#getting back into doodling out Feelings...

[yukkiji]

crush course 101

you’ve admired oikawa tooru from afar for months—but when a class project puts you side by side, you start to realize your feelings aren’t as hidden as you thought… and neither are his.

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader

genre. fluff, romance, crack.

wc. 10.6k

Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.

You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.

You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.

But he did.

He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.

“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.

Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”

“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”

“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”

Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”

Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”

“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”

Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”

“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.

“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.

“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”

“I was distracted!”

“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”

“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”

“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.

They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.

Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.

Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.

And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.

He did.

A lot.

And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.

It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.

But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.

Oikawa Tooru.

Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.

But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.

“Cool!”

You froze.

He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.

And then he tripped.

It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.

The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.

“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.

Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.

You. Knew. His. Name.

He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.

“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”

“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.

From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”

“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”

Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”

“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.

Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.

But he didn’t care.

Because you knew his name.

And you were worried about him.

God help him, he was doomed.

Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.

Again.

“Tooru.”

It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.

Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”

That did not help.

Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.

“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.

Then, without thinking, he took your hand.

You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.

Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.

“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.

None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.

“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.

You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.

Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.

“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.

You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.

And just like that, Oikawa was gone.

To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.

“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.

Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.

From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.

Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.

“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”

Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”

You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”

The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.

Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”

Oikawa stared.

If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.

“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”

You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.

You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.

When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.

You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.

Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.

And then his phone buzzed.

[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.

“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”

“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”

Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.

“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.

Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.

Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.

By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.

Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.

Kind of.

Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.

“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.

The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.

“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.

Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”

A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”

Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”

The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”

Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”

Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.

Then his phone buzzed.

[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.

“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”

He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.

Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.

[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way

[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)

Oikawa screamed.

Like, actually screamed.

He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.

“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”

There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”

Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”

Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”

Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.

And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”

You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.

Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.

From the other side of the room, your roommate—already awake and sipping on her mug of instant coffee—narrowed her eyes at you.

"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"

You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.

She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"

"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"

That caught her attention.

She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.

You groaned into the pillow.

"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."

Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."

“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”

"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."

You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.

“I’m never texting anyone again.”

Your phone buzzed.

You shrieked.

[tooru]: see you later also ♡

You stared at your phone.

Oh god.

Why did he send a heart.

Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.

Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.

You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.

“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.

You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.

“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”

Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.

“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”

“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”

“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body glitched.

Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.

“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.

She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”

You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”

“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”

You arrived at the café first.

The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.

You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)

Then the soft chime of the door rang.

Your head turned instinctively.

Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.

He lit up immediately.

He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.

Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.

Meanwhile, Oikawa?

He was dying.

His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—

He was done for.

He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.

A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.

A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.

You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”

You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.

“You really okay?”

“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”

You looked away again, biting back a smile.

And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:

I’m so, so screwed.

Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”

He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.

At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.

A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.

You paused. “Are you sure?”

He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.

He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.

Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”

It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.

“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.

“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.

Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.

And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.

He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.

He was so screwed.

And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”

Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.

Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.

At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.

But you showed up.

In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.

“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.

“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.

“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”

You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”

Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”

He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.

Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.

"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.

"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.

"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.

“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”

You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”

Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.

Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.

And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”

He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.

Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.

There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.

It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.

Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.

Not in the way that mattered.

Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.

You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.

And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.

Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.

“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.

“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.

“Because it’s true,” Oikawa whined. “She’s literally ruining me.”

“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”

“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”

“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.

He melted.

You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.

“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”

“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.

“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.

“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.

No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.

Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.

And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.

But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.

Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.

He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.

One bow caught his eye.

It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.

Oikawa lingered, slowing down.

He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.

“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.

“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”

“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”

“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”

“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”

Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”

Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”

“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.

Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”

Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.

Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”

And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.

He bought the bow.

Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.

“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”

“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.

Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.

“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.

“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”

Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”

“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.

Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”

The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”

Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.

“Don’t screw it up,” he said.

And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.

You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.

[tooru]: are you free?

That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.

You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.

You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.

[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?

You blinked.

Then you sat up.

Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.

“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”

You didn’t move.

She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”

You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”

Silence.

Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”

You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”

She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”

You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”

“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”

You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”

Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you like.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”

“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”

She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”

Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”

You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”

She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”

“I forgot!”

“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

She arched a brow. “You sure?”

You didn’t answer.

She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”

You peeked at your phone again.

[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.

You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.

Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”

Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.

“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”

“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.

“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”

“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”

“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”

Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.

The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.

He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.

After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.

He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.

There you were.

Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.

The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.

Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.

“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.

And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.

Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.

“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.

Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”

You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.

Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.

“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.

“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”

Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”

Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”

You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.

Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.

Because this felt different.

There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.

Just you and him.

Just Tooru.

And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.

Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.

“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”

He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.

Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.

Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.

He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.

He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.

"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.

You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.

He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.

“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”

You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.

You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.

“Tooru…?”

He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.

“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”

He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”

Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.

“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”

You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.

The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.

And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”

Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.

“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”

His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.

“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”

You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”

Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.

“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”

And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.

You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.

You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.

Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.

When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.

“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”

Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.

You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.

But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.

His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.

“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.

You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”

After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.

Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.

You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.

Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.

“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”

“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”

Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”

But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:

Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.

© 2025 yukkiji ☾ creations by yukkiji — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[yanderslutt]

𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝑼𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝑰 𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝑺𝒐

pt 5 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

The car ride was quiet.

Too quiet for a family who usually argued over snack wrappers and sang along to off-key cartoon theme songs. Y/N’s hand gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as her two boys sat in the back—one kicking his feet against the seat, the other doodling shapes in the fogged-up window.

They missed her. She could feel it in the way they held her. Her youngest hadn’t let go of her leg for a solid five minutes at the door. Her oldest, wiser than he should be, gave her a look that said he knew more than he’d ever say out loud.

Back at the house, Hiromi was already gone.

Good.

She let them settle in. Juice boxes. A quick snack. A cartoon humming low in the background. Then she sat them down. The conversation she’d rehearsed in her head a thousand times caught in her throat—but she pushed through.

“Mommy and Daddy are going to be taking a little break,” she said softly, eyes flickering between their confused little faces. “We both love you so much. But sometimes… adults need time apart to make things better.”

The youngest blinked at her, munching on a cracker. But the oldest—he didn’t move.

“Is it ‘cause Daddy made you cry?” he asked.

Her breath caught.

He fidgeted with the string on his hoodie. “I always see you cry when he leaves the room.”

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them.

“But I want you to be happy,” he said with a tiny, brave smile. “Even if that means no more daddy.”

She pulled him into her arms, sobbing into his hair, holding both her boys as tightly as she could. Because no matter how broken the rest of the world felt…

This love was still whole.

—

GOJO’S POV

He saw everything.

From the tinted window of his parked car, two blocks down and angled just enough to catch the soft flickers of movement inside her living room. He’d been there before dawn. He knew today was the day. The day she’d tell the kids.

And now—there it was.

The way she knelt, arms outstretched, pulling both boys into her chest. Her head tilted back slightly. He couldn’t hear the sob, but he felt it.

God. She was beautiful like this.

Raw. Maternal. Freeing herself from the lie she’d been forced to live.

A slow grin curled Gojo’s lips as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand drumming against his thigh.

“She did it,” he whispered to himself. “She really f*cking did it.”

The house that once belonged to him—Hiromi—was falling apart piece by piece. And Gojo didn’t even have to touch the bricks. Just nudged a few hearts in the right direction.

He reached over to the passenger seat where a small gift bag sat—tissue paper tucked neatly, hiding what he brought for the boys. A puzzle set and a retro gameboy. Nothing flashy. Nothing suspicious. Just little pieces of his new role.

Stepdad.

He let the word roll around in his head.

“Stepdad Satoru,” he muttered with a playful grin, adjusting his sunglasses. “Coach. Tutor. Breakfast chef. Kiss-their-mom-when-they’re-sleeping kinda stepdad.”

He couldn’t wait to sit at their little kitchen table. Teach them how to tie a proper tie. Show them real loyalty. Take them to their school games—actually show up. Be the man they deserved.

Not some fake suit-wearing sleaze who left condoms in secret boxes and cried about being forgiven.

The oldest kid though… Gojo respected him.

That kid knew what was up. Brave little bastard. Staring at his mom like, I’ll protect you someday.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Gojo murmured. “You will. But for now—”

His voice dropped, manic heat curling behind his grin.

“Let me do the protecting.”

He lifted his phone, snapped a single photo of the front porch, and sent it to an encrypted folder labeled ‘My Family.’

He scrolled up to the last picture he took—Hiromi leaving the courthouse with his assistant. Another red X drawn on it with his finger.

Gojo kissed the screen.

“Your replacement is already on the way.”

—

Y/N stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing her skirt with a practiced hand.

Silk blouse. High-waisted slacks. Heels that clicked like a gavel on polished floors. Her hair was pulled back just enough to command the room—but the curve of her lipstick-red mouth said she wasn’t to be fcked with.*

“Damn,” Shoko muttered from the doorway, her arms crossed, a cigarette between her lips. “You look like divorce.”

Y/N smirked. “Good. I want him to choke on it.”

Shoko held out the manila envelope, thick with finality.

“Everything’s signed. Just hand it to him and walk the hell out. I’ll be here with the kids.”

Y/N took it carefully. It was heavier than she expected.

No— it wasn’t. It was years of betrayal. Of crying in the bathroom so her children wouldn’t hear. Of begging a man who didn’t deserve to be kept.

She slid the envelope into her purse, grabbed her keys, and with one final glance at herself, left.

The drive was quiet.

No music. Just the low hum of her engine and the script playing over in her head.

Every word was chosen. Rehearsed. Memorized.

“I know what you did. I know about the lies. And I know that you don’t deserve this family.”

She pulled into the parking garage of Hiromi’s firm. Sleek black marble, valet nodding, her heels echoing in a place she once walked as his wife.

Now? She was her own damn lawyer.

The receptionist saw her and smiled. “Mrs. H— oh! Y/N! Good morning.”

Y/N returned a polite smile, not bothering to correct her.

People were watching. They always did.

Minako, sitting at the front desk, adjusted her blouse, already reaching for her phone.

Y/N didn’t spare her a glance.

She walked past glass offices and whispering lips, straight to Hiromi’s door.

Her hand turned the knob.

She stepped inside.

Click.

She locked it behind her.

Hiromi looked up from his desk, startled. “Y/N? What are you—”

“I won’t be long,” she said smoothly, placing her purse down with calm precision.

His brows furrowed, concern in his eyes. “Is everything okay? Did something happen with the kids—”

She cut him off.

“No. This is about us.”

She stepped forward, heels silent on the carpet now. Her body language was poised. Devastating. Elegant like a loaded gun.

Hiromi stood slowly. “I’ve been trying to reach you. You haven’t responded to my texts. I thought maybe after the career fair we could—”

“—You brought your mistress to my place of work, Hiromi,” she said coolly. “To our event. While trying to win me back.”

His face fell.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

“I want a divorce.”

She pulled out the envelope and placed it gently on his desk.

His fingers twitched.

The silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat.

“I don’t— Y/N, please. Just let me explain—”

“I’ve already talked to her,” she said.

That shut him up.

She tilted her head, eyes sharp. “She told me everything. Even the part about you f*cking her while I was pregnant with our son.”

Hiromi’s breath caught. Shame flickered. Weak.

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” she whispered now, her voice shaking—not from fear, but restraint. “What I let slide. What I let go. But I don’t have to anymore.”

Hiromi stepped around the desk like he might plead with her.

“Y/N. Don’t do this. Think of the boys.”

Hiromi was already on the defensive, lips parted like he was still trying to search for a sentence that might save him.

But Y/N had crossed that threshold — the place where heartbreak sharpened into rage, and love turned into something jagged and merciless.

“Don’t you f*cking dare mention the boys,” she seethed, voice venom-laced velvet. “You weren’t thinking of them when you were balls-deep in Minako. Or was it Yuki? Mai? Or whatever name you had memorized for the week.”

