#anyways the inbox is once more empty

[incorrectvtuberquotes]

Iroha:

[orellazalonia]

The Weight of Being Forgettable

Summary: You quietly resign, hoping for peace or maybe to be missed, but no one reaches out in the end. You're forgotten just as silently as you existed. However, both you and them recognize the aftermath of being unremarkable. [Part 2 of Always There, Never Seen]

Disclaimer: ANGST, Kidnapping, More descriptive writing rather than dialogue.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You didn't expect a moment to come. No dramatic breaking point, no cruel words shouted across a room. Just a Tuesday.

The coffee pot had gone untouched again, something you only noticed because you were the one who always refilled it. You stood in the kitchen with the same bland mug in your hand, watching the last drop of dark, bitter liquid slide into a cup you hadn’t even wanted. You were exhausted, in that way that didn’t show. Not physically. Not even emotionally.

Just… worn.

There had been a moment that morning when you stood outside the meeting room and realized: if you walked away right now, no one would stop you. No one would call. No one would ask where you'd gone. You weren't angry. You were just… done.

So you typed it up.

The resignation was short and neat. No frills. You didn’t name names, didn’t leave jabs or guilt. You wrote, “Thank you for the opportunity. I hope my work has been useful. My last day will be Friday.”

Signed and that was it. You sent it at 2:12 PM. There was no hesitation or fanfare, just a quiet email in a quiet inbox. A ghost slipping out through the back door. You half-wondered if anyone would notice before Friday.

Back at your desk, everything looked the same. A little tin of peppermints. A notebook with neat, blocky handwriting. Sticky notes with reminders no one else had seen fit to write down. You glanced around at all the things you’d done, all the problems you’d solved before anyone else noticed they were problems.

And then, the strange part. You felt… relief. No one begged you to stay. No one came running down the hall. The world didn't collapse without you. But for the first time in a long time, the weight wasn’t yours to carry.

By Wednesday, no one said anything.

There were a few auto-replies to your resignation email. One from HR and one from some higher-up who never remembered your name. You finished your shift quietly, filed things neatly, and closed out your checklists with the same care you’d always used.

By Thursday, someone asked where the coffee filters were. You weren’t there to answer.

By Friday morning, you’d cleared your desk. Left nothing behind except a printed version of your resignation on the chair, just in case anyone missed the email. You’d timed it carefully: left during a team debrief, so you wouldn’t have to walk through goodbyes no one was going to offer anyway. You rode the elevator down alone, the hum of its descent feeling like a slow, gentle goodbye.

Even with your absence now, the Tower didn’t stop moving. Missions went on. Briefings happened. The usual chaos rolled forward.

But small things started to go wrong.

The meeting room wasn’t booked in time. Natasha showed up to a double-booked training session and walked out silently annoyed. Clint missed a follow-up appointment because the reminder never got sent. The printer jammed twice. Steve’s requested dietary order was delivered late, and with the wrong items. Sam realized a report had never been filed, one you always used to clean up after hours without being asked.

Still, no one panicked. These were just little things. Little things that piled up.

By the end of the week, someone said, “Didn’t she used to handle this?” in that vague way people talk about furniture that’s been moved. Like they know something has shifted, but can’t quite name what.

Bucky passed your old desk once and stood there longer than expected. You’d always kept it tidy with that little tin of peppermints that he never took but always glanced at. The chair was pushed in. The drawers were empty, but he didn’t say anything.

She noticed however. The one he liked. She brought it up in the common room, late one evening. “Hey,” She asked, “Did we ever figure out what happened to her?”

Someone blinked. “Who?”

“The one who used to…” She gestured vaguely, “…keep everything running. She was always here.”

A pause.

“Oh,” Someone else said. “Yeah. She left.”

And that was it. No party. No sadness. Not even a group email. Just silence where your presence used to be. But slowly, they began to realize that the silence was louder than expected.

Because there was no one left who knew how to keep the floor lights from buzzing. No one who stocked the exact tea Wanda liked. There was no one who stayed late so others could leave early.

The foundation had stepped away. And only now did they realize what they had leaned.

-

Weeks passed. Not many, just enough. Enough for the new intern to forget to attach the mission brief Bucky needed. Enough for the kitchen to stay out of oat milk for three mornings in a row. Enough for minor cracks to widen.

Still no one said your name out loud.

It wasn’t out of malice. More like discomfort. Like the building didn’t know how to speak of someone it had let disappear so quietly.

She, the woman Bucky still laughed with in the training room, started taking on some of the tasks. Not officially, but out of instinct. She noticed the first cracks. Noticed the second. She filled in what she could. But the foundation you’d built was always more than anyone realized.

Across the Tower, people started asking quiet questions.

“Hey, who used to handle these reports?” “Didn’t someone used to refill the med kits?” “There was someone who… what was their name again?”

But no one had the answer.

Bucky didn’t say much. He noticed the gaps the way you notice bruises forming: slowly, steadily, and without warning. One day he reached for the right packet of tea and found the shelf bare. It hit harder than he expected.

He stared at the empty space for too long. Once, he found himself opening his mouth to ask you something, only to remember mid-sentence, that you weren’t there. You hadn’t been for a while now. And he never really got to know you.

He thought, once, to ask where you'd gone. But didn’t. Not because he didn’t care but because he wasn’t sure he deserved to. The silence you left behind wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention. It crept in slowly, like a chill that only settles once the fire’s gone out.

Eventually, someone new was hired. Someone louder. More visible. They joked a lot and got people’s names wrong. They were liked immediately. The cracks you left weren’t filled, just covered.

But the Tower never felt quite the same. And if anyone noticed? They kept it to themselves. Just like you always did.

-

Meanwhile, you thought it would feel lighter now. You told yourself it would.

The resignation was supposed to be your moment of quiet reclamation, stepping away from a place that never made room for you. And in some ways, it was. There were no more emails at 3 a.m. No more long hours watching everyone else get noticed while you stayed invisible in the background.

But the silence didn’t go away. It just changed addresses.

Your apartment felt bigger now. Colder. It echoed in the wrong ways. Mornings dragged on to the point where you didn’t get out of bed until the sun was well into the sky, and even then, it was usually for coffee you didn’t finish.

There were no messages. No calls. No quiet “Hey, are you okay?” from anyone who’d worked beside you for years. You’d told yourself not to expect anything, and you didn’t. But it still stung.

You scrolled through job listings with numb fingers. “Team player.” “Self-starter.” “Thrives in fast-paced environments.” You checked boxes and rewrote cover letters, and every word felt like a lie. You weren’t really a team player because you were the person the team never noticed.

When people asked how you were doing, you smiled. Said, “Good.” And everyone believes it if you say it with enough clarity. The truth stayed quiet like it always had.

Some nights, you wondered if they noticed you were gone. Not just the missing reports or forgotten appointments but you. The person who stayed late, who remembered the small things, who kept the Tower going without ever asking to be seen.

But you already knew the answer.

No one had reached out. No one had asked you where you went. You didn’t even blame them. Not really. You just wished you hadn’t wanted to be seen so badly. You wished your heart didn’t ache for a version of yourself that maybe never existed. Someone important, someone valued, or someone that people remembered.

Instead, you spent your days in cafés where no one knew your name. You read the news in the corner of quiet libraries. You went on walks just to keep yourself moving. Because if you stopped, if you stayed still too long, you might disappear entirely.

And part of you wondered if that would really make a difference to anyone. So you kept moving.

Not healing. Not rebuilding. Just… existing. You’d left quietly and the world had kept on turning. Just like you always knew it would.

However, your normal routine broke on a Wednesday. You hadn’t expected anything from the day, not peace, not purpose. Just a walk through streets you didn’t love but had grown used to accompanied with a pair of headphones, an old playlist, and a jacket too thin for the wind.

You’d built your mornings this way on purpose. You couldn’t be useful anymore, but at least you could be moving.

You were halfway through your loop when the van pulled up.

It didn’t screech to a stop. Didn’t come with a crash or chaos. Just a quiet slide beside the curb. The back door opened, and hands reached out with no hesitation.

You didn’t even scream at first.

Shock held you still. Your mind scrambled for something, logic, maybe a pattern, anything familiar, but it never came. Just the pavement vanishing from under your feet, cold air in your lungs, and cloth pulled over your face. You could hear a voice muttering, “Got her,” like you were an object, not a person.

You tried to fight, of course. But you weren’t trained. No combat skills. No enhanced strength. Just muscle memory from years of carrying coffee trays and filing paperwork.

It wasn’t enough.

When you woke, you came to with the kind of headache that bloomed behind your eyes in a slow, dull, and heavy sort of way. The light overhead wasn’t fluorescent. It was colder than that. Artificial. The kind that hummed in a way that got under your skin.

Your wrists weren’t tied. You weren’t in chains. Just a room. Stark white, sterile edges. A thin cot. A small tray with water and a protein bar sitting untouched beside you. It wasn’t meant to feel like a cell. But it did.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t call out. You just sat there, quietly. Waiting. At first, you thought, someone will come.

Maybe Natasha would notice your name in a briefing file and raise an eyebrow. Maybe Steve would frown and say, “Didn’t she used to work with us?” Maybe Bucky would finally look up and remember that girl in the back room who always had the right intel before he needed it.

You imagined Tony cross-referencing coordinates and catching the glitch in a camera feed. You imagined Sam flying low, scanning streets, muttering, “This doesn’t feel right.”

But the hours passed. Then a day. Then three. And you slowly began to understand: No one was coming.

Not because they couldn’t. Not because they didn’t care. But because they didn’t know. You were no longer on the rosters. No longer in the comms. You weren’t even part of a security clearance group anymore. You had wiped your hands clean and left quietly.

To them, you were gone before you disappeared.

There wouldn’t be a mission presented with your name as the victim to save. You didn’t matter enough to track. You weren’t an Avenger. You weren’t an asset. You were the quiet one in the hallway. The background hum. The afterthought. And now, nobody at all.

The realization wasn’t a crash. It was a slow, silent exhale. It wasn’t grief. It was confirmation and it made something deep inside you shut down.

You moved back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. Letting the hum of the light fill the silence that no one else seemed to want to, you thought to yourself: This is what it’s like to vanish completely.

[hoseoksluna]

ROSÉ | jjk

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x wine!oc

genre: smut

word count: 5.7k

summary: on your first dinner date, your boyfriend brings you a small gift—too bad you're too horny to appreciate it.

pinterest board: wine

warnings: a bit of drunkenness, a mention of inner child healing, oc teases jungkook and oc is horny as fuck, dom/sub dynamics, wine!jk, provider jk..., daddy issues, punishment, spanking, food used during intercourse, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), dirty talk, a mention of a sex toy & a mention of a plushie in a sexual context, raw sex, brattiness, jk and oc smoke together

note: OH GOD—IT'S FINALLY HERE. SLFJSLDFJS. A REQUESTED DRABBLE about wine!oc and jungkook. this was so fucking fun to write and i was so hot and bothered from this that i had to take a break............ yeah uhm anyways, I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS. ENJOY READING AND LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK ANONYMOUSLY IN MY INBOX. I NEED YOUR THOUGHTS. PLS AND THANK YOU. ₊˚⊹♡

side note: jk in the first pic made me fucking die. and other things....

The rosy pink nectar has, undeniably, gone to your head. 

Your empty wine glass is illuminated by the setting sunlight spilling past your shoulder, reaching its yellow, warm fingers to the tips of your boyfriend’s that rest lazily on the white cloth of the table. You’re woozy, in a lighthearted mood—so much that even the world has lost its heft and all you can sense is the sluggish process of your absorption. You’re engrossed in the way the spring coalesces with the beginning of summer—in the warm evening wind ruffling your curls, tickling your bare shoulders, in the darkening hues of the sky, pinks and violets, in the gray smoke of Jungkook’s cigarette interlacing with the slightly sultry air. You can see it in his eyes, the unfolding of it all. And perhaps you’re tipsy or perhaps you’re just brazenly and foolishly falling in love, because you’re aware that if the man weren’t sitting in front of you, none of these things wouldn’t have caught your attention in such a devastatingly profound way. 

He has made you feel so safe. By simply and beautifully laying his feelings bare. To you and for you. Created a haven for you to dwell in, for you to grow in and explore all the dark and light corners of you that have merely seldom seen the face of the sun. How could you not indulge in a little bit of alcohol, when you’re protected in that place of security? Let your girlishness swim a little, refresh herself, enjoy herself?

You’re glowing. You always had been, but your shimmers have gained a new intensity to their twinkles, keeping Jungkook’s liquid stars warm and taken care of inside of you. Their blunt points have carved you into someone else entirely, too. Joyous, cool-headed and absolutely and irrevocably self-assured. Fearless. And his hands have reached deep within and caressed the head of your inner child, healing her and washing her clean, giving her everything she ever lacked. Love, attention, care and validation. Whenever you remember that you never wanted him to get a glimpse of your soul, bile rises in your throat and your stomach hurts.

He saved you. Healed you. Through and through. Gave you his control.

It stirs your never-ending awe that he has managed to do this in a month, and you want to celebrate it. You think now is quite the perfect occasion for it as it’s your first dinner date since you’ve become exclusive. Having spent most of your time at each other’s places fucking, partying and fucking some more, it’s nice to be out, alone with him, that is—and it’s nice as fuck to be out with your boyfriend. The sex has become so different with the label and the rawness of his feelings. And the thing about Jungkook that gets you the most, that strengthens the realm he invented for you, is that once his emotions overflow, the stream of its wine doesn’t stop pouring. The moment he confessed his love for you, ever since then you sense it expressed in everything he does—in the way he greets you in the day, in his tight, burning embrace, in the tenderness with which he holds your hand or kisses it, the relentless, great thought and consideration he puts in the choices he makes for you on the daily. Whether it’s the fatuous things he buys you that mean the world to you, the way he never neglects bunny and incorporates her in everything you do together or… the sex. 

Fuck, the sex alone has taken over your life so vividly and drastically that it consumes your brain. There, in that environment, is where the wine of his emotions is the raciest. He’s not ashamed to cry, letting those liquid pearls trickle down your collarbones, quenching the thirst of his liquid stars as he fucks you dumb and enjoys every second of it. He’s not afraid to be loud either. To talk you through your orgasm with even more care and detail than you were accustomed to in the past. 

He’s become boundless. And it’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen in your life. 

God, you’d be crazy not to let yourself fall for him—

“I got you dessert,” Jungkook husks, digging his fingers into the pocket of his pants while his other digits draw close to his mouth. He takes a drag of his cigarette, crinkling his eyes so the smoke wouldn’t get into them and you beam at him with a fire that’s more scorching than the sun’s ever been in centuries, heart doing somersaults at the thought of him thinking of you and spending money on you again. And, also, at how hot he looks while he smokes.

Your love language must be gift-giving. You don’t know what else to connect it to, the joy that envelops your entire being whenever he gives you something. It doesn’t even have to be expensive, nor does he have to pay for it at all. Drawings have become your favorite keepsakes—drawings of his Miffy bunny, drawings of flowers, of you. You’ve hidden them away in a box along with everything he’s ever brought you, except the white bunny ring because you wear it daily and one small, particular drawing that you’ve put inside your glittery phone case. 

A cutesy marker sketch of him and you. His arm around your shoulders. Bunny sitting on your laps in the middle, as if she were your own child. Cheeks big and bubbly, pink and twinkling. Your curls the way you wear them; his mullet. A perfect depiction of the pair of you. You gaze at it every single day—prefer to now put your phone face down because of it. 

You’re tracing it now with the pad of your finger as you wait for him to reveal your mystery gift to you. The bulby heads, the cheeks, Miffy’s ears. Jungkook puts out his cigarette, puffing out the smoke, away from you, and once he’s done, he taps the back of your hand. Turns it over and spreads out your fingers, inserting, at a snail's pace, something round but slender at the same time, smiling adoringly at you. 

What a sight to behold. It steals, fleetingly, your attention away from his hand. 

Slicked back mullet, twinkles taking laps in his soft eyes, blushed cheekbones and stretched, pouty mouth, shiny with his liquid love. Long neck that you’d like to devour now, the broadness of his shoulders and chest that could come second as a plain, dark beige shirt accentuates his hard work at the gym. 

Oh, fuck. Your nipples pebble against your carmine tube top. 

Jungkook withdraws his hand and with blurry eyes, you look at the thing he placed in your palm. 

Chupa Chups. Strawberry and cream. 

Your mouth parts and it’s a concoction of a gasp and a sound of endearment when the realization that he got you a lollipop sinks in. Your heart flips and does a head stand. Lips round into a pout, drunk eyes softening, its twinkles growing in size and light. It’s like he gave you something golden, when in fact it costs a few wons, but to you it’s exactly that. Something so precious. 

You give him an air kiss, bouncing in your seat in joy, fingers already destroying the wrapper. “Thank you so…”

Your brows furrow as the wrapper remains intact. You do a bad, bad job of picking at the tape around the slender stick, your long manicured hands absolutely useless—and the cause of your frustration. You puff out an angry gust of breath, trying harder to get to the sweet delight and it’s at that moment that your boyfriend takes it from your hands with a deep chuckle. 

“You silly boo, this is how you do it.” Jungkook pinches the wrapper around the stick and he merely, in a few swift motions, twists the ball until it lets go. He scrunches it in his fists and throws it away in the ashtray. Smirks smugly, leans his elbows on the table, draws close to you. You mirror his position, get to him almost nose to nose, and his smirk deepens, tongue darting out to lick across his lips. You do the same, eyeing the round pinkness in his hand, the sexual attraction and its tension soaring high between you.

Without your hands, you could put it in your mouth, mimic the way you do it on his own tip and make him lose his mind a little bit. It’s right here, an inch away and you dip your head towards it, a magnetic pulling drawing you naturally to it. Sense his gaze on you, sense his delight, sense the flashback glimmering across the wholeness of him. But before you could wrap your lips around it, he moves it out of your reach. 

“No,” Jungkook murmurs, breath slightly ragged, holds it up in front of your face, watches as you go cross-eyed a little bit. Hums at the sight, quietly enough for only you to hear. “If you want it, ask for it nicely.” 

His puffy lips being so close to you, you desire to kiss him—cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink, his oh-so-loved dominance fucking with your drunkenness and your brain, body altogether. You tip your head to the side, flutter your lashes, make your eyes big and smile at him as sweetly as you can. 

He coos, validating you, and it is a force that makes you feel safe enough to submit to him like a small animal to its father. Safe enough to want to get under the table and make him feel really, really good, too. 

“Can I have the lollipop, please?” 

He groans, still quietly, and your panties drench immediately. You widen your eyes at him, feeling your slick, pursing your lips to scold him silently. He just laughs, amused by it all, and the sound of his joy fills you with elation.

One that darkens, when he asks, “Where?” 

You lick your lips, taking in the question, struck by it. Letting your mind wander, the places where you want it, except your mouth, is on your nipples and your clit. Nicely sweet and sticky—for him to clean up, for him to enjoy. Your dewiness soaks the material of your panties and your body begins to yearn for any kind of friction. You’re not sure whether you’re able to stick around in your chair, acting as if nothing’s wrong—acting as if you’re not stupendously horny. 

“In my mouth.” 

Jungkook makes a noise of appreciation and you’re so frustrated by all those sounds he makes that you want to dig your nails in his arms and make him pay for it. Even more so, when he plunges the lollipop into his mouth and his lips pucker around it, inciting the butterflies in your tummy to go absolutely fucking berserk. You place your hand on his bicep, nails ready to attack, but then he pulls out the treat with a pop, angling it at your mouth. 

“Open.” 

You thought he stole it from you, but he did no such thing. He wetted it for you, like a father for its child. You’re stupefied to the point that you don't even realize that you’re leaving a mark on the linen material of your seat. 

You do open your mouth for him, however. 

He twists the ball on your tongue, expecting you to close your mouth around the stick, but you don’t. No, you swirl that muscle around the candy, deepening your gaze, smirking. Jungkook stills, clenches his strong jaw. Darkness flicks across his eyes and he narrows them. First warning. 

You pretend you don’t see it. 

Closing your mouth and encasing your hand around his, you move the lollipop to the side of your cheek, acting as if it were his dick. And when you bob your head once, Jungkook tugs on the stick, wanting to pull it out, but you don’t let him, keeping it caged between your teeth. It only drives you to bob your head again.  

“Stop,” he says, voice calm, deep and serious—terribly deadly. Withdraws his hand and leans back, watching you with a predatory gaze, one that makes you even wetter. “Or we’re going home.” 

That’s exactly what you want. Instructions clear. 

You open your mouth and do a show of swirling your tongue around the ball, only this time you flick the muscle against it. Jungkook grips the table, knuckles white, and you laugh, which you soon realize was a grave mistake. 

“You think it’s funny?” he questions you, staring you down with a look that should frighten you, but it merely turns you on. You suck on the lollipop, the dulciness of strawberries suffusing your senses. “I’ll bend you over this fucking table, lift up that slutty little skirt and spank you in front of everyone.” 

You pull out the candy with an exaggerated pop. Scowl at him. As though his words didn’t affect you the way that they did—as though you’re not squeezing your thighs together, trying to gain that friction you so desperately need. “Why are you so angry?” 

He looks away for a moment, laughing silently. Nods his head at your wine glass. “You finished with your wine, baby?” 

It’s this pleasantness that you hear in this voice that spreads goosebumps across your skin. Feigned sugariness—the sunlight right before the clouds come in and thunder strikes; the calm before the storm. 

Good thing you’re dressed for the rain and ready to sing in it. 

You nod your head and Jungkook clicks his tongue, grabs you by your hand whilst he pulls out his wallet. You accompany him as he walks over to the bar, black card ready between his fingers. Waits to be noticed. Gives you a look over and fixes your skirt, pulling the hem down. 

Pays for you. Smiles down at you as he pockets his wallet. 

And then, he drags you to his car. 

Perhaps it’s the fresh air, perhaps it’s the briskness in his walk and the tight hold around your hand, but all intoxication evaporates from your body, leaving only your stained elation and neediness. You can’t help your smile. Think it must be sewn in at this point. By his own diligent fingers. 

A wind blows in, pulling your hair to your front and Jungkook pins you against his car. Tits squished against the passenger side, elbows pressed together. Eyes wide, you check your surroundings and find no one in sight. Only swaying trees, buildings of apartments, lamps illuminating the dark street. You relax right away, trusting Jungkook that he’s on the lookout and knows what he’s doing. 

He grinds his hips against your backside and you moan at the feeling of his hard length. With his free hand, he brushes your hair to one side and begins to pepper kisses along the curve of your neck, nuzzling his face in. Hovers his lips above your ear when he says, “You feel how hard you made me with your little show?” You nod, quickly, wanting more of him, wanting him inside of you. Push your hips back; twirl them in slow circles. Jungkook hisses. “I guess you really do want that spanking. Where’s your lollipop?” You show him your hand, where your treat remains uneaten and dry. He takes it from you and you turn your head in time to see him sink it into his mouth, placing it on the side of his mouth like you did. “Get inside the car.” 

Jungkook opens the door for you and forces you in, closing it with a harsh thud. As he rounds the vehicle, he makes eye contact with you and your tummy flips in response. 

Fuck. 

Nothing happens in a millisecond once he’s seated, but then he grabs your cheeks, squishing them in the way he likes, and kisses you hard, lollipop in hand. Moving his mouth against yours, his tongue only briefly greets you before he pulls away. “Naughty fucking girl. You’re lucky that I love you because otherwise…” He doesn’t finish his sentence with words, but with another kiss, breathing against you, grunting when it’s you this time that slips the tongue inside, playing with him the same way you played with the dessert he got you. “Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me. I’m gonna put you in your fucking place, make you remember how to behave in public. You’ve forgotten, haven't you?” 

You don’t have time to react, you merely bite your lip so hard that it aches. Jungkook pushes you back and yanks your leg between his, lifting your skirt. Then, he hovers his palm above your ass, the other forearm resting on the top of the seat, lollipop dangling near your head. He hides his smirk behind his effort to flatten his lips. 

And when he spanks you, you don’t roll your eyes back and rasp like your body naturally wants you to. No, you hold the eye contact and you take the pain, letting it course through your body, reveling in it. He doesn’t say anything as he keeps going, alternating between slapping your now reddened cheeks and the back of your thigh. Doesn’t even stroke the skin to alleviate the burn. He solely bores his gaze into yours, his cock rock hard against your leg. Another set of words are exchanged, silently, deeply, teaching you your lesson in tandem with the hits, burying it to a great depth inside you. 

And then he finishes with a nasty kiss, but his hand resumes causing you pain. You’ve lost count of how many spanks you’ve taken. 

It’s like you’ve woken up from a trance. It reverberates throughout your entire body and it’s now that you allow your body to vocally react. You whine, rounding your mouth in a pout, so different from the one on the dinner date. And you remember your manners—perceive how wrong it was to tease him, even though a good half of you still takes delight in it. 

“It hurts,” you whisper, nudging your lips against him and he gives you your last spank—the hardest of them all. The infliction makes you flutter your eyes shut and Jungkook brings them back to him by caressing his knuckles down your flushed cheek. 

“Good, you remember how to behave now?” he asks, halting his movement, such piercing intensity in his irises that drive you to nod your head. “That’s my good little girl.” Taps the side of your thigh. “Let Daddy make it better now.” 

You open your legs for him and Jungkook pushes your soaked panties to the side, revealing your little bedewed seashell. He hums at the sight of her, pops the lollipop back inside his mouth. Collects your arousal by swirling the pads of his middle and ring finger around your hole, eyes flicking from your pussy to your own, groaning when he comes into contact with your swollen clit, rubbing slow circles. You whimper, bucking your hips, needing him to go faster, needing to come. 

Jungkook shakes his head, disapproving. “You take what I give you or I’ll stop.” Lifts his hand to express the gravity of his threat and you help, wrapping both hands around his and putting it back on your bundle of nerves. He chuckles at your desperation, giving you the same circles, though now firmer. 

Waves the lollipop near your lips. You open your mouth, instinctively, and he plunges it into your mouth for a mere second before he pulls away, growling at the sound that comes out. He does it again, fucking you with it in a way, just to hear that pop and he’s so pleased with it that he sinks those two fingers inside your heat, fully, in one ego. Keeps them there. Teases you. Hovers the lollipop out of your reach and you decide to fuck with him back. Darting out your tongue, you whirl it around the flat side and he swears, moaning, giving to you at last. 

