#clearing out old phone notes and found this

[shymoob]

“Summer Camp Heart Throb” Leon Kennedy x Reader

WARNING: NSFW! 18+! Explicit sexual content.

For RE Summer Event - July 18th, Summer Camp. See the prompts, or participate in the event HERE.

Summary: 4.3K words. After getting called in for a last minute position as a counselor at a near-by summer camp, you meet someone unexpected. Surprisingly, you start to form a relationship with with another member of staff.

Themes: Soft Smut, Slow Burn, Teasing, Oral Sex, Penetration, Friends to Lovers, Accidental Clothes Swap, Before Raccoon City AU! Author Note: Hello everyone!! This is my first real fic on here. I want to preference... I AM NOT A WRITER! I just write for fun. My main focus is art, so I apologize if this is bad or has spelling/grammar mistakes. Obviously this is for the RE Summer event I am hosting! I was going to draw for this one, I even had the sketch done and began coloring it, but I had some stuff come up. My dogs got kennel cough :( so I have been dealing with that. Anyway, enjoy!

Gentle rain pelted your windshield, and the AC slightly started to fog around the windows of your car as you drove through the twisty mountain roads in the country. You flicked the windshield wiper speed up a notch, giving you only a smaller visibility of the outstretched road in front of you, but it would do. The radio hummed low, fading in and out of static and cheesy pop songs. You let out a sigh, and tightened your grip on the leather steering wheel. The last thing you wanted to do to start your summer, was spend it in the woods, surrounded by a bunch of screaming, bratty children. However, you made this choice.

Only a few weeks prior, you got a call from small summer camp about an hours drive away from your home town. You had completely forgotten you had applied for the position of camp counselor, but no one would blame you. That was three years ago, when you were a sophomore in high school. You had never heard back, and moved on with your life. So it took you off guard when you received a random call, desperately pleading for you to attend. 

“You start in three weeks! Be sure to get there the evening prior. We need all the help we can get!” The chirpy voice on the other line spoke, before a click of the phone hanging up, leaving you baffled. The staff mentioned they had a late cancellation, and were going through old records and found your application. Of course they had asked if you wanted to attend, but the way they phrased it made it hard for you to say no. The camp was down on their luck this summer, counselors dropping out left and right. Of course you didn’t blame them. It was the hottest summer on record after all. Who would want to spend it watching kids have fun while you clean up after them? You certainly didn’t. 

Except all that didn’t matter now. You took the job, and you were only 10 minutes away from arriving. When you pulled down the crunchy gravel road, the camp was exactly as you’d expect. Old, retro, perhaps haunted. None of this struck you as odd, but what did was the handsome man that waved you down as you arrive, his appearance completely contrast to the rest of the camp. When you stepped out of the vehicle, he greeted you with a goofy smile, his blue eyes soft and welcoming. He introduced himself as Leon, another counselor here who seemed way too egar to be spending the next three weeks being stuck here. 

He showed you to your cabin, shared with the other three female counselors on staff. The men’s cabin of course was next door, but that was for the best you assumed. “It’s no Ritz…” You paused, biting you bottom lip. “But it will do.” You shrugged, tossing your bag down next to an empty bed with a thud. Leon raised an eye brow at you, it was clear he spotted your hesitation. The heat was already settling in, even during the evening hours. Leon ran a hand through his sweaty damp hair, and chuckled. 

“You must be one of the extras they called in.” He said with a smirk, leaning against the doorway of the rustic cabin. You whipped around, your annoyed look only growing. 

“I suppose.” You mumbled, kneeling beside your bag on the floor, rummaging through your belongings for a hair tie. He shook his head in amusement, the soft light of the setting sun entering the cracks of the cabin illuminating a soft golden glow. 

“Let’s go Rookie.” He uttered, his playful smile only growing wider. The glint in his eyes made you annoyed, but also eased your mind. “We have orientation.” He waited patiently for you to stand up, the creak of the ancient wooden floor under your feet acting as a goodbye as you made your way to the door. He walked beside you to the orientation, making small talk along the way. He informed you how he had worked here for the past three summers, his plans to go to the police academy in the fall and the plans for the next three weeks. It honestly surprised you he could fit all that in during the short walk to the large meeting hall the orientation was held in. 

When the both of you arrived, Leon introduced you to the rest of the staff. It was slightly embarrassing, it seemed everyone was just waiting for you to begin. With the others, it was evident they were slightly annoyed with you, but with Leon he did a great job making you feel comfortable upon arrival. It made sense to you now why they sent him to greet you. The rest of the night went by quickly, schedules and assignments passed out to each counselor. You couldn’t help but feel out of place slightly, the black sheep of the group. Most of the counselors had either worked previous summers, or had already made friends. You couldn’t help but notice that Leon was definitely the fan favorite, the other three girls swarming around him. You couldn’t blame them, he was undeniably handsome, but if your past experiences told you anything, this meant trouble.

Throughout the night, Leon made constant glances at you, despite the undying attention he was receiving from the others. Perhaps he was just being nice, making sure you were settling in ok, but something about his demeanor seemed different. You decided the best course of action was to try and stay out of the way of the others, and stick to yourself. After all, you really didn’t want to be here anyway. When the nightly orientation ended, you had a feeling this was going to be a long three weeks. 

You had been right about that. The campers arrived the following day like a pack of wild wildebeests, rowdy and rambunctious, the beating summer heat only amplifying them. The first few days were chaotic to say the least. Campers fighting, childish injuries, food fights and of course children who were homesick. The whole thing felt like a manic fever dream you couldn’t wake up from. You didn’t see much of Leon these first few days, just occasional glances. You were mainly partnered with the female staff. It was clear for each one of them they didn’t like you very much. When partners were assigned in the morning, they’d almost always sigh to see your name printed next to theirs on the daily schedule. You weren’t sure why they disliked you. Perhaps it was that you mainly kept to yourself. Perhaps it was because they were getting separated from their friends for the day. Or maybe it was because they saw the way Leon looked at you. 

On the fifth day, the heat at reached an all time peak. They weren’t kidding when they said this would be the hottest summer on record. The shift was grueling as well, leaving you no room for relaxation. The sticky sweat that coasted your skin made you extremely uncomfortable, your skin slightly burnt from the lack of sunscreen. When the evening finally rolled around, and the campers had settled, you figured you needed a shower. A cold one. The faint sound of children laughing and soft crickets filled your ears as you stepped into the communal showers. You slumped the shower bag off your shoulder onto the floor, and slipped out of your damp clothes. You turned the knob to the shower on, stepping into the icy water, closing the thin curtain behind you.

As the cool droplets pelted your skin, you let out a sigh. You began your shower routine, exhausted from the day. You didn’t even notice when someone else entered the showers, turning on the shower head beside you in the next stall. You let out a soft sigh, one of pleasure, and other of discomfort as you drenched yourself in the Arctic feeling water. Cold showers are literally the best and worst feeling a person could experience. Once you decide you had enough, you gently turned off the water, hearing the pitter patter of the shower leaking onto the old tile floor. 

You stepped out, wrapping your towel around your chest as you did so. You let out a sleepy yawn, rubbing your eyes to keep yourself awake. You plopped down next to your bag in the floor and lazily sorted through it. You grabbed the first thing you could find, your t-shirt, and threw it over you. You started to rummage around for your underwear, digging deeper and deeper into the bag. It wasn’t until you reached the bottom your fingers traced over a hard item. You pulled the item up past the various layers of clothing to examine it. It took you a moment to realize what exactly you were holding, but as soon as you did, your heart sank. Your fingers traced over a name tag that read ‘Leon S. Kennedy.’ 

Before you had time to fully process this realization, the shower that was humming suddenly turned off. Your eyes flickered to your bag, which lay next to Leons, almost identical. Almost in slow motion, you watched as a toned arm reached out from behind the thin shower curtain that lay before you, clumsily grabbing the towel that hung on the hook outside of the stall. In a panic, you dropped the name tag atop his bag, trying to reorganize the best you could. Your stood up once you felt satisfied with your work with the time constraint put on you. You whipped around, trying to find something, anything to make yourself look busy, like you weren’t just digging through his bag. You cringed when you heard the sound of the shower curtain sliding open behind you, the metal rings clinking together. ‘Fuck’ you thought as you watched Leon step out of the shower.

He was shirtless, hair messy, with a white towel draped loosely around his waist, like at any moment it could come undone and fall to the dirty bathroom floor. Water droplets still remained on his toned chest, something you tried desperately not to stare at. Your mouth hung open, as if to say something, but the words got stuck in your throat as you finally made eye contact with him. His bright blue eyes seemed to peer straight through you, something that made your face instantly heat up. 

“Oh hey.” He said softly, seemingly unbothered by the entire situation. He shook his blonde locks like a dog to get rid of excess water, leaving his hair now only slightly damp, perfect and fluffy. 

“Uh hi.” You responded. You watched him as he went over to his bag, and began to rummage through it. Your heart sank in your chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. He paused for a moment, before turning back to face you. You watched as he eyed you up and down, calculated. He pointed at you and spoke “Is that my shirt?” Pure embarrassment flooded over you. You looked down at the garment. Of course it was his. You hadn’t even notice that it draped past your thighs, hanging loosely above your knees. Before you could speak a word, he bursted out into a chuckle. 

“You know Rookie, if you wanted it so bad, you could have at least asked.” He stood up, making his way to you. 

“I promise it’s not what it looks like.” You waved your hands in protest, your whole face red at this point. You took a step back, your back finding the cool tiled wall of the communal shower room. Leon didn’t stop however, walking towards you with a playful look on his face. 

“Sureeee” he teased, before coming only mere inches in front of you. He towered over you, his arm resting on the wall behind you. He leaned in really close, the look on his face becoming more teasing than playful. He smirked, meeting your eyes. In a sudden shift of tone, he pulled away, chuckling slightly. “I’m just kidding.” He smirked, but something in his tone gave way that maybe he wasn’t. You took a deep breath in, then out, trying to process this entire situation. He smiled softly, before turning around to dig back through his bag. 

“Look, I’m so sorry.” You pleaded out of embarrassment, finally able to find some type of words, even if they weren’t much of anything. “I think I accidentally got our bags mixed up…” You said softly, rubbing your arm sheepishly. He waved a hand above his head. 

“Don’t worry about it. I figured. I’m just teasing.” He stood up, his arms now full of a bundle of clothes. “I got extras anyway.” He smiled softly. You scurried to your bag, an attempt to find the rest of your clothes. You were having a conversation with this man without pants after all. 

“I’m gonna change really quick then I will give you your shirt back.” You spoke softly, relieved to be actually digging through your bag this time. He shook his head. 

“Nah.” He spoke as he threw on another loose fitting tee over his head, fitting him much better than it did on you. “Keep it. You look good in it.” He smirked. You could feel your face heating up. Did he just flirt with you? However, he didn’t say ‘just kidding’ this time. You kept waiting for him to, but he never did. He just crossed his arms, smirking down at you. “Hurry up and change. Let me walk you back.”

The walk back was quiet. The sun had long set, and only the sound of the woods remained. He walked close beside you, but it was hard to make out his features in the dark. You still wore his shirt, something that was too cozy to take off.  The stars were the only light that illuminated your path, and you couldn’t help but look in awe as they glistened. 

“I like you.” He finally spoke, voice low. “I know you don’t want to be here but, I think your nice. Real.” He didn’t stop facing forward. You didn’t know how to respond, so you just let him keep talking. “I want to get to know you better… If that’s ok?” He finally asked, as you spotted the counselors cabins a few feet in front of you. You thought for a moment. Leon was the only one here who was actually kind to you, and made you feel comfortable, despite your gut telling you to stay away. 

“I’d like that.” You said softly, before he walked you up the creaky steps of your cabin. He smiled, and without another word, slipped back into the darkness of the night. 

The next few weeks went by much better than the previous few days. After your embarrassing encounter in the showers, Leon made an effort to see and talk to you more. He sat next to you during lunch hours, tried to assist you with campers when he noticed you needed a hand, and the two of you were even assigned as partners for one activity. The more you talked to Leon, the more you realized he was a kind guy. He was funny, soft and sweet. That drew you more to him. The other counselors of course noticed, and resented you for it. Unlike before, this didn’t bother you. Leon had told you why he liked you, because you were ‘real’. Whatever that meant. It didn’t matter, it just felt nice to be around him. 

The night before camp ended, you found yourself actually sad of it coming to an end. This was something you didn’t think would be possible. The first week was hell for you. Loud kids, snobby counselors and intense heat. With Leon though, you’d actually miss spending time with him. He greeted you at your cabin door, unexpected of course, a goofy smile plastered on his face. He was always full of surprises, something you came to admire about him the past few weeks. 

“Up for a swim?” He asked, illuminated only by the porch light on the rickety cabin. 

“This late?” You asked, peering your head back inside, noticing the disapproving glances given to you by your other female counselors. “Isn’t it a little dark?” 

“Sure, but c’mon!” He spoke softly. “It’s not like we can go swimming in the day with the kids. Plus, it’s a full moon. We can actually see.” He pleaded with excitement. “I promise I won’t let you drown.” He smirked. You couldn’t help but smile back. How could you say no when he looked like that?

“One moment. Let me grab my suit.” You replied back softly, a little hesitant. He smiled widely in anticipation. He took you down to the brach, completely abandoned by anyone at this hour. The lake was cool as you dipped your feet in, but that didn’t stop Leon. You watched him as he striped his shirt, tossing it aside on the sandy beach. He ran towards the water, just excited to be with you. You followed suit, swimming out to him. You were neck deep when you arrived to him. 

“I’m not a strong swimmer you know.” You teased, admiring his features under the soft glow of the moonlight. 

“I got you.” He said, before pulling you close to him. You let out a yelp, and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He smirked, lifting you steady around him. “You ok?” I asked softly, genuine concern on his face. You nodded sheepishly. Unlike before, you weren’t embarrassed in this moment. Everything felt right. He couldn’t help himself, leaning in closer. “Can I… Kiss you?” He muttered, keeping a steady grip on your thighs as he held you in place. 

Instead of answering, you responded by leaning in and planting your lips on his softly. His breath hitched when you kissed him, but pulled you in deeper, moaning softly into your mouth. He let his tongue slide inside your cheek, exploring and daring. He let one of his hands fall from your thigh, reaching up and grabbing your breast softly. Now, you were the one moaning. He continued to kiss with with passion as he fondled you, almost like he’d been waiting for this moment. Surprisingly, he was the first to break this kiss. 

“This m’okay?” He asked, planting kissed down your jaw, meeting your neck. You mustered a ‘uh, huh’ as he mapped your body with kisses, wet and sloppy. He knew what he wanted in the way he touched you, his fingers feeling like fire. 

“Leon I want more…” You spoke gently, your hands finding his hair. He didn’t waste any time. He scooped you up, and began walking you to shore. Even in the moonlight, you could see his hard cock strained against his swim trunks. He laid you down on the sandy beach, towering over you. Giving you what you asked for, he began kissing you hungrily. He started with your breasts, pulling your top to the side so he could suck on them. He held one breast in place, dancing his tongue around your nipple as his other hand slowly traced down your stomach. 

You couldn’t help but let out a lustful moan as his hand found the waist band of your swim bottoms, slipping down further. “Thats it sweetheart…” He hummed inbetween long sloppy sucks on your nipple. “Just relax, I got you…” You arched your back when he slid his fingers inside you. You were already wet, which made his cock ache even further. He began moving in and out of you, starting with his pointer and middle finger. Once he heard your delightful cries, he gently added his index, driving them deeper inside you. 

“Fuck…” He mumbled beneath his breath as he watched your face contort with pleasure. Before you could bring yourself to cum, he slipped his finger outside of you. With a sense of urgency, he slid himself downward, and met face to face with your aching pussy. “This ok?” He asked gently, but you could tell there was a hint of desperation in his voice. All you could do was mutter a ‘yes’, as his finger tips gently traced your inner thigh. 

He took the invitation, slowly nuzzling his nose into your desperate pussy. He let out a grunt of pleasure, sending chills down your spine. The sand beneath you felt coarse against your skin, completely contrast to the warm he was giving you. He started slow, with one long lick, meeting your clit as he pulled away for a moment. “God damn…” He huffed, his hot heavy breath against your thigh. “You taste so good…” He uttered, before returning his tongue to your clit gently, moving in precise circular motions. You grabbed a handful of his soft blonde hair as the moonlight illuminated his delicate skin. 

You could feel the heat building within you as he began to lazily suck on your clit, adding extra stimulation by returning a finger inside you. You could feel yourself getting dizzy with pleasure as he ate you out. His wet tongue doing magic around your clit, drawing sharp pulses that made your body shudder. 

“D-don’t stop…” You muttered, feeling yourself getting close to climax. He took this literally, and increased his pace. What was once gentle and delicate work with his tongue, became desperate and hungry as he increased his pace. You started to feel your pussy clench around his fingers as he buried his face in you, the bridge of his nose digging into you. Every nerve within in you buzzed with anticipation of your climax, which happened quickly and powerfully. Your body melted into him as you finally came, the grip on his hair loosening. He slowed down his pace, now only sucking gently on your sensitive clit. His hands rested on your hips, and he pulled himself up, resting his face on your inner thigh. Your clit throbbed from your orgasm as his hot breath coating it. 

He only gave you a moment to recover, before digging his grip into your hips, pulling you down across the sand closer to him. He didn’t ask for permission this time, just began removing your swim bottoms entirely. You watched as he kneeled infront of you, slipping his swim trunks down around his thighs. His hard cock sprang free, twitching at the sight of you laid in front of him. His red tip was already dripping with precum, a desperate plea to be inside you. You felt a fire in your stomach as he removed one hand from your hip, bringing it to his mouth and spitting into his palm. Not that he needed it. He ran his strong hand over his hungry cock, letting out an involuntary grunt as he did so. He stroked himself only a few times, before positioning himself to enter your aching pussy. He didn’t say anything, but gave you one final look of desperation to make sure you were ok with everything. When you didn’t push him away or protest, he got to work. 

He pushed himself inside you gently, your walls clenching around him. He placed one hand in the soft sand to hold himself upright while one hand gripped your hip to keep you steady. He pushed himself all the way in, slamming the tip of his cock into your walls. You let out a yelp of pleasure, as you felt him slide in and out of you.

“God… Leon…” You choked out, crumbling beneath him. His thrusts were slow, but deliberate. You blocked out all sounds, and focused in on his grunts as he proceeded to slam into with a hunger you’d never had before. His grip on your hip tightened, as he slowly increased his pace. 

“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He mumbled, his voice heavy with lust. You could feel his cock twitch inside you as he breathed heavy. With every movement, your pussy stretched open further for him, but remained tight against him. “Needed this…” He moaned out, his pace becoming increasingly faster. His eyes locked with yours, wild with desire but also something deeper. It was something undeniable, unspoken. He refused to look away, even as his hips snapped harder into you. Your hand found his shoulder, pulling him closer to you. You kissed him hungrily, biting his bottom lip gently. He moaned into your mouth, his toned chest meeting with yours. 

“Close Sweetheart…” He whimpered, his cock driving deeper and deeper into you. You could feel his cock hardening with anticipation, sending shivers down your spine and bringing you closer to your own climax. His thrusts became sloppier as he became closer, his kisses deepening. You could feel that familiar fire inside you growing stronger with every thrust. As his rhythm stuttered, you felt your walls flutter around him. You cried out his name, your voice catching in your throat as your orgasm came like a tidal wave. The world began to spin around you, and he groaned deep and desperate. 

“Fuck-Baby…” he choked out one final time, before losing himself in you. He buried his cock deep inside you a final time before finally releasing. His body trembled above you as he spilled his warmth in you. He buried his head in the crook of your neck, his cock twitching, gently gushing the rest of his seed inside you. For a moment, the both of you laid there, the world blurred from pleasure you both were experiencing. The sound of the gentle lake spilling onto the shoreline finally came back into focus, only leaving serine quiet around you.

His body was heavy against you. He lifted his hands to your face, still shaking slightly. He cupped your cheeks, planting lazy kisses across your cheek, jaw and collar bone. He stroked your cheek gently with his coarse thumb, admiring your beauty. Then, that goofy smirk came back to him. 

“You coming back next summer?” He chuckled, his eyes staring deep into yours. 

“Only if you’ll be here.”

Tag list: @writingwisterias @lilith0fthevalley @batsybat91 @vixassketchbook

DISCLAIMER: photos are not mine. I just found them on Pinterest.

[vvh0adie]

Thing I Like About Min Yoongi (Suga)

1. He’s short like me cuz he’s not too tall

2. He has a passion for music

3. He used to have mint green hair

4. He thinks all of BT21 should be non-binary

5. He uses tongue technology

6. He can take me to Hong Kong

7. He may be an INTP

8. He goes by Agust D

[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

[gutsby]

Raw

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel begs to cum inside you.

Warnings: 18+. If y’all don’t like an age gap and a nasty, nasty breeding kink, DO NOT read this shit—I’m serious. Unprotected p-in-v. Daddy kink. Jealous!Joel. Feral!Joel. Cumplay à la sucking Joel’s dick clean after he fucks you.

Note: This is a one shot in the Waiting Game universe. If I had to guess, I’d say it takes place between Homemade & Ruined!

Another Note: ‘Sweet Emotion’ by Aerosmith is the song Joel’s listening to when he’s trying to kill his boner LOL.

Word count: 3.5k

Joel’s mind was always buzzing with bad ideas.

He’d left for work that morning with his dick as hard as steel, balls as heavy as rocks, and you, gorgeous and naked and entirely unfucked in his king-sized bed.

