#LOOKING THROUGH MY NOTES AND I FOUND THIS

[mooningningg]

After Hours - Toji F.

about. After hours, the library is supposed to be quiet. Peaceful. Safe. But ever since you found him — wounded, dangerous, and far too tempting for your own good — silence became a luxury. Now he keeps showing up. And tonight? He’s not leaving without a reminder of who you belong to.

pairings. Yakuza!Toji x Librarian!Reader

words. 17.09k

content. mentions of drugs, blood, violence, guns, swearing, multiple rounds, both receiving. library sex (multiple locations), semi-public, size kink, oral (f receiving), creampie, overstimulation, filthy dirty talk, possessive!toji, jealousy, phone sex but it’s accidental, toji being so in love he brings you flowers, playful ending w/ interns (yuuji & nobara), aftercare-ish, 18+ only, unprotected sex, manhandling, rough sex, dom!toji but soft touches, mild possessiveness, mention of canon character (naoya) as a rival/date, yuuji & nobara being nosy AF, some explicit language, minor marking/bruising, reader gets absolutely ruined

notes. gosh i hope i dont bore you guys with a fuckass 17k word oneshot, i hope i made up with the sex part at least.

The rain had been threatening all afternoon. It loomed behind the windows in heavy gray waves, each low rumble of thunder sounding like it was clearing its throat, waiting for the exact moment the sky could justify breaking open.

Inside the library, it smelled like old paper, polished wood, and the faintest hint of citrus from your linen spray. You moved between the aisles in your soft cotton dress, hem brushing your ankles, sleeves rolled just below your elbows. It was the kind of dress that whispered instead of shouted—no frills, no bold colors. Just you, in your quiet, elegant orbit.

You were checking through the cart of returns, fingers moving lightly across worn spines, sorting them instinctively. You didn’t need the barcode scanner—not when you knew every section and every call number like muscle memory. History to the left. Philosophy to the top right. The language dictionaries always got stuck behind the self-help books for some reason.

“Miss Y/N!” came a call from across the stacks.

You turned just as Yuuji popped his head out from behind the oversized encyclopedias like a prairie dog.

“Where do we shelve books about marine biology again?” he asked, holding up a thick hardcover titled The Living Sea with an octopus mid-ink attack on the cover.

You blinked. “You’ve been here for four months, Yuuji.”

“I know, but that’s science, right? And science is... everywhere.”

“Third shelf in the science bay, just before botany. It’s labeled,” you said, trying not to smile.

Yuuji disappeared again, mumbling, “Botany’s fake anyway.”

From the front desk, Nobara chimed in, not looking up from the return logs.

“Tell him biology isn’t the same as space. He put a book about the solar system next to the reptiles last week.”

You raised a brow.

“Seriously?”

“He said ‘they’re both cold’,” Nobara deadpanned.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you took the next book from the cart.

The quiet rhythm of the end-of-day shift resumed: the sound of books sliding into place, the occasional sigh from Nobara when she had to fix someone’s misfile, Yuuji humming a One Piece opening from the history section.

The air conditioner clicked off with a final wheeze. Almost closing time.

You started your final sweep of the east wing, fingers trailing the spines of the classics—dusting, straightening, pausing to flip over one copy of The Old Man and the Sea that someone had shelved upside down.

The rain outside had finally begun. It tapped against the windows in bursts, steady and heavy, filling the quiet building with the rhythm of a ticking clock. A perfect backdrop to a peaceful end of shift.

Then—

the front door creaked.

Not the smooth automatic swoosh of someone arriving during business hours. This was deliberate. Slow. Someone pushing open the old wooden emergency door that hadn’t been used since the power outage last semester.

You frowned.

“Nobara?” you called out softly, moving around the shelf.

“Still here!” she answered from the desk.

You rounded the corner toward the main entrance.

And your heart stuttered.

Because it wasn’t a student. Not a professor. Not even the weird local guy who liked to sit in the non-fiction section just to read outdated cookbooks.

No.

It was a man.

A bleeding man.

Tall. Broad. Shirt clinging to him like a second skin, black and soaked through from the rain, his muscular frame hunched as he leaned heavily against the wall. One arm clutched tightly to his side. Blood soaked the lower left of his shirt, trailing along his white pants in ugly streaks. His jaw clenched. His green eyes were dull but alert. Black bangs stuck to his forehead, framing a face that looked carved out of war stories.

He looked like he’d walked out of another life—and bled all over the pages.

Your breath caught.

You knew those tattoos.

You’d seen them on crime reports, on back pages of tabloid photos, flashing behind grainy camera shots and pixelated mugshots.

A Yakuza.

In your library.

Bleeding. At 7:59 PM. On a Sunday.

The man didn’t speak at first.

You didn’t either.

You just stood there, fingers frozen mid-reach for your phone, lips parted like your brain couldn’t quite catch up to what your eyes were telling you.

He looked up at you.

Sharp green eyes. Too sharp. Too aware.

You froze.

The silence was loud. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then—

“You—need to leave. N-Now,” you hissed, keeping your voice low and stern. “I’ll call the cops.”

The man huffed a laugh.

You could see the tattoos curling along his arms—old, rough lines from a life that didn’t play by civilian rules. You’d read enough newspapers. Seen enough warnings. That ink meant something. He wasn’t a lost drunk. Or some desperate college student.

He was something worse. A yakuza.

And now, bleeding in your library.

“Oh yeah?” he drawled, still leaning against the wall. “That’s cute, sweetheart. But I don’t think you’re gonna do that.”

Your breath hitched. “I’m not kidding.”

“You’re scared,” he said, eyes lazily dragging over your figure. Not in a way that made your skin crawl—but in a way that made your stomach twist. He was... calculating. “Smart girl. But scared.”

“You’re bleeding all over the goddamn carpet,” you snapped, still keeping your voice low. “And this is a public building. You can’t just walk in—”

“I was expecting an old man,” he interrupted, flexing his jaw as he slowly slid down the wall to crouch, wincing. “Some wrinkled, half-blind staffer I could bribe for a rag and a phone call.”

His lip twitched up at the corner. A smile.

“But instead,” he muttered, glancing up at you, “I get you.”

You took a step back.

“Stay there,” you warned.

He lifted a hand, mock-innocent. “Hey, don’t worry. I ain’t in any shape to chase you. Not today.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all.”

“And yet,” he exhaled, head tipping back against the wall, “here I am.”

You watched as he repositioned himself—tucking his injured side behind a rolling cart of textbooks. His posture was casual, almost lazy, but the way he moved was too precise. A trained body. A man who’d been hurt worse than this before.

“I’ve got two interns here,” you said, softly but firm. “Teenagers. If they see you—”

“I clocked ’em,” he murmured, looking past you toward the main hall. “Spotted the pink one stacking dictionaries. Loud little shit.”

You stiffened. “Don’t talk about them—”

“I ain’t here for them,” he cut in, voice sharpening just a touch. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. Just need to stop the bleeding. Catch my breath.”

“And then what?” you whispered. “You walk out like nothing happened?”

He smirked, eyes half-lidded, jaw flexing again as he sucked in a breath and adjusted how he was sitting.

“You’re not dumb,” he said quietly, eyes locking on yours again. “You know what I am.”

You didn’t reply.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then you know I’ve got no reason to lie.”

You stared at him for a beat. Still six feet away. Phone still in your pocket.

Your mind raced: What if he has a gun? What if he can’t walk? What if he passes out? What if Yuuji comes around the corner and sees him—

And then his voice cut through your thoughts. Calm. Low. Almost... amused.

“Help me out, yeah?”

He was bleeding. He was dangerous. He was watching you like a wolf in a corner who still had all his teeth.

But that tone—So casual. So confident, like he already knew you would.

Your hand hovered at your side.

One librarian, one bleeding yakuza, and one extremely poor decision waiting to happen.

The second you stepped back into the main hall, you were hit with two things:

The sound of Yuuji humming from behind the returns desk.

The intense awareness that you were now actively hiding a criminal in your library.

You took a deep breath, brushed invisible dust off your dress, and approached them with a smile you had to force into place.

“Alright,” you said gently. “Both of you clock out.”

Yuuji blinked at you. “Huh? But we didn’t finish—”

“I’ll take care of the rest,” you said quickly. “It’s past closing. Go home. It’s storming.”

Nobara narrowed her eyes. “You never send us home early.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

“Are you dying?”

“Yes. Of stress. Go.”

They exchanged looks. Suspicious ones. But they shrugged, grabbed their bags, and made their way to the door.

“Bye Miss Y/N,” Yuuji said, hoodie half-zipped and hair a mess. “See you Tuesday!”

“Don’t die alone in here!” Nobara added, half-teasing.

You smiled tightly. “I’ll do my best.”

When the doors finally clicked shut behind them and the silence returned, it came louder than before. Your breath escaped you in one long sigh.

You turned on your heel.

You already knew where you were going.

There, just barely visible along the floor—a trail of blood. Still fresh, dark and glossy, leading away from the wall where he first appeared, and vanishing behind the door to the storage room.

He’d listened.

Of course he did.

You told him to hide, and he had—like a predator beneath the surface.

You gathered what you needed quickly: first aid kit, antiseptic, towels, gloves. Your hands were steady, but your heart wasn’t. Every part of you screamed this is so, so stupid.

But a smaller voice whispered: If I don’t help him, who will?

Maybe you were too kind. Maybe you were too curious.

Or maybe you’d just never seen a man who looked like that fall into your world and bleed all over your polished floors.

You pushed open the storage room door.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall like he owned it. One hand still pressed to his side, shirt pushed up just enough to reveal a canvas of muscle and ink. His green eyes flicked up lazily as the light hit him—and for one long, electric moment, he just looked at you.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart.” His voice was low, rough. Like gravel soaked in honey.

You swallowed. “You’re lucky I didn’t let you bleed out.”

“Mm. Don’t feel very lucky.” A grin. Sharp. Dangerous. Almost smug.

He didn’t look like he was in agony. No—he looked like he was comfortable.

Comfortable bleeding out in your storage room like it was a five-star suite.

Your eyes dropped for a split second.

The scar.

It sat just above his right hip—a thick, pale slice healed over long ago. A different story. A different time.

And near it, curling around his side and crawling toward his ribs, were inked waves and smoke, thick black lines forming serpents and clouds across his skin. A mark of the clan.

He watched you watch him, and his grin widened. “Like what you see?”

You snapped your eyes back up. “Shut up.”

“I’m wounded,” he said, mock-offended.

“You’re a criminal.”

“You’re observant.”

You knelt beside him, unzipping the kit. “Lift your shirt.”

He smirked, then complied—pulling the drenched fabric up and over the gash.

Your breath caught.

Not just because of the wound—though it was nasty, clean but deep, the kind of thing you weren’t technically trained to deal with. No.

It was everything else.

Toji was built like a sin. Solid muscle. V-shaped torso. Abs so defined you could’ve run your finger along each one and never miss a beat. His skin was a battlefield: scars, ink, tension. And he smelled like rain and gunmetal.

You reached for the gloves.

He reached for your wrist.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not a nurse,” you replied, brushing his hand off and dipping gauze in antiseptic.

“I can tell,” he murmured, amused. “But you’re doin’ fine.”

Your fingers grazed his abs—trying to clean the wound—and his breath hitched.

You looked up. He was watching you now with something different in his gaze. Still teasing. Still unreadable.

But... interested.

“You always help out strange men bleeding in your back room?” he asked.

“Only the ones who don’t bleed on my books,” you muttered.

“Lucky me,” he said, tilting his head. “What’s your name?”

You hesitated.

“...Y/N.”

“Toji,” he offered back. Like you hadn’t already figured that out. Like you hadn’t heard it whispered through every true crime article in the back of your mind since he walked in.

“I know.”

“Of course you do,” he smirked.

You pressed the gauze a little harder. He didn’t flinch.

“You’re not gonna tell me how this happened, are you?”

He shrugged with one arm. “What, ruin the mystery?”

You met his gaze. “I’m helping you. I deserve to know if I’m gonna die because of it.”

He leaned forward, slow, like he was tasting your fear—or maybe your stubbornness.

“You sure your pretty little head is ready for it?”

His voice was lower now.

Closer.

You didn’t realize how close he was until you were looking up, your faces barely inches apart—his head tilted, mouth near your cheek, green eyes dark and... amused. You could feel the heat off his body. The tension between your knees.

You could also feel your common sense shriveling up and dying a painful death.

Yakuza or not, Toji Fushiguro looks stupid good in pain.

The antiseptic stung.

You could tell—not because he flinched (he didn’t), but because his nostrils flared just slightly, and his jaw set tight like he’d been trained not to react.

Toji had the kind of pain tolerance that made you question if he even registered it as pain anymore.

You dipped the fresh cloth into warm water again, wrung it out, and continued dabbing around the wound, cleaning off the dried blood. Your face was calm, your movements delicate—but your mind was screaming. Not just because he was massive, shirt now fully lifted over his stomach, his tattooed side on full display like something out of a noir crime fantasy—

—but because he was talking.

“You ever do business with assholes who smile too much?” he muttered, voice low, head still tilted back against the wall.

“I work in a library,” you replied dryly, not looking up.

He snorted. “Yeah, well. I had a deal. Real clean. Fast in, fast out. Nothin’ loud.”

You pressed gauze to the cut gently. “Clearly that didn’t happen.”

“Bastards ganged up. Greedy little rats,” he said, voice gruffer now. “Didn’t like how I handled distribution. Thought they could jump me, take the product, pocket the cash.”

You swallowed.

Product. Cash. Blood.

“And this is what you chose?” you asked softly, eyes still on the wound. “That kind of life?”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t exactly get a PowerPoint presentation of options, sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, finally.

Toji looked down at you—really looked. His green eyes weren’t as sharp now, but there was a pull to them. Heat. Calculation. Curiosity.

“Why? You offerin’ a better one?” he asked, mouth tilted in a lazy smirk.

You pressed the bandage down a little too firmly.

“Maybe I’ll read you a brochure,” you muttered.

He laughed—quiet and deep in his chest, like it surprised even him.

When you finally finished bandaging the wound, you stood to your full height, brushing your skirt down and meeting his gaze once more. You didn’t say anything at first—just met him, face to face, stomach still fluttering at the ridiculous fact that you had just patched up a very wanted and very muscular yakuza in your storage room.

“All done,” you said softly.

Toji, like a menace, lifted his shirt again and looked at your work.

Neat. Tight. Clean.

He exhaled, impressed.

“Shit,” he murmured, “you really got hands on you, don’t you?”

You flushed.

“Don’t—start.”

“C’mon,” he teased, eyes dragging across your face slowly. “You gonna tell me no one’s called you pretty before?”

Your heart did an Olympic-level backflip.

“Please stop calling me that,” you mumbled, looking away.

“Why?” he grinned, stepping closer—just enough to make you feel the shift in space. “Pretty’s what you are.”

His hand didn’t touch you, but his voice wrapped around your neck like silk.

“You stitched me up like a pro. Looked real good doin’ it, too. All gentle in that little dress…”

Your eyes shot back to him. “Toji—”

“—Mmh,” he interrupted, voice velvet. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name. Like that.”

You opened your mouth to retort—but he leaned in before you could.

And kissed your cheek.

Not a brush. Not a thank-you peck.

A kiss.

Warm, slow, and low. Just next to your lips—his palm barely grazing your hip. His lips lingered like he wanted to leave something there.

He pulled back half an inch, enough for you to see the smug glint in his eyes.

“I owe you now.”

You were frozen. Still bent slightly forward, lips parted in shock. Heat rushed to your face so fast you felt dizzy.

A yakuza just kissed you, and not just any yakuza. Him.

He chuckled, shifting off the wall with a soft grunt, stretching his neck until it cracked, then rolling his shoulders and flexing his knuckles like he was about to fight God himself.

You watched, absolutely unable to stop fanning yourself with your own breath.

Toji walked to the door casually, glancing around like he hadn’t just threatened your sense of safety and sexual identity in the last ten minutes.

He paused at the threshold.

Glanced over his shoulder.

Smirked.

“‘m so hurt,” he rasped, voice like smoke, “you’re not beggin’ me to stay, pretty.”

And then—he winked.

“See you soon.”

The door shut behind him before you could even curse his name.

And you stood in the storage room, heart thudding like it wanted out of your chest.

Maybe Nobara had a point.

You were going to die alone in here.

You’ve been kissed by a yakuza once and now you’re a changed woman. Probably. Maybe. Shut up.

There were thirty-four books in the returns bin, alphabetized and logged.

The desk was polished. The register was balanced. Not a single overdue tab still hung.

So why—why—were you still gazing into the middle distance like your brain was buffering?

You blinked, snapped out of it, looked down at your own hands—then immediately brushed your fingers up against the edge of your cheek.

Right where he kissed you.

That voice again. Smooth. Dangerous. Too close.

“I owe you now.”

God.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“This is so stupid,” you whispered to no one, glaring at the computer monitor like it betrayed you. “Get it together.”

Because you were not—repeat, not—the type of woman who fawned over criminals. You recycled. You alphabetized non-fiction by subject and subcategory. You owned slippers.

You were a sophisticated woman.

You had standards.

You did not—

“Looked real good doin’ it, too. All gentle in that little dress…”

You slapped your palm against the desk.

“NOPE.”

“—NOPE what?” came a voice behind you.

You jumped out of your chair like it had tried to electrocute you.

Nobara stood there, already halfway through the staff entrance, raising a perfect brow at you with her tote bag slung over one shoulder and her hair swept into a messy clip that still looked editorial.

She blinked once, then twice. “...You good?”

You cleared your throat and slapped on a tight smile.

“Yep! Totally. Normal. Great. Not hallucinating men or anything. Hi.”

Nobara stared at you for a long beat.

“Okay…” she said, “...I’m gonna pretend that wasn’t a sentence.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

She stepped in, dropping her bag beside the returns counter. “By the way—Yuuji’s gonna be late. He got roped into helping the art class paint some giant wall thing.”

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Right.”

“Yeah. Don’t know why they keep asking him. Kid can barely draw a straight line.”

You tried to smile. Tried to act normal.

And then—

“Y/N-san.”

You looked up.

Her face was blank.

Her gaze lowered.

“…Are you wearing a dress that’s above your knee?”

You felt your entire soul leave your body.

You looked down. Slowly. As if you’d somehow forgotten what you were wearing.

Oh. Right. The dress.

It wasn’t even that short. It was tasteful. Soft. A light fabric that hugged your figure just barely. The neckline was modest. The sleeves capped. But yes—

It ended mid-thigh.

And it was pink.

Not beige. Not navy. Not librarian-core. It was... flirty.

You swallowed.

“It’s hot,” you said defensively. “The forecast said humid. Plus ventilation back here sucks and—”

“—Is that perfume?”

“I ALWAYS wear perfume.”

“Ma’am, you smell like vanilla and intention.”

“I just wanted to try something different.”

“Did something happen?”

“What? No.”

Nobara squinted at you.

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You reorganized the manga shelf by protagonist hair color.”

“That’s—functionally viable.”

“You alphabetized the tea packets in the staff lounge.”

“I was bored.”

“You’ve been whispering ‘Nope’ to yourself every ten minutes.”

You glared at her.

She crossed her arms and tilted her head.

“Who is he?” she asked plainly.

You froze. “Who—what—”

Nobara stepped closer, eyes narrowed like a hawk. “You’re glowing. You’re jumpy. You’re dressing like the main love interest in a K-drama. You’re not fooling anyone. Spill.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Rubbed your temples. Considered confession. Considered fleeing the country. Considered swearing her to secrecy and then lying anyway.

After several seconds, you took a long breath and said:

“...I don’t want to talk about it.”

Nobara gasped like you slapped her.

“YOU ABSOLUTE TEASE.”

“I swear—”

“Was he hot?”

Your face gave you away instantly.

“OH MY GOD,” she screamed, grabbing you by the shoulders. “HE WAS HOT??”

“Lower your voice!”

“IS THIS WHOLE ‘DRESS ABOVE THE KNEE’ THING FOR HIM??”

“I just—felt cute today!”

She stared at you.

You stared back.

A moment passed.

You flopped back into your chair, groaning into your hands.

Because deep down, under all the panic and guilt and confusion, one undeniable truth still lingered.

You liked it.

And somehow, you knew— He knew it too.

You weren’t expecting him. But your heart still leaped. Stupid.

It was cold in the basement—like always. The stone walls down there held onto the chill of fall like they hoarded it, refusing to give way to the heavy warmth of summer. The lights buzzed overhead, old and faint, and you moved slowly along the long wooden shelves—carefully.

These were the precious books. Rare copies. Out-of-print editions. A first edition Mishima with gold edging. A soft-leather-bound medical tome from 1890. A handwritten poetry book in a glass case that smelled like a grandfather’s attic.

You always did your rounds down here with both reverence and a quiet joy.

Today, though, your mind wasn’t on the books.

It was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere more dangerous.

You traced your fingers along the spines, slowly heading toward the stairs again, your shift nearly over, when the sound of footsteps thudded faintly above you.

Then, a voice. Nobara’s.

“Y/N-san! Someone’s looking for you!”

Your heart dropped. Then soared. Then panicked.

Him?

Was it—

Your feet carried you faster than they should, thudding softly up the stairs, your breath catching in your throat like a dam about to break.

What was wrong with you? Were you seriously hoping he—

You were.

You hated it.

But you were.

Toji.

The way he smirked. His voice—low and playful and dangerous. The kiss on your cheek. The heat of his body so close you could feel your skin buzz beneath your dress.

You had replayed it in your head so many times now it was practically a daydream.

And now—he was here?

He came back?

You smiled. You were smiling, already smoothing your dress as you reached the top of the stairs, already preparing yourself, already crafting a joke or a quip or something to hide the fact that you’d been—

Not Toji.

Your smile dropped the second your eyes met the man by the door.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him at all.

And something in your chest wilted. Heavy. Sharp.

Standing by the front desk—was Naoya.

You stopped walking.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. He was leaned on the edge of the counter, talking to Nobara about something, head slightly tilted, that smug expression on his face like he owned the building.

You used to know that look. You used to see it in the university halls, back when you were both younger and he thought he had charm. When he tried to flirt with you at study tables, at cafés, at late-night events—always smooth, always well-groomed, always sharp-tongued and just short of kind.

And now here he was. Hair slicked back as usual, designer shirt a little too fitted, one hand stuffed in his pocket. Polished. Presentable.

Your smile was long gone.

Nobara spotted you over his shoulder and nodded. “She’s right there.”

Naoya turned.

You took a slow breath and walked forward. Calm. Professional. Blank-faced.

“Naoya,” you said, polite.

“Y/N,” he said, that half-laugh in his voice, eyes already raking over you like he was looking for something to comment on. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

You gave a small smile. Neutral.

“Mm. It has.”

“I was nearby,” he said, waving a casual hand. “Thought I’d stop by. You still working yourself to death down here?”

“Still running this place like it won’t fall apart without me.”

He grinned. “Some things never change.”

You wanted to leave. Already, your shoulders felt tight. Already, you were too aware of how different he felt than the man you were expecting.

How strange that you’d wanted a yakuza to walk through the door. And how even stranger it was that when he didn’t, you felt… disappointed.

Naoya was still talking. His voice smooth, sure of itself. The kind of man who had never had to wonder if he was charming.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

Your mind drifted again—back to the storage room.

Back to green eyes. Bloodied hands. That voice.

“See you soon, pretty.”

And your fingers brushed your cheek again—absent, remembering.

You’d take the bleeding yakuza over this any day.

Naoya had always been like this.

The conversation had barely started, and already he was speaking with that effortless, overfed confidence that could only come from someone who had never been told no in his entire life.

“I gotta say,” he was rambling, “never thought you’d stay in something like this long-term. The library, I mean. Not exactly fast-paced, but you’ve always been good with quiet things, huh?”

You blinked.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I mean—still!” he said, laughing like he hadn’t just insulted your entire career. “You always did have that… what do they call it—feminine touch? Everything soft and put together. Not like most girls now. All loud and aggressive.”

You smiled with your teeth.

Nobara, at your side behind the desk, slowly turned her head toward you like a wind-up toy.

You ignored her.

“I suppose you could say the library’s still a good fit for me,” you said lightly.

Naoya leaned a little closer. “Not that you don’t have options, though. You always were smart. You could’ve gone corporate. Or married rich,” he added, with a chuckle like he was the punchline.

Nobara coughed.

You pressed your lips together, praying for strength.

Naoya didn’t stop.

“Anyway, it's great you’ve kept it all together. I mean, you look good. Really good. Honestly surprised you’re still single. You are single, right?”

Nobara full-on snorted at that.

You didn’t respond, still holding your polite-librarian smile like a weapon.

Naoya, oblivious, pushed on. “Back in college, I remember telling the guys you’d be married by, like, twenty-five. You just had that energy—you know. Wifey material.”

Nobara leaned in beside you and whispered—without breaking eye contact:

“I hate this man.”

You whispered back without moving your lips: “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. I’m going to strangle him with a charging cable.”

“Nobara—”

“You deserve better. You could date a felon and I’d still root for you harder.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Naoya clapped his hands together suddenly. “Anyway! I should get going. I’ve got dinner with some of the guys. Real estate dinner. You know how it is.”

You nodded like you had a clue what that meant.

He grinned again, gaze skimming over you a little too long. “Really good seeing you, Y/N.”

“You too, Naoya,” you lied beautifully.

And just like that—he turned, adjusted his collar, and walked toward the exit with all the pomp of a man who thought he had left an impression.

The second the door closed behind him, you exhaled so hard it knocked your bangs loose.

Nobara slapped both palms on the desk and howled.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL WAS THAT?”

You cracked a smile, covering your face. “That was... college nostalgia gone wrong.”

“He called you quiet and soft like he was describing a teacup poodle.”

“He’s always been like that,” you muttered, dragging your palms down your face.

“He said wifey material, I almost punched him.”

“I handled it.”

“You deserve financial compensation.”

You laughed again, leaning against the desk. “Thank god it’s over.”

Nobara smirked. “So... any other ex-classmates I should be aware of?”

You snorted. “No. Just a real estate misogynists this week.”

She gasped. “Put that on your resume.”

He didn’t come back. You told yourself that. Over and over again. Until he did.

It was closing time again.

The city hummed low outside the library windows. Pale orange streetlights bled through the blinds in soft strips across the wood floor, and the overhead fluorescents clicked faintly like they were catching their breath. Another long day was done.

Nobara was packing up her bag, muttering darkly as she tightened the drawstrings.

“You’re late again tomorrow,” she snapped, “and I swear to god, I’m going to stuff that wall paintbrush down your throat, Itadori.”

Yuuji, still trying to untangle his earbuds, flinched.

“I said sorry! That mural was like three stories high!”

“You were at the snack stall.”

“That was after!”

“Still counts.”

You stood at the desk, keys already in your hand, letting the two of them bicker as usual. It was familiar. Background noise. Like the AC or the soft creak of the stairs. They always did this—and for once, you were grateful for it.

It distracted you.

From the disappointment.

He hadn’t come back.

You didn’t know why you expected him to. Why your ears pricked up at every footstep outside. Why you kept checking the security mirror by the front desk, hoping to see a flash of dark hair or green eyes or that stupid confident walk—

You swallowed.

What were you hoping for? That he’d show up again? Bleeding again? Half-dead again?

Flirting again?

It didn’t matter. Because he didn’t. And instead, you’d had to entertain Naoya.

God.

Life was a little cruel sometimes.

Nobara shouted a final “Good night!” as she and Yuuji clattered out the front door, still bickering.

The library fell quiet.

You sighed, heading toward a table near the middle of the main floor where two books had been left behind. Probably someone who thought they’d checked them in. You scooped them up, turning them in your hands.

One was a book on knife forging. The other—an old collection of translated yakuza memoirs.

Of course.

You snorted under your breath. “Funny.”

You headed toward their sections. Nonfiction, organized by criminal history. Your heels clicked quietly on the floorboards as you slid between the narrow aisles, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling the air like incense.

You moved slower this time.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that reminded you that you were alone. That even the bickering was gone now. That the fluorescent lights buzzed a little too loud when you really listened.

You shelved the first book.

Then turned to place the second one.

Then—

Movement.

Behind you.

A brush of air. A shadow. Something big.

You turned.

Too late.

He was right there.

Towering.

The shelf hit your back.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t even breathe. Just stared—mouth parted, eyes wide, frozen in place like your body knew him before your brain caught up.

His hands weren’t caging you in. He didn’t need to.

His presence alone was doing it.

Close. Heavy. Heat radiating off his chest through his shirt, through your dress. You could smell rain and sweat and something smoky. He didn’t touch you, but his closeness pinned you tighter than any grip could.

He looked down.

You looked up.

Toji.

His green eyes didn’t smile—but something sharp gleamed behind them. His bangs were damp from the air outside, falling loose over his forehead. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared down at you like he had every right to be there. Like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on you.

Your lips parted to say something—but no words came.

You couldn’t think.

His head tilted slightly.

Your heart hammered.

You were shocked. More than shocked. How was he even here? How had you not heard him come in? What did he want? Was he hurt again?

No. He didn’t look hurt.

He looked dangerous.

Dangerous in that whole way. Not bloody. Not desperate.

Intentional.

His eyes flicked from your lips to your cheek. You knew where. The place he’d kissed you. A slight smirk pulled at his mouth—just a twitch.

Then, his voice—low and sinful:

“Missed me?"

For a man who says he owes you, he sure acts like he owns the room.

You stayed pinned.

Not because he held you there—he hadn’t even touched you—but because your body didn’t quite remember how to move when he was this close. Every inch of space between you burned like a live wire, and Toji… Toji was standing like he had all the time in the world.

His mouth curled slightly, teasing.

You stared. And blinked.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Toji leaned back just slightly—not to give you room, no, just enough to really look at you. His gaze dropped down your body, slow and smooth, not in a disrespectful way, more like someone admiring something… just for themselves.

“I know what you were doing,” he said, voice low. “End of shift. Picking up stray books. Following your own damn routine like clockwork.”

Your brows lifted slightly.

“Stalking me now?” you asked, trying to sound unimpressed, even as your heart thundered in your ears.

He huffed something like a laugh and stepped just a little closer again, mouth brushing a smirk.

“Call it reconnaissance. Gotta know what I’m paying back.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile—but failing.

And then Toji added, like it was the most casual thing in the world:

“Oh—and sorry ‘bout my dumbass relative dropping by.”

You blinked again.

“Wait. Naoya?”

“Unfortunately,” he said, grinning. “Yeah. He’s one of them."

Your jaw dropped. “You’re related to that guy?!”

Toji tilted his head, looking deeply unbothered by the horror on your face.

“Distant. I don’t claim him.”

You snorted—loudly, before you could catch it. And Toji’s eyes lit up. He looked... pleased to have made you laugh. Like he liked the sound of it. Too much.

You straightened again, attempting to recover. “Still can’t believe it. Out of everyone in the world—Naoya.”

Toji looked at you again, slower this time. His voice dropped to something dark and warm.

“Still can’t believe you wore this.”

Your body stiffened slightly.

“What?”

He looked pointedly down. “This little thing. Dress like that, late at night, all alone in here? Might give a guy the wrong idea.”

You looked down too—at the hem brushing above your knee, your bare legs under soft lights—and your face immediately flushed.

“I—It’s not that short—”

“It’s short enough,” Toji muttered, almost under his breath. His eyes dragged along your legs. “Fuck. You’re lucky I’m not a worse man.”

Your heart pounded.

You swallowed. “Why are you here, Toji?”

He lifted a brow. “Still figuring that out.”

You blinked. “Figuring…?”

“What I’m gonna give you.”

You looked up at him, dumbfounded. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

Toji grinned again. “Yeah? That little kiss did it for you, huh?”

You opened your mouth, flustered—and then shrugged with a slightly bashful glare. “It wasn’t even on the lips.”

He smirked again, low and satisfied. “Didn’t need to be.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks hot. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your sleeve, heart still refusing to slow down.

Toji leaned just a little closer, brushing his breath across your cheek again as he murmured,

“Can’t really come out during the day. Too many eyes. Too many assholes with nothing better to do than try to stab me.”

You turned toward him slightly. “That sounds… healthy.”

“I’ll try to come at night. If I can. Once I figure out what I owe you.”

You met his gaze, and for once—you didn’t flinch.

“…Alright,” you said quietly.

His expression softened just a hair. Something quiet passed between you—something not quite as sharp as before. Not lust. Not wit. Something that felt… almost like care.

Then, without a word, he leaned down once more—and pressed a soft, slow kiss to your cheek.

The same spot.

You didn’t move.

His mouth lingered, then left.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t explain where he’d come from.

Or how, even now, you didn’t hear him leave. Just the fading scent of him. Rain. Smoke. Warmth.

What you didn’t know—

—was that once he stepped out that door, one of his men—a man dressed like a night-shift courier—nodded discreetly at him from across the street.

Eyes always on you.

For the last three days, things had settled into a strange rhythm.

You’d be there, alone in the library at the close of another shift. Quiet. The sound of rain against the windows or a gust of wind sending a cool breeze across your skin. You’d finish your work—storing away books, cleaning up the desk, making sure everything was in its place. You didn’t mind the silence, and the stillness helped you think, helped you relax.

But then, just before you could slip into the hum of your thoughts and turn off the lights for the night, the door would open. And every time, just like clockwork, Toji would be there—stepping into the quiet space, the soft echo of his boots on the wooden floor the only sound.

He’d always have that same sharp, almost cocky smile on his face as he greeted you. Sometimes he’d just stand at the doorway, letting the air settle before walking toward the shelves. No need for fancy words. No need for pleasantries. Just the shared silence of two people in a room, sharing an unspoken understanding. He never let his presence overwhelm you—but it always did.

At first, you tried to keep up the casual distance—telling him about your day, ranting about some of the more absurd parts of your job, sharing bits of personal history. You didn’t expect him to care, but somehow—he did. It was funny. How, despite all the roughness of his exterior, his quiet listening made him stand out among the other men you’d met in your life.

Of course, his comments always carried a bit of edge, a lot of teasing, and there was always the lingering sense of tension. But those moments between the two of you weren’t about the danger or the dirty jokes. No, it was something more—it was a connection. A strange, unexpected bond.

And as the nights rolled on, Toji always left the same way: with a kiss to your cheek—soft but always laced with something deeper. It was a small thing. A fleeting gesture. But it always felt like more. Like he wasn’t just leaving the library—he was leaving something behind every time.

The office was nothing like the picture of a grand yakuza hideout you’d expect. It was rusted. Aesthetically raw and a bit grimy, the air thick with the smell of tobacco, ink, and something metallic. Old furniture. Unpolished. A small desk was piled with papers and phone bills, a half-empty glass of whiskey resting on a coaster.

This was Toji's world. No glittering gold or flashy decor. Just the bare essentials. A place for work and survival. A place where he could think and decide without too many distractions.

The walls were adorned with a couple of old, weathered portraits of men and women who looked like they’d been here far too long, watching the world change while staying the same.

And then, as expected, a man walked in. His face was lean, eyes sharp but tired. His dark hair was short, cropped close to the scalp, but he had a certain weight to him—like a man who knew exactly how far his influence could reach.

This was Suguru Geto, Toji’s trusted associate. A former ally of Toji, now walking the delicate line between the old days and whatever future they’d carve out for themselves.

He walked in, not bothering to knock.

“Everything’s going smoothly. As usual,” Suguru said, sounding indifferent as he took a seat across from Toji.

Toji grunted in response, taking a long drag of his cigarette and staring out the window. He didn’t say anything right away, the silence stretching out as Suguru settled in, flicking a few papers over on the desk.

Then, Suguru let out a sharp breath, flicking his gaze toward Toji. His tone shifted—becoming more pointed, more serious.

“You know, it’s getting dangerous,” Suguru said, his voice turning cold. “The rats from the east are making moves. Drugs, mostly. They’re pushing, and it's getting worse.”

Toji glanced over at him, but there was no real reaction. Suguru continued.

“They’re pushing hard, Toji. We’re not just talking about the low-level guys. They’re coming for us now. We gotta be careful.”

Toji leaned back in his chair, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray. His eyes didn’t leave Suguru’s.

“Mm. I know,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve already got a few guys out checking on the perimeter. Nothing we can’t handle.”

Suguru’s face tightened. “That’s not the point. We’re talking about full-on war now. If we don’t start striking, we’re going to get caught.”

“I know,” Toji repeated, his voice a little more tense now. “We’ll handle it. Get me the list of their suppliers and I’ll make sure we have leverage.”

Suguru nodded, but before he could leave, he paused. His gaze slid over to the side where Toji’s desk was littered with papers and books. He followed the trail to the windowsill, where an open book rested in the dim light—one that was entirely out of place in Toji’s rough surroundings.

Toji caught Suguru's eye and followed his gaze.

“That book?” Suguru asked, raising an eyebrow.

Toji rubbed his face and let out a sigh. “Yeah. It’s… uh. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Suguru smirked, clearly unconvinced. “What’s that? A romance novel? One of those cheesy ones? Or maybe you’re a poetry man now, huh?”

Toji’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t respond to the jibe. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his voice suddenly serious.

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about that.” He glanced out the window, eyes darkening slightly. “I’m more concerned about something else.”

Suguru waited, arms crossed, before giving Toji a knowing look. “What’s that?”

Toji finally looked up at him. His gaze was sharp. Cold. But there was a hint of something… softer in his eyes that Suguru hadn’t seen in years.

“She’s dangerous,” Toji muttered, his voice low. “I didn’t expect her to be there. I was just looking for somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one could bother me. And then…”

Suguru’s lips quirked. “And then what? You found a pretty librarian in the middle of nowhere?”

Toji let out a frustrated grunt. “She wasn’t just pretty. She was different. I didn’t expect to see someone like that there. All soft, you know? Not… rough like me. I don’t know, Suguru, but I can’t get her outta my head.”

Suguru’s expression became a little more serious.

“Toji—” he warned, his voice low, “you’re a yakuza. You know what happens when you get attached. Anyone close to you becomes a target. Anything that touches you gets dragged into your shit.”

Toji’s eyes narrowed. He knew this. Knew the rules.

“I don’t need reminding, Suguru.”

Suguru raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. It’s a little librarian, man. Think about it. If you’re gonna get that close, it’s gonna be hell for her.”

For a moment, Toji didn’t speak. The weight of the words hung in the air, and for the first time in a while, he felt a pull in his chest—something he couldn’t control.

His gaze flickered to the window once more. The quiet street below, rain still falling gently. Her face flashed in his mind.

“Yeah,” Toji finally said, his voice rough. “I know. But I can’t help it.”

The library was quiet. Far too quiet.

The kind of quiet that crawls under your skin and makes you question your thoughts, your decisions, your life. The lights flickered, casting long shadows across the rows of bookshelves. The evening had stretched on longer than usual, and Toji hadn’t shown up. The thought lingered like a weight in your chest, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t push it away.

You waited.

The clock ticked steadily—its hands creeping forward in a way that felt mocking. Your fingers tapped anxiously against the desk, but you weren’t looking at anything. Not really. Your gaze kept darting back to the door, every creak of the old wood, every gust of wind rattling the windows, making your heart jump just a little, even though you knew it was just the weather.

Where was he?

For the past week, you’d grown used to seeing him stand in the doorway, that familiar smirk on his lips, the lean, muscular build in his black compression shirt, his eyes scanning the room like he owned it. You’d grown used to the way he’d walk in, sit across from you, and listen to your ramblings about books, about life, about anything and everything. His teasing comments. His flirtation. Those lingering, soft kisses he left on your cheek before leaving.

But tonight… nothing.

It had been hours since you’d closed up the books, well past the time you should’ve left. You had work to do—another round of inventory, tidying up the shelves, reordering things—but you’d been waiting for him. Foolishly, you told yourself. Foolishly, because you couldn’t figure out if you were waiting for him to show up again just for the comfort of his presence or if it was something more.

What was wrong with you?

You scoffed at yourself, shaking your head. What was this? Why were you waiting? You had never been the type of woman to get so caught up in someone like this, especially not someone like him. Toji was a yakuza. The things he did, the world he lived in—nothing about it was safe.

You cursed under your breath, standing up abruptly from the desk. The sound echoed in the otherwise silent library. You glanced at the door once more, as if willing it to open and for Toji to walk through. But nothing happened.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing your coat from the back of the chair. The fabric was soft, heavy, a welcome warmth against the chill of the evening air. You buttoned it up, securing it tightly around your body as you made your way toward the exit.

You had never closed the library early before, but tonight felt like it was the right thing to do. A cold sense of realization settled over you.

You had been waiting for a man who had no place in your life.

A yakuza. A killer. Someone who played by rules you didn’t understand, in a world you didn’t belong to.

With one last glance around the room—everything still in place, just as it should be—you turned off the lights and locked the door behind you. The click of the lock sounded too final, like the end of a chapter you weren’t quite ready to close.

You stepped out onto the street.

The night was colder than usual, the kind of cold that wrapped around your body like a second skin. Your breath misted in front of you as you walked down the quiet street, the sounds of the small town settling for the night. The dim streetlights cast long shadows, the soft hum of the wind carrying the scent of rain that had just passed through.

The path home was familiar. You’d walked it every night for years, the little Japanese house nestled among the narrow streets and traditional homes of the town. Your neighborhood was small, and most of the people here knew each other by name.

But tonight, as you walked, something felt different.

You tried to shake the feeling off, but it stuck to you like the chill in the air. Your thoughts drifted back to Toji—his words, his teasing, his presence. What had you become? Someone who waited for a man like that? A dangerous man who wasn’t even here tonight?

The pace of your steps quickened as you reached the small, quiet street that led to your home. The houses here were old, but charming. You could already see the outline of your house at the end of the street—the soft glow of the porch light flickering like a welcome beacon.

You sighed in relief. The warmth of your little house, the quiet comfort of it, was a relief. At least here, you could forget about Toji for a little while.

But just as you were about to turn the corner toward your house, you heard it.

A slight noise.

A faint creak from behind you.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensing as you slowly turned your head.

And there he was.