Hiromi stepped forward, hands half-raised in guilt. “Y/N, I—”

She spotted it first.

The glass award on his shelf. Some bullshit recognition for ethics and leadership.

Without hesitation, her hand snapped out, grabbed it, and—

CRASH.

It hit the floor in a symphony of splintered crystal.

Hiromi flinched.

Y/N didn’t even blink.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll buy you another one,” she said with a faux-sweet smile. “They seem to hand those out to anyone these days.”

“You’re upset—”

“I’m calm,” she snapped, grabbing the second vase — the one she picked with him on their anniversary. “This is me being calm.”

She hurled it across the office.

Shatter.

Her breathing was sharp now, chest rising and falling with the adrenaline of years suppressed.

Hiromi was frozen. Watching his life fall apart in designer heels and crimson lipstick.

“The worst part?” she asked, stepping toward his desk. Her fingers trailing the wood. “It wasn’t the cheating. Not even the lying.”

She leaned in.

“It’s how boring you were about it.”

Hiromi’s mouth opened—she didn’t let him speak.

“Minako?” she scoffed. “The girl who can’t even print a memo without spell-check? The one who only knows how to flirt in baby voice and fake giggles?”

Another vase. Gone.

This one was her mother’s.

“I used to think I wasn’t enough,” she whispered. “That maybe I let myself go. That maybe I was so busy being a mother I forgot to be a wife. But now…”

She looked him dead in the eye, voice trembling—not with weakness, but fury.

“Now I see you for what you are. A pathetic man who got bored of having a woman he didn’t deserve, so he chased girls who didn’t know any better.”

Silence.

Dead. Dense.

Hiromi tried to move toward her again. “Y/N, please. You’re emotional—”

“Say emotional again and I’ll break your f*cking nose.”

That shut him up.

She smoothed her skirt again. Tucked her hair back into place. Walked toward the door.

But before she reached it, she turned.

And her voice — soft now — cut deeper than any scream could.

“I want you to remember this when you sit alone in your big cold house,” she said. “You never lost me because you cheated.”

Her eyes shimmered, rage replaced by tragic clarity.

“You lost me because you didn’t even notice I was already gone.”

She didn’t slam the door when she left.

She closed it like a woman with nothing left to prove.

Gojo was parked two blocks down.

He didn’t need to be closer—he had the angle.

Black tinted windows. A fresh smoothie sweating in the cupholder. His jaw was clenched tight, watching the front doors of the law firm like it was a stage set for his personal theatre.

And there she was.

Y/N.

Storming out of the building like a goddess lit on fire. Her heels clicked like war drums against the pavement, every step echoing victory.

His phone buzzed.

[Minako ]:

She did it. Whole office is talking about it already lol. You owe me another bonus 😘

Gojo didn’t reply.

He smiled instead—slow, twisted, obsessed.

He licked his bottom lip and let his head fall back against the headrest, exhaling a soft, “Fuuuuck.”

The image of Y/N—red-faced, chest heaving, alive—looped behind his eyes.

She looked so hot when she snapped.

Like she was reborn. No longer a shell of someone else’s wife. But his.

Just not officially yet.

That was okay.

He was patient.

He pulled the phone up, finally replying:

[Gojo ]:

You’ll get your bonus. And you’ll stay away now. I don’t like recycled toys. 😘

He sent it.

Then opened a folder in his hidden photo app.

Dozens of photos of her from today.

One taken just now—from the parking lot as she walked to her car.

One from earlier, leaving Shoko’s place.

And one… from inside her home. (She forgot the blinds last week.)

Gojo exhaled shakily, pupils blown.

“God, I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, as if she could hear him.

He brought the phone to his lips. Kissed her image softly.

“You finally chose you.”

A beat.

Then, softly, tenderly…

“Next time, choose me.”

He shifted the car into drive, taking the long route home—passing by her neighborhood just to feel it again.

Because now?

Now that she’d burned everything down?

There was only one man waiting in the ashes.

And he’d been waiting for her all along.

—

The heels clicked different today.

Sharper. Confident. Louder than the whisper of gossip that trailed her return.

Y/N walked into the lecture hall like a storm had passed—and she’d survived it. Her hair was pinned back in a sleek new bun, gold hoops in her ears, and her neck bare where a wedding ring once sat. The neckline of her blouse dipped just a little lower. Her perfume was stronger. And her eyes… clearer.

She stood at the head of the classroom, pulling up the presentation slides, sipping her coffee with calm precision as students filtered in and filled the seats.

She smiled.

“Let’s begin.”

The topic today was Moral Relativism & the Ethics of Infidelity. A spicy one. And perfectly timed.

“Is cheating always unethical?” she posed the question with a tilt of her head, pacing slowly across the front of the class. “Or does the context—the history, the emotional neglect, the betrayal—shift the moral compass?”

Several hands shot up.

A girl in the front row said, “It’s wrong no matter what. If you’re unhappy, leave.”

Another countered. “But what if you can’t leave? What if your partner has power, or leverage, or you’re scared?”

Gojo sat forward, arms crossed over his chest, grinning like a wolf in a classroom full of lambs.

“What if it’s not cheating?” he said casually, eyes locked on her. “What if it’s… escape?”

The air thinned.

Y/N swallowed slowly, but didn’t look away. “That depends on the motive,” she said. “Escape for freedom? Or revenge?”

Gojo smiled. “Maybe both.”

A few students giggled, but the energy was charged.

Y/N nodded once, gripping her ring finger without realizing it… then releasing.

She turned back to the board. “Good. You’re thinking. For next class, I want a two-page reflection on moral consequence—not legality. What would you do, not what the law says.”

She shut the laptop.

Class dismissed.

Gojo didn’t move.

He watched her with that same slow-burning gaze as everyone filtered out.

And for the first time… she let him.

The office door was cracked just enough.

Just enough to let in the hum of the hallway. Just enough to catch the footsteps.

Just enough to welcome him in.

Y/N sat atop her desk—legs crossed, spine straight, every inch of her carefully curated. Her blouse was slightly unbuttoned. The sleeves rolled at the elbows. A fresh coat of red lipstick marked the edge of her coffee mug.

She wasn’t hiding today.

Not the curves beneath her pencil skirt.

Not the fact that her wedding ring was gone.

Not the truth pulsing between her thighs.

She looked at the clock. 12:03.

Late on purpose.

She smiled.

The door creaked. Footsteps—slow, confident, dangerous—filled the room.

And then:

“Professor,” Gojo’s voice was smooth silk pulled tight. “Miss me already?”

He leaned against the doorframe, eyes trailing over her body like he’d already touched every inch. Because he had.

“You’re three minutes late,” she murmured.

He tilted his head, stepping in and closing the door behind him. The soft click echoed in her chest.

“You looked like a woman who wanted me to take my time.”

Y/N raised a brow. “That’s a bold thing to say to your professor.”

“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said instead, walking toward her. “And I’m not just your student anymore.”

She swallowed hard. “This conversation is off the record.”

He smiled. “Everything between us is.”

He stopped just short of her knees. Her legs tightened. Her chest rose.

“I liked today’s lecture,” Gojo said, voice lowering. “Especially the part about escape. That hit.”

She looked him dead in the eyes. “You should go.. We shouldn't do this here.”

He smirked. “You don’t want me to…your sitting on the desk for a reason.”

Her breath caught.

His hand lifted slowly, brushing just above her thigh—hovering, not touching, not yet.

“I could make you forget all of it,” he whispered. “Your husband. The lies. The mess. I could put you back together in ways he never learned how to.”

Y/N’s mouth parted—but no words came.

Because she wanted it.

She wanted him.

Even if it meant throwing everything she built into the fire.

Gojo’s breath hitched.

She slid off the desk slowly, like a woman with nothing left to lose—only fire left to give. The room was quiet except for the sound of her heels clicking against the floor. She didn’t say a word as she turned around.

But her eyes… God, her eyes.

Her fingers found the edge of the desk. She bent forward with slow, deliberate grace, arching her back—head tilted just enough to glance at him from over her shoulder.

“Lock the door,” she whispered.

Something feral lit behind Gojo’s eyes. A dark flush spread over his cheeks, and for once, he didn’t have something smug to say.

He obeyed immediately.

Click.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in a church.

His footsteps were slow, reverent. He approached her like a man seeing divinity for the first time—with hunger and holy fear.

Her body trembled, bent over the desk like a confession waiting to be whispered into sin. The scent of ink, paper, and lust thickened the air. Her heels dug into the floor, steadying herself—but nothing could prepare her for the sound of Gojo’s belt unbuckling behind her.

He was silent, not from restraint, but reverence.

That was the thing about Gojo Satoru—he worshipped ruin. And she had just become his favorite altar.

His hand came down slowly on the small of her back, flattening her into place. Not rough. Not yet. Just enough pressure to feel his control settle in her bones.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered, dragging his palm up her spine, fingers splaying out across her exposed nape. “I’ve waited for this.”

“You waited?” she scoffed, breath catching as he pushed her skirt higher.

“Mmh,” he smirked, leaning down, lips ghosting her ear. “Every lecture… every time you called on me with that sharp little tone, acting like you weren’t wet under that pretty pencil skirt…”

His hand slipped between her thighs.

She jerked.

“Satoru—”

“You let me fall in love with you,” he said, voice uncharacteristically raw. “And then you pretended you didn’t see me. Didn’t feel it. You think I’m going to let you walk around like that now?

His fingers found her underwear—lace, soaked through.

He hissed, gripping the flimsy fabric and yanking it down her legs. “You wore this for me.”

She didn’t deny it.

Gojo didn’t even wait. He dropped to his knees, dragging her back to the edge of the desk. Her gasp turned to a moan as his tongue met her heat—slow at first, then devastating. He ate her like he was starving, groaning against her, fingers digging bruises into her thighs to hold her still as she writhed.

“S-Satoru—!”

“You taste like mine,” he growled, lips slick, eyes glowing up at her. “Say it.”

“N-no—”

He sucked harder. Cruel. Loving. Insane.

“Say it, baby. Or I’ll keep going until your legs give out.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, breathless, broken. “Fuck—I’m yours—!”

That did it.

He stood, chest heaving, unzipping his pants with one sharp pull. He lined himself up, dragging his length between her folds, teasing her entrance with maddening control.

And then—

He thrust in.

She cried out, nails clawing the wood of the desk, tears threatening to fall. He was big. He didn’t give her time to adjust.

“Shh,” he cooed, wrapping a hand around her throat and leaning in. “You can take it. You were made for this. You were made for me. It just took you awhile to realize it.”

His pace was merciless. Deep, possessive, unforgiving. The desk creaked with each thrust, pens falling to the floor, papers scattering like ash in a storm.

“Look at you,” he grunted, leaning over her body, his shirt open and sweat slicking his chest. “Fucking your student… breaking every rule you swore to uphold. Just to feel wanted. Just to feel seen.”

Her whimpers only made him harder.

“I’d kill for you,” he whispered, slowing his thrusts to roll his hips with precision. “You know that, don’t you?”

She moaned helplessly.

“Satoru—!”

He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back to kiss her. It was desperate—teeth clashing, tongues tangled, spit-slick and messy.

And then he said it.

“You let me in.. Professor,” he groaned, burying himself as deep as he could. “I’m gonna fill you up and make sure no one else ever gets to touch you again.”

He came with a guttural moan, hips snapping, breath hitching against her ear. She felt it—hot, possessive, raw—spilling into her like a brand.

And still… he didn’t pull out.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her middle, pressing kisses down her spine, his cock still twitching inside her.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, soft and terrifying.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was a reckoning.

And she’d let it happen.

—

Hiromi stared at the handwriting on the front—familiar, elegant, hers. No heart at the end of his name. No playful note. Just his name.

And silence.

Minako was already gone by the time he opened it.

