#Cat Spray In Heat

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Hanging out and waiting for the flea spray to dry and then I get to vacuum again and wipe down everything in my room!!! Yippee!!!!

[thatlesbiancrow]

catch me pulling up my camera app and taking a screenshot because i KNOW if i take the picture normally it wont be as grainy

i like this

[humanjarvis]

lemonade stand

you needed some money.

42 dollars, to be exact. and by the looks of it, the loose coins in your piggy bank weren’t going to be enough this time. 

the idea didn’t come easy. it took hours of questions, hours of thinking. but when you saw a big kid grab a drink from the park vending machine, a lightbulb flashed overhead: you were going to make a lemonade stand. 

it was a solo gig, at first. you had it all figured out: you’d snuck the ingredients onto gran’s grocery list, cut out some yellow streamers on construction paper, and asked your math teacher what the price per cup should be. everything was going just as you hoped. 

that is, until the night before setup, when caleb's nosy self had popped in out of nowhere and ruined your plans. 

he’d caught you in the kitchen, teetering on the stepstool as you tried to reach the sugar, and decided you needed his help. 

and after you lost the ensuing argument—there wasn’t much you could do with all the lemons, cups, and spoons floating over your head—you’d reluctantly accepted it.

so you’d put him to work. he squeezed, and you mixed. you’d been on squeeze duty at first, actually, until he’d slowly nudged you out of the way. a) i’m stronger, he’d said. and b), if the juice sprays in my face, it won’t affect me as much. you know i love sour things.

and so you worked in a steady rhythm, making batch after batch until gran decided it was bedtime. 

the next day, as you set up in the summer heat, caleb had to pull your bottom lip out from your teeth. it’s just so scary not knowing if anyone will come, you’d whined. 

look on the bright side, he’d offered, ruffling your hair. if it’s a slow day, we’ll have enough lemonade to last us a week. 

but as the sun rose in the sky, customers from all around the block trickled in. friends with their parents, the nice lady down the street—even the cranky old grandma with the snobby cat had stopped by. 

and caleb had been by your side the whole time. counting cash when the numbers got too high, fetching more ice when your supply melted, and chatting with the guests you didn’t know that well. 

order up, pip-squeak, he’d called, brandishing two full glasses with a toothy grin. those had been for the newlyweds a couple houses down. you always told him you wanted to be like them when you grew up, but his cheeks got red every time. you never could figure out why. 

when you’d gotten too hot, caleb had even poured you a cup of your own, dropping a few too many crinkled-up bills into your coin jar. it’s called a tip, he’d told you. people give you those when they think you’ve done a good job. 

the last few customers came by after work, when a soft evening breeze cooled the air. before you knew it, the sun was setting, and you wobbled back inside with the overflowing jar you insisted on carrying yourself. 

89 dollars was the day’s total, and with a loud cheer, you gave caleb his share of your earnings. he’d refused at first, but you’d forced him to take it, knowing he’d do the same for you.

and the next week, after a thrilling trip to the mall, your 42 dollars went to a new home. your purchase? a shiny model airplane, bought just in time for caleb’s birthday. 

[iydiamartinx]

BRIEF ENCOUNTERS

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 1.3k synopsis: Gotham’s three hottest celebrities are thrown into a charity photoshoot they didn’t ask for, in nothing but their underwear—and it turns out the camera isn’t the only thing ready to snap. a/n: I had so much fun writing this, I might make a Bruce version. warnings: the boys being too hot to handle.

Gotham’s latest charity campaign was ridiculous. You weren’t sure what was worse: the bright lights heating your skin, the silk robe barely clinging to your body, or the fact that they were here.

Jason Todd and Dick Grayson.

Tied for Gotham’s hottest male celebrity, as if the universe hadn’t already cursed you enough. And you? Crowned Gotham’s hottest woman in People’s Choice. You should’ve felt flattered.

Instead, you were sandwiched into a publicity stunt from hell.

“Who even votes for these things?” you muttered, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared at the photoshoot set—minimalist bed, white sheets, a soft faux sunrise glow cast by a massive lighting rig.

Jason leaned against a metal rack, arms folded, a towel slung low on his hips like this was just another Tuesday. “Gotham’s elite, the bored, the horny. Take your pick.”

“And here I thought we were being celebrated for our philanthropic work,” Dick chimed in smoothly as he walked past, already shirtless and smug, adjusting the waistband of his black boxer briefs with all the subtlety of a peacock in mating season. “But no, please. Tell us again how this is beneath you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It is beneath me. I’m the CEO of my own company. I’ve lectured at Oxford. I don’t pose in my underwear for strangers with cameras.”

“Yet here you are,” Jason said, flashing a grin as he pulled off his towel, revealing briefs identical to Dick’s—only in red. “Guess we all make sacrifices.”

Your eyes narrowed, though truth be told, you were trying real hard not to let your gaze wander. To either of them. They had the bodies of Greek gods, and the worst part? They knew it. Worse still? You knew it too.

And they knew that you knew.

Jason caught the flick of your gaze and raised a brow. “See something you like?”

You scoffed. “Just calculating how many spray tans died to make that happen.”

“Natural glow, sweetheart.”

“Artificial charm,” you shot back, You turned your back to them, jaw set. Professionalism. Focus. Indifference. All things you were pretending to have.

Except when Dick adjusted his waistband again and Jason’s arm flexed just a little too deliberately—you nearly bit your tongue off trying not to react.

“I give it ten minutes before someone threatens violence,” Dick added, smirking between the two of you.

“Too late,” you muttered, striding toward the set. “I’ve been threatening violence since I saw your names on the call sheet.”

As you walked toward the set, you dropped your robe with a practiced sort of defiance. Your black lingerie was sleek, minimal, and handpicked by someone who clearly wanted Gotham to combust. Both men went quiet. You smirked. 

“What? Cat got your—oh wait, no. Just your remaining brain cells.”

Jason let out a low whistle, his gaze raking over you with absolutely no shame. “Your stylist really went for the full femme fatale fantasy, huh?”

“Better than the himbo-off you two have going on.”

Dick made a soft choking sound. “Himbo—? Excuse me. I am a sophisticated, multi-faceted man.”

“Who poses in tight briefs for the Children of Gotham Foundation calendar,” you shot back. “Truly noble work.”

He grinned—shameless, unbothered—but you didn’t miss it. The way his gaze flicked lower, lingered, then snapped back up like he hadn’t just imagined something entirely uncharitable. He was only slightly subtler than Jason, and that was saying something.

The photographer, some buzzed-out creative from Metropolis with too much enthusiasm and not enough fear, clapped his hands. “Alright, lovers—get cozy! I want tension, heat, passion! Make the people wonder what happens when the lights go off.”

“Oh, they’ll wonder,” Jason murmured. “They’ll also wonder how I survived being kicked in the ribs.”

Rolling your eyes, you settled into the bed—Jason on your right, Dick on your left, both shirtless, smug, and entirely too close. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. The bed was warm, the lights were blinding, and the proximity was maddening.

“Closer,” the photographer insisted.

Jason leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Try not to melt.”

“Try not to pass out from your own cologne,” you whispered back, ignoring the slight hitch in your breath.

“Touch each other more,” the photographer urged. “Intimate, not stiff.”

“Stiff’s the wrong word,” Jason murmured under his breath.

You elbowed him sharply. “Try finishing that sentence and see what happens.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered, but his hand slid behind your back, fingertips brushing skin like it was nothing.

Dick leaned in closer, lazy arm draping behind your shoulders. He smelled like clean skin and expensive cologne, and his voice was far too close when he said, “Is it bad I’m actually enjoying this?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. “If your hand moves even an inch lower, I’m breaking your wrist.”

“Duly noted,” he murmured, and you noticed he didn’t move. 

Jason, meanwhile, had his other hand settled lazily against your thigh. “Tell me again how you hate being around us. You’re practically glowing.”

“It’s the highlighter,” you said sweetly. “Not your proximity.”

Click. Flash. Shutter.

The photographer cheered. “Perfect. Let’s try the lap shot next. Y/N on Jason’s lap, Dick behind her.”

You blinked. “This is starting to feel suspiciously like a setup.”

Jason patted his thigh. “Come on, princess. I don’t bite. Unless that’s what you’re into.”

You shot him a flat look but climbed into place with a huff, settling across his lap. His hands found your hips instantly—confident, steady, like he’d done it a hundred times—and you hated how solid it felt. How easy. How natural.

You refused to acknowledge the goosebumps rising on your skin.

Dick moved in behind you, positioning himself with an infuriating kind of ease. His breath brushed your neck, and you felt it all the way down your spine.

“You smell good,” he said quietly, right by your ear.

“Get closer and I’ll change that.” You threaten.

Another shutter flash.

Jason’s voice was low by your ear. “You know, for someone who claims to hate us, you’re sitting awfully pretty between our legs.”

You turned your head just enough to smile at the camera. “Just fantasizing about strangling you with this overpriced bra.”

Dick chuckled softly behind you. “Careful. That’s starting to sound like flirting.”

“It’s not,” you lied—too quickly, too easily.

But the shoot kept going.

The poses got bolder—more contact, more heat, more places to put your hands where they shouldn’t feel that good. Jason’s palm resting just under your ribs. Dick’s fingers lightly grazing your collarbone. Their bodies bracketed against yours like they belonged there.

The lines between staged and real blurred with every click of the shutter. Flash after flash. Touch after touch. And somewhere in the middle of it all, it stopped feeling like acting.

When the final shot was taken and the camera was lowered, you stood too fast—heart hammering, skin flushed, throat dry.

You cleared it. “We done here?”

The photographer, looking a little dazed himself, gave a nod.

You didn’t wait. You turned to go, grabbing your robe—only to feel fingers close gently around your wrist. It wasn’t tight but just enough to stop you in your tracks.

Jason.

You glanced back, expression guarded. “What?”

“You going to admit it?”

Your brow arched. “Admit what?”

“That you didn’t hate all of that.”

You hesitated. Just a beat. Then your gaze flicked to Dick—still shirtless, arms folded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

You turned back to Jason, let your lips curl slowly into a smirk. “No,” you said. “But I’m looking forward to the rematch next year.”

You slipped out of his hold and walked off, robe slung over one shoulder, leaving them in your wake.

Neither of them moved for a long moment.

Jason finally exhaled. “She’s going to be the death of us.”

Dick grinned, eyes still on the spot where you’d been. “What a way to go. At least we’ll die hot.”

[queenendless]

JEALOUS

A/n: Yall. S2, EP 12 ... BIG TIME love and thanks to everyone involved in making that episode truly a SPECTACULAR~!

This however was inspired by ep 9 and 10 but of course this is its own thing.

Jealous!Jinwoo x Fem!Adult!Reader (ft Baek and Choi)

CW: Jealous Jinwoo and kinda reader too, reader got self doubt issues, petnames, angst, hurt/comfort, brief isekai and self awarness mentioned, LADS cameo, plus steamy stuff implied at the end.

NO REPOSTS, TRANSLATIONS, PLAGIARISM, AGELESS BLOGS AND AI USE WITH MY FAN WORKS ALLOWED. Reblogs likes and follows to support my fan works are allowed pls n thnx.

Eyeing gorgeous illustrations or animated shows filled to the brim with breathtaking characters you could only dream of meeting let alone befriending your whole life was the closest you had gotten to it.

Starting anew in Korea gave way to you seeing sights that you never believed you'd ever get to view in person.

Especially in the world of hunters, D&D becoming the new norm of your day to day.

But you were hit on all for kicks to the jokesters, regardless of your hurt emotions from the mockery and cat calls.

Too bad for them, though.

They were nearly extinguished from existence from the one that did take your feelings seriously into account from the moment your eyes connect.

That being your beloved Jinwoo.

In public, he's calm, cool and collected when out with you. But any and every single unfortunate individual that dares attempt to seduce you, never ends well for them. Only your overprotective jealous Monarch has the privilege of doing so.

Today was no exception.

Mr. Go Gunhee, the head of the Hunters Association, wished to meet Jinwoo on some business at the Hunters Gym. Only to be offered to participate in an S-rank training session.

The aura farmer that is your Jinwoo.

The very same one whose agile movements, swift like speed, and high level instincts aided in his perception of the situation. You rarely get to see Jinwoo in training let alone sparring as is.

Seated on the sidelines as you watched the free for all of him against several S-ranks to test how far he has come. That is, with you in the Hunters gym, he knew going all out could potentially put you at risk.

You were both surprised you could stay, barely being swept up in S-tier brawls as is.

But you weren't worried. Rather, you were narrowed in on Jinwoo's thick heavyweight black sweatshirt riding up as he swerved through Lim Tae-Gyu's rain shower of arrows, revealing those sculpted muscles along his abdomen. Those light gray spray painted cargo pants hugged his long legs in all the best ways as he clashed kicks with Cha Hae-In, especially for his well crafted ass clenching in response. His ebony wavy locks twinkled with sheen as he worked up a sweat flying through the air while running along the giant sized Ma Dongwook swinging his arms about.

Those eyes of Jinwoo's blazed from the combat high as he stole glances at you now and then, widening at how raptured you were at his prowess; despite holding back for your safety, gave him such a prideful boost as his lips curled smugly before easily knocking Ma back from landing right on his forehead.

“Are you alright?” That deep baritone voice drew you out of your wandering mind of dreams suffocating your faint hearted self. The sweaty bare chested man that is Baek Yoonhoo walking up to you from the main hallway. Your face burned at how impressive the guild master of the White Tiger guild looked up close. His own sheen made his muscles really pop out.

“Yeah. Just lost in thought.” Tremors leaked in your pronunciation for your heart raced at sensing piercing eyes aimed right at you and they weren't Baek's.

With the fluffy towel wrapped around his thick veiny neck, he started wiping away the sweat trailing along his sharp face when his curious sharp toothed smile of his gave your insides somersaults. “Quite a heated match here. Hunter Sung is putting on quite the show for you.”

“Oh I wouldn't put it like that …” The unsure awkward drawl you left off on got him raising a brow at your self conscious behavior. Glowing eyes narrowed in suspicion, within your Shadow and from afar. “I would have liked to see you take part though.”

Baek sheepishly chuckled, hints of red dusting his chiseled cheeks. “While I appreciate it, I admit my very best isn't enough to reach his level though —”

Perception works both ways.

Chewing the inside of his cheek as he got nearly socked in the face was Jinwoo's best way of keeping his growls subdued, hearing exchanged word for word through your linked shadows.

“The Beast being humble, how quaint.” The teasing lilt in the new voice joining in nabbed you threes’ attention. “So, you're the lucky lady that has our newest S-rank wrapped around their finger.”

The sly charming smile of the guild master of the Hunters Guild, Choi Jong-in, got you kind of weary.

“I'm surprised Hunter Sung is willing to participate in this little match. Then again, Hunter Cha has spoken nothing but praise of him as of late. She's quite taken by him.”

The rush of clashing against his opponent suddenly became second in Jinwoo's spirit, the shock of Choi's seed of doubt placed in your mind sends the strands of envy intertwining with rage.

Baek bit out, jabbing his irksome rival in the ribs with that hefty elbow of his, those crimson eyes heatedly glaring in reply. “Way to show tact, jackass. Pay his words no mind, Ms. L/n.”

The crumpled frown you couldn't suppress despite Baek's advice grew, spotting the pair now engaging in close combat. Even from far away you could imagine that same longing mystique in her gaze that'd be on par with yours. All for Jinwoo. And only him.

But with his back facing you, you couldn't quite see his beautiful, familiar face. Nor his glowing eyes matching the mana visually seeping out of his twitching fingertips; his tolerance running thin.

“Forgive me for my insensitivity. Anyone foolish enough to let such a rare gem slip from their grasp is the true fool. That said,” Choi's amicable smile still made such mixed feelings stir in your nerve wracked cage, even as he took your hand graciously. "It's truly a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

Baek clicked his tongue. “Putting the moves on her won't win you any favors.”

Choi's calm demeanor cracked. “Says the married man that approached her first.”

The taller of the two butted heads with the smaller one, literally. “I'm not the one actively hitting on a taken woman, genius!”

“Gentlemen, there's no need to fight!” Being the center of attention in the midst of a developing brawl got your nerves wracked.

Perception works both ways, indeed.

The baring fangs and the flames sparking at the fingertips get blown away by the thick smog of imposing aura that curtains you from behind in an instant. His musky sweaty scent reeled you back, those firm hands squeezing your hip bones quite needily. Everyone's shadows rippled from the King making his presence known.

“I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't fill my angel's head with such delusions anymore, Hunter Choi.” Jinwoo’s minatory words irked the latter just as it terrified them both. Especially when your love's voice warped to match that of an inhuman entity. “Implying I'd leave her for another is unforgivable.”

Spotting Hae-In from out of the corner of your eye, her downtrodden eyes full of ache at her lovelorn self made you toil in pity yet taking twisted pleasure in it.

Auras stoked like bonfires at this confrontation, the experienced hunters glowing eyes widened in alarm from the endless well Jinwoo's own mana emanated.

“You can have your little quarrel elsewhere … unless you rather join me in a spar of our own to settle this dispute.” The eerie smirk on Jinwoo's face startled both men, garnering the other hunters concern of the potential clash, knowing their newest addition could level the entire area and more if pushed too far —

“Jin.” Your voice calling out his name calmed the raging storm inside, him softening at those lovestruck eyes of yours. “It's okay.” He felt your form slowly calming down, growing more slackened against his warm self.

His snugly arms coiled around your frame, humming deeply, before firmly pecking your forehead. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, sweetheart~” That honey dripping tone he purred in your ear had you trembling, a stark contrast from his earlier behavior. “I hope you enjoyed my performance though~” His fingers pinched the plush area above your hips, drawing jumpy squeals out of you, his genuine grin popping out in response to your precious light. “Shall we get going, then?” Your nod of approval gets him squeezing you tighter. “Sorry gentlemen. Next time, then. Shadow Exchange.” The shades of night enveloped you as you were still in his grasp, taking you with him. A shadow soldier took its lieges’ place before vanishing itself in black wisps.

Back in the comfort of your shared place, Jinwoo gave you another forehead kiss before excusing himself to go shower.

Your muscles flared as chronic body pains were your crutch. Laying on your tummy on your shared bed, you spent a good while on your phone, chasing your earlier strifes away by playing the newest 3D otome game straight outta China that had you joining the many other starved ladies out there.

Whether the time traveler, the doctor, the merman, the dragon, or the colonel, you were having a hell of a time.

Lost in the addiction of mobile gameplay, you fail to detect the halt of the shower head running nor the adjoining bathroom door opening up with his silhouette in the frame, drying his wet hair, spotting you smiling at your digital boy toy.

The predatory growl from above that came with a heavy body carefully pinning you beneath his bare torso got your attention finally. Long lithe hands easily pried your phone out of your grasp, scraping his thumb only for your CG favorite calling out to you.

“How dare you steal my angel from me, bastard?” Such a low primal growl, his flashing eyes reflecting on your screen in that moment.

“Jin, it's just a game.” You murmured.

Tossing your phone gingerly a bit away from you both along your plush comforter, he leans off you just to roll you on your back, gulping at how quickly his eyes darkened. His own sheen marbled bode replaces that of Baek's in your mind's eye, slowly heaving those plush pecs and smooth abs dotted by droplets that added to the attractiveness.

“One that's nabbed your attention elsewhere. And after earlier today, all I want now is all your affection.” His coy grin grew as your hands already brushed those drops away while feeling the muscles beneath. “Like so~”

“You know I love you.”

“And the other way around?” He takes handfuls of the comforter around both sides of your head as he lowers down slowly enough until he drapes over your being, his seabreeze body lotion scenting his skin, his sweatpants hanging loosely by those peaking out hips as he pinned yours in between, his face now a hair's breadth away. “You're not the only person alive plagued with jealousy.”

“Master Baek is happily married and Master Choi isn't much my type so —”

“He crossed a line today.” His rumbling grunt cut those words in half.

“Miss Cha still really likes you. Even before I came along.” Your sad accepting smile aches him even more.

“She's just as much a comrade as she is my friend. But I turned her down because I met you.”

“I'm no S class hunter, though. Nor a mighty vessel of power. I don't have much to offer as a hopeless human.” The self-inflicted seeds of doubt were an ongoing problem you still struggle with, more than ever now.

Your choked up vulnerability pulled at his heart strings. Tears trailed sideways from your eyes, wetting the cloth, to which his thumbs immediately rubbed against your already reddening gaze. “You're my passion.” Your fangirling escapades into your interests always grabbed his intrigue. “My inspiration.” You became his biggest reason to making the world a less cruel place for you both. “My heart.”

“And you're my strength.” His humble sweetness earned him your trust. “My courage.” Witnessing his strength amiss his conquests swooned you over. “My angel.”

The shower of yearning kisses littered every inch of your face, your smile now one of relieving joy. Those velvety lips of his suddenly trailed down to your neck, bringing forth shuddering gasps and breathy moans outta you.

“In this version of the story, you've become my light.” The sharp deep bites he began marking all over your neck brought forth such burning longing in you, already wringing through his wet silk hair, keeping him as close as possible. “You have yourself to blame.” His heated breath meets your collarbone before he suckles there until red blemishes decorate it.