A figure, emerging from the darkness, standing in the shadows. The man was tall, his face partially obscured by the night. You couldn’t see his expression, but you could feel the weight of his gaze. He was standing just a few feet away, close enough that you could hear the faint rustle of his clothing as he shifted his weight.

You instinctively reached for your phone in your pocket, but before you could pull it out, the man took a step closer. Your heart skipped a beat as you quickly turned your back to him, trying to walk faster.

And then it came—a sharp pressure against your back, cold steel pressed into your spine.

A knife.

Your breath caught in your throat as you froze, the icy tip of the blade threatening to push further into your flesh. The man was so close—his body just inches away from yours, the blade a clear threat.

“You’re quite a sight,” the man whispered, his voice low and gruff. He was close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of cologne mixed with something else—something sharper, like metal.

Your mind raced. What was happening? What did he want from you?

But then, as quickly as the threat appeared, the man’s voice softened. He pressed the knife a little harder, just enough to remind you of its existence, before he spoke again.

“You’re alone tonight.”

A strange shiver ran down your spine, and you felt the sudden, dangerous realization hit you—this was no random encounter. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

And worse, you didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

The man behind you was breathing heavily. His presence was suffocating, an oppressive force that stole all the air from the night. You could feel the cold steel of the knife still pressed against your back, just enough to send a shock of fear racing through your veins. Your breath hitched, and you froze, trying to steady your pulse, but panic was quickly taking over.

The knife didn’t budge, but his breath became more erratic. Your hands trembled, and your heart pounded wildly in your chest as the man’s presence pressed closer.

He chuckled darkly. “Think you can walk around here unscathed, princess?” The words were spat like venom, harsh and rough, and you could feel the mockery in his tone.

You tried to hold yourself together, trying to hold on to the fleeting sense of control. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You didn’t want to scream. You didn’t want to provoke him, but every part of your body was screaming for help.

With a sudden movement, his hand shot out, striking your cheek with a harsh slap.

The force of the hit sent you staggering sideways, your skin burning from the sting. You barely had time to react before the heel of his boot was driven into your stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

You gasped, hands clutching at your middle as the pain radiated outward, your knees buckling beneath you. The world spun, and the searing pain in your abdomen made everything feel dizzy and out of reach. Your vision blurred. The taste of blood was suddenly in your mouth—your lip cut from the force of the slap.

The man was muttering to himself, as though he was slowly getting more enraged, more unstable.

"You're just another piece of trash to me. But, hell, I like watching pretty things break."

His voice was unhinged, and the sound of it made your skin crawl. You tried to stand, your legs unsteady beneath you, but the fear that gripped your chest made you feel weak, vulnerable.

You could feel him raising the knife once more, ready to finish what he’d started.

Then, suddenly, a loud, sharp noise shattered the air—a gunshot.

You froze. Your heart skipped a beat.

The world tilted sideways. For a moment, your mind went blank. It was as though time had stopped. You felt the adrenaline surge in your bloodstream, but it wasn’t the kind you could control. It was the kind that made your limbs heavy, your body shaking.

And then, like a distant echo, the man who had been threatening you collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud.

You flinched, instinctively covering your ears, but the ringing of the gunshot still reverberated in your skull. The sound of the shot was still too fresh, too sharp. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, but all you could do was kneel there, trembling.

Your hands were shaking uncontrollably. Your cheek burned where he slapped you. The cut on your lip stung every time you moved your mouth. The pain in your stomach was a heavy, nauseating pressure.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you glanced up, trying to understand what had just happened.

And then you saw him.

A man—dressed in dark, nondescript clothes—was standing over the body of the would-be assailant, his gun still smoking in the night air. His face was stoic, detached, as if he was used to this kind of violence.

“Stay down,” he commanded in a low, cold voice. You didn’t even have time to react as he crouched beside you, speaking into a phone. His words were low and urgent, but they barely registered in your dazed mind.

"She's alive," he muttered into the phone, his voice firm. "Get the car ready. We’re bringing her in."

You tried to speak, tried to move, but everything felt wrong. You were frozen, your body numb from the terror, from the shock of it all. Your entire body felt like it was shutting down, your limbs too heavy to move.

"Please," you whispered, barely able to get the words out. "What’s happening? Who are you?"

But before you could process anything, the man stepped back, his grip on your arm firm but not painful. His movements were smooth, practiced. Efficient.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his tone too calm. “We’re just getting you out of here.”

You didn’t understand what was happening. You didn’t know who this man was or why he’d shot the other man, but your mind was spiraling. The pain in your stomach had spread, but you couldn’t even feel the bruise on your cheek anymore. All you felt was cold, dread, and the overwhelming pressure of what was about to happen.

You tried to gather yourself, but the shock was too much. Your body felt like it was shutting down, and you couldn’t stop shaking.

Another car pulled up, and the man helped you into the backseat, his grip firm on your arm. The lights were harsh as they shone down on you, and you felt a wave of nausea surge through you. You barely registered anything as the car doors slammed shut and the vehicle lurched forward.

You leaned against the seat, your face aching, your stomach still burning with pain. Your mind raced as you tried to piece together what had just happened. Had you been saved? Or had you just been dragged further into something darker, something far more dangerous?

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of it all crashing down on you.

The car drove off into the night, the world outside passing by in a blur. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know what was happening. But the only thing you knew for sure was that this wasn’t just some random attack.

This was his world. Toji’s world.

And you had just been pulled deeper into it.

The world outside the car blurred as it sped down winding roads, the headlights illuminating the darkness in brief flashes. The car’s interior was cold, and despite the warmth of the vehicle, your body was shivering, still in shock from everything that had happened. Every bump of the road made your stomach churn, and the pressure on your chest felt like it was suffocating you.

You tried to breathe, but it felt impossible. It wasn’t just the fear—it was the unknown. The feeling of being completely out of control. Of having no idea where you were going or why this was happening.

The car turned sharply and slowed to a stop, its tires crunching over gravel. For a brief moment, the silence in the car was deafening, the only sound your shallow breaths and the distant hum of the engine.

When the door opened, the same man who had been holding you earlier reached inside and pulled you out with practiced ease. He didn’t speak to you as he guided you through the front gates, his grip firm around your arm.

Your eyes scanned the surroundings—the first thing you noticed was that this place wasn’t as polished as you imagined a yakuza estate would be. The sprawling grounds were quiet, the kind of quiet that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t a grand estate with marble pillars or gold statues. It was more… subdued. The buildings were large but not ornate. They looked expensive, but not in an obvious way. There was an understated luxury about everything here, like it was designed to intimidate without trying too hard.

As you walked past several men standing near the entrance, you could hear the low murmur of voices, the clinking of bottles, and the occasional burst of laughter. They were laughing at something, some kind of inside joke, and their voices echoed against the cold, stone walls. You caught glimpses of their faces, some smiling, others with looks that told you they’d seen far too much in their lives. They wore dark suits—well-tailored but not overly flashy. Guns were tucked into holsters under their jackets, some visible, some hidden beneath layers.

Everything about this place felt wrong.

You couldn’t help the shiver that crawled down your spine.

One of the men, the same one who had brought you here, was still talking on his phone, his voice low but insistent. He was giving coordinates. A location. Something about a “cleaning crew.” You couldn’t catch all the words, but the tone in his voice made it clear that this was just another task. Another body to clean up. Yakuza things. It was all too familiar to them, all too casual.

As you were escorted through the halls, the realization began to hit you—this wasn’t just some random thug who had come after you. This was his world. This was Toji’s world. The one he had dragged you into without warning, without mercy.

You passed more men—some of them nodded at you, others didn’t even spare you a glance. Their eyes were too focused on the mission at hand, whatever that was. But they all had the same cold look in their eyes, a look that made you feel like you were the prey in a room full of predators.

The air smelled faintly of smoke, whiskey, and something metallic that made your stomach tighten in fear. You could feel the weight of the place pressing down on you, suffocating you.

Finally, you came to a stop in front of two large, double doors. The man who had been escorting you gave you a push, his hand firm on your back as he led you inside. Your heart was hammering in your chest, but you had no choice but to follow.

The doors opened with a heavy creak, revealing a large room. The walls were decorated with dark wood, thick carpets covering the floor. It was luxurious, but in a different way—a darker, more oppressive kind of luxury. The kind of place where power and danger were palpable in the air, where every piece of furniture, every art piece, was meant to make a statement.

And there he was.

Toji.

Standing in the middle of the room, his body leaned slightly against the desk in front of him. His broad shoulders and muscular build filled the space with an undeniable presence. He wasn’t sitting, and he wasn’t pacing. He was just there, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture was clear.

He had heard you coming.

He could feel the shift in the air, the energy of the room changing the moment you walked in. His sharp eyes snapped to you, taking you in with that same intensity he always had. But tonight, it was different. There was something in his gaze. Something deeper.

You stood there in the doorway, unsure of whether to step forward or turn and run.

You didn’t know what to do.

What could you do?

Your pulse was racing, the silence between you both thick and suffocating. He didn’t move. He just stood there, his gaze locked on you, his expression unreadable. The weight of the moment stretched out between you like a rope taut with tension, and for the first time, you realized just how dangerous it was to be in his world.

You swallowed hard, the taste of fear still in your mouth. You could hear the soft thud of your heart as it pounded in your chest. Your breath came in shallow gasps as you stood frozen in place, waiting for him to make the first move.

But Toji didn’t move.

He just watched you.

And in that moment, you knew something had changed between you.

This wasn’t just some game anymore.

This wasn’t just a chance encounter.

He was involved now.

And you?

You were in deeper than you ever thought possible.

The silence between you and Toji hung heavy, thick like smoke in the air. You stood in the room, your body still trembling from the fear and anger that had built up over the past hour. Every part of you wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something. But all you could do was stand there, fists clenched by your sides, staring at him.

Toji’s eyes softened slightly when he saw the bruises on your face—the handprint on your cheek and the cut on your lip. But there was no apology, no remorse in his expression. Instead, there was that same, familiar coolness.

He stepped toward you, his gaze never leaving yours. As he approached, he raised a hand, and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to touch the bruise on your cheek, to make sure you were okay. But when his fingers neared your skin, you jerked away, the anger flaring up inside you like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me.” You spat the words out, your voice trembling with fury. His hand paused mid-air, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem phased.

He looked at you, confused, almost as if he didn’t understand why you were reacting this way. “What’s your problem?” he asked, his voice still low and calm, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that were swirling inside you.

You stepped back, anger bubbling up like a pot left to boil over. Your chest heaved with the effort to contain it. "You fucking coward," you snarled, your words sharp and cutting. “You think I’m angry ‘cause you brought me here? No, I’m pissed off because you weren’t here when I needed you the most.”

Toji blinked, the confusion still etched on his face. His sharp eyes searched yours, and for a brief second, you could see the weight of the situation hit him—but only for a moment. It was clear: he hadn’t expected this kind of response from you. Toji was used to being the one in control, the one who decided what happened, when, and how. You weren’t playing along. You were making him feel something he wasn’t used to.

You were tired of the calm, cool demeanor that he always wore like armor. This man wasn’t some mythical creature, some untouchable gangster with an unshakable hold over everything and everyone. He was just a man. A man who let you get hurt.

Your chest tightened, and for a brief second, all you could think about was that moment. The man with the knife. The sound of the gunshot. The terror that surged through you. And Toji? Where the hell was he when you needed him? You didn’t care about his world, his rules, his so-called control.

He was right there, but he wasn’t there for you.

You felt a sharp pain in your throat as the words left your mouth. “I was scared. I thought I was gonna die tonight, and you—you weren’t even here.”

Toji didn’t say anything for a beat, and when he did, it was a soft exhale, like he’d come to some kind of realization. His gaze softened, but only slightly. “I repaid you already, didn’t I?” His voice was low, gravelly. “I saved your life, didn’t I? My men were watching you, making sure you were safe.”

The words struck you like a slap.

He had men watching you? That was his way of keeping you safe?

Your head spun as anger flared up again. The audacity of this man. You thought you had been wrong about him, but now, all you could feel was disgust.

The nerve on this guy. After everything he’d done, and what he hadn’t done, he had the fucking audacity to say that?

Your hand shot up before you could even think, and with a sharp crack, you punched him in the chest. Your fist landed with a dull thud, but it didn’t make him move an inch. He just stood there, his broad chest unmoving beneath the blow, like he hadn’t even felt it.

You were trembling with rage, your entire body on fire, and yet he was still as composed as ever. That pissed you off even more.

“You really think I’m gonna thank you for saving my life?” Your words came out like venom. “Fuck you, Toji. I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Toji didn’t react to the punch. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem phased. Instead, he stared down at you with that same, unwavering gaze, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He took a step forward, his presence looming over you like a storm cloud about to break.

“You’re gonna get lost in this place, y’know.” His voice was smooth, low, and that trademark smirk of his returned, even as the tension between you crackled.

Your hands were shaking, but not from fear. It was from frustration. From anger. From all the emotions you were trying to bottle up but couldn’t.

“I don’t care.” The words spilled out before you could stop them. You took a deep breath, standing your ground despite the raging fire inside you. “I don’t care if I get lost. I don’t care if I never see you again. Just go, Toji. I’m not gonna sit around here and play your games.”

You turned away, your pulse thumping in your ears.

The night had settled in much colder than usual, the chill from outside creeping through the library’s large windows. The rain had been relentless, a soft tapping sound in the background of your thoughts as you sat behind the front desk. It had been two days since you had been dragged into that estate by Toji’s men, two days since he had saved you—if you could even call it that—and kissed your cheek like nothing was wrong. That man… Toji… you hated him. But, damn it, you couldn't stop thinking about him.

The way he had pressed you against the bookshelf, his smirk never wavering, even when your entire body was trembling. His voice, calm and unwavering, saying that you owed him now. That he would come back. He’d come back. And now, here you were, trying to forget him, trying to erase his touch from your mind.

But you couldn’t. How could you?

You weren’t that naïve. You knew you’d never see him the same way again. It wasn’t just the danger he brought with him, or the fact that he was a part of a world you didn’t belong to, a world you could never understand. It was him. The way he was, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel even when you wanted nothing to do with him.

You shook your head, trying to shake the thoughts away.

But here you were, stuck in the library, your mind still swirling with everything that had happened.

You hadn’t meant to let things get to this point. You hadn’t meant to get involved with someone like him, and you certainly hadn’t meant to let him invade your life this much. But you couldn’t deny it anymore.

Fuck him.

That’s what you kept telling yourself as you stared at the clock. It was nearing 9 p.m., and Naoya had told you he’d pick you up right after your shift. You didn’t particularly want to go out with him, but you knew you needed to get your mind off everything that had happened. Naoya was persistent—too persistent, really—but you figured if he could give you a few hours of distraction, you might be able to get your life back in order, if only for a little while.

So, you pulled out a short, tight dress from the back of your closet, something you would never wear for work. You didn't like the idea of it at first, but something inside you urged you to just get out, to do something different. You didn’t want to be the same woman who had been held in that mansion, who had let herself get lost in thoughts of a yakuza.

You stared at yourself in the mirror as you applied a thin layer of makeup—just enough to hide the dark circles under your eyes. You brushed out your hair and let it fall loose around your shoulders. You didn’t recognize yourself anymore, not since that night. The woman in the mirror looked a little too sad, a little too tired.

But you’ll get through this.

You spritzed on a bit of perfume, just enough to make yourself feel a little more presentable, a little more you. And yet, as you inhaled the scent, something nagged at you. A memory. His scent. The warmth of his breath against your skin, the whisper of his lips, the feel of his body so close to yours. You cursed under your breath.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts.

Naoya was running late—surprise, surprise. You sighed, glancing at the clock again. At least you had time to breathe, to clear your mind, before dealing with him.

But as you waited, the night seemed to drag on, the clock ticking ever so slowly. You crossed the room and glanced out of the window. The rain had softened, but the chill still lingered, the kind that made you pull your coat tighter around your shoulders. Your fingers traced along the edges of your purse as you waited for Naoya’s call, your heart hammering in your chest for reasons you couldn’t explain.

You tried not to think about Toji.

But it was hard.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you barely noticed the footsteps until they were right behind you.

A familiar creak of the door echoed in the silence. You froze.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and your eyes widened.

It was him. The door had opened, and there was no mistaking the silhouette standing in the doorway.

Toji.

For a split second, you didn’t know what to do. Your body was frozen in place, your pulse racing as you turned slowly toward the sound. He was standing there in the doorway, a dark figure, the glow of the outside streetlights casting shadows around him. He didn’t move, but you could feel his eyes on you. His gaze was heavy, sharp, and inescapable.

The tension that had been building inside of you suddenly surged, a familiar heat rushing to your face. Your heart beat in your chest, fast, too fast, and your skin tingled at the thought of him being here—right here. In your library. After everything that had happened.

You stood there, caught between fear and something else—something you couldn’t explain. You didn’t want to see him, you didn’t want to feel him, but there he was, taking up all the space in the room, as if he owned it.

And, damn it, he knew it.

The air between you was thick, heavy with unspoken words and the oppressive weight of his presence. Toji stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of him, as though he owned the entire space. And, in a way, he probably did. His gaze never left you, his eyes dark and intense, like he was reading you with every flicker of his gaze.

“Getting ready for someone else, huh?” Toji’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and seductive, every word carefully chosen, like he was toying with you. "You look beautiful, though." His eyes lingered on you in a way that made your breath hitch. There was no shame in the way he looked at you, no pretense. He was blunt. Direct. And it felt like a physical weight pressing down on you, like the temperature in the room had just risen by ten degrees.

Your heart raced. The words he’d just spoken—the way he made them sound—made something stir inside you. You knew you should be mad. You should be angry at him for showing up like this, for making everything more complicated. But damn it, you couldn’t help it. He was Toji. He was tall, commanding, and impossible to ignore. And it pissed you off that you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“I don’t need you here,” you said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “You figured out what you owed me, so why are you still here?” Your voice was shaky despite your attempts to sound confident, but you couldn't hide the nervousness crawling under your skin. You took a deep breath and stepped away from the desk, crossing the room toward the towering bookshelves.

You needed space. You needed distance from him. But of course, Toji wasn’t going to let you have that. Not when he could see the way you were affected, even if you were pretending otherwise.

“Come on, baby…” His voice was low now, dripping with that casual confidence that you hated and loved all at once. "You're really mad about that?" He followed you, his heavy footsteps soft against the floor, but his presence was everywhere. You could feel him getting closer, feel the heat of his body like an unseen flame licking at your skin.

You ignored him at first, fingers running along the spines of books, as if they could somehow provide the answers to the mess he’d created. But every time you reached for one, the movement felt too forced, too... calculated. He was distracting you. You knew it. He knew it. You hated that he knew.

“Stop following me.” You said it with as much authority as you could muster, but the irritation in your voice betrayed you. You were tense, wound up, ready to explode.

But he didn’t stop. Of course, he didn’t. Toji was never one to take a step back.

"Make me," Toji purred from behind you, his voice an intoxicating mix of amusement and something darker—something predatory. His words were like a physical caress, his voice sliding under your skin in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Something inside you snapped. You spun around, facing him head-on, your fists clenched at your sides. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t get to do this—this game of yours. I told you I don’t need you.” The words came out more forcefully than you intended, but your anger flared again. You didn’t want to admit that he had gotten under your skin.

Toji tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was studying a puzzle. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. He was enjoying this. You could see it in his eyes. He was savoring every second of your frustration.

Before you could react, Toji moved. He crossed the distance between you in two strides, his large frame towering over you. Before you knew it, you were pressed against the shelf, the books digging into your back as he pinned you there with the sheer force of his presence. You gasped at the suddenness of it, the pressure of his body against yours, his breath warm against your ear.

“Listen, baby,” he said, his voice now a husky whisper, right against your ear. “I’m not here to play games. But I don’t think you really want me to leave, do you?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you felt his hand come up to rest on the shelf beside your head, his fingers brushing against the wood just inches from your face. His other hand slid to your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. You couldn’t breathe. He was so close. Too close.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” Toji murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

The heat of his body radiated against yours, making it impossible to think straight. You felt his breath against your neck, his scent overwhelming your senses. He was teasing you, pushing you to the brink, but you couldn’t find the strength to push him away. Everything about him—his voice, his presence—was pulling you in. Even the anger you felt was starting to burn out, leaving only that raw, needy desire that you couldn’t suppress.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to speak. “You… you’re so insufferable,” you whispered, though you knew it was a lie. The truth was, you wanted him. But you were too proud to admit it. Too scared of what it meant.

Toji’s smirk deepened. His thumb brushed across your waist, a touch so light, so deliberate, that it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you could see the dark amusement, the satisfaction of having you right where he wanted you.

“Tell me I’m wrong, then,” he challenged softly, his lips inches from yours, the heat of his breath mixing with yours. "Come on, pretty. Tell me I'm wrong."

Your lips parted as you searched his eyes, your chest heaving with the breath you couldn’t take. For a split second, you were almost afraid to speak, afraid to let him know the truth. But before you could say anything, Toji closed the gap.

His lips were on yours, claiming you in an instant, with a kiss that was as hot and possessive as everything he had ever said. It was raw, desperate, and full of intent, the kind of kiss that left you breathless and dizzy. He didn’t give you a chance to pull away, his hand gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His other hand cupped the back of your head, tilting it just enough to deepen the kiss.

Everything else disappeared. There was no library, no shelves, no frustration. There was only him. And you.

Toji’s kiss was everything you had been trying to resist, everything you knew you shouldn’t want. But in that moment, you didn’t care. You were already lost.

You were done pretending.

He slammed you back into the shelf with a thud that sent books shivering from their spines. His mouth crushed yours, hot and furious, stealing every breath you’d saved for arguing. One hand gripped your jaw. The other slid down — greedy — to cup your breast over the thin fabric of your dress.

“You wanna forget about me?” he growled between kisses, yanking the neckline down to expose you. “Is that it, sweetheart? Thought a pretty little dress and some other man’s attention would help you erase me?”

His mouth descended, teeth grazing your neck, tongue hot and slick as he devoured the skin he once claimed. You gasped when he bit down lightly at your pulse, his hands roaming, kneading, possessive and rough.

“Toji—”

“You’re mine,” he snarled against your throat, dragging your leg up around his waist before dropping to his knees. Toji Fushiguro on his knees. A sight hell itself couldn’t imagine.

He tossed your panties to the floor with a low whistle. “Fuck, this pussy missed me, didn’t it? Look at her,” he groaned, spreading you open with a thumb. “All dressed up for another man but dripping for me.”

Your back hit the bookshelf hard as he hoisted one of your legs over his shoulder, tongue flicking against your clit with a slow, devastating pace. His tongue was hot. Hungry. Each stroke was wickedly precise — drawing shapes only a sinner could spell.

You moaned his name, breath hitching as your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking. His eyes flicked up, dark and amused.

“You try to fuckin’ forget about me but your body’s got no loyalty, sweetheart.”

He dove back in — deeper, tongue curling inside you, groaning against your heat like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He gripped your thighs like a man possessed, dragging you closer, messier, wetter.

The shelf behind you rattled, a book falling with a loud thud, but neither of you cared.

He slid two fingers inside, crooking them just right, his mouth still latched to your clit. “You gonna cum on my tongue while that smug bastard’s running late?” he smirked against you, voice hoarse and thick. “You think he could make you feel this fucked out? You think he could have you shaking like this, baby?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your vision blurred, hips twitching, thighs quivering around his head. He groaned when you tugged harder on his hair, the vibration sending you straight to the edge—

“Toji, I—fuck—Toji!”

Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train, hard and fast, his name a chant from your lips as your body trembled against the shelf. He didn’t stop. Not until you were gasping, breathless, legs like jelly.

And then he stood, fingers wet, mouth glistening.

“Still think I’m forgettable, baby?” he rasped, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, smirking as he leaned into your ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget how to spell his name.”

Your breath was still shaky, your thighs slick and trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you like a fucking symphony — loud, messy, unforgettable.

Toji stood over you now, towering, broad chest rising with each heavy breath. The way he looked down at you? Like you were prey. Owned. His.

He wiped his mouth with his thumb, then sucked the taste of you off it with a slow groan. “Mmm. You taste like you missed me,” he muttered, voice thick with desire, gravel and hunger soaked into every word.

You were dizzy — from the high, from him — but there was one thing clearer than anything else in that moment: you needed more.

So you sank to your knees. Right there. Between the stacks of the classics section. Dust and forgotten titles above you, sin between you.

Toji’s dark brow cocked, smug as sin. “Oh? Look at you,” he murmured, voice low like a growl. “Pretty thing just can’t get enough, huh?”

Your fingers reached for his belt, unbuckling it slowly, teasingly, but he didn’t have the patience. He let out a dark chuckle and shoved his pants down for you, underwear and all, his cock springing free — thick, veiny, already hard and heavy.

“Open up, baby,” he said, tapping the tip against your lips. “You wear that tight little dress for another man, but now you're on your knees for me. What would that bastard Naoya say if he saw you like this? Huh?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too busy wrapping your lips around the thick, hot length of him, eyes fluttering shut as his scent hit your nose — musk, cologne, and just a hint of smoke and danger.

“Fuuuuck,” Toji groaned, tilting his head back slightly, one large hand immediately sinking into your hair, gripping. “That’s it, sweetheart. Goddamn, that mouth was made for me.”

You bobbed your head slowly at first, sucking, tongue swirling around the head, feeling him twitch against your tongue as you sank deeper. The stretch of him was obscene, your jaw already sore, but the way he moaned — the way he looked down at you like you were his salvation — made it worth it.

His other hand caressed your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw. Then, without warning, his hips rolled forward. He thrust into your mouth — shallow, careful at first — then a little deeper, a little filthier.

“You take me so well,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “That bastard wouldn’t know what to do with a mouth like yours.”

He looked down at you — eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “Fuck, I could cum just watching you look up at me like that…”

You moaned around him — vibrations that made his hips jerk. His grip in your hair tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to let you know he was holding back.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face to watch your lips stretch around his cock. “All that sass earlier, all that attitude — and now? Just my good little slut on her knees.”

You gagged just a little as he hit the back of your throat, and Toji groaned deep — the kind of sound that made your thighs press together again despite the orgasm you just had.

“Shit—gonna make me lose it,” he breathed, pulling back for a second to look at the mess you made of him. Your lips were wet, spit trailing down your chin, eyes glassy. “Goddamn.”

He cupped your jaw, smeared his thumb over your lips, then shoved his cock back into your mouth with a growl. “Not done yet, baby. You wanted more — take it.”

You did. Willingly. Obediently. Loving every second.

Your hands braced on his thighs as he fucked into your mouth now, slow but filthy. “This mouth belongs to me,” he grunted. “You hear me? Doesn’t matter who you say yes to. This right here? Mine.”

And you wanted it to be. Every part of you.

You moaned again, feeling him twitch, his abs flexing as his head fell back and his voice dropped into something feral.

“Fuck—‘m close. Wanna paint that pretty face, sweetheart. Want you dripping in me when he shows up. Let him see who you really belong to.”

You moaned again, looking up at him through lashes wet with tears from the stretch. He swore loudly, pulled out just in time and—

Hot ropes of cum hit your lips, your tongue, your cheek. It was filthy. Messy. Possessive.

And you loved it.

He breathed hard above you, still staring down at the mess he made of you, eyes dark with something primal. “There you go. Look at you,” he murmured, brushing some of it off your cheek with his thumb and pressing it into your mouth. “Taste me. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You sucked it off his thumb, chest rising, lips swollen, completely ruined.

But Toji?

Toji smirked down at you, cock still half-hard, a dangerous glint in his eye. “We’re not done, sweetheart.”

The shelves were cold beneath your palms, wood biting into your skin as you tried to breathe — tried to think — but everything in your body screamed for one thing:

More of him.

Toji didn’t even give you time to wipe the cum off your chin. He had you turned around, bent over the damn shelf like a girl in some late-night fantasy, your hands struggling to find purchase on the wood while he stood behind you, big and burning and starving.

“Bend that ass for me, sweetheart,” he growled, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise as he hiked your dress up over your hips. “You let that fuckin’ dress hug your ass for him?”

His palm smacked across your cheek — not your face, the other one — and you gasped, a moan curling from your lips like a prayer.

“Too fuckin’ bad,” he hissed. “This ass belongs to me.”

You felt the thick head of his cock sliding through your folds — teasing, soaking, coated in your slick — and you whimpered, legs shaking already from anticipation. But he just kept grinding, letting you feel every inch before he even gave it to you.

“Fucking dripping,” he muttered, like he couldn’t believe it. “You gonna take all of me, baby? You remember how fuckin’ big I am?”

You nodded frantically, voice gone, knees weak.

He leaned in close, his massive body draped over your back, breath hot against your ear. “Then say it,” he growled. “Tell me how big I am.”

You whined, arching your back, desperate. “T-Toji… you’re—fuck—you’re too big, I can’t—”

He cut you off with a deep thrust.

Your cry echoed through the library, sinful and sharp, as the air was punched from your lungs.

“Ohhh fuck,” you gasped, nearly collapsing over the shelf as your fingers clawed at the edge. “Toji—!”

“That’s it,” he groaned, dragging out slowly, letting you feel every ridge, every vein. “This pussy’s so fucking tight, baby… trying to squeeze the life outta me.”

He grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling you back onto him as he thrust again — hard. The sound of skin slapping echoed like thunder in the quiet space.

And Toji? He was fucking gone.

“God, I missed this pussy,” he grunted. “You think anyone else can stretch you like this? Huh? You think any other man can stuff this perfect little cunt the way I do?”

You were a mess — bent over the shelf, hair clinging to your face, tears in your eyes from the intensity. One of your shoes had slipped off. Your dress was around your waist. You didn’t care.

All you could feel was him.

His cock was thick — almost too much — and every thrust had your walls fluttering, your legs trembling, your body begging for more even as it struggled to take it.

He slid a hand up your back, palm pressing between your shoulders, forcing your chest to the shelf as he pounded into you from behind.

“Look at you,” he groaned, eyes glued to the way his cock disappeared into you over and over. “Gripping the shelf like your life depends on it. That tight little pussy can’t get enough, huh?”

He slapped your ass again, harder, and the sting only made the heat grow worse between your legs.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you’re mine.”

“I—I’m yours,” you sobbed, cheek pressed to the cool wood, barely able to speak.

“Louder.”

“I’M YOURS, TOJI.”

“Fucking right you are.”

He was breathless now, grunting with every thrust, his rhythm faster, rougher. He was losing it — drunk off the feel of you, the sound of your whimpers, the way you clenched around him like your body was molded just for him.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby,” he rasped, dragging his fingers down your spine. “This pussy… fuck… I could stay buried in you for hours.”

Your legs buckled again, body going limp, but he caught you — big arms locking around your waist, pulling you back to him so your spine arched and your ass met his hips with every sharp snap.

“Too much?” he smirked, licking the shell of your ear.

You whimpered. “N-No—don’t stop—please—!”

He chuckled. Low. Dark. Filthy.

“Didn’t plan to, sweetheart.”

But then… he pulled out.

You cried out at the sudden emptiness, turning to look at him with wide, teary eyes.

Toji’s jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple. His cock twitched, thick and glistening, standing proud as he looked down at you with a possessive gleam in his eye.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough. “Lay back. Legs open. I wanna see this pretty face while I fuck you stupid.”

The library floor was cool against your back. Dust clung to the hem of your dress. The tall shelves surrounded you like towering shadows, like they were hiding your sin from the world — but nothing could hide you from him.

Toji’s body hovered over yours, all heat and muscle and controlled fury. One hand gripped your thigh, holding your leg open like it was his right. His cock pushed inside again, slow, devastating, like he had nowhere else to be but here, splitting you open inch by inch.

“Don’t look away,” he murmured.

You couldn’t. His eyes — dark, quiet, consuming — pinned you to the floor harder than his weight ever could.

“You look too damn pretty like this.”

Your moan broke between clenched teeth, legs trembling as he rolled his hips deeper, slower.

“You weren’t supposed to be here tonight,” you whispered.

“I didn’t plan to be,” he said simply, not stopping. “But then you put on this dress… and said yes to him.”

He didn’t even say Naoya’s name. He didn’t need to.

“I wasn’t gonna show up.” Another thrust. Deeper. “But the thought of him looking at you like this? Talking to you like he deserves you?”

He clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “I couldn’t stomach it.”

Your head tipped back, hand gripping the back of his neck. “Toji—”

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound cut through the tension, sharp and intrusive. Your phone lit up near the mess of your bag.

You froze.

Toji didn’t.

He stilled inside you, reached for the phone, and glanced at the screen.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“Naoya,” he muttered, voice flat. “Of course.”

You panicked. “Don’t—”

But he answered.

He didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop. He just leaned down, set the phone next to your ear, and said nothing.

And then — he started to move again.

Slow, deep thrusts that had you choking on your own breath.

“Y/n?”

Naoya’s voice crackled through the speaker, too loud in this sacred, shameful moment.

“Where are you? I’m outside… it looks like the library’s locked. Are you okay?”

You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood as Toji’s cock dragged in and out of you with surgical precision.

His head dipped to your shoulder, voice low. “Be quiet,” he whispered, not mocking — warning. “Don’t give him anything.”

You nodded desperately, hand covering your mouth.

“I’ve been knocking for like ten minutes—” Naoya kept talking. “It doesn’t even look like anyone’s inside.”

Toji looked down at you, sweat at his brow, lips parted just slightly as he watched your body shake under his.

Still so quiet.

Still so deep inside you.

“You’re not gonna answer him?” he asked, voice like a quiet bruise. “Not even gonna tell him you changed your mind?”

You could barely breathe.

Toji’s eyes never left yours as he rolled his hips forward with one hard thrust.

Your moan cracked out, small but real.

“Y/n?” Naoya’s voice sharpened. “You okay?”

Your lips parted, trying to form words, but your throat locked up. Toji’s hand curled around the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle — so gentle — as if to mock the way he was breaking you from the inside out.

And then, without looking away, he picked up the phone.

“You should go home.”

Silence. Then—

“Toji?”

A pause.

“Yeah,” Toji said calmly. “She’s busy.”

Another thrust. Hard. Your gasp punched the air.

“What the fuck—”

Toji hung up.

No smirk. No insult. Just a quiet shake of his head as he tossed the phone aside like it was trash.

“You always talk about not wanting this life,” he murmured, eyes heavy as he leaned over you again. “But your body keeps saying otherwise.”

You trembled beneath him, legs twitching, cunt soaked and stretched, your moans spilling freely now, raw and shameless.

“You wanted him to be gentle, huh?” Toji whispered, mouth brushing your temple. “You thought maybe if you dressed nice, smiled soft, you’d forget what it feels like to be ruined.”

His thrusts sped up, hips snapping against you with a force that sent echoes between the shelves.

“You were never gonna let him touch you.”

His voice turned breathless, raw with something deeper.

“You were always gonna end up right here.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nails dragging down his back, too far gone to fight.

He kissed your neck once — slow, reverent — before pulling out.

You whimpered, aching from the loss.

Toji grabbed your waist, lifted you gently, and flipped you over onto your stomach, guiding you up onto your knees.

“Hold onto something,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes burning.

“Why?”

He slid back inside with one hard thrust that made the shelf in front of you rattle.

“Because I’m not done.”

The library was unusually quiet.

Not because it was empty — it wasn’t. Nobara was restocking the new arrivals shelf with a scowl. Yuuji was sneakily eating chips behind the desk like you didn’t see him. But it was quiet because you were quiet.

You stood by the checkout counter, trying to look composed. Professional. Normal.

But your lower back ached, your thighs still felt like jelly, and every time you moved, you remembered the sound of your moans echoing between those tall wooden shelves.

And of course, right on cue—

ding-a-ling

The little bell above the door rang.

You looked up — and froze.

There he was.

Toji Fushiguro.

Wearing a black button-up (the sleeves rolled to his elbows, naturally), tattoos on full display. One hand in his pocket. And the other?

Holding a bouquet.

Not just any bouquet. One of those overly wrapped, overly expensive, one-hand-could-barely-carry-it type of bouquets.

Toji looked… pissed.

Like he couldn’t believe he was standing there holding them. Like he’d tried to not come here and ended up in front of the library anyway.

And when his eyes met yours?

They softened.

Just a little.

“You gonna come get ‘em,” he muttered, “or am I standing here like a goddamn idiot all day?”

You blinked. Stared at the flowers.

Then— “...are those peonies?” you said, suspicious.

He shrugged. “Lady said they meant somethin’ about apologies. Or romance. Whatever.”

You smiled despite yourself, cheeks warm. “You… brought me flowers?”

Toji muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” you asked.

“I said don’t make it a thing.”

But then—

“WAIT.”

Yuuji’s voice pierced the heavens from across the room.

He stood slowly behind the counter, eyes wide, a chip half-hanging out of his mouth. Nobara emerged from the shelves at full speed, her stare deadly.

“Oh my god,” she said. “You’re the guy.”

“What guy?” Yuuji asked, still stunned.

“The guy. The one who made her wear short dresses.”

Toji raised an eyebrow. “You two always this nosy?”

“Yes,” they said in sync.

Your hand slapped to your face. “I’m so sorry, Toji—”

But he didn’t look mad. In fact, his lips curled into that slow, wicked little grin — the one that always came before trouble.

“Didn’t know I had competition,” he said, stepping forward, placing the bouquet gently on your desk… before slipping a hand around your waist, palm splaying against your lower back.

You jolted. “Toji—!”

But he just leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Relax, sweetheart. Just saying hi.”

Nobara’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Is he grabbing your ass?!”

“Can’t help it,” Toji said, unbothered. “It’s a good ass.”

“Sir this is a public institution—” Yuuji started, half-horrified, half-impressed.

Toji just smirked and kissed your cheek. Lingering. Hot. Too hot.

“Don’t work too late,” he muttered low, voice dark and soft. “Unless you want another late-night visit.”

Your face burned. Your knees nearly gave.

And then he turned on his heel and walked out — leaving behind the faint smell of cologne, cigarette smoke, and wild, unspeakable memories between the shelves.

The door shut.

Silence.

You blinked.

Yuuji blinked.

Nobara slowly turned to you and said:

“…You’re so getting railed on that desk tonight, aren’t you?”

You said nothing.

But the bouquet wasn’t the only thing he left you with.

Your lips still tingled from the ghost of his kiss.

And somewhere deep inside?

You were already looking forward to closing hours.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[cressidagrey]

A Secret no more

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  The world finds out about Beatrice “Bee” Piastri. 

Warnings and Notes: I have been working on this for weeks and I have finally given up on trying to make it better. So here it is, in all its glory. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar had just come in from a run, sneakers muddy and hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He’d kicked off his shoes by the door and found Bee in the living room, curled on the rug with a blanket, her dinosaur encyclopedia open but clearly forgotten.

She was chewing her lower lip. Thinking. Dangerous territory.

“Hey, Bumblebee,” he said, crouching beside her. “You okay?”

She nodded slowly, then looked up at him with wide, dark eyes—so much like Felicity’s it always made his chest ache. “Papa?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. “Why don’t you ever say my name on TV?”

Oscar froze.

Not visibly. Not dramatically. But inside—everything stilled. The breath caught in his throat, the aftershock of the question slamming into his ribs like a missed apex.

He sat down on the rug beside her, stretching his legs out. “What do you mean, bug?”

Bee shrugged, but it was too careful. Too studied. “When they talk to you. After races. You talk about your car. And Lando. And once about Mama. But never me.”

Oscar swallowed. Hard. “You watch those?”

Bee nodded. “Sometimes. With Mama. You always say thank you to the team. And Uncle Mark sometimes. And your engineer. But never me.”

Oscar looked down at his hands. His heart was doing that thing again—tight, full, terrified.

“I do talk about you,” he said gently. “Just not where everyone hears.”

Bee blinked. “Why?”

“Because… for a long time, we were trying to keep things quiet. To keep you safe. So you didn’t have cameras in your face or people asking you questions at the playground.”

Bee frowned. “Do cameras hurt?”

“No,” Oscar said with a soft laugh. “Not like that. But they make things louder. And sometimes grown-ups don’t think before they say things out loud. Things that aren’t fair. Or kind.”

Bee was quiet for a moment. Then: “But I’m not a secret.”

Oscar’s breath caught.

“No,” he said, voice suddenly thick. “You’re not. You never were.”

Bee tugged at a loose thread on the blanket. “Then why does it feel like it?”

He reached for her hand. Held it in his.

“You are the best thing in my whole world,” he whispered. “And I didn’t want that world—my world—to hurt you.”

Bee tilted her head. “But I’m big now.”

“You are,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’re really big. And smart. And brave.”

She looked up at him again. “Then maybe I can be part of it now. The race part.”

Oscar nodded slowly, already knowing what he needed to do.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, maybe it’s time.”

Bee crawled into his lap then, all elbows and blanket and warm little sighs. Oscar wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

***

Sophie was trying, okay?

She had stayed up late. She’d been polite. She hadn’t even cried when she realized Oscar had casually kept a wife and child a secret for five years and now wanted to announce their existence with exactly zero drama.

She had researched tone. She had analyzed his past captions. She had studied Felicitiy’s Instagram, which was somehow more cryptic than Oscar’s was robotic.

She had written three versions.

And now, seated across from Oscar in the McLaren media room, she was deeply regretting all of it.

“Okay. Three options,” she said, clicking through the drafts. “All written. All approved by Zak. All designed to keep the internet from melting down.”

Oscar nodded politely. “Sure.”

Option One flashed up in clean, brand-safe font.

Option 1: The Sentimental Soft Launch

Hi everyone – this season’s been full of surprises, but one thing I’ve been quietly proud of for a long time is my family.

Meet Felicity, my wife of five years. And Bee, our daughter.

They’re my biggest supporters—and they’ll be joining me at Silverstone. Can’t wait for them to see what we do.

#F1 #Silverstone #TeamPiastri

Oscar stared at the screen.

Then looked up at Sophie.

“No.”

Sophie blinked. “No?”

“It reads like I died.”