Idiot that he was, he forgot to buy condoms last week. You’d cleared all thirty-six of the rubbers he’d had during your most recent visit from college, and since then, Joel had been meaning to restock, but it just slipped his mind—now, he was suffering the consequences of that oversight in spades, as he hadn’t been able to get his typical fill of you before he left for work. Or last night.

You’d so sweetly suggested some 69 action after he’d picked you up from the airport the night before, knowing just how badly you wanted each other—despite the fact that it was three A.M. and you happened to be ovulating. But it wasn’t meant to be. No sooner had Joel shucked off his boots, jeans, boxers, and shirt and crawled into the space beside you in bed than you were passed out. Snoring loudly and lying splayed between his sheets without the faintest idea of how horny the old man was.

There is something very wrong with me, he thought.

He’d been so pent-up and wild with thoughts of you writhing underneath him, cunt snug around his cock, that he hadn’t even been able to rub one out after that. It was like some maggot had crawled its way inside his head and had him needing insane things. Stupid things.

Shit that would legitimately get him locked up, or kicked to the doghouse, if he ever shared these thoughts aloud.

He wanted to pump you full of cum.

He craved the feeling of you leaking him.

He felt an urge to fill you like he never had before.

Had he really forgotten to buy those condoms last week? Or had it been the workings of his own subconscious mind, begging him to test the waters of what you would look like flush with that milky white substance and drip—

Shit.

Joel almost spilled his piping hot two-dollar coffee from the gas station onto his pants. Again. He cut the wheel and made the turn, set the cup in its little holder, and, without a second thought for his own well-being, cranked the car stereo to fifty. Fuck his hearing.

‘SWEEEEEEEET EMOOOOOTION!’

That should do the trick.

It seemed deafening himself with classic rock was the only way Joel could keep some semblance of composure today. Admittedly, it worked wonders. He learned it was much harder to stay horny when your head was ringing.

Of course, it had been just his luck that before he’d been able to stop by H.E.B. to buy rubbers on his lunch break, you’d called and said you needed a ride from the repair shop. Apparently, your dad’s truck was all kinds of fucked up and he’d asked you to drop it off at the mechanic that afternoon. You’d needed a ride home after, and Joel had only too happily, and hornily, obliged.

He was still stiff as shit pulling into the parking lot a minute later. He reached for the radio dial again but quickly found that he’d turned it all the way to its limit.

His phone buzzed in his pants.

Your name was on the screen.

I gotta fill out some bullshit paperwork. Come on in.

You must’ve seen him park the Bronco from inside.

Is that you blasting Aerosmith in your car? 🤨

Joel let out a sigh and shut off the engine.

Readjusting his rock-hard cock in his jeans, he went in.

And the moment he stepped in there, he regretted it. Joel got exactly one foot inside the door before his eyes nearly bugged out of his head and his jaw hit the floor.

You were signing paperwork alright—bent over the front desk where everyone in the waiting room of the repair shop could see right up your miniskirt. Joel choked.

There had to be fifteen men in there, at least. All but one old guy dozing off in the corner were gawking at your backside pushed up in the air. Joel saw you shuffle some papers around, eyeball a form and pose a question to the man behind the desk, who was also trying his damndest not to stare, and then hum something low. You laughed.

You were so naïve.

As if a switch had flipped in his head and every thought thenceforth was from a place of being an overprotective, asshole-ish, caveman of a guy, Joel strode in, scowling.

He shot pointed, putrid looks of disdain at every shameless voyeur drinking you in with their eyes, and, to his surprise, a couple turned their gazes guiltily away.

That’s right. Keep your fucking eyes to yourself.

Then, without even really meaning to think it:

She’s all mine. So don’t get your hopes up.

Would anyone in there think you were with him? Did it even matter? In that moment, Joel didn’t give a shit. He just walked in with his head up, jaw clenched, and eyes shooting daggers at every scumbag who dared to keep looking. He approached the front desk just as you turned

“Oh! Hey.” You breathed a sound of surprise, smiling. “You scared the shit out of me. I’ll just be a minute.”

You had about thirty seconds before he yanked you out by that little skirt and drilled you on the hood of his car.

Instead of saying that, though, Joel just frowned.

“C’mon, kid, I got places to be. Hurry it up.”

You flashed him a puzzled look but said nothing in reply. He hadn’t expected you to, seeing how occupied you were with discussing your old man’s truck’s transmission flush, tire rotation, wiper blade replacement, and on and on and on until Joel’s head was spinning with all the jargon. Since when did you know about ignition coils?

No matter.

Just a few more action items to parse through, then you’d swipe your card and get the hell out of there.

“I mean…do y’all have to replace that cabin air filter? Can’t my dad do that himself? Or just wait a little bit?”

Surely you knew you were torturing him now.

There was no way you weren’t doing this on purpose.

The shop employee scratched the back of his neck and gave a sheepish smile, right after he’d unglued his gaze from the cleavage spilling out of your top. He coughed.

“Well…well, uh, see here, our last service report says…”

Joel didn’t give a flying fuck what the service report said. He tuned out the rest of what the little pervert was trying to tell you then and turned to face the waiting room with a flinty, stern look. Several sets of eyes snapped away.

One in particular, he noticed, didn’t flinch at all.

Of course it belonged to some shit-brained kid. Probably only two or three years out of high school and ogling you like a slab of meat while his father sat beside him, trying to do the same but slightly more discreetly. How polite.

It was almost as if Joel had acquired some supersonic hearing ability over the last five minutes, and he could somehow tell what the ass-hat was muttering to his dad.

‘Hell, I’d like to bend her over a desk myself.’

His father grinned, eyes wandering again.

‘Yeah. I bet she’d like that. Love it, even.’

Fuck this.

Technically, Joel hadn’t heard the words come out of their mouths, but the intentions had been behind their eyes all the same. He hated it. The longer he stood here with you, the more the odds grew he’d end up decking someone, or throwing a chair at their head, so he swiftly tilted and pressed a touch to your elbow. It amazed him how gentle it was, given the bloodlust percolating within.

“Honey, we need to go,” he told you, voice low.

“What?” You turned. Brows furrowing. “Why?”

Because every swinging dick in this establishment wants to get in you. Let’s dip before I kill someone.

“Because I’m paying for all the repairs. C’mon.”

Before Joel could even begin to contemplate the ramifications of this offer—exactly how much cash he’d be blowing on his best friend’s truck thanks to his impulsiveness—he slid his credit card across the desk and jerked his head toward the door. Telling you to go.

“Joel, you can’t—” you’d just started to say.

“Now that’s a real fine thing to do for your daughter, b—”

It was the latter of these two statements, seemingly spoken at once, that Joel paid any mind at all. The stranger behind the desk’s thinking that he was your dad, and not your partner, made his blood boil beneath the skin. His conviction to do this only grew stronger.

Suddenly, Joel was turning his body to you. Leaning down, gripping your chin in one hand, and letting his mouth land firmly on yours, so that there would be no mistaking who he was, or what he was to you. Not today.

Your lips were warm, and they kissed him back gently. When he’d pulled away, your face, and every expression around yours was painted with some degree of surprise.

The man behind the desk cleared his throat: ‘Uh, sorry.’

Not the dad. Got it.

Joel was glad to spread the message, even if your gaze was lingering on his with a wordless little threat, like you would get him for this. He just grinned and nodded to the door again, then watched you leave, skirt swishing and bobbing all the way to the door. Hardly any eyes followed now, as most were too busy flitting to him.

Good.

Great.

“That’ll be $4,898.72, sir.”

Goddamn.

You hadn’t seen Joel this feral in ages.

Hell, maybe ever.

His cock seemed to be cleaving your body in half with how hard his thrusts were coming in now. How loud those wet slaps against the swell of your ass rang out through the cramped backseat of his car, how deep his tip sank, and how quickly the motions repeated, like Joel was beating a drum somewhere far down in your cervix.

Your eyes rolled. Jaw slackened. Tongue darted from either corner of your lips to lap away the spit that was trickling out. Joel was fucking you that hard. His strokes jostled your body, dick wedging deep and unforgiving, and his eyes were alight with a look you couldn’t quite decipher. Your own vision was blurring at the edges.

“Tell me it’s mine,” Joel panted against your neck.

Then, as if his hips had been made to pummel at this relentless, frantic pace, he lowered his torso to yours and drilled away even quicker. The force and the friction were so great you had only to grip his forearms and meet his gaze, barely able to get the words out: ‘Y—Yours, Joel.’

Doing this the day after your period tracker claimed you’d been ovulating probably wasn’t the best idea. Insane as he was with desire, the thought did also seem to cross Joel’s mind as he pounded away. More than once, his brow pinched, and his hips made as if to stutter to a halt. Then the need kicked in. The thing picked up again, harder than it had before, and Joel was back to fucking you hard on the upholstered seats of his Bronco.

Above you, his jaw clenched. His teeth ground tighter.

“This…” he grit out, as if words evaded him. “…OK?”

Yes, Joel.

You’d never seen such bare-faced need from him in all your life, and you loved it. It wasn’t just the expression of a man in love—which he was—but also the face of a person in pain. Someone whose need for your touch was so agonizingly great that he was blind to anything else. Joel lifted his arms to bracket your head so he could get in even closer, and his frantic pants warmed your cheeks. Come evening, you’d happily be popping Plan Bs like candy if it meant another moment of seeing him like this.

Sweat glistened on his brow and in between spatterings of silver and black along his jaw. His gaze was hard and determined, like he was contemplating something else.

Slowly, and with legs trembling against his sides at every thrust, you reached to cup his face. You stroked it gently.

“Is—Is everything alri—”

“I wanna cum inside you.”

Joel’s voice was deadpan, with no preamble or warning. Mere inches from your face, his own was twisted in that strange, pained look. His cock twitched; its pace slowed.

Your walls clamped around him instinctively. You blinked.

“W-What?”

“Wanna fill you up.”

There wasn’t a shred of hesitation in his tone as his hips rocked steadily against you. If anything, his grip grew even tighter, like he was trying to press you down.

“But Joel, I’m—” Another clench. Another strangled breath. “I still might…be…ovulating. And you’re…”

“Old enough to be your father, ain’t I?” he sneered. “Least, that’s what everybody in that shop seemed to think. What if you made me one today, hm, sweet pea?”

He didn’t mean it.

Joel knew how bad it’d be if he really knocked you up. Just the same, you couldn’t contain the sharp, startled whimper as his cock stirred inside you and that thought took shape—his hot and sticky seed being shot in ropes, painting your needy walls, making you so, so full of him.

Your lizard brain didn’t bat an eye at that.

Blame it on ovulation, a glaring oversight in sex education, your undoubtedly compromised morals or whatever the case may have been, but you wanted it.

You needed him in, making a mess where he shouldn’t.

With sunlight bathing you both in the backseat of Joel’s car, classic rock drifting through the speakers, and one handsome, weathered, earnest expression hovering over yours with the faintest of smiles, how could you refuse?

He sped up again. The hands that had slid to your hips constricted to an almost suffocating level, but it was possessive. Protective. Envy sparked in Joel’s eyes.

“Don’t want nobody oglin’ what’s mine, y’hear?”

It was a question, but it didn’t warrant a reply.

You nodded anyway, watching the older man’s gaze shift from your eyes to your lips to your breasts to, eventually, the sight of his length plunging in and out of your body below. Your eyes trailed after it, and you watched one hand of his move from your hip to your ribs. Rubbing.

Your wet and pliant hole took him with ease and welcomed him in. The sounds of your shared fluids were obscene, but it made the kind of wild, dizzying refrain you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget for years, if ever.

Slowly, Joel’s palm slid over, and his fingers splayed out.

His hand rested flat against your belly as he fucked you with abandon. At a particularly deep thrust, it was as if you felt him all the way up in your lungs, and your throat pushed out a cry. Your legs tightened around Joel’s waist, and you knew the end wasn’t far from sight.

“All—All—All yours, daddy. Cum in me, please.”

Joel’s fingers flexed gently on your tummy, then he moved them back and forth as his dick did the same.

The friction nearly sent your mind in a spiral; you glanced down, and you saw his outline, faintly, under that touch.

Joel was so big, and your body was lying perfectly supine on the seat that you could feel him—see him—push repeatedly inside you. A little bulge took shape where his hand was pressing in, and the sensation was overwhelming. Your hands slid to Joel’s hair and yanked.

“Fill me—wanna feel you, daddy, please just fill me—”

“Think a little swell in that belly’ll keep those boys from lookin’, huh? Is that what I gotta do to show ‘em you’re—”

“Yes! Fuck!” you whined.

“—always gonna be mine?”

Joel’s thrusts were relentless. Your brain was on the fritz. Your hips tried to lift, mindlessly, begging him to fill you with his cum, but the man had you pinned underneath him. Sweat drenched you both, and the wildest ideas were humming between you. You were almost there.

“That’d be one way to tell your dad, huh?” Joel panted.

Oh, fuck.

“Have you come home from college all swole up with my kid—he couldn’t keep us apart then, huh?” he went on.

Your father would probably skin him alive if he found out. Still, your lips parted, and you dumbly, sweetly mumbled, OK, OK, Joel. Give me one. Make me a mommy, please.

Joel almost lost his hold on your hip and your belly with that last part; he all but folded in on you with that request. Breathily, through his teeth, he gritted:

“You mean that, baby?”

Again, you nodded.

Momentarily forgetting the outline of his cock in your tummy, the thought of seeing you leaking his cum and squirming for more, it seemed, Joel just sank into you.

He bracketed his arms around your head like he had before, flattened his chest to yours, and fucked you.

It was primal. Needy. Wet. Insatiable. You probably looked feral and senseless, and neither of you cared.

Overhead, the strains of an old ZZ Top song reached a crescendo, and Joel’s eyes stayed locked on yours. His cock stretched you in a way that seemed implausible—you felt him from root to tip and could sense the oncoming pulses before they ever left a drop.

Then Joel kissed you. In his warm, soft, and loving way, his lips melded to yours and caressed them continually. Though it might’ve only lasted a few seconds, the effect was profound, and you found yourself pulling him deeper. Squeezing him tight and taking him whole.

“You really wanna have a baby with me, Miller?”

“Nope.” Joel’s response was instantaneous.

“Wh—”

“Eight kids, at least. You OK with that?”

If you weren’t on the verge of climax, you would’ve laughed in his face. But because you were, and you happened to be head over heels in love with this man, you grinned, nodding. Joel smiled and kissed you again.

“Alright. First one’s comin’ now if you’ll just—oh, fuck.”

It seemed like Joel wanted to drag things out a little longer, but his body had other plans. Yours did, too.

Right as your walls clenched and your senses started to flood with those sweet, euphoric feelings, Joel’s cock throbbed once. Twice. Again and again, unleashing ropes of his cum in a seemingly endless stream. Your heels dug deep in Joel’s back, and your jaw fell open, instinctively. While that sticky-wet warmth filled your insides and Joel continued pounding away, a shriek clawed out from you.

It started as a cry and quickly morphed into a moan, shrill as anything: “Please, baby. Please, please, please.”

You never thought you’d want to upend your life with a child before you even graduated from school or got a job.

Joel clearly hadn’t been planning for that either, and still, his voice was as slow and sweet as molasses in your ear.

“Take it all now, darlin’. That’s it. That’s my girl. So good.”

He stroked your hair and emptied himself completely. His balls must’ve been drained, because you could sense what felt like a torrent of warmth between your legs.

When he pulled out, you both groaned at the sight.

Joel was drenched in his cum and yours. Dripping.

Still oozing a little at the tip, the old man was spent, and it appeared he was about to give himself a good shake and wipe it all off, when you stopped Joel in his tracks.

Your mouth watered as you watched him. You swallowed.

You didn’t even bother to ask for what you wanted, just stuck out your tongue and peered up with doe eyes.

Joel groaned and nodded. He shuffled closer and lowered himself in until his tip was at your mouth.

Your lips closed around him, and your head bobbed down. As his cock filled you whole, your mind went blank. It wasn’t even a matter of sucking him off or getting him clean; you just needed to feel and taste the cum that had sprayed your insides. You craved the scent of the sweet, affectionate man who was well over twice your age and still on board with giving you his babies.

Even if it was just a fantasy between you both…for now.

You hadn’t even realized your eyes had closed until your lips slipped off him with a pop, and your vision suddenly brightened. You eyed Joel curiously from below, and your heart skipped a beat when you could see he was smiling.

Before he could speak, or else try to clean you up any himself, your own lips twitched a little at the corners. Your gaze searched Joel’s with a soft, tender intensity, and for a second, you debated whether or not to say it.

Quickly, you made your choice.

Just as Joel was about to lean down to reach for his clothes, maybe search the floor for a clean t-shirt or towel to wipe you both down with, his eyes were still glued to yours, and your grin was slowly growing bigger.

Joel cocked a brow in question, and you went on ahead, fighting the urge to laugh while you said, sweet as ever:

“So…it looks like my little miniskirt trick actually worked.”

And if I said Reader got pregnant with twins…THEN WHAT

[ggclarissa]

smile | clark kent

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader, corenswet!clark kent x photographer!reader

content: tooth rotting fluff, kinda cringe writing, just the reader trying to make clark smile for pics.

summary: in which you’re the daily planet’s staff photographer, and the only thing standing between you and clocking out is one last, impossibly camera-shy subject: clark kent.

author’s note: i haven’t written anything in AGES, so please forgive me if this is a little short or cringy </3

You readjusted the camera bag slung over your shoulder and poked your head around the corner of the bullpen. It was late afternoon at The Daily Planet, which meant the chaos had settled into that familiar gentle hum — printers clacking, phones ringing, and the faint smell of coffee drifting from the nearby coffee station.

Clark Kent was exactly where you expected him to be: buried behind a stack of drafts at his desk, tie slightly askew, glasses sliding down his nose as he typed like the world depended on it.

You cleared your throat. “Hey, Clark. Got a minute?”

Clark startled so hard he nearly sent his mug flying. He fumbled to catch it, cheeks pink as he pushed his glasses back up. “Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

You grinned, patting your camera bag for emphasis. “Perry wants updated staff photos for the website. Guess who’s the last one left?”

Clark’s expression fell so fast it was almost comical. He glanced at your camera bag warily, as if it might leap up and snap a photo of him at his worst angle. “Oh, do we really need mine? I’m barely—I mean, I’m just—”

“—One of the most published journalists in Metropolis?” You finished, faintly amused by his rambling. “Sorry, Clark, no hiding behind the copy machine. Up.”

He let out a helpless little huff but rose from his chair obediently. You hooked a finger under his sleeve and steered him towards the break room.

Inside, the late afternoon sun poured through the large windows — soft, warm, just good enough for half-decent lighting if you squinted. Clark stood stiffly by the counter, like he was bracing for a mugshot.

You set your bag down on the table and fiddled with the lens cap. “Relax, Clark. Shoulders back. Try not to look like you’re about to admit to a felony. And lose the glasses, too.”

He shuffled his feet, a little uneasy, but obeyed — taking off his glasses and tucking them into his pants pocket. “I don’t photograph well,” He muttered.

You glanced up from the camera. “Why not?”

Clark shrugged, faint pink blooming at the tips of his ears and spreading to his cheeks. “I just…don’t. Never have.”

You found that hard to believe. Clark had always struck you as handsome — even with his awkward posture and thick glasses — but maybe he didn’t see it himself.

You raised the camera, then lowered it again. “Okay, new plan. Think of something that makes you smile.”

He tried. Really, he did — you could see the effort. But every click was the same polite, stiff half-smile that didn’t quite reach those ridiculously blue eyes.

You lowered the camera, huffing dramatically. “Nope. You look like you’re about to get arrested. Try again.”

He shifted his feet again, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m trying, I swear.”

“Come on. There’s gotta be something that does it for you. Ma’s apple pies? Tractor rides around the farm? Old movies?”

To your surprise, a quiet laugh escaped him. His arm dropped to his side as his shoulders loosened just a fraction. “Yeah. Ma’s apple pies. Sunday dinners. Clear skies back at home.”

You snapped another shot — still not right. Clark was mid-blink. With a sigh, you stepped closer and lowered your voice. “Okay. Instead of picturing something that makes you smile, why don’t you think of someone?”

This time, when he looked at you, the air shifted. It was subtle but unmistakable — his eyes softened, and something warm flickered there, as if he were seeing only you and all the noise had fallen away. His lips curved into that shy, genuine smile you’d only caught once or twice — like when you brought him coffee exactly the way he liked it, or when you praised one of his pieces.

Click. Perfect.

You checked the screen, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips. “There it is. I knew you had it in you, Smallville.”

Clark flushed at the nickname but couldn’t conceal his smile. You angled the camera so he could see the photo for himself. He slipped his glasses back on and leaned in — close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne, clean laundry and something warm you couldn’t quite place.

“Huh,” He murmured, eyebrows lifting behind his glasses. “That’s…that’s not so bad.”

You bumped your shoulder against his playfully. “Not bad? Clark Kent, I’d say you look positively you.”

His gaze flickered from the photo to your face — lingering there, soft and earnest, in a way that made your heart do something ridiculous in your chest.

You busied yourself with packing up your camera, hoping your cheeks weren’t as flushed as they felt. “Well, my work here is done. I’ll be expecting a thank-you latte on my desk tomorrow morning, just so you know.”

Clark shifted on his heels, looking like he had more to say but couldn’t quite find the words. Then he blurted out, “How about dinner instead?”

You froze, then glanced up slowly. “Dinner?”