He latches his mouth onto your neck, starting the drill of his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so hot.” 

He picks up the speed so rapidly that you scream, squeezing your eyes shut, the pleasure permeating your body so vastly that you quiver all over. Grab a hold of his hair, pulling on it and then—

Then, he withdraws his fingers. Ruins your orgasm. 

You pant, trying to catch your breath. “Please, Jungkook, please—”

He nudges his nose against yours. “What, baby?” 

“I need to come, please.” 

Jungkook tuts, kissing you once. “I thought we could play.” Plunges the lollipop into your mouth to wet it. Shows it to you, just to see you go cross-eyed again. Moans. “Where do you want it, hm?” 

Ever the angel that makes your fantasies come to life. You wrap your fingers around his hand, butterflies swarming in your tummy. Lead him towards your still clothed breasts. “Here.” Take him to your drooling pussy. “And here.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of approval. Descends his fingers a little lower, to your other hole, circles it. “What about here?” 

You giggle, but you shake your head. The idea may be intoxicating, however reality is much different. There’s a risk to putting any sweetened food inside, one you don’t want to deal with. 

Jungkook smiles at you, pushes your seat back and slides it in the same direction. Crawls over you and you feel so feminine, so sexy underneath him. Nipples perked under your top, breasts full and spilling. You arch your back towards him and Jungkook drags his thumb from your bottom lip, to your chin, neck, the dip of your collarbones until he reaches the hem of your Tom and he tugs it down so harshly that you can’t contain your very own concoction of a gasp and moan. 

Lollipop in mouth, one hand propped by your head, the other squeezes your breast hard, nearing it, fingers pinching your nipple. Makes the flesh as red as your ass. You can tell he likes the view by the way he coos, but then he wipes all your thoughts away, when he sucks hard on the candy and swirls it around your stiffened nub, gaze flicked to yours to watch your reaction. 

The pleasure is so vivid, so dizzying—and for him, you let it paint your face in all its colors. Brows scrunched, bedroom eyes, mouth parted, puffing out desperate breaths. Jungkook sucks it again and smears his saliva around your other nipple, taking his time, slapping the ball once against it, making you hiss. 

“It feels so good,” you murmur, sinking your fingers into the longer length on the back of his hair, bringing his mouth to yours. You kiss him with a verve that causes him to groan. You swallow that sound, satisfied. 

He grins at you. “I bet.” 

Dips his head and envelops that sugar-coated nub with his warm lips, sucking it hard. His groan spreads there, deepens there and you arch your back even more, pulling his head to your other nipple so he can do the same thing. Join your other hand to his hair and do whatever you please—turn his head side to side, from one nub to the other—and he lets you, giving you, momentarily, his control. You feel your essence soaking the seat beneath you and you thank the heavens that the fabric is one of leather. You lift his head and try to push it down, but he won’t budge. Stares you down instead, lustfully. 

“Where do you want me?” he asks, a wrinkle between brows. “Be a good girl and tell me.” Pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

You sigh, kissing him once on the side of his neck, using your tongue. Make sure you’re looking at him as you reply, “On my clit.” 

He moans, eyes woozy, finger on the stick as he sucks the candy, clefts of dimples on either side of his cheeks. You palm his length, your own digits rounding across his tight balls and he whisks his irises back, grinding into your hand. “You want a lickie?” 

“Yes, so bad, please.” 

He hums and kneels before you, kissing your clit once in greeting. Then, he flattens his tongue and licks a fat stripe across your whole femininity—from your slit, to your swollenness. Hands on your hips, index curled around the lollipop, he holds you steady, prevents you from meeting him, as he stimulates you like this. Up and down, tongue rolling, eyes fixed on you, devouring you. And when he stops to suck your clit, he taps your mouth once with the ball of the lollipop. The act of sucking on something while you’re getting pleasured like this almost throws you over the edge, your body coated in a layer of sweat, but Jungkook withdraws in time. Presses the delight in the middle and rubs small circles, just to prepare you for the big thing. You become so whiny, so loud that his eyes grow in size, watching you in awe. 

To reward you for such beauty, he rapidly strums it from side to side, causing you to nearly levitate, but he pins you down. Wetting it and placing it back down, grunting at the aftertaste of you mixed with the sweetness. 

And he can’t resist. Can’t hold back. The wrinkle between his brows deepens when he tastes you, licking you all over, tongue stopping occasionally its feast to flick at your clit before he swallows you whole. Grunts, sucks, licks. Eyes closed to savor the taste. The pressure in your core heightens, even more so when he lifts your legs, greedy for the side dish in the form of your other hole. You’re so close that you might burst. 

“You taste so fucking good, baby. So sweet. Come on my tongue, please, I want more of you.” 

He wants more of your taste. 

You come so hard that your orgasm takes you to an open sea, your body floating on calm waves, to and fro, eyes rolled to the sky—to the sunroof—seeing nothing but the elegance of the twinkling stars and deep purple clouds. 

“That’s it, baby, so good. That’s my little girl.” He slaps the side of your thigh, bringing you back to him. “Listening so well, learning her lesson, coming so hard. I’m proud.” 

His words alone could make you come again, but you’re distracted.

Jungkook unbuttons his pants and pulls out his manhood. Stroking himself, he lines his tip at your mouth. He doesn’t even have to tell you to open up—you do it yourself. Holding it at the base, he stuffs your throat right away, a guttural chuckle emitting out of his mouth when you gag. He pulls out to where you’re comfortable having him and you begin to bob your head, like you did with the lollipop. 

“Yes, suck it like that, my love. Daddy loves it when you do that.” 

His precum on your tongue, the way he’s holding himself, the position and his words—you moan around him, so out of your mind, so fucked out. And when he fucks your mouth, it turns you on so much that you go cross-eyed. 

Jungkook pulls out quickly, as if the sight of it alone was about to make him come. A string of your saliva from his tip drips onto your chest and he slides into your mouth again just to poke your cheek, just to mimic what you did with the lollipop. You whine, liking it so much, to the point that he drills this tender place of yours until he can’t take it enough. 

“Turn around.” You try to, but your legs are jelly. He manhandles you to the position he wants—on your knees, tits against the leather, arms around the headrest, the formerly abused cheek against it. “Hold onto it. Too bad we left bunny at home, huh?” 

Jungkook runs his cock across your pussy and you grind against it, needing the friction after the way he used you. You whimper for him. “She’s probably wondering where we are right now and why we’re taking so long.” 

“I’ll make it up to her.” He presses his length against your clit, encouraging you to use him back. “Rub your pussy like that on me, fuck.” He moves so it’s his tip that stimulates you. You ride him harder, moaning loudly against the leather. “You can make it up to her, too. Can ride her like I know you can. With a vibrator between your legs and hers, hm? How you like the sound of that?” 

You’re so close you could come in a second, but you don’t want it like this. You need him inside of you. “Shut up, I’m literally gonna come like this. Fuck me.” 

He fists your hair. Pain shoots up your scalp and he ruts into your heat. Fully. Until his pelvis collides with your ass. You scream. 

Lips by your ear. “Is this how you talk to your Daddy?” He begins to pump into your little tight hole. Mercilessly. The leather squeaks, a horrible, rapid sound that you can only faintly hear because all that your senses can focus on is his cock. “Your Daddy that loves you so much?” 

You come, pathetically. Sea and waves, palm trees that sway. Your legs tremble, but he keeps going, mouthing the shape of your ear. 

He tsks. “I’m gonna tell bunny on you. Maybe I’ll be the one who gets to fuck her while you watch.” He gives you a hard stroke, one that is followed by rapid thrusts that scramble your brain. “She’ll be so disappointed to hear how bad you’ve been, but I’ll make sure to tell her how hard I fucked it out of you.” 

Lifting you from the leather, he kneads your breasts, placing the lollipop in between and holding it up by squishing them. 

“Come on, get your lollipop.” He bounces your tits in his hands, signalizing you that he wants you to do it with your mouth. 

But you can’t do it. You come, majestically, your senses leaving you and wafting in the stuffed air of the car. Boneless, you sag in his arms. 

Jungkook coos. “You come so well around me that I’ll be good to you. You’re just a cockslut, aren’t you, baby? You just can’t help it, hm?” He puts the lollipop inside your mouth, chasing his so-needed release. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find the footsteps into that bliss that you left in your wake. He holds you like this, against him, tits spilling over his forearms as he jackhammers into you so hard that your whole body bounces, shakes and reacts to each grunt, to each whimper, to each kiss he presses onto your skin. 

With the little of the brain you have left, you decide to talk him through it—because he fucks you so good. 

“Come for me, Daddy, yes, please, fuck. Fill me up with your cum. I want it so bad, I want to feel you—” His cock twitches in you, but he continues, sloppily. “Yes, so good. That’s it. Come for your little girl, Jungkook.” A loud groan. A tight hold. A spurt of his cum inside your walls. You whimper and he fucks it deeper into you, giving you more of his liquid stars. “Jungkook, oh fuck, Jungkook, oh yes.” 

And it’s that never-ending litany of his name that helps him chase his high to the fullest. He kisses your neck hard in gratitude for helping him come, marking you, marking this memory. 

You stay like this for a little while. Sweaty, sticky, spent, breathing hard—lungs synced. 

A warm announcement sneaks to your heart, one that screams it into the drowsy skies once Jungkook pulls out of you, turns you around and, stealing your candy, kisses you. 

An announcement that you’re deeply and irrevocably in love with him. 

“You sounded just like me.” He finishes your lollipop for you, chewing the small bulby head as he dresses you and his cum spills onto your panties. 

Your smile is dopey, satisfied and you’re ready for sleep to take you, but Jungkook gets out of the car for a smoke. You think you need one, too, after what you’ve experienced together, and so you follow him out into the night on wobbly legs. 

He leans against his car, a cigarette in his mouth, one hand cupping the fire as he flicks his lighter to life. You wait until he puffs out the smoke into the air before you fold into the side of his body, stealing his cigarette and inhaling it, giving it back to him. 

Jungkook pats your head, rubbing your scalp, chin propped on it. “I didn’t mean what I said. You were perfect. I’m not telling shit to bunny, I promise.” 

You smile, fondly. Didn’t take his words seriously, not at all, but you’re grateful for the reassurement regardless. It’s just role-play, nothing else. 

“I know, baby,” you say, softly, massaging his stomach, going as far as under his shirt to feel his bare skin—ever so innocently. 

“I wanted to fuck you the moment you sat down. You’re just my little helper and because of that I’m glad we’re going home with my cum in your panties,” he whispers, placing the cigarette on your lips, so you can take a drag. “You deserve every drop.” 

You feel that familiar ache rooting in your core again, but you don’t think you can take another round. Jungkook lifts your chin, making you look at him. Twinkles, bigger than the ones of the stars up above, living in his soft eyes. That cute nose. Those pouty lips. His silky, dreamy heart that looks out for you and puts you first. 

The three words that you’ve never told him before rise up your body and you think now is the perfect occasion to say them. 

“I love you.” 

Wetness coats his eyes and the twinkles broaden, saturating them with an unfathomable, fulging light. He flicks his cigarette away, presses you closer to him and with his now free hand, he cups your face. Kisses you. For a long, long time. 

“I love you.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[pinkpurplesunrises]

She came back after the silence (but not before it broke you)

8500 words - the long story – Alexia Putellas x Reader – This may be heartbreaking but I promise you it'll be okay - Angst and Fluff - Mentions of grief - Please read with care.

Little bit longer than my other long stories. I hope that you like this one. I think it's one of my favorites that I have written so far. Please leave some feedback/what you think about it in the comments or in my inbox.

The silence in your house isn’t peaceful. It isn’t restful. Or soft. Or kind. It’s the kind of silence that hurts your teeth. That pushes against your chest until you forget how to breathe. It lingers in corners where laughter used to live. It fills up the spaces she left behind.

You never knew a house could sound so loud when it was empty.

You still keep two bowls in the kitchen. One for Pancho, and the other… well. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. It’s just a bowl. But you haven’t moved it in months. Sometimes you stare at it too long. You think… If I move it, it’s real. If I move it, she’s really not coming back.

Pancho watches you from across the room. His little white body curled on the rug. Those soft, round eyes always finding yours. You swear he knows. He doesn't whimper much anymore. He’s gotten quieter too.

She loved dogs from the beginning. Before she even had words, she’d crawl straight toward them in the park. Squealing with delight, hands stretched out like they were her long-lost friends. You used to panic a little. That instinct to protect. To pull her back. But she never hesitated. Not with dogs. Not with anything, really.

That’s why you got Pancho.

You were 22. Exhausted, barely scraping by. And everyone told you it was a terrible idea. But you did it anyway. She had just turned two. And when she met him… when she wrapped her arms around his fluffy neck and whispered a name you didn’t quite catch, Poncho?, you knew it was right. That was her dog. He was meant to grow up with her.

And he did. For a little while.

You think about the way she used to sit with him in her lap like he was a baby. Even when he got too big, too squirmy, she’d insist. “He likes it, Mama,” she’d say. “He told me.”

You’d play along, of course. Because when she smiled like that, the world made sense.

God, you miss her voice.

When she got sick, he never left her side. Not even once. Some days, you couldn’t get him to eat unless she told him to. She’d stroke his ears and say, “Be brave, Pancho. Like me.” And he’d nibble at his food just to make her happy.

Now, he barely eats. You don’t either. Food feels like a chore these days.

People stopped calling after the funeral. Maybe they think you’re doing okay, because you said the right things. You thanked everyone. You smiled tightly. You even managed a joke once, some bullshit about her being with the stars now, and someone clapped your back like you were so strong.

You’re not strong. You’re tired.

You talk to Pancho more than anyone else. Some days, he’s the only reason you get out of bed. You whisper to him in the early morning when the ache is unbearable. You say her name out loud because you don’t want to forget the sound of it.

Sometimes you find glitter still, stuck in the floorboards or wedged into the corners of the couch. That was her favorite thing. Glitter. Everything she touched looked like a craft store exploded on it. You used to hate it. Now, you run your fingers through the sparkle like it’s holy.

Her pink rain boots are still by the door.

Her toothbrush still in the cup.

There’s a crayon drawing on the fridge that says Mama + Me + Poncho, and you can’t even bring yourself to fix the spelling.

Everyone says time will heal it. That the sharp edges will dull. But they don’t know this kind of grief. They don’t know what it’s like to walk past a little girl’s bedroom and feel like you’re being crushed by your own ribs. They don’t know what it’s like to sleep in a bed that used to be her safe place. Her nest. Her world. Now covered in dust and memory.

They don’t know what it’s like to outlive her.

Seven months.

It’s been seven months since her tiny hand squeezed yours.

Seven months since the machines stopped.

Seven months since the last time you felt whole.

You curl up on the couch with Pancho and pull her old blanket over your legs. It still smells like her shampoo. Strawberries and sun. You cry into it without shame now. There’s no one around to see.

Pancho shifts closer, resting his chin on your knee. His eyes don’t blink. He just stares.

“I miss her,” you whisper.

He doesn’t make a sound.

But you think he knows exactly what you mean.

She was four years old when she met Alexia.

It had been a slow, quiet kind of beginning. You hadn’t been looking for anything serious. Not then, not with everything else in your life orbiting around a toddler, daycare runs, nap schedules, and the ache of trying to be both parents at once.

But Alexia came in like the sun does after weeks of rain. Steady. Warm. She wasn’t loud about it. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t push. Just showed up, again and again, until you realized you started breathing a little easier when she was around. Smiling more. Laughing… real laughs, the kind that made you tilt your head back without apology.

The first few dates were cautious. Nervous, even. You weren’t used to being looked at like that. Like someone wanted all of you, even the messy parts. You told her about your daughter on the second date. Almost reflexively, expecting her to back away like some did. You watched her closely, bracing.

Instead, Alexia smiled soft and said, “You must be an incredible mother.”

You blinked. No one had ever said that before. Not like they meant it. You felt something shift in your chest.

The next weeks passed in snapshots. Late-night texts. Coffee dates squeezed in between work shifts. One kiss on your doorstep that made you forget what loneliness ever felt like. And then one night, after she stayed over and you lay curled into her chest. Her fingers tracing soft circles on your back, she whispered, “Whenever you’re ready… I���d like to meet her.”

You didn’t answer right away. Fear wrapped tight around your ribs. But you looked up at her. At those soft brown eyes, patient and sure. And you felt something deeper than fear.

So… a few weeks later, you brought her to the park.

Your daughter was wearing her favorite yellow overalls. Curls bouncing as she ran toward the swings. Already sticky from a cherry popsicle. You introduced them gently. Carefully.

“Sweetheart,” you said, kneeling, brushing a crumb from her cheek, “this is my special someone, Alexia.”

Your little girl squinted up, turned her head, and blinked at the woman standing just a few feet away. Then she grinned.

“Leli?” she said brightly, mishearing. Like kids do. And your heart stopped for just a beat.

Alexia laughed, surprised but delighted. “Leli,” she repeated, like she was tasting the name for the first time. “I like that.”

And from then on, she was Leli. To your daughter. To you. Not Alexia. Leli. As if the name had always belonged to her.

They clicked, almost immediately. You watched from the bench. Coffee cup cradled in your hands, as she pushed your daughter on the swing. Higher. Higher. Laughter rising with the breeze. And when your daughter stumbled on the woodchips, Alexia was already there. Crouched beside her, brushing dirt off her tiny palms.

That night, as you tucked her in, your daughter whispered, “Mama, can Leli come again?”

You smiled into her curls, kissed her forehead, and whispered back, “Yeah, baby. I think she will.”

And she did. Again and again.

Movie nights with popcorn and mismatched pajamas. Soccer matches where your daughter clung to her side, shouting too loud even though she didn’t know the rules. Alexia always lifting her high into the air, spinning her until she squealed.

You weren’t just falling in love. You were watching someone else love the most precious part of you like she was theirs, too.

It wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever is. There were fights. Gaps. Long weekends where Alexia was away, chasing something you couldn't hold onto. Football taking her farther and farther from the life you built. And in the end, it wasn’t enough. She left.

And truthfully… you survived it. You missed her, sure. But you had your daughter. Your world. Your light.

What you didn’t realize back then, not fully, was that your daughter missed her too. Maybe even more.

Because to your little girl, she wasn’t just a person who came and went. She was Leli. The one who spun her around in the park. The one who tied her shoes. The one who never got tired of answering questions. Even the silly ones. Even the hard ones.

You didn’t speak of her much after she left. But sometimes, late at night, your daughter would still whisper, “Mama, where do you think Leli is?”

And you’d lie. Because what else could you do?

“Probably playing football, baby. That’s what she loves.”

Your daughter would hum, sleepily, and turn her face into your chest. “I hope she comes back one day.”

You would run your fingers through her hair. Your throat too tight to answer.

You had no idea then that grief would one day make you remember every word like it was etched in stone.

It had become part of your rhythm, the only thing resembling routine. Mornings were for sleeping in, or not sleeping at all. Afternoons for moving around the house like a ghost. But the evenings, those belonged to Pancho.

You wrapped the leash around your fingers slowly, letting the familiar click of the clasp ground you. Pancho sat patiently by the door, ears perked, tail giving the smallest of thumps when your eyes met. He always waited for you to be ready. Always.

The streets were quieter at this hour. The golden hour light dipped everything in amber. Storefronts, cars, tree trunks, even the old football goal rusting behind the community center. You passed it without flinching now. You’d gotten good at that. Not looking too long at the places that held the shape of her.

Pancho trotted beside you, nose to the ground, tail swishing lazily. His gait was slower these days. You were grateful for that. Grateful for the soft pull of his presence. Something that asked nothing of you except to keep walking.

The leash tugged gently. You followed his path without thinking.

The park was still there. The one with the green bench under the almond tree. The swing set had been repainted since. Brighter now, and the merry-go-round creaked with the weight of unfamiliar children. You didn’t come here often. It was too much most days. But today, for some reason, your feet carried you there anyway.

You stopped beside the bench. Not quite ready to sit.

Pancho sniffed at the base of the tree, then settled into a patch of grass that still held a bit of sun. You stayed standing, arms crossed against your chest. Watching.

A girl who looked nothing like yours squealed and chased a plastic football across the grass. Her mother called her name. Something soft and Spanish. The sound made something in you twist. Not in pain, exactly. But something close.

You closed your eyes.

And then, through the air. Real and impossible. You heard it.

“Pancho?”

Not a question. Not a memory. A voice.

That voice.

You turned slowly. Not because you didn’t know who it was. But because you did. You would know it anywhere.

There, just a few steps behind you, stood Alexia.

She looked older. Worn in places that once were smooth. Her hair longer, tied back in a loose braid. She wore a hoodie you didn’t recognize and track pants that still hung on her the way they always had. Comfortable. Careless.

Her eyes met yours.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

The moment stretched, quiet and full. The way it always did in the seconds before something breaks.

Pancho moved first. He let out a soft whine and trotted toward her. Tail wagging like he’d just remembered a dream.

She crouched instinctively. Her hand reaching to scratch his ears. “Still the same, huh?” she murmured, barely loud enough for you to hear.

You stayed rooted in place. Mouth dry. Heart pounding. You didn’t know what to do with your hands. With your face. With the sudden wave crashing through you, made of everything you’d spent years trying to forget and everything you never wanted to lose.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said finally, standing.

“I didn’t think…” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t think you’d remember this place.”

She smiled, but it was faint. Almost guilty. “I never forgot.”

You looked down at Pancho, who now sat between you both like a bridge. Like he belonged to two people again.

There were too many things you could say. Where were you? She waited for you. I waited for you. She died. She’s gone.

But all you could manage was, “It’s been a while.”

Alexia nodded. Her eyes softened, and in them. God, you saw it.

The sorrow.

The weight.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Too long.”

You looked at her again, really looked. She was still beautiful. Still carried herself like the world asked too much of her. But she looked tired now in a way you hadn’t seen before. Hollowed out around the edges. And you wondered, for a brief and aching second, if she had grieved too.

If she had known.

If she had come back, too late.

She reached into her coat pocket. Pulled something out. A photo. It was worn. Bent at the corners. You didn’t have to look at it to know what it was. You knew the one. Your daughter on Alexia’s back. Arms wrapped around her neck. Both of them laughing so hard their eyes were shut.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“I kept it,” she said, holding it out. “I kept all of it.”

You took it without a word. Your fingers brushed hers.

And for the first time in years… you didn’t feel alone.

You remember the exact day the photo was taken.

The sun was too bright for September. The kind of afternoon where you had to squint even with sunglasses on. Your little girl had insisted on wearing her tutu over her shorts. Pink. Layered. Ridiculous. And Alexia hadn’t even blinked. Just said, “Looks perfect, princesa,” and helped her clip a plastic butterfly in her hair.

You’d gone to the lake just outside the city. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere green. You brought sandwiches and apple juice. Alexia brought her old instant camera. The one with the chipped corner and the taped-up back. She always said film made moments more real.

Your daughter couldn’t stop bouncing. She ran ahead of you both, arms spread like wings, narrating every bird and bug and cloud. She was in that stage where everything was a story. Everything a discovery. You remember thinking, and not for the first time, that she made the world feel new again.

Alexia carried the cooler in one hand and the camera slung over her shoulder. At some point, she glanced over at you with that smile. The one that pulled up just a little more on the left. The one that always made your chest go warm.

“She’s happy,” she said.

“She always is around you,” you’d answered, without even thinking.

That made Alexia pause. Just a moment. But it was enough. She looked at the ground, then at you, and you knew she wanted to say something. But your daughter was already tugging at her hand, shouting, “Leli! Leli, piggyback! Pleaaaase!”

Alexia chuckled and knelt without hesitation. “Get on, boss,” she said. And your daughter squealed. Launching herself onto her back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took the camera then. Just on instinct.

“Say cheese!”

“Nooo,” your daughter giggled. “Say Leli!”

They both said it at the same time, laughing.

Click.

That was the photo.

Alexia with her back turned just slightly. Your daughter’s arms clinging around her neck. Their heads tilted toward one another. Foreheads almost touching. Both of them laughing so hard you could almost hear it in the image.

You remember holding the photo in your hands while the film dried, waving it gently. Your daughter reached for it, leaving tiny sticky fingerprints on the corner, already declaring, “This one goes in my room.”

But it didn’t.

Because when Alexia left, she took it with her.

You’d forgotten that, actually. Or maybe you’d just chosen to forget. So much of those months blurred into vague outlines. Your daughter asking where Leli was with increasing silence. The empty doorframe. The way Pancho used to sit by the window. Waiting.

But seeing the photo again, today, bent and worn in Alexia’s hands. It was like being hit in the chest with the warmth and the ache at the same time.

You held it carefully now, by the edges. Still a little surprised that after everything, she’d kept it.

“I didn’t have anything else of her,” Alexia said quietly beside you now, as the sky began to darken in that park. “I thought… if I lost this, I’d lose her too.”

Your throat clenched. Words jammed up behind your teeth. You wanted to scream. You wanted to ask why she hadn’t come back. Why she left. Why she hadn’t known your daughter died loving her still.

But instead, all you could manage was a whisper.

“She never stopped asking about you.”

Alexia looked away, her jaw tightening. She rubbed the back of her neck like she used to when she was nervous. “I wanted to come back,” she said. “I thought I had time.”

You swallowed, eyes on the photo.

“She called you Leli until the end.”

Silence.

Then Alexia broke, just a little. You saw it. Her eyes went red at the rims, her breath catching like something fragile inside her had cracked open.

“She was the only one who called me that,” she said.

You nodded. “I know.”

You didn’t move. Just sat on the bench together. Pancho curled beneath you both like a thread still tying her to this earth.

And in your hands, the photo.

Still warm.

Still hers.

Still yours.

Still Leli’s.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there on the park bench. Maybe minutes. Maybe lifetimes. Time had a way of bending around Alexia. It always had.

Pancho had dozed off at your feet, snoring softly. You traced the corner of the photograph with your thumb, careful not to smudge it. The sky was darker now, the kind of deep blue that only shows up when the sun’s fully gone but the streetlights haven’t quite kicked in.

Alexia shifted beside you.

You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Not yet.

“I…” she started, then stopped. You could feel the way her hands fidgeted in her lap. The way her shoulders sat just a little too high. She was nervous. That was new.

