

"I'd like that," you said immediately. "I want to know each of you better individually, not just as part of the pack."

"See?" Wooyoung said triumphantly. "This is why I had date plans! I was thinking ahead!"

"Your date plans are probably all elaborate productions," Yunho said with fond exasperation. "Some of us might prefer quiet time."

"Hey!" Wooyoung protested. "I have quiet date ideas too! Very romantic, very low-key... well, relatively low-key..."

"Define 'relatively,'" Yeosang said suspiciously.

"Okay, so maybe I had thoughts about hiring a string quartet for a picnic, but that's totally reasonable romantic gesture!"

The laughter that followed Wooyoung's indignant defense helped lighten the mood considerably. This was good—they were talking through practical issues while maintaining the emotional connection that made them feel like a family.

"I have an idea," you said once the laughter died down. "What if we start small? One-on-one time doesn't have to be formal dates. It could be cooking together, or watching a movie, or just talking. Low pressure, but intentional."

"I love that," Seonghwa said immediately. "It gives us all a chance to develop our individual relationships without the pressure of grand gestures."

"Though grand gestures are still allowed," Wooyoung added hopefully. "For those of us who might be naturally inclined toward grand gestures."

"Grand gestures are allowed," you confirmed with a smile. "As long as they're thoughtful and not overwhelming."

"Speaking of overwhelming," Mingi said, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "what do we do about the territorial instincts? Because they're not going away just because we're having a reasonable conversation about them."

It was a fair point. The rational discussion was helpful, but it didn't change the fundamental alpha nature that had caused problems the night before.

"Maybe we acknowledge when it's happening," San suggested. "Instead of pretending the instincts don't exist, we can recognize them and choose how to respond."

"Like when I wanted to break down your door last night," Mingi continued, looking directly at you. "My alpha was convinced you were in danger, that you needed immediate rescue. Logically, I knew you were safe with Seonghwa and Wooyoung, but instinctively..."

"You needed to protect your mate," you finished understanding. "That's not necessarily a bad thing, as long as it doesn't override my autonomy."

"Exactly," Hongjoong said, and you could see him working through the concept. "The protective instincts aren't the problem. It's when they turn into controlling behavior."

"So maybe," Yeosang suggested, "when someone's alpha is getting possessive or territorial, they can communicate that to the pack. 'My alpha is struggling with this situation' instead of just acting on the instincts."

"And then the pack can help," Yunho added. "Either by adjusting the situation or by helping that alpha work through the feelings."

You found yourself nodding as you listened to them problem-solve together. This felt so different from the previous night's chaos—collaborative instead of combative, thoughtful instead of reactive.

"I have a confession," you said, looking around at all of them. "My omega has instincts too. Protective ones, nurturing ones, possessive ones. Last night when I went to Mingi during his rut, that wasn't entirely rational decision-making either."

"You were responding to your mate's distress," Seonghwa said with understanding. "That's natural."

"But it was also dangerous," you continued. "If we're going to acknowledge your alpha instincts, we should acknowledge mine too. Sometimes I might need the pack to help me make safer choices."

"As long as it's help and not control," Hongjoong said carefully.

"As long as it's help and not control," you agreed, meeting his eyes directly.

The morning conversation was interrupted by a loud growling sound that seemed to echo through the entire room. Eight pairs of eyes turned toward Jongho, who looked down at his stomach with betrayal.

"Was that you?" Wooyoung asked in amazement. "That sounded like a small earthquake."

"I'm hungry," Jongho said defensively, his cheeks flushing slightly. "We've been talking for hours, and I didn't eat much last night because of all the drama."

Looking around, you realized that several of them looked tired and rumpled, and you were all still wearing yesterday's clothes. The emotional intensity of the previous night had overshadowed basic needs like food and hygiene.

"Okay," you said, shifting into practical mode. "New plan. Everyone goes home to shower and change clothes. Then we reconvene for a proper breakfast where we can continue this conversation like civilized people instead of an exhausted cuddle pile."

"I like the exhausted cuddle pile," Wooyoung protested, even as he began extracting himself from the bed.

"The exhausted cuddle pile will return," you assured him. "But first, food and basic human maintenance."

As everyone began the process of untangling themselves and preparing to head back to the main house, Hongjoong lingered beside your bed. The others gradually filtered out, some stopping to press gentle kisses to your cheek or squeeze your hand, until it was just the two of you.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For giving me another chance. For not giving up on us." His voice was soft, vulnerable in a way you rarely heard from their confident leader. "I know I have work to do, proving that I can be better."

"We all have work to do," you corrected gently. "This is new for everyone. We're going to make mistakes."

"I made big ones."

"Yes," you agreed honestly. "But you're here, trying to fix them. That matters."

Hongjoong reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away, before cupping your face gently in his hands. "I love you," he said simply. "Not your biology, not your omega nature, not what you can do for the pack. You. Your mind, your strength, your terrible sense of humor, everything that makes you who you are."

The words, delivered with such sincere conviction, made your chest tight with emotion. "I love you too," you whispered back. "All of you. Even when you're being impossible."

His answering smile was soft and relieved and full of hope for the future they were building together.

"Now go shower," you said, pushing gently at his chest. "You smell like eight alphas who slept in a pile."

"I smell like pack," Hongjoong corrected with a grin. "Like home."

"You smell like you need soap," you countered, but you were smiling as you said it.

As Hongjoong finally headed for the door, he paused at the threshold. "Y/n?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for staying."

After he left, you remained in bed for a few more minutes, processing everything that had happened in the past twelve hours. The emotional whiplash of the fight, the fear of losing everything, Wooyoung's intervention, the reconciliation, and now this morning's productive conversation about building a healthier dynamic.

Your hand drifted to your neck, where there were no claiming marks yet, but where you could imagine them someday. The mate bonds hummed contentedly in your chest, no longer strained by conflict and uncertainty.

Your heat cycle might be delayed, but maybe that was exactly what you all needed. Time to build something solid and healthy before biology demanded vulnerability and surrender.

Time to fall in love with each other, hopefully. 

With that thought warming your chest, you finally dragged yourself out of bed to start the day. There was a pack to feed, relationships to nurture, and a future to build.

And for the first time since the mate bonds had revealed themselves, you felt genuinely excited about all of it.

---

An hour later, you emerged from your own shower feeling refreshed and more human, dressed in comfortable clothes and ready to tackle the promised breakfast. The main house was buzzing with activity when you entered through the back door, the sounds of multiple conversations and what smelled like an impressive cooking operation already underway.

You found Seonghwa in the kitchen, as expected, but he wasn't alone. Yunho was stationed at the stove flipping what appeared to be an enormous batch of pancakes, while San worked on cutting fresh fruit with the focused precision of someone taking their task very seriously.

"Good morning," you said, accepting the cup of coffee that Seonghwa handed you before you'd even fully entered the kitchen. He knew you too well.

"Perfect timing," San said, looking up from his fruit arrangement with a bright smile. "We're just finishing up the feast."

"Feast might be an understatement," you observed, taking in the sheer volume of food covering every available surface. "Are you feeding a small army?"

"Eight hungry alphas and one omega who missed dinner last night due to emotional trauma," Yunho said matter-of-factly, sliding another perfectly golden pancake onto the growing stack. "So yes, basically an army."

"Where is everyone else?" you asked, settling onto one of the kitchen stools to stay out of the way while still being part of the organized chaos.

"Wooyoung is setting the table," Seonghwa replied, stirring something that smelled amazing in a large pot. "Jongho went for a quick workout because apparently emotional reconciliation makes him restless. Mingi is showering, and Hongjoong is taking calls with Manager Minwoo about rearranging today's schedule."

"And Yeosang?" you asked, suddenly realizing you hadn't seen him since the morning conversation.

"Reading room," San said without looking up from his fruit artistry. "He said something about needing to process everything quietly before facing group breakfast dynamics."

That made sense. Yeosang had always been the most introverted of the group, the one who needed solitude to work through complex emotions and situations. The morning's heavy conversation about pack dynamics and relationship structures had probably been a lot for him to absorb.

"I think I'll go check on him," you said, sliding off the stool.

"Good idea," Seonghwa said with approval. "He's been quieter than usual since everything happened. He could probably use some individual attention."

You made your way through the house to what the members had dubbed the 'reading room'—a cozy space with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable chairs, and excellent natural light. It had become Yeosang's unofficial retreat when he needed space to think.

You found him curled up in the large armchair by the window, a book open in his lap but his eyes focused on something far beyond the garden outside. He looked up when you entered, a small smile crossing his features.

"Hey," you said softly, settling into the chair across from him. "How are you doing with everything?"

Yeosang was quiet for a moment, closing his book and setting it aside before really looking at you. "It's a lot," he said finally, his voice carrying that thoughtful quality that was so distinctly him. "All of it. The mate bonds, the pack dynamics, what happened last night."

"Too much?" you asked gently.

"Not too much," he clarified quickly. "Just... complex. I keep thinking about what you said this morning, about how we'll all have different relationships with you, different dynamics."

You nodded, sensing there was more he wanted to say.

"I've been trying to figure out what mine is," he continued, his analytical mind clearly working through the problem. "Wooyoung is obvious—dramatic, playful, emotional. Mingi is protective and intense. Seonghwa is nurturing. But me..." He trailed off, looking uncertain.

"You're thoughtful," you said softly. "Observant. You see things others miss."

"But what does that mean for us?" he asked, and you could hear the vulnerability beneath his usual composed exterior. "What does that relationship look like?"

It was such a Yeosang question—wanting to understand, to analyze, to find his place in the complex web of relationships that was forming around you.

"I don't know yet," you admitted honestly. "But I'd like to find out. We haven't really had much time alone together, just us."

"Would you like to?" he asked, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it. "Have time alone together, I mean."

"I would love that," you replied immediately. "What would you want to do?"

Yeosang's face lit up slightly, as if he'd been hoping you'd ask. "Actually, I had an idea. But it might be... different. Not like what the others might plan."

"Different how?" you asked, curious.

"There's a bookstore I love," he said, his words coming more quickly now as his enthusiasm took over. "It's small, quiet, tucked away in this old building downtown. They have rare books, first editions, things you can't find anywhere else. And upstairs, they have this tiny café that serves the most amazing tea."

The idea of exploring a hidden bookstore with Yeosang, of seeing him in his element surrounded by books and quiet spaces, sent a warm flutter through your chest.

"That sounds perfect," you said sincerely. "When can we go?"

"Really?" Yeosang's eyes brightened considerably. "You don't think it sounds boring compared to whatever elaborate adventure Wooyoung is probably planning?"

"Yeosang," you said firmly, leaning forward in your chair, "spending quiet time with you, learning about something you're passionate about, exploring a place that's special to you—that sounds like exactly the kind of individual time we were talking about this morning."

The relief and happiness that crossed his features was almost painful in its intensity, as if he'd been genuinely worried that his idea of a perfect date would be inadequate compared to the others.

"We could go this afternoon," he suggested. "If you want. After breakfast and after everything settles down from this morning."

"I'd love that," you assured him. "But only if you promise to show me your favorite sections and tell me about the books you love."

"I can do that," Yeosang said, his smile soft and genuine. "I have a lot of books I'd love to share with you."

There was something in the way he said it that made you realize this wasn't just about books. This was Yeosang offering to share a piece of himself, to let you into his inner world in a way that felt significant and precious.

"Yeosang," you said gently, "can I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"How are you feeling about the pack bonds? About us? I know this morning was a lot of heavy conversation, and you've been quieter than usual."

Yeosang was silent for a long moment, his fingers absently tracing the spine of the book in his lap. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and thoughtful.

"I've been thinking about how different we all are," he said. "And how that might actually be good for you. For us as a pack."

"What do you mean?"

"Wooyoung brings joy and lightness when things get too serious. Mingi brings protection and strength when you need to feel safe. Seonghwa brings comfort and care when you need nurturing." He paused, looking directly at you. "I bring... quiet. Understanding. Someone to listen when you need to process things without judgment or solutions."

The self-awareness in his words, the way he'd clearly been thinking deeply about his role in your life, made your chest tight with affection.

"That's not a small thing," you said softly. "That's huge. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who can just... listen? Without trying to fix or change or improve?"

"Is it?" he asked, and you could hear the genuine uncertainty in his voice.

"Yeosang," you said, getting up from your chair and moving to kneel beside his, taking his hands in yours. "Last night, when everything was falling apart, when I was overwhelmed and hurt and angry, what I needed most was exactly what you offered. Someone who saw what was happening, who understood the complexity without trying to simplify it."

His eyes met yours, searching for sincerity and finding it.

"You told me that whatever was happening between us didn't need to be figured out immediately," you continued. "That it was okay to acknowledge it existed and let it develop naturally. That kind of wisdom, that patience—that's not something everyone has."

"You really think that's valuable?" he asked quietly.

"I think it's essential," you replied firmly. "I think you're essential."

The way his face softened at your words, the way his shoulders relaxed as if he'd been carrying tension he didn't even realize he had, made you want to wrap him in your arms and never let go.

"I love your mind," you continued, the words flowing freely now. "I love how you think through problems, how you see patterns and connections that others miss. I love that you read philosophy and poetry and come away with insights that make me see the world differently."

"I love how you listen," you added, your voice growing softer. "Really listen. Not just waiting for your turn to talk, but actually hearing what people are saying, understanding what they mean even when they can't articulate it properly."

Yeosang's hands tightened around yours, his eyes never leaving your face.

"And I love that you don't try to be someone you're not to fit some idea of what an alpha should be," you finished. "You're quiet and thoughtful and gentle, and that's perfect. That's exactly what I need."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Yeosang leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture so tender it made your breath catch.

"I was worried," he admitted quietly, "that being quieter, less dramatic than the others, might make me... forgettable."

"Never," you said firmly. "You could never be forgettable."

"I love you," he said suddenly, the words soft but clear. "I've been wanting to say it, but I wasn't sure... the others are so much more obvious about their feelings."

"I love you too," you replied immediately, lifting one hand to cup his cheek. "I love your quiet strength and your beautiful mind and the way you make me feel understood."

The kiss that followed was soft and sweet and full of promise. When you broke apart, Yeosang's eyes held a peace that hadn't been there when you'd first entered the room.

From the kitchen came the sound of Wooyoung calling that breakfast was ready, but for just a few more minutes, you were content to sit in the quiet reading room with Yeosang, talking about books and plans and the unique space he occupied in your heart.

"We should probably go join the others," Yeosang said eventually, though he didn't sound entirely eager to leave their peaceful bubble.

"Probably," you agreed, but you made no move to get up. "Five more minutes?"

"Five more minutes," he confirmed, settling back into his chair with a contented smile.

You climbed in his lap, needing to be close to him. 

Yeosang's arms came around you almost tentatively as you eased onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs. His eyes widened for just a moment—surprise, awe, a flicker of nerves—but all of it softened to something infinitely gentle as you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

At first, the kiss was feather-light: a delicate brush, a question. You could feel him relax beneath you, his hands coming to rest at your hips, thumbs drawing soothing circles through your shirt. You lingered there; noses brushing, breath mingling, savoring the sweetness of feeling so safe in the silence you both cherished.

But need crept in the longer you kissed him. Your heat symptoms still present, just quieter.  With each pass of your mouth over his—a little less hesitant, a little more present—something inside you coiled and snapped taut. You felt his breath stutter as your hands moved, one slipping into his hair, the other stroking along the line of his jaw. Yeosang made a soft sound deep in his throat, and the vibration of it sent heat flaring through your body.