He nudged his glasses up again — his safety net, you’d come to notice — but now there was a shy, hopeful edge to his smile. “Yeah. To thank you. For…all of this.” He gestured vaguely to your camera bag, to the break room, at the way you somehow managed to really see him when he rarely let anyone look too closely.

You tapped your chin, feigning consideration just to watch him squirm. “Hmm. I don’t know. Do you smile better over pasta or tacos?”

Clark laughed — warm and easy — and you almost wished you could capture that too. “I guess we’ll find out,” He teased, falling into step beside you as you made your way back to your desk.

Behind you, the light of the break room glowed softly, like the beginning of something good.

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ it's a gift (you keep those) ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ giving him a plushie that reminded you of him┊1k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, crushes, probably ooc but he’s so cute & wade is hard to write for, written for dp&w logan so idk if he got gifts in xmen, i forgot about laura, they are in touch and have a wonderful father-daughter relationship, i’m so sorry, edited

➤ author's note: i have so many thoughts but too incompetent to write

logan’s never sure who will appear when he opens the door as wade’s quite the extrovert, either vanessa or one of his many other friends whom he’s now become somewhat acquainted with, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to meet the familiar eyes of the cute neighbor who lived a few doors down. he nervously scratched the back of his head, suddenly becoming aware of his shabby appearance, “uh, are you looking for wade?”

“no, i was actually looking for you!” god, your smile is so bright, it’s blinding. he normally hates perfume of any sort as it’s so overpowering to his heightened senses, but the one that you wore smelled so lovely like always. is that a new shade of lip gloss you’re wearing? it really suits you. (why on earth is he noticing all of these details out of the blue? he needs to snap out of whatever spell you put on him after being introduced when he first showed up and only interacting in passing since then).

“looking for me?” he repeated, in disbelief, trying his best not to allow his surprise to slip into his voice. considering he isn’t from this dimension and not the most agreeable person to be around, he had no friends of his own yet and hasn’t been visited by anyone since he got here. a beat of panic struck him, thinking that he was in trouble for something and you came to complain. he really couldn’t think of any other reason you were here for him even though you were so cheerful.

you were carrying some shopping bags with you, dropping them on the ground before reaching into one and pulling out a large fuzzy plushie of a gray cat hidden under layers of glittery tissue paper, “i saw this cutie when i went shopping with my friends and thought it looked like you!” you held it out for him to take, looking so proud of the stuffed animal.

he hesitated for a second before accepting it, trying to take in the fact that you were reminded of him in your day-to-day life. it made his heart flutter, and he found himself dumbfounded by the feeling. he was frequently teased by his roomate about his little “crush” on you, claiming that it was oh so obvious and that the sooner he accepted it, the better, but he never realized until now how pathetic he was when it came to you. was the wolverine really getting butterflies like a fucking schoolgirl in his old-ass age? thank god no one was home right now to bully him about it, he would never hear the end of it.

“it does not look like me,” he scoffed playfully after a quick examination.

“no, it definitely does! it’s a big, grumpy kitty—” you took a step closer to hold it with him, pointing at all the similarities you observed, although it was clear you were exaggerating for laughs. “see the little frowny face and ears? it could be your identical twin separated from birth! willy mentioned that you act like a cat most of the time, and i think it fits perfectly!”

the smile he didn’t realize was plastered on his face faltered at the last piece of information, grateful that you didn’t notice. that idiot has been talking about him to you? he might as well forget about any chance of getting with you, because knowing how he yaps without a filter and loves to play matchmaker, you probably think he’s a freak of some sort. “only good things, i hope…”

you giggled, the sweetest sound he ever heard. “of course, he’s really fond of you… well, maybe a bit too fond, but you already know about that!” you opened your mouth to continue the conversation or say something else, but your phone started ringing and you excused yourself, looking a little shy as you grabbed up your bags. “i’ll talk to you later!” you sounded so excited about the prospect of it before leaving, your voice and footsteps becoming fainter as you walked back to your place.

“wait, you didn’t take back the cat—”

“it’s a gift! you keep those!”

“oh… right…”

he lingered for a moment, unable to say much in response since you left in such a rush. when was the last time someone gave him a present? staring at this brand new item, he still couldn’t see the resemblance in any way, but knowing that it was a gift from you gave him a rare feeling of happiness which returned every time he looked at it from then on among his few possessions. 

“oh my goodness, what is this adorable thing?!” wade exclaimed when he saw it sitting on the couch where logan slept, picking it up to gawk at before tossing it up in the air and catching it before it hit the floor. “ooh, let me guess, it’s a gift from her, isn’t it?” 

the mutant groaned at his mocking tone. “put it down before you ruin it with your grubby hands,” he commanded, snatching it from his grasp (rough enough to make his point clear, but carefully enough not to tear it apart). his roommate didn’t even bother pretending to be offended like he usually would as he was simply overjoyed that his “ship” was coming true. “it doesn’t mean anything, don’t make it weird.”

“it doesn’t mean anything?! how can you say that when it’s going to be the first gift you give to your first child together—”

“first what??”

“nevermind, what are you gonna name it?”

“i have to name it?”

“have you never owned a stuffed animal before? you have to name it! how heartbroken is she going to be when she asks what you named it and you say that you haven’t done that?! she’s gonna think that you don’t value her gifts!” you would think the world was going to end if he didn’t do so if you heard the way he was speaking.

“fine, i’ll name it…” he looked deeply into the toy’s soulless eyes, noting how soft the outer material was against his calloused hand, “... fluffy…”

“that’s such a shitty name—”

“shut the fuck up, it’s been decided.”

[shiny-jr]

PROLOGUE, the beginning

– Summary: Why were you here? That was not a question you could answer, nor could you even remember the events that led you to awake in a world unlike your own. Archons of elements ruled the lands, and they will either answer your prayers to return home or become obstacles in your path.

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader. 

– Characters: Grim. 

– Note: This is thanks for all the followers, all +8,500 of you. Yes, I consider this a milestone. Which is why I decided to share this now. Also, because I've been genuinely struggling to write this series behind the scenes, although I really do adore the AU (even if not much story has been shared yet). I think I have almost fifty pages by now, and it's still only the very very beginning. Maybe I might share the first proper chapter later just to test the waters, see how y'all like it. Maybe. For now, I hope you do enjoy this prologue for the Empyrean AU! Please, do feel free to tell me your thoughts on it.

– Pages: 9

prologue | chapter i

This was not your sky, and yet you were looking up at it. 

The sky was never so clear to the point where you could actually see them. The stars. At home, if you were lucky, maybe on the odd occasion you could spot a few blinking lights if you squinted and stared at the inky darkness for a while. Never had you actually seen them so vividly, except in pictures. Maybe that’s what made it hard to look away, when this was only the kind of sky someone would see if they were dead. Or at least, that’s how you pictured it. That, or they were far from the familiarity of civilization. 

Were you dead? Perhaps not, you thought, when you felt a cold breeze and felt a grainy substance beneath your fingertips. The scent of salt invaded your nostrils, confirming that you indeed were not dead, unless heaven or hell was a beach and you were currently lounging on it. That seemed like a rather foolish notion. If you were in hell, how far down would it be and how would you even be able to see the sky? If you were in heaven, how close would the stars be? Probably so close that it wouldn’t make for much of a view. 

Disoriented, you slowly pushed yourself up as you were met with a vast expanse of darkness. The moon cast its gentle glow on the world, reflecting upon the stretch of endless ocean that began in tides washing against the shores just feet away from your toes. 

“Where––?” 

It was night, and you found yourself on a beach with no clue as to how or why you got there. Unsurely, you scanned your surroundings as you sat up on your knees, and attempted to pat off the sand particles that stuck to your clothes. Clothes that were a clear sign that you were unprepared to be here, when all you had on was an old white t-shirt and a pair of shorts that exposed your limbs to the cold. As you continued to pat yourself down, trying to remember why you were here, your pockets felt strangely empty. Again, you pat the spot, double checking as you felt your heart drop. 

“No, no…!” 

The pockets where you usually kept your phone and wallet or any other spare change, were both devoid of its contents. Patting yourself down entirely again, led to the conclusion that you had nothing. No method of communication, no form of payment, no proof of identification. Nothing. 

Were you kidnapped? No, that didn’t make any sense. If you had been kidnapped, why were you left alone on a shoreline? Robbery was a possibility, although you began to doubt that theory when you confirmed that you still had your jewelry. So if robbery and kidnapping were checked off the list, then why were you here? 

The last thing you could recall… you couldn’t remember. What were you doing before? You knew who you were, where you were from, but you couldn’t remember what you were doing last! 

Just before the situation could fully sink in, out of the corner of your eye you noticed blue. Not of the water, no, this was a bright blue glowing like the stars. And there were two. In the distance, two small flickering fires of blue moved along the edge of the forest. The pair shifted and floated not too far off the ground, dancing within the shadows, but seeming to grow further and further away. As if wherever the source was coming from, was traversing deeper into the woods and away from the shoreline. 

Looking around once again, you saw you were alone. There was no evidence of civilization whether it be some type of building, a pathway, or a sign to conveniently point you in the right direction. All around you was the ocean, shoreline, and the forest. You could travel in one direction and hope you either happened across another person, or you could wait patiently in hopes someone would come searching for you. Of course, there was the riskier option of following the lights and pray it was a person and not something else. Currently, your options were limited. 

Not quite particular to the prospect of starving or freezing out in the open, you quickly scrambled up and chose to follow the lights. Your sneakers allowed you to run across the sand without sinking down, as you attempted to keep up with the lights. You didn’t dare speak out, because you still didn’t know what exactly the lights were! 

In any other situation, your fear would have never allowed you to just blindly follow two glowing blue lights in the middle of nowhere at night. However, this wasn’t exactly a normal situation. You’ve read stories of people foolishly pursuing strange lights which often lead them to either a wondrous new thing or a terrible fate. You could only hope that it wasn’t the latter in your case. 

By the time you had reached where the sand became grass, you were out of breath, but still forced yourself to carry on. Lingering behind the blue lights, as you kept your breathing quiet and remained cautious of any branch should you step on it and it make a noise. 

Speeding up, the ground became a bit easier to walk on when it was mainly grass and dirt. The lights kept low, visible in the tall grass that brushed against your knees as whatever it was weaved between trees at a swift and easy pace. As you got closer, you could verify that your eyes had been correct earlier. It was two blue flames. Two blue flames and a cat! 

It was the strangest cat you ever saw, with blue flames that came from within its two little ears. From behind it, all you could make out was its gray fur in desperate need of a wash and paws slightly damp with mud. The tail at the end of it was most peculiar, black and forked like a trident. Well, even if it was the strangest little kitty, it was much of a relief to see it was a creature that you could recognize. 

“Wait…! Come here, come here, it’s alright.” You gained the courage to speak, finding your voice as you attempted to catch the kitten’s attention and beckon it closer. Even if it was feral, maybe it could lead you somewhere. Feral cats had to eat, and some liked to rummage around the bins in the alleyways back home. Perhaps this one was the same. 

As you reached forward, the cat screamed in fright. It screeched, hair raising along its spine and tail standing straight in alarm. It didn’t scream like a cat, it screamed like a person with a voice, which in turn caused you to reel back and scream too. 

It did indeed have the face of a cat, but its eyes were highly unusual. Blue. Entirely blue, the same shades as the fire from its ears. The sclera of its eye was a light blue instead of white, and its pupil was like a cat’s, but the iris was an unusual shade of chathams blue. You had never seen anything with eyes like those! 

“Who are you?! What are ya doing following me?” 

It spoke. It spoke in a grating little voice that caused you to flinch. The feline looked just as tense as you were, as it stood on the tips of its claws with its back arched, staring up at you with those wide eyes. You half expected the thing to hiss at you. 

“A… A talking cat!” You exclaimed in pure shock, as you scanned your surroundings, in case someone else didn’t emerge from behind a tree and claim to be the voice you heard. But you had clearly seen the cat’s mouth moving and heard the words come from its mouth. Was this some sort of dream? It had to be. I mean, waking up alone in a foreign place, having no memory of why you were here, encountering a cat with fire ears and the ability to talk, it had to be just a dream! “Okay, I’ll play along.” Or at least, that was your current logic, as you willingly deluded yourself for your own peace of mind. 

“I’m not a cat!” The creature hissed, its back arching a little higher as if it were an attempt to intimidate you. It was difficult to be intimidated when it was very cat-like and small. “I’m Grim! Remember the name, because you’re looking at the next great archon! Now, I already asked who you were and why you were following me, are you not gonna answer that?” 

Taking a step back to not loom over him, you regarded him carefully, deciding not to press about the archon thing, whatever that was. “Oh, um… My name is (Y/n). It’s very nice to meet you, Mister Grim.” 

The-not-cat creature paused, slowly sitting as a content little grin curled below his whiskers. Grim preened, sounding much less threatening, “A human with manners and brains! Aha! Finally, someone regards me with the respect I deserve! Although I prefer Master Grim, but I’ll let Mister slide. I’ll take it easy on you. Now, stick 'em up, human!” 

Puzzled, you slowly did as he commanded, although you weren’t sure why Grim wanted your hands up. It’s not like you had to obey, but you did. 

Grim regarded your appearance and attire, scoffing as he straightened his posture to stand on his back two paws and walk like a person. “What bumbling little village are you from where you dress like that? Don’t tell me you’re so poor you can’t even afford proper clothes!” 

Furrowing your eyebrows, you continued standing with your hands up as you looked down at your own outfit. Yeah, it wasn’t anything amazing, but you wouldn’t say you looked poor. Slightly wounded, you looked down at the little feline creature. “What’s wrong with my clothes…?” 

“Everything!” The creature exclaimed as he gestured to multiple aspects of your current wear. “You’re practically begging to get all banged up and scratched with all that skin showing out here, and those pockets are too small to hold anything of value! Don’t tell me someone already got to you first and robbed you?!” 

Robbed? Yeah, that was the theory first, but it seemed like that was no longer the case. That wasn’t what happened to you. “Uhh… no? I don’t think so? Why?” 

“Because this is a robbery! I’m robbing you! Catch up!” Grim groaned in exasperation, no longer pointing a little claw at you. When his eyes went over you once again and he didn’t see anything of real value, he grumbled and averted his gaze down at the dirt. 

Peering down at the creature, you slowly lowered your arms back to your side as you tilted your head at the thing. It kicked a stray pebble before plopping down with his head hung low, only its ear twitched in response as you responded softly, “Sorry, I don’t even have anything on me.” 

“Yeah, I can already tell, duh.” Grim mumbled, not stirring even as you slowly sat across from him, just inches away from where he had flopped down. Not even raising his head, he mumbled bitterly, “What sorta stupid human are you?” 

“The lost sort.” Seeing that the small creature didn’t look about ready to sink its claws into the flesh of your leg, you took the moment while he was tame to explain your precarious situation. How you woke up here, can’t recall the events that led to your arrival, and had no idea where in the world you were. 

The entire time, his little ear occasionally twitched, but he didn’t really move. Grim sat like a person, his little paws sticking out as he kept his head down. It felt odd to be talking to a fiery feline, his blue flames flickering and illuminating the small clearing of the forest you two were sitting in. 

“So… what you’re trying to say is that you ended up here and you have no idea how?” When he lifted his head slightly, his eyes focused intensely on your hands. Despite claiming to not be a cat, Grim acted a lot like one, as he pawed at your palms. 

Tentatively, you nodded, letting the feline do as he pleased, as long as it didn’t involve his claws. You even unfurled your fingers further, just so your palms were more open. “I was wondering if you could tell me where we are…?” 

“Heartslabyul, obviously.” He answered, as if it was common sense. Well, for you, you didn’t recognize the name at all, which made you a bit nervous. It must be very very far from home, wherever you were. There was no time to even ask for clarification, because he pawed at your palm with more force. “What’s that on your hand? Is that––?” 

“My hand…?” 

Turning your hand over, your fingers trembled when you noticed a spot in the very center of your palm. At first you thought you somehow got pierced by something, but by Grim’s light, it became clear that it wasn’t some puncture wound. It was a mark on the flesh, along the creases and line of your skin, there was an oval shaped symbol. Intricate, but far too small to really make out all the details. Whatever it was, it wasn’t plain old regular ink like someone tattooed you while you were unconscious. This mark was glowing. It was very dim, but still, glowing black. 

Any fear you had been containing, escaped when your breath hitched as you turned over your other palm and saw the same thing. Inhaling sharply, your growing alarm became evident by your tone and expression as your voice raised a few decibels, as unsteady as your shaking hands. “M-My hands–– I don’t know what’s on my hands! I didn’t even know it was there! I swear, I don’t know what this is or what’s going––” It was dawning on you all at once, and you couldn’t delude yourself further that this was a dream especially when you felt a tiny prick on your flesh. Pain. You could feel the prick of pain. This wasn’t a dream.

“Why are you panicking? This is a good thing! A great thing! Count yourself blessed, mortal!” Grim cut off your panic, using one of his little pointed claws to trace the oval-marking without drawing blood. Any semblance of disappointment was dashed, and his grin returned as he explained, “This is a symbol from the gods! They’re very rare, not many of the archons use emblems anymore.” There was that word again: archon. “Wayyyy long ago, they used to be mainly used when an archon picked a mortal to use as a vessel and took over their body. Then the body would get a mark sorta like this one! That, or it was used as a branding kinda deal if a mortal owed something to an archon. Weird, I don’t even recognize that emblem. It’s not from me, I mean, I can’t do this yet, but one day I will! So, which archon do you belong to?” 

“I’m gonna get possessed?!” 

The feline scoffed, pouting as you quickly withdrew your hands that were shaking so terribly. “You don’t know why you even have that?” 

You wanted to cry. “I don’t know! I already told you…!” What kind of existence was this, where you lived your mundane life, ended up here lost and afraid, only to get told that you may be possessed by an archon? “I don’t even know what you mean by archon––” 

“WHAT?!” Yowling, he immediately jumped up onto his two back paws as he exclaimed in utter disbelief, almost offended, “You don’t know about the archons? That wasn’t just some wacky made-up story about how you ended up in this dump?” 

When you shook your head, you sniffled, trying desperately to keep your calm, but it seemed almost impossible in this impossible predicament. 

“Okay, okay, since I feel so bad for you, I’ll tell you. Then one day, if you’re still around, you can proudly say that you met the Great Archon Grim! You can brag like, I knew him! Isn’t Grim so cool? I might even remember you and accept your prayers, you can thank me now!” 

At his smug little expression, you relented, as you weren’t exactly in the position to make demands. “Alright, alright… Thank you, Great Grim. And I’ll thank you again if you can explain maybe a little more to me? Please?” 

“Fine, fine, if you insist.” Crossing his arms, he basked in the attention, appearing quite pleased with himself as he began, “Let’s see… here, I’ll put it so simple that even a baby can understand! There are seven nations, and each one has a god. These gods are super-powerful! I’m talking crazy-strong! Like they can level mountains and raise the sea type of miracles with their crazy magic!” 

Right now, you had no idea what to do or how to get home. However, if magic existed in this realm, then surely there would be some way to get back. There had to be, for your sanity. 

“Buuuuuut, I don’t recognize the emblem on your hand at all. It could be one of them? Chances are you probably won’t get possessed, because let’s be honest, what kinda archon would want your body? But, maybe if you pray to one of the archons, you’ll get an answer. But the chances of that are pretty much zero, because only idiots rely on the gods since they almost never answer. You’d have a better chance trying to actually meet with one of them and try to talk to them in person, but good luck with that!” 

Immediately burying your face in your hands, you groaned, shaking your head in misery. This was a world of magic and archons, things that were so unfamiliar, and you were talking to a demonic little cat! A cat was telling you all this! “This can’t be happening, this can’t be real––” 

Grim listened to your murmurings, blinking as he watched your mind unraveling. His little blue eyes glowed in the darkness along with the flickering light of his ears like dim candlelight. Sitting across from you in the middle of the field, his tail slid an inch to the side before tilting his head. Fireflies emerging from the underbrush floated gently, dancing in the breeze around them. Comically, one of the flying critters in particular levitated above his head, lighting up like a light bulb as an idea came to mind. 

“You know, we’re actually not too far from the capital of Heartslabyul.” A toothy grin took root on his short snout. “It’s this hugeee city where the god of pyro lives in this giant palace! One day, I’m gonna live in a palace ten times bigger than that one! My worshippers will build it for me, brick by brick, a towering temple that reaches the very heavens! It’ll make that palace look puny in comparison, but I’m getting ahead of myself.” Temporarily distracted by the fireflies, he didn’t even notice when you slowly lifted your head to look at him. He was far too entranced, pawing and trying to catch the light in his paws. 

“A city…?” A city was a good thing, wasn’t it? When you thought of a city, you thought of towering buildings and bright lights, but it’s entirely possible that cities weren’t the same here. Whenever here truly was. Either way, cities had a lot of people. People could help. “How far is it?” 

Swinging his paw through the air, he managed to hit a firefly that burst into a tiny flame. That was not a normal bug. It was an actual fire-fly. “I dunno, like… a few hours? The point is, I’m willing to offer you, pathetic lost sad human, the offer of a lifetime!” Hopping up onto his back paws, he waltzed right up to you and stood proudly with his little arms crossed in front of the white puff of fur at his chest. “I tried staking my claim there in their main city, but I was kicked out! Can you believe it? Me! They threw me out as if I was nothing! But they can’t keep me out forever! Here’s my amazing offer: if you help me sneak back in, I’ll help you… ah… what were you looking for again? I already forgot.” 

Furrowing your eyebrows in disbelief, you replied in quiet distress, “Uh… a way home…?” 

