#but that might have to wait until tomorrow

[casssmalefantasy]

lucky number one - paige bueckers x oc!

s: you’ve been best friends with paige bueckers since you were ten. she just won a national championship, is about to be the number one pick in the draft, and is everything she’s ever dreamed of being. but tonight, she only wants to show you one thing—that she knows exactly who’s been there with her through it all.

w: smut (18+), sub!paige, alcohol, language, suggestive/explicit content, softdom reader, mutual pining, friends to lovers, years of built-up tension finally snapping, childhood best friends with so much history, lots of touching/flirting, emotional vulnerability, fluff + filth

word count: 6.9K (yeah it’s a long one)

author’s note: draft day! just wanna say so proud of paige and can’t wait to watch her in the wnba. go dallas wings 😋

you didn’t make it to the championship.

you tried—really tried—but life’s messy sometimes. your internship extended last-minute. your mom’s birthday landed on the same weekend. flights were outrageous, and honestly, you didn’t want to take away from paige’s moment by getting on a last minute flight, so instead, you sent her a four-minute long voice memo, followed by a bouquet of her favorite flowers and a text that read:

just win. then we’ll celebrate in new york like we always said we would.

and she did.

of course she did.

—

you were packing your suitcase when she called, her name popping up with that stupid contact photo of her from freshman year—smiling through a mouthful of froyo and barely holding her phone up.

“yo,” you answer, on speaker. “you alive?”

“barely,” her voice is a breathy groan. “new york. storrs. new york. hartford. back to new york tomorrow. i’m gonna combust.”

“damn,” you grin. “you really hate being famous, huh?”

“shut up,” she laughs, and you can practically hear her flopping into a hotel bed. “i miss you.”

your chest tightens. “you saw me like, two weeks ago.”

“too long,” she murmurs. “new york’s not gonna be the same until you’re in it.”

you roll your eyes, smile curling at your lips. “you always this flirty before the draft?”

“just with you,” she fires back, quick and easy.

you’ve known her since you were ten—rec league basketball, both of you too tall and too fast for your own good. you were paired up for dribbling drills and hated each other for half the season. but something shifted during a snow day makeup game, when she passed you the ball for the game-winner and tackled you in a sweaty hug before you could even react. been best friends ever since.

best friends who talked every night.
best friends who held hands under blankets.
best friends who almost kissed in the backseat of your mom’s car that one summer.
best friends who never talked about it.

until now. maybe.

—

you land in new york two days later.

paige demanded—her words, not yours—that you stay in her hotel suite. she’s not there yet, still in hartford for the uconn parade, but she left your name at the desk and made sure everything was set up.

paige buckets

paige: text me when you land. and when you get to the room. and when you lock the door. actually just facetime me. i miss your face.

you do. she answers with geno in the background yelling at someone about parking. azzi waves from the passenger seat.

“you safe?” she asks, eyes soft.

“yeah,” you say, smiling. “room’s huge. kinda lonely without you, though.”

she hums. “few more hours.”

you wander while you wait.

grab coffee. hit up a bookstore. text azzi to check up on paige, assuming she might be sleep in the car to answer. and get a long, sappy response back about how paige is good and how she’s lucky to have you.

it makes your throat tight. you don’t say it, but there was a time when you thought maybe it was azzi and paige. when their chemistry on the court bled off of it, when their inside jokes got too private, when you found yourself jealous and you hated that feeling.

but it was never like that. not really.

paige always made space for you. always answered. always showed up.

—

she shows up again, hours later.

hair tied back, hoodie slung low, tired eyes but a sleepy smile just for you. you let her in, and she drops her bag, instantly wrapping her arms around your waist.

“hi,” she mumbles into your neck.

“hey,” you whisper back.

neither of you moves for a while.

you talk that night. about the draft. the future. texas.

“i’ve never even been to dallas,” she admits.

“you’ll learn it,” you say. “you learn everything.”

she glances at you. “wish i knew what was gonna happen next.”

you don’t ask what she means. she doesn’t clarify.

—

draft day hits like a wave.

you wake up to a glam team at the door—hair, makeup, and paige’s stylist, brittany, ready with a pulled look just for you.

“she said to make sure you matched,” brittany smirks, holding up a sleek, black dress and chrome accessories. “like, matched matched.”

“she’s insane,” you mutter—but you still wear it.

when she sees you, her jaw goes slack.

“you look... wow,” she says, eyes dragging down and back up. “like, real pretty. dangerously pretty.”

you smirk. “you’re not so bad yourself, number one.”

she’s in an all-black suit, cut sharp and cropped at the waist, paired with an expensive top that leaves just enough skin. she looks like money and power and something you want under your hands.

“you look good,” you say.

“i know,” she teases—but her ears go pink.

at the draft, the lights are blinding.

paige looks calm, collected, nodding at people, shaking hands, posing for photos. but you know her. the way she tugs on her thumb ring. the slight bounce in her shoe. she’s nervous.

you squeeze her hand under the table.

“with the number one overall pick in the 2025 wnba draft... the dallas wings select... paige bueckers from the university of connecticut.”

you swear you don’t breathe until she stands.

the rest is a blur—hugs, cameras, the walk across the stage. you wipe a tear before anyone sees.

—

the after party is chaos.

paige changed into a fitted black crop top and slacks, her chain catching in the light. she’s laughing, flushed, dancing with teammates, drink in hand.

she hasn’t stopped touching you.

a hand at your waist. her fingers brushing your thigh. her mouth too close to your ear when she says, “you looked so good tonight. might be the reason i got drafted.”

“stop,” you laugh.

“i won’t,” she says.

later, she leans in, warm and tipsy.

“i want you,” she murmurs, lips barely grazing your jaw.

you freeze. “what?”

“you heard me.”

your heart trips. “paige—what do you mean?”

she grins, smug. “you know what i mean.”

—

she stumbles into the hotel room first, laughing as she kicks her shoes off, one hand still tangled in yours.

“you’re drunk,” you tease, shutting the door behind you.

“i’m happy,” she corrects, spinning around to face you. cheeks flushed. pupils blown. she looks fucking gorgeous.

“and loud,” you say, taking a step forward.

she doesn’t back away.

“and maybe a little needy.”

you raise an eyebrow. “needy, huh?”

she bites her lip. steps closer. the tension has been building all night—hell, for years—and now it’s finally about to snap.

“you looked so good tonight,” she murmurs. “like... fuck, you don’t even know.”

you smile, slow and dangerous, backing her toward the bed. “oh, i know.”

she lets out a breathy laugh as her knees hit the edge of the mattress. you push her back gently until she’s sitting, legs spread just a little, hands at her sides.

“take your top off,” you say, voice low.

her eyes go wide—but she listens. always listens to you. fingers slipping beneath the hem of her crop top, dragging it up over her head. her breath catches when you lean in and press a kiss just under her jaw.

“you’re so pretty,” you whisper.

“so are you,” she says quickly. like it bursts out of her. “like... fuck. i’ve wanted this forever.”

you kiss her before she can say anything else—deep, wet, messy. you climb into her lap, straddling her, grinding down just enough to make her whimper. her hands find your hips. you grab her wrists.

“uh uh,” you smirk. “you don’t get to be in control tonight.”

her whole body shivers.

“lay back.”

she obeys.

you kiss down her chest, slow, dragging your tongue between her breasts, mouthing at her skin until she’s squirming. her breath stutters when you suck a bruise into her ribcage. when you pull her pants down, she lifts her hips for you like she’s been waiting her whole life.

“fuck,” she whispers, eyes fluttering. “please...���

you raise an eyebrow. “please what?”

she swallows. “please touch me.”

you push her thighs apart and press a kiss to the inside of her knee. “use your words.”

“i want your mouth,” she says in one breath. “please. i need you.”

“i got you baby,” you murmur, grinning.

when you finally press your tongue to her pussy, she gasps—sharp and desperate. her hips buck up immediately, but you pin her down, arms hooked around her thighs, keeping her open for you.

“fuck—fuck, please—” she moans, eyes glassy, head thrown back.

you hum into her, tongue flicking fast over her clit, then slow again—just to hear her whine. she grabs a pillow, covers her mouth, like she’s trying to stay quiet. you pull off just long enough to look up at her.

“you better let me hear you.”

she whimpers. nods. “i will—i promise, just—don’t stop—”

“i don’t plan on it.”

you keep going until her thighs are shaking and she’s begging, voice hoarse, gasping your name like a prayer. when she comes, it’s loud and messy—her whole body trembling, fingers clutching the sheets, her face twisted in pleasure.

you crawl up her body, kissing her as she catches her breath. her lips are soft, slow against yours, like she’s thanking you without words.

“you okay?” you whisper against her mouth.

“that was so hot i think i blacked out.”

you laugh into her shoulder. “you’re so dramatic.”

she pulls you down beside her, still breathing hard. “i’m in love with you.”

you smile. “i know.”

“and you’re mine now, right?”

you kiss her again. “was always yours.”

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── AND YET... ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the one where...just because!

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 1k ⌗ fluff, crack, kissing

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── this one is cute bc if you've read no doubt it's a little iykyk moment...warning: this is so sweet all your teeth might rot after this. and i will not be responsible for your dentist appointment sorry not sorry ^_^ mwah. also this is dedicated to lilly my luv since she loved the flower scene in no doubt <3 @puma-riki

There’s a knock at your door.

Three quick taps. A pause.

Then one more for good measure.

You blink.

You glance at the clock.

It’s late—well, not late late, but late enough where you already retired yourself to a night of takeout and movies, fully committed to not speaking to another human being until tomorrow. Late enough for you to question if you’re about to get murdered, or worse, get a surprise visit from your landlord.

And yet. You peel yourself off the couch, shuffle to the door, accepting whatever fate the universe is about to present you, swing open the door and—

Jake.

Jake, standing there, slightly out of breath like he ran here, with his hair all over the place, and your eyes flicker down to his hands and—

Oh god.

His hands are full.

With flowers.

An entire bouquet, actually.

A chaotic mess of colors, all wrapped in crinkled plastic, looking like the sort of thing a rushed florist would shove at a panicked man five minutes before the store closes.

“Hi,” Jake breathes, a little too eager, a little too quickly.

You just stare at him.

Then at the flowers. Then back at him.

“…It’s not my birthday is it?”

Jake blinks.

“What? No, of course not.”

Then, a pause. He shifts. His eyes widen.

“Wait. Is it actually your birthday? Because—”

“No, Jake,” you smile, letting out a small giggle. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Oh,” he exhales. “Okay, good.”

He thrusts the flowers towards you, “These are for you.”

You try your best to fight the growing smile on your face as you look from the bouquet back to him, “And these are for me…because…”

Jake short-circuits—his hands just hanging there, holding out the bouquet awkwardly. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“…Because?”

“Because…?”

“Because…I like you?” He almost sounds unsure, like he’s only just now realizing how absurdly pathetic he might just be.

He rubs the back of his neck, “And I just—I don’t know, I saw them and thought of you and then I thought, well, she likes flowers, right? and I like her, so she should have flowers and then next thing I knew I was at the checkout counter.”

You stare at him.

Jake stares back, looking like he’s about two seconds away from either passing out or bolting.

You can’t believe he’s real.

Because this is Jake—Jake, who is effortlessly charming in literally every other setting except when it comes to you.

Jake—who fumbles through flower shops and stumbles over his own words, who’s so incredibly earnest over you.

Your heart squeezes in your chest.

Slowly, you reach out and take the flowers from his hands, and you swear you can physically see the way his shoulders drop in relief.

“You do know I’ve told you before to stop getting me flowers, right?”