“I was gonna keep walking when I saw you,” she said after a beat. “I didn’t know if I should… say anything.”

You didn’t answer. Not to be cruel. Just because you weren’t sure what truth might come out if you opened your mouth. And not all of them were gentle.

“But then I saw Pancho,” she added, with the ghost of a smile. “Couldn’t really pretend that wasn’t real.”

You glanced down at the dog. His soft belly rising and falling. Your little girl used to call him “Panchito,” like a cartoon sidekick.

“She used to tell people he was her brother,” you said quietly.

Alexia’s smile faded, slow and soft. Her eyes flicked to you, and something passed over her face. Recognition, maybe. Or knowing. Or guilt.

“I figured,” she said finally. “I mean… when I saw you alone. And there was… something in your face. Just…” She swallowed. “Something.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

She didn’t say sorry. She didn’t say what happened? or are you okay? or any of the other things people say when they want to offer comfort but don’t want to touch the wound. Instead, she just let the space sit between you. Respectful and quiet. Like she knew you weren’t ready to let her all the way in again. Not yet.

Her voice broke the silence. Careful.

“Do you maybe…” She rubbed the back of her neck again, eyes on the pavement now. “Do you wanna get a coffee or something? You don’t have to talk. I just…” Her shoulders lifted in a soft shrug. “I just want to sit with you.”

It was so simple.

So ordinary.

And yet you felt your pulse thud hard behind your ribs. Like the earth had tilted an inch to the left. You hadn't had coffee with someone in… months. Not like that. Not someone who knew the name of your dog or the nickname your daughter made up without even trying.

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at her instead. Really looked.

Alexia didn’t look like someone who had it all together. Not tonight. Not even close. She looked like someone who was scared to be here. Scared to be wrong. Scared to reach. But she was reaching anyway.

And maybe that was enough.

You inhaled through your nose. Exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” you said, voice soft. “I could do coffee.”

Her eyes lifted. Cautious. Almost surprised.

“I know a place,” she offered, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s still open. Not too far.”

You nodded again.

She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. Waited for you to get up. You slid the photo gently into your coat pocket. Not quite ready to let go of it just yet.

Pancho stretched, yawned dramatically, then trotted to your side like he'd heard the whole exchange and approved.

Alexia fell in step beside you as you walked.

Neither of you said much. Not yet.

But the space between you was no longer empty. It was beginning to fill… with steps, with breath, with a small sliver of something that felt like forgiveness… or the shape of it.

You weren’t ready to talk about your daughter. Not now. But you had the photo. You had Pancho. And for the first time in a long, long while… you weren’t walking home alone.

The coffee shop smelled exactly the same. Warm, with the rich aroma of espresso and cinnamon. And just a faint hint of old wooden tables rubbed smooth by years of hands and laughter.

You stepped inside and paused for a moment. The memories washing over you like a gentle tide. This was the place where everything had begun. Where you were going to meet Alexia’s mom, Eli, and her sister, Alba, for the first time with your daughter.

You remembered how nervous you’d been. The small knot in your stomach as you held your daughter’s hand. Trying to keep her from spilling her juice or running wild between the chairs.

Alexia had been different then. Relaxed, radiant, all fire and softness at once. She had introduced you to her family like you were already part of the story.

Your little girl, shy at first, soon grew comfortable under their easy affection.

At one point, she tugged on Eli’s sleeve. Looking up with those wide, curious eyes and asked in her soft innocent voice, “So you’re Leli’s momma?”

Eli smiled, a laugh caught somewhere between surprise and joy. “I guess I am,” she said, her eyes shining.

Your daughter beamed. “I like Leli,” she declared proudly. As if announcing a secret treasure.

Alexia had looked over at you then. Her smile small and full of something tender. Hope, maybe, or a promise.

The memory was both a balm and a sting.

Now, sitting here beside Alexia… the same sunlight spilling through the window, you felt the weight of all that had been and all that might never be again.

Alexia reached across the table and gently squeezed your hand.

“You remember that day?” she asked softly.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “How could I forget?”

She gave a small, sad smile. “She was so full of love. It’s why I couldn’t walk away. Not really.”

You looked at her, really looked, and saw the pain behind her eyes. The regret.

“Neither could I,” you whispered.

The café around you buzzed quietly with strangers’ conversations and the clink of cups. But in that moment, it felt like just the two of you. Two people who had once held the same light… lost it, and maybe… just maybe, were finding their way back to it.

The café felt like a small sanctuary from the world outside. The soft hum of the espresso machine. The murmur of other patrons. The clinking of cups. All wrapped around you both like a quiet, protective bubble.

You and Alexia sat across from each other. The evening light casting warm pools across the table. Pancho lay curled beneath your chair, his breathing steady and calm.

You talked about small things first. The kind of easy, everyday chatter that felt almost strange after so much time.

“Have you been practicing any new recipes?” you asked, nodding toward the half-empty plate of a flaky croissant she had ordered.

Alexia chuckled softly. “You know me… always experimenting. Last week, I tried a lavender honey cake. It was… interesting.”

You smiled, the corner of your lips twitching upward. “Lavender honey? That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

She grinned. “Maybe next time I’ll bring you some.”

For a moment, the past felt less heavy. You talked about the neighborhood. How the bookstore down the street had closed. How a new mural had gone up on the community center wall. You told her about a new park bench you’d found by the river. Where you sometimes went to watch the sunset with Pancho.

Alexia listened, really listened. And in turn, shared bits about her own life. The quieter moments away from the pitch. The books she was reading. The music she’d been meaning to learn on guitar.

Nothing about loss. Not yet.

When you finally left the café, the sky had softened into shades of rose and lavender. The walk back to your apartment was slow. Pancho weaving happily between your feet. The air filled with the scent of evening blooms and fresh rain.

Once inside, you offered Alexia a seat on your worn couch. She settled down, hands folded in her lap, eyes quiet but alert.

You moved to the small wooden shelf where you kept some of your daughter’s things. Drawings, tiny shoes, a battered stuffed bunny with one ear half-chewed by Pancho.

From there, you took a small, folded note. Worn at the edges and almost faded with time.

You remembered when your daughter gave it to you.

It was one of the quieter days at the hospital. The kind where the machines beeped softly in the background like lullabies and the hallway lights dimmed just enough to pretend you were somewhere softer than this.

Your daughter was curled up in bed, small and pale under the heavy white blanket. Her head resting against her favorite stuffed bunny. The one Pancho had chewed years ago but she never let go of. Her cheeks were a little sunken, her voice weaker than it had been the week before, but her eyes still had that impossible light in them. That sparkle she never let go of, even when her body started to.

You were sitting by her side, brushing her hair back gently, the way she liked. She looked up at you and smiled in that crooked, sleepy way that always made your chest ache with something like wonder and grief at once.

“I made something for Leli,” she whispered, her fingers pulling at the edge of the blanket.

You blinked. “You did?”

She nodded and fished around beside her pillow until she pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. The corners were bent, and there was a little sticker on the front. Aa heart with glitter, half-peeled. Her handwriting was messy, uneven. But it was hers.

You took it from her gently, fingers brushing hers. “Should I read it?”

“No, no. Not now,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “You gotta give it to her. When she comes back.”

Your heart clenched. That familiar ache. That impossible hope.

“Baby…” You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know if Alexia would come back. You didn’t know what kind of world your daughter believed in. One where people always returned. One where love never fell apart. But you nodded anyway. “Okay. I will.”

She looked up at you then, eyes wide and serious in that strange way kids sometimes got when they understood more than they should.

“You have to stay open for her, Mamá.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean, mi amor?”

She fiddled with the blanket, looking down. “Leli always made everything feel… like the sun was out. Even when it wasn’t. Even when it was rainy or yucky or you were sad. She made everything go ‘whoosh!’ like a rainbow.” She giggled softly, then coughed. “So you can’t close the door. Not all the way. Not even if you feel broken in the middle.”

Your throat closed. You reached for her hand and held it against your cheek.

“Why not?” you whispered.

She leaned into you, tired but sure. “Because if she comes back and the door’s locked, she won’t knock. She’ll think it’s too late. And then you’ll both be lonely forever. And no one gets the rainbow.”

You couldn’t answer. You just held her. Tight.

“Stay open, Mamá,” she mumbled again. Eyes fluttering shut. “Please.”

And that was it. The soft beginning of goodbye. The last real request she ever gave you.

You stayed open. Even when it hurt. Even when it made no sense. Even when you were sure Alexia had long stopped looking for the door.

But now she was here.

Back in your apartment.

Sitting on your couch. Unfolding that very same piece of paper.

And outside, beyond the windowpane, the light was just starting to change. Pale and golden. The kind your daughter used to call “the Leli light.”

Like the sun knew something had finally found its way home.

Alexia unfolded the paper slowly, as if it might fall apart in her hands.

It had been folded so many times the creases were soft and worn. The paper itself thinner now. Fragile with time. The glitter sticker on the front… a heart, faded pink. Had lost most of its sparkle, but still clung on, just like your daughter had.

Alexia stared at it for a long moment before she opened it fully, and you saw her mouth part… just slightly… when she saw what was inside.

It wasn’t just a note. It was a picture, drawn with thick, unsteady crayon lines. That unmistakable way kids have of trying to fit the entire world into one page.

There were two stick figures: one taller, with scribbled red hair, and one smaller, wearing what looked like a purple crown.

“That’s her,” you said softly. “She always drew herself with a crown.”

Alexia laughed once under her breath. Something tight in her chest catching the sound. “She said she was queen of the dogs.”

“She was.”

Next to them… drawn between the two stick figures was a big, lumpy circle with four crooked legs and a tongue sticking straight out of its mouth. “Pancho,” Alexia whispered, almost to herself.

Above it all was a sun, bright yellow. With rays shooting in every direction. The way kids do when they haven’t yet learned that light is invisible but real.

And under the drawing… in that uneven, shaky handwriting, were the words:

For Leli You’re my sunshine when it rains. I made this so you don’t forget me. I won’t forget you. Love, Me (the queen)

You felt the breath leave Alexia in a sharp, quiet sound. She pressed her fingers over her mouth for a second. Then looked at you like she couldn’t speak, or maybe that if she tried something in her would break open too wide to come back from.

“She didn’t,” you whispered. “Forget you. Not even for a day.”

Alexia nodded, blinking fast. Her eyes glassy. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“She didn’t need you to say anything,” you told her. “She just wanted you to know. That you mattered to her. That you were real. And that she was holding space for you, even when she was the one running out of time.”

Alexia set the drawing in her lap and stared at it like it was something holy.

“She made it the week she stopped walking,” you added. Voice thinner now. “She was so tired. But she asked for the crayons. She asked for purple, because she said Leli would like a queen best.”

Alexia covered her face for a moment, and you let her.

You both sat in the quiet. The weight of that little note stretching around you like a thread. Delicate, but unbreakable. You thought about how small things carry the biggest truths. About how a child’s crayon drawing could hold more love than a hundred conversations.

“She gave me this,” you said softly, “but it was never really meant for me.”

Alexia looked up at you then, red-rimmed eyes and something raw in her chest open wide. “I’ll keep it,” she whispered. “Forever. I swear.”

You believed her.

And somewhere, deep in the quiet. The smallest bit of light began to shift. As if a crown, drawn in purple crayon, had finally found its place.

Reconnection wasn’t a soft movie montage.

It was uneven. Awkward at times. Two people walking through the same fog. Reaching out. Unsure if they were grasping the other’s hand or their own shadow.

There were days Alexia texted and you didn’t answer. There were nights she’d ask, “Can I stop by?” and you’d stare at the phone too long before typing “Maybe.”

Pancho always greeted her like no time had passed. Like some hearts are smart enough to just forgive.

But for you… it was slower.

Some days you wanted to fall into her arms. Some days you wanted to scream.

And then, one night, weeks after the café, after the drawing, after you let her hold your grief in her hands without dropping it… she stayed for dinner.

It was quiet. You made lentil soup. The kind your daughter used to love. You didn’t even realize what you were making until it was already simmering.

Alexia complimented it, not knowing.

You both sat on the couch afterward. The night pressing soft and silent against the windows. The lamp casting gold over the room. Pancho lay between you. His tail twitching in sleep.

“I keep thinking about that day,” Alexia said quietly. “The one when I left.”

Your heart stilled. You’d talked around it before, but never… into it.

You didn’t look at her. Just traced your finger along the rim of your mug. “You were always going to leave, weren’t you?”

Alexia’s voice was a whisper. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You really did. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You set the mug down and finally looked at her. “I was angry,” you admitted. “For a long time. Not just at you. At the world. At everything. But also at you.”

She nodded, eyes full but steady. “I deserved that.”

You shook your head. “I wasn’t fair either. I knew who you were. I knew football was your life. But you became part of ours, too. You let her call you Leli. You gave her something to believe in. Then you were just… gone.”

Alexia closed her eyes. “I didn’t know how to hold it all. The pressure. The fear. I thought maybe you’d be better without me…”

“Don’t,” you said. Not angry, just tired. “Don’t pretend it was noble.”

She nodded again. No defense. No excuse. Just that silence of someone who knows they broke something and isn’t sure it can ever be pieced back the same.

You leaned back. Looking up at the ceiling. Blinking against tears you weren’t expecting.

“She asked about you for months,” you whispered. “Every night. ‘When is Leli coming back?’ ‘Can I call her?’ And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want her to think love just disappears.”

“I never stopped loving you, I never stopped loving her,” Alexia said, voice haorse.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t leave,” you replied, and it hung there. The truth. Sharp and honest.

For a moment, it felt like too much.

But then Alexia said, “I’m sorry. Not just for leaving. For not being brave enough to try harder. For letting her down. For letting you down. I think about it all the time.”

You nodded slowly. “I believe you.”

And maybe that’s what changed.

Not forgiveness. Not yet. But belief. The idea that someone could be sorry and still love you. That two things could live in the same room: hurt and hope. And neither had to win just yet.

You leaned your head against the couch cushion, closer to her but not touching. Not yet.

She didn’t move either. Just sat beside you. Breathing with you. Through all that had been lost. Through all that might still be found.

You didn’t say yes right away.

Alexia had asked in the gentlest way possible. Half a question, half a hope. “We’re having dinner this Sunday. At my mom’s. Eli would love to see you. And Alba too. You can bring Pancho.”

She smiled when she said that last part, as if knowing it was the only way to tip the scale.

You said you’d think about it.

And you did. For days.

You remembered the last time. Years ago. You remembered the butterflies twisting in your stomach. Trying on two different dresses, and your daughter whispering, “You look like a princess, Mamá,” before skipping down the hallway in her glitter shoes.

She’d insisted on bringing her hand-drawn card for Eli. Said it was important that “Leli’s momma knows I like her.”

You remembered how sweet Eli was. How Alba made her laugh so much your daughter spit water across the table and everyone laughed harder. How the warmth of that house had wrapped around you like a blanket. You remembered thinking: Maybe this is a kind of home too.

And then it all fell apart.

The day arrived faster than you expected.

Alexia was outside your apartment building before you were even fully ready. Her car parked quietly on the street. Windows down just enough to hear the soft hum of the city.

You stepped out, heart fluttering. Dressed in something simple but carefully chosen. You’d changed your outfit three times, pacing in front of the mirror.Trying to decide what felt right. Something that said, I’m here. I’m ready. But please be gentle.

Alexia’s eyes caught you the moment you stepped onto the sidewalk.

“You look beautiful,” she said softly. Voice almost shy, as if telling you something precious.

You blinked, cheeks warming. “Thank you.”

She stepped closer, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Warm, familiar, and just a little nervous too.

“Are you nervous?” she asked gently.

You nodded, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “Like I haven’t been before.”

She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “We’ll take it slow. No pressure.”

Pancho barked happily at her feet. Wagging his tail, as if sensing the moment’s tenderness.

Alexia opened the car door for you, her hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary as you slid inside.

The drive was quiet but full of unspoken feelings. Outside, the city blurred past. But inside the car, time seemed to hold its breath.

When you arrived at her family’s house, the porch light glowed warm and inviting. The same gentle welcome you’d once known, and hoped to find again.

Eli was waiting on the porch. Her face lighting up with a smile that reached her eyes. “You look lovely,” she said, embracing you like family already.

Alba waved from inside, calling out cheerfully, “Don’t be shy! The wine’s waiting.”

Alexia stayed close beside you as you stepped inside, taking your coat and offering her hand. A quiet anchor in the swirl of memories.

And somewhere… in the corner of the room, your gaze landed on a photo you’d never noticed before. Your daughter, radiant and laughing. Draped in Alexia’s oversized training jacket. The two of them caught in a moment that felt both distant and alive.

It winded you, gently but deeply. But instead of looking away, you let yourself stay with it. Let yourself feel it.

Dinner was soft and warm. The room filled with easy laughter, gentle teasing, and the small magic of being together again. Alba had made a salad that she proudly called “Pinterest-inspired,” and Eli’s roast was just as perfect as you remembered. Pancho made his rounds under the table. Tail brushing against ankles. Graciously accepting any crumbs that “accidentally” fell.

At one point, as you passed around a plate of bread, your voice came quieter than expected. “Can we set one more plate?”

The table paused, just for a beat.

You gave a small, almost shy smile. “Just… like old times.”

Eli didn’t hesitate. She stood. Walked to the cupboard, and pulled out a mismatched dish. Set it gently beside yours, smoothing the napkin with quiet care. No one questioned it. No one made it awkward.

Alexia’s fingers found yours under the table and squeezed. Soft. Grounding. Wordless.

Pancho curled up beneath your chair, sighing into sleep. As if he too felt the shift in the air. As if this strange and tender thing, grief and joy holding hands, was its own kind of peace.

Later, Eli brought out the cake. Simple, apple and cinnamon. Your daughter’s favorite. She placed it in the center of the table. Lit a single candle. And said with a voice warm and sure, “For her. For the light she left with us.”

You looked around the table. Eli, steady and kind. Alba, leaning on one elbow, smile soft. Alexia, eyes only on you.

You felt something fragile stir in your chest. Something like hope, or memory, or maybe both tangled together.

You looked at that empty plate and didn’t feel broken this time.

Just full of love that still had somewhere to go.

Alexia caught your eye and didn’t look away.

And in that moment, for the first time in a long, long while… you knew. You weren’t alone.

The drive home was quiet.

Alexia had offered to bring you back, and you hadn’t hesitated this time. There was something about how she opened the car door, how her hand brushed the small of your back as you slid in. That made it feel natural. Like she had never stopped looking out for you.

Pancho slept in the backseat, twitching occasionally. Chasing something in his dreams. Streetlights flickered through the windshield in a slow rhythm, painting your joined silhouettes in gold and shadow.

You didn’t speak. Neither of you needed to.

At your apartment building, she walked you to your door. Out of habit. Or maybe instinct. You turned the key and opened it wider than usual.

"Do you want to come in?" you asked.

She just nodded.

Once inside, it was like the quiet swelled. The door clicked shut behind her. You dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. Pancho made his way to his bed in the corner with a soft groan. Curling in on himself like a punctuation mark.

Alexia stood in the middle of the living room. Her arms crossed. Not coldly, but like she was holding herself together. Her eyes drifted over the shelf. The photos. The bunny. The quiet absence that filled the space like breath.

You didn’t press her. You just stepped beside her,. Close. But not touching.

And then, suddenly, she broke.

It didn’t start loud. Just a breath that caught wrong. Her shoulders shook. She brought a hand to her mouth like she could stop it from coming. But it came anyway.

A sob tore from her chest, muffled by her palm. She turned slightly, as if ashamed to be seen like this. But you were already moving toward her.

You didn’t say anything. You just wrapped your arms around her. Held her like she had once held you when the baby cried through the night. Held her like you were remembering how to do it after years apart.

She collapsed into you.

All the years she’d spent being strong. On the pitch. In interviews. In the spotlight. Came undone in the curve of your neck.

“I should’ve been there,” she choked out. “I should’ve… I left. I left both of you.”

Your own tears had already been falling quietly. But now they came harder, your chest rising and falling against hers.

“I was so angry,” you whispered. “I was so angry, and then I wasn’t anymore. I just got tired. And then she got sick, and… God, Alexia, she kept asking for you.”

“I know,” she cried, forehead pressing into your collarbone. “I knew something happened. I could feel it. I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t know how to come back.”

“She never stopped loving you,” you said, voice breaking. “Even when I thought I’d forgotten how. She didn’t. Not once.”

You both stood there. Wrapped around each other like survivors.

The grief was heavy, but shared now. Spoken. Allowed.

You pulled away just enough to look at her. Cupping her face in your hands. Brushing tears from her cheeks with your thumbs.

“She left you something,” you said softly. “That note. That drawing. But she left more than that.”

Alexia met your eyes, blinking through the blur. “What else?”

“She left a door open. For us,” you said. “Even when I couldn’t see it. She did.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke again.

You just held on.

A year later.

You woke slowly to the soft warmth of early light curling in through the bedroom curtains. The morning was quiet. Gentle. Golden sun spilling over tangled sheets. Dust dancing in the air like confetti waiting to fall.

Alexia lay beside you. Face turned toward yours. Bare and beautiful in that utterly unguarded way people only are in the quiet of dawn. Her chest rose and fell in soft rhythm. One arm thrown across the blanket. Your blanket now. The one you’d chosen together.

You stayed there a moment, just watching her. Her hair was a mess. Your favorite kind. Her cheek still held a faint flush from the night before. The way she had kissed you like she’d been carrying a year’s worth of longing in her skin. The way you’d held her like home.

You hadn’t made love like that in years. Maybe not ever. Not with that kind of intention. Not with so many words said without speaking.

You rolled gently toward her. Your leg brushing hers, and she stirred with a little sigh. Her eyes fluttered open. Sleepy. Soft. Familiar.

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough and real.

“Hi,” you smiled, voice just as full.

She blinked, then reached for you. Her fingers skimmed over your hip. Pulled you in closer. Skin to skin. Warm and quiet. Sacred.

“I have a Champions League final in, like… eight hours,” she mumbled against your neck.

You grinned. “Guess we should’ve slept.”

Her laugh rumbled low in her throat. “Worth it.”

You stayed in bed longer than you should have. Made coffee together in the kitchen half-dressed, Pancho trailing behind like a sleepy shadow. He still loved her, had never stopped. He slept at her feet during team talks on FaceTime and barked whenever she was on TV.

And today, she wasn’t just on TV.

Today was the day.

The first Women’s Champions League final ever played in Camp Nou. A packed house. A sea of blaugrana. The weight of a legacy pressing against her shoulders.

And she walked into it like she was born for it.

You were there, of course. In the stands. Scarf around your neck. Your heart in your throat the moment she jogged out onto the pitch, captain’s armband snug around her bicep. You’d seen her lift trophies before, but this… this was different.

This was a season she’d fought for. Cried for. Rebuilt herself for.

And she won.

She won everything.

La Liga. Copa de la Reina. Spanish Super Cup. And now, Champions League.

All four trophies. All of them hers.

The final whistle blew and the stadium roared. The air electric with history. Confetti burst into the sky, and Alexia dropped to her knees, face to the grass, arms lifted. Her teammates swarmed her, laughter and tears and pure, breathless joy.

You found her in the chaos. Pressed against the barrier near the pitch. She ran to you.

Grinning. Flushed. Radiant.

And she pulled you into a hug over the railing that felt like every version of “we made it” crashing together.

Security looked the other way as Pancho wriggled free from your bag. His paws hitting the grass like he was made for it too.

The team laughed and cooed. Scooping him up like a mascot. He wore a little Barça jersey. Tail wagging like he knew.

And then… Alexia turned.

From inside her duffel. Wrapped carefully in a ziplock bag to protect it from the champagne and the chaos. She pulled it out.

A photo.

Your daughter. Toothy smile. Wearing Alexia’s jacket and a Barça scarf that nearly swallowed her whole.

Alexia held it up high for the camera. Framed by teammates and silver trophies and history.

You watched her eyes shine. Not just with victory, but with something deeper.

She kissed the photo once. Then looked at the camera.

“For her,” she said.

And you snapped the photo.

Her holding the trophies.

Her holding her.

You printed it that night. Framed it. Hung it in your shared home. Next to the bunny with one chewed ear. The note with the faded ink, and a key that had been lost and found again.

Love didn’t always look like fairy tales. But sometimes, if you were brave enough to stay open…

It looked like this.

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hi :)) could your write dazai, chuuya, and ranpo rescuing fem reader when they get kidnapped (seperate plz)

Tyy :33

BSD Characters Reacting to Reader Getting Kidnapped

A/N: I saw your other message in the inbox where you explained Ranpo’s story a bit more, about the kidnapping happening at the same time as the Decay of Angels arc. I decided to give it a try and hope I got everything right, since I haven’t finished that season yet. But because I didn’t have to fully describe what happened during the arc (just mention that it was over) I hope I didn't make mistakes and still wrote it like you wanted it!

content/warnings: Ranpo, Dazai, Chuuya, canon-typical blood and violence, angst & fluff, 3.653 words

Ranpo

The world had been saved.

The clock was ticking down on catastrophe, and Ranpo Edogawa had once again outsmarted the monsters hiding beneath polished boots and pristine uniforms. The Decay of Angels, the terrorism accusations, the Hunting Dogs—solved. Every twisted knot, unraveled by his mind like a magician untying silk scarves.

The world was safe.

So why the hell did it feel like he'd lost everything anyway?

His steps echoed through the empty halls of the abandoned warehouse, polished shoes clicking against cracked concrete. The scent of rot, sweat, and blood mixed with the metallic tang of regret, curling in his throat like smoke.

He should have come sooner.

No deductions were needed to tell him that.

And then he saw you.

Slumped in that chair like a broken doll, wrists tied raw, face swollen and bruised, split lip trembling with each shallow, rattling breath you took. Your clothes torn, blood drying at the collar of your shirt.

Ranpo stopped breathing entirely.

For once in his life, his mind—the great, brilliant mind of the world's greatest detective—felt useless. He couldn't think past the roar in his ears, the ice-cold dread creeping down his spine, locking up his lungs, cracking his chest open like fragile glass.

"Y/N…" The word tumbled out of his mouth like a child's first broken whisper, raw and helpless.

Movement behind him—one of the kidnappers raising a gun, barking some order—

Didn't matter.

Before Ranpo even blinked, the thunder of footsteps rang out, Kunikida's sharp voice cutting through the noise: "Now!"