“Oh! Right! That.” Clearing his throat, he resumed, “Swear to help me sneak back in, and I’ll lead you straight to their capital where you can look for the Pyro Archon to ask about a way home! I even know a shortcut so you don’t have to walk all the way. Now, say thank you.” 

Grimacing, but with little choice as it was either follow the eccentric talking cat or remain lost and possibly rot in the wilderness of a foreign world, you replied unsteadily, “Thank you…?” 

Little white fangs poked out as he grinned, and darted into the tall grass. “Good enough for me! Come on, human, if we want to catch that short cut, we gotta do it before the sun comes up!” 

There was hardly any time to register what was going on or how quickly this was all going by. Right away you had to jump to your feet, stumbling after the feline. You could make out his path by the glow of his ears and the shifting of the grass as he occasionally jumped in the air to smack at the fire-flies. “H-Hold on, where are we even going?!” 

Grim smacked at another fire-fly as you were careful to avoid even touching them. He chased away the glowing embers, creating a path for you to follow in his trail. “The nearby port! Where else? We got a one-way ticket to the capital and that’s on the King’s ship!” 

Jogging to keep up with his quick pace leading to dense forest between the shores and woods, you did your utmost best to remain in his sight. It would be terrifying to be lost here at night alone. “I thought you said you were thrown out of the city! Why would their royalty let you on his own ship?” 

“Because he doesn’t know, obviously!” Grim paused at the edge of the meadow just before the trees to let you catch up, and he offered a confident little smirk. “We’re sneaking onto the King’s ship that’ll take us straight to Chesswick.”

[mcrdvcks]

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

[thewitchblue]

You kidnapped the nine year old Tim Drake, yet the Drake parents won't even answer the phone to get him back or even acknowledge he was missing to begin with. Where are they? What could possibly be more important than their own child? If you had a kid, you'd do anything for them. You'd love them so much it would ruin you. Where could they possibly be?

You eyed Tim carefully. He looked and felt completely unphased, maybe even a bit happy because his day wasn't filled with dreaded boredom that weighed heavy on most of his days. He wanted to study you, but he had too many questions to voice just one, so he stayed silent. Watching. Observing. He found you fascinating.

"Where the hell are your parents, kid?"

You asked Tim with clear irritation. It had been hours with no police call nor answer to the ransom note you left on Tim's bed as you carried an unconscious Tim to this ratty warehouse. Tim shrugged. He didn't know. He was taking notes on Bruce Wayne for his Batman theory at the time, and they never told him when they left or when they would come home.

"I don't know. They might not even be in the country. I vaguely remember them talking about a month long trip to Peru."

You raised your eyebrows. An entire month? Do you want to keep this kid an entire month for some not-so-quick cash? This is such terrible luck. Of course, you kidnapped the kid with parents who are on vacation. What rubbish luck.

"And they just... left you behind?"

Tim nodded as if that was normal. He wasn't even trying to escape. He figured you would have killed him by now if you were going to kill him, and you haven't been roughing him up, so this was just like talking to a friend but with bondage.

You sighed and shook your head, muttering about terrible parents. You can't keep him tied up for an entire month, however, so either you have to let him go and kidnap someone else or keep him in hopes his parents do eventually show up and pay close enough attention to figure out he's missing.

It was then that you made a decision. A decision you weren't sure you'd regret or not. A lifestyle changing decision.

"Hey, kid. Let's play a game."

Tim's face lit up. He nodded enthusiastically, shifting in the chair he's tied to. You explained,

"We are going to pretend I'm your mom until they figure out you are missing. I'll return you when they notice you are missing."

Tim looked at you with far too intelligent eyes and said with a soft tone,

"They won't be looking."

You frowned. Surely, they would notice eventually. The Drake family was the best family to target because their son is said to be loved dearly. The parents were rich enough to pay good money for Tim. But, if they are gone... maybe you could pretend to be a nanny for the money. Tim isn't a bad kid to keep an eye on. You pursed your lips in thought before picking up the knife you brought. Tim flinched as you approached, but you reassured him,

"I'm just cutting the ropes."

Tim nodded and tried to remain calm when you got close enough for him to feel the blade sawing through the ropes. He thought you were about to kill him for wasting your time, but you genuinely were just cutting the ropes. You were going to let him free. Just like that.

But Tim stayed. You gave him the option to run, yet he didn't. He stood up from the chair and looked at you seriously. He murmured timidly,

"Can you be my mom permanently instead?"

You blinked down at the kid, now approaching you for a hug. You awkwardly hugged Tim and mumbled,

"Munchkin, I'm not a good mother figure."

Tim buried his face in your chest. He didn't want to let you go. From his observations, you seem like you'd be the perfect mother for him. Intelligent, kind, with a big heart that seemed like it would accept everyone. His analytical mind is almost never wrong. His muffled voice said,

"You'd be better than my current mom."

You frowned, but even you can agree something has to change in the poor kid's life. He can't be caged and paraded around like a prop. He is a real person with real emotions. You can't subject him to a life of crime, however, so you'd have to turn your life around for him. Not to even mention the challenges that come with motherhood and the fact you will struggle immensely to become something more than just another kidnapping thug.

You might be able to take advantage of Wayne Enterprise and use the tuition packages promised to all employees to go to university. You'd get a job and a better home. You could build a life for yourself and Tim. The plan was already forming in your head. You really shouldn't be considering this insane idea. You never expected to have a child, let alone adopt one that you kidnapped.

Yet... his beautiful blue eyes looked at you like you would be the best mother in the world. You shook your head to shake away the thought. You can't be seriously considering this, right? You wouldn't have the money to keep him if you went to university and turned your life around the correct way. You should wait until you are stable before accepting him as your own. You wouldn't even have much time to play with him like a normal child would require at his age.

"I don't need much."

He seemed to be ready to beg. He was tired of being a toy. He was tired of being invisible unless the cameras were on. He just wanted to be loved and adored, and he is certain you would love him the way he deserves to be loved. He deserves to be cherished. You closed your eyes. This is a monumental decision, but you said before Tim could start pleading,

"I would need legal documentation of the adoption."

You don't need the Bat to come after your new child when the Drakes start asking questions. Tim grinned and hugged you tighter. You looked down at him and said, completely bewildered,

"Your life is downgrading. Why are you so happy?"

Tim's reply broke your heart,

"I'm not downgrading if I'm loved."

You almost started crying. This poor nine year old wanted love so badly he was willing to let his kidnapper become his mother. You ruffled his hair affectionately. This may be the worst decision of your life or the best. He said almost excitedly,

"I can forge my dad's signature and look up adoption paperwork to file!"

That's illegal, but he seemed determined now that he felt free. You shook your head but smiled at the irony. Who are you to care about the law after kidnapping a kid for ransom anyway?

"Let's get your things, kiddo. We have a lot of illegal paperwork to do."

The Bat did come knocking on your doorstep exactly one month later, but you said you adopted him just before the Drake's left for vacation, so they must have simply forgotten. Tim, now using the power of love and childhood guts, said,

"Bruce Wayne, leave my mom alone!"

Batman looked startled, but you kissed Tim's forehead and told him gently that it was time for bed. Tim pouted. He had all the proof!

"I believe you, baby, but there are some things that are supposed to remain private. Batman doesn't owe you his secrets."

Bruce may have fallen in love with you on the spot. You take good care of Tim. He's clean, healthy, and obviously happy with you if he's willing to stand up against Batman to keep you in his life. It's the happiest he's ever seen Tim Drake, come to think of it. Bruce half-heartedly continued to ask his questions,

"How did you adopt him?"

Illegally, allegedly. You looked at Tim with a warm smile as he responded proudly,

"I found her all. by. my. self!"

Batman smiled fondly. Tim acted as if he was the one who chose to adopt him. How did you get the Drake family to approve an adoption? They probably didn't. If he was thorough, he has no doubt he would find an error of some kind that would bust the adoption story and turn it into a kidnapping. He knows they would never sign him over when he is the reason they stay in the spotlight.

Bruce eyed your worn-out state. You were new to children, evidently, and he was impressed how well you were doing with him. Bruce had the same exhaustion when he first adopted Dick, but what really sold it was the soft way you looked at Tim.

Tim is your world like Dick and Jason are his world. How could he rip the loving family apart? He can't. The warmth of your love practically smothers Tim, and it shows in the way he clings to your waist. He seemed like he was ready to fight for you and the fierce love he's cherished for the month that he's been with you.

Bruce could fall in love with you so easily and so quickly. The way you love Tim was the way he loves his boys. He needs someone like you, who would accept his boys and love them the same way you seem to love and adore Tim. You cherished every moment and celebrated the activities he's found interest in. Bruce decided he could look the other way this one time. He needed to focus on his own children anyway.

He noticed Robin cartwheeling his way back to Bruce's side and smiled fondly. Dick recently taught him basic gymnastics tricks, and he's been in love with every one of them since. Bruce said in a stern tone,

"Don't let this happen again."

You physically relaxed and gave him a grateful smile. Because you knew that he knew there was more to the story, but he didn't pry, and you didn't let Tim say Batman's secret outside your house.

Bruce Wayne did inevitably come back to you and eventually made his own offer: Do you want to gain more kids and date the wealthiest man in Gotham? He wants his kids to experience the fierce love you give Tim, and Jason is a saint as a child. You might even mend the bridge between him and Dick. So, do you accept? Will you be the mother to his children?

[jobean12-blog]

The Best Worst Day Ever

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 3.4K

Summary: You're having a shit day but then you see a dog and things start looking up...

Author's Note: We love a soft and sweet Bucky and dogs and bookstores and cookies and kisses- so here we are! Hope you enjoy, thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️The two bookstores I mention can be found here (Spoonbill and Sugartown) and here (Albertine Books). Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: a cute dog, Bucky saves the day (a few times), cookies, soft fluff, building tension, books

“You will not believe the day I had.”

You practically sigh the words into the phone, feeling at least slightly better at the sound of your best friends voice.

“Tell me everything,” she says.

You start to recap your shitty day but a large fluff of black fur across the street catches your eye.

“Oh my god…,” you start, completely derailing your previous thought. “There is this giant black dog across the street. I have to go pet it.”

Your best friend laughs, “of course you do,” and you can feel yourself start to form a real smile for the first time today.

“I’ll call you back,” you tell her.

“You got it,” she answers, not even questioning your behavior.

You start to cross the street, giving a quick glance in both directions before breaking into a jog. You’re just about to call out to the old man to ask if his dog is friendly, when you hear the screech of tires.

Your heart drops and your body instinctively reacts but all you feel is the whoosh of air that whips past you and a set of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

For a few long seconds you simply breathe, clinging to the solid warmth of whatever is holding you up.

“Are you ok doll?”

The voice is soft but deep and you look towards it, blinking against the bright sun, wondering for a moment if the car hit you and you’re dead and in fact, now in heaven.

Your fingers dig into soft leather as you stare at one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen.

“Am I dead?”

Bright blue eyes peer down at you, the corners lightly crinkling at your question. His gaze wanders over your face, his expression seeming to waver between awe and concern.

“No, I’ve got you. But are you ok?”

His words draw your attention to his mouth. Blinking again and trying to clear your head you finally manage to answer him.

“I…I don’t think so…I just wanted to pet the dog.”

His perfect lips curl up into a teasing smile and you have to drag your eyes away to focus on his blue ones. But the fact that you’re pressed against his solid chest and encased in the warmth of his arms does nothing to help your concentration.

With a slight tremble you start to sit up, but he doesn’t release you from his hold. He just moves with you and helps you to stand.

Once he feels you’re steady enough on your feet he removes his hands but stays close, clearly not convinced you’re fine.

You let out a shaky exhale and smooth your hands over yourself.

“That was so scary.”

You can feel the warmth of tears spring to your eyes and your vision starts to blur. He reaches out a gentle hand and places it on your arm.

“I’m sure it was. And while we could stay here I think it would be best to get out of the middle of the street. Why don’t we go sit?”  

He points to the bench on the sidewalk where the old man with the dog stands and watches.

As you approach the old man asks, “it’s a good thing this young man was here to save you. I could never move that fast.”

You glance at the “young man,” and he extends the hand that doesn’t have a secure hold on your arm to greet you.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

“Thank you Bucky,” you say and then give him your name.

“Is she ok?” the old man asks Bucky.

“I think she’s gonna be fine,” Bucky says with a reassuring smile.

Bucky helps you onto the bench and as the dog moves closer, tail wagging, you blurt out in a rush, “can I please pet your dog?”

“Sure,” the old man says. “She’s very friendly.”

“What’s her name?” Bucky asks, as he kneels down to put his hand out for the dog to smell.

“Luna,” the old man replies, sitting down next to you on the bench.

You reach for Luna, letting her smell you before scratching her ears and leaning down to press your face into her soft fur.

Your focus stays on the dog until your heartbeat returns to normal, the conversation between Bucky and the old man lingering quietly in the background.

After a few more steadying breaths you thank the old man and Bucky helps him to stand, watching as he takes slow and small steps away from you, Luna in tow but still looking back at you.

Bucky stands and offers you his hand; strong and slightly clammy, and sparks fly, a curious look flitting across his stunning face as you both react to the touch. You fix your gaze on him and finally give yourself a chance to look. Your heart starts to crash against your chest all over again. You just sit there, staring.

He’s tall and the soft henley he wears beneath his leather jacket is fitted so that you can see the outline of the muscles in his chest. His eyes are the most beautiful blue, and the stubble covering his strong jaw does nothing to conceal the handsome features beneath it.

He smiles softly and for a moment you think you see his cheeks turn a light shade of pink at your obvious examination. He’s still holding onto your hand, and suddenly, seeming to come to his senses, he releases it and smooths his palm over his hair and then the back of his neck.

You feel a flush of heat move through you.

“You’re sure you’re ok doll?”

You nod.

“She should probably eat something.”

At the old man’s gruff voice both you and Bucky startle and turn to see him standing just a few feet away, a knowing smile on his face. Obviously, he didn’t get very far.

“He deserves a date for savin’ your life there young lady.”

With a decisive nod he dismisses you and Bucky and calls to Luna to finally continue on his way.

You feel Bucky’s eyes on you, and you look back up at him from your seat.

“Food?” you ask quietly.

“Let’s go,” he answers, his easy smile returning. “I know just the place.”

The butterflies stay firmly planted in the pit of your empty stomach and you stand so abruptly that you teeter forward and into his arms again. He catches you with two hands splayed at your waist and the urge to bury your heated face against his chest is overwhelming.

“I’m really having a day,” you mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m just happy I’m here to help.”

“Me too,” you whisper.

He falls into an easy stride beside you and a huff of laughter falls from your lips before you say, “I can’t believe I almost died trying to pet a dog.”

“I get it,” Bucky says, throwing you a wink.

You’re careful with your footing, still somewhat shaky from the whole ordeal but when your attention turns back to Bucky, his eyes trailing across your face, seeming to linger on your mouth before lifting to your eyes, you stumble, your foot catching a crack in the sidewalk.

He grabs your bicep to steady you, and you groan. “Shit, you must think I’m hopeless.”

“That person’s driving skills having nothing to do with you,” he assures you as he gently leads you toward the restaurant. “And everyone likes to pet dogs…or at least they should.”

His voice is gentle, and you avoid his gaze, his hand still curled securely around your arm as you come to stop outside the restaurant.

He only let’s go to open the door and usher you in with a soft press of his hand to your lower back.

The flutter of butterflies that you keep trying to ignore are back in full force and when Bucky stops at a table and pulls out the chair for you the gesture has you feeling faint.

You must be starved.

With a monumental effort to relax you sit back in the chair and cross your legs. His gaze automatically flickers downward and be visibly swallows before quickly looking away.

There’s a definite blush on the tops of his cheeks now.

“The pizza here is really good.” His voice sounds extra rumbly, maybe even a little hoarse.

You pick up a menu and start to fan yourself without even thinking. “I’m sure it is.”

“Do you live close by?” you ask him.

“Just a few blocks away. I’m here all the time.”

Before you can ask any more questions, an older woman appears beside your table with a beaming smile.

“Barnes has finally showed up with a girl!” she sings. “And a beauty at that.”

You hide your giggle behind the menu and peer at Bucky.

“This is Millie,” he says, his smile wide. “She owns the place and loves to bust my chops.”

You introduce yourself, delighted and Millie’s warmth.

“Are you having the usual?” Millie asks Bucky.

He nods and looks to you.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” you tell Millie.

“I like her already,” Millie says before rushing back off to the kitchen.

Bucky sits forward, his arms crossed in front of him and now that he’s taken off his leather jacket there is more of him to admire.

His blue eyes are focused entirely on you, and you try not to blurt out your thoughts about how nice his biceps looked in his shirt so instead you clamp your mouth shut and look around the cozy space.

You fall into easy conversation and when the food comes the silence is comfortable while you eagerly eat it, not realizing how hungry you really are.

After your stomach is full, Bucky pays the bill, even after you offered several times, pleading with him that you owed him at least that after saving your life.

He waves you off and hands Millie the cash then holds his hand out for yours.

At the feel of his skin tension immediately springs between you, and you scramble to think of something to say.

He beats you to it.

“What are your plans for the weekend?”

Grateful for the distraction, you reply, “well, I usually spend my Saturday afternoons at this little bookshop in my neighborhood.”

“Is it Spoonbill and Sugartown?”

Your eyes widen and light up.

“YES! You know it?”

“I do. I used to go all the time. Haven’t been in a while though. I love the smell of the old books.”

A rush of attraction sweeps over you like a wave and your hand squeezes his.

“You could meet me there tomorrow? If you’re not busy?”

“Yeah. I’d love that,” he says, grabbing the door and holding it open so you can exit the restaurant.

“Which way are you?” he asks, still holding your hand.

You point right toward Bedford Avenue.

“Come on, I’ll walk ya home doll.”

“Is it out of your way? I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

He chuckles before leaning down to press a quick, surprising kiss to your cheek.

“Nah, it’s not and I really don’t mind.”

You are in love.

Inside the old bookstore, with its vaulted ceilings and shafts of light pouring through the skylights, you stare at the rows and rows of bookshelves.

Through the aisles there is something to catch the eye at every turn. Not just books, but interesting and antique Tiffany lamps and various knick knacks that make you smile. Reading areas are set up in breaks between the shelves, tables with chairs so people can lounge, read, and drink their coffee and eat their desserts.

You let out a contented sigh. On purpose, you arrived a bit early, hoping the familiarity and comfort of the store would calm the persistent butterflies that have taken up a permanent residence in your stomach since your literal run in with Bucky.

As you’re falling deeper under the spell of the leather lined bindings and dusty-smelling pages a soft voice calls your name.

You look up and see Bucky standing at the end of the aisle. He’s dressed casually but different from yesterday, his dark jeans fitted to his muscular thighs and his black tee shirt showing off those perfect arms and chest.

He steps closer and greets you with another kiss to your cheek, this time, closer to the corner of your mouth.

You close your eyes briefly, inhaling his scent and steadying yourself on your feet. Before you can actually swoon to the floor you tell him about the expansion they recently built in the back with a rush of enthusiastic words.

Taking his hand, you lead him to the new section, practically running.

Laughing at your overexcitement, he squeezes your hand.

“You’re very cute.”

When you turn to look at him, something in his eyes makes your skin heat and you have to look away again, but not before you give him a thankful smile.

You expect him to let go of your hand once you reach the back, but he doesn’t.

“Have you ever been to Albertine Books?” he asks.

You stop and think.

“No, I don’t think I’ve even heard of it.”

“It’s easy to miss,” he explains. “It’s inside the French Embassy and has mostly French language books and translations from French into English, but it’s gorgeous.”

“Really?” you say with uninhibited joy. “Will you take me there sometime?”

You’re too busy deciding which part of the expanded bookstore you want to show him first to see his expression, but you hear the affection in his tone when he replies, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, doll.”

Your heart flutters.

Your hand gets clammy, and you gently pull it away, trying to use the shelves and the books lining them to refocus yourself.

He stays with you, content to watch you peruse the bindings, moving from bookshelf to bookshelf.

The book titles quickly become a blur as your awareness zeroes in on one thing, one person.

Bucky.

You feel the warmth of his presence, hovering at your back, and feel the heat of his gaze on your face. The skin on your cheek tingles and you can still feel the press of his lips.

Your breathing grows shallower as his fingertips brush against the small of your back, a gentle touch, but searing through your clothes.

Busy frantically pondering how to navigate the chemistry you share; you don’t realize the book you halt in front of until it’s too late.

A romance novel with a couple in a sexy position on the cover.

Just perfect.

His fingertips press deeper against your lower back, and then you feel the whisper of his lips on your ear as he comments, “interesting choice.”

You make the mistake of turning your head toward his and find his nose just inches from yours.

Your eyes lock for a second before his gazes drops to your mouth. Your body sways slightly toward his, and he takes the movement as an invitation, his head dipping those last few inches.

“Excuse me.”

A voice, loud and close, jolts you away from Bucky, whose mouth had just been millimeters from touching yours.

“I just…want that book.” An arm reaches between you and Bucky, and dazed, you look over to see a woman. She seems unfazed by the fact that she clearly interrupted a moment, and you grab the book for her.

She gives you a thin lipped smiled and darts away.

After a second or two of staring after her, you finally draw up the courage to meet Bucky’s eyes.

His cheeks are pink again and he’s rubbing his palm on his jeans.

Looking over his shoulder you spot the coffee and dessert counter.

“Ooh!” you say, hurrying towards it. “Let’s get a cookie!”