Sophie made a strangled noise. “Okay. Fine. Too emotional. That’s alright.”

Option 2: The Wholesome Racer Dad Vibe

“Turns out the paddock isn’t the only place I take instructions. My daughter, Bee, will be joining us at Silverstone. She’s three, loves telemetry, and thinks Lando overbrakes into Maggots. My wife, Felicity, is the smartest person I know and the only reason I ever get anywhere on time. They’ve been with me all along. Thought it was time you met them.”

Oscar gave her the faintest raised eyebrow.

“Absolutely not.”

Sophie blinked again. “What now?! This one’s funny! And it humanizes you!”

“It makes me sound like I just discovered I have a personality,” he said.

Sophie groaned. “Okay, fine. One more.”

Swipe.

Option 3: The Clean Professional Reveal

“Excited to have my family at Silverstone this weekend. Felicity and Bee, thank you for being my constants off track. And to everyone else—yes, this is new to you. But it’s not new to me. They’ve always been here.”

Silence.

Oscar read it twice.

Then said, “This one feels like I’m announcing I adopted them out of moral obligation.”

Sophie dropped her head into her hands. “Oscar.”

He offered a sympathetic shrug. “You’re very good at your job. I’m just really bad at being public.”

Sophie dropped into the seat across from him. “Oscar. I am begging you. The world is going to meet your wife and daughter for the first time in the middle of McLaren‘s home race weekend. We need a post.”

Oscar tilted his head. “Why not just post a photo?”

“Because context,” Sophie said, waving her hands. “Because you’ve been publicly single since karting and now you’re bringing a wife and child to the grid. We need to guide the narrative. Gently. Softly. Without causing emotional whiplash.”

Oscar leaned back. “Can I write it?”

Sophie froze. “You want to… write it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Will it contain actual words?”

“Yes.”

“Will I get to approve it?”

“No.”

Sophie groaned and buried her face in her hands. “You are a PR nightmare in a racing suit.”

Oscar stood up, calm as ever. “Thank you.”

***

The sun was low, spilling gold across the kitchen table, catching on Bee’s glitter glue masterpiece drying on a placemat. The house smelled like rain and rosemary and the faint hint of banana bread still cooling on the counter.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, freshly showered, arms crossed as he watched Felicity slice strawberries with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgery.

“Bee’s excited,” he said quietly. “About Silverstone.”

Felicity glanced over her shoulder, half-smiling. “She’s been practicing her wave. And telling anyone who’ll listen that she’s going to meet the orange car.”

Oscar huffed a laugh. “That’s not even the worst nickname I’ve heard.”

He let the moment sit for a beat. Then: “Sophie wants the announcement before the weekend.”

Felicity set down the knife. Wiped her hands on a tea towel. “And what do you want?”

Oscar didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked out the window, where Bee’s wellies were still tipped over in the grass from earlier, and tried to name the feeling building in his chest. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. But it was close.

“I want her to feel seen,” he said finally. “I don’t want her to grow up thinking she’s… something to hide.”

Felicity walked over and leaned her hip against the table, facing him fully. “We kept her private for good reasons.”

“I know. I don’t regret it.”

“Neither do I,” she said softly. “We had time. Just… us.”

Oscar nodded. “But she’s getting older now.”

Felicity’s mouth pulled into a thoughtful line. “She notices things.”

“She asked me last week why I never talk about her on TV,” Oscar said, his voice low. “I told her I do. Just not where everyone hears.”

Felicity closed her eyes for a second.

“And she’s smart,” he added. “If this goes on much longer, she’s going to think I’m ashamed of her. Or you. And I’m not. God, I’m not.”

“I know,” Felicity whispered. 

Oscar reached for her hand across the table. “I don’t want her to question her place in my life.”

“She is our life,” Felicity said, gripping his fingers tightly.

“Exactly.”

They stood like that for a moment—quiet, steady, anchored.

Then Felicity let out a long breath. “So. We introduce her.”

Oscar nodded. “Softly. On our terms.”

“No Vogue spreads. No baby Dior sponsorships.”

“No grand declarations. Just… the truth.”

Felicity’s gaze softened. “She’ll love the paddock.”

“She’ll own it,” Oscar said. “She already has questions for Lando about his braking zones.”

That got a real smile out of Felicity. “And we’re ready?”

Oscar squeezed her hand. “Yeah. We are.”

She leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered, “Write something honest. Something you’d want her to read one day.”

He smiled. “Then it’ll be long.”

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Tin Man.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“And a father. Of a girl who wants sea-animal themed cupcakes and thinks mochi should count as a food group.”

Oscar looked over at Bee’s artwork. At the crayon drawing of “Papa’s race car” with a smiling stick figure strapped inside beside a smaller one labeled Me.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“She deserves the world,” he said.

“She has it,” Felicity replied. “She has you.”

And just like that, the decision was made.

***

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Oscar: Hey everyone. Quick heads-up before it’s on social or the news or whatever.

Nicole: Oh god what have you done

Edie:Oscar, please tell me that this isn’t what I think this is about.  

Mae: 👀👀👀👀👀

Oscar: No. We’re just… going public with Bee. Felicity and I talked about it Bee’s old enough now to notice we’ve kept her private and we don’t want her to ever think we’re hiding her

Edie: you could’ve led with that instead of sounding like you were about to admit to a felony

Mae: honestly i thought you’d crashed the car.

Chris: So what does that mean? Photos? Interviews? Bee on a billboard?

Oscar: Just photos. One post. They’ll come to Silverstone. No interviews. No media access. No weird press releases. She’s still Bee.

Nicole: Oh sweetheart 🥺 I’m so proud of you both You’ve done such a beautiful job raising her Whatever you share—we’ll support it 100%

Chris: Just don’t let McLaren turn it into some media circus

Oscar: they tried i said no Sophie tried to write the caption i rejected all three

Hattie: OF COURSE YOU DID

Mae: PLEASE tell me one of them had emojis

Nicole: Bee’s going to be so cute at Silverstone😭 Should I get her a new dress???

Oscar: Mum, she has like seven.

Nicole: BUT NOT FOR HER PUBLIC DEBUT

Edie: what’s her paddock fit??? be honest are we talking cute tiny race suit or toddler chic

Mae: if you don’t get her baby ear defenders in McLaren orange i’m disowning you

Hattie:  Silverstone is gonna BREAK THE INTERNET you know that right

Oscar:  i know but she deserves to be seen

Mae: she’s going to be the most iconic paddock kid ever and i will fight anyone who disagrees

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Mark Webber

Oscar: Hey, just a heads-up.

We’re going public with Bee. Instagram Post. No press, no interviews. Just… quiet and clear.

Mark: I was wondering when this moment would come. You good with it?

Oscar: Yeah. It’s time. She’s starting to ask why I don’t talk about her. Didn’t feel right to keep waiting.

Mark: You’re doing the right thing. You’ve protected her for as long as she needed. Now you’re showing her she belongs everywhere—even here.

Oscar: That’s the hope. Also she’s planning to tell Lando he’s “braking too much into Maggots”

Mark: God help us all. Need me to run interference with media?

Oscar: Sophie’s already having a meltdown. So maybe just… keep Zak from suggesting we sell baby overalls.

Mark:Done.

***

Group Chat: Piastri Girls

Nicole: Fliss, darling—can I just ask? Are you really alright with this?

I know you said yes, and I trust you, but… it’s a big step. And I just want to be sure.

Felicity: I’m okay. Really. We talked it through. We took our time. And Bee wants to be at Silverstone. So yes. I’m okay. 💛

Hattie: ugh okay i’m going to cry and i’m on a tram

Mae: same. I’m in the middle of a dog wash appointment and tearing up next to a cocker spaniel

Edie: just imagining Bee strutting down the paddock in her dolphin dress like she owns every team principal

Mae: you mean when she points at Christian Horner and says “I saw you on TV and mummy said no thank you” ????

Felicity: …I’m begging you not to manifest this

Nicole: You’re sure, love? I know keeping things private was important to you. And I also know the internet can be… cruel.

Felicity: I know. But Bee’s getting older. And hiding her isn’t the same as protecting her anymore. She’s proud of her family. She deserves to be seen.

Hattie: also she’s going to emotionally destroy everyone with her tiny bee backpack. it’s over for all of us.

Edie: I made a Pinterest board called “Paddock Princess Aesthetic” if anyone wants to contribute

Mae: I ALREADY HAVE

Nicole: Alright. Then we are behind you. One hundred percent. No matter what.

You’re a brilliant mother, Felicity. And she’s the most loved little girl in the world.

Felicity: Thank you. 

Edie: we’ll cry with you. but also— do you want us to pre-threaten any gossip accounts?

Hattie: pls i have drafts ready

Mae: TeamBee™ is locked and loaded

Felicity: God help the internet.

***

Instagram Post: @/oscarpiastri 

Caption:

So… I have a daughter.

 (And yes—Lando found out in real time again. I’m 0 for 2.)

To be honest, I didn’t think this was a secret either.

 She’s been the center of my world since the day she arrived.

I just assumed people knew.

Turns out, once again, I was very, very wrong.

So—meet my daughter.

Yes, I’m a dad. I have been since I was nineteen.

Her full name is Beatrice Nicole, but we’ve always called her Bee. 

She’s three now. She likes telemetry, vintage cars, chickens, whiteboards, and chocolate milk with a bendy straw. She’s been asking for a kart since she could walk.

We never made a big announcement when she was born.

Her arrival was chaotic and beautiful and terrifying all at once—and, for a while, all we could do was survive those early days. Felicity was incredible. She always is. And Bee… Bee arrived on her own terms and hasn’t stopped since.

We never planned to keep her a secret.

We didn’t want her growing up in a spotlight she didn’t choose. Fliss and I agreed from the beginning—she’s our daughter, not our content. The most important thing we can give her is a childhood that belongs to her.

She was never hidden. She’s just ours.

She’ll be in the paddock at Silverstone this year—her first real Grand Prix. You might see her in the garage, wearing a headset too big for her and trying to correct our sector data. Now, at least, you’ll know who she is.

Being a father is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever done. It’s also the most grounding. No matter what happens on track—whether I win or finish dead last—there’s a little girl waiting for me at home, arms outstretched, asking for a hug.

I didn’t know I could love someone like this. But then she came along.

So, yeah. I’m married. And I’m a dad.

Still no tattoo.

But I do have a daughter who thinks How to Build a Car is bedtime reading, and calls me “Papa” like it’s the best thing in the world.

And somehow, that word means more to me than anything else ever could.

Comments: 

@/landonorris: i would like the record to show that i knew this time. i was emotionally prepared. (i still cried.)

@/charles_leclerc: This is beautiful. I can’t wait to meet her properly. (Also, Bee is welcome to revise my data any time.)

@/carlossainz55: Oscar this is… wow. This is the best thing I’ve read all season. Respect, hermano. Truly.

@/estebanocon: Bee for team principal 2040 🐝 Also: you win the soft-launch championship. No one else come close.

@/logansargeant: This post made me cry and then google kart prices.

@/danielricciardo: the fact that this child exists AND I HAVEN’T MET HER YET is a personal attack

@/alex_albon: You have a whole child. Like. A child. Who apparently does data analysis. → @oscarpiastri: she’s currently ranking tyre deg across 2023 races → @alex_albon: okay but like… is she free to consult?? asking for a team

@/arthur_leclerc: “Her arrival was chaotic and beautiful and terrifying” Okay dad of the year 😭

@/fernandoalo_oficial: A very small strategist. I approve.

@/lilymhe: This is the best post any F1 driver has ever made and I will be accepting no arguments. → @alex_albon: I’ve been dethroned. by a three year old.

@/pierregasly: I’m not crying. You’re crying. Shut up.

@/maxverstappen1: Protect her at all costs. → @felicitypiastri: already on it 💅

@/mclaren: Welcome to the garage, Bee. We’ve saved you a headset 💛🧡

@/netflix: 👀 → @/landonorris: stay AWAY from her → @/netflix: 😇 → @/felicitypiastri: no → @/netflix: 😭

@/georgerussell63: She reads How to Build a Car at bedtime and I’m afraid of her already.

@/lewishamilton This was beautiful, mate. She’s lucky to have you. And clearly, you’re just as lucky to have her 💛

@/f1wifelore: never thought “i’m a dad” would emotionally ruin me at 2pm on a Tuesday but here we are 🧍‍♀️

@/piastriworshipclub: bee. telemetry. chickens. whiteboards. OSCAR YOU HAVE A MINI YOU. i’m not okay. i’m obsessed.

@/gridgirliesunite: not oscar casually saying “i’ve been a dad since i was nineteen” like that’s a normal sentence??? sir. i am on the FLOOR.

@/motorsportmoms: “she’s our daughter, not our content.” 👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

@/softpitstops: she calls him “papa” 😭 this is the most soft-launch hard-launch i’ve ever witnessed

@/felicitybrainrot: and the way he talks about felicity??? “incredible”??? i’m biting drywall. this is love.

@/formula1fanficirl: no bc imagine being born into the piastri household your dad’s an f1 driver your mom rebuilds vintage engines and bakes sourdough this child is living my dream

@/gridinvestigator: if bee’s not in a tiny headset at Silverstone i’m rioting (i will also cry if she is)

@/chaoticwagtracker: BEATRICE “BEE” PIASTRI. THREE YEARS OLD. LOVES TELEMETRY. I AM HER BIGGEST FAN.

@/drive_to_sob: “that word means more to me than anything else ever could.” (papa) i’m inconsolable.

@/tifosiforbee: i love this small child so much. i would take a bullet for her and i haven’t even seen her yet.

@/f1girliesunite: the way he said "she was never hidden, she’s just ours” 😭 i’m never recovering.

@/downforcewife: not oscar casually admitting he’s been someone’s papa for three years while we’ve been out here calling him a robot 😭 turns out he’s a cinnamon roll with a child.

@/sector3drama: this post healed my skin, fixed my engine mapping, and restored my faith in soft men.

@/gridgossip: she reads how to build a car at bedtime. I barely made it through the dedication page.

@/chaoticwagtracker: felicity and bee >>>>>> every reality show. give me their spin-off immediately.

@/lan_doughnut: THE WAY HE SAID “I JUST ASSUMED PEOPLE KNEW” SIR??? YOU DROPPED A WHOLE CHILD ON US???

@/burners4felicity: BEATRICE NICOLE?!?! HE NAMED HER AFTER HIS MOM!?!?

@/beesquadforever: okay but bee liking vintage cars, chickens, telemetry, and chocolate milk??? she’s three and already cooler than me.

@/piastristans: this is the most emotionally healthy, grounded, respectful family reveal i’ve ever seen. like. they didn’t post because they didn’t want to exploit her?? AND THEN WHEN THEY DID POST, THEY LED WITH LOVE AND CONSENT?? i’m sobbing in the garage rn.

@/f1softiesclub: “that word means more to me than anything else ever could.” and just like that, papa piastri broke the internet.

@/formulafemmes: oscar is married. oscar is a dad. oscar is calm. oscar is in love. i just want what they have.

***

Instagram Post: @/felicitypiastri 

Caption: 

I wrote a thesis once. It required 284 pages, 737 citations, and a statistical appendix.

This took significantly longer to create. And means infinitely more.

Meet Bee. The best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Comments: 

@/alex_albon: I’d like to formally offer Bee a role on our strategy team.

@/maxverstappen1: Is she free next weekend to look at my suspension setup?

→ @/felicitypiastri: She’ll need a booster step and a Capri-Sun but sure

@/danielricciardo: i love her. she is the future. we’re all just turning laps in her warm-up session.

@/georgerussell63: She’s holding that wrench like she knows things

→ @/felicitypiastri: She re-aligned the steering on her tricycle last week

@/burners4felicity: FELICITY YOU BUILT A WHOLE HUMAN WHO CAN TINKER WITH CARS??? I’M LOSING IT

@/lan_doughnut: this kid’s going to have a TED Talk before Lando finishes a full load of laundry

@/beelieversunite: i would let this child critique my entire personality if she asked nicely

@/oscarpiastri: Still can’t believe we made her.

@/landonorris: does she do pit stops too?? asking for a teammate. → @/felicitypiastri: she says only if you promise not to “slam the brakes like a goose.” → @/landonorris: i take it back i’m scared

@/beesquadforever: i looked at this photo for 0.3 seconds and started ovulating

@/engineeringiconz: Bee Piastri is the future of motorsport. We are merely here to witness her origin arc.

@/womeninsteam: This is your sign to let girls play with tools. And to fear the ones who already know what a torque wrench does. 🛠️

@/softpitstops: She’s not even in school yet and she’s already intimidating me.

@/drivetosob: “She’s the best thing I’ve ever helped create.” I don’t even know this woman and she just broke my heart into 17 emotionally regulated pieces.

@/carlossainz55: This is the most powerful image on the internet today. Possibly this decade.

@/mechanicmomlife: respectfully… who let this child be this cool???

@/sector3drama: forget WAGs. I want a weekly update from the BABY PIASTRI PIT CREW

@/downforcewife: Bee is already living the dream. Cars, tools, chocolate milk, adoring parents. I’m applying to be her intern.

@/charles_leclerc: She is so small and already fixing cars. Oscar is doomed.

@/estebanocon: Oscar’s garage in five years is just going to be Bee with a headset and a tablet. I support this.

@/mclaren: We’ve added her to the garage rota. Wrench privileges pending.

@/gridgirliesunite: “best thing i’ve ever helped create” FELICITY PLEASE I’M FRAGILE

@/downforcewife: she looks so serious about that car

@/beesquadforever: tiny engineer. soft caption. grease-stained chaos. 10/10 reveal. would cry again.

@/sector3drama: she’s three. she has a wrench. i am fully, deeply, irreversibly obsessed.

@/burners4felicity: this kid’s going to build her own sim rig and outperform her dad by age six

***

Meanwhile on Twitter

@/formulafemmes:  OSCAR PIASTRI IS A DAD??? A FATHER??? WITH A TODDLER??? WHY AM I FINDING THIS OUT FROM A SOFT-LIT POST THAT READS LIKE A LOVE LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER I’M AT WORK

@/gridgossip: The fact that Bee Piastri is THREE means he became a father at NINETEEN?!?!. Oscar: calm. quiet. committed. Me at 19: crying in a lecture hall because my headphones died.

@/burners4felicity:  Let’s talk about Felicity, the secret wife and apparent Goddess of all things mechanical and maternal – Gave birth during a global pandemic – Raised a tiny strategist – Somehow stayed entirely offline – Probably building an engine in the background RIGHT NOW We don’t deserve her

@/lan_doughnut:  OSCAR: “I didn’t know I could love someone like this.” ME: sobbing into my cereal. My cat is concerned.

@/felicityupdates:  You’re telling me Felicity was pregnant during his F3 days??? With a toddler by his F1 debut??? AND SHE WAS NEVER SPOTTED??? This woman is like Bigfoot but with a degree in mechanical engineering and a sourdough starter.

@/piastrirealupdates: “she’s not content. she’s just ours.” is genuinely one of the most beautiful things a public figure has ever said about their child and I am going to go cry into the void now

@/gridinvestigator: THREAD 🧵: Everything we now know about Beatrice “Bee” Piastri, the tiny legend and future team principal:

Age: 3

Name: Beatrice NICOLE, called Bee

Hobbies: telemetry, chocolate milk, chickens

Also probably smarter than everyone at Ferrari strategy

@/drive_to_thirst: Oscar: “Still no tattoo.” Also Oscar: quietly raised a daughter for three years and wrote a caption that emotionally unraveled the internet. That’s commitment.

@/whiteboardwarlord: Bee Piastri is the only nepo baby I will ever support. She’s built different. Like literally—probably building a gearbox right now.

@/formulafemmes: oscar: I didn’t think it was a secret BABY YOU NEVER POSTED HER. SHE WAS THE OPPOSITE OF A SECRET. SHE WAS A STATE SECRET. A CRYPTOCURRENCY. A WIFE AND CHILD COMBO UNLOCKED VIA SIDE QUEST.

@/sector3drama:: bee. her name is bee. she likes telemetry and whiteboards. i’m sorry but i am now her loyal follower. oscar piastri’s daughter owns me.

@/tifosiforbee:: BEE PIASTRI IS THREE YEARS OLD AND HAS OPINIONS ON RACE STRATEGY THIS IS NO LONGER ABOUT OSCAR THIS IS ABOUT THE PRODIGY

@/lan_doughnut:: also the fact that LANDO found out in real time AGAIN i’m so sorry to that man. he’s never catching up.

@/piastriworshipclub: “she’s our daughter, not our content” and that’s how you win parent of the year, goodnight.

@/chaoticwagtracker: felicity and oscar being married for FIVE YEARS with a THREE-YEAR-OLD CHILD and we never knew??? this is what peak privacy looks like. bowing.

@/softpitstops: bee piastri is the only nepo baby i will ever support she reads How to Build a Car at bedtime i trust her more than my doctor

@/downforcewife: Oscar was out here giving cold, calculated post-race interviews while a whole toddler was at home probably critiquing his line into turn 4

@/gridgirliesunite: FELICITY PIASTRI HAD A BABY AND WAS OUT HERE TINKERING WITH CARS AND MAKING SOURDOUGH IN SECRET???

@/formulafemmes: that child likes chickens, reads technical manuals and drinks chocolate milk with a bendy straw she’s PERFECT

@/chaoscompound: “thought people knew” bro you were giving quiet podium robot and you had a WHOLE FAMILY

@/pitwallpoetry: not me crying at “she calls me papa like it’s the best word in the world” i’m not okay. i’m actually broken.

@/mclarenstan69: the way mclaren social media staff probably learned the same day we did no one is safe. oscar piastri runs on silence and full emotional destruction

@/fernandossunvisor: i’d say “he’s so private it’s terrifying” but actually it’s just the most emotionally mature reveal i’ve ever seen like. it was never about hiding. it was about protecting.

@/teambeeforever: bee piastri for f1 champion 2045 i will be seated

@/f1wivesanonymous:i just think it’s VERY RUDE that oscar piastri has been quietly being the best dad ever while we were out here thinking he was emotionally beige

@/drive_to_sob:“her name is Beatrice Nicole but we call her Bee”... oh so you’re just going to gut me like a trout

@/lan_doughnut: me: i’m strong. i’m normal. i can handle it. oscar: “no matter what happens on track, there’s a little girl waiting for me at home asking for a hug.” me: [hyperventilating into a paper bag]

@/piastriwifeupdates: WE WERE SO BUSY TALKING ABOUT THE WIFE REVEAL WE DIDN’T KNOW THERE WAS A CHILD THERE WAS. A CHILD.

@/chaoticwagtracker: Oscar said “she’s ours not content” and I aged backwards 10 years and grew wings. Oscar said “papa means more than anything else ever could” and I disintegrated on a molecular level.

@/f1chronicles: no because the quietest man on the grid just dropped the most emotionally grounded, boundary-setting, heart-expanding caption in history. he’s a better man than most of us and i want bee to design my life plan.

@/drive_to_thirst: me seeing bee for the first time in the paddock wearing an oversized headset and handing lando a whiteboard note that says “too slow”: 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

@/felicitybrainrot: bee’s bedtime story is “how to build a car” by Adrian Newey and i used to fall asleep to peppa pig. we are not the same.

@/lan_doughnut: it’s the “she was never hidden. she’s just ours.” for me i am lying face down on the floor in mclaren merch do not perceive me

@/oscarstan89: oscar piastri: married. a dad. emotionally eloquent. soft. private. intelligent. also oscar piastri: calmest chaos agent on the grid. king.

@/clareo: I work in F1 PR and I would like to send McLaren PR a basket of muffins and two therapy vouchers that post was perfect but also HOW DID YOU LET HIM SOFT-LAUNCH A WHOLE CHILD??

@/bee_watching: we interrupt our usual fernando thirsting to announce: OSCAR PIASTRI IS A DAD REPEAT OSCAR PIASTRI IS A DAD HIS CHILD’S NAME IS BEE I’M THROWING MYSELF INTO COPSE CORNER

@/F1afterdark: it’s not just that he’s a dad it’s that he’s been a dad since nineteen and didn’t say anything and now he’s like “btw. she calls me papa.” EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

@/formulafemmes: I was expecting Oscar’s next post to be a helmet render. Not… a whole-ass daughter.

@/lan_doughnut: oscar piastri just dropped “i’m a dad and also completely obsessed with my child” with the emotional weight of a sledgehammer and then logged off. we are not okay.

@/burners4felicity: felicity piastri remains undefeated. built a child, a chicken coop, and apparently a multi-year media blackout. queen of privacy. queen of grease-stained overalls. queen.

@/pitwallchaos: oscar really just said: “so yeah. i’m married. and i’m a dad. still no tattoo.” like he was ordering lunch. someone sedate me.

@/drive_to_thirst: “no matter what happens on track, there’s a little girl waiting for me at home, arms outstretched, asking for a hug.” OH. OKAY. COOL. I DIDN’T NEED MY SPINE TODAY.

@/softpitstops: why does oscar Piastri having a child feel like being hit by the world’s softest freight train

@/chaoticwagtracker: oscar being married wasn’t enough. he had to go ahead and be the perfect dad too. and write the most devastatingly wholesome caption of 2024. i’m suing for emotional damages.

@/oscarupdates: the duality of oscar piastri: – “we didn’t post.” – proceeds to write the most emotionally grounding fatherhood essay in motorsports history

@/motorsportmatt: congrats to oscar piastri for finally going public with his wife and child, i guess.

→ @/motorsportmatt: now that "His wife is smarter than all of us combined, makes a lemon slice that could end wars, and rebuilt an engine while eight months pregnant." line mark webber gave me earlier this year finally makes sense

@/nicolepiastri Yes, I’m a grandmother. Yes, she’s brilliant. Yes, I cried when she was born. No, I will not be sharing photos. Yes, she is the best thing our family’s ever been given 🧡 No, I did not know about that middle name until months later via a birth announcement in the mail.

@/formulaheart: THE WAY SHE SAID “I will not be sharing photos” LIKE A REAL GRANDMA GUARDING THE CROWN JEWELS 😭 protect Bee at all costs

@/burnerforbee: "Yes, she is the best thing our family’s ever been given 🧡" i am SOBBING. Nicole Piastri is grandmother of the year.

@/f1dramagirl: no because why is the most emotionally devastating part “via a birth announcement in the mail”??? OSCAR WHAT 😭

@/gridgossipqueen: Nicole Piastri being like “yes I cried” “no I didn’t know about the name” “yes I’m obsessed” “no you can’t have pictures” is the exact energy I want from a F1 grandma.

@/raceweekroses: Bee being named after Nicole and Oscar just… forgetting to tell her… is so Oscar-coded it hurts 😭

@/landoischaotic: Bee: breathes Nicole Piastri: the best thing our family’s ever been given 🧡 Me: crying in corner because she’s so loved

@/feralgirlsontrack: i just KNOW Nicole Piastri has a photo of Bee in her wallet and shows it to strangers at Woolies like it’s her job

@/mclarenmumclub: “No, I did not know about that middle name until months later via a birth announcement in the mail” Oscar. Babe. That is your mother.

@/softoscarupdates: Nicole Piastri posting that Bee is the best thing to ever happen to the family and also casually shading her son in the same breath??? iconic behaviour

@/grandprixgossip: Oscar not telling his mum he named Bee after her and then acting like that’s normal >>> the man is a menace in a papaya race suit

@/drsdivorcecourt:  nicole: I’m a grandmother me: oh my god nicole: she’s brilliant me: oh my GOD nicole: I only found out about the name MONTHS LATER me: dead

@/piastrilibrary: “via a birth announcement in the mail” is so specific and unhinged in the most Oscar-and-Felicity way possible

@/wheresthedrs: I want the birth announcement. I NEED the birth announcement. I bet it was printed on handmade recycled paper with embossed fonts and smelled like lemon and trust.

@/beepiastristan: bee being the best thing that’s ever happened to the piastris… i’m fine… i’m completely fine 🧡

@/feralgirlsontrack: “No, I did not know about that middle name until months later via a birth announcement in the mail” is Oscar Piastri summarized in one sentence

@/gridmomclub:  Nicole is officially president of the grid grandma union. That is all.

@/oscarwya: so just to recap: – didn’t tell his family about his wedding until after – didn’t tell his mum he named his daughter after her – forgot to tell the world he had a wife or a daughter at all what does oscar piastri tell people. his tyre pressures?

@/piastriburner: felicity: we should send out birth announcements oscar: yeah good idea three months later nicole: you named her after me?!?! oscar: oh yeah. i forgot. anyway how was your week?

@/chaoticgridmoments:  no cause imagine your son gets married and names his child after you and just. never. mentions it. oscar piastri i’m BEGGING you to send a family newsletter

@/teamfelicitysupremacy:  felicity: we should tell your mum the baby's name oscar: yeah totally cut to 3 months later oscar: …so i mailed her the birth announcement, it’s fine

@/chaosinthepaddock:  oscar piastri is what happens when you give an emotionally grounded introvert a family and forget to install the inform people update

@/grandprixchaos:  Oscar Piastri’s family finding out about life milestones after the fact is my favorite subplot of this entire season

@/wagsinloafers: At this point Nicole deserves a medal for how calmly she handles her son’s quiet chaos. I’d be in therapy twice a week and he’s just like “surprise!”

@/formulawife:  I will never get over the fact that Oscar Piastri: – got married – didn’t tell his family beforehand – had a baby – didn’t tell them her full name Like what is WRONG with him (affectionate)

@/mclarenfamilydrama:  His poor mother got a birth announcement in the mail MONTHS later and only then found out her granddaughter is named after her 😭😭😭

@/felicitysupremacy:  You know it was Felicity who ordered those announcements and remembered the envelopes and stamps. Oscar probably forgot until they were in the mailbox

***

The house was quiet in that rare, golden way it only got once Bee was truly asleep—snuggled beneath her weighted blanket, one arm flung over Button the Frog, snoring gently like she'd run a sprint race in her dreams.

The living room was dim. Just the soft glow of the lamp, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the coffee table, and Felicity stretched out on the sofa in one of Oscar’s old hoodies, legs tucked under her.

Oscar wandered in barefoot, phone in hand, eyebrows raised like he’d been hit with the emotional equivalent of a tire wall.

“I think I broke the internet,” he said, voice soft.

Felicity glanced up. “You didn’t break it.”

He dropped into the seat beside her. “I dented it. At least.”

“You made the internet cry,” she amended. “That’s different.”

Oscar passed her his phone. “Look at this one.”

She took it. Read. Smiled.

@/softpitstops: "she calls him 'papa' 😭 this is the most soft-launch hard-launch I’ve ever witnessed"

She handed the phone back with a snort. “It was a bit of a hard launch.”

“I mentioned telemetry and mochi,” Oscar said solemnly. “I feel like that softened it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle. It had all happened so fast—the decision, the post, the explosion of reactions that followed. It was trending. Bee was trending. There were memes. Fan art. 

Felicity leaned into him, her head finding the crook of his shoulder.

“How do you feel?” she asked quietly.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Relieved.”

Felicity glanced up at him.

“I didn’t realize how much it weighed on me,” Oscar said. “Not because we were hiding her. Just… because we weren’t letting anyone see what mattered most.”

Felicity rested her head on his shoulder. “You did what you had to. You protected her. You protected us.”

“I still will,” he murmured. “Even now. Even with the whole world watching.”

“They’re watching,” she said, “but they don’t know her. Not really. She’s still ours. She still gets to be a kid.”

He nodded, quiet again.

Then: “Your post was better than mine.”

Felicity grinned. “Obviously.”

“The ‘best thing I’ve ever helped create’ line? Are you trying to make the entire grid cry?”

“It was accurate,” Felicity said simply. 

And it was. 

Oscar kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her jaw. He lingered, letting the quiet speak for him.“Do you think it’ll get harder from here?”

Felicity didn’t answer right away.

“I think people will ask questions. And speculate. And maybe try to push.” She met his gaze. “But I also think we’ve built something strong enough to hold steady.”

***

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for saja boys with shy but touch starved gn s/o please?

Jinu

He’s touch starved himself in my opinion.

He’s also a little awkward too and would definitely be cautious as to not push you beyond your boundaries.

He finds your shyness an interesting thing to have, it’s always a sight to behold when he watches you interact with his tiger companion and the bird with the top hat, acting as though you couldn’t be anywhere else then with them.

Yet when it comes to social interactions you reframe from speaking incase you said something that could come across as silly or stupid. It was truly telling to Jinu where your comfortability levels lied in certain situations and who you were with.

So he would always be nearby, ready to take over a conversation if he saw that you were running low of things to say, coming up with something believable for the other person as he pulls you away from a conversation that was obviously not doing you a lot of good. He’ll take you to less crowded places as he himself didn’t like overcrowded places either, preferring more scenic areas where he could clear his mind and hear himself think.

So Jinu takes you to those places when he knows you needed it and would just stand by your side, all the while the bird with the tiny hat would rest itself on your shoulder, cuddling against your neck and closing it’s eyes in content.

Jinu wouldn’t take to physical affection immediately but instead take his time when he saw how you tensed before gradually intertwining your fingers with his, letting out a sigh of relief as you let yourself enjoy the affection for what it was.

from then on Jinu would also allow himself to enjoy enacting physical affection alongside you, or vicariously through you, when he rested his hand upon the small of your back or gingerly caressed the back of your neck in order to get you to relax and breath again.

Jinu find that you were both alike in similar ways but different in others and found solace in that as neither of you had to go against yourselves in order to appease the other. Affection will come and go but each of them being as meaningful as the last even if it was for a couple of seconds.

Also cuddles with the fluffy blue tiger are a must to recovery your battery, Jinu joins in because you both looked adorable, only for you two to be squashed under the big blue fluff as they act completely innocent.

Baby

Isn’t one for outright PDA. So he’s perfect for you really, it’s not important to him as it would to be for others.

He’ll take the lead in most situations, not that he cares whether your shy or not, he’ll step up if it senses as though your having a hard time even if his face is as though he was perpetually nonchalant about it.

He’ll most likely nudge your shoulder, tap the back of your hand three times, or having his thigh close by to yours but not close enough to just, just enough for you to know he was there if you ever need him.

Baby can communicate to you without having to use words, he’ll use notes to do so if you felt as though you couldn’t use your voice, feel like it’s been taken away from you even if you were just about to ask him for help on something.

He can tell that you need something and is very attuned to how you show that, even without words and will get it without hesitation. It almost comes off as though you have some sort of psychic connection with how effortlessly you knew one another without having to even open your mouths.

Your shyness wasn’t a deterrent for him either as he’s not one to talk all the time either, just enough for people to understand his personality, but just little to keep people guessing his next move or guess what’s his favourite colour or favourite kind of spicy food he preferred.

Baby didn’t care if you talked too much or too little, just as long as you were comfortable with him and didn’t feel as though you had to pressure yourself into becoming comfortable for his sake because that was the last thing he wanted for you.

Baby didn’t care if you didn’t want to go out that much, he wasn’t much of an outdoor person himself, only going out when needed or just to take a quick trip to a corner store and grab spicy treats and sweet snacks for you to munch on within the comfort of your apartment.

He’s more of a homebody who will occasionally want to go out now and then, keenly aware of how easily drained you can be afterwards. He’ll always keep an eye on you in the most nonchalant way possible, caring for you in his own way while also letting you do whatever pleases you.

Abby

Is a teasing shit that will tease you for your shyness initially but never takes it too far, he’s not that mean. He knows his limitations before the playful taunts become mean spirited.

He adores your shyness really, especially when he causally flexes his muscles and you -upon getting caught looking at him- would seemingly jolt out of your skin and look away. It feeds his ego a little and he’d intentionally do it even more if it meant seeing such interesting reactions coming from you.

He can easily stand in front of you if you didn’t want to be seen by others, he’s tall enough and well built enough to do so with ease, he’ll do it if it gives you some peace of mind. Your comfort comes first to Abby.

Will ask if you wanna touch his abs and smiling when you seemingly were at a loss for words, brain working too hard to decipher what he said and if it’s genuine or a joke.

His PDA is about average. He’ll hold your hand, thumb caressing your wrist, or his arm is thrown over your shoulder where he could feel you stiffen before melting under his embrace, almost hiding yourself away within his side while doing so.

That’s when he knows your touch starved and will start doing more to make you more use to his touches and affection.

Abby didn’t care if it took you longer to be comfortable in making phone calls to places or getting use to him putting his hand in your back pocket, as long as he got to do so and get to see how you’d react to what he does was more then enough for him. Your reactions are the highlight for him as he couldn’t help but become infectious with the happiness you felt for getting through placing your order without fucking up.

Abby is your hype man and your biggest teaser at the same time.

He’ll be happy for you/with you and will bring you into his arms to savour the sweet moment as he utters how proud of you he is, only for him to then in the same breath tease you for brushing against his abs, making you smack his bicep weakly as he laughs. Abby can truly be a menace but also be the biggest supporter when it came to you and doing things you initially felt under qualified to do.

Mystery

Your guard dog in more ways then one.

He’s almost got a sixth sense for when you’re comfortable and uncomfortable, like a bloodhound he could smell it from a mile away and immediately he’s more or less barking at whatever is making you uncomfortable.

Not one for words but his actions make up for it. You know the silent type goes strong in him but that doesn’t mean you’ve never heard him talk at all, his I’d like to believe voice is soft, grounding and steady in a way where if he says things were going to be okay, you’d believe him wholeheartedly.

If you want something, just point it out to him and he’ll get you it if you have social anxiety or just can’t bring yourself to speak to the person behind the till.

He’s more then willing to do anything on your behalf or be a grounding presence when you do it yourself, gently brushing his hand against your own in a silent gesture that he was here, that you shouldn’t feel stupid or anything when he was right there to offer moral support.

Affection wise he’s more accustomed to putting his head on your lap or resting his head against your own as his arms are anchored to your waist, almost as though he’s bringing you into an impromptu cuddle session.

The first time he did so, you were tense and didn’t know what to do, stay still as you could while he rested his head in your lap as you looked about awkwardly before feeling his hand grab yours and place it atop of his head in a silent demand for you to run your fingers through his hair.

It was awkward at first as you didn’t want to hurt him by catching some stubborn knots within his hair, but soon enough you were running your fingers through his hair like it’s nothing as though it was second nature.

Everything took time and Mystery was more then willing to keep constantly resting his head on your lap on the odd occasion so that you’d get use to him doing so, get use to him pulling your hand on his head so that his need for attention and affection didn’t come out of nowhere and left you feeling uncomfortable.

Romance

Loves, loves, loves PDA.

Finds your shyness endearing but understands that it can be somewhat debilitating at times when it comes to doing certain things that come more natural to people more confident than you.

He would try to ease you into it by doing small gestures, such as intertwining pinkies or just tracing his fingers across your palm so that you would be familiar to his touch when he does more grander expressions of affection.

He’s got patience in droves and will reassure you that your shyness is one of the many things he loves about you, even if you think that your shyness was holding him back or believe it to be a downside to you.

He’s never holding it against you at all, he embraces it and is more than willing to go at your own pace should it be more comfortable for you.

The last thing he wanted was for you to feel as though you had to be thrusted out of your comfort zone to keep someone when it’s doing more harm then good, that you needed to ignore your own feelings in order to accommodate the other person’s feelings.

That wasn’t love in his eyes and it never will be.

Romance is convinced that while you were both different, you both compliment each other in a way that he’s come to adore.

He’s more sociable and outgoing, whereas you were more reserved and didn’t feel at all comfortable with overbearing people or overcrowded spaces filled with loud and rambunctious characters. Yet you both worked wonders together and that’s all Romance could ask for, someone who complimented him while also being uniquely themselves.

[sweethoneyjays]

when you baby them ᯓ★

❀ ◦ paring ◦ enha x reader ❀ ◦ genre ◦ fluff fluff fluff (and a bit of crack) ❀ ◦ word count ◦ 2.3k

❀ ◦ masterlist

❀ ◦ note ◦ back with another banger. personaly riks got me real good for this one (screams) thanks to @lovegreenie for beta reading once again <33 ❀ ◦ taglist ◦ @kristynaaah @beenusflytrap @nari-roll

heeseung ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had just stepped out of a nice, relaxing hot shower, feeling warm and ready for bed. as you walked toward the bedroom, you spotted heeseung sprawled out across the mattress, one hand on his stomach, the other stretched lazily across his side. his head was tilted back slightly, mouth parted, soft snores filling the room.

Normally, eyes-closed, open-mouthed, slightly-drooling sleep wasn’t cute. but with heeseung?

Absolutely adorable.

You padded over and carefully laid down beside him, curling up into the curve of his arm.

Instinctively, he pulled you close and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“you’re finally done, angel” he mumbled sleepily, his voice low and raspy with exhaustion. the way his arms wrapped around you, so clingy and warm? it was your breaking point in the best way.

You propped yourself up slightly, your face level with his. “did I wake my baby up?” you whispered with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to his nose.

Heeseung smiled, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. you gently stroked his hair, cooing sweetly, “my tired, tired baby.”

“Mmm..” he hummed, clinging tighter like he had no intention of letting go.

You leaned in and began placing kisses all over his face. “mmm… angel” he giggled, trying to turn away but too sleepy to fight back.

“Why is my baby so adorable, hmm?” you teased, giggling between kisses. “my baby. all for me.”

Heeseung groaned playfully and tried to hide his blushing face. when he looked at you again, his half-lidded eyes looked so soft, like he could fall asleep all over again.

“All for you…” he murmured with a sleepy grin. “only for you.”

Then he pulled you back in, holding you close as if you were the only thing that mattered in the whole world.

jay ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Here you were, sitting in jay’s office as he whined and complained about his custom-made guitar pedal having the slightest scratch. he was clearly irritated, but you just found his pouty lips absolutely adorable.

“I just don’t understand how it even got there” jay mumbled, resting his head dramatically on your shoulder.

“Well, you’ve had it for a while. It’s bound to get a few scratches, baby.” you chuckled, fingers gently petting his fluffy hair.

He let out an exasperated puff and sat back up, examining the pedal. slouched in his office chair, brow furrowed, he stared intently at the tiny blemish, while you simply rested your chin on your hand, admiring your ridiculously handsome (and overdramatic) boyfriend.

