#the turtle...it's out...on the loose...what will it do

[picavecalyx]

did silva accidentally leave her bag in the pokemon lab? yes, and inside of her bag the odd gem rustled, then from it a what looked like a kind of pokemon emerged. peaking it's head out and looking around very confused. the actual sound it made resembled a cry and crystals falling into a pool of water.

' teru? '

@heartsevolved // woe. turtle upon thee.

[chaseadrian]

alright, fine

Adrian's started looking at you like you hang the stars in the sky. It's cute, in a harmless, velcro puppy sort of way, but after a dinner with the gang, you just can't keep him off your heels. [KINKTOBER'25] // [GEN. MASTERLIST]

pairing: adrian chase x f!reader tags: 18+ MINORS DNI, multiple orgasms for reader, premature ejaculation, first time hookup, fighting, friends to lovers, kind of cliffhanger // 5/13 — OVERSTIMULATION word count: 3.8k+ a/n: this one was soooo much fun, inspired by an anon i'll post later! honestly overstim imo is closer to like 7+ orgasms but this was kind of just a teaser and i had a lot of fun writing this dynamic

The sound of Adrian’s footsteps behind you in the restaurant parking lot drums up a sharp irritation in your chest. The team tried to say goodbye an hour ago, but after lingering in conversation and the pleasure of each other’s company, you’d finally split off, yawning and shivering in the early autumn cold. Rushing to parked cars and hopping into Ubers, you waved everyone off and hopped onto the brick planter behind you.

You close your eyes, cycling slow breaths and edging toward sobriety with every intake of frigid air.

“Alright! Where to next?” Adrian steps into view, hands on his hips.

“What? Didn’t you just leave?” You stare up at him through furrowed brows.

He shakes his head, his eyes flicking upward as he thinks, “Mmmnope.”

“I was just out here alone.”

Adrian swivels his hips back towards the door, “I was in the bathroom.” He laughs as he speaks, “They do not have high standards here, I’m preemptively vetoing this place for next month’s dinner.”

You hum an acknowledgment, rolling your eyes at him.

“Hey where’d everyone go?” He looks around the parking lot.

“They all left? We thought you took off like twenty minutes ago, dude.”

He cackles, drawing his voice up, “What, like I just ran home or something? That’s crazy.”

“You’ve done it before.”

Adrian scoffs, “Well, yeah, but only if I don’t have money for Uber.”

You let the moment lie, trying to avoid eye contact. You can feel his eyes on you, and when you don’t take your place in the conversation, he continues, “Looks like it’s just you and me then!”

“I’m going home.” You hop off the ledge, brushing loose debris from the back of your jeans, “Goodnight, Adrian.”

To your dismay, he follows you through the parking lot.

“Sick, drinks at su casa.”

“More like bed at su casa.”

He cracks up behind you, “Uhh, su casa means ‘your house.”

“Yeah, we’re going to my house.”

“Man, you’re pretty but languages are not your thing.”

You feel him stop short behind you as you get to your car, thin electricity reaching out for you from the static of his clothes. Closing your eyes, you press two fingers to the bridge of your nose, speaking slow, “I’m going to bed at my house.”

His presence carries weight behind you, and you look at his warped face in the reflection of your window, a wide grin in his cheeks, “Okay, if you say so.”

It’s not that you don’t like Adrian, because you really, actually do. He stirs up feelings in you that you’ve only ever felt pulling over on the side of the road to help a turtle across, or when you stumble upon those videos of old people talking about their dead spouses. Vague panic, overwhelming pity—those big, sad eyes open wide every time he looks at you.

Everyone knows about his little crush, but it’s never bothered you. At some point or another, everyone in the group went through a period of dealing with Adrian’s exhaustive attention. It was just your turn now. You’d pay your dues and crest a new relationship with him once he’d gotten it all out of his system.

You contemplated the excitement on his face behind you. Sad turtle, lonely old person, guilt in your gut. Honestly, more exposure might speed up the process, so you were only mildly regretting the words as they came out of your mouth.

“Fine, get in.”