Gunfire. Screams. The thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Ranpo didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at them.

The others could take care of that. They should take care of that. That was what they did. He was the mind—they were the hands.

His only focus was you.

He dropped to his knees, the impact sharp on bone, barely noticing. His gloves stained red as he cupped your bruised face with shaking hands. "I'm here—I'm here now—" His voice cracked, something rare, something almost sacred. "I'm sorry. I should've—"

Another sharp inhale. He hated that sound. Hated how it echoed in the empty spaces between his ribs. Hated how fragile you felt beneath his touch.

"Ranpo…" Your voice, small but steady, broke him further. And then—that smile. Sweet. Forgiving. Warm like sunlight peeking through storm clouds. "It's okay… You had to save the world, after all. I knew you'd come."

Tears blurred his vision instantly.

"Don't—" His throat closed up. "Don't say that. How can you…? How can you smile like that?"

You blinked at him gently, eyelashes sticky with tears and blood, but still—still—you smiled.

"I know you did good… Ranpo."

The guilt cracked his chest open like a struck porcelain vase. He didn't deserve that smile. Didn't deserve you. Brilliant, arrogant, untouchable Ranpo Edogawa—reduced to a sobbing mess on a dirty warehouse floor.

Then—

A hand on his shoulder.

"Ranpo," Yosano said quietly, her knife gleaming faintly in the broken light. "It's okay. I've got her."

For once, there was no teasing in her voice. No menace. No sharp grin. Just quiet understanding.

"You know the procedure," she murmured, and Ranpo nodded, brokenly, helplessly, as she carefully pressed the blade to your skin.

You didn't even flinch. You were too far gone to notice. Already half-dead before she even touched you.

Ranpo clenched his fists until the nails bit through the thin leather of his gloves, until his knuckles ached.

But then came the glow of her ability, brilliant and warm, curling around you like soft silk. Your injuries knitting together, skin clearing, lips regaining color. Alive. Whole.

But asleep.

Of course you were.

Kenji offered, sweet as ever: "I'll carry her, Ranpo-san!"

Ranpo barely heard him. His arms were already curling around you, careful not to jostle you, but desperate to hold you close, to feel that you were warm, that you were here.

"I'll do it," Ranpo rasped, voice hoarse, weight heavy in his chest. "I have to."

No deductions could save him from the truth he felt now:

Smartest man alive or not, he was utterly lost without you.

As Ranpo knelt on the floor in front of your shared bed that evening, your sleeping form tugged into the blankets, his hands clutching yours, the weight of it all finally hit him fully.

It wasn't that he hadn't thought of you. God, you were all he thought about.

From the very moment he got that call—the distorted voice on the other end, the static crackling like broken glass:

"We've got something of yours, detective. Should've kept your pretty little toy hidden."

And then the picture. Your face bloodied. Bound. Frightened.

He'd almost vomited.

But then, that very same day, the world came crashing down around them.

The Armed Detective Agency, terrorists. The Decay of Angels, the military, the Hunting Dogs—all pointed at them like loaded guns. His friends, innocent, all standing on the edge of execution.

One wrong move, and they would all die.

And you…you would still be gone. Still hurt. Still alone. He couldn't save you on his own.

It wasn't fair.

It shouldn't have come down to that.

But it had.

His mind had raced with calculations, deductions, timelines, outcomes. And no matter how many scenarios he ran, they all ended in the same, brutal way: If he chose you, everyone else died. If he chose them…maybe, maybe you'd still be alive by the time he got there.

He had gambled. Played the odds like a desperate man.

He'd chosen the world over you.

He had chosen everyone else.

And the guilt of that was something his sharp mind couldn't untangle, couldn't escape, couldn't fix.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, forehead pressing against your hand, his breath trembling against your skin. "I—I knew you were there, I knew you were hurting, I knew you needed me. And I left you."

The others all knew the choice he'd made. They all knew it was the only one that made sense.

Didn't mean it hurt any less.

"I could've solved it faster," Ranpo hissed through gritted teeth. "Should've been quicker, should've been smarter. I let them beat you like this because I wasn't good enough."

It didn't matter that the fate of hundreds had rested in his hands. It didn't matter that he'd outwitted one of the most dangerous organizations in existence.

None of that mattered if it meant you were lying in front of him like this. Broken.

A faint murmur left your lips. Barely audible.

He leaned closer.

���Ranpo…"

Even unconscious, you said his name like it was the sweetest thing in the world. Not angry. Not resentful. Just soft. Forgiving.

It shattered something in him.

The brilliant detective. The great mind. The undefeated genius.

All of it meant nothing if the person who made the world bright was forced to suffer because of him.

He'd saved the world.

But lost something far more precious in the process.

Ranpo climbed on the bed and held you tight, gently, protectively, like if he just held you closer, the broken pieces of himself might finally stop cutting into him.

Never again.

Next time, he promised—there won't be a choice.

Next time, he'd save you first.

Or burn the whole world down trying.

Dazai

The morning sun spilled over Yokohama's skyline in hues of gold, too soft, too peaceful for a day like this.

Osamu Dazai wasn't usually early—not for work, not for breakfast, and certainly not for meeting people. But you were… different. He wasn't sure what you were to him yet, not officially anyway. It was a silent dance you both performed around each other, hesitant steps forward, quick steps back, laughter in between like smoke—there but hard to hold.

But today, something gnawed at him. Maybe it was intuition, maybe just the self-destructive part of him that always assumed the worst. Either way, it dragged him to your apartment sooner than planned.

When he saw your door ajar, the world shifted.

"Y/N?" His voice was soft but sharp. Searching. Dread curled cold and coiled around his chest as he pushed the door open with slow, deliberate fingers.

The room told him everything before his brain could catch up.

The flipped coffee table, the overturned chair with one leg snapped clean off, the ripped curtains fluttering weakly in the summer breeze, like they too were gasping for help.

And then—that—the knife embedded into the wall, pinning a crumpled piece of paper.

His heart didn't stop—it sped up. Panic would have frozen someone else. Not Dazai. He was too used to destruction. But this—someone tearing apart your life, your home—was something he hadn't prepared for.

With careful steps, he approached the message and flattened the paper with his palm.

'If you want her back, you better hurry, Dazai.'

Beneath the words, crude and almost childish in execution, was a drawing: two stick figures—one holding a knife, the other lying in red scribbles, 'X's for eyes. But what drew his focus was the symbol scratched into the corner of the page: a crude imitation of a scorpion's tail, curled, dripping venom.

Recognition hit him like a blow to the stomach.

The brothers.

It felt like a different lifetime ago. One of them long dead. The other… vanished. Dazai remembered the man's eyes—empty yet burning—when they last met, the hunger for revenge boiling just beneath his polite smile.

And now—now the bastard had you.

For a moment, he stood perfectly still in the wreckage, the sunlight cutting across his sharp features, pooling shadows beneath his lashes. Something old stirred beneath his calm, something cold and sharp edged. Fear? No. It wasn't fear.

It was rage.

And beneath that, what terrified him the most:

He cared. God, he cared too much. And wasn't that the very thing he'd sworn never to do again?

Because loving something—someone—meant creating a weakness. And weaknesses got people killed.

But as his hand tightened into a trembling fist at his side, as his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, Dazai understood something clearer than any reasoning, clearer than any strategy:

It was already too late for that. You were already his weakness.

And he would burn the whole world to the ground before he let anyone take you from him.

Without another word, Dazai spun on his heel, trench coat sweeping behind him, as he strode toward the inevitable confrontation. He already knew exactly where they would take you.

The building was old—condemned, really—the kind of place people ignored because it was easier not to notice the rot in the cracks of the city.

It was fitting, Dazai thought grimly, that a man like him would choose somewhere already halfway to ruin.

As Dazai approached, the wind tugged lightly at his coat, but his steps were steady, deliberate. His mind was cold, sharp, honed like a blade on the edge of vengeance, but there—underneath it all—a tremor of something warmer, more dangerous:

Hope.

Hope that he wasn't too late. Hope that you were still—

No. No hoping. Dazai didn't deal in hope. He dealt in outcomes. Actions. Planning. Probability. And yet, even as he told himself that, he felt the hope anyway, blooming painfully in his throat like a bruise refusing to fade.

Kunikida's voice crackled in his earpiece. "We're in position. Don't go in alone—wait for backup."

A soft smile twitched at the corner of Dazai's mouth. "Since when do I ever follow instructions, hmm?"

"Dazai—"

But he cut the connection before Kunikida could finish, slipping inside through a broken side door. Silent. Focused.

The room smelled of mildew and rust. The quiet was too loud. And then—

A voice.

"I knew you'd come."

Dazai's eyes landed on you first, and everything else—everything else could burn for all he cared.

You were tied to a chair in the center of the room, ankles and wrists bound with coarse rope. Blood trailed sluggishly from a cut on your temple, drying into your hair. Your lip was split, an ugly bruise forming along your jaw, but—

Your eyes.

They locked on his, steady, unwavering, despite the pain. And you smiled. You actually smiled at him.

Something inside him cracked, but there wasn't time to fall apart.

"Touching, really," the voice sneered, stepping out of the shadows. The man was gaunt now, hollowed by grief and fury. His gun was steady, aimed right at your head. "You took everything from me. Now I take everything from you."

Dazai lifted his hands in mock surrender, stepping forward. His heart was screaming, but his expression was all lazy smiles and careless shrugs.

"I don't even remember your name," he said flatly. "That's how little you mattered to me."

The gun shook slightly, fury flaring in the man's eyes.

Good. Keep him angry. Keep him distracted.

"You should've stayed away," the man hissed. "You should've known this was coming."

"Probably," Dazai murmured. "But you made one mistake."

"Oh?" The barrel of the gun pressed harder to your temple now, making your breath catch—but your gaze never left Dazai's, never wavered. You trusted him. Even now, when you should've hated him for dragging you into this mess.

"And what mistake is that?" the man spat.

Dazai's smile sharpened, something lethal behind his calm eyes. "You assumed I was still alone."

Bang.

The gunman cried out, his hand spasming open as a single shot rang through the room, his pistol clattering uselessly to the floor.

Behind him, gun still smoking, Kunikida stepped into view with that usual scowl, adjusting his glasses.

"Idiot," Kunikida muttered to Dazai. "You said you wouldn't go in alone."

"I lied," Dazai said cheerfully. "Wouldn't be the first time."

The kidnapper tried to lunge for the gun, but Kunikida was faster—pinning him to the ground with practiced ease, handcuffs clicking into place.

Dazai didn't look at them. His focus was entirely on you as he rushed forward, falling to his knees in front of you.

Your breath was shaky, your lashes damp with pain, but you tilted your head and gave him that smile again. That damns mile that undid him more effectively than any weapon ever could.

"I knew you'd come," you whispered hoarsely.

For a second, Dazai just stared at you, unable to speak. All those carefully built walls—the ones he'd been fortifying for years—felt fragile now, like glass under a hammer.

And for once… he didn't care.

His hand cupped your bruised cheek, thumb brushing against the uninjured skin with trembling gentleness. "I'm sorry," he murmured, voice cracking around the words. "I never wanted to drag you into this."

"You didn't," you said softly. "You saved me."

And still—still—instead of breaking down, instead of confessing what he felt, Dazai just laughed, tired and bitter. "You shouldn't believe in me so easily."

You leaned your head lightly into his palm, closing your eyes for a moment. "But I do."

That terrified him more than any gun ever could.

Chuuya

It was supposed to be over.

That's what Chuuya kept telling himself every goddamn night, fists clenched beneath silk sheets that felt too cold without you next to him. He'd broken it off, hadn't he? For your sake. Because you didn't deserve the blood and filth of the life he was drowning in. And if walking away from you meant you could have some kind of peace, then that's what he would do.

Even if it killed him.

But now—now the universe proved just how cruel it could be.

It started with the vibration of his phone.

No name. Just a number. Foreign. Unfamiliar.

He almost didn't check it. Almost.

The picture made the world stop spinning.

You—bound to a chair, wrists red and raw from rope, face bruised, lip cracked, head bowed but eyes glaring at the camera like you refused to break. Blood stained your clothes. A cut on your cheekbone was fresh, still dripping.

Underneath the photo, the words:

'Shouldn't have left her alone.'

For a long, dangerous moment, Chuuya didn't breathe. His fingers curled around his phone until the glass cracked, spiderwebbing beneath his grip.

He felt the heat rising, the familiar hum of gravitational pull building around his boots, lifting small pebbles and dust as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do.

And what he wanted—no, needed—to do was burn them all.

It wasn't just Port Mafia business. Not anymore. He'd kept you out of it, hadn't he? You were supposed to be safe on the sidelines.

But that was the joke, wasn't it? Nothing about his life was safe.

They found his weakness.

You.

And they were going to regret that more than they regretted breathing.

His vision blurred with red, the gravitational pressure around him increasing dangerously. It would've been so easy. So easy to just let it go, to let that dark, beautiful power take over, to bring Corruption into the world and tear this entire city apart piece by piece, limb by limb, bone by bone until the people who laid a hand on you were nothing but stains in the dirt.

But one thought cut through the hunger for destruction:

If I lose control, I can't save her.

And that was the only thing that mattered.

With a snarl of frustration, Chuuya punched the nearest wall hard enough to dent the metal framework behind it. The pain grounded him, barely. His heart was a storm in his ribs.

He hated it. Hated this feeling of needing help. But there was one person who could keep him in check.

And, of course, it had to be him.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Chuuya called Dazai.

"Chuuya?" came the irritatingly amused voice after one ring. "Calling me? On purpose? What's the occasion, finally realized you're hopeless without me?"

"I swear to God, Dazai, if you don't shut up—"

"Oooh, someone's cranky."

"Listen, bastard. I—I need your help." He clenched his jaw, barely believing the next word would ever leave his mouth—not directed at Dazai, at least. "Please."

Silence. Not mocking this time. Heavy. Knowing that something was wrong.

"Send me the location."

Chuuya did. His fists were trembling now, not from fear—but fury.

"I'll be there," Dazai said, suddenly all business. "Try not to level the city before I arrive."

"No promises."

The warehouse was exactly what you'd expect: damp concrete, rusted beams, the smell of oil and rot clinging to every surface. The group that had you belonged to an old rival of the Port Mafia, scum that had been festering in Yokohama's shadows for years, always too cowardly to make a real move—until now.

You hung your head when they dragged you further into the room, blood dripping from your hairline, breathing ragged. But your eyes—

God, your eyes—when they lifted to meet Chuuya's as he walked in, slow, deliberate, deadly—you smiled.

You smiled at him.

That was it. That was the last thread of restraint snapping.

"You know," Chuuya said, taking off his gloves as the gravitational field began to shimmer visibly around him, distorting the very air, "I was gonna be nice about this."

The leader of the group laughed nervously, gun pressed to your temple. "You think you can scare me? You think we don't know who you are? You're nothing without—"

Crunch.

The man's sentence cut off with a scream as the gravity around his legs inverted, bones snapping grotesquely as his knees bent in directions knees weren't meant to go.

Chuuya's smile was sharp. Cruel.

"Oh, I know you know who I am," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And you still thought you could touch what's mine?"

More screaming. The other men tried to run.

Bad mistake.

One by one, he hunted them, crushing limbs, bodies, skulls like they were made of brittle porcelain. He didn't shoot. Didn't stab. Didn't waste that kind of mercy on them.

No. He crushed.

And when the leader finally fell to the ground, whimpering, begging, the blood pooling around him—

"That's what you get," Chuuya hissed, voice a rasp. "That's what you get for thinking you could touch her. I will—"

"Enough."

Dazai's hand clamped onto Chuuya's arm, his ability nullifying the gravitational pull instantly. The hum of raw destruction stopped mid-breath, and Chuuya staggered, glaring at Dazai with hatred and gratitude warring in his chest.

"Don't act like you're doing this for me," Chuuya spat.

"Oh, of course not," Dazai said mildly, releasing him. "I'm doing it for her."

Behind them, you let out a soft breath of relief, slumping forward, exhausted but alive. Alive because of them. Because of him.

Chuuya was at your side in an instant, undoing the ropes with trembling hands, careful not to touch the bruises on your wrists.

"Idiot," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You shouldn't have ever gotten dragged into this."

You caught his hand, squeezed it.

"Stop running, Chuuya," you said, your voice rough but steady. "They already know. It's too late to protect me from your world. The only thing you're doing by pushing me away is making it worse."

For once, Chuuya didn't have a sharp reply. Just a look of raw, naked fear. Not of dying, not of fighting, but of you. Of how much you meant to him.

He let out a shaky breath and dropped his forehead gently to yours. "Fine," he whispered. "You win. But don't expect me to go easy on anyone who tries this again."

You smiled—tired, bruised, beautiful. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Behind you both, Dazai rolled his eyes. "Romantic. Can I go home now?"

Chuuya flipped him off without looking.

Masterlist

[hyukascampfire]

(🏐) SALT & FOAM .. い葉 hard thoughts

𝓘N WHICH 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗼𝗻 𝗱𝘂𝘁𝘆 , 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝖾𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇'𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗄 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗃𝗈𝖻 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎

lifeguard태현 ⊹ fem r 8OO smut non idol . . . public sex unprotected sex perv/cocky tyun

⠀ɑ︭ : @luvsicktyun put this in my inbox. that's my taehyun brainrot buddy >.< LIFEGUARD TYUN? yum yum yum. this is literally my first hard thought so i'm still learning the ropes, but hopefully this one works! i keep wanting to write in-scene but idk if that works as well for hard thoughts. oh well! here we go hehe

The sun is no joke, beating down on Taehyun with a vengeance. He might as well just begin melting over his big red seat; something like ice cream down a cone. It’s already hard enough to watch the foamy shorelines for beachgoers—he’s been out there for hours.

But you? You had to go and make his job harder, didn’t you?

You came here with your little squabble of girlfriends, all tan lines and sea salt in your hair. He can’t even see the rest of them past your rosy, sunkissed cheeks and the sanguine air radiating off you.

Well, you see, you are exactly his type. His absolute dream girl, and how fair is it that you’ve decided to come taunt him on the clock? You, and your cruel little tropical bathing suit? He hangs on to the way it clings to your soft edges like a total perv. He watches you sunbathe, tossing and turning to catch more amber rays, shamelessly. He shifts when he catches a glimpse of the sand dusting your ass as you turn over onto your belly. 

Taehyun is a man of boundless confidence. His job was  made just for somebody like him: sitting up on his tower, sun-bronzed arms on display for anybody to watch. And they do watch, and nobody loves the attention more than Taehyun. Let them watch, let them drool. Let them want him and never have him. 

Right now, though, he feels like a loser. Watching you—his shorts getting tighter. Pathetic. So when your girlfriends push themselves up from their beach towels to go god knows where, his brash and brawn wills him to abandon his post. Because only Taehyun would have the confidence to approach walk up to a woman like you and know for a fact that he’s got you.

Three miles down the beach, where he usually would be on watch, Taehyun wouldn’t have dared pulling something like this. That’s where people tend to go anyway; the beach is empty aside from you and your friends down here. But today he was placed here for whatever divine reason, and you just so happened to set your towels up by his post, so he couldn’t care less. He wouldn’t miss a chance like this for anything in the world, his job be damned.

Spewing some curses under his breath, he slips down from his perch and approaches you. Taehyun can’t help the wolffish pull to his mouth at the way the look in your eyes changes when you see him. He knows that look well. Knows that interest sparkling in your pretty eyes, because he knows one thing only: how could anybody not want him? 

Taehyun’s got a smooth mouth. It only takes a few moments for you to be giggling at whatever stupid shit he says, shoving at his shoulders as you twirl your hair. And the moment you start getting touchier, your cheeks glowing, he knows he’s got you.

Maybe it’s public indecency, and maybe anybody that decided to take a walk down this stretch of beach would see you, and maybe he should be making sure nobody drowns or some shit, but Taehyun doesn’t have it in him to care once his mouth is walking a path of smoldering nips down the column of your neck. You, a maneater in your own right, have deconstructed the confident man into somebody stupid enough to not even care.

Just how Taehyun had been fantasizing, he tugs the strings of your top loose with one easy tug, saying something about, “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You just laugh because you do. You sent your friends for drinks for a reason. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you, hard as hell up there. “C’mon. You think you’re all that, but I know men like you. Horny losers.” To rub salt in the wound, you add, “In fact, you strike me as a ten pumps kinda guy.”

Well, Taehyun just won’t have that. With a scoff on his lips, he presses you into the sand, his hands all over your toasted skin. You taste like saltwater and smell like some exotic fruit body butter you probably lathered yourself in, and you feel so good wrapped around him that he worries he might actually last ten pumps. But that would be losing, and Taehyun doesn’t lose.

So he bends you clean in half until you’re mush beneath him, palms muffling your sounds and your nails down the warm skin of his back as if that’ll help you. Taehyun loves making pretty girls fall apart, but he especially loves making smart girls dumb. And you, limbs shaking and sand in your tangle of hair when he’s done with you, have become fully dumb. 

“Ten pumps?” Taehyun says, an insufferable slant to his mouth as he fixes your bikini bottoms, pulling them back just to let it go and snap to your skin.

With shaking thighs and not enough breaths to say something snarky, all you can do is glare. Taehyun had fucked your brains out, and you couldn’t even be mad about it. He leaves you as a mess when he returns to his seat as if nothing had ever happened, watching as your friends return and you have to make yourself presentable.

With your taste still in his mouth, lifeguard duty isn’t so bad.

OO1. 【 tagging 】 . . . @lvrs-street2mmorrow , @soohashits , @f4iryfever , @arcturus444 , @linqed , @serenityism00 , @immelissaaa , @luv4cheol , @lickingan0rchid , @20-cms , @hhoneylix , @beestvng , @hyucktapes , @bewitchless , @prince-jjae , @blankliving , @yaoizee , @stormy1408 , @missychief1404 , @izzyy-stuff , @miukuui , @lunesdesire , @sunoolver , @cherricola-star , @xylatox , @filmnings , @hearteyes4hobi , @hyunj00 , @taebatu , @caratcakemoa , @biteyoubiteme , @dawngyu , @hyunruhi

rblgs & asks >ᴗ<

[lonely-moons]

♡୭something good | sam winchester x reader, pt. 2

title: something good, pt. 2 (read pt. 1 here)

pairing: stanford!sam winchester x socially anxious!reader

warnings: once again a hell of a lot of overthinking, social anxiety, reader is yet again an (i say this with affection) awkward loser, sam winchester being a sweetheart, more m&ms (when do i get sponsored)

summary: you begin to remember your plans to just go at it alone, but it seems as though sam winchester is hellbent on ruining that

wc: 2,943

masterlist

over the next two days, the weekend, where you have no excuse to run into sam, your inflated sense of joy wears down. you wake up and wonder what's gone wrong, how a couple hours with the guy had managed to chip away your self-promise that you would just make it through college without caring about the social aspect. with choosing not to form any connections, so that it didn't hurt as much when no one would want them with you anyway.

you spend an embarrassing half an hour working this through in your head before getting out of bed on saturday. you know there's nothing wrong with being civil - it's not your aim to be an unwarranted bitch, after all - but growing attached? that's a mistake you've made time and time again. you know better now.

even though you and sam had exchanged numbers, neither of you appear in the other's phone over the weekend. not that you're actively checking. you illuminate the screen for the time, for the date, for the temperature before you head out to grab some dinner. it barely even crosses your mind that your inbox is empty.

and when you get a spam call on sunday afternoon, you most certainly do not almost fall off your bed in your haste to grab it.

when monday rolls around, you're the first to arrive in class. you always are. it's a tactical move that you can never quite give up, something that lessens the anxiety that's ceaselessly churning in your gut. you want first choice of a seat so that you don't end up too close to the front or back, where the students usually get picked on. the middle is your comfort zone, where you can blend in with everyone else. you're typically good at that, after all.

when someone slides into the empty seat beside yours, you don't even look up, assuming it's someone you don't know, given that that's pretty much everyone. only when there comes a light "hey" do you flinch slightly and stop digging around in your backpack.

"8 a.m. classes are just the best, aren't they?" sam rubs slightly at his eyes, and despite the exhaustion in his tone, the words come out through a small smile. not for the classes - for you.

"what?" you ask. it's the only thought in your head right now, and it comes out as majestically as it sounds bouncing around in your brain.

"think these should be illegal." he looks at where your hand is still stuffed elbow-deep into the backpack perched on your knees. "you get lost in there?"

you blink, shaking away your surprise even though most of it manages to stay latched on. "um..." your fingers move around, finally finding what you're looking for, and you extract your arm then unceremoniously dump the bag to the ground. it lands on your foot but you act like it doesn't. thankfully there are no 600-page hardback textbooks in there right now. "just... need a pen." you smile clumsily, waving it between your fingers. "got one."

now it's sam's turn to be taken aback. you're about to wonder why he looks like he's never seen a pen before, but then you realise which one you've taken out: the one designed to look like a syringe. you had found it in a joke store one day after going out for a walk in the local town. you didn't like leaving without buying anything - and you had thought it was pretty cool.

"oh, it's - it's not real," you say, pressing the nib to your arm and clicking the top. "see?" you internally roll your eyes at yourself - no kidding.

he looks amused, the beginning of his dimples starting to peek through. you try not to look at them. "well, if it was, i think i'd have to tell you you're in the wrong class."

the sharpness of your own awkwardness manages to deflate you. you had started off on edge with sam on friday, as you do with everyone, but by the end of the evening had felt comfortable. it's only been three days, yet you seem to be back at square one. you look around, frowning slightly now, thinking that at least it can't get much worse. "i don't know, half the people here look like they'd want to be put out of their misery." you're sure you'd make the top of the list but don't mention that part.

"they'd probably prefer something more effective than a syringe."

you click it again, offering sam a brief glance. "anything can be effective if you've got the spirit."

his eyes switch between you and the pen, that amused sort of light dancing in his eyes. "i don't know if i should be inspired or terrified."