“Pardonne-moi?” You quipped naively.

“Your stubborn little self wormed your way into my life. Can't let you be in the company of another man vying for your hand, now can I?”

Tapping his shoulders, you get him to look up at your blushing beautiful self.

“You've filled my every thought, every wish, and every dream from the moment I met you.” Cradling his face in your hands, diving into those endless pools of gray and blue wonder. The plethora of feelings mere simple words cannot come close to truly representing them still retain a chokehold on you but you still try. “I want only you, Jinwoo. Forever.”

You felt his smile against your chest before he crawled up to finally devour that achingly intoxicating mouth of yours.

“Y/n, I'm incomplete without you.” He breathed between breaks. “I know you inside and out.” This feverish makeout got steamy real quick. “Your personal taste, your darkest desires, your type.” Traversing familiar smoldering caverns, tongues clashing for dominance, both of you starving for each other's essence. “You're stuck with me, you naive tease.”

“Likewise, you farming Player.” Your otherworldly knowledge still astounds him to this day.

His dark chuckle got your spine shivering with excitement.

“Going all out would have been another story entirely.” The towel draped around his neck gets tugged off. “I'd let you and only you be my audience for that.” You're puddy in his hold as his other hand gingerly took both yours. “To prove how I alone am the only one worthy to be yours.” Binding your hands above your head with his towel. “For the rest of eternity.”

His hand wandered down your goosebumped arms, brushing your hair before tenderly cupping your already nuzzling cheek, his thumb teasing your bottom bruised lip, and his tongue licked his own in anticipation.

“Now then, my Y/n, we have a long night ahead of us …” Straddling your hips, you already felt his crotch needily brushing up against your own. “Enough to have every inch of you mine for the taking.”

His half lidded eyes glowed again, his other hefty hand resting over right where your racing heart was, beating for him. And only him.

“Shall we~?”

Hearts filled his eyes as did yours for his jealousy is on par with yours.

“Lets.”

[yokohamapound]

Bungou Stray Dogs characters responding to you answering their question with, "Don't worry about it, Kitten."? 😆

You always have the best asks. 😂

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, Nakahara Chuuya, Nakajima Atsushi, Edogawa Ranpo, Fukuzawa Yukichi

Contents: gn!reader

Dazai Osamu

Dazai has to stop his lazy chatter or his whining for a second to try and parse whether he heard that correctly. He lifts his head from where it's slumped on a cushion, the rest of his gangly body splayed out on the couch. He mentally replays the last few seconds and yeah, you said what he thought you said.

A slow, sly grin creeps its way across his face as he sits up, eyeing you where you're making coffee in the kitchen. His brown eyes sparkle with amusement and mischief. He's not used to his own brand of flirting being directed back at him and he's delighted.

Long arms wrap around your waist from behind, and the point of his chin comes to rest on your shoulder.

"If I'm your kitten, shouldn't you be petting me and hand-feeding me crab?" he wheedles.

You scoff, lifting a hand to ruffle his warm brown waves. He gives a pretty good impression of a purr, at least until you flick his nose, retorting, "Don't make me get the spray bottle."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Fyodor doesn't react immediately.

His question was likely not something related to his plans or any major operations, or you wouldn't have answered him so flippantly. Perhaps it was a casual enquiry as to your day, or just asking what you were doing.

He leans slowly back in his chair and turns to look at you, his eyes glinting violet-red in the dim light of his screens.

A soft huff of amusement cuts through the quiet hum of electronics. His gaze takes you in from head to toe.

"You do like your little games, don't you, myshka? Just remember, that if I am the cat, you are the mouse."

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

You'd better be his s/o if you're going to pull this, because he has killed people for less.

When your words register, Akutagawa's eyes widen, white showing all around the grey. A blotchy flush appears on his pallid cheeks.

"What did you just say to me?" he asks, venomous.

If there is anyone else who was close enough to hear it, they are probably dead. Akutagawa's black coat ripples, Rashoumon stirring in response to his anger and embarrassment.

Akutagawa slaps a tendril of Rashoumon over your mouth.

"...never say that again, fool."

He stalks off in a huff.

Nakahara Chuuya

Chuuya has a moment of BSOD, where he's not sure what he just heard. His head whips toward you so fast that his hat almost flies off. His eyebrows crash down into a scowl, while heat creeps up his neck and turns his ears crimson.

"Oi, what'd ya just call me?"

"What's wrong, kitten?" you repeat.

He sputters, annoyed and flustered and not entirely sure how he should react to that. Chuuya, being Chuuya, he aggressively adjusts his hat and straightens his shoulders, as if he can shrug off what you just said.

"I ain't no damn kitten."

Don't try and attach a bell to his choker.

Nakajima Atsushi

Completely clueless.

He just stops what he's doing, the earnest, cheerful look on his face melting into one of blank confusion.

"Um, did you just call me...?"

He's too embarrassed to say the word out loud, his cheeks pink.

"Call you what, kitten?"

You're enjoying this far more than you should, you sadist.

Atsushi swallows, looking around to make sure no one else hears you call him such an embarrassing nickname. He'd never live it down.

"Uh, is this because of the tiger thing?"

Edogawa Ranpo

Ranpo is leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on the desk, a lollipop lodged firmly in his mouth. He's a little bored because there are no fun cases to solve, but he has candy, and you're nearby, so things aren't too bad, as far as he's concerned.

He doesn't even bat an eyelid when you address him as "kitten". He's halfway toward being a cat already.

Taking the lollipop from his mouth and waving it through the air, he declares, "Meow."

You should also get him a pair of cat ears. He'll wear them without a trace of shame.

"Hey, if I'm your kitten does that make you my Discord daddy?"

Fukuzawa Yukichi

I doubt anyone has ever had the balls to say something like that to Fukuzawa before, so first I must congratulate you on your cojones (metaphorical or otherwise).

He turns toward you, his stern face expressionless. After a moment, one of his eyebrows quirks up.

"Not in public, dear," he intones.

You're left spluttering, the tables so neatly turned on you. Never underestimate Fukuzawa.

[moonstruckme]

i was wondering if we could have some roomate!james where him and reader have a disagreement over something and reader feels like james don’t want her there anymore but he comforts her??

Thanks for requesting!

cw: reader feels financially insecure

roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

“James.” You run your fingers worriedly over the small tears in the doorframe. Look to your roommate in the kitchen. “This is getting out of hand.” 

“What is?” 

“Juniper’s been scratching on the doorframe again.” 

James tsks. “Junie-girl,” he coos, little reprimand to be found in his tone as he looks down at the orange cat currently winding through his ankles, “what are you trying to do to us, huh?” 

You’re not quite so amused. Since James had agreed to look after his friend Lily’s cat while she’s traveling, Juniper has knocked down and broken two of your glasses, scratched up a corner of the couch, and pissed on the carpet in James’ room. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with the smell of that last one yourself, but you doubt your landlord will be pleased if James can’t get it out by the end of your lease. 

“She’s got to stop,” you say, oddly unsure if you’re trying to reason with James or the cat. “It’s getting really noticeable.” 

“I’m not sure what else to do.” James shrugs. His pan sizzles as he turns over the chicken he’s cooking. “I’ve already moved her favorite scratching post over by the door and sprayed it with the catnip Lily gave me.” 

You cross your arms and sit down on the couch, chewing the inside of your lip. “I’m worried about the security deposit,” you admit. 

“Oh, don’t be.” James waves a hand vaguely in your direction. “My last apartment was way worse than this when I moved out, and they didn’t charge me for anything.” 

His unconcern nettles you. Of course, why would James be upset about a security deposit? He likes to pretend at independence, but you know his parents will always give him funds if he’s in a bind. He doesn’t worry about money the way you do. 

 “Yes, but that was a different landlord, wasn’t it.” There’s a bit of bite to your tone, and you try to soften it. “Maybe someone else could take her for the rest of Lily's trip?” 

James turns, eyebrows lifting as though he’s surprised you’d even ask. “She couldn’t get anyone else to take her in the first place. Mary’s visiting her family, Marl’s allergic, and Sirius would have a cow.” You’re not very inclined to find the last one a spectacular excuse, but you keep your mouth shut. “I agreed to take her,” he says, somewhat firmly, “and I don’t want to go back on that.” 

Heat prickles over your skin. “I just—listen, I can paint over the small things,” you say. “I’m going to try to cover up as many damages as I can, but when your friends come over and break the handle off the microwave” —true story— “or you let their cats tear up the apartment, I don’t know what to do.” 

“I told you I’m going to fix the microwave,” he says without turning around. 

“When, James? That was months ago, and—” 

“And if my friends coming over is a problem for you, it’s not like you didn’t have plenty of opportunities to mention it when we first moved in.” Now James is growing agitated too, his posture stiffening over the stove. “I don’t get where this is coming from. I told you before we moved in that I’d want to have friends here often. When I asked if Junie could stay here, you said it was fine!” 

“I didn’t know it’d be like this!” You feel ridiculous, nearly shouting at him in your mostly lovely apartment. James really isn’t a bad roommate overall; you know you could do far worse. But the small things have begun to add up, and you really cannot afford not to lose your deposit. “I like your friends, and I like Junie, but this is—it’s too much.” 

“You shouldn’t have lived with me if you couldn’t deal with it.” 

James flicks off the stove, turning around to speak to you directly, and you see the moment he sees the glossy sheen in your eyes. His expression pinches. 

“Sweetheart—” 

“No. Do not feel bad for me right now,” you hiss, blinking furiously. “Just because I’m not good at arguing doesn’t mean I’m not still mad.” 

Your anger is rapidly fading, though, as his words reverberate around in your head. You shouldn’t have lived with me. Does he really think that? There are certainly things upon which you don’t see eye-to-eye, but you love living with James. You love spending time with him, sharing things with him, just being around him. The idea that he doesn’t feel the same about you starts spiderweb cracks going through your heart. 

“I’m not good at arguing either,” he says with a hefty sigh. The tension seems to go out of his shoulders with it, and he starts toward you with heavy steps, plopping down on the couch. “Can we just talk, please?” 

You sniffle, working hard to suppress your tears. “Do you think it’d be better if we didn’t live together?” you ask. 

James' eyes widen behind his glasses. His brows hook up in the middle. “No. Why would you say that?” 

You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “I honestly do like your friends. I don’t mind them coming over or helping you do favors for them, and I get that—that sometimes things happen.” You take a shallow breath. Ignore the way James’ hand twitches in his lap. “But you’re right that I didn’t consider all of this when we moved in together. I’m okay with trying to get past it, but if you want me to move out—” 

“Oh my god, no.” James leans forward, trying to catch your gaze. You don’t let him, because just then a small droplet of water squishes out of the corner of your eye and begins a slow trudge down your cheek. “Sweetheart, I don’t want that. I like living with you.” 

Juniper hops up onto the couch, plodding onto your lap and rubbing her side against your stomach affectionately. A wet laugh bubbles out of you, more tears cresting your cheeks as you scratch awkwardly between her ears. 

James makes a sound so soft you think you’ll dream about it. “Can I hug you?” 

You lean toward him in answer. He meets you halfway, needling his arms under yours and folding you into him. You press your face, hot with embarrassment and upset, into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and James’ hand rubs your back in big, sweeping circles, before it stops moving at all, pressing flush to your spine, easing you closer. Junie hops off your lap. Evidently, she considers your comfort taken care of.

“I don’t want you to pity me,” you mumble. When you blink, your lashes leave wetness like the strokes of a paintbrush on his skin. “If you want me to move out, it’s okay.” 

“I don't,” he promises, squeezing you until it almost hurts. “I was being rash. I was only being defensive because you were angry. About very reasonable stuff, if I’m honest. I can pay for your half of the security deposit if we lose it.” 

You shake your head, shifting your body to hug him harder. James meets you a hundred percent. “You don’t need to do that.” 

“I do, it’s fine. It’s my mess. Just don’t talk any more about moving out, okay?” 

You mumble your agreement into his neck. It tickles, and James squeaks, but he doesn’t let you go.

[cherrychilli]

18+

Eddie Munson x AFAB reader, friends to lovers, mentions of nudity, brief mention of masturbation (m). Basically, Eddie finds you sleeping naked in his bed.

A/N: Idk I've had this idea in my head for too long now and I need to exorcise it out of me with this little drabble or I'll never be able to get on with my life.

Forest Hills trailer park wasn't your usual stop after clocking out of work but after the day you’ve had you don’t have it in you to wait for the next bus back to your apartment. Your place is 30 minutes away but the journey is sure to take even longer in the current downpour.

Staying over at the trailer wasn't anything new. A spare key was entrusted to you years ago and you made use of it on days like this to crash at Eddie’s for convenience sake. The key came with the promise that you were welcome to anything you needed even if both Eddie and Wayne were away – shower, food, an extra change of clothes, what have you, and you needed them all today.

With Wayne out of town for a few days and Eddie due back in two hours you sink into auto pilot, weary down to the bone from your shift. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel as weird as it probably should when you started to undress in their kitchenette, hanging your work clothes over the back of a nearby chair, rummaging through the fridge in your bra and panties for a quick bite to eat before heading for the shower.

There wasn’t much in it besides beer since Wayne hadn’t been around to stock it. Eddie always preferred ordering take out over getting groceries – something you were going to nag him for again when you had the strength to do so.

Cereal it would have to be.

You located a box inside one of the cupboards, tipping the wheaty, sugary contents straight into your mouth without bothering with a bowl and spoon. It’s not lost on you how similarly you’re acting to Eddie right down to the unruly state of half undress, wiping crumbs off your lips with the back of your hand. If you finished off with a belch it'd be like he never left the trailer this morning.

The messy mouthfuls of cereal prove enough to silence the toad’s croak of hunger that'd been gurgling noisily inside your belly, putting the box away.

Traipsing through, feet dragging, you threw your clothes into the washer next along with your underwear, completely nude now in the Munson trailer as you made your way to the shower – but not before reaching out for Eddie's Garfield mug that sat on a nearby shelf, turning it around so that the cartoon cat's lazy smirk no longer faced you. For your modesty.

You try to keep the shower brisk, not wanting to use up all the hot water but with the way it sprays down on your aching body, the steam and heat combo soothing your poor sore muscles, it’s so blissful that you have to keep yourself from nodding off right there.

You did make use of Eddie’s body wash, some spicy, woodsy smelling thing in a jet-black bottle but you didn't dare use the two in one shampoo that sat in their shower caddy. It might have worked fine for Eddie and his wild mane but you knew better than to apply the stuff to your own hair. Fortunately, experience had taught you to carry a travel sized bottle filled with your own shampoo whenever you stayed over, working over your locks in a lather scented with cranberries and vanilla.

Stamina depleting by the second, toweling off and brushing your teeth takes the last sliver of energy out of you. Eyelids slipping, movements sluggish, limbs feeling too heavy for your own body to hold up – you’re shutting down whether you like it or not.

Dropping the damp towel on his bedroom floor, you intended to change, you really did. You’d even picked out one of Eddie’s washed t-shirts and a pair of boxers out of the laundry and set them down at the foot of the bed to put on before you made yourself comfortable but that’s not what happened.

Still nude, you crawl into bed, seeking warmth and soft comfort, numbed down to a kind of tunnel vision with rest being your one and only goal.

It feels all the more natural because you’re used to sleeping naked in your own bed, much too tired to remember that you’re not in your bed, draping a blanket that doesn't belong to you over your spent body, surrendering to sleep seconds after your head hits the pillow.

It'd still been raining when Eddie returns later. Dragging himself through the trailer, nearly as worn down as you had been, shaking the excess water out of his hair like a dog trying to get dry.

The smell of your shampoo still lingering in the air tells him you're there, finding you curled up in his bed, all bundled up to your neck. The sight makes him smile.

It doesn't take too long for him to join you, following a similar routine – a quick bite with the addition of a beer and then a shower, only he doesn't skip out on clothing himself in his PJ's first.

If he’d shared the blanket with you he might have found out about your lack of dress sooner but as the gentleman that he can sometimes be, he pulls out a spare blanket from the closet so as to not wake you, prolonging the discovery. Being friends for so long meant that sharing a bed was never awkward even after you'd became adults.

That was until the next morning came.

It’s not the stream of morning light brightening from a cool blue to a warm amber peeking in between the curtains that wakes Eddie, or even the tinny smack of his neighbor’s broken screen door gusting open just a few feet away from his bedroom window. It’s the warmth of your ass pressed flush against his crotch and his nose nestled in your sweet-smelling hair that pulls him out of a dream he wont be able to recall later if he tried.

He shifts closer, eyes cracking open, remembering the tiny bottle of shampoo sitting on the bathroom counter. Remembering the new toothbrush placed in the cup next to his own. Remembering the powder blue towel that neither he nor Wayne ever used laying on his bedroom floor.

And then he remembers that he’s not alone.

Oh...

And then he wishes that he was.

Panic snaps up like a beartrap around Eddie when he realizes he's hard – his thick, throbbing erection pressed right up against your body.

Growing clammy, cold sweat beads on the back of his neck but he’s in luck because you haven’t noticed yet, still sound asleep.

This close together, he knows the slightest movement could rouse you. But what was the alternative? Wait it out? Hope to hell his boner goes away? Fat fucking chance. Not when the soft swell of your ass and your body heat alone had him questioning how he could ever go back to his calloused fist after this.

Carefully, desperately, he tries to inch back without waking you but just as he feared, you begin to stir. Your back arches instinctively, seeking out his warm, solid frame even in your sleep.

Shit shit shit.

The covers slip as you shift, your bare shoulders coming into view, eyes starting to flutter open. With no other option, Eddie swiftly rolls on to his back, his hard on no longer pressed up against you but the problem persists.

“Oh, morning”, you greet him through a yawn, pulling an arm out to rub at your eyes, blanket slipping lower but the frantic boy hasn’t noticed yet, too busy whipping his pillow out from under him to place over his lap.

“Uh-hey. Shower’s free if you wanna go first”, he offers quickly, smiling hard, hoping to subtly usher you out because he's too afraid to get up and risk you getting a load of the tent in his pants if he were to go ahead of you.

“Thanks”, you yawn again, still occupied with rubbing at your sleepy eyes to notice your best friend's pale face turning beet fucking red in an instant as you clamber out of bed, blankets no longer concealing you.

Eddie doesn’t know where to look first. His eyes dart everywhere, every bare inch of you on display. So much soft, naked skin it’s making him short circuit.

His gaze eagerly travels over the slope of your breasts as they jiggle gently with your movements, taking in your soft nipples, moving down over your belly and hips, noticing a few new freckles and beauty marks there along the way to the soft curls between your legs.

His erection digs into the pillow, brain dangerously close to fizzing because he’d been pressed up against you like that all night and not even known it.

A shiver works its way through you, making you question why it feels so drafty in his room all of a sudden. You turn back to ask Eddie if there’s anything wrong with the heating, catching the shocked expression on his face.

Looking down, you're met with the sight of your nude body, breasts bare, no underwear. It's a good thing the occupants of the trailer park liked to mind their own business, even if sometimes you thought they did so to a fault because in any other neighborhood your piercing screech would have had everyone within earshot dialing up the cops.

The scream ricochets off the walls at an ear ringing volume, causing Eddie to jolt and lose his balance, falling out of bed while you leapt back in. Grabbing his spare pillow, you press one half against your chest and squeeze the rest between your thighs to shield yourself.

Now he slaps his hands over his eyes.

---

More than anything, you try so hard to push it aside. To pretend that it hadn't happened but it looms over you like a cloud on the brink of bursting with rain.

After three whole days of walking around eggshells around each other it's Eddie who breaks first.

"I can't stand this I don't know what else to do, Can we just talk about it please?"

“Eddie…", you sigh, a gentle warning.

"So what if I saw you naked? you saw my boner!...sort of. I mean, I guess that doesn't exactly make us even but it has to count for something, right? you're not alone in this"

You immediately set your wide eyes on the only other patrons in the diner to see if they’d overheard – two older women swapping pictures of their grandchildren over coffee and cheesecake. When neither of them take a pause in the middle of cooing about little Tommy's third Birthday or little Emily's first day of Kindergarten you redirect your attention back to Eddie.

“Eddie! Keep your voice down!”, you whisper shout at him from across the booth. "There are literal grandmother's here!"

He rolls his eyes. Not mean spirited, just unconcerned by the ladies and what they may or may not have overheard.

And then, even though no one’s paying either of you any attention, you lean closer over your half-finished key lime pie, one hand shielding the side of your face like you’re trying to avoid getting recognized by an ex who’s just walked in.

"I'm so embarrassed...please can we just drop it?", you plead, voice hushed.

He gives you this look of mild incredulity. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Trust me", and the inflection in his tone almost gives him away, prompting him to double back immediately.

The last thing he wants is for you to feel more uncomfortable than you already do. So he doesn't need you to catch on that he's got every moment of your unintended strip tease memorized. Or that he likes to replay what he's since thought of as the best 10 seconds of his life over and over again when he's fucking his fist in the shower.

