#waiting waiting waiting for her child to return

[sixeyesonathiel]

love comes in small sizes

chapter one : fatherhood dlc unlocked!

pairing – ex situationship gojo x fem reader

summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.

but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.

tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity

series masterlist. | other works here. | next.

you and satoru gojo have always been something.

it’s just never been labeled.

from the moment you met at jujutsu high, he’s been a persistent force in your life—loud, overbearing, impossible to ignore. he pokes and prods, worms his way under your skin, grinning all the while like he knows exactly what he’s doing. and maybe he does. because despite your best efforts, despite the way you roll your eyes when he drapes himself over you or tugs at your sleeves like a child craving attention, you never really push him away.

it’s not just him, though.

because when he gets himself banged up on missions—when he returns with blood crusted at the edges of his uniform, bruises forming along his jaw, the scent of battle clinging to his skin—you’re always the first to reach for him. your hands glow with soft, golden light, the warmth of your cursed energy threading into his wounds, coaxing his body to knit itself back together. petals flicker at your fingertips, dissolving into faint sparks of vitality as you work, the remnants of your technique blooming in the air between you.

“you’re reckless!” you snap one evening, pressing your palm firmly against his shoulder where a deep gash is slowly knitting itself back together under your touch. his uniform is torn, the edges stiff with dried blood, and you can feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your fingers, still tense from the battle. “you always do this. you push yourself too far, like you think you’re invincible—”

“well,” satoru interrupts, flashing a toothy grin, his glasses pushed up just enough to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes, “i kind of am.”

his voice is light, teasing, but you can feel the way he’s watching you—closely, carefully, like he’s waiting for something. the smirk he wears is easy, practiced, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when he’s tilting his head just slightly to the side, pressing into your touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him. and you hate that it works, that even now, even with blood still drying against his skin, he makes you want to soften. you press your fingers harder against his wound instead, ignoring the way he winces.

“not funny,” suguru chimes in from across the room, his voice steady, edged with something like exasperation. he’s lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like he’s only half-listening, but you know better—he’s watching, just like you are, waiting for satoru to take this seriously. “she’s right, you know. if you keep acting like you can’t get hurt, one day you will.”

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, tilting his head back against your lap dramatically, the weight of him pressing against your legs. his hair, messy from the fight, falls over his forehead in uneven strands, white against the deep red of his uniform. “not you too.”

shoko, sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhales a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette, her eyes lidded with fatigue. “they’re not wrong,” she mutters, flicking her gaze toward you. there’s something knowing in the way she looks at you, something amused. “you’re enabling him, you know.”

you scoff, fingers glowing faintly as the last of his wound seals shut beneath your touch. the golden light of your cursed technique flickers briefly, petals of energy curling along his skin before fading. “i am not enabling him,” you argue, shaking your head. “i’m keeping him alive.”

“see?” satoru grins, nudging your thigh with the back of his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. “she cares about me.”

shoko scoffs. “no one’s arguing that.”

suguru finally glances up, closing his magazine with a quiet thud, something unreadable in his expression. “just don’t let him drag you down with him.”

your fingers still against satoru’s skin for just a fraction of a second, your breath catching in your throat before you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep moving. “as if.”

but suguru just hums, unconvinced.

and maybe he has a point.

because this is your dynamic: you take care of satoru, and he lets you. you worry, and he pretends there’s nothing to worry about. he teases, you scold, he grins, you sigh. and beneath it all, something quiet lingers, something neither of you are willing to name.

and if he lets himself get wounded just once, just enough for you to heal him—if he lets a single well-timed hit slip past his defenses, allows an enemy to believe, for the briefest moment, that they’ve bested him—well. that’s his secret.

it’s calculated, precise, a game only he knows he’s playing. he times it perfectly, choosing the kind of wound that won’t alarm you too much, won’t make you furious enough to see through him. a shallow cut here, a bruised rib there—just enough to warrant your hands on him, to feel the warmth of your cursed energy bloom against his skin. because no one touches him like you do. no one else can.

you’re careful with him, always, even when you’re mad—especially when you’re mad. your fingers press firmly against his skin, your lips pressed together in concentration, a deep furrow between your brows that he finds himself staring at more often than he should. your cursed energy hums through him, soothing in a way nothing else ever is, wrapping around him like petals caught in the wind—delicate, fleeting, something he wants to hold in his hands but knows will slip through his fingers if he grips too tightly.

so he watches you, through half-lidded eyes, through lashes that are a little too long and glasses that slip just slightly down the bridge of his nose. he commits the moment to memory—the feel of you, the way you hover so close but never quite meet his gaze, like looking at him too long will make you realize something you don’t want to. he wants you to realize it. he wants you to notice the way his breathing slows under your touch, the way he always finds a reason to lean just a little closer.

but you never do. or maybe you just pretend not to.

so he lets himself get hurt, just enough. lets himself have this, just for a little while longer. because if a single wound is the price for your hands on him, for the way you fuss and scold and heal him all the same, then—well. that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.

but then, one summer night, something shifts.

it’s late—too late to be sneaking around campus, but that’s never stopped him before. the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the day, cicadas humming lazily in the distance. the two of you are perched on the roof of the dorms, your legs dangling over the edge, the wind stirring your hair as you watch the city lights flicker beyond the trees. it’s peaceful, or at least it should be, but satoru is shifting beside you, too fidgety, too present, like he’s itching to say something but hasn’t quite figured out how.

“so.” he nudges you with his elbow, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, silver strands catching in the glow of the moon. his eyes, unshielded, are startlingly bright even in the dim light, a vivid cerulean that traps every flicker of movement like a kaleidoscope. “you like anyone?”

you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “what?”

he grins, but there’s something a little too deliberate about it, the corner of his mouth curling just so. “you know. anyone in particular? anyone special?”

it’s meant to be casual. lighthearted. but there’s something just beneath the surface, something careful and quiet in the way he’s looking at you. his fingers tap idly against his knee, his posture loose, but you can feel the tension coiled just beneath his skin, like he’s holding his breath.

you hum, pretending to think, tilting your head slightly. “maybe.”

his grin widens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you tap your fingers against the edge of the rooftop, the faintest flicker of cursed energy sparking at your touch, like an afterthought. the air shifts, charged with something unspoken, something weightier than the teasing banter you’re used to. “he’s a pain in the ass, though.”

“must be a great guy.” his voice is light, but there’s an edge to it, something strained and expectant.

“oh, he is.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tenses just slightly. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. “except he never shuts up.”

“rude.” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, his other hand bracing against the rooftop beside you. he’s closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knee against yours. “i am a fantastic listener.”

you snort. “sure, satoru.”

but he’s still watching you, still leaning just a little too close, his breath feather-light against your skin. the glow of the city lights flickers in his eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual mischief in his expression into something quieter, something almost careful. his lips part like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, tongue flicking out to wet them before he closes his mouth again. his fingers twitch against the rooftop, curling and uncurling like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, like the only thing keeping him still is the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

and then, just as you’re about to look away—

“you know,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s testing the weight of his own words, “if you did like me, i wouldn’t mind.”

your breath catches, the warmth of the night suddenly pressing too close, thick and stifling against your skin. cicadas drone in the distance, but the sound barely registers, drowned out by the rushing in your ears, the quickening of your pulse. the wind stirs your hair, cool against the heat creeping up your neck, but it does nothing to ground you when he’s right there, close enough that you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. the moment stretches, fragile and precarious, balanced on the edge of something neither of you can quite name.

he shrugs, tilting his head like it doesn’t mean anything, like he hasn’t just shifted the entire atmosphere between you. “i think we’d be good together.” the words are light, almost offhand, but his fingers betray him again, tightening into fists against his knees before forcing themselves to relax. his lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—something caught between expectation and defense, bracing himself for whatever comes next. the confidence in his voice doesn’t match the way his body betrays him, and it hits you then—he’s nervous.

your heartbeat quickens, hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words settling into your chest with something sharp and dizzying. you swallow, throat suddenly dry, fingers pressing against the rooftop like you need something to hold onto. “is that so?” your voice is steadier than you expect, but there’s something uncertain about the way it lingers between you, something questioning, something hopeful.

“yeah.” his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop, doesn’t shift away like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff. he leans in, just barely, just enough for his knee to brush yours, for his breath to ghost against your cheek, for the air between you to thin into nothing. “it is.” 

he’s waiting. you could push him away, laugh it off like you always do. you could pretend this is just another one of his games.or—

you let the moment stretch, your fingers tightening in your lap, cursed energy sparking faintly against your skin. the world narrows, the sound of the cicadas fading, the city lights blurring at the edges of your vision. and then, before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let yourself hesitate, you lean in, pressing your lips to his.

he makes a small sound of surprise—quickly swallowed by the way he cups your face, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. his hand slips to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, his touch warm and sure. he leans into you, pressing closer, like he wants to drown in the moment, like he wants to lose himself in you.

and maybe he does.

because the next thing you know, he’s pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist, his grip possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. his infinity is off, the faint hum of his technique gone, and it’s only then that you realize—he wants this. wants to feel you, every point of contact, every shiver that runs through you as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“satoru.” you murmur, fingers curling against his chest.

he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “just let me have this.” he whispers, and for once, there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. no cocky bravado. just quiet, aching sincerity.

the night stretches on, the cicadas singing their endless summer song, and somewhere between the tangled sheets and the soft, breathless laughter, you think—maybe he’s been waiting for you, too.

after that night, everything changes.

not all at once—at first, it’s subtle. the way satoru lingers a little too long when he passes you in the hallways, his fingers ghosting against your wrist before he pulls away like it never happened. the way he leans in when you speak, as if he needs to hear every single word, as if your voice is something he can’t go without. the way his gaze finds you in a crowded room, even when you’re not looking back, even when you pretend you don’t feel it burning into your skin.

but then, it happens again.

it happens when he grabs your wrist after training, dragging you away before you can protest, his grip loose but insistent. “come on, let’s go. training is boring, and it’s not like you need it—you already have a god-given talent. or, well, a you-given talent, i guess.” he flashes that insufferable grin, the one that makes it impossible to say no, the one that makes it feel like you’re the only one who matters. his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist before he lets go, like he’s reluctant to lose the contact. like he’s testing a boundary neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

it happens when he shoves a half-melted ice cream into your hands, his own already half-eaten, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “i got your favorite,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t memorize the exact flavor you picked out the last time. and when you reach out with your thumb, swiping the chocolate away, his mouth closes over your finger without hesitation—lips warm, tongue flickering against your skin, blue eyes watching your reaction like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

but you don’t.

it happens when you end up pressed against the side of a vending machine, his hands braced on either side of you, his breath warm against your cheek. the fluorescent lights flicker, his sunglasses slipping just low enough for you to see his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, something unspoken resting just behind them. he tilts his head, his lips brushing against yours, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one. and when you let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers skim against your waist, trailing up the fabric of your uniform, just light enough to make you shiver.

it happens when he sneaks into your dorm after curfew, flopping onto your bed like he owns it, his hair messy from the wind, the scent of the night still clinging to his clothes. “move over,” he complains, but he’s already pressing against your side, already hooking his chin over your shoulder, already making himself at home in your space like he belongs there. and when you sigh, when you give in, he grins against your skin, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and then, it just keeps happening.

but it also happens in other ways.

like when you fall asleep in class, forehead pressed against your arm, and you wake up to find his jacket draped over your shoulders, the faintest trace of his scent lingering in the fabric. you don’t mention it, don’t thank him, but the next time he dozes off, you tug your scarf loose and wrap it around his neck, watching the way his lips twitch in something like satisfaction even in sleep.

or when he holds his umbrella over your head instead of his own when it rains, his hair dripping wet, grinning like an idiot when you call him stupid. “what? i have my own built-in defense system,” he teases, tapping his temple like he’s making a point. but he doesn’t turn infinity on, not once, even when the water beads against his skin, soaking through his shirt. even when you huff and tug him under the umbrella properly, even when he bumps his shoulder against yours and murmurs, “see? you do care.”

or when he shoves a handful of candies into your pocket, grinning when you shoot him a confused look. “i know you like these.” he says, voice light, offhanded, like it isn’t something he noticed just from watching you. later, you find a small sticky note tucked between them, a doodle of himself with his tongue sticking out, with tiny scribbled words beneath: for when you miss me. you will.

it’s not a relationship, not exactly. neither of you say anything about it, neither of you try to define it. but there’s a shift between you now, something thick and heavy in the air, something that settles in the pit of your stomach whenever he looks at you like that.

like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

like he knows you won’t.

and when it happens again—when his lips finally, finally press against yours, when his weight settles over you, pinning you down in a way that makes your breath hitch—there’s no hesitation. there’s no teasing remark, no cocky grin, just the warmth of his hands on your skin, just the quiet hum of satisfaction when you pull him closer. he doesn’t turn infinity on, doesn’t keep any distance between you, lets himself feel you completely, like some lovesick idiot. like he wants to remember exactly how this moment feels, how you feel.

shoko notices first.

it’s not even subtle—the way she leans back against the school’s rooftop railing, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes half-lidded in amusement as she watches you fuss over satoru’s scraped knuckles. he’s practically melting under your touch, his head tilting slightly as if he’s trying to press more into your palm without making it obvious. you’re focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in mild annoyance at his carelessness, but your hands are gentle, fingers skimming over his skin with practiced ease. his long legs are stretched out in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose, letting you see the way his bright blue eyes soften when they flicker up to meet yours.

“so, are you two, like… a thing?” shoko asks, lazily exhaling a puff of smoke, watching the way satoru’s mouth twitches at the question.

“no,” you say immediately, your voice firm, but at the same time, satoru hums, “hmm, maybe?”

your head snaps toward him, brows raising in disbelief, while he merely grins like he expected this reaction. his free hand comes up to push his sunglasses up properly, but the motion is slow, languid, like he’s trying to keep his grin hidden behind his palm. shoko lets out a snort, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette, unimpressed.

“yeah, okay.”

suguru is quieter about it, but he doesn’t need to say anything. it’s in the way his gaze lingers when satoru drapes himself over you, in the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a knowing smile whenever you roll your eyes but don’t push satoru away. when satoru unceremoniously drops himself onto your lap one afternoon, long limbs sprawling across the bench, suguru doesn’t comment. he just looks at you, looks at the way your fingers absently thread through satoru’s hair, the way his lashes flutter at the contact, and he knows.

“you’re really serious about her, huh?” suguru muses one evening, when it’s just the two of them on the rooftop, the sky bleeding into shades of deep purple and burnt orange.

satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but there’s no real bite to it. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

suguru only shrugs, turning his gaze toward the horizon, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “nothing. just wondering.”

but if there’s one thing about suguru, it’s that he doesn’t wonder about things unless he already knows the answer.

still, life goes on. there are missions, there are late-night walks, there are stupid jokes and stolen glances and moments where the world feels like it’s standing still, like it will always be this way. satoru still rests his chin on your shoulder when he’s bored, still tugs on your sleeve when he wants your attention, still lets his infinity down when you touch him. suguru still watches with quiet amusement, still nudges satoru’s foot under the table when he gets too obvious, still exchanges glances with shoko that say this idiot is hopeless. everything feels steady, like nothing could possibly go wrong.

until it does.

until riko amanai dies. until satoru comes back from that mission looking—different.

his presence is still overwhelming, still too much, but there’s something sharp underneath it now, something cold that wasn’t there before. his shoulders are broader, his stance heavier, his hands looser at his sides, like he’s more aware of their power now. he’s grinning, like always, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. the endless blue of them looks deeper now, like a well with no bottom, like something in him has caved in and been swallowed whole. he’s stronger, untouchable, but suddenly, it feels like he’s farther away than he’s ever been.

and worse than that—suguru is slipping.

you feel it before you fully understand it. the way his voice is quieter, the way his patience wears thinner, the way he sighs more often, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. his words become sharper, his glances more distant, and when you reach for him—when you try to hold onto whatever is still left—he only offers you a fleeting smile, a ghost of what it used to be.

one day, you watch satoru and suguru stand side by side, just like always—just like they always have. satoru is saying something, something cocky and arrogant and so typically him, but suguru doesn’t bite back the way he used to. he just listens, nods absently, something unreadable flickering in his expression. and for the first time, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, a chasm that wasn’t there before, widening with every passing second.

you don’t know it yet, but things will never be the same again.

one year passes.

twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days—each one dragging by in a haze, dissolving into the next like watercolors bleeding together. sometimes, satoru forgets where he is, what day it is, what he was supposed to be doing before his mind wandered again. everything feels muted, muffled, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. time keeps moving, but nothing feels real.

suguru is gone.

satoru barely blinks when it happens. it should feel like something—something bigger, something louder, something that shakes the world the way it shakes his chest. but all he does is sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his best friend’s defection, listening to yaga’s words like they’re coming from underwater. the room is too small, too tight, pressing against the edges of his skin, and yet he’s weightless, floating in some vast nothingness where things don’t really matter. his fingers twitch, restless, aching for something to crush between them, but what’s the point? if he destroys the walls, the floor, the entire goddamn building, it won’t bring suguru back. it won’t change a thing.

he doesn’t remember leaving the room, but suddenly he’s outside, staring at the sky. it’s clear, painfully so, stars scattered across the darkness like someone thought to mock him with how vast it is. the wind tugs at his uniform, cool against his too-warm skin, and still, he doesn’t feel anything. it doesn’t make sense. none of it does. suguru wouldn’t leave. suguru is—was—his other half, the one who understood him in ways no one else could. he has you, he has shoko—but it’s not the same. it will never be the same. satoru is the strongest. the strongest doesn’t lose things.

except now he has. and no matter how tightly he grips the edges of his own world, everything still slips through his fingers.

you find him there, quiet for once, his head tilted back as he watches the stars. the moonlight catches on his white hair, turning it almost silver, his sunglasses hanging loosely between his fingers. you don’t say anything right away, just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. he’s grateful for that, the silent understanding, the way you don’t push him to talk when he doesn’t want to. but it’s you—you—and eventually, your voice cuts through the thick, choking air.

