#and he still pulls the rug from under me all the time

[nhmkhnh]

baby momma. (ii)

amab!vi x fem!reader || just pure fluff about moments with their daughter (5 y.o) || part i here! (nsfw)

the morning sun spills through the curtains, catching on the shimmer of dust in the air and the tangle of pink ribbons in vi’s lap.

"she moved again," vi mutters with a crooked grin, carefully threading a tie through your daughter’s wild curls. "hey, c'mon, sweetheart. if you keep wigglin’, you’re gonna make me mess up again."

“but it tickles!” your daughter squeals, kicking her socked feet on the edge of the couch. “mama, it tickles when you pull!”

vi chuckles, low and easy. she’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, wearing a pair of grey sweats and your oversized "property of vi" tank top—one she stole, altered to fit her broader chest and shoulders, and now wears with shameless pride. her arms flex with the gentleness of someone who could break necks but chooses to braid ribbon instead.

you lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching vi fumble with the final loop of the second pigtail. her tongue peeks out in concentration. there’s a smear of toothpaste on her jaw from when your daughter ambushed her earlier, and her knuckles are still bandaged from last week’s sparring match, but the way she’s kneeling here now, patient and proud, feels like everything.

"okay. done." she grins and lifts the little girl into her arms. “whaddya think, huh? cute enough to take over piltover?”

"only if she learns how to punch like you," you say, walking over, ruffling your daughter’s hair (despite the pigtails). “you gonna teach her that next?”

vi smirks and taps your daughter’s nose. “what’d i say about using your fists, baby?”

your daughter parrots: “only if someone deserves it!”

vi beams. “that’s my girl.”

you arch a brow. “remind me again which parent was supposed to be the responsible one?”

she shrugs, one arm still full of giggling child. “you. i’m the cool one. i do pigtails and justice.”

you kiss her anyway. her mouth is toothpaste-minty, warm, familiar. her free hand catches the back of your head like she’s afraid you might float away if she doesn’t anchor you.

when you pull back, she whispers, “you gave me everything. i mean it.”

her eyes flick to the girl in her arms, then back to you.

"i didn’t know i could be this kind of happy, y’know?"

you rest your forehead against hers. “yeah,” you whisper. “me neither.”

it starts the same way it always does.

the bell rings. kids pour out like a flood — sneakers slapping the pavement, backpacks bouncing. parents wait in tidy little groups, chatting politely under sunshades, sipping iced coffee from compostable cups.

and then there's vi.

leaning against the hood of your beat-up car, arms crossed, biker jacket unzipped just enough to show a sliver of ink on her chest. aviator sunglasses. combat boots. one foot resting on the bumper like she owns the whole damn parking lot.

she doesn’t even try to blend in.

some of the other moms whisper. that’s her? one of the dads nods toward her like she’s an urban legend. the one with the tattoos?

vi doesn’t notice — or doesn’t care. she’s too busy scanning the crowd of kids for one tiny, familiar face. and when she spots her, all that tough-guy posturing melts like sugar in coffee.

“there’s my girl,” she murmurs.

your daughter sees her at the same time — and breaks into a sprint.

“mamaaa!”

vi crouches instinctively, arms open wide. she catches her mid-run, lifts her clean off the ground, spins her once.

“heyyy, there she is! you run faster every day, i swear.” she presses a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, still smelling faintly of strawberry shampoo. “good day?”

“i got a gold star on my picture!” your daughter beams, digging into her backpack. “it was us in the park. with the ducks. i made your hair pink, like you used to have!”

vi laughs, genuinely. “gorgeous taste, clearly.”

she holds the crayon drawing like it’s a priceless artifact. her fingers — bruised from last night’s training — handle it with ridiculous care.

as they head toward the car, vi lifts her daughter onto her hip, one hand casually carrying the tiny purple backpack that definitely has sparkles on it. she doesn’t even flinch when glitter transfers onto her jacket.

from the sidewalk, another parent stares.

“is that your… uh… partner?” they ask you, hesitantly.

you follow their gaze to vi, who is now crouching beside your kid, fixing the velcro on her shoes like it’s an olympic sport.

you grin. “yeah. that’s my partner.”

they nod slowly, clearly stunned. “she looks… intense.”

you shrug. “she does. until you see her braid a unicorn into our daughter’s hair and cry at bedtime stories.”

the rain starts around noon.

not the loud kind — just a lazy, steady patter against the windows. the kind that makes the world feel smaller, cozier. like the apartment is its own little island and everything beyond the glass can wait.

vi had been up early. real early. something about a supply run for you, or fixing the busted heater in the hallway, or “beating claggor’s pull-up record, for pride, babe.” you’d rolled your eyes, but she kissed your shoulder and went anyway.

by the time lunch rolls around, she’s back. hoodie on. hair damp. and somehow still full of energy — until she isn’t.

you come out of the kitchen with a warm cup of tea and stop cold in the doorway.

vi’s passed out on the couch. arms spread. head tilted slightly back. one leg kicked halfway off the cushions like she lost a wrestling match with a pillow.

your daughter’s curled up right on top of her. tucked perfectly in the space between vi’s chest and shoulder, little face smooshed into the soft curve of vi’s tank top. her hand — tiny, chubby-fingered — is clutching vi’s hoodie string like it’s a lifeline. she’s drooling. just a little.

vi hasn’t moved.

except—now she does. in her sleep, her arm shifts protectively over the girl on her chest. just enough to pull her in. her brow furrows like even unconscious, she knows who she’s holding.

you smile. quiet. warm.

you set the tea down. pull the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over both of them. vi doesn’t wake. her breathing is slow, steady. her kid’s even slower.

you sit beside them — careful not to shift the weight — and just… watch.

vi, with her scarred knuckles, her fighter’s arms, her tough shell… soft as melted chocolate now. snoring faintly. totally unaware that her daughter’s drool is soaking into her shirt.

and still, you’ve never loved her more than in this moment.

later, when she wakes up…

vi (groggy): “hey. did we—ugh, is she drooling again?”

you (grinning): “yup. all over you.”

vi (sleepy laugh): “good. means she’s comfy.”

[liorabb]

All Fucking Night

You told him once he could have you for a night.

He took that personally.

It starts at midnight.

Your back hits the mattress, and Rafe is already between your legs — shirt half-off, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a storm.

“You think I’m gonna stop after one round?” he growls. “You don’t fucking know me.”

You try to sass back — a smirk, a tease — but the second he shoves inside you again, all that wit dies in your throat. He’s deep, rough, and already fucking you like he’s mad at your body for not staying full of him.

His hand wraps around your throat. His other pins your wrists above your head.

“You gave me one night?” he pants, hips slamming into yours. “One? You think I’m done when you can still speak?”

You whimper, legs trembling around his hips.

“Look at you. Already wrecked, and it’s not even 1 AM.”

He finishes inside you — hard — but doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even slow down. He just drags his cock through your overstimulated cunt, watching your thighs twitch with every grind of his hips.

“I’m not done,” he says low. “I want you to feel me leaking out of you all fucking day tomorrow.”

1:30 AM

He flips you onto your stomach.

You cry out — sensitive, swollen, sore — but he just grabs your hips and drags you back onto his cock like your body belongs to him.

“You’re taking it so good now,” he says, breath hot against your spine. “Like you want me to ruin you.”

Slap.

His palm smacks your ass — hard — just to hear you gasp.

“You like that?”

“Want Rafey to fuck you until you forget your name?”

You choke on a moan. You’re not sure if you say yes — you just know you’re clenching around him like your body needs to obey.

He pulls your hair. Makes you arch. Bites your shoulder.

And when you come again — twitching, sobbing, body too sensitive — he groans and fucks you deeper.

“Don’t cry yet,” he whispers darkly.

“We’ve got hours to go.”

3:00 AM

You’re on the floor now. Knees raw against the rug.

He’s kneeling in front of you, thumb on your chin.

“Open up.”

You do. Obedient. Mindless.

He pushes his cock into your mouth, slow and filthy, groaning when your tongue flicks up the vein he likes. His hands hold your head still — guiding, controlling, using.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Such a pretty fuckhole.”

When he finishes, he strokes your cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match his voice.

“Get on the bed.”

You can barely walk. He likes that.

4:45 AM

You’re beneath him again.

Your body’s a mess — slick, marked, bruised from his hands and teeth. He’s whispering filth into your ear between thrusts, making you clench and cry.

“You’re mine now.”

“Say it.”

“Say who fucks you right.”

“You—Rafe—it’s you, fuck—please—”

He kisses your throat. Bites your collarbone.

His cock is so deep you swear you feel him in your chest.

“I’m gonna put a baby in you,” he snarls, breath shaking.

“So everyone knows who you fucking belong to.”

You cum — again — tighter than ever, soaking him, shaking under his body like you’re about to break.

He doesn’t stop.

6:00 AM.

The sun’s barely up.

You’re lying on your side, limp, raw, completely full of him.

Rafe is behind you, one arm around your waist, the other between your thighs, still playing with your pussy — slow now, lazy, like he’s just killing time before round… what, six?

“You awake?” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck.

“Good. I was starting to miss the sound of you crying.”

Your breath hitches. He pushes two fingers in — wet, messy, easy from how wrecked you are — and curls them perfectly against your g-spot.

“One more,” he whispers. “You got one more for me, baby.”

And you do.

Because Rafe Cameron doesn’t stop until your body gives out.

And even then?

He’ll carry you to the shower.

So he can do it all over again.

[sturniololuvz]

Omg. Can we get another one with their diabetic sister? Her blood sugar goes crazy high (like 400+) and she is feeling like shit? Headache, nauseous, irritated. They take care of her and make sure that her pump is working properly.

yess! i actually love these !

⸻

“Riding It Out”

You weren’t sure when it started—probably sometime after lunch—but now your head is pounding, your stomach is twisting, and your eyes are heavy despite the overhead lights in the living room. Your limbs feel heavy. Your chest is tight. And the worst part is you know exactly what it is.

Your Dexcom beeps quietly from underneath your hoodie. High. Rising. The little triangle on the screen mocks you. 397.

You’re curled up at the far end of the couch, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, knees pulled to your chest. Matt’s editing on his laptop across from you, Chris is pacing the kitchen on the phone, and Nick is half-asleep with a blanket draped over his head and only one sock on. You don’t want to say anything. You hate interrupting. You hate feeling needy.

You hate this part of diabetes the most.

Your mouth tastes metallic. You blink hard, trying to clear the fog. The Dexcom buzzes again—this time louder—and you press it against your stomach through your sweatshirt to muffle it.

“Yo.” Matt’s voice breaks through the haze. “You good?”

You nod quickly, too quickly, and immediately regret it as the motion makes your head spin. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”

He watches you for a second longer than usual.

You look away.

You don’t even notice how pale you’ve gotten. Your lips are dry. Your legs ache. You adjust the waistband of your sweatpants, suddenly way too warm, and the effort alone makes you feel winded.

The Dexcom buzzes again.

This time, all three boys look over.

“Okay, that’s the third time it’s gone off,” Chris says, stepping into the living room. “What’s it at?”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

Nick, now fully sitting up, raises an eyebrow. “Can we see it?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Matt’s voice softens as he sits up straighter. “Is it high?”

You swallow, but your mouth’s too dry. “Just a little.”

Chris is already walking over. “A little high for you is, like… 270. Which means it’s probably not a little.”

You don’t respond. You’re staring at the rug now, vision slightly spinning.

“Come here,” Matt says gently, crouching down in front of you. “Let me see your Dex.”

You want to tell him no again. You want to say you’ve got it. But instead you try to stand to go get some water—and the room sways hard. Your knees buckle. The next thing you know, you’re sitting back on the couch, having collapsed onto the cushion with a gasp.

“Whoa—whoa, hey!” Matt catches your shoulder before you can tip again. “Okay. That’s it.”

“Jesus, she’s clammy,” Chris mutters, pressing his hand lightly to your forehead. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

You finally admit it. “It’s four-something.”

Nick’s already grabbing the glucose monitor and a water bottle from the kitchen. “Like 400?”

“Like 412,” you say quietly.

Matt takes your Dexcom gently from under your hoodie. “Okay. It’s still rising.”

“I feel like crap,” you whisper, voice starting to shake. “My head’s killing me. I’m nauseous. And—” Your chest tightens. “I think my sensor’s off. It’s been burning.”

Chris crouches in front of you, voice calm. “Okay. That means we need to change it. New site, new reading. You can do this, alright?”

You don’t want to. You’re scared it’s gonna hurt. You’re overwhelmed and irritable and nauseous and your head feels too heavy to hold up. But you nod, because you trust them. You always have.

Nick’s already bringing over a fresh Dexcom, alcohol wipes, and the adhesive remover. You notice he also grabbed your stuffed bear—the one you pretend you don’t need anymore but secretly keep in your drawer.

Matt sits down beside you on the couch and gently guides your legs into his lap so you’re lying across him. “Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

You lean your head on his shoulder, eyes glassy now. “I hate this.”

“I know,” he says softly, smoothing your hair down. “But you’re not alone.”

Chris peels off the old Dex carefully while Nick holds your hand. The adhesive rips against your raw skin and you hiss, tears prickling at your eyes.

“Almost done, okay?” Chris says. “Then we’ll clean it and put the new one in.”

You nod, lips trembling.

Matt squeezes your hand.

The new Dexcom clicks into place. You wince again, tears sliding quietly down your cheeks.

“Okay, baby,” Nick whispers, brushing them away. “It’s on. New sensor’s warming up. You did it.”

You don’t even care about the tears now. Your head still hurts. The nausea’s still there. But your brothers are close and warm and careful, and that makes it a little easier to ride out.

Matt adjusts your hoodie back down and hugs you close. “Proud of you,” he says.

Chris nods. “Now we wait for it to calibrate, and once your sugar starts dropping, you’ll feel better.”

You nod into Matt’s chest, whispering, “Can someone stay with me?”

“You’re stuck with all three of us now,” Nick jokes softly. “Nice try.”

Matt grabs a blanket and drapes it over you while you lie across his lap. Nick’s curled up on the other side of the couch with your legs across both of them. Chris is on the floor with a pillow, leaned against your knees, watching the monitor like a hawk.

You still feel like hell. But you’re safe. And that makes all the difference.

⸻

[starryeyedwolves]

A Splash of Realization

It started with a splash.

A deep, resonant one that sent ripples across the surface of the Great Lake and a chorus of shocked gasps from a small group of Hogwarts students lounging on the warm early July grass.

“Sirius!”

Sirius collapsed onto his back, wheezing with laughter. “Oh, come on, Moony! You were asking for it, sitting there with your feet dangling like you’re on the bloody cover of a poetry book!”

Remus exploded out of the lake with all the grace of a drowned cat. Water streamed from his hair in thick ropes, his shirt stuck like parchment to the lean lines of his chest, and the fire in his amber eyes could have evaporated the entire lake.

James, sitting nearby with his shirt pulled up over his head like a sunhat, choked on his pumpkin juice. “Sirius, mate, you’re actually mad. Look at him! He’s going to hex you bald.”

Peter, snorting into his sandwich, muttered, “You’d deserve it.”

Sirius, however, had stopped laughing. Something caught in his throat as Remus pulled himself out of the water, droplets trailing down his skin like liquid light, his expression thunderous and perfect and alive. Sirius was suddenly, painfully aware of the way Remus’ jeans clung to his thighs, the way his hair curled wildly when soaked, the way his breath came in sharp, furious bursts.

“Oh, bollocks,” Sirius muttered to himself.

James, ever the loyal friend when he wasn’t busy mooning over Evans, leaned toward him. “You alright, Pads?”

“No,” Sirius said faintly, eyes still locked on the vision of his best mate looking like a furious god of vengeance. “I think I’ve just had a revelation.”

Remus stomped up the grass, squelching with every step. “You absolute twat. This was my best shirt.”

“Was,” Peter whispered helpfully.

Remus pointed his wand at Sirius. “You’ve got five seconds to run.”

“Wait, wait—” Sirius held his hands up, standing quickly. “I panicked! You looked so—serene. Like a tragic romantic hero. I couldn’t help it!”

“You think this is funny?” Remus was fuming, but he stopped a foot in front of Sirius, eyes narrowing as he noticed the flush on Sirius’ cheeks.

“No,” Sirius said. “I mean, yes. A little. But also, you’re—Merlin, Moony. You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

The world paused.

James spat out his pumpkin juice.

Peter’s sandwich fell in the grass.

Remus blinked.

“What?”

Sirius cursed under his breath. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“You think I’m—what?” Remus looked stunned, as if someone had slapped him.

Sirius took a deep breath. “I think... I’ve been thinking about you more than I should. For a while. And seeing you like that—drenched and dangerous—did things to me. And not just in the inappropriate sense, though Merlin knows it did that too.”

James gave a strangled cough.

Remus was silent, expression unreadable.

Sirius swallowed. “I mean... I didn’t push you because I fancy you, but the moment you came out looking like a bloody siren, I realized I might’ve done it because I fancy you.”

There was a beat.

And then Remus raised his wand and shouted, “Aguamenti!”

A jet of cold water smacked Sirius square in the face.

“Oi!” Sirius spluttered. “Uncalled for!”

Remus smirked. “Now we’re even.”

And then, before Sirius could react, Remus grabbed his collar, dragged him down, and kissed him—wet, fierce, and dizzying.

Somewhere behind them, James whooped and Peter gagged theatrically.

Later that evening, the four Marauders were camped out in the Gryffindor common room. Sirius and Remus sat together on the sofa, legs tangled, Remus wearing one of Sirius’ dry jumpers. Their shoulders brushed every time they moved, but neither complained.

James sprawled on the rug, Quidditch magazine over his face. “I still can’t believe it.”

Peter sat cross-legged near the fire, popping Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. “I can. Sirius has been staring at Remus’ mouth for months.”

Sirius, who had, in fact, been doing exactly that, said, “Not just his mouth.”

Remus elbowed him sharply. “Behave.”

“I am! Mostly.” Sirius grinned and leaned in. “Do you have any idea how hot you looked all soaked and angry?”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to hex you for being an idiot?”

James groaned from under the magazine. “This is my punishment, isn’t it? For teasing Evans all year. The universe has turned the tables. I have to listen to you two flirting.”

Peter pointed at them. “You know they’re going to snog any second now.”

Remus turned red.

Sirius beamed. “Damn right we are.”

James didn’t even look up. “At least do it quietly.”

The next time they were out by the Great Lake, Sirius didn’t push Remus in. Instead, they sat side by side, fingers laced together, basking in the warmth of a sun that didn’t burn quite as hot as the look Remus gave Sirius when he leaned in and whispered:

“Still think I’m beautiful when I’m angry?”

Sirius kissed him slow and sure. “Especially then.”

And the lake rippled gently, as if it approved.

The rest of July passed in a strange, giddy haze.

They didn’t exactly announce it — Sirius was too dramatic for subtlety, but Remus was allergic to attention. So they did what Marauders always did: let the jokes fly, let the rumors swirl, and let everything unspoken settle like dust in a sunbeam.