Jake stiffens, looking completely clueless. “What? No, you haven’t.”

“I literally have,” you smirk, your fingers plucking one of the petals as your eyes flick over to him. “You’re allergic, remember?”

His face falls.

“Oh.”

He blinks.

“Wait—no. No, I remember now. You have said that. Multiple times.”

Your lips twitch, “Yep.”

“And yet,” he gestures vaguely at the bouquet in your hands, his eyes still trained on you.

“And yet,” you nod, amused.

Jake lets out a dramatic sigh, as if he’s just now realizing his own idiocy, “I think I black out every time I buy you flowers. Like, my brain just stops working.”

You snort, leaning against the doorframe, “Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

Looking a little hesitant, a little hopeful, Jake takes a small step closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip.

“So…do you like them?”

Your eyes glance back down.

It’s chaotic. A mess of colors and clashing textures. But at the same time—it’s kind of perfect.

Just like him.

And you soften.

“Yeah, Jake—” you look back up at him, the warmth in your voice washing over him. “I love them.”

And Jake absolutely beams. He thinks he’s won in life. Like you’ve just handed him the world instead of a simple yes, I love them.

You smile to yourself, watching him have his little victory moment in the way he lets out a very obvious breath of relief before wiping his palms on his jeans.

And suddenly, you don’t want him to leave.

“Hey,” you say, pushing off the doorway, taking a step closer. “I was gonna order takeout and watch a movie.”

Jake’s eyes widen.

You tilt your head, lips curling into a soft smile, “Wanna join?”

And this—this is when Jake completely malfunctions.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

He’s a fish.

A completely smitten, malfunctioning fish.

“Oh.” A pause. “Oh thank god— I mean, yes. Yes. I would love to stay. Because I definitely did not already bring my comfy movie night clothes hoping you’d say that.”

You pause.

Then—your gaze drops to the tote bag hanging off his shoulder.

Jake follows your eyes.

Then, as if he just realized his own self-betrayal, he immediately slaps a hand over the bag as if that will somehow hide it.

You raise an eyebrow, fighting back a laugh, “Jake.”

“…Yes?”

“Did you actually bring a change of clothes?”

A beat of silence.

“No.”

You stare at him. He blinks.

“…Yes.”

And then—you burst out laughing. You double over, practically losing your mind.

“Stop,” Jake groans, covering his face with both hands. “This is humiliating.”

“No—”you grin, “this is so cute.”

Jake peeks at you between his fingers, fully pouting, “Do you want me to stay or not?”

You step even closer and gently pry his hands away, smile still tugging at your lips, “Of course I do, Jakey.”

And before he can say anything else—before his brain can spiral any further in agony—you’re leaning up, and—you press a kiss to his lips.

It’s soft. Gentle. Light. And it absolutely ruins him.

Jake freezes, his breath catching as your lips linger just long enough to melt his remaining one (1) brain cell away. 

Because although it’s simple—barely a brush—it feels like a promise.

Like warmth. 

Like coming home.

You pull back slightly, barely whispering against his lips, “Now get in before I change my mind.

You back up, swinging the door open wider.

And Jake?

Jake grins like an idiot, practically sprinting inside.

And as you close the door behind you, watching him kick off his shoes and immediately settling in like he’s always belonged here, you feel it—warm, sure, and terrifyingly true:

You really like him.

Maybe even more than flowers.

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[kenzdolls]

explosive hearts: a bday surprise ꣑ৎ

𖤐 synopsis: the explosive hero-in-training reluctantly endures a surprise birthday party organized by his classmates, but finds genuine joy in the thoughtful gift and quiet moments shared with you.

𖤐 trigger warnings: fluff

𖤐 pairing: katsuki bakugou x gender neutral! reader (post-relationship)

the hallways of ua were surprisingly quiet as you made your way toward the heights alliance dormitory, clutching a small package wrapped in black paper with tiny orange explosion patterns. your heart hammered in your chest, almost rivaling the explosive quirk of the boy whose birthday it was today.

katsuki bakugou. april 20th.

you'd been planning this for weeks—the perfect gift, the right moment to give it to him, and most importantly, how to survive the encounter without becoming a victim of his infamous temper. dating bakugou for the past few months had been an adventure, to say the least. beneath that prickly exterior was someone fiercely loyal and determined, someone who pushed you to be better every day.

but that didn't make his birthday any less intimidating.

---

the morning had started with a flood of texts from your classmates, all coordinating for bakugou's "surprise" party—a surprise he'd undoubtedly see coming from a mile away.

"remember, 5 pm sharp!" mina had texted, followed by a string of explosion emojis. "and don't tell him!"

you'd spent your free period between classes frantically wrapping his gift, your mind replaying memories of how your relationship with the explosive hero-in-training had evolved.

it had begun during joint training sessions three months ago. you'd been paired together for combat practice, and unlike others who hesitated around his fiery temper, you stood your ground.

"you're not going to beat a villain by holding back, so don't hold back with me!" you'd challenged him.

he'd looked shocked for a moment before that trademark smirk spread across his face. "fine by me. don't cry when you lose!"

to everyone's surprise (especially his), you'd managed to hold your own. not win—bakugou was too skilled for that—but you'd impressed him. and impressing bakugou katsuki was no small feat.

after training, he'd cornered you in the hallway.

"you. train with me tomorrow," he'd demanded, more than asked.

and so began your regular training sessions, which gradually transformed from strictly professional to something more personal. you noticed how he'd adjust his techniques to help you improve, how his criticism, while blunt, was always constructive. the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren't looking.

your first kiss had been after a particularly grueling session. both of you, sweaty and exhausted, had collapsed against the gym wall. you'd turned to say something, only to find his face inches from yours, those intense crimson eyes studying your face with an unfamiliar softness.

"you're not half bad," he'd mumbled, and then his lips were on yours, rough and demanding yet surprisingly gentle.

since then, your relationship had been as explosive and intense as the boy himself—full of heated arguments, passionate make-up sessions, and quiet moments of understanding that no one else got to see.

and now, his birthday was here, and you wanted it to be special.

---

according to kirishima, bakugou hated celebrations focused on him. "too much damn attention," he'd growl. yet you knew he secretly appreciated the acknowledgment—just not the fuss.

as you approached his door, voices from inside made you pause.

"deku, get that stupid banner out of my face!"

"but kacchan, it's your special day! everyone pitched in to—"

"i don't care! i didn't ask for this!"

"come on, man!" kirishima's cheerful voice. "it's just a small party! even all might sent you a card!"

you winced. so much for your plan to have a quiet moment with him. class 1-a had apparently beaten you to the punch with a surprise party. for a moment, you considered turning back, waiting until later when the chaos had died down.

"where's [y/n]?" bakugou's gruff question made you freeze. "if you extras dragged everyone here but didn't tell [y/n], i'm blowing this whole damn dorm up."

your heart fluttered. he was looking for you?

taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. the room fell silent instantly.

the door flew open to reveal bakugou himself, hair wild as always, crimson eyes narrowing when he saw you. behind him, the entire class froze in various stages of party preparation. midoriya was hanging a crooked "happy birthday" banner, kirishima and sero had armfuls of snacks, and ashido was attempting to set up a small music system. kaminari was in the corner, tangled in what appeared to be extension cords, while todoroki stood awkwardly by the window, holding a small wrapped gift.

"there you are," bakugou grumbled, something like relief crossing his features before his scowl returned. "these idiots decided to invade my room."

"happy birthday, katsuki," you said softly, holding out the small package. "i was hoping to catch you alone, but..."

his eyes darted to the gift, then back to your face. without warning, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

"hey!" came the muffled protests from inside.

"kacchan! we spent hours decorating!"

"bakugou, that's rude!" you chided, but couldn't help smiling. this was so like him.

"they can wait," he said, crossing his arms. "i've been dealing with their birthday crap all day. first, round face and deku ambushed me at breakfast with some homemade card that looked like a five-year-old made it. then glasses gave me some lecture about 'the importance of commemorating one's date of birth with proper reflection.' as if i give a crap."

you laughed, imagining iida's serious expression as he delivered what was probably a well-intentioned speech.

"then all might sent me a card with some american superhero on it," bakugou continued, rolling his eyes, though you noticed he didn't sound quite as annoyed about that one. "and now they've taken over my room like it's their right. i haven't had five minutes to myself all day."

"want me to come back later?" you asked, though you were disappointed at the thought.

"no," he said quickly, almost too quickly. his cheeks colored slightly as he realized his eagerness. "i mean, you're already here, so whatever."

"smooth recovery," you teased.

"shut up," he growled, but there was no real heat behind it.

"here," you said again, pushing the package toward him. "it's not much, but i thought you might like it."

he took it with surprisingly gentle hands, turning it over once before carefully tearing the wrapping paper. inside was a custom-made training journal, bound in leather with his hero name embossed on the cover in orange lettering. when he opened it, the first page had a handwritten note from you.

"to become the number one hero, you need to keep track of what works. no one works harder than you, katsuki. happy birthday. - [y/n]"

the rest of the pages were specially formatted for training regimens, with sections for technique improvements, quirk developments, and combat strategies. you'd also included some analysis of his recent fights from the training exercises, with your own observations on what made his moves effective.

in the very back, hidden between the last page and the cover, was a photo you'd secretly taken during one of your training sessions. bakugou was mid-explosion, his face lit by the orange glow of his quirk, a fierce grin of pure joy on his face. it captured everything you loved about him—his power, his passion, his absolute certainty in his own abilities.

bakugou was silent for so long that you started to worry.

"if you don't like it, i can get something—"

"shut up," he interrupted, but his voice lacked its usual bite. he was still staring at the journal, running his thumb over the embossed letters. his eyes had found the hidden photo, and you saw his expression soften in a way that made your heart race. "this is... good. really good."

coming from bakugou, that was equivalent to anyone else's effusive praise.

"you actually put thought into this," he continued, glancing up at you. "not just some random crap like the extras in there."

"well, i know how serious you are about becoming the best," you replied. "and you deserve tools that match your ambition."

something changed in bakugou's expression then—a softening around the eyes, a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. before you could react, he'd stepped forward, one hand coming up to cup the back of your neck.

"you get me," he said quietly, almost wonderingly. "everyone else just sees the explosions."

"i see all of you, katsuki. the good, the bad, and the explosive."

he laughed then—a rare, genuine sound that made your heart soar. "damn right you do."

his kiss caught you by surprise, fierce and passionate like everything he did, yet with an underlying tenderness that he showed to no one else. you melted into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulled you closer, his free hand sliding to the small of your back.

the door suddenly flew open, and you both sprang apart to find kirishima grinning at you.

"sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but we've got cake melting in here. very unmanly to waste good food."

bakugou's face flushed red—from embarrassment or anger, you couldn't tell. "hair-for-brains! ever heard of privacy?"

kirishima just laughed. "come on, birthday boy. everyone's waiting."

"don't call me that," bakugou growled, but he didn't protest further. instead, he tucked the journal carefully into his pocket and took your hand, his palm warm against yours. "those idiots in there probably got a cake or something. might as well not let it go to waste."

it was as close to "thank you for the party" as bakugou would ever get.

"lead the way, birthday boy," you teased.

he growled at the nickname but didn't let go of your hand as he pushed the door open, facing his classmates with what could almost be described as tolerance. "alright, you extras! let's get this over with!"