"both?"

his dimples finally tip into full-blown as he agrees, "both."

for some reason it eases your tension, and you continue talking until your professor arrives, which ends up being much sooner than you'd have liked. it's much sooner than you'd like every day, because it now seems to be some kind of unspoken routine that sam comes to sit beside you in classes. there's been nine so far. not that you're counting.

you also aren't counting that you handed in your project four classes ago, which means that there's no obligation forcing him to be here. at least not of the scholarly kind. you can't stop yourself from wondering if he feels bad for you. if he realises you have no friends, and this has turned into some sort of pity thing - god, you really hope it's not a pity thing.

but he doesn't act like it's a chore. doesn't seem to be regretting his decision as he asks you about the newest book you're reading, doesn't mind when you start a silent game of hangman during a boring class after finishing the tic-tac-toe he'd initiated. doesn't mind that you sometimes need to pause in the middle of a sentence because your words are becoming too fast, too thick for your mouth to keep up with.

you try not to read into anything too much, which unsurprisingly doesn't work. it's just like you to get annoyingly caught up in anyone being kind, your usual clinginess always threatening to rear its head.

the next day, you're sitting in class wearing a top that never usually makes it out from the bottom of your closet. it's nice, nicer than something you usually wear while not being too over-the-top for a college morning. and you tell yourself it has nothing to do with seeing sam, that you just want to get your money's worth out of buying this thing on a whim. you certainly aren't wondering if he'll notice, if he'll like it, because it wouldn't make a difference to you either way.

you don't care.

that thought repeats in your brain like a mantra, bouncing around so strong that it keeps turning your head in the direction of the door. it's beginning to get ridiculous, which the antsy tapping of your foot so kindly reminds you of. you grab your notebook from your bag and begin to add to some of your notes, just to have something to do.

when your professor arrives a few minutes later, the seat beside you is still empty. you try not to feel disappointed - sam could be late, or maybe he's sick today. or, you think, when you spot him a few rows away from the front and talking to two guys, maybe that clingy nature of yours has made its appearance after all.

you wish you could say you imagined the sinking feeling in your chest, the wheel turning in your head that reminds you of why you don't usually bother with people in the first place. why you made your promise. you know it's irrational, that sam doesn't owe you anything, and certainly doesn't have to always sit beside you.

that doesn't mean you hadn't hoped he would.

when the class is over, you leave on your own. usually you and sam would linger for a few moments outside, talking until he really does have to rush off for his next class. you usually head back to your place, enjoying the walk through the campus. even before you can plug in your earphones, the chirping of the birds keeps your mind happy as you run over your interactions with sam.

now your earphones come out tangled and a crow squawks obnoxiously loudly in your ear. you huff, then it seems the world really does hate you as you feel a small stone in your shoe. the walk home is more of an angry march, your mouth set into a hard line and jaw clenched. your top's thin fabric makes it so that the wind raises relentless goosebumps on your skin. maybe you'll just go to sleep, ditch your class later and mark today off as not having existed.

you collapse into your bed immediately, not bothering to move the blankets. about five hours are lost after you've woken up some time in the late afternoon. the rest of the day is a bust, with you just half-heartedly getting some work done but mostly watching movies that aren't holding your attention either. you know you're overreacting, but you can't seem to bring yourself to care.

the next day, you don't have a class with sam until the early afternoon. you arrive late - by your standards - to class, after having snoozed your alarm one too many times, which drags your mood down even further. you pulled on the same outfit from yesterday, still piled on the ground, and hoped your deodorant would get you through until you could take a shower tonight. now you settle unhappily into a seat at the back, desperately trying not to watch the back of sam's head. you once again leave right after the class, heading back to your room but only making it twenty minutes before your stomach loudly complains.

you head to the closest place on campus where you know you like the food. it's a relatively busy fast food place, but not many people venture up to the second floor, so you're usually able to find a quiet corner to reside in. but you're here later than you usually would be, which means it's rowdier, and as you make your way to the queue, you decide you'll just bring it back to your place where you can continue the show you had started last night.

"y/n?"

you turn in alarm towards the separated queue that's designated for anyone only ordering coffee. sam is standing there, hands in his pockets, that usual smile on his face even despite the bags under his eyes.

you blink for a moment, wondering if you're still half-asleep. you somehow hadn't noticed him, despite his height, but you had been mostly sighing under your breath and watching your shoes. it's weird, though, how you're suddenly seeing him in here, when it's not a backdrop you're used to seeing behind him. but the light streams through the high windows, hitting his eyes in a certain way that draws your attention. they look expectant, a little amused, and you nearly debate running when you realise you haven't responded yet.

"oh." you shake your head, stumbling a little as some old guy in a hurry jostles past you. "hi sam."

"hey. you getting some lunch?"

you nod, still feeling a little bleary from your lack of sleep last night. "coffee?"

"yeah..." he seems to think for a moment, thoughts whirring about behind his eyes as he pauses. "hey, are you busy?"

"busy?" you ask, like you don't understand the word. "um... no?"

he shifts on his feet. "mind if i join you for lunch? my treat."

now you're really sure you're not following the conversation. this doesn't seem like the request of someone who's trying to shake you. sam easily could've pretended to not have seen you, or at least just said a polite hello. now he's offering to buy you lunch?

"you don't have to -"

"i want to."

you think about your promise to yourself, about just making it through college without giving much thought to friends or socialising. maybe you know that deep down you're being dramatic, or maybe it's the fact that the queue moves so that now it's your turn and you have to make a split-second decision. but you nod.

"okay."

sam's shoulders loosen and he steps over from his own queue to yours as you both go up and order. a few minutes later you're sitting at a booth. on the bottom floor, which you're not too thrilled about, but you did at least manage to get a corner. sam's got a salad, but you're starving, and looking forward to digging into your pizza and fries.

"i didn't see you during class," he says. "is everything okay?"

"oh, just... um... had a paper to finish." you take a bite of the pizza, wincing at how hot it is, but you know you'll just start running your mouth if it's free.

"ah." he nods, like it was the answer he'd been looking for. "i was wondering why you looked so busy in class yesterday. i didn't wanna disturb you."

you stuff another bite of pizza into your mouth, feeling horrible. you had practically spent the last twenty-four hours thinking he was another person who would just throw you away like something discardable. you know you overthink things all the time, but recognising that only seems simple in hindsight. and then whatever negative emotion it generates only dissolves into guilt, which hits you in full-force now.

"you know me," you smile, though it feels all wrong, "just... busy." busy mind, you guess, always managing to come up with ways to destroy you.

"i've noticed." it's lighthearted, which might make you feel worse. "you get it finished?"

"yeah. all done."

"well, good, i'll need you there tomorrow. i had to actually listen today."

your mind only just manages to push that first part aside so that you don't begin making a fool of yourself.

you know he always listens anyway. somehow manages to play the silly paper games with you and still take perfect notes. but you widen your eyes. "oh, the horror. maybe you should be laying down right now."

"should i get my vitals checked? maybe i need a shot - you've got that covered, right?"

the jab at your pen isn't lost on you. "yeah, sure, where do you want it?"

his laugh is abrupt, like it snuck up on him. you like it, you think, knowing that it's genuine. that you get to hear it before he can decide which way he wants it to be heard.

the conversation sinks into that easy flow once again, and only then you feel how much you've missed it. you keep talking until your food is nearly gone, just a few meagre fries left. at one point, sam leaves under the guise of wanting to get a refill. but when he returns, he's holding two small ice creams in little cardboard tubs.

you send him an unimpressed look, which deepens into a scowl as he refuses to accept your money. he was the one who'd decided you should have one, not you, which meant he had to pay. or so he claimed.

"so, no game of thrones t-shirt today?"

you look down, realising you'd never changed out of your slightly-more-fancy top from the day before. it hadn't felt like as big of a deal as it had yesterday, but now you're painfully aware that you're wearing it. how it clings to you in ways your spider-man ones certainly don't.

"laundry day." you shrug, a little too quickly, grabbing your drink. some of it sloshes down over the side of the cup, but thankfully he doesn't seem to notice. or, at least, care.

"huh... well, you look nice. it - looks nice, you know, the, uh... colour. suits you."

you watch him, confused. he looks a little shy as he says it, sinking down in his seat slightly. is he flustered? the stammering is usually your thing; while sam isn't arrogant, he does have a particular air of confidence about him. that seems to have dissolved entirely.

as if hoping to save himself, he reaches across and steals a fry from your plate. before you can pry any deeper into this, your face automatically drops into an expression that might be suitable for someone who'd killed your firstborn child.

"hey, i bought them," he says, snickering, and it seems as though the look on your face eases something back into him.

you hadn't even wanted any more of the cold fries, having been about to move on to your ice cream. but you like the way his eyes crinkle in amusement at your reaction. you grab the ice cream now, swirling the plastic spoon around inside, trying not to outwardly react to the fact that there's m&ms added in - which he obviously knows you like by now. you narrow your eyes at him, ignoring the flip of your stomach. "this becoming a thing now? you giving me free food?"

"are you complaining?"

"depends. do i ever get to return the favour?" it's bold for you, something that slips out as a teasing remark before you can really dissect what it means. the kind of thing you probably should've thought out in advance - you have a feeling that the lost time worrying will be made up tonight as you try to sleep. you're not sure if you want to take it back.

sam doesn't react much, but you do notice the quick tick of his lips. "name a time. i'll be there."

never mind. you don't want to take it back at all.

when you get back to your room, you collapse against your bed like earlier. only this time, it's with a sigh of contentment. the thought only hits after a moment, as you're staring at some peeling paint on the ceiling, and it's so swift and striking that you feel as though you've been sucker-punched.

hold on - did you just ask sam winchester out on a date?

and did he say yes?

[arting-block]

𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 | Eleventh Doctor x F!Reader

❝is that too much to ask for? to have your husband by your side every night, whispering to you in Gallifreyan to lull you to sleep?❞

summary: being pregnant with a timelord's baby isn't for the weak. you tolerated your husband's overprotectiveness, but building a robot to follow you everywhere was the crossing the line. what started as a scheme to gain some privacy turns into a a reflection of the complicated feelings your pregnancy brings.

pairing: eleventh doctor x f!pregnant!reader

warnings: pregnancy (afab reader), the doctor being very dramatic, mild angst, fluffy ending, suggestive comments/allusions to sex, some plot bc i have no self control, reader loves sleeping

words: 6.6k

a/n: another request sitting in my inbox that i tinkered with. i had a lot of fun with this prompt :) im also physically incapable of writing drabbles bc of course i am. slightly proofread. also if you keep up with siasl i am in the middle of getting 2 chapters out shortly!!!

“What about this one? This seems like a lovely lil’ jumper.”

The Doctor holds up the article of clothing. It’s a bright canary yellow, almost burning your eyes. His face is all giddy, practically shoving the small cloth in your face. 

You sigh, grabbing the small sweater from his hands and putting it back on the rack. The Doctor’s pout would’ve been cute if it was the first time he pulled that off. “You already spent half a thousand pounds on clothing alone. Focus, please! We’re here to buy me new shoes. The swelling’s been killing me.”

You gesture to the empty cart and continue walking deeper into the store. The slides you haphazardly threw on did nothing to support the arches of your soles and you have already outgrown all the other shoes you owned. Your feet are dragging your weight as you try to find the aisle you’re looking for. 

“What if she doesn’t like the clothing we got her?” The Doctor resumes pushing the cart, walking in tandem beside you. “Bought nearly every single color there is, but not yellow. What if she really likes the color yellow?”

Stopping next to a pair of sneakers on display, you inspected them carefully. Once you determined they had the right size and decently squishy insoles, you dropped them to the ground. Kicking off the flimsy blue slides you had on, you tried to shove your feet into the sneakers, using your Doctor as a balance. He lets you grip onto his bicep, even though you’re causing him to sway with your erratic motions. 

Still, the Doctor continues on: “Surely she would like TARDIS blue? Everyone does! Did you know blue is considered a soothing color—especially dark blue? Can’t go wrong with a good blue.”

Your foot managed to slip halfway into the sneaker, but you couldn’t get your heel inside. You gave a harsh tug on the Doctor’s sleeve. “Little help here.”

The Doctor is quick to help you to a small bench, letting you lean into him before setting you down. A satisfied groan left you, happy to finally get the extra weight off your joints. The Doctor kneels down, making sure your sock is still snug on your foot, before securing the sneaker. He even made sure the laces were not too tight. You gave your toes an experimental wiggle, happy to see that they fit you perfectly. 

Your husband doesn’t rise from his sport, still lost in thought about colors and your future daughter’s opinion of them. “I’ve always hated red. Didn’t like the way red things tasted, but I bought those little shoes anyway. Kids are more drawn to saturated colors so there’s a chance she might like red…no matter how unsavory.”

“She’s gonna love whatever we give her,” you say. You prop your leg onto the Doctor, who goes to work untying the laces. “Everyone loves blue, and she would be very grateful that you thought of red shoes even though you hate them.”

The Doctor puts on the slide you discarded back on your feet. There was still that distant look on his eyes, one that you often found whenever he worried about the baby in your stomach. “What about the yellow?”

You brush a rogue strand of brown hair, tucking it away from the Doctor’s eyes. When he looks up at you, you see the worry start to melt away. “I’m sure she would let us know if she likes yellow or not.”

— — —

Before your pregnancy, your worries were few and far between. Okay, maybe not so far between, but the Doctor took extra precautions to adventuring the moment you two got married. Your feet would ache from running alongside the Doctor and the Ponds. At most you would suffer a cut or bruise, bouncing back to full health in no time. In the beginning stages of your pregnancy, you could still outrun the occasional alien or keep up with the Ponds when walking around Leadworth. 

Now that you’re in the third trimester, your main worry is getting out of bed without pulling a muscle. 

The only adventure you’ve been going on lately are trips to Walmart for your oddly specific food cravings. Mostly for the selection of spicy chips and cheap cakes. It was all you would want to eat. You tried pulling the “eating for two” card, but eventually the Doctor had drawn the line at vanilla ice cream and pickles. Though, a few heated kisses bribe him to get them anyway. 

Your pregnancy was considerably smooth-sailing all things considered. Adventuring stopped by fifteen weeks and you stayed either in the TARDIS or at the Ponds’ residence. Alien medicine subsided most of the unsightly side-effects. But because your husband was the Doctor and your hormones were crazier than ever, it meant that arguments were (unfortunately) very common. 

How could the Doctor, the most intelligent, most caring, most accommodating husband in the universe simultaneously be the most irritating person to be around?

Privacy and his incessant need to protect you.

You silently hold a grudge in your heart towards Rory for toppling the first domino. As a nurse, he couldn’t help but track everything about your pregnancy. Vitals, nutrients, cholesterol, sleep, etc. To no one’s surprise, the Doctor encouraged it and often compared each other’s notes about the effects of a Time Lord pregnancy. Nerd shit. Whatever. As long as their testing didn’t coincide with your naps, you could care less. 

Then things escalated. The Doctor was suddenly very aware that you were carrying his baby—a Time Lord baby. You don’t know why it took twenty weeks for the idea to settle, but now you wished it never did. He was rightfully concerned about your baby and you didn’t put up a fight when the Doctor got a little clingier than usual. It’s nice to have the Doctor hover next to you like a shadow, his brows pinched in worry and his eyes filled with enough love to put Cupid to shame. But then there comes a time where the Doctor is needed. So Rory and Amy were left to care for you. No big deal. 

By twenty-one weeks? Surveillance of you became a full blown operation. The Doctor made an executive decision to install cameras and mics in every room in the TARDIS. You nearly ripped him a new one when he suggested putting some in the bathrooms. What started as a meaningful demonstration for his care about you turned into an obsession. Paranoia, even. If the Doctor wasn’t in your immediate vicinity, then he forced one of the Ponds to follow you around at all times. 

They were your best friends—your traveling companions. At least they had the sense to leave the room whenever you needed time alone with your daughter. They would engage in conversation and remained silent and out of the room when it came time for you to sleep. 

You tolerated the Doctor’s overprotectiveness because of the loss of his previous family during the Great Time War and past lovers. You can’t begin to understand the depths of his grief of losing countless people spanning hundreds of years. So you gave a little (a lot) of grace towards your Time Lord husband. How can you resist when he hugs you from behind and gently rubs your stomach with so much love and care? He’s just worried and you would be too if you were in his shoes. But the limit to his protectiveness apparently does not exist. 

There was a point where neither Pond wanted to follow you around the clock every single day. You foolishly hoped that their complaints would put an end to the Doctor’s paranoia before it spiraled out of control. But the Doctor also had to leave to go on supply runs and help random aliens across the galaxy you were residing in. The Ponds needed to go back to Earth for their own sanity which would last either a few days to weeks. 

So what solution did your mad husband come up with? Build a robot to follow you everywhere. 

“Mrs. (L/N), are you certain you want to continue exercising?”

You were huffing a storm, trying to keep an even pace ahead of the walking tin-can your husband built to be his personal snitch. The straw that broke your masked indifference towards the Doctor’s overprotectiveness. The moment J-ROD’s systems were firing sparked the end of any privacy you held onto. Years ago, during a trip to a future human colony, the Doctor came across a pile of scraps. It looked nothing like a humanoid robot. You had thought that the Doctor would simply take its salvageable parts and use it for the TARDIS. Apparently your mad husband was always a step ahead, working on his Justice-Robotics Of Defense in secret. You don’t know when he completed it, but you’re certain you’ve heard J-ROD’s muffled voice late into the night and your husband’s all too eager voice responded back. 

You chalked it up to another project he was tinkering with. Little did you know he was crafting up your worst nightmare. 

“You’re programmed to do as I say,” you snap. Your pace slows and you hear the heavy footsteps of J-ROD come closer, motivating you to keep going. “And right now I want to walk.”

Thankfully, the robot is incredibly slow. Unfortunately, you are eight months pregnant. You had barely reached the five minute mark of your “exercise” and the wind has already knocked out of you. Pure spite is what is keeping you from giving out. 

The day started with a frantic kiss on your cheek and the Doctor’s promises to be back before dinner. The TARDIS has a knack for muddling your sense of time. Dinner can mean a blink of an eye or a stretch of time that feels like days. Coupled with the fact that you’re carrying a Time Lord baby meant that you are terrible at judging when the Doctor would be back. 

J-ROD keeps their distance, not because they’re sympathetic to your sour mood, but because their rusty joints keep them from speeding up faster than a slow walk. Maybe if you grabbed a hammer from your husband’s toolbox, you could cave in their knees and keep them locked in a closet somewhere. A cramp emanates from your side and you stop to catch your breath. You can barely walk for five minutes, there’s no way you can muster enough strength to bash through metal. You hear the clank clank clank of J-ROD’s footsteps. 

It is the fact that the robot would follow you everywhere and stare into your soul that irritated you. It was his blocky metal body with brown crusted joints that creaked noisily to the point it drove you insane. The damn piece of scraps would frequently interrupt your naps with its loud voice to call the Doctor for his hourly reports. It’s programmed to stay at a minimum of a 30 feet radius near you. There was no escaping them.

Your husband promised to fix his creaky joints, the loud voice, and fix his programming to call at a time that accommodates your napping schedule. He was very apologetic and did his best to tinker with J-ROD the moment you brought up complaints. But your husband is also the Doctor and he cannot turn a blind eye to beings in need. 

The only reprieve to J-ROD is when the Doctor or the Ponds were around. You knew it was irrational to get frustrated at a rusty robot whose only purpose is to protect the person it was assigned to. If anything, they were the manifestation of your husband’s worry for you. 

But your grace can only go so far before the irritation wins out. You want peace and quiet. It’s been hours. The Doctor is out saving a ship from being pulled into an unseen black hole. The Ponds were back to their daily routine in Leadworth. You are stuck in the TARDIS, heavily pregnant, and narrowly avoiding tripping over your own feet in hopes that you get away from the walking piece of metal. 

“Your heart rate increased by a factor of 5% since the start of your walk,” J-ROD says. Their polite, robotic voice is activating the kill-switch in your hormone-ridden brain. “I believe it is best for you to stop exercising. The Doctor recommends that you keep exertion to a minimum.”

You stop, only because there’s a sudden cramp in your thigh. Your sudden yelp in pain alerts J-ROD. Their laser scan is warm as it hits all parts of your body. 

“My scans indicate that you’re experiencing minor muscle spasms in your right femoral region,” they state. “Sources indicate a good massage can allevia—”

“NO!” you shout. “No, do not come near me.”

“But—”

“You will do as you’re told!”

“As you wish.”

The pain is pushing you to your limits. If this keeps up you’re going to cry yourself into labor. You can’t break down in front of a robot snitch who will tattle to the Doctor. You do not need records of your crying archived. 

But then a lightbulb lit up in your mind. 

The cramp subsided, but you grasp onto it with a sharp hiss, loud enough for J-ROD to hear. 

“Fuck…I think it just got worse.”

J-ROD’s crusted hands attempt to reach your leg. “Allow me—”

You swat his hands away. “You know what would help me? An ice pack!”

“I do not follow.”

“Run to the kitchen and get me an ice pack for my cramp,” you explain with another loud wince. You double over, trying to put on your best performance. “I’m too pregnant and tired to move. So it shouldn’t be a problem to go to the kitchen real quick and come back?”

J-ROD is quiet, trying to process the request you are giving him. His processor runs through each command, making sure it doesn’t go against what the Doctor programmed him to do. 

“The Doctor has requested that I stay by your side at all times.” 

You roll your eyes. “He also said to do everything in your power to help me. I cannot walk back to the kitchen, but I really, really need that ice pack. Please? It would help me so, so much.”

Puppy-dog eyes wouldn’t work on a robot, but you tried to put on your most convincing pained expression on your face. J-ROD is still hesitant. 

“Please?”

A beat of silence before J-ROD’s creaky head nods. “As you wish.”

You contain your victorious cheer until J-ROD is out of ear shot. The kitchen is far enough that it would take a minimum of three minutes for him to fetch the ice before turning back to you. In order for your plan to work, you would need to act fast. 

You close your eyes, concentrating on one room that you would have complete and utter silence. A room that the Ponds had curated with everything you could need during your pregnancy. A clean room with ambient lighting, a large pillow on the bed to support your belly, and a mini fridge next to the bed. The bed was softer than clouds and the blankets were fluffier than a sheep’s wool. 

A small breeze hits your face. When you open your eyes, the soft yellow door to your private bedroom appears in front of you. 

Your smile lights up your entire face. “You’re the best time-spacecraft anyone could ask for.”

The TARDIS clicks open the door in appreciation. 

“Oh! Could you keep me as far away from the robot as possible?” You pause for a moment before adding, “And the Doctor as well?”

The lights in the room flicker twice. A resounding yes. 

— — —

“Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?”

“I went to get ice for her leg, but when I returned, she was no longer there.”

The hologram of the Doctor flickers as he runs through his hair in frustration. He had just saved a ship filled with thousands of people from getting spaghettified by a blackhole and not one moment later he gets news that his wife is “missing”. The Doctor doesn’t jump to conclusions just yet. He knows how much you hated J-ROD following you around. He really does take your criticism to his hearts—truly, he does—but he’s been so busy lately. Your pregnancy sparked a tsunami of anxiety he’s never felt before. He distracts himself with other things to keep his mind off of the fact that he’s going to be a father, again. 

He knows you’ve been a bit…antsy these past few days. Your fuse has been rather short and he tries his absolute hardest to appease your every whim. 

Okay maybe not every whim. He was firm in his stance with keeping J-ROD at your side at all times when he’s not there. Not even a strenuous night in bed would budge him (it took every ounce of willpower to stay firm in his decision). 

But the Doctor foolishly underestimated his own wife’s cunning. If you had your mind set on something, there was no law of physics that could keep you from accomplishing your goals. You weren’t really gone, just hiding from the robot.

Once he’s back in the TARDIS, you would come out and have a nice long chat about safety. 

“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Have you checked our bedroom? Bathroom? Closets? She has a track record of burrowing under the clothes like a cat.” 

“I’ve checked fifty separate bedrooms and bathrooms, the nursery, and the library.”

A frustrated sigh left his lips. 

The main lobby of the ship is lively with various beings, celebrating their survival. The Doctor, however, tucked away in his own corner of the room, overthinking himself to paranoia. You were fine, you had to be. You’re his beautiful, tough, resilient wife. There’s no way you can get lost in the TARDIS. 

But you were pregnant and out of sight from your automated caregiver. 

The Doctor is blunt with his good-byes, shouting at people to “get a move on!”. He pushes through the crowds of people bunched up in narrow hallways. The large cruise spaceship is bustling with vigor at the Doctor’s success. People rush to meet him, to give their thanks, but the Doctor has one thought on his mind. 

He practically sprints towards the TARDIS which he parked near the kitchen. Chefs and waiters jump out of his way, their food trays nearly spilling over the floor. 

“Sorry! Wife emergency!” he calls as he jumps over a trolley of food. 

The staff exchanges concerned glances as the Doctor forcefully slams into the pantry. The TARDIS slots perfectly inside, imposing and glorious in the low light. Some lingering staff peer into the pantry in curiosity. 

“Are you going to leave before the big feast?” one of the waiters asks. His large, bug-like eyes take in the blue space-timecraft.

The Doctor fumbles with this key and manages to get it into the lock. “I’ve got something much more important to worry about, but I’ll come back for dessert!” He slips in the TARDIS and slams the door shut. A half second later he swings the door open again. “Keep a baked alaska for me, would you? Love a fire on a dessert. Well my wife does. Remind me to come back for it.”

With a final slam of the door and click of a lock, the staff slowly inch away from the mysterious blue box. They didn’t get a chance to tell him that they have no idea what the Doctor meant by a “baked alaska”. 

A chef with a fish-like head leans over to his co-worker. “How are we gonna tell him the food’s ready though?”

“I don’t get paid enough to know,” the co-worker replies.

— — —

You nearly forgot how quiet the TARDIS can be without J-ROD or the Ponds constantly nagging you 24/7. 

After a lengthy shower you slipped into the comfiest pajamas. The temperature of the room was set, the lighting was subdued, and the comforter felt like pure nirvana. The pregnancy pillow that Amy bought fit snugly against your tired body. Your head was buzzing with dopamine, excited for a perfect sleep. 

No J-ROD to come to annoy you. Just peace and quiet. 

You get comfortable in the bed, hugging tightly to your pillow and closing your eyes. But there’s one thing missing from your perfect sleep. 

Your husband. 

He’s been gone an awful lot lately. It worries you how much time he spends doing quests across the universe and leaves little time to be with you. Of course you knew that saving people’s lives comes before everything else, but it still stings. The beginning of your pregnancy was wonderfully domestic. The Doctor was extremely caring, doting on you with so much love and attention that you were overconfident that your pregnancy would be the easiest in the universe. 