He welcomed your growing urgency, his own responses turning more earnest. His grip at your hips grew firmer, bringing you closer, molding your body to his. You could feel how hard his heart was beating, and a thrill ran through you at how much he wanted you.

You deepened the kiss—open, searching, greedy for more of him. Yeosang’s hands splayed wide, tracing up your back, holding you steady, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between you. He kissed you back with increasing hunger: still gentle, still reverent, but with the sharp edge of longing you’d never quite seen from him before.

Your own restraint faltered; you nipped at his lower lip, swallowed the gasp he gave you, pressed closer so that his legs bracketed your hips. The need to feel more, to have more, overwhelmed the patience you’d started with.

You broke the kiss only for a breath, whispering his name with trembling lips, looking into his eyes to find them shimmering—dazed and wholly focused on you.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice shaky but sure.

He nodded, his forehead tipping to rest against yours. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice rougher than you’d ever heard. “Whatever you want.”

You kissed him again, slow exploding into urgent, your hands threading through his hair, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself in the warmth and want of him. He shifted beneath you, welcoming you in, his hands mapping your back, your sides, craving every inch he could reach.

Time faded away—there was only Yeosang and your shared hunger, the soft noises of lips and breath, and the desperate way you both clung to each other as if the world outside your quiet room had vanished entirely.

And for the moment, it had.

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[smutmind]

A Hot face i haven´t seen arround here is Heejin

Her being from a small company makes her fit perfectly in "how she pays" so it would be great, Thanks!

The Clickbait ft. Heejin

I hope you're okay with using your ask for me to post this story. It's kinda related to your theme I just added some flare.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of your monitor and the lazy whir of the ceiling fan.

It started like any other late night—just scrolling, not really looking for anything, just curious. Click after click, preview after preview. Same bodies. Same moans. Same bored expressions. And then you saw it.

Thumbnail: a girl on her knees, ponytail high, licking her lips.

You paused.

Your breath hitched. You clicked.

And there she was. Heejin.

Same dimple in her cheek. Same pouty lips. That tiny mole under her left eye.

You leaned in, pulse drumming in your ears. The video buffer was irrelevant; the shock hit instantly.

Heejin. Your Heejin. The girl you sat next to in third grade. The one you shared gummy bears with during breaks. The one you defended during that awful winter field trip when she fell and skinned her knee. The one who wore the sky-blue scrunchie you gave her for a year straight.

You remembered the curve of her laugh, the way her eyes disappeared when she grinned. You remembered borrowing her pencil in science class, your fingers brushing too long. The aching innocence of being fifteen and not knowing how to say: I like you. I want to hold your hand. I want to be the boy who gets to kiss you first.

She moved away before your final year of high school. You never confessed. Just watched her go.

And now, years later, she was on your screen. Grown. Gorgeous. Completely, stunningly naked.

The scene began. She wore white thigh highs and a baby-pink crop top, kneeling on a hotel bed. Her voice was still soft, slightly breathy, just like it used to be.

"Hi," she said to the camera, smiling sweetly. "I’m Heejin. Be nice to me. It’s my first time."

The camera man chuckled behind the lens. "You're a pretty one. Can you show us a little more?"

Heejin giggled nervously, a shy glance at the floor. "Like this?" She tugged the crop top slowly over her head, revealing a pair of soft, perky breasts. She kept her arms wrapped under them, almost modestly. Her cheeks flushed.

"Good girl," the voice said. "Let’s see all of you."

A second figure stepped into frame. Older. Taller. Broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper stubble. He smiled, hand resting gently on her back.

"Don’t worry, sweetheart," he murmured. "Just follow my lead."

She looked up at him, uncertain but trusting. “You’ll be gentle, right?”

He leaned in, whispered something that made her giggle, then kissed her bare shoulder.

The camera caught it all—the way she trembled slightly, the way her fingers toyed with the waistband of her panties. Her innocence wasn't fake. She really was new.

He guided her hands down. She peeled her panties slowly, uncertainly, revealing herself with a hesitance that wasn’t performative—it was real. Her breath came shallow. Her knees pressed together even as she exposed herself.

"You’re beautiful," the man said softly. "Just relax. Let me help."

He touched her thigh, trailing up gently. She flinched, then steadied, nodding slowly. The camera didn’t rush. It lingered, capturing every inch of her growing trust, the way her lips parted, the way her body shifted in response.

Then his fingers found her.

Soft, slow circles that made her shiver. Her eyes fluttered. She gasped—quiet, surprised. Her hips shifted without her meaning to.

He murmured something too low for the mic to catch, and she nodded, legs parting just a little more. Her hands gripped the sheets. Her chest rose and fell fast.

She looked straight at the camera once. Not shy—open. Real.

And then she moaned.

You leaned back, dazed, haunted by the face you used to know. And now couldn’t forget.

Your chest was tight. Fingers hovered above the keyboard for a full minute before you exhaled, leaned back, and opened a new window. Social media. You typed her name.

There she was.

Same face. Same dimple. Same soft smile. But no trace of the girl from the video.

Her Instagram was curated—sunlit beaches, passport stamps, matcha lattes in Kyoto, wide-eyed selfies from Paris. No stage names, no hints of adult work. Just Heejin, looking like the kind of woman who’d figured her life out.

You scrolled, heart thudding. A post from last week: her on a cliffside hike, grinning into the wind. Caption: Climbing feels like remembering who I am.

You weren’t sure what you were hoping to find. An alias? A confession? A link in bio? There was nothing.

And then your thumb paused on a photo of her in a café. Her hair tied up, a book in one hand, a crooked smile aimed at someone across the table. You remembered that smile. You remembered wishing she’d aim it at you.

You hit Message.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Hey. It’s been a long time. Don’t know if you remember me…

Backspaced the whole thing.

You stared at the blinking cursor. Then your fingers moved on their own.

Heejin. It’s me. From school. I saw you... — you hesitated — I saw something that reminded me of you. Just wanted to say hi.

Sent.

You stared at your screen, heart pounding. You didn’t expect a reply.

But you left the tab open anyway.

Three weeks passed.

Nothing.

You told yourself you didn’t care. Closed the tab. Reopened it. Checked again.

And then one night—just as you were about to shut down for bed—your phone buzzed.

A message.

Hey... I’ve been meaning to write back. Things got kind of crazy. I’m back in town for a few days. Would love to see you.

Heejin.

Just reading her name made your stomach tighten. You read the message again. And again.

Would love to see you.

You stared at the blinking cursor. All over again.

She met you at the arcade wearing a cream-colored crop hoodie and black jeans that looked painted on—just tight enough to press the memory of her hips into your brain. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and the first thing she did was hug you, tight, warm, lingering.

"God, I missed this," she said, pulling back just enough for her chest to brush yours.

You swallowed. "The arcade?"

She winked. "Being around someone who doesn’t expect me to put on a show."

You laughed, caught off guard. She wasn’t performing. She was still Heejin, the same mischievous, too-honest-for-her-own-good girl you’d crushed on in school.

She grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the air hockey table. "Let’s go. You owe me a rematch from, like, tenth grade."

You took your place across from her, hands awkward on the paddle. She bent slightly to set the puck, her crop hoodie lifting just a breath. You looked away.

The game began. You both played harder than necessary. She was good—fast, focused. Laughing too loudly at every point scored.

Between rounds, she stretched her arms overhead, groaning like she'd run a marathon. "Ugh. My back is killing me. I need someone with strong hands. You volunteerin', or what?"

The words hit wrong. Too familiar. Your body remembered where it had heard them before. From your screen. From her debut.

But her face stayed playful. Naïve, even.

You couldn’t ask. You wouldn’t. So you just played the next round and lost again.

After a few more games and too many cheap sodas, you ended up on the same ratty bench by the change machine. She stretched out beside you, one leg tucked under the other.

"So," she said, tapping her cup, "how’s your life? Still into tech stuff? You always had that nerdy genius vibe."

You smiled. "Freelancing, mostly. Flexible hours."

"Mmm," she said, biting her straw. "That sounds nice."

You nodded, but your thoughts were screaming. You wanted to ask. You wanted to say: I saw it. I saw you. But you didn’t.

You nodded, but your thoughts were screaming. You wanted to ask. You wanted to say: I saw it. I saw you. But you didn’t.

Instead, you cleared your throat and said, “Why don’t I cook you dinner tomorrow?”

She blinked, surprised. Then her lips curled into a grin. “Are you trying to seduce me with pasta?”

You shrugged. “Depends how good your palate is. I’m a bit of a kitchen snob now.”

She leaned back, mock-suspicious. “I remember your cafeteria tray in ninth grade. This better be a glow-up.”

The next evening, she came over just after seven. She wore a casual green dress, cinched at the waist, with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. It was soft, unassuming—until she sat down and the neckline shifted just slightly lower than necessary. You pretended not to notice. She pretended not to notice you noticing.

You made aglio e olio from scratch, roasted vegetables with sea salt and thyme. She stole cherry tomatoes from the cutting board while you stirred.

“Okay,” she said, chewing. “You’re forgiven for every cold pizza slice you ever inhaled in homeroom.”

You both ate at the kitchen counter, plates between you, wine glasses sweating under dim light. She laughed more here. Softer. Her guard seemed to slip with every bite.

After dinner, you stood at the sink rinsing plates. She leaned in beside you, closer than she needed to be.

"Should I dry?" she asked, brushing her arm against yours. "Or should I just stand here and look hot?"

You froze, the plate half-tilted in your hand.

She smirked. "Kidding. Unless you like a little help with your... chores."

It was too much.

You set the plate down and turned, voice low. “Heejin, I saw it.”

She blinked. “Saw what?”

You met her eyes. “The video. Your first scene. I didn’t mean to—I was just... it came up.”

She stepped back slowly, all the teasing gone. “Oh.”

“Heejin, I didn’t want to bring it up like this, but I couldn’t sit here pretending.”

Her arms folded across her stomach. “So this dinner was what? A farewell tour? See me once in person and then disappear like it didn’t happen?”

“No. No, that’s not what this is.”

Her voice wavered, sharp with hurt. “You think I’m disgusting.”

You stepped toward her. “No. I think you were hurting, and you never told me.”

She hesitated. Her lips parted like she might deny it—but then, she dropped into the nearest chair, hands on her lap.

“I never thought you’d find out,” she whispered. “Most people never make the connection.”

You stayed quiet, letting her talk.

“I was in a K-pop group. Briefly. Small company. Training since high school. Thought it was my shot. We did two singles, then they ran out of money. Shelved us. Stopped paying. Still held our contracts.”

She stared at her hands.

“We weren’t allowed to leave. Couldn’t work elsewhere. Couldn’t sue. I had no savings. And when I begged them to release me, they offered... an alternative.”

Your heart dropped. “They sold you.”

Her laugh was dry. “Not in chains. But close enough. They owned the footage. Changed the name. Sent me to a ‘modeling’ agency that just so happened to be tied to a porn label.”

She looked up. Her face was pale, but her voice was steady.

“I let them touch me on camera. Told myself it was just acting. But it wasn’t. It was real hands. Real bodies. Real bruises. And every time I broke a little more inside. But I smiled. Because I owed them. Because I signed my name.”

You moved slowly, kneeling in front of her. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t owe anyone your body.”

Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t cry.

“I didn’t want you to see that version of me,” she said. “The one who faked orgasms and swallowed shame for a paycheck.”

You nodded. “I get it. But that’s not all you are.”

She didn’t answer at first. Her hand lingered in yours, fingers gently tightening like she wasn’t sure she was allowed.

Then she spoke. "I used to like you. Back then. High school. I thought maybe you'd ask me out after midterms. You didn’t."

You blinked. "You liked me?"

She smiled faintly. "You were sweet. Not like the others. You used to bring extra pencils for everyone, but you always made sure I got the ones without bite marks. I noticed."

You let out a soft laugh. “I had no idea.”

“That’s the thing,” she said, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “You were part of my innocence. A time before... all this. When things were soft and slow and didn’t hurt yet.”

She exhaled, eyes distant. "I came to see you because I missed that. I wanted to remember who I was before I turned into someone I barely recognize. And being around you... it's the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still her. Even a little."

You looked at her, really looked. And you saw it—the girl behind the camera lights, behind the soft moans and glossy lips. The one who used to pass notes in class. The one who was scared but smiling anyway.

You squeezed her hand. “Then let’s hold on to her. Just for tonight.”

She gave you a small, grateful nod. “Just for tonight.”

It started with a kiss—gentle, slow, mouths barely moving. A tentative search for warmth.

Her lips brushed yours once, then again, and you felt the weight she carried begin to fall away with each exhale. You kissed like the moment was fragile, like it could shatter under pressure.

She climbed into your lap, straddling you with her knees tucked beside your hips, her dress still flowing down around your legs. Face to face. Her arms wrapped around your neck. You held her waist.

“I missed this,” she whispered against your mouth.

“What?”

“Feeling safe.”

You kissed again, deeper this time. Her body pressed into yours. The room grew warmer.

Then she took your hand and slid it under her shirt, guiding it to the softness beneath her bra. Skin to skin. Her breath caught, but she didn’t stop you.

You paused, looking up. “Do you want to...?”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t tease. Her voice was barely a whisper, raw and trembling. “Remind me what it felt like to be touched without expectation.”

And with that, you kissed her once more—soft, deliberate, as your hand gently explored the shape of her, anchoring yourself to this real, present version of Heejin.

The silence between you pulsed with need, taut and intimate. Her breath fanned your jaw as she straddled you, still dressed, her fingers exploring your shoulders with slow, curious pressure. You traced the line of her spine under her shirt until she shifted in your lap, kissing you like the space between you had always been hers to close.

Her lips parted as she deepened the kiss, drawing you in with soft, savoring motions. The pace was unhurried, almost reverent. Her hands threaded into your hair, pulling just enough to make you feel wanted, hers. You cupped her face in both palms, stroking her cheek with your thumb as her mouth moved against yours.

She broke the kiss only to whisper, "Can I feel more of you?"

You answered by sliding your hands under the hem of her dress, tracing up the backs of her thighs, the curve of her hips. Her skin was warm, electric. You leaned in to kiss along her jaw, then down to the soft place beneath her ear. She shivered in your arms.

Her fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt. You raised your arms to help her peel it off. She tossed it aside and ran her hands across your chest, fingers splaying like she wanted to map your whole torso. Then she pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone.

You pulled her closer, until her chest was flush with yours. Through the fabric, you could feel the quickening of her heartbeat. Your lips found her neck again, then lower, until you kissed the swell above her bra. She gasped softly and arched into you.

She reached behind herself and slid the zipper of her dress down, peeling it away inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. You helped her out of it gently, reverently. She sat before you in her bra and panties, glowing in the low light.

You ran your fingertips along her bare waist, then bent to kiss her shoulder. Her breathing grew shallow as your lips traveled to the inside of her arm, then back to her chest. She held your face in her hands, kissed you long and deep.

“I want this to feel good,” she whispered. “All of it.”

You looked her in the eye. “Then let’s take our time.”

Heejin smiled—slow, sure, like she already knew the next hour by heart. She pushed you back against the pillows, her dark hair brushing your thighs as she moved down. Her lips trailed a final kiss over your navel before she dipped lower, her breath hot, deliberate.