---

the party was actually fun, even by bakugou's standards, though he'd never admit it out loud. the cake was spicy chocolate—someone had done their research—and even the gifts showed that his classmates knew him better than he gave them credit for.

kirishima had gotten him a set of premium hand weights. "for when you can't get to the gym, bro!"

todoroki, surprisingly, had gifted him a high-end knife set. "you mentioned wanting to improve your cooking skills," he'd said simply, ignoring bakugou's suspicious glare.

midoriya's gift—a limited edition all might collectible that bakugou had been eyeing for months—almost caused another explosion, but you saw how carefully he set it aside rather than throwing it away.

but as the celebration continued, you noticed how he kept the journal close, occasionally touching his pocket as if to make sure it was still there. and throughout the evening, his eyes would find yours across the room, that rare smile appearing just for you.

at one point, kaminari suggested party games, which led to an intense round of "truth or dare."

when it was bakugou's turn, ashido grinned mischievously. "truth! when did you realize you liked [y/n]?"

the room fell silent, everyone waiting for the inevitable explosion. but bakugou just scoffed, his eyes finding yours.

"when they didn't back down during training," he said bluntly. "most people either fear me or try to 'fix' me. [y/n] just told me to bring it on." he paused, then added with a smirk, "plus, they called deku an annoying fanboy once, and that's when i knew it was meant to be."

"hey!" midoriya protested as everyone else burst into laughter.

you remembered that moment—it had been after midoriya had spent fifteen minutes analyzing bakugou's fighting style in excruciating detail, stars in his eyes the entire time.

"he's brilliant, but doesn't he ever turn it off?" you'd whispered to bakugou, who had looked at you with newfound respect.

the game continued, and by the time it circled back to you, most of the class had either embarrassed themselves or revealed surprising secrets. sero had admitted to using his tape to cheat on a middle school test. todoroki confessed he secretly enjoyed romantic comedies. uraraka had been dared to float iida around the room like a balloon.

"[y/n], truth or dare?" kirishima asked.

"truth," you decided, not trusting the gleam in his eye.

"what's your favorite thing about our explosive friend here?" he gestured to bakugou, who looked like he was considering murder.

you thought for a moment, aware of bakugou's eyes on you. "his determination," you finally said. "when katsuki decides to do something, nothing stops him. it's inspiring." you met his gaze across the circle. "and he pushes me to be better too."

something flashed in those crimson eyes—surprise, pleasure, and something deeper that made your pulse quicken.

"damn right i do," he said, but his voice was softer than usual.

---

the party started winding down around midnight. aizawa had stopped by briefly—"just making sure you're not destroying the building"—and seemed satisfied that the celebration was relatively controlled, at least by class 1-a standards.

as people began to leave, you started helping clean up, gathering paper plates and cups.

"leave it," bakugou said, coming up behind you. "they made the mess, they can clean it."

"that's not very heroic," you teased.

"neither is trashing someone's room for a party they didn't ask for," he retorted, but there was no real anger in his voice. in fact, he seemed almost... content? it was a strange look on bakugou's usually scowling face.

most of the class said their goodbyes, until only kirishima, midoriya, and a few others remained to finish cleaning.

"we'll handle the rest," kirishima said with a knowing grin, nudging midoriya who was obliviously gathering balloons. "you two probably want some time alone."

"mind your own business, shitty hair!" bakugou barked, but he didn't disagree.

taking your hand, he led you out of the dorm and onto the balcony at the end of the hallway. the night was clear, stars visible above the ua campus, a gentle spring breeze carrying the scent of cherry blossoms.

"thanks," he said abruptly, leaning against the railing. "for the journal. it's... exactly what i needed."

"you're welcome," you replied, standing beside him, your shoulders almost touching. "i'm glad you like it."

"and for not making a big deal about today," he added, turning to face you. "everyone else acts like i should be dancing around because i managed not to die for another year."

you laughed. "that's one way to look at birthdays."

"the only way that makes sense," he insisted. "but... i guess it's not terrible having people acknowledge it. even if they're annoying about it."

coming from bakugou, this was practically a heartfelt speech of gratitude.

"next year," he said in a low voice, moving closer so that his arm pressed against yours, "just you and me. no extras."

your heart skipped. next year. he was already thinking about spending his next birthday with you.

"it's a date," you promised, feeling the warmth of his presence beside you.

he turned to face you then, expression serious. "you know i'm not good at this... feelings crap."

"you don't say," you teased gently.

he glared, but there was no real heat behind it. "i'm trying to say something here."

"sorry," you said, fighting a smile. "go on."

he took a deep breath, as if preparing for battle. "you're important to me. more than... well, more than anyone. and i'm going to be the number one hero someday, which means i need people i can trust at my side. people who push me. people who understand me." his eyes locked with yours. "that's you."

coming from bakugou, this was equivalent to a passionate declaration of love.

"katsuki..." you began, emotion thick in your voice.

"don't get all sappy on me," he warned, but his hand found yours, fingers intertwining. "just... be there. keep training with me. keep challenging me."

"always," you promised. "as long as you do the same for me."

a genuine smile spread across his face—not his battle-hungry grin or his triumphant smirk, but something softer and more rare. "deal."

then he was kissing you again, one hand cupping your face, the other at your waist pulling you closer. you wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of him against you, the subtle scent of nitroglycerin and something uniquely bakugou enveloping you.

when you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, those crimson eyes unusually gentle.

"best birthday," he admitted grudgingly.

"just wait until next year," you promised with a smile.

he grinned, that familiar confidence lighting his features. "it better be even more explosive."

"with you, katsuki, how could it be anything else?"

as the stars shone overhead and the distant sounds of your classmates echoed from inside, you stood in comfortable silence with the boy who had captured your heart with his explosive determination and hidden tenderness.

loving katsuki bakugou wasn't easy—it was challenging, frustrating, and sometimes downright infuriating. but as he stood beside you, his hand warm in yours, you wouldn't have it any other way. because beneath all the explosions and anger was a heart that beat just for you, and a promise of many more birthdays to come.

taglist: [open] mutuals: @https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @n3r0-5352 @gh0st-g1rll

© property of kenzdolls

[hummingbird24220]

Can I please request reader gifting sanji a new tie. It's one of those gimic types (shaped like a fish or with a naked lady underneath type) and he appreciates the gift so he has to wear it but reader keeps gifting him increasingly ugly ties until sanji eventually breaks and has to tell him that while he loves the gifts he can't take one more ugly tie.

(Sorry for all the sanji! I definitely have a favourite, hope you don't get bored of writing for him <3)

Anon, do not apologise. I too, like you, have an obsession with this man. I could write about him for DAYYYYYYS.

I really liked this prompt^^ as a lot of fun to write.

Enjoy!

--

Tie-ranny

Sanji x reader

The first tie was a joke. You swore it was a joke.

It was a silk monstrosity in the shape of a koi fish—glossy, orange, and just the slightest bit too anatomically accurate. You found it in a tiny market stall on an island known for its quirky fashion, and you immediately thought of Sanji.

Because of course you did.

The man wore suits like second skin, cooked like a god, and smoked like a noir protagonist. He had style. He had grace. He needed a stupid tie shaped like a fish.

So, naturally, you bought it.

You approached him in the galley after dinner service, when most of the crew was lounging about the deck, nursing full stomachs and half-lidded eyes. Sanji was wiping down the counters, still wearing his signature black shirt and that sleek, boring tie.

Time to change that.

“Sanji,” you chirped, hands behind your back. “I got you something.”

He glanced up, smiling instantly. “For me? Mon amour, you shouldn’t have.”

You snorted. “Trust me, I probably shouldn’t have. But here.”

You revealed the tie like it was a weapon. The way his smile twitched said he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t.

He took it gently, inspecting the silky koi fish with a kind of cautious reverence. “...It’s a tie,” he said, after a beat.

“Not just a tie. A statement.”

Sanji paused, then let out a light chuckle. “It’s definitely saying something.”

You wiggled your eyebrows. “You hate it.”

“I love it,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “No one’s ever given me a tie before. I’ll wear it tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Of course.” He smiled at you—warm, charming, and with just a hint of terror behind the eyes. “Merci, my dear.”

You were kind of joking. But now you were also kind of obsessed.

The next morning, Sanji wore the tie.

He actually wore it.

Full suit. Polished shoes. Orange koi fish flopping limply down his chest.

Zoro nearly fell overboard laughing. Usopp asked if it was cursed. Luffy tried to eat it. But Sanji—oh, bless his elegant little soul—kept his head high, his tie straight, and served breakfast with the air of a Michelin-star chef who had absolutely not lost a bet.

You were delighted.

He was doomed.

You gave him a second tie a week later.

This one was a standard black, but when pulled, it flipped up to reveal a tiny cartoon woman in a bikini winking suggestively. Sanji paled when he discovered this—after wearing it to serve tea to Robin and Nami.

He wore it for three days out of sheer politeness.

The third tie played “La Cucaracha” when touched. The fourth one glowed in the dark. The fifth? A neon green knitted monstrosity with googly eyes stitched on like some kind of haunted seaweed.

You were testing him now. You had to be.

And Sanji—poor, noble, increasingly sweaty Sanji—endured them all.

But something in his eye had started to twitch.

-

Sanji didn’t cry.

But he did sigh like a man who had seen war.

“This one sparkles,” he said faintly, holding up tie number six between two fingers like it might bite. “It’s—bedazzled.”

“Exactly,” you grinned. “It matches your sparkling personality, Sanji-kun~”

He blinked slowly. “I don’t sparkle.”

“You do in my heart.”

He paused. “...That’s very sweet,” he said, voice hollow. “Excuse me while I go make dinner and question everything I’ve ever known about fashion.”

The next time you docked on an island, you dragged Zoro along on your usual supply run. Not because you liked him (you didn’t—he was a menace), but because he owed you a favor and you wanted a pack mule.

You didn’t expect him to actually get into it.

“Oho,” Zoro said, plucking a tie from a dusty clearance bin like it was Excalibur. “This one’s got a cat riding a shark. That’s a power move.”

You gasped. “Oh my god. And look, this one’s got… is that a chili pepper? With sunglasses??”

“Hell yeah it is.”

Suddenly, you and Zoro were in the middle of the store, doubled over with laughter, holding up increasingly cursed neckwear like you were art collectors discovering lost masterpieces.

“What about this one?” Zoro asked, barely holding it together. “It’s a chicken. But with abs.”

“Sanji would hate that.”

“Then we’re buying it.”

It became a game. A secret mission. Operation: Drive Sanji Mad With Fashion.

The tie haul that day was devastating:

One with a holographic dancing skeleton.

One that said “HOT STUFF” in flaming Comic Sans.

One with googly eyes that rattled when he moved.

A skinny tie that looked like a strip of bacon.

You didn’t even try to hide your glee.

And the worst part? Sanji still wore them.

Maybe not with pride. Maybe not even with dignity. But with a kind of resigned, tragic elegance—as if he’d accepted this was his life now, a living shrine to the gods of bad taste.

“Y/N…” he said one afternoon, when you handed him a tie shaped like a squid.

“Uh-huh?”

He looked at you. You looked back, all innocence and sunshine.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Sighed.

“…Merci,” he whispered, like it hurt.

Back on the Sunny, Zoro leaned on the railing, watching Sanji stir soup with his squid tie flapping obscenely against his chest.

“You think he’s gonna snap soon?” Zoro asked, sipping his drink.

You leaned beside him, smug. “I’m giving him three more ties. Maybe two if I find the one with the whoopee cushion.”

Zoro grinned. “Let me know when you go shopping again.”

The alliance had been forged. The chaos was escalating.

And Sanji?

Well, he was hanging on by a thread.

A very ugly thread.

--

The final tie was the ugliest thing you had ever seen. Which is exactly why you bought it.