James and Peter took it surprisingly well.

“I knew it!” James said smugly one morning over toast. “You had that look, Moony. That ‘I want to strangle him or kiss him’ look.”

Remus grumbled into his mug. “That could apply to you on any given day.”

Peter gave Sirius a long look. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

Sirius didn’t even crack a pun. He just nodded, expression open for once, not masked in mischief.

“Good,” Peter said. “Because if you mess with him, I’ll turn you into a rat and bite you myself.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Terrifying, Wormtail.”

But he meant it: he was serious.

And Remus... Remus was letting him in, inch by careful inch.

One night, near curfew, Sirius found Remus leaning on the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower, staring at the stars like they were old friends who’d stopped writing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sirius asked, his voice low.

Remus glanced at him, soft-eyed. “Couldn’t think.”

Sirius came to stand beside him. “What’s up?”

Remus was quiet for a long time. Then: “I keep wondering if this is real. If it’s something we’ll laugh about in a month. If I’m just... a phase.”

The words landed like frost.

Sirius turned to face him fully. “Remus, look at me.”

He did. There was uncertainty there — buried under years of having to hide too much of himself. His scars, his temper, his want.

Sirius touched his face, fingers brushing his jaw.

“You are not a phase,” he said. “You’re the part of the day I wait for. The laugh I listen for in a crowd. The person I’m more myself with than anyone.”

Remus’ throat bobbed. “You’re just saying that to be poetic.”

“Maybe.” Sirius leaned in until their foreheads touched. “But I mean every word of it.”

And for once, Remus didn’t pull away. He just closed his eyes and breathed him in.

Of course, dating Sirius Black didn’t come without consequences.

“I told you I’d get revenge,” Remus said one humid afternoon as they lay under a tree beside the lake.

Sirius opened one eye. “You already soaked me in front of half the castle.”

“No, no. That was punishment. This is revenge.”

Sirius blinked.

Then suddenly, Remus was on top of him, straddling his waist, wand in one hand, smirking.

“Remus,” Sirius said, laughing. “Remus, what are you doing?”

“Something deeply satisfying.” He twirled his wand. “Tickling Charm.”

The next five minutes were filled with shrieking, gasping, howling Sirius and a smug-as-hell Remus sitting on top of him like a conquering king.

James walked by, took one look, and kept walking. “Nope. Not my circus.”

Peter was less fortunate — Remus flicked the spell toward him too for laughing too hard.

The end of the term came faster than any of them expected.

On the last day of term, trunks packed, sun high in the sky, the Marauders stood by the train.

James was talking animatedly about Quidditch camps.

Peter had found a licorice wand longer than his arm.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe of the compartment, watching Remus stare at the lake one last time.

“You alright, Moony?”

Remus turned, sunlight catching the faint scar over his temple. “Yeah. I just... don’t want to go back. Feels like leaving something good behind.”

Sirius walked over, brushed his fingers against Remus’ hand.

“Hey,” he said gently. “This isn’t the end. It’s just the pause.”

Remus smiled, slow and shy. “You’re really sappy, you know that?”

Sirius grinned. “And yet, you’re still kissing me.”

Which Remus did, right there on the platform, completely unbothered by the gasps and wolf whistles from nearby students.

As the train pulled out of the station, Sirius reached over and took Remus’ hand.

Together, they watched the castle fade into the distance.

Together, they didn’t feel quite so afraid of the future.

Because they had each other.

[masksonmasks]

Congratulations! Your upgraded ticket at Immersive Phantom can get you into these extra scenes!

"Lot 667..." - You just stay at the auction for the entirety of the show, bidding on Phantom merch. RUG's most transparent cash grab.

"Crash Out With Carlotta" - The Phantom wants her dead and a nobody chorus girl has taken her place? Unforgivable! You spend Think of Me comforting a fallen diva and talking trash about Christine. More champagne is poured as she invites you to creatively toast her new rival's imminent demise.

"Are You A Dancer?" - Where do you think you're going? Go practice. You are stuck in a ballet fitness class with Madame Giry, Meg, and the rest of the corps de ballet from the end of Angel of Music until you come out the other side at Magical Lasso. Madame Giry will mock you if you came in heels (this is the only reason they warn against wearing heels, by the way). Meg offers moral support while you attempt a temps de cuisse.

"Waiting For Supper" - You wait with Raoul after Little Lotte for Christine to come out of her dressing room. He said he'd give her two minutes. What's going on? Is there an Angel in there? Weird. You wait and wait, and possibly crack open another bottle of champagne while you watch the Vicomte de Chagny spiral. Any minute now. He gives up before Notes. Poor guy.

"Disaster Relief" - Well, someone's gotta mop up Buquet. You spend All I Ask of You helping the managers sort out a few things. Everyone is wondering where Christine is.

"Last Minute Notes" - You miss Masquerade. A very frazzled Red Death pulls you aside and gives you the elevator pitch for Don Juan Triumphant. If he's going to hurl a score at the managers, it better be good. Is it good? Do you like it? Christine heard it once, maybe, or maybe she slept through it? It was hard to remember what she said about it after that unmasking. Is there anything he should change? Mozart wrote the overture the Le Nozze di Figaro the morning it premiered, Don Juan can be adjusted too!

"Don Juan Rehearsal Extended" - You can't just tag along with a distraught soprano and her patron-secret-fiancé to her father's grave. Rude. Besides, the rehearsal is still on. Reyer, Carlotta, and Piangi despair. Carlotta knows she can do a way better job and tries to surprise-understudy-snipe Christine. This is her Think of Me audition moment. Carlotta swoops in to rehearse Point of No Return with Piangi. The cast is not pleased and talk shit about the show as tactfully as possible (we can't have the piano coming back to life now).

How did we get to this point? Who told the composer this show had any merit? Was it you? At least Piangi is doing his best.

"Disaster Relief II" - Hey, didn't you help out with Buquet about a year ago (or was it 45 minutes ago? So hard to tell! Times flies at the Opera Populaire) ? Such good luck you could make it to this cursed performance too! The managers are surprised you came back to the Opera Populaire after what they put you through at Il Muto, but boy are they grateful. They pull you aside to sort out Piangi's remains.

Carlotta's suffering reaches its peak. Saying nasty things about Christine behind her back just doesn't cut it anymore now that Piangi is dead. Vengeance must be sought. Your diva commands. You miss most of Down Once More, but loop into Track Down This Murderer as a member of the mob.

"The Persian Tea Room" - Instead of watching the musical, you have tea with an Iranian man who has very intense eyes. You chat about ballet, opera, and the world of the Opera Populaire. He's pleasant, but will not, under any circumstances, talk about the cellars. He has the funniest feeling he's forgotten about something. It's probably nothing. You walk down with him at the end of Final Lair and watch him remember. Oops.

[isalabells]

Andreas casually dropping he used to date Maud Ackermann in the late 1980s I'm- WHAT DO YOU MEAN BOB ANDREWS AND FÜNF FREUNDE GEORGE WERE AN ITEM ONCE

[butchlesbiannero]

ff7 spoilersssss mmmwah

i’m reeling a bit having clouds (presumably) whole backstory now. still haven’t finished the game so there could be more to come and i may be missing stuff rn buttt. it’s interesting to me how in the end cloud isn’t a true clone of sephiroth (which i know clone is also a contentious translation choice but regardless) or anything huge or grand but a kid from a small town who was ostracized and tried to prove himself and failed. he isn’t the archetypal hero. he didn’t have any friends. he hugely resented and constantly fought his peers who ostracized him. he tried to run away and be a big, tough member of SOLDIER to prove himself but was too weak to cut it. i mean, to put it in a kind of reductive way, he was a loser. who then happened to get himself ensnared in human experimentation and have himself permanently tied to sephiroth and jenova by genetic alteration. the persona of cloud strife we know for the entire first half of the game is the ideal he was never capable of reaching and that his brain (and his wonderful new jenova cells exerting their influence) convinced him of to cope. and we as the player fell for this persona just as much as cloud himself did. after all why would we question who we are? we’re the hero of this story

[kenpachissluut]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ step daddy toji has an chokehold on me <33

Stepdaddy!Toji who comes at night into your room, to fuck you senselessly without any care in the world. Muffling your moans and whimpers with his big hand, while pounding your poor cunt with his thick cock.

Stepdaddy!Toji who pulls you into his lap when you are passing by him on the couch. Strong arms encircling your waist and rugged big hands stroking your thighs, slowly wandering under your tiny skirt.

Stepdaddy!Toji who rubs his clothed bulge at your ass from behind, while standing in an crowded elevator with you. Seeing your flustered red cheeks and trying to be nonchalant but hardly failing at it.

Stepdaddy!Toji who rubs his feet over your clothed core under the table while having dinner with your Mom and Megumi. Sneaking glances at you and throwing smirks, silently telling you to shut up or else you get punished later.

Stepdaddy!Toji who tells your Mom that he drives you to school/work just to have some minutes with you alone. Pulling into an empty parking lot and kissing you roughly and intensely till you are out of breath. He doesn’t fucks you though, first go and be a good girl at school/work. At night you‘ll get your reward.

Stepdaddy!Toji who can‘t resist you at all when you are kneeling before him, big doe eyes and parted lips. Ready to take his big cock into your sweet mouth. Slamming his hips forward in attempt to push you deep onto his length until you are gagging and spitting all over him. His seed following right behind stuffing your mouth full with his salty cum. He growls, gripping your chin tightly to tell you. „Swallow like a good girl.“

Stepdaddy!Toji who puts you over his leg and spanks your little ass when you were bratty and mouthy to him. Rubbing your reddened ass cheek gently as another firm smack is delivered to it. „Take it like a good girl and daddy’s gonna reward ya, yeah?“

Stepdaddy!Toji who gets all prideful when you had good grades. He may fucks you at night, but you are still his stepdaughter kind of. He brings you into your favorite store where you can choose yourself a little gift, for being such a good student.

Stepdaddy!Toji and Stepbrother!Megumi fucking you at the same damn time. Yeah. Megumi catched you guys in the act, but instead of being mad, Toji asked him to join you. So you found yourself with Toji‘s fat cock into your mouth, while Megumi pounds your pretty pussy just as Toji instructs him to make you feel good.

Stepdaddy!Toji who eats your delicious pussy out while you fell asleep on the couch with him. Making sure you are all alone, as he leans down lapping over your wet core with fervor. Making you wake up with an intense orgasm, coating his tongue with your juices.

Stepdaddy!Toji who let‘s you ride his fat cock, to get to make you have your own experiences. Hips thrusting up into your pussy and grabbing your ass to grind yourself on his cock, guiding you gently. ,,Just like that doll, bounce a bit up and down. Yeah, like that. You’re doing amazing pretty.“

Stepdaddy!Toji who presses his foot down on your face, while he fucks your abused cunt from behind. Cock slamming balls deep into your cunt, face pressed into the pillow by a heavy foot. He spits down at you while destroying your poor cunt for misbehaving earlier. „Think next time before you say something, girl. Or else daddy has to punish you even more.“ He grunts and stuffs your cunt full with his cum.

Kenpachissluut writes ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

[amaranthinespirit]

Hi! Request for the husband!simon and murderer!reader, your latest post mentioned we've never killed a woman.

But what if Simon comes home to another one of your killings but this time it's a barista/or just a woman who wouldn't get the hint that Simon is happily married.

husband!simon riley discovering your latest kill is the barista from his favorite coffee shop

simon has a certain coffee shop he frequents to get his morning coffee—typically when he wants to let you sleep in because he prefers you to make his coffee to him. you just have a magic touch.

the coffee shop is the next best thing, and while it's not quite as good as how his sweet wife makes it, it'll do. sometimes, on his way home, he'll stop and grab you a sweet drink and a treat—you'll need the energy for later.

but lately, he's noticed this one barista in particular that just won't get the hint he has a ring on his finger and a perfect wife at home to match it.

sure, the barista is pretty—but not to his standards. everyone pales in comparison to you. he worships the ground you walk on and kisses your feet.

every day he goes in, and she's there, she won't miss the opportunity to tighten her apron around her waist, bat her lashes while biting her thin bottom lip, and speak with a sweet voice that makes his stomach roll. (he prefers his wife in an apron—typically because she doesn't wear anything under it when he asks her).

she leaves hearts on his to-go cups that he disposes of once he transfers it to a tumbler with a kiss print on the outside from your red lipstick. she gives him her employee discount. more money to spend on equipment to dispose of your bodies, not the tip jar.

simon ignores all of this, but he also doesn't tell you. he figures you're already stressed as is and doesn't want to add a petulant and persistent twenty-something girl to the mix.

next thing he knows, she's scribbled her number on his cup, encased in a heart. he knew they had to write personal messages to increase customer connection, but this seemed a bit of a reach.

i mean, come on. 'xxx-xxx-xxxx call me x' is a little excessive.

he scowled at it, resisting the urge to squish the cup under his palm. he turned away without another word, but he did send you a picture this time before promptly throwing it away—the coffee still inside. who knew what she had done to it.

simon didn't question when you wanted to know her name. meek curiosity, he assumed, but what an incorrect assumption it was.

arriving home was always a guessing game because you don't tell him when you've lured another man to his demise. don't wanna keep records of it, simon would tell you. just in case.

every day, he'd take a guess on if you've killed or not. so far, he hasn't been wrong. maybe he can just tell whenever you're in that type of mood, but his reward is giving you the same number of orgasms as his streak. he's currently at nine.

when he pulled into the driveway, he was thinking that he would find a large body belonging to a man, too close to your rug—which he would scold you about by edging you mercilessly.

what he wasn't expecting was the body of the barista that always flirted with him, and you wielding a knife as you stared at him like it was his turn.

boy, did that make him hard.

standing there with a bloodied hand on your hip, red dripping from the knife as you waved it slowly back and forth through the air, as if taunting him. "got something to explain, si?"

his expression contorted to one of confusion, looking between you and the body before relaxing with a chuckle. "jealous, luv?" he stepped closer, pulling the knife from your hand and letting it clatter to the floor.

his rough hands found your hips, rubbing himself against your front as he trailed kisses from your jaw and down your neck. "new perfume?" he diverted.

"si. don't distract me. are you hiding something?" you tried to keep a straight face as you scolded him, but how could you? your husband was dangerously irresistible.

he chuckles again. "only tha' she's been botherin' me for t'long." his voice is gruff. "if y'didn't handle 'er, I would'v."

"oh." a frown pulls at your face. "why didn't you tell me? I would've killed her a lot sooner—"

you yelp as simon suddenly takes you over his shoulder, followed by a giggle as you struggle for a grip against his shirt. a whine of his name only earns a slap to your rear.

"c'mon, luvie, got'a get ya cleaned up." he starts in the direction of the bathroom, where he would personally scrub the blood from your body. somewhat like he had to do the first time you killed. clueless thing. "need ta stay pretty f'me, yeah?"

he'll take care of the corpse a bit later, if it meant cleaning you up personally. and delivering...ten orgasms as his reward for keeping his streak.

[kunasthiast]

sunshine

“you ever think about how lucky you are to have me?”

you didn’t even look up from your phone as you continued scrolling, sprawled out like a lazy cat on the living room rug (it’s comfy, okay?), half under a throw blanket.

“literally never,” you replied.

“liar,” your husband sukuna said from the couch, not missing a beat. “you’re lying and the universe knows it.”

he was half-focused on some work file on his tablet. he had his reading glasses low on his nose (which should’ve been illegal) and was wearing one of those loose black tees that hung just right on his arms. it’s like his arms were sculpted for violence and thirst traps. it was offensive, really. all of it.

a few minute passed by and you were still just scrolling on your phone. 

“you been quiet for a whole five minutes, brat. you dying or scheming?” he asked, not even glancing up.

“maybe both,” you said lazily.

that got his attention. he finally glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, flashing that signature i-know-you-want-me smirk. “if you die, i’ll sue god.”

you snorted. “you think god wants beef with you?”

“babe,” he leaned back, stretching — showing just enough abs to ruin your life, “god’s scared of me.”

a beat passed.

then you peeked over the your phone and said casually with a grin, “baby, serious question.”

“oh boy,” he muttered, lowering the tablet a little. “let’s hear it.”

you sat up cross-legged on the rug, head tilted. “every time you look at me, do you think i’m the sun or the moon?”

sukuna didn’t miss a beat. “sun.”

“oh?” you squinted at him. “so you’re saying i’m blinding and too hot to handle?”

“that,” he drawled, “and you’re dramatic, impossible to ignore, and have a dangerous habit of setting shit on fire.”

you laughed, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at him. he caught it without looking. “so i’m the sun, huh?”

“absolutely. you wake up and immediately decide to shine in my face whether i’m ready or not.”

“rude,” you huffed. “the correct answer was the world.”

he raised a brow. “mm. nah.”

“excuse me?!”

“you’re not the world,” he said, standing up and walking over to you — towering like the menace he is. “you’re the universe.”

you blinked. “…seriously?”

he crouched in front of you, grin widening. “yup. everything in me, around me, orbits you. even when you’re pissing me off, i still revolve around you, baby.”

you opened your mouth to say something, but your brain short-circuited halfway through. “...that’s so full of yourself.”

“no, you’re full of me,” he shot back instantly, smug and unbothered, and grinning with way too much teeth.

you groaned, shoving him away as he laughed. “you ruin everything, oh my god.”

“you asked,” sukuna laughed, snatching the pillow and smacking you gently with it. “don’t start shit you can’t emotionally recover from.”

“i hate you,” you muttered and flopped back dramatically.

“nah,” he said smugly, grabbing his tablet again. “you love me. you’re the universe, remember?”

a few minutes passed with only the soft clicks of sukuna’s tablet and your scrolling. but of course, peace in this house lasted as long as a soap bubble.

“babe,” sukuna called, not even looking up.

“hmm?”

“you know how planets revolve around stars, right?”

you groaned, already sensing the bullshit brewing. “don’t say it –”

“just saying,” he continued, smug, “i must’ve had some gravity to pull the universe.”

you stared at him. “you’re so full of shit, babe”

he finally looked up, smirking in that god-awful way that made your heart skip and your eyes roll at the same time. “and yet you married me. whose fault is that, brat?”

“definitely mine. i take full accountability for this karmic lesson,” you muttered, hiding your grin behind the throw pillow.

sukuna stood up, stretching his arms — muscles flexing in that unfair, jaw-dropping way — and walked over to you with the audacity of a man who knew he was too hot for his own good. 

“nah, you knew what you were getting into.”

he leaned down and kissed your forehead, then right under your eye, before pulling back just enough to grin at your expression. 

“but since you’re the universe,” he said, “guess that makes me your favorite star.”

“you’re a black hole,” you said flatly.

“damn right,” he said with a wink. “sucks you in and leaves you breathless.”

you choked on a laugh, smacked him with the pillow, and swore to the heavens that this man was a menace wrapped in abs.

“try harder, baby,” sukuna teased. “that weak-ass swing won’t even knock a planet off orbit. and this is planetary alignment,” he winked. again.