“I just mean that it's nothing to be embarrassed by. It could have happened to anyone. Who among us hasn’t napped in just their birthday suit before, am I right?” he finishes with a slight wince, knowing none of this is exactly helpful.

And you know he’s only trying to be nice in his own, sweet, bumbling way but you still feel terrible.

"I don't know if I can shake this feeling", you cast your eyes down, looking too close to despondent for his liking.

"Listen I- I don't know how to fix this but I want to. Please just tell me what I can do and I'll do it, okay?"

God, he's sweet and it makes you feel a little flustered being on the receiving end of that gentle stare, needing to shift the mood lest you drown in all that earnestness pooling in his eyes.

It's moments like this that call for a bad joke to cut the tension, right? some momentary and well meaning deflection before you're ready to address the matter at hand again.

Letting out a half hearted laugh, you make your best attempt to inject some humor into the situation.

"I don't know. Maybe it might help if you got naked too", you nervously scraped your fork against the buttery graham cracker crust of your pie, dislodging a few golden crumbs.

It was so very clearly a joke. At least you had thought so. Eddie? not so much.

His brown eyes go wide, looking scandalized, his voice coming out a little more quite than you're used to.

"What?"

"I mean, I showed you mine after all", you tried again in a cadence that was wholly unserious but once again, he fails to catch on.

"You want me to get naked for you?"

You should correct him and you mean to but before you're able to do just that, something about the way he's staring at you makes you want to match his seriousness. The fact that he didn't say no right away strikes you as weirdly intriguing.

"You don't have to", you clarify, adding, "It's just that – well, you asked and I think it could maybe help? to really get us on even ground?”

The words that come out don't feel like you own – foreign to your ears even though they're said in your voice, with your own lips forming them and your own tongue curling around every syllable.

What the hell am I doing?

Eddie pauses. Seconds drag on like nails on a chalkboard as he taps a ringed finger thoughtfully on the edge of his empty plate smudged with faint traces of cream cheese and lime zest.

"Fine. On one condition", he leans back, arms crossing over his chest, smiling wide and megawatt bright.

Oh my god is this really happening?

“...Yeah?”

"You're going to undress me"

---

Part two? who knows. Certainly not I.

[ace-marvel]

Ananchronism

Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader

Synopsis: The world has evolved beyond needing designations and sub-genders, alphas no longer seek out omegas, scents are a thing of the pass while heats and ruts are a rarity. You're an omega who relies on scents and still gets heat, an abnormality in this modern world. Only you find solace in a man lost to time.

Word Count: 9k

Based of a prompt/idea by @black-cat-2

(A/N: This is set in a time where everything goes back to complete normal after they defeat Thanos, Nat comes back and Steve doesn't leave. I will also warn that Bucky has some old time views on relationships, we are talking 40's stereotype stuff after all.)

Ananchronism: used to describe a historical inaccuracy where something from one time period is placed in another.

You had never been normal. 

In this day and age, sub-genders were nothing more than an additional label that went on your driver's license or something to be noted by an employer. You had presented as an omega when you’d hit puberty, like all the other people your age. It was a blood test done by the doctors to check, each sub-gender produced a certain enzyme that was checked when a woman got their first period and or a man started to grow hair on his chest. 

Your results had been odd, your early teenaged years spent in and out of doctor’s offices as they poked and prodded with needles and endless tests to find out why your levels had been so strange. It was something more commonly seen in the early 1900s when sub-genders had been such a big deal. 

“She’s a genetic anomaly,” A doctor had finally chalked it up, after looking at your records when you were fifteen. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your mother was an alpha, which meant that she took charge, a stubborn and proud lady in her own right. 

“Look, it’s a rare thing we’re seeing in very cases,” The old doctor huffed out. “Her sub-gender appears to not be suppressed, like evolution skipped her for whatever reason it decided to.” 

That was the end of the poking and prodding. 

You just weren’t normal. 

A genetic anomaly. 

Adjusting was horrid for your family, from the need to steal all the soft blankets, much to your mother’s dismay or your father’s disappointment, when you needed to skip school again because you had fevers and cramps from an ancient thing called a heat. After a year of missing almost two months of school, the doctor had put you on suppressants. 

Things still didn’t get better from there. 

Society was rough. 

Equality meant you had to work, despite everything in your brain and body screaming at you not to. You shouldn’t be standing on your feet for hours on end at the coffee shop you worked part-time at as a teenager, you shouldn’t have to get up at ungodly hours to study for tests and sit in a room full of people that seemed like dead bodies. 

You were sensitive, soft, and not made for this time. 

Becoming an adult was hard; moving out of home had you in tears, and finally diagnosed with depression. But you had to trudge on in this harsh world, alone. 

The only saving grace had been a woman who owned a bakery down the street, who had hired you after you’d come in one day craving something sweet before your heat decided to strike. 

It turned out that Elise was like you, a genetic anomaly. She wasn’t an olden day omega like you were, but she had heightened senses and strangely strong despite her small stature. You’d seen her lift three massive bags of flour like she’d been carrying a little pillow. 

“You look exhausted hun, have a seat for a little bit,” Elise had called from where she was punching a bowl of dough, flour smeared on her face as she smiled. 

“That would make me lazy..,” You mumbled under your breath, despite your whole body screaming at you to stop, “I’ll go clean a little..,” 

Elise didn’t argue, you always pushed your own limits even if your whole body screamed at you day in and day out. Grabbing the cloth and spray, you made your way over to the tables and began to wipe them down as the shop door opened. 

Usually the smell of cupcakes, baked bread and sweet treats covered up the many unpleasant smells of the people around you, but something stuck out today. It was a musky scent, mixed with pine and the odd edge of something cold, like ice. You could always tell what someone’s sub-gender was based on smell alone, you avoided alphas at all costs because that was what felt right to you. 

But this scent was so strong it made your stomach drop, hands suddenly holding onto the table as you took in the smell. It smelt right, so delicious and soothing that it called to something deep in your chest and awakened your every instinct. You wanted to be surrounded by it, pulled into its embrace and just left to soak in who ever the hell this person was 

You finally managed to turn around on wobbly legs, your throat dry as you looked at the people who had walked in. Steve and Sam were regulars; hell, the whole Avengers and their superhero companions were. You were close to the tower after all, when they needed to stay in the city, they always dropped by the bakery to stock up on the baked goods. Elise had tried to push you towards Steve at one time, but you’d avoided the super soldier and he was just as awkward about your boss and best friend’s strange match making habits. 

But there was a third person with them today, he was bigger than Steve but held an aura that was distinctly alpha about him. The way your hair stood on end made you just know, he was an alpha in every sense of the word. 

He had the most stunning blue eyes, dark locks pulled under a cap and a red henley covering most of his body. His beard was short but neat, no doubt hiding a strong jaw line. But the thing that stood out was the black and gold metal arm on his left side, as he kept his arms holded over his chest. 

And he was staring straight at you, eyes blown wide and nostrils flaring slightly. 

“Hun, you okay?” Elise spoke as she turned around the counter, walking to your side, “You’re a bit flushed,” 

Elise’s hand touched your forehead and the coldness made you whimper, the noise coming out strangled before she flinched backwards and frowned. There was a slight scuffle from the other side of the room, only your ears were ringing and everything was becoming fuzzy. 

“You’re burning up,” Elise tutted, “I’ll call a cab, you get yourself home,” 

– 

Bucky found dating hard. 

He wasn’t built for this century, something that Steve shared his sympathy with but he had at the very least found an omega for himself. In his day, dating was for marriage and nowadays it seemed to be for a quick fuck to get your rocks off. Bucky was considered a playboy in the 40s, he’d dated a few omegas and maybe helped a few during their heats, but he’d always been motivated to take care of someone, provide for them, and give them anything they wanted. 

A lot had changed in all his years as Hydra’s perfect soldier. 

The serum amplified everything. Steve had the same issues sometimes, too. Bucky was already considered a strong alpha in his time with high instincts, but it had only gotten worse since they’d pumped him full of that blue serum. His ruts came more often, Hydra had either pumped him full of suppressants or thrown a random woman for him to take the edge off with. He was more aggressive and more protective. 

Omegas didn’t need knots anymore, they didn’t pick up on scents or could tell when his own turned sour when they threw themselves at him. Bucky wasn’t a fan of the fake lips or fake tits, he wanted something natural. 

Someone natural to him. 

“She ran away from you?” Sam asked as Bucky sat awkwardly in the backseat of Steve’s car, grumbling to himself, “Damn,” 

“I scared her, okay?” Bucky stated, not wanting to think of his latest, horrible date, “That’s all,” 

“You’ll find someone who's not scared, okay?” Steve spoke up, “It’ll take a while,” 

Maybe if he didn’t die of blue balls first. 

Steve pulled up next to a little shop and Bucky looked out the window, confused. They were supposed to be going back to the tower, yet Sam and Steve had raved on about some bakery that they had to stop at or both Thor and Nat would have their heads. 

“It doesn’t look special,” Bucky remarked as he climbed out of the car, stretching his legs and groaning. 

Some how Sam always got the front seat to the car, despite Bucky being almost twice his size. 

“I’m telling you, man, this place is magical or something,” Sam went on as they walked to the front door, “We all come here whenever we’re in the city or do an order to get delivered out to us, the food is amazing,” 

Bucky was still learning to appreciate food, he’d spent so long only eating for survival, he forgot how to enjoy it. 

The bakery smelt like a bakery, bread and a slight sweetness to the air. Only all those scents seemed to fade away when he stepped inside behind Steve and Sam, his head whipping to a woman who was wiping down the wooden tables. 

A distinct smell of plums and sugar filled his senses, mixed with a slight edge of something warm that he couldn’t but his finger on. This scent was so homey and delicious, it made his mouth water and something twist in his chest, a low rumble he hadn’t felt in almost a century awakening to life. 

This woman finally turned around and it clicked in Bucky’s head and chest, he knew exactly what you were to him. The feeling had been told to him time and time again by his parents, his sister when she’d met her mate and his old army buddies. 

You were his mate. 

But an edge hit the scent and it almost made Bucky drop to his knees, the sweetness of an incoming omega heat, of his omega’s heat. Steve seemed to shift too, looking at you before he looked at Bucky as he heard the growl that left the man’s chest. 

“Buck?” 

Then there was the noise, that little noise that seemed to shoot through his ears and bounce around his brain. It was a cry for help and he needed to respond to it, surging forward only for Steve and Sam to both grab him. 

“Bucky! Calm down!” Steve yelled out as they barely managed to wrestle him out the door and tackle him into the concrete footpath of New York City. 

The fresh air seemed to jolt him back to reality, pushing both the men off himself as Steve held his hands out, waiting to be attacked. 

“You good?” Sam questioned, panting, “Man, you super soldiers need to calm the fuck down sometimes,” 

“Buck, you growled,” Steve questioned, “What was that?” 

“Her..,” Bucky barely managed to grunt out. “It’s her, Steve,” 

The blonde super solider look back at the bakery before looking at his best friend, bewildered. Bucky stood up, smoothing a hand through his hair before he suddenly the punched the concrete wall beside them. The surge of alpha hormones pumping in his blood was putting him on edge. 

“Can we not destroy public property?!” Sam yelled. 

– 

You had spent a whole seven days in heat, which hadn’t been supposed to come for another month before it had suddenly triggered in the bakery that day. You had no idea who the man with Steve and Sam was, all you knew was that he’d triggered some primal urge in you. 

Never had a scent triggered you into a heat. You didn’t even know that it was possible, everyone always smelt so off-putting that it almost had you gag when an alpha stood to close. Sometimes omegas, like Elise, were pleasant enough to withstand, but alphas were usually disgusting. The one and only boyfriend you’d ever had was an omega. 

 Returning the day after your heat had your body groaning protest, the cramps still slightly there as you walked into the back door of the bakery. Elise had opened, you usually took the late shift since you loved to sleep in especially more now that winter would be approaching soon. 

“You didn’t have to come back so soon,” Elise spoke as she pulled a tray of muffins from the oven, “Jordy is happy for the extra shifts.” 

Jordy was a casual employee for the bakery. She was studying at college and usually helped out whenever exams weren’t drilling her into the ground. 

“I’ll be fine,” You smiled small as you placed your bag in the office before walking to the front of the bakery. 

That smell hit you again and you almost buckled to the floor. The strangely cold scent of musk and pine filled the air, hands shaking as you turned towards the person who had just walked through the door. 

He had cleaned up a little bit, his beard looked a little bit neater and he wasn’t wearing a cap today. Instead, he was in a plain black jacket and jeans, gloves on his hands. The gloves made you frown slightly, you had briefly remember him having a metal arm or was that some heat induced delusion? 

“H-hi,” His voice cracked as he stepped up to the counter, “Uh..,” 

“C-can I get something f-for you?” You stuttered out, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turned white. 

Everything was screaming at you to climb over the stupid wooden bench and throw yourself at this man. 

“These are for you.” 

His words came out rushed as he thrust a bouquet in your direction, the white orchids making your heart swell as you gently accepted them. No one had bought you flowers before, not that your dating history was rich with excitement and gifts from suitors. 

You’d only dated one person before, and it had been an absolute train wreck. 

“I’m Bucky.. Or James.., whatever you want to call me,” He cleared his throat, clearly nervous. 

Your name was uttered from your lips in a whispered, holding the flowers close to your chest. Bucky’s face softened, you had accepted the flowers and that was a step in the right direction. Maybe his therapist would finally be happy that he’d done something good with his time. 

“Uh, so do you-” 

His words were cut off by a phone ringing, and you watched as he groaned, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and glaring at the device. The actions almost made you giggle because something was so relaxing about his presence and his scent. Bucky was the first alpha that didn’t make you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. 

“I’m sorry, it’s important,” He sighed. 

Bucky answered the call before basically rushing from the bakery, you watching him run down the street at an unusually fast speed. 

“Finally!” 

You screamed when Elise popped up from the kitchen window, making you jump and almost throw the flowers before you turned to your boss with wide eyes and heart racing fast enough to jump start a car. 

“Poor guy’s been coming to the shop every day, waiting for you.” 

Elise had been right, Bucky had been coming to the bakery almost everyday and he continued to do so. You always thought that the Avengers lived further away from the city, different members appeared in the bakery every so often. But Bucky kept up the appearances and you had settled into a steady rhythm with the alpha. 

Bucky came around lunch time, you shared your break together before he left and then he walked you home. 

The cool evening air wraps around you as Bucky walked beside you, the rhythmic sound of your shoes tapping against the pavement the only noise that fills the quiet night. You’d just finished your shift at the bakery, and even though it’s late, you can’t shake the exhaustion weighing down on your shoulders. Your body aches from the hours on your feet, the constant motion, the endless demands of the customers, the heat of the ovens. You’re drained—completely.

But the thought of leaving work, of stepping away from your responsibilities, has you feeling a little more at ease. The comfort of Bucky’s steady presence beside you is almost as much of a relief as being able to slip out of your apron and leave the chaotic bakery behind. It’s not that you dislike your job, but your omega instincts have always told you something else—that you’re not meant to be working so hard, that there’s more to your life than running yourself ragged in a place that doesn’t feel like home.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Bucky says, his voice low but warm, noticing the way you’re dragging your feet just a little bit more than usual. He glances at you with that look in his eyes, one that’s almost protective, like he can see exactly what you need.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, but even you know it’s a lie. Your body is exhausted, your mind too, and you can feel the weight of your designation, the constant pressure to be strong, independent, and capable.

“No, you’re not.” Bucky’s voice is firm, and for a second, it takes you by surprise. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, instead slipping his arm around your shoulders and gently guiding you forward. “You shouldn’t be working so hard, you know that?”

You glance up at him, unsure of where he’s going with this. “What do you mean? I need to work. I need the money, and—”

“Forget that for a minute,” he interrupts, his voice softer now. “Omegas weren’t meant to be working themselves into the ground. Not like this. Your instincts—your body—they’re not built for it. You’re supposed to be pampered. Protected.”

You blink in confusion. “Pampered?”

Bucky chuckles, the sound rich and warm, like a secret only shared between the two of you. “Yeah. I know it’s hard to wrap your head around, especially with everything being the way it is now. But omegas like you? You’re meant to be taken care of, not pushed to your limits every day.”

You pause, the weight of his words sinking in. For the longest time, you’ve been told that working hard, being self-sufficient, was the way to live. Your parents had drilled it into you, given you no other choice than to support yourself. It’s what you’ve always known. The thought of not working so much, of letting someone else take care of you, feels foreign. It feels wrong, almost.

“But I have to work,” you protest weakly, feeling your tired muscles protesting every word. “I can’t just… sit around and do nothing.”

Bucky’s hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, not in a forceful way, but in a way that grounds you, reminding you that he’s here. “It’s not about doing nothing. You’ve got gifts, things you can do, but your role… it’s to be cherished, not to be constantly worn out. An omega needs rest, care, and someone who’ll give them the space to be soft, to be who they are without the pressure of the world on their shoulders.”

You’re silent for a moment, letting his words settle in. It’s hard to accept, to let go of the mentality that you should be doing more, pushing yourself to be productive and independent. But when you look at him—his warmth, the way he’s always there, steady and unbothered by what the world thinks—you feel the heaviness in your chest begin to ease just a little.

Bucky smiles down at you, his eyes twinkling with a gentle amusement. “You’re not a machine, sweetheart. You don’t have to keep running like this. You need someone who’ll take care of you, spoil you a little. Maybe even pamper you a bit.” He raises an eyebrow, and for the first time that evening, a genuine smile pulls at the corner of your lips.

“I don’t know about being pampered,” you mutter, feeling a little embarrassed at the thought.

“You’d be surprised,” Bucky grins. “But I’ll take care of you, okay? No more working yourself into the ground. You deserve to rest. You deserve to be protected.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the soft sincerity behind them reaching places inside you that you didn’t know needed mending. Maybe he was right. Maybe you didn’t have to do it all on your own. Maybe it was okay to lean on someone else, to trust them with your well-being, with your care.

“I don’t know if I can just… stop working,” you admit quietly, almost to yourself. But Bucky doesn’t seem bothered by your uncertainty.

“You don’t have to stop completely,” he says, his tone reassuring. “But you don’t have to wear yourself out like this either. You deserve to relax, to enjoy life without always feeling like you’re carrying the weight of the world. Let someone take care of the heavy lifting for a change.”

You exhale softly, a tiny chuckle. You didn’t have to worry about heavy lifting physically, because Elise’ strange gift gave her the advantage of hauling the heavy things around. But  the tension in your shoulders begins to melt away as you walk beside him. The idea of letting go—of surrendering just a little to the care of someone else—feels freeing in a way you didn’t expect. Maybe, just maybe, you could let Bucky help carry the load.

And for the first time in a long while, the thought of being cared for feels less like a burden and more like something you can let yourself want.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath. “I’ll try.”

Bucky’s smile deepens, and he leans down just slightly to catch your gaze. “Good. I’ll make sure you get the rest you need.”

As the two of you continue walking, his arm still gently around you, the idea of being pampered doesn’t seem as strange anymore. Maybe, just maybe, you could get used to this new reality.

It had become routine for two weeks now, slowly enjoying his presence as you joined him for lunch again, the musk and pine scent making you relax and your body not scream in pain for once in your life. 

“For a bakery, these are good sandwiches,” Bucky spoke as he scoffed down his second hot sandwich. 

“Elise’ parents owned a bodega downtown. she got good at making them,” You beamed softly, sipping at the cup of water you usually had with lunch. 

“You gotta eat too, doll,” Bucky pushed the sweet treats towards you, “Come on,” 

He always made an effort to make sure you were well fed, as any good alpha in his time should have done. 

“I’m getting there,” You laughed softly and nibbled on a pastry that had been made fresh that morning. 

Your parents had always lectured you on not overeating but you seemed to crave food often, like your instincts demanded food to keep up with something. 

“So,” Bucky leaned back in his seat, content in watching you eat, “Where did you grow up?” 

“Chicago,” You told him with a shrug, “I do prefer New York,” 

Bucky nodded, noting the way your scent had an edge of burnt caramel to it, “Your parents still living in Chicago?” 

You couldn’t help but scrunch your nose up and Bucky thought how you looked like a bunny, all soft yet displeased with his question by your scent. 

“I don’t really talk to my parents anymore,” You whispered, placing the pastry down. 

For a moment, you expected him to ask before Bucky just silently nodded and smiled. 

“Only family I got is Steve and Sam, like two brothers I never asked for,” Bucky confessed. 

You giggled, a light floral scent blooming from you, and Bucky felt his heart swell. 

Your days continued like that, a lunch date and a quiet walk home in the early evening. The walks home were usually silent, just walking side by side down the street before you and Bucky bid each other goodbye at your building door. 

That was until one day they didn’t, and you were displeased when Bucky didn’t show up to share lunch. Elise watched as you sat sadly in the booth, hardly touching lunch before returning to work with silence as you served customers. 

Had Bucky found you boring? Did he find out that you weren’t normal, your instincts and genetics wired differently? Had it scared him off? 

It was starting to get even colder now, the threat of snow looming over New York. You were lost in thought as you stepped onto the street, turning to lock the door until a click and something pressed against your lower back. 