“come inside, satoru.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “not yet.”

you hesitate, then sigh, your fingers brushing over his sleeve. it’s light, barely there, but he still feels it. you’re real. that’s something, at least.

“you can’t keep doing this.”

he doesn’t know what you mean—staring at the sky? ignoring everything? pretending suguru didn’t leave?—but he just laughs, a short, hollow sound, and grins at you like none of this matters. like he isn’t crumbling under the weight of something he refuses to name. “doing what?”

you don’t smile back.

you don’t say anything at all.

but your fingers tighten against his sleeve, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of you before you step away.

and he can’t—he won’t—let that happen.

before you can take another step, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling you back toward him. it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either—just firm, desperate in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge. you stumble slightly, your palm landing against his chest, and he doesn’t let you move away.

“don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. his voice is raw, frayed at the edges, like he’s holding something back. his fingers tighten, his grip the only thing grounding him. “not yet.”

your eyes search his, looking for something, anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to give you. he only knows that he needs you to stay.

“satoru…” your voice wavers, and he hates it—hates that you sound like you pity him, hates that you might see him for what he really is. but you don’t pull away.

his free hand lifts to your face, brushing against your cheek, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tightly. you don’t. you stay.

and then you’re kissing him. or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter—he just knows that your lips are warm, that your hands clutch at his jacket, that he’s losing himself in the way you breathe against his mouth. it’s messy, uncoordinated, more about needing than anything else. he doesn’t care.

he just wants.

it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you inside, backing you into his room, his grip never loosening. you let him. maybe you need this too. maybe you need something real just as much as he does.

it’s not love. not really. it’s a desperate, clumsy attempt to hold onto something—each other, maybe, or just the pieces of a world that’s slipping through both of your fingers. it’s the press of his body against yours, the way his hands shake against your skin, the way neither of you speak because there’s nothing left to say.

when it’s over, you stay, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. his arms are loose around you, his breathing slow, almost steady. but he’s not asleep. he won’t sleep. not tonight.

his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. it’s unhealthy. he knows it. you do too. but neither of you move.

not yet.

a month later, you come to him late at night, standing in his doorway like you’re already bracing for a fight. your arms are crossed tight over your chest, fingers gripping at the fabric of your sleeves, like you need something to hold on to. your weight shifts from one foot to the other, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re not sure if you should even be here. but your eyes—your eyes are worried. tired. heavy with something he can’t quite name yet, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.

“satoru, we need to talk.”

he groans, throwing himself back onto his bed like a petulant child, limbs sprawled carelessly across the sheets. his uniform jacket is crumpled beneath him, the collar tugging awkwardly at his neck, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he throws an arm over his eyes, sighing dramatically. “ugh, if this is about me skipping out on yaga’s stupid lectures again—”

“it’s not about that.”

your voice is clipped, firm in a way that makes his fingers twitch where they rest against his forehead. something in your tone makes him hesitate, but he doesn’t sit up just yet, doesn’t acknowledge the way his stomach knots at the sharp edge of it. instead, he props himself up on one elbow just enough to grin at you, lopsided and careless, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of his room. “then what? are you finally confessing your undying love for me?”

you exhale sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together so tightly they pale at the edges. your jaw tightens—not in frustration, but in restraint, like you’re biting back words you can’t afford to say. for the first time since you walked in, your gaze flickers away, dipping down toward the floor, then back up again. “satoru.”

his smirk falters.

it’s barely noticeable, the shift so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it—but you’re not most people, and you always notice. he covers it up with a roll of his shoulders, a quick raking of fingers through his hair, but he can’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way something uneasy coils deep in his gut.

he doesn’t like it.

you take a breath, shoulders rising and falling with it, like you’re steadying yourself. your stance shifts, one foot moving slightly behind the other, like you need an escape route, just in case. “i—”

“’cause i mean, it’s pretty obvious.” he barrels right over whatever you were about to say, voice light, teasing—too quick. he leans back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. “can’t blame you, really. i am incredibly handsome. the strongest, too—”

“satoru, this is serious.”

your voice cuts through his like a knife.

his grin twitches, faltering at the edges, but he doesn’t let it fall completely. instead, he groans, sitting up in one fluid motion, his frustration bleeding through in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. his bangs fall messily over his forehead, but he doesn’t push them back this time. “yeah, yeah, everything is serious with you lately.” his words come out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t stop. “you know, you used to be fun. we used to be fun. now all you do is worry, and nag, and—”

you flinch.

it’s small. barely a twitch of your fingers, a quick inhale, a tightening of your shoulders. but he sees it, and the moment he does, regret clenches in his throat.

too late.

your fingers curl in on themselves, your nails pressing into your palms. your expression remains composed, but he sees the cracks forming—the slight tremble in your exhale, the way your shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. “satoru, i need to tell you something.”

his pulse kicks up.

it’s barely noticeable, the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants, but you’re not most people, and you always notice. there’s something about the way you say it—something final, something that makes his skin prickle with the kind of unease he can’t shake.

he doesn’t let you.

“what? that i’m reckless? that i’m changing?” he cuts in, sharp and bitter, words laced with something dangerously close to something real. something he doesn’t want to name. “yeah, i’ve heard it all before.”

“satoru—”

“what do you want me to do, huh?” his voice rises, frustration twisting into something uglier, something more desperate. “cry about it?”

a long, heavy pause.

your face shifts—something breaking, something splintering right in front of him, and he hates it. your gaze flickers downward, away from his, away from the conversation entirely. your fingers curl tighter, drifting to your stomach, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt like—

he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. because whatever it is, whatever you were going to say, it dies before it can even reach him.

you exhale, slow and measured. your fingers curl deeper into your sleeves, knuckles turning white, tension wound so tight in your shoulders that it hurts. there’s something unreadable in your expression, something quiet and distant, and for the first time in a long time, satoru doesn’t know what you’re thinking. the uncertainty makes his skin itch, makes his stomach turn. and then, finally—

“nevermind. i’m leaving.”

he scoffs, an ugly, humorless sound, sharp and bitter in the stillness between you. his lips curl, not in a grin, but in something twisted, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, right.”

but you don’t roll your eyes. you don’t laugh. you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting, the easy back-and-forth that makes it all feel normal. you just look at him—long and quiet and sad, your fingers still trembling where they clutch your sleeves.

“i’m serious.”

his chest feels tight, like he’s breathing in smoke, like his ribs are about to crack under the weight of something he refuses to name. the words don’t settle right in his ears, don’t make sense in his head, don’t belong in your mouth. you don’t leave. not him. not this.

but then you say it—you tell him you can’t do this anymore, that you’re leaving jujutsu society, that you can’t watch him become someone he’s not. your voice is steady, but there’s something fragile in it, something raw at the edges, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. you say it like a choice, like something you’ve decided on, but all he can hear is that you’re leaving him.

and it makes him panic.

so he does what he always does when he panics—he lashes out.

“fine, go then.” his voice is venomous, cutting, every syllable sharpened into a weapon. he means for it to hurt. he needs it to hurt. “if you really think i’m so hopeless, just leave like he did.”

the second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to take it back.

because you freeze. because something inside you cracks, visible in the way your breath hitches, in the way your fingers curl into your palm like you need to hold something, anything, just to keep yourself together.

your mouth opens—then closes.

whatever words were lingering on your tongue, whatever truth you had been about to give him, they wither before they can take shape. they don’t belong here, not after what he’s said. not when he’s already decided to throw you into the same abyss as him. the realization settles in your chest like something sharp, something splintered, pressing against your ribs.

he doesn’t deserve to know. he doesn’t even want to know. so you just nod, slow and deliberate, as if committing this moment to memory—his face twisted with something between anger and regret, his fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of his pants that his knuckles go white. something hollow settles in your gaze, something distant, something final.

then you turn around.

and you walk away.

but just before you cross the threshold, just before the distance between you stretches into something permanent, you pause. your hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers splayed against the wood, as if you’re waiting—waiting for him to stop you, to say anything that might make this easier, to give you even the smallest reason to stay.

he doesn’t.

so you exhale, steady and soft, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “i hope it’s worth it, satoru.”

he doesn’t ask what is ‘it’—his pride, his stubbornness, his refusal to let you in—because he knows. he knows. then you leave, and he watches you go, convinced you’ll come back.

(you don’t.)

six years pass him by, and it’s safe to say that it wasn’t worth it.

he never says it out loud—never lets the words leave his lips, never even lets himself think them too long—but the truth lingers, settling deep in his bones like a slow, creeping ache. he feels it in the way silence stretches too long in his apartment, in the way he still catches himself pausing at the door, expecting to hear your voice. it’s in the way his fingers twitch, like they still remember the shape of your wrist in his grasp, the way his bed feels too big now, empty in a way that nothing else quite fills. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t care.

(he does.)

at first, he’s bitter. you left him. you gave up on him. just like he did.

the thought twists, ugly and sharp, digging into the tender parts of him that he refuses to acknowledge. he doesn’t dwell on it. won’t. he has better things to do, more important things—missions, responsibilities, a world that won’t stop turning just because he wants it to. so he throws himself into work, into being the strongest, into playing the role that everyone expects of him. if he keeps moving, if he keeps winning, maybe—maybe—he won’t have to think about what he lost.

but then the quiet comes.

it always does.

he can hold it off for a while, can drown it out in the noise of battle, the weight of duty, the voices of the students he’s taken under his wing. but eventually, when the dust settles and the world slows, when it’s just him and the empty space where you used to be, the silence seeps in, heavy and suffocating. it presses against his ribs, sits in the hollow of his chest, winds around his throat like something clawing for a home. and in those moments, there’s no ignoring it.

he dreams about you.

sometimes, they’re good. warm. the kind that make him wake up reaching for something that isn’t there. he dreams of your laughter—light and careless, curling around the edges of his mind like something precious. he dreams of your touch—the way you used to smooth your hands over his shoulders when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your fingers would toy with the hem of his uniform absentmindedly, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. he dreams of the way you used to look at him, with something so soft in your eyes, something he never knew how to name.

but other times, the dreams aren’t good.

sometimes you’re standing at the door, gaze unreadable, voice soft as you whisper, “i hope it’s worth it.” sometimes you’re walking away, and no matter how fast he moves, how desperately he reaches, he can’t catch up. sometimes you turn back, but there’s nothing left in your expression, like you’ve already disappeared, like you were never really there. and sometimes—sometimes, you don’t look back at all.

he thinks about looking for you. about dropping everything and scouring the world until he finds you, because if anyone can, it’s him.

but if you wanted to be found, you wouldn’t have left.

so he lets you go. or at least, he tries to. he tells himself it’s for the best, convinces himself that this—this missing, this hollow ache, this unbearable emptiness—is just another thing he has to live with. 

at least he pretends to.

and satoru seeing you again in what supposed to be an another monotone day clearly doesn't help his already pathetic facade.

he wasn't expecting to see you again, he dreamt about it often, that much is true but not like this.

not in the middle of a crowded mall, washed in artificial light, where the air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and overpriced coffee. not with the hum of idle chatter pressing in from all sides, footsteps tapping against the polished tiles, distant laughter ringing from a store playing a song he doesn’t recognize. not standing in front of a shelf filled with pastel notebooks and gel pens, head tilted in quiet contemplation as you skim the label of a glittery-covered planner. not looking so much like you that it knocks the breath from his lungs, like he’s been punched in the gut by the weight of time itself.

six years apart, and yet, seeing you now—nothing has changed.

your fingers still tap absently against the book’s spine, your brow still creases just slightly in thought, your weight still shifts from one foot to the other in that familiar, absentminded sway. it's the same little habits he used to watch from across a classroom, half-listening to you scold him for never taking notes, grinning when you’d huff in exasperation, muttering something about how even if you copied mine, you’d still flunk the test, gojo. it’s muscle memory now, the way he leans forward ever so slightly, the way his lips part to call your name before he even realizes it.

for a split second, he forgets the passage of time, forgets that you aren’t seventeen anymore, that he isn’t either, that the six-year gap between then and now has swallowed whole everything that was once soft between you.

somewhere between one breath and the next, his feet move on their own. he doesn’t remember closing the distance, but suddenly he’s there—standing right beside you, close enough to see the way the artificial lighting catches on the curve of your lashes, close enough that his pulse trips over itself in something stupidly close to nerves.

“woah,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because he’s never been good at thinking before speaking, never been good at silence. his voice comes out rougher than he means, cracking on something fragile, so he leans into bravado, tilting his head with a grin like this doesn’t feel like the start of something dangerous. “didn’t take you for the cute little stationery type.”

you freeze.

not in an obvious way. it’s a flicker, a split-second hesitation, just the faintest shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers still against the spine of the planner. it’s long enough that something in his chest tightens, long enough that he wonders if you might run.

then, finally, you turn to him.

and satoru, for all his power, for all his foresight, for all his years of learning how to predict and anticipate—he’s completely unprepared.

your face is the same. but not really. the softness he remembers is still there, but refined, tempered into something quieter, something heavier. time has carved something sharper into the delicate lines of your features, something weary, something distant, something closed. and when your eyes meet his, something ugly churns in his gut at how unfamiliar it feels, how your gaze doesn’t hold him the way it used to—how it skims over him like he’s anyone else.

and then you open your mouth.

your lips part, hesitation flickering in your gaze, the faintest shift of your brows betraying something unreadable—something he isn’t sure he wants to name. for a moment, your throat bobs like you might say something else, something more, but then your expression settles into something carefully neutral. practiced. distant.

“gojo.”

not satoru. never satoru.

his stomach twists, and for a brief second, he hates himself for expecting anything different. of course, it would be gojo. of course, you would opt tl say his last name like it belonged to a stranger, disregard his first name like it was just a word, just a title—like you hadn’t once whispered it into his skin, like it hadn’t once meant home.

he exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, though it feels stiff, foreign, like it doesn't quite fit on his face anymore. his hands shove into his pockets, his shoulders rolling with a forced ease, but the tension lingers, settling somewhere in his spine.

“so,” he drawls, playing it easy, playing it light, playing it like the years between you never happened, “you a teacher now? or just hoarding sparkly pens?”

there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it—passing through your expression. fleeting. barely there. but he catches it, latches onto it like a dying man gasping for air, like proof that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one drowning in this moment.

and then you exhale, a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough that something in his chest clenches, tight and aching.

“it’s not for me.”

not for you.

his fingers twitch before he can stop them, the urge to reach out settling deep in his bones like an instinct he thought he’d long buried. his six eyes, ever-perceptive, drink you in without permission, tracing every minute detail, cataloging every shift in your stance. the way your shoulders hover between tension and ease, the way your weight subtly shifts as if you’re fighting the impulse to move—toward him or away, he can’t tell. but it’s your hands that betray you the most, your thumb brushing absently against your palm, slow and methodical, a grounding habit, a tell he never got the chance to memorize.

and yet, for all the little details his sight clings to, it’s the absence of something that twists like a knife beneath his ribs.

the faint indentation on your finger. a whisper of what once was—or maybe what never came to be. a ring should have been there. but it isn’t.

hope is a sickness, and it spreads fast, coiling through him like wildfire, igniting something reckless, something desperate. before he can stop himself, before he can think—before he can remind himself that hope has never done him any favors—the words slip out, raw and unfiltered as he stepped closer. “then who—”

but you do something he doesn’t expect. you step back. not much. just an inch.

but it’s enough.

enough to silence him, to lodge something cold and sharp in the hollow of his chest. enough to remind him that time is not a wound that can be rewound, that the six years between you are filled with things he was never there to witness. enough to remind him that no matter how tightly he might want to cling to the past, you have already let it go.

your expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t crack, but there’s something in the way your lashes lower just slightly, in the way your lips press together, careful and deliberate. restraint, or maybe consideration—like you’re choosing your words with more care than he deserves.

“it was nice seeing you, gojo.”

was. past tense. final.

his stomach twists, his throat constricts. he hates how easily you say it, how effortlessly you close the door between you.

you turn to leave. his whole body locks up. he should let you go. if he were a better man, he would let you go.

but he’s never been a good man, has he? never been selfless, never been someone who could bear to lose something precious to him—not again, not again, not again—

“wait,” he blurts out, reaching for you—

but in the corner of his vision, something shifts.

small. deliberate.

he doesn’t see it.

doesn’t see the way a tiny figure leans forward from behind a display shelf, chin tilted up in blatant curiosity, eyes sharp and calculating. doesn’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her pink, glittery backpack like she’s bracing herself for something—like she’s trying to piece together the scene before her with the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who refuses to be left out.

she isn’t hesitant. she isn’t uncertain.

she watches.

studies.

eyes flicking between you and him, her expression shifting through something unreadable—thoughtful, shrewd, maybe even the slightest bit unimpressed, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

he doesn’t see her.

doesn’t see the way she plants her feet, stance wide like she’s ready to charge forward and insert herself into the conversation the way only a child with too much confidence can. doesn’t see the way her tiny mouth presses into a firm, stubborn line, the way her nose scrunches in concentration, the way her little fingers drum against her arm as if waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

because right now, for the first time in six years, he finally saw you again. he only sees you.

he can only see you.

satoru doesn’t breathe.

not at first.

not when you disappear from sight, not when the absence of your presence leaves behind something gaping, something cold, something he doesn’t have the words to name. six years. six years of nothing, of static, of moving forward because what else was there to do but move? and now—now you were here, now you were leaving again, and if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—

before he can even take a step, before he can even exhale—a tiny, pointed presence looms at his side.

looming shouldn’t be a word that applies to a child. but here she is. cornering him.

when he finally registers her, she’s already staring up at him, blue eyes sharp, head tilted in deep, almost theatrical thought. her posture is relaxed, but not in the way a child’s should be—no fidgeting, no nervous glances, no uncertainty. instead, there is something deliberate in the way she plants her feet, how she clasps her hands neatly in front of her, how she breathes so evenly it’s like she’s assessing him.

the soft scent of vanilla clings to the air around her, mixed with something delicate, maybe peach-scented lotion. her sneakers—pink and white with sparkly laces—are pristine, barely creasing as she shifts her weight. her cardigan, worn off her shoulders like a fashion statement, matches the ribbons in her hair, and her ruffled socks peek out from beneath the hem of a dress that isn't a princess dress but might as well be with how carefully chosen it looks—pale pink with embroidered flowers, soft and dainty.

but the most striking thing about her, above all, is that she is him. down to the way her lips purse in contemplation.

she blinks. once. twice. assessing.

and then, with all the grace of a tiny, self-proclaimed noble who has just encountered a most peculiar sight, she tilts her chin up and announces—“ugh. you’re taller than i thought.”

satoru blinks down at the little diva frowning up at him, her brows furrowing like he’s already failed some unspoken test.

she is… dazzling.

for all the wrong reasons.

because that is his nose. those are his eyes.

the slope of them, the sharp, fox-like tilt—so much like his own that it knocks the air from his lungs. it’s all there in the way her gaze flickers between calculation and feigned indifference, in the way her lips purse in mild dissatisfaction, in the way she shifts her weight onto one foot, expectant. her presence is something deliberate, something intended, as if she is waiting for him to notice her. but that’s ridiculous, right? right?

his throat bobs, dry. he clears it anyway.

satoru barely catches himself before he lets out a laugh—sharp, surprised, incredulous. instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and careful, before slipping his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his collar. the world is suddenly too bright without them, but he needs to see her properly. he lowers himself to one knee, eye level with the little diva who stands before him, hands on her hips like she owns the entire shopping district.