“god, i hate you.”

“nah,” he leaned down again, cocky as hell, “you love me. more than the sun. more than the moon.”

he paused, lips twitching. “more than sanity.”

“i’m divorcing you.”

“can’t,” he said, grabbing your hand to try and pull you up from the floor, “you’re obsessed with me.”

you just sighed, making yourself heavier, the ultimate act of petty defiance—still holding his hand.

“that’s what i thought,” he said triumphantly, letting go of your hand. “now get off the floor, we’re ordering takeout and you’re not choosing — i still have PTSD from that vegan sushi you made me try.”

“it was fusion!”

“it was trauma.”

“you are so dramatic—”

“and you,” he cut you off, pointing, “are still the universe. but don’t push it.”

you huffed, dragging yourself up. “you better be getting dessert.”

“only if you promise to orbit back to me tonight.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“you’re obsessed.”

you didn’t deny it.

[snail-day]

Can't Sleep

Sum: You can't sleep and maybe it's about conversations that have been left unspoken. SatoSugu x Reader TW: Domestic Fluff, Soft Angst. a/n: It was a thought I had the other day where if Suguru didn't become a cult leader if they would still have to neglect some dreams due to the harsh truth that either of them could die at any point :( WC: 1.6k

Despite all your tossing and turning - counting sheep, flipping your pillow to the cool side - it’s no use. Your body aches, your skin is clammy, and your thoughts are far too loud for the late hours of the night.

You can’t sleep. It's frustrating beyond belief because you should be able to sleep.

Suguru is curled behind you, one sculpted arm draped lazily across your waist, heavy with exhaustion. He got home just a few hours ago from a three-day mission, hair still damp from a shower he barely stayed awake through. You barely managed a conversation before bed, mostly silence and a few tired smiles.

His breath fans softly against the back of your neck. A slow, even rhythm. He’s out cold. You could probably light the house on fire and he’d sleep through it.

Well. Except if you picked up your phone.

It’s sitting innocently beside you on the nightstand. All it would take is one little swipe, one guilty scroll through your feed until the screen’s glow dulls the noise in your head.

But Suguru has a rule. No phones in bed. He’s told you the reasons, shown you studies about blue light and dopamine, and the risk of fractured sleep cycles.

You’re allowed to grumble about it. Suguru finds it cute when you pout, brushing his thumb across your lower lip like he's tempted to kiss the argument away.

So instead you wait. Listening to the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his soft black hair brushes against your shoulder every time he shifts. And then - there. He turns over, arm falling away.

Your cue.

You slide out from under the blanket, careful not to let it rustle. Hands and knees on the floor, carpet bristling against your palms like you're trespassing in your own home. Phone clutched in your palm like contraband. Careful not to let any light slip free. You crawl across the room to the door because you never walk at night. Suguru wakes at the slightest creak, even in his sleep, and once dragged you back to bed with a sigh and a “c’mon, angel, not tonight.”

You make it.

It’s 12:01 a.m. The hallway is cool against skin. In a way, it feels like freedom. You curl up on the couch, tug the soft crocheted throw blanket over your legs, open your phone.

Satoru should be home in four hours. You tell yourself you’ll be back in bed before then. Before he finds you like this and starts asking questions you can’t answer.

You anxious? You okay? Want to break up? Did something happen? Is it me?

No. Nothing happened. And maybe that’s the problem.

You pull up Old Enough! on Netflix. It’s soft. Silly. Toddlers running errands, clumsy and proud, their tiny legs working overtime to carry baskets bigger than their torsos. It’s not gripping enough to binge, but it helps. Settles something.

You’re halfway through an episode when the door opens.

Click. Clatter.

Keys into the dish on the table by the door. A housewarming present, if you remember correctly. A soft sigh. The faint scrape of shoes kicked off.

You freeze.

Satoru stops in his tracks.

Satoru blinks at you across the room, his white hair rumpled and wind-tossed, still dressed in his crumpled uniform. His blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and the bags under his crystal blue eyes are deep enough to carry the weight of the week.

“Baby?”

His voice is quiet, still rough with fatigue. He crosses the room in a few long strides, then drops to his knees on the plush rug in front of you, cupping your face in his warm hands.

His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones. One slender finger catches on the skin beneath your eye…as if checking for something that isn’t there - sleep, tears, the pieces of you you haven’t said out loud. His lips press into a thin line, concern pulling at the corners.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you with Sugu?”

Satoru isn’t always soft. Not in the way Suguru is. His sweetness tends to come laced with far too much energy, jokes, a half-grin, and a nudge. But right now, he’s quiet. Gentle.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His baby blue eyes glance down at your phone, settled in your palm. Watches a child struggle with a bag of carrots. His eyes soften.

“Want me to watch with you?”

Though, like most things, he doesn’t wait for the answer. He just shifts onto the couch beside you, tugging you into the warmth of his side. Your cheek rests against his chest, where his heart beats steady beneath his jacket, faintly out of sync with the soft sounds from the show.

He smells like salt and ash. Like the ruins of some building he probably pulled down himself.

One arm curls around you, palm wide and settling over your waist. The other settles behind his head, fingers threading loosely into his white hair. He talks softly while the episode plays, snorts at the little kid falling over a cabbage, and kisses the top of your head.

And then, while the screen flickers blue shadows across his jaw, he says, “Y’know… Suguru would never let our kid do something like this. Not without a curse glued to them.”

You exhale through your nose. Sounds almost like a laugh.

“Do you want kids?” you ask, your hand slipping down to find his. You play with his fingers, long and clever, always moving. He’s tracing slow circles on your palm, absentminded.

His smile is tired. Beautiful. It tugs at the corners of his mouth but doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Scary thought,” he murmurs. “But yeah. If they looked like you? I’d risk it.”

The ache comes in quietly.

Because you both know what he’s really saying.

Sorcerers don’t get happy endings. Not the strongest ones. Not the ones who shoulder the world.

Suguru and Satoru talk about the future like it’s a fantasy. A busy kitchen with dishes left in the sink. Countertops that used to be pristine, now have child drawings and leftover snacks. A kid in footie pajamas is following you all around the house. A little dress tucked away in the closet.

But they also hang their uniforms every night, unaware of what horror is to come tomorrow. Memorize their wills. Have their goodbyes in the form of a letter.

Maybe the reason they dream with you is because you’re not like them. Because you’re still here when the battle ends.

The one they’re willing to try for.

Satoru’s fingers thread through yours. He exhales softly.

“I think Suguru would cry if we ever had a daughter,” he mumbles, smile growing. “He’d buy them anything, give them the world if he could.”

“He already tries,” you murmur. “He has a few clothing items hidden in the closet.”

You don't add that you've caught him looking at them during his cleaning spurts. How he smiles to himself. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Satoru huffs a laugh, dragging you from your thoughts, the sound low and sleepy.

Eventually, his warmth seeping into your skin, makes your eyelids droop. You both manage to drift off there on the couch.

When morning comes, Suguru finds you like that. Satoru’s white hair mussed against your forehead. Your body curled into his. The dead phone screen resting on Satoru's tummy.

Suguru stands in the doorway for a long moment, violet eyes soft with something close to longing. He pads forward on bare feet, silent as can be. Carefully, lays another soft blanket over both of you. Then he leans down, brushing a kiss to your forehead, lingering, tender. Then one for Satoru. Just as gentle.

He doesn’t wake either of you. Doesn’t scold.

Chastising can wait.

For now, he just watches quietly. Let's himself pretend, just for a moment, that this is a future he might actually get to keep.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 MAYBE I JUST WANNA BE YOURS

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai does not get jealous. he especially doesn't get jealous over someone he's not even dating. because he's not dating you. he doesn't want to date you... right?

(wordcount: 5k; fem!reader, nsfw, lots of smut LOL idk what got into me this is the first fic ive written with more smut than plot in ages. but anyway: jealous!dazai, fingering, oral (f->m), semi-public/public sex. whiplash from dazai's thoughts (as always). unedited.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: hihi. SO this actually wasn't going to be connected to anything, but i decided like mid-fic that i wanted to make it a continuation to the adareader universe ive been considering building. i was too lazy to go check for inconsistencies, so if there's any dihfausihdfsudf just ignore them LOL. when i eventually make the masterlist for it and officially connect them all, ill go thru and double check for them. first i need to write them something with actual substance and not just horny posting LOLLLL.

Dazai is not a jealous man.

He’s not.

In fact, he’s the most un-jealous person in the whole world. He has no reason to be jealous, especially over you. He’s not dating you. Dazai never asked you to be his girlfriend, and that was intentional because Dazai doesn’t want a girlfriend. More specifically, he doesn’t want to be someone’s boyfriend. You’re just a friend—a friend that he sometimes fucks and occasionally seeks out to spend time with. He doesn’t want someone relying on him in a way a girlfriend would, and he certainly doesn’t want to rely on someone in the way a boyfriend would, because he doesn’t want the rug pulled out from under him when it inevitably goes to shit. 

The thought is suffocating, it makes his skin crawl.

Almost as much as the realization that the cop the two of you are assigned to be coordinating with is clearly head over heels enamored by you. Dazai scowls from where he’s standing a few steps behind you, watching as you go over the details of the file that the man brought to you—Dazai didn’t care to learn his name. And yes, Dazai means you because when the officer came over with the file, he didn’t even acknowledge Dazai’s existence and walked right over to you.

He still hasn’t acknowledged Dazai’s presence, staring at you with an adoring expression as you read through the file. Dazai thinks if this were some sort of cartoon, the officer would quite literally have hearts in his eyes—it’s disgusting, Dazai can hardly stand to watch it.

“Dazai,” you finally say, voice a soft hum. He likes the way you say his name—it rolls off your tongue prettily, and it makes his chest oddly warm. He’s not used to people saying his name with such softness; he’s used to anger, irritation, fear, but never this. He’s wondered how his given name would sound, he’s spent many nights imagining it, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other wrapped around his cock, but he hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask you to call him by it. That’s a step too close to actual intimacy and he’s not willing to take it.

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai realizes you must have said something after you said his name, but he didn’t catch it because he was too absorbed in the way you said his name to notice.

“Come here,” you say again, nodding your head for him to drag himself out of the corner he’s sulking in to come to you. He feels a bit too gleeful watching the way the officer’s expression shifts in surprise as he turns to look at Dazai, finally noticing him.

Dazai pushes himself off of the wall to take a few steps closer to you, and he may or may not stand a bit too close on purpose just to see the other man frown. He stands behind you, chest brushing your back as he looks over your shoulder to scan through the file you’ve been reading. It takes him twice as long as it usually does because he didn’t realize that being in such close proximity to you would make him as dizzy as it did, and he’s too stubborn to back off now. 

Your hair smells like vanilla, and Dazai can smell the faint scent of your favorite perfume dabbed on your neck, worn off throughout the long day. His attention strays from the file to you, tracing the smooth curve of your neck, dipping down to your collarbone and swallowing when he realizes that the top three buttons of your dress shirt are undone, the stuffiness of the tiny room and the lack of air conditioning causing small, visible beads of sweat to form on your skin. His breath catches as his gaze lowers just a bit more and-

You turn to look at him and his gaze snaps up before it can drop to dangerous territories, and Dazai catches the amused look in your eyes—you know exactly what he was looking at. Instead of having some shame, because Dazai has no shame, he shifts just an inch closer to you, one of his hands resting on your hip. He watches the way your lashes flutter the same way they always do when you’re trying to pretend you’re not affected by his touch, and his lips curl up into a small smirk.

“What do you think?” you ask after a second. 

To your credit, your voice isn’t as strained as he expected, so Dazai ups it a notch, fingers sliding from where they’re caressing your hip to trail across your inner thigh. All out of sight from the officer on your left, but Dazai can tell he’s aware that something is going on from the way his enamored expression starts shifting into a more awkward one.

Dazai gives him a smug, sardonic smile before saying, “I think our friend over here should go get us the CCTV tapes—that’ll be much more useful to us then a bunch of reports.”

The other man’s face shifts in confusion, brows furrowing and lips curving down, but before he can say no, you speak up and agree, “That would be great.”

Dazai rolls his eyes when it makes the man straighten and nod, “I’ll get it right away.”

Before he steps out of the room, Dazai tosses another look over his shoulder, this one colder than it is smug, and he says maybe a bit too snidely, “Don’t come back until you have them.”

The officer doesn’t reply as he leaves the room, and as soon as the door clicks shut, Dazai is pulling away from you to walk over to it. He locks it quickly and then turns to face you, tilting his head to the side as his gaze roves over your body. You’re leaning back against the table, eyebrows raised, and Dazai doesn’t stop himself this time when his gaze lowers to the swell of your breasts just barely made visible by your partially unbuttoned shirt.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, motioning for you to come over to him.

You don’t budge. Instead, you raise your eyebrows and say dryly, “There are cameras in here, Dazai.”

He pointedly looks up to the two corners of the room that they’re in and then back down to where he’s standing, silently telling you that this is a blind spot. After a moment’s hesitation, you push yourself off the table and make your way over to him. Dazai tilts his head back against the wall, looking down at you through his lashes as you come to stand directly in front of him. He pretends that his throat doesn’t bob when he feels your fingers slip into his belt loops.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask, but your eyes are glittering so he knows you know exactly what the problem is—and to think he thought you weren’t cruel, you might just be the worst type of cruel there is, hiding it behind pretty smiles and sweet words. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous because that cop has a crush.”

“I don’t get jealous,” Dazai replies with a simpering smile, lifting one hand to cradle your cheek, breath catching as your eyes flutter shut, pressing your face into his hand. “I just didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Dazai thinks that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—he’s thought it since the day he met you, but he thinks it especially now when you’re leaning into his touch like it isn’t poisonous, like his hands aren’t stained with blood and his soul isn’t black and rotten. You deserve better than him, and that’s another reason why he refuses to take that next step: he knows one day you’ll realize it too. You’ll realize that you’ve fallen for a mask, that the man you care about doesn’t actually exist, it’s a thing that can barely call itself human pretending to be him.

He wonders if you know. He wonders if you know that something is wrong with him—he thinks that you must have some inkling after the bout of paranoia he had a few weeks ago when he was at your apartment, but he doubts you know the extent of it. He doubts you know that thoughts running through his head whenever that officer looked at you were anything but just casual jealousy; that every time he leaned in closer to you, Dazai’s fingers twitched in the direction of the gun given to him by the Agency that he’s only supposed to use in emergencies. 

Old habits die hard, Dazai has always been quite trigger happy. They never should’ve put a gun in his general vicinity.

 He leans down to ghost his lips below your ear, savoring in the way he feels you take in a sharp breath. His fingers tangle in your hair as he pulls your head back just enough to kiss the spot beneath your jaw that makes you writhe, and just as he expects, you let out a breathy moan against his ear that makes his head dizzy, your hands darting up to cling at the sleeves of his jacket.

“Dazai,” you gasp as he kisses down your neck. He hums in response, his free hand resting on your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Are you sure…”

“I’m sure,” he says, and then adds smugly, “When am I ever wrong?”

He doesn’t have to see your face to know that you’re probably rolling your eyes at him, but he doesn’t give you the chance to make a witty remark about the first time the two of you met. His grip tightens on your waist as he flips you around so that your back is to his chest.

His hands immediately work to unbutton your slacks, lips finding their way back to your neck to pepper kisses up and down your skin as he watches the rapid rise and fall of your chest. He lets out a low groan against your skin when he slides his hand into your pants and feels just how damp your panties are.

“This better be for me,” he mutters more to himself than to you, nipping at the skin of your neck. His voice is a bit more rough now as he asks you, “Lace?”

He lifts his face from your neck to look at you. Your eyes are half lidded as the pads of his fingers trace the cloth of your panties, head lolled back against his shoulder, breath ragged and lips parted, but there’s something teasing in your gaze as it flickers up to meet his.

“The ones you like,” you breathe out, and Dazai swallows thickly. “I was gonna see if you wanted to come over after this.” 

“Shit,” he whispers, putting pressure right over where your clit is hidden, watching the way your thighs tremble. “Look at you, only I make you feel this good, yeah?”

“Don’t tease.” The whine that clings to your words makes Dazai’s head spin. He can already feel his cock straining against his pants and tries to ease some of the friction by pressing you back into him, rolling his hips against your ass. “Dazai-”

“Shhhh,” Dazai soothes with a grin, kissing up your neck to your ear when he hears the distress in your tone. “I’ve got you.” 

With practiced ease, he slides his fingers beneath your panties, middle finger dipping between your folds. He inhales sharply, immediately losing his grin when he feels how wet you are.

“This better be for me,” he repeats, a bit more seriously this time as he slides his finger between your folds, putting pressure on your entrance but not quite pushing in. “Hm?”

He waits for a response, relishing in the way your whole body trembles against him. He doesn’t even know if you know what he asked, you already seem so fucked out—lips wet and parted as you breathe in and out shakily, lashes fluttering and chest heaving.

“Tell me,” he presses, his free hand sliding up your body, untucking your shirt so he can slip his hand beneath it to feel your skin.

“‘course it’s for you, Dazai,” you say after a few seconds of confusion, like you were trying to remember what he asked. “What kind of question is that?” 

Dazai doesn’t respond to that, letting out a pleased hum as he kisses your jaw again. He also doesn’t give you the chance to say anything else, quickly plunging his middle finger deep inside of you. The sudden intrusion has your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the cry that escapes your lips—he almost wants to pull your hand away, but decides against it because he doesn’t want anyone else hearing you like this.

You try to rock your hips to get him moving, but Dazai’s hand flattens against your stomach, holding you still against him.

“Dazai-” you gasp his name again, this time your voice is more pitched, caught between a whine and a complaint.

“Patience,” he coos, but his voice is strained and his breath is heavier as your tight walls hug his finger, imagining that it’s his cock instead. He drags his finger out until only the tip remains inside of you. He teases your entrance again, tracing a gentle circle but not pushing back in. “Bet you could already take two fingers for me, yeah?”

“What if he comes back?” you suddenly ask panic flying through your eyes as if you’ve only just remembered where you are. Dazai is distinctly displeased by the thought of another man crossing your mind while his fingers are inside of you. “Dazai, what if-”

“He won’t,” Dazai answers you, making his displeasure known as he nips your neck. 

“How do you-”

“The corner that the disappearance took place on—it’s a blind spot for the CCTV cameras,” he answers before you can finish. Dazai knows this because he killed a target in that exact same spot two and a half years ago. “He’ll be gone for a while. He won’t want to come back empty handed to you.” 

Dazai doesn’t give you the chance to question him anymore, sliding his middle and ring fingers inside of you and watching as your jaw falls slack. To make up for the displeasure he felt at you bringing up that irritating cop, he fucks you hard with his fingers—you barely have time to bite the palm of your hand before his fingers are stretching your walls.