The drive is free from conversation, Adrian watching street lights go by, turning his head in tandem with you as you check your mirrors. You can’t hear him over the blaring radio—a measure you took to avoid tiring yourself out before you’d even made it home—but you catch the light bobbing of his Adam’s apple as you pass each street. Your gaze flicks between his mouth and the street signs; without entirely losing focus on the road, you can’t tell if he’s muttering them before or after you cross the intersections.

Pulling up to your apartment building, Adrian leans forward to peer up at it through the windshield, fingers splayed over the dashboard.

He follows at your heels through the hallways, surprising you with silence from the car to your door.

It’s unnerving, in all reality, to have him so quiet. You start wondering if you really were sober enough to be driving home, or, at least, if he would agree. He doesn't have any weapons, as far as you're aware.

The silence culminates in his lips against yours the second you shut the door and face him, a monotonous, “welcome” dying halfway through, swallowed by his mouth. It catches you entirely off guard, your noses bumping, his teeth clacking harsh onto yours. It’s by no means a good kiss, but the shock keeps you fumbling for a second before you can find his shoulders to push him away.

“What the fuck, dude?” You drop your keys hard into the bowl by the door and bring your hands up to scratch through your scalp, fussing with yourself to settle the fire in your nerves.

“What?” He knits his eyebrows together, mouth fallen open in a pout. His bottom lip glistens.

“Why did you do that?” You throw an arm out, gesturing at the door.

“Didn’t you want me to?” He cocks his head at you, pulling his lips between his teeth and working his jaw.

“What could possibly make you think that?”

His confusion melts into a goofy smile, “Duh, ‘going to bed.’ I’m not a moron I know going to bed is slang for sex.”

“I said I was going to bed! Singular, solo, just me.”

“Why’d you even let me come with you then if you were just gonna masturbate in the bedroom and leave me out here alone?”

You press three fingers into your forehead, massaging the skin, “Nobody is masturbating, or having sex. I was talking about sleep.”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I dunno, maybe because when have I ever propositioned you for sex?”

He rests his chin in his hand, thinking.

“Never, Adrian, the answer is never.”

“Well, I don’t know! I thought something changed.” Watching him force his features into anger, he gulps heavy, settling back into a deep pout. He crosses the apartment and sits down at the edge of your couch; you can see him fighting resignation, his eyes narrowing but avoiding yours for more than half a second.

Taking in a full breath, you exhale through your nose before speaking, leveling your voice, “I know you seem to really like me lately, but assumed you were just going through a phase, like with the rest of the group. You never tried to have sex with them.” You take a beat, recalling the dinner where everyone found out about the threesome with Chris, “Most of them. But like, never Ads! And you followed her around for months last year.”

He lets out a laugh, voice pitching up, “How would that even work? She’s a lesbian.”

“Okay, John then.”

“Too tall.”

“Harcourt.”

Another laugh, “Where do I begin?”

You stare up at the ceiling, focusing on an old water stain in the popcorn texture.

He’s mustered the security to stare at you again, but you’re not sure you can meet him there. The kiss was a shock, but on top of it you were struck by a bolt of true disgust that he would ever try something so brash with you of all people. The one thing you could count on from Adrian was no surprises, ever. There was a learning curve to him, to be sure, but on and off the field he was exactly where he was needed. Sometimes the things that came out of his mouth were unexpected, but to you, he was the most predictable of the bunch.

No part of you ever considered him a romantic or sexual prospect. How could you? It was Adrian. The man couldn’t get through a single conversation with a stranger without talking in circles and leaving them worse off than he found them. He whined over insignificant conversational hiccups, clung onto your every move, and was far too open about every ridiculous thought in his head. You could only imagine how confused, grating, and—let’s face it—pathetic the sex would be.

You could own up to being flattered by the attention, sure. You weren’t blind, in the world where he wasn’t entirely socially maladroit and fawning over every word you said he would be one of the hottest men you’ve ever known. But standing here, in this world, reckoning with the reality that your friend harbored deeper feelings than you ever thought him capable of churned up nausea in your stomach, made your brain prickle with morbid curiosity.

Medication would soothe the nausea, but only courage could sate that biting curiosity. You're certain you would regret it.

“Why me, then?”

“What?”