You reached out and tucked a soft strand of hair behind his ear. jay froze. his eyes flicked toward you, heart fluttering at your delicate touch.

Oh, how down bad he was.

“How long have you had this pedal anyway?” you murmured, fingers idly playing with his hair. a shiver ran up his spine, the sensation sending tingles through him in all the right ways.

“I, uhm… maybe around, like, two or three weeks?” he answered softly, completely entranced by your touch.

“Mmm? that’s already a pretty long time, baby…” you whispered, gently caressing his cheek. “you look so cute when you’re all pouty.” you added, smiling.

Jay looked up at you with those perfect puppy-cat eyes. you couldn’t help but giggle and lean in to tease him a little more.

“Aww, my poor lil baby” you teased, cooing as you pulled his head into your chest. “it’s okay, my pouty little baby, don’t be sad.”

Jay laughed, voice muffled against you. “okay, honey. whatever you say” he grinned cheesily.

“You love it when I baby you” you giggled, pressing a soft peck to his cheek.

“Only because it’s you” he murmured with a giddy smile, before burying his face deeper into your shoulder.

jake ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Here you were, sitting on the couch trying to enjoy your show… trying being the keyword. it was difficult when jake was latched onto your side, whining and begging for your snacks.

Your special snacks. the ones you bought for both of you… except he always finished them too fast.

“Pleeeeaaaseee” jake whined into your side, his limbs wrapped around you like a koala. his face was buried in your arm. “i promise to replace them this time.”

“You said that last time too, yunie. and the time before that. and you still didn’t replace them.” you pouted, looking down at him.

Jake looked up, full-on pouting now, his big, adorable puppy eyes blinking at you.

Irresistible.

Dammit.

You sighed, a small laugh slipping out. “aww, does my baby jakey want the snacks that bad?” you teased, your voice going soft and babyish, like you were talking to a puppy… which, in this case, was basically the same thing.

Jake instantly knew what you were doing and got all shy. he acted like he hated it, but you both knew the truth.

he lived for it.

“You gotta answer me, yunie” you chuckled, gently patting his fluffy hair.

“Yes, please…” he mumbled quietly.

“What was that, baby yun?” you teased further, squishing his soft cheeks between your hands.

“I said please!” he whined, voice high as he buried his red face in your arm again.

You let out a loud laugh at his ridiculously cute reaction. “okay, okay- go get it” you grinned, rolling your eyes fondly.

Jake perked up immediately, bouncing off the couch and rushing to the cupboard like you’d just handed him the key to eternal happiness.

“Happy now, yunie?” you smiled as he returned with your snack in hand, already munching away like a satisfied gremlin.

“No. I’m sad.” he huffed dramatically, settling beside you again. “you were mean to me.”

“Oh no!” you gasped, pretending to be horrified. “should I kiss it better?”

Jake plopped himself down with an exaggerated pout. “yes. yes, you should*.*” he declared with a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

sunghoon ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were minding your own business in the bedroom when your perfect, handsome boyfriend stepped out of the bathroom.

He looked so clean, damp hair clinging softly to his forehead, body toned, skin glowing under the warm, ambient lamp light.

honestly, how did you even manage to score this hottie?

“You look so good, hoon” you said, propping your head on your elbow as you admired him.

“Oh- thank you, love” sunghoon chuckled shyly, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. he knew he looked good, sure… but he always folded at your compliments.

Boy was down bad.

And of course, you noticed that blush right away. so naturally, you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little more.

“My handsome baby, come here” you cooed, patting the empty space beside you.

Sunghoon let out a bashful laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he made his way over and plopped down beside you.

Without hesitation, you clung onto his arm and looked up at him with that teasing smirk of yours.

“Look at you…” you said, resting your cheek against his bicep. “my baby’s so, so good-looking.” You gave him those cute, wide eyes, the move that always, always made him fold.

“Thank you, lovie…” he mumbled, face already buried in his hands as he smiled like a total fool.

You gently pulled his hands away and squished his cheeks between your palms. “such a handsome man” you grinned.

And that? That finished him.

Sunghoon let out an adorably flustered giggle and turned away from you entirely, his back now facing you as he tried to hide the deepening blush.

“Heyyy, where are you going?” you laughed, delighted at his reaction.

“Just... here…” he muttered, trying to calm himself down.

“Aww, you adorable baby” you giggled, wrapping your arms around him from behind in a soft back hug.

He let out a tiny, flustered scream before laughing, squirming a little as he rolled around on the bed with you.

“Only you can make me fold like this” he sighed between chuckles, finally settling down beside you again, still smiling at you.

sunoo ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were chilling on the couch when your sunshine boyfriend walked into the room… except this time, his vibe felt… different.

He wasn’t radiating that usual cutesy glow. instead, he strolled over with this oddly cool energy and plopped down beside you, throwing a firm arm over your shoulders like he was auditioning for a kdrama lead.

“Hey, babe” sunoo said, flashing a soft smile.

You raised an eyebrow at the nickname, playfully scrunching up your face in confusion.

“You okay? is the weather off or something?” you chuckled, leaning into him. “you feel... different today.”

“Different? i’m doing perfectly fine, babe” he replied, puffing out his chest ever-so-slightly like he was trying to channel a broody action hero.

You saw through it instantly. he was trying to act like one of those stereotypically “tough guy” types- and honestly, it was adorable*.*

“Okay then, handsome tough baby” you teased, giggling as you leaned into his side and rested your cheek against his chest. you looked up at him with a grin. “so, so handsome today.”

“Th-thank you, babe” sunoo chuckled, a soft blush creeping across his cheeks.

You brought a hand to his face and gently caressed his cheek. “my tough, strong baby…”

And just like that, his whole act crumbled.

“AhH, I can’t do this anymore!” sunoo squealed, immediately breaking his cool-guy facade. he wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his flustered face into your neck.

“What happened to my tough-tough baby?” you teased, giggling as you squished his cheeks.

“Being tough is too much work” he laughed, snuggling deeper into your warmth like the human cinnamon roll he truly was.

“I mean, I could get used to big tough sunoo” you mused playfully. “i love every version of you. cute, sexy, sassy, clingy, pouty-”

You went on and on while sunoo just laughed softly, absolutely melting at your affection.

“Thank you, sweetie” he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. “i love every version of you too.”

jungwon ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You were watching tv on the couch when your adorable kitty boyfriend peeked his head around the corner, eyes full of mischief, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

You looked over at him, narrowing your eyes as you tried to predict what chaos he was about to unleash.

“Can I help you, wonie?” you chuckled as he stepped fully into view, feet planted wide in an stance.

He just kept smirking.

Uh-oh.

Without another word, he marched up in front of you and broke into the most ridiculous little dance. you raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a snort before finally laughing.

Then he leapt onto the couch and nuzzled his face into your shoulder, letting out a soft laugh of his own.

“Looks like someone has their zoomies” you said fondly, ruffling his hair as he settled down, resting his head on your lap and leaning into your warmth.

You couldn’t help but melt a little.

“You’re so cute, wonie” you giggled, squishing his panting, flushed cheeks in your hands.

His naturally rosy skin only added to how absolutely adorable he looked.

“Why are you so cute?” you squealed, overcome with cuteness aggression as you continued to play with his face.

Those soft, squishy features and that ridiculously fluffy hair were simply too much.

Jungwon giggled, letting you squish and poke to your heart’s content.

“If you keep this up, you might just rearrange my face” he said between laughs.

“How can I not? my baby’s just too adorable” you cooed, switching to gently run your fingers through his hair.

He smiled at you, a soft pink blush rising on his cheeks.

“My cute, cute, cute cat” you giggled again.

Jungwon laughed and teased, “you are so down bad for me.”

You raised a brow. “like you’re not blushing right now?”

“Only blush like this for you” he grinned.

ni-ki ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You and riki were chilling on the sofa, your body curled into his lap, facing him like a sleepy little koala. his arms wrapped around you gently, one hand rubbing slow circles against your back. everything felt calm, no chaos, no noise, just the two of you sharing warmth in the quiet.

You pulled back slightly to take a look at him. his head was tilted back, eyes closed, completely peaceful. undisturbed. and so, so good looking.

“Mmm?” riki hummed, sensing your gaze on him. he cracked one eye open to peek at you, a soft smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Admiring your handsome boyfriend?” he teased, his voice low and easy, his thumbs still tracing lazy shapes on your waist.

You brought your hands up to gently cup his cheeks. “well yes, I am. my handsome baby duck” you replied with a cheeky smile.

“Aish, not you too-” he whined, letting out a playful groan. “i’m a puma. P-U-M-A” he spelled, gesturing dramatically to himself.

“But you’re my baby duckie” you cooed sweetly. “you can’t tell me you’re not a duck with those soft, kissable lips,” you added, placing a gentle peck right on them.

Riki groaned and sat up straighter, now eyeing you with seriousness. “look, look. my eyes scream puma. i’m not a duckie.” he pointed at his eyes with a pout.

But you could barely hold back a giggle. he was trying so hard, and yet the tips of his ears were already flushed pink.

“But baby duckie…” you said with a playful little pout of your own.

He let out a soft chuckle and met your gaze… and instantly folded.

His expression crumbled as he threw his head back, covering his face in dramatic defeat.

“Are you not my baby duckie?” you teased again, arms wrapping around his waist as you rested your chin on his chest, looking up at him with your sweetest gaze.

He looked down at you and just melted.

Going completely limp in your hold, riki sighed like a man who knew he was completely owned. his cheeks were a shade of red he’d deny later.

“Yeah, yeah…” he muttered, smiling as he hugged you back tightly. “i’m your duckie… just your duckie.”

will never get over this riki T-T

[temiizpalace]

☆┊RESPOND TO MY TEXTS!

SUMMARY: how long do they take to respond to your messages?

CHARACTERS: all dorms + rsa, rollo & skully

GENRE: fluff

WARNINGS: none

NOTES: some of these come from personal experience 💔💔

reader gender is not mentioned

SUMMONED SPIRIT

as soon as you hit send, you get a response immediately in return. it’s as if he’s been waiting all day for your text, summoned by the ping of your message. no matter what kind of message it is, he replies in mere seconds. funny video? he’ll laugh on text as loud as he can. need something at the store? already there. need a hug? on his way. he loves receiving these messages from you, and he wants you to know that by spamming your phone with his little replies.

cater, ace, kalim, rook, idia, lilia, sebek, che’nya, skully

REPLIES AT A REASONABLE TIME

he responds within a few minutes to hours. it’s understandable, he’s a busy guy with a lot going on in his life. he does appreciate your texts, your messages of motivation. it does make him feel a little guilty for making you wait for his response, but he makes up for it in other ways. besides, he’d rather be with you in the moment rather than over the phone. not that he doesn’t want your messages! overall, he responds in a reasonable amount of time that’s not too late, but not too soon.

riddle, trey, jack, azul, jade, jamil, vil, neige

REPLIES WITHIN WEEKS

never responds until weeks later. his phone is probably on do not disturb all the time because you swear he never reacts until forever. you could’ve sent him a meme you found funny from months ago and he’ll respond on a random saturday night at 7:47pm with some dry ass response like “haha” nearly scaring the ever loving crap out of you. you love him, you do, but dear lord would you wish he checked his phone once in awhile.. he probably texts like a dry old woman too.

riddle, ruggie, silver, rollo

REPLIES IN PERSON

he knows he can say it over the phone. he knows he can just reply instead of showing up to your doorstep. but he doesn’t want to. it’s wayy more meaningful if he says it to you to your face, right? you open the door, a puzzled look on your face as you see your boyfriend at the door. “i thought the video you sent me was funny.” he says bluntly before stepping through the door and inviting himself in. he finds this as an excuse to see you, to visit you. “you could’ve just texted me.” you sigh, pinching his cheek. he doesn’t care. and honestly, neither do you.

deuce, leona, floyd, epel, malleus

A/N: within weeks one gives me flashbacks im afraid

date published: 06/29/25

© temiizpalace — do not copy, steal, or put my work into ai. thank you!

[paroslineage]

Something Found

Oneshot

Featuring : Hwang Jun-ho x F!Reader.

Summary : You were only thinking of making Jun-ho the best meal you could ever think as a surprise after he finally returned from his island mission but what you didn't mean to find a cute baby staring at you wrapped up in a green oversized jacket with the number 222.

The sun had dipped low, casting soft golden beams through the curtains of your modest apartment. You fumbled with the keys, bags of groceries in both arms, already thinking about what to cook for dinner. Maybe that spicy kimchi stew Jun-ho liked when he was in a mood—or something light, since he said Woo-seok might join him for drinks.

You pushed the door open with your shoulder and kicked it shut behind you. “Jun-ho, did you forget your phone again—?”

Your words stopped mid-air.

There, in the middle of the living room, on the soft cream rug you both picked out together, was a baby.

Tiny. Quiet. Wide, curious eyes staring up at you like you were the entire galaxy.

You froze.

No crying. No sound. Just those blinking dark lashes and the slow, gummy smile forming on her face.

You looked around—no Jun-ho. No note. Just a wrapped baby, clean, fed, and… wearing a Green jacket.

Player 222.

Your heart dropped. You set the groceries down slowly, hands trembling. “Oh my god…”

And then she squealed softly. A high-pitched, bubbly noise that made your eyes sting.

—

At that exact moment, Jun-ho was laughing quietly for the first time in weeks. He sipped soju across the table from Choi Woo-seok at a small, tucked-away bar. They’d talked about Gi-hun, about the island, about all the mistakes. They’d even shared a toast for the fallen.

“You should smile more,” Woo-seok had said.

Jun-ho chuckled. “That’s your fourth glass talking.”

But halfway through their conversation, Jun-ho’s phone buzzed with a notification.

[Unknown Number] She’s with you now.

His body went still. Woo-seok watched the shift in his expression—cold clarity flooding in.

“Jun-ho?”

“I need to go home.”

—

You sat on the floor with her, heart racing, fingers gently brushing her soft little head. Her little hand latched onto your finger, gripping with surprising strength.

“I don’t know who you are, or how you got here…” you whispered, voice catching in your throat. “But you’re safe now. We’re gonna keep you safe.”

The door opened behind you.

Jun-ho stepped in, breath short, face stunned as he saw the child in your arms. You turned toward him, eyes wide. “She was just here. Waiting. I don’t—”

He walked slowly, kneeling beside you. “Jagiya...” he murmured.

You blinked. “Yes?”

“He… He trusted me. After everything. After what we did to him.”

Jun-ho touched the baby’s cheek, voice raw. “This was Gi-hun’s final act… she’s the last one. The only one who didn’t lose.”

You looked at the tiny girl, then at him.

“What do we do now?”

Jun-ho swallowed hard. Then his eyes lifted to meet yours. Not afraid. Just real. “We raise her.”

And in that quiet, sunlit room, with the world behind you both burning down—you kissed his temple, curled into his side, and the three of you simply existed.

No more running. No more fear.

Just beginnings.

Meanwhile....

Outside the apartment, hidden across the street in the shadow of a rooftop, the Front Man stood still. His black mask was off now—tucked into his coat pocket. His face, scarred with time and regret, was bare to the night air.

Hwang In-ho watched silently.

The window glowed warm with soft lamplight. He could see Jun-ho kneeling beside you, your arms curled around the baby who had once been Player 222—now something more, something sacred.

You were whispering gently, rocking her as she began to drift off. Jun-ho’s fingers threaded into your hair, pulling you close. And then… he pressed a kiss to your temple.

A slow, aching motion. One filled with so much tenderness, it made something in In-ho’s chest twist.

Jun-ho held you both, his chin tucked into your shoulder, protective and present. The man In-ho once knew was still there—scarred but intact, not hardened by revenge, but softened by love.

And that baby... she smiled in her sleep.

A memory rose in In-ho’s mind—his own wife, her laugh, her belly round with life. A life that never came. A life he could never save.

But maybe Jun-ho could.

He exhaled quietly, backing away from the edge of the rooftop. No more games. No more watching.

Tonight was the last time he would look in from the outside.

He had chosen his path—and Jun-ho had found his redemption.

And in that fleeting, fragile moment of warmth and family, In-ho disappeared into the night.

For good.

The rain had started to fall softly, the droplets pattering against the window as the city lights flickered in the distance. Inside, the apartment was still—bathed in the amber hush of evening.

You lay nestled into Jun-ho’s side on the couch, your head against his shoulder, the baby cradled between you both. Her tiny fingers twitched in sleep, wrapped around the edge of your sweater. Jun-ho's hand rested protectively on her back, his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer like he never wanted to let go again.

You tilted your head up, eyes searching his face.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” you whispered.

He looked down at you—eyes tired, heart bruised, but beating with something new. Not just survival. Not just duty.

Hope.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But we’re together.”

You leaned up and kissed his scar—softly, reverently—just above where his brother’s bullet once tore through him.

Outside, the rain fell harder. But inside, it was warm.

In another lifetime, he’d lost everything.

But this one?

This one was different.

It wasn’t just someone saved.

It was…

Something Found.

[buam]

I haven't worked with small mammals, but I assumed those were biologist photos from the consistent handling.

From working with birds and misc other species - sometimes wild animal handling looks terrible, even if it's the safest and lowest stress way to handle the animal. Bird banding stations, for example, will keep birds in little cloth bags until they're ready to be banded and released. Does it look silly? Of course it does! But those cotton bags keep the birds warm, safe, and calm.

Image credit: Monomoy bird observatory

The image issue doesn't improve once the birds are removed from the bag. There are two basic ways to hold a wild bird, the photographer's grip (left) and the bander's grip (right). Both grips require training, and the general public shouldn't use either one! But for a seasoned professional, the birder's grip is the safest, most efficient way to handle a bird - even though yes, it involves placing two fingers around a bird's neck.

Photo credit: Grace Yaros/Audubon Vermont

To return to the mice photos... I found a blog post about small mammal trapping, which explains that plastic bags are (briefly!) used when extracting small mammals from traps because they let the scientist see the animal + the animal isn't able to grip the bag with claws or teeth. The cotton bags used to restrain birds don't meet that criteria! So this is a rare case where a plastic bag is the safest, most efficient way to handle an animal. The same blog post includes photos of scientists holding rodents by the scruff, both with and without gloves, and notes that that's the proper way to handle a small mammal.

For the general public - please don't handle wild animals, especially birds and small mammals! If they're easy to catch they're either very sick or very young. If you encounter a sick, injured, or orphaned animal, please call your local wildlife rehab center before doing anything else. Young birds go through an entire fledgling stage where they kind of flap around and can barely fly, but the parents are still nearby and feeding them - it's okay to scoop a young bird out of a dangerous spot like a road, but put them in a bush nearby and wait and watch from a safe distance to see if a parent returns before assuming they're orphaned.

Even as a trained wildlife biologist, I never, ever handle birds for recreational purposes. Every photo of me handling plover chicks or being harassed by common terns was taken while conducting a scientific survey, and I only paused for brief, occasional photos before resuming my work. Minimizing stress to wild animals always comes first!

i like the dichotomy of these two pictures. glamour shot of the most beautiful chipmunk who ever existed, and blurry gray sphere.

[drewswife]

summary — getting high with bf!rafe for the first time

warnings — weed, rafe being suggestive, you and rafe being giggly and all over each other

a/n — i need to go to to the dispensary 😣

The scent of burnt sugar and something vaguely herbal hung in the air, a sweetness that tickled your nose even before the harsher notes hit. You coughed, a little laugh bubbling up as Rafe clapped you on the back, his eyes already sparkling with amusement.

"Easy there, baby," he chuckled, his voice a little deeper, a little warmer than usual. He took another hit from the joint, the cherry glowing a defiant orange in the dimly lit room. You watched, fascinated, as he exhaled a slow, milky plume, a smirk playing on his lips as he held it out to you again.

This was it. Your first time. And with Rafe, no less. You’d always been a bit of a goodie-two-shoes, and Rafe, well, Rafe was Rafe. The one who always pushed your boundaries, but somehow made you feel safe doing it.

You took it, feeling the warmth of the roach against your fingertips, and cautiously inhaled. This time, it was less of a shock, more of a slow burn that spread through your chest. You held it in, counting to three like Rafe had instructed, then let it out in a shaky sigh.

"Atta girl," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your face.

A strange lightness began to bloom in your head, a disconnect between your thoughts and your body. The room seemed to tilt just slightly, and Rafe’s face, already so familiar, seemed to sharpen, his eyes a more intense shade of blue, the curve of his lips more pronounced.

You felt a giggle building in your chest, a tiny, uncontrollable bubble of mirth. "This is weird," you managed, the words feeling a little too big for your mouth.

Rafe’s laugh was a low rumble, infectious. "Just wait," he promised, his eyes twinkling. He leaned closer, his arm brushing yours, and a shiver went down your spine. "Feeling it yet?"

"I think so," you confessed, another giggle escaping. You looked at him, and for some reason, the way his hair looked freshly buzzed, the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, it was all just so incredibly funny and endearing at the same time. You reached out, almost unconsciously, and poked his cheek. "Your face is funny."

He feigned offense, pressing his hand to his chest dramatically. "My face is a national treasure!"

You burst out laughing, a full, unrestrained sound that surprised even yourself. You leaned into him, burying your face in his shoulder, your body shaking with silent mirth. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer, his own laughter rumbling against your ear.

"You're giggly," he whispered, his breath warm on your neck. You could feel his smile against your skin.

"You're making me giggly," you retorted, pulling back just enough to look at him, your eyes still sparkling with mirth. You poked his nose this time, a playful little tap.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and a different kind of warmth bloomed in your stomach. "Oh yeah?" he murmured, his voice a low drawl that sent shivers through you. He leaned in slowly, his eyes still locked with yours, a suggestive glint in their depths. "Maybe I can make you more than giggly."

The air between you thickened, charged with a new, exhilarating energy. You found yourself leaning in too, your body instinctively drawn to his. The world outside the two of you seemed to fade, replaced by the soft glow of the lamp, the scent of the lingering smoke, and the intoxicating awareness of Rafe's presence.

His lips met yours, soft and hesitant at first, then deepening with a comfortable familiarity. It was messy, a little clumsy with all the giggling, but it was perfect. You tasted the faint sweetness of the weed, and something else – something uniquely Rafe, warm and a little wild.

You gripped his polo, pulling him closer, your bodies molding together on the worn sofa. There was no awkwardness, no self-consciousness, just a delicious rush of feeling. You were all over each other, a tangle of limbs and laughter and blossoming desire. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word felt magnified, electric.

🏷️, @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @vxncevis @dsfault

[sharieb]

I love your works as always💌 may I request a headcanon where the boys lay their heads on your lap clearly asking for attention but instead of saying it. They just keep looking up at you as your eyes are glued to fav show playing on your laptop. You might caress their head or play with their hair but wouldn't turn your eyes to them.(the scenario is you guys are on bed.) Thanks!🩷🩷🩷🩷

Lap Pillow Stare-Down

Pairing: LADs x Non MC reader Genre: Fluff Writer's note: I found this request so lovely that I couldn't help but indulge myself in this one, so I added a little bonus for all my adorably squishy lovelies, in mind like myself.

Subtle but Persistent

He doesn’t say a word. Just walks in, slides onto the bed, and gently rests his head on your lap like it’s part of his routine now.

You’re deep into your comfort show, practically glued to the screen, barely acknowledging him except for a casual hand threading through his hair.

He closes his eyes at first, pretending to be satisfied.

But after a few minutes, his eyes crack open again.

He looks up at you. Stares. Observes. Memorises.

You don’t notice.

He shifts slightly, just enough to make his weight more obvious.

Still nothing.

He sighs, then gently taps your thigh once. Maybe twice.

Still nothing.

He starts tracing little circles on your leg with his fingertip. Huffs quietly. Sighs again. Glares softly at the side of your face like it's personally offended him.

Finally, in a whisper that’s way too dramatic for how long he’s been sulking: “You like that laptop more than me?”

You giggle and finally glance down, and Caleb immediately looks smug, like finally. “Don’t mind me,”

He murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Just needed a better view.”

But now he refuses to look away from you, even as your eyes return to the screen. His attention? 100% yours. He's really just going to stay there like a golden retriever? No. No, do not blush. Keep watching. You're stronger than this... oh no, he’s smiling.

When you finally pause the episode and smile down at him, he looks up like he's just won a war. “There you are,” he says, smug but soft. Bonus:

He starts absentmindedly kneading your soft thighs like it helps him focus.

Spoiler: it doesn't. In fact, he forgets the show even existed.

When you finally look down at him with a fond little smile and brush his fringe aside, Caleb’s ears flush pink. “You're really warm,” he mumbles. Then adds, “...And squishy,” as his fingers gently press against your thigh like he’s testing a pillow.

Brooding Stare of Doom

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even announce himself.

Just crawls onto the bed, lays his head squarely in your lap, and sighs deeply like a man carrying the weight of ten underworld empires.

Your hand instinctively begins petting his hair.

But your eyes remain locked on your screen.

Sylus is not amused.

His eyes open. Slowly.

He watches you. Patiently. Intensely.

When you still don’t look at him, he raises a brow. Still no response.

He shifts. Lightly drums his fingers against your thigh. Then pokes your waist. “So this is what neglect feels like,” he deadpans.

You laugh and keep watching.

He sighs again, dramatically. “I'm literally in your lap and you're watching animated space pirates instead of me?”

You finally glance down. He's already got that smug smile ready, like he won.

“Now that I have your attention...” he murmurs, stretching luxuriously like a spoiled cat.

You roll your eyes, but he swears your hand starts stroking slower, gentler. Victory. He’s such a brat. A beautiful, dangerous, annoyingly smug brat. And he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shift slightly to give him a real look, brushing his cheek gently. He hums and closes his eyes, the satisfied smile deepening. Bonus:

He playfully squishes your plush thighs and murmurs, “You’re too soft, dove. How am I supposed to get up ever again?”

Then pretends to fall asleep with one hand gripping your squishy tummy like it’s his most prized possession.

Silently Yearning

Zayne enters the room quietly, not wanting to disturb you.

He notices your eyes on your laptop and instead of interrupting, he silently lays his head in your lap, hoping that’s enough.

You hum, gently carding your fingers through his hair. Your touch is so soft, and he savours it immediately.

But you never look down.

He closes his eyes, trying to relish the moment, but... you still don’t look at him.

Slowly, he opens one eye. Then both.

He shifts his head slightly, just enough to make you aware of him.

Still no eye contact.

His brows knit faintly.

Finally, in the softest, most pitiful voice: “Are you ignoring me?”

You blink, glance down, and smile warmly. “No, Zaynie.”

He lets out a tiny breath and gently nuzzles closer. “Okay. Just checking.”

But now your fingers are combing through his hair in those long, soothing strokes he secretly lives for.

He closes his eyes again, completely at peace, even if your eyes are still glued to the screen. Being near you is enough. He’s like a cat. A really pretty, emotionally repressed cat who just wants cuddles. I can’t believe he’s pouting so softly.

When you finally tilt his face up and kiss his forehead, he glows. Quiet, but visibly warmed. Bonus:

He tries to return to reading a file but ends up just tracing shapes on your thigh in soft little loops instead.

Definitely not focused anymore.

He hums occasionally, and when you look down again, he’s watching you, not the screen.

He gently presses your tummy like he’s testing a stress ball and immediately flushes. “...You’re very soft.”

Drama King on Lap Duty

Rafayel doesn’t walk—he glides into the room, full of flair, shirt half-unbuttoned, the scent of paint clinging to his skin.

Without a word, he flops onto the bed, head in your lap, letting out a sigh that belongs in a theatre.

“Alas,” he mutters. “Ignored by the one I adore.”

You don’t even blink. Just stroke his hair as your show continues. “Guppy, am I not as interesting as this episode?”

You hum in reply. Still no eye contact.

He stares at you like you just committed high treason. “Do I not deserve even a glance?”

When you finally look down, he gives you the biggest puppy eyes ever. “Oh! She sees me.”

You snort. “I always see you.”

He grins. “Then see this.”

He kisses your palm like he just declared war on your attention span.

A moment later, he lifts your hand dramatically to his forehead. “If I perish from neglect, know that I died in beauty.”

You can’t stop laughing. He smirks in triumph, finally satisfied. He’s such a showoff. Why does being dramatic make him cuter?

You lean down and kiss his nose. “You're ridiculous.” “And adored,” he beams. Bonus:

He gently squishes your plush thighs and murmurs, “You know, cutie, your lap is the softest throne I’ve ever rested on.”

He then mimes being lulled to sleep like a spoiled prince.

At one point, he pokes your tummy and dramatically gasps, “You’re made of marshmallows! This must be heaven.”

Quiet Craving

He doesn’t even say hello.

Just silently walks in, careful not to disturb your space, and rests his head gently in your lap.

Your hand finds his hair automatically. You’re used to his quiet affection.

But you don’t look down.

He stares at you. Eyes wide. Hopeful.

You don’t look.

He tugs lightly at your sleeve. Still nothing.

So he does the unthinkable. He pouts.

Still nothing.

Finally, in the gentlest voice: “You’re very beautiful when you’re focused.”

You glance down with a soft blush, and his pout transforms into the faintest, most victorious smile. “I like it here,” he murmurs. “In your orbit.”

He nuzzles gently against your thigh, arms wrapping around your waist in a quiet embrace.

For the rest of the evening, he just lies there, heart full, basking in your nearness like you’re the sun and he’s lucky to even orbit. He’s too pretty to ignore. Too soft to resist. How was I supposed to focus?

You cup his cheek gently, and he leans into it with a look that could outshine the stars behind him. Bonus:

He softly murmurs, “You’re really warm,” and gently nuzzles closer.

You swear you hear him whisper, “My favourite gravity,” as he drifts off, his hands now gently squeezing the soft part of your lap like it’s his favourite pillow.

At some point, he shyly pokes your tummy and then buries his face in it, mumbling something about stars being overrated compared to you.

[avengxrz]

the thunderbabies ; bucky barnes x reader

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 20.4k (sorry)

summary: you and bucky barnes were enemies. always arguing, always getting paired up for missions that ended with yelling and maybe a few broken ribs. but when the rest of the thunderbolts get turned into toddlers by accident, you and bucky are the only ones left to take care of them. suddenly, you're stuck playing mom and dad to five chaotic babies with too much energy and too many opinions. between diaper changes, late-night cuddles, and a few soft moments you didn’t expect, something between you and bucky starts to shift. but when the babies go back to normal, will they remember what happened... and will he?

warnings: slow burn, enemies to reluctant co-parents to something more, emotional whiplash, soft bucky barnes, soft reader but in denial, found family vibes, accidental parenting, hurt/comfort, some angst, a lot of fluff, crying (mostly the reader), bucky calls the toddlers “his kids” once and means it, thunderbolts chaos, baby bob being the favorite, baby walker being loud, baby yelena being feral, baby ava being shy, baby alexei being dramatic, tiny duck plushie slander, and one single dance on the porch that might ruin you.

note: this was supposed to be a joke. it is not a joke anymore. it got feelings. i blame baby bob. thank you to my brain for deciding bucky barnes as a dad is both funny and heartbreaking. this story includes a lot of cuddles, chaos, and emotional damage. thank you for reading and if you cry, good. i did too.

masterlist

The elevator dinged just once before the doors slammed open like they were afraid of the man inside. Bucky Barnes stormed into the Tower lounge with all the grace of a loaded weapon. His boots were thunder, his jaw was a locked trigger, and his eyes were practically glowing with rage. The kind that was cold, quiet, lethal—but held together by the sheer force of “if I talk right now, I will commit a felony.”

The rest of the Thunderbolts froze mid-conversation. Ava paused in her weird halfway-phase through the kitchen counter. Yelena blinked, a Cheeto half-raised to her mouth. John Walker raised an eyebrow like he was about to make it about him. Again.

Only Bob—the sweet, sunshine-soul Bob—visibly recoiled, clutching his comic book like a holy relic and mouthing a silent “oh no.”

Bucky's metal hand slammed onto the kitchen counter hard enough to make everyone jump. “I can’t stand that bitch.”

The room went dead silent.

Except for Alexei, who straightened on the couch like a Soviet mother had just entered the room and slapped him.

“HEY!” he barked. “We do not talk to women like that!”

Bucky didn’t even look at him. He was pacing now, jacket half-off, murder radiating off him like steam. “She acts like she knows everything. She doesn’t follow orders, she pulls blades out of thin air, and then she’s got the nerve to put one to my throat—”

“She did what now?” Yelena asked, suddenly way more interested.

But Bob was frozen. Like actually frozen. Pale, wide-eyed, whispering something that sounded like a prayer—

Because you had just appeared beside him. Not walked in. Not entered through a door.

Teleported. Green shimmer. Quiet spark. Instant chaos. You were sitting way too calmly on the edge of the couch, next to Bob like you'd been there all day. One hand resting lazily on the back cushion, the other pinching a chip from his bowl like you hadn’t just appeared from a different plane of existence.

“Aw, Bucky,” you said sweetly, voice smooth as honey and twice as toxic. “Miss me already?”

Bob made a noise like a dying animal and scooted three inches away without blinking. Bucky stopped pacing. Turned. Saw you. And you smiled. Smug. Glowing. Infuriating.

His nostrils flared. “You—”

“Me,” you said, cocking your head. “The ‘bitch’ in question. Please, go on. I love fan mail.”

“Do you try to be insufferable,” he growled, “or is that just a natural talent?”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Why, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re obsessed with me.”

He pointed at you. “You put a knife to my throat!”

“You put your hand on mine,” you said, still grinning. “I thought we were playing.”

Alexei stood up now, arms crossed, beard twitching. “I do not approve of violence unless it is mutual, respectful, or in sanctioned combat—preferably against Nazis.”

Yelena popped a chip in her mouth. “Or bad exes.”

“Or him,” Ava added, jerking her thumb at Walker.

“Excuse me?” Walker said, offended. “I was literally just standing here.”

“I’m just saying,” Ava muttered, “you look punchable.”

Meanwhile, Bob—still terrified—whispered, “Do we need to… call someone? Like HR?”

You were still staring at Bucky, your smirk razor sharp. “I didn’t even go for the jugular,” you added, chip between your fingers. “Should I have?”

Bucky’s jaw was locked so tight it looked like he was going to break his own teeth. He stepped toward you—dangerously close—and leaned down, voice low enough to chill bone.

“You really want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”

You tilted your head, lips parting in the softest smile.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

BOB ACTUALLY FAINTED.Bob slumped sideways, half sliding off the couch like a fainting goat in a tactical vest. His head lolled against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as he murmured something unintelligible that might’ve been a prayer. Or a death rattle.

“BOB?!” you yelped, already scrambling to catch him before he hit the floor.

Your whole vibe shifted in an instant—from feral gremlin to panicked older sibling with a protective streak the size of Asgard.

“Oh, my god—Bob?! Hey, hey, don’t you dare pass out on me, sunshine.” You cradled his head like he was made of glass, gently tapping his cheek. “Wake up. Come on. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here. Shhh.”

Yelena, from across the room: “He’s rebooting.”

Walker leaned in, squinting. “Should we get like—uh, water? Salt? Exorcist?”

“I swear to god,” you snapped, eyes blazing as you whipped your head toward Bucky, “if he doesn’t wake up in ten seconds I’m shoving your vibranium arm up your emotionally constipated ass.”

Bucky blinked. “My fault?! He passed out because you—you—teleported in like a damn banshee and started running your mouth!”

“Oh no, no no no,” you said, finger in his face, still cradling Bob like a sleepy kitten. “Don’t you DARE try to pin this on me. You’re the one who came in here radiating murder! You slammed a table. You screamed. You scared my baby.”

“Baby?!”

“Yes, Barnes. MY baby. Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”

Alexei, from the background, solemnly nodded. “She has claimed him. It is law now.”

“You yelled,” you continued, full-on mom rage now. “You yelled and Bob immediately shut down like a Windows 98 laptop in a thunderstorm. That’s not dramatic. That’s trauma.”

“I didn’t even touch him!”

“Yeah, well, your aura did!”

Bob stirred weakly, blinking up at you with the slow confusion of someone waking up after anesthesia.

“Wh-what… happened…?” he mumbled.

“Oh, sweetie,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You saw raw unfiltered heterosexual conflict. It was too much.”

Walker blinked. “Why’s she treating him like a Victorian woman recovering from a fever?”

“Because Bob,” you hissed, “has never raised his voice. Or his fist. Or hurt anyone. Unlike you, Buck-o, who storms into every room like it owes you money.”

Bucky stared at you. Fuming. Flushed. Entire body tense in a way that made the room feel ten degrees hotter.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I have walked in calmly after you tried to slit my throat earlier?”

“It was a conjured blade! It barely even had weight!”

“IT GLOWED!”

“So do I when I’m mad! Are you scared of me too?!”

“Yes!” Bob croaked weakly from your lap.

Ava covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Yelena was openly filming now. Walker had pulled up popcorn from somewhere like this was Thursday night drama on live TV.

You stood up slowly, gently setting Bob back on the couch like royalty.

Then you squared up to Bucky again. Face to face. Eye to eye. Breathing hard.

“You owe him an apology.”

“I owe you a—”

“No, no. Don’t even. Apologize. To. Bob.”

Bucky looked like someone had just asked him to punch a puppy. His mouth opened. Closed. Reopened. He stared at Bob, who stared back like a kicked bunny.

“…Sorry?” Bucky grunted.

Bob gave a thumbs up. Then passed out again.

And that was it. That was your breaking point.

You inhaled sharply, stood tall, turned to Bucky—and smiled. Oh, not a nice smile. The kind of smile that came with homicidal intent, the kind you gave people right before throwing hands, flipping tables, or setting their house on fire with your mind.

Bucky looked at you like he could already hear the incoming war drum.

“Don’t,” he warned.

You didn’t even respond.

You punched him.

Hard.

Clean. Right hook. Square to the jaw.

It made a solid crack sound. That perfectly satisfying movie-punch sound. His head actually snapped to the side.

The room went feral.

“OH MY GOD—” Bob murmured mid-faint.

“YOOOOO,” yelled Yelena, who dropped her phone but was already scrambling to hit record again.

“ZAS!” Alexei shouted, absolutely delighted.

“YESSS,” Ava whispered like it was the climax of a soap opera.

Walker gasped like a southern belle at a brunch fight. “Did she just—”

“Yes, she did,” Ava muttered. “Iconic.”

Bucky slowly turned his head back toward you, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was turned on or concussed.

And you?

You just shrugged.

“That’s for scaring Bob.”

He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something snarky—but too late.

Your hand was already glowing green. A shimmer of chaos energy wrapped around your fingers, licking at the edges of your suit as you crouched down, wrapped an arm under Bob’s knees, and hoisted him bridal-style like he weighed nothing.

“You don't deserve to breathe the same air as my baby,” you muttered.

And with that—

POOF.

Gone. Just like that.

Left behind was a puff of green light and a bunch of emotionally unstable adults who looked like they’d just witnessed the season finale of the messiest relationship in existence.

“…I’ll kill her,” Bucky said under his breath, still touching his jaw.

Yelena choked on her popcorn. “You’re gonna what now?”

Alexei pointed sternly. “You deserved that punch. Also—apologize better next time.”

“She glows when she’s mad,” Bucky muttered again, still dazed. “It’s… not fair.”

Ava glanced at Yelena. “Wanna lock them in a supply closet later?”

“God, yes.”

“HELP!” you shrieked, storming through the automatic doors of the compound’s medical wing like the gates of hell had flung open behind you. “HELP, PLEASE, MY BABY FAINTED, I THINK HE’S DYING!”

Bob Reynolds—six foot two, elite Thunderbolt operative, and literal human marshmallow—was slumped like a tragic sack of potatoes across your shoulders, one arm dangling limply down your back, the other flopping against your hip every time you jogged a step. His glasses were askew. His hair was in disarray. And you looked like a mother raccoon dragging her emotionally fragile child to the vet.

A nurse dropped her tablet. A doctor nearly tripped over a gurney. Chaos bloomed.

“Ma’am—uh—what happened?!” one of them gasped, rushing toward you.

“He fainted!” you cried. “Barnes scared the hell out of him and he fainted! Like actually lost consciousness! Like swoon style! And now he won’t wake up!”

“Is he injured—was there trauma—?”

“YES,” you said, wide-eyed. “EMOTIONAL trauma! He saw his teammates fighting and his nervous system just said no thanks and now he’s DEAD.”

“He’s… he’s breathing,” a medic said gently, placing two fingers at Bob’s neck while you crouched to let his weight slide off your back. You immediately cradled his head like he was a newborn angel who’d been smacked by sin.

“HE’S FRAGILE,” you snapped. “Don’t touch him like that, you’ll bruise his soul.”

Bob groaned softly, blinking once.

You gasped like he’d just come back from the brink.

“Bob! Oh thank god—hi! Can you hear me? Blink twice if you recognize me. Blink once if you want me to punch Bucky again.”

“...what happened?” he murmured.

“You passed out from stress, sweetheart,” you cooed, brushing his bangs back with shaking hands. “Which is totally valid. Honestly, same. But I carried you here because you are precious cargo, and now you are banned from ever hearing emotionally charged arguments again.”

A nurse stifled a laugh. One of the doctors whispered to another, “Is she okay?”

You turned to them, eyes burning.

“I am NOT okay,” you hissed. “That was Barnes’s fault. I told him not to yell. I told him Bob’s nervous system is like a fainting goat on a rollercoaster. And what did he do? Walked in like a drama queen with a vendetta and a jawline and now my cinnamon roll of a teammate is in a goddamn coma!”

“He’s awake now—”

“That’s not the point!”

Bob gave a small thumbs up, still horizontal on the cot, eyes half-closed. “She’s not wrong…”

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his like he was your baby bird.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” you whispered dramatically. “You scared me half to death. You are my emotional support introvert and I can’t lose you. You’re the only normal one on this team.”

He blinked, dazed. “…Ava’s normal.”

“She’s phasing through walls on purpose to avoid Walker’s playlist, Bob. That’s not stable.”