“uh.” he cocks his head, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. none. not a single crack in that unshakable confidence. “hey, kiddo? are you, uh… lost?”

the reaction is instantaneous.

she gasps—loud, dramatic, affronted.

both hands fly to her chest as though he’s just accused her of something heinous, scandalized horror flashing across her tiny face. her perfectly arched brows shoot up beneath the sharp cut of her bangs, pink lips parting with the kind of exaggerated disbelief that could only be described as theatrical. she takes a step back, but not like she’s retreating—no, she makes it look intentional, like a leading lady on stage setting up the perfect moment of tension.

“excuuuse me?” she demands, her tiny chin tilting higher, voice dripping with the kind of indignation only the truly self-assured can muster. her hands, small but precise in their movement, land imperiously on her hips. “do i look like a peasant who gets lost?”

satoru blinks.

for once, his mouth moves faster than his brain, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. he opens his lips, closes them, then opens them again, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “uh—”

“i have an impeccable sense of direction,” she continues, not even sparing him a glance as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tiny fingers adjusting an imaginary crown. her eyes shut briefly—dramatic, self-important, as if recalling some great tragedy. “unlike mommy, who keeps walking the wrong way even with google maps.”

he startles.

it’s subtle, a twitch in his fingertips, a shift in his stance—so minor most wouldn’t even notice. but he does. he notices everything. the way her voice rounds out just slightly as she says mommy, the sharp, confident edge softening into something softer, something practiced. it’s natural, the way she says it, habitual, like it belongs to her in a way no other word does. there is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no resentment—only warmth.

only fondness.

or maybe he’s imagining things.

he’s still trying to process it when—

“anyway.” she rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt and immediately regretting it. her voice is lighter now, offhanded, but the unimpressed arch of her brow makes it clear: he is wasting her time.

“let’s get back to business.”

his brows furrow. “business?”

“yes, business.” she plants a tiny hand on her hip like she’s about to announce the world’s next big fashion trend. her stance is commanding, legs slightly apart, the picture of confidence despite being barely three feet tall. “keep up.”

satoru isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this.

because the way she looks at him—no, studies him—is unnerving. there’s nothing idle about it, nothing remotely innocent. her gaze is razor-sharp as it sweeps from his feet to his head, dissecting every detail like she’s mapping out a blueprint only she understands.

the pristine uniform. the tall frame. the striking, almost unnatural contrast of white hair and blue eyes.

he's been stared at his whole life, but never like this—never like he's the one being judged. the gaze on him is unwavering, sharp, dissecting him piece by piece as if stripping him down to something more raw, more human. then, as if arriving at some profound conclusion, she lifts her tiny chin and flips her bangs with a small, decisive nod.

“you have white hair.”

her lashes lower slightly, a subtle shift in expression that tightens something in his chest.

“you have blue eyes.”

satoru’s pulse stutters.

before he can process the shift in atmosphere, she clasps her hands together, fingers lacing neatly over her chest. the movement is fluid, graceful, too composed for a child so young. it reminds him of a practiced performer, someone who understands the weight of gestures, of theatrics.

then, with the finality of a verdict, she nods again.

“i guess you’ll do.”

…do what now?

he stares, momentarily incapable of thought.

there is something deeply unsettling about being scrutinized by someone who barely reaches his waist. yet, there is an undeniable weight to the moment, a strange sort of gravity pressing against him. he can feel it—his own energy mirrored back at him, sharp and self-assured, too knowing for a child so young.

his lips part, but he isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.

the answer comes before he can find the question.

“so,” she announces, as if stating the obvious, “i need you to pretend to be my dad.”

satoru chokes.

the cough rattles his ribs, sharp and sudden, like his own body is rejecting the reality of what he just heard. he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders tensing, but it does little to stifle the noise. his throat burns with the effort, and yet, the words still echo in his mind, rearranging themselves into something even more absurd.

he drags his palm down his face. “come again?”

the menace—no, the tiny, immaculately dressed con artist—squints at him.

“are you hard of hearing?” she enunciates, slow and patient, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dense student. her small hands settle on her hips, fingers tapping in silent judgment, and the stance is so eerily familiar that it sends a ripple of unease down his spine. her chin tilts up, her expression unwavering—like she’s used to being the one in control of conversations, and the thought alone is terrifying. “i said, i need you to pretend to be my dad for a father’s day event at school.”

something in his stomach lurches.

his brain can’t keep up. the words don’t fit, don’t make sense, don’t align with anything logical. she says them with such ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but for him, it’s the equivalent of a meteor crashing into his reality.

his throat is suddenly dry. “that’s… uh…”

“obviously, i don’t have one. and you were talking to mommy earlier, so you must be one of her friends.” she shrugs, breezy, nonchalant, as if she’s discussing the weather.

but it is a big deal.

a very big deal.

his heart is pounding so fast he might actually pass out.

“mommy always comes with me, and i guess she’s cool and all,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. the movement is casual, self-assured—the same unconscious confidence he had as a child. satoru watches, helpless, as she flicks the curl over her shoulder with a tiny sigh, her expression morphing into something contemplative. “but i pity her, y’know?”

his throat tightens.

“pity.” he repeats, blankly.

“yeah, like.” she exhales, weight shifting onto one foot, lashes fluttering like she’s the protagonist of a soap opera. “all the other kids have dads, and she’s stuck with me all the time.”

his breath catches.

she sighs again, deeply, dramatically, as if she’s making some grand sacrifice. her lower lip juts out ever so slightly, just enough to look a little more pitiful, like she’s spent time perfecting this exact expression. “so, i figured i’d do something selfless and find a dad for the day.”

satoru swallows, something thick and unnameable clogging his throat. “that’s… very generous of you.”

she preens. “i know, right?”

and then—she leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“but don’t tell mommy,” she warns, expression shifting in an instant. her eyes are dead serious, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to physically hold the secret in place. “she’d get mad.”

his stomach drops.

the weight of her words slams into him with the force of a truck, hollowing out his insides. his pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the store’s overhead music, the chatter of passing customers, the clatter of shopping baskets. he feels it somewhere deep in his chest, a sensation not unlike free-falling—because of all the ways this day could’ve gone, this was never in the realm of possibility.

“mad?” he echoes, voice suddenly hoarse, the word barely scraping past the dryness in his throat.

“mhm.” she nods sagely, lowering her voice even further, like she’s sharing classified information. her tiny fingers tighten around the straps of her pink backpack, knuckles pressing into the glittery fabric as she leans in just a fraction more. her expression is thoughtful, brows furrowing slightly, as if she’s considering something heavier than a child her age should. “i think she still misses my real dad.”

satoru stops breathing.

his chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable squeeze, as if his ribs have turned into a vice, crushing him from the inside out. the world around him dulls, the chatter of passing shoppers fading into static, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of unseen locusts. the air in his lungs turns thick and heavy, refusing to move—because everything, everything, is falling into place so fast he can barely keep up.

the kid stationeries you were browsing, the set of pastel pens you picked up only to set them back down, like you were debating whether to buy them. the pink, glittery backpack in her hands, the same shade of obnoxious bubblegum pink he once claimed to hate, but now realizes he would buy in a heartbeat, no questions asked. the way she looks just like him—the sharp slant of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the impossibly bright blue eyes that reflect his own like a taunt. even the way she stands, weight shifted slightly to one hip, tiny hands confidently gripping the straps of the backpack—like she already owns the space she stands in, like the world itself is just a little too small for her.

holy shit.

“anyway.” she huffs, as if he’s the one wasting her time, her small mouth curving into a pout of mild exasperation. she adjusts the straps of the backpack in her arms, shifting its weight against her chest, fingers drumming impatiently against the sequined fabric. she tilts her chin up ever so slightly, radiating a confidence that shouldn't belong to someone so tiny. “it’s on friday, 9:00 a.m., at kikyo kindergarten.”

he blinks, the words sluggish as they filter through his brain, like a broken radio signal cutting in and out. “what?”

“the event, duh.” she frowns, unimpressed, tilting her head with all the attitude of someone who cannot believe they have to repeat themselves. her lips press into a thin line, tiny shoulders rising as she takes a slow breath, like she’s summoning every ounce of patience she has to deal with an absolute idiot. “weren’t you listening?”

his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but nothing coherent comes out. “uh—”

“you better be there.” she declares, arms crossing over her chest, voice firm and unwavering, the kind of voice that does not take no for an answer. her stance shifts as she leans in closer, an almost imperceptible movement, but one that carries all the weight of an unspoken challenge—daring him to refuse, daring him to disappoint her. there is something unreadable in her gaze, something old and knowing, something far too perceptive for a child her age. “or else.”

his pulse jumps. “…or else?”

she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as if she already knows she has him backed into a corner. her small fingers tap against her arm, considering, calculating—then, her lips curl into a smile that is nothing short of mischievous.

“or else, i’ll tell mommy you tried to kidnap me.”

his soul leaves his body. “WHAT—”

“bye now!” she beams, the picture of innocence, her entire face transforming in real time, as if she didn’t just completely dismantle his entire world in the span of a conversation.

in real time, satoru watches his own child scam him.

his tiny daughter—his menace of a child—spins on her heel, dropping the entire conversation like it never happened. she prances away, light on her feet, twirling slightly as she rounds the aisle you disappeared into, her little frame swallowed by the shelves.

her voice, when she speaks, is a melody, high and sweet and utterly deceiving. “mommy! look! this is the backpack i want!”

satoru can only stay there. staring.

his breath is shallow, like his lungs have forgotten how to function, like his entire body is refusing to move, to react, to process what just happened. the world feels too sharp, too clear, yet somehow far away, like he’s watching himself from outside his own skin. the fluorescent lights above hum too loudly, the colors of the store seem too vivid, and the ground beneath his feet feels like it's seconds away from giving out.

his daughter just found him before he ever found her.

his hands feel cold. his mouth is dry. his brain, usually a relentless, unyielding machine, capable of dissecting complex battle strategies in seconds, is blank. utterly, hopelessly blank.

she’s real. she exists. she is his.

and she just walked away like it was nothing. like she didn’t just turn his world upside down. like she didn’t just unknowingly rip open a part of him that he didn’t even realize had been closed off.

satoru exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t help. he blinks rapidly, trying to reboot his system, but all he can hear is the echo of her tiny voice—matter-of-fact, unimpressed, brimming with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

he comes to terms with something horrifying.

his menace of a child just blackmailed him. she didn’t ask. she demanded. she set her terms, delivered her threat, and walked away like a goddamn professional.

the absolute audacity.

the sheer talent.

his chest swells, something warm and bright bubbling beneath the overwhelming shock. his lips twitch, his vision goes a little blurry, and then—a slow, unhinged grin spreads across his face.

he has never been more proud.

“holy shit,” he breathes, blinking rapidly, his pulse still hammering in his ears. then, after a long moment of processing the absolute scam he just walked into, he straightens, grips the nearest shelf for support, and mutters under his breath;

“she so gets that from me.”

a/n: any normal person would be horrified finding out they missed out years in their child's life but he's not any normal person sigh he's so silly

tag list: @akeisryna

comment to be added on the tag list xx

[moshi-tehkitty]

Wind and rain buffeted the miserably wet Paladin and the infant’s thunderous cries continued. The Priest looked over the Paladin’s shoulder. The day was bright and sunny and the ground was dry save for where the Paladin had walked with the storm of a child in tow.

“You are not bringing that child into the chapel so long as it’s screaming,” said the Priest, blocking the doorway, “I don’t need the whole building flooded.”

The Paladin’s lower lip started trembling, “When she cries it rains, and when she gets wet from the rain she cries harder. I don’t know what to do.”

“Then you shouldn’t have bedded a storm cloud,” said the Priest, a disapproving scowl on his face.

“I was trying to save a village from a rampaging water elemental,” argued the Paladin, desperately bouncing the child.

“I’m certain that there were better ways to subdue an element,” began the priest.

The Paladin shook her head and cut him off, “I’m sure someone smarter or stronger could have figured something else out but I was tired from swimming to rescue drowning villagers all day long and to be honest he was hot. And don’t you say ‘how could he be hot if he was a water elemental’ me because I’ve heard it too many times now. He was attractive, he was impressed by my swimming ability, and I needed him to stop the rain before it overflowed the damn and completely flooded the town.”

“Just stay here a moment,” the Priest said heaving a long suffering sigh and stomping back into the chapel. He returned with an umbrella and tried to maneuver it in between the baby and its personal storm cloud. “Do you have dry clothes for the baby?”

“I don’t have a dry anything,” said the Paladin with a pained laugh.

“Right,” said the Priest, scrubbing his hand across his face, “we should have something in the charity store room, let’s just get her dry first. When was the last time she ate?”

“Breakfast?” answered the Paladin, unsure.

“And it is now past lunch and approaching dinner,” the Priest said in shock, “the poor thing’s probably starving!”

The Paladin was now practically in tears, or maybe she was already and it was just impossible to tell with the overall amount of water dripping from her, “I couldn’t stop and feed her. Not with. There were so many people.” The Paladin was now red in the face and looking down in shame, “she isn’t on solids yet and my breast plate doesn’t come off easily.”

The child wailed on.

The Priest shoved the umbrella into her arms and started manhandling her around the side of the building and into the secluded rear garden. “There’s no one to see you here,” he said, beginning to undo the straps of her armor. “Feed the child,” he instructed once she was less constrained, “I’ll return with something dry for the both of you.”

“Wait!” cried the Paladin, “how will you know when I’m done feeding the baby?”

“She won’t be screaming, for starters,” said the Priest, “but if you’re worried about me seeing you undressed you can just stay facing that way and I’ll leave the clothes on the table behind you.” With that said, he turned and walked back to the building to look for spare clothes. “You better not leave the baby on the steps and run while I’m gone or I WILL hunt you down,” he called from the doorway.

"And what is this?" the priest asked sternly, pointing at the squalling bundle. "I...thought the vow of chastity only applied to humans?" the Paladin said weakly.

[vunblr]

Foundations (#7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky)

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 6.2.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Previous Chapter

When Bucky returned to the apartment, Thomas was already waiting expectantly for him to serve dinner. He grabbed two plates, ladling generous portions of the stew she’d made before setting them down on the table.

He took his seat and watched as his little one dug in immediately, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth before pausing mid-chew. His eyes widened slightly. “This is so good, daddy” the kid announced through a mouthful, nodding to himself like he was confirming his own statement.

Bucky smirked, shaking his head as he took his own bite.

Damn.

Yeah. It was good.

She always cooked well, but tonight, for some reason, it tasted different. Maybe because of everything that happened. Maybe because his body was still trying to recover from the fucking elevator.

Later, much later, when Thomas was asleep, when the dishes were washed, and the apartment was silent except for the occasional creak of the old pipes, Bucky lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything.

The way she had looked at him.

The way she had touched him.

The way she had let him touch her.

Steve had been right. Not imagining things, not making it up to spare his "poor, damaged friend." And that little part of him -the one that still had some self-esteem and hadn’t been completely swallowed by self-loathing and doubt- had been right, too.

But tomorrow, she would come again after picking up Thomas from kindergarten as always, like nothing had happened. Because that’s what they'd have to do. Pretend -or try to pretend- nothing had happened. At least until they had a chance to talk. It wasn’t a simple thing. Fuck, it was the furthest thing from simple.

Because if -if- they talked and decided on something… stable, something real, he couldn’t just throw that bomb at Thomas like it was nothing.

He was a child. His kid. And as his father, his well-being always had to come first.

No matter what Bucky wanted.

----

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, with her heart still thrumming with the ghosts of his fingers on her body.

It happened. She could barely believe it, but it did.

She thought it was just her. That she was the only one foolish enough to catch feelings, to overanalyze his stares, his comments, the subtle brushes of their bodies when sometimes wasn’t necessary. She chalked it up to loneliness, to proximity, to the way her heart had clung onto the first person in a long time who treated her well.

But she hadn’t imagined it. It was there. It had been there all along.

She turned onto her side, curling her fingers into the sheets. Then there was… the other thing. The news. The police station. The way he hadn’t denied a damn thing, telling her he would do it again.

Should she feel guilty?

Maybe.

But she didn’t.

The creep had it coming, and she couldn’t shake the warm, twisted sensation curling in her gut at the knowledge that Bucky had been the one to make sure of it. He hunted him down.