Bucky follows and you turn to him, smiling through the awkwardness.

“You have to try the double chocolate chip.”

He bends down to peer into the display case. Your eyes meet, and just like that you’re too close for your body to handle. You swallow hard.

“It’s delicious. And the chunks of chocolate are gooey.”

His eyes are trained on your mouth as he murmurs, “maybe we should get two.”

“Good idea. I can eat a whole one easily on my own. We might even need three.”

You sound breathless.

“Hm.” He’s not even listening to your words at this point. His focus is on your lips, his eyes are hooded, and he is definitely going to attempt to kiss you again.

“What can I get for you?” the worker behind the counter asks, smiling brightly when the two of you jerk your heads up.

“Four double chocolate chip cookies,” Bucky blurts out, then follows with a soft, “please and thanks.”

Once you have your cookies in your hand you head to one of the back tables and sit, stuffing nearly the whole cookie in your mouth.

It’s so good that for a moment you forget yourself and moan around the bite.

Bucky clears his throat, and you lock eyes. His reaches across the table, his strong fingertips gripping your chin, and he bends his head toward yours. He halts when he’s close enough that you can see the patches of gray in his beard and feel his warm breath fan your cheek.

With the softest brush of his calloused thumb, he wipes away some chocolate from your bottom lip.

“Had a little chocolate smudge right there,” he whispers.

You slowly nod and your tongue darts out to lick your lips. His eyes track the movement, and he releases you, biting into half of his own cookie.

“These really are amazing,” he says around the mouthful.

You nod again, too flustered for words.

The two of you eat all four cookies and despite wanting to distract yourself with more you leave the bookstore and let him walk you home once again.

When you stop outside your building you fiddle with your hands and look anywhere but at him.

“I had the best time,” he says, drawing your attention.

“Me too,” you say quietly.

“When can I take you to Albertine Books?” he asks, as he takes a tentative step closer.

“Tomorrow?”

It’s a hopeful question. One you couldn’t stop yourself from asking even if you wanted to.

“I’d love that doll.”

A deep tug low in your belly makes you bite your lip. You love the use of that endearment and after spending most of the afternoon so close to him you’re nearly at your wits end.

His gaze fixes on yours and his jaw tightens at whatever he sees in your expression then he closes the distance and slides his arms around you, his hands coasting slowly up your back.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, sweeping his thumb across your soft skin and splaying his hand to draw you closer.

“If someone interrupts us this time…” he says, tone full of warning but still teasing.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t even notice if there was a dog nearby for me to pet,” you say with a smile.

He laughs and bumps your nose with his.

“Not even a dog huh?”                                                                                   

You shake your head, and your eyes start to close as your hands grasp the front of his shirt. You feel the heat of his breath first, the warning before his lips touch yours. And when they do, it’s barely a brush, a hot, glancing touch.

Your fingers close more tightly around the fabric of his shirt, silently urging him to really kiss you. You’re desperate for it.

Another whisper of a of kiss, then a slightly deeper press, a nibble on your lower lip. A whimper escapes you.

It shatters whatever restraint he’s grounded himself with and his hand splayed at your back hauls you against his body as his mouth presses to yours.

You open your mouth to let him in, and his groan of satisfaction rumbles through you. The tickle of his scruffy jaw is rough in the just the way you’d hoped it would be and when you feel the slide of his hands down your back, the smooth strength of him under your touch, you completely melt into the kiss and the rest of the world fades away.

[leyavo]

| Reflections of you | 1 |

Summary: Simon gets a direct call from the police station, asking him to come collect his daughter. He doesn’t have much to do with her, tells himself it’s for the best.

Complicated father/daughter relationship. Dad!Simon & Daughter!reader (16years old) very absent Simon (don’t get your hopes up)

-> [masterlist]

This isn’t the first time you’ve been in trouble, just the first and only time you’d asked your dad for help. Your mum had slowly given up on your wild teen years and you acting out to gain his attention. You’d been stuck in the police station for hours before you told the officer to try calling “the one with the skull emoji, my dad but he might as well be a ghost at this point.” No name listing his phone number. You don’t even know his surname, he’s always been Simon to you.

The hand wrapped around your upper arm leads you down the corridor, meaty fingers digging into your flesh. A bang on the glass to your left makes you flinch, an old bearded man yelling through the pane for the officer to remove his hand off you. Something about being a minor.

Great, of course your dad wouldn’t answer. Some cracked up social worker signing your release papers as the officer pushed you out into the main area. Your belongings flung at you, a clear sealable bag filled with your smashed mobile phone and a couple ten pound notes.

The mysterious man glances at you, sliding the papers back through the small opening and tossing the pen back to the desk instead of its holder it’s chained too. His beanie hat makes the beard and moustache thicker, maybe not as old as you thought. Your gaze wonders to his well defined chest and muscular biceps that stretch the fabric of his fleece. Since when did social workers have the time to work out that much?

You pull on your hoody, wincing as you lift your left arm.

“I’m John,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as he walks out of the police station. No identification swinging from a lanyard or your file on the seat of his truck. The brown vehicle looked older than you, maybe even older than John.

“Who are you?” You ask, stepping back from the door he’s opening for you. “You’re not a social worker.”

“Not dumb are you.” He cocks his head to the side, leaning on the door. “Dumb enough to get in a car with someone who’s been drinking though.” John doesn’t mention the bag of drugs that were found in the boot, but you know he knows. You wonder if Simon will fall into the role of dad and punish you, knock some sense into you. He’s gonna have to catch you first.

You rack your brain for any John’s, wondering if he’s some distant relative or a friend of your mother’s. There’s no way anyone from your dad’s side would appear, they’re either dead or he hates them. Hates you that’s for sure. Then again he never did talk about his life or work in general. Came around once a year if you’re lucky on your birthday and didn’t apologise for missing the last one. Fifty quid sandwiched between a Christmas or birthday card, never on time and that normally went on the necessities instead of a gift.

“I’m a friend of your dad’s,” John says, lips twitching as if even for him it feels strange to refer to Simon as dad. He probably found out an hour before now that Simon’s got a daughter.

All you wanted was for Simon to show up once, sign you out and go your separate ways, but he couldn’t even do that. Doesn’t surprise you, not that you expected any different from him.

The drive to wherever Simon lives is silent. John doesn’t engage in small talk or glance at you once since he’s started the truck. The engine loud, the old leather seats creaking as you shift in your seat. Your eyes are heavy, limbs aching and face numb, but you force yourself to stay awake.

John’s truck pulls up outside a cluster of identical houses, red brick exterior and slabs of concrete leading to the front door. You see his figure in the dull glow under the porch, a flicker of ash glimmering as a half finished cigarette balances between his fingers. Simon drops the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot. He doesn’t wait though, turning back into the house as you get out of the truck.

You follow him in, John herding you in from behind. No going back now. Simon leans against the back of the sofa, arms crossed over his chest. He’s just like you, closed off and unreadable. It’s the clothes he wears that bothers you the most.

Some sort of mutated gene, both of you dressed exactly same. Charcoal hoody hanging from your broad shoulders, baggy and not revealing the lean muscles beneath it. You’d always been a fighter, maybe you get that from Simon. Found it easier to build and maintain muscle, your metabolism working in your favour, but you’re still familiar with that ache in the deepest pit of your stomach, lately there’s not enough food. It looked like you’d borrowed clothes from his wardrobe, the same dark washed blue jeans. Grazed and torn on one knee, shoelace tied around your waist keeping them up.

Simon’s trousers stick to him like he’s painted them on, a little bit of give at his ankle. He’s a mass of muscle, a unit. The signature black mask, skull teeth and nose printed in white. He nods at John as he walks through the living room, waiting till he disappears down the hallway. He’s staring at you though, blond brow raised and brown eyes, the same as yours blinking back at you.

Part of you still wary around him. That bloody skull mask used to scare you as a kid, you think he wore it for that very reason. A barrier to keep you from getting too close. Your mum never mentioned the nightmares that tore you from your sleep each night after he left.

“Let’s get a look at ya.” Simon pushes off the sofa, walking to you in two strides. Your chin pinched between his fingers as he tilts your face to the side.

You try to lean out of his hold, but he doesn’t let you. “I’m fine, paramedics looked me over,” you mumble, hand clutching his wrist. The gash on your chin looking worse than it was, no stitches needed. You’ve earned a few more scars since you saw him last, a nick on your brow and line on your cheek.

He releases you from his hold and you stumble back, elbow knocking the side cabinet. “What’s this all about, eh?” His voice muffled, tone low and gravelly like it’s the first conversation he’s had in days. You don’t know if he’s asking about the drugs in the car or the guy who had been drinking and driving.

“What’s it to you?” You might be tense, but you don’t shrink away from Simon. A clear voice and strong eye contact all you need to come across as confident. You’re quick on your feet and there’s enough space for you to run if you needed to. He’s gotta catch you first.

“Well you make it my business when you’re phoning me from a police station at two in the morning.” He tugs the mask down, leaving it tucked under his stubbled chin. You’ve seen his face once in your lifetime, scars marring his lip and the bridge of his nose. The mask seems less scary now. He sounded like a dad, doesn’t look like one though.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

You scoff, of course he doesn’t know. “I took my exams a year early. Don’t do school anymore.” Not your choice that is, no money to pay for college or university and your minor criminal record didn’t allow you to apply for most scholarships.

A smile curves his lips. “Smart, but no common sense?” Simon chuckles, but it’s forced and robotic, unnatural in the setting.

“Must get that from you,” you snap, mirroring his smile. Why else would he have knocked your mum up sixteen years ago? He didn’t want kids, never took much interest in you or reached out when you were older. And when he did visit once a year it looked like it pained him to do so.

Simon shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t go looking for trouble kid.” He was trouble.

There’s a pause of silence, Simon taking the opportunity to gather a blanket and pillow for you to sleep on the sofa. Promising to take you back home after he’s had at least four hours kip. He’s good at spotting a way out, knowing when to leave before your words bite. You’ve shouted at him once and he stood there taking it, you’re not sure if he was even listening.

He asks if you need to be home a certain time for work, but you tell him the basics and let him make up whatever he wants to believe. Your nightly delivery job at the pizza shop, just as it’s seems and not the front of banned substance trading. You not being the runner of the white stuff or the green.

—

Simon’s POV:

Simon’s got an old car, rusted exterior that he tells others it’s the intentional patina. The same tin can that he drives around the gritty parts of the country whenever he’s meeting a contact or swapping intel. He settles on using it to drive you home, the least he can do is make sure you get there safely. That and he’d rather not have his car balanced on bricks in your neighbourhood.

“Ya’ mum still with the same fella?” He asks, trying to remember the last two addresses she’d given him before. Your mother had a habit of dating the same man twice, Simon being the rare one she dated once. He doesn’t know how she managed to worm her way into his life.

“I’m living with me mates,” you say, gaze focused on the world blurring past the passenger window. “The old estate on the east side.”

Simon’s heart thuds in his chest, the same run down council estate he grew up on. You don’t know that though, he hasn’t been back there since he was sixteen and he’s hoping it’s changed. Hoping it’s one of those locations that got gentrified, but he doesn’t hold his breath. They’d have to demolish those tower block of flats and call in an exorcist to get rid of whatever hung around after it.

To his dismay it hasn’t changed a bit, the only thing that had improved was the graffiti marking the communal bins and the exterior of the flats on the ground floor. The odd tag on the stairs and bridge up to the concrete playground. Teens loiter around the car park, leaning on their bikes by the dented garage doors. He used to be one of them kids, anything to get him out of his father’s home. He wondered what pushed you to swap the north side for this. Not that it was much better, a little safer perhaps, but still one of the hard done by communities. He doesn’t have the right to interrogate you though, not when he’s so absent in your life. He’s not made to be a father, reminds him too much of his own and how he doesn’t want to be like him.

A few guys yell at you from across the estate and you shout back, comfortable with the back and forth banter that Simon knows you’ve been staying here longer than you say you have. Least he doesn’t have to knock some heads together. Doesn’t stop his gaze wandering to the boys, trying to memorise their faces and how they carry themselves. Just in case. The main entrance to the block flies open before Simon can grab the handle. A mother dragging a crying toddler behind her, cursing at the boy to use his legs or he’ll be left there for someone to take.

The buzz in security board’s fried, chalky black residue clinging to the wall around it. Not that anyone would want to break into somewhere that looks like it’s already been infiltrated by a swat team. The circular dent in one of the doors and splintered frame are telling enough. The ground floor adding to Simon’s multiple worries as he follows you deeper into the lobby. You don’t bother pressing the button for the lift, heading straight for the stairs. It’s a good thing Simon’s got great stamina as you climb the eight flights to your home. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, shards of glass shattered on the seventh floor and reeks of piss. Thank fuck he isn’t stuck in the lift.

Simon’s boots squeak on the sticky linoleum floor, dirt blending in with the speckled pattern and joining it to make a murky brown. Your light steps barely echo and you move through the archway and out onto the balcony leading to the row flats. A zig zag of a washing line breaks up the space between two front doors and you dodge the fluttering clothes dancing in the wind, as if you do it daily. Simon swats it out of his way, tossing the shirt behind him that tore from the plastic pegs and fraying rope it hung from.

You hesitate a couple doors down outside a garish yellow one. Wrong paint used, the wood warped and a layer beneath it bubbling. A window just beside it, metal bars secured in front. Little ominous if he’s being honest. Your key turns in the lock and you shoulder the door open, forcing your whole weight on it and the bottom scuffs against the floor. He steps over the threshold and wipes his boots on the worn mat.

The layouts exactly like the flat he grew up in, wallpaper peeling the walls of the narrow hallway. A small cream vinyl kitchen to the right, straight from the eighties and a two hob stove, the metal drying rank hung over the sink piled with cups and bowls. The place a lot cleaner though, a fresh linen scent welcoming him in.

He expects a smoked out box room, boys zipped up in tracksuits and adorned with silver, chunky chains, but it’s not. Maybe he’s out of touch with the youths of today, that or he doesn’t know his own kid…definitely the last one. A lot like him, but different in many other ways. Three girls turn to face him from the moth eaten sofa in the living room. The smoke curling in the air leading to an incense stick on the coffee table. Not the weed he smelt walking through the corridor or up the stairs to get here. There’s brown ash scattered on the worn wood instead of the usual white stuff he’s seen in this same council estate.

The girls murmur a collective hello before they retreat to the balcony on the other side of the room. White plastic patio chairs and table taking up the small area.

“Just give me a sec,” you say, shrugging your hoody off and chucking it into the closest room, yours by the look of it. Simon clocks the baseball bat leaning against the wall.

Your room’s a glorified cupboard, single mattress on the floor and crumpled duvet flung on top. The tiny square window doesn’t let much light in thanks to the thick grime coating the glass on the outside. A lopsided three piece drawer stands beside your bed and just about fits into the space, looks like you hacked off the lip on one side to cram it in. The folding door’s like paper, he could walk through it if he wanted to. It’s the collage of photos tacked to the wall that catches his eyes though, a whole life he brought into the world and he doesn’t know anything about you other than your name.

He lingers in the doorway, stepping aside as you walk into the hallway and through to the kitchen. You flick the kettle on and place two mugs on the side. The fridge covered in novelty magnets and photos. You get the half empty carton of milk from the fridge and Simon catches a glimpse of you on the front as you close it.

It’s like staring into a shattered mirror, Simon can see pieces of himself in you and it’s difficult to draw the comparison because he doesn’t want you to be anything like him. The number one reason he stayed out of your life. A photograph of you wearing a skull mask, brown eyes peaking out under the hood you wore. You are your father’s daughter after all.

You hand him a milky tea, probably under the guise of getting rid of him quick. Make a shit cuppa and he won’t hang around too long, won’t pop back in for one either. Maybe he needs to check in more than once a year.

[Part two]

I wrote this around the same time I wrote the first part of I am my father’s daughter and it’s been sitting in my drafts. I’m not sure if there’ll be more parts. -> 🫡 I am dyslexic so there will probably be some mistakes/errors even though I do edit a few times - Leya

[lov3lycosmos]

The Love We Thought We Lost — H.H 𐙚

Genre: Angst/Smut

Pairings: non idol!hyunjin x fem!reader

Summary: after some rumors from a girl who likes hyunjin spread around the school that you were using him for money, he let you go only to realize he needed you.

Warnings: pet names, fingering, crying during sex (emotional), unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it!), creampie, lots or praise, dirty talk (a little), and I think that's it?

Cosmos note: I saw a c.ai bot of a prompt similar to this (i wish i could find it again to link it) and thought I'd write something similar >.<

my library! (NOT PROOFREAD!!)

The first time Hwang Hyunjin saw you, he was sitting in the back of his private driver’s car, scrolling through his phone like his life didn’t belong to him. He’d just bombed another exam, fought with his dad over his future, and wanted to disappear. Then he looked up. And there you were—walking home with tangled headphones, hair windblown, nose red from the cold, balancing a chipped coffee cup and humming like life hadn’t crushed you yet.

You were nothing like his world.

And that was exactly why he needed you.

Everyone knew who Hyunjin was. He had that golden aura—money, face, reputation. Even his uniform looked expensive, like it’d been tailored. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and he gave none of it away.

Except to you.

You didn’t chase him. You didn’t try to impress him. You looked him in the eye when he passed you in the hall, unbothered and clear. It scared him. It hooked him.

One day he sat beside you on the bleachers during lunch and didn’t say a word. You offered him a bite of your sandwich.

That was it. He was yours.

What started as hushed texts turned into holding hands under cafeteria tables, stolen kisses behind stairwells, sketching in the art room with music playing low. It was quiet and precious and real.

He wasn’t your prince. He was your Hyunjin.

Until he wasn’t.

“I think you were just with me for the money.”

You still remember how the words landed. Not like a slap—more like a knife slipping through your ribs, quiet and fatal.

You stood there, stunned. You hadn’t even asked for anything from him. That bracelet? He bought it on a whim. The rides home? He offered. You never wanted his wallet.

You wanted him.

But he didn’t believe you.

He didn’t even let you speak.

You remember him walking away. You remember not chasing him.

What you don’t remember is how you got home that night. Or how long you cried after the door closed behind you.

You just remember seeing a photo of him with Sooah a week later. Her lipgloss on his collar. Her smile tucked under his chin.

That’s when you deleted his contact.

That’s when you started trying to forget.

Five months later, and your phone lights up with his name.

Your body still reacts before your brain does. That stupid skip in your chest. The sharp breath. The urge to throw the phone against the wall.

Your thumb hovers.

And then you pick up.

“…Hello?”

“Hey.”

The sound of him cracks something old and aching in your chest. He sounds winded. Softer than you remember. Like he’s been waiting hours for this.

You say nothing.

He exhales. “I—I know I’m the last person you want to hear from. But I had to call. I need to say it.”

Say what?

“I miss you.”

Your throat tightens. Your grip on the phone hardens.

“I didn’t believe her because I stopped loving you,” he says quickly. “I believed her because I thought you were too good for me. Because I was scared.”

“You were scared?” you whisper. “That’s your excuse?”

“No. There’s no excuse. I just—” He sucks in a breath. “You were the first person who ever looked at me like I was a person. Not a paycheck. Not a perfect image. Just me. And I still fucked it all up.”

You’re trembling. “You didn’t just fuck up, Hyunjin. You broke my heart.”

“I know,” he chokes. “I know, angel. And I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry every second since.”

A beat.

“I left her,” he adds. “Months ago. When I found out the truth.”

“…Why are you calling me now?”

“Because it’s eating me alive.”

The silence after that is deafening.

Then you whisper, “I can’t do this with you again.”

“I need to see you.”

“No.”

“I’m already on my way.”

“Hyunjin—”

The call ends.

Across town, soaked in rain and regret, Hyunjin stands outside your window wondering if he’s already too late.

The truth is… he never meant to let you go.

But five months ago, it didn’t feel like he had a choice.

Back then, his world was spiraling. His grades were slipping. His father—cold, ruthless, CEO of too much—had started threatening to ship him off to a boarding school in Tokyo if he didn’t “straighten out.” His mother stopped coming home. His friends weren’t friends; they were shadows who only laughed when he paid.

And you?

You were his one good thing.

Which is exactly why he thought he didn’t deserve you.

So when Sooah—a girl with fake lashes and a sharp tongue—came up to him after class and said, “She’s using you, you know. Everyone sees it but you,” something cracked in him. She said she overheard you talking to your friend. That you were tired of pretending to care. That you were just waiting for his next gift, his next ride, his next use.

He didn’t want to believe her.

But it planted a seed in his chest—a rotting, twisted doubt—and he let it grow.

Because it was easier to believe you’d break his heart eventually than to wait for the day it happened.

So he did it first.

He cornered you in the hallway. Picked a fight over nothing. Watched your face fall in real time when he said the words: “I think you were just with me for the money.”

He didn’t mean it.

He just needed an excuse.

He needed a way to push you away before you could leave him.

But what he didn’t realize until weeks later—when he found out Sooah had lied, when he saw you walking alone, headphones in, eyes red from crying—was that by trying to protect himself, he had destroyed the only person who ever saw him.

Not Hyunjin the golden boy.

Not the rich kid with the perfect face.

Just… Hyunjin.

And by the time he realized that, it was already too late.

You were gone.

But not anymore.

He can’t carry it anymore—the guilt, the weight of your absence, the sound of your voice in dreams. So he’s here. Now. Soaked and shivering and praying you’ll let him in, just long enough to say it right this time.

You stare at your phone like it might dissolve in your hand. The storm outside has picked up, rain ticking against the glass. You wrap your arms around yourself, heart punching your ribs.