Her hand curled around you, a featherlight grip that tightened with a steady rhythm. Then her mouth—warm, wet, impossibly soft—took you in. Inch by inch, she drew you deep, letting you feel every slick glide of her tongue, every flutter of her throat.

You exhaled sharp, hips flexing on instinct. “Fuck—Heejin.”

She moaned low around you, the vibration sending a pulse through your spine. Her fingers dug lightly into your hips, holding you in place. She set a slow pace, lips stretched tight, tongue circling the crown before sliding down again. Each stroke deeper. Each pause longer.

She looked up once, eyes glassy and wide. You caught the challenge in them—don’t come yet—and bit the inside of your cheek to hold the line. Her mouth was heaven, but it was her control that wrecked you. She knew exactly when to let her spit dribble, when to swallow you whole, when to pull back and tease you with the tip of her tongue.

Your fingers found her hair. Not to push—just to feel the movement, the weight of her. She let you touch, let you watch her work, but she never gave up the rhythm.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” you managed.

She pulled back with a wet pop, lips flushed and shining. “Then don’t waste it.”

And she took you again, deeper this time, hands now stroking your thighs, coaxing them open like she owned every nerve under your skin.

Then she stopped.

Pulled off slowly, breath catching at the edge of her lips. She crawled up your body, kissing her way up your ribs, your chest, until her face hovered above yours. Her thighs straddled you, slick heat brushing your length, but she didn’t lower herself yet.

“I used to fake every sound,” she murmured. “Moans, gasps, even the way I arched my back. All of it—designed for someone else's camera.”

You brushed her hair back. “This isn’t for anyone else.”

Her breath hitched. “I know.” She leaned down and kissed you—messy, needy, with her whole mouth. “You made me forget that part of my life even existed.”

She rose just enough to line herself up, then sank down—slow, controlled, inch by inch until you were all the way inside her. Her lips parted on a gasp, raw and unpracticed. “God,” she whispered, forehead pressing against yours, “this… this feels like it matters.”

You ran your hands over her back, fingers tracing the arch of her spine. “Because it does.”

She started to move—gentle rolls of her hips, no rhythm for the camera, no forced angles. Just motion built on feel. Skin on skin. Her breath warm in your ear.

“This is how I’ve always wanted to fuck,” she said, voice cracking just enough to show the truth in it. “No stage lights. No fake orgasm countdowns. Just… skin and heat and being seen.”

You held her waist, thumbs brushing the sweat gathering beneath her ribs. “Then let me see all of you.”

She rocked slower, deeper, eyes locked on yours. Her breasts pressed to your chest, her thighs trembling slightly with effort. Each glide filled with a quiet need.

“I never came like this,” she whispered. “Not once in front of the camera. But I feel close with you… just from how you look at me.”

You kissed her throat, tasting the salt there. “You’re not a fantasy. You’re fucking real.”

She laughed—soft, shaky, full of feeling. “That’s the most pornographic thing you could say.”

You laughed too, breathless. She tightened her thighs and moved again, this time with purpose. “And you…” she murmured, biting your lower lip gently, “you don’t fuck like a man trying to prove something. You just… want me.”

“I do.” Your hands slid over her ass, guiding her motion. “All of you.”

Her rhythm slowed again, becoming more of a grind, her clit pressed flush against you. She kissed you between every sentence now, like she was making up for all the times she hadn’t been allowed to.

And between kisses, she whispered, “Don’t stop seeing me like this. I don’t ever want to go back.”

Her rhythm grew erratic—more grind than thrust now, her body moving on instinct, driven by sensation. Your grip tightened at her hips, not to control her, just to anchor yourself as the heat in your spine surged toward breaking.

You groaned into her neck. “I’m close.”

She pulled back to look you in the eye. Sweat clung to her upper lip, her mascara half-smudged. “Finish inside me.”

You hesitated—barely a heartbeat.

“I’m safe,” she whispered, voice urgent and raw. “I want to feel it. I want it real.”

Her eyes brimmed with something beyond lust. A desperate kind of need.

“Purify my cunt,” she said, biting down on the word, like it tasted both shameful and holy. “Fill me. I want your cum inside me. Not on me. Not for show. In me.”

That was the last thread of control gone. You thrust up into her, hands holding her there, deep, as the climax ripped through you. You stayed buried in her, hips twitching, breath fractured. She pressed down to take every pulse, every drop.

She moaned with the weight of it—eyes fluttering closed, mouth parted.

Then she leaned down and kissed you hard. No build-up. No pretense. Just lips crushed to yours, teeth, tongue, hunger.

And when she pulled away, she was crying.

Silent at first. Then full sobs, shoulders trembling against your chest.

You held her, still inside her, not moving. Her tears soaked the side of your neck.

“I’m going back,” she said, choking the words out. “Next week. I signed the shoot already.”

Your hands stilled on her back.

She pressed her forehead to your collarbone. “I needed tonight to be mine. Just mine. Not theirs.”

You didn’t say anything. Just pulled the blanket up around her, wrapped her tighter.

She whispered, “Promise you won’t remember me for the videos.”

You kissed the top of her head. “I’ll remember you for this.”

She exhaled hard, like she was trying to hold her body together.

The two of you stayed there, tangled and still, your cum slowly seeping from her, warmth fading against the sheets.

The sheets beside you were cold when you woke.

You sat up slowly, the morning light already spilling in through the blinds. Her scent still lingered—faint coconut shampoo, sweat, sex—but the space she filled was gone. No bag near the door. No coffee brewing in the kitchen. Just silence, and a folded note on the pillow.

Thank you for letting me feel human again. Don’t look for me. Please.

No signature. Just the curve of her handwriting, sharp and sure.

You read it twice. Then again. The ache set in slow, like blood returning to a limb after too long asleep.

You tried her number. Straight to voicemail.

Instagram? Gone.

Twitter? Deleted.

No trace. Like she never existed outside last night.

You sat on the edge of the bed, phone still in your hand, heart beating too loud in your ears. The silence stretched around you until even the hum of the fridge felt too loud.

It wasn’t until a few days later that you saw it.

Her name—well, her stage name—popped up in your feed. A trending title on the front page of the site she’d begged you not to remember her for.

"My Childhood Sweetheart"

There she was, in perfect light. Hair curled. Skin glossy. Eyes dead behind the smile.

Your stomach turned. Not at the act—porn never did that to you—but at the performance. The words you’d whispered in the dark echoed back in warped parody. A line she’d stolen from the night before now scripted on her lips.

You watched ten seconds. Maybe less.

She moaned too early. Arched too perfectly. Called someone baby with the exact same tone she’d used when she’d cried in your arms.

You closed the window.

And sat there, blinking hard, the silence louder than ever.

Your heart didn’t break all at once. It sank—like a weight had been tied to it in the night and dropped somewhere deep.

She was gone.

And this time, it was permanent.

[buckyseternaldoll]

How... heavy should be the angst request? Sometimes there is a need for a black hole heavy, but fell free to write what you see fit, that's just humble request, I love you and will be thankfull all the same.

What if... there is a house in the woods (or whereever) where lives the lonely man. Ocasionally people spread the rumors about him and his ghosts. But the only ghost he have is his lost love - he himself told someone he was forced to prevent her massacre (she did the killing for whatever reason) by killing her. But there is woman's clothes around the house, two armchairs on the patio and table set for two in the kitchen. Something's not right here or is it just grief?

The spies? Rivals or coworkers? Any setting and background (and ending of course), whatever you prefer.

With love, ♥.

Finally brought myself to complete this! Pretty sure it diverted too far from what you have imagined for, but I hope you'll enjoy this too.

man in the woods

Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky pulled the trigger to save a mission—and lost the only person who made him feel human. Years later, Sam finds him deep in the woods, still living like she’s beside him.

Disclaimer: major character death, grief, hallucinations, implied PTSD, emotional breakdown, trigger warning (gun violence), heartbreaking content, natural death (broken heart syndrome), soft delusion, post-TFATWS setting

Word Count: 5.1k

Author's Note: Any mistakes will all be mine. Unbeta-d

The shop wasn’t easy to find.

Tucked between a shuttered laundromat and an old mechanic’s garage, it didn’t even have a proper sign—just the faint outline of letters burned into warped wood, half-covered in creeping ivy. Most of the people who came in didn’t mean to. Just the neighborhood’s forgotten seniors, the kind who read folded newspapers and drank bitter coffee in silence. And you liked it that way.

You liked the quiet. The stillness. The lack of questions.

Because you weren’t really meant to be found, either.

It had taken years to disappear. After what happened on your last op—the one that split something inside you clean in half—you’d vanished without needing a grave. You lived like a ghost ever since. No more handlers. No more missions. No more knives pressed into your palm with whispers like “prove your loyalty.” You’d done the unthinkable. To earn your place. And it still woke you up at night, screaming into your pillow like it could choke out the memory of that child’s eyes.

And then he walked in.

Tall. Broad shoulders under a worn jacket. Steel-blue eyes shadowed by something older than war. Short dark hair, slight stubble, hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

He looked haunted. Not just tired, not just sad—haunted.

And he didn’t say a word when he sat down.

He looked at the bottles behind you for a long moment, then said quietly,

“Whiskey. Neat. Anything that doesn’t taste like regret.”

His voice was gravelly, tired. A little flat. You didn’t ask questions.

But from that first night, you recognized something in him—some broken echo of yourself. That same quiet hypervigilance. That same way of tracking every movement in the room without turning your head. The way he’d flinch—not visibly, but just enough—when someone stood too close behind him.

He missed a day or two sometimes, but mostly? He kept coming back. Always the same drink. Always the same seat in the back right corner, where he could see the exit. You caught on to his patterns fast.

You noticed how he never held eye contact for long—but when he did? It lingered. Heavy. Like there were words he couldn’t say sitting just behind the blue.

So you started talking.

Nothing much at first. Quiet things. Weather. The newspaper stories the old men grumbled about. Then one evening, after he let out a sigh that sounded too much like yours, you asked,

“You ever… been through something bad?”

He looked up at you. Really looked.

Then he huffed out a soft, humorless laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been through a whole goddamn lot of bad.”

And that was it.

The beginning of it.

Small conversations bled into longer ones. Not confessions—but pieces. Shards. Stories without names, told in low voices and half-smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t healing. But it was something.

Eventually, you told him your name.

And one night, as he stood to leave, tucking his hands back in his jacket, you asked softly—

“See you again tomorrow?”

He paused. Looked at you. Let his gaze stay.

And nodded once.

“Yeah. I think so.”

—

It became a rhythm before either of you realized it.

8pm. Sharp.

Every night, the same soft creak of the door. The same dark-colored jacket, always zipped halfway. Some days navy, some black, sometimes a dark olive green that made his eyes look colder than usual. But always the same seat in the back. Always the same drink.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

No small talk at first. Just his eyes doing that slow sweep of the room. Shoulders always tense beneath his coat. You learned to stop announcing the time when he walked in—he already knew it. You stopped asking what he wanted to drink—it was already poured.

It became a promise.

—

Eventually, he started sticking around longer. Waiting until the last old man shuffled out. Until the shutters half-dropped. And then you’d leave together.

No handholding. No flirting. Just… walking. Sometimes to the back steps behind the shop where the night air hit cleaner, or to a quiet, open lot where broken streetlights gave everything a silvered kind of blur.

It felt like dating. But it wasn’t.

There were no labels. Just shared silence, and the warmth of another human breathing next to you who understood without needing the story.

—

One night, while sitting on a bench near a shuttered florist’s stall—two glasses of whiskey in mismatched mugs between you—you leaned back against the brick wall behind you, tipped your head toward him, and asked with a half-smile:

“So… are you gonna keep being a ghost until you ghost me completely? Or will you eventually let me know your name?”

His mouth twitched.

That look crossed his face—the one where he tried not to be amused but failed. Then he chuckled, low and rasped, like it had been a while since he’d allowed himself to sound like that.

“You’ll know it,” he said, raising the mug to his lips,

“Eventually. When the time comes.”

You rolled your eyes. He smirked. Neither of you pushed it further.

—

You learned where he lived. Apartment 4B. One floor above yours.

He’d walk you to your door, sometimes, his presence quiet beside you like a bodyguard made of shadows. Other nights, you walked him to his. A quiet nod, a soft goodnight. But never once did either of you cross the threshold. Like invisible lines were still drawn across the doorframes.

The distance was small. The space between you, smaller. But still—you kept your walls. And so did he.

—

It was sometime after midnight when you heard the knock.

Frantic. Not loud or urgent—just the kind that clung to hesitation.

You opened the door and there he was.

His shirt soaked with sweat. Breathing uneven. Eyes wide, like he’d run from something or fought something off. And his hands… his hands were trembling.

He tried to speak.

“I—uh. I didn’t know where else… I just—”

You didn’t ask.

You just stepped aside.

He walked in without another word, his boots slow and uncertain. You moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle. Poured him a cup of chamomile. You didn’t ask if he liked it—you just handed it to him.

He didn’t say thanks, but the look in his eyes said more than enough.

You both sat on the sofa, drinks in hand, the soft sound of the city beyond your windows barely there. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was safe. Heavy, but not suffocating.

And at some point, he let his head fall back against the wall. Let the tension leave his body like air escaping a tire.

That night, something shifted.

Something inside him unlocked—not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet way someone lets their guard down just enough to breathe.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t speak. But his eyes lingered when he looked at you that time. Longer than they ever had before.

You didn’t ask him what happened.

You just let him be broken beside you.

And that, for him, was everything.

—

It was a Tuesday. Maybe a Wednesday. You’d lost track.

You and him had settled into that familiar rhythm again—late night coffee, whiskey after the shop closed, sharing a table at that tucked-away café that barely stayed open past nine. The world always seemed to narrow down to just the two of you in that place, your voices low, the buzz of the street outside barely a whisper.

You were mid-sentence—some half-laughed comment about how he always asked for the same drink like it was sacred—when a tall man pushed through the café door.

He moved like he knew who he was looking for. Confident. Sharpened.

And when he saw Bucky, his whole body seemed to tighten.

“There you are,” the man said, low but firm. “We need to talk. Now.”

You blinked. The stranger didn’t look at you, not even a glance—his eyes were locked on the man across from you, the one who sat frozen for a second before exhaling like he’d been waiting for this moment to catch up to him.

“Can it wait?” Bucky muttered, not looking up.

“No.”

That one word had weight. Like it had followed them both across continents.

You looked between them, catching the subtle way Bucky’s fingers clenched around his glass. The tension wasn’t explosive—but it was coiled. Tired. Heavy.

You reached for your bag, rising from your seat with a soft smile.

“I’ll give you two some space.”

He looked at you like he didn’t want you to go. Like he hated that this was how it was happening.

“I’ll come find you,” he said, his voice a little too soft.

“I know.”

You left them inside. The sidewalk outside felt colder than it should’ve. You didn’t walk far—just leaned against the brick wall near the alley, lighting a cigarette you didn’t even want. Their voices carried out through the slightly open café window. Not yelling. But sharp.

“We don’t have backup this time, Buck.”

“So why come find me?”

“Because I need you.”

“You know what happened last time—”

“And I still need you.”

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for the cigarette to burn down to the filter. Long enough for your heart to start doing that uncomfortable thing—half dread, half recognition.

Then the door creaked open, and he came out.