“Don’t move.” The voice was muffled, but you knew what was pressed against your back as you stood, shaking on the bakery steps. 

This person’s scent made you want to vomit, your instincts going haywire as you didn’t dare to move and face your assailant. 

“You’re kinda cute,” The alpha sniffed, “Turn around, bitch,” 

You did what you were told, slowly turning as tears rolled down your cheeks. This alpha held a gun to your body, snickering and smirking as he looked you up and down. It was violating, feeling his eyes scan your body. 

“Unlock the door and get the cash from the register,” He hissed, the gun now pointing to your head. 

“P-please..,” You whispered. 

The next moment happened so fast that all you saw was a glimmer of metal before the attacker was sent flying into the wall. 

– 

Bucky was going to strangle someone. 

He had asked for uninterrupted time with you, which he had gotten for the most part. Staying at the tower mostly by himself had been nice, getting away from all the smells in the compound was clearing his head. But your scent seemed to be burnt into his brain, because he could smell the lingering scent no matter where he was. 

His instincts wanted nothing more than to steal you away from that bakery and keep you locked up in his room at the tower, marking you, mating you, and scenting you. Sometimes, it irritated him when your smell of sugar and plums wasn’t mixed with his scent. In the forties, scent mates usually got married within a week. 

But Bucky was a gentleman, something this time didn’t appreciate so much anymore. 

Getting sent on that mission was stupid; he shouldn’t have had to go, It was easily handled by Sam and Steve, after all, Bucky was nothing more than a sniper and a look out. He should have been here with you, sharing lunch and hearing all about your life and loves. His best friends had noticed his irritation, and Steve had picked up on his burning scent, but neither of them had mentioned it. 

Now, he was rushing down the cold New York streets, looking repeatedly at his watch as he made his way to the cozy shop. The Bakery closed at seven thirty, and it was almost that time, meaning he could at the very least apologize for missing lunch and walk you home. 

Turning down the street, Bucky picked up on your scent easily but it didn’t smell right this time. That smell of burnt caramel mixed with the plums, indicating that something was wrong and it kick started Bucky’s system into overdrive. He was running before he knew it, straight towards that little bakery. 

Years as a soldier made petty thieves seem like ants to him, grabbing the other alpha by the throat and throwing him into the concrete wall before he stalked over, making sure your attacker was out of it. 

Would he need medical attention? Yes. 

Did he deserve it? No. Not in Bucky’s eyes. 

You sobbed, and all of Bucky’s instincts zoned in on your shaking form. 

The scent was something he wanted to erase, he never wanted to smell burnt caramel again because it meant you were upset. You were shaking, tears rolling down your cheeks even as he reached out and cupped your cheeks, metal and flesh fingers wiping away the tears. 

“Can I?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, offering you a choice even though you both know what you need.

You nod wordlessly, your throat tight. It’s like your body knows the comfort he’s offering even before your mind catches up. When his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, it’s like the last of the tension in your body melts away. The overwhelming scent of him envelops you, and you instinctively breathe him in, the warmth of his embrace sinking into your bones.

Bucky frowned; he hadn’t done this in a while, consoling an omega with scent. But he pushed his scent forward, rubbing his wrists over your neck while wiping the tears away. You finally calmed down when Bucky pulled his massive jacket off and placed it around your shoulders. 

It warmed you up instantly, the musk and pine scent calming all your nerves and emotions as you collected yourself again. You can feel his eyes on you, gentle and understanding, but there’s something more—something primal in the way his scent seems to flow around you, slowly calming your racing heartbeat. His natural warmth seems to bleed into the space between you, and even though you're still shaken, you can’t help but lean slightly into him.

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, stepping closer, his voice quiet and soothing. “You’re okay. He’s gone. You’re safe.”

“Y-yeah..,” You stuttered out before letting out another sob as the wave of emotions hit you now that the shock was gone. 

You needed something a lit bit more, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around his bigger frame. You hadn’t had time to stop yourself before you hugged him, your instincts and desire just craved the physical touch. 

Bucky didn’t say anything, just wrapping his arms around your frame and holding you close. The pressure of his embrace combined with his scent, eventually calmed everything until you could take a step back and finally breath. 

“Thank you..,” You uttered. 

“Come on, let’s get you home.” Bucky placed a hand on your back, guiding you down the street towards your apartment building. 

Like every other day, it was silent, but it was a peaceful silence. Bucky’s sense of protectiveness was thick, his musk getting heavier, and it almost made you want to fall asleep for some strange reason. 

As you approached your apartment building, your mind raced before it landed on a conclusion. 

You were going to ask Bucky inside. 

“I..,” You started, Bucky looking at you intently, “Do.., you want to come up?” 

He was frozen in spot and you mentally face-palmed. Was that the wrong question to ask? It didn’t have to lead anything, not that you hadn’t fantasized about this hunk of a man in front you for your entire heat and any little sessions after that. 

“I’m sorry..,” You apologized quickly. 

“No, no, Doll, it’s not like that,” Bucky quickly spoke as soon as he realised why you were apologizing, “I’d love to, I mean, I would but I want to do this right..,” 

“Right?” You questioned, “Bucky, you just saved my life.” 

“Yeah..,” He nodded, “I mean, let me take you out on a date.” 

Your heart swelled at the question, quickly nodding your head before going to pull the jacket off your shoulders. Only Bucky stopped you, readjusting the jacket and keeping it firmly on your shoulders and even zipping it up. 

“Keep it, Doll,” Bucky smiled, “Makes you smell like me.” 

Not only did that make your heart flutter but your pussy did too. 

“Okay..,” Your voice came out small yet excited. 

“How’s Saturday?” Bucky asked, “I can pick you up from the shop.” 

You nodded eagerly. “Saturday is perfect.” 

– 

Steve, Sam, and Nat’s arrival at the Avenger’s tower late Friday afternoon had sent all of Bucky’s plans into the dirt. It was like the two alphas and beta knew Bucky was seeing you and decided to mess them all up with a flurry of questions and interrogation.

“You’re going on a date?” Steve asked as they stood in the kitchen, Bucky messing with his shirt. 

“Yes, a date,” Bucky huffed, “With the omega from the bakery,” 

“The one you went all weird macho alpha on?” Sam teased as he sipped his drink, “Poor lady must have some weird kinks-” 

The snapped Bucky’s attention, making him growl again and glare at Sam. The beta took a step back as Nat entered the room, the only one keeping the cyborg at bay was Steve. 

“You really think she’s your scent mate?” Steve asked, “Buck, that stuff doesn’t exist in these days,” 

“Evolution changed all of that,” Nat spoke up as she grabbed a beer from the fridge, “But then again, you’re an ancient man,” 

Bucky didn’t respond to Nat’s statement. He knew what the red room had done to all those girls and woman that were trained to be Black Widows. They targeted alpha girls as children, trained them and harnessed their senses but made them never able to connect with a mate. Scent glands removed and removal of the reproduction organs. 

At the very least, Hydra hadn’t taken that from him while they had taken it from Nat. 

“You three better not stalk me,” Bucky huffed. 

“We won’t,” Steve nodded, giving his best friend and fellow alpha a pat on the shoulder. 

Sam’s comment made Bucky roll his eyes, “But Redwing might!” 

Bucky had picked the perfect place for your date, it was quiet and not overly busy, so you wouldn’t get overwhelmed. He’d seen the way you got flustered when a lot of people came to the bakery at once, so it was something low-key and you could just focus on each other. 

You had been anxious for the two days before Saturday, Elise had been nothing but excited on your behalf and even tried to give you some pointers but it flew in one ear and out the other. All you knew was that you were looking forward to see Bucky, regardless of the date or not.

But the one setback in your mind was, once again, how unusual you were. 

Could he deal with something like that? He saved people every day as an Avenger. Was this something long-term or just trying to mess around? 

The doorbell chimed and you jumped, turning to see Bucky standing at the door in a black coat and washed out, grey jeans. His hair was tied up for once, but it looked nice. You wore a simple dark blue dress with long sleeves to combat the Winter that was now setting in and hugged your waist slightly. 

“Hi,” Bucky greeted as he stepped forward and that scent filled the space, filling you with ease. 

If things didn’t work out, you were probably going to be spending the rest of your life alone. 

“Hi Buck..,” You stepped out from behind counter, a shy smile on your face while Bucky pulled something out from his pocket. 

“I..I got you this,” He cleared his throat, opening up a little box, “It’s a bracelet.” 

Your eyes shifted to the gold link band, that had a little black star charm on it. No doubt it was made specially to compliment his arm, something matching to remind you of the super soldier. Gingerly, Bucky locked the bracelet around your wrist, while you watched the gold twinkle with awe. 

“Hey, supes!” Elise called out, “Have her back by midnight!” 

Bucky just chuckled as he offered up his arm, something you gladly took, and walked out of the bakery. 

– 

The place is cozy, with vinyl booths and checkered floors, the kind of spot where the air smells like comfort food and old-time charm. The soft hum of background music fills the space, and the low murmur of other diners adds to the quiet atmosphere. The smell of sizzling burgers and fresh fries teases your senses, but it’s the calm, welcoming vibe that makes it the perfect place for a quiet night out.

It was quiet, thankfully. Bucky thanked his lucky stars as you were sat in a booth, watching you go over the menu before you both ordered. You didn’t usually eat too much, making food was a passion but working had you so tired most days that you lived off noodles or leftovers from the bakery. 

You felt a little bit lighter in his presence but deep down, weighing on your soul was the shame you’d been carrying because of your sub-gender. It made you uneasy on how it might progress your relationship with Bucky or stop it all together. 

“So,” Bucky cleared his throat, “How long have you worked at the bakery?” 

A small smile plays on your lips, and you relax just a little bit. It’s easy to talk about the bakery, about the work you do.

“Four years,” you say, your fingers nervously tracing a pattern on the table. “I started there right after I left home. Elise was looking for someone part-time, and it just… clicked. I love it. I love the people. I love baking. It feels like I’m doing something meaningful.”

“I gotta say, the food is amazing and I don’t usually like sweet thing,” Bucky confessed, “And it smells so good,” 

You laugh softly, a light flush creeping onto your cheeks. “Well, I do try to make the best cinnamon rolls in town. People seem to like them.” Your voice falters a bit as the conversation shifts, the weight in your chest slowly building again.

Bucky watches you, his eyes soft with curiosity. He notices the shift, the way your shoulders tense, and doesn’t push, simply waiting for you to continue.

You decided now was the time to be truthful, lay the cards on the table and see what he was dealing with. 

“My parents kicked me out when I was eighteen,” You nibbled on some fries as you spoke, “They couldn’t handle..dealing with me, I barely finished school and no college wanted to accept me, I was nothing but a burden,” 

Bucky’s face hardened, noting the way your scent smelt like candied plums now, an indication of fear and shame. He never wanted you to feel like that. Reaching across the table, his flesh hand covers your own, grounding you in the moment. 

“Listen to me,” he finally says, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re not a burden. Never have been, never will be. And I don’t care what your parents think. I want to build a home with you, one where you don’t have to worry about that kind of shit. I’ll take care of you, and you’ll never be alone again.”

“Bucky,” You placed your fries down, “I’m not like other omegas,” 

“Why’s that?” 

“I’m..an anomaly,” You confessed, “I can smell people’s sub-genders. I’m submissive because my brain tells me to be..I…I get heats, I hoard things!” 

Heats were the most shameful part for you.

It was silent for a moment before Bucky smiled, chuckling even as he took in the information. Fate was a bitch, Bucky Barnes knew that enough but maybe fate was now being kind, giving him an omega that he could help, provide for and please. 

“Doll, I’m from the 1940’s and I’m well over a hundred years old,” Bucky chuckled. “That’s normal where I come from. You’re perfect,” 

You were dumbfounded. 

Bucky grins then, breaking the tension with a light chuckle. “I mean, we all have our weird quirks, right? Like, I’m pretty sure I’m not exactly normal either. I have a metal arm and super human strength”

You raise an eyebrow at him, a small laugh escaping you despite yourself. “Oh really? What’s so weird about you?”

He leans back, pretending to think, then smirks. “Well, I hoard things too. I mean, I’ve got about ten knives at home, and I don’t even cook.”

You can’t help but laugh out loud at that, and Bucky’s grin grows wider. “See? Everyone’s got their thing. What’s yours?”

You bite your lip, the smile fading a little as you think about it. “I… I hoard blankets,” you say, almost sheepishly. “I just feel like I need a lot of them. It’s, uh… comforting. I don’t know, I guess it’s a weird thing, but I don’t like being cold.”

Bucky’s eyes light up, and he chuckles again. “Hoarding blankets? That’s not weird at all. That’s just your instinct, sweetheart. Omegas like to have soft things around them—makes them feel safe, it's your nest.”

“My what?” 

Bucky turned, his arm whirred as he did so and looked you in the eyes. Those blue eyes were filled with a mix of concern and amusement that came out in his scent as an almost citrus undertone. 

“Your nest,” Bucky stated, “Do you not know what a nest is?” 

You shook your head. 

“It’s your.. Safe space,” He explained, “For you to rest, spend your heats…, have pups in,” 

You swallowed thickly at the word pups, it made your instincts suddenly kick into over drive. The thought of pups with Bucky? Divine, you couldn’t think of anything better in this universe. He’d be an amazing father no doubt, you’d let him breed you as many times as it took until you had a full soccer team of kids. 

“Omega,” 

The deep drawl pulled you out of your haze, watching the way Bucky’s eyes seemed to be clouded over and his nostrils flared slightly. He could smell you, no doubt about it. 

“Calm down before things get out of hand,” Bucky managed to cough out. “How have you been spending your heats?” 

“Alone,” You mumbled, “I..I had a boyfriend once, he was an omega like me but.., it just didn’t work,” 

Bucky almost wanted to scoff. Of course, it wouldn’t work; an omega wouldn’t be able to please you like an alpha. No, like he would. This day and age might have lost a lot of the sub-gender characteristics and norms but some things were still engraved in those instincts. 

Specifically with mating. 

“Um, Bucky?” You whispered so softly that he almost didn’t hear you. 

“Yeah?” He spoke back just as softly.

“Can you help me with my nest?” 

– 

The sound of a nest was so lovely and exciting to you that you forgot that your apartment wasn’t best-looking one in New York. It was small, with one bedroom and a bathroom, as it was all you could afford if you wanted to have any money left over from what you earned at work. 

Bucky found the space cute, the mismatched furniture, the blankets piled high in one corner, the cozy rug decorated with throw blankets on the couch, hanging plants, and lots of books. Everything feels like a reflection of you: warm but full of character. The kitchen was tiny and you didn’t have a dining table. The space made him want to provide for you more, a rumble in his chest indicating his intent that he was trying so hard to keep down at the moment. 

This moment was for you, helping you make a nest. 

Nests were so sacred in the 40s. Most homes came with a specific room for omegas to create nests in, you could buy blankets, pillows and a range of other items from nest specific stores that just didn’t exist anymore today. Omega children often learnt nesting skills from their omega parent or siblings. An omegas nest was the most vulnerable part of them and you asking for his help was the most trusting thing you could do. 

After all his years in Hydra, Bucky didn’t think he’d ever be in an omegas nest again. 

Your room was also small, with a massive bed and a set of draws with some bed side tables. It wasn’t too heavily decorated, other than the piles of blankets and pillows that seemed to be thrown around the room. 

Bucky stopped at the door because that smell that hit him wasn’t just your usual scent, it was something stronger. The smell of sugar plums with floral notes, warm caramel and freshly baked cinnamon rolls invaded his senses and he couldn’t help but slump slightly against the door. He could die a happy, happy alpha in this room. 

You rushed to pick up a few of the blankets, moving them into a corner. 

“Um, this is my bedroom,” You uttered out, a lit bit embarrassed as she space was so small, “Sorry it’s a mess right now, I didn’t think you’d be coming over-” 

“Omega,” Bucky’s voice deepened and you went hazy again, empty headed as you just looked at him, “Come here,” 

Trudging along the floor, you stopped in front of him. Bucky was already a big guy but now he looked massive in your tiny apartment. His metal hand softly cupped your chin and the other rested on her collar bone, his thumb moving along your skin. 

A strong scent invaded your senses, that musky pine making your knees weak and lulling all your worry and anxiousness away. It was a time to listen to your instincts, which made you want to find something soft, something warm. 

Bucky watched as you gathered up the blankets, arranging them on your bed and fluffing out the pillows. It wasn’t neat but nests weren’t supposed to be, they were meant to be however you liked it.

At times, you would shake your head in frustration, sending a pillow flying from the bed, only to swap it for a blanket instead. The switch was an intricate ritual of comfort and restlessness intertwined.

His heart tightened with a mix of emotions as he watched you retrieve the jacket he had gifted you just a few days prior. With deliberate care, you tucked it into one of the pillowcases, as if enshrining a precious memory. You arranged it meticulously amidst the sea of pillows, creating a sanctuary of warmth and familiarity.

Finally, you nestled into this cozy haven, curling up with a sigh of contentment. Your face burrowed into the inviting softness, seeking solace in the comforting embrace of fabric and sentiment.

“Will you join me?” 

That jump started Bucky’s brain. 

“You sure?” Bucky asked, “This is a vulnerable place for you to be in.” 

“I made it with the intent of having you in it, A-Alpha.” 

That one word had him spiraling, quickly kicking off his shoes and breaching the collection of blankets and pillows. Bucky had no intention of anything physical today, but a cuddle in your nest was more cherished than sex. 

Bucky laid down slowly, letting you get comfortable. His metal arm whizzed slightly, and Bucky couldn’t help but frown. It was a reminder that he wasn’t whole, maybe if you’d met him back in the 40s, when he had been a young man not yet affected by the war or years of brainwashing, you’d have liked him more.

“I can take it off,” He whispered. 

“The sound is soothing,” You hummed as you laid against his metal arm, cuddling up to the device with content, “And it’s a part of you,” 

There was no way in hell Bucky was ever letting you go now. 

A rumbling sound vibrated from your chest and your eyes opened, confused. Bucky felt a lump form in his throat, letting a deeper sounding rumble from his own chest. 

“What am I doing?” You asked. 

“Purring,” Bucky cupped your cheek, his thumb running over your nose, “You’re purring, doll, you do it when you feel safe and happy,” 

Little tears filled your eyes before you shifted closer to him, the purring louder as you took in his words. The world made you feel like an outcast, something placed out of time and having no place to belong. 

But Bucky had fixed up those feelings in these short weeks. 

As you drifted off to sleep, Bucky silent pulled out his phone and dialed Steve’s number. 

“How’s it going, Buck?” Steve’s voice called from the other end, “All is well, I hope?” 

“Steve,” Bucky swallowed as he spoke, “I need to buy a house,”

– 

The next morning was supposed to be peaceful, calm and loving. Bucky had stayed the night, both of you cuddled up in your nest. But you woke in the early hours before the sun rose, aching and sweaty as you crawled out of the nest and only the cold, hard wood floor. Your dress was discarded as you worked to cool yourself down as the fever was quickly rising.

Bucky must have sensed you move because soon enough, he was awake and next to you on the floor. 

“Hun,” He whispered softly, “Hey, look at me,” 

“It..,” You groaned, “Burns.., It’s so hot,” 

The sweet smell that filled the room was a sign your heat had started and Bucky knew, he knew that if you waited any longer, you’d been in more pain. You were already curled up on the floor, slick coating your thighs while you whimpered. The musk of Bucky’s scent only helped take the edge off a tiny bit, if anything, it made your instincts more heightened as your body screamed for him. 

Bucky shushed you, one strong hand slipping behind your back, pulling you into his lap. His metal fingers ghosted over your bare thigh, leaving a cool trail that contrasted the fire burning inside you. “I know, Omega. I know. Just let go, I’ve got you.”

You mewled, squirming in his lap and fingers digging into his shirt. His scent was thicker now, you could get hints of smoke amongst the musk and pine. 

“You’re doing’ so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. His voice was thick, laced with the deep rumble of his Alpha instincts, but he held himself back—for you. “Just breathe. Let me take care of you,”

His lips found the sensitive spot on your throat, where his mark should be, and he pressed a lingering kiss there. You melted, body instinctively arching for him, trusting him completely.

“Mine,” he growled, possessiveness thrumming through his scent as he held you closer. But even in his need, he was gentle, letting you set the pace, letting you surrender only when you were ready.

And oh, you were so, so ready.

Bucky hauled you back up into the nest, making sure you were comfortable among the pillows and blankets as he hovered over you. That possessiveness stayed thick in his scent as he kissed you, lips tugging at your own and you melted again. 

The heat was starting to become unbearable. It clawed at your skin, leaving you breathless and aching, every cell in your body crying out for something you didn’t quite know how to ask for.

But he did.

His lips moved down your throat again and when he bit softly, you couldn’t help crying out in pleasure. You wanted that bite mark to be deeper, you wanted his teeth to be embedded in your skin, your instincts wanted to be marked. 

“B-bucky..,” You cried out and he gingerly cupped your face. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you, doll,” He whispered. 

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” You managed to gasp out, “I..I need you,” 

That was the line that broke all reason. 