You should block his number again.

You should slam the door in his face.

But twenty minutes later, when the sound of knuckles tapping against glass cuts through the storm, you're already standing at the window.

You peel back the curtain—and stop breathing.

Hyunjin.

Soaked. Hoodie clinging to his chest. Hair dripping in strands over his forehead. And those eyes… wrecked, wide, locked on you.

You crack the window an inch. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had to see you.”

“You’re drenched.”

“I don’t care.”

“Go home.”

“I can’t.”

Your fingers tighten on the sill. “Hyunjin, you hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “But I need to fix it. Please.”

You should slam it shut.

You should scream.

Instead… you open the window wider.

And he climbs in.

The second his feet hit the floor, the air in the room shifts. Rain drips from his sleeves. His chest is heaving. Neither of you speaks.

Then:

“You look the same,” he murmurs. “Except sadder.”

Your chin wobbles.

“I didn’t come to make you cry,” he says. “I just needed to tell you the truth.”

“Then tell me.”

“I was a coward,” he whispers. “You were the only real thing in my life, and I pushed you away. I thought if I ended it first, it wouldn’t hurt as bad when you left.”

You blink at him, heart pounding.

“I thought you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it,” he says. “And I hated that you had that power. So when Sooah said those things, I let myself believe them.”

Tears slip hot down your cheeks. You shake your head.

“I didn’t even ask you,” he chokes. “I didn’t even look at you and know the truth.”

You laugh bitterly. “You were supposed to know me, Hyunjin.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I hate myself for it.”

Silence. Heavy. Raw.

Then he steps forward slowly, eyes on yours. “I’d do anything to take it back.”

Your breath catches.

His hand reaches for yours—and you let him take it.

“I’ve been lost without you,” he says. “Every second. I can’t sleep. I see you everywhere.”

You bite your lip. Your fingers are trembling in his.

“I miss your laugh. Your voice. The way you tug on my sleeve when you’re shy. I miss you, baby.”

He presses your joined hands to his chest, just over his heart.

And then he whispers, “I still love you.”

That breaks you.

A sob escapes your throat, and your knees give—but he catches you, arms pulling you against him fast, tight, like you might disappear if he lets go.

You cling to his hoodie, face buried in his chest, the smell of rain and regret and Hyunjin overwhelming you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so fucking sorry, angel. I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

You don’t speak.

You just let him hold you while your heart slowly starts to ache in a different way.

A softer one.

A hopeful one.

You don’t know how long you stand there—how long you let Hyunjin cradle you like he’s terrified to lose you all over again.

It could’ve been seconds. Hours. A lifetime.

The quiet of your room is broken only by your breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek.

When you finally look up at him, the porch light from outside casts shadows over his face—his sharp cheekbones, the wet strands of hair clinging to his skin, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Your voice is soft, but raw. "Why did you believe her?"

His face crumples.

"Because I was scared," he admits. "Because I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you. And she said—she said things I was already scared of. That maybe I was just a convenience. That maybe someone like me couldn’t be loved for who I am."

You flinch, pulling back slightly. He doesn’t let you go.

"That’s not fair," you whisper. "You didn’t even ask me. You just... left."

His hands tighten on your waist.

"I know," he chokes. "I didn’t deserve you then. But God, I never stopped wanting you. I saw your number in my phone tonight and I—I couldn’t not try."

You swallow, eyes burning again. "And her?"

"Over," he says instantly. "She never meant anything. Not like you."

You breathe out, shaky. "It’s been five months, Hyunjin."

"Five months of hell. Five months of waking up with her and wishing it was you. Five months of trying to fill a space no one else fits."

The silence stretches again, thick with everything unsaid.

Until your voice cracks around the question you swore you’d never ask.

"Do you still love me?"

His answer comes like a confession. Like worship.

"I never stopped."

He leans in then—slow, careful, eyes locked on yours. And you don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t speak—because your body already knows.

Your lips meet his like a spark catching fire. Slow at first—gentle, searching. And then all at once: messy, desperate, teeth and tongue and the taste of tears.

His hands slide to your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin, grounding you. You feel the tremble in his fingers.

When you break for air, he doesn’t pull back far.

"Let me stay," he breathes. "Just tonight. Let me show you what you meant to me. What you still mean."

You don’t answer with words.

You just nod.

And he kisses you again, this time slower, deeper—like a promise.

He leads you backward with gentle steps, never breaking the kiss, until the back of your knees hit the edge of your bed. His hands are warm on your waist, eyes searching yours like he needs to be sure.

"Tell me to stop. If this is too fast, or—"

You cut him off by pulling him closer.

"Hyunjin," you whisper. "Just kiss me."

And he does. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he wants to memorize every second.

He eases you down onto the mattress, his hand cradling the back of your head as your spine meets the sheets. He hovers over you, breath shaky, eyes full of something raw and reverent.

His touch is tentative at first—fingers ghosting over your sides, your arms, the curve of your hip. Like he's rediscovering you.

But you don’t feel like glass.

You feel like fire.

And he wants to burn with you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his lips trailing down the side of your neck. He presses kisses along your collarbone, each one tender and filled with apology. His hands inch upward, slipping your shirt over your head before discarding it somewhere on the floor. His eyes darken as he takes you in.

“I missed you,” he says, almost like a confession. He dips down again, his mouth closing around one of your nipples while his hand gently cups the other. You arch into him, a gasp slipping past your lips, and his hips grind against yours reflexively.

You can feel him. Hard. Hot. And still fully clothed.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, and your voice is enough to break whatever restraint he had left.

He sits back on his knees, stripping his hoodie and shirt in one fluid motion. You let your eyes drink him in—the lean muscle, the soft trail of hair leading downward, the bruises blooming where he’d been gripping himself too hard in frustration.

He undoes his jeans, but then pauses, eyes searching yours.

“I need to see all of you,” he says, voice low. “Please, angel.”

You nod, and he peels off the last of your clothes slowly, like he’s unwrapping a gift. When you’re bare beneath him, he exhales like he’s seen the sun for the first time in weeks.

Then he kisses you again, harder this time. Deeper. Like he’s claiming you all over again. One hand braces beside your head while the other moves between your legs, fingers dipping down to stroke you. You’re already wet, soaking, and he groans into your mouth when he realizes it.

“All for me,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

His fingers circle your clit slowly, deliberately, until your hips begin to buck. When he slides two fingers into you, curling them just right, you cry out, clinging to his shoulders.

He watches your face the whole time, his eyes dark with lust, but soft with something deeper—adoration. Like you're the most precious thing he's ever touched.

When he finally lines himself up at your entrance, he pauses. Leans in. Kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers. “No matter how long it takes... no matter what we go through. It’s always you.”

He slides in slowly, watching every flicker of emotion on your face. The stretch burns at first, but it’s good—so good—because it’s him. And when he bottoms out, fully seated inside you, you both let out shaky breaths.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you, buried deep, his lips pressed to your temple.

“You feel like home,” he murmurs.

Then he begins to thrust. Deep, measured strokes that make you cling to him like he’s your lifeline. His hands cradle your hips, guiding you to move with him. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, along with his soft moans, and the broken gasps you let out beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he says between thrusts. “Always mine. I don’t care what happens. No one’s ever going to love you like I do.”

You sob his name, pleasure cresting with every movement. He’s hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

His pace picks up, hips snapping harder now, but never cruel—just aching, desperate, hungry. One hand snakes between you to rub circles on your clit again, and your body clamps around him like a vice.

“That’s it, angel,” he pants, his own rhythm starting to falter. “Cum for me. Please, baby. I need to feel you.”

You break with a cry, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. He groans, fucking you through it, eyes locked on your face like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Fuck… I’m close… I—I love you… I’m so sorry,” he chokes, whimpering now. “I’m sorry, angel… I’m sorry…”

He spills into you with a desperate moan, his face buried in your neck, murmuring apologies and sweet nothings as he rides out his high, trembling in your arms.

You hold him, fingers threading through his hair, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Not from sadness this time, but from the overwhelming fullness in your chest.

Love. Forgiveness. Him.

He lifts his head slowly, brushing your hair back. His eyes are red. His lips kiss your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, over and over.

“I love you,” he whispers again. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for the ways I hurt you.”

And you believe him.

Because tonight, you were made whole again.

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[vunblr]

Foundations (#4)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms (Bucky).

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 6.9.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The coffee shop wasn’t too crowded when he arrived, and he was grateful for that. He was early, of course. Old habits die hard. But he also wanted a moment to compose himself, to get his head straight before she arrived. After everything that had transpired at Steve’s, he figured that meeting on neutral ground to discuss their arrangement's details was the right call. He didn’t want any more misunderstandings. Also, some things were better said in person than over the phone.

He chose a booth at the back end, right next to the emergency door. A spot where no one could come up from behind him, and he could see the entire room with just a glance. Five minutes ticked by, and his fingers started drumming lightly against the table while his gaze drifted to the door every few seconds.

The door swung open, and he straightened his posture.

She stepped inside, with her hair slightly tousled from the breeze outside. When her gaze landed on him, her lips curved into a small, almost hesitant smile, and she lifted her hand in a quick wave. He felt his body relax and found himself smiling back just a little, raising his own hand in return, curling his fingers awkwardly.

She walked toward the booth and sat across him, setting her bag down at her side. “Hey”

“Hey.” He settled back in his spot, and his fingers started drumming lightly against the table before he caught himself, folding his hands together to keep them still. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Of course,” she said, flicking up her eyes to meet his before quickly shifting to the side. “I figured it was better to talk things out in person.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He nodded, relaxing his shoulders just slightly. “Wanted to… keep things clear. No misunderstandings.”

Before the silence could stretch, the waiter approached swiftly, with his notepad already out. “Ready to order?”

Bucky’s fingers twitched, his eyes shifting to the man. “Yeah. Black coffee.”

She glanced up, her voice softer. “Milk coffee, please.”

The waiter nodded, scribbling down the order before heading off.

Bucky cleared his throat, starting all over, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. “I… uh… thanks for coming. And for agreeing to be Thomas’s nanny.”

She smiled again. “Thanks for offering. I’m glad we could work something out.”

He nodded as he looked down at his hands, unconsciously tapping his fingers against the table again. He stopped himself, shoving his hands under the table.

“Look, I want to be upfront about everything.” He took a breath, flicking his gaze to hers before quickly dropping away. “I talked to Steve. He… helped me figure out what I actually need.”

Her brows lifted, and she also leaned forward a little in a curious gesture.

Bucky’s jaw worked, and his fingers clenched under the table. “I need someone to pick up Thomas from school. Stay with him until I get back.” He hesitated, then continued. “If possible… make him dinner.”

She tilted her head. “Do you want me to make dinner for both of you?”

His eyes snapped up in surprise. “No. But… you’d do that?”

She shrugged, curving her lips into a faint smile. “The work’s the same. Just a little more ingredients.”

Bucky blinked, opening his mouth before quickly snapping it shut. Home-cooked meals. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had that. Aside from the things he’d taught himself to make for Thomas, it was all takeout and quick fixes. He cleared his throat, nodding stiffly. “Yeah… yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”

She smiled, easing her posture. “Alright. Consider it done.”

Bucky swallowed, tensing his shoulders again. “I, uh… I also need someone to watch him when I’m… away.”

Her expression grew serious. “Right. When you’re on missions.”

He nodded, dropping his gaze again. “Yeah. I try to pick things that can be done in a day. But… sometimes that’s not possible.” He hesitated. “And the people I trust to watch him… they’re usually in the field with me.”

His fingers started tapping again, faster, while his shoulders hunched. “I know it’s a lot to ask. It’s… It’s not fair to you. It’s complicated and messy, and I-”

“I’ll do it.”

His head snapped up, and his gaze widened in surprise. “You… will?”

She smiled softly. “I agreed to this knowing who you are, Bucky. Knowing what you do.” Her voice was gentle. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I couldn’t handle it.” She offered him a reassuring smile, but then it faded a little. “That being said, I told you my fee per hour. Given that you’re hiring me for a high amount of time, I could lower the number a bit, but… are you sure-”

“Don’t worry about that.” His response was firm and immediate.

She hesitated, dropping her gaze, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve with her fingers. He didn’t exactly look like the kind of man who could afford this sort of service: military pension, single dad, worn jackets and fraying jeans.

And maybe he saw the flicker of doubt in her expression because his jaw clenched, and his posture shifted. “Don’t- This won’t put me in a tight spot.” His voice was low and rough, his eyes locked on hers.

She wanted to believe him. She opened her mouth to argue, to offer a lower price, but something about his expression stopped her. The hard set of his jaw. The tension in his shoulders. This was about pride.

So she nodded, letting it drop. “…Alright.”

He relaxed just a little, uncurling his fingers from the fist they’d been clenched in under the table. The reality was that he didn’t have to worry about money. Not now. Not since Steve had stuck his nose where it didn’t belong like it was his favorite sport.

Knowing Bucky’s situation, knowing that he’d never ask for help even if he was drowning, Steve had gone behind his back -again- and talked to Tony. He could still remember the conversation, the smug look on Steve’s face as he relayed Tony’s response. The last time I go behind your back, Buck. Promise.

Tony had been… agreeable. Hadn’t even hesitated, according to Steve. Just asked for her bank information and handed it off to his accountants, calling it “pocket change” and making some joke about how much more than that his dry-cleaning cost every month.

All for the kiddo, Tony had said. Anything he needs.

Bucky’s stomach churned with shame as he gritted out his thanks. But Steve had only shrugged “We all promised to help with Thomas, Buck. And you know the one thing Tony has in spades is money. Let him do this.”

Bucky swallowed hard, This is for Thomas. For the boy he was trying so damn hard to take care of. And if accepting Stark’s “cents” meant giving Thomas stability… then Bucky would swallow his pride. Just this once.

Now that the elephant in the room was addressed, it was time to come clean about… the other things.

“There are some things I need to warn you about,” Bucky started, tightening his fingers around his coffee cup. “It wouldn’t be fair to let you take this job without knowing certain aspects of our daily life.”

She straightened, knitting her brows together as her hands folded neatly on the table. “…Okay. Shoot.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. Damn. Not the best choice of words for someone like him. He looked away, flexing his fingers around the cup again before he released it, running his hand through his hair as he took a deep breath. “Because of… past experiences, I have certain… neurological sequelae.”

He didn’t look at her, just fixed his eyes on the dark liquid in his cup, watching the faint ripple as his fingers drummed against the ceramic as he grabbed it again. “I don’t expect you to do anything about it. I just… I don’t want you to freak out if you’re at the house and I… have an episode.”

Her hands tightened together, but she didn’t say a word. She just… watched him. Listened.

He let go of the cup and curled his fingers into fists before he forced them to relax. “Also… I get it if you rethink taking the job after I tell this.”

Her brows furrowed, her lips pressing together, but she didn’t interrupt.

He looked away, stiffening his posture. This was something only a handful of people knew. Hell, even he tried to forget about it most days. But she deserved to know. Especially if she was going to be in his house, around his kid. He took a breath. “Sometimes I have seizures.”

Her eyes widened, but she quickly schooled her expression, straightening her shoulders. “Oh.”

Bucky swallowed. “You don’t have to worry about it. I don’t… I don’t need help or anything. Just… if it happens and you’re there, just… roll me on my side.” He hesitated. “So I don’t…”

Choke on my damn vomit while I’m a twisting vegetable.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Thomas tries to help, but… I’m heavy, and enhanced. So…” He trailed off, with his eyes fixed on the table, unable to look at her.

She was silent for a moment, but her features softened, flicking her eyes over his tense posture and hunched shoulders. Then she let out a breath, curving her lips into a gentle, almost comforting smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I had students with epilepsy before. I know what to do in case of seizures.”

His head snapped up in surprise. “…You did?”

She nodded, relaxing her hands. “Yeah. I know how to keep you safe until it passes. Do you have any meds I should know about? Anything I need to give you after an episode?”

He shook his head. “No. No meds.” He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “My metabolism eats them up before they do any good.” His eyes dropped, “I just… have to suck it up.”

And live with the fact that my brain’s fried beyond repair. Some things aren’t going to get better.

Her expression softened, but she didn’t comment on the matter. “Alright.”

He looked up, narrowing his eyes. “That’s it? No… questions?”

She shrugged, with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You told me what I need to know and do.”

Bucky’s posture eased, but his eyes dropped again, working his jaw as he forced himself to continue. Might as well get everything out now.

“Alright. In addition to that, there’s something else.” His fingers tightened around the ceramic again. “Sometimes I go… idle.”

Her brows knitted together. “Idle?”

“Yeah. It’s like… I zone out. Completely. Like I’m… not there.”

She leaned in just slightly, curling her fingers together on the table. “And… what should I do if that happens?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his shoulders stiffening. “Nothing, really. It doesn’t happen often. But if you see me sitting on the couch or… anywhere, really, and I seem far away, not blinking, and not responding at all… that’s what’s happening.”

He looked up then, his eyes locking on hers. “I’ve been told it lasts at most ten minutes. It’s not dangerous. Just… weird.”

Her gaze softened.

He swallowed. “I’m telling you this because it’s fair for you to know. Not because I expect you to take care of me. That’s not… that’s not why you’re going to be at my house.”

“Alright. I get it.” Her voice was calm as she looked at him, not with pity or discomfort, just acceptance. “Anything else?”

Bucky hesitated, flexing his fingers around the cup. “No. That’s all.”

He left out the phantom pain that flared up in his arm, the twisting, burning sensation that ghosted through the limb that wasn’t there. He left out the swelling in the scarred tissue where the prosthesis met his skin, the raw ache after straining his vibranium arm. Those were things he’d learned to mask, just more pinches on the pile of crap that made his nights restless. Nothing she needed to worry about.

He looked down, waiting for her to hesitate, to show something that would prove he’d made a mistake by being this honest. Instead, she looked at him. “In case you’re wondering, what you’ve told me doesn’t change my intention to work under you. At all.”

He lifted his gaze, relieved “…Really?”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, tilting her head just slightly. “Really.”

Her gaze dropped to his hands, and she almost reached for him, almost moved to squeeze his hand, to offer some physical reassurance. But she caught herself, tightening her fingers around her own cup instead, keeping the gesture to herself.

The silence stretched between them until she cleared her throat. “Um… how’s your finger?”

He blinked, jerking back his head, caught off guard. “My…?”

Her lips curved into a more pronounced smile. “Your finger. The one that I…” She nodded toward his flesh hand, her gaze flicking down.

“Oh.” Bucky lifted it, flexing his fingers as he examined the faint pink line where the wound had been. “Well, I removed the stitches.” He tilted his hand, appreciating the neatness of the scar. “You did a really good job. It’ll be pretty much gone in a day or two.”

She watched, almost transfixed.

In just a couple of days, the once-mangled finger had already smoothed over with pinkish new skin, as if weeks had passed instead of mere days. It was fascinating in a way she hadn’t expected.

Without really thinking, she stretched out her hand. “Can I…?”

Bucky blinked, startled.

She hadn’t actually planned to touch him, but she’d stitched that skin together with her own hands, and now it looked like it had never even happened. It was mesmerizing. He hesitated, and his body tensed, then he nodded, clearing his throat. “Uh… um, yeah. It’s your work of art, after all.”

She huffed out a soft laugh, stopping her fingers just short of grazing his, hovering close enough that she could see every healed stitch. “Kind of gory art.”

Bucky smirked, and the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. “Art’s still art.”

Her lips quirked, her fingertips almost brushing his skin before she pulled back, curling them into her palm. The moment passed, but the air between them felt different. Lighter. Warmer.

She glanced down at their empty cups, at the remnants of foam and coffee rings marking the ceramic. There wasn’t much left to say, at least, professionally speaking. The important things had been discussed and the terms understood.

And she knew he had to pick up Thomas soon.

Still, she lingered, drifting her gaze back to him. His beautiful, tired eyes. The way the exhaustion softened the sharpness of his features, making him look…

“When do you need me to start?”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tomorrow too soon?”

She grinned. “Well, it’s either that or staying at home vacuuming the floor in my old cotton nightdress. I guess I choose the first one.”

She laughed at her own joke.

He didn’t.

Because the second she said nightdress, his brain latched onto it immediately, spinning off into a reel of images he definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.

Cozy, homey images. Innocent ones, at first: she padding around the apartment, with her hair tousled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as Thomas babbled about cartoons.

And then… not so innocent ones. Soft fabric skimming over bare legs. The window light revealing her figure under the fabric as she moved. The idea of coming home late, finding her curled up on his couch, half-asleep, wrapped in the blanket that smelled like his home.

Fuck.

Bucky cleared his throat, blinking hard as if that would clear his head. He shifted his body slightly, drumming his fingers against the table again.

“Yeah. Tomorrow works.”

If she noticed his sudden lack of eye contact or the color he knew tinted his cheeks, she had the decency of not hinting about it.

She just smiled. Bright. Oblivious.

And Bucky took a slow breath, willing his damn brain to focus.

Apparently, in addition to the already fucked-up parts of his grey matter, the portion that still functioned was now traitorously overloaded with pathetic, touch-starved innuendos.

Fantastic.

----

The doorbell rang, and Bucky pushed himself up, heading for the entry phone. If they were going to do this, he’d eventually have to make her a copy of the keys. Eventually.

He pressed the button to buzz her in, then opened the door. The moment she stepped inside, Thomas bolted toward him, nearly crashing into his legs in his excitement.

“Papa! She brought strawberries!” The kid’s voice was bubbling with happiness, and his little hands lifted the plastic container proudly, as if it were some kind of treasure.