The first page nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

The words blurred as his fingers clenched around the paper. His eyes darted—reading and rereading the unforgiving lines.

Filed by: Y/N [REDACTED]. Represented by: Shoko Ieiri, Esq.

Grounds: Irreconcilable differences. Infidelity. Emotional abandonment.

His hand trembled.

No. No, this wasn’t real. This wasn’t final. She had threatened it before. She had cried before. But she had never—

Filed.

Signed.

Left.

Hiromi collapsed back in his chair, the paper shaking in his hand. The room spun.

He tried to laugh. Or breathe. But all he managed was a dry, bitter sound from the pit of his throat.

She actually filed.

She had walked into his office yesterday with this in her bag—looked him in the face—and still left him this.

She was serious.

His phone buzzed.

A photo. From an unknown number.

[Image Attachment: Y/N outside the firm, walking away, heels clicking, face like steel wrapped in silk.]

And finally, the message:

❝ She never looked at you like that. ❞

The edges of the phone dug into his palm.

“Fuck.”

She really meant it.

But—

He wasn’t going to let her go that easily.

No.

He had worked too hard. Built this life. Built her life.

She was his.

She said she wanted a divorce?

Then she’d have to fight him for it.

And she’d lose.

Hiromi stood up, grabbing the divorce packet in one hand and his phone in the other, pacing the office like a wolf denied meat.

He’d file a response. Hire the most brutal attorney he could find. Drag this out. Make her wait. Make her regret this.

This wasn’t over.

He had made one mistake.

Maybe two.

Or five.

But he was still her husband. And She had another thing coming.

—

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comment 2 b tagged BING BONG.

this is literally the beginning wait till the next chapter.. Its gonna get crazy.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

What Was I Made For? [One-Shot]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: A journey of discovery-- of who he is and what his life means , through all the names Bucky Barnes has been called.

Word Count: 5.8k+

Content: Canon Leaning / Canon Level Angst and Mentions - Bucky's Story - Fluff

a/n: this was different for me to write and brought me to tears halfway through :_) dividers by @@saradika-graphics

masterlist -- requests/inbox open!

James Buchanan Barnes

Brooklyn, New York -

Age: 9

The schoolyard was loud and covered with laughter and squealing shouts as kids zigzagged over concrete worn smooth , by years of games and recess. 

Rusted metal swings creaked in the breeze as a heavy gray sky loomed above, hinting that winter wasn’t far off.

 The brick schoolhouse stood tall behind them all, its windows fogged with mist and chalk dust.

James stood near the edge of the lot, arms folded, shoes scuffed, his brown curls falling over one eye as he watched a group of boys toss around and chase a beaten-up ball. 

He didn’t want to join them. He could’ve if he wanted to—he was fast, faster than most, and good at catching. But something in his gut told him no. Maybe it was because of what he’d seen earlier. Maybe it was that kid.

The one who got knocked down for coughing trying to catch his breath.

The one who still hadn’t gotten up.

There, slumped on the curb with a sketchpad on his scraped knees, sat the smallest kid James had ever seen in school. 

He looked pale, like he'd been drawn with the wrong pencils—too thin, too washed out. His knees were raw and red, and his fraying sweater was two sizes too big. His pencil moved across the paper slowly, hands shaking just enough to make his letters and doodles a little crooked.

Bucky watched him for a second longer, then made a decision.

He walked over, his boots thudding soft against the pavement making his way to the boy.

“Hey,” he chirped, voice casual but not unkind.

The little blonde boy looked up, startled, clutching the sketchpad to his chest like it might be harshly yanked away. His eyes were bright blue and scared.

“What’s your name?” James plopped down on the curb right beside him.

There was a pause, like the boy had to weigh whether or not the question was safe or real.

“…Steve,” he answered after a second. “Steve Rogers.”

“My name's James Buchanan Barnes,” He gave confidently , puffing his chest out a little, then wrinkling his nose. “But that’s a mouthful. Just call me…Bucky?”

Steve looked at him again , closer this time. “That your real name? Bucky?”

Bucky shrugged. “It is now.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Okay… Bucky.”

There was another silence between them, but this one wasn’t heavy. Bucky leaned over and peeked at Steve’s sketchpad. There were drawings of the school building and gardens , one of the janitor sweeping the hall , and a rough start of a superhero with a star on his chest. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“You draw all that?”

Steve nodded. “Kinda helps pass time when I get too tired to run and play with the others.”

“Huh.” Bucky leaned back , propping his arms back on the curb behind him. “Well, for what it’s worth, you can sit with me at lunch. I don’t care if you’re small.”

Steve blinked as his brows creased.

“I’m not that small.”

“You kinda are.”

Steve scowled and closed his sketchpad.

Bucky just grinned.

That was the start.

From then on, it was always Bucky and Steve. They shared sandwiches , pencils , and scraped-up knuckles. They sat together in classrooms and made faces behind the teacher’s back. Steve got sick a lot, but Bucky always walked him home when he could, holding his books and cracking jokes to make the stairs feel shorter.

That day, he became Bucky.

And he became Steve’s best friend.

Sergeant James Barnes

New York City - New York

Age: 24

The twinkling lights of the Stark Expo buzzed in colors Bucky hadn’t seen since before. Reds and blues , flickering neon signs , pulsing bulbs , all trying too hard to impress a world already hardened by political posters and headlines.

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder past the whirling contraptions and eager pitchmen. Steve was still coughing a little—trying to hide it , but Bucky heard it. He always heard it. He glanced sideways.

“You alright pal?”

Steve waved him off, cheeks pink and flushed. “I’m fine. Just a little overwhelmed.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, smirking.

They paused by a vendor selling popcorn for ten cents, and Bucky handed over a quarter before Steve could reach for his own change. Steve muttered something about not being a charity case, but Bucky had already shoved the bag into his friend's hands.

"Relax," Bucky said. "I'm just spending my inheritance."

Steve snorted. "What inheritance?"

“Exactly.”

They wandered further, and it was almost normal. But Bucky could feel it between them—his uniform stiff and heavy on his shoulders, the way people looked at him now. Saluted him. It didn’t sit right. Not when Steve was still being turned away at enlistment offices. Not when Bucky could see the ache in his best friend’s eyes every time someone called him “kid” or told him he wasn’t built for war.

And then it happened.

They passed by the recruitment tent—bright red lettering, brass buttons gleaming. An officer in clean-pressed greens , was standing outside, barking jokes at a small group of young men. 

Steve slowed by. Bucky saw it instantly. That draw in Steve’s chest. That same look he used to get on top of playground slides when he wasn’t sure if the drop was worth it—but would jump right in anyway.

Steve stepped toward the table. But not before Bucky reached out, grabbed his elbow. “C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s not do this again tonight.”

Steve didn’t look at him. “They might take me this time.”

“You’ve tried five times, Stevie.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Bucky’s voice was low, close. “You think I don’t see you trying to run headfirst into something that’ll eat you alive?”

Steve finally looked up at him.

“I can’t stay behind, Buck. I can’t. Not while guys like you go over there and lay down their lives.”

And there it was. The silence that said everything.

Bucky sighed and let go the grip of his arm. He didn’t argue. He never really could when Steve got that look in his eyes—like being left behind hurt worse than anything the war could do to him.

Steve stepped away.

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets, staring out at the crowd.

And then, after a long few minutes, Steve came back. Folded form in hand. Face pale. He looked… smaller somehow.

Bucky turned toward him and raised an eyebrow.

Steve didn’t say anything, just handed him the folded slip marked with denial and rejection.

“Whats your rank sonny?” An older gentlemen passing by gruffed at Bucky as he looked his uniform up and down.

“Sergeant Sir…Sergeant James Barnes.”

“Thank you , Sergeant Barnes” He gave Bucky a stern nod heading back towards the concessions hand in hand with his wife.

Steve stared at him for a beat.

And then, just like always, he grinned.

“To me you’ll always be Bucky ya' know it.”

Bucky spun around to face him and chuckled. “Don’t let the Army hear you say that.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve said to an officer.”

They both laughed. And for a second, the uniforms, the war, the looming future—it all disappeared.

Just two Brooklyn boys at a science fair again.

The Winter Soldier / Soldat

Unknown HYDRA Facility 

Age: Redacted

Everything hurt. No—everything buzzed.

Like live wires in his blood , static crawling under his skin.

There was heat—burning, raw. His shoulder. His chest. The right side of his face was swollen, or maybe the room was just spinning that way. His mouth was dry, tongue heavy. He couldn’t lift his arm. He tried and was met with pain.

Blinding, lightning-white pain.

He choked on a cry he didn’t recognize as his own.

“Vitals spiking,” a voice said in a clipped German accent.

“Stabilize him.”

There were lights overhead. Cold. Bright. Blinding. Shapes and forms in black coats leaned over him. One of them injected something against his neck. The world dipped and slowed but didn’t fade. Just dragged.

He was strapped down.

He blinked, slowly, dragging his gaze down his body. His right arm was flesh , scarred, trembling. His left…

He stopped breathing.

Metal. Shiny. Bulked. Mechanized.

Stamped with the very symbol he was taught to hate and fight against.

“What…” his voice rasped, raw like sandpaper. “What is this…?”

“Soldat is conscious,” another voice announced over a comm. “Full visual coordination. Speech returning.”

The man closest to him leaned in. Stern face. Cold eyes. Thin smile.

“Who are you?” the man asked calmly, as if this were a test.

The words caught in his throat. “I don’t… I…”

Who was he?

Flashes. Screams. Falling. A train. Ice. No—metal. Blood. Snow.

“Who—Who are you?” he managed, chest heaving fighting against the drugs he was laced with.

The man raised a brow. “Irrelevant.”

“Who… am I?” he whispered, voice breaking , blinking slow, as if the answer was behind his eyelids.

The man didn’t hesitate.

“You are…the Winter Soldier.”

The name landed like a rifle shot to his heart.

“Winter…?”

“Soldat,” someone else corrected in Russian. “He is to be known as Soldat now.”

“No—” he tried to move again, to shake the fog from his head. He felt like he was drowning in oil lit with fire. “That’s not—That’s not my name!”

The man’s hand curled around his jaw, forcing his gaze upward into his eyes.

“It is now.”

And then the voice softened, like a parent correcting a stubborn child.

“You died. Long ago. You were nothing before us. A broken thing.”

“No…” the word cracked in his throat.

The man didn’t flinch. “But we rebuilt you.”

He then gestured to the metal arm, the one that reflected the surgical lights above in dull silver glints.

“A weapon. Strong. Precise. Unstoppable. The perfect , new fist of HYDRA.”

The metal arm twitched. He felt it, but not like his flesh. It was separate—a foreign thing soldered to his bones. A parasite.

“I had a name…”

“You have one,” the man said simply.

“The Winter Soldier.”

They stared at him.

Waiting.

And in the cold hum of the room, surrounded by foreign voices and steel and scars, the boy who once stood on a Brooklyn curb was gone.

Only the Soldat remained.

???

Bucharest, Romania

Age: Physically? Mentally? In pieces.

The apartment was small. Sparse. Functional.

A chipped kettle on the stove , a dense mattress on the floor, a shelf of exactly three books and journals with no decorations. A window that rattled when the wind hit it just right. The kind of place you could disappear in.

Bucky sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the cracked wood beneath his boots. He could feel the tension in the air like a storm about to break.

Steve stood across from him, arms crossed, mouth drawn tight like he wasn’t sure whether to cry or exhale.

They hadn’t said much. What could they say? After everything.

“You know me.” Steve finally asked, voice quiet. Too careful.

Bucky didn’t look up at first. The words took a while to come, like they were buried under layers of frost and blood.

“I read about you,” Bucky murmured. “In a museum.”

Steve flinched. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and they both knew it.

But Bucky wasn’t trying to be cruel.