His metal arm ripped the remaining clothes from your skin, a whimper leaving your throat as Bucky’s hands wandered over your body. The coolness of the metal arm was oddly soothing as it worked over your breasts and his lips wrapped around one of your nipples. 

In your only previous experience, you hadn’t been liked to be touched so much. Your omega ex-boyfriend hadn’t been confident like Bucky was. 

His tongue swirled around the hardened bud, your body writhing underneath him before Bucky proceeded to press kisses down your skin. He could smell your slick, the floral scent filling the room and it was starting to make him dizzy. 

When his fingers trailed down with his lips and collected the slick coating your thighs, you almost screamed when he used the same fingers to swirl around your sensitive clit. 

“Oh god...oh god Bucky!” you cried out, your body surging at the gentle contact. You were so sensitive, it was almost too much, but it felt so good. Your hands reached out for him, desperate to hold onto anything as he kept teasing you, driving you insane with want.

You could feel his breath ghosting over your aching core, a promise that had your body trembling in anticipation.

“Need this too?” He teased, voice thick.

“Please,” you begged, “please Alpha.”

That did it. His lips latched onto your quivering pussy and the world turned white as your back arched off the bed and into his waiting hands. You came apart with a choked cry as he held you through it, tongue never stopping until he’d wrung every last aftershock from your trembling body.

But it wasn’t enough. The heat still clawed at you, still demanded more.

“Please,” you whimpered again softly, and Bucky bit the inside of his cheek.

Giving you his knot would make everything all better but he wasn’t even sure if you knew what a knot was. From his understanding, alphas didn’t knot their omegas anymore.

Hell, Alphas didn’t even seek out omegas anymore.

“This will change everything,” Bucky groaned, your scent invading his senses and almost making him lose control, “Are you sure, omega?”

His words were fuzzy as he spoke, like hearing underwater. All you knew was that you needed him, all of him, your instincts screaming for Bucky to fuck you and breed you.

“Need you,” you breathed, almost sobbing with it. “Please, Bucky.”

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He didn’t want to. The metal hand pulled his own clothes off while his flesh hand stayed on your thigh.

The next moment, Bucky’s hands were on your hips, pulling you into him as he buried himself inside of you in one firm thrust. You cried out, the mix of relief and overwhelming need washing through you as he filled you completely.

“Oh fuck,” he grunted, his voice raw as he started to move, slow and controlled at first but quickly giving in to the urgency of your heat. “S-so tight, Omega...”

The feeling of him inside you was everything you needed and more. Your legs wrapped around him as he drove into you over and over, each thrust sending a dizzying wave of pleasure through your body.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, clinging onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

“Never gonna stop,” he promised, his breath ragged and his movements slow in the beginning.

Bucky's cock inside you was hot and thick, filling you completely and sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

The sensations were dizzying as you felt every ridge and vein of his cock moving inside you, each one adding to the pleasure coursing through your body. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks at the sensation, pleasure erupting through you in a wave.

Bucky’s pace got faster, rougher, his cock pumping in and out of you while his hands remained on your hips. He was guiding your body against his, pressure building with each desperate thrust.

You felt the heat coil tighter, tighter until—

“Oh god!” you cried out, clenching around him again as you came for the second time. The force of it made you see stars and your whole body trembled violently under him.

But Bucky didn’t stop. He knew what he needed to do to soothe your heat entirely. He could feel it in the way your body still begged for more, your slick coated cunt sucking his cock in, in the way your scent still drove him wild.

The grip on your hips tightened and Bucky growled low in his throat as he held you flush against him. His thrusts became frantic, driven by pure instinct and need. And then you felt it—his knot swelling inside you, locking the both of you together.

A feral sound tore from his chest and he bit down on your neck at the same time as his knot stretched you impossibly wide, marking you forever as his omega.

It was the aftershock that had you crying out, fingers digging into Bucky’s broad shoulders as emotions slammed into your body. You let out a sob and Bucky soothed you, a low growl vibrating through his chest as he pulled you upwards until you were sitting in his lap. His knot was still locked deep inside your cunt, but it wasn’t painful.

You felt complete.

“B-Buck..,” You sobbed.

“I got you,” Bucky’s deep voice cooed at you, “Promise..,”

Then a purr began to vibrate in your own chest.

Bucky’s hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your heated cheek with utmost tenderness.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his words thick with affection as your purrs vibrated against each other.

You were wrapped around him in every possible way, mind hazy with the overwhelming sensation of being so completely claimed and content. The heat that had seared through your body was now a warm, comfortable buzz, soothed entirely by Bucky and his knot.

It was everything. It was perfect.

He shifted slightly, careful not to jostle you too much and you whimpered softly at the motion. He had never thought he’d have this, never thought he’d be tangled up in blankets with an omega in his lap and a bond forming between them. After never finding his scent mate back in the 40s, Bucky thought he’d never have this type of happiness.

But here you were.

Your fingers played at the ends of his hair as you calmed down from the high, as reality settled in that this wasn’t a dream for both of you.

[alohajix]

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲

Description: in the quiet town of Holmes Chapel, Amara—a gentle, nurturing kindergarten teacher—lives a life built on routine, safety, and quiet strength. She’s not looking for love, especially not after the scars left behind by someone she’d rather forget. But when Harry Styles walks into her classroom carrying his three-year-old daughter and a heart still grieving the loss of the woman he loved, everything changes. Neither of them is ready. Neither of them is looking. But sometimes, the people who change your life don’t knock first. They just… show up.

Warnings: this mini-series includes grief, past emotional abuse/manipulation, trauma recovery, single parenthood, and emotional vulnerability. Later chapters will contain explicit smut (clearly labeled).

Words count: TBK.

First part is here! Tell me what do you think in the comments💕

*****

PART ONE – Tiny Brave Things (Words: 12.4K)

AMARA

The kettle clicked off just as the sun began its slow rise behind the garden hedge, spilling pale gold through the kitchen window and casting a honeyed glow across the tile floor. I stood barefoot by the sink, hands wrapped around a mug that still steamed gently against my palms, and let the morning settle around me. The quiet was soft and familiar—no cars, no voices, just the faint hum of the fridge and the birds calling to each other through the hedgerow.

This was my favorite part of the day. Before the noise, before the paint-stained fingers and paper towel crises, before someone cried because someone else used the purple crayon first. Just the stillness of home. My own breath, steady and slow. The ceramic weight of the cup in my hands. The ache in my shoulders I hadn’t realized was there until the heat began to ease it.

I took a sip and leaned against the counter, watching the steam curl and vanish. My skin was still warm from the shower. I hadn’t bothered with the hairdryer—just towel-dried my hair and twisted it into a low bun. A few strands clung to my temples, already loosening in the morning humidity. I didn’t mind.

I glanced at the clock above the oven: 6:41 a.m. Early. Earlier than I needed to be up, but I’d stopped fighting it. My body knew what it needed. I gave up on sleeping in years ago—around the same time I realized I felt safest when I had a little extra time. A little extra quiet. A little extra space between me and whatever the day might bring. Some people woke up to alarms. I woke up to the weight in my chest shifting ever so slightly.

I finished my tea, rinsed the cup, and padded barefoot across the warm kitchen floor to my small dining table—the one I’d rescued from a vintage shop three years ago and painted myself on a rainy weekend. Pale blue, a little chipped at the corners now. I liked it better that way. I pulled out the chair closest to the window, sat down, and reached for my to-do list. Just seeing it calmed me. It was half crossed-out already, scrawled in neat loops across lined paper, right down to things like “pick up more lavender spray” and “replace dying peace lily in reading corner.” I didn’t mind the repetition. Some people found it exhausting. I found it grounding. The structure. The rhythm. The knowledge that every morning, twenty-three little faces would walk through my classroom door, dragging backpacks and half-zipped coats and stories about their cat’s birthday party or a new rainbow shirt.

And today—there’d be one more. Olive Styles. Age three. I hadn’t met her yet. Her father had registered her yesterday, just before the office closed, so I’d only heard the name in passing from Mrs. Keller, the school secretary.

“Sweet-sounding little thing,” she’d said. “He filled everything out perfectly. Very polite. Very…” She’d paused then, lowering her voice even though it was just the two of us. “Put-together.”

I’d smiled, distracted by a stack of coloring books I needed to sort, and hadn’t thought much more of it. At the time. But now, sitting alone in my kitchen with the day stretching ahead of me, I realized I was… curious. Which was ridiculous. Parents came and went. I met them at drop-off, at parent nights, at emergency “your child has a tooth in their pocket again” calls. I didn’t wonder about them. And yet—

I shook it off.

I stood, slipped into my flats, pulled my cardigan from its hook near the door, and took one last glance around the room—everything tidy, everything still. Then I stepped outside.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Holmes Chapel was still half-asleep as I walked into town. The air was cool against my skin, and the streets shimmered faintly with dew. I took the long route, weaving past hedgerows and low stone walls, nodding to the dog walkers I saw every morning. The same faces. The same smiles.

That was the thing about this town—you couldn’t hide in it. Not really. People knew each other. Knew who’d married whom. Who’d left, who’d come back. And in my case, who’d once dated Logan Clark, and who now politely avoided the subject.

I passed Mrs. Whitmore’s house just as she stepped out in her robe and slippers, watering can in hand.

“Morning, love,” she called, not looking up.

“Morning. They’re looking lovely,” I said, nodding at her roses.

“They always bloom early when the weather’s soft,” she replied, and I smiled.

I turned down the high street, already waking up with the scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakery and the soft jingle of the florist unlocking her front door. The bell above the caf�� rang as someone stepped out with a paper bag and a steaming cup. I walked past it all, my pace steady, familiar.

Ten minutes later, I pushed through the iron gate in front of the school and stepped into the quiet hallways of a place that had become more home than anything else. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as I made my way to my classroom. The moment I unlocked the door, I was hit with the faint scent of lavender spray and children’s markers. I breathed it in like oxygen.

This space—bright, safe, colorful—was where everything felt steady. The paper butterflies we’d made last week still hung from the ceiling, their wings swaying in the faint breeze from the open window. The reading corner cushions were fluffed. The whiteboard still had the words “You Are So Loved” written in big, bubbly letters.

I set down my bag, slipped off my cardigan, and turned on the fairy lights above the bookshelf. Then I got to work. Puzzles out. Name tags in place. Crayons sorted. Paint trays prepped. I moved with the rhythm of someone who’d done this a hundred times and still cared enough to make it feel new. I was adjusting a stack of books when I heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Well, well. Look who beat me in.”

I turned to see Mya, leaning against the doorframe, holding two takeaway cups and smiling like she knew something I didn’t.

“Miracles happen,” I said, walking over to take one of the cups. “No more running in at 7:59 like I’ve just escaped a burning building.”

“I don’t know, I kind of liked that look on you,” she said, stepping into the room. “A little wild-eyed. Kept the parents on their toes.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest.”

She sank into the beanbag in the corner and took a sip of her drink, eyes following me as I rearranged the art supply shelf.

“So,” she said casually. “Today’s the day, yeah?”

I glanced over. “The new student?”

“Olive Styles,” she said, as if she were testing the name out loud.

I nodded. “Starts today.”

Mya grinned. “That’s such a cute kid name. Sounds like someone who wears tiny boots and carries a leaf collection in her pocket.”

“I hope so.”

She gave me a look. “And the dad?”

I blinked. “What about him?”

Mya raised her eyebrows. “You tell me. The name Styles isn’t exactly forgettable.”

I shrugged, turning to face the shelf again. “Mrs. Keller said he filled out everything properly. Sounded polite.”

“That’s code for hot,” she said, sipping her coffee with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s code for ‘I didn’t ask.’”

“Sure. Sure it is.”

I tossed a crayon box at her gently. “Some of us are focused on the children, thank you.”

She laughed, catching it. “You’re such a mum already, it’s scary.”

“Maybe someday.” The words slipped out before I could catch them. I didn’t mean to sound wistful, but there was a silence after that. A breath.

Mya watched me for a beat too long. “You’d be a brilliant mum, you know.”

I smiled, quiet. “Thanks.”

She stood and handed me the empty cup. “Alright, I’ve got to go prep for my own little chaos tornado. But text me if anything interesting happens.”

“Define interesting.”

She grinned. “Tall, dark, and devastating.” And with that, she left.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

HARRY

Olive was already in bed with me when the alarm went off. I didn’t even hear the first buzz. Just felt her small hand tug at my T-shirt, the way she always did in the early hours. Her knees were curled into my side, bunny tucked between us, thumb grazing her bottom lip like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to suck it or not. She never cried out when she came into my room—just showed up, quiet, steady, like her body remembered something her mouth hadn’t quite learned how to say.

I blinked up at the ceiling, still hazy with sleep, then down at her soft curls resting against my chest. It was early. Still grey outside. Still the kind of hush that made you feel like the world hadn’t quite started yet. I liked that part. The stillness. The space between night and day. The part where no one needed anything from me yet. Except for her. I brushed a hand gently down her back, the fabric of her sleep shirt warm from sleep.

“Morning, bug,” I whispered. She didn’t answer, just snuggled closer. Today was her first day. The first day of something new. And it felt… big. Bigger than it should’ve.

It wasn’t just preschool. It was the first time I’d let someone else carry her weight for a few hours. The first time she’d sit in a room full of strangers and look around for a face that wasn’t mine.

I pressed a kiss to her hair. “Think we can be brave today?”

Her breath shuddered out across my chest. Just a tiny sound. She didn’t answer. I didn’t push. We stayed like that for a few more minutes, until the light outside turned a little less grey and a little more gold. Then I sat up slowly, pulling her into my lap.

“Toast and jam?” I asked. She nodded, eyes still heavy. “Milk in the bunny mug?”

She gave me a sleepy thumbs up. I carried her to the kitchen, setting her gently on one of the bar stools. She leaned against the counter with her head in her hands, bunny tucked under one arm, curls wild and matted in the back. I started the toast and turned on the kettle, letting the familiar motions quiet the nerves buzzing under my skin.

The house was still. Not empty—but quieter than it used to be. There were still traces of Becca everywhere. In the way the mugs didn’t match. In the pink apron hanging behind the pantry door. In the stack of kids’ books on the shelf near the fireplace. I hadn’t moved any of it. Couldn’t. Some days, it helped. Some days, it made me want to take a hammer to the walls.

Olive stayed quiet while I made breakfast. I knew she was nervous—could feel it in the way she picked at the hem of her sleeve, in the way she stared at her bunny like it might have answers she didn’t. I set her food down and leaned against the counter across from her.

“You remember we’re going to school today, right?” She nodded, eyes on her plate. “And remember, I’m not leaving until you’re ready.”

Her lips pressed together, like she was thinking hard. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” I said gently. “You don’t have to. I’ll be right outside for a little while. And then I’ll come pick you up after lunch, just like we said.”

She took a tiny bite of toast. “Will there be books?”

“Lots.”

“Glue?”

“Probably.”

She looked up. “The funny-smelling kind?”

I smiled. “The exact one.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “Okay.”

I walked over, crouching beside her stool so I was eye-level. “You’re gonna be okay, bug. Just try your best. That’s all.”

She leaned into me, small arms around my neck. “Will Miss be nice?”

I hoped so. “Yeah. I think she will.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

We were quiet on the drive. I kept the music soft—something acoustic and familiar—and glanced at her in the rearview mirror every few seconds. She was staring out the window, bunny still in her lap, curls pulled into two low pigtails that I’d clumsily tied myself. Becca used to braid them. Made them look easy. Olive never flinched when Becca did her hair. Now, she only let me do it if I promised to be gentle. And I always tried.

We pulled into the small car park beside the school, and I turned off the engine. Olive looked up at the building. Then back at me. Her bottom lip wobbled. Just once. I unbuckled my seatbelt and reached for her.

“You ready to be brave?” She shook her head. “That’s okay,” I said, lifting her carefully from the seat. “You can do it scared, too.”

I carried her toward the building, her arms looped tightly around my neck, bunny squished between us. The school was quiet from the outside, sunlight glinting off the windows, the iron gate just barely ajar. When we reached the door, I paused. She was breathing fast, her forehead pressed to my collarbone.

“Bug,” I whispered, “you’re safe.”

She didn’t let go. But she didn’t pull away either. I adjusted her in my arms, took a deep breath, and opened the door. And there she was.

She turned from the bookshelf when we walked in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The room glowed behind her—fairy lights strung above the shelves, sunlight pooling on the rug, soft music playing from a speaker I couldn’t see. It smelled like lavender and Play-Doh and something warm I couldn’t name.

She looked up at us and smiled. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t practiced. It was soft. Real. Welcoming in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Hi,” she said, walking toward us. “You’re right on time.”

Her voice was gentle—like she was speaking to both of us at once. Not just Olive. Olive peeked at her from beneath my chin.

“I’m Miss Amara,” she said softly. “But you can call me Miss, if that feels easier.”

Olive didn’t answer, but she didn’t hide, either.

“She’s a bit shy,” I said, my voice lower now, unsure why. “And this is all new.”

“I understand,” Amara said. “She can take all the time she needs.”

I nodded, heart tugging as Olive pressed her face into my neck.

“She brought her favorite book,” I added, reaching into her little backpack and pulling out The Koala Who Could. “And her blanket’s in there, too. Just in case.”

She took the book gently from my hands, her eyes scanning the cover like she recognized it.

“Thank you,” she said. “This helps a lot.”

“She likes the part with the tree,” I said, then caught myself. “Sorry. I know you probably don’t need all that.”

“No,” she smiled. “It’s lovely. I like knowing what matters to her.” She knelt down a little, meeting Olive’s eye line. “I heard you’re very good at puzzles,” she said softly. “I saved a special one for you, if you want to see it.”

Olive didn’t move at first. Then, slowly—so slowly—she turned to look at me.

I nodded, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Want to try?”

She hesitated. Then let her arms fall away from my neck. I crouched down and set her gently on the floor, her bunny still tight in her hands.

“You can bring that,” Amara said. “We like bunnies here.”

Olive blinked at her. Just once. Then followed her toward a little round table covered in puzzle pieces. I stayed by the door, heart full of something I couldn’t name. Amara turned back, eyes meeting mine.

“She’ll be alright,” she said. I believed her.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

AMARA

Olive didn’t say much. But she didn’t cry either. And honestly? That was more than enough.

She sat at the little round table near the windows, gently pressing puzzle pieces into place like it was a task someone had assigned her and she was determined to get it right. I stayed near her for the first ten minutes. I didn’t hover—just tidied nearby, made soft commentary, occasionally pointed out a missing tail or paw. She didn’t respond with words, but every once in a while, she’d glance at me. Just to check I was still there.

Eventually, I drifted across the room to welcome the others. Kids tumbled in—some running, some sleepy, one in tears because her snack box had the wrong sticker on it. The usual chaos. The beautiful, joyful, sticky kind. And all the while, Olive watched. She didn’t join in. But she didn’t shrink away either. She sat with her bunny tucked between her knees and her shoulders squared like she was bracing for something.

About an hour in, I was helping two boys at the paint table when I felt her beside me. Quiet as anything. She held up a small piece of paper. It was her drawing. A tree. A tiny grey shape in the middle. A koala.

I crouched to her level and smiled. “That’s beautiful.”

She pointed to the koala. “Kevin.”

“From your book?” She nodded once. “He looks very brave in your drawing.” She didn’t say anything. But she smiled.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

At snack time, I let her sit beside me. Some of the kids liked crowding together in little clusters on the rug, but Olive stayed close. Not clinging—just nearby. Her bunny sat in her lap while she quietly munched on crackers and watched the others giggle about apples shaped like hearts.

One of the boys—Elliot—came over and plopped down beside her without warning. Olive stiffened.

“That’s mine,” he said, pointing at one of the puzzle blocks she’d brought over earlier.

I turned toward him gently. “She’s using the extra pieces from the bin, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

He frowned. “But I used the yellow one yesterday.”

“She didn’t take it,” I said softly. Olive stayed frozen. I crouched, placing a hand gently on her back. “It’s okay.” She looked at me—those big, searching eyes—and I swear, the tension in her shoulders melted just a little at my touch. I looked to Elliot. “How about you show Olive how you built your tower yesterday? Maybe you can do it together?”

He grumbled, but after a minute, he nodded and scooted closer. Olive glanced at me again, then sat up straighter. She placed the yellow block in front of him. And when he smiled at her, she whispered, “Okay.” It was barely audible. But it was there. And something in me shifted.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The day flowed in soft, colorful waves. We did handprint art with washable paint. I read a story about a dragon who only ate marshmallows. Olive sat closest to the rug’s edge but turned her head toward me with each page. She never interrupted like the others did. Just listened, wide-eyed, taking it all in. She let another little girl braid one of her pigtails. She handed someone a red crayon without being asked. She laughed—once—when someone sneezed glitter by accident.

And for a few precious hours, I didn’t think about Logan. Until I heard my name at the door.

“Amara?” I looked up to see Mrs. Keller peeking in, holding a clipboard. “Phone message for you, love. Not urgent. Just… something to have.”

I stood, brushing paint from my hands, and met her at the door. She handed me the pink slip.

LOGAN, it read in thick, rushed letters.