You noticed his demeanor changed when your bump started to show. His love for you never dulled if your sex life was anything to go by. He wasn’t angry or upset or disgusted by you. It was the fear that changed. The closer you approached your due date, the more protective he became. He’s lost so many. You know bits and pieces of his previous lives and the families he’s accumulated over his very long life. You were not his first wife, his first love, and your child was not his first daughter. 

You are his one true love. He whispers that title into your skin when he makes love with you. The Doctor said it when he first asked you to be his. The Doctor declares it loudly at your wedding. You feel it in the way he stares at you like you are the reason he even breathes at all. 

His tears dripped onto your first sonogram as he laughed with all the joy a father could have. His hands are warm against the growing bump in your belly. He doesn’t regret marrying you or having a child with you. At least, you hoped he didn't.

Behind that joy, you can see the what ifs intrusively pop into his mind. It’s scary to confront the idea that you are only human and that means you are always going to be vulnerable. He’s lost too many, all because they are near him. What does that mean for the closest person in his orbit?

Maybe you were too harsh to the clunky robot. But you wished that the Doctor himself would come to nag you instead of having a stupid robot to do it for him. Is that too much to ask for? To have your husband by your side every night, whispering to you in Gallifreyan to lull you to sleep?

You’re too tired to cry, but your heart feels heavy in your chest. You just wished that the Doctor would stop worrying and enjoy this pregnancy with you. 

It doesn’t take long for your eyelids to droop and the thoughts in your mind to fade. The TARDIS dimmed the lights the moment your heart rate slowed to a steady rhythm. 

— — —

The first thirty minutes of searching didn’t go according to plan.

Checking the cameras for your last known location and wrangling the TARDIS to reveal your room should’ve been the easiest task the Doctor had to perform. Just a couple of clicks, no big deal. 

What the Doctor didn’t anticipate was for the TARDIS to completely override his commands and show him a blank wall of text instead of the camera feeds.

SHE IS SLEEPING.

The Doctor could not believe his eyes. Does the TARDIS sometimes take him to wrong places or stubbornly not work? Yes, but never had she outright communicated that she’s actively defying him. 

“Well could you at least be so courteous and tell me where my beautiful wife is resting in?” the Doctor asks hopefully. “I would really, really appreciate it if you could ease my worry. C’mon Sexy, just for me?”

The text deletes itself before a new phrase appears. 

SHE WILL COME OUT WHEN NOT SLEEPING.

It’s times like these where the Doctor is aware that the TARDIS favors you over him. And she doesn’t make it subtle either. 

No matter, the Doctor is a master at figuring out a solution. It’s his bread and butter. Or fishsticks and custard. 

An hour passes and no sign of you. 

Does he panic? His two hearts are pounding and his clothes feel a lot damper than earlier. But that’s because he’s running around hallways, devising a plan to override the TARDIS’s control over the cameras. He never panics. Never. 

Hour three in for your search, the Doctor managed to land the TARDIS on top of Brian William’s lavender bush. He stumbles out into the yard with a jumble of wires in his fist and suspenders loose on his shoulders.

“Rory! Amy!” the Doctor calls as he barges into the house. 

He walks past a startled Rory, wearing a robe and a cuppa in his hand. The tea sloshes dangerously outside the rim of the cup with how fast the Doctor breezed by him. 

“Doctor? What are you doing here?”

Rory’s words reached deaf ears. The Doctor pulls the cushion seat from the couch, inspecting the inside and tossing the cushion over his shoulder. He walks to the mudroom to open the coat closet, splitting the racks of outerwear apart. “Amelia Pond! Where are you and your husband?”

“Doctor—”

“Not now Rory, I'm busy!” the Doctor interrupts while running up the stairs. 

“Doctor, I'm right here!” Rory calls. “Doctor!”

The Doctor rushes back downstairs and finally looks at Rory. The smile on his face is infectious. “Well why didn’t you say it before?” He walks down and gives Rory a big hug. It’s a miracle that the tea in Rory’s hand is not all over the floor. “Where's the missus? I have a very, very important mission.”

“Important enough to break into my dad’s house and squash his garden?”

The Doctor’s face turns serious. ”End of the world, galaxies imploding, world ending mission.”

Rory wiggles himself out of the Doctor’s surprisingly strong grip. He’s spent enough time around the Doctor to know when his sense of urgency and the dread in his voice are just hyperbole. “You said the same thing twice.”

“It means it’s twice as important to say.” The Doctor opens the cabinets and takes a porcelain mug into his arms. “(Y/N) is missing.”

That makes Rory’s thoughts screech to a halt. “W-What? Missing? As in ‘kidnapped’ missing?” 

The Doctor’s face looks grave, believable enough to have Rory’s stomach drop to the pits of Hell. “Missing as in the TARDIS won’t tell me which room she’s sleeping in.”

All at once Rory’s sympathies fly out of the open yard door. 

“When you said that galaxies might implode, I thought that there’s a Death Star the size of Andromeda that’s pointed at us. Not that (Y/N) got sick of you and quarantined herself.” Rory drops down on the kitchen table, finally getting a sip of his perfect tea. 

“First of all, she’s not sick of me,” the Doctor grumbles.

The Doctor yanks a follicle of Rory’s hair, to which the man jumped in pain. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“I’m the Doctor, she can never get sick. What a preposterous notion. I thought you got through medical school.” The Doctor grabs a slab of machinery from his pocket and puts the piece of hair into it. “And secondly, it is world-ending and galaxy-imploding because without her by my side, my entire universe is at stake! How am I going to be in tip-top shape to save galaxies if she’s not next to me? Think, Rory!”

Rory rolls his eyes, not wanting to give the Doctor more attention and potentially fuel his delusions. It’s nice to know that all these years, the Doctor is still in love and protective over you. However it gets to a point where the Doctor’s eccentric personality can get a bit…much. 

“Oh! Doctor is that you?” Amy asks, walking through the kitchen with her father-in-law in tow. 

Brian’s face lights up at the Doctor. “Ah, my favorite man!”

The Doctor jumps up from his chair with his hands held high. “More people for the cause!”

“I thought I was your favorite man?” Rory questions his father. 

“You’re my favorite son,” Brian corrects with a wink. 

The Doctor rounds the table and gives Amy and Brian each a rib squeezing hug. Amy returns with equal enthusiasm and a peck on a cheek. Brian pats the Doctor’s back with a smile before looking out to where the TARDIS is parked. 

Instantly Brian’s mood sours. “My lavenders! Oh, my poor sweet things.” 

“Lavenders? Really?” the Doctor asks, tossing his gadget at the table. “My wife is missing and all you can think about is squashed…purple…foliage? I think some hydrangeas will be far more fitting for your landscape. Squashing those? Now that would be a tragedy.”

“Wait, (Y/N) is missing?” Amy asks with a mouth full of a muffin. 

“Don’t,” Rory warns. “He’s being dramatic again. The TARDIS is just hiding her away from her mad husband.”

“Don’t listen to him Amy!” The Doctor zips through the kitchen, rummaging through every cabinet and drawer he can get his hands on. “This is a matter of life or death. Well, equivalent to death since it would be very hard to kill me. But it doesn’t mean the pain won’t hurt!”

Brian, Rory, and Amy watch as the Doctor takes miscellaneous parts from their kitchen and connects them to his lump of metal and circuits. Scraps of plastic jut out from the side, a few red and blue wires are exposed, and a shoelace from one of Rory’s shoes is dangling out of it. Rory thought better than to try to retrieve it; silently saying goodbye to his favorite blue shoelace with gold aglets. 

I’ll bully (Y/N) into buying me a new one, Rory vows. 

Amy flicks one of the exposed wires. “What exactly is this supposed to do?”

“Something to override a very smart and very stubborn machine,” the Doctor says, as if it was obvious. “Whenever I try to access my security feeds, the TARDIS scans my DNA and knows that I’m trying to locate (Y/N). The cameras are only accessed by me through the same recognition software. By taking a specimen from Rory, I would trick the recognition software and the TARDIS into revealing (Y/N)! Perfect. Spectacular. Genius, if you will.”

The Doctor presents his gadget with a smug grin and his head held high, like a primary school student showing off their baking soda volcano for their science fair. 

Amy takes one look at the misshapen heap of junk and asks: “Couldn’t you have just asked me or Rory to ask the TARDIS to reveal her location? We won’t need the cameras if we can ask the TARDIS directly.”

The smile on the Doctor’s face is wiped clean off. He mulls over Amy’s question in his head, not wanting to give her the satisfaction that—technically, hypothetically speaking—it could work. But his few seconds of silence and the look on his face told Amy all she needed to know. 

“My way is guaranteed not to fail,” the Doctor insists, snatching his gadget and going towards the TARDIS. 

Amy and Rory share a crisp high-five for her victory. 

— — —

You slept like a content rock for hours. Barely shifting in the bed with how exhausted you were. You would’ve kept drooling on your pillow if it wasn’t for the fact that the TARDIS decided to turn on the lights unexpectedly. 

“Fuck!” you groan, rubbing your eyes. It’s a little difficult to pull your body upright, but after a few tries (and grabbing onto the headboard), you hauled yourself up. “Please tell me you had a good reason to interrupt my sleep.”

Then you hear it.

The yelling. Things moving around. Shoes clacking loudly against the floors. The unmistakable voice of your husband barking orders and Amy’s shrill words directed back at him. 

The door to the room swings open with a disheveled Doctor entering in. His brown hair is flying every which way around his head. His cherry-red bowtie is askew, likely from fidgeting with it from worry. His face is flushed at the cheeks and tips of his ears—a telltale sign that he’s been running. 

When he sees your woken up and disheveled appearance, you see his face light up like a Christmas tree. 

“(Y/N)!” The way he calls your name like he’s coming home from war makes your heart pound in your chest. He gently presses you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “I miss your skin. Have I ever mentioned your hormones make your skin feel amazing, I mean—”

“Doctor,” Amy warns, pointing a finger at him. The last thing she needs to see (or hear) is the two of you getting too lovey-dovey in front of her. 

“I’m here, I’m here, love.” You return his sudden affection, kissing the side of his neck and sighing. “What’s gotten into you?”

Amy and Rory drag themselves into the room looking like they’re one step away from passing out. Amy leans against the doorway, smiling at the two of you and Rory looks relieved for the shouting to be over. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Amy groans. “Over six hours of scrambling around the TARDIS and having the Doctor yell at us.” 

“‘End of the world’ my ass,” Rory whispers under his breath. 

“Language!” the Doctor says, pulling himself away from you. “It’s true. The world was ending—or rather my world is ending. Which still counts since my world and the world overlap, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is…”

The Doctor hesitates. Yes, he knows he was being extremely dramatic and unnecessarily fretting over you, but he can’t help but care so deeply for you. 

Amy nudged Rory, nodding towards the door. “We’ll take this as our queue to leave.”

“And to rest,” Rory says as he stretches. 

Amy tugs her husband by the collar, giving you a small wink as she leaves. 

The Doctor looked like a sad, kicked puppy. His hair is still wild and his posture is hunched as if he’s carrying a heavy burden. His hand cups the swell of your belly, his thumb affectionately along the rounded surface. Your fingers glide through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you tame his erratic follicles. 

When was the last time you got to touch him like you had all the time in the world? He’s always been a ball of energy, going every which way across the universe. You could never keep up with his movements, with pregnancy only slowing you down. Time spent together felt intense, irritating, or simply too emotional. 

You clear your throat, pulling his attention towards you. “I was really upset earlier. I mean really upset. I didn’t like how you would worry so much that I was starting to think that you were having second thoughts.”

“About?” 

“Fatherhood.” You feel the sting of tears in your eyes, but your resolve to get this off your chest won over. “You installed more cameras, you made the Ponds take turns to watch me, you built a clunky robot to annoy me everywhere…you were out there trying to save people but I felt so lonely here. I can’t enjoy my pregnancy if you’re not here with me.”

All at once, the Doctor wanted to grovel on his knees and beg for your forgiveness. You were right, his overprotectiveness was going too far. He knew on some level that he shouldn’t tell his pregnant wife what was good for her. He may be the Doctor, but he cannot control your feelings. 

The hand that was cupped around your belly moves up to your cheek. The Doctor looked at you like you were the most cherished thing in the entire universe. Full of warmth and love that showed he truly meant to have your best interest at heart. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he admits quietly. Rarely does he ever say outright that he’s wrong, but he will push aside his stubbornness for those he loves. “You’d think that after nearly a millennium of time you are prepared for anything. I used to be a father once, long ago, so this shouldn’t scare me. But it did—still does if I’m honest. But there’s one thing I will never, ever regret.”

“Which is?” you hum. 

“Two things actually,” he corrects. “One was asking you to spend the rest of your life with me—”

You snort. “More like begging me to marry you.”

“As I was saying—” The Doctor pokes your side, causing you to squirm and laugh in his ear. “—the second was building this family with you. I was protective of you and our baby girl because you two are the most important things in this universe. Above jammy dodgers and those little rubber ducks that come in all those fun colors.”

“Those two things cannot be your second choices of ‘important things in the universe’.”

The Doctor shifts closer to you, bumping his long nose against yours. “If it were up to me, you would take all the slots in that ranking.”

You lean closer until your lips tickle over his. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

When he finally closes the small gap between you, the last thing on your mind was another nap. 

— — —

The TV in the entertainment room of the TARDIS glowed brightly in the dim room. Amy is tucked under Rory’s arm, stealing handfuls of buttery popcorn as they watch another superhero movie. Amy’s choice, of course, since she was the one who was able to override the TARDIS’s control over the cameras. Rory wasn’t too picky with films as long as there was good enough dialogue. 

“You can put down the umbrella,” the magician says through the screen.

The blonde hero, and lead character of the movie, wearily sets down said umbrella. A wind blasts his face before he is teleported to a different part of the magician’s home. 

Rory points to the magician, who is doing a location spell. “He could’ve saved us six hours of our lives and found (Y/N).”

“Just be glad the TARDIS didn’t spit us back out in space.” Amy sets the empty popcorn bucket down, never taking her eyes off of the screen. 

“I’ve been falling…for thirty minutes!” the deuteragonist yells in anger. 

Rory shrugs. “He deserved it.”

“Totally.”

Just as the main villain of the movie was getting revealed, the door to the entertainment room swung open. Bright light from the hallways spilled into the room, causing Rory and Amy to shield themselves like vampires getting scorched by sunlight.  

“What is it this time?” Amy growls, ready to throw a dense pillow to whoever interrupted her movie. She had to smuggle it from the future for crying out loud!

The Doctor pants from the doorframe. His appearance was more ruffled than they had last seen him, with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and his belt hanging loose on his hips. A few rosy bite marks are visible along his jaw and Amy fights the juvenile urge to gag loudly. 

“Can’t you put some clothes on?” Rory asks, turning away from the Doctor. 

Usually, the Doctor would respond with a snarky quip about how he already has clothes on, but no such quip leaves his lips. 

It takes a second for the Doctor to move his mouth to communicate his shock. When it does, it nearly leaves the Ponds speechless. 

“Her water broke.”

PLEASE LIKE, COMMENT, AND REBLOG <3

taglist:

@penumbra-the-unicorn @diligently-metastasizing

[dipperscavern]

let's talk about warming cregan's cock 😇👫

like you have so keenly established, mf can not sit still. this is the warden of the north we are referring to. the wolf of the north. he is well experienced in battle, a brilliant swordsman and lord of his house. he's used to abstaining during battle and experiencing dire circumstances over patience. surely he'd be able to let his pretty girl warm his cock?

WRONG 🙅‍♀️ someone, please fetch me a comedically large red buzzer to slam. thank you.

he's so restless. your stoic, burly, reserved, and patient man - reduced to ragged breaths and gritting his teeth because he can't sit still. here sits his pretty girl, batting her lashes at him, "cregan, can i please?" and it starts out well enough.

but you're so warm. so sweet. maybe he should be working on something - battle plans or lordy duties that define his bloodline. cregan's got an active mind, ever analyzing and preparing. he's hyperaware of everything in that moment - the way you slightly move your hips, wriggling in his lap. when he makes a comment about it, you just pout, telling him you were "adjusting." 🙄 yeah girl okay you just wanted to feel the godly girth 3000

the way you softly sigh admist the quiet chamber. maybe you do something as simple as sneeze - but when you do, you clench around cregan. and he's losing his shitttt.

can someone please find the meme of the guy sitting at a desk with his blood vessels about to burst as he's sweating? because that is our lord stark.

he tries breathing through it, for your sake. i imagine you would be the one to propose it, for whatever desire and circumstance brought you to the moment. cregan is trying :(( it's just so hard. like him, TEHE. all he wants to do is flip you over and ravage you. just leave little bites and nicks along his pretty girl's flesh :((

this is torture for him.

- 🔄❄️

reverse. elsa. anon. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? BED EMPTY, NO NOTE, WINTER GONE.

okay but seriously i am so so so sorry you got lost in my inbox. please i beg of you, come back!! the ponderer has returned, and we miss u!! REVERSE ELSA ANON IF U CSN HEAR US PLEASE SAVE US i call out to the winds. if you return, you shall never be lost again. this i swear to you 💔✊

ANYWAYS. CREGAN STARK COCKWARMING. here’s your buzzer m’dear 🚨 when you suggest the idea, cregan is a bit perplexed. you don’t want him to make you cum as many times as you want? but you bat your lashes and ask so sweetly, and you don’t ask for much. plus, cregan is a warrior. a hardened, battle surviving lord — he can stay still for his pretty wife.

or so he thinks.

because once you sink down on him, his grip on your hips is like iron. you’re warm and wet and so inviting, and you don’t want cregan to move? gods have mercy. cregan is usually pretty held together, but his breathing turns all ragged and his gaze is glued to where his [REDACTED] meets your [CONTENT DELETED]. and even worse, you’re relishing in his loss of self control.

even so, he tries to be so good for you.

it gets easier over time, and when cregan feels you relax and sigh against him, he thinks it’s not so bad after all. cregan is in control, and things are okay. until a few minutes later, you sneeze. you clench around him, and he grits his teeth, lax grip on your hips tightening once more as he fights the urge to move.

“This is torture,” he breathes, trying with all his might to stay still for you :( <3

[thoughtsforsoob]

txt - how they propose

a/n: I got inspo to write this when dates dropped for the tour! i am not officialy in posession of a pre-sale code and im hoping to get some good tickets!! i will come back with an update (LA moa's lets talk :) anyways, please enjoy! this piece was meant to be really sweet and even silly at times so please let me know what you think of it! as always, inbox is open.

yeonjun

at a fancy dinner

yeonjun is really excited when it comes to fancy, romantic outings but this one was going to be the best one of all. Of course, that’s because of his proposal plans. He is definitely the kind of guy that sort of spoils it or gives hints because he tells you to go out and get your nails, hair, etc… done. especially emphasizes getting your nails done. He covers it up by saying he loves seeing you all pretty and pampered but deep down, you sort of know what he’s hinting at. Anyways, moving on to dinner. He takes you to a fancy new restaurant that just opened in the city. It was on the top floor of some fancy building. There was a view of the city from where you both were seated at a small booth. He was sitting right next to you and talking your ear off about the day he’d had at work. He didn;t even drink, opting to let you order a drink so he can drive home. He buys you whatever you want to eat and watches you enjoy your food with those adorable, lovesick eyes. You whine at him to stop watching you but he says he can’t help but watch the love of his life. Eventually, he takes you out onto the patio of this restaurant and it was pretty empty since there were only a few more couples around. He takes in the view with you and asks you to take a cute video with him. He sets up his phone at a good angle and presses the record. He goes back to you and kisses your cheek. He takes your distraction as an opportunity to pull the ring out of his pants pocket and when he pulls away, he gets down on one knee and proposes. “Will you do me the biggest favor ever and be my Mrs. Choi?” 

soobin 

at home

Soobin was never one for big romantic gestures and he was happy that you were okay with it. His ideal date was at home, snuggled up on the couch or in a pillow fort, watching movies or playing video games together. sure, he did take you on little outings once in a while but he preferred staying home. When it came to his proposal plans, his logic was to stay home, plan and cook a little dinner and use all the extra money to buy you the prettiest ring he could find. He loved the whole ring shopping process “i know this probably isn't from some of the members. anyways, he tells you of his date plans for the night and you were into it. He tells you to dress normally with one of his hoodies and your favorite sweatpants or leggings (soobin loves your legs in leggings btw. he said so). you come in and he is dressed relaxed as well in those gray sweats you liked and a t-shirt you gave him as part of his birthday gift. He serves your dinners and then he takes you to his bed, getting comfortable together. after one episode of that new anime the both of you had started, he turns over to get something from his nightstand. he shuffles to sit on his knees and reveals the box to you, opening it shortly after. "i know this probably isn't the best proposal but we’ve had such a nice night. I love spending time at home with you. can we be homebodies together, forever?'' You nod and hug him super tight and he returns the hog. He gives you a sweet kiss after putting the ring on your finger and you two go back to watching your show and cuddling.

beomgyu

theme / amusement park

This man is so cute when it comes to a proposal. Let’s just say for the sake of this story that he takes you on an LA trip and you both have a knotts berry farm day! You two decided to skip out on disney because you two have already been together on a previous trip. You both also really wanted to see all of the snoopy memorabilia. You both have an amazing day getting on rides, drinking boysenberry juice and talking to each other the whole time. He loves seeing you so happy so he never says no to you not once that whole day. He lets you drag him to all of the performances happening at the park and even lets you take a picture of him with Snoopy, making finger guns at one another. As the day starts to wind down, you both decided to go souvenir shopping. Huening specifically requested a snoopy t-shirt so you both went to find him one. Beomgyu asks you to pick the t-shirt and he stays behind to find a snoopy plush to include in his proposal. He finds one and pays for it, as well as the requested souvenir you picked. He takes you back out to the park and you both take a seat to rest for a while before leaving the park. You take out your phone and dont notice when he turns around. He takes the plush out of the store bag and the ring out of his bag. He puts it in the plushies hand and turns back around. He taps your shoulder and you are met with a snoopy with an engagement ring in his hand. “Will you marry me, pretty lady?” he says in a high pitched voice and you gasp so loud that people turn around to look. You are absolutely red but you nod and beomgyu makes the plush put the ring on your finger. You call him a dork but he doesn't mind. He's your dork, forever. 

taehyun

at the beach

you and taehyun went to the beach often. it was always so quiet, especially when you two visited at night. These outings were frequent, especially when you both went to travel somewhere different. In this case though, you were both home in Korean. Taehyun was on a small break during the summer time before their next tour and he decided that now was as good as ever to propose. He drove the both of you to your favorite beach at around 8pm. On the way there, you both made stops to get dinner and then to pick up some snacks to enjoy while hanging out at the beach. Once you both get there, Taehyun sets up your beach blanket and you both sit down, starting to snack on some grapes. Taehyun took about 30 minutes before he decided to ask you. He scoots close to you and pulls the little box out of his bag. you give him a confused look and he opens it, looking at your shocked reaction. He wanted to give a whole speech but his words got stuck in his throat when he saw your reaction. you say yes to him and he hugs you, slipping the ring on after.

huening kai

in your hometown / family dinner

I think kai is really big when it comes to family so having your family present for such a big event was important for him. Not only that, it was also really important for him to get along with your family and have their approval. So, during this trip to your hometown over a winter break, he sends you off to go shopping with your close cousin/sibling. He takes this opportunity to gather the rest of your family and ask for their approval to propose to you and of course they say yes! They even help him plan a whole thing. They were excited to see that he loved you a lot and cared enough to ask for their opinions and approval. This especially swayed your parents, who came up to him after and had a little chat with him about what they’d do if he ever hurt you. Moving on….you come back home from shopping and you show kai all your finds! Later on that night, your family is all gathered together in the backyard around a bonfire, having drinks and chatting. After a little while, your family gives kai strange looks and you’re sitting there absolutely confused. Kai looked over at you and smiled, “hey baby. I wanna ask you something. Will you do me a big honor and marry me?” he pulls out the ring and as soon as you say yes, he slips it on your finger and everyone cheers!

[criblovr]

｡‧˚ʚ caregiving for dummies ɞ˚‧｡⋆ - the series

In a world where classifications exist— regressors, caregivers, flips, and neutrals— Agatha has been classified for years, decades. Shocking news for her friends, she was classified as a caregiver. Too bad every little she’s met has run for the hills.

Episode one: The decision

tags: classification au, caregiver agatha, gender neutral reader, cg!agatha harkness x little!reader, social worker lilia

notes: here’s the first episode! i’m so excited to start my very first series on here and hope you guys are too :3 i’ve gotten so much support for this idea and feel so loved! have fun reading, then come to my inbox and tell me ur thoughts :p

It was warm today. The first time in months that Agatha didn’t feel the need to put on a coat. It was still chilly, a little breeze that made you shiver so often, but the sun was out and warmed you right up, after.

Agatha always liked taking a morning walk, she felt so much more awake after.

Today was no different. She threw on an outfit and left for her walk. Sometimes, she’d bring Señor Scratchy in his stroller to accompany her. But her bunny thumped and ran from her, telling her, bluntly, that he wasn’t up for a walk today.

She walked slow, sipping a cup of tea. The warmth of the tea filled her tummy and comforted her. From a distance, she could hear a family laughing together. Shut up.

It was too early for that much noise. They’ll wake the entire neighborhood soon enough. Urgh.

Agatha was such an asshole.

She actually really adored those neighbors kids. Even if they screamed each time Agatha tried to make them smile. Their caretakers would awkwardly smile and speed away. Some neighbors were nicer about it, trying to make a lame excuse why their little yelled ‘witch!’ straight to her face.

Agatha was classified at 22 years old. 28 years ago. She waited until she was nearly 40 to register as CWOA (Caregiver with open arms.) It was a worldwide organization. Of course it had different names for different countries but it was nearly all the same. Once classified as a caregiver, you had a choice to register right then and there or— register when you were ready. Same went for flips and littles.

When Agatha registered, she was full of excitement. Her agent gave her all the paperwork she needed once her home was ‘open’ for potential littles. They sent her pamphlets, magazines, books, and a small gift basket when she was done. All of it preached how wonderful caregiving was, how your life feels complete once you have your little.

Ten years later… her house is empty.

Agatha was optimistic at first. Everyone told her that the first year was just waiting, then the next year— when she got her first call of a potential match— her dreams were crushed.