He thinks he might be pushing his luck—he doesn’t know if the cameras in the corners of the room pick up sound, and if they do, he doesn’t know how well they pick it up. Even if you’re doing your very best at muffling your moans, there’s no hiding the sloppy sound of his fingers driving in and out of your cunt—it’s wet and filthy, and it has Dazai’s head dizzy. 

His eyes drag up from where his fingers are plunging in and out of you back up to your face. Your pretty eyes are almost fully rolled back as he fucks you closer and closer to the edge and your lashes are wet. One particularly rough snap of his wrist has your hand falling limp from your mouth to your side and your lips parting in a moan that Dazai doesn’t dare allow anyone else to hear. Quickly, his free hand darts up to grab your jaw hard, turning your face toward him so he can press his lips to yours messily, swallowing the keening moan before you can let it out. 

He kisses you deeply, tongue tracing the inside of your mouth gently in contrast to the rapid thrusts of his fingers. You try to kiss him back, but you can hardly even breathe with how deep his fingers fuck into you. He knows you're close—he can feel it in the way your whole body is trembling, and how your pussy flutters around his fingers, so he picks up the pace, just as desperate to bring you over the edge as you are to get there.

He’s the only one that can make you feel like this. He’s the only one that can make your body shudder and writhe, he’s the only one that can make your eyes roll back in pleasure, he’s the only one and he needs to prove it.

“C’mon, baby,” he pleads against your lips. The pet name that spills from his lips is not the teasing bella he likes to hit you with like he intended—it comes out strained, breathy, just as desperate as he feels. The lack of control scares him a bit, but he’s too out of it for it to take hold. “C’mon, once on my fingers, then as many times as you want on my cock when we get home, alright?”

He doesn’t know what you’re trying to say, the noise that spills from your lips, muffled against his mouth, is a moan, caught between his name and a please and something else he can’t make out. Distantly, he thinks that the bandages on his forearm must be ruined, he can feel your slickness dripping down his hand to his wrist and he can hear the lewd sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of you. He doesn’t care—in fact, the thought only makes his lower abdomen tighter. 

“I’m gonna-” you gasp, the only word she can make out and Dazai grins.

“Yeah, you are,” he rasps, scissoring his fingers inside of you and rubbing his index finger over your clit, and you’re gone. 

Dazai groans when he feels you moan his name against his lips, hand dropping from your face to your waist to hold you upright as your knees buckle. You cum hard on his fingers, hips stuttering and stilling, and he can feel tears spilling over your cheeks. His cock is painfully hard now and he wants nothing more than to unbuckle his pants and replace his fingers with it, but he thinks that would be pushing his luck—he’s never had any semblance of control once his cock is inside you and he needs to keep an ear out for footsteps approaching the conference room. 

He rides out your high, pace slowing as he continues to fuck his fingers into your sensitive cunt, wiping your tears with his free hand once you’ve steadied yourself. You tremble, reeling from the intensity of your orgasm, and Dazai only removes his fingers when you claw at his wrist for him to stop.

His fingers are dripping with your cum, and though Dazai is aching for a taste himself, he instead lifts them to your lips. You’re still trying to get ahold of yourself, leaning back against his chest and breathing heavily, but you instinctually part your lips for him. His breath catches when you take both of his fingers into your mouth, lashes fluttering shut and tongue swirling around his digits as you taste yourself off of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, hand dropping down to rub the heel of his hand against his cock, desperately trying to alleviate the pressure. He has no idea how he’s going to hide this before the officer gets back and…

His thoughts trail off when you finally push off of him, your legs are still trembling, and your eyes are still a little hazy, but your gaze drops from his face to his rapidly rising and falling chest down to where he’s rubbing his cock through his pants. And then, you lower yourself to your knees in front of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he repeats, voice breathy this time and pupils blown wide as he watches your fingers work at the buckle of his belt.

Dazai almost wishes that the officer would come back soon, just so he could walk in on you with a faceful of Dazai’s cock. But if that happens, all of Ango’s work will go out the window because there’s no way he’s letting someone see you like this and walk out alive. 

Dazai’s cock twitches as soon as you free it from its confines. He’s already leaking an embarrassing amount of precum, and his tip is flushed red, but you waste no time before ghosting your lips across his length, suckling gently at the vein running along the underside of his cock before wrapping your lips around his tip.

Dazai chews at his lower lip, thighs tensing as he resists the urge to thrust his hips forward and shove his cock down your throat. Instead, his throat spasms as he swallows, reaching out to cradle the back of your head gently, carding his fingers through your hair soothingly.

“Lookit you,” he breathes out, voice wavering as he swallows another low groan. His fingers tighten in your hair just a bit, but he doesn’t push your face down on his cock, head falling back against the door as you work his cock further down your throat. His breath is ragged and heavy as your tight muscles spasm around him, desperately trying to adjust to the intrusion, and he can feel your nails digging into the bandages wrapped around his hips. “That’s my girl.”

Another loss of control that should probably concern him, but you’re quick to take his mind off of it with the way he can feel you let out a whine around him, nails digging a little bit deeper into skin as you take him fully into your mouth, lips flush to his pelvis and nose buried in his pubic hair.

His head falls forward as he pants, watching your throat struggle to adjust to him. He strokes your hair gently, silently beckoning you to look up at him because he worries that if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll let out a pornographic moan, one that will be impossible to deny if anyone over hears.

Your lashes flutter as you look up at him, eyes wide and glassy with fat tears that roll steadily over your cheeks. 

Beautiful, he thinks hazily, and his—all his. No one else gets to see you like this, no one else gets to imagine you like this—you’re his. 

He chokes over air, free hand coming up to cover his mouth and hips jerking forward. He feels you gag around him and his hand drops to caress your cheek in apology, trying to wipe away your tears, but it’s clumsy and frantic—the sight of you on your knees for him, tears streaming down you face as you take him down your throat, is enough to send him spiraling over the edge.

His vision spots with black dots, the taut cord in his abdomen tightens and then snaps. He’s hardly able to muffle the moan that spills from his lips as his eyes knock back and his head falls against the metal of the door. His whole body tenses and spasms as he cums down your throat, he gasps for air, thumb still stroking your cheek as you struggle to swallow all of his cum.

It takes a minute for Dazai to regain some semblance of control over himself. By the time he has, you’re standing on shaky legs and tucking his sensitive cock back into his pants. His hazy gaze focuses on your face—your lips are wet and swollen, your eyes are still glassy, and this time Dazai doesn’t have an excuse as he lifts his hands to cradle your face and says quietly, “Mine.”

Your smile is teasing. “‘I don’t get jealous,’” you mock lightly, leaning in to press your lips against his. Dazai’s eyes flutter shut as his hand slinks around your body to your back, pulling your body flush to his as he deepens the kiss, sinking into the familiar feeling of your lips sliding against his. 

“I don’t have reason to be jealous,” Dazai murmurs, this time with a different meaning. He pulls back slightly so he can button your pants back up and tuck your dress shirt back into them, making sure you look presentable before the officer gets back.

Instead of teasing him again, your smile softens and you affirm, “You don’t,” and Dazai’s throat tightens. 

The thought of being in an actual relationship has always been suffocating to Dazai. Imagining having to spend the rest of his life with one person, having someone rely on him when his will to live is fickle at best and nonexistent at worst, becoming dependent on someone who could leave him on a moment’s notice… It makes his stomach churn with disgust, his chest tight with anxiety.

But when that faceless someone turns into you, Dazai realizes that the thought of a relationship is not quite as unappealing as it’s always been to him. Does it still make him skittish? Sure, but does it outweigh the green hue that colors his vision whenever someone looks at you and thinks you’re not his? Does it outweigh the bolt of fear he feels whenever he sees someone display interest in you, wondering if maybe you’ll get sick of his flighty behavior and give them a chance?

Absolutely not.

Dazai hears footsteps approaching the door he’s leaning on, and quickly unlocks it, motioning for you to stand back by the conference table. When the officer opens the door, the two of you are standing there casually like you never moved.

The officer gives you an apologetic smile that makes Dazai’s eyes twitch. “It doesn’t seem like there’s any CCTV footage from the area.”

Before you can respond, Dazai smiles tightly and says, “Wow, and it took almost twenty minutes for you to realize that—no wonder the police keep coming to us for help.”

You elbow Dazai, but he’s unrepentant, giving you a sweet smile before turning a cooler one back onto the officer. “If you don’t mind, we can finish the rest back at our office tomorrow now that we have the files. We have a date to get to.”

He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re raising your eyebrows at him, but he keeps his gaze trained on the officer, finding sick satisfaction in the way the man’s eyes dart between the two of you, a dawning expression crossing his face.

“A… date?” 

“A date,” Dazai confirms, picking up the file and motioning for you to leave. He pointedly ignores the amused expression on your face as you make your way out of the room, walking past the officer who dumbly steps out of the way. “Thanks for the help… or, well, lack thereof.”

It’s only when the door slams shut behind the two of you, do you finally echo, “… A date?”

Hesitantly, Dazai confirms, “A date?”

When you don’t immediately respond, Dazai’s smile starts to freeze, considering that maybe you don’t want to date him and he read all of this wrong. You want to keep things casual, no strings attached. But after a few agonizing moments, you hook your arm around his and lean into him.

“Where are you taking me then, hm?”

“… It’s a surprise,” he replied.

A surprise for both of you, because Dazai hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. 

A tenseness that he hadn’t even realized was in his shoulders dissipates when you laugh and press your lips to his upper arm before resting your head against it. 

“Alright,” you agree, although he’s pretty sure you know damn well this is all spur of the moment. “Let’s go then.”

Though Dazai tries to rifle through all of the options of places you like to go, when the two of you step outside, all coherent thought washes right out of the window when you turn to look up at him, the setting sun casting an ethereal glow over your face.

“What is it?” you ask when he freezes in his tracks to admire you. “Dazai?”

For just a split second, Dazai can imagine it. He can imagine a life with you, and there’s no sign of any of the suffocation or discomfort he usually feels when he thinks of long term commitment too hard. He imagines waking up to you in the morning and falling asleep to you at night, he imagines spending his days laid up in bed with you sharing kisses and sweet nothings and he imagines dragging you around the city to show you off to anyone and everyone. His thoughts start to spiral out of control, and he’s glancing down at your ring finger, wondering-

“Dazai?”

Dazai’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt, and he swallows thickly when a more realistic image comes to mind—the expression on your face when you find out about his past, the disgust, the fear, the realization that he’s just not who he made himself out to be, that he’s been lying to you since day one.

“Nothing,” he says after a moment, voice a little raspy, so he shakes his head, giving you a disarming smile and clearing his throat. “You’re just so stunning that it leaves me at a loss for words, sweet bella.”

You don’t seem to buy it, but you don’t press, arm tightening around his as you make your way back over to your car.

As soon as you look away, his expression shifts into a more downcast one as his gaze tracks back over to you. It’s only a matter of time, he remembers. His past will catch up with him sooner rather than later, and no matter what you may insist about the past being in the past, he knows everything will change when you finally realize what all he’s been hiding from you.

… but maybe there’s not too much harm in indulging while he still can. He just has to keep reminding himself that he can’t get too attached.

“You should let me drive,” Dazai says sweetly. “So I can drive us to the place and keep it a surprise for you.”

You laugh in his face. “As if.”

You usher him over to the passenger seat before making your way back over to the driver’s side, and Dazai finds a genuine smile unconsciously curling at the corners of his lips. One that quickly falls when his fingers wrap around the handle of the car door.

He thinks, maybe, it might be far too late to stop himself from getting attached.

[redflagshipwriter]

Snitches the cat and his favorite bat

I wrote up dpxdc fics based off of prompts I happened to see in the last day to add to the reading pile for anyone who didn't prep for the archive down time today.

EDIT

The idea for Danny as a cat came from @shycorvid, thank you so much for correcting me and letting me play in your sandbox!

Snitches the cat comes from @garbagewith-a-cherryontop (I think??? I couldn't find a definite first post!) but the fantastic linked post is the one with how I think Snitches the cat looks here.

Word count is 1053.

Tumblr reference

masterpost for my AO3 downtime fics

“Ugh- that's not- did we just summon a demon cat?”

“It's so messed up looking. Ew.”

Danny blinked and swayed on his feet. He'd had a tail a minute ago, speeding across the GZ to check in on Walker. There had been an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. And now he was on his feet. All four of them.

Wait, what?

“You fucked this up.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a slap. Danny swiveled towards the sound and then got distracted by the feeling of his ears swiveling back. Whaaaaat?

He looked down at his precious little feeties. They were adorable paws.

“Oh, you motherfuckers,” he said. It came out as a conversational yowl.

The humans looked at him from about ten feet away and five feet up. “Annoying…”

He was pretty sure they were high schoolers. There were five of them, two girls and three boys. They were all bigger than him. High schoolers were usually bigger than he was, but this was just ridiculous.

“Count yourself lucky, dimwits,” one of the older kids said. He took a step towards Danny. Danny pressed his ears flat against his head and hissed at the approach. “If you managed to sacrifice Patches to a demon, your Mom would straight up murder you.” He laughed when he said it, like anything about that was remotely funny.

Uh- what now?

Only now, Danny noticed a very distressed calico cat underneath a laundry basket on the other side of the room. There was a stack of textbooks weighing the basket down. A large rug had been rolled up and- he sneezed rapidly, eyes watering. Chalk! They'd drawn on the floor with chalk!

‘This is some incompetent summoning,’ Danny realized, way too late. ‘Did they- how did they turn me into a cat?’ He looked at his unfortunate brethren under the laundry basket. Her ears were flat against her skull and she looked scared.

He remembered the word “sacrifice” and his blood flushed hit with fury. They'd wanted him to eat her! They'd wanted something to eat miss Patches!

The teenagers froze and looked at him, aghast at the angry sounds that were coming out of his throat.

“Shut up!” One hissed. She took off her shoe and threw it at him. Danny dodged and then threw his head back to yowl even louder. Sonic attack! Aural damage, you big jerks!

“The neighbors are going to- make it shut up!”

Danny had to run, dashing over furniture and tearing his way across a crowded table to avoid being grabbed. He screamed the whole time, eager to alert whoever they were so afraid of. Someone should see!

The window burst in.

Danny stopped running, shocked. He hadn't actually expected-

Someone snatched him up from behind and smacked him on the face with a palm. His jaw exploded with pain. It cut off his yowling.

Stunned. He was still for a moment and then he struggled for his life. The grip on his ribs was way too tight-

He looked over at the sound of a sword being pulled from a sheath. Holy shit, that was bomb as hell. His eyes went wide at the sight of a heavily armored small child crouched on the windowsill. The boy's eyes were covered, but Danny could still see him look at Danny and the poor calico under the laundry basket. He sneered.

“Unhand the cat or lose your hands at the wrist, you wretch.”

Danny loved him.

The teenager dropped him. Danny caught himself with a stumble. He let out a sad mraow before he could stop himself.

Fight club baby was enraged. “What have you done to this animal?” He hopped down into the room, revealing he was at least a foot shorter than the smallest girl in the room.

Danny trotted to him and started winding around his ankles admiringly. What a good kid! He purred.

“I will be taking both of your cats with me. If you ever harm an animal again, it will be your head that is found in a chalk-”

“Robin.” A hugeass grown man squeezed himself through the window that the kid had broken. Danny craned his head up, up, up, to see him case the joint.

The older man radiated incredible judgment. “I see that you require education on animal welfare and demonic summoning. Go on, Robin.”

“That's my Mom's cat!” One of the teenagers protested. “You can't take her!”

Robin growled at her. Danny jumped in his skin at the sound.

“Then we shall return it to your Mother and her alone, when we explain what you've done.” Danny let murder baby scoop him up and purred at full volume. Hell yeah. He looked at the cowering teenagers with condescension.

“Not that fugly thing.”

Danny blinked. He ended up making an inquisitive mraow. Why was a finger being pointed at him? He was baby.

“That thing showed up, you can get rid of it. But Patches is Mom's cat, and you can't steal a cat because-”

“Batman can steal any cat!” Robin bit out, gathered up Patches, and jumped out the window with both cats in an expert grip.

That didn't sound right, but Danny just enjoyed the night air as a line pulled Robin up to where yet another masked vigilante was waiting, cackling himself to tears.

“Batman can steal any cat,” he wheezed. “Brilliant. Good detour, Robin. Can I hold one?” He held out his blue-striped palms expectantly.

He faltered when he saw Danny, visibly surprised.

Danny… was starting to feel bad. He curled into Robin, hurt. He wasn't ugly. Why did people keep reacting to him weird?

“No,” Robin said curtly. “You have damaged his pride, and Patches is still reeling from her shock.”

The man let out a sigh but let the topic go. “That's Patches, and this is…?”

Robin hesitated. “He is the Snitch.”

That unlocked cooing. “Snitches? Snitchy Snitch Sni- ow!”

Danny snapped at the hand that came way too close and he let out a warning growl. No baby talk!

Robin seemed very pleased. He rubbed behind Danny's ears. “Snitch… I suppose that Snitches will suffice. We are taking him home.”

“....Maybe, just for fun, we should take him to get treated for mange first!” The guy made jazz hands to go with his statement.

Robin and Danny both growled that time.

[oldsoul007]

wicked game

older!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: A magnetic, off-limits fling between you and your rugged, older neighbor Joel turns into something deeper as you both struggle with unspoken feelings, stolen moments, and the weight of reality.

a/n: 20 year age gap, wholesome, fluff, suggestive scenes

joel miller masterlist

I stepped out of the house into the crisp morning air, my purse slung over my shoulder and a mental checklist of errands already playing on repeat in my head. The sun was still low enough to cast a soft, golden light over the neighborhood, making everything feel calm and picturesque. I was halfway down my front steps when a familiar melody stopped me in my tracks.

“The world was on fire, and no one could save me but you…”

I froze, my fingers tightening on the strap of my bag. Wicked Game. That song always hit me in the chest, like a gentle nudge from the past, stirring emotions I didn’t even know I was still carrying. But it wasn’t just the music that caught my attention. Across the street, someone was working on a car, and it was hard not to notice him.

He had his back to me, bent over the open hood, his hands moving with practiced ease. He wore a faded flannel with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were strong and dusted with just the right amount of hair. His salt-and-pepper hair looked perfectly unkempt, like it belonged to someone who didn’t care too much but somehow always pulled off the look.

I told myself not to stare. I really did. But the way the golden light caught the broad lines of his shoulders, the subtle flex of his muscles as he worked… it was impossible to look away.

The song drifted through the air like it was soundtracking the whole moment, making it feel too cinematic to be real. I shifted awkwardly, my steps faltering. Just then, as if he could sense my presence, he straightened, wiping his hands on a grease-smudged rag.

When he turned and his eyes met mine, my breath hitched. His gaze was dark and intense, cutting through the cool morning air like a warm breeze. He had a rugged, weathered face—handsome in the way only experience and age could make someone. His stubble was a little thicker than a five o’clock shadow, and his mouth curved into a crooked smile, like he knew exactly why I’d stopped.

“Morning,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, sending a flutter through my chest.

“Morning,” I replied, my voice higher than I intended, betraying just how off guard I felt.