Another nurse walked in. “Hey, someone said there was a—”

“He’s fine now,” the first doctor sighed. “She just needed to panic dramatically for a few minutes.”

“I’m still panicking,” you muttered, grabbing a blanket to tuck around Bob like he was freezing to death. “Bucky traumatized him. Again.”

Bob whispered, “...did you punch him?”

“Oh, honey.” You kissed his forehead like a war widow. “Of course I did.”

You don’t mean to look like someone’s mom.

Okay, that’s a lie. You absolutely mean to.

The tactical harness is half-buckled over your hoodie as you chase Bob around the room with a protein bar in one hand and a sealed serum injector in the other. He’s dodging you with the agility of someone who’s fully trained in combat scenarios but has the emotional age of a kindergartener when it comes to shots and breakfast.

“Bob,” you warn, voice tight but full of affection. “If you don’t hold still, I swear to god I will sedate you and carry your ass onto the Quinjet in a papoose.”

“I hate needles,” he groans, ducking behind the couch.

“You’ve been SHOT before!”

“I was unconscious for that!”

You huff. Dramatically. The way a tired mother might when she’s already had three cups of coffee and not a single one did the job. You mutter a spell under your breath—just a tiny one—and the serum injector floats, slamming itself gently into his upper arm.

Bob yelps. “Hey!”

You pop the protein bar into his mouth before he can whine more. “That’s for stamina. And to shut you up.”

He chews grumpily, cheeks puffed like a cartoon chipmunk. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing down the chaos. He lets you, grumbling something unintelligible through the granola. You pretend not to hear it.

Across the room, Bucky watches with a scowl sharp enough to cut titanium.

“You gonna do that for everyone on this mission?” he asks, arms crossed.

“Nope,” you say brightly, fixing the collar on Bob’s jacket. “Just my favorite.”

Bucky scoffs under his breath, but you see it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something beneath the surface. He hasn’t spoken to you since the fight. Since the dagger. Since the words you regret and the ones you don’t. And frankly, you’re not ready to rip that scab off just yet.

This morning isn’t about him.

This morning is about Bob, and Yelena, and Ava, and the rest of the team being sent off on a mission you’re not cleared for. Something dimensional. Temporal. Dangerous, probably. But Val insisted. Said they were the only ones who could do it.

You? You’re “still on cooldown,” apparently.

Read: emotionally unstable.

You kiss two fingers and tap them to Bob’s forehead. “No touching weird glowing objects. No speaking to old women with no eyes. No dramatic sacrifices unless you’re being watched by at least two cameras so I can go viral.”

He gives a crooked smile. “You’ll miss me?”

“I’ll cry exactly once if you die. Twice if you forget to bring back snacks.”

You help him strap on the last piece of gear, fingers lingering at the shoulder just a little too long. Like if you hold him together tightly enough, he won’t come back broken.

And then—he’s gone. Off to the jet. Yelena waves. Ava nods. Walker and Red Guardian are already arguing about socks or strategy or both.

The room empties.

You’re left standing in the middle of it, hands on your hips, magic curling at your fingertips like it knows something you don’t.

Beside you, Bucky speaks, low and gruff. “You really think they’ll be okay?”

You don’t look at him. You just whisper, almost to yourself—

“They better be.”

You always forget how quiet it is out here.

The trees murmur softly around you, their summer leaves catching the light in pale flickers as the wind rustles through the branches. The river moves slow, steady. It glides past the edge of the dock with lazy purpose, carving its way through the grass like it’s got nowhere to be but here. It smells like earth and water and peace.

It’s unnatural. Too soft. Too still.

You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the wooden dock, hands idle in your lap, chin tucked toward your chest. There’s a fishing rod resting beside you—not that you’re using it. You just like the illusion of a task. Something to explain why you’re here. Something harmless. Normal.

Like you didn’t nearly stab your teammate to death a few days ago. Like you’re not still vibrating with leftover magic under your skin, the kind that crackles too loud in silence. Like you’re not haunted.

You reach down and skim your fingers along the river’s surface. The water’s warm—sun-heated, soft—and it doesn’t flinch when you touch it. That always surprises you. For all the things you’ve broken, the chaos you carry, nature never seems to mind you.

Unlike people. Unlike Bucky. You suck in a breath and tip your head back to the sky.

The clouds are fat and slow-moving. Lazy. Blissfully unaware. The kind of sky that should be seen from a picnic blanket or a hammock or maybe a child’s drawing. You want to hate it for being beautiful. But you don’t. You’re too tired for bitterness today.

This was his house, after all. Tony’s.

You glance behind you toward the rustic, lake-view cabin. It’s still exactly how he left it. The same red roof. The same old porch swing. The same scattered junk in the shed that looks like it shouldn’t be legal or safe. Morgan’s old crayon drawings still decorate the kitchen fridge, faded but defiant. You never asked Pepper for permission to come here. You didn’t have to. She told you once—quietly, and without ceremony—that the lake house was always open for you.

He wanted you to have somewhere to come back to. You curl your knees to your chest, resting your chin there. God, you miss him.

You miss the sound of his voice when it softens for you. You miss the way he’d flick you on the forehead when you got too moody, and then immediately bribe you with fancy lab snacks. You miss the way he’d look at your magic—not with fear, not with awe, but with curiosity. Like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to contain.

No one else ever looked at you like that. Not even Bucky. Not even now.

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. It’s stupid. It’s been years. Tony’s been gone longer than he was in your life. And yet, this house feels more like home than anywhere else you’ve lived. More than the Tower. More than the SHIELD bunkers. More than your own childhood bed, which hasn’t existed for a long time now.

It’s because he believed in you.

Even when you didn’t.

You rub at your face, feeling the crusted edges of the healing bruise along your cheekbone. You haven’t done magic since you got here. Haven’t summoned a single blade. You came to this place to breathe. To remember. To not destroy anything.

You wonder if Tony would laugh at all of this. Probably. He’d say something ridiculous like “I always knew Barnes would be the reason you’d snap. Should’ve let me shoot him in the knee back in ’16.”

You smile at that. Just a little. “Miss you, old man,” you whisper.

And for a second—for a breath—you almost think you hear him. Not words. Not a ghost. Just a spark. A flicker in the air. Like the arc reactor still humming through the fabric of the world.

The mission had been simple.

In and out. Grab the relic. No fighting, no magic, no “accidental” body counts. The directive had been clear: retrieve the object, contain it, don’t touch it. So of course, the moment they got back to the Tower, all five of them stood around the thing like it was the last bottle of vodka in Siberia.

It sat dead center on the briefing room table—short, squat, and sealed with a black wax emblem none of them recognized. The bottle was glass, thick and oddly shaped, like something that belonged in a medieval apothecary or a vampire’s liquor cabinet. And inside it?

A deep red fluid. Thick. Slow-moving. Almost… alive.

"Why is it glowing?" Yelena asked flatly, propping her chin on her fist as she squinted at it. “It wasn’t glowing before.”

“It’s not glowing,” John Walker said, arms crossed. “It’s… resonating.”

“That’s worse,” Ava muttered from across the room.

“I think it’s cool,” Alexei said, looming far too close to it. “Very dramatic. Makes a statement.”

“You want to make a statement?” Ava snapped, flinging her hands in his direction. “How about ‘Don’t store interdimensional biohazards on a kitchen table’? Or maybe ‘Let’s call a sorcerer before we accidentally melt into puddles’?”

“It’s not melting anyone,” Walker scoffed. “We didn’t even open it. It’s sealed.”

“Yeah? Well maybe we shouldn’t be breathing near it either.”

“Oh my god,” Yelena groaned. “Can we not do this for once? We got the creepy demon juice, we’re back in one piece, let’s just—I don’t know—wait for Val?”

“Sure,” Ava said coolly. “Let’s all wait. And if one of us starts speaking in ancient tongues or turns into a pigeon, I’ll say ‘I told you so’ through gritted teeth.”

“Guys,” Bob piped up, timid and wide-eyed, “maybe we should move it to a containment unit?”

They all ignored him.

A beat passed. The tension simmered.

And then, like fate herself decided to screw subtlety, Ava threw her arms up in frustration—just as Walker leaned forward to say something else stupid—and someone’s elbow clipped the bottle.

It wobbled. Wobbled again. And fell. The moment it hit the floor, it didn’t shatter like glass.

It burst. A pulse shot out like a heartbeat—silent, red, heavy—and then thick, crimson smoke curled up from the remnants, slithering into the air like it had a mind of its own. The room filled with it instantly—sweet-smelling, cloying, oddly warm—and then it was everywhere.

Ava choked. “What the hell did you do?!”

“I DIDN’T TOUCH IT—”

“YES YOU DID, I SAW YOUR STUPID ARM—”

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP—”

Too late.

The smoke coiled tighter, circling them like a serpent, and then—, Val walked in. 

The automatic door hissed open just as the red cloud finished swirling and vanished into thin air like it had never existed.

Val paused. Took one step into the room. Brows furrowed. “...What the fuck?”

No one answered. Not at first.

There was just silence. Stillness. The room looked the same. The table was wet with the remains of the fluid, the bottle pieces scattered like shattered candy. There was no fire. No screaming. No alarms.

And yet. Something was… off.

Val’s heels clicked as she walked further in, eyes narrowed.

“Okay,” she said slowly, taking in their expressions—or lack thereof. “Who broke it?”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Just wide, blank eyes staring back at her.

Bob blinked first. Then, he sneezed.

It was a very high-pitched sneeze.

You didn’t speak to each other at first.

The elevator thrummed gently beneath your boots, a soft mechanical hum that did little to settle your nerves. You stood on opposite sides of the lift, backs to the walls, arms crossed like shields. The kind of stance people take when they’re trying very hard not to punch each other again.

The silence dragged.

Bucky was the first to break it, voice low and rough. “You think she’s exaggerating?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “It’s Val.”

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. He looked… worse for wear. Tired. Bruise healing along his jaw. A tiny scratch just beneath his ear that you didn’t want to stare at, but your eyes kept flicking to anyway.

“She sent twenty-seven texts in five minutes,” he muttered. “She doesn’t do that.”

You nodded slowly. “Which means it’s either interdimensional, magical, or something’s exploded.”

“Or all three,” Bucky said darkly.

The elevator pinged. Floor 44.

You shifted your weight, tugging your sleeves down over your wrists, trying not to fidget. You hadn’t spoken since the lake house. Since the fight. Since you’d stabbed him in a training room full of witnesses. And now you were here—reunited by shared emergency, standing side by side in uncomfortable silence like the world hadn’t tilted three inches to the left the last time you were in the same room.

Another beat passed. Bucky cleared his throat. “I, uh—was gonna text. After…”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He fell quiet again.

The elevator slowed as it reached Floor 47—restricted access, Val’s designated “oh-no-no-no” floor where emergencies were dealt with before they spilled into the public. You turned toward the doors, fingers tingling with restrained magic, muscles tensed.

Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. “You ready?”

“Not even a little.”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. And your breath caught in your throat.

You blinked once. Twice. There, in the middle of the hallway, was Val.

She looked like she'd been through a war. Hair disheveled, one heel missing, shirt untucked, and a stain on her blazer that looked suspiciously like applesauce. In her arms was something squirming. No—someone.

A baby.

A small, squishy, extremely furious baby with way-too-familiar dark hair and an itty-bitty SHIELD onesie.

You blinked again.

“Don’t say a word,” Val snapped, eyes bloodshot. “Just… come inside.”

You and Bucky exchanged a look.

Then, slowly—cautiously—you stepped into the madness. And chaos met you like a tidal wave.

You hadn’t even crossed the threshold before your instincts started screaming. Magic—thick and wild—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire. It buzzed faintly against your skin, prickling at the fine hairs on your arms as you stepped deeper into the hallway. Bucky followed close behind, one hand near the knife strapped to his thigh, the other flexing like he was itching to punch the unknown square in the face.

The lights in the corridor flickered ominously, and you had to sidestep what appeared to be a trail of goldfish crackers leading directly into the main conference room. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.

Val stood just inside the doorway, her face an exhausted masterpiece of rage and disbelief. Her dark hair was pulled back into a half-undone ponytail, her mascara was smudged, and she held what looked like a baby in her arms—fat-cheeked, glaring, with a tuft of auburn hair and a scowl that, disturbingly, reminded you of John Walker.

You stopped short. Bucky nearly bumped into you. Val didn’t give either of you time to process.

“Come in,” she said, voice hoarse and tight with a fraying edge of hysteria. “Close the damn door behind you.”

Your boots clicked against the tile as you obeyed. Bucky muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded like a prayer. The moment the doors sealed shut behind you, a new sound filled the air—high-pitched, chaotic, overlapping.

Crying. Arguing. Giggling. Something heavy crashing to the floor. You turned the corner and froze. All logic stopped.

Five small figures occupied the room like gremlins unleashed from hell itself. One of them—Alexei, you assumed—was trying to climb the window blinds using only his teeth and a wildly ineffective pair of toddler arms. Another, unmistakably Ava, sat cross-legged under the conference table, surrounded by floating pieces of dismantled tech, tiny face screwed up in furious concentration.

Yelena was in a corner, stabbing a juice box with the savagery of someone trying to commit war crimes through a straw.

And in the center of it all, surrounded by a small pile of blankets, was Bob. Tiny. Round.

Wearing one of those ridiculous “I’m the future” shirts that someone must have dug out of a Stark Industries drawer.

He saw you and his entire face lit up like a sunrise.

��Mama!”

You blinked. Bucky swore under his breath, spinning on his heel like he was about to hit the emergency elevator button and vanish from this plane of existence. You grabbed the back of his jacket before he could escape.

Val rubbed at her temples and muttered, “I told you not to touch the bottle. But noooo, someone had to argue about proximity spells and elemental containment and—well, now we have baby assassins, congratulations.”

You stepped forward on unsteady feet, crouching slowly as Bob toddled toward you with his arms outstretched. He tripped once, recovered, and barrelled into you like a chubby missile, wrapping his tiny arms around your neck.

“Mama,” he mumbled again, this time softer, more tired. “You came.” Your throat closed.

You wrapped your arms around his tiny frame, magic flaring silently under your skin as you scanned him for injuries. Nothing broken. No magical burns. Just… small. Vulnerable. And looking at you like you were the only safe thing in the world.

Bucky crouched beside you, eyes flicking over Bob and then around the room like he was still waiting for the real threat to reveal itself. “They’re all like this?”

“All of them,” Val said, sounding like she needed a drink, a nap, and possibly a new career.

You stood up, lifting Bob easily in your arms. He curled against you instantly, one thumb in his mouth, the other hand tangled in the collar of your shirt.

“This is temporary, right?” Bucky asked warily.

Val didn’t answer right away. She just exhaled slowly, like she was bracing herself for an explosion that hadn’t happened yet.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We’ve got two sorcerers on a call, one is crying, and the other just said something about ‘age-locked soul regression’ and hung up.”

Bucky ran a hand down his face. You just stared at Val.

“So what you’re saying,” you said flatly, “is that you called me back from my grief vacation to run a daycare full of mini war criminals, and you don’t even know how long this lasts.”

Val smiled grimly. “Welcome home.”

Val checked her watch like she wasn’t surrounded by chaos. Like there weren’t juice stains soaking into Stark Tower’s designer rugs or an unconscious Red Guardian face-first on the floor after trying to body slam a beanbag chair. She smoothed her blazer, adjusted the one-heeled shoe still attached to her foot, and—while you cradled a drowsy toddler Bob on your hip and Bucky stared blankly at the wall like his soul had just left his body—said the words that would forever haunt your dreams:

“Well. I gotta go.”

You blinked. Bucky blinked.

Val clapped her hands once, as if trying to shake off crumbs. “I’ve got a crisis call with a coven in Prague, and then there’s a press situation brewing with the UN. Something about unauthorized dimension-hopping and a minor possessed goat.” She waved vaguely toward the ceiling. “Anyway. This—” she gestured broadly at the pint-sized chaos, “—is officially not my problem anymore.”

“Val,” you said slowly, adjusting Bob’s weight in your arms as he yawned and drooled on your shoulder, “you cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she replied, already moving toward the exit. “Pepper said not to disturb her unless something was on fire or bleeding, and technically no one is bleeding right now, so.”

“Yelena bit Walker,” Bucky said flatly, arms crossed.

“Baby Yelena,” you clarified. “Bit baby Walker.”

“She also cursed in Russian,” Bucky added. “Twice.”

Val waved that off like it was paperwork. “You’ve both handled worse. I have faith in you. You're a natural leader.”

“You left a literal god in a diaper and called it leadership,” you muttered.

“Correct,” she said cheerfully, already halfway out the door. “And hey—think of it as team-building. Trauma bonding. Therapeutic domestic immersion!”

The door hissed shut behind her before you could hurl something after her.

Silence fell. Well—not silence. There was still the sound of baby Ava stacking StarkPads like building blocks, the rhythmic creaking of toddler Alexei trying to bounce off the walls again, and a very soft, very suspicious splorch noise coming from somewhere behind the couch.

You sighed. Loudly. Bucky exhaled beside you and rubbed a hand down his face, voice low and tired. “What the hell do we do now?”

You looked down at Bob, who had his thumb in his mouth and his other hand tangled in your hair. His eyes were already fluttering shut. He looked so peaceful. So innocent. So unaware of the raging dumpster fire surrounding you.

You adjusted him against your chest and said, “First? We find juice boxes. Then? We pray.”

Bucky nodded, slow and solemn. And for the first time all day, he actually looked at you. Not just a glance. Not a glare. A real look. Soft. Quiet. Maybe even… apologetic. But there wasn’t time for that now.

Because baby Yelena had disappeared. And the emergency sprinklers just turned on.

There is a kind of silence that comes right before everything explodes. A charged, fleeting moment where the universe holds its breath.

And then—

The crying starts.

It begins with Bob. Just a soft whimper, barely a sound, muffled against your chest as he stirs from his nap. He’s warm, flushed, eyes still bleary, but the instant he realizes he’s not in your arms anymore—just lying beside you on a pillow—his mouth opens in a slow, terrible wail that rises like a storm cloud and does not stop.

You reach for him instantly, but you’re too late.

He sets off Ava.

Her screech is sharper. Meaner. Like glass shattering on tile. She’s standing in the middle of the room with her fists clenched, bottom lip trembling, tears welling like twin tidal waves. One second she’s fine. The next she’s full banshee. She throws her spoon. It explodes against the wall.

Alexei joins in before he even knows why. He hears the sound, sees the distress, and promptly throws himself on the ground, legs kicking, wailing like someone just stepped on his dreams. He rolls over, bumps into a cushion, and starts yelling louder.

And Yelena—sweet, violent, unpredictable Yelena—stands up from the laundry basket she was using as a fort, looks around at the descending bedlam, and starts crying out of pure spite.

It’s deafening.

You scramble across the room on your knees, arms outstretched, magic sparking helplessly at your fingertips as you try to gather them. Bob first—his arms are already reaching for you. You scoop him up, kiss his forehead, shush him, bounce gently. He does not care. He screams louder.

“Where is Bucky?” you growl, trying to untangle yourself from Bob’s sticky grip.

“Right here!” he barks from the hallway, rushing back in, hair a mess and his shirt inside-out. Yelena is clinging to the front of him like a spider monkey, her face mashed against his collarbone, screaming directly into his soul.

He looks wild-eyed. Rattled. Afraid.

You want to laugh. You don’t. You don’t have the air to laugh.

“Help me!” you shout, trying to levitate a bottle of formula while Bob beats his tiny fists against your chest and Ava levitates a couch cushion with intent to murder.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Bucky yells, trying to detach Yelena without getting bitten.

“You’ve fought HYDRA death squads, Barnes, just PUT THE BABY DOWN—”

“She’s got my hair—”

“I DON’T CARE—”

A loud thud cuts you off. You whirl around.

Alexei launched himself off the back of the couch and landed flat on his stomach, wailing like a siren. He doesn’t seem hurt. Just… upset. And wet. He’s crying with his whole body, fists pounding the ground like it personally offended him.

Bucky finally peels Yelena off his shoulder and deposits her into the playpen. She immediately tries to scale the mesh wall like she’s in baby prison.

“WE NEED A PLAN,” he pants, hands braced on his knees.

“I NEED SIX PAIRS OF ARMS AND A DAMN EXORCIST,” you snap, trying to keep Bob from kicking his bottle out of your hand.

The noise crescendos. Crying. Screaming. Something electronic explodes in the corner, sparks shooting out from under the TV. You don’t care anymore. You’re soaked. You’re sticky. You’re seconds away from crying with them.

And then—

Silence.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you and Bucky to lock eyes across the battlefield.

You’re both breathing hard. Wide-eyed. Disheveled. You with Bob on your hip and dried applesauce in your hair. Him with baby sock prints on his shirt and Yelena’s pacifier tucked behind his ear like a grenade.

“This,” you breathe, “is hell.”

He nods. Grim. “Actual hell.”

Then someone starts crying again. And the moment shatters.

You were one scream away from combusting.

The lights were flickering. The tower’s temperature regulation had failed—again—and somewhere in the hallway, a fire alarm was going off that no one could reach because it was twelve feet in the air. Ava had levitated two coffee mugs and was currently banging them together like ritual drums. Alexei was naked. You didn’t know when or how, but he’d shed every piece of clothing and was sprinting through the living room like a glittery gremlin on a sugar high. Walker was sobbing into a pile of couch cushions like the world had personally betrayed him. Yelena was sharpening crayons. Sharpening. Crayons.

And Bob, your sweet little Bob, was wrapped around your leg like a weighted anchor, wide-eyed and sniffling, clutching the hem of your shirt like it was a holy relic.

Your eye twitched. Your jaw clenched.

And then, very quietly, you snapped.

Magic flared like a shockwave from your fingertips. Not out of rage, not yet—but out of sheer, unhinged desperation. You waved one hand through the air with a sharp, sweeping motion, and with a flick of your wrist, the living room shifted.

The floor shimmered, glowed, and transformed.

The couch cushions floated gently into the air and reassembled themselves into a playpen fortress, complete with safety barriers, tiny blankets, and soft lights that pulsed like stars. A calming scent of lavender and cocoa drifted through the room. The broken coffee mugs reformed into glowing orbs that danced mid-air, swirling like baby mobiles. The fire alarm shut off. Alexei’s clothes reappeared on his body mid-run, and he skidded to a halt, confused but delighted.

Every child went still.

Ava’s mouth fell open in awe. The mugs dropped to the floor with a soft clink as her eyes tracked the lights like they were fairy spirits. Yelena—tiny, lethal Yelena—sat down cross-legged on the spot, crayons forgotten in her lap. Even Walker, snotty and red-faced, blinked up in wonder.

And Bob?

Bob was glowing.

Not literally—but in the way toddlers do when something lights up their whole world. His eyes sparkled as he stared at you, face round and amazed, mouth opening in a joyful little gasp.

“More!” he chirped, grabbing your hand. “Mama! More pretty!”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Something in your chest eased. Warmed.

With a softer motion, you conjured a gentle snowfall. It wasn’t cold—just glittering illusion, falling like sugar from the ceiling. Bob reached for the flakes with both hands, giggling in delight, and Ava squealed, chasing them across the carpet.

Alexei threw himself into a pile of conjured pillows with a triumphant yell. Yelena tried to catch a flake on her tongue and grumbled in Russian when it disappeared.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, stunned silent.

He took in the scene—five tiny Thunderbolts sitting peacefully in a glowing, enchanted wonderland, laughter echoing like music—and blinked slowly like his brain had blue-screened.

“What the hell,” he muttered.

“I snapped,” you said, breathless, still holding Bob close. “Magically. Domestically. Emotionally.”

He walked forward slowly, dodging a floating duck-shaped spark of light. “You turned this into a preschool fantasy movie.”

“I saved our lives.”

Bob giggled again, clapping tiny hands against your cheeks and leaning into your chest. “You did magic,” he whispered proudly. “You magic mama.”

You felt your heart split clean down the middle.

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I’m terrified or impressed.”

“Both,” you replied, brushing a curl from Bob’s forehead. “Be both.”

You made the fatal mistake of blinking.

One moment—peace. Quiet giggles. Sparkly fake snow drifting through the air. You were a goddess among toddlers, a mother of dragons with a halo of glitter and cocoa-scented calm. Bob was nestled in your lap, playing with a soft conjured rabbit. Bucky was cautiously sipping cold coffee while keeping one eye on Ava, who had finally stopped trying to rewrite Stark protocols with finger paint.

But peace, as you were learning, was a trap.

Because the second you turned to conjure a new blanket for Walker—who was beginning to sniffle again with the kind of pout that threatened to erupt—the room descended into absolute anarchy.

It started with Alexei. Of course it was Alexei.

You didn’t see him do it, but you heard the crash. The unmistakable sound of a plastic bin full of LEGOs and emergency tools being upended onto the floor. You turned just in time to see his chubby little legs disappear into the hallway, a screwdriver in one hand, glitter still stuck to his forehead, screaming something that sounded vaguely like, “I BUILD NOW!”

And then Ava shrieked.

Not because she was scared—no, no. It was the shriek of competitive bloodlust. She took off after him like a heat-seeking missile, levitating the duck-shaped mobile and hurling it like a weapon.

“GET BACK HERE,” you shouted, scrambling to your feet, Bob tumbling against your chest like a startled kitten.

“Why is she flying?!” Bucky barked, pointing at Ava as she literally lifted off the ground for three seconds before crashing into a beanbag chair.

“I DON’T KNOW, BUCKY, MAYBE BECAUSE SHE’S MADE OF MAGIC AND SPITE.”

Yelena, meanwhile, took advantage of the chaos by climbing the bookshelf.

You didn’t know how she got up there. You didn’t want to know. One second she was scribbling ominous symbols on the wall in red crayon—yes, red, of course—and the next she was crouched like a tiny sniper on the fourth shelf, chewing on the binding of a S.H.I.E.L.D. training manual like it owed her money.

Walker had begun crying again.

Not just crying—screaming. Full-volume toddler meltdown. He crawled under the couch, sobbing “I WANT MY SHIELD” on repeat like a tiny brainwashed Winter Soldier, refusing to come out.

“Bucky,” you yelled, trying to teleport Bob’s toy out of Ava’s war path. “GET YELENA.”

“She’s got a knife!” he hissed back.

“What?!”

He ducked behind the couch, emerging moments later with Yelena wriggling under his arm, a makeshift dagger made from a broken spatula clutched in her tiny fist. She screamed something guttural and kicked him in the ribs.

“I hate this,” Bucky grunted, staggering.

“I told you we should’ve just faked our own deaths!”

Bob, still in your arms, was clapping. “Fun!”

You looked down at him, sweat on your brow, hair in your mouth, glitter somehow in your eyelid.

“Sweetheart,” you panted, “are you… enjoying this?”

He beamed, two teeth showing. “So much fun!”

You groaned and dropped back into the armchair as Yelena shrieked “FREEDOM!” and escaped Bucky’s grip like a feral badger. Walker was still sobbing under the couch. Ava was now levitating herself again. Alexei had returned and was trying to unscrew the floor vent.

Bucky leaned against the wall, disheveled and furious. “They’re going to kill us.”

“Not if I kill myself first,” you muttered.

A bottle flew past your head and exploded against the wall.

Bob clapped again. “Boom!”

It was Bucky’s idea.

You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve tackled him when he opened his mouth and said the now-infamous words: “Okay, who’s hungry?”

Because the second those words left his lips, all five children lost their collective baby minds.

“ME!!” Alexei screamed, punching the air like someone had offered him a fight instead of food.

“Ava hungee!!” Ava shrieked, arms flailing as she levitated a fork from across the room and nearly impaled a couch cushion.

“I wan’ 'ghetti!” Yelena shouted, her voice dangerously close to demonic pitch.

“I wan’ chikkie!” Walker sobbed, still under the couch but apparently motivated enough by processed meat to join the living.

And Bob—precious, sweet Bob, who had been clinging to your side like a sleepy koala—perked up with a sleepy little smile and said, “Nuggy time?”

Bucky looked at you.

You looked at him.

The kitchen door creaked open like the gates of hell.

You set Bob down in his little booster seat at the table and conjured another chair with magic for Yelena, who was already trying to climb onto the counter with one leg and no pants. Bucky was wrestling Walker out from under the couch with one arm while using the other to hold a frozen bag of peas to his forehead. Alexei kept yelling “HUNGEY HUNGEY HUNGEY” while trying to crawl into the fridge.

“Ava,” you said sharply, ducking as a spoon whizzed past your face, “you levitate one more utensil and I will enchant your applesauce to taste like toenails.”

She froze mid-levitate. The spoon dropped.

“Tha’ gross,” she muttered, pouting.

You started plating like your life depended on it—because it did. Bucky had dumped three boxes of frozen chicken nuggets onto a tray and tossed it in the oven while you used your powers to conjure fruit, toast, mini pancakes, and six bowls of mac and cheese.

Alexei was already trying to eat his with his hands.

“No hands! Use fork!” you said, guiding his chubby little fingers toward the utensil.

“Nooooo,” he whined, stuffing noodles into his mouth and onto his forehead. “Me big boy!!”

“Okay, big boy,” Bucky muttered, putting a juice box in front of him. “Try not to stab your brother with that straw.”

Yelena grabbed her plate, glared at her peas, and yeeted them over her shoulder like a war crime. “I wan’ 'ghetti!”

“I told you there’s no spaghetti!” you snapped, catching Bob’s juice before it spilled.

“I WAN’ SPAGHETTI!!” she screeched, slapping the table. Ava screamed in solidarity.

Walker had fallen asleep in his plate of chicken nuggets.

Bob, on the other hand, was being perfect. Bob ate slowly. Neatly. Like the tiny polite prince he was. He chewed each bite thoughtfully, his little feet swinging under the chair, hands slightly sticky but contained.

You wiped his mouth gently and smiled at him.

“Good boy,” you murmured.

“I eat good?” he asked.

“The best,” you whispered.

Then he knocked over his cup of juice with the most gentle swipe of his hand and looked genuinely surprised.

“Oopsie.”

“Of course,” you muttered.

Across the table, Bucky looked done. His hair was a mess. His shirt had a banana smear across the front. He was trying to convince Yelena to sit back down without losing a finger. His soul had left the building.

You handed him a fork with quiet pity.

“Welcome to the dark side,” you said, deadpan.

“I fought a Nazi assassin on a train once,” he muttered. “This is worse.”

Bucky's Side: The Boys’ Bath

Bucky Barnes had survived snipers, bombs, interdimensional threats, and the slow emotional death of Avengers press tours. But none of that—none of it—had prepared him for giving a bath to three superpowered toddlers in a room tiled like a war zone and soaked like a rainstorm.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself as he set the baby shampoo on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up and damp already. “We go in fast. No hesitation. No fear.”

He looked down into the tub where Bob, Alexei, and Walker sat, naked, slippery, and foaming.

Bob was the only one sitting still. Bucky could kiss him for that. The kid blinked up at him with big eyes, cheeks rosy from the warmth, clutching a rubber duck like it was sacred.

Walker was chewing on a loofah like it owed him money.

Alexei was trying to stand.

“NOPE,” Bucky barked, yanking him back down just as the kid tried to launch himself out of the tub like a glittery torpedo. “Sit. You’re wet, not aerodynamic.”

“But I fly!” Alexei squealed, giggling.

“You fly after you graduate potty training,” Bucky muttered.

Walker let out a yell and splashed so hard the shampoo bottle went flying. Bob blinked, looked down at his duck, then slowly and methodically bit its head.

Bucky was soaked from the waist down. He grabbed a cup, filled it with warm water, and tried to rinse Alexei’s hair while the kid twisted like an eel.

“You’re getting shampooed whether you like it or not, buddy.”

Alexei screeched in mock betrayal. “BUKY BAD!!!”

Bucky froze. “You—what did you just call me?”

“BUKY BAD MAN!”

Bob gasped. “No! Buky nice! Buky gib nuggies!”

“Damn right I did,” Bucky muttered, pressing a washcloth to his own soaked face. “I earned your loyalty, Bob.”

Walker dunked himself under water without warning and popped back up sputtering, spitting suds and yelling “I’M 'MURICA!!”

Bucky genuinely considered walking out and joining a monastery.

Your Side: The Girls’ Bath

In the other bathroom—smaller, quieter, but somehow more dangerous—you knelt by the edge of a clawfoot tub with Yelena and Ava seated like tiny empresses in a mountain of enchanted bubbles.

You had already reinforced the walls with a low-level barrier charm.

For safety.

For sanity.

“Okay, let’s keep hands to ourselves,” you said, gently running your fingers through Ava’s hair. “No throwing the soap this time.”

“She startit,” Ava muttered, pouting as you combed conditioner through her curls.

“I no!” Yelena snapped, slapping bubbles like she was interrogating them. “She touch me face!”

“You touched mine!” Ava shot back.

“Okay—enough,” you said firmly, placing a floating duck between them like a peace treaty. “Duck is neutral. You hurt the duck, you answer to me.”

Ava nodded solemnly. Yelena squinted like she was planning treason.

You conjured warm water and let it rinse gently over Ava’s head. She relaxed a little, eyes fluttering shut.

Yelena took the moment of distraction to summon a bubble the size of a basketball and smack it into her sister’s face.

Ava screamed. You caught her before she could retaliate with a water whip spell.

“Yelena!” you warned. “What did I just say?”

She crossed her arms. “Duck say nothing.”

You inhaled sharply. Counted to three. Didn’t hex anyone.

“You are both getting clean if I have to freeze time to do it.”

Ava hiccuped and curled closer to you. “I wan’ braid,” she whispered.

You smiled softly, brushing back her hair. “You got it, sweetheart.”

Yelena huffed. “I wan’ dagger.”

“Absolutely not.”

Back in the hallway…

Two bathroom doors opened at the same time.

You and Bucky stared at each other across the wet tile battlefield. You had Ava on your hip and Yelena wrapped in a towel like a burrito. He had Bob cradled like a baby koala and Alexei wrapped in four towels for containment. Walker was dragging a shampoo bottle by the nozzle like it was a trophy.

“Please tell me yours didn’t pee in the tub,” you said.

“I’ll tell you,” Bucky grunted, “when I find out which of them did.”

It had been your idea.

Beds—five of them—spread out in the Tower’s movie room like a makeshift camp, each one layered with thick comforters, soft pillows, and tiny stuffed animals that had magically appeared during the day when no one was looking. The overhead lights were dimmed, the air warm, and fairy lights—actual glowing enchantments—lined the ceiling, flickering like sleepy stars.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, Bob curled up against your chest, his curly hair still damp from the bath and his thumb tucked halfway into his mouth. You cradled him gently, rubbing slow circles against his back.

The movie ended ten minutes ago. And yet—no one was asleep.

Alexei was bouncing from bed to bed like a caffeinated frog, yelling about monsters and bears and how he could defeat them all. Walker had declared war on the pillows, launching them across the room with toddler-like glee and zero aim. Yelena was spinning in slow circles, singing nonsense in Russian and holding a plastic spoon like a sword.

Ava sat quietly in her own bed, arms around her knees, eyes darting from one loud sibling to the next. She wasn’t scared. But she was overwhelmed. You could see it in the way she clutched her blanket tighter every time someone shouted too loud.

Bucky walked in then, holding three bottles and looking like a man on his final life.

“I bribed them,” he muttered, passing you one for Bob. “If they lay down, they get a story.”

“That’s not a bribe,” you said, adjusting Bob so he could sip. “That’s diplomacy.”

Yelena ran toward him and jumped into his arms without warning. He caught her with a grunt, her little limbs wrapping around him like a koala on caffeine.

“Story now!” she barked, thumping her tiny fist against his chest. “Bucky tell good one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bucky tells stories?”

“Only the epic kind,” he said gruffly, settling into the big beanbag chair with Yelena curled up in his lap, eyes wide and bright. “Also I’m her favorite now.”

“Bet,” you said, grinning, and kissed the top of Bob’s head.

Walker flopped onto the floor dramatically and yelled, “I wan’ da dragon story!”

“No, bear story!” Alexei shouted, diving under his blanket.

“C’n we have both?” Bob whispered against your collarbone.

Ava peeked out from her bed, voice so small it was barely a whisper. “I wan’ story, too…”

You smiled softly, opened your arms. “Wanna come here, sweetheart?”

She hesitated… then slowly crawled toward you, tucking herself against your side, her little fingers slipping into yours.

You looked across the sea of blankets and stuffed animals at Bucky.

“Ready, soldier?”

He nodded once. “Once upon a time…”

He told the first half.

A story about a brave little girl with golden hair and a mean left hook, who fought off shadow monsters with a spoon and never once cried—not even when she got lost in the woods. Yelena listened with rapt attention, eyes wide, fingers tangled in the hem of Bucky’s sleeve. Walker shouted every time the monsters showed up. Alexei demanded to know when the explosions started.

You watched him—Bucky, the grumpy, growly man who had once refused to hold a puppy on a mission—and your heart ached at the way he tucked a strand of hair behind Yelena’s ear like it was second nature.

Then it was your turn.

You told them about a little boy with curls like clouds and a laugh like thunder, who had a magic duck and a glowing compass that always pointed toward home. A boy who got scared sometimes, but always did the brave thing anyway. Bob’s eyes drifted shut halfway through, his breathing slow and warm against your chest.

Ava stayed quiet, listening. You glanced down to find her still holding your hand, her head on your arm, eyes fluttering closed.

When you finished, silence wrapped around the room like a blanket.

Alexei had passed out face-first into a stuffed tiger. Walker snored with a fist in the air like he’d fallen asleep mid-battle cry. Yelena’s grip on Bucky had loosened, her face soft and peaceful at last.

You didn’t move. Neither did Bucky.

Just a quiet glance exchanged across a battlefield that—for the first time all day—had gone still. He gave you a small smile.

“Not bad,” he murmured.

“You too,” you whispered. “Girl dad.”

His eyes softened. You reached over with your free hand, touched his arm.

“We’re gonna survive this, right?” you asked.

“…Eventually.”

Morning arrived in golden streaks across the curtains, slow and quiet, like the Tower itself was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. The fairy lights overhead had faded to a soft, amber glow. Someone’s lullaby playlist had stopped playing around 3 a.m., leaving only the gentle hum of the heater and the occasional squeak of a plush toy being rolled on in someone’s sleep.

You weren’t awake yet. Not fully.

Your mind stirred before your body did—floating somewhere between dream and waking, wrapped in heavy warmth and a surprisingly steady rhythm of breath that wasn’t your own. Your fingers twitched. Something shifted against your side.

You blinked. And then you froze.

Because your head? Was not on a pillow. It was on a shoulder.

A broad, warm, flannel-covered shoulder.

And your leg? Draped over someone else’s. There was an arm around your waist.

Your heart leapt into your throat as your gaze tilted up—slowly, hesitantly, horrifiedly—to meet the sleeping face of none other than James Buchanan Barnes.

His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, hair tousled from sleep, stubble thick across his jaw. One hand rested loosely on your side, metal fingers curled like he’d relaxed into it hours ago.

You screamed internally.

Before you could even react, a chorus of chaotic giggles rang through the room.

“Buki an’ mama cuddlin’!!” Bob squealed from his little bed, hands on his cheeks like this was the most romantic moment of his tiny life.

Yelena howled with laughter, rolling back and forth in her blanket pile.

Walker blinked at you both, frowned, then burst into inexplicable tears.

Ava watched from the corner, covering her mouth with both hands as her shoulders shook in quiet delight.

Bucky jolted awake with a grunt, arm tightening around you instinctively before his eyes flew open.

He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at your leg over his. Looked at the chaos around the room.

“Are you—” he started.

“I am not cuddling you,” you snapped, scrambling away so fast you kicked off your own blanket and nearly face-planted into Bob’s pile of duck plushies.

Bucky sat up like he’d been electrocuted. “I don’t cuddle people!”

“Same!!”

Walker sobbed louder. Alexei sat up out of nowhere, disheveled and somehow holding a bag of dry cereal. “Why mama yellin’?”

“I’M NOT YOUR MOM—”

Bob crawled into your lap mid-scream and patted your face gently. “You ‘n Buki had sleep snugs.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Covered your face with both hands. Bucky groaned and dropped his head against the couch behind him.

“Kill me,” he mumbled.

Yelena threw a pillow at him. “Cuddlerrrr,” she sang.

You peeked at him between your fingers. “You drooled on me.”

He didn’t even deny it. “You kicked me in your sleep.”

Bob gasped. “You kick Buki?!”

“Okay, okay, enough,” you muttered, pulling Bob close, cheeks burning. “Everyone up. Let’s get breakfast before I disintegrate into the floor.”

As the kids scrambled to their feet and chaos began its daily resurrection, you caught Bucky’s eye one more time.

He looked away first. And maybe—just maybe—you missed the warmth.

Just a little.

There were two kinds of mornings in the Tower: the usual half-chaotic shuffle of grown adults trying to act like responsible heroes… and then mornings like this—where five pint-sized mayhem goblins were running on toddler fuel, sticky fingers, and leftover glitter from the bath bubbles.

But today? Today felt… soft.

Warm sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Tower kitchen, casting golden rays across the floor where Bob was sitting cross-legged in his duck pajamas, humming to himself and gently rocking a bottle of syrup like it was a baby. Ava leaned against your leg quietly, watching everything with big eyes. Walker had already knocked over a chair and was using it to climb the counter. Yelena was sharpening crayons for no reason again. And Alexei was running laps around the island chanting “PAN-KAKE! PAN-KAKE!” like it was a war cry.

At the stove stood Bucky Barnes.

Flour on his cheek. Hair tied back in a low bun. Wearing a navy-blue apron that read “Kiss the Cook” (you did not question where he found it). One hand expertly flipping pancakes in a skillet, the other steadying the stack already plated next to him. His face was scrunched in deep, world-ending focus.

You leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.

“Never thought I’d see the Winter Soldier making bunny-shaped pancakes,” you said with a smirk.

“Never thought I’d be this close to snapping over a missing spatula,” he muttered, flipping one like a pro. “We all grow.”

“You’re… good at this,” you admitted.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Did you just compliment me?”