That’s just all there was. Bits and pieces. A plaque in a glass case. Photos of men in uniforms. Some smiling. Some dead. A name beneath the glass: Steve Rogers. Captain America.

He’d stood in front of it for hours one night, long after the tourists were gone, a black cap pulled low over his face.

He didn’t know why he stayed. He just… couldn’t leave.

Something in him stirred when he saw that face. When he read those words.

Not memory. Just ache. Just… something.

And now here Steve was. Real. Flesh and bone. Standing in his safe-house like a ghost had stepped out of the glass case.

“I don’t know my name,” Bucky whispered  after a long pause. His voice cracked around the admission.

It tasted like defeat.

Steve’s expression didn’t change right away. But his eyes—God, his eyes—they softened with the weight of a thousand yesterdays.

“You know me,” Steve said again. Not a question. A thread he was grasping, desperate and quiet.

“I know you,” Bucky said. His voice was firmer now, like that was the one thing he could cling to. “I don’t know why. I don’t know how.”

He looked up finally, eyes storm-dark, ringed with shadows.

“But I know you.”

Somewhere beneath the Winter Soldier, beneath the programming and the pain, beneath the ghosts and triggers— James Buchanan Barnes was still in there.

The White Wolf

Wakanda

Age: 100

One day, after weeks of recalibration and silence, Shuri stepped back, hands on her hips, admiring her work.

“You’re stable,” she said. “No synaptic ghosts, no weapon pathways, no code interference.”

Bucky blinked his misty eyes back.

“You mean I’m… free?”

She nodded. “I mean you’re not theirs anymore.”

He sat with that. Let it settle.

Free.

They started calling him White Wolf long before he understood what it meant.

The children in the village had whispered it first, pointing at him as he walked through the fields , arm wrapped in a cloak, goats scattering underfoot.

“Wolf” they’d shout and giggle. “The Great White Wolf!"

At first, he thought it was just because of his arm. Or the way he stayed at the edge of things. Quiet. Watching. Out of place.

But Ayo later explained.

“In our ancient stories,” she said, handing him a bowl of soup one night, “the white wolf is the lone outsider who protects the pack. He does not belong, but he does not run. He watches. He waits. And when the time comes—he fights for them.”

The next morning, a small boy tugged on his rags as he passed by the hillside.

“White Wolf!” the boy called. “You coming to the village later?”

Bucky crouched beside him, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe,” he smiled at the boy. “Think they’ll save me some herb bread?”

“Only if you beat me in the race.”

Bucky chuckled. “You’re on.”

As the boy ran ahead, laughing in the sunlight, Bucky stood still for a moment—just watching.

There was no gun in his hand. No orders. No voices in his head.

Just wind. And warmth. And the quiet, steady beat of a man being reborn.

James “Bucky” Barnes

Brooklyn , New York

Age: 106

The notebook was old, but the names inside it were still sharp.

He carried it like a weight in his leather jacket pocket—close to his chest, closer to his conscience. Every name was a scar. Every one of them, someone he hurt. Someone he owed. Someone who deserved more than his silence.

So he showed up. One name at a time. One door at a time. One breath at a time.

Some yelled. Some cried. Some slammed the door before he could say the words. But he didn’t turn away. 

“James.”

He didn’t correct the name when people said it like that now.

It used to feel like a stranger’s coat—James. Formal. Cold. Distant.

But now? Now he let it land.

Because that was the name he was reclaiming. Not the weapon name. Not the HYDRA file. Not the mission code.

He sat on Dr. Raynor’s couch with his arms crossed, staring at the ugly painting behind her head. She always gave him the same look , eyebrows raised, pen ready.

“So?” she asked.

“I made progress.”

“Did you follow the three rules?”

He rolled his eyes. “I followed the rules Doc.”

“No hurting.”

“I didn’t.”

“No doing anything illegal.”

“Not technically.”

She frowned.

“And you said the words?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, already annoyed. “Yes. I said it.”

“Say it now.”

He clenched his jaw. Then, quietly:

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes. And you are part of my efforts to make amends.”

The words didn’t fit easily in his mouth yet. But they were real. And they were his.

Dr. Raynor nodded, scribbling something down on her notes. “Good. Progress.”

My Boyfriend

Delacroix, Louisiana

Age: 106

The grill sizzled to life. Jazzy music and trumpets played low from a speaker propped up on the porch, something with a lazy rhythm and a humming bass. The sun hung low over the bayou, dripping everything in amber glow. Laughter echoed from the back fence where Sam was losing dramatically at corn-hole to a bunch of kids. Sarah cheered louder than necessary with every throw.

Bucky stood near the drink cooler, a cold sweating beer in hand, sleeves rolled up, the buttons on his henley undone just enough to drive you slightly insane. He looked relaxed—almost beaming under the soft southern light. His hair was cropped and styled to perfection , and he had a streak of charcoal on one cheek from earlier when he tried to help Sam grill and absolutely failed. Turning it into a full married couple bickering moment.

You walked up beside him, barefoot in the tall grass, warm from the sun, iced lemonade , and heart so full. He smiled down at you like you were the only thing he saw.

“Good party,” he nodded , bumping his shoulder into yours.

“Better with you here.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to be smooth, but before he could say anything, one of your friends called your name from behind you.

Making you both turn around and grin.

“Hey! You made it!” You chirped loudly , arms opening wide for a hug.

Your friend, Camille, laughed with you and hugged you super tight. “Girl, this backyard looks like a movie…And who is this?”

You stepped aside, a proud little smile blooming on your lips, heat rising to your cheeks. “Camille, this is my boyfriend, Bucky.”

Bucky blinked, mid-sip of his beer. He gave a soft “Hey,” voice a little rough, nodding politely.

Camille winked at you behind his back before heading off toward the buffet table.

You turned back to Bucky seeing him lost in thought , just watching you. His eyes happy, but slightly amused.

You shifted nervously giggling a—

“What?”

He leaned in a bit , voice low next to your ear. “I’m your boyfriend?”

You froze, eyes wide. “Oh my gosh. Oh my…Bucky, I’m so sorry, it just slipped out, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or pressure you or label us if you weren’t…if we weren’t…if you don’t want—”

He kissed you.

Right there under the fading sun, with the scent of barbecue in the air voices floating all around and cicadas singing in the trees. He kissed you like it was the only way to shut you up and your sprial—and maybe it was.

His lips were so soft, so sure, and tasted a little like his beer and mint. His hand came up to your cheek, gentle but grounding you as it tangled in your hair deepening the moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours , chest heaving to catch his breath.

“I want to be,” he whispered quietly.

Your breath hitched.

You kissed him again, harder this time. Grinning into it. All teeth and joyful laughter.

He chuckled when you finally broke apart once more , that boyish sound that was becoming your favorite thing in the world.

“I’m your boyfriend,” he said, like he was trying the title on for size. And loving the taste of it *you* on his tongue.

You nodded, smirking. “My boyfriend.”

And Bucky Barnes—former soldier, former weapon, once called a ghost—just beamed.

Because now he had a new name. One he never thought he’d get.

Yours.

Congressman Barnes

Washington DC

Age: 110

The smell of garlic and onion filled yours and Bucky’s  kitchen, soft steam curling from the pot on the stove into the air. You stirred gently in circles, humming a little to yourself. The sleeves of Bucky’s old knit sweater rolled up past your elbows. There were flecks of flour on your cheek, your socked feet tapping against the kitchen tile to the rhythm of an old jazz record playing low from the speaker by the sink.

It was chilly outside—D.C. always held onto winter just a little too long—and homemade chicken noodle soup was Bucky’s favorite. Especially after long days in meetings, tangled in red tape, shaking too many hands and trying to keep his temper in check.

You had just ladled out two full bowls when the front door creaked open.

“Smells like heaven in here,” came his voice, rich and worn like velvet.

You turned around , smile already breaking across your face.

He stood in the doorway, suit jacket folded over one arm, blue tie loose around his neck, hair wind-tossed. There were tiny lines around his eyes—soft ones from smiling. You favorite smile in the whole world.

You stopped your motions and walked right up to him, arms sliding around his waist as he melted into your touch, forehead falling to yours.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi baby,” he echoed, but something shimmered behind his voice.

You pulled back just enough to study his expression , taking your thumb and smoothing the line in between his eyebrows. “What?”

He exhaled. A little shaky. Like he’d been holding it in,  the whole ride home.

“I’m doing it,” he said. “It’s official.”

You blinked. “Doing what?”

His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I’m running for Congress,” he said, a flicker of disbelief and pride in his voice. “The paperwork’s filed. I made the decision this morning.”

You didn’t even pause. The joy surged up like a wave, filling your chest and spilling into your eyes.

“Bucky,” you gasped, hands gripping his jacket. “You…oh my god, so …you’re Congressman Barnes?!”

He laughed, a little stunned at your reaction.

“You’re serious?” you asked, grinning so wide it almost hurt.

He nodded. “I want to do something that matters. Something that helps. I want to stand for something—for someone. I thought maybe it could be different this time. That I could be more than just… the guy with the past.”

You reached up, cradling his face between your palms.

“You already are,” you said, fiercely. “You are everything, James. You’ll be a damn good congressman. And I’m going to be the loudest one cheering.”

He looked at you like you were the whole world.

Then, slowly, he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss right into your palm.

Right where your hand held his cheek. Right where your engagement ring glinted in the warm kitchen light.

And then he whispered against your soft skin “I just…wanna make you proud.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you nodded, thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw.

“You already do…every damn day”

He kissed you then—slow and sure. No heat, no rush , just home. Just a promise. 

The soup on the stove simmered gently behind you, forgotten for a moment as he held you close.

When he pulled back, his voice was quiet but full of certainty.

“Congressman Barnes,” he said, feeling out the name.

You smiled through the tears, lips brushing his again.

“My Congressman Barnes.”

My Husband

Upstate New York

Age: 110

The wind in the autumn New York hills carried a warm hush through the trees, brushing across wildflowers and swaying soft grass like it was blessing the moment just for you two.

You stood at the top of a ridge, hand in hand with Bucky, beneath a little wooden arch someone set up that morning. The white linen tied at the corners fluttered gently in the breeze. No guests, no photographers, no fancy dress shoes or matching napkins—just you, Bucky, a justice of the peace who smiled quietly, and the hills rolling out below like the world had stopped to let you both breathe.

He looked unfairly handsome, his tie loosened already, sleeves rolled up like he didn’t have the patience to pretend he wasn’t a man of calloused palms and quiet strength. His thumb brushed your knuckles as the words were spoken, ancient words that still held weight: love, protect, honor, always.

When it was time for vows, Bucky swallowed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded , endearing slip of notebook paper.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he started, voice low, thick with something you felt so deep in your chest. “Not a quiet life. Not a soft place to land. But then you walked in. And from that first smile, I was done for.”

Your throat tightened as you let out a watery laugh.

“I don’t know what the world will throw at us, but I know this,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours. “I’ll choose you. Over and over. On the hard days, the tired days, the good ones too. You’re home. You’re my peace. And I choose us over it all.”

It was now your turn.

You had no paper. No script. Just a heart full of warmth and a mouth that never shut up when he looked at you.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you whispered, smiling even as your voice trembled, “you are the bravest, gentlest man I’ve ever known. And you…make me feel safe in ways I didn’t think were real or possible. I’m yours. Completely. Now, always. And I choose us , you , over it all.”

The justice of the peace continued then pronounced it—sealed with a kiss that felt like a wax seal of a promise more than anything else.

As you pulled back, breathless, laughing through your tears, you cradled his face and whispered, “My husband.”

Bucky’s smile bloomed slow and wide, soft and stunned.

But he leaned into it.

“Say it again,” he murmured, hands on your waist, grounding himself in the moment, in you.

“Husband,” you said louder, with a teasing grin.

He kissed your temple , then your cheek, then your lips again, arms wrapping around you fully as the wind danced past.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he grinned against your hair.