He nodded toward the car, his smile widening slightly. “Sorry about the noise,” he said, his tone casual, like we’d done this a hundred times before. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” I said quickly, hoping I didn’t sound too eager. “I like the song.”

He cocked his head slightly, like he was trying to gauge if I was just being polite or if I really meant it. “Chris Isaak, huh?” His smile deepened, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. “Not bad.”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to sound normal even though my pulse was anything but. “Classic.”

He stepped closer, just enough that I could see the grease on his hands and the faint lines around his eyes that only made him more attractive. He held out a hand, grease and all. “I’m Joel,” he said, his voice warm and unhurried.

I hesitated for half a second before shaking his hand. His grip was firm, his skin rough, and somehow it felt more grounding than intimidating. “Y/n,” I said, trying not to notice the way my cheeks flushed under his gaze.

“Well, y/n,” he said, drawing back and tossing the rag onto the hood of the car, “nice to meet a neighbor who appreciates good music. I hope to see you around.”

I nodded, managing a small smile before turning away, though I could still feel his eyes on me as I walked down the sidewalk. The music faded into the background as I moved farther away, but the moment stayed with me, warm and lingering, like sunlight clinging to my skin.

As I reached the corner, I realized I hadn’t checked my list once. And suddenly, I wasn’t in such a rush to finish my errands after all.

It started out small, almost imperceptible. The first few times I saw Joel, it was nothing more than a casual glance—him working on his car, me watering my plants. He’d nod, give me a polite, “Morning,” or “Evenin’,” and I’d nod back, my stomach fluttering for no good reason.

At first, I chalked it up to curiosity. He was new to the neighborhood, and Joel wasn’t the kind of guy you didn’t notice. Broad-shouldered and quiet, with those deep brown eyes that always seemed to carry a weight he didn’t talk about, he exuded a ruggedness that felt out of place on our quiet little street.

But the more I saw him, the harder it became to ignore the way my eyes lingered. Whether he was fixing something in his garage, leaning over that damn car of his, or sitting on his porch with a beer in hand, I couldn’t help but watch him. And sometimes—more often than I expected—I’d catch him watching me too.

It wasn’t obvious, not at first. A glance held a second too long. A shift in his posture when I walked by. But over time, it became undeniable. The way his eyes would follow me when I stepped out to water the flowers, or the way I’d find excuses to linger outside just a little longer, hoping for a moment to cross paths with him.

One evening, as I was locking up my car, I felt his gaze on me. I turned, and sure enough, he was standing by his car, a rag in his hands, watching me. His expression wasn’t overtly flirty—if anything, it was unreadable—but the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down my spine.

I gave him a small wave, trying to act casual, and he nodded, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.

After that, it felt like every time I stepped outside, he was there. Fixing something, tinkering with his car, or just mowing the lawn. I’d try not to stare, but it was a losing battle. And every time I caught him looking back, it felt like a silent conversation was happening between us, one neither of us dared to speak aloud.

It was subtle, this dance we were doing, but it was there—undeniable, electric. And it was only a matter of time before one of us made a move.

It was a Friday night when everything shifted. I was sitting on my front steps with a beer, the summer air warm and heavy, when I noticed Joel crossing the street toward me. He had a toolbox in one hand and a look of determination on his face.

“Your porch light’s out,” he said as he stopped in front of me, nodding toward the darkened bulb above my door. “Figured I’d come fix it before you trip over somethin’ out here.”

I blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard, then glanced at the light. “Oh, I didn’t even notice. But you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his voice firm but kind. He set the toolbox down and looked at me, his lips curving into a small, easy smile. “Unless you’re gonna send me packin’.”

I shook my head, smiling back. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Want a drink while you play handyman?”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Sure, why not?”

Two cold beers were clutched in my hands, the bottles slick with condensation, and by the time I returned, he’d already swapped the old bulb for a new one. The soft glow illuminated his face as he turned to me, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“All done,” he said, taking the bottle I offered. “You’re safe now.”

“Guess I owe you one,” I teased, sitting on the step.

“Nah,” he replied, settling next to me. “I like keepin’ busy.”

I didn’t know when it had started, this thing between us. It wasn’t outright flirting—not yet—but there was a magnetism to Joel that made it impossible not to feel drawn in. He was older, quieter, but there was something about the way he carried himself, steady and unshakable, that made me feel safe. And curious.

“So,” I started, swirling my beer, “you’ve been here, what, a few weeks now?”

“’Bout a month,” he replied, leaning back on the step with that relaxed, effortless posture that always seemed to belong to him.

“And I still don’t know much about you,” I said, giving him a small smile.

He glanced over at me, his eyes catching the soft glow of the porch light. “What d’you wanna know?”

I hesitated, not wanting to pry too much, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I don’t know… why’d you move here? What’s your story?”

Joel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He took a sip of his beer, staring out at the darkened street before answering.

“Well, I’m divorced,” he said simply, his voice low and even, like he’d said it a hundred times before.

I blinked, caught off guard by how casually he said it. “Oh,” I said softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted gently, turning to look at me. “Trust me, best decision of my life and it was a long time ago. Been on my own for… hell, must be close to fifteen years now.”

Fifteen years. I tried to imagine what that would feel like—building a life with someone only for it to fall apart, then starting over again. Joel didn’t seem bitter about it, though. Just… resolved.

“Do you have kids?” I asked, leaning forward slightly, unable to hide my curiosity.

His face softened at that, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. Two girls.”

“Really?” I asked, my eyebrows lifting.

He nodded, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pride in his expression. “Sarah’s the older one. She’s in med school. Ellie’s still in undergrad—astromony major. Both of ’em are smarter than I’ll ever be.”

The way he talked about them made my chest tighten, like he was letting me see a piece of himself he didn’t share often. There was so much warmth in his voice when he said their names, like they were the best parts of his life.

“You must be so proud,” I said softly.

“More than you could know,” he replied, his voice quiet.

I smiled, leaning back against the porch railing. “So, two daughters, huh? That explains a lot.”

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just… you have that dad energy,” I teased, grinning at him.

“Dad energy?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole rugged, protective, slightly grumpy thing. It fits.”

He laughed at that, a low, rumbling sound that made my stomach flutter. “Grumpy, huh?”

I shrugged, my grin widening. “If the shoe fits.”

Joel shook his head, still chuckling as he took another sip of his beer. But there was something in his expression—something lighter, more open—that made me feel like I’d broken through a wall I hadn’t even known was there.

And as we sat there in the quiet of the night, our conversation drifting back to safer, lighter topics, I couldn’t help but wonder how someone like Joel, with all his layers and contradictions, had ended up here—just across the street from me.

And why I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

We talked for hours—about everything and nothing. He told me about his work, about his daughters, Sarah, and Ellie and the things he used to do before life got complicated. I told him about my job, my friends, and the reasons I’d moved here.

At some point, the conversation drifted into quieter territory. The night was still, the air thick with something unspoken. Joel leaned back against the railing, his arm brushing mine, and I felt my pulse quicken.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said softly, his voice low and rough.

I turned to look at him, my heart thudding in my chest. His eyes were on mine, dark and intense, the space between us feeling smaller than it should have.

“Joel…” I started, but before I could finish, he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed or tentative—it was deliberate. His lips met mine, firm and warm, and I forgot how to breathe. My glass slipped from my hand, forgotten, as I leaned into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

His hands found my waist, pulling me closer, and I let myself sink into the kiss, into him. He tasted like beer and something darker, something that made my head spin. When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing heavily.

“Y/n,” he murmured, his voice husky and raw, “tell me to stop if this ain’t what you want.”

I shook my head, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all it took. He pulled me into his lap, his hands roaming up my back as our lips met again, hungrier this time. My mind was a blur of heat and sensation as his touch ignited something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Somehow, we ended up inside my house, the door clicking shut behind us. I barely had time to take in my surroundings before his lips were on mine again, his hands pulling at my shirt as I fumbled with the buttons on his.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered against my skin, his voice thick with want.

We stumbled into my bedroom, clothes disappearing in a flurry of hands and whispered words.

When we finally came together, it was everything—tender and passionate, slow and consuming. He held me like I was the only thing that mattered, his touch reverent but possessive.

Afterward, we lay tangled in my sheets, the room dark and quiet except for the sound of our breathing. His arm was draped over me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long,” he murmured, his voice soft and low.

I smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "It was worth the wait."

And as I drifted off to sleep in his arms, I couldn't help but feel like something had shifted. Like maybe, just maybe, l'd found something-or someone-I wasn't ready to let go of.

What began as stolen moments quickly intensified. Some nights, I’d hear the rumble of his car pulling into the driveway and find myself slipping into something casual yet enticing. He’d knock softly on my door, and I’d let him in without a word, his hands finding my waist almost immediately.

Other times, Joel would invite me over under the pretense of needing help with something—though neither of us was fooled. We’d end up tangled together on his couch, my fingers threading through his hair as his lips traced the curve of my neck.

It was never more than the two of us sharing our time and bodies, but it worked. Joel was guarded, reluctant to open up about his past, and I respected that. I didn’t ask for more than he could give, content with the way he made me feel in the moment—desired, cherished, even if only temporarily.

And Joel? He couldn’t seem to stay away. There was something about him—the way he laughed, the way he didn’t push me to be more than I was ready to be. It felt easy, natural.

But as effortless as it seemed, there were nights when he lingered a little longer, his fingers brushing my skin softly as if memorizing me. And there were mornings when I woke to find him still there, his arm draped over my waist, his breathing steady in the early light.

We both knew it was a fling, but neither of us could deny the way it was starting to feel like something more.

After that first time, it became a rhythm. A pattern.

It was never planned, not really. Joel and I never talked about what we were doing or set expectations. But somehow, it kept happening.

A knock on my door late at night. A quiet, unspoken agreement in the way his eyes lingered on mine, the way his hand would find my waist as soon as the door closed behind him.

Sometimes it was me crossing the street, catching him in his garage working on that car of his. The way he'd straighten up, wiping his hands on a rag and giving me that slow, crooked smile-it made my chest tighten every time.

"You need somethin'?" he'd ask, his tone easy, casual, but his eyes told a different story.

"Always," I'd reply, tilting my head, my lips already curving into a smile.

It was always like that. Quiet. Unrushed. No promises.

It wasn't every night, but it was often enough that it started to feel like a routine.

The nights with Joel were magnetic, impossible to resist.

Sometimes it started slow, like a smoldering fire. He’d show up at my door, leaning against the frame, his dark eyes holding mine like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I’d step aside to let him in, the faint scent of leather and soap drifting past as he walked by. He wouldn’t say much—he never did—but the way he looked at me, the way his gaze lingered on my lips, said everything.

The door would barely click shut before his hands found my waist, pulling me to him with a quiet urgency. His lips would capture mine, firm and deliberate, his calloused hands sliding under the hem of my shirt, fingers rough against my skin.

He kissed like he didn’t know when he’d get the chance again, his lips devouring mine with a hunger that left me breathless. My back would hit the wall, and he’d pin me there, his body pressed against mine, warm and solid, making it impossible to think about anything but him.

Other times, it wasn’t so rushed.

I’d wander across the street under the cover of darkness, my heart pounding even though we’d done this so many times before. I’d find him in the garage, his hands deep in some repair, grease smudged across his arms. He’d glance up when I walked in, his expression softening into that crooked, lazy smile that made my stomach twist.

“You work too much,” I’d tease, leaning against the workbench as he wiped his hands on a rag.

Joel would smirk, tossing the rag aside before closing the distance between us. “And you think I should take a break?”

“Maybe,” I’d reply, my voice lighter than I felt.

And then his hands would slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He’d kiss me slow, like we had all the time in the world, his lips soft but insistent, teasing me until I was gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

When his hands roamed lower, gripping my thighs, he’d lift me effortlessly onto the workbench, stepping between my legs, his body fitting perfectly against mine. His kisses would grow deeper, more possessive, until I was arching into him, the tools and the world around us forgotten.

The nights he stayed over were different.

He’d let himself into my house, the quiet creak of the door waking me, and I’d turn to see him standing there, his hair messy from the ride, his flannel hanging loose over a plain shirt.

“You’re late,” I’d whisper, pretending to be annoyed, but the grin pulling at my lips gave me away.

Joel would shrug, his voice low and gravelly. “Had to finish somethin’. But I’m here now.”

And then he’d crawl into bed beside me, his hand trailing over my hip, pulling me close. His lips would skim the side of my neck, soft and deliberate, his breath warm against my skin. It always started gentle on those nights, his hands slow as they explored me, his touch careful, like he wanted to memorize every inch of me.

I’d lose myself in the way his mouth moved against mine, the way he murmured my name like it was a prayer. The room would fill with the sound of our breaths, the quiet creak of the bed as he pressed me into the mattress, his weight grounding me in the moment.

It wasn’t just the way he touched me or the way he made my body hum with anticipation—it was the way he made me feel seen. Like I wasn’t just someone he wanted for the night but someone he couldn't seem to stay away from, no matter how hard he tried.

And as much as I wanted to keep pretending it was nothing, that it was just two people finding comfort in each other, I couldn't deny the way he was starting to feel like more.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, as I stretched under the covers. Joel was already up, sitting on the edge of the bed with his boots half on, the laces dangling as he reached down to tie them.

I watched him quietly for a moment, taking in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the way his hair was still a little messy from the night before. He must have felt my gaze because he turned, his eyes meeting mine, and his lips quirked into that crooked smile that never failed to disarm me.

“You’re up early,” he said, his voice low and rough from sleep.

“Could say the same about you,” I replied, my voice soft as I sat up, pulling the sheet around me.

Joel shook his head, finishing his boots before standing. “Got a lot to do today.”

I hated this part—the goodbye. Even though I knew he’d be back, it always felt like the space between us stretched further than it should.

Joel must have noticed the flicker of disappointment in my face because he crossed the room in just a few steps, his presence warm and solid as he stood in front of me.

“Hey,” he murmured, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, though my chest tightened.

He didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that was softer than I expected. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, slow, like he wanted to make every second count.

Then, without a word, he shifted lower, his lips finding the curve of my jaw. He kissed a line down my neck, lingering there for a moment as his hands slid to my waist, holding me gently.

“Joel,” I whispered, my voice catching as he continued his path, his mouth pressing soft, warm kisses across my collarbone, then down my arm.

When he reached my wrist, he paused, turning my hand over to press a kiss to my palm, then to the tips of my fingers.

It wasn’t just physical—it felt like something more. Like he was trying to say something he couldn’t put into words.

When he finally straightened, his dark eyes met mine, and I felt like he could see straight through me. “I’ll see you later,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

I nodded, my throat tight as I watched him grab his jacket and head for the door. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at me one more time before he left, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Joel didn’t have to say goodbye like that—but he did. And it was those little things, those quiet moments that told me more than any words ever could.

My mom called me three times that morning to remind me about dinner, as if I’d forgotten the weekly ritual of overcooked chicken and her latest gossip updates. By the time I pulled into my parents’ driveway, the sun was setting, casting a soft orange glow over the neighborhood. I smoothed down my dress, grabbed the bottle of wine I’d brought, and headed inside.

“Y/n! You’re just in time,” my mom called from the kitchen, her voice bright and cheerful. The smell of rosemary and garlic wafted through the air.

“Hey, Mom,” I called back, setting the wine on the counter.

I could hear my dad laughing with someone in the dining room, his deep voice carrying through the house. A guest, maybe? Mom hadn’t mentioned anyone else joining us.

I walked into the dining room, my casual smile freezing on my face when I saw him.

Joel.

He was standing next to my dad, holding a beer, his flannel rolled up at the sleeves like always. He turned at the sound of my footsteps, and for a split second, I saw the same shock mirrored in his eyes before he quickly masked it.

“Y/n!” My dad grinned, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “This is Joel, my buddy from the hardware store. We got to talking the other day, and I figured I’d invite him over. Thought you two might’ve crossed paths in the neighborhood!”

Joel’s lips curved into a polite smile, but I could see the tension in his jaw. “Good to meet you, y/n,” he said, his voice perfectly even, his hand extended.

I stared at him for a second too long before snapping out of it and shaking his hand. His touch lingered for just a moment, his thumb brushing against mine in a way that made my stomach twist.

“Nice to meet you,” I managed, forcing a polite smile, my voice tighter than I intended.

“Joel just moved in a few weeks ago,” my dad continued, oblivious to the storm brewing between us. “Seems like a good guy. Figured we’d make him feel welcome.”

“Oh, he’s definitely that,” I said, my tone a little sharper than I meant. Joel raised an eyebrow at me, but he didn’t say a word.

Dinner was a blur of awkward silences and stolen glances. Joel was calm and collected, answering my parents’ questions with ease, like he hadn’t been in my bed less than 24 hours ago. I, on the other hand, felt like I was about to combust.

“Mom,” I said sharply, nearly choking on my wine. My face burned as I glanced at Joel, who was watching me with an infuriatingly calm expression.

“Oh, come on,” she said with a laugh, waving a hand. “I’m just joking! But seriously, sweetie, you’ve had…what? A handful of boyfriends?”

“More than a handful,” my dad chimed in with a chuckle. “You’d think we were running a speed-dating service out of the house at one point.”

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “Okay, that’s enough,” I said quickly, forcing a tight smile as I stared daggers at my parents. “We don’t need to go down memory lane right now.”

“Oh, lighten up, y/n,” my mom teased, clearly oblivious to the tension in the room.

I dared a glance at Joel, expecting him to look awkward or uncomfortable. Instead, he was hiding a smirk, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. I shot him a glare, silently daring him to say anything, but he just shrugged innocently.

Dinner couldn’t end fast enough.

When my mom asked me to grab dessert from the kitchen, I jumped at the excuse to escape. But as I reached for the pie on the counter, I heard footsteps behind me.

“Y/n.”

I turned to see Joel standing in the doorway, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice low.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he shot back, leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

“This is my parents’ house, Joel. What are you doing here?”

“Your dad invited me,” he said simply, his dark eyes scanning my face. “Didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

“A problem?” I repeated, my voice rising slightly before I forced it back down. “You didn’t think to maybe mention that you’re best buddies with my dad?”

“Didn’t know it was your dad,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a flicker of something like amusement in his eyes. “Until I walked in and saw you.”

I stared at him, my cheeks burning. “So what, we just pretend we don’t know each other?”

“Seems like the best option,” he said, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Unless you wanna tell your parents the whole story.”

I glared at him, hating how calm he was. “This isn’t funny, Joel.”

“Never said it was,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softening. “But you’re the one who’s gotta decide how to handle it.”

Before I could respond, my mom’s voice called out from the dining room. “Y/n! Everything okay in there?”

I swallowed hard, grabbing the pie and pushing past him. “This isn’t over,” I muttered under my breath.

“Looking forward to it,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as I brushed past him.

As I walked back into the dining room, my face carefully neutral, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder. Joel followed a moment later, cool and composed, like nothing had happened.

But when our eyes met across the table, I knew this was only the beginning of a much more complicated mess.

