#mostly because I got kind of afraid of jumping...

[em1i2a3]

Bob and falling asleep on his chest while he reads to you??

Late For The Sky

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob have a nightly routine where he reads to you the latest book he’s decided to buy.

Warnings: No Warnings, just pure fluff

Author's Note: I really liked this request, and after a whole weekend of writing smut, I thought a nice little fluff piece would be great to start off the week. I’ve got a lot of pieces on my platter this week, and I’m really looking forward to putting them out for y’all ❤️

Word Count: 4,040

It started innocently enough–just Bob leaning against the threshold of your workshop at the end of a mission debrief, with a well-worn paperback tucked under one arm and a sheepish sort of smile playing on his mouth like he was teetering on being excited but nervous all at the same time.

You were hunched over your workbench, goggles pushed up into your hair, sparks spitting gently from a soldering iron in your gloved hand. The air smelled like burnt copper and machine oil, and your concentration was laser-focused–until you sensed that he was hovering.

You didn’t look up right away. There was no need to. You knew he would start the conversation in his own time.

”I, uh…” Bob cleared his throat, fingers drumming lightly on the book’s cracked spine, “I finished t-that one about the guy with the g-genetic disorder where he’s able to t-time travel but it’s at unpredictable times.” You paused what you were doing, and glanced over your shoulder, pulling your goggles off to look at him–and to also give the skin around your eyes a rest.

“Already?” You asked, with your eyebrows raised. You were impressed, because you had taken a stab at reading that book but it took you weeks to finish it–that was more due to you getting busy with repairs, not because you didn’t like that book itself. Bob nodded at you, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly, more confident now that he actually had your attention.

”Y-Yeah, I couldn’t put it down. I-I didn’t really like how it jumped around a lot at first b-because i-it was a bit hard to keep up with things, b-but once it really got into the crazy stuff and a-all the elements started coming together I r-really needed to see how it e-ended.” That was Bob when he talked about books. He never just read them, he sunk himself into it and got lost in it. He spoke with his whole body when he really got into the nitty gritty details about the story itself–animated hands, wide eyes, and that faint breathless awe that made you want to reread books or add them to your mile long list that you had barely touched because you barely had time.

Bob hadn’t always been this way though.

He used to pace the compound, and wear down the floors until it creaked beneath his feet. When he was still under mandatory observation. When he felt like he was in a strange version of purgatory where everyone treated him well but he felt imprisoned in the walls that were supposed to keep him safe.

You had been unofficially tasked with keeping an eye on him during those first few weeks–mostly because you were the only one not actively going on missions, and you were behind on fixing some tech for the compound anyways.

At first, Bob would just linger in the background–standing in the doorway with his hands tucked up into the sleeves of his hoodie, watching the blue sparks of your arc welder with the quiet intensity of someone afraid to ask if they could stay or if they could help. But you learned pretty quickly that Bob didn’t do well with silence. Not for long.

So one rainy Tuesday, when you were sick of watching him pace and sigh and pretend like he wasn’t bored out of his skull, you told him to get ready and you dragged him into the city–to your favorite secondhand bookstore.

It was tucked between a locksmith and an old bakery, it was the kind of place that smelled like cracked leather and warm dust, where the aisles were narrow and the ceiling was low, and where books were stacked in precarious towering columns that made the air feel scarce. You had told him to look around while you spoke to the owner.

That day you saw it–you saw something in him soften. It was like his muscles were unclenching somewhere deep in his chest. He walked through every aisle, pausing to brush his fingers over cracked spines like they were ancient artifacts. You’d glance behind you once in a while to check to see if he was okay, and when you saw his face buried in the first few pages of a book, you knew the choice to bring him there was a good one.

He left that day with three books, and then he asked you the next day to take him back there to get more.

Ever since that day, it had become his thing–tucking paperbacks into the crook of his arm, disappearing into them for a few hours, and then, without fail, finding you when he finished to divulge every last thought he had about them.

It didn’t matter if your hands were elbow-deep in fried wiring or if you were halfway through fixing tactical gear–if he finished a book, he needed to talk to you about it, and only you…Because you truly listened to him.

You didn’t nod along blankly or tell him to save it for later. You engaged with him, you asked questions and remembered characters’ names. You pressed him on parts that made him anxious or thrilled or tear up a little, even if he pretended like it didn’t happen. You didn’t tease him when he stumbled or stuttered over his words from excitement. You leaned in and gave him the attention he wanted, because in your own odd way, you needed those moments too.

You never said that out loud, but Bob could tell. He could see it in the way your shoulders dropped an inch when he entered the room, or the way your lips twitched when he fumbled over a complicated plot. He could see it in how you never asked him to leave.

Then one night you knocked on his bedroom door.

You were worn out. Bone-tired, yet you couldn’t sleep because of how wound up you had been that week. Your voice had gone hoarse from an afternoon arguing with Val over calibration specs, and you’d barely made it through dinner. Your plate had gone mostly untouched, more because you kept taking calls and arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line. Your eyes had looked sunken beneath the weight of the lack of sleep.

So to say he wasn’t expecting a knock on his door–let alone a knock from you of all people would be an understatement.

It was past midnight, and the compound was quiet–save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and the soft creak of the page he just turned. His lamp was still on, casting a golden spill of light across his comforter and the open paperback in his hands, spine worn and corners curling from hours of reading. His tea had gone cold but he hadn’t noticed or cared.

The knock was gentle. Barely there.

He blinked himself out of his trance, frowning faintly, before reaching up to rub at his dry eyes. He let out a small sigh and set the book beside him like a loyal dog, half-forgotten for the moment, getting up from the pile of linens and duvets that surrounded him.

When he opened the door, it was like the hallway itself had gone still.

You stood there, barefoot on the wooden tile, wearing a pair of soft sleep-shorts and a baggy old Thunderbolts t-shirt from that one disastrous PR event last year–the one where everyone was forced into color-coded teams and awkward staged interviews. The shirt hung off your frame like you were a ghost, the cotton threadbare in places from being worn and washed too many times. Your hair was damp, like you’d given up halfway through drying it, and there were faint creases along your cheek from a pillow you hadn’t quite managed to fall asleep on. Bob’s brows lifted, as concern bled into his expression before he could stop it.

”Hey…A-Are you…?” He glanced past you instinctively, then at the digital clock on his nightstand that glowed dimly behind him, “Is everything okay? I-It’s pretty late, I didn’t think–“

”I couldn’t sleep,” You interrupted quietly, rubbing at your forearm. Your voice was still scratchy but it wasn’t as bad as it was during dinner time, “I thought I heard you…” You added.

Bob squinted at you, more confused than anything else, “Heard me?”

“Yeah,” You nodded faintly, a ghost of a smile touching your mouth, “Heard you laugh, or–or something that sounded like it at least.” He felt the tips of his ears go warm at your comment, remembering that about half an hour before you came he had almost thrown the book across the room in excitement because of how good the plot was getting.

”Oh…Uh…Yeah s-sorry about that. There was–t-there was a plot twist.” Your smile grew a little at that.

”No need to apologize,” You replied, “I’ve had those moments before. When something hits you so hard you have to squeal…Or throw the book out the window.” This earned a small laugh from Bob, as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed in the easy, tired sort of way that said you weren’t really in a rush to end the conversation any time soon. Your eyes flicked past him, just for a moment–curious, unassuming–but Bob caught it.

And then, you asked the burning question of the night.

”Can I come in?” Bob didn’t say anything at first, he just stared at you with a look of surprise plastered on his face, because he wasn’t expecting you to ask that, nor want that in general. After what was probably far too long, he stepped aside.

”Y-Yeah, of course.” You stepped past him slowly, and all your senses immediately started working overtime. The first thing that hit you though, was the smell.

It was Warm. Complex. Spiced, almost. Like cracked pepper and worn paper and the faded traces of his cologne lingering in the fibers of the room. It wasn’t overwhelming–wasn’t artificial or sharp–it was lived-in. Masculine in a gentle, quietly steady way. Like the soft base notes of cedarwood and clove that had sunk into the blankets and pillows mixing with the faintest wisp of black tea and honey.

It smelled like him, and it startled you–because you knew him. You knew his hands and his laugh and the way he stumbled through his excitement when he got overwhelmed. But stepping into his room felt like opening the cover of a book you thought you already read–only to find unfamiliar pages.

You had not seen the inside of his bedroom before. You had caught glimpses of it for sure. A cracked door when he was carrying his laundry. A half-glance from down the hall when he’d leaned into the doorframe to talk to you. But this–this was his inner sanctum and it was all of him.

There were books everywhere. Piled on the floor in loosely sorted stacks, balanced on windowsills, stuffed into a long shelf that sagged slightly under the weight. They ranged from battered sci-fi paperbacks with alien landscapes on the covers to dense philosophical texts and dog-eared literary fiction. A few comics peeked out from beneath the bedside table, alongside notebooks with half-tucked pens and sticky tabs poking from the edges like colored confetti. They looked damaged and battered, but it was from extensive use rather than carelessness.

The bed was massive. Not in a luxurious sense, but in a way that suggested someone needed space–maybe to move, maybe to breathe. The comforter was thick, gray-blue, rumpled from how he must’ve been lounging on it. A fleece throw was tangled near the bottom corner, and a pile of pillows–none matching–leaned against the headboard like they’d been shoved there without much thought. On the nightstand beside the bed there was a mug of tea on a heating coaster that was turned off–probably from being used for too long.

You turned back to him with a softer look than before, taking all of the little details in.

”This is pretty cozy,” You offered. Bob rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks going a deeper red now, suddenly sheepish and nervous that you were standing in the middle of his room at this time of night.

“Sorry i-it’s a little m-messy, I wasn’t really expecting–”

”No, no, it’s okay I meant that in a nice way…I wasn’t judging your room or anything.” Bob blinked at you, lips parting slightly like his brain short-circuited for just a moment. You could practically see the mental reboot happening behind his eyes.

“I actually came to ask…” You trailed off as you turned back toward the bed, brushing your fingers along the edge of the blanket, still warm from where he’d been lying. “If you had another chapter left in you.” Bob’s head tilted just slightly, his eyes widening, “Kind of thought you could read to me…Or talk me to sleep. Y’know.” The realization hit him like a gust of warm air straight to the chest, and his face felt like it was going to burst from how hot his cheeks were starting to get.

”Y-You want me to…Read t-to you?” He echoed, as if he was trying the words out on his tongue just to make sure they weren’t just a hallucination. You gave him a small nod, looking down at your feet.

“Only if you want to of course,” You said quickly, your voice gentle, in a casual way that always came out when you were asking for something that you pretended not to care about, “I just figured…You are always into the book and everything…And your voice is…Soothing. I thought maybe hearing you read would help turn my brain off.” Bob swallowed hard at the way you complimented his voice, how you found it soothing. He didn’t think that way, but it sure made his heart seize when you said it.

He had to consciously remind himself to breathe as you stood there, soft and sleepless in the dim light of his room, asking him to read to you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it didn’t unravel something in him to have you standing here, in his space, barefoot and tired and trusting him with the last moments of your day. He cleared his throat too quickly and nodded.

”S-Sure. Yeah, o-of course. I mean–I’ve never really done that b-before, but I could…I-If that’s what you want.” Your eyes met his, and they crinkled a little at the corners.

”First time for everything, right?” Bob gave a nervous laugh and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, motioning to the bed awkwardly.

”D-Do you…Do you wanna sit? Or–or I could make tea or something if that would help, I can warm mine up too–“ You shook your head gently.

”No…This is perfect,” You said, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed with a quiet, grateful sigh “No tea…I think I just want…” You paused, fingers brushing the comforter again before you looked up at him with a soft, bleary gaze, “The chapter.” He smiled at that–small, crooked, and bashful.

”O-Okay…” You pulled your legs up under you and moved towards the headboard, settling against the fort of pillows he had made against the hardwood, while Bob grabbed the paperback and climbed in beside you. There was a bit of shuffling at first–he wasn’t sure how close was too close, or where to angle his body, or how to sit without making it weird–but eventually you both found the perfect positioning. He left a bit of space between you and him, about an arm’s length, and just like you he rested himself against the headboard, only he cross-crossed his legs.

Bob cleared his throat–too loud in the silence of the room–and adjusted the book in his hands, fingers curling slightly around the spine like he needed something to hold onto. His thumb brushed the crease between chapters as he flicked his gaze over to you again, nestled against the headboard like you belonged there, half-draped in the worn comforter.

“Okay…Chapter twelve,” He murmured, and began.

His voice was soft at first–shy, uncertain, as if afraid the words might shatter the quiet between you. But a few lines in, he found his rhythm. He always did. The cadence of his voice fell into step with the prose, rising and dipping in the right places, drawing the imagery to life as his thumb ghosted along the edges of the page. When he would take in a breath all he would smell was worn paper and your bay leaf and blueberry shampoo, and that felt like it was all he needed to settle himself.

Then–around three pages in–he heard it.

A soft exhale.

A breathy, wheezing little sound that made his voice falter for just a second.

Bob glanced over at you instantly, almost to confirm the inevitable.

Your head had tilted down toward your chest, mouth slack in the most exhausted kind of sleep. Your lashes rested on your cheeks, breath coming slow and just a little uneven, like your whole body had simply…Powered down. The sentence he had been reading drifted off into silence.

”Oh,” He whispered, more to himself than to you, “…Wow…You’re o-out.” He stared at you for a long second, book still in hand, watching the way your fingers were curled into the fabric of the blanket near your knee. You didn’t stir–not even when he gently reached over to the end of the bed and grabbed the lonesome blanket from the corner to settle it over your bare legs. You were deeply, and blissfully asleep.

And now he didn’t know what to do.

He glanced at the book in his hands, back at you, then sighed softly and reached for the top corner of the page. He dog-eared it carefully–marking exactly where he noticed you were asleep. Just in case you wanted to pick it up again tomorrow.

If you came back.

He closed the book, resting it on the nightstand, and stood slowly–carefully–like he was trying not to make any sound at all. You didn’t move. Your breath stayed soft and steady, and there was something about that that made Bob’s chest tighten.

He didn’t want to wake you.

So, instead, he grabbed an extra blanket from his closet and quietly padded out of the room, heading for the couch in the living room. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed, and the cushions were flat–but he didn’t mind. He wanted to make sure you got some rest, and that mattered more to him than his comfort.

Much to Bob’s surprise you came back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

Every time, the both of you got a little closer–a little softer. You started bringing a pillow from your own room, just for routine. You’d press your cheek against his shoulder sometimes as he read, and he’d try not forget what words were. Sometimes you didn’t even wait for him to start–you’d curl up under his covers like it was normal, and let your breathing even out, but he read anyway. For himself. For you. For the comfort of it. He never stayed after you fell asleep, he took refuge on the couch every time, and he’d be careful and quiet about his escape to make sure you didn’t wake up.

It became your shared ritual.

And then one night, everything shifted into place.

You came in quietly, curling up beside him, adjusting your pillow near his. Bob had his book open on his chest, waiting for you to get yourself situated, smiling at you like it was muscle memory. And without saying a word, you stretched out beside him–much closer this time–and gently rested your head on his chest, right over his heart. It was almost like you were silently communicating to him you wanted him to stay this time around, so you made it harder for him to make his usual escape.

Bob froze immediately at the contact, and at the warmth of you settling against his chest, the crown of your head brushing just beneath his collarbone. One of your arms snuck around his waist like it was second nature, and one leg curled over his like it always belonged there.

When you pressed your ear to his chest, his heartbeat was soft, steady and loud–embarrassingly eager to be heard by you. He looked down at you slowly, book still resting on his chest, his free hand clutching the edge of the page he hadn’t yet turned. You didn’t look at him–you were too focused, nestled in against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

”Wh-What are you doing?” You smiled into his shirt, just faintly.

”Want to read along with you,” You said, your voice soft and sleepy. He knew that must’ve been a lie, but he didn’t protest.

”O-Oh…Okay.” He murmured, shifting a bit.

Then, without lifting your head, you mumbled, “You can put your arm around me, y’know?” Bob could feel his breath stilling in his chest, and you heard the way it halted in his throat. You couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction, almost like he had to process your suggestion.

Then he very gently, very slowly slid his arm around your shoulders. His fingers brushed the curve of your upper arm, curling lightly around you until he held you snug against his side, cradled with just enough pressure to let you know he wouldn’t let go.

You exhaled through your nose–peaceful, like the tension had melted from your spine the moment he touched you.

Bob’s heart was racing.

But his hand stayed steady.

You shifted just slightly to get comfortable, your forehead now pressed to the center of his chest, your ear perfectly aligned with the rhythm of his heart.

And God, the way you heard it–felt it. That low, thudding warmth beneath his ribs. Steady, slow, like a drumbeat underwater. A living lullaby. You could hear every flutter, every quiet catch of breath when he turned the page. It was stronger than the ventilation hum, stronger than the turn of the fan, stronger than the slow rasp of the blanket as you moved against him.

It was him.

The cadence of someone who had spent years trying to hold himself still–and was now unraveling just enough to let you rest against the places that hurt.

Bob picked up the book again, adjusting it slightly in his hand, but he didn’t start reading right away.

He was listening too.

To your breathing.

To the way your fingers gently fisted the fabric of his shirt like you wanted to keep him close.

To the stillness.

Then he began to read–low and careful. He didn’t project. Didn’t fill the room the way he did when you were sitting up and alert. He just read for you. For the closeness. For the moment.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t shift.

You just listened.

And slowly, your hand went slack against his side. Your body softened. Your lashes lowered, then fluttered still.

You fell asleep on him, breath warm against his chest, face half-pressed into the fabric of his shirt like it was a pillow. You looked peaceful. Safe.

Bob didn’t stop reading right away.

He finished the page.

Then the next.

Eventually, he dog-eared the corner, turned the lamp off, and sank back into the pillows behind him, adjusting just slightly so you were fully wrapped in his arms.

He stayed.

For the first time, he stayed.

And when sleep took him, his last thought was simple, small, and true:

Please come back tomorrow.

[avengxrz]

the thunderbabies ; bucky barnes x reader

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 20.4k (sorry)

summary: you and bucky barnes were enemies. always arguing, always getting paired up for missions that ended with yelling and maybe a few broken ribs. but when the rest of the thunderbolts get turned into toddlers by accident, you and bucky are the only ones left to take care of them. suddenly, you're stuck playing mom and dad to five chaotic babies with too much energy and too many opinions. between diaper changes, late-night cuddles, and a few soft moments you didn’t expect, something between you and bucky starts to shift. but when the babies go back to normal, will they remember what happened... and will he?

warnings: slow burn, enemies to reluctant co-parents to something more, emotional whiplash, soft bucky barnes, soft reader but in denial, found family vibes, accidental parenting, hurt/comfort, some angst, a lot of fluff, crying (mostly the reader), bucky calls the toddlers “his kids” once and means it, thunderbolts chaos, baby bob being the favorite, baby walker being loud, baby yelena being feral, baby ava being shy, baby alexei being dramatic, tiny duck plushie slander, and one single dance on the porch that might ruin you.

note: this was supposed to be a joke. it is not a joke anymore. it got feelings. i blame baby bob. thank you to my brain for deciding bucky barnes as a dad is both funny and heartbreaking. this story includes a lot of cuddles, chaos, and emotional damage. thank you for reading and if you cry, good. i did too.

masterlist

The elevator dinged just once before the doors slammed open like they were afraid of the man inside. Bucky Barnes stormed into the Tower lounge with all the grace of a loaded weapon. His boots were thunder, his jaw was a locked trigger, and his eyes were practically glowing with rage. The kind that was cold, quiet, lethal—but held together by the sheer force of “if I talk right now, I will commit a felony.”

The rest of the Thunderbolts froze mid-conversation. Ava paused in her weird halfway-phase through the kitchen counter. Yelena blinked, a Cheeto half-raised to her mouth. John Walker raised an eyebrow like he was about to make it about him. Again.

Only Bob—the sweet, sunshine-soul Bob—visibly recoiled, clutching his comic book like a holy relic and mouthing a silent “oh no.”

Bucky's metal hand slammed onto the kitchen counter hard enough to make everyone jump. “I can’t stand that bitch.”

The room went dead silent.

Except for Alexei, who straightened on the couch like a Soviet mother had just entered the room and slapped him.

“HEY!” he barked. “We do not talk to women like that!”

Bucky didn’t even look at him. He was pacing now, jacket half-off, murder radiating off him like steam. “She acts like she knows everything. She doesn’t follow orders, she pulls blades out of thin air, and then she’s got the nerve to put one to my throat—”

“She did what now?” Yelena asked, suddenly way more interested.

But Bob was frozen. Like actually frozen. Pale, wide-eyed, whispering something that sounded like a prayer—

Because you had just appeared beside him. Not walked in. Not entered through a door.

Teleported. Green shimmer. Quiet spark. Instant chaos. You were sitting way too calmly on the edge of the couch, next to Bob like you'd been there all day. One hand resting lazily on the back cushion, the other pinching a chip from his bowl like you hadn’t just appeared from a different plane of existence.

“Aw, Bucky,” you said sweetly, voice smooth as honey and twice as toxic. “Miss me already?”

Bob made a noise like a dying animal and scooted three inches away without blinking. Bucky stopped pacing. Turned. Saw you. And you smiled. Smug. Glowing. Infuriating.

His nostrils flared. “You—”

“Me,” you said, cocking your head. “The ‘bitch’ in question. Please, go on. I love fan mail.”

“Do you try to be insufferable,” he growled, “or is that just a natural talent?”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Why, Barnes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re obsessed with me.”

He pointed at you. “You put a knife to my throat!”

“You put your hand on mine,” you said, still grinning. “I thought we were playing.”

Alexei stood up now, arms crossed, beard twitching. “I do not approve of violence unless it is mutual, respectful, or in sanctioned combat—preferably against Nazis.”

Yelena popped a chip in her mouth. “Or bad exes.”

“Or him,” Ava added, jerking her thumb at Walker.

“Excuse me?” Walker said, offended. “I was literally just standing here.”

“I’m just saying,” Ava muttered, “you look punchable.”

Meanwhile, Bob—still terrified—whispered, “Do we need to… call someone? Like HR?”

You were still staring at Bucky, your smirk razor sharp. “I didn’t even go for the jugular,” you added, chip between your fingers. “Should I have?”

Bucky’s jaw was locked so tight it looked like he was going to break his own teeth. He stepped toward you—dangerously close—and leaned down, voice low enough to chill bone.

“You really want to see what happens when I stop holding back?”

You tilted your head, lips parting in the softest smile.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

BOB ACTUALLY FAINTED.Bob slumped sideways, half sliding off the couch like a fainting goat in a tactical vest. His head lolled against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as he murmured something unintelligible that might’ve been a prayer. Or a death rattle.

“BOB?!” you yelped, already scrambling to catch him before he hit the floor.

Your whole vibe shifted in an instant—from feral gremlin to panicked older sibling with a protective streak the size of Asgard.

“Oh, my god—Bob?! Hey, hey, don’t you dare pass out on me, sunshine.” You cradled his head like he was made of glass, gently tapping his cheek. “Wake up. Come on. You’re okay. You’re okay, I’m here. Shhh.”

Yelena, from across the room: “He’s rebooting.”

Walker leaned in, squinting. “Should we get like—uh, water? Salt? Exorcist?”

“I swear to god,” you snapped, eyes blazing as you whipped your head toward Bucky, “if he doesn’t wake up in ten seconds I’m shoving your vibranium arm up your emotionally constipated ass.”

Bucky blinked. “My fault?! He passed out because you—you—teleported in like a damn banshee and started running your mouth!”

“Oh no, no no no,” you said, finger in his face, still cradling Bob like a sleepy kitten. “Don’t you DARE try to pin this on me. You’re the one who came in here radiating murder! You slammed a table. You screamed. You scared my baby.”

“Baby?!”

“Yes, Barnes. MY baby. Not yours. Not ours. Mine.”

Alexei, from the background, solemnly nodded. “She has claimed him. It is law now.”

“You yelled,” you continued, full-on mom rage now. “You yelled and Bob immediately shut down like a Windows 98 laptop in a thunderstorm. That’s not dramatic. That’s trauma.”

“I didn’t even touch him!”

“Yeah, well, your aura did!”

Bob stirred weakly, blinking up at you with the slow confusion of someone waking up after anesthesia.

“Wh-what… happened…?” he mumbled.

“Oh, sweetie,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You saw raw unfiltered heterosexual conflict. It was too much.”

Walker blinked. “Why’s she treating him like a Victorian woman recovering from a fever?”

“Because Bob,” you hissed, “has never raised his voice. Or his fist. Or hurt anyone. Unlike you, Buck-o, who storms into every room like it owes you money.”

Bucky stared at you. Fuming. Flushed. Entire body tense in a way that made the room feel ten degrees hotter.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I have walked in calmly after you tried to slit my throat earlier?”

“It was a conjured blade! It barely even had weight!”

“IT GLOWED!”

“So do I when I’m mad! Are you scared of me too?!”

“Yes!” Bob croaked weakly from your lap.

Ava covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Yelena was openly filming now. Walker had pulled up popcorn from somewhere like this was Thursday night drama on live TV.

You stood up slowly, gently setting Bob back on the couch like royalty.

Then you squared up to Bucky again. Face to face. Eye to eye. Breathing hard.

“You owe him an apology.”

“I owe you a—”

“No, no. Don’t even. Apologize. To. Bob.”

Bucky looked like someone had just asked him to punch a puppy. His mouth opened. Closed. Reopened. He stared at Bob, who stared back like a kicked bunny.

“…Sorry?” Bucky grunted.

Bob gave a thumbs up. Then passed out again.

And that was it. That was your breaking point.

You inhaled sharply, stood tall, turned to Bucky—and smiled. Oh, not a nice smile. The kind of smile that came with homicidal intent, the kind you gave people right before throwing hands, flipping tables, or setting their house on fire with your mind.

Bucky looked at you like he could already hear the incoming war drum.

“Don’t,” he warned.

You didn’t even respond.

You punched him.

Hard.

Clean. Right hook. Square to the jaw.

It made a solid crack sound. That perfectly satisfying movie-punch sound. His head actually snapped to the side.

The room went feral.

“OH MY GOD—” Bob murmured mid-faint.

“YOOOOO,” yelled Yelena, who dropped her phone but was already scrambling to hit record again.

“ZAS!” Alexei shouted, absolutely delighted.

“YESSS,” Ava whispered like it was the climax of a soap opera.

Walker gasped like a southern belle at a brunch fight. “Did she just—”

“Yes, she did,” Ava muttered. “Iconic.”

Bucky slowly turned his head back toward you, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was turned on or concussed.

And you?

You just shrugged.

“That’s for scaring Bob.”

He opened his mouth like he was gonna say something snarky—but too late.

Your hand was already glowing green. A shimmer of chaos energy wrapped around your fingers, licking at the edges of your suit as you crouched down, wrapped an arm under Bob’s knees, and hoisted him bridal-style like he weighed nothing.

“You don't deserve to breathe the same air as my baby,” you muttered.

And with that—

POOF.

Gone. Just like that.

Left behind was a puff of green light and a bunch of emotionally unstable adults who looked like they’d just witnessed the season finale of the messiest relationship in existence.

“…I’ll kill her,” Bucky said under his breath, still touching his jaw.

Yelena choked on her popcorn. “You’re gonna what now?”

Alexei pointed sternly. “You deserved that punch. Also—apologize better next time.”

“She glows when she’s mad,” Bucky muttered again, still dazed. “It’s… not fair.”

Ava glanced at Yelena. “Wanna lock them in a supply closet later?”

“God, yes.”

“HELP!” you shrieked, storming through the automatic doors of the compound’s medical wing like the gates of hell had flung open behind you. “HELP, PLEASE, MY BABY FAINTED, I THINK HE’S DYING!”

Bob Reynolds—six foot two, elite Thunderbolt operative, and literal human marshmallow—was slumped like a tragic sack of potatoes across your shoulders, one arm dangling limply down your back, the other flopping against your hip every time you jogged a step. His glasses were askew. His hair was in disarray. And you looked like a mother raccoon dragging her emotionally fragile child to the vet.

A nurse dropped her tablet. A doctor nearly tripped over a gurney. Chaos bloomed.

“Ma’am—uh—what happened?!” one of them gasped, rushing toward you.

“He fainted!” you cried. “Barnes scared the hell out of him and he fainted! Like actually lost consciousness! Like swoon style! And now he won’t wake up!”

“Is he injured—was there trauma—?”

“YES,” you said, wide-eyed. “EMOTIONAL trauma! He saw his teammates fighting and his nervous system just said no thanks and now he’s DEAD.”

“He’s… he’s breathing,” a medic said gently, placing two fingers at Bob’s neck while you crouched to let his weight slide off your back. You immediately cradled his head like he was a newborn angel who’d been smacked by sin.