For her.

And that should probably unnerve her. Should probably make her question things, but instead, she felt safe.

Protected.

She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut.

Tomorrow, she would have to walk into that apartment like nothing had changed. Like they hadn’t been tangled up, kissing, grinding, and… like she hadn’t almost let him fuck her against an elevator wall. Because if it weren’t for that alarm, she would have.

But it had changed.

And there was no going back.

----

She arrived at the apartment as usual with Thomas in tow, chatting about something that had happened in kindergarten. When she opened the door Bucky was there, waiting, greeting the child with a small smile and a ruffle of his hair but his eyes, found hers the second she walked in. She set her bag down in the usual spot, and she felt the heat of his gaze linger on her longer than necessary. He looked away a second too late. Then cleared his throat.

Routine. They had a routine.

So she went to the kitchen, and he followed, under the excuse of getting some water. They moved around each other like always, but it wasn’t like always anymore.

She felt it In the brush of his fingers against hers when she handed him a glass. In the way his arm ghosted against her back when they crossed paths, close enough to feel the furnace heat radiating from his body. In the way he stood just a little too close when he reached for the tin of cookies in the cupboard, brushing his chest on her shoulder.

It was suffocating and intoxicating. And then there was the staring.

She caught him at one point while she was stirring the pot, gripping the back of the chair, jaw tense, eyes dark, trailing slowly from the curve of her neck down to where her sweater bunched at her hips.

It made her body prickle with awareness, impossible to focus on anything but the memory of his hands gripping her thighs, his mouth on hers, the way he ground against her until she could barely think.

“Gotta go to the bathroom,” Thomas announced suddenly, hopping off his chair.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

The moment the child disappeared around the corner, his eyes flicked to the empty hallway, then to her.

A second later, he moved.

With the grace of a predator, he was on her, curling his fingers around her wrist, and tugging her toward the kitchen with a firm but controlled grip.

She barely had time to gasp before he caged her against the counter, pressing his hands flat on either side of her body, trapping her.

"Bucky-"

He didn’t let her finish.

His lips were on hers, rough, demanding, like he had been holding himself back all day and finally snapped.

She responded immediately, gripping the front of his shirt and yanking him closer as he angled his head, deepening the kiss. She whimpered when his vibranium hand slid up her side, grasping her hip.

“We need to talk about this,” he muttered against her lips.

“Y- yes,” she managed to reply between gasps.

His grip on her and the counter tightened as he ground against her, just once, enough to make her gasp into his mouth.

“Come early tomorrow, when the kiddo is in kindergarten” he rasped, his voice rough, needy.

She could only nod.

Thomas' voice echoed from the hallway.

"Buck-"

He was already stepping away, breathing heavily, with hands clenched into fists at his sides.

She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, with a strained voice. Then he turned, heading back to the dining table just as Thomas rounded the corner, leaving her against the counter, trying -and failing- to compose herself.

After a couple of minutes, his phone rang. Bucky exhaled sharply, ticking his jaw, and pulled the phone from his pocket. He checked the caller ID and answered.

A pause. His expression hardened further. “Understood. When?”

Another pause. His eyes flicked to her for a split second before landing on the floor. “You can’t expect me- no. Yes, she’s already- I… I’ll be there in an hour.”

The second Bucky hung up, Thomas’s little voice piped up, full of concern. “Do you have to go far?” perceptive.

Bucky sighed, pocketing his phone. “Yeah, buddy. Gotta take care of something urgent.”

“For how long?” he countered.

“Just a few days.” Bucky sighed.

Thomas’s brows knitted together. “Will you be back for the weekend?”

He hesitated just a second too long. “I don’t know yet, kiddo. But I’ll try.”

That didn’t seem to satisfy him. “Do you have to go? Can’t someone else do it?”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair before reaching out to ruffle Thomas’s. “I gotta help, pal. Just like I’d want someone to help me if I needed it.” That seemed to help. A little. “Listen, kid. I need to talk to her for a minute, okay? Just grown-up stuff.”

The child considered that for a moment before nodding. “Okay, Daddy.” He slid off his chair, grabbing a toy from the table before heading toward his room, but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder as if double-checking that everything really was okay.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “How long?” she asked softly.

“Four, maybe five days,” he muttered, slipping the phone into his pocket. His gaze flicked to her, hesitating for a fraction of a second before continuing. “You good with that?”

It was the first time since she had started working there that he was leaving for various days. But they had agreed on this. She knew what she was signing up for.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “We’ll be fine.”

Bucky exhaled, raking a hand through his hair again before stepping closer, voice lower, rougher. “Look, I know we-” He cut himself off, glancing toward the hallway, then pressed his lips into a thin line, as if holding something back.

She swallowed, tightening her fingers around the dish towel.

His gaze flickered down to her hands, then back up to her face. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

A small, humorless chuckle escaped her lips. “Yeah, well. Life’s funny that way.”

He huffed out a breath, shifting his weight like he was fighting some internal battle. Finally, he settled on: “When I get back, we figure this out.” He stated, walking toward his room.

----

When he emerged in full gear, bag slung over his shoulder, Thomas ran to hug him. "Do you really have to go?" the child’s lower lip wobbled slightly as he asked again, and Bucky sighed, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I do, but listen, this time, you’re staying here instead of going to Uncle Steve’s or the tower.” That seemed to ease some of Thomas' anxiety, and his brows lifted in surprise. "You're gonna stay with her." He nodded toward her, offering his son a small smile.

Thomas blinked, then turned to her, and his worry gave way to excitement. “Really?”

She ruffled his hair. “Yep. Just you and me, kiddo.”

Bucky nodded. “That means you gotta behave and help her out. You’re the man of the house now, alright?”

Thomas’s chest puffed up slightly at that, and Bucky hugged him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Daddy.”

When he straightened his stance, she was already grabbing her jacket. “I’ll walk you down.”

He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Alright.”

The elevator ride was quiet, thick with everything they hadn’t had the time -or the courage- to say. She glanced at him once and saw his fingers flexing around the strap of his bag, his jaw tight. Then, without warning, his arm shot out, pressing the stop button. The elevator shuddered to a halt.

She turned to him, heart thudding, parting her lips slightly at the heat in his gaze.

Bucky exhaled sharply, backing her up against the wall, caging her in with his body, dipping his head slightly as if debating what to say. “I left you a magnetic card inside the rice container. If anything happens, if you need anything, if you are scared, go to Stark Tower. That’ll get you in.”

She swallowed, then nodded, unconsciously gazing at his lips.

His fingers curled against the strap of his bag. "I wish things were different, doll." His voice was rough and thick. "I wanted-"

"I know." She reached up, cupping his stubbled cheek, and he leaned into her touch for just a second before closing the distance.

The bag hit the floor with a dull thud, but he didn’t care. He was too busy drinking her in, pressing her against the elevator wall as his lips moved hungrily over hers. His vibranium hand cupped the back of her head, fingers fisting her hair, holding her there like he was afraid she’d disappear before he got back.

Five days. Too damn long.

Her fingers curled against his jaw, nails grazing his stubble, and he swallowed the little sound she made when he tilted her chin up, deepening the kiss. He was being selfish. He knew it. Taking what he could before duty called, before he had to step back into that other version of himself.

She pulled back just enough to catch her breath, “Bucky,” she murmured, and damn, if his name didn’t sound perfect on her lips.

He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to step away, as his muscles screamed in protest when he bent to grab his bag. When he straightened, his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping away the tiniest smudge of spit-slicked lip-gloss.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

She nodded, licking her slightly swollen lips. “I know.”

With that, he pressed the button, and the elevator jerked back to life.

----

The days passed in a strange mix of normalcy, and the feeling of Bucky’s absence. Thomas was as cheerful as ever, filling the apartment with laughter and endless questions, but the hole was there. It was ridiculous, really, Bucky wasn’t even that talkative, wasn’t the type to hover or make himself the center of attention. And yet, without him, something was missing.

She tried not to dwell on it, focusing on Thomas, and keeping herself busy. But little things kept catching her off guard. Cooking felt different, and she caught herself making the amount of food he would eat with his insane metabolism, instead of adapting it to her appetite.

Then, one afternoon, her phone rang. It was Steve.

“Hey,” she greeted, balancing it between her ear and shoulder as she stirred the pot on the stove.

"Hey, uh... listen," Steve started, and her stomach twisted. No. “Bucky’s fine.”

Her hand froze mid-stir.

“He’s fine,” he repeated, sensing her tension. “Took a couple of bullets, but nothing the serum won’t heal. He just- he needs rest, but he refused to stay at the medbay after the briefing.”

Her grip tightened around the spoon.

“What do you mean, bullets?”

“High caliber rounds. Pierced his suit. He’s healing, but it’s taking longer than usual.”

She exhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a second. “Where is he now?”

"He left the tower and is probably heading home. Just wanted to let you know."

"Thank you, Steve. I'll see he rests properly, don't you worry." She tried not to alert Thomas, serving him the chicken and rice and chatting normally with him about the bubble concoction they were going to prepare tomorrow.

----

The sound of the key turning in the lock made her pause, tightening the hold on the plate she was washing. The door swung open before she could reach it, and Thomas was already bolting across the apartment before she could stop him.

Bucky barely had time to drop his bag before the kid flung himself at him, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck.

“Daddy!”

She watched as Bucky caught him easily, staggering only slightly before securing the kid against his hip. His free hand came up to rub soothing circles over the boy’s back.

“Hey, hey, I’m here, buddy,” he murmured with exhaustion. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

But Thomas only clung tighter, little fingers fisting into the fabric of his henley. His shoulders shook slightly, and it didn’t take much to realize he was crying. Bucky sighed, shutting the door with his foot before making his way toward the kitchen, carrying Thomas like he weighed nothing. He had no idea how to handle this. He could patch up wounds, endure pain, and fight through gunfire, but comforting a crying child, his child, always left him feeling helpless. He pressed a kiss to Thomas’ temple, tightening his grip. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

When he stepped into the warm light, she caught a flicker of something on his face, an almost imperceptible wince as he shifted the boy in his arms.

He was dressed comfortably in a clean pair of black sweatpants and a henley, surely got a shower and a checkup before bolting home but his exhaustion and pain were obvious. The way his shoulders sagged just slightly, the way the corner of his mouth twitched when Thomas moved too suddenly against him.

Still, he offered her a small, tired smile. “I’m home.”

“Welcome back.”

Both of them hesitated, suddenly aware of what had happened before he left.

Then, she reached out, briefly squeezing his forearm. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” he admitted, shifting his weight, careful not to jostle Thomas too much. “Actually, I’m starving. But don’t cook anything, just some sandwiches will do.”

She scoffed. “There’s chicken and rice. I ended up making a lot, so…”

Bucky groaned, and just that sound sent a ripple of warmth through her body. “That sounds so good, doll.” The endearment slipped out naturally, but Thomas didn’t seem to register it.

“Alright,” she said, moving toward the counter. “Go lay in your bed, and I’ll bring everything in a pinch.”

He just looked at her. “I’ll just sit here and-”

“This is not a democracy, Bucky,” she cut in smoothly, leveling him with a look. Then she turned to Thomas, softening her tone. “Baby, will you do me a favor and take Daddy to his room? Maybe help him with his boots?”

Thomas nodded eagerly. “Come on, Daddy. You gotta listen to her.”

Bucky huffed, twitching his lips like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just muttered, “Little traitor,” and turned toward the bedroom.

She smirked to herself as she turned back to the stove, reheating the food.

A few minutes later, with the tray carefully balanced in her hands, she nudged the door open with her foot.

He was stretched out against the pillows, with one arm draped over his eyes, while Thomas sat cross-legged beside him, chatting happily.

She set the tray on the nightstand and nudged his thigh gently. “Eat.”

He peeked up at her, exhausted but amused. “So bossy.”

She ignored the comment, crossing her arms as she assessed him. “Do you need help?” Her voice was carefully neutral, not wanting to say too much with Thomas still in the room.

Bucky sighed, running a hand down his face. “Steve called you, didn’t he?”

She nodded. “On your way here.”

He muttered a curse under his breath.

She hesitated, then carefully asked, “Where?” She didn’t say how bad, but the implication was clear.

“Shoulder and thigh,” he admitted reluctantly.

She huffed. “More reason to stay in bed, then.”

“I can sit up on my own, y’know.”

“Will you manage to-”

His glare cut her off. “You’re not feeding me like a baby. I’m very capable of doing it myself.” As I have been for years.

She lifted her hands in surrender. “Alright, I assume you’ll sit on your own too, then.” She took a step back toward the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

And with that, she disappeared, leaving him grumbling into his rice.

----

She sorted through the laundry basket, folding clothes into neat piles, and smoothing out wrinkles with the flat of her palm. Every so often, she glanced at the clock, waiting for the right moment. When she figured that he might have emptied his plate, she made her way to his room, stepping lightly.

Thomas was curled up beside him, with one small hand resting on Bucky’s chest, and his tiny face relaxed in sleep. Bucky, on the other hand, looked exhausted but awake, flicking his gaze to her the moment she entered.

She kept her voice low. “Want another helping?”

His answer came in the form of a slow nod, “And… maybe a piece of bread too.”

She returned a few minutes later, with a plate balanced in one hand, and a folded blanket in the other. She placed the plate on the nightstand, then leaned down to drape the blanket over Thomas, tucking it around him carefully.

As she straightened, her eyes landed on Bucky again, and she sighed. “Stubborn man.”

Bucky blinked at her, confused, until she grabbed a cushion and circled the bed to his side.

“Come on,” she murmured, “Lift yourself a little more.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though he didn’t stop her when she slid a hand behind his back, helping him as he shifted.

“You are not fine.” She gave him a pointed look before shoving the cushion behind him, making sure it gave him proper support.

He let out a small huff, but the fight had already drained out of him. It wasn’t just about the cushion, and they both knew it.

Her eyes flicked down to his henley, her lips twitching. “Besides, your shirt ratted you out.”

Bucky frowned, looking down. Sure enough, greasy stains dotted the fabric where he had spilled food earlier. Shit. He had been careful picking up the rice grains and the occasional cube of chicken, or at least he thought he had.

Grumbling a low fine, he settled more comfortably against the pillow as she handed him the plate.

She hovered for a second, like she was about to say something, then shook her head. “I’ll let you eat. I should get back to the laundry.”

Before she could step away, his fingers brushed against hers. “…Stay?”

It was soft. A little unsure.

She had missed him. God, she had missed him.

She didn’t hesitate before perching on the edge of the bed, close but not too close. “Alright,” she said, gently. “I’ll stay with you.”

Bucky took a few bites in silence before she finally asked, “How are you feeling?” Then, before he could deflect, she quickly added, “And no lying. I know you act tough in front of Thomas, but he’s asleep now.”

He hesitated, dropping his gaze to his plate. “It’s been a long time since I got shot,” he admitted. “Guess I forgot how much it could hurt. But the serum will take care of it.” He shrugged, scooping up another bite.

She hummed, watching him closely. “Still,” she murmured, tilting her head. “Just because it’ll heal faster doesn’t mean you should ignore it.”

Bucky scoffed softly, chewing with unnecessary focus. “I’m not ignoring it.”

She arched a brow. “You told me once your metabolism burns through medications too fast. So, I assume no painkillers or anti-inflammatories are doing much right now. Which means you have to rest. Tonight, Steve told me-”

“Steve talks too much.” His voice was dry.

She sighed and shot him a pointed look. “He worries about you. And he’s right.” Her voice softened. “You have to take it easy, alright?”

Bucky swallowed, his throat worked around the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. He had missed her. More than he wanted to admit. And now, here she was, sitting beside him, fussing over him, making sure he was comfortable, and staying, even though she didn’t have to. He lifted another bite to his mouth, chewing slowly, just to focus on something else. “I’ll rest,” he said eventually, quieter now. “You’ll be here, anyway.”

Something flickered in her eyes at that. A small smile played at the corner of her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I’ll be around.”

And somehow, Bucky knew she wasn’t just talking about tonight.

----

Since Bucky was already home, she settled into Thomas’ bed, which was substantially better than the couch. At some point in the night, a noise in the kitchen startled her awake, a faint rattle of metal against wood, followed by a muffled curse.

Her heart stuttered before her brain recognized the timbre, Bucky. She exhaled slowly as she rolled over, and reached for her phone. 4 a.m.

Frowning, she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She grabbed the wool cardigan she had draped over the chair and pulled it on over her nightdress, padding out into the hall on silent feet.

A quick glance inside Bucky’s room showed Thomas still curled up against his dad’s pillow, sleeping soundly.

But in the kitchen, she found Bucky squatting, stacking pots and pans back into the cabinet while swearing.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered harshly, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. He barely had time to lift his head before she was right there, grabbing his good arm, and tugging at him to stand up. "You got shot in the thigh and you’re squatting at this hour doing God knows what? Is this your idea of resting?"

For a second, he looked like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, but he recovered fast, smoothing his expression into something unreadable.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't gonna wake you." His voice was low, scratchy from sleep deprivation. "I just wanted to heat some milk, but I can’t find the damn steel jar-"

She blinked. "And you're not microwaving it because…?"

"It's not the same," he muttered like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She arched a brow.

"The texture’s different," he elaborated begrudgingly. "And I’ve always heated it this way, so…"

Ah. Perks of being born in the ‘20s, she supposed.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Alright, fine. Just sit down and I’ll find it for you."

He didn’t move.

“Bucky.” Her tone was sharp. "Go sit on that chair or I swear to God, I-"

Before she could finish, his hands were suddenly on her waist, gripping firmly, lifting her like she weighed nothing. Her breath hitched as he effortlessly placed her on the counter, stepping into the space between her thighs, crowding her in.

“You were saying?” he murmured against her ear, his voice was a low rasp of challenge and something else.

A shiver ghosted down her spine.

Oh, fuck.

She swallowed hard, and her pulse jumped under the heat of his mouth.