Later, after we’d finished and everyone was saying their goodbyes, Joel and I stepped out into the warm night air together. My parents stood at the door, still chatting about something, so Joel and I started walking toward our cars, the silence between us heavy.

Once we were far enough away, Joel glanced at me, his voice low and teasing. “So… how many guys?”

I stopped in my tracks, my mouth dropping open. “Excuse me?”

He turned to face me, a lopsided grin on his face, the kind that made my stomach flip no matter how annoyed I was. “Your mom brought it up,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m just curious.”

I crossed my arms, glaring at him. “I am not answering that.”

“Why not?” His grin widened. “You embarrassed or something?”

“No,” I shot back, even though my face was practically on fire. “It’s just none of your business.”

Joel chuckled, stepping closer. “Fair enough. But if you’re not telling, then I guess it’s only fair you ask me.”

“Oh, really?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Fine. How many women have you been with?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Two.”

I blinked. “Two?”

“Yeah,” he said casually, slipping his hands into his pockets.

I stared at him, completely baffled. “Two? That’s it?”

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he didn’t understand why I was so surprised. “Yeah. Why’s that so hard to believe?”

I laughed, the sound escaping before I could stop it. “Joel, have they seen you? You look like that, and you’re telling me only two women?”

He smirked, leaning slightly closer. “What can I say? I’ve always been a quality over quantity kinda guy.”

The way he said it, his voice low and laced with humor, sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly looked away, trying to collect myself.

“Well,” I muttered, still trying to process his answer. “I guess that makes you… selective.”

“You could say that,” he said, his smirk softening into something warmer, something that made my chest tighten.

I shook my head, refusing to let him get the upper hand in this conversation. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He chuckled. “And you’re dodgin’ the question. But I’ll let it slide… for now.”

As we reached our cars, I could still feel the heat of his gaze on me, that teasing smile lingering on his lips. And as much as I hated to admit it, I knew I’d be thinking about this conversation long after he drove away.

The air was thick with the lingering heat of the day as I stepped onto my porch that night, a glass of wine in hand, hoping the cool breeze would clear my head. Running into Joel at my parents' house earlier had thrown me. I hadn't expected to see him there, standing in their kitchen like he belonged, casually sipping a beer while talking to my dad like they were old friends.

It had been almost too much-the way his eyes found mine across the room, the flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

The way my mother had smiled, oblivious, as she chatted away, completely unaware of the tension humming between us.

I had barely spoken to him then, just a brief exchange, a nod, a polite smile. But it had been enough.

Now, as I sat in the quiet of my porch, the cicadas buzzing in the trees, I heard it-the unmistakable rumble of his truck pulling into his driveway.

I should've looked away, should've ignored the way my pulse jumped at the sound. But I didn't.

Instead, I watched as he stepped out, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn't go inside. He stood there for a second, hands on his hips, looking over at me like he was debating something.

Then, without hesitation, he crossed the street.

I didn't move, didn't say anything as he walked up the steps, stopping just in front of me. His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

"You left fast earlier," he said, his voice low, rough.

I swallowed, gripping my glass a little tighter.

"Didn't expect to see you there."

"Yeah, well," he exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Didn't expect to see you either."

There was something else in his voice, something unspoken.

A question. A challenge.

I should've told him to go home. That whatever this thing between us was, it didn't need to spill over into the rest of my life. But I didn't.

Instead, I stood, stepping closer, letting the space between us disappear. His gaze dropped to my lips, and that was all it took.

Joel reached for me, his hands firm but careful as he pulled me to him, his lips crashing into mine like he'd been holding back all damn day.

I sighed against his mouth, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt, anchoring myself as his hands slid to my hips, pressing me flush against him.

The kiss was different tonight-deeper, more desperate, like the sight of me earlier had unraveled something in him. He groaned softly when I tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, his hands gripping tighter as he walked me backward, until my back hit the wall beside the front door.

"Joel," I murmured against his lips, my voice barely there, but he didn't stop. Didn't pull away.

"Mm?" He hummed, his lips trailing down my jaw, my throat, his hands slipping under the hem of my shirt, fingers warm and rough against my skin.

I shivered, tilting my head to give him more, to let him take whatever he wanted, because God, I wanted this, wanted him.

"We should go inside," I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.

Joel exhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against mine for the briefest second before he pulled back, grabbing my hand and leading me inside, the door clicking shut behind us.

The second we were alone, it was like we couldn't get close enough. Clothes were pushed aside, hands roaming, mouths meeting over and over like we were making up for the time lost earlier.

He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me through the dark toward my bedroom, his lips never leaving my skin. When he laid me down, his body pressing into mine, I knew this wouldn't be like the other nights.

Tonight, it felt different.

Tonight, it felt inevitable.

The room was quiet except for the steady hum of the ceiling fan and the sound of our breathing, still heavy from the way we’d just spent the last hour tangled together.

Joel lay beside me, one arm resting behind his head, his bare chest rising and falling in the dim light. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of him—woodsmoke, leather, and something distinctly Joel—lingering in the sheets.

I turned onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow as I trailed my fingers along his arm. His eyes were closed, but I knew he wasn’t asleep.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked softly, watching as his brows furrowed just slightly.

Joel let out a slow breath before finally opening his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “Nothin’,” he muttered.

I didn’t buy it. “You sure about that?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, he shifted, rolling onto his side to face me. His dark eyes held something I couldn’t quite place, something heavier than usual.

He hesitated, then ran a hand over his face. “I’m too old for you, y/n.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession. A slow smirk tugged at my lips. “That didn’t seem to stop you before.”

Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That was different.”

“Different how?” I challenged, pushing myself up slightly, looking down at him. “Because I don’t remember you thinking twice about it when you were kissing me against my front door.”

His jaw tightened, and I could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he was wrestling with something.

I softened, reaching out to trace a finger along the scar on his shoulder. “Joel,” I murmured, “what’s this really about?”

He let out a humorless chuckle, shifting onto his back again. “Your parents.”

That made me pause. “What about them?”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his chest. “I sat in their kitchen, y/n. Drank a damn beer with your old man, listened to your mom talk about how she just wants you to be happy.” He shook his head. “Felt like I was lyin’ straight to their faces.”

I stared at him, my heart tightening. “You weren’t lying.”

“Ain’t that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” I argued, sitting up fully now, the sheets pooling around my waist. “You think they’d hate you if they knew?”

Joel didn’t answer right away, just looked at me, his gaze heavy, unreadable. “I think they’d wonder why a man like me is in their daughter’s bed.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. “You think too much.”

Joel huffed, shaking his head. “And you don’t think enough.”

That stung, but I refused to back down. “You act like this is something I just fell into, like I didn’t make this choice. I know what I want, Joel.”

His eyes searched mine, like he was trying to figure out if he could believe that. If he could believe me.

After a long pause, he sighed, sitting up beside me. His hand reached out, fingertips grazing my knee before curling into a loose fist. “I don’t wanna be the reason you regret anything.”

I stared at him, my chest tightening at the way he said it—so serious, so damn certain that he was the problem. That he was something I’d one day wish I could undo.

I reached for his hand, lacing my fingers through his, squeezing tight. “If I regret anything, it’ll be not seeing where this goes.”

Joel let out a breath, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His eyes softened just slightly, but there was still hesitation there, still that damn weight he always carried.

I shifted closer, leaning in until my lips brushed against his. “You gonna kiss me, or keep thinking yourself out of it?”

He sighed against my mouth, shaking his head, but then his hand was at my waist, pulling me into his lap, and all that hesitation melted away as he kissed me slow and deep—like he knew this was a bad idea but couldn’t stop himself.

And I had no plans to stop him, either.

[danysdaughter]

Come Home To Me (Pt 2)

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader

word count | 8.8k words

summary | he came home in pieces, broken but breathing, and slowly—painfully—learned how to be whole again in the arms of the woman he loved and the child he never thought he’d meet. now, with another baby on the way, and a house built from promises once whispered in wartime, james buchanan barnes is finally learning what it means to be at peace.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v sex, smut and fluff, lactation kink, post-war bucky barnes, domestic!bucky, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, parenthood, healing, slow burn recovery, baby fic, pregnancy, period-typical sexism, protective!bucky barnes, monster-in-law, dad!bucky

a/n | in honour of father's day here's some dad!bucky, and based on this request. and oh my days, everyone wants a part 2 of everything guys, lmao. and I won't lie to you guys I totally forgot about Steve.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

divider by @cafekitsune

He came home, but it wasn’t easy.

There was no parade. No smiling reunion with a neat, happy ending. No soft fade to black.

It was harder than that. Messier.

Bucky didn’t come back whole. He came back in pieces—some broken, some missing, and some so twisted by what had been done to him that he didn’t know how to name them anymore.

At first, he didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Not more than an hour or two at a time, and even that was borrowed—fitful, heavy with sweat, jaw clenched so tight it clicked when he finally startled awake.

You kept the light on. You learned quickly not to touch him before he saw you. You moved slowly. You kept your voice low.

And sometimes, like tonight, even that wasn’t enough.

You startled awake just before it happened—some instinct in you catching the shift in the room. The tightness in his breath. The tension pulling at the air. You turned just in time to see his fingers curl into the sheets, his body twitching once, then twice—

Then the sound came.

A sharp, guttural gasp. Then a choked noise, somewhere between a cry and a growl. He jerked upright like he was being yanked by invisible hands, panting like he’d run a marathon, eyes wide and wild in the dark.

You didn’t rush.

You sat up slowly, careful not to touch him yet. “Bucky,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t here yet.

“Bucky, baby—it’s me.”

His chest heaved. One hand fisted the blanket. The other trembled against his thigh. You could see the outline of the scar running down his forearm, barely catching the low light from the window.

You reached out then, slowly, and touched the back of his shoulder—warm, damp with sweat.

“Hey,” you said again, more firmly now. “You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”

His head snapped toward you, eyes still frantic. And then slowly, slowly, you saw the panic fade. It didn’t vanish. It never did. But it loosened its grip, just enough.

You scooted closer and slid your arms around his torso, your cheek pressing against his bare back. His skin was damp and chilled under your touch, muscles coiled tight as wire.

“You’re here,” you murmured again, letting your hand move in slow, steady circles across his chest. “You’re home. You’re in our bed. You’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

You felt the way he exhaled, like something had been knocked loose in his chest. His shoulders slumped. His hand—still trembling—came to rest over yours.

You kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

“You’re in my arms, Bucky,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters now.”

He turned then, slowly, and buried his face in your neck.

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him.

────────────────────────

The morning came slow, gray light spilling across the floorboards, pooling in soft patches along the bedroom rug. Bucky hadn’t gone back to sleep. He rarely did after the nightmares. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, blanket wrapped tight around his waist like armor.

You were still dozing, curled under the covers behind him, one hand resting lightly where he used to be.

He stared at the metal.

At it.

The glint of it in the light made his stomach twist.

The way it didn’t move unless he willed it to. The soft, nearly silent whir when he flexed the fingers. The weight of it, always present, always reminding him.

It didn’t feel like part of him. It felt like a warning label.

Disfigured. Crippled. Not whole.

He hadn’t said those words out loud, but he’d heard them. From Hydra. From the dark, aching corners of his own mind. And he believed them, most days. Even if you didn’t.

Especially because you didn’t.

And then—

The bedroom door creaked open.

He stiffened, breath catching.

Tiny feet padded across the floor with that unbalanced, wobbly rhythm unique to toddlers. A small gasp of effort as chubby fingers gripped the edge of the bed.

“Mama?”

Your eyes fluttered open.

Jamie peeked his head over the edge, messy-haired and pajama-clad, his smile all gums and mischief. When he saw Bucky sitting there, back to him, his whole face lit up.

“Pup!”

The name hit Bucky like a punch to the chest.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

Jamie grunted and tried to climb up himself—made it halfway before you reached over and pulled him gently into the bed, settling him beside you.

Bucky stayed frozen, shoulders tense, head bowed. His right hand curled into the blanket. The left stayed still. Cold. A weight.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice. He crawled clumsily over the mattress until he reached his father’s back and pressed a small hand—warm, sticky, unbothered—against Bucky’s spine.

“Pup…” he said again, softer this time.

You felt Bucky’s breath hitch.

He finally turned, just slightly. Enough to see Jamie’s wide eyes blinking up at him, so open, so trusting.

He lifted his metal arm an inch, then stopped.

He couldn’t do it.

“I don’t want him near this,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “I don’t want him touching it.”

You sat up slowly, Jamie still leaning against your hip. “Bucky…”

“It’s not right,” he said, voice tight. “This—this thing on me—it’s not safe. It’s not normal. What if—what if I drop him? Or he gets scared of it? What if I—hurt him?”

“He’s not scared,” you said gently. “Look at him.”

Jamie leaned forward again, unbothered by the tension in the room, babbling softly as he reached for Bucky’s hand. The metal one.

He didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t afraid.

“Pup,” he said again, gripping one thick finger and holding it in his tiny fist.

Bucky stared down at him.

And then at his hand.

Jamie didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He giggled.

Bucky made a sound then. Barely audible.

You touched his back, light and steady.

“He loves you, James,” you said. “All of you.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes wet and uncertain.

“I don’t know how to be a father,” he whispered.

You smiled, soft and aching. “You’re learning. And that's okay.”

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp near the rocker. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the cracked window, casting shifting shadows across the floor. The scent of lavender and baby powder lingered in the air.

You sat in the rocking chair, Jamie cradled against your chest. He was already asleep—limp with baby weight, warm and soft, his cheek squished against your shoulder, little fist curled near your collarbone.

You hummed quietly, the same old lullaby you always sang, your voice barely above a whisper.

The creak of the floorboards behind you was soft, hesitant.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Bucky stood in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a sweater his mother had knit him during the war—worn thin, sleeves pushed to his elbows, exposing the steel curve of his arm where the fabric stretched too tight.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just watched.

The expression on his face was unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were full of something heavy. Something quiet. Something hopeful.

You shifted Jamie just slightly, brushing a kiss to his hair before looking up.

“He’s out,” you whispered. “Didn’t even make it through the first verse.”

Bucky smiled faintly, lips barely twitching.

Another pause.

Then—softly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask—he said, “Would it be okay if I tried next time?”

You blinked.

Your heart clenched.

You nodded immediately, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He looked down, shoulders tense like he was waiting for shame to set in anyway. “I… I just don’t want to mess it up. He’s so small. And I’m just—this isn’t exactly what they trained me for.”

You stood slowly, careful not to jostle Jamie, and walked to him—closing the space with soft, sure steps.

You reached up with one hand and brushed his hair back gently from his forehead.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmured. “Just present.”

He nodded, eyes shining but never quite falling.

“He already thinks the world of you, you know,” you added, glancing down at Jamie. “To him, you’re not the man Hydra tried to make you. You’re Pup.”

That broke him a little.

He stepped forward, kissed your temple, then Jamie’s soft head, his metal hand brushing your elbow—light, reverent.

“Next time,” he said again.

“Next time,” you promised.

And he stayed with you in the doorway until the room was only breathing and warmth and the soft creak of the rocking chair.

It started the way it always did now—quiet, soft, familiar.

You were curled into Bucky’s chest, the baby monitor humming faintly on the nightstand, your fingers tracing slow circles along the seam of his shirt. His arms were around you—flesh and metal—and you were safe. Always safe with him.

But tonight, the air between you felt heavier.

Not sad. Not distant.

Just… thick with something waiting.

Your hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin. He sucked in a breath—almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

He always did that when you touched him now. Not because he didn’t want it. But because some part of him still couldn’t believe he deserved it.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice barely a breath against his collarbone.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he nodded. “Yeah. Just… gimme a second.”

You pulled back slightly, eyes meeting his in the dim light. “You sure?”

His gaze dropped, jaw clenched.

“I’m not what I was,” he said quietly. “Not the man you married. Not even the one you remember.”

You reached up, touched his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Neither am I.”

He looked at you again—eyes scanning your face, searching.

“I’ve got scars, Bucky. Stretch marks. Softness where there wasn’t before.”

“Don’t care about that.”

“Then why would I care about yours?”

That hit him.

He swallowed hard, then slowly pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was broader now, more muscle from the serum, more shadows carved by pain and reconstruction. The metal shoulder gleamed dully in the dark, the seams where flesh met steel jagged and raw.

You sat up, eyes on him.

Then you reached out, slow and steady, and placed your hand flat against the scarred seam of his shoulder.

He flinched. Just a little.

You leaned in and kissed it.

He closed his eyes.

Your lips trailed lower—to the angry red line that crossed his ribs, to the curve of his side, to the center of his chest. You didn’t rush. You just breathed him in.

“I still love every inch of you,” you whispered. “Even the parts you don’t.”

When he kissed you, it was different.

Slower. Reverent.

Like he needed to relearn your mouth, your breath, your shape beneath his hands.

When his hands slid under your shirt, you let him.

He paused again.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

You took his hand and placed it over your stomach, over the softness you used to be self-conscious about.

“I grew our son in this body,” you said. “How could I ever hate it?”

His eyes shimmered.

And when he touched you, he moved slowly at first.

His fingers slid your nightdress up, exposing inch after inch of skin—soft, real, yours. His hands trembled just slightly, and not from fear. From reverence. Like you were something holy he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed to touch again.

You reached up, carding your fingers through his hair. “Bucky,” you whispered, and that alone undid him.

He bent down and kissed your breast—gently at first, then with more intent, his lips closing around your nipple, tongue swirling as he moaned low in his throat. When the faintest taste of milk touched his tongue, he froze.

His breath caught.

Then he sucked harder, greedier, and you gasped.

“Oh,” you breathed, back arching into him.

He groaned, long and low, hands tightening on your hips. It was like something had snapped in him. Like this was the thing he hadn’t known he needed—your milk, your warmth, the undeniable proof of the life you’d carried while he was gone.

He drank like a man starved.

His tongue lapped, lips pulling, and when more milk spilled into his mouth he moaned again, eyes fluttering shut, like it was feeding him in ways nothing else had.

You clutched at his hair, gasping softly. “Bucky—Bucky—you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he growled against your skin, voice raw. “Please. Just let me.”

And you did.

Because how could you not?

This was his way of coming back.

Of reclaiming what he thought he’d lost.

He switched to your other breast, suckling hungrily, one hand sliding between your thighs to find how wet you were for him. His fingers brushed your folds and he groaned against your nipple.

“Christ, baby…” he murmured. “You’re dripping. All for me?”

You moaned, breathless. “Always for you.”

That undid him.

He kissed down your belly, trailing wet, desperate heat until he was between your legs—worshipping you like he hadn’t just sucked your milk like it would keep him alive. His tongue moved slow at first, savoring. Then faster, deeper, tasting everything you’d held back.

You writhed beneath him, clutching the sheets, your body breaking open under the weight of it all.

He made you come with his mouth.

Then again on his fingers.

Then slid inside you with a low, guttural moan—deep and full, like it was dragging out of the hollow part of his chest that had ached for years. Your body welcomed him without hesitation, soft and wet, pulling him in like it had missed him just as much.