His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable. That familiar storm behind them.

You said nothing. Just waited.

Then the other man came out too.

He gave you a once-over—measured, but not unkind.

“Sorry to interrupt your night,” he said. “I really wouldn’t if it wasn’t serious.”

Bucky didn’t say a word. But the other man nodded toward him anyway and added,

“He’s needed. Off-grid. No government, no help. Just us.”

You gave a small nod. Didn’t ask. You could feel the weight of it, and something told you you didn’t want the details—not unless he chose to give them.

The stranger left with a short wave.

You started walking home beside Bucky, footsteps soft on the pavement.

He didn’t say anything for a few blocks. You didn’t press. You were too busy trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling, from piecing together what you already half-knew.

And then, just as you turned onto your street, he said it.

“That was Sam. The Falcon.”

And just like that—it clicked.

Everything. The way he moved. The way he carried his silence. The way you never quite saw him as just some brooding regular with pretty eyes.

You stopped. Just for a second.

Then you nodded.

“Makes sense.”

He didn’t look at you, but you saw the way his hands flexed at his sides. Like he was bracing for a question that never came.

—

When you reached your building, you unlocked your door and turned to say goodnight.

But he didn’t move.

His hand was still gripping the edge of your doorframe. Like he didn’t know how to let go just yet. His eyes were softer now—tired, not angry. Worn down like stone eroded by waves.

“You wanna come in?” you asked.

He nodded once.

You didn’t talk about what had just happened. Didn’t ask where he was going or what he was being pulled back into. You just made him a glass of warm milk—because he asked for it once, weeks ago, in a half-drunken ramble about how it helped him sleep when he was younger.

You handed it to him and sat down beside him on the couch.

Not too close. Not far either.

The night wrapped around you both quietly. And he exhaled—deep, long—like he hadn’t done that all day.

No words. Just presence.

And that was the night you knew he trusted you enough to unravel.

Just a little.

Enough to stay.

Enough to drink milk instead of whiskey.

Enough to want to come back.

—

He stayed longer than he ever had.

He held the glass of milk like it steadied him, but didn’t drink it right away.

You both sat on the sofa, the quiet stretching between you like a thread—tense, but comforting. He hadn’t said a word since Sam left. You hadn’t pressed. But you could feel something under his silence tonight. Something shifting.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“I’m leaving. Tomorrow.”

You turned to him slowly.

“Where?”

A pause. Then:

“Madripoor.”

Your stomach dropped—not in fear, not entirely. Just… recognition. A name that brought back too much.

“Why?” you asked.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling.

“Sam and I—we’re tracking down where the new serum’s coming from. The same kind the Flag Smashers used. We need intel, and… Zemo has connections.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Wait—Zemo? Baron Zemo?”

He nodded, looking equal parts tired and annoyed.

“Yeah. We broke him out.”

You just blinked. “…You what?”

“It wasn’t my idea,” he muttered, then gave you that half-irritated look, like he was annoyed at having to say it out loud.

“But you didn’t stop it.”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there, staring into the untouched milk in his hands.

Eventually, he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, head down.

“I didn’t want to go back to this,” he said. “Not again. I’ve been trying, you know? Really trying. Making amends. Doing the work. Seeing the therapist. Crossing names off the list. Trying to not be…”

He gestured vaguely at himself.

“Him.”

You softened. “The Winter Soldier.”

He nodded.

“I thought I was done with killing. With running ops. With being the weapon people reach for when things get ugly.”

He looked at you now, finally.

“But the world keeps dragging me back into it. And I… I don’t know how to keep living like this. Decades. I’ve been fighting for decades, sweetheart. I get a few months of quiet and suddenly I’m right back in it.”

It moved you. Deeply. Not just because of the pain in his voice—but because this was the first time he let it out. Fully. Like he trusted you enough to let it hurt in front of you.

So you reached across the couch and placed your hand on his.

Warm. Steady. Real.

“Then let me help.”

His head snapped toward you.

“What?”

You hesitated only a second, then said it.

“I have people in Madripoor. I used to run things there—nothing big, but… big enough. There are still people who owe me. I can get you and Sam in cleaner than Zemo can. I know how the Power Broker works.”

You saw the change in him immediately.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Bucky—”

“No. You’re not going. I’m not letting you anywhere near that place.”

His voice was sharp now. Protective. Too much.

“You’re not dragging me into it,” you said quietly. “I’m choosing this.”

“You got out. You walked away from that life. I’m not letting Madripoor suck you back in.”

“It’s already in me,” you snapped, then softened. “I’ve spent years hiding. I’ve buried what I did. What it did to me. But if you’re right—and they’re making more serum, and you’re walking into that with Zemo, no backup, and zero leverage? You’ll need someone who knows how that world breathes.”

His jaw tightened. He looked away.

“You could get killed.”

You squeezed his hand.

“So could you.”

He flinched like that hurt more than it should’ve. His grip tightened slightly, just for a second.

You waited. Let the weight of it settle.

And finally, after a long beat, he whispered—

“You’d really go back there? After what it did to you?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Only if you let me walk beside you this time.”

—

The meet point was some rundown garage near the docks—half-abandoned, half-suspicious. Bucky walked in like he belonged there, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense, expression unreadable.

You followed.

Sam turned from where he was leaning against a rusted table, his eyebrows immediately knitting together when he saw you.

“The hell is this?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

“She’s coming with us.”

“No—no, no. You said we were working clean. Tight. No civilians.”

“She’s not a civilian,” Bucky replied flatly. “She’s connected. Madripoor’s a mess without a map and she is one.”

Sam looked at you—really looked. Like he was reassessing everything he’d assumed.

“You serious about this?”

You nodded once.

“I’m not just here for him. I’m here for the mission. You need a way in. I’m your way in.”

Sam let out a frustrated breath and muttered something under his breath about “bringing ex-assassins to the party,” but he didn’t argue again.

“Fine. But if this goes sideways…”

“Then it’ll go sideways with me,” you said. “Then I’ll go down with it. But it won’t be because of me.”

—

The air in Madripoor was sharp, smoky, and thick with tension. The kind that sat on your skin like sweat you couldn’t wash off. The kind you remembered too well.

The Brass Monkey bar was still the same—loud, wild, dangerous. Neon soaked in sin. People looked up when you entered. The eyes on Bucky were curious. On Sam, cautious.

On you? Hostile.

“Word spreads fast,” you murmured to Bucky as you moved through the crowd, leading them in.

“Why are they looking at you like that?” Sam asked.

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

You managed to pull a few strings—old favors, old names whispered in back rooms—and soon, someone told you Selby would see you. But she wasn’t alone.

Zemo was already there.

He greeted you all with that smug, gloved calm that made your stomach twist. He looked you up and down like you were a loose thread in a well-tailored suit.

“You brought her?” he asked Bucky, voice dry.

“She got us in,” Bucky replied.

“Mmm. We’ll see.”

Things didn’t go smoothly. Even with your connections, Selby and her crew didn’t trust you. Or rather—they didn’t forgive you.

“You show your face here after what you did?” Selby sneered. “Betraying your own?”

Sam looked over at you, confused.

Selby didn’t let you explain.

“You were supposed to be one of us. But you played both sides. Walked away. Now you come crawling back with Captain America’s leftovers and him?” she nodded to Zemo. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“We need to speak to the Power Broker,” Bucky said firmly.

Selby’s smile was all venom.

“You want to speak to the Broker? Prove you’re still part of the fold. We already let your little show slide,” she added, tilting her head toward the bloodied floor where Bucky had just gone through a very convincing Winter Soldier performance—slamming thugs into walls, eyes cold, metal arm glinting in low light.

“We need more than fists.”

She turned to Zemo.

“You said the Soldier was still yours. That he still listens.”

Zemo gave the smallest nod. Then turned to Bucky.

“Finish the performance.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, already tensing.

Selby smiled.

“One of you doesn’t leave this bar. We want proof of loyalty. A death.”

She looked right at you.

“And I think we all agree it should be her.”

Everything froze.

You didn’t flinch. But your body locked up.

Bucky went still. Like the moment hadn’t reached him yet. Like it was waiting for permission to break him.

Sam stepped forward, voice tense.

“Now wait a minute—”

“No,” Zemo cut in smoothly. “We play by their rules. You want access, you pay the price.”

“She’s not part of this,” Bucky said, voice low, jaw clenched.

“She is now,” Selby replied. “A betrayer, walking in here like she still belongs. That kind of insult needs blood.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m—”

“You’ve done worse,” Zemo said, cold and calculated. “Haven’t you?”

That was the moment Bucky flinched.

You could see it—the war in him. Metal fingers curling slowly into a fist. His breath caught between fury and fear. That look in his eyes like the Winter Soldier was knocking, whispering you know how to end this.

Sam’s hand hovered near his own weapon. The room felt ready to ignite.

Your voice was quiet.

“It’s okay.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you. Eyes wide. Fractured.

“No, it’s not.”

But the guns were already raised. The bar already tense. Selby’s goons, the crowd���no one was bluffing.

And you were the price.

—

The bar was silent. Like it was holding its breath.

Selby had given the order. Guns were raised. Every exit was blocked. The scent of blood and sweat hung thick in the air. And you were standing there—unarmed, calm, watching Bucky like you already knew what he’d choose.

Zemo didn’t flinch. Sam was tense, his body angled like he was seconds from lunging.

But Bucky?

He didn’t move.

He stood there, metal arm half-lowered, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide if they belonged to him or to the past. His eyes were on you. Only you.

You took a slow breath. Let it settle in your lungs.

Then you smiled. Soft. Like a memory.

And you nodded.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, just for him.

His breath hitched.

You took one step closer. The barrel of someone’s gun moved with you, tracking like a predator, but you didn’t care. You met Bucky’s eyes. Held them.

And then you mouthed it.

Forever yours, James.

His lips parted. Just barely.

And then the gun in his hand rose.

The shot was fast. Clean. Precise.

Your body jolted. Then crumpled. A sharp sound of air leaving your lungs. The thud of your knees. The way your head hit the floor, gentle, like you were finally allowed to rest.

You didn’t move again.

Sam made a sound—a sharp inhale, like he’d been sucker punched.

Zemo said nothing. Just kept his eyes on Bucky, assessing. Approving.

But Bucky?

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t blink.

He stood there like a statue carved from ash, smoke still curling from the muzzle of his gun. A ghost again. Just like before.

Except this time, the ghost he became… was because you were gone.

—

The mission succeeded.

The serum pipeline was shut down. The Power Broker fell. Sam took the shield and made something new with it.

But Bucky?

He disappeared.

Right after the mission ended—after he helped take down the last name on their list—he walked away.

No note. No call. Just silence.

—

It took Sam five years to find him.

A cabin in the deep woods—no signal, no roads. Only accessible by foot or by someone who knew where to look. There were other cabins nearby. Scattered homes used by hunters, mountain folk. But Bucky’s? It sat a little further back. Half-swallowed by trees.

Sam found him in the morning. Mist still clinging to the ground. A small trail of smoke curling from the chimney.

He knocked once.

No answer.

Then again.

The door creaked open slowly.

Inside: quiet. Dim. The fire had burned low. A table set for two. A woman’s scarf hung on a hook by the door. Two mugs. One untouched.

And Bucky, sitting in the corner by the window.

Hair longer now. Beard fuller. Eyes the same—cold and hollow.

He looked up.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Sam stepped inside and looked around. Took it all in.

“Been five years, man.”

Bucky said nothing.

“You gonna say anything?”

Bucky’s voice was rough when it came. Tired. Weathered.

“You found me.”

Sam nodded once. Looked at the mug on the table.

“You still set it for her.”

“Every night.”

Sam didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t comment on the scarf. Or the faint scent of her perfume that still lingered in the room. Or the worn photo on the mantel—creased from being held too many times. Of you.

Because he knew.

Bucky hadn’t just lost you.

He never came back from it either.

—

The cabin was still.

Bucky hadn’t said much after opening the door. He never did anymore. But he let Sam in. Sat across from him with that faraway look in his eyes and listened quietly while Sam spoke—about the world, about what had changed, about what hadn’t.

And then, after a stretch of silence, Bucky pushed himself up from his chair.

“’Scuse me,” he muttered, voice almost gentle. “Gotta bring her down.”

Sam blinked. “Who?”

But Bucky was already halfway to the stairs.

Sam stood. “Buck?”

But the man didn’t answer. He moved slowly, stiff joints and a dragging limp in his step. Sam watched the floorboards creak under Bucky’s weight as he ascended.

Then silence.

And after a minute—soft footsteps again. Coming down.

But only one pair of them.

Bucky returned alone. In his arms, he carried a dress. Pale blue. Light fabric. Folded neatly over one arm. It wasn’t modern. It wasn’t even in good condition—frayed at the hem, moth-eaten at the sleeve.

Maybe it wasn’t even yours.

But the way he laid it gently over the back of the empty chair… with such care… made Sam’s chest tighten.

Bucky stepped back, admiring it like it looked beautiful on you.

Then moved to the small stovetop. Started preparing tea with the sort of rhythm that only comes from repetition. Every step memorized. Every motion quiet.

He brought two mugs to the table. Set them down.

One across from him.

The other in front of the dress.

“You always liked this one,” he said softly, eyes on the chair. “Said it made you feel like spring.”

He sat. Lifted his own cup. Then, after a few moments, let out a soft laugh.

“You’re terrible,” he chuckled. “That’s not even how that story goes.”

Sam’s heart dropped.

He stood frozen, watching this man—this ghost of a man—smile like someone had told him a joke. Like someone was really there.

Bucky nodded slowly to the chair.

“You remember that night in Brooklyn? You were trying to convince me that place had the best sandwiches in the city…”

He laughed again.

“It was terrible. But you wouldn’t admit it.”

Sam couldn’t move. He didn’t dare speak. The man in front of him wasn’t Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He wasn’t even the Winter Soldier.

He was someone else now. Or… someone left behind.

And then Sam remembered the rumors.

The whispers in nearby towns.

“There’s a man out in the woods, lives alone. Says he talks to his dead wife every night.”

“Swears she’s still with him.”

“Real sad story, I think. Poor guy never let her go.”

Sam had never listened. Had written it off.

Until now.

Until this.

He sat back down slowly, eyes on the dress, on the still-steaming mug. He looked at Bucky—who was smiling now, eyes lit in a way Sam hadn’t seen in years.

Not haunted.

Just… soft. Gentle. Happy.

“You’re still here,” Bucky murmured, gaze on the chair. “You never left.”

And maybe, to him, that was true.

—

The tea had gone cold.

The laughter faded.

And Sam couldn’t pretend anymore.

He watched Bucky murmur something toward the chair again, smiling like you were smiling back, and his chest clenched.

“Buck,” Sam said softly.

No response.

“Buck… she’s not here.”

That made Bucky pause.

He blinked. Looked at Sam, confused. As if he’d forgotten he was there.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do that.”

“I know you miss her. I know—but this… this isn’t real, man.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He looked back at the chair.

Sam stood, carefully. Stepping closer.

“She’s gone. You’re drinking tea with a dress. And I’ve let it slide because I thought maybe it was helping. Maybe it kept you afloat. But it’s not, Buck.”

Bucky’s hands trembled in his lap. The metal one, too.

Sam lowered his voice. Gentle now.

“You’ve carried enough ghosts. Let her rest, Buck. And let yourself rest.”