“HE’S FRAGILE,” you snapped. “Don’t touch him like that, you’ll bruise his soul.”

Bob groaned softly, blinking once.

You gasped like he’d just come back from the brink.

“Bob! Oh thank god—hi! Can you hear me? Blink twice if you recognize me. Blink once if you want me to punch Bucky again.”

“...what happened?” he murmured.

“You passed out from stress, sweetheart,” you cooed, brushing his bangs back with shaking hands. “Which is totally valid. Honestly, same. But I carried you here because you are precious cargo, and now you are banned from ever hearing emotionally charged arguments again.”

A nurse stifled a laugh. One of the doctors whispered to another, “Is she okay?”

You turned to them, eyes burning.

“I am NOT okay,” you hissed. “That was Barnes’s fault. I told him not to yell. I told him Bob’s nervous system is like a fainting goat on a rollercoaster. And what did he do? Walked in like a drama queen with a vendetta and a jawline and now my cinnamon roll of a teammate is in a goddamn coma!”

“He’s awake now—”

“That’s not the point!”

Bob gave a small thumbs up, still horizontal on the cot, eyes half-closed. “She’s not wrong…”

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his like he was your baby bird.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” you whispered dramatically. “You scared me half to death. You are my emotional support introvert and I can’t lose you. You’re the only normal one on this team.”

He blinked, dazed. “…Ava’s normal.”

“She’s phasing through walls on purpose to avoid Walker’s playlist, Bob. That’s not stable.”

Another nurse walked in. “Hey, someone said there was a—”

“He’s fine now,” the first doctor sighed. “She just needed to panic dramatically for a few minutes.”

“I’m still panicking,” you muttered, grabbing a blanket to tuck around Bob like he was freezing to death. “Bucky traumatized him. Again.”

Bob whispered, “...did you punch him?”

“Oh, honey.” You kissed his forehead like a war widow. “Of course I did.”

You don’t mean to look like someone’s mom.

Okay, that’s a lie. You absolutely mean to.

The tactical harness is half-buckled over your hoodie as you chase Bob around the room with a protein bar in one hand and a sealed serum injector in the other. He’s dodging you with the agility of someone who’s fully trained in combat scenarios but has the emotional age of a kindergartener when it comes to shots and breakfast.

“Bob,” you warn, voice tight but full of affection. “If you don’t hold still, I swear to god I will sedate you and carry your ass onto the Quinjet in a papoose.”

“I hate needles,” he groans, ducking behind the couch.

“You’ve been SHOT before!”

“I was unconscious for that!”

You huff. Dramatically. The way a tired mother might when she’s already had three cups of coffee and not a single one did the job. You mutter a spell under your breath—just a tiny one—and the serum injector floats, slamming itself gently into his upper arm.

Bob yelps. “Hey!”

You pop the protein bar into his mouth before he can whine more. “That’s for stamina. And to shut you up.”

He chews grumpily, cheeks puffed like a cartoon chipmunk. You run your fingers through his hair, smoothing down the chaos. He lets you, grumbling something unintelligible through the granola. You pretend not to hear it.

Across the room, Bucky watches with a scowl sharp enough to cut titanium.

“You gonna do that for everyone on this mission?” he asks, arms crossed.

“Nope,” you say brightly, fixing the collar on Bob’s jacket. “Just my favorite.”

Bucky scoffs under his breath, but you see it—the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something beneath the surface. He hasn’t spoken to you since the fight. Since the dagger. Since the words you regret and the ones you don’t. And frankly, you’re not ready to rip that scab off just yet.

This morning isn’t about him.

This morning is about Bob, and Yelena, and Ava, and the rest of the team being sent off on a mission you’re not cleared for. Something dimensional. Temporal. Dangerous, probably. But Val insisted. Said they were the only ones who could do it.

You? You’re “still on cooldown,” apparently.

Read: emotionally unstable.

You kiss two fingers and tap them to Bob’s forehead. “No touching weird glowing objects. No speaking to old women with no eyes. No dramatic sacrifices unless you’re being watched by at least two cameras so I can go viral.”

He gives a crooked smile. “You’ll miss me?”

“I’ll cry exactly once if you die. Twice if you forget to bring back snacks.”

You help him strap on the last piece of gear, fingers lingering at the shoulder just a little too long. Like if you hold him together tightly enough, he won’t come back broken.

And then—he’s gone. Off to the jet. Yelena waves. Ava nods. Walker and Red Guardian are already arguing about socks or strategy or both.

The room empties.

You’re left standing in the middle of it, hands on your hips, magic curling at your fingertips like it knows something you don’t.

Beside you, Bucky speaks, low and gruff. “You really think they’ll be okay?”

You don’t look at him. You just whisper, almost to yourself—

“They better be.”

You always forget how quiet it is out here.

The trees murmur softly around you, their summer leaves catching the light in pale flickers as the wind rustles through the branches. The river moves slow, steady. It glides past the edge of the dock with lazy purpose, carving its way through the grass like it’s got nowhere to be but here. It smells like earth and water and peace.

It’s unnatural. Too soft. Too still.

You’re sitting cross-legged at the edge of the wooden dock, hands idle in your lap, chin tucked toward your chest. There’s a fishing rod resting beside you—not that you’re using it. You just like the illusion of a task. Something to explain why you’re here. Something harmless. Normal.

Like you didn’t nearly stab your teammate to death a few days ago. Like you’re not still vibrating with leftover magic under your skin, the kind that crackles too loud in silence. Like you’re not haunted.

You reach down and skim your fingers along the river’s surface. The water’s warm—sun-heated, soft—and it doesn’t flinch when you touch it. That always surprises you. For all the things you’ve broken, the chaos you carry, nature never seems to mind you.

Unlike people. Unlike Bucky. You suck in a breath and tip your head back to the sky.

The clouds are fat and slow-moving. Lazy. Blissfully unaware. The kind of sky that should be seen from a picnic blanket or a hammock or maybe a child’s drawing. You want to hate it for being beautiful. But you don’t. You’re too tired for bitterness today.

This was his house, after all. Tony’s.

You glance behind you toward the rustic, lake-view cabin. It’s still exactly how he left it. The same red roof. The same old porch swing. The same scattered junk in the shed that looks like it shouldn’t be legal or safe. Morgan’s old crayon drawings still decorate the kitchen fridge, faded but defiant. You never asked Pepper for permission to come here. You didn’t have to. She told you once—quietly, and without ceremony—that the lake house was always open for you.

He wanted you to have somewhere to come back to. You curl your knees to your chest, resting your chin there. God, you miss him.

You miss the sound of his voice when it softens for you. You miss the way he’d flick you on the forehead when you got too moody, and then immediately bribe you with fancy lab snacks. You miss the way he’d look at your magic—not with fear, not with awe, but with curiosity. Like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to contain.

No one else ever looked at you like that. Not even Bucky. Not even now.

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. It’s stupid. It’s been years. Tony’s been gone longer than he was in your life. And yet, this house feels more like home than anywhere else you’ve lived. More than the Tower. More than the SHIELD bunkers. More than your own childhood bed, which hasn’t existed for a long time now.

It’s because he believed in you.

Even when you didn’t.

You rub at your face, feeling the crusted edges of the healing bruise along your cheekbone. You haven’t done magic since you got here. Haven’t summoned a single blade. You came to this place to breathe. To remember. To not destroy anything.

You wonder if Tony would laugh at all of this. Probably. He’d say something ridiculous like “I always knew Barnes would be the reason you’d snap. Should’ve let me shoot him in the knee back in ’16.”

You smile at that. Just a little. “Miss you, old man,” you whisper.

And for a second—for a breath—you almost think you hear him. Not words. Not a ghost. Just a spark. A flicker in the air. Like the arc reactor still humming through the fabric of the world.

The mission had been simple.

In and out. Grab the relic. No fighting, no magic, no “accidental” body counts. The directive had been clear: retrieve the object, contain it, don’t touch it. So of course, the moment they got back to the Tower, all five of them stood around the thing like it was the last bottle of vodka in Siberia.

It sat dead center on the briefing room table—short, squat, and sealed with a black wax emblem none of them recognized. The bottle was glass, thick and oddly shaped, like something that belonged in a medieval apothecary or a vampire’s liquor cabinet. And inside it?

A deep red fluid. Thick. Slow-moving. Almost… alive.

"Why is it glowing?" Yelena asked flatly, propping her chin on her fist as she squinted at it. “It wasn’t glowing before.”

“It’s not glowing,” John Walker said, arms crossed. “It’s… resonating.”

“That’s worse,” Ava muttered from across the room.

“I think it’s cool,” Alexei said, looming far too close to it. “Very dramatic. Makes a statement.”

“You want to make a statement?” Ava snapped, flinging her hands in his direction. “How about ‘Don’t store interdimensional biohazards on a kitchen table’? Or maybe ‘Let’s call a sorcerer before we accidentally melt into puddles’?”

“It’s not melting anyone,” Walker scoffed. “We didn’t even open it. It’s sealed.”

“Yeah? Well maybe we shouldn’t be breathing near it either.”

“Oh my god,” Yelena groaned. “Can we not do this for once? We got the creepy demon juice, we’re back in one piece, let’s just—I don’t know—wait for Val?”

“Sure,” Ava said coolly. “Let’s all wait. And if one of us starts speaking in ancient tongues or turns into a pigeon, I’ll say ‘I told you so’ through gritted teeth.”

“Guys,” Bob piped up, timid and wide-eyed, “maybe we should move it to a containment unit?”

They all ignored him.

A beat passed. The tension simmered.

And then, like fate herself decided to screw subtlety, Ava threw her arms up in frustration—just as Walker leaned forward to say something else stupid—and someone’s elbow clipped the bottle.

It wobbled. Wobbled again. And fell. The moment it hit the floor, it didn’t shatter like glass.

It burst. A pulse shot out like a heartbeat—silent, red, heavy—and then thick, crimson smoke curled up from the remnants, slithering into the air like it had a mind of its own. The room filled with it instantly—sweet-smelling, cloying, oddly warm—and then it was everywhere.

Ava choked. “What the hell did you do?!”

“I DIDN’T TOUCH IT—”

“YES YOU DID, I SAW YOUR STUPID ARM—”

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP—”

Too late.

The smoke coiled tighter, circling them like a serpent, and then—, Val walked in. 

The automatic door hissed open just as the red cloud finished swirling and vanished into thin air like it had never existed.

Val paused. Took one step into the room. Brows furrowed. “...What the fuck?”

No one answered. Not at first.

There was just silence. Stillness. The room looked the same. The table was wet with the remains of the fluid, the bottle pieces scattered like shattered candy. There was no fire. No screaming. No alarms.

And yet. Something was… off.

Val’s heels clicked as she walked further in, eyes narrowed.

“Okay,” she said slowly, taking in their expressions—or lack thereof. “Who broke it?”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Just wide, blank eyes staring back at her.

Bob blinked first. Then, he sneezed.

It was a very high-pitched sneeze.

You didn’t speak to each other at first.

The elevator thrummed gently beneath your boots, a soft mechanical hum that did little to settle your nerves. You stood on opposite sides of the lift, backs to the walls, arms crossed like shields. The kind of stance people take when they’re trying very hard not to punch each other again.

The silence dragged.

Bucky was the first to break it, voice low and rough. “You think she’s exaggerating?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking at him. “It’s Val.”

He sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. He looked… worse for wear. Tired. Bruise healing along his jaw. A tiny scratch just beneath his ear that you didn’t want to stare at, but your eyes kept flicking to anyway.

“She sent twenty-seven texts in five minutes,” he muttered. “She doesn’t do that.”

You nodded slowly. “Which means it’s either interdimensional, magical, or something’s exploded.”

“Or all three,” Bucky said darkly.

The elevator pinged. Floor 44.

You shifted your weight, tugging your sleeves down over your wrists, trying not to fidget. You hadn’t spoken since the lake house. Since the fight. Since you’d stabbed him in a training room full of witnesses. And now you were here—reunited by shared emergency, standing side by side in uncomfortable silence like the world hadn’t tilted three inches to the left the last time you were in the same room.

Another beat passed. Bucky cleared his throat. “I, uh—was gonna text. After…”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He fell quiet again.

The elevator slowed as it reached Floor 47—restricted access, Val’s designated “oh-no-no-no” floor where emergencies were dealt with before they spilled into the public. You turned toward the doors, fingers tingling with restrained magic, muscles tensed.

Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. “You ready?”

“Not even a little.”

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. And your breath caught in your throat.

You blinked once. Twice. There, in the middle of the hallway, was Val.

She looked like she'd been through a war. Hair disheveled, one heel missing, shirt untucked, and a stain on her blazer that looked suspiciously like applesauce. In her arms was something squirming. No—someone.

A baby.

A small, squishy, extremely furious baby with way-too-familiar dark hair and an itty-bitty SHIELD onesie.

You blinked again.

“Don’t say a word,” Val snapped, eyes bloodshot. “Just… come inside.”

You and Bucky exchanged a look.

Then, slowly—cautiously—you stepped into the madness. And chaos met you like a tidal wave.

You hadn’t even crossed the threshold before your instincts started screaming. Magic—thick and wild—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire. It buzzed faintly against your skin, prickling at the fine hairs on your arms as you stepped deeper into the hallway. Bucky followed close behind, one hand near the knife strapped to his thigh, the other flexing like he was itching to punch the unknown square in the face.

The lights in the corridor flickered ominously, and you had to sidestep what appeared to be a trail of goldfish crackers leading directly into the main conference room. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.

Val stood just inside the doorway, her face an exhausted masterpiece of rage and disbelief. Her dark hair was pulled back into a half-undone ponytail, her mascara was smudged, and she held what looked like a baby in her arms—fat-cheeked, glaring, with a tuft of auburn hair and a scowl that, disturbingly, reminded you of John Walker.

You stopped short. Bucky nearly bumped into you. Val didn’t give either of you time to process.

“Come in,” she said, voice hoarse and tight with a fraying edge of hysteria. “Close the damn door behind you.”

Your boots clicked against the tile as you obeyed. Bucky muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded like a prayer. The moment the doors sealed shut behind you, a new sound filled the air—high-pitched, chaotic, overlapping.

Crying. Arguing. Giggling. Something heavy crashing to the floor. You turned the corner and froze. All logic stopped.

Five small figures occupied the room like gremlins unleashed from hell itself. One of them—Alexei, you assumed—was trying to climb the window blinds using only his teeth and a wildly ineffective pair of toddler arms. Another, unmistakably Ava, sat cross-legged under the conference table, surrounded by floating pieces of dismantled tech, tiny face screwed up in furious concentration.

Yelena was in a corner, stabbing a juice box with the savagery of someone trying to commit war crimes through a straw.

And in the center of it all, surrounded by a small pile of blankets, was Bob. Tiny. Round.

Wearing one of those ridiculous “I’m the future” shirts that someone must have dug out of a Stark Industries drawer.

He saw you and his entire face lit up like a sunrise.

“Mama!”

You blinked. Bucky swore under his breath, spinning on his heel like he was about to hit the emergency elevator button and vanish from this plane of existence. You grabbed the back of his jacket before he could escape.

Val rubbed at her temples and muttered, “I told you not to touch the bottle. But noooo, someone had to argue about proximity spells and elemental containment and—well, now we have baby assassins, congratulations.”

You stepped forward on unsteady feet, crouching slowly as Bob toddled toward you with his arms outstretched. He tripped once, recovered, and barrelled into you like a chubby missile, wrapping his tiny arms around your neck.

“Mama,” he mumbled again, this time softer, more tired. “You came.” Your throat closed.

You wrapped your arms around his tiny frame, magic flaring silently under your skin as you scanned him for injuries. Nothing broken. No magical burns. Just… small. Vulnerable. And looking at you like you were the only safe thing in the world.

Bucky crouched beside you, eyes flicking over Bob and then around the room like he was still waiting for the real threat to reveal itself. “They’re all like this?”

“All of them,” Val said, sounding like she needed a drink, a nap, and possibly a new career.

You stood up, lifting Bob easily in your arms. He curled against you instantly, one thumb in his mouth, the other hand tangled in the collar of your shirt.

“This is temporary, right?” Bucky asked warily.

Val didn’t answer right away. She just exhaled slowly, like she was bracing herself for an explosion that hadn’t happened yet.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We’ve got two sorcerers on a call, one is crying, and the other just said something about ‘age-locked soul regression’ and hung up.”

Bucky ran a hand down his face. You just stared at Val.

“So what you’re saying,” you said flatly, “is that you called me back from my grief vacation to run a daycare full of mini war criminals, and you don’t even know how long this lasts.”

Val smiled grimly. “Welcome home.”

Val checked her watch like she wasn’t surrounded by chaos. Like there weren’t juice stains soaking into Stark Tower’s designer rugs or an unconscious Red Guardian face-first on the floor after trying to body slam a beanbag chair. She smoothed her blazer, adjusted the one-heeled shoe still attached to her foot, and—while you cradled a drowsy toddler Bob on your hip and Bucky stared blankly at the wall like his soul had just left his body—said the words that would forever haunt your dreams:

“Well. I gotta go.”

You blinked. Bucky blinked.

Val clapped her hands once, as if trying to shake off crumbs. “I’ve got a crisis call with a coven in Prague, and then there’s a press situation brewing with the UN. Something about unauthorized dimension-hopping and a minor possessed goat.” She waved vaguely toward the ceiling. “Anyway. This—” she gestured broadly at the pint-sized chaos, “—is officially not my problem anymore.”

“Val,” you said slowly, adjusting Bob’s weight in your arms as he yawned and drooled on your shoulder, “you cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she replied, already moving toward the exit. “Pepper said not to disturb her unless something was on fire or bleeding, and technically no one is bleeding right now, so.”

“Yelena bit Walker,” Bucky said flatly, arms crossed.

“Baby Yelena,” you clarified. “Bit baby Walker.”

“She also cursed in Russian,” Bucky added. “Twice.”

Val waved that off like it was paperwork. “You’ve both handled worse. I have faith in you. You're a natural leader.”

“You left a literal god in a diaper and called it leadership,” you muttered.

“Correct,” she said cheerfully, already halfway out the door. “And hey—think of it as team-building. Trauma bonding. Therapeutic domestic immersion!”

The door hissed shut behind her before you could hurl something after her.

Silence fell. Well—not silence. There was still the sound of baby Ava stacking StarkPads like building blocks, the rhythmic creaking of toddler Alexei trying to bounce off the walls again, and a very soft, very suspicious splorch noise coming from somewhere behind the couch.

You sighed. Loudly. Bucky exhaled beside you and rubbed a hand down his face, voice low and tired. “What the hell do we do now?”

You looked down at Bob, who had his thumb in his mouth and his other hand tangled in your hair. His eyes were already fluttering shut. He looked so peaceful. So innocent. So unaware of the raging dumpster fire surrounding you.

You adjusted him against your chest and said, “First? We find juice boxes. Then? We pray.”

Bucky nodded, slow and solemn. And for the first time all day, he actually looked at you. Not just a glance. Not a glare. A real look. Soft. Quiet. Maybe even… apologetic. But there wasn’t time for that now.

Because baby Yelena had disappeared. And the emergency sprinklers just turned on.

There is a kind of silence that comes right before everything explodes. A charged, fleeting moment where the universe holds its breath.

And then—

The crying starts.

It begins with Bob. Just a soft whimper, barely a sound, muffled against your chest as he stirs from his nap. He’s warm, flushed, eyes still bleary, but the instant he realizes he’s not in your arms anymore—just lying beside you on a pillow—his mouth opens in a slow, terrible wail that rises like a storm cloud and does not stop.

You reach for him instantly, but you’re too late.

He sets off Ava.

Her screech is sharper. Meaner. Like glass shattering on tile. She’s standing in the middle of the room with her fists clenched, bottom lip trembling, tears welling like twin tidal waves. One second she’s fine. The next she’s full banshee. She throws her spoon. It explodes against the wall.

Alexei joins in before he even knows why. He hears the sound, sees the distress, and promptly throws himself on the ground, legs kicking, wailing like someone just stepped on his dreams. He rolls over, bumps into a cushion, and starts yelling louder.

And Yelena—sweet, violent, unpredictable Yelena—stands up from the laundry basket she was using as a fort, looks around at the descending bedlam, and starts crying out of pure spite.

It’s deafening.

You scramble across the room on your knees, arms outstretched, magic sparking helplessly at your fingertips as you try to gather them. Bob first—his arms are already reaching for you. You scoop him up, kiss his forehead, shush him, bounce gently. He does not care. He screams louder.

“Where is Bucky?” you growl, trying to untangle yourself from Bob’s sticky grip.

“Right here!” he barks from the hallway, rushing back in, hair a mess and his shirt inside-out. Yelena is clinging to the front of him like a spider monkey, her face mashed against his collarbone, screaming directly into his soul.

He looks wild-eyed. Rattled. Afraid.

You want to laugh. You don’t. You don’t have the air to laugh.

“Help me!” you shout, trying to levitate a bottle of formula while Bob beats his tiny fists against your chest and Ava levitates a couch cushion with intent to murder.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Bucky yells, trying to detach Yelena without getting bitten.

“You’ve fought HYDRA death squads, Barnes, just PUT THE BABY DOWN—”

“She’s got my hair—”

“I DON’T CARE—”

A loud thud cuts you off. You whirl around.

Alexei launched himself off the back of the couch and landed flat on his stomach, wailing like a siren. He doesn’t seem hurt. Just… upset. And wet. He’s crying with his whole body, fists pounding the ground like it personally offended him.

Bucky finally peels Yelena off his shoulder and deposits her into the playpen. She immediately tries to scale the mesh wall like she’s in baby prison.

“WE NEED A PLAN,” he pants, hands braced on his knees.

“I NEED SIX PAIRS OF ARMS AND A DAMN EXORCIST,” you snap, trying to keep Bob from kicking his bottle out of your hand.

The noise crescendos. Crying. Screaming. Something electronic explodes in the corner, sparks shooting out from under the TV. You don’t care anymore. You’re soaked. You’re sticky. You’re seconds away from crying with them.

And then—

Silence.

Just for a second. Just long enough for you and Bucky to lock eyes across the battlefield.

You’re both breathing hard. Wide-eyed. Disheveled. You with Bob on your hip and dried applesauce in your hair. Him with baby sock prints on his shirt and Yelena’s pacifier tucked behind his ear like a grenade.

“This,” you breathe, “is hell.”

He nods. Grim. “Actual hell.”

Then someone starts crying again. And the moment shatters.

You were one scream away from combusting.

The lights were flickering. The tower’s temperature regulation had failed—again—and somewhere in the hallway, a fire alarm was going off that no one could reach because it was twelve feet in the air. Ava had levitated two coffee mugs and was currently banging them together like ritual drums. Alexei was naked. You didn’t know when or how, but he’d shed every piece of clothing and was sprinting through the living room like a glittery gremlin on a sugar high. Walker was sobbing into a pile of couch cushions like the world had personally betrayed him. Yelena was sharpening crayons. Sharpening. Crayons.

And Bob, your sweet little Bob, was wrapped around your leg like a weighted anchor, wide-eyed and sniffling, clutching the hem of your shirt like it was a holy relic.

Your eye twitched. Your jaw clenched.

And then, very quietly, you snapped.

Magic flared like a shockwave from your fingertips. Not out of rage, not yet—but out of sheer, unhinged desperation. You waved one hand through the air with a sharp, sweeping motion, and with a flick of your wrist, the living room shifted.

The floor shimmered, glowed, and transformed.

The couch cushions floated gently into the air and reassembled themselves into a playpen fortress, complete with safety barriers, tiny blankets, and soft lights that pulsed like stars. A calming scent of lavender and cocoa drifted through the room. The broken coffee mugs reformed into glowing orbs that danced mid-air, swirling like baby mobiles. The fire alarm shut off. Alexei’s clothes reappeared on his body mid-run, and he skidded to a halt, confused but delighted.

Every child went still.

Ava’s mouth fell open in awe. The mugs dropped to the floor with a soft clink as her eyes tracked the lights like they were fairy spirits. Yelena—tiny, lethal Yelena—sat down cross-legged on the spot, crayons forgotten in her lap. Even Walker, snotty and red-faced, blinked up in wonder.

And Bob?

Bob was glowing.

Not literally—but in the way toddlers do when something lights up their whole world. His eyes sparkled as he stared at you, face round and amazed, mouth opening in a joyful little gasp.

“More!” he chirped, grabbing your hand. “Mama! More pretty!”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Something in your chest eased. Warmed.

With a softer motion, you conjured a gentle snowfall. It wasn’t cold—just glittering illusion, falling like sugar from the ceiling. Bob reached for the flakes with both hands, giggling in delight, and Ava squealed, chasing them across the carpet.

Alexei threw himself into a pile of conjured pillows with a triumphant yell. Yelena tried to catch a flake on her tongue and grumbled in Russian when it disappeared.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, stunned silent.

He took in the scene—five tiny Thunderbolts sitting peacefully in a glowing, enchanted wonderland, laughter echoing like music—and blinked slowly like his brain had blue-screened.

“What the hell,” he muttered.

“I snapped,” you said, breathless, still holding Bob close. “Magically. Domestically. Emotionally.”

He walked forward slowly, dodging a floating duck-shaped spark of light. “You turned this into a preschool fantasy movie.”

“I saved our lives.”

Bob giggled again, clapping tiny hands against your cheeks and leaning into your chest. “You did magic,” he whispered proudly. “You magic mama.”

You felt your heart split clean down the middle.

Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know if I’m terrified or impressed.”

“Both,” you replied, brushing a curl from Bob’s forehead. “Be both.”

You made the fatal mistake of blinking.

One moment—peace. Quiet giggles. Sparkly fake snow drifting through the air. You were a goddess among toddlers, a mother of dragons with a halo of glitter and cocoa-scented calm. Bob was nestled in your lap, playing with a soft conjured rabbit. Bucky was cautiously sipping cold coffee while keeping one eye on Ava, who had finally stopped trying to rewrite Stark protocols with finger paint.

But peace, as you were learning, was a trap.

Because the second you turned to conjure a new blanket for Walker—who was beginning to sniffle again with the kind of pout that threatened to erupt—the room descended into absolute anarchy.

It started with Alexei. Of course it was Alexei.

You didn’t see him do it, but you heard the crash. The unmistakable sound of a plastic bin full of LEGOs and emergency tools being upended onto the floor. You turned just in time to see his chubby little legs disappear into the hallway, a screwdriver in one hand, glitter still stuck to his forehead, screaming something that sounded vaguely like, “I BUILD NOW!”

And then Ava shrieked.

Not because she was scared—no, no. It was the shriek of competitive bloodlust. She took off after him like a heat-seeking missile, levitating the duck-shaped mobile and hurling it like a weapon.

“GET BACK HERE,” you shouted, scrambling to your feet, Bob tumbling against your chest like a startled kitten.

“Why is she flying?!” Bucky barked, pointing at Ava as she literally lifted off the ground for three seconds before crashing into a beanbag chair.

“I DON’T KNOW, BUCKY, MAYBE BECAUSE SHE’S MADE OF MAGIC AND SPITE.”

Yelena, meanwhile, took advantage of the chaos by climbing the bookshelf.

You didn’t know how she got up there. You didn’t want to know. One second she was scribbling ominous symbols on the wall in red crayon—yes, red, of course—and the next she was crouched like a tiny sniper on the fourth shelf, chewing on the binding of a S.H.I.E.L.D. training manual like it owed her money.

Walker had begun crying again.

Not just crying—screaming. Full-volume toddler meltdown. He crawled under the couch, sobbing “I WANT MY SHIELD” on repeat like a tiny brainwashed Winter Soldier, refusing to come out.

“Bucky,” you yelled, trying to teleport Bob’s toy out of Ava’s war path. “GET YELENA.”

“She’s got a knife!” he hissed back.

“What?!”

He ducked behind the couch, emerging moments later with Yelena wriggling under his arm, a makeshift dagger made from a broken spatula clutched in her tiny fist. She screamed something guttural and kicked him in the ribs.

“I hate this,” Bucky grunted, staggering.

“I told you we should’ve just faked our own deaths!”

Bob, still in your arms, was clapping. “Fun!”

You looked down at him, sweat on your brow, hair in your mouth, glitter somehow in your eyelid.

“Sweetheart,” you panted, “are you… enjoying this?”

He beamed, two teeth showing. “So much fun!”

You groaned and dropped back into the armchair as Yelena shrieked “FREEDOM!” and escaped Bucky’s grip like a feral badger. Walker was still sobbing under the couch. Ava was now levitating herself again. Alexei had returned and was trying to unscrew the floor vent.

Bucky leaned against the wall, disheveled and furious. “They’re going to kill us.”

“Not if I kill myself first,” you muttered.

A bottle flew past your head and exploded against the wall.

Bob clapped again. “Boom!”

It was Bucky’s idea.