“I’ll deny it the moment you bring it up again.”

Yelena skidded into the room, nearly wiping out, then slammed her fists onto the counter. “Buki!! My pancake has no eyes!!”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“His face!! No eyes!! You forget eyes!!” she said, holding up a bunny pancake like it had been personally insulted.

You stepped in before Bucky short-circuited. “Let’s get some blueberries, yeah? Pancake eyes, coming right up.”

Bob clapped gently from the floor. “Buki is pancake man…”

Bucky exhaled, set another perfect circle on the stack, then crouched to look Bob in the eye.

“I am pancake man,” he said seriously. “Fear me.”

Bob giggled so hard he fell sideways into your leg.

Ava tugged on your shirt. “Can I have butter on mine?”

You scooped her up effortlessly, resting her on your hip. “Butter, syrup, and maybe a little whipped cream if we’re feeling wild.”

Walker climbed onto a stool with absolutely zero grace and yelled, “I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”

Alexei crashed into him. “NO! I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”

“Okay, okay—one Tower Stack coming up,” you said, motioning to Bucky.

He saluted with the spatula like it was a mission. “Ten-layer pancake incoming.”

Within minutes, plates were passed, juice was poured (carefully), and the kitchen fell into that rarest of states: peaceful chewing. You sat with Bob on your lap, Ava pressed against your side, watching them eat like it was a feast fit for baby kings and queens. Walker had syrup in his eyebrows. Yelena had somehow acquired a second fork. Alexei was stacking mini pancake pieces into what looked like a tank.

Bucky sat across from you, sipping coffee like a man who’d seen war and made peace with it.

You caught his eye.

And for one long, quiet second—you smiled at each other.

Like, really smiled.

Then Alexei sneezed into the syrup and Yelena started sword-fighting with forks and Bob whispered, “I love you, pan-kake…” and the moment passed.

But it happened.

And it was enough.

The world, for once, had gone gentle.

No glitter explosions. No screaming for pancakes. No enchanted utensils flying across the room. Just the soft murmur of little voices—Ava humming to herself in the corner as she scribbled stars with a blue crayon, Alexei grunting in concentration as he stacked blocks that kept collapsing, Yelena hissing at Walker because he tried to eat her bear—and beneath it all, the quiet, steady rhythm of Bob breathing against your chest.

He was out cold.

His curls were damp from the bath, cheeks flushed a sleepy rose. One of his hands was balled into your shirt like he thought you might disappear. The other was loosely gripping the tail of his beloved duck plush, already halfway down your lap.

You didn’t dare move.

Bucky was sitting beside you on the couch, arms resting on his thighs, head tilted just enough to watch Bob sleep without looking like he meant to. His metal fingers tapped once against his knee before going still again.

The Tower had never felt this quiet. Not even when it was empty.

You shifted slightly to get comfortable and winced when Bob stirred, letting out a soft baby sigh and curling closer to your heartbeat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing a hand over his hair.

Bucky’s voice was low, just above a murmur. “He’s really out, huh?”

“Long day,” you said, glancing at the chaos still moving across the carpet. “They wore each other out.”

“They wore us out.”

You smiled, leaning back slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping warmth curled against you. “I’m starting to think we’re the ones being trained.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. It wasn’t sarcastic this time. It wasn’t bitter. Just... tired. Soft.

You looked over at him.

His eyes were still on Bob.

“You’re good with them,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He blinked. Turned his head slowly, like the compliment confused him.

“You think?”

“I know.” You shifted your gaze back down to Bob. “You made pancakes for six people before sunrise. That’s not ‘good,’ Barnes. That’s heroic.”

He smiled. A real one. Small. Hidden in the corner of his mouth. But there.

For a while, you sat in silence.

Ava brought you a drawing. She didn’t say anything, just placed it gently on your lap before scurrying away. It was a crayon portrait—lopsided and sweet. A stick figure with curly hair holding a tiny blue duck, another with a big metal arm. Both surrounded by stars.

Bucky glanced over your shoulder at it. “Is that supposed to be you and me?”

You nodded. “Apparently.”

He leaned closer, just for a second. Just long enough that your shoulders brushed.

Then—

Bob let out a long, dramatic sigh in his sleep, and you both froze.

“Don’t you dare wake him,” you whispered.

Bucky held up both hands, eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything—”

“You thought too loud.”

“Okay, that’s not a real thing—”

Bob stirred again.

You glared.

Bucky shut his mouth.

And for the next ten minutes, you just sat like that. Side by side. Breathing. Watching. Holding the soft, heavy weight of a sleeping child and somehow, maybe for the first time in a long time, not feeling like the world was on fire.

Just tired.

Just... home.

It happened fast.

One moment, you were sitting on the couch with Bob in your arms and a blanket over your knees, sipping tea while Yelena braided Ava’s hair and Alexei tried to convince Walker that glue was edible. The next, your comm buzzed to life—emergency alert, priority red. No time to argue. No time to prep. Just a look exchanged with Bucky and a whispered, “It’s quick, I promise.”

Bob had started to whimper the second you stood up.

Ava froze halfway through her braid.

“Mama?” she asked, barely audible.

“Just one hour, baby,” you whispered, brushing her cheek. “Be good for Bucky, okay?”

But Bob was already clinging to your shirt. “Nooo gooo,” he whined, voice cracking. “Stayyy here, mamaaa…”

You kissed the top of his head and passed him gently to Bucky, who caught him like someone handling fragile glass.

“I’ll be right back.”

And then you were gone.

The door shut.

The elevator hummed.

The silence cracked.

And five seconds later, all hell broke loose.

Bob began to sob, small hiccupy gasps as he buried his face in Bucky’s chest. Ava’s eyes welled up, and she clutched Yelena’s arm like she might disappear too. Alexei stomped his feet, yelling “NO FAIR!” over and over again like it was a battle cry. Walker threw himself backward onto the carpet and began to scream—not words, just primal, chaotic sadness.

Bucky stood frozen in the middle of it all, holding one trembling, snotty, heartbroken child and looking like he’d just been dropped into battle with no weapons.

“Okay, okay, hey,” he said, trying to bounce Bob gently while his metal arm rubbed slow, awkward circles on the boy’s back. “It’s fine. She’s coming back. You heard her. Just one hour.”

“Mama gone,” Bob whispered against his neck.

“No, no—she’s not gone, she’s just… busy.”

“GONNNNEEEEE,” Alexei wailed from the corner, throwing a block with the force of a javelin.

Yelena’s bottom lip quivered. “Mama always go ‘way,” she said, her tiny voice accusing. “We no want you.”

That one hit harder than Bucky wanted to admit.

He sank down onto the floor, Bob still attached to his chest, and reached his free arm out toward the girls.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, eyes softening. “I’m not her. But I’m here. And I’m trying, okay? So… help me out, would ya?”

Ava came first—quiet, hesitant, sitting at his side but not touching. Then Yelena crawled into his lap, curling against his arm with a dramatic huff. Bob had gone quiet now, his face red and puffy, but his breathing slower.

Walker was still howling into the void.

“Kid,” Bucky called. “You good?”

A loud sniffle.

“…No.”

“Fair.”

Alexei marched over and kicked Bucky in the shin.

“OW—what was that for?!”

“You not mama.”

Bucky looked at the four of them—messy, snot-covered, half-dressed, grieving the sudden loss of the woman who had somehow become their whole world.

“I know I’m not mama,” he said softly. “But she trusted me to take care of you. So let’s just… wait together, yeah?”

Walker sniffed again, then crawled up into his lap without asking. Ava rested her cheek on his knee. Yelena reached up and patted his chin like it made her feel better.

And Bob—little Bob—looked up with tear-glassy eyes and whispered, “You stay ‘til she come back?”

Bucky blinked.

Nodded.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky had never been afraid of noise. Not really. Explosions, screams, the static hiss of war and metal and memory—it was all part of the rhythm he’d learned to move through like a shadow. But this kind of noise? This relentless, high-pitched, emotionally unstable cacophony? This was not battle. This was something far more dangerous.

This was five grieving toddlers, left in the temporary care of a man whose entire emotional toolkit could fit inside a shot glass.

It was only thirty minutes since you left, but it felt like years.

The living room looked like a battlefield. Yelena had overturned the toy chest and was now guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. Bob had cried so hard he’d vomited, then fallen asleep for ten minutes before waking up even more upset. Walker had locked himself in the hallway closet and was screaming about “being brave alone,” and Alexei had somehow shattered one of the tower’s unbreakable vases and was now spinning in slow, guilty circles whispering “uh-oh” like a broken record.

Ava hadn’t spoken in twenty-five minutes. She sat curled up in the corner with a blanket over her head like she was trying to disappear.

Bucky was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him as he cradled Bob again—too tightly maybe, too unsure. He was sweating. His hair clung to his temple. His vibranium hand was trembling.

He didn’t know what to do.

He wanted to fix it, but he wasn’t you.

“You not mama,” Yelena had said earlier, and that truth had landed like a knife under the ribs.

He was not you.

And he could feel that fact with every scream, every whimper, every pair of tear-streaked cheeks that looked past him like they were waiting for someone else. Someone better. Someone that made the monsters under the bed go quiet with just a smile.

“Come on, buddy,” he murmured to Bob, who was sobbing again, clutching at Bucky’s flannel shirt with his tiny fists. “I know, I know—she’ll be back soon. Just... breathe, okay?”

But Bob just cried harder. And Bucky cracked. His head dropped to the wall behind him, eyes squeezing shut. His voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Maybe the ceiling. Maybe the kid in his arms. Maybe you—if the universe had any mercy left in it.

Then the elevator dinged. And everything stopped.

Bob hiccuped. Alexei froze mid-spin. Even Yelena looked up from her pillow fortress like a wild animal catching the scent of home.

And then the doors slid open. You stepped out, windswept and tired, blood on your collar and soot in your hair—but whole, alive, there.

Bob screamed first. “MAMA!!”

And the floodgates burst. He scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he’d just been released from prison and flung himself into your legs. Yelena was next, then Ava—silent tears this time, clutching your waist. Walker emerged from the closet and ran like he hadn’t been screaming betrayal five seconds ago. Alexei just collapsed in the hallway and sobbed into your ankle.

You dropped to your knees, arms wide, heart splitting in a million soft pieces.

“I’m here, babies, I’m here—I’m so sorry, I’m here.”

They piled onto you. Limbs, snot, sniffles, joy, heartbreak. Bob climbed up into your lap and tucked his face into your neck like he’d been underwater and could finally breathe again.

You held them all. Every single one. Then your eyes flicked up.

And found Bucky still on the floor, frozen in place, his chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. You stood slowly, carefully shifting Bob onto one hip and brushing Yelena’s curls back as you walked toward him.

You crouched. “Buck,” you said softly, your hand brushing his knee.

He didn’t look up. “I couldn’t calm him down. Any of them. I tried—I tried everything. And they just kept asking for you. Because I’m not you.”

His voice cracked, rough and low, choked by something that was too big to name. You took his hand—his metal one, the one that trembled—and pressed it gently into Bob’s back.

“Yeah,” you said. “You’re not me.”

His jaw clenched. “But they still love you.” He looked up then—really looked—and something in him broke.

Bob leaned forward sleepily, still sniffling, and pressed his little hand to Bucky’s cheek.

“Buki no cry,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “You ‘kay now. Mama here.”

And in that moment—cluttered, sticky, messy, real—Bucky exhaled. And maybe, just maybe, let go.

It started with a toy hammer. Of course it did.

You were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming while cutting strawberries and pretending like your home hadn’t been taken over by an elite squad of emotionally volatile toddlers. It was unusually quiet for a few minutes—too quiet—and you should’ve known something was brewing. Something diabolical.

From the living room: a sudden shriek.

“IT’S MINE!!” Yelena bellowed, her tiny hands gripping a plastic, glittery hammer like it was Mjölnir itself.

“No it’s NOT!” Walker snapped, eyes blazing as he tugged on the other end. “You had it all day!!”

“YOU TOUCH, YOU DIE!” Yelena shrieked.

“YOU’RE NOT MY MOM!!”

Alexei appeared from behind the couch, eyes wide. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” he chanted like a sports commentator.

Ava sat in the corner looking deeply stressed, clutching her stuffed cat to her chest. Bob was on the beanbag, crying—not because he was hurt, but because someone sat on the red one before he did, and that was apparently a federal offense in toddler law.

Bucky stood in the hallway holding a juice box, watching the chaos unfold like he was witnessing a small civil war.

And then? The hammer snapped in half. Silence.

Walker and Yelena froze, each holding a glitter-smeared piece of plastic, stunned by the consequences of their rage. Bob’s crying reached a new octave. Alexei gasped. Ava covered her eyes.

“...Uh oh,” Walker whispered.

And that’s when Bucky stepped in.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw the juice box.

He just walked—slow, calm, terrifying like a thundercloud rolling in—and crouched between the warring parties, looking each child dead in the eye like they were dangerous operatives.

“Do you know what I see right now?” he asked, voice low and steady.

Yelena crossed her arms, pouting. “A winner?”

Walker squinted. “A loser?”

Bob hiccuped from the beanbag. “...Daddy mad.”

Bucky raised one brow. “I see five very lucky little gremlins who are this close—” he held up two fingers, almost touching “—to spending the rest of the day in separate corners with NO pancakes tomorrow.”

Everyone gasped.

Ava let out a horrified whisper. “No pan-kakes?”

Bucky nodded, solemn. “Not even one blueberry.”

Alexei collapsed in the background. “Nooo… my soul…”

Walker dropped the broken hammer like it burned him. “I—I didn’t mean to!!”

“She broke it!!” Yelena yelled, pointing with all the fury of a betrayed Spartan.

“You both broke it,” Bucky snapped. “And you both need to fix it. Not with glue. With apologies.”

The room was dead quiet.

Then Bob sniffled. “Can I have the red seat now?”

Bucky turned slowly. “Bob. Do you want the red seat, or the high ground?”

Bob blinked. “...Both?”

“Reasonable,” Bucky muttered.

You peeked in from the kitchen, hands still full of strawberries. “What happened—?”

“Communism,” Bucky replied flatly. “They all think the hammer belongs to them.”

You blinked. “So… Yelena and Walker fought?”

“No. They trained for war.”

Yelena shuffled forward, face pink. “Sorry I yelled. I guess we can… share?”

Walker nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I sat on the red chair.”

Bob perked up. “You said it. Now get up.”

“BOB—”

“Okay,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. We’re instituting the Rotation Chart. Everyone gets the red seat for ten minutes. Timer’s on the table. Touch it before it dings, I swear to God—”

“Will we die?” Alexei whispered.

Bucky didn’t answer. Just glared.

You laughed from the kitchen. “Papa Barnes strikes again.”

And somehow, just like that, the living room began to settle. The hammer got placed in the “fix-it” bin. The red seat rotated. Pancakes were saved.

And Bucky? He finally took a seat.

One long breath in. One sip of juice box out.

The day had been long—block tower disasters, spilled juice, at least one suspicious crayon eaten. But night brought a softness to the tower. The overhead lights were dimmed to a warm golden glow, the air was cool with a hint of lavender from someone’s diffuser (Ava, probably), and every tiny toddler was wrapped in soft pajamas like miniature plush marshmallows.

“Okay, Bob,” you said as you handed him the toy DJ keyboard that lit up and made questionably high-energy noises. “You’re on aux.”

Bob’s face lit up like he’d just been handed the nuclear launch codes. He settled in the center of the living room, pressed a few random buttons, and the air was suddenly filled with electronic bubble pop sounds and a woman’s voice yelling, “LET GO LITTLE FRIENDS!”

“YESSS!” Yelena screamed, launching herself into a spin with arms wide, her pajama top flying up over her belly.

Ava did a tiny, shy shimmy in the corner, holding her stuffed cat like a dance partner. Walker was stomping in place like a Viking toddler at a rave, and Alexei? Alexei was doing the worm. Badly. Repeatedly. On the hardwood floor.

Bucky was standing frozen in the doorway.

“Are they… raving?”

“They’re expressing joy through movement,” you said, grinning as you flicked on the glow sticks you’d snuck out earlier. “Come on, Barnes. Don’t make me outdance you.”

“Challenge accepted.”

He stepped forward, took two glow sticks from your hand, cracked them open, and tucked them into his flannel pajama waistband like makeshift swords. And then—dead serious—he moonwalked.

The babies lost their minds.

“GO BUKI!!” Bob yelled, bashing buttons on his keyboard. “GOOOO!!”

“WOOOOOO!” Yelena howled, grabbing Ava and dragging her into a spinning circle of giggles.

Alexei jumped onto the couch. “I IS DJ NOW!!” he yelled and immediately fell off the other side.

You snorted so hard you nearly choked, one hand over your mouth as you joined them all on the floor, wiggling in place with Bob clinging to your back like a sloth.

Bucky twirled past you—twirled, boss—and pointed. “We need strobe lights.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re turning into a party dad.”

He didn’t deny it. Just grabbed Yelena by the hands and started hopping in a circle with her while she screamed-laughed. Ava danced near your feet, swaying her cat gently. Bob tapped your shoulder and whispered, “Mama… dance is love.”

You scooped him into your arms. “Yes it is, baby.”

Ten minutes in, Walker collapsed mid-wiggle, gasping. “I… need… juice box…”

Alexei fell asleep on the floor with a glow stick in each hand like he was guarding the gates of Baby Valhalla.

Yelena was lying on Bucky’s chest now, curled in a sleepy tangle, eyes half-lidded.

You looked around at the mess of glowing sticks, soft music still playing, and the warm weight of Bob in your arms.

Bucky caught your gaze. He smiled.

“You think they’ll remember this?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe not the details. But the feeling? Yeah. I hope so.”

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from Bob’s forehead as he yawned, melting against you.

“Dance is love,” you murmured.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “And so is this.”

The tower was quiet in that strange, heavy way—where the silence didn’t feel peaceful, but like the universe was holding its breath.

You were sitting on the edge of the playroom couch, a blanket draped across your lap, Bob nestled into your side. He was chewing on the tail of his stuffed duck, eyelids fluttering, but still awake. He didn’t know. None of them did. Not yet.

The letter from Val sat on the table in front of you, its contents burned into your brain: Formula ready. Reversal confirmed. Administer at 0700. Side effects minimal. Memory retention = 0%.

You’d read it three times. Bucky had read it once, muttered something like “goddammit,” and walked off to fix Bob’s broken toy spaceship in the kitchen with shaking hands.

Now he was standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring out like the skyline held answers it had no right to give.

“They won’t remember us,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn’t turn. “Yeah.”

“Not the dance parties. Not the pancakes. Not the bath times. Not…” Your voice caught, your eyes stinging. “Not the way Bob says ‘Mama’ like it means everything.”

His jaw flexed.

You glanced down at the boy curled into your side—his lashes long and fluttering, his fingers still gripped around the stuffed duck he insisted on bringing to every room. His chest rose and fell in that slow toddler rhythm, trusting the world around him to stay the same.

He’d woken up this morning and called Bucky Dada.

It hadn’t been a game. It hadn’t been a joke. He’d said it with a sleepy little smile and a stretch of his arms and then asked, “Where Mama go?”

Bucky had frozen. You had blinked. And the whole damn day had folded in on itself like a house of cards hit by wind.

“We knew it wouldn’t last,” Bucky finally said. His voice was tight. Rough. “They’re not really ours.”

“No,” you said. “But… they were. For a little while.”

He looked over his shoulder at you.

Not annoyed. Not detached. Just… broken.

And that’s what undid you.

You pressed your hand to Bob’s back, smoothing his hair. You could feel the tears coming, building behind your eyes, hot and heavy and helpless. “We have one night,” you whispered. “One more night before they forget.”

Bucky crossed the room in slow, quiet steps. He sat beside you, his arms resting on his knees, staring down at Bob like he was memorizing the curve of his cheek, the soft puff of his breath, the innocence they’d both been lucky enough to protect.

“They saved us, too,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was faraway. “Didn’t they?”

You nodded. “More than they’ll ever know.”

A beat of silence. Then a small voice piped up.

“Mama?”

You blinked, looking down as Bob blinked blearily, his tiny fingers reaching for your sleeve. You caught them in yours.

“I’m here, baby.”

He yawned. “Why you cryin’?”

You smiled through it. “I’m just… gonna miss something.”

He nodded sleepily like he understood, though you knew he couldn’t possibly. “Can I sleep wif you ‘n Dada?”

Bucky made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh—or a sob—and scooped the boy gently into his arms. Bob curled against him like he always belonged there.

You stood slowly and followed them out of the playroom, down the quiet hall, past the nursery that was still strung up with glow sticks from last night’s dance party. One of them was still faintly glowing.

When you reached your room, you pulled back the covers and let Bob crawl into the middle, where he immediately sprawled out like a starfish. His duck tucked under one arm. His other hand found Bucky’s and held on tight. You climbed in beside them.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His arm wrapped around you both, pulling you in close, holding like he might break apart if he let go. You stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, wondering if tomorrow would feel like grief or just a different kind of empty.

Would they wake up scared in grown-up bodies? Would they blink and not know you? Would Bob look at Bucky and call him Mr. Barnes with that stupid sarcastic smirk again?

Would Yelena roll her eyes and call you dramatic instead of curling into your side during movies?

Would Walker complain about rules instead of juice?

Would Alexei stop begging you to help him build his block fortress?

Would Ava forget the way she tucked her tiny hand into yours, without ever saying a word?

Would they all forget how it felt to be this loved?

Would you?

You didn’t sleep much that night. But you held Bob.  And Bucky held you.  And for one last night… they were yours.

Morning came too fast.

The sunlight spilling through the windows felt wrong, like it had no right to be soft and warm when the weight in your chest was made of stone. You’d barely slept. Bucky hadn’t either. His arm was still around you when the tower lights began to flicker on. Bob was still curled between you both, his tiny fingers locked in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt like if he let go, he’d float away.

You stayed that way longer than you should have.

But eventually… it was time.

The babies were quiet during breakfast. No giggles, no complaints, no pancake-related crimes. Ava clutched her juice cup with both hands and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Yelena picked at her food with her fork upside down. Walker was practically vibrating in his seat, and Alexei had uncharacteristically asked, “Why today feel weird?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Bucky was silent beside you, eyes distant, jaw set. Then the door opened. Val.

Black suit. Tablet in hand. Gaze a little softer than usual. “Are they ready?” she asked.

No.

They weren’t. You weren’t. But this wasn’t about you. So you nodded.

The walk to the lab was slow. You carried Ava and held Bob’s hand. Bucky had Yelena on his hip and Walker clinging to his sleeve. Alexei walked between you, unusually quiet, dragging a teddy bear across the floor.

The lab was too bright. Too clean. Too final. The table was prepped. Six tiny syringes. Labeled. Ready.

“Once administered,” Val explained gently, “they’ll begin to age in accelerated time. Physically, they’ll be back to normal in under ten minutes. Mentally… it’ll be as if this week never happened.”

Bob’s grip tightened in your hand.

You crouched beside him, brushing his curls back, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll be right here the whole time.”

He blinked up at you. His bottom lip trembled. “But… but I don’t wanna be big.”

You froze. His voice was so small, so certain. You glanced at Bucky, whose whole body had gone rigid.

“I wanna stay,” Bob said, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanna stay wif you an’ Dada. We had pancakes. I like pancakes. I like dancin’. I like... cuddles.” His voice cracked. “I don’t wanna f'get…”

Oh God. You pulled him into your arms, sinking to your knees as he sobbed into your neck. “I’m sorry, baby. I know. I know…”

Bucky was beside you in an instant, kneeling, wrapping both of you in his arms.

Bob reached for him blindly, sobbing, “Don’t wanna lose you!”

And then Ava started to cry. And Yelena, from Bucky’s side, shouted, “No! We stay! We live here now!!”

“NO MORE GROWIN’,” Walker declared dramatically.

Val blinked. “Okay, I didn’t plan for this level of resistance—”

Alexei had thrown himself on the floor. “I will die like this!! In pajamas!!!”

It was chaos. Beautiful, heartbreaking chaos. And in the middle of it, you looked at Bucky.

His eyes were red. His hand was shaking as he touched Bob’s curls.

“Can’t we keep them?” he whispered, not to Val. Not even to you. Just to the world. “Just a little longer.”

You swallowed hard, brushing a tear from your cheek. “If we do… if we wait… they’ll remember this.”

He nodded slowly.

“And if we don’t…” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.

Val sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We can delay. A few days. Maybe a week. But after that, the effects might… compound.”

You looked at your babies—all five of them. Crying, clinging, choosing love over logic.

And for now? That was enough. You kissed Bob’s forehead.

“Okay,” you whispered. “One more week.”

The van ride to the lakehouse should have been peaceful.

It was not.

Between the trail mix fight (Walker dumped raisins in Bob’s hair and called it “war”), Yelena screaming every time they passed a cow (“THAT ONE LOOKED AT ME WEIRD!”), and Alexei singing a cursed remix of Baby Shark at top volume, you and Bucky were already on the brink by the time you hit the dirt road.

Ava was the only one quiet—head pressed to the window, blinking up at the trees like they were whispering secrets just to her. You’d reached back from the passenger seat to gently rub her knee, and she’d leaned into your touch like a sleepy cat.

Bob had insisted on sitting beside Bucky, who was driving with the patience of a monk and the dead eyes of a man on his fifteenth round of “Are we there yet?”

“We live in New York,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did we think a six-hour road trip with five toddlers was a good idea again?”

You grinned, exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. “Because we’re masochists who cry over bath time hugs.”

He side-eyed you. “Shut up.”

But when Bob giggled from the backseat and whispered, “Dada say bad word,” Bucky smirked and gave your hand a gentle squeeze on the console.

And then you pulled up to the lakehouse.

The second the van doors opened, chaos spilled out like confetti.

“WOAHHHH,” Alexei screamed, racing toward the dock like it personally offended him. “WE GOTS A RIVER???”

“It’s a lake,” you corrected.

He immediately tried to bellyflop into it. Bucky caught him mid-air like a linebacker.

“NO. No water until after naps,” he barked.

“But I’m aquatic!” Alexei protested.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky deadpanned. “You’re dramatic.”

Yelena ran around the yard in circles screaming “MINE MINE MINE” and refusing to explain what she was claiming. Ava curled into the porch swing, sighing like she’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Walker immediately made a sword out of a stick and challenged a tree to a duel.

And Bob? Bob tugged on your shirt and whispered, “Mama… can we live here forever?”

You crouched, brushing his curls back. “We’ve got a week, baby. We’ll make it feel like forever.”

Inside, the lakehouse was still just as Tony left it—warm wood floors, sunlight pouring through the windows, faint memories still caught in the walls. You caught your breath in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing over an old photograph on the fridge. Tony, grinning, sunglasses crooked. Your heart twinged.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, leaning beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Just… feels like he should be here, y’know?”

“He’d like this,” Bucky murmured. “You. The chaos. The kids. The secondhand glitter on your face.”

You snorted, wiping a tear. “Shut up.”

He didn’t. Just leaned in, bumped your shoulder, and whispered, “Let’s give them the best week of their tiny little lives.”

And oh, Lord—you did.

The next days were pure, chaotic magic. You built pillow forts the size of small kingdoms. You baked cupcakes that looked like disaster but tasted like heaven. Ava finally spoke—not a whisper, but a full, soft sentence: “This place feels happy.” You almost cried on the spot.

Yelena learned how to skip rocks and declared herself Queen of the Shore. Walker tried to fish using only his hands. Alexei built a “campfire” out of leaves and made everyone sit around it and “share our truths.”

Bob? Bob followed you everywhere. His tiny feet slapping against the wooden floors, his voice calling “Mama!” a hundred times a day, his laughter echoing into the trees. He slept in your arms every night, curled up like a song.

And Bucky… God. Bucky was the glue. He held them when they cried. He played rough and gentle in equal measure. He let Yelena paint his face, wore a flower crown Alexei made him, and whispered stories to Bob until the boy drifted off mid-giggle.

Every night, after the kids were asleep, you and Bucky would sit on the dock—bare feet in the water, shoulders pressed together—and watch the stars.

“You ever think about…” you’d start, but never finish.

“Yeah,” he always said anyway.

The last night came too fast. Bob climbed into your lap as the sun set pink across the lake. His head tucked under your chin, his little fingers clutching your shirt.

“Tomorrow?” he whispered.

You swallowed. “Yeah, baby.”

His voice shook. “Will I still love you? When I’m big?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just hugged him tighter. Let the tears fall into his hair.

And whispered, “I think so, sweetheart. I think some love is too big to forget.” 

The sun was setting slow and syrupy, pouring golden light across the lake like it was trying to hold the day in place. Everything felt slower that evening. Softer. Like even time was taking careful steps.

You had your arms wrapped around a wriggling Alexei, trying to wrestle a jelly stain off his cheek while Yelena screamed, “I get to wear the crown! I am photogenic!”

“YOU MEAN PHOTOGENIUS,” Walker bellowed, slipping on the porch stairs because his socks were too long.

Ava was sitting cross-legged in the grass, gently placing wildflowers into Bob’s curls as he sat still and proud, whispering, “Make me pretty, like Mama.”

You pressed your lips together against the wave of emotion rising in your throat. Bucky was fiddling with the camera stand, grumbling under his breath like an old man in the body of a reluctant dad. “Where’s the damn timer button—why is this blinking red? I swear to God, if this deletes everything—”

“You good, tech support?” you teased gently, coming up beside him.

He looked up at you, squinting against the orange glow. “Do I look like Stark?”

“No. You’re taller and moodier.”

He snorted. “And apparently the father of five gremlins.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew what this was. You both did. One last photo. One last chance to catch the moment before it slipped through your fingers.

“Okay, munchkins!” you called out, rallying the crew. “Group picture time!”

“Group hug!” Alexei screamed.

“Group MURDER!” Yelena added, because she was feral and unstoppable.

“No one is dying in this photo!” Bucky barked.

You gathered them all onto the porch steps. Yelena on Bucky’s shoulders, Ava tucked under your arm, Bob standing between you with both your hands in his, Walker doing finger guns, and Alexei holding up a stick like it was a championship trophy.

Bucky set the timer, sprinted back, and scooped Bob up into his arms right as the camera clicked.

Snap.

The light froze all of it.

Messy curls, painted fingernails, pajama pants with little ducks on them. You. Bucky. Five little lives tucked into the safety of your arms. And behind you, the lake—still and golden—like it, too, was trying to hold on.

“WE ARE A FAMILY,” Bob declared afterward, clutching the photo print like it was sacred.

“You got jelly on it already,” Ava said quietly, but didn’t take it away.

And then came the part you hadn’t prepared for.

Bob’s tiny voice, lifting up with hope too big for his little lungs. “Mama? Papa? Can we dance now?”

You blinked. “W-what?”

“Dance!” Alexei shouted. “Like you do when you think we sleep!”

Yelena gasped. “I KNEW IT! I saw Mama spin!”

Ava whispered, “I saw Papa smile.”

“PLEASE?” Bob begged, holding your hand like it was the only anchor he had. “One more? One more dance?”

You looked at Bucky. He looked at you. And both of you—still holding hands from the photo—felt your chests squeeze with something too big to name.

But no. Not yet. Not yet.

Bucky crouched down. “How about we dance tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we be big again,” Bob whispered.

And that? That broke you.

You dropped to your knees and pulled him into your chest, hugging him like he might disappear. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “Okay. One more dance. Just… not yet. We’re not ready yet.”

None of you were. So you stayed on that porch a little longer, letting the stars come out. Letting the fireflies twirl. Letting the world wait.

Because tomorrow was already breathing down your neck. But tonight? Tonight, they were still yours.

The lake was still when you woke up.

No birdsong. No wind through the trees. Just a kind of sacred quiet that came before big things—storms, endings, or in this case, goodbyes. The sun hadn’t crested over the trees yet, but the sky was beginning to glow pale and gold, the kind of light that made everything look like it was made of memory.

You were already dressed.

Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. You’d laid awake most of the night, Bob curled against your side, his tiny breaths hitching now and then like even in dreams, he didn’t want to let go.

Now, as you stood by the kitchen sink with a chipped mug full of untouched coffee, you watched the soft shapes of the trees sway gently outside and thought, I’m not ready.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps creaked on the old wooden floor.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside you, his hand brushing yours. You didn’t pull away.

“How long do we have?” he asked, voice quiet, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

“Val said to be in the lab before eight.” You didn’t look at the clock. You didn’t need to. You felt the time running out.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair and nodded, jaw tight. You knew he hadn’t slept either. He’d held Yelena like she was a piece of glass all night, humming lullabies you were pretty sure he didn’t know he remembered.

“Are they still asleep?” he asked.

“For now.”

A beat of silence.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. “We don’t have to know. We just… do it anyway.”

And so you did.

You packed what little they’d brought. Pajamas. Crayons. A bag full of pinecones Alexei had declared were “important evidence.” Yelena’s crown. Ava’s music box. Bob’s duck.

The sun was higher now. The kitchen glowed like it was made of honey. And then you went upstairs.

The nursery was warm and dim, full of soft breathing and quiet dreams. Five little forms were curled up in makeshift beds, the floor covered in blankets and stuffed animals, limbs tangled together like they couldn’t sleep unless they knew the others were close.

You knelt beside Bob first.

He stirred as soon as your hand brushed his hair, eyes fluttering open. He blinked at you for a moment, then smiled sleepily and whispered, “Hi, Mama.”

Your heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same breath.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered back. “Time to wake up.”

Downstairs was quiet chaos. Toast and juice, Ava sitting in your lap while Bucky tied Walker’s shoes and Alexei asked why everyone looked “like they cried in their pancakes.” Yelena refused to get dressed unless her crown was on straight. You and Bucky didn’t fight it. You let them win every battle today.

Because it was the last. The drive back to the lab was quiet. Too quiet.

Bucky’s knuckles were white on the wheel. Bob was dozing in your lap again, the duck clutched to his chest. You stared out the window, but you weren’t looking at anything.

The lab was waiting when you arrived. White floors. Bright lights. The same sterile calm. Val was there. She nodded gently. Didn’t speak.

The syringes were ready. Each child got their own room. Monitored. Clean. Clinical.

You and Bucky walked them in one by one. You kissed their foreheads. You held their hands.

Walker went first. Loud until the end, fist-bumping Bucky with a watery grin.

Then Yelena, who tried not to cry and failed, sobbing into Bucky’s chest and whispering, “Don’t let me go.”

Alexei gave you his pinecone, said, “So you don’t forget me.” You told him he was unforgettable.

Ava didn’t speak. Just clung to your shirt until the last possible second, then whispered, “Thank you for letting me be loved.”

And Bob… sweet Bob… looked up at you with tear-filled eyes and said, “Will it still be you… when I wake up?”

You kissed his knuckles. “Always.”

Then it happened.

The serum worked quickly. Their little bodies shimmered with a soft red glow, like time reversing itself in fast-forward. Their limbs stretched. Their faces matured. They blinked up at the bright ceiling, no longer toddlers.

Just soldiers. Adults. Confused.

They didn’t remember. They didn’t know.

And when they filed out into the hallway—grown, sharp, strong again—it was like someone had torn pages out of your book and left you with blank paper.

Bob passed you in the hall. He didn’t even glance. And that was the moment that broke you.

You stood there, back pressed to the cold lab wall, your hands trembling, heart cracked wide and raw. Bucky stood beside you, eyes fixed on the floor, jaw locked, like if he opened his mouth, something sacred might fall out.

No one spoke. No one could.

Later that evening, you returned to the lakehouse. Just the two of you. The rooms were quiet. The toys are untouched. You stepped out onto the porch, the same porch where you danced just the night before. It was empty now. No tiny footprints. No giggles. No bedtime stories.

Just you and Bucky. And silence. You sat down slowly, your hands in your lap, your heart still beating to the rhythm of laughter that was already fading.

“Do you think they’ll remember?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. But I think… we will.”

You leaned into him. He let you.

And together, as the porch light flickered on, you watched the sun sink into the lake and said goodbye—not with words, but with the quiet ache of two people who had held something golden for just a moment…

…and would never, ever forget.

[rose24207]

Girls like you don’t confess

Summary: A girl quietly endures the heartbreak of loving Ahn Suho in silence, only to discover he has a girlfriend, forcing herself to let go without ever confessing—until she finds quiet comfort in Sieun's unexpected understanding.

Taken!Ahn Suho x reader, eventual Yeon Sieun x reader

A/N: Found out my crush has a girlfriend, so now I have to back off—even though I never planned on making a move. Now I’m making it your problem, so here’s some angst for you.

Navigation

You should have known.

Ahn Suho was never yours.

He was kind—of course he was. Soft-spoken but confident, with a half-smile that felt like a secret made just for you. You clung to every moment he looked at you like that, even if deep down, you feared it meant nothing. Still, you let yourself fall. Quietly. Carefully. Secretly.

You loved him in the quiet way girls who know better often do—through hidden glances, saved messages, memorized coffee orders, and late-night thoughts you never shared.

No one knew.

Not your friends.

Not even Suho.

Especially not Suho.

You were terrified to say it. The thought of losing even the version of him you were allowed to have—the classmate, the occasional study buddy, the “you’re so easy to talk to” companion—was too much to risk.

So you settled for closeness. For crumbs. For late-night walks back from the library and shared music playlists. You told yourself you were imagining it—that heartbeat in your throat every time he brushed your shoulder, every time he looked up and smiled just at you.

Until the truth arrived—soft, but devastating.

It started with a picture.

You hadn’t meant to look. Someone in class nudged you during a break, whispering about how cute Suho and his girlfriend looked together in the new photo on his private story. You didn’t even follow him there, but you saw her on someone else’s screen. She was beautiful. Naturally, effortlessly. Leaning into him like she belonged there. His hand around her waist like he’d done it a thousand times. Smiling like he had everything he ever wanted.

And maybe he did.

You said nothing. You laughed at the picture like everyone else. You pretended it was news to you too.

But your chest cracked open in silence.

You walked home alone that night. No music. No distractions. Just your thoughts, pacing bitterly alongside you. It wasn’t that he had a girlfriend—no, you weren’t naive enough to think you had a chance. It was the realization that this fantasy you held onto, this soft, delicate string of hope you wrapped around your ribs… was always just you.

He never looked at you like you looked at him.

He never saved your voice notes or reread your texts.

He never lingered because of you.

And yet, here you were—mourning something that never existed.

You didn’t cry. Not at first.

Instead, you erased. Slowly. Gently. Brutally.

You muted his stories. You archived the photos where he stood beside you, grinning like the sun. You scrolled through your old messages and reread his “you’re one of my favorite people to talk to,” knowing now how little that meant. You smiled through the pain, because crying over someone who never loved you back felt like a waste of tears.

But the ache was real. Deep. Unrelenting.

And still… no one knew.

You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t complain or wallow or ask, “Why not me?” Because you already knew. Girls like you don’t confess. Girls like you get over it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You were a girls’ girl, after all. You would never be the kind to wish her away, to hope their happiness fell apart just so yours could begin.

So you let it go.

Or you tried to.

But God, some nights felt like drowning. Watching him laugh across the cafeteria. Hearing someone mention his name. Walking past him in the hallway and pretending your stomach didn’t flip and sink all at once.

It was exhausting. Grieving someone who was never yours. Mourning moments that meant everything to you—and nothing to him.

That was the worst part, wasn’t it?

He’ll never know. He’ll never remember the way your hands shook when he touched your arm. He’ll never know that you dressed up that day just because you knew he’d be there. That the song he once shared was on your playlist for weeks.

He’ll never know that you loved him. Not fully. Not out loud. Not with fireworks. But with something gentler. Something steadier. A quiet kind of devotion that built itself up in silence and collapsed without a sound.

And in that silence—you started to disappear too.

Until Yeon Sieun.

You didn’t notice him at first. Not really. He was always there, always around. Reliable. Soft-eyed. The kind of boy who saw things no one else bothered to notice.

Like how your laughter didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore.

Like how you looked away too quickly whenever Suho passed by.

Like how you lingered a second too long when someone brought up Suho’s name.

One day, when you couldn’t take it anymore, you ducked into an empty classroom to cry in peace. You hadn’t meant for anyone to find you. But Sieun did.

He didn’t ask. He just sat beside you, quiet and warm, offering a pack of tissues like it was a lifeline.

“Is it someone you loved?” he asked gently.

You blinked at him, surprised. He didn’t say ‘like.’ He said ‘loved.’ Past tense. Like it was over. Like he knew you were trying to make it that way.

You nodded, just once. And he didn’t push.

That was the beginning.

The slow, careful unraveling of everything you kept buried.

Sieun became your solace. Not your rebound, not your distraction—just a friend. A real one. The kind who never judged your silence, who understood that heartbreak didn’t always come with broken promises or dramatic goodbyes. Sometimes, it came from hope. From the version of someone you built in your mind. From the story that only you were writing.

One afternoon, while walking back together in the rain, he glanced at you and said softly, “It’s okay if it still hurts.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to say thank you. But the words stuck in your chest.

Because it did still hurt.

Not because Suho chose someone else.

But because you never gave yourself the chance to even be considered.

You’ll always wonder. What if you had been braver? What if you had said something? What if—

But then you’d glance at Sieun—his soft patience, his quiet loyalty—and realize that maybe some hearts aren’t meant to be conquered.

Some are meant to be healed.

And yours?

Yours is still healing.

But you’re not alone anymore.

And that’s enough. For now.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane, @stxr-lilac, @geumseongjelicker, @itzzezraa, @night-fall-moon, @niggette, @martynka1, @intoanothermind

[yothatshitgas]

Maybes and What Ifs | Chapter 1 Pairing: Paige x Azzi Word Count: 3.7k Note: Work of fiction.

This is the start of the expansion series of The Dress. Hope y'all like it. I kinda rushed towards the end, but hopefully it still flows nicely. Let me know yalls thoughts :)

Summer 2017

“Your eyes are wandering,” Celeste said, sliding up beside me on the right. Her gaze followed mine across the court, “Azzi Fudd. That’s who you’re staring at.” 