It was fuzzy. It was fluorescent. It had two giant googly eyes, a felt tongue that dangled like an accusation, and a built-in squeaker that wheezed every time it moved.

Zoro saw it first.

He stared at it for a long moment, then simply muttered, “Oh, he’s gonna die.”

You nodded solemnly. “Or finally confess his sins.”

You presented it to Sanji after dinner, the rest of the crew scattered and full and blissfully unaware of the oncoming storm. You held the box like it was a precious heirloom.

“Sanji,” you beamed. “From me to you.”

He froze. You saw his soul briefly leave his body before he schooled his face into that familiar, worn-out smile.

“For me?” he said, voice soft like a dying man’s last words.

You nodded with dangerous excitement. “It squeaks.”

There was a long silence as he lifted the lid. His face didn’t change. Not at first. But you saw the exact moment his spirit cracked.

His eye twitched. His cigarette drooped. And then—very gently—he closed the lid.

“Y/N,” he said.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

You froze. “Wait, what?”

“I love you,” he repeated, fast now, like he was running downhill with no brakes. “I love your smile and your laugh and the way you talk to my soup like it’s alive. I love your voice in the morning and how you hum when you’re bored and yes, even how you and the mosshead formed some unholy alliance to torture me with these godforsaken ties.”

You were completely stunned.

Sanji took a breath. “But if you give me one more tie that squeaks, glows, sings, or looks like it crawled out of a clown’s nightmare—I will burst into flames. And not in the charming, smoldering way. In the literal spontaneous combustion way.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then blinked. “...So you’re saying you do like them?”

Sanji stared at you.

You grinned. “You do!”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Mon Dieu, please spare me.”

But you stepped closer and leaned in, voice soft now. “You could’ve told me from the start, you know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“You’ve worn a tie that said ‘Grill Me Daddy.’ I think we're past shame.”

That got a reluctant laugh from him.

You reached into your bag and pulled out one last item—not a tie this time, but a sleek, dark blue one with a subtle embroidered pattern. Tasteful. Elegant. Something that actually matched his wardrobe.

He blinked. “Wait… this one’s not hideous.”

You shrugged. “Well, I did get you like eleven gag ties already. Thought you earned one nice one.”

Sanji looked at you like you’d just handed him the moon. “...Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You’re welcome, Mr. Grill Me Daddy.”

He groaned again—but this time, when he tugged you in for a hug, he didn’t let go.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Backseat Driver pt. 1

Summary: Bucky Barnes is reluctantly running for Congress with the financial and political backing of Pepper Potts. Everything is under control until she assigns him a driver. A very chatty, overly enthusiastic, playlist-addicted driver who seems determined to worm her way past his hundred-yard emotional perimeter. He hates the arrangement. Until he really doesn’t.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 5,800 (might've gotten so carried away I actually broke Tumblr and couldn't post the whole fic in one post.... so I feel like that deserves some kind of award 🤭, part 2 will post tomorrow)

Warnings/Tags/Info: No use of y/n, l/n, reader is described as female. I have literally no idea whatsoever the process involved in running for Congress or being a Congressperson. Expect grumpy!Bucky, sunshine!Reader, fluff, Sam being the most glorious human ever, Pepper Potts continuing to be a badass.... Ummm... I can't think of anything else to warn you of? Enjoy! 🩷

“I don't need a driver.”

“You're not driving yourself anymore.”

“The hell I'm not, this might have been your stupid idea, but it doesn't make me your little pet.”

“James,” Pepper Potts said smoothly (that’s when he knew he’d pissed her off), “you'd know if you were my pet. Now shoo. The car is downstairs along with your driver. Do not keep them waiting.”

Conversation over, apparently. He waited, just a little longer. Just long enough for her to sigh and pointedly not look at him. Just long enough to let her know that he owed her nothing. 

If anything, he was the one doing her a favour. And a big one, at that. 

“Congressman Barnes -”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm gone.” 

He didn't close the door behind him. 

Another small act of defiance.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity. He stepped out into the heavily guarded parking level, the security guard nodded in his direction, and pointed to a sleek, top spec Range Rover with blacked out windows.

She leaned over the bonnet, scribbling into a notepad. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned abruptly.

“Congressman, hi -” she began, holding out her hand. 

He didn’t take it. “You’re my driver?”

“I am,” she said cautiously, waiting for him to interrupt again. “Ready to go?”

He didn’t respond. 

Vibranium clinked dully against the metal of the car door.

“Uhh, that’s my seat?” She said, her lips pinched to hide her smile. 

He left the driver door wide open and moved to the rear door instead, sliding into the car without a word. 

“Thanks!” She chirped, hopping up behind the wheel.

The seat automatically adjusted to her height. He watched the mirrors shift too, suiting her position. 

She threw her notepad and phone onto the seat beside her. In the centre console, she’d wedged a water bottle and a half empty iced coffee.

“Can you even reach the pedals?” He couldn’t help asking.

“Good one, haven’t heard that before. Little ol’ me, great big hunk of a car… course I can reach. I have this poking stick, see - helps me push the pedals ‘cos my tiny legs just can’t do it -” she laughed.

“Right, I get it. You can reach.”

“Sure you’re done? Would you like to see my licence? Proof that I can drive stick? How about you jump out and make sure I can see over the steering wheel?”

He stared out of the window instead.

With a self-satisfied smirk, she watched him through the rear view mirror. 

“Seatbelt on?” She asked. 

“Are you always like this?”

“Yep. Now, any music requests?” 

His frown deepened. 

“Good, I don't want to hear them. Driver privileges. Hope you like 90s dance.” She waited until he'd caught her eye in the mirror, the horror crossing his face. 

And then she winked. 

The car roared to life. The V8 engine growled, low and powerful, but the smooth leather seats and plush interior barely shuddered. The tyres squeaked on the ramp and as the sounds of Faithless filled the vehicle, she pulled out into the steady stream of traffic.

The thumping beat reverberated through the speakers and the driver hummed along to the music, sneaking glances at the grumpy figure in the backseat. 

Bucky's misery was obvious. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze fixed out the window, his jaw clenched.

The sound of the music was only broken by the occasional sound of him sighing deeply.

The humming grew louder until the track reached the chorus and the driver began singing along, full, off-key commitment.

Bucky couldn't help but grimace at her wildly out of tune efforts. She had to be doing this on purpose.

"Do you have to do that?" He asked shortly. 

"Do what?" She called over the thumping bass. 

"Can you turn it down?"

"Huh?"

"Turn. It. Down."

She reached for the volume dial. "What are you saying?"

"God, finally," he muttered. "Do you have to do that?" he asked. 

"Do I have to do what?"

"Sing along? It's awful."

"Oh. Well... I just like to," she shrugged. 

“But you can't sing. You're way off," he said bluntly, his tone flat.

She shrugged. “Isn't that part of the fun?”

“Says who?” 

“Oh I love this one!” She said gleefully, ignoring his question and turning the volume dial up again, higher than previously. “Love life and laughter is all I believe…”

Ahead of them, the traffic slowed and Bucky watched with increasing alarm, his brows pinched together, as the driver bounced and shimmied in her seat to the beat of the music, her hands either waving enthusiastically or clutching her heart like the song had cracked her open. 

“I feel your hands, your lips, the heat of your body

Whisper your love to me say that you love me

Please just love me down and never leave me,

I'm a dreamer-uh-uh-uhhhhh!”

“Kill me now,” he growled, yanking his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts and raised the phone to his ear. 

"Yo man, I was just about to call you,” came Sam’s voice, already full of smug amusement. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I heard you got yourself a new ride?" Bucky rolled his eyes at the barely contained laughter in Sam’s tone.

"News travels fast," he grumbled, watching her continue to bop in her seat. Sam chuckled on the other end of the line, clearly amused by the situation.

"How's that going for you?"

“How’d you think?” Bucky hissed, “How’d you find out anyway?”

"Let's just say, my sources are always reliable," Sam replied cryptically. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide a small smirk. “Pepper just told you, right?”

“Bingo.”

“That figures," he said.  

"Yeah, some of us have gotta be the grown ups around here,” Sam laughed. "So… you having fun?"

"I don't need a driver."

"A little louder, I don't think she heard you." Sam deadpanned.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don't need a driver," he repeated louder, making sure she heard this time.

“Pepper’s right, you’re a public figure now, man. You can’t just be tearing your motorcycle around like a feral cat.”

As Sam negotiated, the driver in question lifted her hand and flipped Bucky the middle finger.

Too busy flipping him off, she didn’t notice the traffic ahead slowing - and slammed the brakes hard.

Bucky lurched forward in the back seat, instinctively reaching out to brace himself, gripping the back of her seat.

"Oof, shit, sorry." She grimaced, easing to a more gentle stop behind the car in front.

He slumped back, indentations left in her headrest from the tight grip of his vibranium fingers. 

He tried to play it cool, acting like he hadn't been caught off guard.

"Watch where you're going," he muttered, his voice gruff.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes still on the road ahead. "These idiots don't know how to drive. I'm pretty sure they're texting."  

"You sure it's not your reckless driving that's the issue here?" Bucky retorted.

He went back to his call before she could respond. 

"I gotta go, I'm on my way to a meeting,” he told Sam, barely holding back a growl. “Y’know, if my damn driver can get me there in one piece. I should probably read the notes before I go in." 

"Enjoy the drive buddy, see you later," Sam cackled as Bucky ended the call with a sharp tap.

He leaned back in his seat, glowering out the window as the city whizzed by outside.

"You don't have to look so miserable," the driver said, her voice cutting through their uncomfortable silence.  

Bucky didn't respond, his gaze still fixed on the city outside.  

She rolled her eyes at his stubbornness. 

“Honestly, it's not the end of the world, having someone drive you around. You get more work done, you get to listen to my excellent music -”

"We're not talking about this," he muttered, opening the files he'd put on the seat next to him. “I'm sorting this out with Potts, your assignment will be over by the end of the day.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

They lapsed into a kind of truce, the radio mercifully turned down and the driver still singing along at a more acceptable volume. 

Her singing was the only nagging reminder that she was there. He tried to ignore her and focus on the files in front of him, but his concentration kept getting derailed by her off-key humming. 

"Can you stop that?" he snapped suddenly, surprising even himself.

"Youuu got it," she said quietly, falling silent at last.

Her smile faltered for the first time, just long enough for Bucky to notice.

A quiet sense of relief washed over him, but then, after a few moments an uneasy feeling settled over him. 

The quiet was too stifling. 

Without the white noise he found himself hyper-aware of her presence. 

He could now hear the rhythm of her breathing, the squeak of the leather steering wheel beneath her grip. He could hear the steady drum of her heart, a few beats quicker than a resting rhythm.

His focus sharpened on the sound of her pulse. 

He wondered what could be causing her heart rate to increase. Was she nervous? Excited? 

He snuck a glance at her, taking in the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled, the quick exhale.

Before he could ask, she brought the car to a smooth stop outside a towering building. 

"Here we go, first stop. I'll be here whenever you're ready to move on." She said softly.

Bucky collected his notes from the seat and shoved them into the leather messenger back that rested on his lap.

He exited the car without a word, taking a moment to take in the impressive building before him. Behind him, he heard her window glide down, the tinny motor sound imperceptible to most ears.

“Thank you,” she prompted him with a grin.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged without turning around. “Thanks.”

He didn’t turn back until he got to the revolving doors of the building, by which point he could see her huddled over her notepad once again. 

As if feeling his stare, she turned to the doors and smiled brightly, waving in his direction.