A little girl, tiny age: 5. Big age: 21.

She approached the little girl slowly, smiling hard. Then… “WITCH! MISS!” The girl called out to her social worker and ran behind her. Her throat felt like it was closing up on her. She wasn’t going to cry, but she wanted to.

After that incident, she rarely got any calls from her agent. They must’ve flagged her status. Potentially ill fit caregiver.

She had a few meetings after that, all went horribly. They were terrified of her. She considered just dropping out. She was just scaring these children anyway. She felt like an odd one out. (Which is true.)

A good amount of West View saw Agatha Harkness as a baby eater, an evil witch, and an outcast. Her town didn’t like her. She embraced it most times, walked through the streets with confidence. And she had a few friends at least.

Wanda.

Which…

She wasn’t a person she’d usually spend time with. Wanda was very upbeat, always giggling. She’s surprised she was classified as a caregiver than a little. But she couldn’t deny that Wanda was a good friend. She goes out to town with her, gives her advice, and respects her. Like Agatha, Wanda, too, has a reputation.

A lot of the townspeople think of Wanda as a lunatic. Mostly because Wanda is a over-paranoid caregiver when it comes to her little. She’s insanely protective, as Agatha would be too.

xxxx

You nearly trip when you attempt to put your shoes on. You were late, as always. Your alarm hadn’t rang at the time it was supposed and now you’re 15 minutes late to your meeting with your social worker. You weren’t even sleeping, you were lying on your couch scrolling through the movie section for an hour straight.

You had been classified last year and hadn’t registered to CWOA. You hadn’t felt like it was the time. (Or if it was ever the time.) Your teachers had always scolded you for being so reckless. So irresponsible.

They made you feel like it was impossible for anyone to tolerate you.

Then you get classified as a little. It made sense, you didn’t hate yourself for it. It was inconvenient sometimes but you handled it the best you could.

As a classified little with no caregiver, you were required to meet with your social worker every month. Sorta like a wellness check. It went well most times, just standard questions.

Have you been eating minimum of three meals a day?

Have you found yourself in a potential dangerous situation while regressed?

Have you kept up with cleaning, laundry, and hygiene?

They want to make sure you are okay with taking care of yourself. The meeting lasts an hour maximum.

With no time to spare, you leave out the door in a rush, catching the bus just on time.

The commute there was about 15 minutes or so. It gave you time to catch your breath and relax. This meeting in particular was going to be different. The month prior your social worker had suggested registering you to CWOA.

It was completely out of the blue. Every meeting with Miss Lilia went quick and right to the point. You hadn’t expected something different from her usual routine.

As the bus moved, you cracked your knuckles, nervously. You didn’t even the thought of it.

It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t particularly fun either.

Once you’re registered with the organization, you’re made a portfolio. All your personal details are put onto several different papers for random caregivers to see.

Of course you only shared what you wanted to share. But still— scary.

Littles get called into the office of the organization to meet different caregivers, sometimes they get to play in the playroom as they wait. Which does sound fun.. you couldn’t lie about that. Still, It felt very weird. It was too exposed for your likely.

But. You trusted your social worker. She was caring and understanding, she didn’t make her meetings unnecessarily awkward or boring. Sometimes, she’d bring along her kitty with her and let you play with her as you both talked.

After getting off the bus, you walked a short distance to the office. There were several of these offices around the state— the entire country. This one was the closest to your home, hence being assigned Miss Lilia when you were classified.

“Hi, sweetheart. You have Lilia at 3?” The front desk lady asked.

You nodded, peeking above her desk.

“Are you looking for some candy?”

“Mmh… yes?”

The lady laughs, sweetly. “We’re all out but I promise we’ll have plenty next month, ‘kay?”

Just as you were going to whine, Miss Lilia peeks her head from the hallway.

“You know whining won’t magically give you candy.”

You turn to her, your ears turning warm. Without speaking, Lilia turns back and starts walking to her office, you following behind.

Once in her office, she sits down behind her desk. The absence of her kitty makes you frown momentarily, then Lilia speaks.

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t get a hello?”

Lilia smirks, “Hi, baby. How are you feeling?”

“I feel.. nervous. And I didn’t get to watch a movie before I left, so upset too.”

Lilia hums, acknowledging you as she logs into her computer.

“I’ve given you plenty of movie recommendations.”

“Yeah, but you know I’m super picky when it comes to finding the prefect movie for the prefect time.”

Lilia playfully scoffs and continues to type on her computer. She’s finding your file, based on her focused look on her face. Once she does find it, she looks at you, fully engaged now.

“We’ll go over the usual questions then we can talk about CWOA, or would you like to talk about that first?”

You fidget with your fingers, wanting to whine again but knowing Lilia wouldn’t appreciate that. She does not tolerate whining in her office.

“I’d like to go over the questions first, please.”

The questions went smoothly, your answers not changing from the last time you were here.

“I’ve been skipping dinner…”

“I felt small when I got lost in a parking lot last week.”

“I sleep good! I did fall asleep at 12 last night.. but I was finishing The Little Mermaid.”

Lilia sighed, her hand resting against her forehead. You weren’t clueless, you knew you hadn’t been taking care of yourself the best as you use to. You knew your answers were definitely a call for concern. You just really needed to start picking up your slack. That’s all.

“Honey, what’s happening? You’ve done so well at taking care of yourself. CWOA are going to be banging at my door by tonight.”

You melted into your chair, sighing louder than Lilia. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize. This is normal, okay? So—what’s changed?”

You look down at the chair you’re sitting in. Its cheap leather is peeling, you pick at it. “I’ve been feeling… lonely.”

“In what way?”

“Um… I don’t know. Lately, when I feel small, I’ve been getting a little emotional… a little smaller than usual.”

Lilia looks to her computer, clicking a few buttons before finding the specific folder. “You’ve been regressing to.. 1-3? By yourself?” Lilia’s face is full of concern.

“Yeah..”

“I believe CWOA is the direction we should take, hon.”

“I don’t feel like doing paperwork today,” you groan.

“It’s just a few signatures and answering a few questions,” Lilia says, looking at you with a no nonsense attitude. “Do you remember the procedures related to it?”

You sigh again, what feels like the millionth time today, “yes.”

After almost two hours, you have a shiny portfolio, a few stickers, and a pamphlet.

Littles don’t usually leave the office with more than that. The more important stuff is dealt with for you by your social worker.

Instead of hoping on the bus again, you decide to walk home. It feels warm outside for the first time in a while. You let yourself drift off to the thought of possibly having a mama.

Your stomach does a flip. A nervous, excited one.

[xuchiya]

Hello! Firstly, thank you so much for sharing your beautiful writings with us online 💕

I saw your post about your inbox being empty and I was wondering if you could write Jongho angst/fluff about his new relationship with reader who likes skinship, so like he gets shy and conflicted at first, maybe even insecure about not being good bf or angry about having to do skinship but then they both work things out and it has good ending? 🥺

I'm in desperate need of Jongho scenarios, maybe you'll bless me and other ribos with one 🙏

If not, it's okay too! Have a good day/night :D

Hello my loves, thank you so much, I'm quite rusty since i have stop writing for many years and this year was the only time I returned writing!! I am happy to always share my works with you ... and feed your delulus heheh 👹kidding my loves. Anyways, your wish is my command my loves.

"I'll hold your hand, eventually" || choi jongho || one-shot

|genre: non!idol jongho. fluff. angst. girlfriend! reader |mentions: fear. self-doubt.

When you first meet Jongho, you notice the way he is conservative. At first you thought he was shy—which you were correct as it took him a lot of time to adjust. You were patient enough to let him bask in the presence and the reality of being in a committed relationship. Meanwhile, inside his head numerous anxious thoughts hit him at once; being in the relationship, skinship does happen in some kind of way. Either it be a choice of savoring in the closeness or sweetness of your partner or by accident closure, either way it happens and he is not prepared for it. 

The air between you and Jongho had grown thick with an awkward tension that neither of you seemed to know how to cut. You put your lips in a thin line as you glance his way before directing it somewhere.

 It wasn’t always this way. 

When your relationship had first begun, everything had felt easy, light, like walking on a cloud. He is gentle with his words assuring you, making his presence a sense of comfort whenever you walk outside to take a breather— to which you both have loved to do ever since.

But now, four months in, a certain weight hung in the space you shared.

It had started with the little small things. One morning, you and Jongho decided to eat breakfast outside since the weather is nice; weather is warm to your skin, the sky greets you with its fluffy clouds and it feels like a good day. Unknowingly under the influence of the beauty of nature, you reach for his hand, a moment you wanted to share with him but it all shattered when Jongho smoothly pulls away from your hold. He thought that you wouldn’t notice when he started pointing things in general to distract you.

You felt it and it left you awkward and embarrassed as you thought you were going way too fast and nodded at his facts and such.

But what you didn’t know is the way he stiffened when you leaned into him on the couch during movie nights. Your favorite routine with him was to watch various shows and anime movies. Howl’s moving castle was your favorite of all time and it always leaves you with a fluttering heart.

“Howl is so sweet, he reminds me a lot of you.” You spoke with a huge smile on your lips as you gaze at the man beside you. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“He looks more like Wooyoung-hyung.” Your lips jutted to the side and nodded, agreeing with him “Yeah well he acts more like you.” 

You watch how he subtly rolled his eyes at you, jokingly to which you threw the small pillow you were hugging at him. He kept teasing you until you narrowed your eyes and moved towards him. The sudden short distance made Jongho’s eyes widen as he subtly moved backwards.

“You still are my Howl.” Even the joke had died and the awkwardness born in the middle of your playful bickering; It made you move away as you mumbled a small apology and kept your eyes on the screen.

That moment hurt you as you notice in the corner of your eyes the way he moved in his seat to make himself comfortable and placed a pillow just between you two. It was embarrassing and painful as your eyes blurred for a minute until you pushed it down and distract yourself, unsuccessfully, on the movie.

The last one was the final straw. He never reciprocated your hugs.

You tried not to let it bother you, knowing that Jongho wasn’t as naturally inclined toward skinship as you were. But the more it happened, the more the doubt crept in. Did he not like touching you? Did it mean something deeper about your relationship? 

You knew how shallow your reason is for distancing yourself from Jongho but it felt like the world was playing with you for finally having the thought of happily ever after. Of course! You promised Jongho and whoever hears it that you will always extend the patience you have within you all throughout your relationship.

But a simple gesture is enough to doubt whatever you have. Whoever you were.

On the other hand, Jongho was battling his own storm of thoughts. He loved you deeply, and that scared him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hold your hand or embrace you—it was that he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t sure if he’d be good enough for you, if he could meet your needs the way you deserved. The last thing he wanted was for his awkwardness to disappoint you.

The weight of his doubts grew heavier with each passing day, an invisible barrier he couldn’t bring himself to cross. His heart raced every time you smiled at him, every time your fingers brushed him. He wanted so badly to close the gap between you, but something inside held him back—fear, uncertainty, a quiet voice whispering he might not be enough.

It all came to a head one chilly evening as the two of you were walking home from dinner. The streets were quiet, save for the soft crunch of your shoes against the pavement. The glow of streetlights painted golden halos on the wet ground, and your breath mingled with the cold in small, visible puffs. Without thinking, your arm instinctively looped through his, seeking warmth and comfort.

But Jongho hesitated. After a brief moment, he gently pulled away, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. The absence of his touch sent a pang through your chest.

You didn’t want to cause a scene in which he was already awkward with what was happening between the two of you, so you sighed and stopped in your tracks, the soft clink of your shoes on the pavement cutting off abruptly. The suddenness of your pause made Jongho stop as well, his back stiffening as he turned to face you.

“Jongho, why do you keep doing that?” you asked, your voice steady but carrying a weight of emotion that was impossible to ignore.

It was the moment Jongho had been dreading, the day he wasn’t ready to face. And now, he stood before you, caught in the headlights of your question, his throat dry and his heart pounding like a drum.

“Doing what?” he asked, feigning innocence, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew exactly what you meant, but he wasn’t prepared to confront it—not now, maybe not ever.

“Pulling away from me,” you said, your voice quieter now, laced with vulnerability. The look in your eyes told him this wasn’t just about tonight. This was about every moment he’d retreated, every time he’d let his hesitation overshadow the love he felt.

Jongho felt your words like a sharp knife, slicing through the layers of fear and doubt he’d built around himself. He opened his mouth, as though to speak, but no words came. He swallowed hard, frustration bubbling within him as he grappled with the emotions threatening to spill over.

“Do you even like me, Jongho?” The question came out softer than you intended, almost a whisper, but the impact on Jongho was like a thunderclap.

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. “What? Of course, I do!” he blurted out, the suddenness of his response surprising even him.

“Then why does it feel like you’re always holding back?” Your voice cracked, the dam of your own frustrations breaking at last. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them away, determined not to cry.

Jongho looked down at his feet, his hands still buried deep in his pockets as though they could shield him from the weight of the moment. He drew in a shaky breath, the cool night air filling his lungs as he tried to summon the courage to speak.

“I’m scared,” he admitted at last, his voice trembling with raw honesty. “I’m scared of messing this up, of not being enough for you. You deserve someone who knows what they’re doing, someone who isn’t… me.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, and your anger softened into something gentler, something understanding. You took a small step closer, closing the space he’d put between you.

“Jongho,” you said softly, “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be here—with me.” Your words hung in the air, fragile yet powerful. It has come to you that this is what he has been going through and you instantly felt guilty for not noticing the turmoil he is in; you could have taken it in a way to understand more than just letting your emotions get the best of you. 

Jongho finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. It was like a weight on his shoulders had lifted and he could finally see the pain of his absence in touch. He would have already you in his arms if it wasn’t for his fear and doubt. But because your simple but impactful words had melted those thoughts away; gradually, hesitantly, he pulled his hands from his pockets, reaching for yours. His fingers trembled slightly as they intertwined with yours, but this time, he didn’t pull away.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice barely audible but steady. “And I’ll try. I promise I’ll keep trying.”

The weight of the moment settled between you, not as a burden but as an unspoken agreement to face the challenges ahead together. And as you walked the rest of the way home, hand in hand, the silence between you felt different—warm, reassuring, and filled with a quiet hope.

[meimeimeirin]

still on tumblr break, but since i just logged in and saw several asks, i thought i'd clarify a few things here.

regarding me and @/zhongrin

in summary:

zhongrin is privated and archived permanently.

for the two people who asked, yeah, i'm alright.

more utc, but you can skip.

to expand more on the 'sudden' archiving/privating:

i've been debating to archive the blog since last year. to tell the truth, the new theme that appeared in zhongrin since september last year was actually the theme of a new writing sideblog i made. honestly, i had contemplated archiving it since july ー and i've lost count over how many times i created a 'blog archived' post only to delete it, over and over again. i just held on like an idiot and kept telling myself to just post and dip out.

don't look at the activity bar, it's just going to be full of likes. don't look at the notes, i'll just be full of more empty likes. don't look at the reblogs, it won't have any feedback anyway. don't look into your inbox, you won't find any feedback whatsoever anyway. don't look at your dash, lest you'll see other people getting interactions and start wondering if you're the weirdo for not getting any. don't look. don't look. don't look.

i'm just so tired of being disappointed.

it's like writing out a play and 10k people reserved seats to your free performance, yet all you see are thousands of absent seats. all you receive are silent smiles. a few applauses. and less than ten people commenting on the play, most of which are your own friends.

every time i post, i start questioning why did i even bother sharing this. or if i'm even actually good enough at writing. or if that comment was just there out of pity. or if i should have used the time i spent writing, proofreading, and editing to do something else. something that would have brought more joy. something that would result in more than a few strung words on a digital screen that no one thinks is worth sharing.

every time i post, it just feels like i just did something meaningless. every time i do events or bring my ocs to the spotlight, every time i'm having so much fun, people leave and it gets even more silent. my thoughts? my expectations? my joy? my sadness? meaningless. they're all meaningless to these ten thousand people.

why should i keep sharing and doing something that feels meaningless and hopeless?

so i stopped caring and archived. that's all there is to it.

i do have that new writing blog set up. way back since last year. because as much as i loathe the silence, i still love writing. sometimes.

as of today, that blog is still devoid of original posts. i don't know when or if i'll feel comfortable posting my own 'content' again. or maybe i never will. who knows. but if i do, this time, i'm setting things up so i can just be the 'content creator' that readers expect me to be and distance myself from everything.

call me childish. call me jaded. call me a bitch. i don't care. i don't want to try connecting with my readers anymore because tumblr as a community has stopped being a system that can do this. i'm just going to give myself the option of making content and dipping out whenever i want. i'm going to spend my energy having fun with my friends who does care - on a separate, more controlled environment altogether.

this will still be my main since i don't want to bother setting up a new account and re-following people again. but i won't be active here. i foresee i'll be more 'present' in my private blog. for those who does have the url ー please keep it a secret. thanks.

bye, zhongrin. it started out fun. it's a shame it ended on a bitter note. i truly wish it hadn't turned out this way.

signing off once again, meirin.

[kaiserinnessie]

Can i request like this??

Well imma still do it lmaodka

SOO UHMMM HQ OR BLLK BOYS WITH SLAVIC SO???

WELCOME BACK FROM RETIREMENT 🫡🫡

Forgot inboxes were a thing I’ve been gone so long… ANYWAY YES YOU CAN REQUEST LIKE THIS

Because this was slightly vague I will try my best:D thank u btw!!

(No smut in this)

Bllk boys with a Slavic SO!

Head cannons only for the amount ima put here

By all means I am NOT Slavic myself. So if this is by any means wrong or anything is stereotypical please lmk. I did my research for this! You can tell I get progressively more lazy…

Isagi Yoichi

•Super eager to learn about your culture.. he watches documentaries, reads articles, and even asks you random questions about your traditions in the middle of the night. Sometimes gets a little scared when you scold him for keeping you up about it.. makes a note to NOT and you in the middle of the night anymore. If he can help it..

•Tries to cook Slavic food for you once but nearly burns down the kitchen. After that, he just hovers around, watching you cook while sneaking bites. He feels even worse whenever it’s brought up at the dinner table whether it be around family or friends. Poor guy..

•Gets along well with your family. If your parents are around, they see him as polite and hard-working, and they probably joke about when he’ll propose. He gets super flustered but takes the hint. Eventually.

•Terrible at learning your language but puts in so much effort. He practices common phrases and cute nicknames for you. You can’t help but let it slide even when he butchers some words just because of how pouty he gets after. Thankfully though he’s a fast learner as he picks up on the words quickly.

•Gets scared easily by Slavic superstitions, like not whistling indoors or not shaking hands over a doorway. He doesn’t want to risk cursing himself. He’s pretty damn gullible like that..

•Loves the idea of big Slavic weddings and jokes about how he’d fight anyone to catch you in a wedding tradition like the ransom for the bride.

Bachira Meguru

•Thinks Slavic folklore is the coolest thing ever and wants to hear every single creepy story you know. If you mention the domovoi (house spirit), he’ll start leaving snacks out for it. “My monster told me too!”

•Tries to dance traditional Slavic dances with you but moves like a chaotic mess. He spins you too hard, dips you too low, and makes the whole thing a disaster—but he’s having fun. Even if he looks like a fish out of water..

•Mimics your accent on purpose if you have one, calling you cute things in an exaggerated voice just to mess with you. “Oh, моя любовь~” (my love~) while draping himself over you dramatically.

•Eats all the Slavic food you make without question. You could hand him something extremely questionable, and he’d just go. “Cool, let’s try it!”

•Absolutely obsessed with Slavic desserts, especially honey cake (medovik) and piroshki. He eats five portions in one sitting and then collapses into a food coma.

•Plays dumb pranks using your superstitions if you have any, like leaving empty bottles upside-down or putting a broom near the door to see how long it takes for you to notice. Always blames it on his monster after.

•Tries learning your language but only remembers insults and dramatic phrases. If you scold him, he just says, “Ты разбила мне сердце” (You broke my heart) and fake sobs.

Rin Itoshi

•Doesn’t act excited, but listens intently whenever you talk about your culture and actually remembers everything you say. But he would never admit to that.

•Picks up your native language ridiculously fast and starts talking shit to Sae in it so he won’t understand. Eventually grows mad when Sae learns it back just to spite him, coming to you to complain. “That asshole..”

•Finds Slavic superstitions stupid but will lowkey follow them anyway. If he sees you avoid passing things over a doorway, he starts doing it too.. just in case.

•Thinks some Slavic traditions are too much work but does them for you anyway. If your family expects him to do a long toast at dinner, he just sighs and goes, “Za nas” (To us). He’s also maybe doing it because of the harsh glare he’s getting from you beside him.

•Prefers simple Slavic dishes and will casually ask for them like it’s no big deal. “We’re having pelmeni again, right?”

•Absolutely hates large family gatherings, but tolerates them because of you. He won’t admit it, but he actually enjoys how warm and close-knit your family is. And if they aren’t? Better for him, he enjoys your company one-on-one anyways.

•If someone disrespects your culture, he’s immediately roasting them into the ground in your language. Even more so if you’re around.. just to hear you thank him.

Kaiser

•Finds your culture fascinating and brags about it to other people like it’s a flex. But more so as if he’s Slavic himself.. he doesn’t know much about his own German traditions so yours kind of become the filler until you force him to learn about his own. (He’s secretly grateful for it though, even if he never out right admits it)

•Purposely butchers your language just to piss you off but secretly practices it in private to surprise you later. “What do you mean I said it wrong? Isn’t it ____?”

•Will wear traditional Slavic embroidered shirts (vyshyvanka) just because he thinks it makes him look cool and romantic. You scold him about it later.

•Expects royal treatment whenever you cook for him, dramatically praising your skills like, “Ah, I’ve never tasted something this divine in my life.” But it sounds more mockingly than anything.

•Pretends superstitions don’t matter but visibly hesitates if he does something unlucky.

•Loves Slavic fairy tales and compares himself to the charming prince in every single one. But at the same time hates them because of how unrealistic they are…

•Wants to be the center of attention at big Slavic celebrations and somehow becomes everyone’s favorite foreigner by the end of the night.

•pisses you off daily just to see if you will put him in his place.

Nagi

•Too lazy to learn your language properly, but memorizes pet names and compliments. He loves calling you “моя звезда” (my star) in a sleepy voice. (Reo taught him.)

•Takes post-lunch naps seriously and uses Slavic resting traditions as an excuse to sleep more. ANY EXCUSE HE CAN TAKE, he uses.

•Eats anything you give him without question and doesn’t realize how long certain dishes take to prepare. He casually asks for complex meals like they’re instant. Will pout if you can’t make them.

•Doesn’t care about superstitions until something unlucky happens, then suddenly he’s like.. “Tch… maybe you were right.”

•Loves Slavic winter traditions like drinking hot tea with jam while bundled up in blankets.

Reo Mikage

•Tries to become an expert in your culture after one Google search. He wants to impress your family. Ends up actually studying after messing up ONCE and becomes completely fluent in anything and everything. You find it annoying just how fast he can learn.

•Spoils you with Slavic-themed gifts, traditional jewelry, books on folklore, expensive imported treats. Even if you say you don’t need them, especially if it’s just because it’s apart of your culture, he will end up pretending he never heard you. (He will be scolded by you later)

•Respects every superstition, even the weird ones. He once refused to hand you money directly because he didn’t want to bring bad luck. Going as far to make sure Nagi followed them too, at-least whenever he’s around you.

•Loves extravagant Slavic weddings and already plans yours in his head. Safe to say you won’t have to worry about anyone outdoing you guys or being disappointed.

•Gets tipsy at big family gatherings and starts toasting in your language with over-the-top romantic speeches. And you can’t tell who gets teased more after, you or him.

Barou

•Acts like he doesn’t care about your culture but secretly loves it and follows traditions better than you do. Somehow.

•Eats everything you cook but also demands to know the recipes so he can learn to cook it himself. If it’s a passed down recipe he will do anything in his power to obtain it (normally)

•Scares people at gatherings just by sitting there, but your relatives love him because he eats so much. And how he cleans up after everyone..

•Secretly follows superstitions but won’t admit it. You once saw him hesitate before shaking hands over a doorway.

•Admires the warrior mentality in Slavic history and compares himself to ancient warriors.

Chigiri

•Genuinely fascinated by Slavic culture and eager to learn. He’d listen intently when you talk about traditions, even taking notes mentally.

•Respects Slavic superstitions—if you say whistling indoors brings bad luck, he will immediately stop, no questions asked.

•Loves Slavic food, especially borscht and piroshki. Prefers lighter soups but will eat heavier dishes if you make them. Enjoys the ones with lots of nutrients as well

•Absolutely loves it when you braid his hair. If Slavic traditions involve hair significance, he takes it to heart. And he may or may not learn all he can about hair care there because WOAH.

•If your family is traditional, he’s so polite and well-mannered when meeting them. They end up fawning over him immediately.

•Will jokingly compare his speed to famous Slavic athletes and subtly flex his knowledge of your country’s soccer scene.(it’s not really a joke)

•If you teach him some Slavic phrases, he will use them secretly as insults to like anyone but your family. The only way someone notices is by the way he spits them out so sassily.

•If you celebrate name days, he will always remember and surprise you.

Otoya

•Loves hearing your traditional music and will tease you by trying to dance to it. He fails miserably and makes a fool out of himself. Your parents do not like him that much.

•Finds Slavic folk tales absolutely wild—he’ll be both amused and mildly disturbed by the darker ones. Even if he shows no emotion of such.

•Insists on calling you pet names in your native language but mispronounces them on purpose to mess with you. (Atleast that’s what he tells out.”

•Finds Slavic martial arts fascinating—if you know any, he’ll beg you to show him some moves. If you do teach him any, they turn into flirting techniques..

•Enjoys watching Soviet-era cartoons with you, even if he doesn’t fully understand them.

•If you tell him about superstitions like not shaking hands in doorways, he’ll do it anyway just to annoy you.

•attempts and fails to drink on the same level as ANYONE in your family, will be butt hurt about it

Hiori

•Deeply respects Slavic history and will actually research it on his own just to understand your background.

•Loves hearing old lullabies and folk songs—finds them oddly soothing. Especially if you sing any to him.

•Always remembers important holidays and traditions, even if you don’t expect him to.

•Finds Slavic architecture beautiful—if you ever take him to your country, he’d be mesmerized by old churches and castles.