“I’ve been stuck since the first time you smiled at me.”

You spent the evening barefoot, drinking sparkling cider out of glass bottles, dancing under string lights hooked between two trees, and kissing him every time he looked at you like he couldn’t believe this life was his ,  just to remind him it was.

That night, curled in the little cabin bed, you rolled over and tangled your fingers through his and whispered once more before falling asleep:

“Goodnight, husband.”

He kissed your knuckles , hiking a leg over your tangled ones and whispered back, “Goodnight, my wife.”

Dad

Upstate New York

Age: 112

It was one of those rare slow Sundays—the kind where the world felt far away and the only thing that mattered lived within the quiet walls of your little home. 

Rain tapped and pelted softly at the windows, the sky painted in shades of gray and shimmering silver. You were all swaddled up on the couch, the three of you tangled together under a chunky knitted blanket.

Bucky lay stretched out, legs up on the coffee table, you curled into his side with your head on his shoulder, and nestled snugly on his chest was your daughter.

Your baby girl. Eight months old, all squishy fat rolls and soft downey brown hair and those sleepy little noises and babbles that cracked you both wide open. 

She had one hand tucked in her mouth, the other gripping the collar of her daddy’s henley with fierce determination.

Bucky’s metal arm cradled behind her for support while his other hand was gently poking her cheeks, nose, tummy—each movement followed by a silly sound or a few raspberries blown against her soft skin.

“You love when Daddy does this, huh?” he cooed, placing a loud raspberry right on her pinked cheek, making her squeal and kick up at him. 

You grinned impossibly big , lifting your phone to snap a photo but pausing halfway through. Because her little legs were wiggling. Her mouth opened. Her hands slapped at his shirt like she was trying to grab him closer.

And then it happened.

“D-Da..da,” 

Soft. Breathless. But clear as day.

You froze mid photo taken.

Bucky did too, eyes wide, head whipping to your gaze , as if he thought he might’ve imagined it.

“Did…did she just—” His voice cracked halfway through the question.

“Say it again, baby,” you whispered, leaning forward to your girl , heart pounding.

Your daughter blinked up at Bucky, her face pure sunshine, and smacked her hand on his chest.

“Dada!”

It was a giggle-wrapped declaration, her blue eyes crinkling as she reached up toward his face.

Bucky’s mouth dropped open.

Then, without a single word, he scooped her up gently, cradling her against his chest and pressing his lips to the top of her head. You saw the tears glass his eyes instantly. No hesitation, no shame. His shoulders shook as he laughed through the sobs.

“You said my name,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent, it was the most precious thing he'd ever heard. “You called me Dada.”

You slid closer, wrapping your arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “She knows exactly who her daddy is.”

He looked at you, eyes wet and shining, then back down to his daughter who was now trying to stuff his dog tags in her mouth.

You rested your hand over his heart, where her little palm had just been.

“Say it again for Daddy, baby,” you whispered to her with a grin.

“Dada! Da..da! Da! ,” she repeated , louder this time catching on more and more. Then immediately erupted in baby giggles when Bucky kissed all over her cheeks in celebration.

Grandpa

Brooklyn , New York

Age: Too Old

The hospital hallway was quiet, save for the soft squeak of your shoes and the distant shuffle of nurses changing shifts. Everything smelled like sterile wipes and warmed formula. The kind of scent that made your heart race—but in the absolute best way possible.

You and Bucky walked hand in hand, slowly, reverently, down the corridor toward the nursery, your footsteps barely making a sound on the gleaming linoleum floor. His grip tightened in yours ever so slightly.

You glanced up at him—his chest rising with shallow breaths, the silver in his hair glowing under the fluorescent lights, those glacier-blue eyes glassy and wide. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. You felt the storm in him—thunderous and quiet all at once.

When you turned the corner and peered through the window of the nursery, he stopped short.

Inside, a nurse was gently swaddling the smallest baby in the room. A tiny pink face, round and new, let out a content sigh. The name on the little clear bassinet card hadn't been filled in yet.

You leaned into him, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. Knowing.

When you made your way to Rebecca’s hospital room, she looked up instantly, blue eyes already shining. Her long brown hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and her cheeks were tinted rose with exhaustion and awe.

She had that glow—the one Bucky always used to say you had when you held your daughter for the first time.

“Mom. Dad,” she greeted, voice breaking as she opened her arms.

You entered slowly, both of you already crying before a single word more was said. She was safe. She was okay.

“Hey babydoll,” Bucky managed, voice thick as he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. “How’re you feeling honey?”

“Tired. But so full,” she laughed, eyes blinking back more tears. “They were checking him in the nursery just now… but he’s perfect, Dad. He’s so perfect.”

Bucky opened his mouth but as if on cue, the nurse entered gently, carrying the precious bundle in her arms with a warm smile. “Ready for him mama?” she asked smiling at your daughter.

Rebecca nodded and looked right at Bucky.

“You ready to meet him, Grandpa?” she teased, softly.

The name—Grandpa—landed like a miracle on his chest.

Bucky froze. His lips parted slightly, the breath stuttering out of him. He looked at you, eyes wide, like he needed you to ground him to the moment. And you did—reaching out to place a steady hand over his heart.

He stepped forward slowly, as if any sudden movement might break the spell. The nurse placed the baby in his arms with practiced ease, but to Bucky, it felt like cradling the whole damn universe.

The world stood still.

He stared down at the baby boy—dark feathered hair, wrinkled brow, little fists curled near his cheeks. A soft sigh puffed from his pink lips, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

“What’s his name?” he asked, voice cracking eyes not leaving the baby.

Rebecca bit her lip, smiling through the tears as she glanced at you knowing what was about to come. “James. James Samuel Barnes.”

Bucky broke. Tears slipped freely down his face, his shoulders hitching as he looked between you and the baby. You stepped beside him, slipping an arm around his back as he whispered the name back like a prayer.

“James,” he repeated.

You nodded, your own tears streaking your cheeks. “He’s yours,” you said softly.

The baby stirred, just barely, and Bucky leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Hi little man,” he murmured impossibly soft and hushed. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you buddy.”

Rebecca wiped at her face, watching her father—her hero, holding his grandson like he was holding a second chance.

“I think he already loves you,” she said quietly reaching for a tissue dabbing at her red eyes.

Bucky chuckled through a sob, eyes never leaving the baby. “God, I hope so. I’ve never… I’ve never loved anything so fast.”

The breath that caught, the tears that welled. Bucky leaned down slowly , his metal fingers brushing so carefully over the baby’s chest.

“Hi,” his voice cracked so bad it was barely a sound. “Hi James.”

You sat beside him, resting your head on his shoulder looking at your daughter who was full on sobbing now. 

Bucky looked at you with his wet blue eyes and a trembling lipped smile.

“I never thought I’d get this far,” he whispered.

“You did,” you murmured back. “You made it.”

In his arms, baby James shifted softly, tiny mouth opening into a yawn as his little hand curled against his Grandpa's warm and safe chest.

And in that moment, with his wife , daughter and grandson--he was not the boy with scraped knuckles , not the soldier , not the machine , not the ghost but , James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. He finally understood what it meant to be whole. To have life.

He finally knew his name and what he was meant for.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[miffyscakes]

Dating Jinx Headcanons

SYNOPSIS: Just some headcanons if you were dating Jinx

WARNINGS: none, just fluff and very light angst if you squint

A/N: My cat was stepping on my keyboard and mouse while I wrote this smh

❤︎ She'd call you names like trinket, dollface, beautiful, doll, sparkplug, and stupid (endearingly, and you know that)

❤︎ Speaking of nicknames, she’ll use the most stupidest and cheesiest ones on you as a joke.

Her personal favourite stupid nicknames are schookums, munchkin, cupcake (to make fun of Caitlyn and Vi), and boo boo.

❤︎ Whenever she writes her name on her newest gadgets that she just created, she’ll write yours so it’s right next to hers.

❤︎ The first time she experienced hallucinations around you she was scared that you’d be afraid of her afterwards; of course this wasn’t the case and you stayed.

❤︎ She’s extremely protective of you as she’s afraid that she’ll lose you. If you’re gone from her sight for too long she’ll start to panic and freak out.

❤︎ She’s not a fan of PDA. She thinks it’s weird and that things like that are meant to be shared privately.

However, her ideas of PDA do vary as she isn’t very used to affection in general. To her, PDA can even count just talking to you or calling you a simple nickname.

❤︎ It took her a long time to say “I love you.”

She hadn’t grown up being used to saying that or being told it. Usually love was shown in a variety of ways as she grew up; so the idea of saying it verbally really shook her up.

❤︎ She lets you add stupid doodles to her gadgets.

You know how much her gadgets mean to her so when she first did this it came as such a shock to you.

❤︎ Her love language is a mix of both Acts of Service and Quality Time.

She’s never been the type of girl who really appreciated physical touch or words of affirmation either; and she’s not really well versed when it comes to gift giving.

While she does appreciate sticking really close to you and clinging onto you, that’s because she’s scared she she’ll lose you - it’s not how she shows her love.

❤︎ When you two fight, it can get very explosive - not literally though.

She tends to get very violent with her words and very aggressive, but she’ll hold back if she ever feels urged to physically hurt you.

However, she does struggle to apologize quite often.

❤︎ Surprisingly, she’s very gentle towards you - even if often she can get aggressive with her strong emotions.

Now of course, you’re the only one who sees this gentler side of her.

❤︎ If you have exes - and they’ve done something incredibly terrible to you - she’ll go out of her way to terrorize them.

You never are told about these incidents though.

You just notice how they disappear and are never seen again.

However, if they haven’t done anything to you, she’ll simply leave them alone. Only providing them with glares if she ever spots them on the streets of Zaun.

❤︎ Not really a dating headcanon, but she loves cats.

Mainly because they can be as unhinged and as weird as she is.

These are rlly random but i have a lot of fun w headcanons

taglist: @freakyjorker @poeticrenaissance

[star-bitten]

through the weather, with the tide

How easy it is, to forget that you are not alone.

relationships — all ghouls & gn! mc! reader (no explicit romance)

contains — hurt/comfort, depression. no gendered pronouns. written with mc struggling with the effects of the kyklos curse in mind but can technically be read as a reader grappling with depression & ptsd in general

wc — 1.8k

The days pass slowly.

You wake up. Get changed. Don't look at yourself in the mirror. You close the cathedral door behind you, body on autopilot, squeezing your eyes shut at the burn of sunlight that greets you once you step outside. Your hands itch beneath your gloves.

You set your things down quietly once you reach the classroom, pretending not to notice the glances Luca and Kaito exchange on either side. Lessons are a blur of inaudible voices and blank papers and things you ought to know but don't. You contact your professors with clipped requests for extensions. Some of them take pity, knowing your situation. You thank them for their understanding and agree to new deadlines you know you won't meet.

A week after, Professor Hyde calls you in.

You didn't hear it from me, but a lot of people are pretty worried about you. He leans forward, something secret tucked into the corner of his smile. Hodge and Podge type away to your right. You remember your first visit to Darkwick all those months ago, when you thought you'd still be going home.

I'm fine, you reply. Just had a lot of stuff going on lately.

He hums. You have, haven't you? Inspector gig and all. You nod, hair falling over your eyes. Mm. And it adds up, doesn't it? Takes quite the toll. We're here to help.

(Help. Bullshit if you ever heard it.)

You blink once, the room swimming in your peripherals.

I'm fine, you repeat. The Sage Ring sears into your finger; the knot of your tie is pressing up against your throat. I don't have anything else to say. You stand up. Sorry. I have somewhere to be, if you don't mind.

You're making your way to the exit without a second glance. The air feels foreign. Your blood is thundering and so, so still.

(Hyde watches you leave, the line of his mouth tinged solemn.

"Needs some time, huh?" He murmurs. Hodge and Podge type faster. "That's alright.")