I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze follow Azzi Fudd as she ran down the length of the court. Her pace wasn’t mind blowing athleticism, but there was a rhythm to the way she moved. A kind of efficiency so precise in a way that made it hard to look away. Her arms pumped in controlled strides, her legs extended with each push against the hardwood. She wasn’t the fastest, no. But she was definitely smooth, her muscles work in sync with an exact tempo.

I blinked, tearing my eyes away then turned to Celeste, “haven’t heard of her before.” 

“Not surprising,” she replied, cracking open her Gatorade, “she was literally just in middle school, like, last week.”

“Makes her one of the youngest here, right?” 

“Yeah,” Celeste nodded, taking a sip, “but out of anyone actually worth watching? She’s the youngest.” 

That made me pause. I glanced back toward the court where Azzi was still running. Her cheeks were flushed, but she looked nowhere near winded. Just a steadiness in her every being that was far beyond her age.

“Right,” I said, “I haven’t seen anything that impressive.”

Celeste turned her head slowly, eyebrow fully cocked and her mouth curled into a smirk that said she wasn’t buying a single word, “okay,” she drawled, “totally. That’s why you’ve been watching her like she hung the moon.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, Celeste just got up and jogged back towards another group of girls that huddled under the far basket.

I mean, I really am not that impressed. Not in the way everyone else seems to be, at least. There’s nothing about her that screams generational talent. Sure, Azzi’s got decent handles. Her shot’s near perfect. But the same could be said about every other girl in this gym fighting for a spot. Nothing she’s doing is revolutionary.

At least… that’s what I  keep telling myself.

‘Cause honestly, the only thing that caught my attention was that damn smile. Bright, easy. Like she wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Everyone else has that look - tight jaw, narrowed eyes, desperation practically tattooed on their forehead. But Azzi? She looked like she was playing a pickup game at the local rec center. Just turned fifteen and somehow the most relaxed person in the building.

And that bugged me more than it should have.

Who the hell smiles that much during drills? Maybe it’s her age playing a part. Maybe she hasn’t felt the pressure yet, the kind of pressure that makes your chest tight, your legs heavier and your hands shake. She doesn’t look like she’s carrying any of that. Not yet. 

During scrimmage, Azzi and I ended up as pairs on the backcourt. It wasn’t planned, just how the rotations panned out. We trailed by a few points in the beginning, not by much, but enough to make every possession feel like it mattered. Their frontcourt consisted of Aliyah and Samantha who, I guess, found it fun to bulldoze through our defense with the sheer difference in size. Forcing our way into the paint won’t work, so I needed to figure out a different angle. Something to shift the pressure to the perimeter. And then, I saw her.

Azzi.

Posted up just beyond the arc on the left wing. Wide open.

Without hesitation, I whipped her the ball with a clean, fast chest pass. The moment it hit her hands, I just knew it would go in. She didn’t fumble, there was no sign of panic. She squared her shoulders, dipped into her form and released. Fluid - like everything else she does, as I’ve observed. Her motion was pure muscle memory, her follow through so crisp the net barely stood a chance.

Swish.

From that moment on, it was like we were synced. Unspoken chemistry. No looks needed. I’d drive, draw the defense and she would be at the wing, ready for a corner three. The more shots she knocked down, the more defensive gravity she pulled and that gave me breathing room I needed to slice into the midrange. I got on the board and Azzi stayed hot. We clawed our way back into the lead, one possession at a time and by the time the whistle blew to signal the end of the scrimmage, our team was up. Barely, but up

I jogged toward the sideline, breathless and buzzing with post-game adrenaline. I dropped to the bench, towel draped over my shoulder, heart still knocking at my ribs. Azzi strolled over, stopping just in front of me. I looked up, only to be met with bright eyes and a crooked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for finding me,” she said quietly. Her voice was soft, almost shy, almost like it was meant just for me to hear and that made my cheeks burn hotter than the scrimmage ever had.

I looked away too fast, yanking my water bottle to my lips and taking a long drink I didn’t need, I just needed to give my hands something to do, “yeah,” I managed, my voice came out rough and I cleared my throat, “no problem. Good shots.”

She gave a little nod, “thanks. I’m Azzi, by the way.”

“Paige.”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh.” I blinked. Brilliant. I cleared my throat again, trying to hide the smile forming on my lips, “I mean, you know, formality and shit. Kind rude not to introduce myself, too.”

Azzi smiled, just little but it was enough to make me feel as if I’d been holding my breath during this entire conversation. Then she started to walk backward, still facing me as she drifted toward her bench, “good job today,” she said, that same soft timbre in her voice, “and good luck tomorrow, Paige.”

__

“Paigey,” Celeste sang from across the room, dragging out my name like she’d been rehearsing it just to annoy me. Her voice laced in a kind of smug delight that already had me sighing before she even finished, “you and Azzi? Y’all were kinda going crazy out there today. Gave Clark and Boston a run for their money.”

I didn’t look up, just gave her a noncommittal hum under my breath as I stared at the game footage playing on my iPad. Although, I hadn’t actually registered a single play in the last five minutes. I couldn’t stop replaying the scrimmage in my head. It wasn’t the stats or the matchups, it was just her. Azzi’s perfectly timed cuts, the way her shot looked from my angle whenever it sailed through the net and stupidly soft thanks for finding me that had burrowed deep in my chest and refused to leave.

“C’mon,” Celeste pressed, “that pass from the top of the key?” she  brought her fingertips to her mouth to her lips and flicked away, “chef’s kiss, Paigey.”

I sighed, pausing the video and let a moment of silence stretch between us, “she’s decent,” I said, keeping my tone as casual as I could.

“Decent?” Celeste scoffed, “that girl shot like bricking a pass from you is a sin punished only in the depths of hell, don’t be annoying.”

“I’m not being annoying,” I mumbled, fiddling with the corner of my iPad case, “I’m just being objective.”

“Right.”

No bite, no dramatics. Just smug certainty and a smirk that got under my skin. I let out an irritated breath and tossed my iPad onto the nightstand, “bro, why the hell was she smiling the entire scrimmage?”

“You have a problem with her smiling now?”

“Yea. No. I don’t fucking know, maybe?” 

Celeste doubled over, dissolving into a full-body laughter. Almost comically. She clutched her stomach, still laughing. High pitched and helpless.

I stared at her, “you done?”

She wasn’t. She wheezed between gasps, wiping tears that weren’t even there from the corners of her eyes, “you found someone who can actually keep up with you on the court,” she choked out, “and you’re mad that she’s doing it with a smile?”

I opened my mouth, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“You, the same girl who grins like a Disney villain after a no-look dime, are pressed because a fifteen year old might be having too much fun on the hardwood?”

“I’m not mad,” I corrected her through clenched teeth, “I’m confused. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even celebrate her own shots. When she misses? No scowl. She doesn’t even flinch after a turnover. She just smiles. Like none of this matters.”

Celeste flopped back on her bed, “maybe it doesn’t,” she said, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “or maybe it does and she just doesn’t show it the same way we do.”

I hummed.

“I mean,” she said after a moment, “you’ve never had someone sync with you like that, right?”

I stayed silent.

“Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”

“Gross,” I groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow, launching it at her, “she’s in middle school.”

“Freshman,” Celeste corrected, catching the pillow with one hand, “and you’re a sophomore, one year difference. It’s not that deep, Bueckers.”

“God, please, shut up.”

She grinned and pulled her blanket over her shoulder, “just saying. Chemistry.”

__

By day five, the roster had been sliced down to eighteen. None of the cuts came as a shock, but they were sure as hell sobering. The air felt heavier, more desperate. Six more girls needed to go and nobody felt safe anymore. That was when it stopped being tryouts and started feeling like survival. The shift was obvious - conversations got shorter, laughter disappeared entirely and water breaks felt calculated. Everyone was trying to figure out who’d survive the final cut. It wasn’t just about talent anymore. It was poise, mentality, consistency. How you moved when the coaches weren’t looking, and especially how moved when they were.

We had two days left to prove we belonged in one of those sacred spots. Two days to look irreplaceable.

And that’s exactly how Azzi and I presented ourselves. Together. We didn’t talk much, not that there was much need to. On the court, it was instinctual. We were finishing each other’s sequences as if we’d run drills together for years. Our chemistry was starting to speak louder than our resumes and people noticed.

I caught the coaches whispering on the sideline more than once. Nods and notes jotted down. Quick glances after another seamless backdoor dish. If there was one thing I felt halfway confident in, it was us. We were making this team.

At least, we should be. But nothing was locked in. Not with the depth chart crowded, guard-heavy didn’t even begin to describe it. We had four too many, each player with a case to make. Some were taller, stronger. Some had national titles under their belt. Others were just straight up dogs - relentless in a way that I admired and feared at the same time. I didn’t want to admit it, but the doubt crept in more often than I’d like.

I pulled my hair back for what felt like the tenth time that morning when the elastic snapped between my fingers. Perfect.

“Fuck,” I muttered, staring at the broken tie like I could will it back together.

“Here.”

I turned. 

Azzi was already holding out a spare black hair tie, dangling it between two fingers.

I blinked, “thanks.”

She shrugged, “you look nervous,” she said, as casual as ever.

“I don’t get nervous, Fudd,” I replied, looping the new tie around my fingers, “I just want this, more than anyone in here.”

She didn’t flinch, just sat down beside me on the gym floor, cross-legged, elbows resting on her knees, “what if I wanted it more than you?” she asked, it didn’t come out as a challenge, it came out as a simple question that had just occurred to her.

I snorted, “right.”

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know,” I rubbed the back of my neck, “you make it look easy. You glide around the court like you could do all of this in your sleep. So no offense, but it’s hard to picture you wanting this more than me when it barely looks like you’re breaking a sweat.”

She stared at me, then a smile tugged at her lips, “thank you? Also fuck you?”

That made me laugh and I grabbed a towel, dragging it across my face to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks, “yeah,” I admitted, grinning into the cloth, “I deserved that. That made no sense.”

I stole a glance at Azzi as she watched the court, eyes sharp and unwavering. Every muscle in her posture leaned toward the game, charged with intent. Nothing about her energy read anxious or eager to prove something, she simply belonged on the court and she knew it with every fibre of her being. The effortlessness wasn’t arrogance, it was certainty. While everyone else was gripping at control, she already held it in her hands.

That’s when it hit me, maybe she did want it more than me but, at the very least, we wanted it in different ways.

__

The low hum of the AC filled the room, a mechanical heartbeat that did little to cut through the blank quiet pooling in my chest. Celeste was downstairs in the lobby with the rest of the girls, probably knee deep in someone’s group chat scandal. I tapped out early, an attempt at salvaging the remainder of my social battery, chasing silence to fix the strange weight pressing behind my eyes. 

I was halfway through drying my hair after a much needed shower when a soft knock broke through the stillness. I walked over, opening the door without thinking and there Azzi stood barefoot in the hallway, wearing a faded oversized t-shirt with pale blue pajama shorts. No makeup, curls loose and still damp, post shower. Just her. Soft and unexpected.

“Hey,” she said, that same calm smile plastered on her face, “figured you’d be here.”

“Uh, well…” my voice caught somewhere between surprise and confusion, “I was downstairs, just got tired. Early day tomorrow and all.”

“Right,” she nodded, but then she continued, eyes meeting mine, “can I come in?”

“Huh?”

“I wanted to hang out. If that’s cool with you?”

“Oh.”

Heat unfurled beneath my skin, climbing from my neck to my ears. I stepped aside in silence, unable to formulate an actual sentence. She stepped in with ease, making her way over to the small loveseat in the corner of the room and folded herself onto it, cross legged, perfectly at ease. She looked around, eyes wandering from the desk clutter, to the dirty pile of laundry, to the practice gear draped over the chair then back to me. Waiting.

I stood frozen before I came to my senses, dropping onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the towel around my neck. The AC failed to help with the sudden warmth gathering across my face.

“Where do you live?” I asked, grasping for anything to say, my voice came out lighter than intended at my attempt to make small talk.

“Arlington,” she replied, then clarified, “Virginia.”

“What school?”

“St. John’s this Fall, My dad coaches there.”

“Cool.”

Cool? That’s what I went with?

This is getting ridiculous. There was nothing about this girl that should be this intimidating, for God’s sake, she wore unicorn-print pajama shorts and smiled at vending machines. I sat a little straighter, turning more fully toward her. She didn’t move much, still perched on the love seat, fingers drumming slightly against her knee. She seemed comfortable, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, I was busy second guessing every single blink.

I glanced at her again and found her already watching me. Our eyes held.

The lamplight from the desk hit her at an angle, casting the softest gold along her cheekbones. Her eyes weren’t brown, but not quite black, either. It was something richer, a color that made you want to look longer just to figure it out. In her eyes, I suddenly forgot what my own voice sounded like.

“You?” she asked, tone light but she still held my gaze, “where are you from?”

“Minnesota.”

“I’ve got family there,” she replied.

“Cool.”

Jesus Christ.

I almost groaned out loud. Cool again? 

I broke our eye contact and looked down at my lap, my hands restless. I searched for something grounding, anything to tether me back to myself. My fingers drifted to the black hair tie still looped around my wrist, the same one that she’d handed me during practice without hesitation. I caught her eyeing the band.

“You want it back?”

She shook her head, “it’s just a hair tie, keep it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The silence returned. It wasn’t awkward, just full of things neither of us had figured out how to say yet. Then, her voice came again.

“Paige.”

Just my name, soft through her voice. It hit me square in the chest and my heart completely stalled, it felt like my breathing was out of rhythm.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated but then came her question, “do you hate me?”

“What?”

“You’re relaxed with the other girls,” she said, eyes landing on mine again, “you joke, you laugh. You’re loud. But with me, you close off. You freeze. It’s like you don’t even want to give me the time of day.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said immediately, hoping to ease her worry.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“Just is.”

I expected that to frustrate her, yet the only thing that came from it was another tilt to her head, studying me with the same focus she had on the court.

“Paige,” she said, quieter this time.

“Az.”

There was a small shift, her smile cracking through the silence, “only my grandparents call me Az,” she murmured, amusement tugging gently at her voice.

“Oh,” I suddenly felt self-conscious, “sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep -” 

“No,” she said, cutting me off with a quick shake of her head, “there’s nothing wrong with it, I like it. It sounds right when you say it.”

I scrambled internally for something to say, anything to pull me back from whatever this was starting to become. But my mind was empty, too full to speak. Every second that passed felt like a thread pulling loose.

Not because of her.

Definitely not.

“Paige,” her voice cut through, enough to pull me out of the mental spiral I had fallen in.

“Hm?” 

“I like playing with you.”

Five simple words, but each syllable caused my heart to jump, stumble and skip a beat. 

“Oh,” I said. Fucking brilliant, then, because my mouth hated to cooperate with my brain at even the most vital moments, I smiled, “I like you, too. I mean, playing. I like playing with you, too,”fuck, I immediately buried my face in my hands, groaning into my palms, “just… please ignore me.”

Through my fingers, I peeked up and caught her smiling.

__

When the final roster was announced, among the twelve names was mine and Azzi’s. There was no ceremony, just a printed list taped to a wall outside the meeting room. I stared at it longer than necessary, even after finding my name. Around me, girls hugged, cried, calls made. Others left with their heads down, fast steps and forced smiles. But Azzi and I had made it. Whatever we were or weren’t, it had worked. On the court, at least.

We were told we had a week. Enough time to go home, reset and wrap our minds around what came next. Buenos Aires. International competition. A tournament that would last just four days, but would require every bit of focus, discipline and resolve we could muster.

When we touched down in Argentina, something in me clicked. This was real. The stakes, the stage, the flag we proudly wore across our chests. It was the kind of dream you didn’t allow yourself to believe in until you were already living it.

We didn’t just play, we won. Went completely undefeated. Game after game, Azzi and I came off the bench, a sudden burst of pace that threw off our opponents. While the starters set the tone, we rewrote it. Disrupted rhythm, changed the tempo. Where they expected fatigue, we brought fire. She cut, I passed. I drove, she created space. We didn’t need to talk, just read each other effortlessly. It was chemistry in motion, and it felt as natural as breathing.

By the end of the tournament, people noticed. They all saw the two youngest players out there syncing up like we’d grown up in the same driveway. But eventually, the medals were handed out, jerseys packed away and the lights dimmed on our short spotlight. Just like that, it was over and the moment in my hotel room, whatever it had been between us, it had stayed there. Pressed into the folds of that quiet night, never spoken out loud. Never picked up again. Then we flew home.

Summer blurred around the edges. Workouts, conditioning, long days under the gym lights. My legs stayed tired and my schedule stayed full. The only thing I had room for was forward motion. 

Azzi and I messaged a few times in between the chaos that the tournament had created. Nothing deep. Jokes. Reactions to Insta stories. One word check-ins that never led to anything. 

On my birthday, she sent a text: Happy Birthday :)

I replied: Thanks!

She didn’t text after that, so I let it sit. Then I let it - let her - go. Filed Azzi away in the back of my mind under almost. Not a heartbreak, not even disappointment. Just a soft, strange ache of something never really got to begin. A summer crush I didn’t even have time to understand while it was happening, let alone mourn once it passed.

But even so…

I remembered.

The knock. Her soft voice when she said my name. That flicker, brief but undeniable, that settled between us.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remember.

[cressidagrey]

Undone

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  5 Times Oscar Piastri is undone by his wife and one time Felicity is wrecked by Oscar. 

Warnings and Notes: Definitely NSFW, though there is no actual smut in this.

Inspired by a comment the lovely @scott-mccall-could-lift-mjolnir left me: Ok but Oscar def exceeds his sim rig budget often because he thinks Felicity looks hot when she’s explaining money or whatever to him.

This was the unhinged result.

Big thanks to @llirawolf as always, who listens to me ramble 😂

1. Sim Rig Budget

Oscar had a problem.

Well, technically, he had several. But the main one—if you asked Felicity—was his complete inability to stick to his sim rig budget.

It wasn’t like he was out here buying Lamborghinis or importing solid gold pedals. (Although, if he ever found a carbon fibre seat with a heating function, all bets were off.) No, it was smaller things. Sneakier things. A new pedal set here. A triple-monitor upgrade there. Adjustable haptic feedback, because realism, obviously.

Every time he promised it was the last thing.

And every time, Felicity would appear in the doorway—arms folded, tablet in hand, expression somewhere between unimpressed and unbearably hot.

Like now.

Oscar didn’t even hear her come in. He was halfway through calibrating the brake force on his new hydraulic pedal upgrade (read: totally unnecessary but felt amazing) when he heard her voice, low and calm and devastatingly focused.

“How much was it?”

He winced. “Not that much.”

She raised a brow. “Oscar.”

He turned in his seat. She was leaning against the doorframe in one of his old cricket shirts, sleeves pushed to her elbows, glasses on, tablet balanced on her hip like a loaded weapon. “It was a necessary—”

“It was £620,” she said, tapping the screen.

He blinked. “That… feels fake.”

She walked over slowly. “You submitted the order through our joint account.”

“Oh.”

She stopped just in front of him and tilted her head. “Want to explain why the line item marked ‘pedal upgrade 2.0’ exists when you swore you were happy with the first one?”

Oscar swallowed.

Because here was the problem: Felicity Piastri explaining finances was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. The calm cadence of her voice. The precise way she spoke when listing expenses. The way she wielded percentages like sharp little knives and cited her spreadsheets like scripture.

“You’re doing the thing,” he muttered, voice a little hoarse.

“What thing?” she asked, deadpan, sliding her glasses up her nose. “Explaining where our money went?”

“No,” he said, looking up at her like she was the sum total of every dream he'd ever had. “The thing where I want to put my mouth on you while you say ‘depreciation curve.’”

Her mouth twitched.

“Unbelievable.”

He stood slowly. “Say it once. Please.”

“Oscar.”

“Just one time.”

She took a deliberate step back and planted the tablet on the desk. “Fine. Depreciation curve.”

His hands were on her before she finished the sentence—hooking into her waistband, pulling her close, burying his face against her neck like he was starving of air and she was oxygen. “God, I love you.”

Felicity laughed, breath catching. “You’re not getting away with it just because you’re horny and helpless.”

“I’m not helpless,” he murmured, already backing her toward the edge of the desk. “I’m just… financially irresponsible and madly in love.”

She grinned—sharp, wicked, fond. “That’s not a defence.”

“Tell it to the budget committee.”

“I am the budget committee.”

He lifted her up onto the desk in one smooth motion, hands trailing up under her shirt. “Then I’d like to offer a very, very compelling oral argument.”

Felicity’s breath hitched, her legs tightening around his waist. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you,” he said, dipping his head to kiss the corner of her mouth, “are painfully hot when you talk about money like it’s a game of chess you always win.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair. “I do always win.”

He kissed down her neck, teeth scraping just enough to make her sigh. “I know.”

The edge of her tablet wobbled precariously next to her, flashing open to a spreadsheet that, hilariously, still had “Oscar Piastri’s Financial Recklessness – Q2” as the header.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, hungry and reverent. She smelled like cinnamon and spreadsheets, and he would happily ruin his bank account for the rest of his life if it meant getting her like this—glasses askew, cheeks flushed, breath trembling just slightly from where he’d found that one spot on her neck.

“I swear,” she whispered, hands fisting in the back of his shirt, “you get hotter every time you break a rule.”

“I’m not trying to,” he said against her collarbone, already trailing kisses lower, pushing the hem of her shirt up with maddening care. “I just get overwhelmed when you start talking about projections.”

“Projections,” she repeated, voice husky now, amusement laced into the syllables.

He hummed in response, nipping gently at her skin. “Forecasting. Margins. Show me a well-balanced ledger and I’m gone.”

Her laugh hitched into something closer to a moan when his mouth found the underside of her breast, soft and deliberate. “You’re—god, you’re such a menace.”

“And you,” he said, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes, “walked in here with a budget report and this shirt, so don’t act like this wasn’t premeditated.”

Felicity arched an eyebrow. “It’s your shirt. And technically, I was preparing to destroy you with bar graphs.”

He grinned. “I welcome the annihilation.”

His fingers moved with quiet precision—unbuttoning, unhooking, every action slow and practiced. Like he was undoing a problem set. Like she was the formula he’d never get tired of solving.

And when she finally tugged him up by the collar and dragged his mouth back to hers, her voice was barely a breath:

“Then let’s talk penalties.”

Oscar groaned against her lips, half-laughing, half-undone. “God, please, do.”

Later, as they lay tangled together on the floor—having somehow migrated mid-chaos, surrounded by scattered financial documents —Felicity rolled onto her side and rested her head on his chest.

“You’re over budget,” she murmured, already half-asleep.

Oscar tucked a hand into her hair, grinning against her temple.

“Worth every penny.”

***

2. Fixing his Car

It started with a weird noise.

Oscar had mentioned it offhandedly one night, barefoot in the kitchen, peeling an orange while Bee narrated her day’s adventures involving glitter glue and the neighbour’s cat. Something about his McLaren Artura’s engine note sounding slightly off—maybe a bit of a whine in third gear, maybe nothing. He figured he’d take it in next week. Eventually.

Felicity had just hummed, sipping her tea, and said, “I’ll take a look.”

Oscar thought she meant later. Like, next month. After the school run and the budget review and the weekly shop. He should’ve known better.

Less than 24 hours later, his Artura was in Felicity’s garage and Oscar hadn’t expected to be turned on by a mechanical diagnosis, but here he was. 

Here he was, in the passenger seat of said McLaren Artura, watching his wife—his wife—slide into the driver’s seat with motor oil smudged across her collarbone and the calm authority of someone who had just fixed the damn thing herself.

“Fixed the bracket,” Felicity said, adjusting the rearview mirror like she owned the road. “Tightened the mount and checked the vacuum lines. Want to test it?”

Oscar was already half-hard and they hadn’t even started the engine.

“Test it,” he echoed, blinking. “Yes. Sure. Let’s test it.”

She started the car.

The engine purred, lower and cleaner than before, and she nodded to herself with a little hum of satisfaction, like it was nothing—like she hadn’t just rolled out from under a supercar like some kind of hyper-competent dream in oil-stained shorts and zero patience for incompetence.

Oscar turned to her slowly. “You’re aware this is doing things to me, right?”

She glanced at him. Smirked. “What, the car?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “You. Covered in oil. Fixing my car. Looking at me like you’re the CEO of my entire existence.”

Felicity put the car in neutral. Turned toward him fully.

She was straddling the line between amused and very aware of the effect she was having on him, and Oscar couldn’t tell which part made him dizzier—the smug glint in her eye or the glint of her wedding ring catching the light.

“You didn’t even say thank you,” she said, all mock offense and low heat.

Oscar leaned closer. “I was too busy trying not to beg.”

And then—god help him—she swung a leg over the center console and climbed into his lap.

Right there. In his McLaren.

The leather creaked beneath her, engine still humming low and alive under the hood. She settled on top of him like she’d done it a hundred times before because she had, thighs bracketing his hips, fingers threading into his hair.

“You like me like this?” she whispered, mouth brushing his jaw. “Grease under my nails. Bracket still warm.”

He groaned, gripping her hips like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. “You could read me an instruction manual right now and I’d come undone.”

“Mm.” She ground down once, slow and deliberate. “Torque specs do it for you?”

“Fliss—”

But she was already kissing him, hot and open-mouthed, sliding her hands up under his shirt like she needed to chart every muscle he’d ever used in a race. His hands roamed—up the back of her thighs, under her stolen t-shirt, over the line of her spine like it held the meaning of life.

And maybe it did. Because this—her—this was it. The only thing that ever made sense.

The windows fogged fast. Her laugh was breathless when he cursed against her neck, and the shift of leather and heat between them was all motion and hunger and history. 

At some point Oscar managed to gasp, “We are absolutely never selling this car.”

Felicity bit his bottom lip and whispered, “Then maybe you should thank me properly.”

He did.

Thoroughly.

Twice.

The engine purred the entire time.

And when they finally stumbled back into the house, Bee asleep upstairs and the garage door closed behind them, Oscar was grinning like a man who had glimpsed heaven in a McLaren Artera and found out she answered to Doctor Piastri, engineer, mother of his child, ruiner of lives.

***

3. Lunch Boxes

Oscar didn’t mean to make it a thing.

But it was a thing now.

Because every time Felicity packed his lunch boxes—lined up like perfect little soldiers on the counter, each one colour-coded, labeled in her sharp, clean handwriting—he lost his damn mind a little more.

It wasn’t just the food (though, to be fair, the woman made roasted sweet potato taste like actual seduction). It was the way she did it. Efficient. Precise. Quietly brilliant. Like she didn’t even realize how stupidly hot it was to see her in the kitchen in the early morning, hair up, wearing one of his oversized shirts and no pants, organizing his macros like it was military strategy.

This morning, the purple box had a tiny Post-it on it.

Snack responsibly. Or don’t. Just don’t crash. Love you. —F

Oscar stared at it for a solid ten seconds before whispering, “God help me.”

That night, when he came home exhausted from sim practice and three hours of back-to-back meetings, he found her in the kitchen—barefoot, sipping tea, already halfway through prepping the next day’s lunch rotation.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and just leaned in the doorway for a second, watching her.

“Red for protein,” she was muttering to herself, “green for veg, purple for snacks, yellow for Bee… blue for—”

“You know that thing you do?” Oscar interrupted, voice low.

She looked up, eyebrow raised. “Which thing? I do a lot of things.”

“The thing where you make me lunch boxes so well I want to sin about it.”

Felicity blinked. “You want to sin. About Tupperware.”

Oscar walked toward her, slow, deliberate, until he was standing right behind her. “It’s not the Tupperware,” he murmured into her ear. “It’s the handwriting. The notes. The colour-coding. The quiet genius of packing a full day of nutrients into boxes with the precision of an air traffic controller. That’s hot.”

She turned, smirking now. “You’re telling me meal prep is your kink?”

“No,” he said, hands sliding to her waist. “You are.”

And then he kissed her—open-mouthed and needy, one hand finding the curve of her hip while the other slipped beneath the hem of her shirt.

“You really got all worked up over quinoa and handwritten macros?” she teased between kisses, breath hitching.

“You labelled my almonds ‘fuel: emotional and physical.’” He pressed her against the counter. “You packed my protein bar with a kissy face drawn on the wrapper, Fliss. I’ve been unhinged since breakfast.”

Felicity laughed—and then gasped when he lifted her onto the counter with a smooth, practiced motion. “This is deranged.”

“This is love,” he murmured against her thigh, mouth trailing higher, slower, more reverent now. “And also maybe a little bit of the fact that you’re a control freak with a pantry arranged by expiry date.”

“You’re obsessed with me,” she whispered, breath catching again.

He looked up at her like she hung the moon. “Of course I am.”

And later—when her legs were around his shoulders and her fingers were tugging at his hair like he’d gone and broken every budget in the known world—she managed to gasp, “You’re still getting a green-lid lunch tomorrow.”

Oscar grinned.

“Color-coded and cock-drunk,” he murmured. “God bless efficiency.”

4. Brushing her hair

Oscar loved brushing Felicity’s hair.

Loved the calm of it, the quiet focus, the rhythm. He’d been doing it since they were fifteen—hands careful, reverent, utterly smitten even then.

But what he loved most was when her hair was down. Unbound. Loose. A little wild.

No tie. No braid. Just Felicity with her curtain of dark, silky waves falling around her shoulders and brushing the small of her back when she walked around in his shirt—bare-legged, bare-faced, dangerous without trying.

It did something to him.

Every time.

Like now.

She was straddling his lap on the couch, one knee braced on either side of him, arms loose around his neck. Her hair was still damp from the shower, half-dried and curling at the ends, falling around them like a veil. It smelled like jasmine and shampoo and her.

Oscar could barely think.

His hands slid up her thighs, under the hem of her robe, his eyes locked on the way a strand of hair stuck to her collarbone. She looked down at him with that calm, knowing look—the one that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You like it down, don’t you?” she murmured, voice soft and smug.

“You know I do,” he said, his fingers already threading into it, tugging her forward.

She let him.

Let him twist his hands in her hair and pull, just enough to tilt her head back slightly, exposing her throat to his mouth.

He kissed her there, open-mouthed and slow, and she let out a sound—soft, breathy, wrecked. Her fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. Her hips shifted in his lap.

Oscar groaned. “You have no idea what this does to me.”

“I have some idea,” she whispered, teasing, gasping slightly when he pulled again, firmer this time.

The strands slid through his fingers like silk, catching slightly on his knuckles as he fisted the thick fall of it in one hand and guided her mouth to his. She kissed him back hard, messy, full of teeth and want and years of knowing how to break him with nothing more than a glance and unbound hair.

He pulled her closer, gripping at her waist with one hand, her hair with the other, guiding her rhythm over him like he owned her—except she was the one unraveling him.

Always had been.

Her breath hitched when he bit her lip, then again when he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “You wear it down on purpose, don’t you?”

She smirked. “I like it when you forget your own name.”

He growled, half-laughing, half-gone. “You want me to manhandle you?”

“I want you to stop being gentle,” she breathed, grinding down harder. “You can be gentle later.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

He twisted his hand deeper into her hair, pulled her head back just enough to kiss her neck the way he knew made her knees go weak, and let himself fall—fully, recklessly, gloriously—into her.

The hair fell around them like a curtain.

And the world disappeared.

5. Stretching

Oscar had survived Haileybury.

Barely.

And not because of the coursework or the races or the early morning training sessions.

Because of her.

Felicity Leong, with her quiet mouth and sharper mind, who once rewrote his history essay for fun and finished with a footnote critique of his comma placement. Who wore his oversized hoodies and ballet tights like it was the most normal thing in the world to have a brain built for astrophysics and a body made of silk and steel.

And who—at fifteen—could drop into a split in the middle of the common room while talking about Euripides without even blinking.

He nearly died.

Right there. On the threadbare carpet next to the vending machine and the crusty copy of The Economist some Year 13 had left behind.

Oscar remembered watching her stretch before her early morning classes, legs extended and spine impossibly straight, her bun perfect and secure, jaw tight with focus.

Teenage him had no chance.

None.

Every conversation with her had required mental gymnastics just to function. Every nod, every "cool" or "yeah, me too" had been a desperate attempt to sound normal while his brain short-circuited over the fact that she could fold herself in half and still remind him to submit his physics lab write-up.

He’d walk into form time like a zombie. Had actually missed a karting call once because he was too distracted watching her adjust the elastic of her ballet slippers. One afternoon she’d casually said, “Hold this,” and placed her leg on his shoulder mid-stretch and he’d honestly, truly thought he was going to ascend.

She’d said, “Don’t let it drop,” and he’d said, “Yep,” and then immediately forgot how to breathe.

Now—years later, married, living together, very much allowed to touch her—Oscar still wasn’t over it.

Especially not this morning.

She was in the middle of the living room, hair up in a loose bun, wearing one of his shirts and not much else, leaning into a deep split like it was the most casual thing in the world.

It wasn’t casual. It was violent. Criminal, even.

His wife, the mother of his child, casually stretching like her hip joints were made of warm honey and elastic string, humming something under her breath as she reached forward and flattened her chest against the floor.

Oscar sat on the couch, clutching a coffee he was no longer drinking, hard as a rock and feeling exactly like fifteen-year-old him again.

She glanced up. “You okay?”

He cleared his throat. “That’s… not legal.”

“What’s not?”

“That thing you’re doing. With your legs. And the existing. Like that.”

Felicity smiled, slow and knowing. “You used to lose your mind over this.”

“I used to pray to God to make me stronger,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

She slid her leg higher onto the coffee table. “You used to?”

He exhaled, stood, and crossed to her in one motion, crouching down beside her. “fifteen-year-old me didn’t know what to do with you.”

She leaned into him, lips brushing his jaw. “And twenty-four-year-old you?”

“Still doesn’t,” he whispered, sliding his hand along her thigh. “But I get to try now.”

Felicity kissed him, soft and slow, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “Floor’s yours, Piastri. Let’s see if you stretch as well as I do.”

He never stood a chance.

Not at fifteen.

And definitely not now.

+1 Being a dad

Felicity always knew Oscar would be a good dad.

She’d seen it in the way he held her hand the first time they saw Bee’s heartbeat on the monitor, the way he read parenting books with a highlighter like it was a race weekend strategy.

But nothing—not one single thing—could’ve prepared her for how stupidly hot it would be to watch him parent.

Like tonight.

Bee had a meltdown. A full one. The kind of tear-streaked, overtired, irrational tantrum only a three-year-old could commit to with full-body conviction. Over what? A banana. A bent banana. Felicity had tried to intervene, to soothe, to reason—but Oscar had waved her off gently, crouched down to their daughter’s level, and handled the entire situation with the same calm intensity he used at 300 km/h.

“Bumblebee,” he said softly, brushing Bee’s curls off her damp cheek, “I know it’s frustrating. But bananas don’t always stay perfect. It’s still the same on the inside. Like people.”

Bee hiccuped. Sniffled. Pouted.

Oscar offered her the banana back with a solemnity that somehow made it feel like a peace treaty. “Would it help if I ate one too? We can be bent banana buddies.”

Bee blinked up at him with wet lashes and whispered, “’Kay.”

And just like that—chaos to calm.

Oscar gave her a cuddle, scooped her up, and carried her off to bed like he had all the time in the world. Like patience wasn’t something he ran out of. Like loving her was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Felicity just stood there, watching from the doorway, her entire body flushed with something that started in her heart and sank lower. Much, much lower.

By the time he padded back down the hall, barefoot and quiet, she was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“You’re so good with her,” she murmured, stepping into his space.

Oscar smiled, tired and soft. “She’s Bee. How could I not be?”

And god help her, that was it.

The shirt he’d thrown on was half buttoned, his curls still messy from wrestling with bedtime. He looked completely at ease and completely hers, and Felicity couldn’t take it anymore.

She kissed him, deep and slow, fingers curling into his hair, her other hand slipping beneath the hem of his shirt.

Oscar pulled back slightly, breathless. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“You’re ruining me,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his jaw. “You read her a bedtime poem about emotional regulation, Oscar.”

He laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”

“And you said bent banana buddies like it was a sacred vow.”

“I stand by it.”

She slid her hands up his chest. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a dad.”

“You’re filth,” she said, kissing him again. “Hot, responsible, emotionally intelligent filth.”

He laughed, low and wrecked, pulling her closer. “Is this about to turn into a thank-you-for-parenting-me-properly scenario?”

“It’s about to turn into a bend me like that banana scenario.”

Oscar groaned, backed her into the wall, and kissed her like he’d been waiting to all night.

And later—when the kitchen lights were low, when her back was arched and his name was a prayer against his shoulder—Felicity clung to him and thought:

She always knew he’d be a good dad.

She just didn’t know it would be this fucking sexy.

[sabrina-senpai]

Saja boys trying out a period cramp simulator >:]

This is pt. 2 to saja boys with manager reader (implications of female bodied reader:))

Character/s: Jinu, Romance, Abby, Baby & Mystery

Character pairings: Jinu/you, Romance/you, Abby/you, Baby/you & Mystery/you

A/N: I'm so excited lmaoaoaooo, thank you sm for all the likes and support shown on my previous work!! Was really happy when I found out I got almost 300 notes within an entire day hehehe, anywayyy enjoy the headcannons

Edit: I don't like how it turned out but it is what it is..

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Jinu:

Level 1-2:

• cocks his head to the side

• gives you a "are you serious?" face

Level 3-4

• "okay uncomfortable.. but nothing serious"

• nods like he's listening to philosophy

Level 5-6

• "okay this is- *grunt* annoying"

• there's a frown on his face (he's definitely biting his cheek 💀)

Level 7-8

• straight up flinches

• noticable strain in expression, avoids eye contact like it's gonna help

• and his breathing definitely got heavier

Level 9-10

•yelps but tries to play it off (like sir we all heard that...)

• moves his hands to his stomach

• "it's- ..manageable" (he's shaking and sweating through his shirt)

Final results:

• looks fine. IS NOT FINE..

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Romance:

Level 1-2:

• "Heh that tickles manager-nim~ this is gonna be easy"

• very confident

Level 3-4:

• "oh noo, it's unbearable! Won't you comfort me manager-nim?"

• writhes like he's in immense pain (drama queen)

Level 5-6:

• flinches

• "eughhkay this feels weird.."

• makes the 'who's smelly ahh fart is that?' face

Level 7-8:

• his face drops

• holds up a fist to his mouth with one hand

• "heh- did you perhaps skip a few levels dear manager.?" you did not

Level 9-10:

• bites his shirt as he slides to the floor

• his eyes are snapped SHUT and are those tears?-

• "Tell my fans I died gracefully.." I think he just passed out-

Final results:

• slumped over and pale

• still somehow looks like an overly (hot) broken hearted 2nd lead through it all;-;

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Abby:

Level 1-2:

• "....It feels like cotton balls are being thrown at my stomach, it seems you've severely underestimated my endurance manager-nim"

• cue a toothy smirk

• smug little f- sucker (hehe)

Level 3-4

• shifts in his seat

• his smirk is still in tact though

Level 5-6

• raises a brow and huffs but-

• "okay, I see how this can be annoying all day.."

Level 7-8

• clenching his shirt and grabbing at his sides hard enough to leave slight bruising

• *slight panic*

Level 9-10

• "...is this legal.?"

• definitely crying but still tries to look cool (he looks like a wet dog)

Final results:

• the most 'tame' reaction of the five

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Baby:

Level 1-2:

• "....are you sure you're not overreacting for sympathy manager-nim?"

• sighs and scoffs like this is an everyday thing

Level 3-4:

• tenses up like a cat that got splashed

• snaps a glare at you

Level 5-6:

• cradles his stomach like it's gonna help

• his knuckles are white from clenching his fist too tight

Level 7-8:

• tried to distract himself

• fails

• punches a pillow

Level 9-10:

• screams into the same pillow he punched

• "turn it off or I'll blow this place up.."

Final results:

• dazed

• looks like his soul flew out of his body

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Mystery:

Level 1-2:

• does not twitch

• his only reaction? A head tilt..

Level 3-4:

• "This feels like being hungry... but with a warning"

Level 5-6:

• "....interesting" his grip on the chair says otherwise

Level 7-8:

• full on flinch

• and i think he broke the chair-

Level 9-10:

• sharp intake of breath

• his head rolls back and his lip bleeds from how hard he's biting into it

Final results:

• completely still

• scares everyone thinking he died-

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

A/N: characters may be ooc. And these are just how I think they'd react so it's definitely not perfect or accurate, but I tried to make it as accurate as I could;-;

[numbuh666]

Fowl Play

pairing: goose!sukuna x f!reader

synopsis: Aggressive. Territorial. You’ve seen it all when it came to geese. Just typical animal behavior that you can avoid. However, a simple mistake leads to one in particular having a grudge against you. Eventually getting fed up with his shenanigans, you crash out which ends up leading you into the arms of…a really sexy demon?

cw: crack, transformation, smut, dubcon, sukuna being a little shithead, afab!reader, degradation, backshots, reader getting bullied by nature, sukuna calls you brat and slut

a/n: I watched bunch of videos of people being attacked by geese for seemingly no reason and was like….”yeah this is definitely sukuna-coded”. I think this trend was started by @yenayaps ?

How would you explain this to your therapist?

All you wanted to do was follow your usual morning routine of putting in your earbuds and taking a jog around the park. Despite the sharp winds whipping through the trees, the temperature was bearable enough that you don’t have to worry about constantly finding a water source to refill your thermos.

As you finished up your warm-up stretches and began your laps, you took some time to take in the cool breeze and the peaceful atmosphere as you kept your pace. The early sun cast golden beams along the sidewalk, and the ducks in the nearby pond quacked as they scoured for food. The day seemed almost perfect, temporarily letting you set the stresses of your work life into the back of your mind.

Little did you know that a gust of wind blowing off your cap would put a dent in the little moment of peace you had.

“Shit!”

Pausing your music and skidding to a halt mid-lap, you veered off course to chase after it as the wind carried it away. Trekking across the damp earth, you occasionally stumbled and nearly tripped over yourself as you clawed desperately at the air to retrieve it. With every stride, you could feel your irritation mounting as you dodged a couple of low hanging branches that swiped at your face.