And for a long moment, Bucky just sat there.

Frozen.

Then nodded once.

Just once.

—

Sam took him out two days later.

A quiet drive. Long, winding roads through empty hills. No words exchanged. Just the weight of what was coming.

The cemetery was small, tucked beside a tree line. Simple stones. No crowds. No press. Just earth and memory.

Bucky stood in front of the headstone for a long time.

Didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t cry.

Just stared.

Then his knees gave out.

He fell to the ground with a broken sound—a sharp, gut-wrenched exhale. Like the weight of your absence finally cracked through every part of him.

“I thought I had time,” he rasped. “I thought I was done running. Done being someone’s monster. You were… you were supposed to be the proof that I could be better.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers over the name engraved in stone. Your name.

“I killed you. I killed the only thing that ever made me feel real again.”

Sam stood quietly behind him. His hand flexed like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t.

“I owed you everything,” Bucky whispered. “And I took it all away.”

And then he cried.

Not like the soldier. Not like the assassin. But like the boy from Brooklyn who lost everything too young. Who got it back—for a second—and then lost it all over again.

Sam stayed there the whole time.

Let it happen.

Because it needed to.

—

They returned to Sam’s place. The old house down south, where time felt slower.

Bucky didn’t talk much. Just moved through the motions. Sat on the porch with a blanket over his lap. Sometimes watching the trees. Sometimes talking to the wind like maybe you were listening.

But there was something… peaceful about him now. Like the fight had finally drained out of his bones.

Sam heard the sobs that night.

Soft, muffled. One last storm passing through.

He didn’t knock. Just stood outside the door, guarding him like always.

And when morning came, Sam made breakfast—pancakes and eggs and black coffee.

He went to knock on the bedroom door.

“Buck? You up?”

No answer.

He pushed it open.

And there he was.

Bucky Barnes, lying still in bed.

Eyes closed. Hands folded on his chest.

A small smile on his lips.

And cold.

Gone.

Not by his own hand. Not by violence. Just… gone.

Later, the autopsy would say it was heart failure.

But the attending physician had a softer term:

Broken Heart Syndrome.

The official name was stress cardiomyopathy. A rare condition. But very real.

Triggered by grief too heavy for the body to hold.

—

Sam buried him beside you.

No press. No spectacle.

Just a folded flag, a quiet moment of silence, and two names carved into stone.

Side by side.

The only caption?

“He was finally at peace.”

And when Sam stood over the grave, wind curling through the trees, he swore he could feel it—

The presence of two people who’d been too tired to keep going.

But had found each other just long enough to remember what love felt like.

[2000sangel]

I’ve actually had this one in my head for a few days: lightner!reader abruptly disappears from the dark world. For like,,, WEEKS. In the light world, they’re had to suddenly attend to and emergency situation or been in an emergency themselves (like ending up in the hospital or something) and they have no way to contact tenna and tell him that they haven’t just up and abandoned him! And so when they’re finally able to return home and get back to the tv world…. emotions might be running high >:3 💖💖💖

-✨

Hey so!! I want to be a little serious here and lay down a Warning for potentially toxic behaviors (and mentions of a loved one being at the hospital).

This is Hurt/Comfort but also a way for me to explore the Tenna BPD Headcanon which I'm not sure if I portrayed well without making him come off as awful or as like...'woobified' (I don't like that word, but I don't know how else to get my point across).

I was able to reflect on some things while writing this, too, so I hope it doesn't entirely suck. Enjoy! :,)

Tenna x Reader - Short fic - "Misconstruction"

This incident has taken everything out of you; between the constant worry following it, the trips to the hospital to make sure everything was okay with your loved one, and the never-ending anxiety of a call that might or might not come, after these two weeks…you're totally spent.

They're okay now, thankfully, and have also been relocated to a hospital closer to where you live, so you don't have to make a big amount of planning before deciding to visit.

What you've hated through this all though, is your inability to visit the Dark World and your partner, Tenna; obviously, your phone isn't reachable while there, and same thing applies to you as a whole. Plus, between this emergency and your usual work shifts, you haven't physically found the time to enter the alternate reality in two weeks.

So, even though you're exhausted, the guilt you feel overrides your physical state, and you enter the Dark World as soon as you have the first free afternoon.

The studio is as busy as ever, Darkners running left and right with either documents to sign or props that will be needed for the next show. You almost bump straight into some of them, apologizing profusely for possibly slowing down the crew.

It takes you a while to find Tenna; he's not on stage, as this is not the usual time he's on air, he's not in his private office or changing room either, and you haven't noticed him walking around the studio either -something quite easy to do, considering his size-.

What's left are the conference rooms, that despite having easy access to the rest of the place thank to being his partner, you obviously can't just barge into unprompted.

So you wait, seated outside the one he's usually needed in, as you can hear his voice coming from inside. You close your eyes now and then, and zone out out of tiredness, but manage to keep yourself awake until you hear the door being opened.

Some workers step out of it, wide eyed when they notice your presence- obviously they know who you are, so you don't really get why they must be acting like they've seen a ghost instead.

The Darkners make space for Tenna, who exits the room last; you immediately stand up, an apologetic smile appearing on your face, which slightly falters when he notices you and he doesn't reciprocate it at all.

“Oh. It's- It's you.”

He sounds conflicted, like he's feeling different emotions that don't necessarily make sense paired with one another. His body language suggests so, too.

“Of course it's me,” you decide to grant him an explanation straight away, though before you can do so he interrupts you.

“Where…have you been?”

“...I was about to explain, I had an-”

“No, scratch that, I shouldn't…I shouldn't even be talking to you right now.”

His choice of words surprises you, direct and…almost repulsed. You don't understand, but at the same time you understand completely.

Leaving without coming back for days, weeks…showing no signs of life whatsoever for that whole time; who knows what he must've thought and felt.

At this point your smile is completely gone, replaced by a frown.

“What…no, Tenna, let me explain before coming to conclusions…?” he's avoiding your gaze now, conflicted about whether he should be leaving or not, “Please?”

. . .

Eventually he leads you to his office, where you can talk more privately at least. He looks like he's barely holding it together as he sits behind his large desk, which you notice is a mess of papers, some of them crumpled.

You don't sit like you usually do, though, merely leaning on the opposing chair, the air tense;

“Do you know how you made me feel?”

He's speaking faster than usual as he massages the bridge of his nose, screen flickering;

“If you could just let me explain-”

“What kind of explanation could you possibly have?”

He's not quite yelling, but he does sound mad and like he's already settled on a very specific scenario that must've kept you from visiting him.

“An emergency!” you cry out before he can interrupt you once again, “I had a family member at the hospital, Tenna!”

You bring one of your hands to cover your mouth when he slightly jumps, taken aback;

“I-I had no way of contacting you and I couldn't risk them calling while I was here-”

“You could've done it for a short time-”

“What…” you frown, stopping yourself from reacting badly. You then take a deep breath, “Okay, maybe I could've…but just what did you think I was doing for all this time…?”

He looks extremely guilty, screen now completely black and antennas lopsided, he's even begun to shrink a little.

There's a short moment of awkward silence.

“A-An emergency…really?”

You blink.

“Yes, Tenna, I promise that's what it was. And then I had work, and I was exhausted, and I kept looking at my phone and hoping for good news. That's why I couldn't come, and…” Your heart beats faster as you consider saying something like ‘they’re fine now, thanks for asking’, but you decide against it; “...and I don't know. I don't know what you thought, but it wasn't that.”

Fixated on your monologue, you almost miss the sound of Tenna's breath hitching, his palms now covering the spot his eyes would be if he had any.

“W-Wow. I'm an ass, aren't I?” he digs his palms deeper into his screen, biting on his lower lip to choke back what you assume is a sob.

Despite the misunderstanding you had, you quickly walk to his side, grasping his chair and turning it so he's now facing you.

“H-Hey, hey, what's this? Tenna, what-”

“I just thought you left me!!” he blurts out, shrinking even more. You're basically the same height now. “I-It’s stupid after hearing your explanation but?! You're asking, so there's your answer…!”

You sense he's craving touch by the way he has slid towards you with his chair, so you tentatively hover your arm beside his waist;

“Maybe we can hug while talking, what do you think…?”

Your partner nods, all attempts to hide his sobs going out the window once your arms wrap around each other's bodies;

“Please…” he manages to say, and you hum to encourage him to continue, “...ju-ust, I don't even know, I think I need…”

“...Reassurance?” you suggest, and he nods against your cheek, “I love you, Tenna, and I'm sorry…if it happens again, I'll…I'll make sure to find a moment to warn you, okay?”

“I-I’m sorry too, for this, for earlier, for the mess, for not understanding- I'm just, a bad par-”

You stop him right there with a squeeze before leaning back so you can look at his face; he's frowning, cheeks glossy with pixely tears rolling down them. You've seen him sad, you've seen him cry before, but even though you're not exactly in the wrong here you feel a pang of guilt in your chest thinking about the fact that he must've thought you were abandoning him, deep-rooted issues surfacing because of something you could've somehow prevented.

You don't find it in you to completely blame yourself though, and neither to completely blame him. Some things you can't just expect or prevent from happening, you suppose.

“Don't. Don't say that, this is just…something that happened, okay? And you can't really compare to…other relationships.” You sadly remind him, and he sighs in understanding.

“I love you too…I'm sorry, again, I'll- I'll do better, won't cut you off anymore, or anything like that…ahah…and just,” he inhales sharply, “just say it if changes are needed, okay?”

You nod, glad that he's calming down enough to speak more clearly.

“Okay, Tenna, I promise I will. And you don't assume the worst immediately, right? Something like this could happen again. Just trust me when I say I wouldn't just up and leave.”

You're aware that when issues like this arise, some reassurance and a hug aren't enough to solve anything definitely at all.

Though you're one step closer to helping him through it, you assume. And both of your boundaries might need to be worked on later, too.

[pressgforgoodgirl]

Best of Both Worlds (Part 2)

Summary: After John finds you in the woods fucking Arthur (read part 1 🤭), jealousy and a desire to punish you consumes him until he finally acts. Until then, you and Arthur can't help but wonder if John has found out and worry about what he might have planned.

Pairings: arthur x f!reader x john (eventual threesome teehee)

Word count: 3,105

Warnings/Tags: 18+ (mdni), dub-con-ish?, female reader using she/her pronouns, jealousy, rough sex, punishment sex, oral, spit roast threesome, slapping and hitting, degrading language, unprotected p in v, creampie, def just pretending that this doesn't lead to pregnancy in the late 1800s, John/Arthur secretly watching you again, poor communication, angst or uncertainty I guess? fwb situation 

Pictures are from Pinterest!

Consumed by the jealousy rising within him, John hardly noticed when he unzipped his pants and found his hand stroking his hardened member. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to kill Arthur with his bare hands or keep watching as Arthur fucked you senseless. God, the little noises you were trying so hard to stifle, the way you fully submitted to him, bent over on your hands and knees in the dirt, your legs shaking, hardly holding you up. It was almost too much for him to handle. John stifled a moan when Arthur picked up the pace and you collapsed onto your forearms, face screwing up with pleasure as he fucked you roughly. 

“That’s a good girl” Arthur cooed, his lust-driven hands grabbing a handful of your ass after delivering a hard slap to your rear. “You gonna cum for me, sweet thing?” he asked, voice low and sinful. 

“I’m so... close!” you stammered, hardly remembering to breathe as your mind disappeared into a lust-filled fog, thickening by the second, just like the creamy arousal you had been smearing all over Arthur’s member.

“That’s right, girl, cum all over this cock” Arthur commanded, his face beginning to twist, signaling his own orgasm barreling toward him. 

John, still watching from the darkness, picked up the pace of his hand, reaching levels of arousal he had never known before as precum completely coated his length. His balls were growing heavy, begging for release, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would last watching you. 

Arthur couldn’t last much longer either, finally letting out a growly moan as his hips faltered and his seed began spilling inside of you. The feeling of him coating your walls was enough to send you over the edge, Arthur’s name leaving your mouth as an incoherent, breathy babble. John choked back a moan as he leaned against a nearby tree, hot cum spurting out onto the ground beneath him. As you and Arthur lay in the dirt, trying to catch your breaths, John cleaned himself up, tucking his member back in his pants.

Despite the blissful, post-orgasmic feeling still running through him, the jealousy within him was quickly boiling until hatred, the primary target of his emotions being you rather than Arthur. “What an ungrateful little whore” he thought. “Taking this dick damn near everyday just wasn’t enough for her, huh?” He wanted to slap that sleepy, relaxed look right off of your face as Arthur began to clean you up. But no, he knew that wouldn’t be enough. You deserved a punishment worse than the embarrassment of being caught red-handed.

The next morning you awoke and began your daily chores, mind consumed with memories of the night before. You wondered when you would be able to get Arthur alone again. As you began to empty ingredients into the stew pot, you noticed John’s horse hitched to a post nearby. “I wonder how the robbery went” you thought, picking up a wooden spoon to mix the concoction together. “I’m sure I could reward him nicely for his earnings.” Your mind was quickly falling deeper into the gutter as you felt a pang of desire beginning to build in your belly. Christ, the sun had hardly risen and all you could think about was the two men you were secretly fucking. You were sure that somewhere in the depths of hell a spot was being marked with your name in big, bold letters.

You continued your chores, wondering when John would awake. Eventually, you heard a rustling from his tent. When the flaps opened, John gave you a glance before letting a flaring breath out of his nostrils and quickly walking off in the other direction. “Weird,” you thought, “last night must not have gone as well as he hoped.” You and John were certainly trying to keep things under wraps, but it wasn’t typical that he flat-out ignored you. John mounted his horse and rode off, skipping his usual morning coffee. “Surely he couldn’t have found out about last night… he wasn’t even here. Arthur went to bed right after and John just woke up moments ago, so there’s no way they could’ve discussed it.”

A few hours later, Arthur returned to camp, having left before you had risen to hunt some game. Having finished most of your chores, you decided to help Arthur with the buck he had shot. 

“Mornin’” Arthur greeted. 

“Good mornin’ for huntin’?” you asked, helping Arthur hoist the large animal off of his horse. 

“Beautiful. One to remember, that’s for sure” he replied, turning to looking you dead in the eyes, a hint of mischief in his own as he gave you a light smirk, hoping you would pick up on his double meaning.

You had to remind yourself to keep breathing as you held his stare. What you wouldn’t do to have him undress you again right then and there. As you began to help him carry the buck to the table nearby you nearly tripped over the ground. 

“Careful, girl” Arthur said, voice low and rumbling. 

As you began to help Arthur prepare the meat, you saw John ride into camp. This time when he saw you, his gaze held a little longer, his eyebrows beginning to knit themselves inward until his face bore a fixed glare. His eyes may as well have been shooting daggers. 

Tying up his horse, John began to stalk over, looking fixed to kill. Your heartbeat picked up in your chest. He stopped short of you at the fire, aggressively scooping stew into a cast aside bowl, the ladle hitting the sides of the pot with force with each scoop. Then he plopped down on a log nearby, picked up a spoon, and began to wolf down the warm bowl. Arthur had noticed the look he had given you and the way he was eating as if the stew itself had offended him. Arthur too began to wonder if John’s demeanor had anything to do with the events of the night prior, but dismissed the thought, supposing the robbery hadn’t gone as planned.