By the time you make it back to the cathedral, every face you passed a smear in your memory, you are wondering if it was always so hard to breathe. You stumble to your bed, pull the covers overhead until the world is shut out, and you are your only witness. You're just tired, you tell yourself. You just need to sleep it off. You are fine. You are fine. You are fine.

You squeeze your eyes shut, ignoring the prick of tears threatening to fall, and drift into darkness.

The world moves on.

You're asked if you'd briefly like to take a step away from your inspector duties. You decline before the sentence is finished and hate yourself for it. You shunt reports between houses, staying as little as possible, offering the ghouls tight smiles that never reach your eyes and ducking away when their faces flash with confusion. Internally, you thank the lack of missions. You wait for the sun to set day in and day out so you can curl up on your mattress and pretend that there is nothing outside until your alarm beeps again. Everything blurs together.

But some things change.

Jin calls you up one afternoon. He sits you down on the balcony, hands brushing your shoulders with a muted sort of gentleness before he retreats back in and the soft tune of a sonata fills the crisp air. Tohma leaves a package at your door - an assortment of tea bags, complete with a fluffy, neatly folded blanket. Kaito slips you a handwritten note lined with cartoonish doodles mid-class. I know you're going through a lot right now. We're always here if you ever need anything! Below it in Luca's neat script is a you will always be important to us. Please take all the time you need. I believe in you.

Alan hesitantly offers you a can of coffee when you go up to Vagastrom for his signature. Once you take it, he quietly asks if you want to go for a drive. You decline; he nods, and his hand lingers on your head for a fraction longer than usual. The next day, you find Sho at your door with a stack of meals in his arms. I'll be back in a week, but call me whenever. I don't care what time it is, he says as he tucks them into the freezer and affixes a note of preparation reminders to your fridge with a basketball magnet. Not long after comes Leo, who sets a basket stuffed to the brim with items - blankets, fidget toys, more hygiene supplies than you can count, fuzzy socks, snacks, a teddy bear - in front of you before taking his leave. There's a note when you look down: get well soon, small and elegant.

Haru comes over with Peekaboo in tow. The anomalous bunny snuggles up to your chin, cooing softly as he rubs the back of his head. Cuddle up to him for as long as you need! He loves being with you. His smile softens. We'll be back. Just hang in there, 'kay? Towa slips you flowers every morning: daisies, lilies, peonies. Remember to look at the stars, dandelion. I'll be looking at them, too. Ren shows up with an armful of snacks and DVDs. If you want me to go, I'll go. But if you want someone just to sit with, or watch crappy movies with… I guess that's good, too.

You forget your gloves once while dropping off a report at Sinostra. Taiga holds your wrist up, remarking about how you, "decided to match, huh?" through his signature toothy grin as his fingers wind into your own. Romeo stuffs a gilded basket of supplies into your hands once you're readying yourself to leave. I doubt you know how to properly use any of this, so I'm offering you my time. Contact me. I'll be there. Ritsu begins drawing up your business contract, very clearly enunciating the part where your health and wellbeing are equal priority to his, and that if there is any service to be provided, he will endeavour to do so at your earliest convenience.

Subaru's eyes are glossy when he greets you, hands folded over his front. I brought some tea, he says, smiling gently, if painfully. If you'll have me, I'd be happy to prepare some while you rest. He asks if you'd be okay with Zenji visiting later that evening. You nod, and as the moon is cutting through the clouds your ears are filled by the strum of a biwa and a voice that calls you my dear and makes something old and raw swell up in your chest. Haku smells like the rain when he invites you out for a short walk, if you're up to it. It's close to home, and no one else'll be there. You soon realise that you'd forgotten what the fresh air feels like. If he notices the sheen over your eyes, he doesn't mention it; he just stays.

Rui brings a small gift store with him, accompanied by a vase of anomalous plants and a grin worthy of the heavens. Always thinking of you, cutie. He smiles something soft but fierce, tapping the nose of a bright balloon animal against your own. You'll get through this. I'm sorry it took us so long. The look in his eyes is heartbreaking, but you know that if there was ever anyone who could understand, it's him. Lyca rubs the back of his head as he grumbles out an invitation to sit outside with you in the grass, letting the breeze wash over you as he talks. At the end of it all, he passes you a folded sketch that makes the knots inside you unravel slightly - if only for a moment. You don't expect to see Ed, but the flapping of bat wings at your window one night says otherwise. You shake your head at him. He complies, but you wake up to a short note slid underneath your door the next morning. Do get well soon, my dearest.

Jiro's checkups have been clinical as ever, and in some ways, you've been glad for it. There is nothing that says you have to smile with him, nothing that says you have to pretend. At the end of his next visit, he straightens. It's our belief that you will recover, he says quietly. Something inscrutable flickers in his eyes. I suppose it would not be incorrect to say it is our hope as well, though. Yuri crosses his arms when you make one of your mandatory visits to the lab, the corridors suspiciously deserted. Of course I directed them elsewhere, he huffs. Exposure to crowds is against our recommendations for your treatment plan. You are in my care, after all; as if I would let anything happen to you.

It isn't a cure-all. Sometimes, you think that inside you is a hollow - an eternal reminder that you have nothing to give, anymore. Sometimes it is a weight that drags you to the floor like lead. Sometimes it hisses, snapping teeth and ash-stained hands, smelling of blood and rot as the sickly scent of citrus clouds your perception. You clutch the sides of your head as the memories flicker in and out of the storm - claws digging into your shoulder, an eye peeling open, talons swiping over your face-

No.

You breathe in. Out.

Your vision is blurry when you open your eyes. In your peripherals, you can see pieces of remembrance scattered around your room. The pawprint on your window left by one of the messenger cats; the plushie Leo gifted you, sitting by your pillow with Rui's balloon dog; the notes all your friends had penned scattered across your desk. You remember: there are good people out there, good things you have left to see. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you do not always recognise your face - but one way or another, the people you love do. So maybe one day, you will instead recall Haku's touch as he guided you aboard the Galaxy Express, and the sunset flash of Luca's amethyst hues when he swept the veil up for the very first time, and the brush of Kaito's hand against your face when he pointed out the whipped cream on your cheek at the crepe stand in the city.

It all feels so far away, now. So seemingly insurmountable. Still, you think-

One day. There are tears brimming in your eyes. You blink them back.

One day.

thank you for reading!

i love our mc and this was very largely inspired by my own experiences with depression; despite this blog's track record lmao i do love some nice hurt/comfort. obviously there is still a ways to go in terms of a healing narrative but we're getting there :)

take care of yourself!

[maleyanderecafe]

Clinical Trial (RPG Maker)

Created by: homie

Genre: Horror

Clinical Trial is one of those games where it's slowburn and I nearly wasn't sure there was a yandere in it, but it does grand slam near the end and it's great. The story follows Angel and Lee's relationship starting out with Angel becoming a subject of a clinical trial that Lee's company works on. There's only two endings, but is a complete game.

Angel I'll refer to as either she or they since I believe while another character refers to her as she it is implied that she doesn't always feel this way, so just for the sake of it, I'll use both (or I guess Angel is non binary, but I don't know what their preferred pronouns are). It doesn't really affect much in ways of a plot though, it's just a clarification thing. Before this possibly becomes a hotly debated topic, I will note that as far as I'm aware the creator has done a pretty good job with not explicitly stating any pronouns both on the itchio page and also on their twitter page for Angel, though of course I could be wrong in this factor.

The story starts out with Angel going into the waiting room of a clinic to apply for a research study. After looking around, Angel rings the bell to meet Lee, the person in charge of working on this trial in this clinic. Lee asks for the flier she has for the information on the back. We see that the front is asking for patients that have ADHD to help with developing a new medication that seems to be covered in doodles. The back is completely unfilled out as Angel didn't even realize it had a back until now. Lee asks for their insurance card (which is all burnt up on the edges) and tells them to fill out the information at the back. Lee then asks Angel some questions like height, weight and confirming information that Angel wrote down. He also asks questions regarding her ADHD, with Angel stating that she was in the middle of getting it diagnosed before her insurance card was taken a way from them, as well as some other symptoms relating to their ADHD such as lack of focus, messiness and other things. Lee also asks how they are with needles which Angel didn't read on the flier, with them stating that they often take part in these trials a lot for the money, though they do eventually answer that they are okay with them (though are not the most fond of it stating its not much worse than them working in food service). Lee clarifies what the trial is for, helping to test medications for a future ADHD med type, with the goal being that they will less frequently have to take medication, with Angel replying that a week of taking medication and a every day of medication are the same problem for those with ADHD since they often have trouble remembering to take it in the first place. Lee agrees with Angel, stating that the test is to help eventually put in a implant of sorts, but have to go through a week's trial for it to actually go through. After all this, Lee invites Angel to come to the back to start the trial.

Lee starts the trial, telling Angel to take off her jacket and going through regular check up procedures like taking temperature, checking pulse, blood pressure with Angel taking the time to quip a little at each of his readings. Lee tells Angel that he will take some blood after each week before the medical injection (so not this week) to see if there's any changes, as well as ask her questions relating to how she feels and if any of the previous symptoms of ADHD have changed as well. Lee gives Angel the shot with her being able to go back to work afterwards. Before they leave, Lee tries to schedule a next time, but with Angel's work schedule they find it hard to keep it consistent. At night we see Angel looking on their phone, seeing her posts of art and comments as well as her texts from her boss, and we see how inconsistent her manager is with her schedule before she heads off to sleep.

Angel returns the next week to and throws out some gum in the trashcan upon getting there. Again, upon ringing the bell, Lee comes out to greet them and ask about their changes in behavior. The two talk about neurons with Lee trying to explain it with a metaphor, and the injection starts again. The two engage in some small talk as the procedure goes along, with Angel talking about how they used to donate plasma for a bit until they started passing out at work. After this, Angel leaves to go home.

The next week, Angel arrives with a nosebleed and meets with another girl who is looking at the fish tank. Unlike Angel, she is very cheery and energetic, and offers Angel a tissue to wipe their nose. This girl notices that Angel used to go to a college called Aker, with her talking about how she goes to the beauty school extension down the street, talking about how she wants to be a special effects artist for horror movies. She ends up leaving soon after a text, before ringing the bell. Upon going in, Lee issues a questionnaire talking about things such as her anxiety level, troubles focusing and general mood, though Angel tells Lee that the questions suck, to which he agrees. The two continue the procedure. Before Angel gets injected, she notes that the color in the syringe looks different and is a bit concerned about that. Lee explains that the pharmaceutical company likely changed vial manufacturers and because the temperature of the product is slightly different, the color changed as well. He also mentions that he is a bit frustrated because he's had to explain this to many of the subjects, though Angel finds it funny as she cannot tell. After finishing, Angel opens up about their job, stating that because a lot of the workers are college students, the management tends to give preference to their schedules, leading to Angel being pushed around to wildly different hours depending on their availability, even mentioning that one of them is a creep. Lee sympathizes with her situation stating that he prefers a more rigid schedule, even showing her a scribble of his schedule he has on a notepad. At home, we see that Angel is still drawing, though her texts say that her mom and her don't have the best relationship and seems to be taking it out on her siblings.

This time when Angel comes into the clinic, Lee is already out working on the reception desk and asks them to wait for him to finish. Angel can then interact with various things to have some interaction with Lee. The two most important interactions are with the paintings and the shrimp inside of the fish tank. For the paintings in the waiting room, Angel seems to not only recognize and know the paintings but also the history on how it was made, something that she explains to Lee in great detail. Upon inspecting the shrimp, Lee will ask Angel if she wants to hear about them, to which Angel seems interested. Lee then goes into detail about the shrimp, their origins and how he takes care of them, even stating he had to get rid of some of the other sea creatures in there as they wouldn't get along with the shrimp. The two talk about how they want to have a pet, but because they spend so much time working, they are unable to. Angel mentions that their roommate has a cat but if the roommates or her leave, she won't be able to take said cat. There are other smaller things like looking into the trash, finding things that aren't updated, the things on the desk which Lee will respond to as well. After a bit of chatting, the two continue the procedure. At the end, Lee will give Angel some bandages that she requested before and he even tells her to drink water especially if she feels faint after having her blood drawn. After the injection, Angel will ask about the other people, and although Lee isn't supposed to tell them, he admits that more than half of the participants have stopped coming to the appointment date. Angel isn't surprised given that those with ADHD often have difficulty keeping schedules, even giving suggestions like giving reminders, or using more of a reward system where halfway they get half the money and the end has the rest before they end up leaving.