“You know,” he murmured, brushing his lips on the shell of her ear, “you’re pretty bossy for being the nanny.” His grasp on her hips became firmer, as his fingers pressed into the soft fabric of her nightdress and her flesh. “And last time I checked, you’re not my mom, so-”

He tilted his head, trailing slow, deliberate kisses down the column of her neck, pausing just at her pulse point to nip gently at her skin.

Her fingers curled against the edge of the counter, gripping the cool surface as she tried to remember how words worked.

"Where does that leave you, huh?" His voice was a low, rough drawl against her skin.

Where was she standing?

Her mind scrambled for something -anything- to latch onto. "I-um. I'm just worried because Steve-"

"Fuck Steve."

He tilted her chin up, guiding her gaze to his, and damn it all, his eyes were too much. Dark and heated and full of intent.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, stroking his thumb on the curve of her jaw. “What’s going on here? We owed ourselves a little chat… and damn if I don’t think it’s time for that.”

She exhaled shakily, feeling like the ground beneath her had been pulled away. This wasn’t how she imagined this conversation if she had ever dared to imagine it at all.

His body was warm between her legs, his hands were still gripping her hips, and she could feel the tension radiating from his body. Expectant. Waiting.

And yet, she hesitated.

It wasn’t that she didn’t feel the same. God, she did. But putting it into words, exposing herself… that was terrifying.

Her silence must have stretched too long because his face shifted, and something guarded crept into his expression. He exhaled through his nose, tightening his jaw.

He should be ashamed of himself.

This wasn’t how he was raised. This wasn’t how a man should treat a woman, coaxing her, pressuring her to speak first, to lay her feelings bare before he had the nerve to do the same.

His old self would’ve been mortified.

But that version of him, the one who had confidence, who knew how to flirt, how to charm, how to navigate a woman’s affections without second-guessing himself, died in Austria.

What was left was a man who had spent decades as a weapon, and then, after that, just trying to survive the modern world carrying the weight of what he’d done. Who didn’t know how to handle something good without overthinking it to death. He could still hear himself, the desperate edge in his own voice just moments ago.

"Tell me what this is. Tell me what you want."

Like a goddamn interrogation.

"Sorry," he muttered, stepping back slightly, though his hands lingered on her hips like he couldn’t make himself let go. “Just… ah, this is so pathetic. Let me-” He took a breath, and she saw it, the moment he forced himself to speak, to be vulnerable. “I like you. A lot.” He swallowed hard. “Hell, since the first day I saw you at the kindergarten, I thought you were pretty.”

She felt warmth crawl up her neck, a slow burn spreading across her cheeks. She wasn’t used to hearing things like that. Not with such raw honesty.

"And… and I thought I’d never see you again," he continued, "until Steve pulled that stunt at a time when I desperately needed help. And then… then things got worse for me.”

She blinked, confused. “Worse?”

He huffed a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah. Worse. Because it wasn’t just about finding you attractive. So fucking attractive.”

Her heart slammed against her chest.

“You became indispensable at home. You made this a home." His fingers flexed slightly against her. "You put warmth in here, in me. Stirred things that have been missing in my life since the war. You are kind… and you make me want things that I shouldn’t.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and something pained flickered across his face. “I shouldn’t, because of what… because of the families I destroyed, because of what I did.”

His voice cracked slightly, and she felt her own breath stutter.

"And then… you’re the fucking nanny and-" He let out a shaky exhale, tightening his grip before loosening again. "And this works. My son loves you. And I have no right to rob him of that if you-"

She didn’t let him finish.

Her fingers brushed softly against his lips. Stopping the spiral before it could consume him.

Bucky froze.

It had all poured out of him before he could stop it, the words scrapped past his throat, and now, now she was just looking at him.

Wide eyes. Lips slightly parted.

His chest clenched.

Shit. Fuck.

He shouldn’t have said all that. He should have-

She tilted her head slightly, dragging her fingers in the faintest touch down his chin, ten rested it on his chest.

He inhaled sharply.

"Don’t," she finally whispered.

Bucky frowned, furrowing his brows. "Don't what?"

"Don't pull away. You deserve to want things.”

He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that until now. Her hand was warm against his chest, her touch so casual, like it belonged there. Like she belonged there.

And then-

"Do you take me for someone who would do what we did in the elevator, what we have been doing since then if I didn’t have feelings for you?" she asked softly.

He shook his head before he could even think.

"There is your answer."

And just like that, he was done for.

His fingers flexed against the fabric of her nightdress like he needed to hold on to something. "Ok... ok. I don't know how people do this kind of thing nowadays. We said what we wanted to say, and before, it was just enough to-"

"Bucky" she chuckled, interrupting his rambling. She felt like she was in high school all over again "Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

It was such a simple question. One that made his brain stutter because, Christ, when was the last time he was allowed to be just a man and not a soldier who was drafted, not a puppeteered weapon, not a father trying to hold his shit together?

“…Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then it’s settled,” she murmured, as her fingers traced light patterns along his chest. "Or... what term do you prefer? Beau? Sweetheart?" She asked, teasing.

Bucky huffed a chuckle, shaking his head. “Beau does feel right to me,” he admitted. “But… I gotta move on at some point, right?” He met her gaze, and saw something soft lingering there. “Boyfriend it is.”

Her smile widened. “Good choice.”

He exhaled, like some invisible weight had lifted from him, then smirked. “Glad you approve, sweetheart.”

"Well,” she started. “Now that we had 'the talk' would you be a good boy and sit on the chair while I warm your milk?"

He lifted a brow at the unintentional innuendo, and the corner of his mouth twitched with intent.

“Oh, my God.” Heat flooded her face.

He just grinned, shameless. “M’simply following the analogy, sweetheart.”

She swatted his shoulder with the nearest dish towel, face still burning. “Oh, you are terrible!”

He caught her wrist before she could pull away in a firm but gentle grip. He turned it over, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the skin of her pulse point. His gaze lifted to hers, dark and unreadable.

“Oh, doll,” his voice dropped lower, rough with promise. “You have no idea how terrible I can be.”

And then, his free hand slid up her thigh, gripping just above her knee as he stepped fully between her legs, fitting against her perfectly. She gasped as his lips crashed into hers, all slow-burning desire and restrained hunger.

Her arms wound around his shoulders, threading her fingers into his hair, tugging until a growl rumbled in his chest. His hands gripped her tighter, pulling her closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between them.

When he dragged his mouth away, it was only to trail open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, and down the column of her throat. His stubble scraped deliciously against her skin, sending heat pooling low in her stomach.

“Bucky,” she gasped, tilting her head back as his teeth grazed over her pulse.

“Hmm?” His voice was a low rasp, lips teasing just beneath her ear as his hands wandered, pressing his fingertips into her soft flesh.

She didn’t have an answer. Didn’t know what she wanted to say.

Her breath hitched as his hands slid up, cupping her breasts over the thin fabric of her nightdress. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and the touch was so light it made her shudder.

"Fuck," he muttered against her throat, still pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her skin. "No bra? You tryin’ to kill me, sweetheart."

She arched into his hands, gripping his shoulders for balance. “Why would I sleep with it?” she whispered, teasing, even as her voice trembled.

Bucky exhaled sharply, a hot breath against her collarbone. “Fair point,” he muttered, as his hands kneaded and his thumbs circled, pressed, and flicked.

She gasped, tilting her head back, giving him more space to kiss, bite, devour.

His mouth latched onto her pulse point, sucking just enough to make her squirm. His hands left her breasts to wander lower, curling his fingers around the hem of her nightdress, teasing the bare skin underneath.

Her legs pressed around his waist, and she felt him, hard and big under the sweatpants, pressed right where she needed him.

“Will you tell me to stop?” he rasped, as he rested his forehead against hers.

She swallowed hard, digging her nails into his back as her eyes flicked toward the hallway. “I should… you need to rest, remember?” she tried, though the words came out weaker than she intended.

Bucky chuckled. “Not to be presumptuous, doll, but the limits of what my body can or can't do while injured have been tested decades ago. And believe me, two shots ain't enough to talk me out of this.”

Her stomach twisted, and heat pooled deep in her pussy as his fingers teased at the hem of her nightdress again, but she still managed to stammer, “What about Thomas? What if he wakes up, what if he comes in?”

She barely had time to finish the sentence before she let out a quiet yelp as Bucky’s strong arms lifted her effortlessly. His hands gripped the back of her thighs, as he carried her toward Thomas’s bedroom door, nudging it open with his foot before stepping inside.

With one smooth motion, he set her down on the bed, then reached back and grabbed a chair from the desk. Before she could say a word, he wedged it firmly under the doorknob, locking them in.

“If he wakes up, which I doubt,” he murmured, standing tall as his fingers curled around the back of his henley, “we’ll have time to make ourselves decent… and think of an excuse.”

Then, in one fluid motion, he pulled the shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor.

Next Chapter

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Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[heliosunny]

Would you mind writing anything with yan Sunday?If u don't mind ofc.Love ur work 🩷🩷

No Distance Left

Yandere!Sunday x Reader

The Quercus Society Library was like a second home to you, nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street where the Oak Family’s influence stretched farther than most could fathom.

You were a child, your visits frequent and filled with laughter, running between aisles with Sunday and Robin as your partners in crime.

One summer afternoon, you remember sitting cross-legged on the worn carpet of the library, flipping through a picture book as Sunday settled beside you. He had always been quiet, observant, but today, his silence was different.

“What’s wrong?”

Sunday hesitated, his gaze lingering on the pages you turned, before softly murmuring, “Do you think we’ll always be together?”

You looked up at him, your mind too young to understand the weight of his words. “Of course, we will! We’ll always come here. This is our place, right?”

“Yeah… our place.”

Robin, the more outspoken and bubbly younger sister, joined in, pulling you both from your thoughts. “I’m gonna be the best at hide-and-seek today! You’ll never find me, Y/N!”

The three of you spent the rest of that afternoon running through the library, hiding between bookshelves, and laughing so loud that even the oak bookshelves seemed to groan with your noise. You were all so young, unaware of the darker undercurrents swirling beneath the surface of your seemingly peaceful days.

Time passed, and soon you were no longer a child. The inevitable day came when you had to leave for high school, and your visits to the Quercus Society Library became less frequent.

The day before you left, Sunday stood by the windows, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the oak windowpane. Robin was tugging on your sleeve, trying to distract you with her usual antics, but you couldn’t ignore the look on Sunday’s face—almost as if he already knew you would be leaving for good.

“Promise me you’ll come back, okay?”

“Of course! I’ll always come back. You and Robin are family.”

Robin bounced over to you, pulling you into a hug with a grin. “You better! I’ll save you a special seat at the library for when you return!”

You promised to return. You swore you would. But once you were out of the city, your studies consumed you. You didn’t keep in touch with Sunday or Robin as much as you intended, and before long, their faces blurred into the past.

The first day of university was supposed to be a fresh start. New environment, new people, and the overwhelming relief of finally taking control of your own life. You had planned everything—your schedule, your part-time job, and how to balance tuition with supporting your family.

What you hadn’t planned for was him.

When Sunday walked into your classroom, it was as if the air itself changed. He didn’t acknowledge you at first. No greeting. He simply walked forward with the same composed grace as always, his presence both familiar and utterly foreign after all these years.

And then—he sat down.

Right beside you.

The entire day passed like that.

He didn’t ask why you never returned. He didn’t scold you, didn’t guilt-trip you. He simply existed next to you.

It wasn’t until the final lecture ended, when the last few students trickled out, that the moment finally came.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

You swallowed hard, gripping your bag’s strap. You owed him an answer.

“I’m sorry, Sunday. I wanted to. I really did.”

He didn’t respond, just stood there, waiting.

“I had to study and work at the same time. I couldn���t afford to go back home, not even once. There was just… no time.”

“So that’s how it is.”

He never pressed further, never questioned you again.

But somehow, he was always there. If you arrived early to class, he was already seated, flipping through his notes. If you stayed late in the library, you’d catch a glimpse of his familiar silhouette a few tables away. Sometimes, when you left your shift at work, you could’ve sworn you saw him across the street.

But he never approached.

That’s what made it so easy to ignore.

Until, one day, your manager pulled you aside after your shift, his expression unusually tense.

"Hey, listen… We’re letting you go."

"What?"

"Look, it’s nothing personal," he said, avoiding your gaze. "We just got complaints, and, well… the decision’s final."

Complaints? From who?

You wanted to ask, to demand answers, but there was no room for negotiation. You needed that job. Without it, how were you supposed to afford tuition?

Then, as if the universe itself had orchestrated it, you stumbled upon an opportunity almost immediately.

A friend mentioned a well-paying job—a company looking for reliable workers. The pay was more than enough to cover tuition and expenses.

And just like that, you unknowingly walked into Sunday’s carefully laid web.

Because this wasn’t just some random company.

----

The library—a place where you retreat to study in peace. You weren’t surprised to see him there. After all, he always liked books growing up.

“Sit.”

Whenever you hesitate on a problem, his voice cuts through your thoughts. “You’re overcomplicating it. Try looking at it from another angle.”

His advice is always correct.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice how brilliant he truly is.

Sunday rises to the top of the school rankings with ease, effortlessly surpassing the former representative. His intelligence, paired with his looks, quickly earns him admiration. People flock to him.

But no matter how many of them smile at him or how many students try to befriend him—he never once returns their warmth.

Except with you.

Students notice the way he talks to you, how he sits with you, how his normally distant demeanor softens in your presence. The whispers begin. How did you get so close to him?

You don’t have an answer.

-----

The barking was deafening, claws scraping against dirt as the dogs chased him down.

He was running, lungs burning, legs trembling—but they were faster. He was going to get caught.

Then, just before they could reach him, you stepped in.

"Run!" you shouted, pushing him out of the way.

You didn’t scream, but he saw it. The way the dogs latched onto your arm, the way blood stained your sleeve. That should have been him.

Tears blurred his vision as he crawled toward you, guilt crashing down like a wave.

“It was my fault,” he sobbed, “You got hurt because of me.”

But you only smiled, even as you winced.

“It’s okay.”

Sunday’s breath hitched as he jolted awake, the remnants of the dream still clinging to his mind. The barking had faded, but his chest was tight, fingers clenched.

"Sunday?" You were leaning slightly toward him, "Are you okay? You had a nightmare or something?"

For a moment, he just stared at you, mind caught between past and present. But then, reality settled in.

You were here. You were safe.

“…I’m okay.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of the morning classes. You stretched in your seat, exhaustion settling into your bones after hours of studying.

“Hey, let’s go get lunch!”

You looked up to see Lena grinning at you, her long, auburn hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Behind her stood Ethan, adjusting the strap of his bag, offering you a lopsided smile.

“You’ve been stuck in here all morning,” Ethan added. “Come on, take a break.”

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at Sunday, who was still seated beside you.

"Sure" you finally said, brushing aside the odd tension.

Lena looped her arm around yours, practically dragging you out of the classroom. Ethan chuckled, falling into step beside you.

“I swear, if we left you alone, you’d forget to eat.” Lena teased, bumping her shoulder against yours.

"More like they’d just survive on coffee," Ethan mused. "Again."

You laughed. "Okay, okay, I get it. I’m coming, aren’t I?"

As the three of you walked out together, you could feel Sunday’s eyes on you.

-----

Sunday had always been patient. He had learned from an early age that patience often yielded the best results.

From across the room, his sharp gaze followed as you sat between Ethan and Lena, the three of you chatting. Your eyes crinkled slightly when Lena said something amusing, your shoulders relaxed in their presence.

It was nostalgic. The difference was, it wasn’t him sitting there with you.

He had waited years. Years. Through the quiet ache of your absence, through the countless unanswered moments where he had expected you to return but you never did.

Time had placed a wedge between you, and these two had occupied the space you had once left behind. They filled the void that should have belonged to him.

This won’t do. He needed a way to fix this.

Sunday wasn’t careless. Rushing into anything would be sloppy. No, he had to understand before he acted.

How much did they mean to you? How easily could their ties be severed?

Would you abandon them if they betrayed you? If they hurt you? Or were they so deeply rooted in your life that something more… permanent had to be considered?

He needed answers.

Sunday started with the easiest method.

A quiet, discreet proposal. A generous sum. Enough to make Ethan and Lena rethink their place in your life.

Would they accept it?

Lena, the spirited one—he doubted she would take the bait so easily. But Ethan? He was more practical. Money could be tempting.

All Sunday had to do was ensure the conditions were appealing. A lucrative opportunity, something that would require them to leave. A business proposition, an exclusive program, a scholarship overseas—he had plenty of ways to make it happen.

It wasn’t just about getting them away from you. It was about making them choose to leave on their own.

Sunday’s patience had limits.

If money wasn’t enough, he would take something from them instead.

Their reputation. Their safety. Their future.

He would ensure they had no choice but to leave.

A scandal? A carefully placed rumor? A fabricated incident that would make the university question their standing? Ethan had a stable, good image—how much would it take to stain that?

As for Lena…

Accidents happen all the time.

Once they were gone, he would make his move.

-----

Sunday wasn’t supposed to be here.

He had just finished a business meeting, his mind still occupied with the details. Everything was going as planned—Ethan and Lena wouldn’t last much longer. He was only supposed to head home and prepare for the next steps.

But then, he saw you in the middle of a small plaza, standing by a decorated booth, surrounded by children with bright, excited eyes.

You were giving away balloons.

It was such a simple thing. So ordinary. And yet, the way you smiled at each child, the way you crouched down to tie the strings securely to their little wrists, he felt something shift inside him.

His feet moved before he could think.

He stood at a distance, watching.

A child’s laughter rang out as a bright red balloon suddenly slipped from their hands, floating up and getting tangled in the branches of a tall tree.

The kid pouted, pointing at it.

You reassured them with a smile before stepping closer. Sunday immediately knew what you were planning.

You jumped. Your fingertips brushed against the string. The balloon wobbled. But then, your foot slipped against the bark, and your balance tipped.