Crossing your arms, you force yourself to look at him, “You actually want to fuck me, yeah?”

He nods, eyes agape, wringing his hands in his lap.

“Why? What’s the distinction here? And don’t give me some bullshit answer like ‘perfect height’ or ‘not a lesbian.’ I want a real, clear reason.”

Adrian rolls his eyes at you, “Those are two perfectly valid reasons, but if you must know...” He trails off, swallowing, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know?”

“There’s not a lot of nuance in that statement,” He bites back, and for the first time in your life you can imagine hitting him.

“Okay, well I mean, I’m never gonna consider fucking you if you can’t even name one difference between your feelings for me and anyone else.”

“You said you never propositioned me for sex anyway.” The indignance in his voice kicks up something in you. Frustration, mostly.

“Right.” You cross the living room and point a finger at him, clipping his nose, “And now I never will.”

He bats your hand away, standing up to meet you, “Fine!” He gesticulates wildly as he rambles, “Fuck it. You want reasons respective or irrespective to you being a major hottie? Because I got both, a lot of em.”

You’re struck silent by his animation.

“Oh, I got it, I’ll go alphabetically, how’s that?”

You’ve never seen him so aggravated, and you lean back as he makes his way into your space, rattling off the list you requested.

“Always listens when I talk, amazing backup in the field, ass, birthday is close to mine so we can have a joint party, boobs, books all the group hangouts, breasts, capable of killing criminals without remorse...”

The anger in his voice dissipates as he works through the alphabet, and around the letter ‘N’ he starts to lose steam.

You catch his eye, standing in silence for several seconds before he stutters, voice small, “So, what? Do you want to fuck me now?”

And against all odds, you do.

You’re not sure if it’s the intrigue of whatever version of himself he just showed you for the first time, or the break neck return to being sad, pathetic, and desperate for your approval, but either way, you tilt up and kiss him, nodding against his mouth.

Adrian wraps an arm around your back, the other snaking underneath your ass to lift you into his arms.

The two of you are in your bedroom before you can comprehend the full breadth of the kiss, the pleasant pressure of his tongue in your mouth, lips slippery and firm as they wash over you.

He drops you onto the bed, ducking over your body, latching his mouth to your neck.

You anticipated a kiss like the one at the door, awkward and clumsy, at the very least tentative after such a roiling confrontation, but he kisses you with desperation and certainty.

He drags his tongue up the length of your pulse, sucking a hickey behind your ear, one hand slipping underneath the hem of your sweater to grab at your abdomen. Your skin depresses beneath his fingertips, soft flesh squishing so harsh you can feel muscles tensing over your rib cage. The sensation hitches your breath, and your hands fly to his face, forcing him back into a kiss.

Adrian groans into your mouth as you tug at his hair, driving his hips into you. He mutters inaudible obscenities into your throat before breaking to yank off his own clothing. He throws them into the corner of the room, but his attention snaps back when you scoot backward to settle on the bed.

“Where are you going?” His eyebrows kick with upset, frown on his lips.

“Nowhere, just...” You let your eyes drag down his body. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him clad in only underwear, but it feels like it. His skin is flushed, abdomen flexing with his heaving breaths. It takes everything in you to meet his eyes again, “Getting comfortable.”

“Oh, good.” He moves to kneel at the edge of the bed, eyes bright with a smile just covered by his biceps as they reach forward to work on the button of your jeans.

You lift your hips to let him yank them off, and he grabs the back of your calf, lifting your leg to kiss from your ankle upward.

With every succeeding kiss, he moves further inward, curving around your leg until he’s placing kisses on your inner thighs, nipping at the warm skin.

“I want to do this first, okay?”

You nod, and he comes up to meet your mouth, hands sliding over either side of your torso and pulling the sweater off with them.

“Thank you.” He whispers against your lips, falling into an involuntary rhythm of deeper kisses until he’s pulling back to laugh and shake his head, “Almost got me.”

He gives a you a chaste kiss, hovering over you and flicking his eyes down to your mouth, “Those are very distracting, you know.”

This Adrian catches you as off guard as the kiss at the door did, but the fluttering in your stomach is a far cry from the spike of disgust you’d felt before. You try to speak, to bounce off his amorous chatter, but your voice dries up and refuses to produce more than a squeak.