You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve tackled him when he opened his mouth and said the now-infamous words: “Okay, who’s hungry?”

Because the second those words left his lips, all five children lost their collective baby minds.

“ME!!” Alexei screamed, punching the air like someone had offered him a fight instead of food.

“Ava hungee!!” Ava shrieked, arms flailing as she levitated a fork from across the room and nearly impaled a couch cushion.

“I wan’ 'ghetti!” Yelena shouted, her voice dangerously close to demonic pitch.

“I wan’ chikkie!” Walker sobbed, still under the couch but apparently motivated enough by processed meat to join the living.

And Bob—precious, sweet Bob, who had been clinging to your side like a sleepy koala—perked up with a sleepy little smile and said, “Nuggy time?”

Bucky looked at you.

You looked at him.

The kitchen door creaked open like the gates of hell.

You set Bob down in his little booster seat at the table and conjured another chair with magic for Yelena, who was already trying to climb onto the counter with one leg and no pants. Bucky was wrestling Walker out from under the couch with one arm while using the other to hold a frozen bag of peas to his forehead. Alexei kept yelling “HUNGEY HUNGEY HUNGEY” while trying to crawl into the fridge.

“Ava,” you said sharply, ducking as a spoon whizzed past your face, “you levitate one more utensil and I will enchant your applesauce to taste like toenails.”

She froze mid-levitate. The spoon dropped.

“Tha’ gross,” she muttered, pouting.

You started plating like your life depended on it—because it did. Bucky had dumped three boxes of frozen chicken nuggets onto a tray and tossed it in the oven while you used your powers to conjure fruit, toast, mini pancakes, and six bowls of mac and cheese.

Alexei was already trying to eat his with his hands.

“No hands! Use fork!” you said, guiding his chubby little fingers toward the utensil.

“Nooooo,” he whined, stuffing noodles into his mouth and onto his forehead. “Me big boy!!”

“Okay, big boy,” Bucky muttered, putting a juice box in front of him. “Try not to stab your brother with that straw.”

Yelena grabbed her plate, glared at her peas, and yeeted them over her shoulder like a war crime. “I wan’ 'ghetti!”

“I told you there’s no spaghetti!” you snapped, catching Bob’s juice before it spilled.

“I WAN’ SPAGHETTI!!” she screeched, slapping the table. Ava screamed in solidarity.

Walker had fallen asleep in his plate of chicken nuggets.

Bob, on the other hand, was being perfect. Bob ate slowly. Neatly. Like the tiny polite prince he was. He chewed each bite thoughtfully, his little feet swinging under the chair, hands slightly sticky but contained.

You wiped his mouth gently and smiled at him.

“Good boy,” you murmured.

“I eat good?” he asked.

“The best,” you whispered.

Then he knocked over his cup of juice with the most gentle swipe of his hand and looked genuinely surprised.

“Oopsie.”

“Of course,” you muttered.

Across the table, Bucky looked done. His hair was a mess. His shirt had a banana smear across the front. He was trying to convince Yelena to sit back down without losing a finger. His soul had left the building.

You handed him a fork with quiet pity.

“Welcome to the dark side,” you said, deadpan.

“I fought a Nazi assassin on a train once,” he muttered. “This is worse.”

Bucky's Side: The Boys’ Bath

Bucky Barnes had survived snipers, bombs, interdimensional threats, and the slow emotional death of Avengers press tours. But none of that—none of it—had prepared him for giving a bath to three superpowered toddlers in a room tiled like a war zone and soaked like a rainstorm.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself as he set the baby shampoo on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up and damp already. “We go in fast. No hesitation. No fear.”

He looked down into the tub where Bob, Alexei, and Walker sat, naked, slippery, and foaming.

Bob was the only one sitting still. Bucky could kiss him for that. The kid blinked up at him with big eyes, cheeks rosy from the warmth, clutching a rubber duck like it was sacred.

Walker was chewing on a loofah like it owed him money.

Alexei was trying to stand.

“NOPE,” Bucky barked, yanking him back down just as the kid tried to launch himself out of the tub like a glittery torpedo. “Sit. You’re wet, not aerodynamic.”

“But I fly!” Alexei squealed, giggling.

“You fly after you graduate potty training,” Bucky muttered.

Walker let out a yell and splashed so hard the shampoo bottle went flying. Bob blinked, looked down at his duck, then slowly and methodically bit its head.

Bucky was soaked from the waist down. He grabbed a cup, filled it with warm water, and tried to rinse Alexei’s hair while the kid twisted like an eel.

“You’re getting shampooed whether you like it or not, buddy.”

Alexei screeched in mock betrayal. “BUKY BAD!!!”

Bucky froze. “You—what did you just call me?”

“BUKY BAD MAN!”

Bob gasped. “No! Buky nice! Buky gib nuggies!”

“Damn right I did,” Bucky muttered, pressing a washcloth to his own soaked face. “I earned your loyalty, Bob.”

Walker dunked himself under water without warning and popped back up sputtering, spitting suds and yelling “I’M 'MURICA!!”

Bucky genuinely considered walking out and joining a monastery.

Your Side: The Girls’ Bath

In the other bathroom—smaller, quieter, but somehow more dangerous—you knelt by the edge of a clawfoot tub with Yelena and Ava seated like tiny empresses in a mountain of enchanted bubbles.

You had already reinforced the walls with a low-level barrier charm.

For safety.

For sanity.

“Okay, let’s keep hands to ourselves,” you said, gently running your fingers through Ava’s hair. “No throwing the soap this time.”

“She startit,” Ava muttered, pouting as you combed conditioner through her curls.

“I no!” Yelena snapped, slapping bubbles like she was interrogating them. “She touch me face!”

“You touched mine!” Ava shot back.

“Okay—enough,” you said firmly, placing a floating duck between them like a peace treaty. “Duck is neutral. You hurt the duck, you answer to me.”

Ava nodded solemnly. Yelena squinted like she was planning treason.

You conjured warm water and let it rinse gently over Ava’s head. She relaxed a little, eyes fluttering shut.

Yelena took the moment of distraction to summon a bubble the size of a basketball and smack it into her sister’s face.

Ava screamed. You caught her before she could retaliate with a water whip spell.

“Yelena!” you warned. “What did I just say?”

She crossed her arms. “Duck say nothing.”

You inhaled sharply. Counted to three. Didn’t hex anyone.

“You are both getting clean if I have to freeze time to do it.”

Ava hiccuped and curled closer to you. “I wan’ braid,” she whispered.

You smiled softly, brushing back her hair. “You got it, sweetheart.”

Yelena huffed. “I wan’ dagger.”

“Absolutely not.”

Back in the hallway…

Two bathroom doors opened at the same time.

You and Bucky stared at each other across the wet tile battlefield. You had Ava on your hip and Yelena wrapped in a towel like a burrito. He had Bob cradled like a baby koala and Alexei wrapped in four towels for containment. Walker was dragging a shampoo bottle by the nozzle like it was a trophy.

“Please tell me yours didn’t pee in the tub,” you said.

“I’ll tell you,” Bucky grunted, “when I find out which of them did.”

It had been your idea.

Beds—five of them—spread out in the Tower’s movie room like a makeshift camp, each one layered with thick comforters, soft pillows, and tiny stuffed animals that had magically appeared during the day when no one was looking. The overhead lights were dimmed, the air warm, and fairy lights—actual glowing enchantments—lined the ceiling, flickering like sleepy stars.

You sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, Bob curled up against your chest, his curly hair still damp from the bath and his thumb tucked halfway into his mouth. You cradled him gently, rubbing slow circles against his back.

The movie ended ten minutes ago. And yet—no one was asleep.

Alexei was bouncing from bed to bed like a caffeinated frog, yelling about monsters and bears and how he could defeat them all. Walker had declared war on the pillows, launching them across the room with toddler-like glee and zero aim. Yelena was spinning in slow circles, singing nonsense in Russian and holding a plastic spoon like a sword.

Ava sat quietly in her own bed, arms around her knees, eyes darting from one loud sibling to the next. She wasn’t scared. But she was overwhelmed. You could see it in the way she clutched her blanket tighter every time someone shouted too loud.

Bucky walked in then, holding three bottles and looking like a man on his final life.

“I bribed them,” he muttered, passing you one for Bob. “If they lay down, they get a story.”

“That’s not a bribe,” you said, adjusting Bob so he could sip. “That’s diplomacy.”

Yelena ran toward him and jumped into his arms without warning. He caught her with a grunt, her little limbs wrapping around him like a koala on caffeine.

“Story now!” she barked, thumping her tiny fist against his chest. “Bucky tell good one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bucky tells stories?”

“Only the epic kind,” he said gruffly, settling into the big beanbag chair with Yelena curled up in his lap, eyes wide and bright. “Also I’m her favorite now.”

“Bet,” you said, grinning, and kissed the top of Bob’s head.

Walker flopped onto the floor dramatically and yelled, “I wan’ da dragon story!”

“No, bear story!” Alexei shouted, diving under his blanket.

“C’n we have both?” Bob whispered against your collarbone.

Ava peeked out from her bed, voice so small it was barely a whisper. “I wan’ story, too…”

You smiled softly, opened your arms. “Wanna come here, sweetheart?”

She hesitated… then slowly crawled toward you, tucking herself against your side, her little fingers slipping into yours.

You looked across the sea of blankets and stuffed animals at Bucky.

“Ready, soldier?”

He nodded once. “Once upon a time…”

He told the first half.

A story about a brave little girl with golden hair and a mean left hook, who fought off shadow monsters with a spoon and never once cried—not even when she got lost in the woods. Yelena listened with rapt attention, eyes wide, fingers tangled in the hem of Bucky’s sleeve. Walker shouted every time the monsters showed up. Alexei demanded to know when the explosions started.

You watched him—Bucky, the grumpy, growly man who had once refused to hold a puppy on a mission—and your heart ached at the way he tucked a strand of hair behind Yelena’s ear like it was second nature.

Then it was your turn.

You told them about a little boy with curls like clouds and a laugh like thunder, who had a magic duck and a glowing compass that always pointed toward home. A boy who got scared sometimes, but always did the brave thing anyway. Bob’s eyes drifted shut halfway through, his breathing slow and warm against your chest.

Ava stayed quiet, listening. You glanced down to find her still holding your hand, her head on your arm, eyes fluttering closed.

When you finished, silence wrapped around the room like a blanket.

Alexei had passed out face-first into a stuffed tiger. Walker snored with a fist in the air like he’d fallen asleep mid-battle cry. Yelena’s grip on Bucky had loosened, her face soft and peaceful at last.

You didn’t move. Neither did Bucky.

Just a quiet glance exchanged across a battlefield that—for the first time all day—had gone still. He gave you a small smile.

“Not bad,” he murmured.

“You too,” you whispered. “Girl dad.”

His eyes softened. You reached over with your free hand, touched his arm.

“We’re gonna survive this, right?” you asked.

“…Eventually.”

Morning arrived in golden streaks across the curtains, slow and quiet, like the Tower itself was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. The fairy lights overhead had faded to a soft, amber glow. Someone’s lullaby playlist had stopped playing around 3 a.m., leaving only the gentle hum of the heater and the occasional squeak of a plush toy being rolled on in someone’s sleep.

You weren’t awake yet. Not fully.

Your mind stirred before your body did—floating somewhere between dream and waking, wrapped in heavy warmth and a surprisingly steady rhythm of breath that wasn’t your own. Your fingers twitched. Something shifted against your side.

You blinked. And then you froze.

Because your head? Was not on a pillow. It was on a shoulder.

A broad, warm, flannel-covered shoulder.

And your leg? Draped over someone else’s. There was an arm around your waist.

Your heart leapt into your throat as your gaze tilted up—slowly, hesitantly, horrifiedly—to meet the sleeping face of none other than James Buchanan Barnes.

His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, hair tousled from sleep, stubble thick across his jaw. One hand rested loosely on your side, metal fingers curled like he’d relaxed into it hours ago.

You screamed internally.

Before you could even react, a chorus of chaotic giggles rang through the room.

“Buki an’ mama cuddlin’!!” Bob squealed from his little bed, hands on his cheeks like this was the most romantic moment of his tiny life.

Yelena howled with laughter, rolling back and forth in her blanket pile.

Walker blinked at you both, frowned, then burst into inexplicable tears.

Ava watched from the corner, covering her mouth with both hands as her shoulders shook in quiet delight.

Bucky jolted awake with a grunt, arm tightening around you instinctively before his eyes flew open.

He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at your leg over his. Looked at the chaos around the room.

“Are you—” he started.

“I am not cuddling you,” you snapped, scrambling away so fast you kicked off your own blanket and nearly face-planted into Bob’s pile of duck plushies.

Bucky sat up like he’d been electrocuted. “I don’t cuddle people!”

“Same!!”

Walker sobbed louder. Alexei sat up out of nowhere, disheveled and somehow holding a bag of dry cereal. “Why mama yellin’?”

“I’M NOT YOUR MOM—”

Bob crawled into your lap mid-scream and patted your face gently. “You ‘n Buki had sleep snugs.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Covered your face with both hands. Bucky groaned and dropped his head against the couch behind him.

“Kill me,” he mumbled.

Yelena threw a pillow at him. “Cuddlerrrr,” she sang.

You peeked at him between your fingers. “You drooled on me.”

He didn’t even deny it. “You kicked me in your sleep.”

Bob gasped. “You kick Buki?!”

“Okay, okay, enough,” you muttered, pulling Bob close, cheeks burning. “Everyone up. Let’s get breakfast before I disintegrate into the floor.”

As the kids scrambled to their feet and chaos began its daily resurrection, you caught Bucky’s eye one more time.

He looked away first. And maybe—just maybe—you missed the warmth.

Just a little.

There were two kinds of mornings in the Tower: the usual half-chaotic shuffle of grown adults trying to act like responsible heroes… and then mornings like this—where five pint-sized mayhem goblins were running on toddler fuel, sticky fingers, and leftover glitter from the bath bubbles.

But today? Today felt… soft.

Warm sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Tower kitchen, casting golden rays across the floor where Bob was sitting cross-legged in his duck pajamas, humming to himself and gently rocking a bottle of syrup like it was a baby. Ava leaned against your leg quietly, watching everything with big eyes. Walker had already knocked over a chair and was using it to climb the counter. Yelena was sharpening crayons for no reason again. And Alexei was running laps around the island chanting “PAN-KAKE! PAN-KAKE!” like it was a war cry.

At the stove stood Bucky Barnes.

Flour on his cheek. Hair tied back in a low bun. Wearing a navy-blue apron that read “Kiss the Cook” (you did not question where he found it). One hand expertly flipping pancakes in a skillet, the other steadying the stack already plated next to him. His face was scrunched in deep, world-ending focus.

You leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching him work.

“Never thought I’d see the Winter Soldier making bunny-shaped pancakes,” you said with a smirk.

“Never thought I’d be this close to snapping over a missing spatula,” he muttered, flipping one like a pro. “We all grow.”

“You’re… good at this,” you admitted.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Did you just compliment me?”

“I’ll deny it the moment you bring it up again.”

Yelena skidded into the room, nearly wiping out, then slammed her fists onto the counter. “Buki!! My pancake has no eyes!!”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“His face!! No eyes!! You forget eyes!!” she said, holding up a bunny pancake like it had been personally insulted.

You stepped in before Bucky short-circuited. “Let’s get some blueberries, yeah? Pancake eyes, coming right up.”

Bob clapped gently from the floor. “Buki is pancake man…”

Bucky exhaled, set another perfect circle on the stack, then crouched to look Bob in the eye.

“I am pancake man,” he said seriously. “Fear me.”

Bob giggled so hard he fell sideways into your leg.

Ava tugged on your shirt. “Can I have butter on mine?”

You scooped her up effortlessly, resting her on your hip. “Butter, syrup, and maybe a little whipped cream if we’re feeling wild.”

Walker climbed onto a stool with absolutely zero grace and yelled, “I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”

Alexei crashed into him. “NO! I WAN’ TOWER PAN-KAKE!!”

“Okay, okay—one Tower Stack coming up,” you said, motioning to Bucky.

He saluted with the spatula like it was a mission. “Ten-layer pancake incoming.”

Within minutes, plates were passed, juice was poured (carefully), and the kitchen fell into that rarest of states: peaceful chewing. You sat with Bob on your lap, Ava pressed against your side, watching them eat like it was a feast fit for baby kings and queens. Walker had syrup in his eyebrows. Yelena had somehow acquired a second fork. Alexei was stacking mini pancake pieces into what looked like a tank.

Bucky sat across from you, sipping coffee like a man who’d seen war and made peace with it.

You caught his eye.

And for one long, quiet second—you smiled at each other.

Like, really smiled.

Then Alexei sneezed into the syrup and Yelena started sword-fighting with forks and Bob whispered, “I love you, pan-kake…” and the moment passed.

But it happened.

And it was enough.

The world, for once, had gone gentle.

No glitter explosions. No screaming for pancakes. No enchanted utensils flying across the room. Just the soft murmur of little voices—Ava humming to herself in the corner as she scribbled stars with a blue crayon, Alexei grunting in concentration as he stacked blocks that kept collapsing, Yelena hissing at Walker because he tried to eat her bear—and beneath it all, the quiet, steady rhythm of Bob breathing against your chest.

He was out cold.

His curls were damp from the bath, cheeks flushed a sleepy rose. One of his hands was balled into your shirt like he thought you might disappear. The other was loosely gripping the tail of his beloved duck plush, already halfway down your lap.

You didn’t dare move.

Bucky was sitting beside you on the couch, arms resting on his thighs, head tilted just enough to watch Bob sleep without looking like he meant to. His metal fingers tapped once against his knee before going still again.

The Tower had never felt this quiet. Not even when it was empty.

You shifted slightly to get comfortable and winced when Bob stirred, letting out a soft baby sigh and curling closer to your heartbeat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing a hand over his hair.

Bucky’s voice was low, just above a murmur. “He’s really out, huh?”

“Long day,” you said, glancing at the chaos still moving across the carpet. “They wore each other out.”

“They wore us out.”

You smiled, leaning back slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping warmth curled against you. “I’m starting to think we’re the ones being trained.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh. It wasn’t sarcastic this time. It wasn’t bitter. Just... tired. Soft.

You looked over at him.

His eyes were still on Bob.

“You’re good with them,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He blinked. Turned his head slowly, like the compliment confused him.

“You think?”

“I know.” You shifted your gaze back down to Bob. “You made pancakes for six people before sunrise. That’s not ‘good,’ Barnes. That’s heroic.”

He smiled. A real one. Small. Hidden in the corner of his mouth. But there.

For a while, you sat in silence.

Ava brought you a drawing. She didn’t say anything, just placed it gently on your lap before scurrying away. It was a crayon portrait—lopsided and sweet. A stick figure with curly hair holding a tiny blue duck, another with a big metal arm. Both surrounded by stars.

Bucky glanced over your shoulder at it. “Is that supposed to be you and me?”

You nodded. “Apparently.”

He leaned closer, just for a second. Just long enough that your shoulders brushed.

Then—

Bob let out a long, dramatic sigh in his sleep, and you both froze.

“Don’t you dare wake him,” you whispered.

Bucky held up both hands, eyes wide. “I didn’t do anything—”

“You thought too loud.”

“Okay, that’s not a real thing—”

Bob stirred again.

You glared.

Bucky shut his mouth.

And for the next ten minutes, you just sat like that. Side by side. Breathing. Watching. Holding the soft, heavy weight of a sleeping child and somehow, maybe for the first time in a long time, not feeling like the world was on fire.

Just tired.

Just... home.

It happened fast.

One moment, you were sitting on the couch with Bob in your arms and a blanket over your knees, sipping tea while Yelena braided Ava’s hair and Alexei tried to convince Walker that glue was edible. The next, your comm buzzed to life—emergency alert, priority red. No time to argue. No time to prep. Just a look exchanged with Bucky and a whispered, “It’s quick, I promise.”

Bob had started to whimper the second you stood up.

Ava froze halfway through her braid.

“Mama?” she asked, barely audible.

“Just one hour, baby,” you whispered, brushing her cheek. “Be good for Bucky, okay?”

But Bob was already clinging to your shirt. “Nooo gooo,” he whined, voice cracking. “Stayyy here, mamaaa…”

You kissed the top of his head and passed him gently to Bucky, who caught him like someone handling fragile glass.

“I’ll be right back.”

And then you were gone.

The door shut.

The elevator hummed.

The silence cracked.

And five seconds later, all hell broke loose.

Bob began to sob, small hiccupy gasps as he buried his face in Bucky’s chest. Ava’s eyes welled up, and she clutched Yelena’s arm like she might disappear too. Alexei stomped his feet, yelling “NO FAIR!” over and over again like it was a battle cry. Walker threw himself backward onto the carpet and began to scream—not words, just primal, chaotic sadness.

Bucky stood frozen in the middle of it all, holding one trembling, snotty, heartbroken child and looking like he’d just been dropped into battle with no weapons.

“Okay, okay, hey,” he said, trying to bounce Bob gently while his metal arm rubbed slow, awkward circles on the boy’s back. “It’s fine. She’s coming back. You heard her. Just one hour.”

“Mama gone,” Bob whispered against his neck.

“No, no—she’s not gone, she’s just… busy.”

“GONNNNEEEEE,” Alexei wailed from the corner, throwing a block with the force of a javelin.

Yelena’s bottom lip quivered. “Mama always go ‘way,” she said, her tiny voice accusing. “We no want you.”

That one hit harder than Bucky wanted to admit.

He sank down onto the floor, Bob still attached to his chest, and reached his free arm out toward the girls.

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, eyes softening. “I’m not her. But I’m here. And I’m trying, okay? So… help me out, would ya?”

Ava came first—quiet, hesitant, sitting at his side but not touching. Then Yelena crawled into his lap, curling against his arm with a dramatic huff. Bob had gone quiet now, his face red and puffy, but his breathing slower.

Walker was still howling into the void.

“Kid,” Bucky called. “You good?”

A loud sniffle.

“…No.”

“Fair.”

Alexei marched over and kicked Bucky in the shin.

“OW—what was that for?!”

“You not mama.”

Bucky looked at the four of them—messy, snot-covered, half-dressed, grieving the sudden loss of the woman who had somehow become their whole world.

“I know I’m not mama,” he said softly. “But she trusted me to take care of you. So let’s just… wait together, yeah?”

Walker sniffed again, then crawled up into his lap without asking. Ava rested her cheek on his knee. Yelena reached up and patted his chin like it made her feel better.

And Bob—little Bob—looked up with tear-glassy eyes and whispered, “You stay ‘til she come back?”

Bucky blinked.

Nodded.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky had never been afraid of noise. Not really. Explosions, screams, the static hiss of war and metal and memory—it was all part of the rhythm he’d learned to move through like a shadow. But this kind of noise? This relentless, high-pitched, emotionally unstable cacophony? This was not battle. This was something far more dangerous.

This was five grieving toddlers, left in the temporary care of a man whose entire emotional toolkit could fit inside a shot glass.

It was only thirty minutes since you left, but it felt like years.

The living room looked like a battlefield. Yelena had overturned the toy chest and was now guarding it like a dragon with a hoard. Bob had cried so hard he’d vomited, then fallen asleep for ten minutes before waking up even more upset. Walker had locked himself in the hallway closet and was screaming about “being brave alone,” and Alexei had somehow shattered one of the tower’s unbreakable vases and was now spinning in slow, guilty circles whispering “uh-oh” like a broken record.

Ava hadn’t spoken in twenty-five minutes. She sat curled up in the corner with a blanket over her head like she was trying to disappear.

Bucky was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him as he cradled Bob again—too tightly maybe, too unsure. He was sweating. His hair clung to his temple. His vibranium hand was trembling.

He didn’t know what to do.

He wanted to fix it, but he wasn’t you.

“You not mama,” Yelena had said earlier, and that truth had landed like a knife under the ribs.

He was not you.

And he could feel that fact with every scream, every whimper, every pair of tear-streaked cheeks that looked past him like they were waiting for someone else. Someone better. Someone that made the monsters under the bed go quiet with just a smile.

“Come on, buddy,” he murmured to Bob, who was sobbing again, clutching at Bucky’s flannel shirt with his tiny fists. “I know, I know—she’ll be back soon. Just... breathe, okay?”

But Bob just cried harder. And Bucky cracked. His head dropped to the wall behind him, eyes squeezing shut. His voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Maybe the ceiling. Maybe the kid in his arms. Maybe you—if the universe had any mercy left in it.

Then the elevator dinged. And everything stopped.

Bob hiccuped. Alexei froze mid-spin. Even Yelena looked up from her pillow fortress like a wild animal catching the scent of home.

And then the doors slid open. You stepped out, windswept and tired, blood on your collar and soot in your hair—but whole, alive, there.

Bob screamed first. “MAMA!!”

And the floodgates burst. He scrambled out of Bucky’s arms like he’d just been released from prison and flung himself into your legs. Yelena was next, then Ava—silent tears this time, clutching your waist. Walker emerged from the closet and ran like he hadn’t been screaming betrayal five seconds ago. Alexei just collapsed in the hallway and sobbed into your ankle.

You dropped to your knees, arms wide, heart splitting in a million soft pieces.

“I’m here, babies, I’m here—I’m so sorry, I’m here.”

They piled onto you. Limbs, snot, sniffles, joy, heartbreak. Bob climbed up into your lap and tucked his face into your neck like he’d been underwater and could finally breathe again.

You held them all. Every single one. Then your eyes flicked up.

And found Bucky still on the floor, frozen in place, his chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. You stood slowly, carefully shifting Bob onto one hip and brushing Yelena’s curls back as you walked toward him.

You crouched. “Buck,” you said softly, your hand brushing his knee.

He didn’t look up. “I couldn’t calm him down. Any of them. I tried—I tried everything. And they just kept asking for you. Because I’m not you.”

His voice cracked, rough and low, choked by something that was too big to name. You took his hand—his metal one, the one that trembled—and pressed it gently into Bob’s back.

“Yeah,” you said. “You’re not me.”

His jaw clenched. “But they still love you.” He looked up then—really looked—and something in him broke.

Bob leaned forward sleepily, still sniffling, and pressed his little hand to Bucky’s cheek.

“Buki no cry,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “You ‘kay now. Mama here.”

And in that moment—cluttered, sticky, messy, real—Bucky exhaled. And maybe, just maybe, let go.

It started with a toy hammer. Of course it did.

You were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming while cutting strawberries and pretending like your home hadn’t been taken over by an elite squad of emotionally volatile toddlers. It was unusually quiet for a few minutes—too quiet—and you should’ve known something was brewing. Something diabolical.

From the living room: a sudden shriek.

“IT’S MINE!!” Yelena bellowed, her tiny hands gripping a plastic, glittery hammer like it was Mjölnir itself.

“No it’s NOT!” Walker snapped, eyes blazing as he tugged on the other end. “You had it all day!!”

“YOU TOUCH, YOU DIE!” Yelena shrieked.

“YOU’RE NOT MY MOM!!”

Alexei appeared from behind the couch, eyes wide. “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” he chanted like a sports commentator.

Ava sat in the corner looking deeply stressed, clutching her stuffed cat to her chest. Bob was on the beanbag, crying—not because he was hurt, but because someone sat on the red one before he did, and that was apparently a federal offense in toddler law.

Bucky stood in the hallway holding a juice box, watching the chaos unfold like he was witnessing a small civil war.

And then? The hammer snapped in half. Silence.

Walker and Yelena froze, each holding a glitter-smeared piece of plastic, stunned by the consequences of their rage. Bob’s crying reached a new octave. Alexei gasped. Ava covered her eyes.

“...Uh oh,” Walker whispered.

And that’s when Bucky stepped in.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t throw the juice box.

He just walked—slow, calm, terrifying like a thundercloud rolling in—and crouched between the warring parties, looking each child dead in the eye like they were dangerous operatives.

“Do you know what I see right now?” he asked, voice low and steady.

Yelena crossed her arms, pouting. “A winner?”

Walker squinted. “A loser?”

Bob hiccuped from the beanbag. “...Daddy mad.”

Bucky raised one brow. “I see five very lucky little gremlins who are this close—” he held up two fingers, almost touching “—to spending the rest of the day in separate corners with NO pancakes tomorrow.”

Everyone gasped.

Ava let out a horrified whisper. “No pan-kakes?”

Bucky nodded, solemn. “Not even one blueberry.”

Alexei collapsed in the background. “Nooo… my soul…”

Walker dropped the broken hammer like it burned him. “I—I didn’t mean to!!”

“She broke it!!” Yelena yelled, pointing with all the fury of a betrayed Spartan.

“You both broke it,” Bucky snapped. “And you both need to fix it. Not with glue. With apologies.”

The room was dead quiet.

Then Bob sniffled. “Can I have the red seat now?”

Bucky turned slowly. “Bob. Do you want the red seat, or the high ground?”