•Prefers lighter dishes like cabbage rolls but won’t refuse food you make.

•If you believe in the evil eye, he’ll secretly carry an amulet or symbol for your protection.

•would try to learn the language but his accent makes it infinitely times harder

•isn’t good under the expectations of YOUR parents if they have any for him, poor guy gets PTSD

Kurona

•Quietly listens when you talk about your culture and never forgets small details.

•Wants to learn your language so he can communicate better with your family. And he might learn a few words.. but it also doesn’t help that he repeats them more than ness scary and the fact his sharp teeth hinder the pronunciation a bit

•If you have special rituals or greetings, he’ll participate even if he doesn’t fully get them. “Приветик.. Приветик..”

•Loves traditional pastries—he has a sweet tooth and will 100% steal a pirozhok when you’re not looking.

•If your country has brutal winters, he will bundle up ridiculously while you’re casually fine in the cold.

Ness

•Extremely romantic about Slavic traditions—if there’s a love-related superstition, he believes it 100%. Even more so when he sees ones about magic.. he’s like a kid from how bright his eyes light up

•Finds the concept of name days adorable and makes sure to celebrate yours. Always.

•If you tell him about protective charms or folk remedies, he’ll actually try them out. And that turns into all the time.

•Loves hearing you speak your language—will beg you to teach him endearing phrases. “Please leibe pleaseeee teach me something!”

•Traditional Slavic dances? He wants to learn. And yes, he will step on your feet.

•Enjoys your country’s fashion styles—if there are embroidered designs, he’ll wear them proudly.

•Might get way too invested in your culture’s soccer teams, just to bond with you.

Yukimiya

•Finds Slavic aesthetics stunning—from architecture to clothing, he genuinely admires it.

•Appreciates the poetic nature of Slavic languages—will ask you to read or recite something just to hear it.

•Respects traditional Slavic values and finds the family-centric culture beautiful. Your family LOVES HIM.

•Loves celebrating unique holidays with you, especially ones that involve big feasts.

•Wants to travel to your homeland and take professional-style photos of the scenery. Especially for his modeling career

•Enjoys classic Slavic literature and poetry, especially if you introduce him to it.

•If you follow old protection rituals, he might quietly participate just because he knows it matters to you. Even if he finds it a bit odd.. he could never say that to your face though.

Shidou

•Loves Slavic folklore, especially the dark or chaotic stories—he finds them hilarious. Loud about it too.

•Refuses to acknowledge superstitions unless he can use them to tease you. Earning a glare from you, always, and he can’t help but giggle at you like a school girl

•Would 100% challenge your family to drinking games during celebrations. Somehow holds his liquor up against most of them?? Becomes a regular after that

•Finds Slavic martial arts cool and will try to fight you for fun. But is always gentle with you until you make it clear you’re into it.

•LOVES the food—he will inhale every dish you put in front of him. Bros a dog. But will refuse anything that looks too weird..

•Will dramatically compare himself to folklore creatures just to annoy you. He loves the angry face you make whenever he does so

•Thinks name days are dumb but will still get you a present.

•Biggest flirt, even around your family. Earning him multiple slaps atop the head. Kicks to the shin. And ice cold glares. “Owww damn okay sorry..”

Sae

•Highly respectful of your culture but doesn’t express it verbally—just quietly participates.

•If you celebrate Orthodox holidays, he will observe and respect every custom. Not without complaining though. Drama queen.

•If you have a big, loud family, he finds them overwhelming but will still visit. As long as you listen to his rants later.

•Prefers modern Slavic literature over old folklore but won’t complain if you tell him stories.

•Watches your country’s soccer leagues just to understand your roots better. And maybe learn more..

•Enjoys the food but prefers lighter dishes. Will refuse anything he doesn’t truly want to eat, making up for it later

•If you teach him Slavic idioms or proverbs, he will use them at the perfect moments to flex on others. But he won’t tell anyone that(uses them on rin time to time)

Kunigami(before WC)

•Deeply respects Slavic traditions—he sees the importance of heritage and wants to honor it. His sisters pick up on it as well.

•If your culture has warrior legends or heroic figures, he’s interested in learning about them.

•Prefers simple, hearty meals like stews and stuffed cabbage—if it’s protein-packed, he’s all for it. Can not say no to your cooking if you cook for him, good or not.

•Very serious about respecting elders—if your family is strict, he’ll be overly polite. Becomes a favorite almost instantly

•Superstitions aren’t his thing, but if you tell him something is bad luck, he’ll take it seriously. Maybe a little too seriously

•Loves name days because it gives him another reason to celebrate you.

•Tries to learn your language but struggles with pronunciation—you’ll hear him practicing under his breath.

•Not a fan of vodka, but he will drink it if your family insists—and he’ll hold his liquor like a champ. Until you guys are alone…

Karasu

•Finds Slavic folklore wild and hilarious—he will 100% make fun of the creepier ones just to tease you. Then feels bad after..

•Loves Slavic curses and insults—if you call him something in your language, he’ll demand to know what it means. And just like a crow, repeats it after and holds onto that knowledge forever

•Not big on superstitions but will follow them just to mess with you—like pretending to test bad luck theories.

•Finds Slavic drinking culture impressive—will challenge your uncles to a drinking contest at family gatherings. WILL lose.

•Absolutely chaotic during holiday traditions—if there’s a festival or ritual, he’s doing it full force.

•Enjoys traditional Slavic dances but turns them into a joke—expect exaggerated spins and dramatic flair. Knows when to calm down when needed though.

•Gets a kick out of how strict Slavic grandmothers can be—if yours yells at him, he’ll take it as a challenge. (Mentally. He will not fight back otherwise.)

Tried my best! I hope you enjoy:)

[shittyassffblog]

In Sickness and In Health

Someone said they wanted noah taking care of Y/N when they were sick and i took that upon myself lol (not at all procrastinating my dissertation noooooo) anyways here. They're married too yay

If anyone wants to go on a taglist for when i post send me an inbox and i'll add you to it!

Warnings: illness (cold and coughing), fluff, any others please tell me.

You woke up to the most annoying sound of your alarm going off. You had never been more pissed at your alarm before and soon you felt it. Your left nostril all blocked up. You groaned out loud and turned under your covers only for the other nostril to be blocked off too now. You opened your eyes to see the other side of the bed empty. Noah must be at the gym.

You got up from the bed to get a shower, hoping that would clear up some of the goo in your nose. As you got undressed, you called your work to tell them you were sick. You put on some calming music and got in the warm water. You lost track of time in there, the warm water being so soothing. You quickly washed your body and hair and got out again. You took your time doing your skincare, rubbing your whole body with bodyoil. You walked into your bedroom to find Noah half dressed, looking through his drawers for a pair of underwear. You hugged him from behind and he juped slightly.

"Hey princess, what are you doing home?" He asked, turning around and hugging you close.

"I'm sick." You said simply, your stuffed nose providing evidence of your claim.

"Then what are you doing out of bed?!" He asked incrediously. You smiled.

"I can shower by myself baby, you go shower." You said and siled at him.

"No?! I'm gonna make you some tea and some good breakfast, and then we will spend all day on the couch cuddling." He said with a firm grip on your arms.

"Okay but could you shower first? You smell." You said and he laughed.

"How would you know that, you can't smell anything." He said kissing your forehead and going to take a shower. You laughed to yourself and went to get settled on the couch with your phone.

You were a good 20 minutes into your tiktok scroll when Noah emerged from the bathroom, wet hair and a pair of black tight underwear on.

"You should never wear anythign else." You said and he grinned.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asked and you pondered for a bit.

"Waffles with berries and whipped cream." You said and he laughed.

"Be serious, you can't have that if you're sick. You need healthy food." He said and you pouted. "What about avocado toast? You can have the berries on the side." He said and you sighed through your mouth.

"Alright. But I want juice as well." You said and he laughed again.

"Sure angel." He said.

"Can i have the controller?" You asked pointing to the Playstation 5 controller that was by the TV.

"Of course baby. You want the blankets too?" he asked and you nodded. He wrapped you in the blankets tightly and handed you the controller and turned on the TV, handing you the remote.

"Wait here gorgeous, i'll fix you some food." He said, kissing your head and you smiled as you started up GTAV on the giant flat screen that adorned your wall.

Noah soon returned with the food he promised, placing the plate on your lap and the glass of juice on the little table beside your couch. He plopped down beside you and you handed him the controller to continue the game while you ate.

"You're so trash at this." You said, mouth full of food. He was so concentrated on the game his tongue was sticking out of the side of his mouth, turning the controller the way he wanted the car to go.

"Yeah well i was learning guitar when i was a kid i didn't play car games." He said and you laughed. Once you were done eating you put down your plate and drank half of the orange juice. You took back the controller, putting Franklin in the game out of his misery and finished the mission. You then put the controller down and opened tiktok, scrolling a few videos down.

"Aren't you going to practice?" You asked Noah, who was supposed to be in the soundproof basement. He shook his head and pulled you close so your head was resting against his chest.

"No, cancelled." He said squeezing you tightly into his body.

"Why?" You asked looking up at him.

"Would rather make sure you were okay. It's never nice to be alone when you're sick." Noah said and your heart warmed. You truly had found the best husband ever.

"But don't you need to practice some of the new songs?" You asked and he shook his head.

"No we're good. Just relax baby." He said and you turned back to your phone.

-

You woke up to the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen, and you looked out the window to see the sun was setting. You didn't know how long you had been asleep for, you don't even remember falling asleep, but apparently now the sun was setting, and from the sounds of it, Noah was doing the dishes. You got off the couch and walked out to find him, wrapping the blanket around you.

"Baby." You said groggily. Noah turned around quickly and smiled when he saw you.

"Hey sweets. You okay?" He asked as he hugged you around your blanket. You nodded into his chest.

"yeah j's missed you." You said and ge chuckled.

"I'm right here baby." He said as he started to sway you slightly back and forth.

"You wanna watch a movie?" he asked and you nodded. You shuffled back into the living room, Noah right on your heels, and you put on Twilight, which Noah had never seen.

"I swear i'm only okay with this cause you're sick." He said and you looked at him.

"Sure. That's the only reason." You said and laid your head in his hand. He han his large tattoed hands through your hair softly as the events of Bella and Edward took place on the screen. You almost fell asleep again if it wasn't because you absolutely loved this movie.

"Is there more of this?" Noah asked and you chuckled.

"Yes. 4 more movies." You said and he yelped in surprise.

"They made that many?!" He asked and you laughed.

"Yes, it was very popular book series, it made a lot of money!" You laughed as he found the next one.

"You need anything before it starts?" He asked as he ran his hand along your leg.

"A cup of tea would be nice, yeah." You said and kissed his hand. He got up to make the tea and you were suddenly filled with a feeling of complete love and joy for the tattooed man you were sharing your life with. You had never felt so loved before, never felt so cared for and you adored the way he was taking care of you and making sure you felt good. Loving Noah was the best thing that ever happened to you and as he came back and sta beside you, unpausing the movie and being so invested in a thing you really loved, you couldn't stop yourself from kissing him deep.

"Great now I'll get sick." He said, no real venom behind his words, and a big smile on his lips.

"And i will take care of you." You said and kissed him again.

________________

So yeah that's it guys. Hope you like itttt. send me requests and feedback in my inbox <3

[cricket-reader]

Fraying Threads of Recovery

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox | Taglist

summary: Bucky Barnes doesn't have a home. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned, forgotten and alone. Life has thrown everything his way, and he has endured it. The fight was never-ending, just one after the other. Bucky had had enough. This was no way to live. He just didn't know what he'd be leaving behind.

warnings: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts

word count: 3,266

A/N: prompt fill for day 16 of @juneofdoom | Alt: "Why didn't you tell me?"

{Read on A03} | what i'm listening to

Bucky is tired.

It’s the kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix. The kind of weariness that clings like soaked clothing to a body. The kind of fatigue that weighs down a person until every breath, every step feels like a task insurmountable. Getting out of bed feels more and more like a chore with each passing day.

This tower, this place that Valentina tells them to call home, it feels like a cage. The modern walls and furniture suffocate him. The echoes of laughter from down the hall stab him like a knife. He sits alone in his room most days. He comes out to eat, to train early in the morning. He passes like a ghost in the tower, never heard and seldom seen. Sometimes he watches as Yelena and Bob laugh over a disaster they made in the kitchen, or as Ava and Yelena tirelessly make fun of Walker, observes the way they all have their own designated spots on movie nights. He watches the easy way they seem to get along, interconnected cogs in the grand machine.

Bucky doesn’t belong.

He notices the silence that coats the room every time he enters. Notes the way that the others never quite know how to approach him. He used to wait on his bed for one of them to come and invite him. Used to drop everything the second that he smelled the popcorn popping and heard the arguments over what they were going to watch. He sat there, listening as they settled, as they started the movie. Not once did they make mention of him. And he sat there, in the dark of his room, wondering why he could never find a home for himself—never one that lasted anyway.

The only time the New Avengers interacted with him was when they got called out on missions. And even then, he felt displaced, like a broken cog in the machine. Inside jokes that he wasn’t privy to, shared laughter and easy conversation. He was the puzzle piece that didn’t fit, the clashing piece of fabric, the odd one out.

Sam didn’t pick up his calls anymore.

Not since that stupid fight they had. The one person he was beginning to find a home in, and it was all torn away from him over something as stupid as a name. Bucky was beginning to see a pattern he wasn’t quite sure he liked: each time he dared to hope that he’d found a place to call home, it was ripped away from him, swiped away like a rug under his feet, leaving him flat on his ass and aching.

Loneliness has long since carved out a place in his heart, leaving him empty, devoid of everything that made him feel alive. Everything feels pointless, and he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Everything he eats tastes like ash, music is all nonsensical noise, even the sun seems dimmer.

There is nothing left of Bucky Barnes. There is nothing left in this world for Bucky Barnes. He is a relic of a bygone era, abandoned by those he trusted, moulded by the trauma that seeped into every aspect of his pathetic life. He’d learned long ago that this life wasn’t his. He feels it to be so when every day he sits in the passenger’s seat, watching himself through faded lenses as he pretends to be human—as if he is something more than just an empty shell. He is fraying at the seams, the thread unravelling at an alarming pace, and soon he’ll be nothing more than used fabric, torn apart and stained with blood.

This is no life. No way to live.

And so, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, Bucky opens the nightstand drawer. He stares at the sleek metal, matte black and perfectly polished. It will get the job done nicely, he thinks. Tears dot his eyes as he picks up the gun. It’s okay, a voice inside him whispers, it’s okay. No one will miss you anyways.

Bucky stumbles over to the ensuite bathroom. He yanks back the curtain, ignoring the three rings that snap, clattering to the floor. He sits down in the tub, eyes never leaving the cold metal that sits like a boulder in his hand. His mind races now, thoughts of Steve, of Sam, of the team sitting just outside watching another stupid movie without him. None of them will miss you, the monster inside him growls. You’re better off dead. They’re better off without you.

He almost screams; instead, he hits his head against the knees curled up to his chest. He wants the voices to stop, wants the memories of blood and grief to be wiped away. Choking on a sob, Bucky lifts the gun to his head. His heart stutters in his chest, staring down the barrel. He’s been on this side of a gun too many times to count. He never feared for his life as he does now. Because this time, Bucky isn’t fighting against someone else; this time, he’s fighting against himself. It’s a fight he knows he cannot win.

He closes his eyes, presses the mouth of the gun to his forehead, and murmurs under his breath. Tears stream down his face as his finger hovers over the trigger. This is it. He can finally rest now. He left notes just in case any of them cared enough to read them. Even left one for Sam on the off-chance that he’d give a shit. All that’s left is for him to pull the trigger.

Breathing in deep through his nose, he squeezes the trigger.

A strangled noise startles him just before the gun goes off, his eyes flare open to see Yelena standing at the entrance to his bathroom. His hand jolts, the gunshot echoes through the room, and the bullet barely grazes the top of his head. He bites down a scream as the bullet tears through his flesh. Blood streams down his face as Yelena darts over to him. He vaguely remembers her grabbing the gun, the sound of it skidding across the tile. She’s crying and talking to him, but it’s all muffled. He winces as she brings a white towel to his forehead, applying pressure and screaming for help.

He feels bad.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Yelena was supposed to be curled up next to Bob as they watched a movie, throwing popcorn at Alexei every time he interrupted the movie with a question or a stupid joke. They weren’t supposed to find him until he was nothing more than a cold corpse, dried blood across his temple and lips a shade of blue. Why did she have to find him like this? Why did she even come looking for him?

He sees a blur in the corner of his eyes, tries to focus his eyes enough to make out who else joined his sad pity party uninvited. Walker’s face slides into focus, mouth gaping and body frozen. He hears Yelena yell at him to “Do something, damnit!” and he blinks a few times before disappearing. Bucky’s eyes slide shut, exhaustion pulling him under. He blinks when a cold hand slaps his face once, twice. Yelena has tears streaming down her face, the makeup she likes so much leaving blue tracks down her cheeks. He wishes she wouldn’t cry over him.

“Stay with me, god damnit, Barnes. You gotta stay with me,” she cries, her hands tilting his head to the light. He grimaces as she removes the towel. It’s so red he has a hard time believing it was ever white.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. Because he is. He never meant for her to find him like this. Never meant to hurt her. Never meant to hurt anyone. He just wanted the voices to stop, just wanted the aching, all-consuming loneliness to go away.

She chokes on a sob, pressing the towel back onto his weeping wound. He loses time, and now Ava’s next to Yelena, face grim as she hands her a new towel. Bucky tries to tell them not to bother—no point in ruining another perfectly good towel, but all that comes out is a garbled grunt. He blinks as strangers appear before him, surrounding him, pushing Yelena and Ava aside. His heart races as the familiar faces are pushed to the background. He squirms as the foreign hands touch him, his skin crawls, and he lets out a groan that was supposed to be words. His brain is too fuzzy to be of any use as they load him onto a gurney.

Shame curls inside him, however, at the sight of Yelena and Ava watching him being dragged away, both visibly shaken by what they witnessed.

When he wakes up, he is alone.

He should have expected as much, but it still cuts him down to the bone. With nothing but the heart monitor’s steady beeping to keep him company, his mind begins to swirl down a dark, dangerous path. If the team didn’t like him before, they surely wouldn’t like him after pulling such a stunt. They already had been through so much, they didn’t need Bucky’s shit on their plate too.

The Watchtower was never his home, but now, it certainly never will be.

He startles when the door opens. Blinking fiercely, the image does not fade; he rubs his eyes to rid the figure from his mind. Certainly, he must be hallucinating.

Sam Wilson walks in the door, shoulders slumped and face pulled into a heavy frown. He has a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands, which he resolutely stares at as if it holds all the answers to the questions swimming behind his expressive eyes.

Bucky coughs then, doesn’t mean to, but after going so long without water, his throat is dry and scratchy. Sam jolts, wide eyes darting over to him. The coffee in his hand spills out of the lid at the sudden movement, but Sam doesn’t pay it any mind. His attention is solely focused on Bucky.

His eyes remain fixated just above his eyes, and for a second, Bucky isn’t sure what he is staring at. A cold rush of dread sweeps over him when he reaches a hand up to the bandages wrapped around his head. It’s instantly replaced with a burning shame that has Bucky looking down at the scratchy hospital blanket.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice cracks over the monosyllable. Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t respond because the only thing on the tip of his tongue is a scathing, Why are you here? After all this time of radio silence, after all the missed calls and ignored texts, why now? It’s not fair, and he knows it to be so, yet that is the only thing on his mind as he glances up at the man.

Sam clears his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable in his own skin, like an intruder in the sterile walls that hold Bucky. “John called me,” he says. “I’m glad I didn’t have his number saved, or I wouldn’t have picked up.”

The joke fell flat, only furthering the suffocating tension coating the room. Bucky didn’t know how he could just go back to that easy joking way they used to be with each other after everything that went down. Sam abandoned him. Just like Steve did. Everyone abandoned Bucky at one point or another. He couldn’t blame them either. Not when the only thing he seemed to be good at was fucking things up. So why did Sam come back? Why did he come back when he knew that the only thing Bucky was capable of was destruction?

Sam shifts his weight onto his other foot, looking back down at the coffee in his hands for a few minutes. He looks up, opens his mouth, then closes it. Bucky just stares at him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” Sam says, shuffling closer as if afraid of overstepping.

Bucky’s mouth twists into a frown. “Are you?”

Sam blinks at him. “I… I am.”

“And how much of that is because I tried to put a bullet through my skull?”

Sam tenses, furrowing his brows. “What… that has nothing-”

“The only reason you’re here is because I tried to kill myself. You wouldn’t be sorry about dodging my calls and texts if I hadn’t.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that. Probably, because it holds some ring of truth to it. Bucky coughs again. “Could I get some water?” he asks. Sam stares at him for a bit before grabbing the dull-looking pitcher and a plastic cup from across the room.

Sam sits down on the chair next to his bed once the cup of water is safe in Bucky’s hands. “Your team is in the family room.”

Bucky almost chokes on his water. “They’re not my team,” he gruffly denies. Then, “All of them?”

“Yeah, had them all super worried… You had me super worried.”

Bucky’s heart lurches in his chest. That can’t be true. No one cared about him. No one should. Was it because he tried to kill himself that they cared? “I don’t need your guys’ pity.”

Sam’s face scrunches up, anger flickering beneath his eyes. “This ain’t pity, man. Believe it or not, people do care about you.”

“Sure have a funny way of showin’ it,” Bucky remarks, shifting on the bed.

Sam sighs. “I messed up, okay? And I’m sorry. I didn’t know that the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing was sprung up on you like that. You gotta understand how it looked from my point of view.”

“Is a name really worth that much to you?” Bucky asks. “Is it worth more than our friendship?”

Sam has nothing to say to that. His head lowers to look back at that damn coffee. “No,” he finally says.

“Then why…”

“I don’t know, man. Okay? I… I don’t know.”

Bucky wishes Sam had a better answer than that. “You can go now,” he says once he realises that that’s all Sam has to say.

Sam’s face crumples, regret painted across his features. He stands up slowly, as if hoping Bucky will change his mind; he doesn’t.

“Is it okay if I send Yelena in? She wanted to see you once you woke up.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, although it’s not fine, not really. The door snicks shut quietly, leaving Bucky to stew in anxiety as he awaits the arrival of Yelena. He hopes that she’ll accept his apology, that she’ll understand he never wanted her to find him like that, that he never wanted to hurt her.

The first thing he notices when Yelena walks into the room is that he’s never seen her look more dishevelled. Even after fights that took everything out of the team, Yelena always managed to hold onto her appearance. He could see the bags under her eyes as clear as day, even from across the room. Her arms are wrapped around herself, her body tense as her eyes flicker over his body. She shoots him a smile that looks more like a grimace as she approaches him.

She plops down on the seat where Sam had vacated just minutes prior. She sniffs once before saying, “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” It’s true. She didn’t do this. It wasn’t her fault. The culmination of decades of torture, murder and loneliness had just finally caught up to him; it was inevitable.

“I just… I just keep thinking that maybe if I paid more attention… if I-”

“Don’t spend your time on ‘what ifs,’” Bucky advises. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“You almost killed yourself!” Yelena shouts. “What if I hadn’t gone to check on you?”

“Why did you?”

“Because you hadn’t left your room at all, Bucky,” Yelena says, as if it were obvious. “Not to eat, not to train, not even to get your morning coffee.”

Bucky stares at her for a second too long, brows furrowed. “I didn’t think you guys’d notice.”

Yelena frowns at that. “Of course, we noticed. Bucky, you’re a part of the team.”

“Doesn’t really feel like it,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

Bucky sighs. “You guys don’t want me there. I get it, really, it’s not that big of a deal. I just wish you wouldn’t pretend like you did.”

“What-” she splutters- “of course we want you on the team!”

“And if I told you I wanted a break from the fighting?”

“Then you wouldn’t have to come out with us. You could stay back with Bob.”

Bucky doesn’t mean to let out the incredulous scoff, but it just comes out. “Yeah,” he says, voice gruff, “right.”

“You’re as much a part of the rag-tag family as any of the others,” she says, insistent and stubborn.

“Am I? I spend most of my time alone in my room. I don’t watch movies with you guys, don’t have a seat at your team dinners.”

“That doesn’t matter to us,” Yelena insists. “You don’t have to spend time with us to be a part of the team.”

“What if I wanted to?” Bucky questions. “What if I waited for you guys to invite me like a fool? What if I sat alone in my room, having to listen to you guys laugh and bicker and… and I wasn’t included.”

Yelena opens her mouth, brows furrowing deeply. “We didn’t think you wanted to hang out with us.” Bucky’s brows crease. “You always seemed so… unapproachable. Like movie nights and team dinners were above you. We didn’t… we didn’t want to annoy you.”

“Oh,” he says, at a complete loss for words.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh god… We… this whole thing could’ve been avoided if we just invited you-”

“It wasn’t just that, don’t… I don’t want you guys blaming yourselves. I’m fucked up. It wasn’t… it wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. I just… I just wanted the voices to go away.”

“Oh, Bucky…” Yelena mourns.

He didn’t say anything.

His eyes are glassy, but he refuses to let anyone see him cry like this. He fixes his gaze on the opposite wall, knowing that if he looks at anyone, he’ll crumble.

Yelena stays quiet for a beat. Then, gently, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed, she reaches out and brushes her fingers against his wrist.

He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry it alone, Bucky,” she says, soft and light. “Not anymore.”

His lips twitch, hand clenching minutely around the scratchy hospital blanket. “I don’t really know how to not be alone,” he confesses.

“How about this,” Yelena offers, squeezing his hand, “when you get outta here, you’re coming to dinner. Ava makes the best Choripán. We’ll have a movie night too, your pick. It’ll be like a party.”

He blinks at her. “I’m not exactly the most fun at parties.”

Yelena smirks. “Neither is Walker, but we still let him come.”

Her words startle a small chuckle out of him.

“Be there at six, no excuses.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky murmurs, saluting her. He grins at the way Yelena glares at him, no real heat behind her eyes.

Things aren’t okay, and maybe they never will be for him. But maybe, just maybe, he can find a home for himself, carve out a place that’s just for him, and hold it tight, never letting go. Because if there’s one thing Bucky knows, it’s that life isn’t complete without a place to call home.

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