He smiles at you and re-situates himself between your legs, pressing his mouth against the fabric of your underwear, nose rustling the cotton against your clit as he prods at your folds with his tongue.

“Oh, my, fu—” Blindsided, you tug at his curls, the soaking underwear suctioning against you, his mouth working it against your clit. The pleasure between your legs is muffled, climbing through the anticipation of his bare tongue on you. You reach down to yank at the hem, pushing for more, but Adrian catches your wrist and places your hand over your belly, giving the back of it a gentle pat.

He feels for your breasts, sliding a hand underneath the wiring to run a thumb back and forth over the taut nipple, circling in tandem with his tongue. The fabric bunches in his mouth, and he closes his lips over it, sucking at your clit and tilting his head just back and forth. The barest movement shooting rockets up your gut until you’re cresting your first orgasm.

You tighten your grip on his hair, free hand flying up to your breast, interlacing your fingers with his. The top layer of your skin flocks with pleasure, goosebumps raising on your arms and legs, frozen in place as the climax cycles through your limbs and explodes in your core.

Tugging back from between your legs, he coasts a finger up the wet fabric as you shudder, peeling the underwear off and down your legs, into the pile with the rest of the clothes. He slips his two middle fingers between your folds, laughing as your hips hitch up into him, changing pace from slow to slower, each nick on your clit sending a little spasm through you. He watches even as you clamor for him, letting you scratch at his side, tug his wrist, anything to get him to kiss you.

When you’ve stopped reacting to the touch on your clit, he ducks back to your lips and sinks his fingers into you. You moan into his mouth a beat ahead of his own as he ruts his erection over your thigh.

His hand slides underneath your head, tilting you towards him as he lays at your side, fucking his fingers into you and letting himself fall into the rhythm he’d pulled away from earlier.

“Jesus, Adrian.” Your hand is pinned between your bodies, and you reach to flatten your palm over the curve of his abdomen, nails finding purchase in his muscle. You bring your other hand over to cradle his face, but he shrugs out of the touch, cringing.

“Here, grab my arm, you can feel how I’m fucking you.” He backs away, flicking his eyes toward his forearm, and diving back to kiss you as you obey. His voice is so soft, so soothing under such desired duress. You wonder how it’ll feel to sleep next to him, fucked out and accepting him in your bed, at least until morning.

You close your hand around his bicep, scratching your thumbnail over a small bump.

He slips his fingers from you and runs them between your folds, up to your clit to circle the tense nerves.

Arching your back into his touch, he runs down to sink back into you, thumb stretching to replace the lost sensation on your clit. He hitches his leg underneath your back, filling the space you made, his other leg coming over your thigh to hold you in place as you squirm through your second orgasm.

This climax centers in your gut, a pinprick fluttering outwards until you’re fighting to get away from the sensation, his vice grip keeping you stuck in the thumping pleasure of his fingers working you through.

Crying out into his mouth, you seek relief through kisses, hunger gnawing at you for another and another, all you can take until the orgasm has faded to a dull ache in your core.

You laugh in crazed disbelief, pressing your hair up off your forehead, beads of sweat at the hairline, “I thought you wanted to fuck me.”

Adrian wipes his hand off on his boxer briefs and centers his body over you, holding himself up with fists on either side of your head, cocking to the side, eyebrows knitting with mild confusion. There’s a smirk on his lips, “I am fucking you.”

Pushing him over onto his back, you straddle his lap and lean forward to push your noses together, “You know what I mean.” His erection twitches between your legs, and your eyelids flutter closed, the sensation on your clit feeling more like pain than pleasure for the first time.

He pinches around your hips, settling his grip at the base of your spine, “Mmm pretty sure finger fucking is still fucking.”

“You’re so pedantic,” You shove his face away from you, but he snaps back to look at you, ducking into your chest to kiss up your throat, hitching his hips up against you.

“Ah, fuck, careful.” You hover just over his erection.

He pulls back to look at you, concern writ in his features, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just...” You laugh, heat rising in your cheeks, “A little sensitive.”