He ignored her.

~~~~

His meeting dragged on for over two hours. Irritation and fatigue picked at his brain and made his eyes itch. He felt dehydrated, hungry, and by the time he finally stepped out into the sunlight, his stomach rumbled in time with the traffic.

Out front, the Range Rover sat proudly - exactly where he’d left it.

Or rather, where he’d been left.

He could see her, either talking on the phone or - more likely - singing along to the radio.

He wondered if she’d even moved for the last two hours.

Seeing him on the sidewalk, she jumped out of the car and opened the rear door for him. Further along the seat, the drinks holder had been pulled down and inside sat a large bottle of water and a tightly wrapped foil… something.

 “What’s that?”

“Figured you’d be hungry. And thirsty.” She shrugged, closing the door behind him before he could respond. She slipped into her own seat and turned the ignition.

He could feel her snatching glances at him in the rearview mirror while he carefully peeled back the foil on what turned out to be a still warm burrito. 

“What?” He asked warily through a mouthful of food. 

“Don't talk with your mouth full. It's not becoming of a Congressman.” She teased. 

“Not a Congressman yet, doll.” He sneered. 

She pulled out into the stream of traffic into a gap he'd only have taken on his motorcycle. The car behind flashed its lights in annoyance but she just flicked her hazards on and off in thanks. Over the sound of her music, the GPS announced a delay ahead. 

“We're gonna be late,” he complained. 

“Have a little faith, please.” She grinned and took the next left, ignoring the directions on her phone. Twenty minutes later, her passenger fed and watered, and the traffic defeated, she pulled up at their next stop. 

Early. 

“Shall I say I told you so now, or save it for later in case any more rack up?”

“How about you don't say anything?” 

“Not going to happen. Enjoy your meeting, I'll be right here.”

He hesitated before getting out of the car. “You know, you didn’t have to…” he started quietly. 

“I wanted to.”

And that was it.  

Every day when he stepped out of his house, the car was parked up and waiting for him. And every day, the music was too loud, she talked too fast, too much and drove the Range Rover like she'd stolen it. 

Every day he threatened to fire her. And every day Pepper Potts told him to get his head out of his ass.

A week into his enforced new staff member’s tenure, he text her. 

Corner of Grattan and Bogart. Don’t be late.

Sam was in Washington heading north and had suggested meeting him part way. He picked up two coffees and waited for her, his baseball cap pulled low. 

He wasn’t scrolling his phone. 

He wasn’t really doing anything.

Just sitting. 

Waiting.

When he heard the low purr of the Range Rover pulling up, he stood. One coffee in each hand. She rolled down the window.

“You know it's Saturday?”

“What, no dramatic music this time?” he asked.

“It's soul Saturday, I thought I'd wait for you.” she grinned. “You want in or are you just here to judge my taste again?”

He climbed in and handed her the drink without saying anything.

She looked at it. Then at him.

“…You got my order right,” she said, half-suspicious. “How?”

“You’ve ordered it three times already this week,” he shrugged, like it was no big deal. “I have ears.”

She looked down at the cup. Her name was scribbled across the side. In his handwriting.

She smiled softly. 

Bucky stared straight ahead, pretending to study the road. She pulled away from the curb without saying another word, but the silence between them this time wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

“So, where to?”

“Jersey, gonna collect my bike from the shop and meet Sam.”

“So this is a one way trip? And you couldn't just… jump on the train?”

“Potts said no.”

“Oh, and you always do as you're told,” she scoffed. 

“Occasionally, when it suits.”

She yawned into her coffee and fell silent again. “I mean, I probably wouldn't cross Pepper either.” She admitted after a while, before treating him to her singing once more. 

~~~~

Days later, with the sun dipped low enough to cast a golden wash across the buildings, traffic was thick, and for once she wasn’t weaving like a maniac. 

The music was low, piano versions of recognisable songs. Bucky had his eyes closed, head tilted slightly back against the seat. He wasn’t asleep.

He never really let himself sleep while he was on the move.

“Rough day?” She asked softly. 

He didn't answer right away. 

“It’s always a rough day.”

“You still showed up. That counts for something.”

He opened his eyes and glanced at her in the mirror.  

“I’m bored,” she said suddenly. 

He arched an eyebrow. 

“Then maybe pay attention to the road,” he muttered.

“I am paying attention. I’m also multitasking.”

He exhaled through his nose. A smirk, barely there.

“You want to pick the next song?” she asked casually.

He frowned. “What?”

“Music. You know? You can be DJ.”

“I don’t… I don’t really know what I like.”

She blinked. “You don’t like music?”

“I didn’t say that.” He looked out the window again. “I just haven’t had a lot of… say. In what I hear.”

There was something in his voice, flat, but not dismissive. It suggested years of noise he hadn’t chosen. 

Propaganda. Orders. Guns. Screams. Silence.

She swallowed, nodding slowly.

“Well,” she said after a second. “Let’s fix that.”

She handed him her phone, unlocked and open to her music app. “Pick anything. Go on.”

He held it like it might bite him.

“Not gonna lie to you,” he said dryly. “This feels like a trap.”

She laughed, not mocking, just easy and warm. “Worst case scenario, you pick something awful and I throw us into oncoming traffic.”

“Fair. What classes as awful?”

“Let's find out, shall we?” She wiggled her eyebrows. 

He scrolled hesitantly, his thumb moving slowly, like he was trying not to break anything.

Finally, he tapped something.

A slow, smoky jazz guitar slid through the speakers. She looked at him in surprise. “You just… picked that out of nowhere?”

“I didn’t just pick it.” He didn’t look at her. “I have been trying to adjust for the last few years. Sam's thrown a few suggestions my way.”

They drove in comfortable silence for a while. 

“…Not bad,” she murmured eventually.

His mouth quirked, just barely. “Yeah.”

She stopped the car outside his house.

“Get some rest, Congressman. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks, so I look like shit?”

She laughed sharply. “Yeah, right. As if. Look, it may not feel like it, but you’re making a difference.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so.” 

He nodded tiredly and stepped out of the car. 

At the top of the steps, he turned, noting that she always waited for him to go inside before she left. 

It didn't stop him from checking that she was still there. 

~~~~

The events, meetings, townhalls, meet and greets were beginning to blur.

He stepped out of the building, tie loosened, shoulders tight. The black Range Rover was already parked across the street, perfectly aligned in a no-standing zone, hazard lights blinking innocently.

She leaned casually against the side of the car, sunglasses perched on her head, sipping an iced coffee with more espresso shots than he dared think about. 

“You’re early,” he grunted as he slid into the backseat.

“I’m always early,” she said brightly, climbing into the driver’s seat. “What, you just think I appear like magic?”

He didn’t respond, but she caught the faint twitch of his mouth in the mirror. 

Close enough to a smile.

As she pulled into traffic, he noticed they weren’t heading in the usual direction. “You missed the turn.”

“Not going home yet. I’ve got one more stop and then I have instructions to take you to Pepper.”

His jaw tightened. “You have another pickup?”

“Yup.”

“Oh,” he said, trying and failing to sound unaffected. “Didn’t realise you chauffeured other people.”

“Although you're technically my only client, and the most dramatic, I'm doing her a favour,” she said, clearly amused. 

He didn’t answer. 

Just sat there, seething quietly at the idea of her smiling and chatting with someone else the way she did with him. 

Someone younger. Cooler. 

Probably not traumatised and 100 years out of place.

The Range Rover coasted to a stop in front of a sleek private school entrance. She unbuckled her seatbelt and twisted to glance at him. 

“Back in five. Try not to melt in the leather.”

He grunted, but watched her go.

It wasn’t a man. Not even another client, not in the way he thought.

A moment later, she returned with a kid practically bouncing alongside her. The girl looked up at her with absolute adoration, and she responded with a warmth Bucky hadn’t seen before.

She walked the girl, Morgan, (it clicked a second later) back to the car and opened the rear door.

“You remember the Congressman,” she said by way of introduction.

Morgan clambered in without hesitation, sliding across the backseat until she plopped down beside him like they were old carpool buddies.

“Hi,” she said, pulling her seatbelt across. “You look less mad than last time I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Uhh… hi.”

She looked up at him, curious. “You still mad about her?”

He glanced toward the front, where the driver was watching them in the mirror with raised brows.

“...No,” he muttered. “She’s fine.”

“I know,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. “She makes the best lunchbox snacks. Sometimes she lets me drive in the driveway if Mom’s not home.”

“Don’t say that in front of people,” the driver said quickly, tossing her a warning glance.

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, Mom said you were mad that she made you get a driver, and I said -”

The driver was hiding a smile now, fiddling with the GPS. “Alright, kiddo, seatbelt on?” She interrupted, “Get on with your homework, stop bothering Congressman Grumpypants.”

As they pulled away from the school, Bucky sat back. The heat of his earlier jealousy had died off, leaving him embarrassed. 

He'd been jealous of a kid. 

Not just any kid, Morgan Stark.

Morgan rolled her eyes and pulled a tablet out of her backpack, popping in earbuds and disappearing into whatever assignments awaited her.

He didn’t know what the hell was happening between him and the woman in the front seat. But it was starting to get harder to pretend he didn’t care.

At the office, Pepper Potts was exactly where he expected her to be, half-glancing at a screen floating in midair, tapping on her phone, eyes flicking up to meet his with a sharp, calm kind of clarity that always unnerved him.

“You’re early,” she said, without looking at the time. “That’s rare.”

“I wasn’t driving,” Bucky replied dryly.

That got him the faintest smirk. She waved a hand and the screen blinked away.

“She’s good,” he said, casually. Too casually.

Pepper tilted her head. “Morgan?”

“…Your driver.”

“Ah.”

He scratched his jaw, suddenly feeling defensive for even bringing it up.

“I didn’t know you were hiring clowns,” he added, trying to sound annoyed, but the words lacked his usual bite. “She talks a lot. More than Sam, and that's… a lot.”

“She does,” Pepper agreed smoothly. 

“Where’d you find her?”

“Hmm?”

“The driver.”

“Why?”

“Just curious.” He tried to sound disinterested. Neutral. 

He failed miserably.

Pepper gave him a slow, knowing look. 

“You never ask about people, Bucky. Ever.”

“She’s… unusual,” he muttered.

“Unusual how?”

“Drives like she’s in a Fast and Furious movie. Listens to the worst music I’ve ever heard. Talks too much.”

“But you’re still in one piece.”

“Barely.”

Pepper smiled. “You could’ve just said you liked her.”

His eyes flicked up. Sharp. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He scowled. “This isn’t… I  just wanted to know where you found her.”

“She interned with us a few years ago. Logistics. She's smart. Too mouthy for upper management though. Too good for it, in all honesty. She freelanced security logistics for a while, specialising in VIP movement, crisis response. Tony would’ve liked her.”

Bucky blinked. “Wait, she’s trained?”

“Extensively. Don’t let the coffee cups and dancing fool you.”

He blinked again. 

It clicked. How she always had them out of tight traffic. How she knew exactly when to pull up, when to back off. How she always parked near exits without seeming to think about it.

He felt a little stupid, honestly.

Pepper watched him closely. “She knows what she’s doing. And before you ask, no, I didn’t pick her to annoy you. That's just an added bonus.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She grinned again. 

He shifted his weight. “She ever drive for someone else?”

“Not like this. You’re the first.”

That meant more than it should’ve.

Pepper leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Why don’t you just ask her these things yourself?”

He looked away. Jaw tight. “Not my business.”

She smiled gently. “You’re wrong, Bucky. It is your business. She’s in your life now, whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t answer.

Pepper didn’t push.

“Go home,” she said finally, turning her attention back to her screen. “And don’t fire her. You’d regret it.”

He looked incredulous, then it dawned on him. 

“She tells me you threaten to fire her every day.” Pepper arched an eyebrow. 

“I wasn’t really going to -” he started, then stopped. “…Whatever.”

He left without saying goodnight.