Called to ask what time you finish today. Said he might stop by.

The breath caught in my throat before I could hide it.

Mrs. Keller’s eyes softened. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I lied. Because what else was I supposed to say?

I tucked the note into the pocket of my cardigan and turned back to the classroom. Olive was watching me. Not with fear. Not with confusion. Just… watching. Like she knew what it looked like when someone got a call that changed the air around them.

I forced a smile. “Time to clean up, sweet pea. Want to help me with the paint lids?” She nodded. Didn’t let go of her bunny. But walked with me anyway.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The clock on the classroom wall ticked closer to one. The sunlight had shifted across the room now, casting warm stripes on the floor where a few kids were finishing their snack. Most had gone home for the day—early pickups and half schedules. Olive was the last still waiting. But she didn’t seem worried.

She sat beside me at the low round table, her bunny perched carefully on the edge, as we sorted puzzle pieces back into their box. She was focused. Calm. And every once in a while, she’d glance at the door. Not anxiously—just waiting. It was only her first day, and somehow, she was already part of this place.

I felt a quiet kind of pride settle in my chest.

When the knock finally came, she didn’t flinch. Just turned her head and smiled before I even stood up. I walked to the door and opened it.

He was there. Harry Styles. His curls were slightly messier than this morning, like he’d run a hand through them too many times. He wore a grey jumper and jeans, his coat unzipped, his shoulders a little more relaxed than they’d been before. But his eyes? Still soft. Still searching.

“Hey,” he said, a little quieter than necessary. “She alright?”

“She’s better than alright,” I said, smiling as I stepped aside. “She’s been brilliant.”

He looked over my shoulder and saw her—tiny, bunny in hand, puzzle box now clutched to her chest. His shoulders dropped a little more. And for a second, something passed between us. Not a moment. Not yet. But a pause. Like he saw me now. Not just as her teacher. As something more.

Olive slid off the chair and padded over in her little pink trainers, curls bouncing softly.

“Daddy,” she said, not with desperation—just warmth.

He crouched and held out his arms, scooping her into a hug. “Hey, bug. You did it.”

She pulled back just enough to show him the puzzle box. “We found the fox.”

“You did?” he said, eyes wide like she’d just announced she’d climbed a mountain.

She nodded, then looked at me. “Miss helped.”

I smiled. “She did most of it herself.”

Harry stood, Olive still perched on one arm. He turned to me with something in his expression that wasn’t just gratitude.

“You’re very good with her,” he said.

“I try to be good with all of them,” I replied gently. “But she made it easy.”

He exhaled through his nose. “She doesn’t usually let go like that. Not since…” He trailed off, glancing down at her. I knew what he was going to say. He didn’t need to finish it.

“I’m glad she felt safe here,” I said.

He looked back at me, and for a second, the noise in the hallway faded. Everything stilled.

“ If she wants to come back tomorrow.” I smiled. “She’ll have her spot waiting.”

He nodded. “Same time?”

“Same time.”

We stood there for a second longer than we needed to. Then Olive tugged gently at his collar. “Can we get the bread with the holes?”

“The bagels?” he asked, already smiling. “Course we can.”

He glanced at me one last time. “Thanks again, Miss Amara.”

I liked the way he said it. Like it mattered. “You’re welcome,” I said. And I meant it.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The classroom emptied slowly. I lingered, like I always did. Wiping down the tables. Tidying the reading corner. Restoring the classroom to the gentle stillness it always held before the day began again.

The sunlight had faded to a softer gold now, stretching long across the floors. I turned off the fairy lights and packed my things with the kind of slow rhythm that comes after a full, good day. I didn’t feel tired. Not the heavy kind. I felt full. Full of little moments. Olive’s soft voice. Her quiet nod. The way Harry had looked at her—and at me—like something new had settled between the three of us and none of us quite had the words for it yet.

I stepped out into the early evening air and started toward the square. I hadn’t planned to stop at the market, but my fridge at home was bare, and the day had left me craving something warm. Something soft. Maybe bread. Or jam. Or chocolate.

The cobblestone paths were glowing under the fading sun as I walked into the village center. The hanging baskets of spring flowers swayed gently in the breeze. A woman walked past with her daughter, holding hands and humming the same tune Olive had been singing under her breath at cleanup time.

The bell above the market door jingled as I stepped inside. It smelled like oranges and pinewood. I made my way to the produce aisle and reached for a basket of strawberries, still thinking about the way Olive had said Miss helped like it meant something deeper.

“Afternoon, Miss Amara.” I turned.

Mr. Beckett stood behind me in his usual green jumper, arms tucked behind his back like he always had something to say.

“Hi, Mr. Beckett,” I said, smiling.

He gave a knowing look. “Heard you’ve got a new one in class.”

I nodded. “Olive Styles.”

He tilted his head. “That’d be Harry’s girl, wouldn’t it? Up by the hill cottages?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Sweet thing, that one. Saw them last week at the bakery. Didn’t say much, but the little girl had her eyes on the pain au chocolat like it held all the answers to the universe.”

I laughed softly. “Sounds like her.”

He leaned on his cane, his voice gentler now. “People talk, you know. Small town and all. Shame what happened to his girl.”

My throat tightened. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know her well,” he went on. “But she had a light to her. That kind of quiet kindness you don’t always see anymore.”

“She must’ve been special,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re one of the good ones, Amara. Always were. That little girl’s lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” I said, the words catching slightly on their way out.

He smiled, tipped his cap, and moved toward the back of the shop. I stood still for a second, basket in my hand, surrounded by fruit and light and the soft hum of old music playing overhead.

I didn’t know what I was feeling. But it was something. Something warm. Something real.

I grabbed a loaf of bread, a jar of raspberry jam, and—without thinking—a bar of chocolate I didn’t need but wanted anyway.

When I stepped back outside, the sun had slipped behind the rooftops, and the sky was washed in pale pink and lavender. And even though the air had cooled, something lingered in my chest. Not warmth. Not yet. But the sense that maybe—just maybe—something had shifted. And when it did… I’d be ready.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

HARRY

Olive fell asleep before I finished the dishes. She was curled sideways on the couch in her unicorn pajamas, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other still wrapped around her bunny’s floppy ear. I didn’t move her right away. I just stood in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall in that slow, even rhythm that only came when she was truly safe.

The house was dim now, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the glow of the kitchen light. There was music playing low on the speaker—something soft with strings—but I couldn’t hear it clearly over the noise in my head.

I’d done it. We’d done it. Day one.

She’d gone to school, let go of my hand, sat at a table beside strangers, and smiled at her teacher. She’d come home with purple marker smudged on her fingertips and told me about Kevin the koala like it was the most important story in the world.

And she’d said she wanted to go back. That part broke me a little. In a good way. I sat on the floor beside the couch, letting my hand rest gently on her foot. Just enough to feel her warmth. I thought about Becca. About how proud she would’ve been. How she’d probably cry and then pretend not to. How she’d make cupcakes for the whole class after week one and write me a to-do list I didn’t ask for.

I closed my eyes and let the ache come and go like it always did. Then I opened them again. And saw Olive’s sketchbook on the coffee table. I flipped it open slowly, expecting crayon scribbles. But there it was. A tree. A koala. And below it, written in crooked three-year-old letters, a name.

Miss.

And just like that, Amara’s face filled my mind again—her quiet voice, her steady gaze, the way she’d crouched beside Olive like she’d known exactly what to say and exactly when to say nothing at all. I didn’t know why she stayed with me like that. But she did. And something about it felt a little like the beginning of something I wasn’t sure I deserved.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

AMARA

I sat on the couch in my comfiest socks with a cup of tea cooling beside me and my feet tucked beneath a throw I’d had since university.

The house was quiet. Lavender-scented. Dim except for the reading lamp behind me. I should’ve been grading. Or planning. Or sleeping. But my thoughts kept circling back to her. To Olive. To the way she’d looked up at me after storytime with a crayon in one hand and her bunny tucked under the other.

And—maybe more than that—to him. To the softness in his voice when he said her name. To the look in his eyes when she reached for my hand. To the quiet that settled between us like something shared.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mya.

MYA: Sooo… how was the dad?

I smiled, shaking my head and picked up the phone—only to see another notification above hers. One I didn’t open.

LOGAN: Still pretending I don’t exist? You know I can always find you.

I locked the screen. Pushed the chill back down. Then opened Mya’s message instead.

AMARA: Polite. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who remembers which page in the koala book his daughter loves most.

MYA: Oh no. You like him.

AMARA: I don’t know him.

MYA: Yet.

I put the phone down and leaned my head back against the cushion. The warmth from the tea drifted into the air, sweet and steady. And somewhere beneath the comfort of the night and the quiet hum of my house, I felt it again. That shift. That pull. That soft, slow opening. Something new. Something gentle. Something I didn’t have a name for yet.

But maybe— Maybe when I’m ready, I’ll let it in.

[arminsumi]

❀ 𝐈 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 | 𝟒

Gojo Satoru / Geto Suguru

Falling in love despite a language barrier.

𝐂𝐡. 𝟒 | 𝐖𝐜. 𝟐.𝟔𝐤 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

A soft redness dusted Satoru’s face as he vigorously washed his face with a foaming cleanser in the bathroom. Early morning. Very hot. Peak summer heat. And on this stark-bright day he had plucked the courage (thanks to Suguru’s motherly encouragement) to ask you out on a date. You’d agreed with a smile – and the image of your smiling response lingered in Satoru’s head while he got ready for the date.

Satoru looked in the mirror at his reflection and noticed that the corners of his lips were naturally upturned; he was at a genuinely happy point in his life. Ever since you came to visit Japan, Satoru felt like an invisible weight lifted from his shoulders. One he wasn’t aware of before it lifted.

He blinked at his reflection, white lashes quivering.

大丈夫に見えますか？

Do I look okay?

He checked himself out in the mirror, observing how his white t-shirt draped over his shoulders.

カジュアルすぎる服装ですか？

Am I dressing too casually?

He dabbed cologne on his neck and sprayed it under his shirt to trap the minty-vanilla scent.

When he entered the living room, Suguru took one inhale of Satoru and his nose immediately scrunched up at the minty scent that hit his nose.

「ミント？」 he fake-belched, "Better vacate the area." he said dramatically and went to the kitchen, which was not divided by a wall but just a ceiling-tall shelf panel that you could peer through.

You and Satoru laughed at Suguru's overreaction.

Mint hopped on one of the shelves near Suguru, and then he extended the joke by freaking out.

「ミント地獄にいる。」 he said. "I'm in mint hell."

Satoru giggled and tormented Suguru with his cologne by trying to trap him in a hug — Suguru was having none of it. Their banter settled down after a few minutes.

Mint was just observing and swishing her tail peacefully the whole time.

"Satoru should put that cologne on you, Mint, then I'll hate you even more!" he cooed condescendingly at the Turkish Angora.

You laughed, "Suguru, it's no wonder Mint hates you, if you speak like that to her."

"Hey now listen — this cat is the reincarnation of a murderer that tried to kill me in a past life." Suguru said dramatically, "See that evilness in her eyes? She's out for my blood."

*****

Satoru used the translator to talk with you during the train ride to the aquarium.

At some point, a translation of one of your replies made him laugh so hard that tears formed in his eyes.

Google translate felt emotionless, so Satoru brought out his phrasebook and tried to speak with it. It looked personalized with his notes. You could tell that he’d consulted the book many times already in the past.

You wanted to look at it closer, so you asked, “Can I?”

“Mhm.” He handed it to you.

You flipped through the phrasebook and read the section names. Basics. Practical. Social – there was a big red circle drawn around a particular phrase on page 140. The romance section.

Satoru’s cheeks burned. He felt a bit caught. He gave you an awkward but cute smile.

What he had circled in the phrasebook was;

キスしてもいい？

The train stopped at the station you had to get off at. The lady over the speaker sounded so sweet that your attention was drawn away from the phrasebook. Satoru surreptitiously took it from your hands and packed it into his backpack.

The two of you boarded off the train, bumping shoulders at the doors and laughing about it.

Satoru squinted because of the sun, and you distinctly remember looking at him and thinking about how attractive he was when he squinted.

Because the sun was blazing so bright, Satoru hovered his hand over the back of your head to make sure you didn't heat up too much while you and him walked to the aquarium.

*****

Satoru felt a self-conscious feeling kick in when the two of you bumbled through the aquarium together.

Hand gestures flew between the two of you. You shared confused faces which were followed by laughter. It felt like you were playing charades at some point.

Sometimes Satoru would say "uhh" for so long after saying one English word that he'd start smiling and laughing at himself.

He'd end his incomplete thought with "You know?" and you'd shake your head and start laughing, "I have no idea." you'd reply.

Then Satoru would use google translate, practicing each word under his breath.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

While waiting for you by the aquarium bathrooms, Satoru practiced asking "Can I kiss you?" over and over. He paced around and muttered under his breath.

It's not that he couldn't pronounce it, it's just that he wanted it to sound less stiff and more emotional.

I want to kiss you with desperation, not I want to kiss you with dullness.

An old man who looked about ninety blinked at Satoru and wondered why this young man was pacing back and forth while practicing romantic English phrases.

("What are you doing?") he asked Satoru.

("Learning to speak English.") Satoru replied.

("Why?") the old man asked.

("Because the girl I like speaks English. I'm waiting for her right now.") Satoru replied.

("Well, I teach English. I don't think you should ask to kiss her, that’s too direct. If the universe wills it, you two will fall into a kiss and it will just happen.") he advised.

("I don't really believe in the stars bringing people together. I want to kiss her whether or not the universe wills it.") Satoru said.

("You've got it all wrong. The stars really do bring people together. I'm sure the same stars that brought her to Japan will also bring her to your lips.") the old man said.

("... are you a poet, too?")

You came out of the bathroom. The ethereal aquarium light lit your face beautifully.

("Oh... is that girl the one you are in love with?") the old man noticed you.

Satoru looked at you. His cheeks warmed up.

("Yes, that's the girl I'm in love with...") he replied dreamily.

("It's no wonder. Well then, good luck.") the old man said.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

It felt like the aquarium was a whole other world, like a paradise in a bottle corked shut, one which only you and Satoru could exist within.

He watched the spin of aquatic life with you in silence. You seemed captivated.

The back of his hand brushed against your arm.

背が高すぎるんです。

I'm too tall.

Satoru's hand trembled a little.

どうすれば彼女の手を握ることができますか?

How can I hold her hand?

Satoru had to be tactful about it.

He awkwardly bent his knees a little to shorten himself.

Then he poked the back of your hand softly to get your attention, blatantly hinting to you that he wanted to hold your hand.

So you offered him your hand and then he seized it like a treasure being presented to him. His lips grew into a smug smile.

You saw him go red in the face, even in the dimness and blueness of the aquarium light.

つまりこれが愛なんだ？

So this is love?

You and him gently held hands and stood in front of the tall glass of the jellyfish enclosure.

The room was dark blue, but the enclosure lights lit up the see-through sea creatures with a magenta color.

It felt like a sight you could stare at forever and ever and always be at peace; magenta jellyfish pulsing then drifting then pulsing again, their bell-shaped bodies and tentacles behaving like a chiffon dress in water.

クラゲのようにあなたの愛の中で漂いたい。

I want to float in your love like a jellyfish.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

You and Satoru held hands as if your hands were glued to each other.

While exploring the map in the afternoon, he stayed at your side like a magnet. If he lost your hand, he immediately searched for it and held it again.

The summer heat got intense. He sweated more than you did, but even still looked attractive and fresh. To cool off, you and him searched for cold things to eat.

"Uhhh — do you want to eat shave ice?" he asked.

"Mhm, sounds good." you nodded.

So the two of you went on a long, long search for someone selling shaved ice and eventually found one. You zoned out a bit while enjoying his voice.

Satoru mentally kicked himself because even though he thought he was prepared for this date with you, he forgot to bring extra money. He could only get one cup of shaved ice.

"What flavour?" he asked you.

You told him cherry, so he got cherry.

The two of you shared it. It made his lips go red and cold.

真っ赤で冷たい唇でキスできたらいいのに。それは冬のキスのようなものでしょう。

I wish I could kiss you with red, cold lips. It would be like a winter kiss.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

The train shuddered.

You'd noticed that Satoru always kept his knees together when sitting next to you — to give you space. But now after holding hands, closeness was being chased and chased; the both of you scooted closer together and tried to translate your thoughts to each other with the phone.

Satoru typed in:

JPN : 私たちはくっついています。

ENG : We are stuck together.

You chuckled softly in response. His eyes always lit up and he really relished in making you laugh, even if it was just a soft chuckle.

You replied to him:

ENG : you are warm.

JPN : あなたは暖かいです。

He replied to you:

JPN : そう、あなたのせいで���

ENG : yes, because of you.

You replied to him:

ENG : are you flirting?

JPN : イチャイチャしてるの？

Satoru gave you a cheeky smile.

JPN : うん、いちゃいちゃしてます

ENG : yeah, I'm flirting

You smiled as he continued typing. His thumbs hesitated, like he was nervous about what he was about to type next.

Satoru's heart was beating harder and harder in his chest.

JPN : 頬にキスしてもいいですか？

ENG : ! NO CONNECTION

You both groaned.

The connection kept failing from then on, so the two of you laughingly attempted to communicate by using the outdated pocket phrasebook for the rest of the train ride home.

"Kiss...?" he tapped his finger on his cheek.

You thought he meant he wanted you to kiss him on his cheek, but he meant to ask if he could kiss your cheek.

So he malfunctioned when you leaned in and gave him a small but firm kiss on his left cheek. His ears and cheeks burned.

こんなに柔らかい唇。。。

Such soft lips...

When you two stepped off the train, Satoru lingered behind you for a moment and grazed his fingertips over the place where you kissed and smiled to himself.

*****

The boys were talking about you at home while you were in the bathroom freshening up after the long, hot day out.

("Satoru, you're glowing. Did something good happen on the date?") Suguru smirked.

("She kissed me.") Satoru told him dreamily.

Suguru widened his eyes.

("She kissed you?!")

("Just on the cheek.") Satoru sighed, ("Her lips were so soft...")

("Were they now? I think you're exaggerating.") Suguru teased.

("I'm not exaggerating! Ask her for a kiss on the cheek, and you'll see; she has the softest lips ever.")

Suguru went quiet and pink in the face after Satoru suggested that he should ask you for a cheek kiss.

("Alright. I'll see for myself...") he mumbled.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

Come the evening, the three of you piled up like cats on the couch in the living room and watched an old movie together.

"Seems like someone's comfy." Suguru commented.

You smiled and looked at Satoru; he curled up against you with his noodle-like limbs and fell asleep mid-way through the movie. Your warmth had made him too drowsy and dreamy to keep his eyes open.

"You know, I was worried that we wouldn't have the same chemistry in real life as we've had through the screen." you said.

Suguru let out a breathy laugh and replied.

"Yeah, I thought it would be like that too. When I hugged you at the airport, though, I felt the same spark I felt when we first video-called." he said.

You felt your cheeks warm up the more he talked.

"...spark?"

"Huh?" he raised his brows.

"You said you felt a spark between us?"

Suguru's heart throbbed. He didn't seem to know how to respond, but then he decided to act a fool.

"Oh, did I say spark?"

"Yes, you did! You said spark, I heard you." you playfully smacked his shoulder.

He started grinning so he hid his mouth with his hand.

"Well, I think you heard wrong." he teased.

You looked at each other in silence.

"... hey, Suguru?"

"Yeah?" he replied breathlessly.

He withdrew his hand from covering his mouth and his face became serious.

"What were you two talking about earlier? I heard my name being tossed around a lot. You can't keep gossiping behind my back like this!"

"Oh... earlier? We weren't gossiping. Satoru was boasting to me about how soft your lips felt on his cheek." Suguru said.

"Boasting? You seem jealous." you said.

"Don't prod at me now just because you think I'm jealous."

"I will absolutely prod at you." you teased.

"I'd rather you kiss me." he said.

"What?"

"What?"

You looked at each other for a moment.

"Not like... on the lips." he backtracked.

"Oh."

"Satoru said I should ask you for a cheek kiss because I claimed he was exaggerating how soft your lips are."

"Well... he's not exaggerating." you teased.

"Oh yeah? I need proof."

"What kind of proof, Suguru?"

"Kiss me."

So you kissed his cheek very slowly.

He felt the press of your lips, and how damn soft they were, and thought to himself;

Shit. Her lips really are as soft as Satoru said they were.

When you pulled away, you asked "So? Are they as soft as Satoru claimed?"

"Soft enough." he teased.

"Soft "enough"?! What does that mean?"

"Soft enough to make me feel that "spark" again." he said.

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

You looked at each other with wide eyes.

Satoru made a wakeful noise.

「うるさい。」 he mumbled, then snuggled into you like you were his pillow.

"Oh. We woke the cat." Suguru joked. 「おい、バカ。あなたは映画全体を通して寝ていました。」

「残念な。」 Satoru replied and let out a sleepy sigh.

"Okay, let's get to bed... it's late."

© arminsumi

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

★ Tags

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Thank you for enjoying the story 💗

[romanticatheartt]

I die for these soft, domestic moments...