Next week comes by and Angel meets with the energetic girl again. She introduces herself as Adri and we learn she's a regular patient for this clinic. After joshing about the way Lee acts, Adri leaves when receiving a text from her boyfriend. Lee peeks out soon after to give Angel their general questions, and we see that so far her week is doing much better, with her coworkers wanting to hang out after as well. After getting the shot though, they feel so dizzy that Lee tries to stop them but they end up leaving in this state regardless.

The next week, Angel comes to place feeling pretty irritable and paranoid. She ends up ringing the bell multiple times and gets frustrated when Lee won't come out. While looking at the clock, they notice the camera in the corner, and feels as if this entire place is watching them. Lee comes out to ease her worries, though its clear that Angel is feeling very irritable. While she's getting her shot, the entire screen is blurry as if she's not registering what's going on. Angel gets incredibly paranoid and sensitive towards the pain, feeling as if she's not in control of her body, likely dissociating until Lee calls out to them. Angel leaves quickly afterwards while leaving their jacket behind.

The next week, Angel comes in to Lee taking care of the tank. Angel seems like they want to get the shot over with as much as possible, not really sparing any small talk with Lee. After the shot, she tries to leave as soon as possible, but Lee asks her to go out onto the roof with him to talk. Angel notes that she lost her favorite jacket and probably left it on the bus though Lee offers his. Angel starts to open up out their life, stating that their roommates are driving them crazy, their work is making them miserable and there are tons of bills to pay. Angel also opens up about their family, stating that her mom doesn't want to talk to them anymore and that their siblings have to deal with the brunt of the mom's frustration on Angel. Lee comments that he too is living on his own for the first time, with Angel feeling jealous that Lee is able to go so far. They mention that they need help but aren't close enough to anyone to receive it as they are severely struggling in their life right now. Lee tries to encourage Angel, stating that their coworkers invited them to a party, but Angel grows quiet. Angel reveals that one of her coworkers and her had a one night stand, though she seemed to really be afraid to do so. Ever since, he's been avoiding her at work, and Angel speaks about how alone they feel watching him hang out with others. Angel decides to confront him about how she felt hurt that he ignored her at work, and that they felt used by him. He states its a misunderstanding and starts groping Angel again, and although they tried to push him away, eventually just let it happen again. Angel starts crying afterwards, with Lee asking them if they've called the police. If Angel goes into it, they'll reply that they did but the police did nothing, causing her to feel frustrated at herself for feeling so useless. Lee suggests getting away from the man, with Angel getting angry and feeling its unfair for them to quit just because of what he did. Lee suggests again to take a break with Angel retorting back that they have to pay rent next week as they have no more money. Angry, they leave and stay at home for the day, with Lee later texting them to apologize and to lend out a hand, but Angel ignores him.

During the last week, we see Lee working in the office, cleaning out the tank, working on papers and waiting for Angel to come. A couple days later, Angel ends up coming, with Lee coming to greet her once more. Lee apologizes for texting them, with Angel also apologizing for running away. Angel seems to have come back for the cash as she needs it to pay rent despite failing the last requirement. Despite this, Lee still gives them the cash and still proceeds with the trial. After this, Lee ends up revealing to Angel that the two were in the control group, meaning that Angel never received any of the test medication. Lee got concerned after Angel left and tasted the medication, telling her that the medicine has a bitter taste, and wanted to make sure it wasn't part of what was causing the distress. Angel feels dumb after all this, then commenting on the system and how flawed it is, with Lee agreeing. Before Angel leaves, Lee stops them, telling them to come to his place just so they don't have to be in the same place as the other guy, even offering to give them money if they need it. Angel agrees and Lee drives the two to his place.

In the truck, Lee and Angel talk about each other, mostly Lee talking about himself. He is a Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner and that he wanted to be an orthopedic surgeon to make money and make his mother proud. While he was a "gifted" student in school, in college he suffered as he couldn't maintain a schedule while doing so. Since his time was closing in quickly, he ended up getting a Master's in Nursing. He remarks that the work he's doing is a lot of grunt work. Angel remarks that he's talking too little about himself and talks about their college, only getting in because they had a good portfolio, and was pushed by their mom to go despite not wanting too before eventually dropping out. Lee talks about ADHD and how unfair it is for them to have to live life in a world that doesn't accommodate them. Upon this, the two end up at Lee's place.

Upon heading to Lee's place, Angel gets some sleeping clothes from Lee. Afterwards the two end up watching an animal documentary together before Angel goes to sleep on the couch. Angel wakes up in the afternoon to Lee bringing back groceries as well as a charger for Angel. Angel ends up making breakfast for the both of them. While chatting about how normally he eats the same foods but is happy that Angel made something for him. Angel realizes that their phone wasn't getting any bars and that there's very little internet, though realizes it's likely because they're in the middle of nowhere. Angel offers to look at the modem, though isn't able to figure out what's wrong. Afterwards, Angel asks to look upstairs, but is warned by Lee that there's a taxidermy up there. Angel goes to check anyways, finding a creepy hallway where the taxidermy is. The taxidermy is of a Jenny Haniver, or the carcass of a ray, and Lee talks about where he first saw one of these. When he first saw it in a museum, he was terrified of it to the point of not wanting to even go near it, with the day worsening where his mother tried to overdose on painkillers and even blaming him for it. He keeps it in his house despite feeling scared for exposure therapy. Soon after, Angel looks at Lee's room and bathroom connected to it. Angel finds some paper and color pencils in the drawer, and asks Lee if they can use it to doodle, and the two end up doodling together and having a meaningful conversation before showing each other their drawings afterwards. Lee then asks Angel to stay for another night to which they agree. In the middle of the night, Angel goes to Lee's room to sleep in the same bed as him. The next day, Angel wakes up and makes breakfast for Lee before going outside to the yard for some fresh air. The two go out to look at microscopic creatures inside of the pond (well more of the puddle) in the yard, with Lee talking about each one of them as the two hang out. Afterwards, Angel takes a bath and later can invite Lee in to sit with them in the bathtub. The two enjoy their time together as they hang out, eat dinner and sleep in the same room together. Eventually though, Angel needs to go back to work, worried that her part time job might have fired her for being absent for so many days and having to look for a job as well as missing their roommate's cat. Lee continues to ask Angel to stay at his place for a while, at least until his truck gets fixed. While Lee is out, Angel tries to figure out how to get wi-fi in the house, deciding to check the router again. Upon closer inspection, Angel realizes that the router is more of a modem and decides to look throughout the house to find the actual router. After going back upstairs into Lee's room and looking around, they discover a sort of switch in the back of one of the walls. Once switched on, Angel discovers a shrine hidden in the shelf of the walls, with things such as their missing jacket, pictures of them, and even a doll. Lee comes back looking completely panicked that Angel has found his shrine. With this, Angel can either respond positively or poorly.

If Angel responds poorly, they will talk calmly to Lee about how strange this is and that he shouldn't do it. It's very blunt, stating that he shouldn't treat them like this, and you can feel how disappointed Angel feels, before wondering why they always seem to attract people like him, and feeling that their trust has been betrayed. Angel then tries to leave by walking home, though Lee stops them, promising to drive them back and taking back their jacket. If this choice is taken, then it will lock Angel in the next choice.

Otherwise, if Angel reponds well, they'll first talk about how they feel Lee is very lonely, yet Angel responds again very calmly and realizes that deep inside, Lee just wants to know more about her. Lee even talks about the doll, and how when he was younger his mom would give them dolls of each other to treat nicely, which is why Lee made one for Angel after hearing what they went through. They feel impressed that he has paid so much attention to them and feel worried that they aren't enough for him, yet Lee sees to feel otherwise, seeing a future with Angel.

Either way, Lee will run off to wash Angel's jacket and Angel will look for the router, checking the closet first. In the closet, Angel will find the router turned off, and upon turning it back on, their phone gets signal. After she looks though her messages, she realizes that nobody, not her work, not their family, not their friends had messaged them, not even realizing that they had suddenly disappeared. There, they find that there's a staircase down there to a basement. Following it down there, Angel ends up seeing the body of Brandon, the coworker who assaulted them earlier that week. Lee comes in soon after. He explains that even since a child he wanted to die, and he decided to buy the house on cheap as the previous owner had died falling into the basement. He wanted to have a similar fate, dying out in the middle of nowhere. After Lee met Angel, he sincerely wanted to live and after hearing about what happened to them, he decided that Brandon was the one who would die here. Lee ends up piecing together the right person through a combination of stalking and puzzling it together, before eventually kidnapping Brandon and bringing him to the basement of the house. Through interrogation, it seems Brandon has assaulted multiple people including Angel (whom they never told about their new name, as their dead name was Angela). Lee then uses the drill to his spinal cord and Brandon dies after struggling to get out. Lee did this on Thursday after Angel didn't show up. Lee starts to list off details about Angel based on his observations including their gender, their work and their general life, with Angel feeling more and more saddened with every detail, and Lee tells them that they can get away with this if he gets their help.

If Angel decides to reject (and or has rejected beforehand, which will force Angel to reject him), they will tell him that she will not comply with helping him. Lee accepts this gracefully, standing in the corner before drilling himself in the head and killing himself. Angel will then leave the house, wondering how they'll be able to get away from the police investigations considering that they were in the house too with Lee before deciding that it will all work out somehow.

If Angel decides to accept it, Angel will ask Lee about the details on how to get rid of the evidence, which Lee talks about in detail, including burying him in the basement, redoing the floor and then eventually selling the house. Angel ponders about this, exposing the irony of what he did with what Brandon did though justifying that Brandon would probably continue doing pretty horrible things if he had lived. Angel agrees to helping Lee so as long as Lee isn't hiding anything from them, which Lee confirms. The two cover up the body and eventually end up living together. In the extras, we even see the process of Lee and Angel hiding the body and even their lives living together.

I'm not sure where to start with this game because it's a really good game. The information on mental health in medical field seems to be well researched and informed, and although neither character are diagnosed, we really do see the troubles and tribulations of someone with adhd and (possibly) someone with autism, yet still seeing them come together and grow in their relationship. The dynamic between Angel and Lee is really natural to watch, seeing them fall for and care for each other in many ways. The sprite work is amazing in that it specializes in more nuanced actions, such as many sprites for Angel fidgeting around and the small changes in expressions really give a lot of depth to each of the characters shown and the story progresses in a pretty natural way in terms of seeing their relationship grow and even the outcome of the story at the end. Generally the only gripe I have about it gameplay wise is that some sections are really hard to click and view things when you're looking around as Angel, which seeing how the game is structured is likely intentional but it is really irritating trying to click places and having the character not be able to do what you want them to do.