~~~~

The event had gone better than he’d expected.

A few speeches. Awkward handshakes. 

But people had listened. Some had nodded. A few had smiled. He could handle that.

It was easier when they wanted to be there to listen to him. He found it much harder convincing people who'd already made up their minds to dislike him. 

What he couldn’t handle was the crowd waiting outside.

Photographers. Reporters. Bright flashes already popping the second the door opened.

His chest tightened immediately. He knew this feeling, It started in his hands - both of them. 

Tight, twitchy, like even the coils and springs in his metal arm were tightening.

Then his jaw, clenching so hard his teeth ached. He froze in the doorway, half in shadow, half in the spotlight.

Too many faces. Too many voices, all shouting his name.

Winter Soldier!

Congressman Barnes!

Are the rumors true? Are you stepping down?

Smile for us, sweetheart!

That was a new one - they didn't usually call him sweetheart. He realised why. 

That last one wasn’t even aimed at him, it was aimed at her. Parting the boisterous group like the red sea. Appearing before him, still and quiet. 

And somehow, that broke the spell.

Before the tension could boil over, before he could even think about turning around and bolting, she stepped forward. Like it was nothing.

She slid into the space beside him, hand lightly brushing his arm, not grabbing, not controlling. Just grounding.

“You ok?” she murmured, almost under her breath. 

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch either.

“Sorry folks,” she called sweetly. “Congressman Barnes is late for a call with Captain America himself. No time for pictures.”

Someone tried to shout over her. She cut them off without raising her voice.

“And no further questions,” she glared. 

He didn’t say a word until they were both back inside the car, the Range Rover felt like a little island of peace in the chaos.

She didn’t turn the music on. Didn’t start the car. Just looked at him.

“Better?”

He nodded stiffly, trying to force his pulse back under control.

“…Thanks,” he muttered eventually.

“Any time. I'm calling Pepper, you need real security. This is getting ridiculous.”

“It's fine, I'm fine.” He insisted. 

“No.” she said forcefully through gritted teeth once they were on the road. She sounded angrier than he'd ever heard her. “No. You don’t have to be bulletproof all the time.”  

He didn't say anything, but he felt the comment land, however off-the-cuff she made it sound. 

“And you actually do need to call Sam back,” she sighed. “That wasn't a lie. Any objections if I get us a little sugar rush?” 

She was in the drive-thru for doughnuts before he could reach for his phone. 

~~~~

She was unusually quiet when she picked him up the following day.

No radio. No singing. No bouncing in the seat. 

Just a distracted hum of energy, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

He climbed into the back as usual and settled in. 

She fumbled slightly with the steering wheel, then sat still for a moment too long before starting the engine.

She didn’t even check the rearview to throw a quip his way. Something was off.

She drove in silence for about ten blocks before he spoke.

“...You good?”

She blinked. Glanced at him in the mirror. “Me? Yeah. Why?”

“You haven’t said a single annoying thing today.”

That made her snort, but there wasn’t much force behind it. “Wow. That worried you?”

He shrugged, looking back down at the folder in his lap. “Not really. Just weird when things are quiet.”

She didn’t answer. They drove another block. Then he cleared his throat.

“I, uhh, got something,” he said awkwardly, reaching into his jacket. “For the… silence.”

He handed her a small, beat-up flash drive.

She frowned. “What’s this?”

“I made you a playlist.”

She blinked, stopped the car at the red light and fully turned to look at him. “You… what?”

“Songs you’ve played. Stuff I caught. Things you like. That dance crap. Some other stuff too.”

“…You made me a mix?”

He shifted, looking suddenly very interested in the pattern of stitching on the car door. “Don’t make it weird.”

She stared at the flash drive like it might spontaneously combust. 

The car behind them honked, making her jump. She eased the car into gear and set back off, then carefully, slotted the drive into the dash and started skipping through the tracks.

The car filled with familiar sounds. Her favourites, blended with a few odd choices that had to be his. 

Jazz. Old-school rock. One or two that made her laugh. The Supremes, show tunes, K-Pop…

“I can’t believe you did this,” she murmured.

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s definitely a thing,” she whispered, half-dazed.

And for a few miles, she forgot to drive like a maniac. Forgot whatever had been bothering her. 

He kept seeing her in the mirror, like she was waiting for him to say something disdainful.

But he didn't. He didn’t look smug. He looked quietly proud. Like it had been worth the effort, just to see her stunned into silence for once.

By the time they reached his next appointment, she was singing along again. 

~~~~

The evening events were the worst. The events where spouses attended and made him look painfully single. 

His driver had delivered him home, shoved a Prada suit bag into his hand and told him she'd wait outside. 

“You could just wait in there,” he waved vaguely toward the front door. 

“Ha! No, god no that's weird. I'll be here.” She shooed him into the house, “go on, hurry up, you have thirty minutes.”

Forty minutes later he was battling with his bow tie.

“Up and then under,” Sam said, his voice muffled by his hands covering his face. “No that bit goes round -”

“Round where?” Bucky turned to where he'd leaned the phone so Sam could see. 

“Man, please go and get in that damn car. Your driver will tie it for you.”

“I need to learn…”

“You don't have time, you gotta get movin’. I'll send you a YouTube video later.”

“YouTube? C'mon, man -”

“Buck, so help me I will kill you if you don't get in that car. If Pepper gets on to me ‘cause you're late, I will throw you under that bus.”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too buddy.”

The faint beep of the handset let him know that Sam had hung up. By the time he made it outside, she was pacing by the car. 

“Jeez, thought you'd gotten lost! What took you so long? Pepper is blowing up my phone,” she wheeled on him, scowling, but stopped immediately on sight. 

“You any good with a bow tie?” 

She stepped closer and took it from him. Her hands fluttered nervously but she looped the tie around his neck and used it to drag him a little closer to her height.

“You ok?” He asked. “You were about ready to kill me but you stopped?”

“Fine, totally fine.” She tied the knot carefully and tucked the band under his collar. She stepped back after tying the knot, brushing her fingertips along the edge of his collar like she couldn’t quite stop herself. 

He caught the way her hands hovered for a second too long, like she’d forgotten what they were supposed to do.

“There,” she said, voice a little quieter than before. “You’ll do.”

He didn’t move. Just watched her. Her eyes flicked to the side like she was desperate to be anywhere else.  

“What?” she asked.

“I told you, you were scowling. Then I walked out, and you just… stopped. Like you forgot to be mad.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer now. “You're being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he asked, stepping just a little closer. 

Her breath hitched, just barely, but he heard it.

“Are you worried?” He asked. “About Pepper being mad?”

“No, of course not.”

“You don't have to be.”

“I'm not.” She looked up at him then, and there was something in her expression he couldn’t place. He squinted at her.

“Then what?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Instead, she turned on her heel and yanked open the car door. 

“Bucky, just… just get in before Pepper has both our heads.”

The silence that filled the car was different this time. Not the usual, comfortable quiet they’d eased into over the last few weeks. 

This was charged. 

He didn’t say anything. He wasn't sure he trusted himself.  

When she finally pulled up to the event, she shifted into park and twisted to look at him.

He leaned forward instinctively.

Her eyes dropped to his lips for a split second.

“You never call me Bucky,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, just above a whisper. “It just… slipped.”

“Yeah?” 

She didn’t reply, she stayed frozen, eyes on his, like something might snap between them if either of them breathed too hard.

And then…

The rear door opened abruptly, and a polite young valet with the worst timing beamed in at him.

“Mr. Barnes, we’re ready for you inside.”

Bucky stared straight ahead, past the driver, jaw clenched. A breath passed before he looked back at her. She hadn't moved. 

“Enjoy the party,” she said, neutralising her expression and making her voice light and even.

He stepped out of the car, bow tie neat, posture perfect. But his hands were still shaking.

He hated these kinds of parties on a good day. There were always too many people pretending not to be watching him. 

But tonight was worse. He couldn’t stop replaying that moment in the car. The way she’d looked at him. The quiet inhale. The feel of her fingers at his collar.  

He was halfway through a conversation with some city councilman when he realised he hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Earth to Barnes.”

He turned to find Pepper raising a perfectly groomed brow, two champagne flutes in hand.

“You’re a million miles away,” she said, handing him one. “Did I miss a memo?”

He cleared his throat and took the drink. “Just... tired.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, clearly not buying it. 

Her eyes flicked toward the entrance. “Your driver peeled out of here like someone was chasing her… know anything about that?”

His grip on the flute tightened so hard he could hear the faintest crack. He downed the contents quickly and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter.

“I think there's a tiny crack in that glass,” he told them before turning back to Pepper. “She did?”

“She did,” Pepper said dryly. “I hope you're not upsetting her.”

He didn’t answer.

PART 2

[lyn31]

Hiii! May i request writing about zayne and mc having a slow intimate morning on their day off / holiday and then spending quality family time with their kids? (You can choose whether it's just Serena or with the twins too)

Thank youu ❤️

Halfway through my first draft, I realized I was turning this into a chaotic morning instead... 😭 Now I remember why I'm holding off writing the twins, at least until they're a bit older... Anyway, so, I ended up writing two story :D The slower-paced day, titled "Rainy Day," is still not finished (the kids are much older in that one), but I did write the first draft before I got too sleepy. I wasn't planning on posting this right now, but since it's already done, I figured I might as well share it before I fall asleep. Hope you don't mind! (this one still hella cute!) Look out for the other one, probably tomorrow! 👀💕

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Chaotic Morning

Summary

A quiet Sunday morning quickly descends into chaos as the twins, the embodiment of mischief, pull the whole family into a water fight, a flour-filled kitchen, and pancakes that barely resemble their intended shapes—yet, amid the mess, there’s a perfect sense of family togetherness.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Family fluff, chaos, energetic toddlers, banter and silly!

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You don’t remember when Callum crawled into the bed. Sometime around four, maybe earlier—just a warm little weight snuggled into your side, his breath steady, his fingers tangled in the fabric of your shirt. Lucas must’ve followed after, because by the time the sky outside shifts into that pale morning blue, you’re already surrounded. One of them is stretched out on Zayne’s back like he’s a mattress. The other is pressed close against your ribs, arm flung across your stomach, soft baby hair tickling your skin.

You’re awake, technically, but you haven’t moved. You don’t want to move. Not yet.

It’s peaceful. Suspiciously so.

Zayne’s still asleep, face buried in his pillow, hair mussed and one arm thrown out toward you. He didn’t even stir when Lucas flopped onto him like a starfish. He must’ve realized—just briefly—that none of the twins had screamed in the middle of the night. That alone is rare enough to count as a minor miracle.

You’re still caught in that floaty in-between place when Serena climbs into bed.

“It’s Sunday,” she whispers like she’s telling a secret. Or casting a spell.

You turn your head and meet her wide, sleepy eyes. Her hair’s a soft mess around her shoulders, book clutched in both hands.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “And what happens on Sundays?”

“We read,” she says seriously, scooting in beside you without waiting for permission.

“Of course we do.”

She cracks open her book, and you try your best to follow the words on the page, but it’s hard with Callum’s toes jammed into your hip and an occasional sleepy grunt from Lucas on Zayne’s back. You lean in, voice low, dramatic as you slip into the first silly character voice you can think of.

Serena covers her mouth to keep from laughing, eyes bright with delight.

Zayne stirs.

You feel the shift in the bed before you see it—his arm reaching again, blindly, like he’s trying to find you. His hand lands right on Serena’s head. He gives her a pat.