"Shit, that’s awesome." Adrian grins at you, scooting down the bed and snaking his arms around your hips adjusting you over his face, "I can do more, though.”

Before you can protest, he’s pulling your cunt to his mouth, tongue slipping into your entrance. The feeling is less overwhelming than the pressure of his erection on your clit, but still you squirm against him, keeling over to grab at your headboard.

“Fuck, fuck.” You blurt expletives one over another, and Adrian’s grip tightens every time you try to relieve the tension between your legs.

The building stress stretches over minutes upon minutes, his tongue alternating between your clit and your entrance. He seems perfectly content where he is, though you push against a budding self-consciousness, on the verge of apologizing before he—

“What?” He mutters, letting you break from his face for the first time.

“Huh?” You exhale, looking down.

“Why’d you apologize?”

“Oh, just—” You swallow hard, “I’m taking a long time.”

He laughs, and the hot air hits the pulsing nerves of your cunt, “You came twice already.” His features fall and he narrows his eyes, “Wait, you did cum twice, right?”

You sit back onto his chest, running a hand through his hair, “Yeah.”

Pride flashes over his face, “Do you know what a refractory period is?”

“Yes, stupid, I know what that is.”

“You came twice in seven minutes, I wish I could do that—mine is twenty six.”

Whatever embarrassment swirled in your stomach before, he’s all but quelled it. He speaks to you in that soothing, low timbre, analytical and detached from pretension. You laugh, squeezing his cheeks, “Alright, point taken.”

Nodding, he pulls you back to his mouth, smiling, “Let’s figure out what yours is.”

You lurch forward as he runs his tongue against you like nothing stopped him in the first place, grip on you tighter as you drive your forehead into the smooth wood.

The heat in your cunt swells as before, nerves tired but kicking, and almost instantaneously you crash through your third orgasm. This climax twists through you, static shocks firing into your brain, and you freeze ram rod over Adrian’s face before the gentle push of his hand guides you backwards to lay arched over his abdomen.

He tilts his head up to work you through it, hands on your hips, humming against you, the minute vibrations sending you deeper over the edge until you’re forcing yourself away from him, whining moans spilling from your lips. It’s messy, this one, and you feel Adrian himself shaking underneath you.

“No no no, fuck.” He groans, bringing his knees up.

You roll over onto your stomach, finding your breath, and reach underneath the hem of his boxer briefs. His cock is slick with cum, and you turn to look at him, his cheeks flush, features frustrated.

“That’s flattering.” You laugh, resting your forehead against his stomach.

He reaches down to yank the underwear off, wiping himself up before he throws it onto the pile and forces you onto your back.

“We’ve got twenty six minutes for you, now.” He shrugs, sliding his softening member between your folds, the contact keeping him half-hard, little jolts making him shiver over you.

You shudder under the touch as his head nicks your clit, moans catching in your throat as that sharp pleasure rocks through your gut.

“Wanna start a timer?”

[kurekoii]

𝐺𝑎𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝑥 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

its all fulff dont worry

Zuko x Reader

The palace swells with dawn heat and quiet purpose. You wake to silk-soft light and the faint scratch of a pen. Zuko sits at the low table, hair loose, crown forgotten, posture alert in a robe gone skewed at one shoulder. Books form a disciplined semicircle around him: Fatherhood for Firelords; The Royal Birth Protocol; Gentle Breathing for Labor Partners; A Treatise on Infant Soothing Traditions. Thin ribbons mark pages; marginalia marches in a soldier’s hand.

He senses you and turns, the line of his mouth breaking into something tender. “My queen,” he murmurs, the words a habit, the tone a vow. He rises, pours tea you like exactly how you like it, and brings it with both hands as if it’s precious. You set a palm on the slope of your stomach; he tracks the motion with reverence and the nerves of a former soldier scanning the horizon for trouble.

“Read me one,” you say, easing to the window seat. Lotus leaves stipple the pond below, turtle-ducks drifting like amiable thoughts.

He obeys. “Bonding in the First Thousand Days,” he reads, then pauses, flushing. “It recommends… singing.” He coughs. “And skin-to-skin contact. And low, steady speech.”