Angel as a character is pretty relatable to me and to other friends I have in terms of the lack of focus in their life because of their ADHD. A lot of behaviors are pretty accurate as someone who (likely) has it and a lot of the issues such as working terrible hours are something that I've seen a lot of my other friends with ADHD struggle with as well. Normally, I'm not too big of a fan of MCs that are more cynical, but in this case I can completely see why Angel often acts this way. Having to work very difficult hours, being rejected by family, all while having to do various clinical trials just to sustain themselves and their rent, all while having nobody really to call as a friend. Even so, Angel still has moments of joy I feel, obviously with Lee but in smaller things too like being able to hang out with coworkers and drawing. As I said, the dialogue feels very natural to them, the two being able to talk back and forth comfortably. I was surprised at how calm Angel is at the endings, not really reacting greatly when Lee kills himself and even in other scenarios like deciding to hide the body. I think it might be mostly because of the way that the poses are done, mostly very nuanced poses (with the exception of a few, like when Angel was talking about their encounter with Brandon), that make it feel rather muted. However, the way that Angel reacts to everything is often very flat, and they speak very clearly about their feelings on what they feel is appropriate versus something the enjoy, which is what I like about them as a protagonist.

Lee as a character and as a yandere feels very full as well. He's in a better but still not as great situation as Angel, with his job being not even remotely close to what he wanted. He had a pretty bad past with his mom being rather manipulative and in the end reveals that he doesn't really seem to have a reason to live, at least before he meets Angel. He is mostly pretty technical, with him able to listen and understand Angel when they ramble on various things and when Lee does the same thing back. Its pretty cute when he pauses about when he's thinking about what to say in reaction to Angel, and we also do see that he is extremely considerate towards them, especially as he develops a crush on them. I think a lot of people would say that Lee's sudden turn into yandere is pretty sudden, though there are some clues that foreshadow otherwise, specifically because of the jacket that Angel leaves behind never being returned, as well as everything else we see at the end of the story. Lee as a yandere is more of a protective and stalker like one as seen by him killing Brandon and his shrine, though it also comes in the form of committing suicide if Angel rejects him. I think part of the stalking tendency specifically might come from his (likely) autistic thinking, as I believe there are actual accounts of doing things similar (though it's less of collecting and more of strong observation), as a means to learn more about him. He's a yandere that cares for and respects Angel, wanting to make a better life for them together even to the point of letting Angel stay. I think for a lot of yanderes, it becomes almost inconceivable that they are able to plan so far ahead, but Lee is one of the ones that I believe can do it. He's not perfect, as there are a lot of flaws that he himself admits, like not being able to remove the stalker shrine in time (though again, to his credit, the switch that reveals it was in a very hard to discover place), yet he knows and seems to be able to plan for a lot of things in regards to the body such as getting rid of the car, how to get rid of it in a house like this and even how he'd kill Brandon in the cruelest way possible. I also think that Angel's identity plays a pretty important role in terms of how difficult it can be to be your true self with others, as it's likely their mother stopped talking to them because of it and how Lee's depiction of them seems to be pretty accurate. In the end, along with Angel's ADHD makes it feel like they are isolated from the rest of the world.

Because this game is pretty popular, there are a lot of issues that people have pointed out in regards to the game, namely they feel that the ending does not match the rest of the game. You can see more about this idea in this video. For the most part, the game is pretty normal in all aspects and slowly builds a more romantic relationship with Lee and Angel, so the sudden change of tone with the stalker shrine and the hiding a body, which I can understand if you weren't expecting the horror. Still, I think that it's part of the core of the game, the fact that we learn so much about both characters as well, especially in regards to Lee's past and seeing how Angel reacts to them. For a lot of people, this is a turn off, but I honestly think it adds much more to Lee's character and how in the end they are both helpless to the situation that they are in and are able to go together in that. Still being heavily biased as a yandere creator (and likely you are as well), I think that the analysis of it being abusive is kind of dumb. Angel of course does point out the similarities of what Lee is doing and what Brandon is doing. For Lee, everything that he does is generally for the benefit of Angel (in his mind). As one of the comments says, consent is a very important thing throughout the story, with both of them understanding patterns in each other and the idea of whether or not Angel accepts. In terms of yanderes even, its' very light in comparison to a lot of other ones, trying to take care of Angel and never forcing anything upon them. I'm not as good as arguing on this point but I don't really find the turn of Lee being a stalker and killing someone something that felt that out of character in the game. While the first ending is the morally correct thing to do... c'mon man, it's a game that has a yandere, I don't know what you guys want.

Anyways, it's a free and pretty wonderful game to play and there's a lot of thoughts onto what the endings are and is very interesting non the less. i very highly recommend playing this game as it is incredibly well written with lots of insight into various neurodivergent characters and systems as well as a horror story near the end.

[veryoccasionalwriting]

I'd love to see maybe a mini drabble of the Leo asking for a puppy! It sounds adorable (you don't have to if you don't want to!!!)

Haha I love that!

Mark got suspicious the moment Leo stomped into the living room in his tiny navy suit- One that you had gotten Leo for a wedding a while back. The buttons were crooked, his tie was a shoelace, and his hair had been styled into what could only be described as “aggressively spiky.”

He was carrying a manila folder with crayon doodles all over the front that said: “Top Sekrit: Puppie Plan.”

Mark blinked. “Hey, uh… what’s up, buddy?”

Leo didn’t answer. He was already setting up the laptop like it was a crime scene investigation. “I’m doin’ a sentation,” he said seriously. “No talkin’ till I’m done or it messes up my brain.”

The TV lit up with his slideshow. Big purple Comic Sans.

“WHY I SHOULD GET A PUPPY: by Leo Grayson (age 4 and three quarters, soon five, don’t forget it)”

Mark squinted. “Wait.. how do you even know how to make a PowerPoint?”

Leo clicked the remote. “Rex taught me. He said to me that he will write it out because I dunno how to spell.”

Mark blinked. “Can’t argue with that.” He said slowly.

Slide 1: A photo of a very round golden retriever puppy with huge eyes.

“This is Muffin,” Leo said. “He’s not born yet prob’ly. But I love him. So.”

Slide 2: A bullet list titled “Puppy Good Things”

He will be warm

He will lick my hand (good)

I can tell him secrets and he won’t tell anybody, not even you

He will bark if robbers come (or ghosts)

He will help me when I’m sad

He can eat my green beans (ew)

Slide 3: Leo, proudly holding a jump rope leash attached to a stuffed bear with a name tag that says “Dog.” “I practiced walkin’ and scoopin’ poop. I’m ready.”

Mark was biting the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

Slide 4: A graph that was basically two smiley faces- one with a dog, one without. The no-dog face had a single teardrop. “This is science,” Leo said gravely. "Real science"

Slide 5: A blurry photo of Leo hugging Mark. Underneath, in uneven letters: “Me + Daddy + Puppy = Happy Us.”

Mark exhaled like he’d just been tackled emotionally. “Oh, buddy…”

Leo stepped down from the coffee table, tugged Mark’s hand, and whispered, “I already picked a name. It’s Waffles.”

Mark pulled him into a hug. “You’re not supposed to win presentations with feelings, dude.”

Leo happily hugged Mark back tightly. “That’s why I wore the suit.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Later that evening, you walked into the kitchen to find Mark dramatically flopped over the island, mumbling, “Babe. Babe. We have to get him a puppy. He made a whole slideshow. There were transitions. He added music. He deserves a dog. He deserves ten.”

[zelda-daily]

Announcement: Hiatus

Hello!! The countdown is finally over and so is zelda-daily (for now!).

Just like last time, I started posting on this account to get me out of a creative block after some big changes in my life, and it worked again! I'm very grateful to this blog and everyone who's been keeping up with these silly daily doodles.

I'm finally ready to move back to working on bigger art projects like comics, so it feels like it's time to put the master sword (zelda-daily) back in its pedestal (on hiatus)... until next time I get creative block lol!

If you'd like to keep seeing my art in the meantime, then feel free to have a peek at my main blog @time-loopy. And if you're interested in reading some cool daily LoZ drabbles please check out my friend Ace's blog @zelda-daily-drabbles!

See you next time!

[juicebox342]

Closed In and Terrified (Fearless and Undefined) [KPop Demon Hunters Fic, Chapter 4]

I am so sorry about the wait, but read it on AO3!

Scream at me on Discord!

Consider subscribing to my Ko-Fi or Patreon!

“So, what topics are off limits?”

Rumi’s pen stilled, hovering over the paper.

(She wasn’t writing, just drawing nonsensical doodles on the edge of the page, trying to empty her mind.)

“This one,” Rumi said tiredly, dragging the pen in another messy stroke.

“Rumi,” Jinu sighed.

Rumi didn’t flinch.

(Yes, she did.)

“Jinu,” she responded, voice flat. Mocking, almost, if she had any energy to put into her tone.

(She didn’t.)

“I’m trying to make sure I don’t cross any lines,” Jinu said carefully.

Rumi tightened her grip on the pen.

(The pen snapped beneath her fingers.)

(She hardly noticed until she saw the ink on her palm, as dark as her claws.)

“Like you didn’t cross any lines at the Idol Awards?”

(The words didn’t taste as poisonous as she thought they would, passing her lips without a second thought.)

(And, oh, wasn’t that disgusting?)

(All she cared about was getting him to back off, though.)

For a long moment, Jinu didn’t answer.

(The silence buzzed in her ears. She could feel her girls in the kitchen, could feel as Mira cycled through emotions rapidly– confusion, irritation, confusion again, apprehension– while Zoey stayed on some nervous wavelength.)

(She was such a bad person.)

(She kept trying to raise her walls back up, to block off the bond, to keep them from feeling what she was feeling, but—)

(Something was stopping her. Either she was too tired to focus on it properly, or whatever the Honmoon had done to her had left her more broken than she originally thought.)

(It wasn’t fair. A Golden Honmoon would’ve—)

(Well. It wouldn’t have fixed her, but it would’ve fixed the problem.)

“Rumi,” Jinu tried again. “I was there. I– just because I don’t have Gwi-ma whispering in my ear anymore doesn’t mean I’m any good at this.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Rumi said drily, finally snapping out of her mind enough to reach for a new pen.

“Rumi,” Jinu nearly growled. “You’re being—”

“Difficult? Irrational? Unreasonable? Oh, what about foolish—?”

“Stop!” Jinu snapped. “I’m trying to help—”

“Stop trying to help!” Rumi cried, whirling around to face him. “I don’t need your help! I don’t want it! I’m fine on my own!”

“No, you’re not—!”

“Oh, like you’d know—”

“Rumi, what’s going on?!” Zoey called from the other side of the door.

Rumi sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She closed her eyes to protect against the sight of Jinu. “Nothing,” she said as calmly as she could. “Sorry. Jinu and I were just… arguing.”

“I’ll say,” Mira muttered. Then, after a pregnant pause, she added, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Rumi said. “Sorry for worrying you guys. I’m okay.”

(It took an entire twenty-three seconds before Zoey murmured, “Okay,” and the two of them walked away from Rumi’s door.)

(Not that Rumi was counting, or anything.)

Rumi opened her eyes.

Jinu was still staring at her.

(She resisted the urge to snarl at him.)

She sat back down heavily, turning around to doodle again.

“Go away,” she said, voice soft with fatigue.

Jinu sighed. “Okay,” he murmured. “Just… don’t shut them out. They were so worried.”

(Rumi clenched her jaw tight enough that it hurt.)

She heard a quiet poof.

When she turned around, she was alone.

She hunched forward, bringing her arms around herself tightly.

(She wanted… something. Anything but this.)

(Please.)

[geckosteak]

Try as hard as you can, I've tried as hard as I could

To make you see how important it is for me

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In the world of heavy metals, love is denser than hate!

[sysig]

Reverberations, configurations (Patreon)

[sunny1927]

⚙️They’re.. baaack! And better than ever! (With a few new… enhancements ;3) ⚙️

[dailygihun]

day 6 || this era lasted like 2 minutes but i love it anyway

[bartholomewillustrated]

After several abject failures trying to draw Sevika, Jinx, And some more Jayce and Viktor today I crawled back to the large comforting arms of Old Hairy Men, a subject in which I have become an Expert. So please enjoy this little slice of Good Universe Vanco v-v)/ I will nail down the others eventually I Swear it (9TAT)9

[cubedmango]

worlds most well-adjusted 14 yr old