Bob blinked. “...Both?”

“Reasonable,” Bucky muttered.

You peeked in from the kitchen, hands still full of strawberries. “What happened—?”

“Communism,” Bucky replied flatly. “They all think the hammer belongs to them.”

You blinked. “So… Yelena and Walker fought?”

“No. They trained for war.”

Yelena shuffled forward, face pink. “Sorry I yelled. I guess we can… share?”

Walker nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I sat on the red chair.”

Bob perked up. “You said it. Now get up.”

“BOB—”

“Okay,” Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. We’re instituting the Rotation Chart. Everyone gets the red seat for ten minutes. Timer’s on the table. Touch it before it dings, I swear to God—”

“Will we die?” Alexei whispered.

Bucky didn’t answer. Just glared.

You laughed from the kitchen. “Papa Barnes strikes again.”

And somehow, just like that, the living room began to settle. The hammer got placed in the “fix-it” bin. The red seat rotated. Pancakes were saved.

And Bucky? He finally took a seat.

One long breath in. One sip of juice box out.

The day had been long—block tower disasters, spilled juice, at least one suspicious crayon eaten. But night brought a softness to the tower. The overhead lights were dimmed to a warm golden glow, the air was cool with a hint of lavender from someone’s diffuser (Ava, probably), and every tiny toddler was wrapped in soft pajamas like miniature plush marshmallows.

“Okay, Bob,” you said as you handed him the toy DJ keyboard that lit up and made questionably high-energy noises. “You’re on aux.”

Bob’s face lit up like he’d just been handed the nuclear launch codes. He settled in the center of the living room, pressed a few random buttons, and the air was suddenly filled with electronic bubble pop sounds and a woman’s voice yelling, “LET GO LITTLE FRIENDS!”

“YESSS!” Yelena screamed, launching herself into a spin with arms wide, her pajama top flying up over her belly.

Ava did a tiny, shy shimmy in the corner, holding her stuffed cat like a dance partner. Walker was stomping in place like a Viking toddler at a rave, and Alexei? Alexei was doing the worm. Badly. Repeatedly. On the hardwood floor.

Bucky was standing frozen in the doorway.

“Are they… raving?”

“They’re expressing joy through movement,” you said, grinning as you flicked on the glow sticks you’d snuck out earlier. “Come on, Barnes. Don’t make me outdance you.”

“Challenge accepted.”

He stepped forward, took two glow sticks from your hand, cracked them open, and tucked them into his flannel pajama waistband like makeshift swords. And then—dead serious—he moonwalked.

The babies lost their minds.

“GO BUKI!!” Bob yelled, bashing buttons on his keyboard. “GOOOO!!”

“WOOOOOO!” Yelena howled, grabbing Ava and dragging her into a spinning circle of giggles.

Alexei jumped onto the couch. “I IS DJ NOW!!” he yelled and immediately fell off the other side.

You snorted so hard you nearly choked, one hand over your mouth as you joined them all on the floor, wiggling in place with Bob clinging to your back like a sloth.

Bucky twirled past you—twirled, boss—and pointed. “We need strobe lights.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re turning into a party dad.”

He didn’t deny it. Just grabbed Yelena by the hands and started hopping in a circle with her while she screamed-laughed. Ava danced near your feet, swaying her cat gently. Bob tapped your shoulder and whispered, “Mama… dance is love.”

You scooped him into your arms. “Yes it is, baby.”

Ten minutes in, Walker collapsed mid-wiggle, gasping. “I… need… juice box…”

Alexei fell asleep on the floor with a glow stick in each hand like he was guarding the gates of Baby Valhalla.

Yelena was lying on Bucky’s chest now, curled in a sleepy tangle, eyes half-lidded.

You looked around at the mess of glowing sticks, soft music still playing, and the warm weight of Bob in your arms.

Bucky caught your gaze. He smiled.

“You think they’ll remember this?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe not the details. But the feeling? Yeah. I hope so.”

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from Bob’s forehead as he yawned, melting against you.

“Dance is love,” you murmured.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “And so is this.”

The tower was quiet in that strange, heavy way—where the silence didn’t feel peaceful, but like the universe was holding its breath.

You were sitting on the edge of the playroom couch, a blanket draped across your lap, Bob nestled into your side. He was chewing on the tail of his stuffed duck, eyelids fluttering, but still awake. He didn’t know. None of them did. Not yet.

The letter from Val sat on the table in front of you, its contents burned into your brain: Formula ready. Reversal confirmed. Administer at 0700. Side effects minimal. Memory retention = 0%.

You’d read it three times. Bucky had read it once, muttered something like “goddammit,” and walked off to fix Bob’s broken toy spaceship in the kitchen with shaking hands.

Now he was standing by the window, arms crossed over his chest, staring out like the skyline held answers it had no right to give.

“They won’t remember us,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn’t turn. “Yeah.”

“Not the dance parties. Not the pancakes. Not the bath times. Not…” Your voice caught, your eyes stinging. “Not the way Bob says ‘Mama’ like it means everything.”

His jaw flexed.

You glanced down at the boy curled into your side—his lashes long and fluttering, his fingers still gripped around the stuffed duck he insisted on bringing to every room. His chest rose and fell in that slow toddler rhythm, trusting the world around him to stay the same.

He’d woken up this morning and called Bucky Dada.

It hadn’t been a game. It hadn’t been a joke. He’d said it with a sleepy little smile and a stretch of his arms and then asked, “Where Mama go?”

Bucky had frozen. You had blinked. And the whole damn day had folded in on itself like a house of cards hit by wind.

“We knew it wouldn’t last,” Bucky finally said. His voice was tight. Rough. “They’re not really ours.”

“No,” you said. “But… they were. For a little while.”

He looked over his shoulder at you.

Not annoyed. Not detached. Just… broken.

And that’s what undid you.

You pressed your hand to Bob’s back, smoothing his hair. You could feel the tears coming, building behind your eyes, hot and heavy and helpless. “We have one night,” you whispered. “One more night before they forget.”

Bucky crossed the room in slow, quiet steps. He sat beside you, his arms resting on his knees, staring down at Bob like he was memorizing the curve of his cheek, the soft puff of his breath, the innocence they’d both been lucky enough to protect.

“They saved us, too,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was faraway. “Didn’t they?”

You nodded. “More than they’ll ever know.”

A beat of silence. Then a small voice piped up.

“Mama?”

You blinked, looking down as Bob blinked blearily, his tiny fingers reaching for your sleeve. You caught them in yours.

“I’m here, baby.”

He yawned. “Why you cryin’?”

You smiled through it. “I’m just… gonna miss something.”

He nodded sleepily like he understood, though you knew he couldn’t possibly. “Can I sleep wif you ‘n Dada?”

Bucky made a noise in his throat that might’ve been a laugh—or a sob—and scooped the boy gently into his arms. Bob curled against him like he always belonged there.

You stood slowly and followed them out of the playroom, down the quiet hall, past the nursery that was still strung up with glow sticks from last night’s dance party. One of them was still faintly glowing.

When you reached your room, you pulled back the covers and let Bob crawl into the middle, where he immediately sprawled out like a starfish. His duck tucked under one arm. His other hand found Bucky’s and held on tight. You climbed in beside them.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His arm wrapped around you both, pulling you in close, holding like he might break apart if he let go. You stared at the ceiling for a long, long time, wondering if tomorrow would feel like grief or just a different kind of empty.

Would they wake up scared in grown-up bodies? Would they blink and not know you? Would Bob look at Bucky and call him Mr. Barnes with that stupid sarcastic smirk again?

Would Yelena roll her eyes and call you dramatic instead of curling into your side during movies?

Would Walker complain about rules instead of juice?

Would Alexei stop begging you to help him build his block fortress?

Would Ava forget the way she tucked her tiny hand into yours, without ever saying a word?

Would they all forget how it felt to be this loved?

Would you?

You didn’t sleep much that night. But you held Bob.  And Bucky held you.  And for one last night… they were yours.

Morning came too fast.

The sunlight spilling through the windows felt wrong, like it had no right to be soft and warm when the weight in your chest was made of stone. You’d barely slept. Bucky hadn’t either. His arm was still around you when the tower lights began to flicker on. Bob was still curled between you both, his tiny fingers locked in the fabric of Bucky’s shirt like if he let go, he’d float away.

You stayed that way longer than you should have.

But eventually… it was time.

The babies were quiet during breakfast. No giggles, no complaints, no pancake-related crimes. Ava clutched her juice cup with both hands and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Yelena picked at her food with her fork upside down. Walker was practically vibrating in his seat, and Alexei had uncharacteristically asked, “Why today feel weird?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Bucky was silent beside you, eyes distant, jaw set. Then the door opened. Val.

Black suit. Tablet in hand. Gaze a little softer than usual. “Are they ready?” she asked.

No.

They weren’t. You weren’t. But this wasn’t about you. So you nodded.

The walk to the lab was slow. You carried Ava and held Bob’s hand. Bucky had Yelena on his hip and Walker clinging to his sleeve. Alexei walked between you, unusually quiet, dragging a teddy bear across the floor.

The lab was too bright. Too clean. Too final. The table was prepped. Six tiny syringes. Labeled. Ready.

“Once administered,” Val explained gently, “they’ll begin to age in accelerated time. Physically, they’ll be back to normal in under ten minutes. Mentally… it’ll be as if this week never happened.”

Bob’s grip tightened in your hand.

You crouched beside him, brushing his curls back, whispering, “It’s okay, baby. We’ll be right here the whole time.”

He blinked up at you. His bottom lip trembled. “But… but I don’t wanna be big.”

You froze. His voice was so small, so certain. You glanced at Bucky, whose whole body had gone rigid.

“I wanna stay,” Bob said, tears welling in his eyes. “I wanna stay wif you an’ Dada. We had pancakes. I like pancakes. I like dancin’. I like... cuddles.” His voice cracked. “I don’t wanna f'get…”

Oh God. You pulled him into your arms, sinking to your knees as he sobbed into your neck. “I’m sorry, baby. I know. I know…”

Bucky was beside you in an instant, kneeling, wrapping both of you in his arms.

Bob reached for him blindly, sobbing, “Don’t wanna lose you!”

And then Ava started to cry. And Yelena, from Bucky’s side, shouted, “No! We stay! We live here now!!”

“NO MORE GROWIN’,” Walker declared dramatically.

Val blinked. “Okay, I didn’t plan for this level of resistance—”

Alexei had thrown himself on the floor. “I will die like this!! In pajamas!!!”

It was chaos. Beautiful, heartbreaking chaos. And in the middle of it, you looked at Bucky.

His eyes were red. His hand was shaking as he touched Bob’s curls.

“Can’t we keep them?” he whispered, not to Val. Not even to you. Just to the world. “Just a little longer.”

You swallowed hard, brushing a tear from your cheek. “If we do… if we wait… they’ll remember this.”

He nodded slowly.

“And if we don’t…” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.

Val sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We can delay. A few days. Maybe a week. But after that, the effects might… compound.”

You looked at your babies—all five of them. Crying, clinging, choosing love over logic.

And for now? That was enough. You kissed Bob’s forehead.

“Okay,” you whispered. “One more week.”

The van ride to the lakehouse should have been peaceful.

It was not.

Between the trail mix fight (Walker dumped raisins in Bob’s hair and called it “war”), Yelena screaming every time they passed a cow (“THAT ONE LOOKED AT ME WEIRD!”), and Alexei singing a cursed remix of Baby Shark at top volume, you and Bucky were already on the brink by the time you hit the dirt road.

Ava was the only one quiet—head pressed to the window, blinking up at the trees like they were whispering secrets just to her. You’d reached back from the passenger seat to gently rub her knee, and she’d leaned into your touch like a sleepy cat.

Bob had insisted on sitting beside Bucky, who was driving with the patience of a monk and the dead eyes of a man on his fifteenth round of “Are we there yet?”

“We live in New York,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did we think a six-hour road trip with five toddlers was a good idea again?”

You grinned, exhaustion tucked into the corners of your eyes. “Because we’re masochists who cry over bath time hugs.”

He side-eyed you. “Shut up.”

But when Bob giggled from the backseat and whispered, “Dada say bad word,” Bucky smirked and gave your hand a gentle squeeze on the console.

And then you pulled up to the lakehouse.

The second the van doors opened, chaos spilled out like confetti.

“WOAHHHH,” Alexei screamed, racing toward the dock like it personally offended him. “WE GOTS A RIVER???”

“It’s a lake,” you corrected.

He immediately tried to bellyflop into it. Bucky caught him mid-air like a linebacker.

“NO. No water until after naps,” he barked.

“But I’m aquatic!” Alexei protested.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky deadpanned. “You’re dramatic.”

Yelena ran around the yard in circles screaming “MINE MINE MINE” and refusing to explain what she was claiming. Ava curled into the porch swing, sighing like she’d lived a thousand lifetimes. Walker immediately made a sword out of a stick and challenged a tree to a duel.

And Bob? Bob tugged on your shirt and whispered, “Mama… can we live here forever?”

You crouched, brushing his curls back. “We’ve got a week, baby. We’ll make it feel like forever.”

Inside, the lakehouse was still just as Tony left it—warm wood floors, sunlight pouring through the windows, faint memories still caught in the walls. You caught your breath in the kitchen for a moment, fingers brushing over an old photograph on the fridge. Tony, grinning, sunglasses crooked. Your heart twinged.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, leaning beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Just… feels like he should be here, y’know?”

“He’d like this,” Bucky murmured. “You. The chaos. The kids. The secondhand glitter on your face.”

You snorted, wiping a tear. “Shut up.”

He didn’t. Just leaned in, bumped your shoulder, and whispered, “Let’s give them the best week of their tiny little lives.”

And oh, Lord—you did.

The next days were pure, chaotic magic. You built pillow forts the size of small kingdoms. You baked cupcakes that looked like disaster but tasted like heaven. Ava finally spoke—not a whisper, but a full, soft sentence: “This place feels happy.” You almost cried on the spot.

Yelena learned how to skip rocks and declared herself Queen of the Shore. Walker tried to fish using only his hands. Alexei built a “campfire” out of leaves and made everyone sit around it and “share our truths.”

Bob? Bob followed you everywhere. His tiny feet slapping against the wooden floors, his voice calling “Mama!” a hundred times a day, his laughter echoing into the trees. He slept in your arms every night, curled up like a song.

And Bucky… God. Bucky was the glue. He held them when they cried. He played rough and gentle in equal measure. He let Yelena paint his face, wore a flower crown Alexei made him, and whispered stories to Bob until the boy drifted off mid-giggle.

Every night, after the kids were asleep, you and Bucky would sit on the dock—bare feet in the water, shoulders pressed together—and watch the stars.

“You ever think about…” you’d start, but never finish.

“Yeah,” he always said anyway.

The last night came too fast. Bob climbed into your lap as the sun set pink across the lake. His head tucked under your chin, his little fingers clutching your shirt.

“Tomorrow?” he whispered.

You swallowed. “Yeah, baby.”

His voice shook. “Will I still love you? When I’m big?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just hugged him tighter. Let the tears fall into his hair.

And whispered, “I think so, sweetheart. I think some love is too big to forget.” 

The sun was setting slow and syrupy, pouring golden light across the lake like it was trying to hold the day in place. Everything felt slower that evening. Softer. Like even time was taking careful steps.

You had your arms wrapped around a wriggling Alexei, trying to wrestle a jelly stain off his cheek while Yelena screamed, “I get to wear the crown! I am photogenic!”

“YOU MEAN PHOTOGENIUS,” Walker bellowed, slipping on the porch stairs because his socks were too long.

Ava was sitting cross-legged in the grass, gently placing wildflowers into Bob’s curls as he sat still and proud, whispering, “Make me pretty, like Mama.”

You pressed your lips together against the wave of emotion rising in your throat. Bucky was fiddling with the camera stand, grumbling under his breath like an old man in the body of a reluctant dad. “Where’s the damn timer button—why is this blinking red? I swear to God, if this deletes everything—”

“You good, tech support?” you teased gently, coming up beside him.

He looked up at you, squinting against the orange glow. “Do I look like Stark?”

“No. You’re taller and moodier.”

He snorted. “And apparently the father of five gremlins.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You knew what this was. You both did. One last photo. One last chance to catch the moment before it slipped through your fingers.

“Okay, munchkins!” you called out, rallying the crew. “Group picture time!”

“Group hug!” Alexei screamed.

“Group MURDER!” Yelena added, because she was feral and unstoppable.

“No one is dying in this photo!” Bucky barked.

You gathered them all onto the porch steps. Yelena on Bucky’s shoulders, Ava tucked under your arm, Bob standing between you with both your hands in his, Walker doing finger guns, and Alexei holding up a stick like it was a championship trophy.

Bucky set the timer, sprinted back, and scooped Bob up into his arms right as the camera clicked.

Snap.

The light froze all of it.

Messy curls, painted fingernails, pajama pants with little ducks on them. You. Bucky. Five little lives tucked into the safety of your arms. And behind you, the lake—still and golden—like it, too, was trying to hold on.

“WE ARE A FAMILY,” Bob declared afterward, clutching the photo print like it was sacred.

“You got jelly on it already,” Ava said quietly, but didn’t take it away.

And then came the part you hadn’t prepared for.

Bob’s tiny voice, lifting up with hope too big for his little lungs. “Mama? Papa? Can we dance now?”

You blinked. “W-what?”

“Dance!” Alexei shouted. “Like you do when you think we sleep!”

Yelena gasped. “I KNEW IT! I saw Mama spin!”

Ava whispered, “I saw Papa smile.”

“PLEASE?” Bob begged, holding your hand like it was the only anchor he had. “One more? One more dance?”

You looked at Bucky. He looked at you. And both of you—still holding hands from the photo—felt your chests squeeze with something too big to name.

But no. Not yet. Not yet.

Bucky crouched down. “How about we dance tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we be big again,” Bob whispered.

And that? That broke you.

You dropped to your knees and pulled him into your chest, hugging him like he might disappear. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “Okay. One more dance. Just… not yet. We’re not ready yet.”

None of you were. So you stayed on that porch a little longer, letting the stars come out. Letting the fireflies twirl. Letting the world wait.

Because tomorrow was already breathing down your neck. But tonight? Tonight, they were still yours.

The lake was still when you woke up.

No birdsong. No wind through the trees. Just a kind of sacred quiet that came before big things—storms, endings, or in this case, goodbyes. The sun hadn’t crested over the trees yet, but the sky was beginning to glow pale and gold, the kind of light that made everything look like it was made of memory.

You were already dressed.

Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to. You’d laid awake most of the night, Bob curled against your side, his tiny breaths hitching now and then like even in dreams, he didn’t want to let go.

Now, as you stood by the kitchen sink with a chipped mug full of untouched coffee, you watched the soft shapes of the trees sway gently outside and thought, I’m not ready.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps creaked on the old wooden floor.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside you, his hand brushing yours. You didn’t pull away.

“How long do we have?” he asked, voice quiet, like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

“Val said to be in the lab before eight.” You didn’t look at the clock. You didn’t need to. You felt the time running out.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair and nodded, jaw tight. You knew he hadn’t slept either. He’d held Yelena like she was a piece of glass all night, humming lullabies you were pretty sure he didn’t know he remembered.

“Are they still asleep?” he asked.

“For now.”

A beat of silence.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. “We don’t have to know. We just… do it anyway.”

And so you did.

You packed what little they’d brought. Pajamas. Crayons. A bag full of pinecones Alexei had declared were “important evidence.” Yelena’s crown. Ava’s music box. Bob’s duck.

The sun was higher now. The kitchen glowed like it was made of honey. And then you went upstairs.

The nursery was warm and dim, full of soft breathing and quiet dreams. Five little forms were curled up in makeshift beds, the floor covered in blankets and stuffed animals, limbs tangled together like they couldn’t sleep unless they knew the others were close.

You knelt beside Bob first.

He stirred as soon as your hand brushed his hair, eyes fluttering open. He blinked at you for a moment, then smiled sleepily and whispered, “Hi, Mama.”

Your heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same breath.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered back. “Time to wake up.”

Downstairs was quiet chaos. Toast and juice, Ava sitting in your lap while Bucky tied Walker’s shoes and Alexei asked why everyone looked “like they cried in their pancakes.” Yelena refused to get dressed unless her crown was on straight. You and Bucky didn’t fight it. You let them win every battle today.

Because it was the last. The drive back to the lab was quiet. Too quiet.

Bucky’s knuckles were white on the wheel. Bob was dozing in your lap again, the duck clutched to his chest. You stared out the window, but you weren’t looking at anything.

The lab was waiting when you arrived. White floors. Bright lights. The same sterile calm. Val was there. She nodded gently. Didn’t speak.

The syringes were ready. Each child got their own room. Monitored. Clean. Clinical.

You and Bucky walked them in one by one. You kissed their foreheads. You held their hands.

Walker went first. Loud until the end, fist-bumping Bucky with a watery grin.

Then Yelena, who tried not to cry and failed, sobbing into Bucky’s chest and whispering, “Don’t let me go.”

Alexei gave you his pinecone, said, “So you don’t forget me.” You told him he was unforgettable.

Ava didn’t speak. Just clung to your shirt until the last possible second, then whispered, “Thank you for letting me be loved.”

And Bob… sweet Bob… looked up at you with tear-filled eyes and said, “Will it still be you… when I wake up?”

You kissed his knuckles. “Always.”

Then it happened.

The serum worked quickly. Their little bodies shimmered with a soft red glow, like time reversing itself in fast-forward. Their limbs stretched. Their faces matured. They blinked up at the bright ceiling, no longer toddlers.

Just soldiers. Adults. Confused.

They didn’t remember. They didn’t know.

And when they filed out into the hallway—grown, sharp, strong again—it was like someone had torn pages out of your book and left you with blank paper.

Bob passed you in the hall. He didn’t even glance. And that was the moment that broke you.

You stood there, back pressed to the cold lab wall, your hands trembling, heart cracked wide and raw. Bucky stood beside you, eyes fixed on the floor, jaw locked, like if he opened his mouth, something sacred might fall out.

No one spoke. No one could.

Later that evening, you returned to the lakehouse. Just the two of you. The rooms were quiet. The toys are untouched. You stepped out onto the porch, the same porch where you danced just the night before. It was empty now. No tiny footprints. No giggles. No bedtime stories.

Just you and Bucky. And silence. You sat down slowly, your hands in your lap, your heart still beating to the rhythm of laughter that was already fading.

“Do you think they’ll remember?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. But I think… we will.”

You leaned into him. He let you.

And together, as the porch light flickered on, you watched the sun sink into the lake and said goodbye—not with words, but with the quiet ache of two people who had held something golden for just a moment…

…and would never, ever forget.

[smutmind]

I'd really love to see more minnie and shuhua for when it doesnt fit, if you'd be so kind of course.

Thank you very much!!!!!

When it Doesn't Fit ft. Minnie (ANOTHER FLUFF)

I don't know why Minnie fits these fluffy ideas. HAHA

The bell above the café door chimed at exactly 7:02 a.m., just like it did every weekday.

Minnie glanced up from behind the espresso machine, already smiling. She recognized the stride before the man even reached the counter—sharp, measured, always in sync with the ticking wall clock. Marcus. Dark coat, darker expression. A tall drink of don’t-talk-to-me.

“Morning,” she chirped, slipping a fresh post-it onto the side of a to-go cup. The ink was still drying.

Marcus eyed the cup like it had personally offended him. The sticky note read: "Even strong coffee envies your focus."

His jaw ticked. He took the cup without a word. No tip, no smile. Just the same quiet nod and a turn on his heel.

Minnie’s lips pursed as she watched him disappear into the rain-slicked street. “Someone’s allergic to serotonin,” she muttered, half to the steamer wand.

Over the next week, the post-its got bolder. "Your suit called. It wants a day off." "You look like you wrestled stress—and won." "Smile. No one’s watching. Except me."

Marcus never said anything. But he never stopped coming, either.

It was Thursday night when the weather turned. Wind pressed wet leaves against the glass. The café lights glowed honey-gold in the gloom. It was Minnie’s closing shift—slow, quiet. She was wiping down tables when the door creaked open.

He was soaked.

“Didn’t expect you this late,” she said, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter. “The coffee machine’s still hot, if you want.”

Marcus nodded once, brushing water off his coat. “Black. Usual.”

She fixed it, fast. No post-it this time—just a curious glance as she handed him the cup. He didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned against the counter, his fingers curled tight around the paper warmth.

“You never smile,” she said softly.

He looked at her. Really looked. “I don’t have time to smile.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

“I’m working to prove something.” He paused. Rain lashed harder against the windows. “That I belong where I am. That I’m not just some lucky hire. That I’m better.”

Minnie studied him. His stiff posture. The faint crease between his brows. She wanted to smooth it with her thumb. “That’s a lot to carry,” she murmured. “No wonder your shoulders are always tense.”

The lights flickered once.

She jumped. “Ugh, I hate power outages. Please don’t let it go out.”

“You afraid of the dark?”

“Only when it’s storming and I’m alone in here.” She tugged the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. “Don’t suppose you’d… stay?”

Marcus hesitated. The rain thundered like a hundred tiny fists against the glass.

“I can’t leave anyway,” he said finally, glancing at the flooded sidewalk. “Storm’s too heavy.”

“Then it’s settled.” She padded to the back room and returned with a spare blanket and a couple of overstuffed floor cushions. “Welcome to your first café sleepover.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is this standard protocol?”

“No. But I figure if I’m stuck here, I’d rather not be scared and alone.”

Marcus sat, stiff at first. Then a little less. They sipped lukewarm coffee and listened to the storm. She talked. He listened. And somewhere between lightning strikes, the silence between them softened.

Rain threaded like silver needles across the café windows, blurring the world outside.

Minnie curled her legs beneath her on the cushion, clutching her lukewarm mug. The space felt smaller now. Not because it was tight, but because Marcus stayed. Still. Present.

She’d never seen him still.

“So,” she said, voice lilting, “what’s the deal, Marcus? You’re always suited up. Always tense. What do you actually do when you’re not glowering at espresso?”

He looked sideways at her, lips twitching faintly. “Real estate. Commercial, mostly. Downtown properties. Warehouses, corporate spaces.”

“Figures.” Minnie smirked. “You’ve got the energy of a man who sells buildings like chess pieces.”

He gave a soft, tired huff. “It’s more paperwork than people. Lots of big egos in small rooms.”

“You ever like it?” she asked, chin resting on her knee.

“I like being good at it.”

The rain thickened. She could feel the air growing damp, cold curling around her toes.

“What about love?” she asked softly, without teasing this time. “You ever like that?”

The shift in him was instant. His shoulders locked. The silence that followed felt like something sharp, stretched between them.

“I don’t mix well with...that,” he said flatly. “Too many expectations. Too many cracks to fall through.”

Minnie blinked, her smile dimming. “Sorry. That was—too personal.”

He exhaled, slow and hard. “No. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you.” His voice softened. “It’s just… hard to explain things that didn’t end well.”

A heavy pause hung between them. Neither knew what to do with the sudden chill in the air.

Minnie rubbed her arms, shivering a little. “This place gets freezing after nine. Never noticed it until I wasn’t moving.”

Marcus glanced at her, then at her thin cardigan. His jaw worked, conflicted. “Do you want...?”

She hesitated, then gave a sheepish nod. “Yeah. If you’re okay with it. Just a little warmth wouldn’t hurt.”

He shifted closer, slow and careful. His arm draped over her shoulders—awkward at first, then less so when she leaned in instinctively. His body radiated heat like a furnace.

They said nothing. The thunder softened. Her head rested gently against his chest.

And for the first time since either could remember, the quiet didn’t feel empty.

The wind howled like it had bones to rattle.

Marcus’s arm around her helped, but Minnie was still shivering. Her knees knocked gently against his thigh.

“You’re cold,” he said quietly.

“I’ll live,” she muttered, teeth nearly chattering.

He gave her a look. Then stood, pulled off his tailored coat, and held it open. “Come on.”

She hesitated. “That’s like... a thousand-dollar coat.”

“Only eight-fifty.”

She squinted up at him. “You’re really gonna argue luxury while I’m about to freeze to death?”

He sighed and moved to wrap it around her himself, muttering something about stubborn baristas. But as he pulled it over her shoulders and adjusted the lapel, his hand slipped—just slightly—brushing the soft curve of her chest.

She yelped.

He froze, hand mid-air. “Shit—I didn’t—oh my God—I’m not—”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, did you just—?”

“I was adjusting the—coat,” Marcus stammered, face already flaming. “I didn’t know you weren’t wearing—uh—something more.”

She looked down, then up again, biting her lip. “It’s just nipple patches. I hate bras on night shift.”

He blinked, hard. “That’s—information I didn’t expect to have at this hour.”

A long beat. She held the coat closed with a grin curling at her lips. “Marcus,” she said sweetly, “you’re sweating.”