You silently cursed yourself for not taking account of the weather before you left this morning, and now it seems nature itself is punishing you for it. It was like the wind was taking this as some sort of cruel joke. The more you picked up your pace and found it tumbling within arms reach, the damn thing just kept blowing away again.

Just as you were thinking about giving up this seemingly endless chase, the cap thankfully got caught on a stray branch of what looked like a nest. Relief washing over you, you sped up towards the small tree it was in. Hopefully you can get it down without having to disturb any possible eggs in the nest.

The moment you came to a stop at the base of the tree to catch your breath, you reached out for the hat only to jump back at the sound of a loud honk and wings flapping at the side of your face.

“What the?!” landing on your ass with an ungraceful thud, you glance in bewilderment at the creature that seemingly came out of nowhere.

Before you was the cold gaze of a rather intimidating but somewhat peculiar looking goose. It gave another loud honk as it watched you slowly get your feet.

“Just my luck…,” you sighed in frustration as you brushed bits of leaves and dirt from your arms.

You were no stranger to the temper of these birds, having witnessed other poor unfortunate souls being subjected to relentless pecking for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nevertheless, watching others fall victim to geese had you making mental notes on where certain goose nests were located as well as sometimes having a couple scraps of food on you just in case you needed to appease them. Unfortunately, you had no food on you this time.

Ok ok…no need to panic! It’s just a bit upset that I wandered into its turf. I just…

gotta convince it that I’m not a threat is all.

Swallowing a gulp, you tried to adjust your body language as you gaze down at the bird. In the midst of your terror you couldn’t help but admire its unique pink feathers and strange dark markings. If you weren’t in the middle of a confrontation, you might’ve taken a picture and made it into a cutesy aesthetic wallpaper for your lock screen.

“Hey there…errr….little goosey,” you held your hands up sheepishly, forcing a grin that looked more like a grimace. “Don’t worry, it’s ok…I mean no harm.”

Silence. The goose just continued to observe you with an unnerving stillness. It was as if those beady eyes were directly staring into your soul with a sort of intelligence that seemed unusual for an animal.

You take a step, keeping your voice soft. “I just need to get my hat, and then I’ll be out of your hair—errr fur—I mean feathers.”

Another step. No reaction.

“Good. See? Just a harmless human passing by.”

You continued to take tentative steps closer towards the bird and your hat. Things seemed to be going well as the bird seemed to be quite calm. Unusually calm, but better than its earlier attitude.

Almost there.

The hat was nearly within your reach at the goose’s feet. All you needed to do was grab it and make a hasty but careful retreat to avoid startling the creature.

Steady.

You reached for the brim, fingers twitching.

HONK.

Before you could even process what was happening, the damn bird was already on you, wings flapping as it screeched and honked excessively as if you were somehow endangering its life.

“OW OW OW! WHAT DID I EVEN DO?!” you cried, stumbling back unable to see anything besides a flurry of pink feathers and rage.

Nearly tripping over your own feet in an attempt to shield your face from the onslaught, you tried swatting at the menace.

“GEEZ I’M SORRY OKAY?!”

No longer trying to make peace with the animal, you decided to rush for the cap and get the hell out of there.

“HONK HONK HONK!”

(Translation: Damn mortals, thinking I’m just gonna let you waltz into my home because you’re too incompetent to keep up with your belongings?! Oh, you’ll get your fucking hat back, alright!)

Giving your hands a few last angry nips, the goose seized your hat within its beak and began to fly in the midst of your turmoil. You couldn’t believe what was happening right now. How did things escalate this far?

“H-hey!” you yelled in exasperation. “That’s not yours! Get back here!”

It circled over you a few times in what seemed like mockery before whizzing off. You stood there for a moment dumbfounded before tailing it in hot pursuit.

“You’re not getting away demon spawn! That hat cost me twenty dollars and I’m not about to lose it to some stupid turkey!”

Tearing through the trees and across the field, you developed tunnel vision, mind focusing solely on the flying fatass overhead. How on earth could such a stupid looking creature fly with such agility and speed. Occasionally it flew higher as if threatening to disappear, savoring your screams of fury.

Eventually you came to a stop at the edge of the pond near your jogging trail. You watched in utter confusion as the bird flew over to the middle of the water, turning around to face you as it hovered over it with your hat. Realization dawned on you quickly.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you pointed uselessly at the goose. The audacity of this thing! There was really no way in hell it didn’t know it was doing

With a look that you could only translate as “Try me” the little fucker opened its beak and let go, then proceeded to fly to the other side and set itself down at the edge.

For a few seconds you stood there, mouth agape and dumbfounded at what just happened.

“What. The. HELL?!” you shouted, voice practically echoing across the serene environment.

Across the pond, the goose watched as you furiously stomped your foot repeatedly in silent glee. It served you right for being such an incompetent creature. Incidents such as this made it all worth the more while for him to hardly ever take his human form. There was just something so gratifying about potentially ruining someone’s day for petty reasons.

After a few minutes your anger somewhat subsided leaving you in exhausted resignations.You concluded that your little mini tantrum wouldn’t make things any better and accepted your loss. Kicking off your shoes and taking a deep breath, you dove into water, still internally raging at the thought of having to go home and spend hours redoing your hair and spending time on extra laundry.

The water was frigid and you shuddered at feeling

You tried your hardest not to meet the gaze of that smug asshole across the pond, but you just couldn’t resist giving him your angriest glare you could muster. Grabbing your hat and swimming back, you grit your teeth as you heard the obnoxious honks and what you swore was a hint of laughter.

Making your way back onto land, you sat at the edge of the water, contemplating everything while wringing out your clothes.

You knew geese could be assholes, but this was a bit too far. Surely there were far more people that were worthy of this kind of torment than someone who made a mistake.

Despite the humiliation, you thought the best thing to do was to shrug this whole incident off. It was just an animal guarding its territory and you just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, no big deal.

This would only be a one time freak accident.

Right?

Sukuna being Sukuna of course, simply being a mild inconvenience to you wasn’t enough. Things only seemed to escalate over the weeks as he continued targeting you because you’re such a fucking weakling and he can’t help himself.

Your morning routines were completely ruined. Every weekend you showed up to exercise, about halfway through laps, you’d find him standing in the middle of the damn trail. He’d crane his neck at you while making the most demonic screeches known to man as if he thought he could scare you. (It did.)

“Get out of the way.”

He didn’t budge.

You stepped to the left

He followed.

You moved right.

So did he.

“Stupid fucking bird!” you shouted, trying to make yourself look bigger by charging at him, which only provoked him into attacking you until you ran away.

Changing the time of day didn’t help either. In fact, it only made the ordeals more embarrassing for you, as there were more people around. However, it did make you feel a bit better to see him go after other people at times.

Eventually you decided to switch trails altogether and it seemed to work at first. You figured it might get bored of picking on the same person after a while. Either that or a coyote got him.

You were so caught up in your semblance of peace that you didn’t register the deafening honk before it was too late.

One moment you were in tune with the music in your ears, the next you were knocked to the ground before you could even scream as he divebombed you.

“GODDAMMIT!” you shrieked, ear buds knocked out of your ears and water bottle rolling across the pavement. “I’m not even your territory, what the hell is your pro-OW!” you pulled back your arms as he pecked you for trying to grab at him.

For the next ten minutes you sat there huddling your knees to your chest and bawling your eyes out while he circled around you honking in some display of superiority.

It didn’t end there.

At some point you were jolted awake in your bed from that all too familiar sound

”HOOONK HONK HOOONNNK!”

Did this asshole seriously find where you lived just to be your personal alarm clock?!

It shouldn’t seem too surprising since the park was literally down the street from your neighborhood but it was unnerving nonetheless.

“LEAVE! GO HOME!” you slapped against the window like that would do anything.

As usual, his response was to squawk so loud he’d wake the whole neighborhood.

Safe to say you didn’t sleep the rest of that morning and 6:30 A.M. became your permanent waking hour.

It all seemed so very hopeless. At this point you came to accept that this hell spawn was a part of your life. Maybe the best course of action would be to melt that icy heart through food?

From then on about thirty or so minutes before you expected him to arrive, you’d set up a little bowl of oats and wait. You couldn't believe you were out here doing this for that little shit.

Much to your relief however, this seemed to mellow him out a bit. He’d land and immediately start digging in as if he forgot you even existed. Despite being so evil you did find him adorable at times when he wasn’t a ball of rage. He even let you pet his soft feathers at times.

The only problem was he ate a lot. He ate so much that it put your own fast metabolism to shame. He’d down one bowl and before you had time to go through all your social media notifications, he was already nipping at your ankles and squawking at you to get more.

Fat fuck.

This was so ridiculous, the way this hell spawn demanded food from you like a school yard bully.

The final straw was when you were bringing a guy back to your place after a little lunch date to find him pacing on your front lawn.

“I-is that a goose?” your date asked in a hoarse whisper , freezing in his tracks

“Uhhh yeah…looks like it.” you laughed nervously. “Weird huh? Never knew them to be so close to residential areas.” Maybe if you pretended to not know him, he might fly away.

Sukuna locked eyes with him, opening his wings and letting out a hiss.

What the hell was he even doing here? It wasn’t even time for his fifth meal!

The guy jumped, now visibly shaking and starting to hyperventilate.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m just a bit scared of them. You see, I got jumped by several of them when I was six—

Sukuna let out a screeching honk then lunged at him before he could finish. Your date wasted no time getting the hell out of there, sprinting down the road as he was bombarded with pecks and bites. What the hell was Sukuna’s problem? You’d never seen him behave so aggressively, even with you.

Either way, you’ve had enough. While he was busy, you marched to the backyard and grabbed the hose with steam practically coming out of your ears. You turned the pump, making sure it was at a setting that wasn't intense enough to hurt him.

Shortly after, you saw him waddling smugly into the backyard, as if he were a loyal dog that was defending its owner.

“EAT SHIT YOU OVERSIZED CHICKEN!!” you shrieked, unleashing the (small) might of the hose.

The goose had little time to react as the water streamed across the yard, hitting him square in the feathery chest. He let a confused screeching honk at your audacity to stand up to him.

“NOT SO FUN TO BE ON THE RECEIVING END, HUH?!

You shoot another burst as he tries flying towards you.

“NO! BAD!”

Another stream.

“You have some nerve treating the mouth that feeds you like this!”

Another.

“Now sit there and think about what you've done!” you scold him as your turn off the pump, proud that you’ve finally stood up for yourself.

But this doesn’t last long because you’re a fucking coward, and you know you’ve probably fucked up so you quickly turn off the hose and run inside the house before he can retaliate.

For a moment, Sukuna just stood there in silence. Drenched, humiliated and shocked. Then in true goose fashion that you were used to at this point, started honking at the top of his lungs.

“YOU INSOLENT BRAT! HOW DARE YOU TREAT ME LIKE SOME MISBEHAVED PET?! YOU’RE LUCKY COME HOME TO SEE YOUR FUCKING HOUSE BURNED TO THE GROUND!”

From your perspective though, all you could hear was “HONK HONK HONK” while he jumped up and down flapping his wings. To add further fuel to the fire, you begin pacing in circles, flapping your arms like a bird while making an imitation of goose noises.

He pauses mid-tantrum stunned before shrieking even louder that you’re surprised he didn’t break the glass. It didn’t matter to you though, as you gave him one final middle finger before closing the curtains.

Oh that was it.

A sort of mist began to form around the enraged goose. The air crackled as half the backyard was shielded in the cloud. Slowly Sukuna began to morph and grow, until he reached his human form.

You were in the middle of sulking in your room, blasting your sad playlist in your ears when you opened your eyes to see the figure that’s almost as tall as your doorframe. There stood a very angry and very naked looking man, holding one of your towels as if drying himself off. He reminded you of those statues of gods you’d see in a museum. Broad shoulders, abs which looked almost sculpted that trailed down his tapered waist. Dark markings adorn his tan skin, wrapping around his arms and slithering down his chest in a way that hypnotized you.

You screamed, immediately jolting up and throwing a pillow at him, which he easily dodged.

“YOU!“ crimson eyes boring into yours as he pointed an accusatory finger at you before throwing the towel to the side. “DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO RUFFLE WATER OUT OF MY FEATHERS?!”

“What the hell are you talking about?! Who are you and why did you break into my house?!

“You left the door unlocked, dumbass,” he rolled his eyes, muscles bulging as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m Sukuna, the goose you practically waterboarded just a few minutes ago. Congratulations, you’ve managed to piss me off to the point I managed to shift back into my original form. Consider it your greatest achievement in your pathetic life.“ He hissed, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Your eyes couldn’t help but sweep across his bare form again, unable to look away from his…rather absurd sized dick that you estimated to be larger than your forearm. Noticing where your gaze was, he smirked despite his brimming anger, his member twitching the longer you stared.

“Agh! Snap out of it!” you shook your head, feeling your face getting hot. “Are you drunk?! You’re not making any sense right now. What makes you think you’re a goose? Do you go around shitting up the place and saw one as your kindred spirit?!

Suddenly he stomped his way over to you making scoot back further in your bed, huddling your knees. “You better watch your tone, brat!” he snarled in contempt. “I’m the King of curses and will not be addressed in such a way by an insect like you!”

Besides being flashed, you gave him another once-over taking in other aspects of his appearance. Spiky but fluffy looking pink hair and eyes like rubies that were the exact same shade as goose. Were you losing your mind or maybe it just seemed easier to go along with whatever the hell he’s saying?

“So this whole time….” you stared blankly. “YOU KNEW EXACTLY WHAT THE FUCK YOU WERE DOING?! DIVEBOMBING ME, DRIVING UP MY GROCERY BILLS FOR YOUR RIDICULOUS APPETITE, AND RUINING MY DATE? ALL THIS BECAUSE MY HAT FELL INTO THE NEST OF A STUPID FAIRY?!”

“WHA—?! I’M NOT A GODDAMN FAIRY!!!”

“I DON’T CARE!” you shout, throwing another pillow uselessly that hits in the chest.

“And besides,” he continued, not even flinching at the impact. “Human suffering is a favorite pastime of mine and you just so happened to catch interest, little lamb.” He started to crawl onto the bed, eyes roaming over your exposed thighs from your hiked up dress.

You yelped, trying to scramble out of the bed, only for him to grab you in one smooth motion and pin you back down, laughing maniacally.

“You arrogant prick!” you hissed, squirming in his grasp. You can’t just eat up all my food and barge in here like you pay rent! I swear I’m gonna rip your fucking he—“ The feeling of a large hand sliding between your legs has your breath hitching.

“Such bold words for someone in your position.” his hand lightly squeezed your throat. He leaned in closer making you shudder as the predatory glint in his eyes. “You’re being awfully ungrateful don’t you think? Would you rather I let your time be wasted faking orgasms for that bumbling idiot?” Two fingers slid under the seam of panties, teasing your entrance.

“How would you even know?! You’re a fucking goose!” God, the way your pussy started to throb and leak from his touch was making you seethe even more.

“I’m a demon.” he stated bluntly, squeezing your clit before slipping two thick fingers inside you. Your fingers dig into the sheets, instinctive arching your back. “Tch, can’t believe you’re being such a whiny bitch when this slutty little cunt of yours is begging to fucked.

Ah! W-hy can’t you just…leave me… alone?” the way you were pulsating and clenching around his fingers said otherwise.

“Look at you…already coming undone and I’ve barely done anything. You seriously expect that loser would get you off like this?“ he groaned as he felt your throbbing walls clenching around his fingers. ”Fuck, you’re already soaked.“ He retracted his fingers and began to slow lick them off, savoring the taste.

“Cant…believe…a stupid du—“ he shoved his two fingers in your mouth before you could finish.

“Shut up and clean up the mess you made.” he growled, grinning at the sight of you sucking off your own substances.

There he goes again, putting responsibility on you for the problems he created. You didn’t know whether to feel irritated at him or yourself for

“Don’t give me that look.” he chuckled, tugging off your panties. “Should be thankful I’m even bothering with you, considering you left me to starve. Speaking of which…” he dips his face between your legs before tugging you closer, lust filled eyes focused solely on your sopping wet cunt. “So pretty.” he murmured, mouth brushing against your folds.

“Hey! W-wait a minute yo—fuck!” you feel his tongue trail along your lips, licking up your juices. Your mind was in a constant war. There was no denying you hated his guts, but was it necessary for him to be so hot and good at what he was doing to you?

He was eating you out to the point you started whimpering. He was so sloppy and messy, lapping up your fluids as if it were his last meal, before his tongue circled up to your clit. He stayed sucking on it for a good while, having your thighs in a vice grip flush against his face. You felt like you were gonna die, or maybe you were already dead and this demon had claimed your soul.

Dream or afterlife, all your body cared about was wanting more from the man whose mouth you were gushing into. Clit twitching against his tongue, you could feel the fire pooling in your belly, aching for release. He seemed to gain satisfaction at the sight of you losing your mind, feeling your legs shake as he continued his torturous assault on your clit.

“S-Sukuna….mmm…so close!” your fingers are tangled in hair, as if afraid he’ll deny you.

He was considering it too, but it’s been a while since he had a good fuck and the sounds of your pretty voice suppressed his cruelty…for now. “Cum—on my tongue you whiny brat.” You don’t need to be told twice, feeling a dam break inside of you and making a mess on his face. Lapping your nectar greedily, he tongue moves back swirling around your clit one more time. Satisfied, he chuckled. “What? No more attitude?”

Wiping the corner of his mouth, he leaned in, pressing his lips down on yours, giving you another taste of your own fluids. He grabbed at his erect member as he broke the kiss, leaving a trail of saliva connecting between your mouths. Before you could even think, you yelped in surprise as he was suddenly flipping you onto your stomach.

“Ass up.” he ordered. “We’re not done here.”

You obeyed without protest, raising your hips and exposing your glistening pussy to him. You were feeling a mixture of anticipation and worry, wondering whether or not that monster of his would fit inside you.

“Fuck…” Sukuna groaned, lightly stroking himself and leaking precum onto the sheets. He’d never admit it, but he’s mentally kicking himself for waiting so long.

Slowly, he spreads you, nestling his twitching cock against your entrance. “Just gonna let me…take you like this huh?” he grunted, sinking his thick length inside . “So damn tight. Just a tight little hole for me to take….like everything else.” You’re gasping, feeling like there was no way you can take him but he only just keeps going deeper with each stroke.

Shut up! Ah—Qui…..treating me like a pusho—Fuck, you’re too damn big!” you spoke through short gasps. You felt like you were being stretched beyond your limits. Gripping the sheets, you bit your pillow trying to suppress the loud moan that threatened to escape from you.

“Aww too ashamed to admit it?” he teased in a low sultry tone as he kept up with his slow rhythmic pace. “That you like to be reminded of your place, that your true purpose is to be a demon's fucktoy?” The base of his cock was slamming against your ass as he drove more of himself into you.

“That’s not tr—” you suddenly cry out as he suddenly grabs a fistful of your hair.

“Yeah it is,” he leaned into your ear growling. “Practically drooling over my cock like a hungry slut while crying over that insect.” He picked up his pace, thrusting a bit harder in assertion of a claim he made on you a long time ago.

“Y-you’re…such an….asshole.” you breathe out, trembling under him. You were losing your mind with him fucking you out like this, feeling the gummy walls of your cunt accommodate the size of his fat cock as if trying to milk his full length. He fucks you like you’re his personal fleshlight, leaving you hardly able to form any words.

“Yet I’ll still play with you however I want. Fuck…you’re taking me so well” he groaned through half lidded eyes, feeling his hot breath against the side of your face. The way your walls clenched around his dick had him making the most sinful noises known to man. It was like your body was made for him. He couldn’t get enough. “Bet no human can fuck you like this, huh?”

“I-I don’t k—“ you faltered before his free hand wrapped around your neck, pounding into you faster.

“Not an answer, woman.” he hissed, thrusting against your cervix.

“No man….c-can fuck me as good as you!” you choked, no longer denying what you wanted.

“Atta girl.” you could feel his smirk against the shell of your ear. The hand that was around your throat snakes its way under your flimsy dress to grip one of your tits making you wince. Two of his fingers squeezed at your nipple making circular motions as he continued to pump into you relentlessly.

You put your pride to the back of your mind while he continued to use your sopping cunt to milk him of all he’s worth, whispering degrading things in your ear and occasionally praising you for being such a good slut. The room was filled with the sounds of squelching and your spluttering moans.

You’re still convinced this is some weird dream and at any moment you’d awaken to the sound of grating honks of your bird friend. After all, he’s an asshole that loves ruining everything. Sukuna was an asshole too, so it’s no wonder he’d take the form of a goose. He didn’t deserve to bury his fat cock inside you, or to relish in the sounds you made as he finally hit that particular spot, or to continue to mock at as he prodded at it with each thrust.

He’s at least good at fucking, so you guess that’ll compensate him being a piece of shit for now. It was like you were under a spell, toes curling as his thrusts become more sloppy and messy.

“Gonna—fill you with my seed. Ya want that, brat?” he rasped, feeling like he was already on the verge.

“Uh hu—hey!” you cried at a harsh smack on your ass.

“Use your fucking words, slut.”

“M-make me cum! Need you—so bad!” tears were streaming down your face as he forced you to beg.

“See, that wasn’t so hard?” he chuckled between pants. “Gonna— fill this little pussy…to the brim.” Sukuna held your hips in tight grip enough to leave bruises, claws digging into your hips.

Your own release was starting to pool in your belly, clenching around his desperate,y as he kept slamming into you. He had turned you into a blubbering incoherent mess, leaving the only thing on your brain being his dick.

Letting out a deep guttural sound, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, jerking his hips one last time as he spilled his seed. Ropes of cum shoot inside you, filling you to the brim and dripping down your thighs. He holds you there for a moment, breathing heavily clearing his mind.

He takes one clawed finger and takes a scoop of the cum dripping out your hole, smearing it across your backside as if marking you. Slowly he pulls out, making sure you feel every inch of him before flipping you onto your back, still hard and ready to take you from the front.

That is, until he saw you had passed out.

“Damn humans,” he growled, displeased at the fragility of mortals.

He sighed, laying down on the bed and wrapping an arm around you, nuzzling the crook of your neck. A moment like this made it worth his while for him to take his human form more often. Besides, there were far too many annoying geese migrating to the park, squawking at all hours of the fucking day. He smirked, knowing there was no way you were getting rid of him now. However another thought occurred to him.

He was still fucking hungry.

a/n: i ended up taking a lot more time on this than i expected. I wasn’t expecting it to be this long. 😭

Do not copy/repost

[silkytoru]

Can’t Seem to Let You Go

MDNI | 18+

synopsis: staying broken up with gojo satoru isn’t as easy as you thought it would be, especially when he’s still hopelessly in love with you.

contains: mutual pining, smut with a little plot, bondage, light degradation, pussy slapping (barely), light breeding kink, piv, oral (female receiving), his dick is BIG, yearner!gojo

word count: 4K

Gojo Satoru was infamous for his stubborn nature and his inability to back down, and you were facing the worst of it.

It had only been a couple weeks since you two broke up, but he was determined to win you back. No matter what.

If you were any other girl, he would brush you off without a second glance and move onto the next, but you weren’t. You were you. You were his girl and he’s not letting go of you any time soon.

Whenever anyone asked him if it was truly over between you two, he’d just offer them a wave of his hand and mutter something along the lines of you two “going through a rough patch”. He would sooner hollow purple himself before admitting that you were truly finished. That he was now single after meeting the woman of his dreams. His future wife. The mother of his future children. All ten of them.

His following you around was bearable for the first two weeks, but lately it’s been hard to ignore. He followed you around the school closer than your own shadow. People hardly ever believed you when you’d tell them you broke up with the man.

“Back off, Gojo,” you’d say.

“Gojo? Whatever happened to ‘baby, sweetheart, and munchkin’?” He’d feign hurt, a hand on his chest as if your words landed a physical blow to his heart.

You’d roll your eyes and go about your day.

But it was just getting annoying. Love notes in between your lesson plans, rose petals sprinkled on your desk, his wishful smiles from across hallways. It was time for it to stop.

One day you muster up the courage to show up at his apartment, furiously knocking on his door. One of the sappy love notes he had given you was fisted in your hand (which you had found in your car of all places).

The door swings open and you’re faced with the white-haired sorcerer, his bandana hanging around his neck carelessly and his eyes boring into yours. A smug smile plays on his lips, as if he’d been expecting you.

“You came all this way to see me?” He tilts his head, his towering frame leaning against the doorframe.

You have to fight to keep your eyes on his. He looked at you with a certain going on his eyes, as if you never left.

“You know exactly why I’m here, Gojo,” you say, your voice firm. “What’s this?” You hold up the crumpled note, waving it in his face as if its an offense to your very being.

His eyes crinkle when he smiles, almost proud. “A proclamation of love.” He says it so casually, as if the constant chasing isn’t driving you insane.

“We broke up,” you say, your voice firm. “I don’t want any of this.” You look down at the note, the messily scribbled ‘I love you’ and the tiny doodles of hearts. “So stop bothering me.” You hand him the note, the thin paper suddenly feeling heavy between your fingers.

He doesn’t meet your gaze, slender fingers folding the note tightly. “This bothers you?” His voice was low, quiet even. You’ve never heard him sound so unsure.

You sigh and shake your head, exasperated. “Listen, Satoru, we can’t keep doing this. It’s confusing and it’s wrong. Just move on.”

“I can’t.” The words spoken were simple, but they held so much weight. “I’m sorry for not giving you enough of my time before, and I’m sorry for being hardheaded and loud. I want to be better. For you. And I’m sorry it took losing you to realize how good what we had was.”

Whatever words you had got lodged in your throat, an unmovable lump of something that made you stop and think.

But no, you couldn’t linger on his words for too long. You’d come crawling back into his waiting arms. Again.

“It’s too late. Just give up.”

And he watched you leave for the second time, taking his heart with you.

~

It seems that your words have finally gotten through to him because for the next week, your desk lacked the aroma of flowers and your lesson plan notebooks were free from the extra love.

Instead of the smiles he’d given you before, all you’d get from him are heartbroken stares and a yearning look in his eyes whenever you’d pass by. You couldn’t decide if that was better or worse.

You were sitting at your desk, marking some papers silently. A flash of red brings a slight furrow to your brow. You push a few files over, peering under a worksheet.

There it was, under heaps of papers, a single rose petal glinting in the sun like a ruby. And along with it, a deep aching in your heart for something. Maybe a flash of cerulean blue instead of the deep red you’re seeing. Maybe the glinting of pearly whites.

You aren’t given much time to linger on those thoughts as your door creaks open. You make a move to grab the petal, crushing it in your fist as your eyes fly to whoever’s at the door.

Yuji walks in, a bashful smile on his face. “Gojo-sensei wanted me to give these to you.” He hands you a stack of papers.

It was so unlike him to send someone else to your office. He usually took any opportunity to see you.

You choose to ignore the dull feeling of disappointment and sift through the papers with a furrowed brow. “A trip to Tokyo?” You mutter. “Your exams are next week. What are the higher-ups thinking?”

Yuji shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. It was obvious he was just as confused as you are. “Gojo-sensei is going to be chaperoning though,” he mentions, giving you a sidelong glance.

You feel heat creeping up your neck and you glance away before the teenager could notice. “I’ll think about it,” you mumble, almost indignantly.

The young boy just chuckles before leaving, the door closing behind him with a click!

Your shoulders slump and you rub a hand over your face. What has gotten into you? You can’t be a chaperone on this trip. You have papers to grade and reports to write and—

Oh, fuck it all.

~

The students were buzzing with excitement, chatting excitedly amongst themselves as they file through the entrance of the hotel in Tokyo. You have a brochure in hand, reading about the scheduled museum trip for tomorrow.

Satoru was late, of course he was. So you had to wrangle all the excited teenagers into the lobby and brief them about all the rules yourself.

“Curfew is at nine, no sneaking out past that time, you can go to the pool as long as you have someone with you. No wandering around alone, no funny business, no—”

“The most important rule is to have fun,” you hear a familiar voice behind you, as playful as it is smooth. The velvety timbre of his voice helps to smooth out your frayed nerves and you find yourself releasing a deep breath without realizing.

“And don’t get into any trouble,” you add, giving the students a stern look. One of you had to be serious.

Satoru slings an arm around your shoulders and you ignore the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. “We work so well together,” he teases, looking down at you with a look you can’t decipher.

The enthusiastic chatter of the students is drowned out by the mere presence of him.

God, he smelled so good.

He drops his arm from your shoulders and works on getting the students into their designated rooms, all the while you’re standing there like a fool in love. Again.

~

It’s well past twelve and everyone is settled. Your room was decent, a bed, a table, and a counter with a cooler conveniently placed atop it.

It was silent, save for the streetlights buzzing outside and the occasional footsteps of a passerby. Peaceful even.

And you still couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, you’d get visions of cheeky grins and something blue. It was infuriating. Maybe coming here was a bad idea.

A sharp knock at your door pulls the sleep right out of your eyes.

Could it seriously be a student at this hour? You really don’t want to have to call room service about another clogged toilet.

You sluggishly walk over to the door, robe wrapped tightly around your body, before you swing it open.

This was definitely not a student.

“Can I come in?” Satoru asks. He looks exhausted. His hair was a mess stop his head, his bandana was out of place, lazily perched around his head in a way where the silk sagged, revealing a sliver of the blue eyes you adored so much. “Please.”

You hesitate. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Gojo—”

“Toru.” His voice was sharp, firm. Leaving no room for argument.

You nervously twist the doorknob, wanting so badly to slam it in his face (or slam your lips against his).

He peels off his bandana, crumpling the fabric in his hands, to stare you dead in the eyes with a pleading look. “Please. I need to see you.”

You were considering responding with a ‘you’re seeing me now’, but you knew that’s not what he meant. You nod and open the door wider for him. His stance softens, as if he was expecting to be turned away. He walks in, chest brushing against your side with the way he squeezes past you, although the door was wide open. He sits at the foot of your bed, patting the empty space beside him.

You sigh, steeling yourself for the worst before you move towards him, the bed dipping with your weight combining with his.

Satoru looks at you, his gaze soft and unyielding. Unguarded. “I’m sorry for this,” He mutters. Before you can question his words, he finishes with a quick: “I’m going to kiss you now.”

It’s all he says before his lips descend onto yours, his hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer.

You were too surprised to even respond, so you did the next best thing.

You slapped him.

Your palm left a red mark on his cheek that you only noticed when he parted from the impromptu kiss. He looked at you like he was lovestruck, lids heavy and lips curving upwards into a gentle smile. “Do it again.”

“Are you serious?” Your voice almost cracks in outrage. “What is wrong with you?”

“Everything,” he admits, almost too quickly. “I leave my laundry on the floor, I never listen to the voice of reason… and I’m the best choice you will ever make.”

Silence follows his words. He said will. Not could. Will make. As though he was so sure of the fact that you’d choose him.

You will your heart to harden before you roll your eyes and stand up, pointing at the door. “Out.”

“No,” he says. It makes your brows shoot up and your knees weak. “If I leave this room, I’m leaving half a man. I need you, baby.” He grabs ahold of your hand, looking up at you with those pretty eyes. Pleading. “I’m not leaving. Not letting you leave. Not again. Just give me a chance.” His lips ghost over your knuckles, reverent. Devoted.

How many bad decisions are you going to make this week?

Your feet move before your brain could register. You crash over his lap and your lips meet his in a searing kiss. He doesn’t miss a beat, kissing you back with the same fervor.

You felt feverish, your skin all hot and sticky as he panted into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip. He flicks his tongue over your reddening lips to soothe the sting of his lovebirds.

“Toru…” you were breathless, hands grabbing whatever they could, his shoulders, his hair, his neck. He was just as handsy, hands smoothing over the curve of your waist before descending lower.

“Been too long,” he groans, peppering kisses all over the sweet skin of your neck, hands kneading the flesh of your thighs. “Need you, pretty girl.”

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your robe, spreading your legs further to accommodate his size. “Need you here.” He presses you closer, your crotch pressing against his tented pants.

You moan at the contact, fingers tangling in his hair. “Fuck. Please.”

He chuckles against your skin, nipping at the pulse point beneath your ear. “Begging already? Forgot how eager you get.”

His hand slides up your thigh, fingers prodding at the front of your damp panties and his hips buck up at the feel of needy cunt. Even through the flimsy fabric he can feel you throbbing around nothing. “This sweet pussy’s gonna drive me crazy,” he mumbles. “Need it on m’face. Please, baby.”

Satoru lifts you up and spreads you out on your back. You’d almost forgotten how strong he was until your back hit the plush mattress. “Lift your hips up for me. There we go, good girl.” His voice was soft yet commanding, as if he wanted so badly to take his time but he couldn’t.

He slides your sticky panties off first, pressing them to his nose and taking a big whiff. “Shit— could get off on this alone.” He pockets your panties ‘for later’ and places a pillow right under your hips so your heat is angled towards his hungry gaze. “Spread them for me.”

You felt like a mindless zombie when he commanded you this way. A victim to his whims. Your thighs were shaking and your eyes were glassy with tears already. But there was no one you trusted more than Satoru.

“I’ll take good care of you. Just like I always do. Have you cum on my cock. But first…” he wastes no time, his nose bumping against your clit once he pulls you in, fastening your thighs around his head. He lets out a deep groan as the first taste of your sweet cunt, already making his lips glossy with its wetness.

“Can’t believe I stayed away for this long. Was going crazy, fuck.” His voice was muffled, syllables vibrating against your clit as he inhaled your heady scent, eyes rolling back into his head and his hips rut into the mattress. “Fucked my fist to the thought of this pussy, to the thought of your smile, to the smell of you.”

His words had your mind blank as you imagined him late at night, a picture of you illuminating his phone screen as he stroked his aching cockto you, moaning your name, chasing a high only you can give him.

You couldn’t get lost in your fantasy for too long as he grips your hips tightly and licks a long stripe up your pussy. From your gushing entrance to your perky clit that was already saturated with his saliva.

The contact makes you bury your fingers in his locks, a small sob leaving your lips. “More, please!”

You don’t need to tell him twice when he starts tonguing at your entrance, drinking up your juices greedily. The sounds that were coming from between your thighs were filthy, his deep grunts mixed with the squeeelch from from your soaking folds provided a heady combination. Every whimpered plea that fell from his lips can be felt against your cunt. As if he were talking to it personally.

You cry out, fingers gripping his soft locks. “Feels s’good, Toru!”

Satoru could only respond with a long sluuurp! as he pulled you closer, the tip of his straight nose nudging harder against your clit.

It was driving you insane. You needed more, more, more. You roll your hips forward, grinding against his face, chasing a pleasure you knew by heart.

“That’s it. Ride my face. Ride it,” he mutters, already delirious from the feeling of you (or from the lack of oxygen).

You have to bite your hand to muffle your needy moans. His lips were hot and wet, drinking you up for all your worth. “M’cumming, Toru. P-please…”

He sucks on your clit, tongue flattening over it as your orgasm rolls through you and you’re bucking your hips, chasing the heat of his mouth. “Atta girl,” he mumbles, staying buried between your thighs for a moment longer as he helps you ride out your orgasm, tongue lazily drawing figure eights on your sensitive bud before he pulls away from your saccharine pussy.

His lips and chin were glistening with your juices as his eyes met yours. You could almost see the reflection of hearts in his pupils as he looked at you.

His dick was painfully hard, straining against the fabric of his pants. He peeled back your robe and pushed your knees up to your chest. “Missed her. Missed her so much,” he mutters, eyes focused on your pretty cunt. All swollen and dripping. For him.

You pull him down, kissing him deeply. He slides his tongue into your mouth and you taste your own essence on his lips. “Need it, please,” you mumble against his lips as he moans into yours.

Truly the best way to shut the sorcerer up.

Your hand trails down his chest, giving the waistband of his pants a teasing tug before you palm his cock. It was warm and rigid against the soft skin of your hand. He bucks his hips into your hand, muttering soft words into your greedy mouth. “You make me this way. Only way I can ever get hard.”

You’re so taken by the kiss you don’t notice his hands catching yours, binding your wrists together with his long fingers. “Need your cock.” You whimper when his lips trail back down to your neck, pressing wet kisses all over your exposed flesh.

The feeling of silky fabric makes your brows furrow in confusion. His bandana Was he… tying you to the bed? “Toru, w-what are you doing?”

“So you can’t get away. Not again. Never again,” he mumbles desperately, pushing his pants down his milky thighs haphazardly. He throws them off to the side and his boxers join the pile soon after.

His cock springs free in all its glory, slapping against his lower abdomen. His pretty pink tip was weeping with pre, dribbling down the length of it.

Satoru fists his cock in one hand, the other braced on the bed to keep him from collapsing on top of you. He groans, eyes squeezing shut as he gives it a few tugs for good measure. “Look what you do to me, baby. S’all for you. I’m all yours.”

You have to keep your mouth shut to stop yourself from drooling, but your cunt beats you to it. You squeeze your thighs together, the stickiness of it all gluing your thighs together.

“No, no, no.” His hands are on your thighs, prying them open. He looked desperate. Feral. “Don’t hide from me, need to see you. Need your pretty pussy. So wet f’me.”

His digit plunged into your gooey hole, past your gummy entrance and his knees buckle. You cry out, pulling on the restraints to no avail.

“So tight,” he mutters, removing his finger to tease your opening with his heavy cockhead. “Want me to fuck you, baby? Wanna feel me stretch this lil pussy out? Ruin you for anyone else.”

You nod eagerly. “Mhm, want you to fuck me. Wanna feel it inside.” One particular bump of his hips has his tip grinding into your pert clit. Your lips fall open at the unexpected nudge, your breathing shallow from all the excitement.

“Yeah? Anything for my sweet girl.”

He presses his cock up to your entrance and pushes in, past your gummy walls. “Fuck, she’s sucking me in. Look at you,” he coos, hand on your lower belly as he slides in deeper.

You feel every muscle in your body tightening at the intrusion. It wasn’t anything new, you two have fucked before. Countless times. But it’s been so long. “Hngh, you’re so big. M’gonna explode.”

He grins, pressing down on your belly till he feels his swollen cock streeetch! you out. “Hah, you can take it. You’ve always been so good at it.”

Your eyes were glassy and you’ve never felt so full. Did he get bigger? You wanted so badly to tangle your fingers in his hair or mark his rippling back with your nails, but the bondage made that impossible.

He finally starts to move, his heavy cock gliding in and out of you. Satoru’s eyes are locked on the movement as his hands keep your hips steady and in place.

Watching his slick-coated dick leave your pussy was like heaven to the man, he’d finally gotten a taste of you after so long. And there was no way he was letting you go.

Once he was sure you were accustomed to his size, he snapped his hips forward, in and out, unapologetically. Deliciously abusing your insides, precum painting your walls. The friction made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Every ‘ah! ah! ah!’ that fell from your lips was punctuated by a vicious thrust.

The hotel bed creaked under the sheer power of his passion, the headboard slamming against the wall repeatedly. “Mm, slower, Toru!” You whine.

And, god, if that wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. You looked so good underneath him, skin glossy with sweat, face contorted with pleasure. He could fuck a baby in you. or two.

“Slower? You’re telling me how to breed this greedy lil cunt?” He ends his words off with a quick ‘swat!’, directly on your poor cunt. It elicits a muffled cry from you as you buck your hips towards his hand.

He chuckles at your eagerness and gives another rough thrust. You could feel it in your stomach as his tip dribbles out another wad of precum into your awaiting womb.

You could feel his cock stretching you out in more ways than one. He was so fucking big, you felt every ridge and every vein. One particular vein was brushing deliciously against that sensitive spot inside you, making you squirm in your spot.

You whimper as he doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon, hands anchoring you to himself as he fucks you deep, cock buried to the hilt between your gummy walls before he leaves your warmth before plunging back in. It was a torturous pace.

“Keep squirming like that and I’ll have to tie your legs up too,” he mutters as he pressed your knees to your chest with his own abdomen, fingers reaching between your sweaty bodies to circle your clit, swirling it in circles as his cock continued to push into you, bullying your poor cunt.

Satoru’s head falls forward, damp forehead pressing against your shoulder. “I’ll fuck you however I want—” His voice breaks off at the end as your sticky cunt suctions him back in. He hums against your skin, the sound low and content. Your heart hums right along with him.

He’s moaning against your skin, pleading with you to take him deeper, squeeze him tighter. He was in so deep you could feel his cockhead at your cervix, fucking into you as if he wanted to breed you.

He cups the supple mounds of your ass and lifts you slightly higher, angling your hips so he’s pummeling your g-spot with every erratic thrust. Your head falls back, a whiny moan of his name is the only thing that leaves your lips.

Your stomach tightens, your tight cunt clenching around his cock. “Toru, please. Wanna… m’gonna cum.”

He pulls you closer, your wetness connecting your pelvises together even when he snaps his hips back before plunging back in for more. “That’s it, my girl. Milk my cock. Cum f’me.”

And you do, hips bucking to meet his mean thrusts as your orgasm crashes over you.

He’s not too far behind, whimpering out a few praises as he quickens his pace before his cock twitches, painting your insides with his hot, syrupy cum. “Fuck, just like that. Take it.” He keeps your weeping hole plugged up, keeping his cum from escaping.

His release was warm inside you, but it made you feel so full. It’s like he hadn’t cum this much in ages. His eyes fall down to your hole that was still clenching around his cock, a creamy ring of both your juices pooled around his base. He mutters a curse before his eyes meet yours.

His hand reaches upward to undo the knot that binds your wrists to the bed frame. He takes ahold of your slender wrist and presses a gentle kiss to the reddening skin there.

Your heart softens at that, and at the gentle look in his eyes. “I’ll do right by you this time. And I’m not talking about just fucking you,” he mumbles. “Choose me?”

You chuckle softly and roll your eyes. You were stuffed to the brim with his cum and he was still unsure?

“I’m yours, Satoru.”

~

hihi I hope you enjoyed!!! I appreciate all the support I can get!!