As Arthur continued to cut off sections of meat, you couldn’t stand the silent wondering anymore. You tentatively walked over to the fire, placing a hand on his shoulder, John’s back toward you as he sat, hunched over his food. John stiffened at your touch, pausing his chewing for just a second before resuming. Arthur couldn’t help but watch the two of you between making cuts in the meat.

“Rough night?” you asked, trying not to let your voice tremble. 

“You could say that” John replied gruffly.

Your heart caught in your chest again. “Surely he can’t know” you thought, trying to reassure yourself. Your hand began to sweat and you prayed that it wouldn’t soak through John’s shirt as you kept your palm fixed on his shoulder.

After a slight pause to steady yourself, you replied, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

John continued to eat, seeming to ignore your consolation. After an agonizing period of silence, John reached around to grab your free hand, pulling your ear next to his mouth before whispering roughly in your ear, “Meet me by the big oak tree near the water after dark.” You were glad your hand had remained on his shoulder, allowing you to catch your balance as he released you sharply. You swallowed a big lump in your throat, but felt a sense of relief, hoping that John’s mood would be resolved and your questions answered after a night in the woods with him. 

You took a silent breath and began to walk back over to the table where Arthur was nearly done preparing the meat, starting to hang the sections he had cut to dry. Arthur didn’t appreciate John’s manhandling of you, but didn’t feel confronting John in his current state would go over particularly well. Instead he looked over to you, studying your body and expression before asking, “You alright?” his voice nearly a whisper to keep John from overhearing.

“Yeah, I’m alright” you answered softly, your eyes staring off into space as your mind played over the interaction you just had. 

You were relieved to see John cast aside his now-empty flatware and quickly storm back to his horse, mounting the animal once again and riding away from camp.

“I think you and I should have a talk later, ideally before Marston begins to cut you limb from limb near the big oak tree” Arthur replied, putting an emphasis on the last bit.

You felt your stomach drop again. “You heard that?” you whispered, wondering if Arthur now realized he wasn’t the only man you were doing.

“There’s not much I don’t hear, woman, and I can’t help beginning to wonder if the same is true of John” Arthur sighed. “After I wrap up a few more things, why don’t you meet me at that very spot. Decide what we should do.”

A few hours passed and the sun had almost set, each minute feeling an eternity as you waited for the moment Arthur would be ready to talk, begging that John wouldn’t return before then and see you slinking off to meet him. You couldn’t help but nervously glance in the direction John had departed, feeling a sick knot progressively twisting in your stomach. 

Finally, you saw Arthur walk through camp, catching your eyes and cocking his head toward the woods. You waited a moment and glanced around, making sure nobody would notice you following him before you trailed after him toward your meeting spot. But before you had reached the safety of the treeline, you saw John riding into camp, his eyes immediately finding you. You sucked down a big gulp, heart beginning to hammer inside your chest. John quickly tied up his horse and discreetly made his way to you, being sure not to draw attention from the others. He grabbed your upper arm and began to pull you toward the forest. 

“Forget dark, I need you now” John said, voice heavy with lust.

He didn’t appear angry, though. Perhaps he didn’t know after all. Your momentary relief was quickly interrupted when you remembered that Arthur was in the very spot John was dragging you toward. “Shit shit shit. If John didn’t know before he’ll put the pieces together now. Maybe Arthur will have some excuse as to why he’s over there.” Your mind was racing, and for the first time in years, you even considered praying. Who knows how John would react? You don’t think he would kill Arthur, maybe just scruff him up, but you? Oh lord above, you feared the most what John would do to you, despite the fact that you never claimed the two of you would be exclusive. You were slightly ashamed to admit the pool of slick that was beginning to develop at the thought of John punishing you. 

As the big tree came into sight, you were relieved to see that Arthur was nowhere in sight. He must have seen the two of you coming. You weren’t sure if you hoped that Arthur was hidden somewhere in the brush nearby, keeping watch over you, or if you hoped that he had returned to camp, sparing you the embarrassment of knowing Arthur would see whatever might shortly take place.

John quickly pinned you against the tree, lips immediately finding yours, devouring them with passion. Your hands found his hair as John began to feel up your body, kneading the skin on your thighs, your waist, your breasts. 

“Do you understand the things you do to me?” John asked lustfully. Without warning, John turned you around and began pooling up your skirts. He yanked down your undergarments and quickly unzipped his pants. Pulling out his hardened length, he quickly inserted himself with no warning, your cunt already soaked. You yelped at the sudden feeling of his cock inside of you, grasping the tree trunk to balance yourself. John pushed down on your back, bending you over, and began fucking you at a back-breaking pace. “You like being fucked like a whore?” John chastised. All you could do was let out a guttural moan in response, praying that Arthur wasn’t watching. 

“Answer me, slut” John chided, delivering a quick slap to your rear, followed by a second.

“Yes, god, yes!” you cried in return. 

“Only for me, yeah?” John tested.

Your breath caught as you considered how to respond, the nervousness that had been crowded out by lust slowly seeping back into the pit of your stomach. 

You replied a beat late, “Yes, John, only you!”

John wrapped his hand around your throat, pulling you upright, back against his chest. He began pistoning in and out of you with a force you hadn't experienced before.

“Really? And is that why I saw you choking on Arthur’s dick last night?”

You felt like all time stopped for a moment. You were too stunned to speak, and too fucked out to even think of the words to respond. All you could do was whimper and moan as his cock continued to hit all the right spots within you, his balls smacking against you harshly. 

When you didn't answer him, John delivered a firm slap to the front of your cunt. “Can't even answer me, huh? What a naughty fucking whore.” John pushed your neck back toward the tree, bending you over again. His fingers began to draw circles on your clit, sending you into disoriented bliss, hardly able to remember what was going on as pleasure began to completely overwhelm your senses. Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, John called “Why don't you come on out of there, Arthur?” Turning back to you he said, “I know he's been watching. I saw him slink into the woods when I was approaching camp. And see the thing is, y/n, I'm not fucking stupid. I know you were headed here to meet him. Whaddya say both of us do you at the same time? I bet you’d fucking love it, you filthy slut.” 

You couldn't deny the way your cunt tightened at the suggestion. Arthur had indeed been watching from a few yards away, at first to ensure John wouldn't actually hurt you, and then because it was just so damn hot watching John fuck you. The hair had raised up on Arthur’s arms when John called out to him, but after hearing his invitation and seeing what it did to you, his balls felt heavier than they ever had. 

You didn't even realize Arthur had come out of the brush and bent down in front of you before you felt his hand on your chin, turning your head to face him as he asked, “Would you like that pretty girl?” 

All you could manage was a loud, desperate moan in return. You reached out a hand to claw at his pants, his thick, hardened member calling out to you, forming a huge tent in his work pants. Arthur groaned a bit when you touched the tip through his clothing, and then quickly began to unbutton his pants and take down his suspenders. When enough clothing had been undone, his cock finally sprang free, hitting his stomach with a smack, leaving a splotch of precum on his shirt. 

One hand still on the tree trunk to support you, you reached out your other hand to stroke his manhood, smearing precum down his length. You tried to maneuver your head to take him in your mouth, but found you weren't able to reach and support yourself, John still taking you from behind. 

“Wanna get down on your hands and knees pretty girl? Would that make it easier to fuck you like the whore you are?” John teased, slowing down his thrusts. 

Without waiting for your reply, John pulled out and the men helped you lower yourself to the ground, limbs shaking as you tried to move your fucked out body. They joined you on the ground kneeling on either side of you. John quickly reinserted himself and grabbed your hips roughly, beginning his relentless pace inside of you. 

Your cry was stifled by Arthur’s cock being plunged into your open mouth, causing you to moan even harder around him. Every thrust from John forced Arthur further into your mouth. You could feel your arousal beginning to drip into the dirt, you were so fucking turned on. 

Arthur’s let his head fall backward, mouth falling open, letting out little grunts and moans as you began to swirl your tongue around him. 

“That's a good girl” Arthur praised, voice low and heavy. He bunched up your hair into his fist, hips beginning to thrust lightly into your mouth. The wet dream turned reality of the two outlaws fucking you from either side was eventually too much for you to take, John’s cock hitting that perfect place inside of you. You felt white hot heat rushing through your body, an astonishingly loud moan coming from your throat involuntarily. Arthur groaned at the vibration it produced around his cock. You felt yourself begin to squirt around John, making John moan in return, as well. The sight would have been frankly pornographic had anyone stumbled upon the three of you, all moaning so fucking sinfully as the two men used you. 

“Fucking hell” John moaned, his hips beginning to stutter, eyes screwing shut. Still high in the clouds of your orgasm, you felt John begin to fill you with his release, groaning as he did. 

“Shit” Arthur groaned, watching the two of you. 

When John finally pulled out of you, Arthur removed himself from your mouth, shuffling to plant himself beside John. 

“My turn” he growled lustfully, pushing John out of the way. Arthur quickly inserted himself in you, a mix of John’s release and yours quickly coating him. “I'm not gonna last long” he said gruffly, trying to keep his eyes open so he could watch himself disappearing inside of you, but struggling as the weight of lust was pulling at his eyelids and clouding his vision. 

Now it was John's turn to watch you, once again taking in the filthy sight of Arthur fucking you. As Arthur had stated, it wasn't long before he was thrusting into you erratically and even more hot cum was filling your cunt to the brim before he eventually pulled out of you. 

Time stood still for a moment as you all caught your breaths, still feeling the aftershocks of pleasure radiating through you all. 

Eventually Arthur said, “Fuck Marston, why didn't you invite me sooner?” 

“I suppose cause I fucked her first, Morgan. I wasn't too keen on sharing her until I saw you pounding the slut. So god damn hot, isn't she? Letting us ruin her?” John replied.

“Damn sure.” Arthur answered.

[hoiststowline]

_streetwise x reader

[a/n: this sorta turned into a character study, similar to a hot spot one I did here!]

having been somewhat accustomed to being let down, if only to save himself the moping period, he’s learned to not become attached to persons, places, or things. it was not an easy habit to break, it took discipline and the expectation of disappointment to alleviate the brunt of the hit. after some time, the vicious cycle of attachment and heartache left, leaving some unhappiness in it’s disappearance, but not enough to sidetrack him from the task at hand. 

it became an even more difficult tendency to ignore upon settling into routine. Streetwise would begrudgingly admit that he’s gotten comfortable, acclimatized to a lax schedule and an onboard of familiar faces on the daily. even if he butts heads with some of his teammates, he trusts them and finds a sense of normalcy in a somewhat chaotic situation. 

Streetwise hadn’t realized the extent of his newfound ease until just the other day. it happened mid-sentence, pausing in surprise as if to reinspect if he’d just spoken the words he thought he did. 

“What’s with the face?” Rook asks, appearing a bit concerned at Streetwises’ abrupt stop. “I can cover for you, I don’t mind.” 

“I-” he starts, but promptly shakes the shock from his shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll owe you one.” 

the casualness is lost to him, but it’s immensely appreciated nonetheless. he doesn’t like to make shift changes often, vying to hold firm in the idea that he should complete his tasks first before seeking your company. 

some days, though, he’s beginning to find it extremely arduous. especially when he’s away or you’ve become busy, unable to see each other for lengthy periods of time. phone calls are even few and far in between lately, dwindled that Streetwise has decided he’s had enough. 

“Streetwise?” 

pulled from his thoughts prematurely, on reflex his rearview mirror tilts downwards, towards the drivers seat. sure enough, you’re staring right at it, maintaining a focused but worried expression. 

realizing that he’s acknowledging you without uttering a word, you continue. “Are you okay? You seem a little…distracted.”

even if it perfectly defines how he’s felt as of late, it’s not a characteristic he would ever use to describe himself in conversation. Streetwise supposes he finally has experienced how Hot Spot constantly feels, tugged in six different directions and then some. such a burden he’s been shielded from, and to perceive such an overwhelming sense of intrusion into his priorities drives him a little crazy.

so pulling you from your much earned downtime because he’s missed you terribly is not a justifiable exchange, unable to be rationalized. it arrives with an awareness that he’s asked much of you lately, even if your smile upon meeting up with him subsides some of that self-reproach momentarily. 

Streetwise isn’t blind to the copious amount of favors he bargains, not an inordinate quantity, but certainly disproportionate to what he has to offer in return. there’s guilt there, even after you’ve insisted you’d complete his proposition without a second thought. hell, half the time you do it without seeking a reason, simply knowing that something was required to alleviate a stressful situation he’s found himself in. 

that isn’t fair, and he knows it. expresses his concerns about it all the time, ensuring that you never feel cornered. he’d never forgive himself, knowing that you’ve most definitely cashed in personal favors, switching schedules and moving things around so as to better accommodate them and their timetables. you appear to have no qualms in regards to it, an indifferent shrug of your shoulders and the same small smile. “I don’t mind,” 

even if you appear to be unbothered by it, he’s constantly interrogating you to ensure you sincerely aren’t. if there’s something he can’t afford to lose this time, it’s most definitely your trust and relationship, as him being infatuated with you is well beyond an understatement. 

Streetwise discerns himself as a difficult study, so for you to be able to observe his worries is something marvelous and frightening all the same. the latter only because he knows he’s rapidly approaching the point of no return, if not already there, and has come to terms that he is absolutely in love with you. so the give on your end makes him feel abusive of your kindness, as nothing he can do will make the circumstance feel good, per se, as he’s so terrified to lose you. 

eventually, he remembers to answer. 

“I’m fine.” he hums, struggling to sound sincere. “Sorry. I swear, I didn’t intend to ignore you when I asked if you were busy.”

you carefully assess his words, mouth opening to answer, but he beats you to it. “Okay, maybe I am a little distracted.” 

“Something on your mind?” you return, a familiar genuineness permeating. “I’m here to talk, if you’d like.” “Hey, that’s my line,” a jest, followed by a warm laugh. “I do feel a little bad about dragging you out tonight. Actually, a lot of bad. It’s late, and I’m sure you have things to do tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to feel bad,” you insist, fingers finding the leather of the seat, meant in a comforting gesture. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to.”

in turn, Streetwise studies your words carefully, before mumbling a single word. “Promise?”

“I promise,” you respond, that beautiful smile never wavering. “I did miss you.”  something hitches, likely his voice box. “Kinda the reason for my call. I missed you so much.”

[the-salty-asian]

Chapter One | Not All Ghosts Are Dead

A/N: Hello, my lovelies! I'm so excited to post the first chapter of this series! I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it :) -Rose

Summary: After the war, y/n was certain that she would never see Draco Malfoy again. That is, until he shows up at St. Mungo’s emergency department.

Warnings: mentions of death, language, and blood

Word Count: 2.4K

The war was over, but the wizarding world still brandished its unhealed wounds. Roads had been patched up, fresh paint had been applied to the scars on buildings, but the wounds of the war ran deeper than any new glass or brick. 

Hogwarts opened its doors once again to the young wizards and witches whose innocence had been tainted with violence and loss. Even though the school was being stretched to its limits with students repeating their respective years and the addition of a new cohort of eleven-year-olds, the halls were cold and haunted with new ghosts that mirrored the friends they had before. Everyone had tried their best to return to a time that no longer existed but the echoes of the war could not be ignored. The empty seats in Charms that no one dared to take, empty beds in the dormitories, and the new potions professor who didn’t act like they would rather be anywhere else. 