He wiped his palms on his slacks. “I’m just trying to not get arrested.”

She tilted her head. Her voice dipped lower. “What if I want you to act like a pervert around me?”

He stared at her, genuinely stunned.

Minnie didn’t flinch—just smiled, a slow, dangerous thing.

Marcus swallowed, visibly. “That’s... not helping.”

She laughed, warm and full, curling into the coat like it was her armor and his doom.

“I’m teasing,” she said, finally. “Kind of.”

Marcus wasn’t breathing.

Outside, the storm began to lighten, but inside the café, tension flickered—half humor, half heat—across every inch of shared space.

Minnie blinked up at the ceiling. “Well, look who decided to rejoin society.”

Marcus stood, brushing off his slacks. “Lights are back. Rain’s dying down. Guess we’re free to return to capitalism.”

She stretched, the borrowed coat still draped around her like a cape. “We should close up, then. You sure you want to help? Wouldn’t want to steal you from your very serious, life-saving spreadsheets.”

He grabbed the mop leaning against the counter. “I’m just making sure you don’t frame me for anything.”

She arched a brow. “Frame you?”

“I was alone with a woman, in the dark, after hours. I touched something I wasn’t supposed to. That’s at least a misdemeanor.”

Minnie cackled, nearly dropping a stack of chairs. “Touched something? You brushed my boob like a panicked librarian reaching for a banned book.”

He paused, jaw twitching. “That is... uncomfortably accurate.”

They finished in record time—laughing, bumping elbows, trading glances that lingered a little longer each time.

By the time they stepped outside, the rain had softened to a mist. Marcus offered his umbrella, holding it just high enough to cover both their heads.

The sidewalk gleamed wet under streetlights, and their steps fell into an easy rhythm.

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” Minnie said softly, the city quiet around them.

“I’m still just trying to keep myself out of prison,” he replied, deadpan. “Imagine the courtroom sketch: barista claims emotional damage after unsolicited warmth.”

She bumped his arm. “You’re not nearly as scary when you make jokes.”

“Don’t tell my clients,” he said. “They pay extra for the scowl.”

They stopped at her building. The entry light buzzed faintly, illuminating the curve of her cheek as she turned to face him.

Minnie stood on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—just warm enough to make him forget what words were.

“Thanks,” she murmured. “For staying. For not being... well, who I thought you were.”

Marcus blinked. “Who’d you think I was?”

“A suit with legs and no soul.”

His laugh came out surprised, almost boyish. “Ouch.”

She smiled. “You proved me wrong. A little.”

He cleared his throat, unsure what to do with his hands. “Guess I’ll see you at 7:02 tomorrow?”

“I might start opening at 7:01,” she teased.

“Rebel,” he said, eyes crinkling.

She slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind her—leaving Marcus outside, still warm from her kiss, still smiling like an idiot under his umbrella.

The bell above the café door stayed quiet.

Minnie checked the wall clock. 7:01. Then 7:03. Then 7:07.

The cup with the next post-it stayed untouched on the counter. "You made silence louder than coffee. That’s a skill."

She sighed and peeled it off. Stuck it to her apron instead.

Marcus didn’t come that day.

Nor the next.

By Thursday, she’d stopped prepping his order. The cups felt lighter somehow. The café too bright. Too yellow. Like a stage light waiting for the actor who missed their cue.

“Miss your boyfriend?” her coworker Teela asked, elbow-deep in croissants.

Minnie blinked. “He’s not—he’s just a customer.”

“Uh-huh. Who you let spend the night in your shop, gave your blanket, and kissed.”

“It was on the cheek.”

“That’s a gateway cheek.”

Minnie smiled faintly but didn’t argue. Instead, she stared out the rain-speckled window, her breath fogging the glass.

She didn’t know his number. Didn’t know where he lived. Didn’t even know his middle name. But every morning, 7:02 came and went without Marcus. And that… hurt more than she’d expected.

The weird part? It wasn’t just missing his face or the way he stood like his suit was military-issued. It was missing the version of herself that came alive around him—sharper, braver, louder.

And now, the mornings just… felt beige.

She wiped the counter one extra time and tucked the latest post-it in her pocket.

Just in case he ever came back for it.

The rain came down like a verdict.

Minnie locked the front door early, her nerves coiled tight as the sky growled. Thunder rolled deep and mean, rattling the glass. The café lights flickered—again.

“Not tonight,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. “Please not again.”

The storm had a way of peeling her open—too many memories, too much silence, too much dark.

She gathered the cushions from the back, her cardigan already wrapped twice around her. The idea of another night alone in the dim cafe made her chest feel tight.

Then the bell rang.

The door—still unlocked from her forgetful hands—squeaked open, and there he was.

Dripping, coat clinging, hair damp against his forehead.

Marcus.

Minnie froze mid-step, heart thudding like it wanted out.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.

“I didn’t know if you’d still be here,” he said softly.

Her voice caught. “You—you disappeared.”

“I got pulled into a deal. Huge project. Took everything.” He stepped in, the storm closing behind him. “I worked from home. Couldn’t break the rhythm. But tonight… I remembered the rain. The power. You in my coat.”

Minnie blinked, heat rushing to her face. “So you came back?”

He nodded. “I needed to know if the café still glowed like I remembered. If you were still here.”

Her breath hitched. She smoothed her sleeves down her arms to hide the tremble. “And?”

“It’s brighter now,” he said. “Because you didn’t forget me.”

Minnie exhaled a shaky laugh. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Another rumble of thunder.

She glanced at the windows, then at him. “I still hate storms,” she whispered.

Marcus stepped closer, close enough to smell rain and cologne. “Do you want me to stay?”

She looked up, eyes wide, vulnerable. “Only if you can keep me warm.”

A smile ghosted across his face. Not the smug one. The soft, slow kind—the one he didn’t know how to wear until her.

He reached for her gently this time, fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve before pulling her in, coat and all.

The storm outside was still angry. But inside, she found warmth in the quiet rise and fall of his breath.

This time, she wasn’t alone.

The backroom door clicked shut behind them, and the storm outside vanished into a muffled pulse.

Marcus turned to face her. Minnie stood barefoot on the worn tile, cardigan falling off one shoulder, cheeks warm and eyes dark.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, edged with restraint.

She smiled, slow and wicked. “I’ve had a month to think about it.”

With one fluid motion, she peeled off the cardigan and pulled up her shirt—revealing two circular nude patches barely covering her nipples. “You left me cold, Marcus,” she whispered. “You owe me warmth.”

He stepped closer. “Yeah?”

“Start here,” she said, pointing at her left breast, “and use your mouth.”

He didn’t ask twice.

His tongue hooked beneath the patch, teasing her skin as he peeled it off, slow enough to make her gasp. The other followed, sucked between his lips until her knees trembled.

Minnie laughed breathlessly, gripping his shoulders to stay grounded. “You’ve got a mouth built for sin, agent man.”

“Show me yours,” he murmured, fingers brushing her waistband.

She stepped back, tugged down her pants—and let her cock spring free, thick, flushed, already twitching with anticipation. She wrapped her fingers around the shaft and stroked once, her eyes locked to his. “I get so wet watching men like you grind themselves into the ground.”

Marcus exhaled sharply. “Busy bees turn you on?”

“Stupidly hard,” she grinned. “Something about men who forget they have bodies until someone reminds them.”

He cupped her jaw. “Then prove it. With your tongue.”

She dropped to her knees like she was born for it, licking up the length of him before taking him deep, slow, deliberate. Marcus’s head hit the wall. One hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the counter for dear life.

“Minnie—fuck—”

She hummed around him, lips slick and wet, the rhythm torturously steady. When she pulled off, saliva stringing between her mouth and his tip, his legs nearly gave.

“I want you inside me,” she said, voice husky, climbing onto his lap.

He was already thick and ready. She guided him to her entrance and sank down, inch by glorious inch, her mouth parting in a moan.

They didn’t move at first—just held each other, eyes locked, breath shared.

Then she started to roll her hips.

Slow. Deep. Fucking luxurious.

“God,” he groaned. “You feel—unreal.”

Her grin was all teeth. “And I haven’t even started yet.”

Minnie braced herself against his chest, her thighs trembling as she sank another inch onto him.

“God,” she panted, forehead pressed to his. “You’re so fucking big—I can’t… I can’t take all of you.”

Marcus groaned low in his throat, his hands gripping her hips. “Yes you can,” he murmured. “You’ve got it in you. Let me help.”

He shifted beneath her, tilting just right, guiding her hips until she slid deeper. Minnie gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

Her voice cracked on a moan. “Holy shit, Marcus.”

He kissed her—rough and wet, stealing the air from her lungs. Then he pulled back and whispered, “Suck my tongue.”

She did—mouth open, tongue curling around his, riding him slow and deep as the kiss turned filthy. Each bounce stretched her wide and full. His cock rubbed her just right, grinding up into her until she was cursing against his mouth.

“I missed this,” he growled, lips brushing her jaw. “Missed your mouth. Your sounds. The way you move.”

“You didn’t even text,” she teased breathlessly. “Just vanished like some kind of overworked ghost.”

“Maybe I needed another storm to wake me up.”

She laughed, bouncing harder now, sweat dotting her temple. “You’re lucky I’m weak for workaholics with stupid pretty mouths.”

He grabbed her ass, thrusting up to meet her strokes. “And you’re lucky I’m a man who respects a woman who knows how to ruin my sanity.”

Their bodies clapped in rhythm. Wet, messy, perfect.

Minnie cried out as she came, her cock twitching between them. The pleasure rolled through her like thunder, hot and deep and shaking. She sagged against him, gasping into his neck.

Marcus wasn’t far behind.

“Where?” he asked, voice strained, desperate.

She looked up, eyes burning with mischief. “I want it like my favorite order.”

He blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Hot. Strong. And in my mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pulling out fast.

She dropped to her knees again with a practiced hunger, lips parted and waiting as he stroked himself, groaning hard—

—and spilled across her tongue in thick, salty bursts, his name half a gasp in her throat.

Minnie swallowed, then licked her lips. “Mmm. Better than espresso.”

He collapsed back against the wall, chest heaving.

“Rainy nights really are your thing,” she added with a wink.

He reached down, cupped her jaw, and laughed.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” she said, rising up to kiss him, “but you’ll die warm.”

---

Sunlight bled through the café windows, golden and unmerciful.

Minnie stirred first—blanket tangled, skin warm against Marcus’s chest, limbs still draped over him like he was furniture. Her back ached. Her thighs... ached more.

She blinked up at the ceiling, then to the clock.

“Oh no,” she whispered, slapping his chest. “Marcus. Wake up. We’re so screwed.”

He groaned. “You said I could die warm, not early.”

“It’s eight-forty-seven. I was supposed to open at seven-thirty.”

As if on cue, a knock rattled the backroom door. “Minnie?” came her boss’s voice, laced with suspicion and half-amusement. “You alive back there?”

Minnie froze. Marcus sat up fast enough to nearly knock over a box of stirrers. “Shit. Shitshitshit.”

They scrambled. She pulled her pants on inside-out. He yanked on his wrinkled dress shirt and tried to fix his tie, only to realize it was Minnie’s. She tossed it back with a snort.

“We’re walking out there like adults,” she whispered.

“We just had backroom sex loud enough to steam the espresso machine.”

“Then we’re walking out there like actors.”

She paused, snatched two sticky notes off the counter, and stuck one across her forehead, the other across his.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Costume drama. Just roll with it.”

The door creaked open.

The owner, a petite woman with an immaculate apron and a dry sense of humor, stood with one eyebrow raised.

Minnie walked out first—barefoot, hair wild, post-it on her forehead that read: "I regret nothing."

Marcus followed, post-it on his chest: "Just here for coffee (and poor decisions)."

The owner clapped once. “Well. I was wondering when this would happen.”

Minnie blinked. “Wait—what?”

“You’ve been leaving those thirsty post-its for months, sweetheart. You think I can’t read?”

Marcus flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not fired, am I?”

“You don’t even work here.”

“Still. Good to know.”

She waved them toward the counter. “You’re lucky the regulars haven’t arrived yet. Fix yourselves. Then fix some coffee.”

Minnie turned to Marcus as they moved behind the counter, faces red, grins helpless.

“That was the worst walk of shame in history,” she said.

“Best I’ve ever had,” he replied.

They bumped hips. Made two coffees. Shared one kiss over steaming mugs and silent promises.

Sometimes, love didn’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare.

Sometimes, it walked in late, soaked in rain, wearing a frown.

And sometimes, it left a post-it that said everything without needing to explain a thing.

[bucketbueckers]

ALL THE SMALL THINGS

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: devious amount of fluff, devious amount of dialogue, mostly teasing and banter, maybe a little suggestive (light allusions if anything, no details bc im a coward), nonexistent plot

wc: 1.8k

synopsis: As two booked and busy athletes, you and Azzi always relished in those slow, lazy mornings you got to spend together before the world woke up and you had to return to reality. The morning after winning your first national championship together was no exception.

notes: i love azzi fudd. that's it that's the post!!! all jokes aside, she was phenomenal this weekend and im so glad we get another year of her in a uconn jersey 😩 one of her steals against sc actually had me jumping out of my seat and yelling which i dont usually do but i was so geeked on sunday 🙏 per usual i hope y'all enjoy because i have two more weeks of classes & then finals so i fear i will be dropping off of the face of the earth 🫶

The warmth of the Tampa Bay sun streaming through your hotel window pulls you gently from the throes of slumber, its rays pressing against your eyelids and rousing you in a way not too dissimilar from how your girlfriend would trace the contours of your face in the mornings. You wake slowly, your mind barely catching up with your body as you blink sleepily, trying to adjust to the new light in the room. Your body feels heavy, not because of Azzi sprawled out across your chest, but because of the lingering exhaustion from the day before.

Memories return to you in quick flashes – the intensity of the game, powering your way to the bucket for layups, the way the confetti rained down upon you and your team and how Azzi clung onto you like she was afraid it would all disappear. You don’t forget the way she cried into your neck, nor do you forget the way you’d cried into hers. The both of you had been through so much together – the team, too, but you were by Azzi’s side for every injury, every surgery, every grueling second of rehab. The fact that you’d made it here, to the national championship, and the fact that you did it together, feels more monumental than the win itself.

The soreness of your body isn’t solely from giving the game your all. The afterparty was wild, rambunctious, and if it wasn’t for your girlfriend, you’d probably be nursing an insane headache right now. The more that you think about it, you’re kind of terrified to see what lies in your TikTok drafts or what’s already been posted while you and Azzi were out cold. You stretch out a little, your body thrumming, and the residual ache reminds you that yours and Azzi’s…private celebration, is probably also why you feel like you could sleep for another twelve hours. You try not to think too much about it, already feeling a flush creep up your cheeks as your girlfriend snoozes peacefully next to you.

You cast a glance down at Azzi, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the slope of her nose and the elegant part of her lips as she breathes against you. Her left hand is splayed across your stomach, palm warm against your skin. You can’t stop the soft smile that grows on your face. Azzi Fudd is the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen in your life. You could spend years trying to find the words to describe her beauty, but they’d never come to you.

Almost absentmindedly, you bring your hand to her face, swiping gently at the flake of mascara stuck to her cheekbone, trailing down to her dimple. You retract your hand so as to not disturb Azzi, considering getting comfortable again and going back to sleep, but her voice almost startles you. “I can feel you staring,” she murmurs, not opening her eyes.

“Admiring,” you correct her. The corner of her lips quirk into a half smile. Slowly, her eyes open, although she squints slightly as she adjusts to the sunlight in the room.

“I can’t believe we didn’t shut the blinds yesterday,” she grumbles, pressing her forehead into the junction where your neck meets your shoulder.

You laugh a little, raising your arm to cup the back of her head, trying to angle your body so it blocks some of the sunlight. Her smile grows against you as you drop a kiss to her forehead, the flyaway strands of her hair tickling your nose. “I think the blinds were the least of our worries last night,” you say nonchalantly, your fingers beginning to trace comforting patterns on her skin. “Somebody I know wasn’t very patient.”

She opens one eye to stare at you, a brow raising in question, but the way her smile softens in adoration doesn’t make you feel like you’re in much trouble. “So, it’s my fault is what I’m hearing?”

“I never said that,” you retort coyly. You flatten your palm against her skin, letting your hand linger as you make your way down to the curve of her hip. Azzi sighs, stretching out in a silent request for you to keep touching her. You’re all too happy to oblige, but you keep it cordial, not wanting to disturb the quiet intimacy of the morning. You also knew that KK and Paige were rooming together next door and they would never let you and Azzi live it down if they happened to overhear. Then, softly, as if confessing a secret, you whisper, “I might be equally to blame.”

Azzi giggles. “Oh, might be?” Her lashes tickle your collarbone when she peers up at you, doe eyes crinkling at the edges, the warm cocoa of her irises drawing you in until you’re sure you’re drowning in the best way possible. You hum. Your grin is wide and infectious. “‘Cause the way I’m remembering it, I think you were the main instigator.”

“Really?” you ask, faux-shock in your voice, as if Azzi had said something scandalous.

She nods with that soft, devious smile on her face, innocently plotting. Azzi shifts and throws a leg over your waist, adjusting until she’s straddling you fully. Her curls cascade down her chest, perfectly mussed, her eyes still gentle and sleepy, and truly, you can’t help the way you fall just a little more in love with her. Your hands come to rest on her bare hips to keep her in place as her hands find your shoulders. It’s honestly a little hard to keep your gaze respectful and on her face, but something tells you that Azzi finds your struggle amusing as she leans in just a little bit. Humming, she whispers, “You were. I was in the middle of getting another drink when you came up, put your hands on my waist, and…”

A smug grin takes over your features as she trails off, flushing as she remembers what you’d said to her. “What’d I do, Az?” you goad, relishing in the mock-annoyance that flashes in her eyes.

She rolls her eyes, leaning down to kiss you, although it doesn’t last nearly long enough. You make an attempt to chase after her but she presses you back into the pillows with her hands. Azzi clears her throat, her face twisting up as she imitates you. “You were all like, ‘you wanna go back to the room, baby?’” Her tone makes you snort as she deepens her voice comically, taking the heat out of her words. “‘I know you need it. Most Outstanding Player, huh? Know you want me to take care of you. Let me show you–’”

You laugh again, covering her mouth with one of your hands as you interrupt her. “Okay! Okay, I get it.” Your smile turns a little mischievous as you brush her hair away from her neck to appreciate your handiwork. “It worked, didn’t it? Got you into my bed and away from our drunk ass teammates.” Azzi swats your hand away, grinning as you let your hand fall to grip her waist again.

“You’re incorrigible,” she mutters.

“Can you blame me?” you ask, letting your gaze drop down, smiling to yourself. Your conversation is mostly banter, but your features soften when you truly take her in. You love her so much that you’re sure that’s the only thing you know most days. “I’m so lucky.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m naked and on top of you,” she retorts, but she’s grinning, the affection clear as day on her face.

“I’d say it if you were wearing a moldy trash bag,” you promise. “Although the whole being naked and on top of me thing is really nice, too. Should do it more often.”

She shakes her head, amused as she rolls off of you, returning her head to your chest. “And you just killed the mood.” You sigh in feigned defeat, scratching lightly at her scalp.

“My girl’s a national champion and the most outstanding player,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “Guess I have to get better pick up lines.” That gives her pause. She doesn’t respond for a beat, and when you glance down to check on her, you find her staring into space, deep in thought with a soft little smile on her face. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, her tone easy. “We’re national champions.” She says that like it’s finally dawning on her. You knew you were winning the game at the end of the second quarter when Ashlynn sunk a three, beating the buzzer and giving the Huskies a ten point lead going into halftime. Then, that lead turned into twenty points by the end of the third. Twenty-three by the end of the fourth when the buzzer echoed. Knowing that you were winning the game feels a lot more different from knowing that you were national champions. It hadn’t sunk in for you at the afterparty, not when Paige was parading around with the net around her neck drunk off her ass. It hadn’t sunk in when you’d taken Azzi’s hat off of her head, twisting it backwards so you could kiss her without the hat brims hitting you both in the forehead. Still, the knowledge has yet to set in, even when you glance over at the desk, where you can see yours and Azzi’s pieces of the net tied together surrounded by blue and white confetti.

Maybe it sets in when you meet Azzi’s eyes, taking in the glimmering awe in her pupils and the way her face glows with excitement, a deep relief, and gratitude. Your girlfriend’s a national champion – so were you, but knowing that Azzi did it, that she won despite everything she’s been through, makes your throat tighten with emotion. Countless hours of healing, of enduring, of getting better led her here, and she’d capped off this tumultuous journey with twenty-four points against one of the toughest teams in the country. She was coming back to bring the 13th national championship to UConn. You’d be right there with her for your senior year.

You smile at her, your expression a little wobbly as you try not to cry from the knowledge that you’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted right in front of you. “We are,” you agree. You brush your fingers through her curls again, pressing your lips to her forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m glad I got to do it with you,” Azzi murmurs, her smile just a little brighter.

Yours is crooked, softening the intensity of the moment with a bit of mischief as you ask, “Let’s do it again next season?”

Azzi grins, sticking out her pinky finger. You link yours with hers and you seal the promise with a deep, lingering kiss, one that makes you feel more like a winner than the cool metal of the trophy in your hands ever did.

Next season could wait. For now, you’re content to curl back up with Azzi, to ward off the rest of the day and enjoy the last remnants of this perfect morning.

[fractualized]

A while ago I got under someone's skin for referencing Joker's surprising delayed reaction to killing Jason Todd, and since then I've been thinking it's worth digging into as an interesting element of Joker's characterization.

Of course, first thing's first: Jason's murder in Batman (1940) #427, as originally presented in 1988.

Jason has just reconnected with his biological mother, Sheila Haywood, at a famine relief camp in Ethiopia— and he's discovered that Joker is blackmailing her with information about her criminal past. She gets him truckloads of medical supplies to sell on the black market, and Joker restocks the trucks with toxin. While Bruce races to stop a tampered truck, Jason decides to help his mother on his own. When he discloses he's Robin, however, Sheila betrays him to Joker, not only to stay on Joker's good side but because she's actually been embezzling money from the organization she works for this whole time. She's afraid an investigation prompted by Batman and Robin's appearance would expose this fact.

So Sheila stands by as Jason is felled by Joker and his goons, and then the crowbarring starts.

It's bad! When we return later, Jason is presumably dead.

While Joker isn't shocked that he's murdered a child, he does have an unexpected reaction to Sheila's point. He hadn't really been thinking about what he was doing, implying that he hadn't intended to kill Jason. He just got carried away, whoopsie! He didn't do this to get at Batman; he wasn't thinking about Batman at all. Now, however, he's concerned about how Batman will react.

Joker thinks Jason is already dead. The purpose of the bomb is to get rid of the evidence of his involvement, including Sheila. Joker is not broken up about what he did, but he does have a sense that he's gone a step too far and he doesn't want Batman to know about it. At least for now!

In the end, while Jason wakes and he and his mother try to save each other, they're trapped in the warehouse when the bomb goes off. Bruce makes it back only in time to find a dying Sheila, who tells him it was Joker. When Bruce finds Jason, Jason gets no last words. He's already dead, and Bruce is devastated.

A clue from Joker leads Bruce to the United Nations in New York, and there, infamously, Bruce learns that Joker has been made the ambassador from Iran. Joker is now protected from prosecution, and Batman going after him risks an international incident. Bruce still very much wants to, but Superman stops him.

Well, mostly Superman. I recommend reading Batman #429 to see Bruce's full thought process on this. He is furious and constantly thinking about finally ending Joker— but he also questions his mental state. He still wonders if he can hold Joker responsible if he believes Joker is insane. He uses phrases like "what happened to Jason" like it was a natural disaster, not murder. He even confronts Joker to give him one last chance to turn himself in to Arkham Asylum. Bruce is in a kind of denial, still grabbing at how things usually go.

But back to Joker. Evidently, he's no longer worried that Batman will find out he killed Robin. Joker admits to it immediately.

I assume Joker realized there was no point in denying it. Is Batman going to think it's a coincidence that Robin got blown up when Joker was around? Though Bruce does say it's Joker's taunts that 100% confirm for him that the clown was responsible, pointing again to Bruce still grasping for reasons to not break his rule in his grief.

By the end of the issue, Joker has naturally tried to kill the entire United Nations assembly, which instantly made him free game. So Bruce pursues him to a helicopter, and an in-air scuffle ensues in which Bruce explicitly prevents Joker from being killed by friendly fire, evidently so he can decide how Joker will die. Bruce jumps out of the helicopter, abandoning Joker to a fiery crash. However, despite Bruce's (supposed) intentions, Joker's body is nowhere to be found. The clown lives!

So that's it, right? Joker felt some unease about killing Jason initially, but in a short time, he was happy to gloat about it to Batman's face.

But when Joker reappears in Batman #450, in 1990, he is not triumphant. He's holed up in a dilapidated building, where he learns someone is impersonating him.

How often do we see Joker upset by murders? When the story returns to him, we learn more about his mental state.

With all of Joker's cackling glee at the things he's done, coming close to actual death in the helicopter crash has jarred him— and not just the crash, but the murder that led to it. He recoils from the memory of what he did to Jason. It's why he can't see the joke anymore. It's set apart from his previous crimes. It's too far.

Which is not at all to say that Joker is completely broken up about Jason. By the end of #450, he rallies and sets out to go after his copycat and restore his reputation to his liking.

In Batman #451, though, Joker is still plagued by doubts along the way.

Even when he overcomes those doubts, claiming the mantle as the one and only Joker when his copycat dies by falling into acid, Joker challenges Gordon to finally kill him. It's reminiscent of The Killing Joke, the first time Joker went too far. But like TKJ, Gordon and Batman decide to get Joker back to Arkham against their more vengeful instincts.

Joker's also decided Arkham is just what he needs. Outside, he's plagued by the reality of what he's done; in Arkham, he can settle back into his insanity and stop caring about it again.

So after that, Joker has no second thoughts about killing Jason, right? After all, he largely references the murder in callous terms. In-universe this makes sense as Joker revising history in his own head, particularly as more stories portray his effort to be more monster than man. Monsters don't have qualms about murder! But this is comics, so we can also presume that not all Joker writers know or remember #450/451, which I think is a shame. I find stories in which Joker expresses even just a degree of vulnerability to be more interesting than those where he's just mwahaha evil.

I have seen a few other bat stories bring some nuance into Joker's perception of Jason's death, though.

First up is the particularly nuanced "Fool's Errand" in Detective Comics (1937) #726, published in 1998. Bruce visits Joker in Arkham to get information on how to find a kidnapped girl who's running out of time. It just so happens Joker arranged this kidnapping for a particular day.

I strongly recommend this issue for batjokes fans, as it revolves around Joker talking the case through with Batman in his cell to help him figure out more clues to a crime Joker himself planned. Even with Bruce beating Joker up, the conversational tone feels almost friendly. They're just doing their usual thing.

Well, sort of. Bruce has already said he's not in the mood, and he interrupts their conversation to say so again.

Joker could insist that Batman stay and keep playing the game, and needle him for being unwilling to merely talk to Joker to rescue this child. Instead, Joker gives up her location.

And Bruce does come back as predicted.

So that was Joker's nefarious plan. He wanted to restore some hope to Bruce's cynical soul to be sure that his future failures would hurt even more. But it sure seems the middle didn't go the way Joker expected, when he recognized Batman just wasn't going to play the game as usual.

Joker doesn't jump into taunting. He doesn't answer Bruce at first. He's withdrawn and reflective. He's got something else on his mind on this anniversary of the second Robin's death, and he knows that Bruce does, too. Perhaps not forcing Batman to play was a small gesture, acknowledging the difficulty of the day, remembering how things changed. And what does that gesture cost Joker when he still gets the outcome he wants?

Second example is actually also called "Fool's Errand," this one from Robin (1993) #85, published in 2001. This is a fun one in which Joker discusses his interactions and frustrations with the Robins.

But while Joker indicates more than once that he wants to fight Batsy alone, after he talks about killing Jason, this is the next page:

Joker does not then say he was relieved when another Robin showed up, but still. He's acknowledged again that when he murdered Jason, things were not right. As angry as the birdies make him, they're a key component in the game.

Then we come back to "Once More, With Feeling!" in Harley Quinn (2000) #25, from 2002. Harley's been playing double-agent against Batman with Joker, and she and Joker have this exchange.

Joker typically makes light of murdering Robin, but it seems that when he's with just about his only confidante, he lets other feelings about it burst out.

There's also a flashback to DitF in Batman: Gotham Knights #44 in 2003. We get an exchange between Bruce and Joker before Bruce jumps out of the helicopter.

Joker laughs as the helicopter dives, ready to die, but before that, he seems resigned. He doesn't throw in a real dig about murdering Jason, and he doesn't gloat that he's finally gotten Batman to kill him. He acknowledges he crossed a line.