He caught you before you could fall.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then you blinked up at him in surprise. "Sunday?"

"That was reckless."

"Thanks for catching me."

Then, as if the moment had never happened, you turned back, reaching for the balloon that had fallen to the ground.

"Here you go! Make sure to hold on tight this time, okay?"

The kid beamed and ran off.

The café was quiet. The smell of fresh coffee and pastries filled the air. Sunday stirred his drink lazily, his gaze never leaving you as you took a sip of yours.

“You do this often?”

“Giving out balloons?”

He nodded.

You hummed, resting your chin on your hand. “Yeah. The money’s decent, but that’s not really why I do it.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “I just… like spending time with kids. They remind me of when things were simpler.”

You chuckled, eyes gleaming with nostalgia. "Remember Robin’s birthday when she turned six?"

Of course, he remembered.

Robin had insisted on a castle cake—one with towers and candy decorations. The bakery they ordered from, however, had delivered a sad-looking mess that barely resembled a castle at all.

She had been devastated.

But you? You saved the day.

"Come on, it’s not that bad!" You had said, despite the fact that one of the towers had already collapsed.

Robin had sniffled. “It looks like it melted.”

Sunday had been about to call their family’s staff to fix the issue, but you had beaten him to it—grabbing frosting, extra candy, and getting to work.

By the time you were done, the cake was still a disaster, but Robin had been giggling, gleefully sticking sprinkles onto it.

Sunday had just watched you back then, marveling at the way you always knew how to turn a bad situation around.

You laughed at the memory. "Robin was so happy, she didn’t even care that it looked worse than before."

Sunday’s lips curled into a smile. "You always knew how to handle her."

"She was a sweet kid." You leaned back in your chair, "I kinda miss her, honestly."

"She missed you too."

"I also remember when we got chased by those geese—"

It had been a peaceful day at the park. You, Sunday, and Robin had been sitting near the lake, feeding the ducks.

Until you had mistakenly fed the geese instead.

They had not been pleased.

The next thing you knew, a whole group of them had started charging at you.

Robin had screamed, clutching Sunday’s sleeve.

You had grabbed his hand and yelled, "Run!"

And run, you did. For your lives.

The geese had chased you halfway across the park before you managed to dive over a fence to safety.

Robin had collapsed in laughter. Sunday had given you a long, exasperated stare. And you, despite gasping for breath, had only grinned at him.

“Worth it.”

You snickered into your drink. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run that fast in your life."

"It was your fault to begin with."

"Still fun, though"

The conversation continued like that. And for a moment, Sunday wished time would stop. That this would last forever.

But reality was cruel.

You would go back to your friends. To your job. To your life that no longer included him the way it used to.

Unless, of course, he did something about it.

The next morning, your world came crashing down.

The moment you unlocked your phone, the message stared back at you like a cruel joke.

Ethan was gone in a car accident.

You barely remembered how you got to the hospital. By the time you arrived, his body was already covered, and his family stood there, pale and grief-stricken.

Your knees buckled.

A pair of arms caught you before you hit the ground.

Sunday held you close as sobs wracked through your body, his hands steady against your back while you gasped through the pain.

“I’m here,” he whispered, “I won’t leave.”

You didn’t care how you must have looked—broken, vulnerable, clutching onto him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

And for Sunday, it was perfect.

Because in that moment, you only had him.

When he returned home later that night, there was still confusion lingering in his mind.

He never laid a hand on Ethan.

This wasn’t his doing. He had been waiting, but not acting yet.

So how?

The answer came swiftly.

“Did you enjoy my work, young master?”

Sunday’s gaze flickered toward the butler standing before him.

“You.”

“I only did what needed to be done. He was in the way.”

“…I see.”

This man had just done him a favor.

One down. One to go.

----

Sunday knew.

Lena was different.

Unlike Ethan, she was perceptive, cautious—a problem.

She noticed things others didn’t.

So, he tried to negotiate first.

"You should leave them alone, Sunday."

"Leave them alone? I’m only looking out for them."

Lena scoffed. "Looking out for them? Or keeping them caged?"

Ah. So, she really had noticed.

Sunday kept his expression neutral, but he already knew what needed to be done. She wasn’t going to cooperate.

Then, he would simply take everything away from her.

It started with her family’s business.

One by one, their contracts were mysteriously revoked. Their deals collapsed. Investors pulled away as if tainted by an invisible hand.

In less than a month, they were drowning in debt.

And then, when Lena’s father came home one night, weary and defeated, there was a single offer waiting for him.

A lifeline.

Money. Enough to start fresh elsewhere.

All he had to do was take it and move his family away.

You found out the next morning.

"I have to leave."

"What?"

"My family… we’re moving. It's sudden, I know, but… we don’t have a choice."

You shook your head, grasping her hands. "No, there has to be another way—"

"There isn’t." Her grip tightened. "Just… promise me you’ll take care of yourself, okay?"

The goodbye was painful.

And when she finally walked away, you felt something inside you crumble.

Now, it was just you.

He noticed how you withdrew after that. It was expected, of course. But that didn’t mean Sunday would let it stay that way.

He knew exactly how to lift your spirits.

----

"Robin!" Your voice was full of warmth, arms wrapping around the girl who eagerly hugged you back.

She grinned up at you. "I missed you so much!"

Sunday stood beside you, watching with quiet satisfaction.

This was how it should be.

-----

Robin had boundless energy.

From the moment you arrived at the amusement park, she was dragging you from one ride to another, eyes sparkling with excitement. Sunday followed along, calm as always, though he never refused when Robin tugged on his sleeve to join in.

Your first ride was the Ferris wheel.

"We should start slow!" Robin chirped, already hopping into the cabin.

You took the seat across from her while Sunday sat beside you, his arms casually resting against the back of the seat. The ride slowly ascended, giving you a breathtaking view of the city as the sun cast golden hues over the horizon.

Robin pressed her hands against the glass. "It’s so pretty!"

You smiled. "It really is."

Sunday, however, was watching you.

You caught his gaze, and he only gave a small smile. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Yeah. It’s been a while since I had this much fun."

Next, Robin pulled you both toward the rollercoaster.

"Come on, let’s go!"

You hesitated. "Robin, are you sure—?"

"Too late! No backing out now!"

And before you knew it, you were strapped in.

The rollercoaster shot forward at lightning speed. You could feel the wind rushing against your face, your stomach flipping as the ride twisted and turned at high speeds.

"AHHH!" You screamed, gripping the handles for dear life.

Robin was laughing hysterically. "FASTER! FASTER!"

Beside you, Sunday sat completely still.

You gaped at him. "HOW ARE YOU SO CALM?!"

He raised a brow. "Should I be screaming?"

"YES?!?"

Robin was cackling. "Brother, you’re no fun! At least pretend to be scared!"

He merely sighed. "This is hardly thrilling."

"Unbelievable." You shook your head, laughing breathlessly as the ride finally slowed. "Remind me never to sit next to you on a ride again."

Sunday’s lips curled slightly. "As you wish."

After more rides—including an overly competitive bumper car match and a water ride that left you drenched—you finally decided to take a break at a nearby café.

Robin slurped her milkshake. "That was the best! I can’t believe you screamed so much on the drop tower."

You groaned, slumping against the table. "I wasn’t ready for it to DROP THAT FAST."

Sunday took a sip of his coffee "You should’ve read the warning signs."

You glared at him. "I didn’t see any!"

Robin giggled. "That’s ‘cause you were busy trying to fix your hair after the last ride!"

You sighed dramatically. "Betrayed by my own reflection."

Sunday chuckled under his breath.

"I’d say it was worth it."

By the time evening rolled in, you were all starving.

You ended up at a cozy restaurant, settling into a booth near the window. The warm glow of the city lights outside made the moment feel peaceful, a perfect end to the day.

As you browsed the menu, Robin suddenly grinned.

"You know, Sunday’s a little tough to please." She poked your arm playfully. "You should keep an eye on him for me, okay?"

"Huh?"

"He rarely has friends, and he’s kinda odd. So make sure he doesn’t scare people away."

Sunday narrowed his eyes. "Since when?"

Robin smirked. "Since always."

You burst out laughing.

"You know what, I think Robin’s right." You gave Sunday a teasing glance. "You do have that 'mysterious loner' vibe."

Sunday exhaled slowly, setting his menu down. "I was just being myself."

Robin giggled. "Exactly."

You grinned. "Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on you, Sunday."

"I suppose I’ll allow it."

The three of you continued chatting over dinner, the atmosphere warm, the food delicious.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.

Robin had barely left when you already missed her presence. You wished she could’ve stayed longer, but she had responsibilities to tend to back home.

"I’ll come visit again soon, okay?"

You smiled, nodding. "I'll hold you to that."

----

The next day at school, the usual morning bustle filled the campus. Students hurried to their lecture halls, chatting about assignments, exams, and weekend plans. You were just making your way across the courtyard when—

THUD!

A figure dropped from above.

Gasps and screams erupted around you. Before you could even turn to look, a warm hand covered your eyes.

"Don’t look" Sunday’s voice was steady. His grip was gentle yet unyielding, shielding you from the sight before you.

"Sunday...?"

You heard frantic murmurs around you. "Oh my god, did he really just—?"

"Who is that?"

"I heard it was some creep sneaking into campus!"

Security rushed to the scene, and soon, teachers arrived to manage the situation. The man—apparently a pervert who had been sneaking into the school—had jumped from the second floor when he was caught.

Sunday only moved his hand away when the situation was under control. His other hand rested lightly on your shoulder, as if to keep you steady.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah... I just—I didn’t see anything, but still..."

After that incident, the school wasted no time tightening security. Strict rules were enforced for checking students and outsiders coming in and out of campus.

But even with the extra precautions, you couldn’t shake off the unease.

That night, as you sat in your small apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. The idea of being alone suddenly felt terrifying.

Then, as if sensing your thoughts, your phone buzzed.

Sunday: Are you alright?

You hesitated before typing back.

You: Yeah... Just a little shaken up, I guess.

A moment later, another message appeared.

Sunday: Come stay over at my place.

You: Huh?

Sunday: The house is big. There’s plenty of room. You don’t have to be alone.

Your fingers hovered over the screen. It was true—Sunday lived in a ridiculously large house. Staying there would be much safer than your small apartment.

Still, something about accepting his offer made you hesitate.

Before you could respond, another message arrived.

Sunday: I won’t force you. But I’d rather not leave you alone when you’re scared.

Maybe… just for a little while.

From that night onward, you and Sunday spent a lot more time together. Having him by your side was oddly reassuring. You didn’t realize just how much you had missed this feeling—the quiet comfort of his presence, the way he seemed to always know what you needed before you even said anything.

At school, he helped you with assignments, explaining complex topics. At home, he was always there to check in on you, making sure you ate properly, got enough rest, and didn’t push yourself too hard.

Even at work, he was helpful, dropping by occasionally to lend a hand or simply to keep you company.

But then, the news started broadcasting horrifying reports.

"Several incidents of theft and assault have been reported in the area. Authorities warn students to be cautious, as perpetrators have been targeting young individuals returning home late at night."

"Eyewitnesses claim the attackers have also been stealing clothing from laundromats and personal belongings from students’ dormitories."

Every night, the news became more alarming. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

One night, after a particularly long shift, you checked your phone.

Sunday: You’re still at work?

You sighed, typing back.

You: Yeah, I’ll be heading back soon.

His reply came instantly.

Sunday: I’ll pick you up.

Before you could protest, he added—

Sunday: Stay inside and wait.

You didn’t argue. By now, you knew better than to refuse his help.

When he arrived, he didn't say anything at first. He just held the door open for you, waiting for you to get in.

Once you were in the car, he finally spoke. “You need to quit.”

You looked at him in surprise. “Sunday, I can’t just—”

“It’s not safe.”

Of course, you knew. But quitting meant losing income, and without income, you were in trouble.

Still, he was right.

It wasn’t safe anymore.

As if sensing your hesitation, Sunday spoke again, "You don’t have to worry. I have a job for you."

You turned to him. “A job?”

"You can do it from home," he explained, keeping his eyes on the road. "It pays well, and it’ll keep you away from danger."

"But... what kind of job?"

He glanced at you briefly before returning his focus to driving. "Some paperwork for my family’s business. Nothing too complicated."

A part of you felt guilty—accepting help from him when you had always wanted to be independent.

But another part of you knew you had no choice.

So, finally, you sighed. "Alright... I’ll do it."

Sunday’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. If you had been looking closely, you might have seen the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

----

Sunday sat in his room, staring out the window.

Everything he had done—removing obstacles, orchestrating events, securing your safety—had led to this moment. You were here, under the same roof, relying on him once again.

It was almost laughable how fate worked. Or maybe, fate had nothing to do with it.

Ethan… gone. Lena… out of the picture. Your part-time job… eliminated.

Everything had fallen into place perfectly.

Now, there was no one left to take you away from him.

"Sunday, come down. I made dinner today."

You sat across from Sunday, setting down a warm bowl of soup in front of him.

“I hope it’s not too salty” you joked, taking your seat.

Sunday glanced at the meal before him. It was simple but comforting. Something you had made with your own hands.

“I’m sure it’s perfect.” He took a careful spoonful, humming in approval. “It’s good.”

You smiled, pleased with the response.

As you both ate, you suddenly remembered something.

“Oh, by the way… I saw a strange man earlier.”

Sunday paused, his spoon hovering over his bowl.

You continued, “He was hanging around near the house earlier. I thought it was weird, but maybe he was lost or something.”

He set his spoon down, reaching for his phone under the table. With a discreet movement, he typed a message.

[Check around the house. Find out who it was.]

Then, he looked up and smiled at you, "I’ll have someone look into it. Probably nothing to worry about."

The report came in faster than Sunday expected.

The strange man lurking around? It was him- The very same pervert from the news—the one who had been terrorizing students. The one responsible for the string of thefts, attacks, and robberies. And now, he had made the mistake of coming near you.

Sunday could have handed him to the police right away. That would have been the logical thing to do.

But where’s the fun in that?

Instead, he made a better decision.

Standing before the trembling man, Sunday offered him a deal.

"If you want to live, listen carefully."

Strange noises at night. A shadow passing by your window. The unsettling feeling of being watched.

You told Sunday about it every time.

And every time, he reassured you.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

But it got worse.

One evening, while you were walking home from campus, you felt a presence behind you.

At first, you ignored it. Maybe it was just another student. Maybe it was your imagination.

But then, a hand grabbed your wrist.

Panic shot through you as you struggled, a muffled scream escaping your lips. But before anything could happen—

A force yanked the man away from you.

You barely registered what happened next. All you saw was the flash of his cold eyes before he struck the man down with brutal efficiency.

You heard the pervert scream in pain before Sunday silenced him.

When it was over, Sunday turned to you, his hands slightly bloodied but his expression calm.

“Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Your legs almost gave out, but Sunday caught you effortlessly, pulling you into his chest.

You shivered, gripping onto him. “I… I was so scared.”

Sunday stroked your back. “It’s over. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

And then, only after he had thoroughly played the hero, did he finally turn the man over to the police.

Later that night, as you rested, Sunday stood in his room, watching the news.

“The suspect has been arrested thanks to an anonymous tip.”

Soon, you wouldn’t be able to imagine life without him. Soon, he would be the only person you needed.

----

The movie played softly in the background, but neither of you were really watching. The warmth of the room and the faint scent of hot milk filled the air.

You took a slow sip, letting the warmth seep into your tired bones.

“Life here is exhausting” you muttered absentmindedly, staring into your cup.

Sunday glanced at you, “Then come back with me.”

You exhaled a small chuckle, rubbing your forehead. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

You turned your head and found Sunday staring at you.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief. “I think I need a change.”

Sunday’s lips parted slightly as if he was about to say something, but instead, he pressed them together and turned his gaze toward the screen.

His heartbeat was too fast.

You didn’t realize what you had just given him. What you had just promised.

Finally, finally, you were coming back.

After all these years, after all the patience, the careful planning—you were walking right into his arms.

And this time, he wouldn’t let you slip away.

[belit0]

Izuna babysitting Madara's granddaughter

How would that go?

I LOVE THIS OMFG IZUNA IS MY BABY BOY I LOVE MY IZUNA SO MUCH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA PLUS HE'S SUCH A BAD INFLUENCE BUT THE FUNNY UNCLE AT THE END OF THE DAY (let's call them uncle/nice just to make it easier, I always mess up with those things xd)

Babysitting gone wrong (or right, if you ask Izuna)

Madara crosses his arms, fixing Izuna with a stare so sharp it could cut stone. His granddaughter stands beside him, her small hands folded neatly in front of her, watching the exchange with wide, expectant eyes.

-Listen to me carefully, Izuna.- Madara’s voice is grave, as if entrusting him with the fate of the entire clan rather than a seven-year-old child. -No chaos. No dangerous activities. No setting anything on fire. No encouraging bad behavior. Just watch her until I return.-

Izuna leans back, tilting his head. -Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Got it.-

Madara narrows his eyes. -Repeat it.-

Izuna exhales dramatically. -No chaos. No fun. No good time whatsoever. No training in the art of war. No leading her down the righteous path of Uchiha rebellion. Basically, be a Senju for the day.- He grins. -I’d rather die, but okay.-

Madara pinches the bridge of his nose. -Just keep her alive.-

-Alive? That I can do.- Izuna shoots his niece a smirk. -But thriving? That’s a different story.-

Madara sighs. -I’ll be back before sundown. Don’t make me regret this.-

With one last suspicious glance, he leaves.

The second Madara disappears, his granddaughter tugs on Izuna’s sleeve, eyes gleaming with barely-contained excitement.

-Uncle, I want to do something fun.

Izuna crouches down to her level, considering. -Kay... we can burn a tree if you want?-

Her face lights up. -Yes!-

Izuna grins. -That’s my girl.-

And thus, chaos begins:

Wrestling a particularly aggressive rooster in a neighbor’s yard

It started as an innocent challenge.