She beams.

He cracks one eye open. “...Morning?”

“Barely,” you whisper, still in the silly voice.

He exhales through his nose, amused but too tired to do more than squint toward you. “Why is one of the boys on me?”

“Because you’re lying still,” you murmur. “And Lucas doesn’t care that you’re cold.”

Zayne hums, expression faintly betrayed as Lucas shifts a little, still draped across him. “He’ll learn one day.”

“Not today,” you say with a grin. His eyes close again, and his arm slips fully around Serena this time, careful but instinctive. Lucas stays put like he’s completely immune to cold. “Mmm… Five more minutes.”

“You’ve already had five.”

“Then I’ll take five more.”

You laugh quietly, and Serena grins at you, perfectly content squished between her parents and the chaotic sprawl of her baby brothers. The book rests forgotten for now. All of you ended up snuggling together.

And honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well…

Five minutes turns into fifteen. Maybe more.

Until Lucas finally slides off Zayne’s back with a little thump on the bed, landing on his diapered butt and blinking like he’s just discovered gravity. Callum follows quickly, wiggling out from under the blanket with the determination of a creature on a mission. They’re both upright, toddling dangerously close to the edge of the bed in search of god knows what.

You sit up fast, hand shooting out to catch Callum before he attempts a flying leap. “No, no, you are not swan diving off the bed.”

You can hear Zayne’s soft sigh from behind you. “They were asleep…”

“You underestimated them.”

“I always do.”

Lucas lets out a shriek of victory as he makes it to the floor, pattering toward the hallway on unsteady feet. You glance at Zayne—still sprawled, arm draped over his eyes—and sigh.

“We should—”

“I know.”

It’s instinct at this point. You each grab a twin and head in the same direction. Serena trails after, barefoot and yawning, still clutching her book like she can will the calm back into the morning.

You’re halfway to the changing table when Lucas makes a break for it again, giggling madly and slipping from your grasp like an eel. He bolts into the bathroom—dodging even Serena’s attempt to catch him—his diaper sliding dangerously low.

Zayne pauses at the door, Callum tucked under one arm like a loaf of bread. “This is a trap.”

“I know it is.”

But you both step in anyway.

Chaos. The second Lucas sees water, he tries to climb into the tub fully clothed. Callum kicks his legs in anticipation. Zayne gives you a long-suffering look over his shoulder and starts peeling off Callum’s pajamas.

“I’m declaring this an emergency bath,” you say, pulling off Lucas’s onesie before he manages to destroy it with mystery bathroom floor grime. “If we don’t bathe them now, they’ll just flood the whole house.”

“And here I thought I could make breakfast before this happened.” Zayne mutters, resigned, as he adjusts the water temperature.

“This is why we don’t take five, dear.”

You look at Zayne. He looks at you. You both snort.

Serena hovers by the doorway until you turn and ask, “Wanna help steer the chaos?”

She nods solemnly, putting her book outside the bathroom safely before coming in, perching on the stool by the sink like she’s reporting for duty.

The twins shriek with joy as soon as they’re in the water. They splash like they’ve never seen water before in their lives, throwing it everywhere, slipping under and popping back up like happy little sea monsters. Zayne’s sleeves are soaked within minutes. Your shirt’s not faring any better.

“Don’t drink the bubbles, Callum—no, spit it out. Out.”

Lucas grabs a cup and starts scooping water onto the tile like he’s trying to flood the bathroom on purpose. Serena makes a valiant effort to contain the splashing by directing it to him instead, but even so the floor is still getting soaked.

“I swear they’re more energetic than Willow and Jace were at this age,” you mutter, ducking away from a flying rubber duck.

Zayne raises an eyebrow, flicking water off his arm. “You say that like it’s a competition.”

“It’s not. It’s just that our twins seem to think bath time means water aerobics.”

One twin kicks. The other flails. You both get hit.

Zayne blinks through the splash, deadpan. “Do you think if we close the door and pretend we’re not here, they’ll stop?”

“You’re the one who said that was a bad parenting strategy, remember?”

“Did I? Must’ve been pre-twins.” He absently wrings out his sleeve, as if that proves his point.

You’re both dripping with water. Zayne’s shirt clings to him, his fringe plastered to his forehead. You catch his gaze.

For a moment, it’s just that—dripping sleeves, messy hair, and that look that makes your heart lurch. Like you’re the only thing he sees.

So of course, you flick a handful of water at him.

Zayne blinks, lips twitching, then splashes back—gently, deliberately.

The twins shriek in glee and immediately copy him, water flying in all directions. Serena, despite herself, lets out a yell—”Water battle!”—like she’s been possessed by the twins’ energy, ducking behind her stool like it’s her fortress.

And just like that the bathroom turns into a water war zone yet again.

You laugh, pressing a hand to your damp forehead. Serena’s giggling now too, trying to stop the water battle—which she’s very much participating in—while guiding the boys toward the floating toys instead of the tile tsunami plan. It only sort of works.

Eventually, somehow, they’re scrubbed clean, wrapped in towels, and wriggling like puppies as you herd them out of the bathroom. The floor’s soaked. Your pants are soaked. Zayne’s shirt is clinging to him like he just survived a monsoon-level toddler ambush.

But the air is full of that warm, sleepy-loud energy in all its sticky, soggy, wonderful glory.

Zayne meets your eyes over the heads of two squirming toddlers and a very proud Serena.

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Both of you manage to escape the bathroom after wrangling the twins into dry clothes, leaving behind puddles, scattered bath toys, and at least one very damp towel no one remembers dropping.

You change quickly—fresh shirt, comfortable pants, hair tied back before it finishes drying weird—and meet Zayne in the hallway just as he’s tugging on a clean sweater, the soft kind you like stealing when he’s not paying attention.

Lucas toddles past you, squealing with something in his mouth that shouldn’t be in his mouth.

“I thought he was with you,” you say, already turning after him.

“He was.” Zayne straightens his sleeve with a small tug, unhurried, like chaos can wait.

“Five seconds ago?”

“Yes.”

Callum barrels after his brother with a loud babble, and the sound of something falling echoes from the kitchen.

You sigh, already in motion.

By the time you catch up to them, one’s halfway onto the counter using the step stool, the other’s got his fist in the flour container like he’s mining for treasure.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, scooping Lucas up with one arm and snagging a towel on the way.

Zayne appears behind you a beat later, pausing just long enough to assess the scene before calmly walking past to pick Callum off the counter. “Didn’t we feed them yesterday?”

“They have the memory of goldfish and the appetite of wolves.”

“They get that from you,” he says mildly, brushing white dust off Callum’s onesie.

You don’t dignify that with a response. You’re too busy trying to wipe sticky powder off your own arm when Serena walks in.

Hair brushed. Clean clothes.

She looks spotless.

You blink. “You take a shower right after?”

She nods, straightforward. “I waited.”

Zayne glances at her. “That was fast.”

“I only did one shampoo.”

You stare at her for a second longer, feeling proud and vaguely stunned. “How are you the only one in this house with a plan?”

She grins and heads toward one of the cookbooks on the side counter. “Pancakes today right?”

“…Right. Pancakes.”

You set Lucas down and turn toward the pantry again. Zayne catches a measuring cup before it hits the floor.

“I’ll keep them from eating raw ingredients,” he says.

You snort. “And who’s keeping you from eating sweet raw ingredients?”

“Only if you feed them to me,” he says, without missing a beat.

You shoot him a look, heat creeping up your neck anyway. “Behave. There are children present.”

“Exactly why I didn’t say what I really wanted.”

Zayne glances toward the twins, a quiet smile tugging at his lips as he watches them squabble over a wooden spoon. His gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, eyes soft with amusement. Lips curve—just slightly, like the echo of something unsaid—before he finally steps forward, heading toward the twins without looking back.

You mutter something under your breath, hoping the bowl of batter can hide the heat creeping up your neck—but it’s useless. Your face is already giving you away.

Thankfully, Serena chooses that exact moment to flip open the recipe book, reading in that soft, focused voice she uses when she wants to be taken seriously. You lean over her shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, letting her call out steps while you mix the batter and nod along like she’s your tiny sous chef.

It’s not long before someone sneaks a spoon into the blender.

You don’t know who or how, but the moment you press the button, it shrieks and immediately clangs against something solid.

Zayne’s hand shoots out, unplugging it. You both look down.

The spoon. Inside.

Callum’s eyes are wide and innocent.

You narrow your eyes right back, inhaling slowly. “Okay. Not ideal.”

Serena giggles, and even Zayne huffs out a faint breath of amusement before gently taking the blender apart. “Focus on the pancake. I’ll fix this.”

“Got it,” you say, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

You and Serena end up doing pancake shapes while Zayne corrals the twins into vaguely safe zones. You aim for bunnies, cats, and one particularly ambitious star. None of them look like anything recognizable by the time they hit the plate, but Serena names them anyway.

“This looks like a foxy.”

“Obviously,” you agree, even though it’s very much a blob.

Zayne brushes behind you to grab napkins and kisses your shoulder in passing—quiet and natural, like it’s just part of his movement. You lean into it for a second before swiping batter off the counter with your sleeve.

Then a spatula sails past your head.

“Lucas,” Zayne says, with the kind of mild disapproval that somehow still makes both twins freeze.

“They’re testing you,” you whisper.

“They’re testing gravity.”

You manage to get everyone to the table eventually, pancakes stacked high—some cooked through, some very much not—and the twins babbling loud enough to shake the windows. You and Zayne take turns cutting food into safe bites, catching spills, re-filling cups, wiping faces.

Serena, now seated primly with various pancake stacks in front of her, even with all the chaos she still helps by pushing the syrup toward you without a word and pulling a cup away from Lucas before he can pour it on the floor.

It’s noisy. It’s messy.

And when you glance over the table—flour on faces, syrup on sleeves—you know you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

It’s perfect.

Well… maybe less spatula throwing. Or any throwing, really.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

God, toddler just have too much energy I swear....

[usagii-bun]

𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚ part 2 | fluff

╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is alhaitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— WAH a part 2 ?? masterlist

part 1 | part 2

Unknown Number: Hi. This is Dr. Alhaitham. I received your results. Are you available to come in tomorrow?

Your heart skips a full beat.

Wait. Wait.

You reread the message about eight times, thumb trembling over the screen.

Dr. Alhaitham. Dr. ALHAITHAM.

You never gave him your number. Not directly. The clinic must’ve had it on file from your intake paperwork. Still—why did he text? Shouldn’t it have been the nurse? Or the front desk?

Your brain spins in three different directions while your thumbs hesitate, hovering mid-air. What tone do you even take with a man who has seen your bloodwork and your undereye bags?

You: Hi… yes, I’m free. Is everything okay?

You don’t expect a reply right away, but the bubbles pop up almost instantly—like he was waiting. Watching the clock.

Dr. Alhaitham: I’d rather explain in person. It’s nothing urgent. I just… want to speak to you myself. Tomorrow at 10?

You stare. Blink. Re-read. “I just… want to speak to you myself.”

Butterflies launch a full-scale riot in your stomach. Your cheeks go hot. You’re squealing internally as your thumbs tap out a response that’s way too calm for how your heart is behaving.

You: Okay. I’ll be there. Also… is this your personal number?

A beat.

The kind of beat where you spiral. Where you consider throwing your phone across the room, just to escape the weight of your own message.

Your face is burning. Why did you ask that? Why did he use it?

The silence stretches until it starts to ache. And then—ping.

Dr. Alhaitham: Yes.

A full-body meltdown ensues.