Bucky huffed a chuckle, ruffling his son’s hair before stepping aside to make room for her. “Welcome to our home,” he mumbled.

She smiled as she stepped inside, sweeping her gaze subtly over the space. The apartment was modest but well-kept, two bedrooms, a bathroom, an open-concept kitchen and dining area, with a small space for a couch and TV tucked into the corner. The walls were mostly bare, save for a couple of Thomas’ drawings stuck up with tape and an old framed picture on the bookshelf that she couldn’t quite make out from where she stood.

“Can I show her the apartment?” Thomas asked excitedly.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, nodding. “Yeah, go ahead.”

He didn’t waste a second, grabbing her hand and tugging her along like an eager tour guide. She let him lead, and her soft laughter filled the space as he enthusiastically pointed things out.

When they reached the kitchen, her eyes lingered on the vintage cabinets, at how smooth and well-restored the polished wood was. She reached out, grazing her fingertips on the counter lightly. “It’s really pretty,” she commented, taking in the careful work.

“Daddy did it,” Thomas chimed in proudly. “He fixes everything at home.”

Bucky shifted slightly, moving his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Needed some work, that’s all.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him before a small smile tugged at her lips. “You’ve got really skilled hands.”

Bucky stilled.

His hand froze mid-motion against the nape of his neck, and for a second, his brain just… stopped working.

It made sense, of course. Men from his era had been raised to fix things, woodwork, electrical circuits, even their own cars. Bucky had learned early, growing up in a home where hiring someone for repairs wasn’t an option. These days, people needed a specialist for almost everything, since it seemed the knowledge was lost at some point.

He knew what she meant, but his traitorous brain took those words and ran with them, and suddenly, he needed to find something else to focus on.

Before he could come up with a response that didn’t make him sound like an idiot, Thomas was already tugging her toward his bedroom, babbling about his favorite toys.

The child’s room was small but cozy, with a collection of toy cars lined up neatly on a shelf, a well-loved Captain America plush tucked on his bed -courtesy of Steve- and crayon drawings taped to the walls. She listened attentively, nodding and asking little questions.

After that, he dragged her to the bathroom for a brief look before moving toward the final stop.

“Thomas,” she laughed, digging her heels in slightly. “I don’t need to see-”

Too late. He was already pushing open the door to Bucky’s bedroom, revealing a neatly made bed, a simple dresser, and -predictably- not much else.

Bucky exhaled sharply, crossing his arms as he leaned against the hallway wall. “Alright, kid, I think she gets the picture.”

Thomas hummed, scanning the room as if double-checking that he hadn’t forgotten anything. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “Oh!”

Before either of them could ask, he bolted across the living room, yanking back a curtain near the kitchen with a dramatic flourish.

“Here’s where we dry our laundry!”

He gestured proudly toward the small balcony beyond, where a drying rack full of underwear was receiving the sun rays.

Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, now that I’ve been properly familiarized with the space, can I…?” She waved her hand in a vague gesture, asking for permission to do what she was here for.

Bucky huffed. “By all means.” He seemed to think about something. “I, uh… I’ll be in the bedroom for a while,” he added, rubbing a hand down his face.

She nodded without question, already turning to Thomas with a smile. “Alright, kiddo, wanna wash the strawberries and then eat them as we play?”

Thomas practically beamed. “Can I wash them? I have a wooden box to step on when I do the dishes!”

“Oh yeah?” She arched a brow, intrigued. “And what exactly do you do with it?”

“I wash my plastic plate and cup! And the veggies.” His little chest puffed up with pride.

She grinned, giving him a playful nudge. “Wow, sounds like Papa’s got a real helper.”

Bucky heard her words as he retreated into the bedroom, listening to the soft, delighted chatter that followed, and smiled.

It was nice.

He exhaled deeply as he shut the door behind him, rolling his shoulders as he flopped onto the bed. Just an hour, he told himself. He probably wasn’t going to sleep, but a quick rest before he had to be up again would be awesome.

Or so he thought.

The soft knock at his door roused him, pulling him from the depths of sleep. His body felt heavy and his limbs sluggish as he blinked against the dim light filtering through the blinds.

“Yeah?” His voice was rough, still thick with sleep.

“Dinner’s ready,” came her muffled voice from behind the door.

Dinner? So early?

His brows knitted together as he reached for his phone, flipping it open. His eyes darted to the screen.

Damn.

He’d dropped dead for five fucking hours.

More tired than he wanted to admit. More exhausted than he’d let himself believe.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself upright.

The moment he opened the door, the scent of roasted meat and potatoes invaded his nose. His enhanced senses dialed it up to eleven, and for a second, just a second, he nearly moaned.

Dragging his feet toward the bathroom, he rubbed a hand over his face, already knowing what kind of disaster awaited him in the mirror. And sure enough, his hair was a damn mess too, tousled and curving in every direction. With a tired sigh, he splashed cold water on his face, smoothing a hand down his beard before grabbing a comb and pulling his hair back into a ponytail. Presentable enough.

The pull of hunger led him straight to the source of that heavenly scent.

The table was set with two places arranged neatly, one with an adult set of cutlery, the other with a plastic fork and spoon for Thomas. At the center, the food was sliced and presented, and the steam rose gently from the roasted potatoes and perfectly seared meat.

His eyes flicked to her just as she was hanging the timeworn apron on the oven handle, and he felt something in his chest, something warm, something dangerously close to comfort.

“You’re not staying to eat?” The question slipped out before he could think better of it.

She turned, shaking her head with a small, polite smile. “No, it’s time for me to go. I need to catch the bus.”

Bucky felt a faint flicker of disappointment but shoved it down. She was right. This was her job, nothing more. He nodded, exhaling softly. “Alright.”

Without thinking much about it, he walked her to the building door, standing there for a moment as she stepped out into the evening air. She gave him a final nod, a quiet see you tomorrow before heading off.

Back inside, he sank into his chair at the table, rubbing his face before finally digging in.

The first bite had him pausing.

The flavors hit him all at once and God -perfectly seasoned, tender meat, crispy, golden potatoes. He chewed slowly, then took another bite, and another, eating more than he had in days. Damn. He hadn’t realized how much he missed a home-cooked meal.

Thomas, sitting across from him, happily munched on his food, swinging his legs under the chair. Between bites, Bucky glanced at him. “So… you like having her here?”

Thomas nodded enthusiastically, a little bit of mashed potato on his cheek. “Yeah! We washed the strawberries, and then we made a fort with the couch cushions, and she read me a story about a dragon that was actually nice but everyone was scared of him anyway -oh! And we played hide and seek, but she wasn’t very good at it.”

Bucky smirked, scooping up another bite. “Yeah?”

The kid nodded again, happily stuffing his face.

Bucky leaned back slightly, tapping his fork against the plate as he mulled it over.

It was just the first day but maybe, this could work.

----

One afternoon, Bucky found himself at the grocery store, scanning a list that wasn’t his. Well, not entirely.

She had written it up, a much more heterogeneous version of his usual one. Where his consisted of the bare essentials -milk, eggs, bread, whatever Thomas needed- hers had an actual structure. Ingredients for meals, fresh produce, spices he hadn’t thought to stock in years. It reminded him of when his mother used to send him on errands as a teenager. He could still remember himself at fifteen, rolling his eyes when she handed him a list for the general store. Complaining that it was a woman’s chore, that Rebecca could go instead. His mother’s brow had shot up so high he thought it might touch the ceiling. Oh, really? she’d said, arms crossed. And what happens when you’re out on your own, James Buchanan? You gonna starve?

Now here he was, decades later, buying groceries for his home, for his kid.

Life had a funny way of proving his ma right.

Shaking his head, he adjusted the bags in his arms as he made his way upstairs.

When he stepped into the apartment, he found them sitting on the kitchen floor in front of one of the lower cabinets. He was listening attentively, nodding along as they discussed something that had the kid completely engaged.

“-and that way, it’ll be easier for you to grab your plate and cup when it’s time to eat. What do you think?”

Thomas nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! And for snacks, too!”

Bucky set the grocery bags on the counter. “What’s going on?”

She glanced over her shoulder, tilting her head toward the open cabinet space. “If it’s not a problem, I was thinking about putting Thomas’ dishes down here so he can reach them himself. Just to give him a little more responsibility, you know?”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t really thought about it, had just always grabbed the kid’s stuff himself, not minding. But it made sense.

His gaze flicked to Thomas, who looked so damn pleased at the idea of having his own designated spot in the kitchen, resting his small hands proudly on the cabinet door like it was his.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Thomas beamed, already reaching for the dishes she had stacked nearby, and Bucky let out a slow breath, watching the familiar way they worked together.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it had happened, when the apartment started feeling less like a place they were just occupying and more like a home. But he suspected it had to do with her.

----

After more than a month of having her there, things ran smoothly for Bucky in a way he hadn’t experienced in maybe… ever.

He could go to training and briefing without constantly checking the clock, leave for short missions without scrambling to find someone to watch Thomas, and -perhaps the strangest luxury of all- he finally had time for himself.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he could sit down with a book and actually read instead of skimming a few pages before the exhaustion won out or Thomas claimed his attention. He caught up with some of the series people kept referencing, finally understanding half the memes Sam sent him. He ran just for the sake of it, without a schedule pressing down on him.

And… he napped.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed it until it started happening. Maybe because he knew Thomas would be accompanied if he drifted, maybe because his body had been running on fumes for too long, but the afternoon sleep became a petty compensation for his restless nights. Not perfect, not enough to erase the years of exhaustion, but it helped.

And he felt it.

His body ached a little less. The tension in his shoulders wasn’t as unbearable. His mind wasn’t always running on edge, he was less moody.

Apparently, everyone else noticed it too.

“Damn, you seem younger,” Sam had quipped one day, eyeing him suspiciously over a coffee. “What the hell happened? You finally discovered moisturizer?”

Clint, never one to let an opportunity pass, smirked. “Nah, man. He’s finally getting laid.”

Bucky had rolled his eyes, flipping them both off before taking a sip of his coffee.

Well, he was getting laid.

Not in the way they meant it, obviously. But honestly? Right now, that was just as good, if not better than the other option.

Unfortunately, his face must have betrayed that stupid thought because the next thing he heard was-

“Oh my God, he is!!!”

Bucky’s head snapped up, catching the way Sam’s eyes widened in delighted horror, while Clint nearly choked on his drink, already laughing.

His first instinct was to shut it down immediately.

But then… the pride.

Not the normal kind. The stupid, old-fashioned, masculine kind.

Because really, what was worse? Proclaiming to the entire room that his sex life was less than pathetic, or letting them assume he was in fact, as Sam kept saying, getting some?

He scoffed, shaking his head, neither confirming nor denying it, leaving the door wide open to interpretation.

Sam gaped at him, looking downright offended. “Oh, hell no. Who?!”

Bucky just took another sip of coffee, smirking behind the rim.

----

It was late, and the kitchen was warm with the scent of a simmering sauce and freshly made gnocchi. She stood at the counter, rolling out the dough, guiding Thomas' small hands as he pressed the tines of a fork into each piece to create the signature curl. His face was scrunched in concentration, tongue peeking out at the effort, and she laughed softly, brushing a stray bit of flour from his cheek.

Bucky had convinced her to stay for dinner, mentioning -almost offhandedly- that he remembered her saying gnocchi was her favorite dish. She hadn’t expected him to remember that, but the thoughtfulness of his words had convinced her. And the gnocchi, of course.

Everything was fine. Comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

A sudden, sharp thud sounded behind her. She turned quickly, and Bucky was on the floor.

His body jerked violently, and his muscles locked and released in uncontrollable spasms. His metal arm flexed sporadically, twitching his fingers like a misfiring machine, while his flesh hand curled into a claw, grasping at nothing. His jaw was clenched too tight, and the veins in his neck were straining against the skin.

“Daddy!” Thomas’ voice was small, panicked.

She barely heard him over the rush of blood in her ears.

Without thinking, she moved, dropping to her knees beside Bucky, reaching-

The moment she touched him, his forearm snapped outward. She wasn’t prepared for the force of the hit. The solid weight of his arm collided with her ribs, sending her sprawling onto the floor with a startled gasp. Pain bloomed through her side as she coughed, trying to suck in air, mind scrambling to process what had just happened.

Right. Enhanced strength.

Her pulse pounded, but she shoved down the shock, forcing herself up. This wasn’t about her.

“Thomas.” Her voice was firmer now. “I need a cushion. Fast.” The boy hesitated for only a second before bolting to the couch, with his little feet pattering across the floor.

She turned back to Bucky, this time more carefully, waiting for the next jerking movement before reaching in again. His body was still seizing, his back bowing slightly before slamming back down, rolling and tugging on the hard floor.

Ignoring the dull ache in her ribs, she braced his shoulder with one hand and pressed the other against his side, using her full weight to turn him onto his side. Thomas returned, shoving a small pillow into her hands, his eyes wide, scared.

“Good job, sweetheart.” She slid it under Bucky’s head, adjusting his position just enough to keep his airway clear.

She quickly moved behind Bucky instead of beside him, in case he turned. The last thing she needed was another hit or for Thomas to get too close and get hurt. The boy was still hovering nearby, shifting anxiously on his feet, hands curled into little fists. She forced her voice to stay calm. “Hey, sweetheart, listen to me.” She reached out, gently guiding him away from his father’s reach. “Daddy’s going to be fine. But I need you to do something for me, okay?”

Thomas nodded quickly, still darting his eyes between her and Bucky.

“Go to the kitchen and turn off the burners. Can you do that for me?”

Another small nod, and then Thomas ran off, his tiny hands fumbling with the knobs until the soft clicks echoed through the space.

She exhaled, turning her attention back to Bucky. His body was still tense, and small tremors were running through his limbs, but the worst of it was fading. His muscles slowly uncoiled, and his breathing evened out into deep, ragged inhales.

A long minute passed, and then, a heavy exhale. His body stilled.

He rolled onto his back with a groan, dragging his flesh hand up to press against his temple, pinching his brows as if trying to chase away the lingering haze.

“Daddy!”

Thomas bolted back to him, dropping to his knees and wrapping small arms around his torso, burying his little face against Bucky’s side.

He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment before his arm came up weakly but still managing to rest a hand against his son’s back.

A gentle but firm hand pressed onto his shoulder. “Are you alright? What can I do for you?” she asked.

Bucky tried to answer, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth. His body still wasn’t fully cooperating, so he just shook his head, signaling no.

He lay there for a while, with his eyes half-lidded, waiting for the heavy fog in his head to clear. The worst had passed, but the usual exhaustion that accompanied these episodes clung to his body, weighing down every limb.

She noticed it, obviously.

“Why don’t you go to bed until you feel better?” Her voice was soft, careful. “Thomas and I will finish dinner, hm?”

Bucky’s jaw tensed as he tried to push himself upright. “I’m fine-”

She cut him off. “Bucky, you just had a seizure.” Her tone was firm now, brooking no argument. “You are not an Avenger here. You’re just a dad who has nothing to prove inside these walls.”

His nostrils flared, and the instinct to argue bubbled up, even as his body betrayed him. But she wasn’t done. “Go rest while I stay with him. That’s why I’m here. To help in these scenarios, too, remember?”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

He hated this. The weakness. The way his body forced him to stop when all he wanted to do was push through. But… she was right.

So he swallowed the lump in his throat and gave her a slow, reluctant nod. “Thanks.”

She returned the nod, shifting closer and helping him as he struggled to sit up, with her hand firmly pressed against his back.

It took him too much effort to stand, but with her help, he finally did it.

Thomas looked up at him, worried but trying to be brave, and Bucky ruffled his hair with a tired half-smile. “Be good, alright?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “I will! We’re gonna make the best gnocchi ever!”

He let out a breath, glancing back at her before mumbling, “Wake me if you need anything.” And then, finally, he forced himself toward the bedroom, with his body impossibly heavy, and his mind already sinking into exhaustion.

-----

She stayed in the kitchen with Thomas, finishing the gnocchi together. By the time they cooked them, the whole apartment was filled with the rich scent of home-cooked food. She made sure to set aside a large tupperware for Bucky, either for tomorrow or for when he inevitably woke up in the small hours of the night. He would be hungry.

She and Thomas ate together, and she kept the conversation light, gently steering it toward fun topics to keep his mind occupied. The kid was resilient, but she could tell the evening had rattled him, the way his eyes flicked toward the hallway every so often, as if expecting his father to appear.

After dinner, they washed the dishes together, and when everything was clean and put away, she checked the time. She should have left already.

But she didn’t.

As expected, Bucky succumbed to sleep, and she let him.

Instead, she peeked toward Bucky’s bedroom since the door was slightly ajar. The room was dark, but she could hear it, a heavy, soft snoring, the unmistakable sound of sleep. He was out.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair before making a decision.

“Alright, kiddo,” she said, turning to Thomas. “Go put on your pajamas.”

His face lit up. “You’re staying a little longer?”

“Yeah, just a little,” she smiled. “How about two rounds of Avengers memory tiles?”

The game was familiar and easy territory. They sat on the floor, flipping over cards, matching faces, some of which she had actually seen in real life, which still blew her mind.

When they finished the second round, she patted the child’s knee. “Alright, time for teeth brushing.”

He groaned but obeyed, dragging himself to the bathroom.

By the time they settled into his room, he was already yawning, curling up under his blanket as she pulled a book from his small shelf. She read to him, but he barely lasted five pages before his breathing evened out, his little body completely relaxed. Satisfied, she tucked the blanket around him and quietly stepped out, closing the door halfway.

The apartment was silent now. Peaceful.

She wandered into the main area, glancing toward the hallway. She hesitated, glancing toward the door. She should leave. It was already past the time she normally did. But the thought of stepping out into the cold night, of leaving Thomas alone with only his sleeping father after everything that happened—it didn’t sit right with her.

Her eyes flickered toward the bookshelf, scanning the spines. Bucky didn’t have many books, he had an interesting mix. War accounts, history, and fantasy novels. She pulled one out, flipping through a few pages before exhaling softly.

Grabbing the blanket draped over the back of the couch, she settled, curling herself up against the cushions, with the book resting on her lap. She’d just stay for a little while. Read a few chapters. Make sure everything was truly settled.

But as the warmth of the blanket that smelled like him wrapped around her, her eyelids grew heavier, and her body relaxed against the couch. She blinked slowly, trying to focus on the words in front of her, but they blurred together as her brain slipped into that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. The apartment was too quiet, too comfortable, and the exhaustion of the evening’s unexpected events finally caught up to her.

She shifted slightly, curling deeper into the cushions, inhaling the scent of clean soap and something distinctly Bucky lingering in the fabric.

She’d leave soon.

She just needed a minute.

Just… a minute.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira@technicallytinyheart@put-trash-here@chinggay85-blog@tulippix@dumblani @chuiisi @calwitch @civilbucky @neyr100

[mageofmadness]

◞♡ nsfw thinking about the types of porn you'd find snooping on their computer before you start dating caleb, sylus, rafayel

caleb 100% has watched step bro porn. wasn't even that really into it. unfortunately, that is what you found on his phone when you went to use it the first time. poor timing on his part, you let it slide, not really having a moment to confront him. second time, he really needs to start closing out of his browsing tabs or clear his history before passing you his phone because it's not step bro porn but a whole lot of povs and your hair color specifically being searched. come shots, a smidge of hentai before he seems to go back to his trusty creampies. lots of those! a considerate amount of anal that sometimes crosses into hardcore. everything is wet and messy. also some errant solo videos....actually, that's every single solo video from this one creator watched in one night in his history. your eyes widen at the size of the toys she's using. you're kinda upset, not really, but he'd later admit that they just reminded him of you if he squinted and he liked to imagine you as his own personal porn star.

100% plugs his phone into the aux at one point, and some girl getting her guts rearranged plays in the car at max volume. a shameful moment for him.

sylus watches porn on his computer like an old man, don't shoot the messenger. daddy kink...that's his achilles heel and you note/stash that aside for later. what a wildcard. you're surprised by the wide range this man has, actually. his search history, as you sit there at the computer and scroll and scroll, is quite extensive. no real notable similarities beyond his penchant to favor backshots, which...also noted. you see, at one point, he got four pages into the amateur tag before giving up, which is oddly heartwarming. gunplay is a given and you roll your eyes at that. creampie as well, although sylus seems to have only clicked on the videos which explicitly refer to it as breeding. noted. a smidge of bdsm but honestly nothing crazy and fairly tame for the tag. after checking to ensure you really are alone, no one else is in the base, you realized the common similarity here is that all the video are loud. whimpering and moaning, sylus goes less for visual, more for audio, you must assume.

you 100% bring out the daddy kink once you start dating and it must be the confidence in which you say it because you're caught red-handed for snooping immediately.

rafayel is the one into roleplay, but not like your average everyday roleplay, no. his browser history is incriminating to the most severe degree, going as far as outside his chosen porn site of choice to search up things like bunny going into heat or tiny bunny gets put into a mating press and bred. he’s just straight up searching that on google, and after digging deeper, seems he then finds himself on a website with all sorts of outfits. he would never admit it but the idea hit him late one night and he just really needed to see someone that looked like you with a fluffy tail plug getting fucked. bunny breeding, cat ears, going into heat, the classic pink thigh-high socks with the little paws on the end. lots of solo content, lots of fancy dildos that have you wide-eyed again. the crowning jewel is the oviposition videos, though, which...make sense after you take a peek at them. alright, you'll give him that one. the whole egg thing...lemurian...makes sense, but sheer amount of these videos is a bit much. the sheer size of some of the eggs is a bit insane. combined with the given breeding kink and the…egg laying…you feel a tad bad for finding out his not so secret, secret.

fortunately, rafayel has no shame, though he manages a bit the first time you dress up as a bunny for him. that's no coincidence and while bunnies don't lay eggs, per see, when you hit him with that line he comes instantly and is embarrassed after the fact.

also 100% uses twitter for porn too you just didn’t find that

[reyalvr]

RUMORS!