I laughed in earnest, and squeezed his face as I pressed a swift kiss to his mouth. “Shameless flirt.” The warmth returned to his eyes at last. ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ I kissed his bare neck, and he reached back to drag a finger down my cheek. ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ Rhys came over and handed me a hairpin. We worked in unison, pinning my hair into place. Rhys pinned a hard-to-reach section of my hair. ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ He leaned down, nuzzling my throat. “Don’t you want to comfort your mate, who has missed you terribly these weeks?” I planted a hand on his face and pushed him back, scowling. “I want my mate to tell me where the hell he was. Then he can get his comfort.” Rhys nipped at my fingers, teeth snapping playfully. “Cruel, beautiful female.” ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ I studied the hand, the ravaged face. Such pain lingered there—and exhaustion. The face he never let anyone see. I pushed up onto my knees and kissed his cheek, his skin warm and soft beneath my mouth. ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ So I wrote back, At least you make up for your shameless flirting by being one hell of a High Lord. He’d returned that evening, smirking like a cat, and had merely said “One hell of a High Lord?” by way of greeting. I’d sent a bucket’s worth of water splashing into his face. Rhys hadn’t bothered to shield against it. And instead shook his wet hair like a dog, spraying me until I yelped and darted away. His laughter had chased me up the stairs. ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ A half smile that had me walking toward him, stopping between his legs. He braced his hands idly on my hips. He rested his brow against my chest, right between my breasts, and wrapped his arms around my waist. For a long minute, he only breathed in the scent of me, as if taking it deep into his lungs. ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ “You look exhausted, that’s why.” He put a dramatic hand over his heart. “Your concern warms me more than any winter fire, my love.” I rolled my eyes and sat up. “Did you at least eat?” He shrugged, his dark shirt straining across his broad shoulders. “I’m fine.” His gaze slid over my bare legs as I pushed back the covers. Heat bloomed in me, but I shoved my feet into slippers. “I’ll get you food.” “I don’t want—” “When did you last eat?” A sullen silence. “I thought so.” I hauled a fleece-lined robe around my shoulders... “You don’t need to—” “I want to, and I’m going to.”... “Did you eat at all today?” “I had an apple this morning.” “Rhys.” He set down his fork, his mouth twitching toward a smile. “Feyre.” I crossed my arms. “No one is too busy to eat.” “You’re fussing.” “It’s my job to fuss. And besides, you fuss plenty. Over far more trivial things.” ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ “You look beautiful tonight.” His words were low, rough. I stroked a hand down the lap of my gown, the fabric shimmering beneath my fingers. “You say that every night.” “And mean it.” ₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ His fingers threaded through my hair, tilting my face up. That wicked smile grew, and my toes curled in their boots. “There’s my darling Feyre.”

[mr-hopkins]

Asking Sunghoon to Shower Together 🌶️🔥

You sigh, dropping your bag by the door as exhaustion washes over you. Work had drained you, and all you wanted was to collapse onto the couch and forget about the world for a little while. But as you step inside, something makes you pause.

The faint sound of water running. And then—Sunghoon's voice.Singing.

A small smile tugs at your lips as you stand still, listening. His voice, though slightly muffled by the sound of the shower, carries through the apartment. There’s something so effortlessly charming about the way he sings, relaxed and unguarded.

Your mind drifts—too much. You imagine him under the spray, warm water dripping down his toned body, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, his lips slightly parted as he hums the melody.

Read the rest below 👇🏻

You shake your head and force yourself to sit on the couch instead. Nope. Not today. I’m a good girl.

For a while, you focus on unwinding, curling up with a pillow, but your curiosity gets the better of you. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got to hear Sunghoon singing in the shower like this.

So you creep towards the bathroom, tiptoeing as quietly as possible.

“Sunghoon?” you call out, barely suppressing a giggle.

The singing stops for a moment before he responds. “Yeah?”

“Are you… taking a shower?”

He snorts. “What do you think, genius?”

You bite your lip, your fingers brushing against the bathroom door as you decide to push his buttons. “Can I join?” you ask playfully, giggling.

For a second, there’s only silence. Then, the sound of the water stopping. Your breath catches.

Before you can process it, the shower curtain is yanked open, and Sunghoon steps out, water droplets trailing down his defined chest. A white towel hangs dangerously low on his hips, and his damp hair clings to his forehead. He looks like he stepped straight out of a daydream. You freeze.

Sunghoon smirks, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You think you can handle showering with me, baby?” His voice is low, teasing, dripping with amusement.

Your face flames. “I—”

“Look at you,” he chuckles, raking a hand through his wet hair. “So flustered already.”

Your heart hammers. His toned arms, his sculpted abs, the way his damp skin glistens under the soft bathroom light—it’s too much. You let out a tiny squeak before spinning on your heel and bolting out of the bathroom.

Sunghoon’s laughter follows you down the hall. “Where are you going? Weren’t you the one who wanted to join me?”

You collapse onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your head in pure embarrassment. What was I thinking?!

Minutes pass, and just as you think you’ve recovered, you hear soft footsteps.

Then, a deep chuckle.

Sunghoon stands in front of you, fresh out of the shower, still shirtless, now in grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips. His hair is slightly damp, and his bare face makes him look unfairly attractive.

Your heart skips a beat.

“You’re really cute when you get all shy,” he muses, plopping down beside you. His arm rests along the back of the couch, effectively caging you in.

You tuck your knees up to your chest, trying to shrink yourself, but it only makes you look smaller and more vulnerable.

Sunghoon tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

You huff, looking away. “You’re annoying.”

His fingers brush against your chin, tilting your face back toward him. His touch is featherlight, yet it sends a shiver down your spine. “You weren’t saying that when you asked to shower with me.”

Heat pools in your stomach. His lips are so close. His scent—a mix of fresh soap and something distinctly him—invades your senses.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you grab the front of his sweatpants and tug him forward.

Sunghoon's eyes widen slightly, but his surprise quickly turns into a smug smirk. “Oh? So you do want me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you close the distance, crashing your lips against his.

Sunghoon groans into the kiss, his hands sliding up your arms, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is heated, desperate, as his lips move against yours, teasing and taking all at once. His tongue flicks against your lower lip, and you part for him, letting him deepen the kiss.

His hands find your waist, gripping just tight enough to make your breath hitch. One of his hands trails lower, squeezing your thigh as he shifts, pinning you between him and the couch.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice laced with desire. “I could kiss you like this all night.”

You shiver as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. His lips ghost over your pulse point before sucking lightly, making your breath stutter.

“Sunghoon,” you whisper, gripping his biceps.

His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing your skin. “Wanna know something?” he whispers, his lips hovering just above yours.

“What?”

“I wasn’t done showering.” His smirk is devilish. “Come with me?” Your stomach flips.

You hesitate for only a second before nodding.

In one swift motion, he scoops you up bridal style, making you yelp. “S-Sunghoon!”

He chuckles, carrying you effortlessly toward the bathroom. “You asked for this, baby.” The door clicks shut behind you, and the last thing you hear before the water starts again is his voice—low, teasing, and filled with love.

[hai7ani]

i know you may have been busy lately, more so considering you got a job and congratulations on that!!

but i reallyyy need to ask for a fluff rindou one crying bc of how utterly gorgeous his wife looked on their wedding day and getting all shy around her after the wedding for days because he’s got a like crush on his own wife

you don’t HAVEEEE TOOO, it’s on you to do it:33and if you’ll do it then take your time bbg, no worries here :b

Rindou hasn't always been a very vocal person.

He's reserved and he doesn't speak a lot unless he's pissed or he just has to answer a question directed at him. It's not that he's selective when it comes to talking 一 he just doesn't know what to say and what even is there to say. But he speaks smoothly to you when he calls you at work in the middle of the day, he speaks clear with his family to plan for cake and coffee, he speaks mumbling to your cat sometimes when she's magically made her way onto his shoulder and sitting there while watching him prep her meal like a curious little bird.

He's weird in a way that you find endearing all the time. He likes collecting Legos that he proudly displays in one little corner of the house even though he's almost 35 and he enjoys giving unsolicited commentary on how stupid and blinded by love the main lead is (who happens to be your favourite) on the sappy romcoms you like watching on Friday nights after work just to see your nostrils flare before chewing his ear off on why the main lead just did what they did. He eats his food like he's just trying to get it over with and he lets hamburger sauce drip all over the table, yet he always wipes your mouth when he sees steak sauce leaking out the corner of your mouth.

Lately his new weird habit is following you around the house. He likes to stand behind you quietly and you'd knock into his chest or step on his toes after giving you a shock. It pisses you off because you don't want to accidentally hurt him if you were in the kitchen handling hot water or is holding something sharp. But he kisses your frown away and continues doing it until you slowly get used to him showing up behind you all of a sudden.

He's also been really annoying about his appearance lately. He keeps getting you to dye his hair black again and again (like, every end of the week when the black fades because he keeps washing his hair everyday) over the sink because his greys are coming out and he makes you trim his hair too while you're at it. He's been spending a lot of time shopping for cologne and browsing through Zara Men because you mentioned once the Jo Malone sample he sprayed on a few weeks ago when he ran out of other perfumes smelled really nice on him and wow, this K-Pop idol's fashion sense is so neat.

Today the ring on your finger feels a little bit heavier than usual and you phone him sobbing to come back as soon as he can. He comes home with fried chicken and heat pads and he drops it all on the ground when he finds you cocooned in your blanket on the ground watching Corpse Bride. "I feel so bad for Emily." You're crying to him the minute he takes off his shoes and he sighs in exasperation when you keep replaying the same scene where Victor was yelling at Emily. "Fucking Victor again." He joins you in your cocoon shortly after showering really quickly and switches the movie to The Notebook instead because he knows you still haven't cried enough today. The fried chicken is soggy and your tears won't stop and he's nothing but patient and sweet when he pats on your back and letting you wet his shirt with what even you can recognise as hearts in his eyes.

"I just missed you a lot today." You blow your nose, noisy and hiccuping into your handkerchief. "Me too." It's really soft when it's murmured into your neck and it's almost as if he is the one who'd phoned for you to cone home and hug with him.

"You see me everyday." You jab a finger into his chest and he flinches. "What? I can't miss you but you can?"

"You can, yes." The scene pops up in your head again and you laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Remember? You were crying just like me on our wedding一"

"Oh, shut up. That was months ago一 ages ago."

"Me shut up? Look at you, you're still acting like we got married yesterday. Look at how tight you're hugging me. You're like 29 again at our first date following me around the DVD store. What was it again? You liked my perfume? I asked if you liked me too and you got so red. And, as if you don't always look at me now like you wanna一"

You see YouTube appearing on screen and he's typing in Thai advertisements一

"Stop!" You try snatching the remote away from his hand but he's quicker and a video is already playing.

"You're less annoying when you cry."

Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

Oh, well. Your husband's weird like that anyway. And you match him just fine.

Wrote something a little different than what was asked but here it isssssss he's more of a loser husband than a shy husband here ☹️☹️☹️ i love him so much

[astracora]

Aching Bones

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc x Caleb

Warnings: Chronic Illness, Flare up, Autistic Overload, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2183

Written: 2nd April 2025

Notes: Established-relationship with gn!MC with Poly!LADs (Sylus and Caleb centric), with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Based on a true story, right now... Chronic illness loves compounding my autism so I just have a really bad time. Oh to have Poly!LADs comfort... Time to see if I can sleep yet...

Masterlist

Everything hurts.

Sore and aching and twisting under your skin. Skin on fire, and yet the shivering and cold won't leave you. No matter how strong the spray of the hot shower water is down your back.

You haven't felt this bad in such a long time, heart thrumming uneven under your ribs, desperate to escape the body that can't sustain it properly.

You imagine the core is just as disappointed as you are, everytime your physical form shuts itself down in favour of uselessness.

Prosthetic abandoned somewhere outside of the shower, you'd barely managed to remove clothing before falling and sprawling under the spray. Your stool stares at you from the side, reminding you it's there just for this, but there's no strength in your body. It attempts to move, only to ache so deep you think your past lives must feel it.

If such a thing is real, you hope they were not weighed down by a body that does not work. That betrays you in every moment. That ignites your feeling of worthlessness. Of shame.

The floor is uncomfortable, digging tiles into your shoulder blade, where your residual limb burns, knives digging into it as all your joints twist and bend against the pain. Years of scar tissue agitated by your body forcing you into a fever as your heart stumbles.

You want to vomit, the nausea in your stomach, and you think if you move just enough you will, spilling emptiness all over the floor and choking on nothing. You cannot stop shivering, and it hurts.

It hurts.

You just want it to stop hurting.

A knock hits the bathroom door, hurried and agitated, and the voice that comes through, normally calm, is harried.

"Kitten, you've been in there for over an hour, are you alright?"

You want to speak, but your voice fails you, absent when you need it every time you are overwhelmed, and you're not sure what to do, fingers trembling. The lack of response is a worry to him, familiar with the moments you have no voice.

When the handle turns, and you see his shoes step across the tile, wading through steam, you hear the crack in his voice again. The ache in his heart, as he moves quick to crouch next to you. His suit soaking through with the stream.

You make a noise of discontent in the back of your throat, small and weak like a wounded animal, but he ignores you. Checking you over for injuries. There is none, nothing outward, nothing physical.

Internally… well it's another matter.

You rarely see Sylus break his countenance. When you're injured right in front of him, in a way he's scared is fatal. When your heart failed you that morning you were cursed. When you fell off a stool trying to lure out that little cat. Always vulnerable with you.

If only the comfort of that assurance was a healing balm, yet you still feel shattered across the ground.

White hair falling over his eyes and red gleaming gaze dulling, he hovers hands over you, before taking an inhale and grounding himself.

"May I pick you up?" You shiver at the voice, solid, stable and secure. It's a voice he uses when he knows you're fraying, and you wish you didn't have to appear so weak in front of him.

He deserves so much better.

You cannot speak, the words lodge in your throat and your voice is nowhere to be found, so you tap once. Finger slow, shaking, but he follows it. Without hesitation then, he lifts you carefully into strong arms, the heat of him more intense than that of the water, and you almost melt against the chest and heartbeat under your cheek.

He moves the stool against the wall, and places you against it, securing you there and with his EVOL for good measure. You slump back without falling. Inhaling a breath that hurts your chest so much to take, and shiver. Vaguely watching through closing eyes as Sylus busies himself. Collecting the shampoo you use, the body wash, filling a basin so he can work easier.

You want to fight him, he's busy and he should be doing something better than this, but he ignores the look you give him. Ignores the way you try to grasp at the hem of his soaked shirt, and begins to help you clean.

Washing away the grime, easing the ache somewhat with hands that are only ever gentle for you.

He is careful around your limb, easing careful hands over your cheeks, running long fingers through your hair. A kiss pressed to your cheekbone, quick and fleeting so the sensation does not become painful. He keeps a hand on yours, paying attention to the taps.

One, yes that's fine.

Two, it hurts.

Avoiding areas where your skin burns too much. Where you feel like a raw nerve.

It takes far longer than it should, and when he is done, he kneels at your feet, free hand on your cheek.

"Can you eat?"

You're not sure, you should. You know that, but the idea is exhausting to think about. You could barely stand, moving your arm proves even harder on you.

He watches you try to move it, attempting to flex your hand rather than weakly twitch your finger, and he chuckles low and soft, "Are you hungry?"

One tap.

You are, even if you're not sure if you can keep it down. Even if you're not able to make anything for yourself. You're hungry.

You cannot take medication on your empty stomach either.

He places his hands on you again, one arm slipping behind your back, and the other releasing your hand to cradle you under your knees. His chest is warm, comfortable, and safe. There are very few places you would rather be. Trusting him not to drop you, even if you still aren't sure how he puts up with you as you are.

Fragile pieces stuffed under flesh that does not fit.

He wraps one of his bathrobes around you, it's thin but the fabric doesn't bite your skin, and brings you into the kitchen. Where Caleb moves around, his uniform half on. Coat, tie and hat discarded, shirt loosened.

The noise that escapes you is akin to a squeak, and it draws his attention to you in Sylus' arms. From the three different pots he is stirring.

"I've got three different types of soup for you Pipsqueak, so you can have whichever you prefer."

He doesn't comment any further on why he's there, or why there's a splash of tomato up his sleeve.

When Sylus puts you down in a chair, beginning to dry you off with a towel, he places your tablet in front of you.

Weak fingers press at the screen, and while you misspell some words, you're glad the text to speech your partners developed works around it, "Don't you two have work?"

"Not at all."

"I have the day off."

You manage a glare but it's more twitchy than you'd like, and neither of them are looking at you. Too focused on their tasks.

"Really?" You try again, tapping your finger on the table to point at Caleb.

They're smiling to themselves, you can feel the quirk of Sylus' lips from where he presses a kiss to the back of your neck, "Now, I'm sure I said I didn't Kitten. Didn't I, Tin-man?"

"I heard you. Did you hear me, Crow?" Caleb grins, his twinkling eyes turning to you for a moment with affection.

"My old age hasn't affected my hearing yet, so of course."

You could argue with them but it's hard enough to type without fighting against two of the most stubborn men you know. Walking through fire would be easier, than swaying them when it came to you.

When you're dry, unable to wear your normal clothes while your skin is so sensitive, you sit with Sylus' arm around you, drawing patterns into your hip to ground you to that pinpoint. Your eyes droop while you watch Caleb cook, and it's not long that three bowls are placed on the table and he joins you.

"Tomato." You type out, eyeing up the thing he's made for you since you were young. Since that first flare up clashed with your overloads and sent you spiraling into overwhelm and sensory agony. Shaking on the floor, as your heart screeched.

Caleb is practiced in taking care of you in so many ways, all the times you hid from him when you were unwell, all the times you tried to fight through it alone. He learned how to dig under layers, and fit himself into the slot that could support your foundations before they crumbled. Refusing to let you be alone.

What your other partners had not learned on their own in his absence, slowly figuring out limits and when to accept you were fine versus when you were not and simply forcing yourself, he has helped fill in in his presence.

It is a dangerous situation, when five people know you so well, that they can catch where you fall. That they know you so well, they know where you hide, and pull you back out of the shadows into the light.

You have felt like a burden for so very much of your life.

It is such a hard thing to shake.

As Caleb carefully feeds you, Sylus watches, "Tara informed Zayne you were sick."

It's not an accusation, you think, but you flinch anyway, almost getting soup down your front. On expensive silk, though you doubt Sylus would care. He has eased your fear over clumsiness before now.

Caleb pauses so you can type away, "Text Jenna for the day off. Dropped phone, no energy to find it."

It feels like an excuse, you'd promised them you'd tell them when you were sick going forwards. After that night when the four of them found you broken and bleeding. After the cat curse stole your power and your confidence.

You promised you'd tell them. You'd promised. The guilt hurts and aches and twists but the man smiles at you. Warm red crinkling at the edges, as he smooths his thumb over your cheek, "You took time off. I'm proud of you, Kitten."

It spears through your chest, and you busy yourself with the food Caleb offers you, relieved for the intense fever that means you do not show how embarrassed the very feeling of being commended touches you.

Every time you have taken sick, you had been forced. The moment you had messaged Captain Jenna requesting the time off. The haze of self hatred, of disgust, of fear. Feelings muddled and twisted like serpents. Snapping and hissing. Telling you over and over that you had to be stronger. Fight through it. Be better.

If you weren't you were worthless.

It felt like fighting forwards while dragging the weight of the world behind you. Just to say you needed help. Needed time.

You promised to try harder, to reach out. Every time is hard, every time it aches. Feels like you're betraying everyone who trusts you. Every time you fight through just a little bit more.

The pride in warm eyes tells you that you have taken a worthy step. Small, and nervous, and stumbling to the ground, but a step.

You let yourself believe that it's worth the pride.

You are only able to eat half of the soup before you begin to feel the nausea rising, and your body fighting through chokes and coughs. Shivering starting up as medication is offered and water eased down a tight throat. As you are lifted, exhausted and drifting, into familiar arms. A galaxy gazing back at you as you stare up at messy hair and comfort.

Caleb brings you to the freshly made bed, sweat soaked sheets removed and ice packs placed on the side. Your prosthetic is back on its stand, cleaned and wiped down from your reckless treatment of it. You cling to the tablet as he eases you under the covers, helps you remove the bathrobe so you can feel soft sheets against bare skin that burns otherwise.

"Thank you."

He shakes his head like there's no need, like helping you is just second nature. Like it's the only thing he finds worthy in life, and it pulls at your chest for several reasons. Hand twitching out for him.

Shedding layers, he joins you. Arm extended so you can lay against his skin, his shiver as he feels the inferno of your touch, bringing a flush to his cheeks. "I'm always here for you, Pipsqueak. You know that, partners in crime right?"

Always. Through the haze of sleep finally pulling you under so your agonised body can begin its recovery, you feel the other side of the bed dip. A hand on your hip and a kiss to your shoulder.

A reminder that you are allowed to be fragile, weak, and hurt, because someone will be there to put the pieces back together.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Fish are friends (?). You are not food.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

The Siren wasn’t leaving.