Being a seventh year made the transition for y/n a bit easier- as easy as using a bone saw instead of a butter knife to saw off a limb would be. Hogwarts with all its size and grandeur, seemed too suffocating beneath the weight of loss and the wide-eyed first-years who filled the halls with noise, oblivious to the ghosts they brushed past. She found solace in the infirmary with Madame Pomfrey. The quiet nights, potions bubbling in cauldrons and the sting of antiseptic tickling her nose. It turned out that bandaging wounds was easier than untangling the grief that clung to her. 

The moment she completed her N.E.W.T.s, she fled. France. Germany. Romania. Anywhere that let her disappear into study, into silence, into work that kept her hands busy and her thoughts buried. She chased mastery in magical medicine and left her memories behind. But forgetting was a luxury she had never been afforded. And when she returned to London, she did what she had always done—she kept going. She envied the muggles whose minds were obliviated after the war. How easy it would be to forget all that had happened. 

Over the past two years at St. Mungo’s Hospital she had put back together the loved ones that had been left behind. She reset bones shattered by curses, mended hearts stopped by trauma, and eased pain no spell could fully erase. There were no medals in it, no glory—just long hours, quiet hands, and the constant ticking of time borrowed from fate. Although the wizarding world believed they were invincible, they were not immune to the morbidities of the Muggle world. They were just as vulnerable as they were human.

---

The doors to St. Mungo’s emergency department flew open. A gurney flanked by two healers wheeled through into the chaos of the floor.

“We need some help!”

Y/n met them halfway into the hall, “What’s the status?

“Fifty-eight-year-old witch. Found unresponsive at home, head trauma on fall. Brief pulse—non-verbal on arrival. House elf apparted them here.”

Her stomach plummeted at the sight of the woman lying on the gurney. Dark hair streaked with grey, lips that had once offered tight, polite smiles at social gatherings. She had aged but y/n knew all the same the woman on the gurney. The healer’s lips beside her continued to move but she couldn’t hear him over the ringing in her ears. 

“Narcissa?”

The reformation period after the war had not been kind to the Malfoys. Their name had been stripped of all aristocratic titles, and their vaults drained of the fortunes they had. From what she had heard from her mother, Malfoy Manor was a ghost on the hill. The family had done their fair share of time in Azkaban, though not equally. Narcissa’s sentence had been altered during the trial after Harry confessed that if it were not for her, he would have been killed a second time. Lucius, however, remained in Azkaban to serve out the rest of his life for his loyalty to Voldemort. And Draco? Not a soul had stepped up to testify for him. Until Y/n.

In that moment, Narcissa’s eyes shot open, wide and full of panic. They found Y/n’s instantly recognition flickering in the dark brown hues. Her throat tried to form words but what tumbled out of her mouth was a silent scream.

“We need to get her upstairs.”

“There’s no time, we need to act now.” She looked down at the woman and took her cold hand in hers. “Hold on, Narcissa, we’re going to help you. Bring her to Trauma Two.” 

The gurney wheeled forward, and Y/N swung herself up, balancing along the stretcher’s edge as they moved. She cast a quick diagnostic charm, the results shimmering above Narcissa’s body in pale blue and gold lines. The charm showed somewhat normal vitals her heart rate was erratic, but not crashing. Blood pressure was high, but not unexpected.Then there—hovering just above the arteries feeding her brain—hung a dark, swirling shadow.

“She’s having a stroke due to residual dark magic. Give her two vials of Draught of the Living Dead.”

Y/n counted back from ten, steadying her breath with each passing second. Each number pushed down the panic colining beneath her ribs. She cast another diagnostic charm-more focused now, this time tracking neurological blood flow. Come on, come on. The clot revealed itself, pulsing like a bruise in left parietal lobe. It wasn’t massive, but it was nestled dangerously close to an area that controlled motor coordination. One wrong move and Narcissa would lose the ability to hold a wand perhaps even to walk.

Then Narcissa’s body started to convulse. The gurney jolted as her limbs thrashed violently, and Y/N nearly lost her balance. Healers scrambled to stabilize the stretcher and turn Narcissa on her side. 

“Petrificus Totalus!” 

Narcissa’s body went limp and the healer’s turned her with the ease of a well learned routine. The glow of the vitals charm hovering above her body turned dark red. She watched as the numbers quickly fell.

Y/N’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Trauma Two, now! Move!”

The doors to Trauma Two slammed open as the team of Healers rushed Narcissa inside. Y/N quickly cast a series of diagnostic charms, tracing the source of the hemorrhage deep within the brain. The spells relefected shadows of dark magic and blood that pooled ominously. She needed to remove the clot and stop the bleed before any irreversible damage was done. Her hands moved with practiced precision as she administered a localized numbing draught and stabilized Narcissa’s vitals with soothing charms. With her wand she, traced delicate lines over Narcissa’s temple and skull, parting layers of skin and bone with a whisper of light. The air shimmered as she carefully extracted the dark, pulsating clot nestled near the parietal lobe. With a flick, she banished the clot and the pooling blood in the cavity. Another charm sealed the fragile vessels to stop the bleeding. A tense moment followed before the golden glow of stable vitals filled the room—steady heartbeats, clear arteries, no new blood pooling. Y/n exhaled the breath she didn’t know she was holding in and smoothed down the strands hanging out of her bun. The shadows that had clung to Narcissa’s head had dissipated like mist in the morning light. For several minutes, y/n watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. The golden glow of Narcissa’s vitals bathed the room in quiet reassurance.

A hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. The warmth seeped through her robes, it was comforting, the hands of a healer. She turned to face Padma, concern etched into her usual warm features.

“Y/n,she’s stable. Let’s get her to Bay Four.”

“Yea, you’re right.” she exhaled. 

There was a deep sense of responsibility anchoring Y/n to Narcissa’s bedside. Padma would be able to cover the extreme cases until she reemerged. Despite having magic to instantly remove the blood caked on her face and hairline with a flick of her wand, the healer decided to take her time. She wet a soft washcloth and gently wiped away the blood crusted on her face and in her hair. Moving her attention to the laceration, she applied antiseptic and smoothed a healing salve across the surgical scar. Narcissa Malfoy would be horrified by the rawness, the jagged line where flesh met healing magic. With the proper care it would heal without changing her features. A whisper at her brush with death.

The quiet that settled over the room was a welcome reprieve from the usual chaos of the trauma floor. It curled around Y/N’s shoulders like a warm blanket, whispering temptations to close her eyes and rest. The adrenaline high from earlier—the pulse pounding, the sharp focus—was ebbing away, leaving exhaustion gnawing at the edges of her consciousness.

That was before the yelling started beyond the curtain. Her few moments of peace were washed away by the chaos one again.

“What’s going on?” Y/n asked, pushing back the curtain. 

Her question had been leveled at a trainee who stood stunned at the scene in front of her. The trainee’s eyes were wide and unmoving at the scene in front of her.

“Is that…Draco Malfoy?”

Y/n froze. Her spine locked, her pulse spiked. She didn’t need to look to know it was him—the voice was unmistakable. Sharp. Demanding. Angry in that particular way only he could be. A new wave of shock rolled over her as she turned toward the front desk. 

Y/n smoothed her hands on her robes, “I’ll handle it.”

Draco was towering over the secretary, eyes blazing, his hands braced on the counter like he might break it in two. “Where is she?” he snapped. He was still the same boy who once demanded everything from a world that had taken too much from him. But older now. Sharper around the edges. The war hadn’t softened him—it had carved him. The fabric of his auror robes strained against his taut muscles. He was void of all the boyish softness he once possessed in another life. 

“Sir, I understand, but we have protocol—”the poor receptionist tried.

“Fuck your protocol.”

His presence vacuumed the air from the room, as if even the walls braced themselves against him. Time seemed to stretch as y/n crossed the floor to him. She folded her arms in an attempt to poorly shield against the rising heat in her throat. 

“Draco.”

His head snapped toward her. For just a flicker his eyes widened. She didn’t miss the way his hand twitched at his side before he quickly masked it behind that cold, aristocratic detachment.Maybe she wasn’t the only one seeing a ghost.

“Please stop harassing my staff, they’re overworked and underpaid. They don’t need to deal with your temper on top of it.”

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her—too long, too hard. She wouldn’t allow herself to fidget under his gaze. A tell he knew all too well about her.

“Your mother is this way. I’ll take you.”

The short walk to Bay 4 was thick with silence. Y/N kept her eyes fixed ahead, every step deliberate, measured. Still, she could feel him beside her—his presence sharp and unrelenting, pressing at the edge of her awareness like a storm waiting to break. He didn’t say a word, but it didn’t matter. His silence was loud enough. She refused to look at him, knowing that one glance might unravel her.

Narcissa was beginning to stir when y/n pulled back the curtain, letting Draco brush past her to his mother’s bedside. She wasn’t sure what she had expected but even in the face of near-death Draco’s emotions remained restrained again.

“Mother,” he said, his voice low and soft.

“Draco?” She reached for his hand, and he took it—tentative, unsure, as if he hadn’t touched tenderness in years. ”You shouldn’t be here! You’re supposed to be in Austria.”

“I was. Tippi sent an owl.”

“My boy! You can’t abandon your post.The things they will say! Your reputation!”

“Let them talk. My reputation’s already in ruins. What’s one more headline, Mother?”

Narcissa flinched at the harshness in his words. She tore her gaze away from her son and her eyes widened acknowledging y/n’s presence for the first time. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear!” she gave a weak smile. “Draco, you remember y/n, don’t you? She’s the wonderful healer that saved me.”

Draco barely spared a glance at her. “No, Mother I don’t”

The words tore through her like shrapnel, but she wouldn’t dare give Draco Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing he was the source of her hurt. 

Y/n cleared her throat and slipped into her professional role, “Narcissa, you suffered a stroke due to some of your blood clotting within your arteries. This can happen sometimes with those who have used dark magic. I’d like to run a few tests first to see what was affected, and we can go from there. It can wait a moment, though. I’m sure you two would like to catch up.”She offered the best smile she could muster. 

Before they could answer she was already at the curtain. The more distance she could put between herself and the Malfoys, the better. 

“Stay.”

Y/n’s steps faltered at the sound of his voice. She turned to face him, his steel gaze leveled on her. The way that his free hand clenched at his side did not go unnoticed. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Stay and do the tests.” He stood, straightening his frustratingly tailored suit. “ I’ll wait around the corner.”

Before she could protest, he was already brushing past her through the small opening in the curtain she had made. The brief contact set her nerves alight—sharp and uninvited. She told herself it was nothing, just the static of proximity, the residue of adrenaline. But his scent, lingered too long in the space he left behind.

“Right.” turning back toward Narcissa. Her fingers tightened on her wand. “Let’s get started shall we?”

Narcissa’s eyes drifted to the curtain, “Don’t mind Draco. He always did have a complicated way of showing gratitude. But he’s not one to forget.”

Y/n didn’t answer but tried her best to ignore the tremor in her hand as she cast the first spell.

Taglist: @zirouisbusy

[babyfacebuttercup]

Lover Boy

A/N: Sorry I completely forgot I had so many fics I meant to post when I went on hiatus! Also we are Team Steve here❤️

It had not started with fireworks. That was the thing Steve loved most about it.

There was no slow-motion moment where the room disappeared or a halo of light that surrounded her the first time he saw her. No, (Y/N) had been laughing, barefoot in Sam’s kitchen, a smudge of flour on her cheek and her sleeves rolled up as she scolded her brother for using too much pepper. She did not look at Steve like he was Captain America. She looked at him like he was just a man who had no idea how to cut a tomato.

That night stuck with him….

She had been so alive and so real. He had watched her, not just for how beautiful she was, but for how she moved with purpose, how she challenged Sam without hesitation, ready to go to war over pasta sauce. That night, Steve offered to help her wash dishes just for an excuse to be near her. She smiled and handed him a towel instead.

He walked home grinning like an idiot. Steve was to his core a hopeless romantic. Yes, women liked him but there were not many. He thought in this time period he could get down, on one knee and marry.

The next few weeks, Steve found reasons to hang around Sam’s place more often. At first, Sam teased him without mercy. Then he noticed how Steve looked at (Y/N) when she was not paying attention. Not with lust. Not even with longing. Just quiet awe. Like Steve had found something in her that reminded him of home.

(Y/N) started noticing too. The way Steve always asked if she had eaten. The way he remembered her coffee order even when she changed it. The way he listened intently when she talked about books or music or how much she hated chocolate. It was not long before she was calling him late at night just to hear his voice. She would pretend it was for something small. But he never questioned it.

The first time he kissed her, it was not planned. She had just told him about a long and frustrating day. She was exhausted and on the verge of tears. He reached out to brush her hair from her face and her breath caught. And that was it. His lips met hers with the gentleness of someone who had waited his whole life to feel something that real. After that, he fell hard.

(Y/N) was not just his girlfriend. She became his peace. His anchor. She called him Steve like it was the only name he had ever been given. She reminded him that he was not a symbol or a relic from the past. He was a man who could laugh, make mistakes, get jealous, burn pancakes, and still be loved.

That first morning she stayed over, curled up in his hoodie, Steve walked around like the world had tilted in his favor. Bucky caught him humming while making eggs and immediately called Sam to report the crime.

From that moment on, Steve loved her with quiet intensity. He brought flowers when she was upset. He carried her bags even when she protested. He ran her bubble baths on the days she came home completely drained. She teased him for being an old man, but she adored the way he adored her.

And so, this anniversary was not just a date on the calendar. It was a full circle. A year of quiet mornings and stormy nights. A year of learning what made her laugh and what made her go silent. A year of forehead kisses and holding hands under the table and dancing in the living room when there was no music playing.

Steve stood by the window after she told him she loved him and he could not help but stare. She was in his hoodie again, smiling at the table he had carefully set. The sight made his chest ache in that full, beautiful way. He turned toward her, voice low and warm. “Do you remember the first time I told you I loved you?”

She smiled at the memory. “Of course I do. You looked like you were going to pass out.” Bashfully Steve said “I was,” he admitted with a laugh. “I had it all rehearsed. The speech. The setting. And then you walked in wearing that damn red sweater and I forgot every word.”

Y/N stepped toward him and placed her hand over his chest, right where his heart beat steady beneath her palm. “But you said it anyway.” Looking down at the women before him. The captains heart was filled to its brim.“Because I meant it,” he whispered.

“I still wear that sweater when I miss you,” she said quietly. Leaning more into his body, knowing that he has her heart. His arms came around her without hesitation. “You will never have to miss me. Not really. I’m here. Always.”

Outside, the stars began to peek out from behind soft clouds in the evening sky. The city hummed faintly in the distance. But inside that small apartment, the rest of the world faded.

It was just the two of them. Steve held her tighter, his heart beating against hers like a promise.

Because loving her was the easiest choice he had ever made.

[ladymoody]

helloo I'm so happy you're back :)) can you write a fanfic about morning s3x with Theo? like we are dating and yn is horny

YOUR GF WANTS YOU

theodore nott x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ content, dirty talk, swearing, blowjob, fingering, pussy eating, cum

word count: 1k

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist ; navigation ; my website

I woke up at dawn, the birds were singing outside our apartment, and Theo was sleeping peacefully next to me. It was our routine since we had moved in together. Theo and I had been dating for two years, and I knew he was planning on proposing to me soon — a month before I found the engagement ring hidden in his phone's box, but I never told him to not ruin the surprise. 