Lastly, there's a 2006 exchange between, well, Joker and Jason himself in "All They Do is Watch Us Kill, Part 2" as part of Under the Red Hood in Batman (1940) #649. Jason has kidnapped Joker as batbait, and when Joker needles him, Jason needles him back.

Joker regularly extolls his own crimes, but suddenly one of his victims mockingly accuses him of putting up a front, of not being as coldhearted and untouchable as he wants to seem. Maybe Joker does doubt what he's doing and retreats under the cover of madness so he doesn't have to think about it— just as he did in Batman #451.

I'm not sure if there are other examples of Joker expressing anything but mocking glee about Jason's death. I do know of times he's shown a sort of fondness for Jason (such as in The Man Who Stopped Laughing #4, Gotham War: Red Hood #2, Suicide Squad: Get Joker #3), but that's not really the same thing. Joker could've seen Red Hood as his and Batman's Frankenstein child without feeling any squeamishness about killing him in the first place.

But if anyone knows of any other moments where Joker does not act like killing Jason is absolutely his most favorite thing he ever did, do share!

[solarmorrigan]

It's Coming From Inside the House

For the @steddie-spooktober day 5 prompt: "Did you hear that?" Rated: T | Words: 2472 | CW: panic attack, mentions of recreational drug use | Tags: Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington friendship, pre-relationship, sorta, Eddie Munson being an asshole, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, he has the range, Steve Harrington has PTSD, post season 2, pre season 3 Divider credit: @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Now look, Eddie has never claimed to be the world’s nicest guy. He’s often claimed the opposite, in fact, in the name of getting shithead bullies and jocks to leave him and his alone.

And Harrington is no saint, either. Sure, he’s turned over some kind of new leaf since last year, ditching the assholes he used to hang out with and mostly keeping to himself (particularly since November, when his busted face had been the talk of Hawkins High), but he’s been part of enough sportsball-related hazing rituals for Eddie to assume he can at least take a joke.

Anyway, the point is, when he’s given occasion to realize that King Steve seems to be afraid of the dark, Eddie isn’t quite able to resist the urge to poke at him. Just a little.

He’s got Harrington in his trailer, just dropping by for a late-night transaction, and they’ve got an unexpected spring storm raging outside. It had just blown in, heavy winds and rain and all, surrounding the trailer with the sound of nature’s howling fury, and Harrington already seems on edge (probably why he needs the weed, really).

And then the lights flicker–

Flicker–

Flicker–

And cut out.

Both Eddie and Harrington freeze, plunged into darkness cut only by the frequent flashes of lightning.

“What just happened?” Harrington asks, his voice gone tight.

“Seems like the power went out,” Eddie snarks, because that much should be obvious. “Probably the wind. The grid isn’t as secure out here where it’s only us poor people.”

Harrington has no comeback, which is a little disappointing. He’s so quiet that the only way Eddie can tell he’s still there at all is because he can see him illuminated by brief lightning strikes.

Eddie sighs and starts shuffling in the direction of the kitchen. “Gimme a minute, I think we’ve got an old camping lantern somewhere.”

He bangs his knees on just about every object he walks past, swearing up a storm, but he finally makes it to the kitchen and feels around in the cabinets for the lantern he hopes is still there. He knocks over a few pots and pans in the process, but finally – success!

Eddie gropes for the switch on top of the lantern as he pulls it from the cabinet, praying that the battery inside is still good, and flinches and blinks the sparkles from his eyes when the thing lights up about six inches from his face.

Illumination acquired, Eddie uses it to find the junk drawer and pull out the flashlight they keep inside (might’ve been easier to find that first, instead of knocking into all the cookware, now that Eddie thinks on it), and then heads back to where he’s left Harrington standing in the living room.

“Let there be light,” he says, holding up the old lantern in victory.

Harrington, again, says nothing. He looks pale in the light of the lantern, nearly frozen where he stands, staring out the window. He almost reminds Eddie of a frightened rabbit, eyes wide and body locked up in a fight, flight, or freeze response heavily weighted in favor of the third option. And if he’s the rabbit, Eddie is like nothing so much as the wolf, ready to sink his teeth in.

Just a little. Just as a joke, that’s all.

As he places the camping lantern on the table, he pauses and cocks his head, pretending to listen.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Harrington finally turns to look at him. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Harrington rasps, eyes darting back towards the window.

“I don’t know, it was… like sort of a scratching sound? It’s– There!” Eddie jumps, playing at being startled. “There it was again, did you hear it?”

Harrington swallows heavily, shaking his head. “I don’t hear anything, are you sure–”

“I think it’s coming from the door,” Eddie hisses, voice gone low, nearly covered by the steady roll of thunder.

Harrington whirls back around, looking at the shadowed shape of the door where it sits just outside the halo of light the little lantern is throwing out.

“What if something’s trying to get in?” Eddie’s practically whispering now, low and dramatic. “Should we– should we check?”

Slowly, Harrington nods. “I’ll check,” he says, and he sounds so resolute about it, so resigned, like he’s agreeing to go off to war, that Eddie has to bite down on a laugh. So fucking serious, this guy.

“I’m right behind you,” Eddie says, though Harrington barely seems to register when Eddie sidles up at his back.

They cross from where they’d been standing by the coffee table and over to the door, standing in front of it as another crack of thunder booms overhead. Harrington reaches for the handle.

“Go ahead,” Eddie breathes, raising his arms. “I’m… right… BEHIND YOU!”

As he shouts, he grabs Harrington around the middle, digging his fingers into his sides almost like he’s trying to tickle him, and holy shit, Harrington’s reaction does not disappoint. He jumps and jerks like he’s just been electrocuted, letting out a strangled yell as he pulls away from Eddie, whirling around to face him, and Eddie can’t help it– he laughs.

Like, not a cruel laugh, just the laugh of a prank successfully pulled off.

“I can’t believe you actually fell for that!” he wheezes out around his giggles.

And Eddie isn’t fully ignorant to the idea that there are consequences for his actions; he’s pretty sure at this point Harrington is going to start yelling, maybe start swinging, almost definitely cussing Eddie out – except he doesn’t.

He doesn’t actually do anything. He’s just standing there, eyes blown wide, one hand clenched over his chest while he almost heaves for breath.

“…Harrington?” Eddie tries, as his laughter dies away. “Hey. You good?”

Harrington doesn’t reply. Eddie’s not even sure he’s seeing him right now; his gaze looks glassed over in the low light, staring at something in the middle distance that Eddie can’t see. It’s kind of freaking Eddie out.

“Harrington. Hey. Can you hear me?” Eddie reaches up to wave a hand in front of Harrington’s face, and the reaction is immediate.

He jumps again, swearing and stumbling backwards until he hits the wall by the door with a hard thump, where he slides down into a sitting position on the floor, knees pulled up in front of him and arms wrapped around his middle. He’s still breathing hard, and his eyes are darting around the trailer, still looking for something, but fucked if Eddie knows what.

And fuck. Shit, Eddie feels like an asshole, he’s just given Harrington some kind of full-blown panic attack. Shit.

“Harrington,” he says, trying to sound firm and reassuring even though he has no goddamn idea what he’s doing as he crouches down in front of the guy. “Listen, there’s nothing to be scared of, man, it was just me being a dick.”

Harrington’s eyes flick in Eddie’s direction, but Eddie’s not all that convinced he’s registering what Eddie’s saying.

“Okay, I’m gonna – just a second.” Eddie holds a finger up and stands again, darting over to the coffee table to grab the lantern and, almost as an afterthought, the flashlight. “Okay, here we go,” he says, kneeling in front of Harrington and placing the lantern between them. “Do you wanna hold the flashlight? Would that help?”

He’s barely held the flashlight up for Harrington to take when the other boy’s fingers are wrapping around it, nearly jerking it out of Eddie’s hand. He flicks it on and sweeps the beam around the room, nearly blinding Eddie at least twice in the process.

“See?” Eddie says once Harrington’s performed as much of an inspection of the place as he can from his position on the floor. “Nothing here. Just you, me, and the storm.”

This doesn’t seem to be as reassuring as Eddie would have hoped; Harrington is still on the hysterical edge of hyperventilating, flashlight clutched in one fist and the other hand clenching his jacket where it’s still wrapped around his middle.

“Harrington. Steve,” Eddie tries, and he finally gets a long enough look from Harrington that he thinks he must actually be hearing him. “You’ve gotta breathe, man. Deeper breaths, c’mon. I don’t want you passing out on me.”

And it looks like maybe he’s trying, but the air keeps stuttering back out of his lungs before he can hold it for long. He shakes his head, and Eddie bites his lip, thinking.

“Here. I’m just gonna– don’t freak out again, okay?” Slowly, Eddie reaches for Harrington’s free hand, and with an air of confusion, Harrington lets him take it, unwrapping his fingers from where they’re clutched in his jacket and letting Eddie pull until his palm is pressed flat against Eddie’s chest. “Copy me, okay? In… and out.”

Exaggerating his breaths, Eddie takes big gulps of air, in and out, and waits for Harrington to follow suit – and after a few long moments, he manages it.

Slowly, his breathing deepens out, no longer coming in quick, shallow gasps, and his posture seems to deflate as it does. He sags back against the wall, the flashlight still clutched tight in his fist, and lets his head fall back.

“Better?” Eddie asks.

Harrington shrugs. He flinches at the next flash of lighting, and Eddie squeezes his hand, which he is, for some reason, still holding.

“Just the storm,” Eddie says, and Harrington shoots him a vaguely bitchy look that feels a lot more on par with how he should be acting.

He doesn’t take his hand back, though, so Eddie just keeps holding it.

He holds it and he talks, trying to drown out the rumbles of thunder that are growing more and more distant, trying to distract from the flashes of lightning that seem to be distressing Harrington more than anything else, trying to make up for the fact that he’d caused this whole mess in the first place. And Harrington seems to listen, watching him with eyes half-lidded in exhaustion, even cracking a tiny smile a few times, when Eddie gets particularly animated.

Then, after about an hour of nothing but the warm glow of the camping lantern, nothing but the sound of Eddie’s voice and the dying storm, the power kicks back on. The lights come to life and the fridge starts humming from the kitchen, and Harrington squeezes Eddie’s hand hard, eyes falling shut for a moment in apparent divine gratitude.

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters, and Eddie can’t help but agree.

Slowly, he lets go of Harrington’s hand, and Harrington takes it back, awkwardly handing over the flashlight as if in trade. He stands from the floor, a little shaky, and Eddie follows suit, ready to catch him if his overtaxed body doesn’t prove to be up to the task, but Harrington manages to stand on his own two feet, so Eddie takes a step back.

“Uh… thanks. For all of that,” Harrington says quietly, voice a little wrecked.

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m the one who gave you a fucking panic attack in the first place. Sitting with you was literally the least I could do.”

Harrington shrugs. “You didn’t have to, though.”

“Common decency—and my conscience—beg to differ,” Eddie says, and Harrington lets out a little huff that might have been a laugh.

“Anyway, I should get out of your hair,” Harrington says. “Do you still have the, uh–”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Eddie had nearly forgotten why Harrington had come over there in the first place. He crosses back over to the coffee table, where he’d dropped the bag when the power had gone out, and snatches it up, offering it to Harrington. “Here you are, my liege.”

The title, caught somewhere between mocking and actual friendliness, makes Harrington huff out another laugh, and he reaches for his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?”

Eddie almost can’t believe he’s about to say it, but– “Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house.”

He’ll eat the cost if it’ll assuage his guilt – if it’ll get the image of Harrington crumpled on the floor, gasping for air as he searches the room for some kind of threat, out of Eddie’s head.

Harrington frowns. “You don’t have to do that.”

Eddie shrugs. “Call it even for having given you all the more reason to need to smoke it.”

Harrington is still frowning, hand still poised to pull his wallet from his back pocket, so Eddie shoves the baggie into his free hand, closing his fingers around it and letting go.

“Looks like it’s in your hands now, no takebacks!” Eddie insists. “Or, you know, no givebacks, I guess.”

Harrington rolls his eyes, but he drops his hand and tucks the baggie into the pocket of his jacket. “Well, thanks, then. I think.”

Eddie nods, searching over Harrington’s face; he’s still pale as shit, and it makes the dark circles under his eyes, previously barely noticeable, stand out in stark relief. He looks like he’s almost swaying where he stands, and Eddie frowns.

“You gonna be good to drive?” he asks, not really sure what he plans to do if Harrington isn’t.

“I think I’ll be fine, man,” Harrington snarks, and it’s close enough to what Eddie’s used to hearing from him that he’s willing to let the matter drop.

Harrington turns for the door, but pauses just before he reaches for the handle. Eddie wonders if maybe he’s still thinking of Eddie’s stupid prank, unable to shake the idea that something really might be waiting at the door to get him, when Harrington turns back to look at him.

“Don’t mention this to anyone, okay?” he says, possibly going for demanding, maybe even threatening, but landing somewhere closer to a plea. “I don’t need– I just don’t need anyone knowing…”

“Mum’s the word, man,” Eddie assures him quickly, miming zipping up his lips, locking them, and tossing the key over his shoulder.

With a tiny smile crossing his face, Harrington nods. “Thanks. I’ll, uh – see you around, I guess.”

“Yeah. See you around.” Eddie nods.

And with that, Harrington is gone, out the door and crunching across the wet gravel to his car, taking the strangeness of the night with him.

Eddie stands in the middle of his living room for a long moment, feeling as though something about his view of Steve Harrington—possibly even his view of something larger—has shifted, though he can’t quite put his finger on how.

He puzzles it over for a bit before shrugging it off, stooping to grab the lantern and put it back where it belongs. It doesn’t really matter, he figures. It’s not like he and Harrington will have much reason to interact after this.

[creepsterdreams]

I'm thinking about mc having a voice fetish and telling ts lI's that their voice is mc type

I love this request so much mostly because it allows me to bring up my headcanons for what they're voices sound like

TOUCHSTARVED LI's reaction to MC having a voice fetish and them being their "type"

Summary: How would the LI's respond if you had a voice fetish and told them that they were just your type

CW: Suggestiveness, some manhandling, teasing, MC being made fun of kinda, gn!MC, established relationships

LEANDER

Most people would’ve been annoyed with a voice that sounded like the textbook hero you would see in books, that boyish charm and cheerful attitude that never seemed to go away. Then there were those moments where that tone dropped, and their voice commanded the room, demanding to be acknowledged.

To you, it was just what you needed.

Another dispute had occurred within the walls of the Wet wick, this time between a bloodhound and a man that had just recently arrived to Eridia. Leander was quick on his feet, standing high on one of the tables yelling out that the next round of drinks were on him, all in an attempt to make everyone settle down. There was a certain edge to his tone that made you perk up, as if you were afraid to find out the consequences of not paying attention to him. Telling you that he is a leader and you will listen.

You quickly got up and went outside to the back of the building, honestly you had to get out of there before you jumped on him right where he stood.

After a few minutes of you pacing outside, wondering what to tell the mage once he realizes you had disappeared, the door swung open, and there he was, in all his glory.

“Hey sweetheart, I noticed you had ran off, everything okay?”

He was not making this any easier.

“I’m fine I just…needed a moment.” You responded hastily, voice wavering slightly.

Unfortunately for you, Leander picked up on your flushed tone, coming closer and sitting down against the wall next to you. He looks at you with a worried expression and wraps his arm around your shoulder, gently shaking you. “You sure you alright? You can tell me anything you know.”

Well if there was one flaw about Leander that you hates the most, it was his need to push.

So, you take a deep breath, and rub the tops of your thighs, trying to find the proper wording for your answer. “Well, it’s kind of hard to explain.”

He doesn’t respond, instead choosing to nod so you knew he was listening.

“It’s…your voice.”

Leander raises his eyebrows, his expression filled with confusion. “My voice?”

You couldn’t respond after that, the words got caught up in your throat, and heat was beginning to rise in your neck. But judging by your reaction, he somehow read your mind.

And that made his confusion turn into pure amusement.

“You like my voice sweetheart?”

Curse him.

You nodded, keeping your gaze trained on how his own green eyes seemingly lit up as he continued.

“Dawww you should’ve said something then, I would’ve talked your ear off even more.”

The joke made you laugh and press your forehead against his chest, breathing deeply. “I didn’t really know how to tell you that it’s just my type.”

He lets out a barking laugh, pausing for a moment to wrap his arms around your body, pulling you as close as possible, before pressing a gently kiss on the top of your head.

“Well, at least now I have an excuse to never shut up around ya.”

AIS

Ais had the kind of voice that you could only pull off when you’ve just freshly woken up, and had a few cigarettes. It was deep, and raspy in all the right places. The kind that sent shivers down your spine upon hearing it.

In the current times, you were crossed legged on the grounds of the seaspring. Luckily sitting far enough away from the bloody waters so you remained unaffected by it.

Princess was resting her head on your lap, with the rest of her body lying on the wooden boards. Soft warbling noises were coming from her, sounding almost like a purr, and the tendrils on her head swaying around in glee as you pet her.

Eventually, the doors open, and in walks Ais returning from the city, the horde of soulless surrounding him. Honestly, if they didn’t have the appearance of monsters, you would’ve mistaken them for overexcited puppies seeing their owner after a long day.

Ais chuckles and leans down, gently rubbing all of them on the tops of their heads as he coo’s at them. After that he sits up again and walks over to you, greeting you with a kiss on the forehead before giving his focus to Princess.

“Such a good girl, making sure they didn’t get into trouble while I was gone.” He murmured before glancing at you with a teasing grin.

You roll your eyes at his antics, scooting over slightly so he can sit down next to you and allow Princess to drape her body over his lap. You both always have a habit of spoiling her.

But rather than continuing to reward Princess with her much-needed pets, your mind drifts off and finds itself being pulled into the soft whispers coming from Ais. There was something so hypotonic about his voice that always put you into a trance, no matter if he was loud and obnoxious while at the bar, or gentle and tender while with you. Either way it always hit just the right spots.

"Sparrow?"

Ais's sudden call out causes you to jump and leave your thoughts. You look at him and see his intense stare, probably wondering why you were so silent.

"I'm alright, just daydreaming a bit."

He raises his eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "About?"

You straighten up and your eyes widen, not expecting that question. Just how would he react if you told him about the growing attraction to his voice?

Your silence only pushes him further, the edges of his lips rising slightly. "Care to share, sparrow?"

And before you can think over your next words, your impulse takes over quickly. "Well, I was thinking about how much your voice is just my type."

The next few moments of silence are almost deafening.

Neither of you says a thing, the only thing being heard is Princess whining at the loss of attention and the waves from the seaspring. But what broke that silence, was Ais reaching over and grabbing you to place you on his lap.

Yelping, you try to escape his embrace, but then again you are working with monster strength here. He keeps his arms tightly wrapped around you, pressing his face as close to yours as possible, making sure his lips were right against your ear.

"What about my voice? Come on I wanna hear all about it."

You beg him to let you go, you're wriggling only getting slower as time goes by once you start accepting your entrapment. Ais lets out another warm laugh, leaning in closer and slightly dragging his sharp canines over the edge of your ear, causing you to shiver.

"If you won't confess so easily, luckily for you we have all night to talk."

KURAS

Kuras's voice was something you would expect to only hear in your dreams. The soft, yet almost ethereal tone that brings you nothing but comfort. A part of you thinks that Kuras is aware of your liking towards his voice, but, another part of honestly thinks his lack of feelings towards certain things makes him oblivious towards the matter.

You were at the moment caught up with organizing the mess that was the bookshelf hidden in the clinic. Truth be told, it was partially your fault that you begged him to add it, wanting those who were here for long periods to have some sort of entertainment. But after some time of having it, your lover eventually grew annoyed by how some people just basically threw it back onto the shelf rather than in its rightful place. So, here you were.

You were sitting down on a chair in front of the pile of books, having one in each hand as you took glances at the shelf and pondered on where they should go. You don't know how long you've been at it honestly, but apparently, it was long enough for your lover to walk into the room, wondering what you were up too.

"Dear? Have you really been in here all day?" Kuras says as he walks up next to you, peering down at the work you've done.

You respond with a tired hum, putting the other two books away before leaning your head against Kuras's midsection, sighing contently at the feeling.

He lets out a silent laugh, using one of his hands to softly rub his thumb on the back of your head. That's when he also starts telling you about his day, the patients that came in the early morning, how he had to make an emergency stop at the market to grab some more ingredients for remedies. As he continued on, you found yourself becoming increasingly sleepy, the gently rumbling of his voice slowly lulling you into a much needed rest.

"My love, do I need to carry you to the bed again?" He says in a quiet tone, yet you could hear a faint sense of teasing.

You shake your head scoot your chair closer so that you can snuggle more into his middle, using one of your own hands to play with the many accessories adorning his clothes.

But before you knew it, your exhaustion took over your sense of thought, and you started spilling whatever you held in your mind.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a really nice voice?”

This made Kuras pause his movement, looking down at you as he took notice of your tired appearance. “Is that so?”

You giggled before nodding, pulling on one of the golden pins. “I could listen it all day, and it’s just the kind that I love.”

Kuras awkwardly cleared his throat, covering his mouth to hide the obvious smile painted on his lips. Realizing your fidgeting was beginning to slow down, he gently removed your hand from him, before leaning down and placing his arms underneath your back and legs, so he can pick you up.

He then walks out of the room, and begins making his way towards the bedroom upstairs, making sure to readjust you if needed.

Kuras smiles down at your peaceful expression, seeing that you had fallen asleep while he was carrying you.

Hopefully you’ll enjoy the sound of him reading out loud, because that’s all he planned to do now that he had such interesting information.

VERE

If Ais’s voice was raspy and deep, then Vere’s is the definition of sultry and seductive. And it didn’t help that Vere was fully aware of this fact, and used it to its fullest advantage. The smooth yet silky tone that he uses when he wants to bring even the strongest to their knees. His voice was that of an additive drug that you couldn’t help but never get enough of.

Vere was having a long conversation with someone he had saw at a bar while you too were together, an acquaintance he called them. But even as you were barely paying attention to what was being said you could tell it was more of Vere gossiping while the other simply sat and listened. As you know the fox had little to no close relationships besides you and Ais, so they were probably just someone he tolerated rather than befriended.

But what did pull you back into the discussion was the sound of Vere’s tone dropping a bit, as he began recounting how one of the mages from the Senobium had the audacity to tell him what he could and couldn’t keep in the dungeon where they kept him. In his opinion, he had the right to decorate it as he pleased, after all he did his job perfectly, so who were they to dare question what he did outside that?

What made you pay so close attention though, was the hiss in Vere’s voice, somehow even when utterly annoyed he sounded enchanting.

“He was such a boring one, am I right darling?”

Now instead of in front of the other person, Vere’s gaze was now completely directed towards you. His eyes low and his expression nothing short of mischievous.

He knew what he was doing to you.

You quickly clear your throat and straighten your back, not wanting him to notice your obviously dazed state. “I agree, if there’s one thing that you love more than me it’s your sense of style.”

Vere lets out a taunting cackle that reveals his long and sharp teeth, reminding you just of what he can do if provoked. “That you are correct, my pet.”

The person he was speaking you eventually got up and left, claiming that they had a job they needed to attend to early in the morning.

So, now it left only you and your teasing lover.

He slid over to you, sitting down on the chair and leaning over to his chin was resting on your shoulder.

“We should head back home, I’m starting to miss our bed.”

You send him a flushed smile, readjusting your clothing. “It’s getting late anyway, I’m starting to feel a bit tired.”

He snickers, using one of his hands to reaching up and caress the side of your face, slowly dragging his claw down your cheek.

“I noticed your staring while I was talking to them, is there something you will like to share darling?”

You pause again, looking down at your feet as Vere continues teasing you with his words.

He then uses his pointer finger to tilt your head towards him, smirking as he takes in your expression. “It’s my voice isn’t it? It’s just what you need to get your rocks off? Hm?”

Well, shit. Guess there’s no hiding it now.

His smirk only widens, turning more into an amused grin.

“Hm, well now I guess we have even more of a reason to get home. I’ll show you other ways I can use this mouth of mine.”

MHIN

There were a lot of ways you could describe Mhin’s voice. One of them being quiet, yet firm. They often spoke in harsh, short sentences. Being more of someone that shows you what they mean rather than telling you. But that didn’t stop you from loving it any less. Another thing you loved was that their voice had somewhat of an accent to it, making it clear they weren’t from Eridia. To you it only made them sound more adorable, but you weren’t going to tell them that.

Mhin was in your room at the Wet Wick, washing out all the blood, and small parts of soulless that got on their hair. It was currently out of the shirt ponytail they usually kept it in, so now it was spread across their shoulders. All the more pleasing to you.

They were grumbling underneath their breath, hastily preening at the locks. You watched them closely, trying not to make your amusement noticeable as they continuously scooped up small amounts of water and flinging it onto their head.

After some time, they take a nearby cloth and use it to dry themselves, before standing up fully and taking a few steps over to you.

“What’s so funny?” They huff at you.

You covered your mouth, hiding your growing smile. “Oh nothing, just remembered something.”

They hummed and sat down next to you on the bed, removing the cloth and throwing it onto the bucket nearby.

But before they can talk again, your voice suddenly rang out.

“Has anyone ever told you your voice is really cute?”

Their eyes go wide and they whip their head around to face you. “Excuse me?”

Finally showing your grin, you repeat yourself. “It’s cute, I like listening to it.”

Within seconds, their face automatically turns red, and they look away, shielding you from seeing their expressions. “You can’t just say that!”

You let out a quiet giggle, sitting up so you can wrap your arms around their middle and lean against their back. “But it’s the truth. Your voice is just my type, my love.”

Of course you had to add the pet name just to drive this a little further.

They tense up in your hold, clenching their fist as they continue looking away from you. “Tsk…damn you.”

You laugh again, pressing closer so you can press a soft kiss on their cheek. “I love you too, Mhin.”

It took a lot of convincing but you were able to get them to talk some more, but only because you begged, of course.

[b0y---t0y]

PrettyBoy.Comᥫ᭡

Satoru Gojo x Sukuna Ryomen x Male Reader

Normal Highschool au

> Satoru and Reader are boyfriends who have a blog about their crush Sukuna. When Sukuna finds out about it he goes looking for the creeps to get them to shut it down even if it's harmless, but now they're asking him on a date to the movies??

"Don't post that.." Satoru said panicked taking the phone from your hands "What? Why??" You asked confused, "because posting about his outfit makes up seem like creeps" Satoru defended deleting your initial post about Sukuna's outfit even though it was just the regular school uniform. You deadpanned rolling your eyes "We have a whole blog about him, it's already creepy" He turned red "But he doesn't know about it..so its less creepy. It's kinda like our personal diary, just everyone can read it." you almost laughed at that "When you describe it like that we should just invest in a joint diary"

"You're right. Should we get a diary??"

"Maybe. But he's a second year, and like you said he doesn't know about it. I doubt he's gonna notice now."

"Yeah you're right"

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"I'm sorry??" Sukuna looked at Uraume wide eyed as if he was crazy.

"Yeah, there's some kind of blog about you called pretty boy.com . It's public, and definitely ran by more than one person."

"Its called what? Y'know what forget the name. When did this start?" Sukuna asked, how did he not know about this. A whole blog about him. Who started it, were they stalking him, how much did they actually know about him.

Uraume looked down at his phone "Maybe around the beginning of the year like a few months in. It mostly harmless most of its about how cool or handsome you are. These people must really admire you". Sukuna looked back at him and sighed. Fangirls what a hassle. He never had fan girls before. "When I get my hands on those girls they're going to be so scared to even have the slightest thought of me" Sukuna said fed up but Uraume just rolled his eyes "Stop. You're not putting your hands on girls who are harmless." Sukuna huffed.

"Do you know who started it?"

"No. But I'll ask around."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"They're first years." Uraume started sitting down next to Sukuna in the lunch making the boy jump, "You need to stop doing that. Start announcing your presence" Sukuna stated. Uraume just nodded "I found out about the blog though, I asked around and its run by first years. No one would give me names though." Sukuna huffed he wanted to shut this blog down. "Well that narrows it down enough I'll ask, maybe I'll get some names" "Maybe you will"

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You ran to Satoru slamming your hands on his desk earning you a few looks but you ignore them "Code red he knows about the blog!" He looked up at you wide eyed "What?"

"He's asking around about our blog! He found out about it" You said shaking Satoru.

"You jinxed us! We need to shut it down and get a joint diary now!" Satoru accused pointing at you

"Calm down. He doesn't know it's us." You say trying to calm Satoru down "People are only say he knows about the blog. He is asking around for names though but no one gave any names to his friend so I doubt they'll give any to him "

"You don't know that! He maybe very handsome but people some people are afraid of him they'd probably rat us out just from a look"

You sighed "Then we'll just have to go to him."

"What?"