I KNOW YOU HEARD THE RUMORS, YOU MUST GET OVER TO IT RIGHT AWAY!

synopsis ┊ ken sato- a remarkable name in the world of modern baseball- has graced japan with not only his presence, but also his skills as a key player for the yomiuri giants. from press conferences to media endorsements, it’s clear that his stardom has only intensified from his recent move. but what happens when you, his personal assistant, are left to deal with some more… serious rumors?

genre ┊ chaotic fluff, oneshot

pairing ┊ ken sato x gn-PA!reader

warnings ┊ mild cursing, ami is not the reporter depicted!

word count ┊ 2.2k

author’s note ┊ hiya! i recently found time to watch ultraman: rising and this fic was just writing itself in my head hehe… happy reading! (p.s. yes… the title was inspired from the new minions song)

THREE MONTHS. That was how long you had known baseball’s darling, Ken Sato. And in those three months, you had undergone every single PR nightmare you had ever conjured up in your mind prior to pursuing your career. You had worked with celebrities before- doing God knows what ‘til the waking hour on their every beck and call. But Ken, despite presenting himself as a laid back man, was an entirely new… experience. 

From the Kaiju attack at his first game under the Giants, to the continuous streak of losses throughout the first half of the season, it seemed like the Gods were against you as you did your damndest to handle the damage control on his reputation. His ego didn’t aid you either- having to spin and twist multiple incidents to get reporters and media outlets off his back. You weren’t exactly sure what it was that kept you from quitting all in all, but the longer you worked under him, the thinner your thread seemed to snap. 

You huffed an annoyed sigh into the cold air, picking up the pace as you jogged along the designated path by the bay. Your days off were scarce- not because of Ken’s schedule, but because of your own decision to be up to date with his spontaneous actions. Despite the rarity of solitude, you always managed to savor your time off. The music played at a mellow volume in your ears, the morning sun starting to warm your surroundings as you watched its rays splash hues of orange across the sky. 

Your felt your watch beep against your skin, signaling the end of your morning run. Pausing by the railing, you leaned against the old metal bars as you checked your stats. You swiped absent-mindedly on the screen of your smartwatch, scrolling once you were sure that everything was in order. There was one thing that caught your eye, though, as you noticed the red notification bubbles on your message app were continuously going up. It was odd, yes, but not odd enough to be out of the ordinary- at least in your line of work. 

Deciding not to bombard yourself this early in the morning, you opted to give everything a once-over once you made it back to your apartment. Whatever it was could wait- you were on your time and your pace. Besides, it couldn’t be that bad. Could it now?

IT DEFINITELY COULD, AND IT DEFINITELY WAS. You pushed on the gas as hard as you could, your tongue poking into your cheek as you continued to drive to Ken’s house. Of all the days that he decided to make perhaps the stupidest decision in his career, he chose today. Doing your best not to see red, you dialed his phone once more. The ringing played throughout your car as you maneuvered through the roads, and you swore for what felt like the umpteenth time that morning when you heard the tone of his voice message. 

Hey, it’s Ken. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll be more than happy to ignore it! Said his usual arrogant tone playing before the generic beep. You gripped the steering wheel harder, huffing angrily as you sharply turned a corner. 

“Kenji Sato answer your goddamn phone right now! I’m ten minutes away from your house and when I get there, I better not be greeted with your supposed secret love child!” You yelled, pushing the red button once you finished your message. 

Ah yes. The centerpoint of your current rage: Ken’s “leaked” one-on-one with a reporter about juggling baseball and his homelife. Someone on Ken’s staff had sent the article in your shared work group chat, and nearly all of his personnel had directly messaged you about the issue. It was inevitable for celebrities to get into a scandal once or twice, but one on this level would not be an easy fit to overcome. 

You don’t exactly remember what you were doing prior to receiving the messages- all you knew was that you needed to get to Ken as soon as possible. Of course it just be a misunderstanding, hell it could even be a hoax! But knowing Kenji, anything could be possible. You neared the hill of his private property, driving past the gates as the security recognized your car.

You parked haphazardly at the front of his house, your feet stomping into the gravel as you made your way to his front door. His estate had numerous smart tech installed throughout his home, so you knew that each and every one of your moves were either being recorded or observed. You crouched slightly to be in frame with the doorbell’s camera, your anger slightly toned down.

“Ken.” You paused to narrow your eyes. “Open the door.”

For the next minute and a half you swore you could hear some sort of clash and bang from inside the house. You kept your arms crossed, raising your eyebrow from time to time when the clashing seemed to grow louder. After what felt like an eternity, the front door opened slightly. Not all the way, but just enough for Ken to peek out and smile at you- albeit nervously cocky.

The nerve.

“Hey, [Y/N]! What uh- what are you doing here?” He manages to cough out, roughly combing a hand through his hair. “I thought it was your day o-”

“Save it.” You reply, your gaze sharp enough to slice through whatever excuse he had at the ready. You held up your phone then, the article’s headline prominently bolded:

OUT OF LEFT FIELD: Ken Sato Strikeout? Nope! Love Child Home Run!

Ken’s head bent down to get a good look at what you were showing him, and you watched carefully as his eyes scanned over the article not once, but thrice. You let out an impatient hum, your mouth forming into a slight scowl as the both of you stood in silence. With your head tilted to the side, you dropped your hand back down and crossed your arms. 

“Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to start explaining to me what the hell you’ve been up to these past twenty-four hours?” You question, moving past him as you enter the house. 

Usually you would wait for Ken to let you in, but stalling would only hinder you from coming up with what to do next. The article had already been up for two hours, and you halted any statements from being made before you could get an explanation from Ken himself. He quickly tailed after you, nearly stumbling over himself as you stopped at his kitchen. You gripped the marble countertop, closing your eyes momentarily before you turned to face him once more. 

“[Y/N] I swear, it’s not as bad as you think it is,” Ken says as he tries to add reassurance to his tone, but it doesn't mask the lingering tinge of falsehood.

“Oh, really?” You say, your eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Because in the span of two hours I have had thirty news outlets blowing up my- your management team for a response!”

He opens his mouth to speak, but stops again midway when you continue. “The headline I showed you was local. I want you to tell me exactly how and why you were on the phone with a reporter talking about your private life at God knows what hour. Now.”

You can see him swallow, licking his lips after as he tries to form the right words. He blinks a bit before pinching the bridge of his nose, tilting his head up as he lets out a deep sigh. When he opens his eyes he’s still greeted with your restive stance. Still he remains slightly hesitant, but he does end up recalling the remnants of his conversation with a reporter he had met at one of the parties he attended. Ken goes on to explain that he had only seeked out advice. His schedule, his personal life- he needed an outlet. You can feel yourself slowly untense, though you continued to listen to make sure all your facts were straight.

When he finishes his retelling, he puts his hands up slightly- as if he were trying to put you at ease. “I swear, that’s all I said. I thought,” He pauses, his brows furrowing in a way that made you slightly mad at yourself from blowing up at him. “I just thought I could have a normal conversation for once. ‘Guess I was wrong.”

The warm lights cast a sombre shadow on his features, and from this angle you notice the worn out expression painted on his face. The bags under his eyes are darker than usual, not to mention the fading bruises from his latest altercation with one of players from his opposing team. In front of you was not Ken Sato, this was Kenji; Simply a man who was thrust into a new life without the needed support. 

“Well, no shit.” You say, finally breaking the silence, you fix your posture against the counter as you tone down the anger in your voice. “Jesus Ken, sometimes I wonder how you were able to maintain your career before me.”

At that he lets out a soft laugh, his dull expression slowly fading. “Yeah, I do too.”

You give him a puzzled look before you reply. “Are you mocking me?”

“No! No, I was being serious.” He says, his smile dropping slightly. “I know I haven’t been an easy task, hell you’re here on your day off for Christ’s sake.” 

You hum at his words, narrowing your eyes slightly as you push yourself off the counter with another awkward cough. In all ninety days of working under Ken Sato, never has the man gotten this sentimental with you. You decide not to linger on his words, your attention going back to the problem at hand. 

“Right, well,” You sigh, whipping your phone out in the process. “I need you to give me the name of that reporter. I’ll get the legal team to draft an NDA breach.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows then, looking at you as if you’d said something odd. “I didn’t make him sign an NDA though?”

You only give him a smile, a hint of confidence plastered on your lips. “I know. I have my ways, Sato.”

“You’re a pretty good assistant, then.” He replies, the corners of his lips going up slightly as he keeps his arms crossed. 

“I’m an excellent assistant.” You correct without looking at him, your fingers tapping away at your phone as you prepare the next steps of your plan. 

Ken can only chuckle in agreement, tapping his fingers on his forearm as he awaits your next set of instructions. Within the next twenty minutes you’ve sent out the necessary details to your team, your legs kicking as you sit on one of his bar stools. He’s stood across from you, leaning on the countertop looking at you intently as you explain the response plan. 

“And lastly,” You say, sliding out your hand. “Give me your phone.”

 His head tilts, the same confused expression on his face. “Why?”

“Just do it,” Your hand curls, motioning for him to hand his phone over. “No, I am not installing a monitor.” You add when you see his mouth open to interrogate you. 

He slides his phone over with a defeated huff, and you open a new contact page on his contacts. “If you need to talk, do it with someone who won’t leak your shit.” You say, sliding back his phone when all your details are settled.

“I have your number though, don’t I?” Ken questions, looking over at the number you inputted. 

“You had my work number. Now you have my personal phone.” You point your finger at him before continuing. “Don’t abuse it. I’m still your assistant.” “Wasn’t gonna, sweetheart.” He says, an amused smirk mixing in with his addled look. 

You quirk your eyebrow at the nickname. You shake your head, hopping off the stool as you make your way back to the front door. Ken follows behind you, hands in his pockets as he watches you leave. Before you can open the door though, you look back at him one last time. 

“I mean it, Ken.” You say, making sure it gets through his head. “You have a problem, tell me. You need a solution, you tell me.”

“I know, I know.” He gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding towards the door. “Go enjoy the rest of your day off before I start thinking you care about me.”

“I do. It’s my job to care about you, Ken.” You reply, giving him a look before you open the door. “Whether you like it or not, I’m your lifeline. At least until you get rid of me, which won’t be happening for a good while.”

“Oh yeah?” He jests, his cocky demeanor slowly coming back. “‘You so sure about that?”

“Extremely sure.” You’re standing outside now, slowly walking backwards. “Twenty minutes ago people thought you had a secret love child and that you were a terrible father. Now you’re back on the face of KFC as baseball’s darling.” 

He’s taken aback. Was he actually booted off of his collaborations? He hastily checked his phone, scrolling through all his platforms. To his surprise, he was greeted with… his usual feeds. No sight of the article, no lingering gossip. His ads had doubled, his partnerships boosted on the products he had endorsed. He looked back up to say something, but you had already started your car. You backed out his estate, giving him a smile through the tinted glass of your windshield. 

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. You were right. But who was he kidding?

You always were.

[rmview]

they want you back, ENHYPEN.

featuring — enhypen members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — a reaction of what happens when the enhypen boys realize they still have feelings for you after they broke up with you! ( can be read as part 2 of this )

contents — mentions of past relationships, hurt and comfort.

hee ⊹ seung

heeseung never took relationships lightly. when he ended things with you, it wasn’t because he didn’t care. it was because he thought he owed it to himself — and to you — to confront lingering feelings for his ex. he hated hurting you, but he convinced himself it was the right decision.

months passed, and the closure he sought didn’t come. instead, it became painfully clear that his feelings for his ex had long since faded. what lingered was his guilt for breaking your heart and the empty ache of missing you.

one evening, heeseung found himself scrolling through old photos on his phone. there you were, smiling at him in that way that made everything feel lighter. his heart clenched as he realized he hadn’t smiled like that in months. without thinking, he typed a message hoping you hadn’t blocked him: “can we talk? i know i don’t deserve it, but i need to apologize.”

surprisingly, your text came a day later in agreement and heeseung spent the entire week rehearsing what he’d say when he’d see you. sitting across from you at a quiet café, he felt uncharacteristically nervous. “i’ve been a coward,” he admitted, his voice low. “i thought ending things was the right choice, but all i’ve done is regret it.”

he paused, his hands clasped tightly. “i know i hurt you, and i can’t undo that. but i need you to know… it wasn’t because i didn’t care. it’s because i was scared. scared of how much i feel for you. i’m not sure if it’s love yet, but i realize you’re someone i can be happy with. and i want that with you.”

he didn’t ask you to forgive him right away. instead, he let his actions speak. over the weeks that followed, heeseung found small ways to show you his sincerity: sending you messages that reminded him of you, leaving handwritten notes on your doorstep, and being there when you needed support.

“i’ll do whatever it takes,” he told you one evening, his gaze steady. “even if it takes years, i’ll prove to you that you’re the only one i want.”

jay ⊹

jay was confident in many things, but when it came to his feelings, he was often harder on himself than necessary. breaking up with you had been his attempt at doing the “right thing.” he thought unresolved feelings for his ex were unfair to you, and he didn’t want to risk holding you back. but what he hadn’t anticipated was how much your absence would affect him.

the realization came slowly at first — a quiet longing when he saw something that reminded him of you. then, one night, it hit him like a wave. he was sitting alone, scrolling through a playlist you’d made together. as the songs played, memories of your time together flooded back, each one sharper than the last. he felt so stupid realizing he wasted moments with someone like you over brooding feelings.

“i was an idiot,” jay muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. picking up his phone, he typed out a message: “i know i don’t deserve your time, but please, can we talk?”

your reply back was late, but a godsend, and meeting you again felt like a second chance he didn’t deserve. “i’ve spent months trying to figure out what went wrong,” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “and the answer was staring me in the face the whole time. it wasn’t my ex. it wasn’t anyone else. it was me… being too blind to see what i had right in front of me.”

jay wasn’t one for empty promises. over the following weeks, he showed you his sincerity through thoughtful gestures — sending flowers with notes that said, “thinking of you today,” or surprising you with small things he remembered you loved. “i don’t want to rush you,” he told you one day. “but i’ll wait as long as it takes for you to trust me again.”

jake ⊹

jake believed in following his heart, but breaking up with you had been the hardest decision he’d ever made. he thought he needed to confront lingering feelings for his ex before moving forward, but as time passed, it became glaringly obvious: it wasn’t his ex he missed. it was you.

one evening, jake found himself at a bookstore you’d both loved. his fingers brushed over the spine of a book you’d recommended, and the memory of your excited voice came rushing back. his chest tightened as he realized how much he’d taken you for granted. he found himself staring at the book for a few moments in silent contemplation. what was wrong with him?

without overthinking, jake dialed your number, his gaze never leaving the book. “hey,” he said, when you answered after a few rings, his voice shaky. “can we meet? there’s something i need to tell you.”

when you agreed, jake felt equal parts relief and anxiety. seeing you again, his usual bright demeanor dimmed. “i was wrong,” he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. “i thought i needed closure, but the truth is… i really needed you.”

jake poured his heart out, apologizing for the hurt he’d caused and promising to make things right. over the weeks that followed, he was relentless in his efforts to show you he’d changed. he left little notes on your doorstep, sent you your favorite snacks, and even wrote you a heartfelt letter.

“i know i don’t deserve another chance,” he told you one day. “but i’m asking for one anyway. because i truly can’t imagine my life without you. i know i hurt you once, but i promise to never make you feel that way again.”

sung ⊹ hoon

sunghoon always carried himself with an air of calm and composure, but breaking up with you had shattered that facade. he’d convinced himself that lingering feelings for his ex meant he wasn’t being fair to you. however, as days turned into weeks, he realized he had made a terrible mistake.

the memory of your shared moments haunted him — your laughter, your quirks, the way you made him feel understood in ways no one else could. he found himself going through old photos and videos that you’d take on dates and send him, his heart aching with each one he swiped through.

one day, as he passed the skating rink where you’d gone on one of your first dates, and the sight of all the sweet couples skating around only deepened the void in his chest. he couldn’t hold back anymore. sunghoon sent you a message, simple but heartfelt: “can we meet? there’s something i need to say.”

meeting you at a quiet café the next day, sunghoon struggled to find the words. he sat across from you, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “i thought i was doing the right thing,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “i thought i needed to sort out my feelings… but all i’ve done is realize how much i missed you.”

he looked into your eyes, the vulnerability in his gaze striking. “i was scared. scared that i wasn’t enough for you. but losing you made me see that you’re the one i can’t live without.”

over the next few weeks, sunghoon showed his sincerity in quiet but meaningful ways. he’d leave handwritten letters in your mailbox, recounting the things he loved about you. he even invited you to one of his skating practices, a place he rarely shared with anyone, just to let you see a deeper part of him.

“i know i messed up,” he said one evening, his voice steady but emotional. “but if there’s even a small part of you that can forgive me, i’ll spend every day proving myself to you.”

su ⊹ noo

sunoo had always been emotionally intelligent, but even he wasn’t immune to making mistakes. breaking up with you had been an impulsive decision, driven by his insecurities. he thought he needed closure with his ex, but the moment he walked away from you, regret began to creep in.

the realization hit him fully one day as he scrolled through his phone, stumbling across a picture of the two of you. in it, you were laughing at one of his jokes, your face lit up with pure joy. his heart sank. it wasn’t just the memories he missed — it was the warmth you brought into his life.

unable to hold back after days of contemplation, sunoo sent you a text: “i know i hurt you, but can we talk? i need to explain.”

when you agreed, sunoo met you at a park you both used to visit. his usual bright energy was subdued, replaced by a nervous vulnerability. “i don’t even know where to start,” he admitted, his voice soft. “i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go, but all i did was hurt the person i care about most.”

he paused, his eyes welling with tears. “i thought i needed to figure out my past, but i realized my future… it’s you.”

sunoo made it his mission to win back your trust. he’d send you thoughtful messages, reminding you of the little things you loved. he’d surprise you with your favorite snacks or leave flowers at your door with notes that read, “you deserve the world, and i want to be the one to give it to you.”

“i know it’ll take time,” he told you one evening, his voice earnest. “but i’m not going anywhere. i’ll wait for as long as it takes.”

jung ⊹ won

jungwon had always been the steady, thoughtful type. but even the most composed individuals could falter under pressure. breaking up with you was a decision he thought through meticulously, convinced it was the right thing to do. he believed he needed clarity about his lingering feelings for his ex before moving forward with you.

at first, he tried to rationalize his decision, telling himself it was for the best. but the emptiness that settled in his heart told a different story. every day without you felt heavier, and the clarity he sought didn’t come. instead, it was replaced by the aching realization that you were the one he truly loved.

one quiet evening, jungwon sat in his room, staring at a picture of you both on his desk. the memory of your laughter, the way your presence brought him comfort, and the love he’d seen in your eyes haunted him. he couldn’t keep pretending.

gathering his courage, jungwon called you. his voice was steady but tinged with vulnerability. “hey… i know i’m the last person you want to hear from, but could we meet? i need to talk to you.”

when you agreed, jungwon met you at a park you used to frequent. he was quiet at first, gathering his thoughts as he looked at you, guilt and longing etched into his expression. “i don’t know how to start,” he admitted softly. “i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go. i thought i needed to figure things out… but i was wrong.”

his gaze met yours, steady despite the turmoil in his heart. “i hurt you, and i’ll regret that for the rest of my life. but i need you to know… my heart was never confused. it’s always been you.”

jungwon didn’t rush you for forgiveness. instead, he let his actions show how much he cared. over the weeks, he’d leave thoughtful messages, remembering little details about your day or sending you your favorite snacks.

he’d show up when you least expected it — not to push but simply to remind you he was there. “you deserve someone who shows you how much they care. and i want to be that person again… if you’ll let me.”

ni ⊹ ki

ni-ki had always been the youngest, but he prided himself on being mature for his age. however, when it came to relationships, he still had room to grow. breaking up with you had been his attempt at handling his feelings responsibly, but instead, it left him feeling empty and directionless.

at first, ni-ki tried to convince himself that he’d made the right choice. but the more time passed, the more he realized how much he missed you. little things — your laughter, the way you supported his dreams, the comfort of your presence — kept replaying in his mind.

one evening, ni-ki sat in his practice room, staring at his phone. his fingers hovered over the screen before he finally typed out a message: “can we meet? i need to tell you something important.”

when you agreed, ni-ki met you at a quiet spot near the dance studio. he looked nervous but determined. “i messed up,” he began, his voice low. “i thought breaking up was the right thing to do… but it wasn’t. it was the worst mistake i’ve ever made.”

he looked at you, his eyes earnest. “i thought i needed to figure out my feelings, but the truth is, i was scared. scared of how much i care about you. but now i know… you’re the one i want.”

ni-ki’s efforts to win you back were both heartfelt and creative. he’d dedicate his dance routines to you, recording them and sending you clips with messages like, “this is for you. always for you.” he’d leave small gifts with notes that said, “i’m sorry. let me make it right.”

“i’m young, and i’ve made mistakes,” he admitted one evening, his voice steady. “but i’m learning, and one thing i know for sure is that i don’t want to lose you again.”

notes: thank you for requesting! i guess i’ve been traumatizing yall with too much angst xp fluff coming soon!