His hips pressed flush to yours, breath shaking. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “You’re home, Bucky,” you whispered. “You’re right where you’re meant to be.”

He made a sound—half whimper, half breath—and dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

When he started to move, it wasn’t just thrusting. It was pouring. Every slow, deliberate roll of his hips felt like he was trying to bury himself deeper—like he could hide inside your body, crawl into your ribs, and finally, finally rest.

“You feel like home,” he gasped against your skin. “I don’t—I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

You held him close, thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into his back to pull him in even deeper. “You’re okay, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing his temple. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping harder now, his body trembling with the force of his own desperation. Every thrust felt like a prayer, a plea—don’t let me go, don’t let me disappear, don’t let this be a dream.

He shifted, chest heaving, and latched onto your breast again—drinking you, moaning into your skin like it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I missed this—you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Missed your voice, your body—your smell, your taste—fuck.”

You stroked his back, nails dragging lightly down the thick muscles there. “I’m here,” you breathed. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have all of me, James. As much as you need.”

He whimpered into your chest, hips driving into you harder now, deeper, almost brutal with how tightly he held on to you.

“Let me stay,” he gasped. “Please—please, let me stay.”

“Stay, baby,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. “Stay as long as you need. I’ve got you.”

He cried when he came.

Not loud. Not broken. Just silent tears pressed into your neck as he buried himself as deep as he could and let go.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even try.

His breathing was uneven against your neck, forehead pressed to your collarbone, arms locked around you like if he let go, he’d disappear again. His body was still trembling—small, helpless shudders that rolled through him like aftershocks.

You didn’t say anything right away.

You just held him. One hand threaded through his hair, the other drawing slow, grounding circles on his bare back. The room was warm with sweat, with breath, with the weight of everything that had just broken between you.

“You’re okay,” you whispered—not as reassurance, but as truth. “You’re here. With me. With us.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

But his grip on your waist tightened just a little.

And then, after a long pause—quiet, rough, like the words had to crawl out of his throat—he said, “I don’t know how to stop needing this.”

Your hand stroked through his hair again. “Then don’t.”

Another silence. Deeper this time.

And then he lifted his head, just slightly. His eyes were red, lashes damp, cheeks flushed—but there was something clear behind them now. Something raw. Present.

“Can I…?” His voice was barely there.

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You just nodded.

He lowered his head to your chest again, and when his mouth closed over your nipple this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was trying to take in comfort one drop at a time.

You cradled his head, holding him against your skin as he drank quietly from you.

And for the first time in a long time, he started to calm.

His breath steadied.

His hands relaxed.

And when you looked down at him—your soldier, your husband, the father of your child—he looked peaceful.

Still inside you.

Still holding on.

And for now… that was enough.

Brooklyn, Late March 1947

It wasn’t a surprise—not really.

Not after the way Bucky touched you.

After that first night, it was like something inside him broke open, and all the need he’d held back came pouring out. Gentle. Desperate. Reverent. Like he was making up for every moment Hydra had stolen, every soft breath he hadn’t been allowed to take.

He took you almost every night. Sometimes with a quiet tenderness, other times with a hunger so sharp it left you breathless. Always with his hands on your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real.

So when you missed your period in March, it wasn’t shock you felt.

It was a heavy, low ache in your chest.

And exhaustion.

You stood in the bathroom that morning, palm flat on your belly, heart already beating with that frantic rhythm that came with too much, too fast.

Jamie was still a baby. Barely over a year and a half. His little hands still reached for you when he was sleepy, his cries still piercing when he was scared. You were still learning how to mother one child, still writing columns for the Brooklyn Standard, still keeping the household moving while Bucky tried to find his footing.

And Bucky…

Bucky was working again.

He’d taken up his father’s old job at the auto garage, the one on 32nd and Vine. It helped. The clank of tools, the grit under his nails, the old-school rhythms of fixing something broken—it made sense to him in ways people didn’t yet.

The other workers had gotten used to the way he worked in silence. The way he flinched at loud bangs. How his left arm lifted entire engines with ease, metal flexing like it was born to carry weight. He could lift a Buick’s rear axle with one hand and loosen bolts with the other.

Sometimes, you watched from the office window when you came to drop off lunch.

He looked powerful. Capable.

Grounded.

When you told him, his reaction was quiet.

He didn’t speak right away—just blinked, mouth parted slightly, eyes darting to your belly and back.

Then he said softly, “Really?”

You nodded, eyes stinging.

And Bucky—he smiled. Small at first. Then a little wider, with a kind of quiet, aching joy that made your stomach turn. “We can do this,” he said. “I can do this. This time… I’ll be here.”

His arms wrapped around you gently, hands spreading across your lower back. You felt the warmth of him, the certainty in his body, how right it all felt.

And yet—

You didn’t return the smile.

Not fully.

────────────────────────

Later that night, when Jamie was asleep and Bucky was already dozing off with an arm thrown over his eyes, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

“You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

You’d told him that once—your arms around his neck, your chin lifted high. And he’d smiled and said, “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

Now?

Now you were here.

Pregnant. Again.

Barely thirty, but your life felt like it had already been folded and sorted into tidy categories—mother, wife, columnist, survivor.

And Bucky… he was trying, God, he was trying—but the tremors still came sometimes. The nights when he wouldn’t let you touch his left side. The way he kept a knife hidden in the drawer under the sink, even though the war was over.

You placed a hand against your stomach and whispered, “I don’t know if we’re ready.”

And in the stillness, it felt like a confession.

The afternoon light was soft, slanting in through the living room window, catching dust motes in its gold-tinted glow. The radio murmured in the background—something jazzy, low and warm—but neither of you were listening.

You were at the far end of the couch, folding laundry with practiced motions—Jamie's overalls, one of Bucky's undershirts, a baby sock so small it barely looked real. The rhythm of it felt grounding, mechanical. Something to keep your hands busy while your mind wandered.

On the floor, Jamie was giggling—sharp, delighted peals of laughter—because Bucky had taken to the rug on his back, letting Jamie clamber over him like a mountaintop. His thick hair was mussed from small fingers, and his sweater was twisted at the hem where Jamie had pulled it.

“Careful with your old man,” Bucky chuckled, grabbing gently at Jamie’s belly to make him squeal. “He’s got mileage.”

Jamie bounced and babbled nonsense, eyes bright.

You smiled.

But it didn’t reach your eyes.

Bucky noticed.

He watched you between Jamie’s squeals—your soft half-smile, the faint downturn at the corners of your mouth, the quiet way your eyes kept drifting from the pile of clothes to the floor, like gravity was pulling your thoughts somewhere heavier than the room allowed.

You folded the same shirt twice.

And Bucky knew.

So when Jamie had crawled off into a tired, milk-heavy nap, and you were still folding slowly—deliberately—he shifted on the floor and leaned back against the couch, his legs stretched out, fingers tapping lightly against the wood grain.

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

“Is it the baby?”

You blinked.

The shirt in your hand went still.

You turned to look at him, startled. “What?”

He turned his head, met your eyes now—those soft gray-blues always full of something aching when it came to you.

“You’ve been quieter since you told me. Distant.”

“I’m just tired, James.”

He tilted his head. “No. It’s more than that.”

You let out a breath. “I’m not distant. I’m not… I’m fine.”

He didn’t move, but his jaw worked once. Twice. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

You stopped.

There was a long silence.

Then:

“It’s just soon,” you said finally. Your voice was low. Not ashamed—just cautious. “Jamie’s still so little. And I’m still working. And you’re still healing, Buck. You barely sleep some nights. You flinch when the wrench clanks too hard at the garage. And now… another baby?”

His throat moved, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told you, back when you asked me to marry you—I wanted more than this. Not *ust marriage and diapers and—”

“I know.”

“I know you're not the same the man I married, Bucky.” You bit your lip, then softened. “But I still love you. I just… don’t know if I’m the woman you married anymore, either.”

He was quiet.

Then he reached up—rested his flesh hand on your knee, fingers warm and a little rough from the garage.

“You don’t have to be thrilled. You just have to be honest with me.”

You looked down at him.

There was no judgment in his face. Just the same soft, aching gaze. And the faintest tremble at the corner of his mouth, like he was worried this was the part where you'd pull away for good.

There was a long silence between you. The kind that filled the whole room, soft but heavy, like the lull after a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Your fingers tightened around the fabric in your lap. Jamie’s little onesie, blue with tiny ducks on the trim.

You smoothed it once. Twice.

Then said, very quietly, “I did it all alone last time.”

His brows furrowed.

You didn’t look at him.

Your voice stayed steady—but only just.

“Not because I wanted to. Not because I thought I could. Because I had to.”

The words didn’t tremble, but your shoulders did. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

“I worked until I couldn’t stand. I wrote columns and took the train to the office, waddling up and down those damn subway steps like a marching cow. I gave birth with a stranger’s hand in mine. I came home with stitches and a screaming baby and no clue what the hell I was doing.”

You swallowed.

“I got up at two a.m. every night to feed Jamie. I wrote pieces between feedings, between diaper changes, between crying. And when he got sick that first time and I thought he wasn’t gonna make it through the night?” You blinked hard. “I sat in the bathroom with the door closed so he wouldn’t hear me cry.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched against your knee.

“I know it’s not your fault,” you said quickly, looking at him now—finally. “I know it’s not. You didn’t choose what happened. You didn’t leave because you wanted to. But you were gone. And I had to do it all. Every goddamn piece of it. Alone.”

There was no accusation in your voice. Just tired honesty.

“And I don’t know if I have it in me to do it again. Not right now. Not when Jamie’s still in diapers. Not when I’m just starting to find me again. The me who writes. Who sleeps. Who laughs without holding my breath.”

You exhaled slowly. Carefully.

“I want this baby,” you said. “I do. But I’m so scared I’ll disappear again. That I’ll become someone I don’t recognize.”

Bucky didn’t speak right away.

He just reached for your hand—slow and careful, like he was afraid you'd pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers closed around yours. His metal hand stayed on the floor, steady and still.

Then he looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark.

“I hate that I wasn’t here.”

You opened your mouth—but he shook his head gently.

“Don’t—don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. I know that. I know it in my head. But in here—” He tapped his chest once, hard. “I still hate it. That you had to carry all that. That I wasn’t there to see our son take his first breath. Or his first steps. Or help you when you were too damn tired to even remember your name.”

He blinked, slow and careful. “But I’m here now. For this. For you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightened.

“I want to be the man who gets up at two a.m. this time,” he said. “Who wraps you up when you cry and holds the baby when you’re too tired to move. Let me carry it now. Let me help.”

You looked at him—really looked—and for the first time since the test came back positive, something inside you cracked open.

Not with fear.

But with a strange, aching kind of relief.

You didn’t have to do this alone.

Not this time.

And it didn’t fix everything. But it was enough for right now.

Brooklyn, July 11, 1947 – five months later

The air was thick with summer.

Not the good kind either. Not the romantic kind with lemonade and linen dresses and soft breezes off the Hudson. No, this was the suffocating kind—sun like hot glass pressing down on your skin, sweat prickling your neck, your five-months-pregnant belly making everything clingy and itchy and ugh.

And the backyard? A minefield of frosting-smudged toddlers, collapsing balloon animals, overturned paper plates, and parents with that glazed “we’ve been here too long” expression.

You should have said no.

But Winnifred Barnes had insisted.

“It’s a milestone, darling. He’s two. That’s important.”

You wanted to ask her if she planned to throw a sweet sixteen for every time her grandson figured out how to say truck.

Instead, you’d gritted your teeth and said, “Of course, Mrs. Barnes.”

Now she was here—in full force.

Hair set. Pearls on. Wearing pale blue like she’d come straight from a tea party in 1923. She moved through her backyard with the confidence of a general inspecting the troops.

“Oh no, dear,” she said now, reaching over and rearranging the napkins you had just set out. “Diagonal folds. Much more polished.”

You stared at her.

Then at the napkins.

Then at your swollen feet.

She smiled sweetly, patted your arm like you were simple, and moved on.

From across the yard, Bucky was crouched next to Jamie by the kiddie table, showing him how to twist the birthday candle so it looked like a little spiral. He looked up once, squinting against the sun. When he saw you? His brows furrowed. He could read you in an instant now.

Which wasn’t hard.

Because your eye was twitching.

Winnifred reappeared beside you. “Are you sure you want to keep the ice cream cake outside? It’ll melt in minutes. Maybe I should call the bakery and ask if they’ve got a freezer—”

You exhaled. Slowly.

If you didn’t sit down soon, someone was going to lose a limb.

And it wasn’t going to be one of the toddlers.

────────────────────────

The heat inside the kitchen was worse than outside.

Maybe it was the open oven door. Maybe it was the sunlight pouring through the lace curtains. Or maybe it was just her.

Winnifred stood like a statue beside the counter, frowning down at the stack of mismatched plates you’d just set out. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just pursed her lips and gave a slow, pointed sigh.

You braced yourself.

“That pattern doesn’t match the napkins,” she said finally, voice light as chiffon. “You’re going for a circus theme, aren’t you? The polka dots on those plates make it feel a bit more… luncheonette.”

You turned slowly from the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel.

“Winnifred, they’re plates. For toddlers. Who are currently trying to eat glitter glue.”

“Well, you never know who’s going to notice. Presentation matters.” She offered you that clipped smile again—the kind that was more threat than warmth. “I do want Jamie’s party to be something people remember.”

You stared at her. “You want?”

She blinked, her expression slipping for just a second.

You took a step closer. “I never wanted this party. I never asked for it. You did.”

Winnifred folded her arms. “Yes. Because someone had to. Someone had to step in.”

You scoffed. “Because I’m just failing left and right, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But you do look… overwhelmed. The pregnancy. The boy. The job. It’s understandable. You’ve never really—well, you weren’t raised for this sort of life.”

You set the towel down hard on the counter. “You mean I wasn’t raised to be a housewife. Yeah. You’re right. I wasn’t.”

“I know,” she said, almost too softly. “That’s why I made sure this was here. At our home. Jamie deserves something. Since he didn’t even have a party last year—”

You froze.

Then turned to her fully, eyes sharp. “Sorry. I was in mourning. And up all night nursing a colicky infant while dealing with postpartum. And bleeding. And living off dry toast. Sorry I didn’t manage balloons and a clown.”

Winnifred tsked. “You young women and this postpartum nonsense. When I was your age I had James and Rebecca to deal with and I never complained. Women today just can’t handle—”

“Ma.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a whip.

You hadn’t heard him come in.

He stood just inside the doorway, holding Jamie on one hip. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were cold.

Jamie blinked between you both, chewing on a toy horse.

Bucky’s voice was low, controlled—but sharp. “Don’t ever talk to my wife like that again.”

Winnifred looked up, startled. “James—”

“No.” He shifted Jamie slightly and pointed at her with his free hand. “She’s raising our son. Carrying our baby. Holding this whole damn family together. And you? You’re throwing plates and guilt at her like she owes you something.”

You swallowed hard, blinking quickly.

“She’s not overwhelmed,” Bucky continued. “She’s tired. Because she works her ass off. Because she didn’t just throw this party—she survived a war without me. She did the hardest parts alone.”

Winnifred opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Go lie down, sweetheart,” Bucky said to you, voice softening as he turned. “I’ve got this.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, turning back to the sink.

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And you don’t have to be.”

He crossed the room, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured, “I’ll deal with her. Go.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to his mother—who looked like she’d bitten into a lemon.

But your legs were aching. Your back was sore. And your throat… your throat was thick with the words you hadn’t dared say.

So you nodded.

And left the kitchen.

As the door swung behind you, you heard Bucky’s voice again—low, cold, and full of steel.

“She’s not just my wife. She’s everything. And I won’t let you make her feel less than that ever again.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had never been so overwhelmed in his life.

Not during basic training. Not during covert ops. Not even that one time Steve broke a rib in the alley and he had to drag him home without making it look like Steve was half-dead.

This?

This was war.

“Where’s the juice—” someone called.

“He just took a bite out of the balloon!”

“James! James, the ice cream’s melting faster than we’re serving it!”

Bucky pivoted, a frown etched deep into his brow, trying to focus on five problems at once. He was sweating in his button-down, his hair was starting to curl at the temples, and the paper plate tower had just been knocked over by a baby wielding a party hat like a sword.

He rushed to pick them up.

Then someone tugged on his pants leg. “Excuse me? I think this one just put a crayon in their ear—”

He stood up too fast and knocked his head on the edge of the table canopy. “Jesus Christ.”

He hadn’t even noticed Jamie had gone quiet until he turned and found his son squinting into the sun, lips turned down in that telltale I’m about to lose it pout.

“Nope,” Bucky muttered, crouching fast. “No sir, you are not about to melt down on me—c’mere.”

He scooped Jamie up and stood, feeling the boy’s sweaty forehead press against his neck.

Jamie groaned softly, wriggled. “No nap. Wanna bounce.”

“I know, buddy. But you’re already gettin’ floppy on me.” He looked around, breath short. “I can’t—I gotta do like three things in the next—”

“I got it.”

Rebecca appeared at his side, hands already smoothing the tablecloth, her lipstick slightly smudged from chasing kids around with juice boxes.

“I’ll handle it,” she said. “Go get him down before he turns into a gremlin.”

“You sure?”

“Buck.” She gave him a look. “You’re sweating like a bootlegger and look two seconds from crying. Go.”

He sighed in relief, shifted Jamie on his hip. “Thanks, Becs.”

She smiled faintly, and he kissed her temple.

Then, muttering a trail of reassurances to Jamie, he ducked into the house and up the stairs, heading for the quietest place he could find.

Bucky paced with Jamie in his arms, whispering every half-baked lullaby he could remember from his own childhood.

“Down in the valley, the valley so low…”

Jamie squirmed. Whined.

Bucky tried bouncing. Rocking. Whispering nonsense.

“You got a real stubborn streak, huh? That from me or your ma?”

Jamie didn’t answer. Just blinked slowly, one chubby hand gripping the collar of Bucky’s shirt like a tiny grappling hook.

“Y’know,” Bucky muttered, blowing out a breath as he leaned against the banister, “this party was a dumb idea.”

A grunt. A hiccup. The threat of a wail.

“Okay, okay, alright—deal, soldier. Truce.”

Eventually, after what felt like the longest twenty minutes of Bucky’s entire war-decorated life, Jamie’s little body began to soften in his arms, the fight draining out of him in sleepy spurts.

“Yeah, that’s it…” Bucky murmured, brushing a hand down the boy’s damp hair. “Just needed some quiet, huh? Me too, pal. Me too.”

He moved toward the guest room—his old room, the one he’d once shared with Steve for a summer, the one that still had baseball posters peeling off the walls and a crooked shelf that leaned like it missed him.

He opened the door quietly.

You were there.

Fast asleep.

One arm curled under your head, the other resting lightly across the belly he hadn’t even realized he’d been watching rise and fall. Your hair was mussed from the pillow. Your mouth parted slightly in the softest breath. You looked like a painting.