"We need to charm him! Look he's already looking for us this could be our opportunity we just need to charm him so good that he'll forget about the blog"

"Are you stupid thats not going to work!" Satoru chided

"You have no faith, it worked when I asked you out."

"You didn't have a blog about me."

"But I did charm you"

He huffed rolling his eyes annoyed at how right you were.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"I got it!!" You exclaimed walking behind Satoru out of school, causing him to jump from your sudden exclamation. "Jesus! Can you not yell like that??" He said holding his hand over his heart.

"Calm down, now do you wanna hear my genius plan or not?"

He started at you before sighing causing you to grin "Good. We need to ask him to a movie."

"What?"

"We ask him out to a movie. A horror movie. It'll scare him so bad that he'll forget about the blog while he decides to cling onto us."

You smiled proudly while Satoru looked at you like you had grown a second head "That may be the dumbest idea you've ever had"

"What are you talking about? Its fool proof and a win win. He forgets about the blog and we have a romantic moment!"

"You're watching to many movies."

"You think that but you'll be proven wrong when it happens."

He scoffed "In your dreams."

You ruffled his hair "Nuh uh! You, me, and Sukuna Friday night! He'll be clinging onto us like a scared puppy. Just think about it"

"Oh I'm thinking about how crazy you are! Stop being delusional! He's gonna find us and kill us for the blog by tomorrow!"

"He'll be saying yes to a date with us by tomorrow!"

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Sukuna walked into school with a smile and Uraume raised an eyebrow "You look happy."

"I am. I found out the names. It took a while. But I did it"

"Who told you"

"Some guy. Walked up to him and he instantly said two name he even told me where to find them."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it was kinda pathetic."

"So what are you going to do now?"

"I'm gonna ask them to politely take down the blog" Sukuna declared.

"Really?" Uraume asked surprised

"No. I'm gonna kick the shit outta them, they're not harmless girls they're actually guys so it's fine"

Uraume sighed and Sukuna walked away with a satisfied smile "Where are you going?" Uraume asked "I'm going to get that blog taken down"

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Satoru looked at you a frown present on his face. You had actually got three tickets for a movie on Friday. "No we just have to find Sukuna and ask him out" You said a proud smile on your face. "No we don't, we just need to take down the site, get a joint diary, and probably get new identities."

"Stop being over dramatic, we just need to ask him out"

"And how are we gonna do that? We don't even know where he is."

"Then we'll just ask him at lunch or when we see him in the halls or something."

"Are Satoru Gojo and (Name) (Last name) here?"

You both turned to the door and your eyes widened, Sukuna Ryomen was standing in the doorway of your classroom and looking for you guys.

Satoru shrunk in his seat hoping he could disappear in some way and you stood unable to speak

The whole class pointed to the two of you and he walked over to you two and he didn't look happy. Suddenly you were rethinking your whole plan.

"You two are Gojo and (Last name)?"

"No!" "Yes."

Both you and Gojo answered differently and he look unamused

"Yes!" "No."

Different answer again "So I'm guessing you are." He said "You two have to know why I'm here. Just get rid of the blog and I won't have to resort to drastic measures."

You and Satoru nodded drastically agreeing almost immediately and he smirked "It better be gone by tomorrow"

"It will." Satoru answered before he could even finish, and Sukuna turned to walk out. Suddenly you were kicked back to reality. Tomorrow. You had to ask him before he left or you would never get this chance again.

"Wait!" You called after him and he turned to you an eyebrow raised "What?"

"Do you..wanna go to a movie tomorrow with us?" Satoru looked at you mortified and your classmates looked in disbelief.

Now he looked confused "What?" now you were shaking a bit nervous "I asked if you wanted to go to a movie tomorrow with me and Satoru.."

"Like a date?" He asked

"Kinda, maybe, I don't know..." You answered. Satoru wanted to curl up and die he couldn't believe you actually went through with your dumb plan."

Sukuna smirked "Sure." He didn't have anything to do tomorrow and the look on both of your faces looked priceless a bit of fun wouldn't hurt and you two did seem absolutely harmless.

Both you and Satoru's heads shot up, and your classmates eyes widened. He had actually said yes. With that he walked out leaving everyone in shock.

"I can't believe that worked" Satoru added breaking the silence and you smiled giddily jumping in the air a bit "I told you!" You exclaimed to him "It worked on you! It'll work on anyone. You're welcome! We have a date with Sukuna tomorrow!"

Satoru smiled at your antics and rolled his eyes "Okay okay I get it. Your dumb plans can work sometimes."

Maybe that blog wasn't such a bad idea.

꒰꩜꒱ؘ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Finally I'm done. I know the ending sucks and i know the story is dumb but it's so hot upstairs I feel like my brain is fried and I just kinda wanted to get the story done because people are waiting for it. I just wanted to stop stressing about it. I'll write a story with an actual ending one day. I am not made for this fan fiction writer life but I do it anyways. Be the change you want to see in the world they say.

tag list: @wshyouwerehere

[ac1dmeow]

Jinx x princess typa reader?

Also ur fics r rlly good :3

BAHA YAS 🎀 also ty 🤭

notes: mostly bullet point format.. expect this from me a lot

jinx w/ a polar opposite gf ༯

jinx with with a girlfriend who’s practically like the opposite of her? how unheard of… (not)

jinx def likes the fem girlies and i have no doubt abt it 😋🤞

seeing u in ur little skirts and dresses has her having to restrain herself at times 🫢

but having a significant other who acts as though they always need help and relies on others to do things for them? puh-lease, jinx would roll her eyes at that.

or so she thought 👀

turns out, she LOVES feeling useful and having someone that genuinely wants her help and attention, and isn’t just faking it out of pity or fear of her potentially putting a bullet through them 😊

she calls u princess and doll, obviously.

she’s pleasantly suprised to find out that ur actually quite stern and feisty at times.

even though she loves to act as ur guard dog. she feels so powerful whenever ur cling to her arm and sit on her lap. always keep u close to her side.

but when someone was being obnoxiously rude to u in public, jinx was at ur side ready to have their body slumped in an alleyway when u jumped up and put them in their place with just ur words.

she found that very impressive and sexy.

u would do the exact same for her, too. and she loves u even more for that. it warms her heart to know that u love and care for her just as much as she does for u.

adding onto that, ur very good at getting what u want with just words, tone, and batting ur lashes as u look at the person with classic puppy dog eyes.

“thank you so much, you’re too kind~” you say, playing with your hair and letting out a small giggle as you wear a sickly sweet smile on your dolled up face.

at times it makes jinx jealous, pausing what she’s doing to eye them with a steely glare. ur gentle hand on her arm softens her and soon the worry is out of her mind.

on the off occasion that jinx catches u doing something by urself, like taking care of a wound (which she would try her damn hardest to prevent getting inflicted upon u, and if it does she would be scrambling around and helping u with the gentlest of hands, afraid to break u as though ur porcelain), she would almost seem hurt.

why aren’t u asking her for help? is she no longer useful? are u getting bothered by her? is she getting too annoying? is this the start of a potential break up?!

“hey wait! let me help you with that!” “oi, quit that! what d’ya think you’re doing?”

she’s slapping ur hands out of the way and replacing them with her own.

she LOVES teaching u things she’s good at! it makes her feel important and looked up to.

while teaching u to shoot she’ll tell u the basics and hold your hand while she helps you aim.

“make sure your eye is right on the target. aaand…” BANG!

she’s cheering and spinning as she hugs u tightly to her chest. she praises u, even if u barely hit the middle of the target or u got close only because of her aid.

she loves to see ur improvement be all because of her. it makes her feel so proud 🥹

and ur praises and thanks always coat her cheeks in a blush. while trying to act nonchalant whenever u tell her how good of a teacher she is.

ur little princess-like charms always get her, i mean how could they not? she would do anything for u.

she enjoys making little gifts for u too: crafting cute little homemade necklaces and bracelets that u will cherish forever.

going and stealing items that u wanted so bad while pouting at her with those big eyes.

u too are a couple not to be messed with 😤

hope this is ok 🥺

[splatashahowlett]

monsters inc.

your body knew ache, hurt, pain, fear.

but it mostly knew anger.

your fists went flying forward, hitting violently. your grunts were the only thing that could be heard. your legs were also kicking, aiming perfectly. your body was shaken with rage.

your vivid trance was interrupted by a scream. you jumped and turned your gaze toward the widnow: kids playing.

you sighed, relieved. you were breathing heavily, recovering from your intense efforts. you were alone in the school's gymnasium, charles had told you you could train there after logan's classes.

you were still looking out the window when you noticed a presence in the room. you turned around brutally, still hyper-aware of your surroundings. that's something they taught you back there.

logan was just standing there, arms crossed, watching you. you tilted your head, confused as to what he was doing here. you didn't mind but you weren't used to people watching you train.

"sorry, I was passing by and heard noise" he said, almost like a kid caught red-handed. you smiled softly, amused at his explanation. you wouldn't call logan a close friend, not a lot of people would, but you learned to grow fond of his grumpiness. ordinarily you wouldn't get attached to someone as quickly but you've changed a lot since...everything. plus, you knew logan liked you, you had seen him many times looking at you in secret, asking about you to charles and offering to help you when he wouldn't help other people. you thought he was adorable, still acting like the tough and insensitive guy around you when every in the school knew he had a crush on you.

"it's alright, you can stay" you heard yourself saying.

you focused back on the puncking bag in front of you, hoping to release some of the tension you gathered throughout the day, throughout your life. logan must have noticed because he got closer, concerned.

"that's some impressive punches you've got here"

you slowed your pace.

"you tend to forget I've been training all day, everyday, since I was eight" you teased. he winced, feeling stupid for reminding you of agonizing memories.

"should we train together?" he asked, trying to change the subject but also hoping to spend more time with you. you smiled.

"only if you can handle it" you nudged him with your shoulder, taking your shoes off. his hand went to your back unconsciously, trying to gain his balance back, when he noticed he took it away immediatly. you shared a ambigous look.

logan walked in front of you, ready to fight. you didn't move, entertained by his behavior. logan was waiting for you to make a move; so you didn't.

he launched himself at you trying to tackle you to the ground but you dodged him last second. he grunted, frustrated as his failed attempt. you laughed softly and the noise did something to logan. he had always tried to lie to himself and to hide what he felt around you but it was becoming harder and harder each day.

right as he turned around, you punched him in the face, sending him flying into a wall. you almost felt bad, logan had been nothing but kind to you, which was more than unusual. logan smirked, happy with how his evening turned out. he knew he sounded pathetic.

he ran in your direction, not expecting you to grab his shoulders as leverage to climb on his back. your legs landed around his neck and your hands went under his chin. you tightened your legs, choking him. after a minute of trying to get you off of him, he tapped your thigh softly, indicating you he was giving up.

you jumped off of him, your feet hitting the ground softly.

"well, that was quick" you joked, taking your hands protections off. logan was simply watching you as he caught his breath. he wasn't mad that he was beaten so easily but more interested in what you could do.

later that night, you found yourself sitting at the school's lake. trying to soothe your tortured mind. it had been one year since you escaped the red room and you lived in constant fear. you were afraid that you didn't run far enough and that they would find you. but above everything else, you were afraid of yourself. you were raised there, the red room shaped you, made you who you are. you didn't know yourself, you ignored what you were capable of, and that was the scariest thing.

"it's becoming an habit isn't it?" you spoke

"what is?" logan answered, dumbfounded at how you heard him

"sneaking up on me." you said, turning around, still sitting. you shot him a sweet smile. logan felt his knees buckle, your face was the most adorable thing he had ever seen. he took that as an invitation to sit beside you.

"what you did earlier was remarkable" he complimented

"did I hurt your ego?" you teased, logan chuckled.

a warm silence settled between you; both lost deep in thoughts. you both though about the same thing: your feelings for one another. logan and you were very different people but you both went through horrible things that didn't left you unscared. therefore, you both were very reticent when it came to romance and relationships in general.

"what's on your mind bub?" he asked, watching you. you stayed silent, and reliazed the idea of sharing your struggles with logan someone didn't sound so bad.

"uhm...it's been a year today, since I- uh escaped the red room" you muttered, almost scared to pronounce the name of the place where you were held; the place you called home for decades.

"you're safe y/n, they cannot hurt you anymore sweetheart" logan suprised himself with the nickname but didn't adress it since you didn't react to it.

"i know, that isn't what scares me. I'm scared of what remains of them in me. I am terrified of what they made of me. I hurt people; you should know, I could have killed you in the gym if I wanted to. I am a monster logan" you expressed, on the verge of tears. logan grabbed you by the shoulders, making you facing him.

"hey, you're everything but a monster y/n. you're the most caring person and everybody loves you here. it's actually one of the reasons of why I admire you, you were able to find yourself back after being brainwashed and used" he said, furrowing his brows "if you're a monster then I must be a fucking freak" he joked, trying to get you to understand his point

"you're not a freak" you talked back.

"then you're not a monster" he talked back.

you smiled.

"there you go. you look even more gorgeous when you smile" he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear. you blushed, not used to this kind of affection.

"thank you a lot logan. for everything" you looked into his eyes.

"if you ever need to get something off your chest i'm here"

"no I'm not talking about that. thank you for always being kind to me, i know it's a great effort for you"

"it's not, not when it's with you" the back of his fingers brushed your jaw, moving near your lips.

"kiss me"

his fingers went to your bottom lip, touching it gently. his head got closer to yours. you closed the space between your lips, impatiently.

your lips moved together, expressing months of supressed feelings. but also thanking each other for always being here, no matter what.

the next morning, you found a enveloppe under your door. when you opened it, you found a note:

"don't be what they made you."

[weepingtalecowboy]

People forgot that link definitely worked for his wanted poster

Fanfic prompt : After cadence of Hyrule joined the legend campaign as a hero of legends game

I like to think that legend is as close to being perceived as a threat or demon as a person could possibly be

Like link to the past had all the knights get brainwashed into believing that link was a threat who took the princess

And many people proceeded to headcanon that legend and the knights never really worked it out again and the knights still want to get his bounty

But I like to think that his bounty is justified by the end of link to the past

Because killing every single knight and doing a genocide is outright encouraged in link to the past (I was playing the game like a monstrous child because the knights were mad annoying lol )

Not killing at least ten knights is basically impossible

Would be more accurate to say that legend went and stabbed absolutely every single knight in self defense (or not … I was outright knight hunting the little dudes because it is fun to fight them , diabolical child I was )

But it is very likely that Baby legend massacred most of them as a lil baby in at least SOME cold blood

And instead of them being still brainwashed by the spell they instead just hate him for killing every other knight he saw

Like they probably have horror stories without end

Like what other explanation would the citizens and knights have for link other then being some sort of monster or demon with the appearance of a child

(Like with all the Knights link killed probably some had families or friends who were very much afraid of link and enraged at his deeds)

And the princess just forced them to leave him alone because he “saved” her as if all the murder never happened but she probably cannot do much over the fact that legend did cull half the population of knights and therefore killed the relatives of a lot of families

(We really need to accept that legend is canonically a killer even if it was mostly in self defense )

Then the kid just went into hiding because he was busy with the oracle games and link's awakening in other countries

And then hytopia happens as well but they probably don’t know that link is a serial killer who has a very expensive bounty

Link between worlds ends up at least a few years since link's murder spree and the royal family probably did their hardest to cover up the damage he created and the only logical explanation for why he can just return would be that he just kinda got lucky with bribery accepting neighbors lol

And that he wasn’t interacting to much with people

Honestly like to think that the knights were afraid of him even as they interacted with him in the game as a follow up

Ravio was unaware his counterpart was THIS trigger happy for quite a while

Would be hilarious if he heard rumors about the “incident” that link caused and didn’t take it seriously

They went different ways but know that link is back in Hyrule and also once again in the public eye the people probably quickly rallied up a witch hunt while the royal family really didn’t want to be involved with it anymore because they already did a big thing by pulling strings to get link to have some protection

Any more and they risk the people turning onto them

They get him in a bad spot and he just proceeded to jump into a lake and mermaid away

That probably convinced them that he really was some sort of monster

Rumors grew into a new sort of madness

Then cadence of Hyrule happens and everyone not dancing is asleep anyway in that game except some villages

Cadence probably had no clue about it as well because she was from a different world

But now link straight up can respawn and therefore execution would be a whole different kind of trauma for the knights and angry citizens

Like the royal family probably couldn’t keep it hidden any longer and had to go give the okay at some point (outlawing link is like the easiest way they can get this one under control)

Link gets executed then awkwardly has to escape and nobody was capable of stopping the rumors that link is some sort of demon anymore

Turning into a living sea monster seems unrealistic

But surviving getting executed several times probably tipped the scales over and he got officially into a mess since then

Then linked universe happens as well and legend gets a family out of it

Until they end up in his hyrule and realize why exactly legend is a bitter lime slice of a hylian

He kinda did stuff and is now an outlaw

But also heaviest breathing ever when the chain hears people talking about the time legend got burned at a literal stake yet still is alive

Playing never have I ever with him probably is nightmare fuel

What was he doing to be this much of a cryptic creature that people are genuinely afraid of him

Warriors probably slept with one eye open the day he realized that legend hunted the knights like some sort of eldritch demon when they were hunting him lol

[jazeswhbhaven]

Hiii could you do some scenarios which MC annouces the kings (+ Lucifer + some of your fav nobles plssss) about they pregnancy :3

Love to see some fluff stuff here 😽 Thank you and have a great day 💞🫶

Hi anon! Thank you for waiting on this <3 I hope you're still around to see your request be answered because I like doing the pregnancy reveal fluff stuff 🥺

Let's do a few of my fave nobles first!

Valefor: When MC visits the gym in order to meet up with him, he's worried that something is wrong because MC never really seeks him out unless it's urgent. Well the urgency is that MC went to the hospital to get checked out and they're pregnant! Valefor is surprised, and even reads the results of the test with wide eyes. He jumps into instant protective mode and takes MC away from the gym afraid someone might knock them down or something. He's really supportive and has a home gym made so he can monitor MC from a close eye. He even helps with nutrition needs and light exercises they can do.

Beleth: When MC tells Beleth straight up that they're pregnant he thought it was a prank at first. But when he sees the pregnancy test, he's surprised and melts at the thought of a tiny version of him and MC running around the palace and jumping on a sleeping Belphie. He does all that he can to take care of MC, and he even smokes outside and away from MC. Though it would be difficult for him to give up smoking, he will at least find some alternatives so it's safe for MC and their baby.

Bael: All he could think about when MC came to them revealing that they were pregnant is that Beel "fucked up again" but then it's confirmed that it's not Beel who got MC pregnant but Bael! He's surprised, stressed, and happy all at once. Mostly because even though he's a father now, he's still got a kingdom to run. He just wishes Beel would come back and take the throne so he could spend as much time as possible with MC. But he does make time, more breaks, he's had MC move in to the palace, and they take a few moments to set up a room for the baby as well. He's very domestic, doting, and soft which makes it a perfect experience for MC even though he's busy.

Amy: MC randomly showed up and told him that they were pregnant, and he was awestruck. He? He did something Sitri couldn't do??? Although that being his first thought kinda pissed off MC, he apologizes immediately and starts to take it seriously. Though he can't help but rub it in Sitri's face that he's the one that got MC pregnant. In fact, he says he'd raise his kid to be a lot better at fighting than Sitri. MC is going to have to figure out a way to distract Amy enough so he can get that idea out of his head....somehow.

Foras: He's elated, his heart to the moon when MC tells him that they're having a kid together. He wants to marry MC, get a house, all of it so they can be a family like he's read in fantasy romance books. He also enjoys showing off to his comrades that he got MC pregnant, a smug smirk on his face and all. He still pledges his loyalty to Leviathan, but he's less focused than usual since he's got to protect pregnant MC. He thinks though that he can balance the two without any kind of help.

Kings time!~

Satan: The pregnancy announcement had Satan bursting at the seams. He was very loud and excited that everyone was getting kicked just because he was so happy about it. He also becomes overly protective over MC, growling every time someone is near, and doesn't allow anyone to touch them.

Mammon: He's delighted that MC was pregnant. It's because he's been trying to have kids with MC anyway since they brought it up to him a while ago. There was a mass celebration for the pregnancy, another similar to a "baby shower" and then there's another celebration for the birth to held as well. Mammon also has a room attached to his own that's a full blown nursery, and MC even has a nesting room. He's going to make sure MC is pampered to the fullest.

Beelzebub: He never thought he'd have kids with MC, not this soon anyway. He also doesn't seem to remember when this child was conceived in the first place but it knows it had to be one of the several times he's been with them in the past month. He's thoughtful when it comes to gifts, and other things he gathers on his travels to bring back for MC. He says he plans on coming back when MC is closer to their due date so he can stay next to them, but we'll see...

Leviathan: He denied it at first, unsure if MC was being serious or not. MC however, was serious which made Leviathan alert about their condition. He first begins by making more space in his bedroom by knocking out the walls to the adjacent rooms so that a nursery can be made, and he even starts a commission on a small coffin for the baby to sleep in once it's here. Leviathan starts making plans ahead of time, thinking it's never too early to make sure his child has everything they need. Also, no one is allowed to be near or touch MC during this time. He even sends Foras to make sure that rule stays true.

Lucifer: He wasn't surprised when MC told him because he already knew. That's why here lately he was being more careful with MC, giving them certain vitamins and medicines for healing. He also recommends that MC doesn't fight too much, as he's unsure with how his DNA will work in the development. He did used to be a Seraphim and this could cause strange symptoms during the pregnancy. Well one thing that's noticeable off the bat is that sometimes MC's belly glows brightly. At least MC has a doctor/healer for a partner. This pregnancy should go easily.

Belphegor: All he does is confirm that it makes sense that MC would be pregnant with the amount of sex they've been having over the course of a few weeks. He says this would be a good excuse for MC to sleep more, because they won't be getting it once the baby is born. Well maybe...if it's anything like Belphie this baby would probably be sleeping a lot. Which in that case, even better. When MC and Belphie cuddle in bed, he sometimes rests his hand over their belly idly.

Asmodeus: This...is bad news. Mostly because of the curse that his late wife put on him and whoever has his child. MC was afraid to tell him, because maybe if they didn't speak on it, then the curse wouldn't take place. Unfortunately this is something Asmo can tell right off the bat that they are pregnant, and he doesn't seem too concerned. MC is panicking from his lack of concern but they find out shortly why. It's because there was a loophole to the curse that he never revealed on purpose. The child would have to be born through a c-section, and also Asmo has to be in love with MC. They are also the only partner of his that can get pregnant for the next 500 years. With this rule in place, Asmo is in immediate dad mode and he's lovin' every moment of it. He's also been annoying his descendants on Earth about their new "sibling" that's on the way.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - V

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence, divider by animatedglittergraphics

5.  fight the good fight

When you wake again you are bouncing, bent in half slung over a man’s shoulder; the vampire hunter’s. You can tell from the intoxicating scent of his cologne, his sweat, his blood–him. It’s like catnip to you, and for a moment you just want to go back to sleep, and let him take you wherever he’s taking you. 

That’s a very bad idea, of course, and good on you for recognizing it through the haze of bloodloss and whatever other hold he has over you. You still do not understand what he is, or why he has such power over you. 

From what little you can see, it seems like you’re in a dark alley. There are sirens in the distance–the aftermath of the massacre in the club, you presume. He has got you far away. How long have you been out?

You struggle again, managing to worm free and get down, before the vampire hunter pins you against the wall of the building. “Stop that, you’ll hurt yourself,” he grouses, annoyed. He seems in much better shape than before, having stolen your blood. You, on the other hand, feel so weak you can barely stand. 

“Let go. Please let me go.” 

You must sound so pathetic that even this brutal killer softens for you. His grip changes slightly, holding you up against the wall by your waist. You have no delusions, however, that that can change in an instant. Yet…he’s looking at you with those sad dark eyes, like a man drowning. Even with the splatter of blood across his face and the crust of it dried in his long dark hair–he’s so handsome it hurts, and your fingers clench in his jacket, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, vampling. I saved you.” 

“You…ate me!” 

There is a tick at the corner of his well-formed mouth, betraying his amusement. 

“I took too much. Here, have some back.” He unbuttons his shirt further at the throat to display the strong column of his neck. Your vision zeroes on his jumping pulse like a laser sight, and you notice that intoxicating scent engulfing you again. It’s warm spices and your favorite flowers and pure man–it’s so good that you want to mold yourself to him and never let go. 

It’s a good trick, for a vampire hunter, and at least you are conscious enough to know now that it is a trick. 

“Stop that,” you scold, squeezing your eyes shut as you try to fight it.  

“I can’t help it,” he answers, his voice gone low in a way that shuts down your brain and skips straight your loins. He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, engulfing you with the pure size of him and his hair swinging down to brush your face–he also smells like blood, which does not help you at all. “It’s…you. It’s us.”

“No,” you answer, mostly because you're afraid of someone having that kind of control over you, again. 

“It’s…rare,” he admits. “Who are you?”

“No one,” you insist. “I’m just a girl…who’s really good at being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” And really good at keeping a soft spot for the wrong man. You cannot stop yourself from thinking about John in that moment, and how just one night with him flung you into this strange and terrible supernatural world. Would you change it, if you could? Will there ever come a time, when the thought of him does not feel like talons digging your heart out of your chest? 

“Hmm. Maybe.” He lifts his hand to his throat, and you watch as his fingernails lengthen to sharp points, perfect for breaking his own skin in one neat, bloody line. “Here, milaya. My apology to you.” 

That ruby welling of his life’s essence smells marvelous, and you want to seal your mouth on it more than you’ve wanted anything in a good long while. Somehow, you manage to shake your head, even if minutely. “No, you’ll…enthrall me again or something. I don’t trust you.” 

He sighs. 

“I admit that I want you,” he acknowledges reluctantly. “But you need blood.”

“Yes. Let me go, and I’ll go get some. Again.” It annoys you in that moment that the efforts of your hunt all went to this man’s benefit. Dhampiro, don Juan had called him. Dhampir, you translate to English. Not human, by his own admission. 

Obviously.

He smirks a little down at you. “I saw you feed earlier. Why did you pick him?”

“He killed his wife.” 

“Ah. You like to play jury and executioner.”

“I didn’t kill him.” 

“You’ve killed others though. You’re sloppy about it too.” 

“Am not.” 

He laughs at you, a short, amused, huff, which is as good as an ‘are so’.

“What do you care?” 

“The High Table might start to care, if you make a big enough spectacle of yourself. Naughty little vampires get a visit from the Boogeyman, you know. You aren’t supposed to draw attention. There are rules.” 

“I don’t…know what any of that means,” you’re loathe to admit. 

There’s so much John Constantine could have chosen to fill you in on. Maybe he thought you’d figure it out on your own. Or maybe…he has as much trouble thinking straight around you, as you do him. If he felt a fraction of what you did, when this man before you took you–it’s no wonder you scared John off. Surrendering to that would not be easy for a man like John Constantine. 

“I’d say you need a coven to teach you, but considering what I’m going to do to the locals here…you’d better stick with me.”

“You’re…going to kill them all?” you ask, more intrigued than horrified by the thought. 

“Yes.” There is zero doubt in this man that he can do it, too. After what you saw…you guess you agree with him. Constantine is dangerous, but he could never wreak the sort of massacre this man unleashed in the club. 

And here you are, in his grasp. Well done. 

“Why?”

“Don Juan’s scheming to overthrow the High Table. They don’t like that.” 

“Wait, wait.” A hunger pang washes through you, and you grip his jacket a little harder, your knees weak. The blood dripping down his beautiful throat smells so good, but you realize this might be your chance to finally get some answers. “Who the fuck are the High Table?” 

“How do you not know that?”

“Why does everyone always ask me that instead of just fucking telling me the answer?” you snipe, practically vibrating with frustration. 

“You really have been so alone this whole time?” he asks, his dark eyes inexplicably softening for you. He looks down at you, cupping the side of your face with a paw of a hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Maybe it just feels good to be handled like you are something precious, rather than like a farm animal. Or maybe…you are losing your mind, but you have to close your eyes again, shielding yourself from the weight of that blackhole gaze.

“Yes.” You’re not proud of the way your voice cracks as you utter that one word. You hate it, that you think of John, and how he said he’d help you, but mostly he just disappeared on you. You know he has his own life, and his own problems…but he practically abandoned you, all while living right next door. 

It was a good trick, truth be told.  

“That’s a hard way to live. I would know.” His thumb is still stroking your cheek, and it feels so good, and you know this is madness. It has to be a trick. Everything is a fucking trick, with these guys. And yet…it’s as though you can feel this man’s loneliness, the weight of his solitude pressing down upon you, every time you look into his eyes. 

Maybe it’s because he kills everyone, you remind yourself, marveling at your unflagging ability to empathize with the most unavailable men you can find. 