Which a part of you had been expecting. Because surely if there had been a snowball’s chance in Hell of him making it out into the open ocean alive before you’d cut through the ropes, he would have taken it and left you stranded without a second thought. And his odds weren’t that much better now—his fins were still a mangled mess and the wounds all along his scales and dainty featherings were still raw and oozing. It only made sense that he’d take at least a few days to try and recover.

But… But still.

Did he have to make it so obvious that he was sticking around?

The glint of the light off his tail was a constant distraction—always bright and eye-catching even at the cloudiest points of the day. Always flashing just out of the corner of your eye as a perpetual reminder that there was something in the water that would very happily gobble you up if you bothered making a swim for safety.

He’d also taken to sunning himself. Like some kind of overgrown mer-cat. Stretched out languidly on a flat rock with the tips of his violet fins hanging over the edge—just enough for the gauzy edges to play along the surf and avoid drying out entirely. His pale hair splayed out in a halo around him as he snoozed softly in the heat of the afternoon.

Which! No fair! This wasn’t a vacation! This was a stranding! An SOS! A Rose Queen Procedural Rule Four-Hundred-and-Four! And him taking up the whole of the cove to, I don’t know, tan, felt like another intentional slap in the face. The sun rose over the bay, which meant this stretch of shore was facing East. Which was the direction your vessel had been coming from. Which meant that this was the place on the little islet where you needed to be. Subsection Three of Procedural Four-O’-Four. ‘In the case of Crew Overboard, we will always travel the same route as planned. In order to give the Strandee a chance to map out a reconnection point.’ Riddle always had been so smart about these kinds of things.

‘It’s just until he’s better,’ you reassured yourself for the umpteenth time that morning. ‘Then he’ll leave and I can get rescued or die here alone and in peace.���

A fin flicked up from the shallows to spray you with saltwater splatters and you spluttered indignantly when it ran down into your eyes. You glared at the Siren’s retreating back, musing bitterly about how you’d never thought it was possible for someone to make the tuck of their shoulders look smug.

‘Alone and in peace,’ you repeated hopefully. And it sounded like such far off dream.

.

.

On the second day post-rope-removal, the Siren waved you down with a sharp flick of his wrist.

You approached the waterline hesitantly, still mostly waiting for him to turn on you and make toothpicks out of your bones. But instead of murdering you and getting crafty with your corpse, he just pointed to some scribbles in the sand. You squinted at the loop-de-loops suspiciously. It almost looked like an illustration of dancing bubbles—the lot of them curling and popping along the ground in a line like a limerick. 

“Uhm, very nice,” you tried, and the fins flattened pissilly all along the side of his head.

He jabbed his claw towards the mess again. Then firmly at your eyes (hopefully not as a threat that he’d be happy to take them right out of your head if you continued to be obtuse). And then back again. He made a point to move the tip of his sharp nail from one swirl to the next in a little hop-hop-hop. It reminded you a bit deliriously of Riddle trying to teach some of the more socially bereft members of the crew their letters, and—

“You want me to read that?” you gaped, staring at the elegant curls of nonsense in the sand.

The Siren crossed his arms across his lean chest with a scoff that puffed past his lips hard enough to fluff out some of the paler, purple-tipped, hair hanging by his chin. He rolled his eyes at you and muttered something thin and spicy under his breath that you just knew had to be some sort of insult.

“I can read!” you defended, because it felt like it needed defending.

He leveled you with an entirely unimpressed ‘Oh, I’m sure you can’ sneer and you dropped to your knees, incensed. You dug your fingers into the sand and started sculpting out your own very cheery message into the muck.

When you were done, you waved a hand towards your proclamation and watched his brows pull together at the center into a teeny, pinched sort of expression. He let himself roll forward with the seafoam to lay more fully on the shore, and stared down at the mess you’d made like it was some strange code. Even reaching out to poke softly at the straight edge of a ‘T’ with one of his knife-sharp talons.

After a long moment of contemplation, he looked back up at you with an arched brow that was so unintentionally poised and not full of spite that it almost took your breath away. Who knew how pretty an already stunning face could become when it wasn’t twisted up in absolute vitriol? You shook away that absolutely damning thought in horror. That’s exactly what he’d want you to think. Siren, and all. Using his hotness to lure people onto his dinner table. Not you, baby. Because you were smart. And so gross from being stranded under island sunshine for a week that surely you’d taste like some absolutely rancid jerky at this point.

“Oh no,” you droned, and immediately that subtle curiosity of his ticked right back into irritation. “Two creatures from entirely different species and ecosystems have somehow managed to develop unique alphabets. What a completely unpredictable complication.”

The Siren puffed up like an angry lionfish and turned with a snarl to dive back into the shallows—making sure to whip his tail in your face and slam into the water with a huge splash as he went. The salt spray pelted down like rain and you snickered as it sloughed off your cheeks in rivulets, content to sit merrily in the wet sand beside your hastily scribbled: ‘Mermen Are Vicious Bitches. Hit Me if You Agree :)’

.

.

The next morning, there were more fish on the shoreline. Though these ones looked a bit less like they’d been dragged up by their souls and left to writhe in the wake of Siren-Screaming-Agony and more just like the unfortunate victims of a pair of too sharp claws.

You frowned down at a brown, sad-looking flounder that had clearly found itself at the very wrong end of a certain merman still swanning about in the bay not fifty feet away. It was mostly intact, and pleasantly plump for a flat, pancake-looking blob of muck. Your stomach gurgled and the thought of a nice, coal-charred, fillet really seemed quite nice. You chanced another peek at your resident Asshole, debating if it was worth swiping his snack. Another ominous rumble from your abdomen and you reached down to steal your prize and scuttle off deeper inland like a troll returning to its layer.

It didn’t take very long to get a small fire going, and within the hour you’d been fed and were more than ready for a cozy, full-bellied nap in the soft sand.

By the time you began to make your way back to the cove, the sun was high in the sky and you were already dreading sitting beneath its weighted rays for another afternoon. So you slowed your pace to a near snail crawl, dragging your feet as you went.

The little octopus from earlier was still swaying contentedly around the tide pool you’d shoved it into. It probably needed to be carried back out to the bay at some point so that it could swim back into the depths of the ocean, but the poor thing was just so small and round. Surely it’d get devoured by the first sharp-toothed thing that caught sight of it. Especially with your merman apparently being out for the blood of whatever other scaly things were swimming about in his temporary home. So for now you slipped it some small bits of leftover fish instead. You sat, crouched at the pool’s edge, and watched raptly as it grabbed the shredded bits of pale meat with its chubby tentacles to shove towards an eager beak.

“You’re the only friend I have left in the whole world,” you told the octopus miserably, wiping the greasy remnants of your lunch off your chin with a sigh.

The traitor hurriedly moved to snatch up the treat you’d offered it and hide itself away between some rocky crevices. You sighed louder. Rejected. What a time to be alive. 

.

.

The next morning, the Siren was singing again.

That familiar prickle danced its way up your arms, leaving pinpricks of goosebumps in its wake. Some pirates told tales of storms leaving their mark in such a way—that seasoned sailors could feel the tickle of thunder against their skin long before they could spot dark clouds on the horizon. You’d have to amend that little legend whenever you found your way back to The Rose Queen. Siren Sense was a lot cooler, anyways. Any idiot with arthritis could tell you when rain was due.

But either way, Mister Merman was back to idly circling the bay and calling into the distance. At least it wasn’t as miserable as it had been the other day—more of a leisurely pacing than the frantic, near-feral caterwauling that had soured your gut so terribly.

There was another fat fish on the shore. A bright, red snapper so brilliantly crimson that it was almost impossible to make out the garish wounds in its side. Almost. And even if it hadn’t been, the drooping, rust colored, rivulets dug into the sand would have been enough of a clue.

Why the Siren was bothering to leave his clawed-up kills at your feet like some overgrown cat dragging in mice, you had no idea. Maybe he was poisoning them, and subsequently you. Maybe he was bored and it was some sort of fishy enrichment. Maybe he just didn’t want to bother leaving dead things around to contaminate his favorite sunning spots, and tossing his leftovers in your vicinity was as close to a reliable dumpster as he could find on a remote island. Who’s to say.

Either way, you dutifully ignored the magical tingles racing up your shoulders and brought the newest fish back to your makeshift firepit. You grilled the snapper in silence, debating. Then you fed your octopus friend and returned to the beach, cooked fillets in tow.

You waited in awkward silence for a few moments, fish burning your palms, before raising your fingers to your lips and whistling loud enough to make your teeth ache. The mystical static faded from the air and you watched in pleasant (?) surprise as the Siren made his way back to where you’d set up camp. He rolled in with the tide, cresting on a gentle bit of surf and coming to rest neatly in the shallows—fins splayed out beneath him like a lord lying amidst his many silken robes. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at you with an arched brow and slanted frown.

You awkwardly extended a hand—roasted snapper still resting in your open palm and burning the absolute fuck out of your fingers.

“Uhm,” you said, feeling a bit too much like the local idiot trying to feed one of the rabid, wandering, strays around town. “Food?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes at you.

“Do you want food?” you tried.

The other brow joined the first, nearly rising all the way into his hairline. It wasn’t a pleasant sort of surprise.

“It’s better cooked?” you coaxed in the face of his outright constipated scowl. Be fed and full, you thought hopefully. Maybe then you won’t fucking look at me like I’m a boxed lunch.

He jabbed a sharpened, black talon in your direction, and then pointedly again angled up towards your mouth. Then back to the fish still roasting your poor cuticles straight off your fingers.

You blinked, a bit thrown.

“What? It’s supposed to be for me?”

He nodded, throwing in another one of those bombastically snarky eyerolls for good measure. ‘Obviously,’ that sneer said.

“Well,” you huffed, plopping down to sit cross-legged in the sand and offering up one of the fillets. “There’s plenty for both of us.” When he stared at you like you were attempting to serve him up a choice pile of literal dog shit, you wiggled your hand and entreated, “Please just take it before my skin melts off.”

The Siren huffed and reached out, plucking up the fish with the tips of his claws. He observed your meager meal as one might a particularly unappealing cockroach, and after a long moment, his nose scrunched (cute, you thought absently before immediately suffocating every wayward braincell that would dare call your murderous shore-neighbor anything of the sort) and he leaned forward to nip at a crisped, pink corner with the barest edge of one canine.

When your culinary creation didn’t immediately strike him dead on the spot, he took another, equally dainty bite. And then another. The tight pucker of his mouth eased as he chewed, and you watched as the harsh cut of his purple irises warmed with that same intrigue as they had when you’d first scribbled your foreign letters into the sand.

He readjusted his grip on the fish between his claws to get a better angle and took a proper bite, chewing thoughtfully. Before you knew it, you were watching him nip at the pads of his fingers, his gaze going a bit round and shocked when he realized that he’d devoured the entirety of it.

“See?” you hummed, tucking into your own portion with gusto. “Not all things humans come up with are terrible.” He harumphed and turned to glare back out over the bay, slouching into the surf with an expression that was most certainly not a pout. “But maybe you’d know that if you bothered to do anything other than murder and devour us on sight,” you chirped.

To which you were immediately doused with an armful of water for your troubles. The Siren glowered petulantly from where he’d just wave-bombed you, and then dove back into the deeper waters of the sandbar. He immediately started up his stupid singing all over again—pointedly keeping his chin high above the surface and splashing brine into your face anytime he looped close enough to shore.

“I don’t know why I bother,” you huffed, and ate your sopping snapper in grumpy silence.

.

.

There was a ship wrecked off the coast.

Nothing overly cool, and definitely only a small chunk of what had probably at one point been a rather impressive vessel. But it was something. The first change in pace you’d had in days and oozing with possibilities.

The only problem was that the great, rotting, hull of the thing was dug up into a jagged skerry about a hundred yards off the shore—wedged into the pointed rocks with no chance of any wave or breeze sending it adrift. You could swim perfectly well. I mean, living your life on a ship surrounded by tumultuous, depthless, ocean would have been a hugely stupid career move otherwise. The issue, naturally, was the thing currently making its home in these waters. Sharks and barracudas, blablabla. They were just animals, no matter how many teeth they had. The Siren had a grudge. And just as many teeth.

Right now, said spiky pain in your ass was lounging in the shallows like the froth was an elegant daybed made just for him—shredded fins swaying in the soft tides and his hair floating about him that same, white-gold halo that made him look far too peaceful for anyone’s good sense. He wasn’t singing today, which was great for the local wildlife population but terrible for your Siren Sense. Once you waded into the waves, you’d have no real way to keep track of him. Hope, maybe, that he didn’t think fucking with you was worth messing up whatever tan-line he had going on. But nothing concrete that you’d be willing to bet the safety of your limbs on.

You wiggled your toes in the sand and stared longingly out at the stupid, wrecked ship that was so stupidly close. If you swam your fastest you could probably make it there in under two minutes—less than that, even. But that was still more than enough time for the Siren to rake those dark claws of his across your throat and drag you down into the depths to drown.

Riddle’s angry, red face swam through your thoughts, and you could practically see him shoving that beloved law tome of his under your nose for the umpteenth time.

‘Rule 32, never make dangerous bets that you’re certain you won’t win, particularly if you are betting against a Blue Nosed Beetle.’

‘Rule 15, do not needlessly sacrifice your life in the name of curiosity, excluding—of course—if you hail from Cheshire or are a Cat.’

‘It’s only a dumb shipwreck,’ you thought miserably, if rationally. ‘It’s probably not even that cool.’

Your captain would be so proud.

.

.

The next morning you were rolling up the cuffs on your pants and wading into the cool shallows, silently lighting a candle in your heart for your beloved, steam-faced leader and promising that you would at the very least cover the costs of your own funeral so as not to inconvenience him further.

The waves lapped against your ankles and the waters themselves were shockingly clear and blue. You could practically see each grain of sand beneath your heels—make out each pointy rock and the little, red crabs that scuttled away from your tromping like civilians fleeing from the shadow of a leviathan. The Siren was back to singing today. Perhaps his poor, overworked throat simply needed a break every now and again. But either way, your Merman Magic Missive was working in full force. The hairs on your arms stood at full attention and you liked to imagine you could see them twitching in circles to follow his long, looping arcs through the bay.  

You made it up to your knees and waited, eyes scanning the open water and nose twitching like maybe you could smell the fucker. There was nothing but a familiar prickle along your shoulders and that deep sense of ‘tug tug tug’ with no answer, so you took a deep breath and pushed further, the water sloshing up to your hips, your chest, and finally you were floating—paddling slow and cautious towards the wreckage.

It really was insanely close. Even moving at your most cautious, sneakiest crawl, you’d made it nearly three-quarters of the way there within perhaps five minutes. And no signs of a vengeful, hungry Siren circling the waters beneath you either. More rules that perhaps that you’d have to tell Riddle might need some amending  once you finally made it back home to your crew. ‘Dangerous bets,’ who? ‘Needless sacrifice,’ what? You might as well have outsmarted the whole ocean.

As you moved closer, you could make out a strange coat of arms on the side of the hull that you didn’t recognize. Twining, silver songbirds soaring against the sparkly backdrop of an otherwise plain faced crest, which honestly looked far too delicate to be heading the broken remains of what was no doubt at one point an absolute monster of a vessel. You reached out to brush your fingers against the shining plaque and then you were underwater.

You fought the immediate impulse to gasp in surprise, because expediting the process of your inevitable drowning just seemed stupid even by your standards. There was a clawed hand wrapped around your calf yanking you down, and you squinted through a stream of panicked bubbles to see your terrible, horrible, completely thankless co-strandee snarling up at you with sharp teeth and a sharper flail of his delicate gills. Thankfully the water wasn’t all that deep, so by the time you’d been dragged to the bottom you were maybe only ten feet under. But still. It was the goddamn principle! And besides, you’d heard about enough drunks drowning in puddles to know that this was more than enough Liquid Death to put you in an early grave.

The Siren looped around you in tight circles, and you could feel the brush of his tattered fins against your skin like the ghostly fingers of a reaper trailing down your spine. You’d known he was big—giant, even. Long, and impressive, and built to rule the very depths he’d dragged you into. Large enough to wrestle with sharks and capsize lifeboats. Big enough, no doubt, to eat you whole and still be hungry enough for seconds.

The salt stung your eyes and you blinked hard to keep his vibrant, amethyst tail in focus. Would he strike from the back, where you couldn’t see? Or would he go right for your throat—a direct, full frontal, ‘fuck you, human’ if there ever was one. And honestly, what were you expecting? That a good deed and a few pieces of cooked fish would sway him from devouring you whole? Maybe the island sun had fried whatever remained of your rattled brain.  

He stopped in front of you and hissed—a stream of tight, tiny, bubbles jetting past his canines. You glared in petulant confusion, absolutely refusing to give your would-be murderer whatever reaction he was hoping for. His brow pinched into a tight, angry, v and he snarled again. You snarled back, and with that, the last breath in your lungs swooped out of you in a tight squeak. You choked, and struggled, and kicked at the claws holding you down. The Siren reared back, eyes widening in something that looked insultingly like genuine surprise, and you used his moment of hesitation to propel yourself off the sandbar and back to the choppy surface.

You gasped in a hasty breath, expecting to immediately be dragged back under. But when you weren’t pulled back down to your watery grave, you took in another and another. Gasping, and hacking, and spitting up seafoam. The Siren’s head crested the surface beside you and you flailed away, nearly pushing yourself under all over again. You paddled frantically, trying to keep your nose above the tide, and then suddenly there was something under you. You squawked and kicked it on instinct. The Siren snapped his pointy teeth in your face and you realized with a start that oh. That was him, wasn’t it? The long, winding, scaled muscles of his tail curled beneath your toes in what almost seemed like an attempt to keep you upright.

He stared at you with those unnervingly bright eyes of his—blonde hair curling softly at the edges where it plastered elegantly along his finned ears, and those too-long lashes dripping with small, sparkly, drops of salt water.

“What the hell is this bullshit?” you choked, coughing up more bubbly froth. “You don’t get to look so—so put together after trying to murder me!”  

The Siren huffed out something that the delusional, still half-drowned, part of you wanted to classify as a laugh. And then he organized that bemused expression back into its usual, haughty, iciness and began to carefully make his way back towards the shore—towing you along like a poor, little, lost buoy with nowhere else to go.

You let him drag you up into the sand and only flopped around a little. He flicked his tail at you and your dramatics and you turned on him with a fierce, waterlogged scowl—a bit more confident now that he didn’t have the home field advantage.

“What was that for! I just wanted to look at the ship! I wasn’t even doing anything to you!” you wailed. “I haven’t done anything to you at all! Ever! Why do you keep—" you collapsed back into the sand with a miserable whine that rattled all the teeth in your head, and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

After a long moment of nothing, you felt a gentle tap at your shoulder.

You looked back up with a start to see Mister Merman looking nearly sheepish.Or as much of an equivalent that his aloof mask of a face was capable of pulling off. The clawed finger resting at your collarbone dropped to the sand by your hip, and he carefully began to draw more of those squiggles. No, scratch that. Not the dancing, popping, ones from the other day. These actually looked sort of like the silver songbirds from that shipwreck. More jagged, certainly. But similar enough that you felt something a bit too coldly cautious to be confusion seep through your guts.

Once he was finished, he looked up and met your gaze—sharp, pointed. And then he reached back out and smeared the birds into nothing and shook his head, firm. His red lips moved slowly, exaggerated, again and again. And you could make out the vague shape of words you’d had shouted at you a hundred times over.

‘Not safe.’

That same, shivery, nervous feeling bit at your limbs.

“…okay,” you said after a moment. And then leaned forward to dig your own fingers into the sand, dutifully ignoring how your elbows knocked against his own.

‘Not safe,’ you wrote, and watched his eyes trace each letter like a treasure map.

There was another tap at your shoulder. And then he pointed to the words in the muck, then to himself.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, yes. You’re not safe either.”

He sighed dramatically enough to ruffle the ends of your still soaked hair. And then pointed to the words again, tapping at the ‘N’ with the curved tip of a claw.

“Nnnn?” you mouthed, confused.

He moved to the ‘o’ next and it clicked.

“You want me to teach you how to read my letters?” you asked, flabbergasted. Another sigh, like you’d dropped the weight of all the world on his pale shoulders. Or perhaps that your idiocy was enough to put that hearty mass to shame. You decided that you were still feeling a bit too much like you’d only just barely escaped a brush with death, dismemberment, and dinner plans to push your luck with sassing him back too harshly, and just blinked owlishly in dazed surprise. “But why?”

His purple eyes trailed in the direction of the shipwreck and something cutting and poisonous clouded his expression. He pointed to the words again.

‘Not safe.’

“Alright,” you said, looking out over the water with a strange sort of sinking feeling in your gut. You leaned forward and began to draw the alphabet at your feet. His tail twitched by your fingers and you ignored the soft brush of his still-healing fins. “This one’s an ‘A’, like in ‘Asshole’—"

Whomp went the tail as he cracked it across your knuckles like a school matron with a ruler. And you couldn’t help the startled burst of genuine, tinkling laughter that bubbled past your lips for the first time since you’d been dragged overboard.

.

.

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