-Do you think you could take on that rooster?- Izuna had asked.

-I know I can,- his niece had replied, rolling up her sleeves.

The rooster won. (Temporarily. Until Izuna intervened. Now the rooster has a newfound fear of Uchihas.)

Throwing shuriken at apples balanced on each other’s heads

-Precision is an important skill,- Izuna reasoned, carefully placing an apple on his niece’s head.

-Are you sure about this uncle?- she asked, already lifting a shuriken.

-Absolutely.

-Okay, but if I hit you instead of the apple, don’t be mad.

-I would be proud.- (She missed three times, but that’s beside the point.)

Dueling with real swords (but, like, carefully)

-Uncle, Grandpa said I'm too young to handle a sword.

-That’s because Grandpa Madara is boring.

-Are you sure I won’t cut myself?

-Of course not!- (He was not sure at all.)

Miraculously, neither of them got seriously injured—though Izuna now has a suspiciously long cut on his sleeve that he will absolutely lie about later.

Trying to summon a toad with a stolen summoning scroll

-Wait, uncle, this isn’t yours?

-Semantics.

-Is this allowed?

-We’ll find out.- (They found out. It was not allowed. The toad was also way bigger than expected.)

Challenging a merchant to a spicy food contest and almost passing out

It started when Izuna spotted a vendor boasting about his "hottest dumplings in the land."

-That’s a challenge,- Izuna muttered, dragging his niece over.

-Uncle, I don’t think this is a good idea.

-Your lack of faith disappoints me.

…Izuna immediately regretted his life choices. His niece fared slightly better but still had tears in her eyes. They both swore never to speak of this again.

Riding a makeshift sled down a dangerously steep hill

-This is a bad idea,- his niece whispered as they positioned themselves on a wooden plank.

-The best ideas usually are,- Izuna countered, pushing off.

It was all fun and games until they hit a bump and launched into the air, landing in a muddy pond.

-That was awesome!- she cheered.

-…Don’t tell Grandpa Madara,- Izuna wheezed from the ground.

Madara Regrets Everything

He returns early. Not because he trusts Izuna—precisely the opposite.

He knows his brother, knows that the longer he is left unsupervised, the higher the chance something catastrophic will happen.

By the time he is back, Izuna and his granddaughter are sitting in the yard, covered in mud, scratches, and suspiciously singed clothing.

A nearby tree is still smoldering.

Madara takes one long, slow inhale, rubbing his temples.

-What. Happened.

Izuna tilts his head. -That’s��� a broad question Aniki.-

His granddaughter pipes up. -We fought a rooster, set a tree on fire, tried summoning a toad, and!—

-STOP.- Madara’s eye twitches. He turns to Izuna. -I trusted you with one thing. One.-

-And I kept her alive!- Izuna gestures to the small child, who is grinning. -Look at her! She had the time of her life!-

Madara’s granddaughter nods eagerly. -We did so many cool things, Grandpa!-

Madara exhales sharply, looking like he is seriously considering murder.

Izuna leans over to his niece. -Next time, we’ll find an even bigger tree.-

She gasps. -Really?-

-There won’t be a next time.- Madara’s voice is final.

Izuna smirks. -That’s what you think.-

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hello! deeply enjoy your writing and portrayal of characters! We've had sick reader but if you feel up to it may I ask for reader looking after sick shadow milk cookie? I don't know if he could get sick as easily, but there's also a possibility that he's pretending bc he wants to be doted on and doesn't know how to ask for attention directly lol, whichever way you want to take the scenario! Tysm!

Thank you! I'll make this a reverse fic of that one I wrote (where Smilk gets the "spice sickness" instead but Reader's got not clue if he's actually ill or making it up)

.............

"Oooohhhh...the paaaaiiin. This may be my final hour, my dearest. The curtain calls! Tell Candy Apple Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie they were the best minions anyone..could ask for....."

"...Shadow Milk Cookie, c'mon. You're not dying." You shake your head, amused by the antics your partner currently displayed as he laid in bed, snuggled beneath a handful of blankets. Even without all his ruffles and usual jester outfit on, he felt unusually warm--like he'd melt at any moment.

Somehow he contracted an illness from the storm that was raging over the Land of Spice, having a coughing fit nonstop ever since you two returned to the spire. Rumor Weaver caught wind of his condition and was gossiping about it to the other inhabitants, suspecting that Burning Spice Cookie had given it to him on purpose after they had a disagreement.

Of course, he allowed her to believe what she wanted, as right now he felt too "sick" to do anything else except wallow in bed and have you tend to his every need.

You were almost certain that this was his way of obtaining your affections and attention. He's too prideful to ask you for a simple kiss like a normal cookie would.

It was hard to know which parts of this he was faking, although judging from his watery eyes, specs of spice flakes in his blue dough, and sniffles..there was some truth to his ailment. And the fact that he was willing to trust you enough to be seen like this indicated how serious it was.

"Eat some of this." Picking up a bowl of cool lassi--which a Kulfi child had given you before your departure--you stirred it around a little bit. "It'll soothe your aching throat."

You offered him the spoon, but he just looked at you in disgust. "You don't think I can feed myself?"

"....well, if you insist on-"

"I'm kidding." With a small grunt, he sat up and waited, his cheeks appearing a bit flushed. You couldn't tell if it they were reflections of his sickness or emotions, although he didn't say anything more.

"Very well." You chuckled, spoonfeeding the creamy yogurt to him, tilting his chin up. "You know...I'm starting to think you enjoy this."

"Heh...feel like I'm tormenting you yet? Forcing you to tend to my every need?" He quietly rasped. "You don't seem all that concerned that I might just be faking 99 percent of this."

"Sure, maybe. But I'm just focused on the one percent chance that you possibly aren't."

He remained unusually quiet after that, even as you helped him finish the remaining lassi. His throat did feel a lot less scratchy, but he decided to lay back down, already feeling exhaustion catching up to him.

As his hair spilled all over the pillow, many blue eyes blinked up at you, half-lidded just like his actual eyes were.

You hummed and set the bowl back on the nightstand, taking this as your cue to get up and leave him be-

When suddenly he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down onto the bed beside him. Before you could even ask what on earthbread he was doing, he had his arms wrapped around you tightly, keeping you trapped in his hold as he cuddled into your chest.

"Who said you could leave?"

"I-I..uh..." You were a bit flustered. "I figured you wanted to rest"

"Yeah, but...I just...I don't wanna be alone. Please stay.." He quietly expressed, sounding a little sad and worried that you were going to try to leave him anyways.

Maybe he was actually delirious from the spice sickness, and his true feelings were finally being laid bare in front of you. But you decided not to question it and instead smiled.

"Oh, Shadow Milk Cookie. You could have just asked." You chuckled softly, hugging him closely as you rested your chin on top of his head. "I'll stay as long as you want me to. But if this gets me sick, I'm blaming you, alright?"

"......."

"Dearest?"

His lack of response indicated that he had quickly fallen asleep, which surprised you considering how often he was on-guard, or touted that he never needed sleep.

Then again, you didn't wanna question anything and spoil this rare moment of intimacy. So you just kept watch over him until sleep eventually came for you, too.

Even if you also contracted the spice sickness because of this, it was well worth it.

[fancyfeathers]

So I am "burn it all down" number 1 stan actually.

I just think it so special and unique, and the way that you write the story, it just works.

Honestly, I thought there was some potential chemistry between Zataras son and Bruce's daughter, but I'm still the number 1 throuple supporter 😭

The whole thing with Diana's son being the heir to a Greek throne is so Jsjsksksksk! I'm holding out hope for King Diana's son, and he's tryna run the kingdom, and he's doing it quite successfully, but his wives rule his life! TELL ME THAT ISN'T PERFECT 😔 They hate when you serve supportive husband.

He's like a KING too so he can marry them both and it's just JDJDJDJ.

He's in an important meeting, and one of his advisers demands to know where the Queens are, and he's literally willing his eye not to twitch cause they are both stopping an extraterrestrial threat 😭

I am also a clove stan so I hope she's still alive and well 😭

Do you think that oliver and dinah were trying to replace their child with reader?

Ra's is back?! AGAIN?! bro he's actually obsessed I can't 😳 😭

I am just so intrigued and in love with the entire thing, like it's perfect.

I have more thoughts, honestly, but this is a lot for one ask 😭

Thank you for having passion for your stories because I genuinely enjoy reading them all 💜💜

Lmao, Bruce’s daughter being a little flirt and having chemistry with anyone she meets, a natural born flirt, it’s cause it was so taboo for her to date anyone growing up. Now she was engaged once before to a person who turned out to be a psychopath, but still.

But Diana’s son being so down bad for Supergirl and Songbird, like him and Songbird are the team leaders of their group but the moment either of his girlfriends asks him to do something, he would get on his knees for them. He was raised by a bunch of women, he knows how to respect women. But like one day when he does return to his ancestral home and take up the mantle that he was born for and reestablishes Ithaca as it’s own kingdom and nation again, I don’t think he would publicly show off his relationship, respecting his partners’ privacy.

ALSO YES! I am so happy someone caught the reference to the old team from my other series. I will say Clove is alive, in fact she is the one getting the surgery done that was mentioned in chapter five. Now not everyone on that old team is fine, Henbane and Clove are fine and they got married to each other, but Foxglove and Nettle… not so much.

Without spoiling too much, Dinah and Oliver were sort of trying to replace their child with Bruce’s daughter (Songbird), but more so full that void, thinking their actual child is dead, but we will cover that in a later chapter.

And yes, Ra’s is back, but I will say in a way he has Bruce’s daughter’s best interest in mind, at least a way to keep her safe, but I am not going to say much else because that will give too much away. There are bigger things to worry about that are going to come up in the story… wait and see…

[diminuel]

Can't wait for Robin's work on "revolutionary and pirate reunited after 10 years leads to confessing of love and romance" that also comes out before a certian child of the devil himself comes back, joining the revolutionaries in dressrosa.

Hähähähähä! I‘m sure that would sell well too!

Going off on my usual tangents: Do you think Ace would make his (or her if he had some revelations while recovering on Momoiro) return to the scene in Dressrosa? I‘ve been pondering what he would do and when he would return for a while!

[eoe-1379]

Seasons Past: Winter Blessings

Its a girl! Thank you to everyone who voted here! You decided the babies gender!! It was an extremely tight race the whole way through.

No warning for this one! Just fluff for the ending. Some adult language but that's all.

Might do a second half to this chapter but I'm not sure yet. I had a lot of ideas for this story I didn't get to execute, but I left them open in case I return to finish things later.

You hadn't seen or spoken to Caleb and Zayne in a long time. You were right in the end – things changed rapidly. Zayne transferred to the mountains to help refugees, and Caleb got recruited into the military. Both men left your life, though they promised to return one day - that was nine months ago.

You discovered your pregnancy after they'd already left. Grief crippled you. Tara helped you through every trimester, but it wasn't easy. Some days, loneliness and loss overwhelmed you, and you hardly moved at all. On other days, you felt defiant and determined to raise this child on your own, no man necessary.

Tara begged you to reach out, to tell them about your condition, but you refused. You wouldn't pull them away from their destinies. You knew those men would drop everything to be by your side, and you didn't want to make that choice for them. You decided to wait for the right time, to wait for destiny to bring them back into your life – and thank the gods it did.

On Christmas Eve, you received a postcard in the mail with a familiar apple cartoon doodled in the corner. Caleb had postmarked it weeks ago. The image on the front showed an airfield covered in snow, a fighter jet at its center strung meticulously with twinkling lights. "See you soon, pipsqueak," he wrote.

You smiled, tracing his handwriting with your fingers, feeling his impressions. As if the ink was a part of him you could touch. You stroked your belly, shifting uncomfortably on your swollen feet as your hips ached.

"At least maybe you'll meet one Daddy," you whispered to the baby. You had never wanted to know the gender, just like you never wanted to know the father – though everyone asked.

New Year's Eve arrived, and Tara tried to drag you to another party with her. Luckily, you had a good excuse for staying in, citing cramps and gas, among other things.

"I won't leave you alone this close to your due date," Tara said over the phone. "Plus, it's New Year's Eve! You should be having a good time somewhere."

You twirled the plastic cord around your fingers, sitting on the couch. "I'm having a great time," you said, looking at the bag of chips resting on your belly and the macarons spilled across the cushions. "I have everything I need right here."

Tara asked, "What if you go into labor?"

You smiled, feeling the baby press a hand against your belly button from within. "Then I'll hop in the tub and squirt this little parasite out like a mother goose," you said, leaning away from the receiver to whisper to the baby, "You like that, my little worm?"

Tara's silence was deafening.

She finally spoke, her tone serious as she rummaged through her purse. "I'm going to give you the address and phone number of the place I'm going. If anything happens, you call. I'll try not to drink too much, just in case, but for both of us – please – keep your 'little worm' incubated a few more days."

You smiled, stretching over your stomach to grab a macaron. "I'll stop up the exit with a wine cork if I have to," you said. "Have fun tonight, for both of us." After taking down the information, you both said your goodbyes.

You settled back into the sofa, pressing play on your movie, When Harry Met Sally. Since your first trimester, the smell of popcorn made you hurl, and you'd do anything to avoid a public bathroom at this stage so Tara had rented the film from the video store for you.

As Sally faked her orgasm in the diner, a knock sounded on your door. You glanced, waiting to see if the person would knock again or if you could avoid getting up.

Another string of quick knocks followed.

You groaned, planting your feet and rocking yourself out of the cushions. Unsteady, you put a hand on the wall until you balanced properly, then made your way to the small foyer, holding your back for support.

You cracked open the door, peeking outside. "Hello?"

A looming figure stepped into view, and two glistening amethyst eyes met yours. "Caleb?" you breathed, unable to stop the tears springing to your lashes.

"Hey, pipsqueak," Caleb said, his voice as beautiful as you remembered.

You slammed the door, scrambling to unlock it – but as your hand grasped the handle, you hesitated, looking down at your belly and breasts, swollen with life. And Caleb didn't know.

You shut your eyes, letting a few silent tears escape down your cheeks, before gathering the courage to face the man you loved.

You swung open the door.

Caleb's smile faltered as his eyes traveled down to your belly button poking out from the Motley Crüe t-shirt. He stood opposite you, frozen.

"Wow," Caleb says finally, his usually cavalier tone shaken. He rubs his head, smiles, and opens his arms wide to embrace you. "Come here, pipsqueak! God, I missed you."

He wraps his arms tightly around your neck, bending to accommodate your new size. One large, warm palm presses against your belly, and his eyes search yours in question. "So, who's the guy?" he asks more seriously.

You frown at him, confused. "What?"

He pulls you inside and shuts the door, dragging a suitcase in after him. He lets it rest by your shoes as he raises one of your arms to twirl you on his fingertips.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you've put on a little weight since the last time I saw you. Now, either we need to talk about your eating habits, or you've got a bun in that oven."

You teeter around clumsily but giggle at the way he makes you feel ten years old again. Still, his misunderstanding perplexes you. Your brow creases tighter as you fold your arms.

"Oh, come on, Pip," he ruffles your hair like he used to do when you were small, "I didn't expect you to wait for me forever. I'm happy you found someone."

You catch his misty gaze just as he flicks it to the side, turning away from you under the pretense of observing the apartment. "Nice place you guys got. Is this yours or his?" he asks, seeming confused by your lack of response.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

"Are you finished?" you say after a moment of his silence. When he nods, you go on; "The baby is yours, dummy." You can't resist using casual language to ease the weight of your words. Though you would be remiss if you didn't also mention, "or Zayne's. I never checked."

Caleb plops down in the nearest seat, which happens to be your kitchen bar, and stares at you, his lips parted in question. There's no hiding the emotion on his face now. His eyes well up as they study you with intensity, then your belly, then back to your eyes, as if he could see the answers to all his questions if he just looked deep enough into your pupils.

"Mine?" His words are both a question and a statement, proud yet laced with terror and shock. He reaches for you, so you step forward to accommodate him, letting both his hands wrap warmly around your belly.

"Of course, yours," you say, catching the tear about to fall from his eye with a gentle touch, cupping his face. "Ours."

He sniffs, leaning away from you with a new expression, one you rarely see firsthand – anger.

"What the fuck, Pip?" his lips tighten, his chest heaves. He runs his fingers through his hair and tangles them there before pulling them over his face like a curtain and groaning in frustration.

Your chest tightens with anxiety, your heart fluttering out of rhythm. "I'm sorry," you whisper, your lips salty with tears.

"What the hell were you thinking? Why didn't you tell me?" he stands, pacing.

You think he's going to berate you more, to yell, to scream, to pull out that scary side of himself that you've seen him use to protect you time and time again. But he doesn't. Instead, he breaks down crying. "I missed everything," he whimpers, coming back to you with a couple of quick strides.

You laugh through your tears, relief washing over you. "That's what you're most upset about?"

He looks up at you from where he kneels on the linoleum, his chin resting on the curve of your stomach. "Yes!" He hisses the word with real venom, his brow tightening as he stands. "I can't believe you would keep this to yourself. We have to call Zayne."

"No," you grab his arms. "You can't do that."

"This isn't up for discussion. Do you have any idea how he's going to feel when he finds out another doctor has been taking care of his child?"

"I know!" You pick up a plastic spoon from the marble counter and throw it at him as he goes for the phone. He dodges it easily. "You think I don't know?" You find a pencil and throw that too, emotions spilling out of every orifice. As the hormones take over, your gentle tears turn to ugly sobs. "You think I wanted to go through this alone? I couldn't tell you! You had your own lives to lead, you would have given all of that up."

"Of course we would have!" Caleb swipes every trinket you barrel his way. "That's what happens when people have children, they put their lives on hold."

"I couldn't do that to you! Not when you'd just left." You bury your face in your hands to cry, hyperventilating through your fingers.