“The High Table?” you prompt again through gritted teeth, trying not to give in to the urge to pull him close, to hide in the bend of his neck, to lose yourself in the heady taste of him and forget everything else. 

“They rule the Underworld. You. Me. Everything that goes bump in the night answers to Them.” He tells you this without condescension, and you could kiss him for that alone. 

“Demons too?”

“No, they’re Hell’s problem. Usually.”

“Then…the High Table are vampires?”

“Vampires. Weres. Sirens. Fey.” He tilts his head in thought. “I’m sure I’m missing something.”   

You nod, trying to digest this information while you are so starved you can hardly think. He’s named more things you didn’t even know existed, but you shouldn’t be surprised at this point. But then…if demons are Hell’s purview, what system of belief do the rest of them answer to? The magnitude of this question makes your head spin. Finding out that the Christian God was real was wild enough for you. What about the rest? 

“Wait…does this mean…all the Gods are real?”

Your leap of logic to the biggest existential question known to man seems to amuse him, the corner of his mouth curling for you. “Malyshka,” he scolds you softly. “You really want to discuss this here? Come on.”

He seems to think he’s taking you somewhere, but you resist again, bracing against the wall.   

“I’d rather…go home, if it’s the same to you.” you admit, winning yourself a tired sigh.

“I can’t…let you do that yet.” 

“Why not?”  

Again, he strokes your face with that big hand, and you feel as though he’s looking into your very soul. 

“You remind me of someone I once knew,” he admits. “A long time ago.”

Someone he lost, you infer from the longing that is woven into those words. Why does that make your heart ache for him?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But whoever she was…I’m not her.”

“No,” he agrees, but he tilts his head to examine you, like you are an amoeba under a microscope.  

“But the universe moves in circles, and something is happening here.” He inhales, and you see a flash of that eerie electric blue in his irises again. “I have to know what it is.”

Whatever you meant to say in answer is swallowed up by his mouth lowering to yours, a kiss that is somehow demanding and languorously slow. He claims your lips for his own, holding you to him as his tongue slides into your mouth, teasing you like you’ve done this a thousand times before. Maybe you don’t need to breathe, but he leaves you breathless all the same, overwhelmed by that pheromone scent and his hands on you, one paw at the back of your head guiding your mouth to his neck. He tastes like a miracle, strong and heady and so delicious as you drink him down mouthful by mouthful. His blood is so potent you feel your strength begin to return just from the first swallow, and the rest is pure high. 

You start to see some things, about this man whose blood is in your mouth. You see flashes of a forbidding dark forest, and fighting, so much fighting. A quaint little cottage in the woods, so humble, so warm. There is a woman whose touch feels like sunshine. ‘Yelena,’ he calls her. And with her hands in his hair and a smile on her lips she calls him…

“Jardani?”

 He jerks back to look at you with haunted eyes, pinning you to the wall with his big hand spanning your chest. Drunk on the want of him, you whine like a thwarted kitten, trying to return to the bloody font of his throat. He searches your face as though desperate for the answer to some crucial riddle written upon your features. “How…?” But does not give you the chance to answer, his mouth crashing over yours again with a new ardor, gripping you so hard that even you will have bruises. 

You cannot think. 

There is only the taste of him, intoxicating and wonderful and you cannot stop yourself from pulling at his clothes, holding him to you. You want to climb him, devour him, be inside him, as surely as his lightning-charged blood is raging through you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss when at last you manage to pull away, not for breath but just a break from this madness. What the fuck is he doing to you?

“Yeah?” he asks, seemingly with all seriousness, hoisting you against the wall with hands on your thighs like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs wrap around his waist out of instinct; he pins you with his hips, his manhood rock hard against your center. He grinds against you, his lips on your neck again, teasing open the wound he left earlier, and you can’t help but moan, soaking wet and aching to be filled. In that moment you don’t care that you’re in a dirty alley with a man you don’t even know. You know the heart of him, and right now you would swear unequivocally that he belonged to you. 

“Wow. You High Table assholes sure know how to treat a lady.”

The sound of that familiar voice makes you freeze, some small modicum of sanity returning to you. 

Your would-be lover is less civil, snarling at the newcomer in the alley. “Not a good time, Constantine.” 

“No time like the present, Wick. Put her down.”

With his attention fixed somewhere else, some modicum of clearer thought returns to you. Your first stop is pure mortification. 

There is John, standing tall with his legs spread in his usual black and white suit, and to his shoulder he is holding a large, golden…cross gun? Like he totally intends to use it if he has to. 

The sight of him makes your heart ache with longing. No tricks. No magic. You just…adore him, even while wrapped up in another man’s arms, and you realize you are as hopeless as you are smitten. That connection between you glows again. You feel it in your chest, and it helps clear the lustful ardor that a moment ago gripped you so completely.

Dhampir magic is some scary shit.

The vampire hunter–Jardani?–Wick?–looks at you as though you’ve said something out loud. His eyes narrow; he doesn’t seem to like it one bit. He does put you down, but holds you in front of him like a shield, his big hand at your throat. 

“Never thought the John Constantine would turn vampire’s familiar. Who knew?” taunts the dhampir behind you. 

“What?”

 Both men ignore your question, fixed on each other in this standoff. 

“Call it what you want,” Constantine answers stonily. “I’m the one holding the gun. Let her go.” 

“I don’t want to.”

“I see that. Nice, you always gotta use your Blood Lure to get laid?” 

“Hardly. Your little vampling here is a special girl.” 

“Yeah. But she doesn’t belong to you, Wick, so let her go.” 

“You love her?” 

Wide eyed, you can’t stop yourself from fixating on John at that question, gone grave-still in Wick’s unrelenting grasp. 

In answer, John mostly just grinds his teeth, his lower jaw jutting. “It’s complicated,” he finally admits, and though that’s never a good answer from a man, your treacherous undead heart still skips a beat.  

“I think she deserves better than it’s complicated.”

“Not from you, half breed. Let her go.” 

You feel Wick tense behind you, and you remember the absolute whirlwind of carnage he caused in the club a few blocks away, that supernatural berzerker rage that mowed down vampire after vampire. John is formidable, but you can’t help but think no one can stand up to that and live. “Please,” you say, appealing to the wall of a man behind you. “Please, just let us go.”

Wick growls deep in his chest–a chilling, primal sound that resonates through you, your every hair standing on end. 

His grip upon you flexes, as though his physical being abhors the very idea of it. You’re not really afraid for yourself now. You’re afraid for John, and unbidden you start to cry those bloody tears. “I love him,” you say in the most hushed whisper you can muster, and the moment it leaves your lips you know it’s true, and maybe it has been true since the night you made that grouchy man dinner, and he made you feel like you mattered to someone in this big mean city. “Please don’t hurt him.”

Somehow, this is the thing that seems to call this dangerous man down. For a moment his grip around your waist tightens; he inhales your scent deeply, his nose behind your ear sending a warm thrill down your spine. He speaks low, though you think John can probably hear him anyway. “He doesn’t look good, vampling. I won’t have to wait long for you.” 

Suddenly, he’s just gone. Disappeared into the shadows, as though he is made of night. 

Unsupported, you stumble, and fall right on your butt. 

John looks around warily with the strange gun at the ready, sweeping the alley like he can’t believe the dhampir had actually retreated. Slowly he crosses to you, impossibly tall from your vantage of the ground. He seemingly reluctantly offers you a hand. “You ok?” 

“No,” you answer truthfully, taking his hand, the warm strength of his grip a welcome boon. When he pulls you to your feet you want more than anything to just be in his arms. 

But all he offers you is a hard stare, and a brusque, “Come on,” as he pulls you towards the other end of the alley. 

It’s complicated, he’d said.  

Why does that have to feel right then like he hates your guts?

You’re getting tired of crying for this man. You remind yourself of this as the ball of despair rises in your throat and your eyes sting like mace. 

Did he hear you? If he heard your heartfelt confession to the dhampir, even if it saved his life…he did not like it at all. 

[berrytheicecream]

I always wanted to write out a fic for like the “early days” after the riot on the bridge. To explore how the Zaun family would’ve formed and developed and what the siblings were like as kids, and how they would’ve dealt with such a recent loss. I sorta(?) made a post like this but this is kind of expanding out to everyone so here’s some random ideas/hcs

For a while, the atmosphere in the undercity would be more cloudy and red from the destruction and ash.

Vi (9) and Powder (5) were found first, then Claggor (8), and finally Mylo (7). He found Clag 2 days after the riot and found Mylo 4 days after the riot.

Powder was at an age where she didn’t fully understand what was going on. Her crying during the bridge scene was mostly from the loud noises and explosions (hence why she covered her eyes and started singing) but I don’t think the reality of the situation, aka the fact that her parents were gone PERMANENTLY, really dawned on her. Poor child 🙁

Vander took Claggor in after realizing the boy was following him. Claggor apologized and promised he didn’t mean any harm, but didn’t really reveal why he was following Vander in the first place. Regardless, He was still really kind-hearted and innocent despite having lost everyone and living horribly. Vander felt so much of the same guilt and grief for taking such a good child’s joy away, and guided him somewhere safe.

Mylo was kind of the opposite. I imagine Vander would’ve gone off to search for more food (cus now he has 3 mouths to feed and people seeking refuge in the bar after the damage from the riot) and sees Mylo in an alleyway looking desperately for anything to eat. The poor kid’s like basically entirely bones and because he’s the one who’s been out the longest compared to the other siblings, probably the most damaged. He would immediately be distrustful of Vander and probably would even try to run from or attack him. He’s always on defense because of how he’s forced to live and literally jumps at the slightest sound. Similar to Claggor, Vander would feel guilt for the riot, but because he feels he’s the reason a child is so afraid and agitated like this. Eventually Mylo would literally be so weak from starvation that he might’ve just collapsed into Vander’s arms where he was taken home.

Claggor would’ve been quiet when being introduced to his new siblings, but willing to give them a chance. He’s a very gentle person in my opinion (unless he needs to protect his family) and would’ve probably instantly gotten along with Powder. But this new opportunity to have a family kind of built him as a person into what we see into the series—he’s cautious and caring and doesn’t want to lose the only family he has.

As for Mylo, I think he probably purposely didn’t talk to anyone at first and just kind of distanced himself. He got frustrated and agitated easily because of his previous living conditions, especially towards Powder, who was just trying to get to know him. He lashed out at them all a lot, often staying in his own corner. But eventually he did warm up to them because they didn’t give up on him, no matter how stubborn he was being. Mylo’s experience as a child would’ve shaped him into what we see in the show, with his insecurities of being weak coming from not wanting to be useless to the family who actually gave him a chance, even if he projected it onto Powder. Also he’s still kinda jumpy.

Vi was the one who taught all of them to read and write. I have this cute image in my head of the young four kids gathered around as Vi read out loud to them. She was the only one who knew how to beforehand and because Vander was so busy taking care of them in other ways while dealing with a bunch of other responsibilities. In a way, she raised them all as much as Vander did. This did put a lot of pressure on her, a literal 9 year old who just lost her parents, but she understood that she wasn’t the only one and wanted to help others in the best way possible.

I imagine that there were nights where none of them could sleep because of nightmares or just general fear and so they’d all huddle together. Vi would ONLY fall asleep once she made sure everyone else was asleep.

Claggor would’ve loved helping Vander out in the kitchen and around the bar. I imagine him standing on a stool to be able to reach over, but he just liked helping and being like Vander. His mom always let him help around the kitchen so he liked doing it a lot.

Also Claggor would make himself available to play with Powder whenever she wanted. Usually they would either draw or play pretend. Mylo would join in sometimes, but he’d complain and grumble the entire time.

Speaking of Mylo, he ALWAYS looked up to Vi. In his eyes, Vi wasnt afraid of anything, and he hates feeling afraid, so he tried to be just like her. So he tried to be “cool” like her by doing the same things she did. In a way, he was always seeking validation from his sister, even as a kid, which would add another layer of reason as to why he picked on Powder.

Vi’s hatred for Topside at the time would fuel her to want to give her siblings the best life possible in the future. Since she was the oldest, she was the one they all looked to for how to feel on a situation, which led her to refuse to allow herself to be vulnerable.

Might add onto this in the future, and feel free to agree or disagree or add onto any points I’ve made! I love the siblings sm, and seeing how they might’ve been forced grown into who they are based on their environment would be cool in my opinion!!

[kigieri]

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The Danny Ric Series🍯🦡

Daniel Ricciardo × Reader

New relationships need boundaries that have to be set and feelings that need to be talked about. Through that it can grow, and each partner can become fully comfortable so that it may be healthy and long-lasting.

A/N: Welcome! I hope you enjoy The Danny Ric Series. It is dedicated to the wonderful man that brought so much joy to Formula One and its fans.

Due to the topic there is a lot of dialogue in this fic. This takes place in no specific or real timeline.

This story on AO3.

The bathroom mirror was foggy after her shower. Where Daniel seemed to prefer colder showers in the mornings, mostly because his trainer recommended them, she enjoyed hers quite hot.

It was the third night she had slept at his apartment in Monaco. They had been together for a bit more than three months, but the race calendar had made it impossible to spend more time at his place.

She didn't need the mirror to dry herself off and slip into her lounge wear. Daniel was already in the kitchen, having gone on a jog and showered before she woke up. He was making her breakfast, since he had most of his meals premade.

When she slipped into the kitchen, he was just laying an omelette on her plate, next to some toast. She rubbed her right eye, still a bit sleepy. "Thank you, that's very nice."

He turned around, welcoming her with a wide smile. "Only the best for you!" She trotted over to him and kissed him. "You're sweet." His smile grew impossibly wider while handing her the plate. She sat down while he got his porridge out of the fridge. After fixing them both something to drink, he sat down too.

At the beginning they ate in silence, but after she had eaten her toast and was left with the leftovers of her omelette, she began to push them around the plate. "Daniel?" He looked up from his phone, where he had looked over the data of his morning jog. He put it down. "We haven't really talked about sex, and after yesterday..." She left the sentence hanging in the air.

They hadn't had sex the night before, but there were decidedly fewer clothes and more skin contact involved than the nights they had spent together beforehand. "I liked yesterday." He was searching her face for any kind of discomfort, afraid she felt otherwise, and he hadn't picked up on it. A simple nod from her relaxed him.

"So did I, but I wanted to talk about our expectations before jumping into it. This is neither of our first serious relationship, and I think neither of us is a virgin?" She lifted a brow questioningly and he shook his head. "But it's our relationship and I would like to know what you like, and I'd like you to know what I like. The same with things we don't like." Daniel nodded in response before tipping his head back, thinking about her words.

After she had given him a bit of time, she continued, "I can start. I started this conversation, and I have thought about what to say before." His eyes found hers once more and he nodded encouragingly.

"Well, I have no problem with and quite enjoy things like fingering, missionary, oral or riding." She watched for a reaction, but Daniel was simply listening and nodding. "I like both giving and receiving oral." She blushed lightly, these were normal things in a relationship, but voicing them so clearly and clinically for the first time felt a bit weird. "I also enjoy thigh riding a lot, beyond that there is not much I've tried or that I'm interested in. Not regarding my body at least, that does not mean that we cannot talk about the things that go beyond that that you like. I would also ask you to refrain from calling me names, humiliating ones, degrading ones or even things like 'good girl'. I don't think you would say that, but I wanted to voice it. My name or endearments are totally fine."

Daniel listened attentively and made note of everything she said. "Thank you for being so clear with all that. Um, I agree with the things you've listed, and I've never been involved in thigh riding, but I'm very interested. I'll look after my language." He leaned back again, after having moved towards her, and thought for a few moments more. "There are a few things beyond that that I'm interested in. I'm very big on worshipping, from top to bottom, face, neck, breasts, stomach, tight. Everything." He paused, waiting for an answer. "I'm more than okay with that, it sounds very enjoyable." Her smile was genuine, so he continued, "I also like blindfolds and temperature play. Both on myself." He waited once more, but she looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate. "I like the sensitivity that comes with not being able to see, especially when it comes to blowjobs and temperature is mostly ice. That's especially good after a race weekend. I haven't tried them both combined yet, but I'm interested in that."

She thought about it for a moment and nodded. "I'm opposed to neither of that. We'd have to talk about both beforehand, but if you enjoy it, I'm willing to try it out." This time he nodded. "Good, thank you for bringing it up. It's good to be on the same page. So, was that everything for now?" He rolled his shoulders, he didn't want to abruptly end the conversation, but he also wanted to move.

She was about to nod when something else, something important, crossed her mind. "I'm not on birth control!" Daniel nodded. "That's okay, you don't have to be, even when we're having sex. We'll use condoms." She smiled softly. "Good, I think that was the last thing."

He stood up, walked over to her and leaned down so he could give her a kiss. "Then everything is ready for the next time you stay." She grinned. "Who'd say we'd wait that long?" Her tone was teasing and humorous, clearly making a joke. "Such enthusiasm to get into my pants!" Daniel exclaimed. They both started laughing.

She stood up too. "How about we start with the dishes before wandering back into bed?" Daniel sighed dramatically. "If it's so urgent, then yes, let's do the dishes first. Before our glorious first bedroom adventure." They fell back into laughter.

***

A heavenly quiet enveloped their hotel room after the frenzy at the Austin Grand Prix. It was only Saturday, but Daniel was more in demand on this weekend than on any other. It was only the third time that she was accompanying him. Their relationship was still new, and she didn't have the time to visit all of them, but this was his home race, so she took special care to clear her calendar.

When the cars were on track, she spent time with some of the other drivers girlfriends. She was also more than welcome in his team's motorhome, so she'd enjoy a hot cup there from time to time. When they left, she also knew what that entailed.

Daniel signed more autographs and took more photos than anyone else she had seen. She liked it, especially since it showed how much he cared and how much joy it brought him. It also meant that they came back to the hotel quite late.

He was peeling himself out of his clothes, to take one last shower before going to bed. She herself was still dressed and was looking at him. "Daniel?"

"Um, yeah?" He looked up at her, which made him stumble and almost fall over, since he was trying to take off his pants. She shook her head. "Finish up first. Don't want to be responsible for any injuries before the big race." He grinned in return and kicked off his jeans before picking them up and throwing them over a chair.

He turned back towards her. "So, what was it, love?" A slight smile formed on her face at the nickname, she hoped the feeling she had while he called her such sweet names wouldn't get lost with time. "I just..."

She looked away from him, not knowing how to articulate her thoughts. "Race weekends make uncomfortable. I spoke to Alexandra, she kinda understood where I was coming from, but I think you'd want to know too. I think I simply have to get used to it, but right now I am not. Your fans adore you and I know you love the interactions, but I just don’t like the way they're looking at you. The constant photographers make me nauseous, and the interviewers are even worse. What do they even want from me?"

Her gaze returned to him. "I hope you understand what I’m trying to say." She scratched her neck. "I still want to come, I love being here with you, it's just all a little much."

He nodded and was clearly thinking of an appropriate answer. His first action, however, was walking over to her and taking her into his arms. "That's valid." They stood in silence for a bit and while she was happy he hadn't said she was overreacting, which she had never believed he would do, she was hoping for a bit more.

"Thank you for telling me. That's pretty shit." He stroked over her back. "I can't, um, do much about it, the fans are the fans and the photographers and interviewers are part of it all." He looked over to the bed. "But we can talk more about it." They let go of each other and after finding a comfortable position on the bed, he continued. "What exactly is bothering you? Maybe if we pinpoint it, it'll help?"

"It's all kind of intertwined. With the fans, it's just the way you and the team present this image. You're a high performance athlete, and you also have to have sex appeal and be entertaining. It's not like that's hard, you're sexy and funny, but the whole concept is just weird. It's not that they think you're cool, or that they see you as an inspiration. I support that, I think that's important. It's when we stand in front of crowds and I know someone in there has thought about fucking you. It's not constantly on my mind, it just comes up." Daniel was taken aback.

"Yes, so I understand that. Sometimes I have moments like that too. I think everyone in my position has. I don't like that it affects you." He took her hands in his. "And the rest of the media?"

She looked at their hands, squeezing them. "I'm your girlfriend, and I'm there to support you, but they're interested in me. Yeah, only because I'm your girlfriend, but still." She let a few moments pass before continuing. "I have to get used to all that, and I will, the others did, but right now it's just really fucking weird." Her eyes search for his and he nodded. "God, yes, it's always going to stay weird. Most of the stuff that happens in the paddock is absolutely surreal. You just get used to it all over time."

"So, effectively, I'll do exposure therapy until I'm used to the weirdness?" There was a smile on her face but a genuine slight concern to her question. Daniel nodded once more. "Yes, but I'll be there with you every step of the way."

***

They were sitting on plastic garden chairs next to a tiny bike track, eating dinner. Daniel and a few friends had wanted to bike, and she and some of the other partners had decided to come along. Now, after way more rounds than she could count, some with her, most him alone, exhaustion had sat in.

The others had gone inside the little garage they used to work on the bikes for repairs to get more drinks, but they must have gotten lost in their conversation, since they hadn't returned yet.

She only noticed that Daniel had stopped eating when he started talking to her. "Out there on track today, did you like it?" He looked at her. The track here was one made for hobby bikers, nothing serious, but one could go faster than on the normal road. She looked over the track before she answered. "We all had a lot of fun, right?"

She could see him shake his head in her peripheral vision. "Did you have fun? I thought you liked biking, but in between, I thought you'd fall over before you were even on it? And I know you don't get motion sickness."

Her gaze returned to him before answering. She was hesitant. "Well... I like biking." She bit her lip, thinking of the right words. "And I like going fast on a straight piece of road, but with all the curves around the track, I, um, was kinda afraid we'd die." There was humour in her voice, but it fell flat.

Daniel didn't look angry or annoyed, he looked hurt. "Why didn't you say that? I thought you were having fun." She nodded, trying to steer the conversation towards something else. "It was cool, I loved watching you, you were clearly having the time of your life."

He nodded. "I did, but you clearly didn't." He swallowed, laying his food on the plate in front of him on the grass. "You have to say stuff like that. You don't have to come if you don't want to, and if you want to simply watch, then you'll watch." She took a deep breath, looking at the track once again. "You were so excited to take me on the bike, I wanted you to have that experience. Also, it wasn't that bad the whole time." She tried to lessen her previous statement.

Daniel shook his head. "Then I'd have driven slower, and even if I liked the idea of driving you around, I'd like it more if you were comfortable." His chair made a suspicious creaking sound when he lifted it up to sit down right next to her. "Please tell me when something makes you uncomfortable. I'm a big boy, I can take it. But if you don't, or if I wouldn't, then we'd both be down in the end."

"Okay, yeah. I'll try next time." She looked over Daniel's shoulder. Their friends were returning, drinks in hand.  She looked back at him. "Let us talk about this more tomorrow, I want to enjoy this evening." He nodded, accepting her request. "Yes, I just want you to know that that's really important to me." A warm smile formed on her lips and she nodded. "I do, I promise."

***

The music at Jimmyz was deafening, and the air was practically vibrating. The party after the Monaco Grand Prix was something else entirely. She took a sip of her drink and leaned into Daniel, who had an arm around her.

He had just come back after being away for a bit, talking to different people he had spotted. She had sat in a booth with multiple of the other drivers and their partners, a lot of fun and alcohol involved.

He leaned towards her ear. "You aren't uncomfortable, right?" He kissed her cheek, a bit sloppily. He'd had some drinks. "Just wanted to make sure you were all right."

She turned her head, kissing him on the mouth. "No, no, I'm not! The others are great. Thank you for asking." They both had to talk loudly over the music to be understood.

"That's good. Want you to have a good time!" She nodded her head, taking another sip. "Don't worry!" He nodded and turned his head, someone had tapped on his shoulder and he was buried in a conversation shortly after.

She looked around. Clubs may or may not be her thing, but she was sitting next to Daniel, surrounded by drivers that were more or less his friends and the women that were more or less hers. This was just fine by her, she liked it like this, and she knew Daniel did too.

@kigieri 2024. All rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate or repost any of my work.

[thetrialsandtribulationsofeb]

eddie saying “it doesn’t change a thing” to shannon as he tries to hold on to the status quo - the idea of them being a husband and a wife. even though it does change everything, because her pregnancy scare is what drove him to choose her as a romantic partner again. eddie couldn’t make this decision before this “sign,” because as hard as he tries to force himself into something he doesn’t actually want, he can’t commit unless there’s a strong reason for it. unless it’s an obligation, an order to follow, the right thing to do

“that’s got to be a relief, right?” - i’m gonna mostly headcanon here, but i do think it actually was a relief for both of them. shannon was just honest about it, unlike eddie. wanting to get together with someone just because they got pregnant - instead of because you actually want to be each other’s partners - is not it (btw, shannon hate is not allowed on my page. anyone would break in her situation. if eddie deserves forgiveness for running to afghanistan, so does she for running to LA and wanting to break free from the shackles they were both chained to right after high school. my love for messy and complicated characters extends to her too, even though she’s a side character who wasn’t developed as much as the others)

eddie saying “this doesn’t change a thing between us. okay?” to buck as he tries to hold on to the status quo - the idea of them being two platonic best friends. even though it does change everything, because buck’s bisexual awakening is what makes him an option as a romantic partner. but eddie can’t make this decision even with this sign, because there’s a strong reason for it not to change anything - it’s the right thing to do. because he and buck are best friends, and the last time he dated his best friend, it ended in disaster. and also he’s still straight and still mourning his dead wife and chris still needs a woman babysitter/eddie’s girlfriend or whatever other lies he tells himself to ignore something he actually wants

“good. that’s a relief” - considering how buck’s facial expression is the same here as when taylor friendzoned him in “treasure hunt,” it’s not even a headcanon that it’s not actually a relief. for either of them. because both their faces express some kind of sadness and disappointment instead of, idk, being happy and casual about your bestie coming out to you and it not “ruining” your friendship?? it’s like they kind of wanted it to be ruined, but neither of them has the courage to make the first step ’cause there’s too much at stake (and they’re still doing this dance in season 8, but hopefully something starts majorly changing in s9 - though it’s up to the writers)

like, there’s something about eddie being heartbroken in the “shannon asking for a divorce” scene because he thinks that her getting pregnant would seal the deal for them as a couple - since their whole relationship is based mostly on having sex and having a child together (to put it bluntly). even if we imagine them as teenage best friends, they still don’t work as a romantic couple, at least not from what i’ve seen in the show

he’s afraid of what her not being pregnant means for them, so he jumps straight to maintaining that status quo of how he saw their relationship all this time. he doesn’t want things to change because he loves her - or the idea of her - and the idea of them as husband and wife. and he’s not ready to let go of it, even when all the signs throughout the years point to him not actually wanting shannon, and them not being good for each other as a romantic couple (i guess shannon is the water in this juice metaphor eddie has going for himself… sorry, girl)

and then eddie being heartbroken (he literally has the same facial expressions) in the buck coming out scene - because he feels, subconsciously, that buck going on a date with tommy might shift their relationship. because it opens up a possibility of buck having feelings for eddie, which opens up a possibility for eddie to start thinking deeper and reevaluating his feelings for buck. and deep down, the seed of him realizing that he doesn’t want buck to date tommy is being planted. it’s very small, very quiet, but it begins sprouting roots in s8. even if we imagine that all this time they really thought the way they feel toward each other is platonic - ’cause they’re both just really bad at self-reflection and understanding their own feelings (mister “sure, i’ll check out a hot guy’s ass, but that’s normal” and mister “i just hate being forced to date. feels like i have to perform”) - buck’s coming out is probably the moment that made the wheels in their heads finally start spinning

he’s afraid of what buck being attracted to men means - and tommy being gay (idk, i think it’s interesting how contemplative eddie’s face became when he said that. it’s like, wait, was tommy hitting on me? wait, if this is how a gay man hits on another man, what does that mean for me? and this is mostly headcanon too. i’m not claiming that this is what that moment implied. also we didn’t see how exactly the eddie/tommy hangouts went, so we can’t know for sure if tommy was interested in him or not - but it’s a fan headcanon, especially since tommy was supposed to be eddie’s LI at first. still happy they didn’t go down that road ’cause i’m a huge demi gay eddie believer and i don’t think it would fit his character)

so he jumps straight to maintaining the status quo of how he saw their relationship all this time. he doesn’t want things to change because he loves his bestie buck - and the idea of them as best friends - and he’s not ready to let go of it, even when all the signs throughout the years point to him actually wanting buck, and them being good for each other as a romantic couple (buck and chris together as a family are the joy and the juice!)

i just saw a post with these parallels again recently and i wanted to wrap my head around them for so long and i guess this is it

it’s like, both these times, it was about eddie being afraid of change and leaving his comfort zone

only in shannon’s case, the change meant he had to let her go as a romantic partner in order to grow and open himself up to happiness by setting them both free

and in buck’s case, it means he has to let him in as a romantic partner in order to grow and discover the happiness that’s been right in front of him all along

and i guess this post is a continuation of those thoughts