Jamie lifted his head.

Saw you.

And without warning, he squirmed down from Bucky’s arms with surprising toddler stealth, thumping to the bed, crawling up over the mattress on his own steam.

“Mama,” he murmured, so soft it barely qualified as a word.

He tucked himself right into your side like a puzzle piece, nose to your chest, fingers curling in the hem of your sleeve.

And that was it.

Out like a light.

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move for a long moment.

He just watched.

And something in his chest ached with it—that sharp, tender ache that came from seeing something too good and wondering if he ever deserved it.

He stepped in quietly, grabbed the thin blanket at the foot of the bed, and pulled it gently up over both of you. You didn’t stir, just shifted slightly as Jamie’s little body pressed closer.

Bucky knelt down beside the bed for a moment, resting his arm on the edge, his metal fingers brushing your wrist where it peeked out from the blanket.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Thanks for doing this. All of this. Even when you’re tired. Even when I don’t make it easy.”

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then Jamie’s soft curls.

Then, with one last glance, he sat on the floor beside the bed, back to the wall, and let the quiet take him too.

Brooklyn, December 15, 1947

The snow came early that winter.

Fine powder drifted down in quiet flurries, brushing rooftops in white, coating the windows with thin frost. Brooklyn’s streetlights glowed dim and golden through the haze, casting long reflections in the puddles turned to ice.

And inside Metro General Hospital, on a night that bit straight through bone, a girl was born.

It wasn’t easy.

Nothing about your life had been easy—and bringing Maggie into it followed suit. It was long, and painful, and loud in a way that seemed to crack something open in the walls themselves.

You clutched Bucky’s hand through most of it, dug your nails in when it got bad, and when it felt like you might break apart entirely, he just held you harder.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

“Breathe. That’s it, baby—breathe through it.”

“I’m here. Right here.”

You didn’t let go.

Not even once.

And then—just as the wind screamed outside and the city howled with midnight cold—she arrived.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. Red, slick, screaming like she had something to prove.

She filled the room with sound, punched her little lungs full of breath like the world owed her from the second she landed in it.

And Bucky—God.

He swore he forgot how to breathe.

The nurse placed her on your chest and you both stared, blinking in disbelief. You were crying—tired, open-mouthed, whole-body crying. But he wasn’t sure he was making a sound.

Because Maggie.

Maggie wasn’t Jamie.

Jamie had been all soft cheeks and blue-gray eyes. A mirror of Bucky, from the moment he first opened his eyes.

But Maggie?

Maggie looked like you.

Right down to the slope of her nose, the dark lashes fluttering weakly against her flushed cheeks, the deep color of her eyes (even if it was still that muddy newborn gray). Her skin, dusky with warmth. Her little mouth shaped just like yours.

You were whispering to her—he couldn’t even make out the words. Your lips trembled, your fingers stroked her back, your whole body curled around her instinctively. Protectively.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, babygirl.”

And Bucky?

He sat there beside the bed, one hand on your thigh, the other trembling on the rail.

His whole chest ached. Like something holy had just cracked open inside it.

The doctor said something about congratulations. The nurse asked for a name.

And without even looking at each other, you both answered.

“Magnolia.”

“Winnifred.”

There wasn’t hesitation. Just agreement. Your mothers' names. The names fell like prayers. Like promises. Names that made each of you feel safe.

Magnolia Winnifred Barnes.

Maggie, for short.

You looked up at Bucky with swollen eyes and a tired smile and said, “She’s got my ma’s nose.”

And Bucky laughed.

Choked on it, really.

“She’s you,” he said, his voice thick. “God—she’s all you.”

She stayed curled against you that night, pink and snuffling and impossibly tiny. And when Bucky finally reached out, tentative, she curled her hand around his metal finger like it wasn’t any different from the rest of him.

He stared down at that small grip for a long, long time.

And then he kissed your forehead, kissed his daughter’s hair, and whispered into the warm silence between the three of you—

“I’m never letting go.”

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, December 1947 – A Week Later

The city was asleep.

At least, most of it.

Beyond the frosted windows, streetlamps cast faint pools of light on the empty sidewalks, and the radiator hissed softly, its steam like a lullaby. The apartment was warm, but still felt too small. Two bedrooms, four heartbeats, and a thousand things left unsaid in the quiet.

The monitor on the nightstand crackled.

And then it came—the sound. Thin, sharp, fragile.

A newborn’s cry.

You stirred instinctively, muscle memory from Jamie kicking in. Your body was sore, still healing, still not quite your own. But you moved anyway, your breath catching slightly as you started to sit—

A hand pressed gently to your stomach.

“Mm-mm,” Bucky’s voice rumbled low, not fully awake but firm. “I got it.”

Your brow furrowed, half-protesting.

“James, I—”

“Sleep,” he murmured. His hand didn’t lift. “You’ve done enough.”

You blinked up at him in the dark.

The room smelled like him. Like soap and starch and a trace of milk still drying into the sheets. His eyes barely opened as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of her.”

And just like that—your body relaxed.

Because you trusted him. Not just with Maggie. With everything.

The bed dipped as he rose, bare feet padding across the old floorboards. The baby monitor hissed again. Another cry. A hiccup. Then the creak of the nursery door opening.

You rolled to your side, one hand resting across the empty part of the bed, and exhaled.

He had her.

And you let yourself fall asleep to the distant, muffled sound of your husband whispering in the dark.

────────────────────────

The nursery was dim, cast in the pale blue glow of the nightlight shaped like a rabbit, soft shadows spilling across the wallpaper with tiny painted stars. The air smelled faintly of powder and warm cotton, quiet except for the rhythmic hum of the radiator and the high-pitched fussing of a newborn.

Bucky opened the door slowly, careful not to let it creak. He padded inside barefoot, his gray tee clinging slightly to the sweat along his spine, his hair mussed from sleep.

Jamie was already awake.

The toddler stood beside Maggie’s crib, clutching the rails in his small hands, curls tousled and pajama legs rumpled. His sleepy eyes blinked up at his father, wide and sincere.

“Baby crying,” he said solemnly, pointing with one chubby finger toward his sister.

Bucky’s heart did that thing—it squeezed a little too tightly in his chest, pulled by something so small and overwhelming he could barely breathe around it.

“Yeah,” he said softly, crouching beside him. “She is.”

Jamie’s lower lip stuck out slightly, not in a pout, but in quiet concern. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to make it worse. “She sad?”

“Maybe a little,” Bucky said. “Or maybe she just wants someone to hold her.”

He rose slowly and leaned over the crib, scooping Maggie up with practiced ease. She was small but squirmy, red-faced and warm, her cries more frustration than panic. Bucky held her close to his chest, one hand supporting her head, the other wrapping securely around her tiny body.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”

Jamie watched intently, his head tilted as he followed every movement. Bucky gently rocked her, pacing a slow circle in the nursery. Maggie’s cries stuttered, caught, then ebbed into hiccups as her body relaxed against his shoulder.

“Sorry she woke you up, buddy,” Bucky said over his shoulder, voice low.

Jamie stepped forward and touched his father’s leg, patting it twice like he was giving reassurance instead of asking for it. “Is okay.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched into something like a smile.

Maggie was starting to settle, her whimpers softening into sleepy sighs. Bucky adjusted her in his arms and sat down carefully on the edge of the rocking chair, patting her back with slow, rhythmic taps. Her little hand curled into his shirt, breath still uneven but beginning to slow.

Just as he was about to start humming, the sound of soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor.

Jamie, with his curls fluffed from sleep and his tiny socks slightly crooked, toddled toward the chair. In his hand was one of his worn picture books, corners slightly chewed, the spine taped clumsily from how often it had been loved.

He held it up wordlessly to Bucky.

“For baby,” he said, voice sleepy but serious. “Story helps.”

Bucky blinked—something about the suggestion, so pure and earnest, swelled hot and tight in his chest.

“Yeah?” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “That’s a good plan, pal.”

He patted his thigh.

“C’mon up.”

Jamie clambered onto his lap with practiced ease, nestling himself into the right side of his father’s chest, legs tucked sideways and head resting against Bucky’s shoulder. He handed the book over solemnly, and Bucky took it with one hand, careful not to jostle Maggie.

She shifted slightly, her little head resting against his collarbone now, her breath beginning to even out.

“Alright,” Bucky said, opening the book slowly with his right hand, “let’s see what happens tonight in the land of Mr. Fox and his missing socks.”

Jamie giggled quietly.

Maggie let out one last soft sigh, the kind that let him know she was almost asleep.

And Bucky—holding one kid against his chest and the other in the crook of his arm—began to read.

Voice low.

Warm.

Steady.

Wrapped in the hush of the night, his words filled the small room like a lullaby.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

Brooklyn, June 1948 — 5 Months Later

“You’re going to kill us,” you said flatly, fingers gripping the edges of the blindfold. “I hope you know that.”

Bucky only chuckled from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window. “You’ve got no faith in me.”

“I’ve seen your parking,” you snapped. “And you’ve had me blindfolded for fifteen minutes—what if I get carsick? Or die? Or both?”

“Then at least you’ll die surprised,” he said cheerfully.

You groaned and shifted in your seat. “Bucky—”

“Pup!” Jamie interrupted from the back, kicking his little legs in the car seat. “I see cow! Cow, Pup! Cow!”

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky glanced into the rearview mirror, grin growing. “You see a cow?”

“COWWWWW!” Jamie howled again, full toddler volume. You winced.

“I swear, if this is a field trip to a barn—”

“Shh,” Bucky said, patting your knee. “We’re almost there.”

From the backseat, Maggie let out a delighted little babble—one of those sweet, vowel-heavy sounds that came with spit bubbles and gurgled giggles.

“She agrees with me,” you said, still suspicious. “This is a trap.”

Bucky only hummed, the car rumbling steadily underneath as he took another turn. You could smell summer through the open windows—fresh-cut grass, warm pavement, the faint scent of wildflowers on the wind.

Jamie began narrating the drive in the only way a toddler could—“TREE! ROAD! BIRD! TREE AGAIN!”—and Maggie added her own commentary in bubbly, contented noise.

And still… the blindfold stayed on.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you muttered, “you better not be kidnapping me.”

He reached over briefly, squeezing your thigh. “Almost there,” he said, softer this time.

Something about his voice made your heart skip.

Almost.

The car came to a gentle stop, engine purring into silence.

You were still muttering under your breath as Bucky got out, the door shutting with a soft click. “This better not be a weird roadside diner,” you grumbled. “I swear to God, if you blindfolded me for a tuna melt, I’m pushing you into traffic.”

“Noted,” he said, entirely too amused.

He unbuckled Jamie first, then Maggie, and their little sounds and fidgeting filled the car like background music to your ongoing skepticism. You heard Jamie chirp excitedly, “House, Pup?” but it didn’t register—not really.

Bucky came around to your side, opened your door, and carefully helped you out, guiding you like you were made of glass.

“Alright,” you muttered, still blindfolded, one hand gripping his bicep. “This is where you reveal you’ve secretly joined a cult.”

“Shut up and walk.”

You felt grass underfoot.

Then a sidewalk.

Then gravel crunching softly.

“James…” you warned. “I swear if you got me a goat—”

The blindfold lifted.

You blinked hard against the sudden light, eyes adjusting to warm sun and white paint and red brick. A small, two-story house stood in front of you—charming in the way that made your throat tighten. A porch with peeling steps. Big windows. A yard that needed mowing but not fixing.

It looked… real.

Lived-in.

Possible.

You turned to him slowly, confused. “What is this?”

Bucky’s face was quiet, soft.

“The job at the auto shop pays good,” he said. “Especially with the hours I take. Been putting away every bit of it.”

You looked back at the house. At the porch. At the way the sun caught the little windows upstairs.

“There’s three bedrooms,” he added. “One for us. One for Jamie and Maggie. A backyard for them to run in. Room to grow.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded paper—something official. He didn’t show you. Just held it like it made it more real.

“And one day,” he said, eyes meeting yours, “when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

The words hit like a heartbeat echoing in your ribs.

You remembered them. That promise. More than five years ago. Whispered back when the world was black-and-white and full of war and waiting. You’d both been so young, terrified, full of hope you didn’t dare say out loud.

And now?

Now he stood in front of you, older, stronger, a little cracked—but whole. Holding this life in his hands like it had weight.

Like he meant it.

Your eyes prickled.

You looked at the house again.

Then at him.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you felt the tight coil in your chest loosen.

Because Bucky Barnes hadn’t just come home.

He’d built one. For you.

[rrysbabydoll]

Hihi Baby

I may got an idea for a next smutshot🙃

So I like your dominant vibe of writing so maybe Dom!Harry and it’s users first relationship so Harry teaches her how to give a proper blowjob 💋💋

Greedy

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

CW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (blowjob), dominance/submission dynamics, age gap, slight face slapping (consensual), power imbalance, light degradation, mild choking/gagging, inexperienced!Y/N.

Synopsis: Harry teaches Y/N how to give a blowjob.

You're sitting on your knees, bare thighs brushing against the plush rug in Harry’s bedroom, and your heart’s racing. You’re still flushed from earlier, your body still sensitive and tingly from the way he made you come apart on his fingers not long ago.

Harry’s on the edge of the bed in a pair of black sweatpants, watching you with that heavy, calm gaze that always makes your stomach flip. He’s shirtless, tattoos stretched across his chest and arms, skin glowing under the warm light. He looks relaxed, only it’s that type of trained relaxed. The kind where you know he’s totally in control, and you’re already slipping into the space where you love to let him lead.

“Ready, bunny?” he asks, voice thick and low, brushing his fingers under your chin to tilt your face up.

You nod, all soft and wide-eyed. “Yes, Daddy.”

He smiles, slow and crooked. “You don’t have to call me that right now. Just wanna teach you something. Show you how to do it right.”

“I wanna be good,” you say quickly.

His eyes soften slightly, the dimple in his cheek twitching. “I know, baby. And you are. But part of being good means listening, yeah?”

You nod again, hair falling forward. He tucks it behind your ears, thumb swiping over your lip. “Alright. Take your time. I’ll guide you.”

You reach out and pull the waistband of his sweats down, hands a little shaky. His cock springs free, heavy and already hard, the tip flushed pink. It always looks too big for you, but that never stops your eager fingers from wrapping around it.

“Go slow, bun,” Harry murmurs as you lean in. “No need to rush.”

You drag your tongue up the length of him, cheeks burning. He tastes like skin and salt and something uniquely him, and you moan a little at just the smell.

“That’s it,” he praises, brushing your hair back. “Don’t open too wide yet. Just kiss it. Get used to how it feels.”

You do, soft kisses to the tip, then down the side, your lips flushed and sticky. But your thighs are squeezing together now, and you can feel your eagerness pressing at your limits. You want to please him. Want to show him you can do more.

So you open wider. And you take the whole head into your mouth.

“Slow,” Harry warns immediately, his voice still gentle but firmer now. “That’s good, but don’t take too much too fast.”

But you don’t want to stop. You want it all. So you go lower, ignoring the stretch in your jaw, trying to take more.

“Y/N—” he warns again, hand tightening slightly in your hair. “Not so deep yet, baby. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You nod, even with your mouth full. You mean to listen. You do. But you just want him to feel good. So, like before, you start moving again, trying to go even deeper, swallowing until your throat tightens around him.

And then you choke.

Your eyes sting as you gag slightly, nose pressed against his base. You pull off, coughing softly, eyes watering.

He cups your jaw with one hand, the other still in your hair. “What did I just say, bunny?”

You blink, pout forming on your lips. “I just— I wanted to do it right.”

“And what did I say?” he repeats, slower. His voice is low now. Stern.

You look down. “Not to take it all yet.”

He hums. Then lifts your chin. “And you did it anyway.”

You nod silently. Your eyes are watering from the choking and now, from how intense he’s looking at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His fingers moved from your cheek to your jaw, tilting your head up. His expression had darkened, calm but stern.

He gave your cheek the lightest slap, not hard, more of a tap, but firm enough to shock you. You gasped softly, tears instantly welling up.

“Will you listen or not?” he asked, voice quiet but edged with warning.

You nodded again, sniffling. “Yes, yes. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“You’d better,” he said, wiping your tears away with the pad of his thumb. “I don’t like punishing my sweet girl. But if you don’t listen when I’m tryin’ to take care of you, bunny, I’ll make you listen.”

You hiccupped, cheeks burning. “Okay…”

“Good,” he breathes, letting go. “You don’t need to impress me. I’m already proud of you. Let me teach you. I’ll tell you exactly how to take me, how to breathe, how to move. But you have to listen. Understood?”

“Understood,” you whisper.

“Color?” he asks gently, tilting your chin again.

“Green,” you sniffle. “Really.”

He smiles then, presses a kiss to your forehead. “There’s my girl.”

He shifts on the bed, legs spreading a little wider. “Okay. Back to it. I’ll guide you.”

You crawled back between his legs, still teary-eyed but determined. Your fingers trembled a little as you wrapped them around him again. You kissed the tip, soft and apologetic.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Use your tongue. Focus on the tip.”

You obeyed. You licked and sucked gently, letting your tongue swirl over the slit. He groaned softly, and your heart fluttered with pride.

“Hand too, baby. Stroke me while you suck.”

He shows you how to breathe through your nose as you take a little more, and when he sees your eyes flutter, he murmurs, “That’s it. Such a good little bunny. Just like that.”

You moan around him, heat coiling low in your stomach. You love the praise, live for it, and now he’s petting your hair and letting little breathy curses fall from his lips as you work your mouth slowly over him.

“Just like that,” he repeats, voice tighter. “See how much better it is when you listen?”

You hum, eyes fluttering open to look up at him. His jaw is clenched, one hand gripping the sheets now, and you feel pride blooming in your chest.

He groans, low and filthy. “Gonna come if you keep looking at me like that, baby.”

You blink at him innocently, mouth still full, and he huffs a breathless laugh. “You are so dangerous.”

You work him a bit faster now, taking him as deep as he allowed, and when he finally starts to twitch against your tongue, he doesn’t stop you.

“Gonna come in that pretty mouth,” he mutters. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

And you don’t. You take everything he gives you.

He was getting close, you could tell by the way his breath hitched, the way his hips rolled more urgently.

“Wanna finish on your face, bunny. Want that sweet little mouth to open for me.”

You pulled off him with a pop, mouth sore and wet, and nodded. “Okay,” you whispered, lips shiny and red.

“Stick your tongue out.”

You did, eyes still locked on his. He stroked himself once, twice, and then he was spilling across your tongue and chin, thick and hot. You blinked at the intensity of it, the way he groaned your name.

You stayed still, letting him finish, your cheeks flushed and chest heaving.

Harry leans down immediately, pulls you up off the floor and into his lap. “God, baby. You did so well. So fucking good for me.”

You nuzzle into his neck, body trembling from how overwhelmed and proud you feel. “Really?”

He holds your face in his hands, kissing your forehead again. “Really. Just needed you to listen. You were perfect.”