What kind of boyfriend was Theo? Well, the best a woman could ask for. He had always treated me like a princess — his princess — and spoiled me from the very beginning. 

He was the kind of man who didn’t just love his woman — he adored her. To him, I was his queen, his muse, his entire world. He spoiled me not only with gifts and affection, but with deep attention. He worshipped my body with the same reverence he gave my heart — kissing every inch like it was sacred, holding me close like he was afraid to ever let go. He made me feel beautiful, desired, and safe, like I was the most precious thing he had ever known. Whether it was running his hands along my skin, whispering sweet words in my ear, or making love to me after a long day, his love was both gentle and passionate. 

That morning, I rolled over, the sheets falling slightly from my body and exposing my lingerie. I snuggled up to Theo, who was lying shirtless next to me, lips parted slightly, breath slow and even, completely unaware that I’d been watching him for the past few minutes.

He looked so sexy like that, and I couldn’t help but get turned on. I remember I was ovulating in that moment, and Theo was exactly what my body craved. I couldn’t help but smile. There was something about how peaceful he looked, how unguarded, that made my heart ache a little in the best way. But I didn’t stay still for long.

I reached out, letting my fingers drift across his chest — just the lightest touch, like I was afraid to break the quiet. He shifted a little, but didn’t wake. I leaned in closer and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, then another just below his ear. But still nothing.

I grinned to myself and let my hand wander lower, playing at the edge of the blanket. My touch stayed light, deliberately slow — not enough to wake him, but enough to tempt. A quiet sound escaped his lips, rough and low, and I nearly laughed.

“Already dreaming about me?” I whispered, lips brushing against the warm skin of his neck.

He stirred again, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before his eyes even opened. His voice was gravelly with sleep when he murmured, “If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.”

I chuckled in response before teasing his skin with a few more kisses. “Your girlfriend wants you, Theo…” I whispered, my voice low and seductive.

He grinned, his eyes shut closed again. “Woke up all wet and eager?” 

“You know me, baby.” I started trailing kisses lower, from his neck to his chest, to his stomach. 

“Who am I to neglect my woman?” He moved his arms behind his head and sat up slightly to watch me. I disappeared under the white sheets as I kept kissing his body. Once reached his boxers, I bit their elastic band and pulled them down with my teeth, which had Theo already making satisfied sounds.

His dick stood up immeditely, aching to be touched, so I softly stroked it with my fingers. I licked the tip, which was already leaking precum, and Theo moaned. “Oh, baby! Stop the teasing and take me into your mouth… Let me fuck your throat.”

I smirked against his erection and did as he said. I sucked it all until he was balls deep into my warm mouth. “Y/n! Oh, baby… Yes!” He bucked his hips upwards, trying to get even deeper. I’ll admit I gagged slightly — his dick is the biggest I had ever had, but god if it didn’t feel good. 

“Baby… Sweetheart…” He whimpered as he neared his climax. I knew he was so close, so I started pumping his length with my hand and squeezing his balls with the other. His eyes widened as he grabbed my hair almost painfully before letting out his white seed into my mouth. I swallowed obediently as I finished sucking, surrending to his touch. I liked it when he was dominant like this.

I looked up at him before pressing my lips against his, sharing a quite sloppy kiss as he tasted himself. 

“You did so well, baby… Now lie down and spread those sexy legs for me, will you?”

I smirked, already knowing what he wanted to do. I lay down and slid my panties off before opening my legs just like he asked. He immediately jumped on me and started kissing my neck like a starving vampire, then moved lower like I had done with him before. He kissed my body like a temple, worshipping every inch and praising me with love and passion. He reached my inner thighs and kissed with care, then moved to my calves and eventually kissed my ankles. He went back up and dived into my pussy without warning. 

At the sudden wave of pleasure, I cried out. “Theo!” But he only grinned against my core, letting his tongue slither past my folds and his thumb skillfully working on my clit like a DJ with his remixes. 

I gripped his hair and pulled it with force, trying to both guide his movements and hold onto something. 

“Theo… Slow down for a second… I can’t…”

“Shh, let me work…”

I moaned louder, convulsing on the mattress as my boyfriend didn’t show any sign of giving me a break. 

“Theo! I’m so close!” I screamed. Theo pushed two fingers into my hole. That was enough to push me over the edge. As he realized I was having my orgasm, he inserted a third finger to make my pleasure last longer. 

“Oh my good god…” I panted as Theo finally slowed down and removed his fingers, creating a popping, wet sound. 

“I’m not done with you, yet…” He said as he crawled back to me, his face dirty with my juices. He unclasped my bra…

// part two?

[inky-sun]

Maybe I was never meant to be loved

I think I’ve finally stopped looking.

Not out of peace. Not because I’ve found joy in solitude or discovered some profound love for myself that makes the absence irrelevant. I’ve just grown tired of standing at doors that don’t open. Tired of becoming a softer version of myself each time, only to be met with silence, or worse—almosts.

There’s a certain kind of grief that comes without a funeral. No break-up, no final words. Just the slow, unspoken understanding that maybe no one is coming. That maybe love—the kind that stays, the kind that sees you and doesn’t leave—is a language no one will ever speak to me.

I watch people fall into it like gravity. Effortless. Accidental. And I wonder what it’s like to be chosen without begging. To be loved in a way that doesn’t feel like you’re constantly trying not to be too much or too little. To be looked at like you’re enough.

It’s worse than loneliness, really. It’s invisibility. The sense that you could disappear tomorrow and people wouldn’t notice, unbothered. That your absence would echo only in your own ears. I don’t think people realize how hard it is to go years without being held. To always be the friend, the confidant, the lesson, the teacher — but never the one someone stays for.

I’ve heard all the things meant to soothe.

“Love yourself first.” I do, most days.

“It’ll come when you least expect it.” It hasn’t.

“Maybe they’re just not ready yet.” Maybe they’re not real.

Maybe soulmates are just stories we tell ourselves to survive the ache of being alone too long. Maybe I don’t have one. Maybe some people live their whole lives waiting for something that simply wasn’t written for them. Maybe I am one of them.

And the hardest part is—there’s still a part of me that waits. A quiet, stubborn part that scans every room just in case. A foolish flicker that refuses to go out completely. Hope is cruel like that. It doesn’t die, it dims. It flickers in the corner, just enough to hurt.

So no—I don’t think love is coming.

And I think I am learning to sit beside the ache without asking it to leave.

[hiddcnhorizcns]

The sun had set long ago by the time Luca made it to the island. The kind of place she’d run to made sense now—remote, quiet, clinging to the edge of the world like it had been waiting for someone like her to come back and remember how to breathe. It was the kind of place no one looked twice at a stranger unless he stayed too long. Luca made sure not to. He blended in. Loose shirt. Quiet voice. No boots. But he was no islander. He’d left the mainland behind with a mission, and now that the family had finally admitted she’d gone completely dark, he was the one they called. Not the first day. Not even the first week. But when the whispers started to rise from rival corners of the world—about her, about how she knew too much—that’s when they gave him a name, a last-known location, and a single, quiet order: Bring her home. And if he couldn’t? Silence her. That was the part no one said out loud. But it hung in the air all the same. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t argue. He packed light and crossed oceans. And when he found her trail—receipts, property bought in cash, a villa tucked into a cliffside like a secret too beautiful to stay hidden—he knew. She didn’t want to disappear. She wanted to be free. But freedom had a price, and the world she left behind was still collecting interest.

He got to the house long before she did. Picked the lock, checked for alarms—there were none. Just deadbolts and intuition. Typical. She still trusted her gut more than anything else. He walked the space like a shadow. Took it all in. The light, the color, the absence of everything she used to be surrounded by. It was her, in a way he’d never seen her before. And that—that—got under his skin worse than anything else. Because it was peaceful. And it wasn’t his. So he waited in the dark, sitting in a chair near the hallway, still as stone. No gun. No knife in hand. Just patience. And the weight of every step she took outside that reminded him he was still breathing. Then he heard it. The door. The hesitation. The shift in the air as she stepped inside and knew something wasn’t right. He didn’t move when she crept toward the kitchen. Didn’t make a sound when she picked up a knife—smart girl—and called out into the dark like she’d already made peace with the possibility that something awful was waiting. Her voice didn’t shake. And Luca, still sitting there just beyond the hallway in the shadows, let the silence stretch. Long enough for her to think maybe no one was there. Long enough for her to drop her guard, if just a little.

“You gonna use that?” He stood, stepping into the moonlight, eyes fixed on her. Not like a man who came for violence. But like one who never stopped watching her walk away. Luca hadn't planned for this part—the moment he’d see her again. He thought about tracking, about silence, about the weight of the job. He thought about what he’d say to break her pride, what he’d do if she ran, what excuse he’d give himself if it came down to something final. But he hadn’t thought about this. Her. Standing there in the glow of the moonlight filtering through gauzy curtains, barefoot, backlit by the soft blue of her new world. That damn white dress barely clinging to her form like it, too, didn’t want to let go. His breath caught—sharp and quick—like a punch to the ribs. For all the fucked-up, violent, twisted things that had passed between them, his heart had the audacity to skip a beat. His chest rose and fell, slow and uneven, the heat of the night clinging to him. Sweat tracked down the hollow of his throat, caught in the open collar of his half-buttoned white shirt, silk sticking to his skin, stained slightly from the climb up the cliffs. He looked nothing like the man she’d left behind. He was thinner. Meaner. And yet… softer, in that singular moment of stillness between them. And he hated it. He hated how the sight of her made his mouth dry. How all the fury he’d rehearsed on the trip here, all the accusations, all the blame—suddenly tasted like ash. Because she looked real. Not the untouchable fantasy the family paraded around. Not the wild-eyed fighter from that night. Just… Aiyla. Alive. Free. Unfazed. And he felt like he hadn’t breathed properly in two months until right now. The only sound between them was the slow drag of his breath as he took her in—not like a man on a mission. But like a man who missed the hell out of her and didn’t even realize it until this very second.

Luca took one slow step forward and raised his hands in mock surrender, arms outstretched, palms open to the moonlit air. The fabric of his shirt strained with the motion, clinging to his frame—broad shoulders, veined forearms, the kind of body made for damage. He looked like he belonged in war, not in the soft blue light of a Mediterranean villa. But he didn’t take another step. Instead, he wiggled his eyebrows—just enough to spark that old, infuriating charm she probably wanted to stab more than she wanted to acknowledge—and tilted his head slightly. “I come in peace,” he said, voice low, dry, slightly raspy from salt air and silence. “But if you value your pretty little safety, maybe hear me out before you go swinging that knife.” There was something in his tone—half-joke, half-threat, all Luca—that made the words land somewhere between a challenge and a plea. But he didn’t look afraid. Of the knife. Of her. He looked like a man who had traveled miles to get here, through oceans and grudges and guilt—and was still standing there like the most dangerous thing in the room wasn’t the blade she held. It was him. And the truth he hadn’t said yet.

*two months later*

She could breathe. After years of suffocating, Aiyla could finally breathe, and she did. She inhaled the sea air, gazing out at the expanse of the Mediterranean while foamy waves rushed over her feet. She'd always loved the ocean. Her childhood felt like lifetimes ago, but she remembered growing up at the edge of it. All her life, the water had felt like home. She didn't know why she hadn't moved back to it sooner. No, that wasn't entirely true. She did know. Losing herself for a while there, she'd just been floating and not in a pleasant way. Settling in on this island, in this quiet little corner of the world where nobody cared who she was or looked at her for too long, was starting to help her feel more grounded. Not stared at, not touched, not obsessively admired- she felt real. Like she was a part of the world again. Like she had finally broken the cycle and was no longer an object to be passed from one hand to another. There was no choking grip constantly squeezing at her and making her less and smaller than she was. She'd had to claw her way to it, but at last, she had found peace. She was free.

Taking one last glance at the beginnings of the sunset stretching out over the horizon, she knew that she needed to start making her way home. There was a winding path up the cliffs that she wanted to get out of the way before dark. Going through the tiny town on her way up to the villa she'd purchased in cash wouldn't be an issue once the sun went down. The way was well lit at night, and it was nowhere near as difficult. She'd been lucky enough not to have to navigate her way up the cliffs in the dark thus far though, and she wasn't planning on starting now. As she turned away from the sea, draped in a gauzy white dress that nearly went sheer with the sunlight behind it, she could so easily be mistaken for the goddess whose soul had taken root in her.

Aiyla slid on her sandals and began her trek home. She hummed to herself until she came to the town, warm and bright even for how small it was. She waved to familiar faces that didn't leer at her, thanking them for dinner invitations later that night and promising that she'd come down to eat with them once she'd stopped at home in pieced together Greek that was coming easier and easier with each passing day. Even their little village was awake well into the night. Nobody was ever in a rush. There was no schedule. No shooting or press agendas kept anyone tied down. They simply existed, and Aiyla was thrilled to get to exist alongside them.

She smiled to herself as the villa came into view. Now lit by moonlight, the white walls had gone a soothing blue. Her new home was a gem of a find. She'd had to stay in a hotel on the mainland for a week or two while she'd searched for and purchased it, and all of the cleaning up she'd done with her own hands to keep from having to contact more people than necessary had been worth it. The entire place was light and breezy, decorated in a way that felt natural and open rather than the oppressive opulence she'd lived in for so long. She had been so desperate to find the exact opposite of the life she'd left behind, and she'd certainly done that. It truly felt like home...but her stomach dropped as she put the went to unlock the door and found it already unlocked. Her brows drew together. She'd been diligent about keeping her doors locked. It wasn't that she didn't trust the others on the island. Quite the opposite, really. It was everyone she'd walked away from that she wanted to keep out.

With a deep breath, she remembered who she was. She was a fighter again, and even if her stomach was twisting and all of her instincts were telling her not to go inside, she turned the doorknob. Paranoia or whatever else lay beyond her front door wasn't going to stop her. She wasn't about to let anything keep her from the home she'd made. Aiyla opened the door and stepped inside. Wide windows let streams of moonlight into the open space, but they felt ominous now with the way they left shadows at the edges of rooms and around corners. She held her breath as she made her way to the kitchen and didn't touch a light switch on her way there. She set her bag down on the pale wood of the countertop before pulling a knife from the block atop of it. Only then did she call out a steady "Who's there" down the dark hallway, fully prepared to defend her home now.

[disease]

How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found is a how-to book by Doug Richmond, originally released in 1985.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Very few American libraries have a copy of “How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found.” All libraries are supposed to have a copy but most have completely disappeared, and have never been found.

[mesonoxian-maxx]

[the-mspfa-200-favourites-project]

How To Disappear Completely and Never Be Found

Another Flipjam Entrant, which means that I will probably not have a lot to say about this one but I will say that I kind of adore the atmosphere in this Fanadventure? It’s like. Okay so it stars a cherub, and it *really* sells the “lonely, living on a desolate rock in the middle of nowhere” vibes that the Cherub Lore in the comic would support. And because not too many fanadventures are trying to do THOSE kinds of vibes, it stands out all the more, and it’s competently done too! Sadly, the author has stated that it’s on a bit of an indefinite hiatus, but with any of these fanadventures in 2023, you never know if one of them might suddenly come back to life again…also it has a banger title. See? Not too many notes for this one, but I do recommend it.

[quietwingsinthesky]

im going to lay here and think about pond family cuddle piles until i fall asleep