You collapse back into the couch like a Victorian woman being told her corset’s been outlawed. He gave you his number. He texted you himself. He wants to talk to you personally.

Tomorrow cannot come fast enough.

The Next Morning…

You show up to the clinic early. Too early. You pretend you’re just organized, but really you’re anxiously clutching your water bottle like it’s a lifeline. You tried to look effortless—pulled-together, but not obvious. Cute, but not trying too hard. Just… normal. Which is laughable, considering the amount of time you spent choosing earrings.

The nurse checks you in with a kind smile. You sit in the waiting room, leg bouncing, rehearsing responses in your head.

Then he appears.

Alhaitham steps out from behind the frosted glass doors. Still in his lab coat, still maddeningly unreadable. But when his eyes find yours—there’s a flicker of something. Recognition. Warmth. Something quieter.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You could swear—swear—the corner of his mouth twitches, like it’s tempted by a smile.

You follow him in.

The exam room is quiet, neat, humming with soft fluorescent light. You take your seat. He opens your file, but doesn’t look at it. His eyes stay on you.

“I didn’t want to go through the receptionist this time,” he says, voice quiet. “I thought it might make you anxious.”

You blink. The words take a second to land. “Oh. That’s… kind of considerate.”

“Also,” he says, finally glancing down, “your iron levels are low. You’ll need supplements. I’ve written the prescription.”

He slides the slip across the desk like he’s handing you a secret. You take it carefully, like it might crumble.

Silence.

The kind that sits heavy. The kind that means something.

He closes the folder, slow and deliberate. Leans forward just slightly, elbows braced on the desk, fingers laced.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been feeling this way for a while.”

You look away, shoulders curling in slightly. “I didn’t want to be dramatic.”

“You said you were a Victorian woman,” he deadpans.

You smile despite yourself, soft and a little sheepish. “Okay, but that’s just my personality.”

He watches you. Sharp eyes, steady and assessing—but not unkind.

Then, gently: “I don’t think you’re dramatic.”

You suck in a breath, caught off guard.

“I think you’re… overwhelmed. Tired. Maybe not used to being taken seriously.”

Your throat tightens. You bite the inside of your cheek. Something inside you shifts.

“I just treat patients,” he says. “But… I remembered you. More than I expected.”

Your heart slams once, hard. “…Why?” you whisper.

He shrugs, gaze not quite meeting yours. “You made an impression.”

Your grip tightens on the paper in your lap.

And then—his voice drops lower: “If you feel dizzy again… or if anything gets worse—don’t wait. Just message me. Directly.”

You nod, silent.

And as you leave—hand curling around the doorknob, heart thudding in your chest like it’s trying to break free—his hand comes to rest gently on the small of your back.

Warm. Steady. Certain.

You freeze. Just for a breath. His palm lingers there like it belongs, grounding you in the quiet between heartbeats. You swear you feel the heat of it radiating through the fabric of your blouse, straight into your spine.

You try not to melt. Try not to show how much that simple touch undoes you.

Then, just as your breath begins to hitch, he leans in slightly. Not too close. Just enough that his voice slides in low, just above a whisper.

“Go home safely.”

His hand slips away—slowly, deliberately. The loss of contact is almost startling.

You turn, instinctive, eyes finding his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Not blankly. Not politely. No, his gaze is sharp and unreadable, steady and direct. There’s something in it—something knowing—that makes your breath catch and your fingers tighten around the cold metal of the doorknob.

You swallow hard.

You manage to nod. Maybe say “good bye.” You’re not sure. Your brain’s short-circuiting.

You take one step out.

Two.

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway before your knees buckle slightly. Not enough to fall. Just enough to feel the ghost of his hand still lingering on your back.

11:41 p.m.

Your room is dim, bathed in the glow of your phone screen. You’re curled up in bed, overthinking the day in painful HD. You keep replaying every word. Every glance. Every almost-smile.

You haven’t messaged him. Even though he told you to.

You want to. But courage, it turns out, is fictional after 10 p.m.

Then—your phone lights up.

Dr. Alhaitham: Are you awake?

You sit up so fast you almost concuss yourself on the headboard. Your heart stumbles. Hands fumble.

You: yes?

A pause.

Dr. Alhaitham: Sorry if this is strange. I just remembered something you said the other day.

Your pulse is in your ears. You clutch your phone like it might float away.

You: Which thing? (The Victorian woman part?)

A longer pause. Bubbles come and go.

Dr. Alhaitham: No. The part about collapsing into someone’s arms. You joked. But I keep thinking about it. Wondering if someone’s ever really done that for you.

The air leaves your lungs.

The world stills.

This isn’t a joke anymore.

You: No one ever has. Why?

A minute passes.

Then:

Dr. Alhaitham: Because I think you deserve to be caught. Even when you’re not falling.

You sit frozen in your bed, the blanket bunched around your waist, the silence loud in your ears. His words wrap around you like warmth. Like something you didn’t know you needed.

Then, another message:

Dr. Alhaitham: Sorry. That was unprofessional. Good night.

But you can’t stop staring at the one before it.

“Because I think you deserve to be caught.”

The School Auditorium – 10:07 AM

The lights are too bright. The hum of the overhead fluorescents buzzes against the high ceiling, competing with the chorus of second-graders who are very much not using their indoor voices. You’re wrangling your chaos crew down the aisle—two are arguing about who’s taller, one’s asking if astronauts eat soup, and another is trying to lick the back of their own nametag.

You’re functioning on three hours of sleep, a half-drunk coffee that went cold in your cup holder, and the sheer force of whatever maternal instinct allows a person to stop a glitter spill midair.

You don’t notice the man walking onto the stage at first. Not until the noise cuts.

The chatter dies so suddenly it’s eerie—twenty-five small heads pivoting in unison toward the front like a hive mind has seized them.

You look up.

And your brain short-circuits.

There, standing at the center of the stage, is a man. Clipboard in one hand. Other tucked neatly into the pocket of a lab coat. He’s tall—really tall—built like someone who definitely doesn’t trip over his own feet, and carrying himself with the kind of effortless confidence that makes you feel like you’ve shown up underdressed to your own job.

He’s calm. Polished. Crisp lines and clean edges. A quiet authority that makes even the most fidgety of your kids fall still.

Alhaitham.

Dr. Alhaitham.

Your doctor.

Your heart leaps to your throat and lodges there.

He scans the room slowly, methodically. Dispassionate and professional—until his eyes land on you.

And pause.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough. Your breath catches. Your stomach does a little somersault, unprompted.

You are suddenly painfully aware of the state you’re in: oversized cardigan, mystery glitter on your left sleeve, your hair pinned back with a pencil because someone borrowed your last claw clip. There’s a child gripping your leg like it’s the mast of a sinking ship.

He starts to speak—something about germs and handwashing and healthy habits—but you don’t really hear it. The children do. They’re captivated. Spellbound.

You’re just trying to remember how to breathe.

The talk ends after what feels like a hundred years but also three minutes. You start herding your class toward the exit, one hand on a shoulder, another plucking a crayon from someone’s mouth.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

Dr. Alhaitham : You didn’t tell me you were a teacher.

You stop mid-step. The world tilts slightly.

You read it again.

You: You didn’t tell me you do school tours.

The reply comes so fast you know he had the message half-written already.

Dr.Alhaitham : I don’t. I only agreed because the principal is a patient. Didn’t expect to see you. (Or twenty-five second graders clinging to your legs.)

A breath escapes you—half laugh, half disbelief. Your heart’s still racing, but it’s a little lighter now. Warmer.

You: Yeah well… you might have cracked the case. That’s why I was always sick. Kid germs are no joke.

You watch the typing bubble appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You can feel the deliberation behind it. He’s thinking. Rethinking. Overthinking. You know the feeling too well.

Then finally—

Dr. Alhaitham : I get it now. All the coughs. The dizziness. The stress. You were holding together an entire classroom by sheer willpower.

You stare at your screen, throat tightening.

Something about the way he says it. The way he sees it.

Then another ping.

Dr. Alhaitham : You’re… kind of incredible, you know. Even with stickers on your pants.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound that leaves it. A sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

Because you look down—and yep. There they are.

Two sparkly dinosaur stickers on your thigh.

And suddenly, you don’t feel quite so exhausted anymore.

—usagii’s note

I wish alhaitham was real :(

[ainawgsd]

Guess who shampooed the couch today!

[icewindandboringhorror]

Little bright colored outfit with a fun vest ~

(shoes from ebay like 10 years ago. everything else is thrifted)

[freaky-flawless]

My copy of Once Bitten, Twice Dead arrived today, and good lord, idk if I'm ready.

[pastafossa]

🎉🎉🎉 MOM IS OFF THE VENTILATOR AND BREATHING ON HER OWN! 🎉🎉🎉

[pftones3482]

Now that Candace has canonically contacted Hamster in Hamster and Gretel, I like to imagine that she just. Keeps chatting with him. And she has no fucking idea he's a hamster, she just thinks that's his quirky internet name or he's like a nonbinary king or something

Meanwhile Stacy is over in her corner and she probably figured it out IMMEDIATELY because she's constantly on the lookout for weird animal shit now that she's in on Perrys secret. So she's very well aware that Candace is chatting with like. An actual superhero. But that's not her business so she's down to play along.

Perry, meanwhile, is trying to figure out if he needs to track down this Hamster guy and threaten him. Stacy talks him out of it.

[bumpscosity]

i'm at my fucking limit btw

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Have you had the chance to read Magneto's new lore entry? Big Charles reference!!!

Bro my game isnt even done updating yet 😭

[phlondsbian]

i go offline for like 6 hours and as soon as i turn my back dan and phil start promoting ai

[13-nothing]

First off Happy New Year! Hopefully it'll be a good one for all of u!

Secondly, I finally caught up after my self induced Inky Mystery ban for the month of December and I came back and like WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT LAST CHAPTER?!??!

COM'ON I started on Chpt 361 and it was all sweet, but kinda sad for Holly ya know? And I THOUGHT that "oh these are just gonna be some more kinda fluffy-angst chpts" but instead I got a heart wretching cliffhanger that left more questions than answers!?!?!?

Like I leave for a month and of course the last Chpt has shit hitting the fan on record speeds. At first it was just grumbly Pete showing that he really did care deep down for the boys and then the next moment our sweet lovable Goofy is just *poof* gone. He didn't even get more than ONE attack and he got inked!?!?

And then there was the lore drop with the inky ocean of eyes. Like damn, the dark puddles HAVE awakened and they're not going back to bed til there are no survivors left to walk the earth.

AND now we've got to wait another month until we know more. Curse me for binge reading this in one hour instead of spreading it out like I was planning on doing. ARRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHH!!

.....

On a sweeter note, I loved Alice & Holly's interaction about Alice's crush and the talk about her parents meeting Bendy, and then Holly being kinda vague about the Cuphead incident, while Alice is ready to crush the man for her. Tho Megatron has my wringing my hands a little, like I wonder where that's gonna go and poor Micheal is probably either dead or is gonna have SO much mental/physical trauma if they ever get him back.

I also really liked the Holly and Canola interaction. It gave more insight into her previous home life and her relationship w her parents. I have to say at first glance I didn't really care for Holly when she was first introduced, but she's definitely become one of my favorites especially after Labyrinth.

But ya, now I'm gonna drown myself in the babtqftim / BATIM / IM content I've neglected for a month and hope beyond hopes it can hold me over til February. If not I MIGHT actually finalize a couple of one-shots I've played around with. (Knowing me probably not, but it's the thought that counts, right?) (Or is that just a receiving presents thing?)

Anyway, thanks for reading my ramble and I say farewell to thee my fellow existences!