Caleb wastes no time, pulling you back into his arms with a yank, holding you close. You snuggle against his chest, wiping your tears on his uniform until his soft strokes along your back calm you enough to breathe.

"It's done now," he says, taking a softer tone. "I'm calling him."

Caleb walks you both over to the phone, keeping you secured under one arm as the other puts the plastic to his ear and spins through numbers on the rotary.

"How are you going to get ahold of him?" you ask. The only number you had for Zayne went to the local dispatch, and the one time you did call, they told you Zayne wouldn't be available for days.

Caleb didn't have time to answer you. The receiver picked up on the other end. "I have an urgent message for Dr. Zayne. Is he available? When will he be back? Yes, this is an emergency." Caleb holds you a little tighter. "Tell him it's a family emergency. He's needed back in Linkon as soon as possible." Caleb goes over contact info with the dispatcher, then hangs up with a huff. He looks down at you, his brow creased with concern. "You should sit down."

You nod, letting him support your weight as he walks you back to the couch. He stands once you're settled, his eyes scanning your apartment with a new determination. You can see the gears spinning in his head, making plans of action. He's going into caregiver mode.

"What have you got in your kitchen? Do I need to do a store run before dinner?" He flits between cabinets and appliances, taking inventory. "I can work with this. Does ramen with egg and stir-fry sound okay to you? Looks like these frozen vegetables are still good."

"Caleb, you don't have to cook," you squirm, resting your head as fatigue settles in. "I'm fine."

"That's nice. So do you want stir-fry, or not?" He continues, setting up the pots and pans in your kitchenette.

"Sounds great." You chuckle under your breath.

Caleb makes dinner while you finish your movie, then he helps you to bed. You slip into slumber easily, wrought weak by anxieties and stress. At least your dreams are peaceful.

-

When you stir awake, it's still dark outside, and something cold is pressed to your inner arm.

You rub open your eyes to see the shadow of a figure sitting beside you on the edge of the bed. The glint of the stethoscope hints at your company, but you can't see his face. The blue moonlight through the window has shrouded him in shadow.

"Zayne?" you whisper, unsure if you're still dreaming or not.

"Lay back," his soft voice commands, a gentle push on your shoulder keeps you from sitting up. "I'm almost finished."

"How did you get here so fast?" you croak groggily.

"Helicopter," he replies calmly. "Now be still, and quiet."

You obey, relaxing into the pillows and closing your eyes for a few long moments until you feel the cold steel release your skin. You open your eyes to see him moving.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," he assures you, leaning over to kiss your forehead. He tucks the blankets back around you, pulling the covers up to your chin. "Rest now. We'll talk when you wake."

You reach out, grabbing his hand as he goes to leave.

"You're really here?" you breathe incredulously.

"Yes, love. Now sleep."

-

Sunlight breaks through your curtains as you stir awake for good. Your arms stretch high, your yawn wide as you roll from the bed onto your feet with a thump. You waddle into the bathroom to wash your face, fixing your bedhead before gradually making your way into the living area.

Your eyes glance around, searching for your loves. Had you dreamed all of it? Were they just the result of some hormonal hallucination?

A snore startles you, and you come around to check the front of the couch.

Zayne's long form is draped over your sofa. His legs hang over one armrest, while his head is gingerly cradled by the other. One dangling hand still tickles the pages of his book where it fell to the floor.

Caleb is on top of Zayne, equally ridiculous-looking on the small furniture. One of Zayne's arms is wrapped over Caleb's back, his chest pillowing Caleb's head as the pilot's knees bend at the sofa's arm to hover in the air.

Caleb snores again, shifting slightly on top of Zayne, which causes the doctor to awake with a sudden jolt. Zayne's eyes quickly find yours, and he gently rouses Caleb in turn.

"Pull shoot!" Caleb rolls up, wide eyes still hazy with dreams.

Zayne holds up a hand to stop you from coming near. He rubs Caleb's back, gently rousing the colonel from his nightmare.

You flinch when Caleb's fists raise ready to fight, the man waking in a panic, ready to defend himself. Zayne is unphased, holding Caleb's gaze until the man comes back to reality.

"Sorry," Caleb says softly, lowering his fists. Both eyes turn to you, and the men are swift to their feet. "How are you feeling?"

"Do you need anything?"

You feel your eyes welling again, and waddle into their arms for a group hug. There, you hold them tightly, taking in every subtle scent of their musks and the warmth of their bodies. They return your embrace, holding you tightly until you're good and ready to let go.

"I'm perfect now," you say through a smile.

Caleb strokes your face. Zayne puts his cool hands over your belly. They're still upset, you can feel it in every touch, every glance, but they're here and that's all that you care about now.

"I should call Tara," you say.

"Tara?" Zayne asks.

You move toward the phone. "She doesn't need to come over today to help me. I'm sure she'll be grateful after the night she had."

"Tara's been taking care of you?" Caleb asks incredulously. "Tara who couldn't keep her goldfish alive?"

Zayne shushes him. "As long as you had someone...that's all that really matters."

You meet eyes with Zayne. His expression is hurt but determined. "You have us now, so go on."

You give him a small smile, but he turns from you to go back to the living room. While you leave a message on Tara's machine, Caleb starts breakfast, and Zayne tidies up your dining room, making space for everyone around your small table.

The men pamper your every step, pulling out a chair and helping you down, bringing your food before you like waiters in a restaurant. Zayne even fills your water, setting it down before you and dropping a plastic pillbox beside it. Inside is a handful of large, oddly colored tablets.

"They're vitamins. I trust you've been taking something similar from your doctor?" Zayne looks at you pointedly.

"There are some prenatal vitamins in the cupboard."

"Good. These are better. Take them with your food." Zayne moves beside you as Caleb brings plates, and the three of you sit together to eat.

"So, who's your doctor?" Zayne asks, his tone tense.

Caleb shoots you a look that says ‘I told you so.’

"Dr. Merrigan is my OBGYN," you answer through a bite of scrambled eggs.

Zayne huffs, rubbing his chin.

"I'd like to meet her. When's your next appointment?"

"There are no more appointments, not until..." You trail off, rubbing your belly in explanation.

Caleb frowns. "How far along are you exactly?"

"Your due date is soon then, I'd imagine."

"Tomorrow, technically. Though Dr. Merrigan says it's normal for the first child to be born late."

"Tomorrow?!" Caleb leans back in his chair, his chest tight. "Jesus. I have to wrap my head around this."

"It's likely she won't give birth on the due date. That's fairly rare," Zayne says, reaching out to squeeze Caleb's hand. "It's going to be okay."

You watch the men closely, seeing how comfortable they are with each other. It's not the same demeanor you'd expect from ex-lovers who hadn't spoken in months. Something's off, but you don't want to upset them further, so you push your suspicions deep down.

"I'm going to the store today to stock up on diapers," Caleb says, grabbing a napkin and starting to scribble on it with a pen from his breast pocket. "What else do we need before the baby comes?"

Zayne starts rattling off a list of supplies, correcting Caleb's spelling occasionally with a light tap of his finger on the table.

You stop listening as a pain shoots up your back. Your ears ring for a moment as your body tenses through the discomfort. You don't realize how long you've been sitting stiff, but when you come out of it, both men are quietly staring at you. You smile, trying to hide your unease.

"You guys don't have to do all of that. I have some essentials stored up from the baby shower." You groan as another pain shoots up your spine like a bolt of electricity.

"Pipsqueak?" Caleb's voice is dark with concern, and both men kick their chairs out from behind them.

"Are you having contractions?" Zayne’s voice is the calm amidst the chaos, a soothing balm but it does nothing to ease your building anxiety.

"Contractions?!" Caleb whips around to look at Zayne, clear terror in his eyes.

You shake your head through a wince. "No, it's just the booty pains, like when I'm on my period."

"I'm not familiar with that terminology, but judging by your level of pain, I don't think this is anything other than labor," Zayne says, helping you to your feet.

As you stand, you feel something warm dripping down your leg. You look to see a puddle in the chair underneath you.

"Oh balls." You groan, another pain doubling you over.

Zayne supports you to keep you from falling against the table.

"Can you carry her?" he ask, looking at Caleb.

Caleb wastes no time, scooping your swollen body into his arms with little more than a grunt. You grip his neck tight as he walks you to the door. You point over his shoulder to a rack on your wall.

"Zayne, my keys!"

The young man snatches them off the hook, grabbing your coat and a few other items that he tucks under his arm before opening the door for both of you.

-

Your contractions are coming in rapid succession by the time you get to the hospital. Zayne uses his credentials to take you straight into an operating room, demanding they find your primary doctor.

Nurses swarm in, one of them forcing Caleb out of the room and into the hallway, where he disappears, shouting his protest.

Zayne comes close, putting on his scrubs.

"I'll bring him back in once your heart is stable.” He explains. “Did you page Dr. Merrigan?" He then asks a nurse with fierce intensity.

"She's in another delivery, doctor."

"Looks like I get to do this myself after all," he says, kissing your forehead, slick with sweat.

You cry out as a contraction seizes your body, and you push instinctively. Your chest tightens and aches.

"Take deep breaths, darling. You're doing just fine," Zayne says, making some commands to a nurse, but you can't hear them over the throbbing in your ears. "I know, love. I'm so sorry. You're progressing too fast for the epidural. You’re going to need to be strong, for us and for the baby.”

Zayne makes a gesture as he sets himself between your legs, high over his shoulders in the stirrups.

You don't see the nurse open the door, but Caleb soon appears at your side. He takes your hand in his and plants a firm kiss on your knuckles.

"I'm here, baby." He hums.

You cry, screaming through another contraction. This time, you're able to squeeze Caleb's hand for support. He doesn't even flinch.

"You got it. Squeeze as hard as you need to. That's my girl," he says, kissing your forehead, wrapping a supporting arm behind your shoulders as you push again.

"Ugh, get out of me, you little worm!" you scream aggressively, sweat pouring into your eyes.

You can feel your heart straining, see time slowing all around you. Lights dance over your head as all chaos fades into the distance, and a haze washes over the world.

Then you feel it – a snap in your chest like a chord breaking.

Your breath catches. No.

It stops. Everything grows suddenly very dark. You can hear Zayne and Caleb's voices, but they're too far away to be understood.

The shadows of the room creep in further, devouring everything they touch until it's just you amidst the black void.

This is the end, isn't it? You feel a sense of sadness, but it scarcely compares to the peace that overwhelms you. You relax, floating, almost ready for the end.

"Not yet, sweetie," echoes a deep, melancholic voice from the void.

You see a flash of red – maybe blood, maybe rubies? It's all so confusing.

Then, through the defeating silence, a single sound emerges to coax your ears – a cry.

Suddenly, you remember – it's a baby, your baby.

You gasp, jolted awake by a dramatic shock to your chest. The first thing you see is Zayne's horrified stare, his face stained with tears. He's holding the paddles that saved your life.

Time begins to move again. You still can't hear much and your vision is blurred, your ears ringing, but you hear that same infant cry, and you reach out, looking for it.

"Where's my baby?" you huff, your limbs falling weakly at your sides.

Zayne's voice finally cuts through the static.

"Lay back, my love. Please. For me." Zayne gently but firmly pushes you back onto your pillows, where you melt from exhaustion, eyes fluttering.

"My baby..." you grab for him, and he holds your hand between his palms.

"She's alright. You'll see her soon, I promise."

You smile as sleep takes you forcefully. A girl. You had a baby girl.

[storiexviventi]

Rosanna bites back an argument about how he told her to sit. It doesn’t seem smart to anger an already angry, dangerous man. She had learned that much from the stories. Best to do as they say until she has her own daring plan of escape, which for now, is just waiting for her father to return. It’s not like she can go anywhere else without him, after all. She doesn’t even want to.

The child hops down from the chair and jogs after Basta towards the door, arriving after her does but not so long after that she feels any need to worry about it.

“Is it a far walk?” she asks as she takes a place at his side. “Or do you live very close to your witch?”

“Well, don’t just sit there, then,” Basta snaps, as if it’s the girl’s fault they’re not already out the door. It’ll be good for her to remember who’s in charge and that she’d better keep on her toes if she doesn’t want to annoy him.

He slips quickly to the door to ensure he’s there before her and she can experience his impatience.

@storiexviventi

[fluffypotatey]

I'm thinking about an AU where like...Ody picks up a feral kid from an island who stows away on the ship. It'd be good to get some whimsy on that ship and maybe things go better. Hope Penelope doesn't mind an extra kid + Telemachus having a wild child of a little sibling now. Very overly enthusiastic, half the crew is terrified, other half is like "yeah the kid has good survival technique ideas." Ody is like, "please stop gleefully mopping the bloodied castle" after kid decides to be helpful. Proceeds to kick a suitors head out of the hallway so OdyPen can walk around together peacefully.

excuse you, that child is helping!!! Ody, Telemachus, and Penelope are reuniting and tired and this child, out of the goodness of their heart is cleaning the palace (with aid of course) 😤

they don’t need to bc by that point their an official ward of the palace, but it the thought that counts (they totally loot the suitor’s stuff in the process)

[deepspacehoney]

Almaria color test.

Her braids, pigtails, and insides are all stuffed tightly with fabric. She "weaves" or "sews" people into puppets or objects to give them life using parts of herself as the base components. So far she recreated a city and suspended it directly above... the original city. The residents just pretend it's not there and send foolish tourists up to keep her occupied.

I couldn't find the original post outside of sketches so maybe I just never shared her!

[lunawlw]

thinking so so sooooo much about how zelda going back in time and being with rauru, sonia, and minoru were parental in a way that was caring. zeldas father being so hard on her in botw about trying to unlock her powers, but in tears of the kingdom these 3 gave her encouragement even if all seemed impossible for her to get back to her time. they were gentle with her and truly treated her like family from their time. rauru and sonia filling that parent role and minoru being the aunt..

[moongothic]

Re: Crocodile as the Missing Kuja Empress-theory

I do wanna throw it out there quickly that we know Shakky retired from being a pirate and the Kuja Empress 42 years ago at the age of 22, while Hancock took the throne 13 years ago (age 18), meaning the Missing Empress' reign/era lasted for about 29 years

And while we don't know how long the Kuja might've been without a ruler between empresses (like do they have a system set where they know who will take the throne next Immidiately After the previous one steps down/dies/etc, or might they spend years without an empress until they find a new suitable ruler?)

We do know that when Shakky retired, Crocodile would've been four

So unless Crocodile became The Kuja Empress at Age 4 (or unless the Kuja were completely without an empress for almost a decade and then gave the throne to a literal child), then there's no way Crocodile could be the Missing Kuja Empress

[sincerely-sofie]

Ruby anon again! I’m glad that I haven’t been interrupting your creative process or intervening at all. I can’t wait to see what you do with Ruby and her siblings!

The siblings, btw, were a piece of work for me to write and develop until I decided to peace out on really doing anything with them. The only two things I remember about them really are:

• They’re bounty hunters and their parents did the same thing to them that they’re doing with Ruby. They’re repeating behavior taught to them and they legitimately think they’re helping Ruby. I scrapped that idea quickly because I felt like that could push out the problematic “the abused become abusers” message and that it could possibly make the siblings sympathetic, and I did not want to make them sympathetic in even the slightest way. Anything I had involving the backstory of Ruby’s siblings and/or what happened to their parents was just tossed out after that.

• I thought about the siblings having opposite personalities and looks: one is more loud and aggressive and the other is more quiet and passive aggressive. One is shiny while the other is not. One is the physical abuser while the other is the emotional abuser. Despite their personalities contrasting, they get along well with each other. I wanted it to symbolize that abuse can look different, but it’s still abuse and can often come with other forms of it. I was still on the fence about that idea because I wasn’t sure if I liked it.

I hope you can write the siblings better than I ever could. I can’t wait to see more of your work! It’s amazing! I hope you have a good night. ^^

OHHHHH MY WORD I CAN’T BEGIN TO TELL YOU HOW AMAZING THESE NOTES ARE AND HOW EXCITED I AM TO INCORPORATE THEM

I love the idea of the siblings embodying different forms of abuse and the significance of how their differences ultimately play off each other in a way that they get along swimmingly. That’s a brilliantly layered piece of storytelling, you’re a genius! And thank you for the compliment, you’re super sweet :>

Real quick, an important thing to note about the possible problematic message that “the abused become abusers”— it’s a heartbreaking fact that many cases of abuse are generational in origin. The documented fact that domestic abusers are frequently victims of corporal punishment is one of the most devastating examples of this. To write a couple of characters who reflect this fact doesn’t automatically push out the idea that the abused become abusers— heck, it could be written as an important insight into the devastating effects of abuse and how it impacts its victims, and how breaking the chain of abuse is even more significant than its already seen.

Just because you write a reason for a character to be a horrible person doesn’t mean they’re automatically sympathetic, or even that they’re sympathetic in a bad way. Villains people can relate to are very powerful from a writing perspective because they make the reader stop, stare into the abyss, and see it staring back at them. A sympathetic or “understandable” villain who is still clearly villainous is terrifying compared to one that’s cartoonish pure evil. I can’t think of anyone who wants to blow up the universe, but I can think of a good few people who are xenophobic to the point of dehumanizing even themselves through their hatred. An origin story isn’t always an excuse. Sometimes it’s nothing more than an explanation— a cautionary tale that says “this could be you, so watch yourself.”

The fact that this is a possible backstory for Ruby and her older siblings is very relevant to Twig’s character in particular. I haven’t talked about Twig’s aunt Rue or mother Rowan’s backstories very much, but Rue was very similar to Twig while growing up— and Twig resembles Rue as a child more than she does her own mother. In a piece I haven’t finished yet, there’s a flashback that reveals the lighter that featured so heavily in the abuse Twig suffered is printed with her grandfather’s initials. Ruby and Twig could talk for hours, I think, about the torrential emotions that come from knowing your tormentor was a victim as well.

[cuntstable]

rereading the asoiaf books and i cant believe i forgot how good catelyn is as a character. my queen……