“You do low and steady,” you tease, taking a cautious sip. “The singing can be a private audience.”

He kneels without ceremony and slides his warm palm beneath your robe to cradle your belly. He lowers his head until amber eyes meet silk. “Little ember,” he whispers, voice husky-soft. “Your mother is the bravest person I know. I don’t deserve her or you. I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to.” He presses a kiss just left of your navel. “I will fail. I will apologize. I will try again, better.”

You card fingers through his hair. “Tell them about pies.”

His mouth tilts. “I make pies now. I will keep making pies until I get them right. We will eat them on the veranda and pretend the council meeting I canceled wasn’t important.”

A contraction seizes you fast, clean, deep. Your breath snags. Your hand clamps around his wrist.

He stills. “Is it—” He inhales, resets, becomes calm. “Breathe with me,” he says, already counting, thumb tapping your pulse. “In. Two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four, five, six.”

“Doctors,” he calls over his shoulder, voice quiet but iron-lined. “To the lotus hall.” Footsteps ripple down corridors. “Ten paces,” he adds, and when the royal physicians arrive, he looks them in the eye. “Maintain distance. No crowding. We observe, we listen.” They nod and instantly adopt a ten-step orbit, solemn and faintly comedic in their precision. Zuko doesn’t smile.

The wave passes. Relief opens your ribcage. He doesn’t stand until your shoulders unlock. “Practice contraction,” the head physician says after palpating, voice careful. “No dilation.”

Zuko exhales and then changes the world by inches. He drafts an order “from the baby”: meetings halved, recesses extended, naps sovereign. He engineers a softer route through the garden—stairs rerouted, thresholds eased. He instructs the kitchen on your cravings and forbids chili oil in any room you enter. He thinks through the night: guard rotations quieter, lantern light dimmed to amber, a warmer blanket hidden under your usual one for when you pretend you’re not cold.

He feeds you with his fingers between scrolls: mango slices, steamed buns, mandarin segments soaked in jasmine syrup. He tastes the edge of your knuckles when you tease syrup over them. His eyes go fierce and tender at once when the baby kicks under his palm, like a warrior.

In bed he becomes a harbor. He tucks himself behind you, one arm under your head, the other banded over your belly, palm spreading low. He rubs small circles that quiet the pull at your back. He hums—not a battle chant, not the breath count of a kata—just a thread of melody he’d deny if asked. He tells stories of a boy who learned what not to be, and of a man who builds policy like shelter. He apologizes for the things he cannot prevent, promises to stand between you and the rest.

“Do you ever stop guarding?” you murmur into his forearm.

He thinks. “When you sleep,” he says. “And even then… less than I should.”

The baby kicks; he startles, then laughs under his breath, raw delight cracking the last shell. He lowers his mouth. “I see you,” he says to your belly. “I hear you.” He looks up at you, emotion clean and bright. “I’m here.”

He returns to the books, but he reads them differently now. Not like manuals against disaster. Like invitations to tenderness. He underlines sentences about patience, writes notes like slower here, listen more. He pins an old ribbon from his exile days between pages and leaves it there, a bridge between the boy sleeping in alleys and the man whispering into your skin.

By week’s end the ten-pace rule has become a palace ballet, your cravings a kitchen liturgy, Zuko’s hand on your belly the court’s quiet center. He doesn’t sing where anyone can hear it. He sings into your shoulder, into the place his breath warms your neck, into the world you’re making—a soft anthem no fire can scorch.

Aang x Reader

The meadow behind the rebuilt temple gleams with dew, wind rolling grass into silver rivers. Aang has already spread a blanket, corners aligned with the cardinal directions like a small blessing. Appa dozes nearby, tail a carved cloud. Momo is a crumble of fluff in the sun.

“Sweetheart,” Aang says, offering his hand as you step down from the bison’s saddle. His thumb rubs the back of your knuckles, an absent rhythm he’s done since the day he learned you liked it. He guides you to the blanket.

He has gathered fruit like pear, starfruit, dragonfruit, a handful of wild strawberries in a palm-sized bowl. A slim book on fatherhood lies facedown on the basket, spine gentle with use. He flops beside you and immediately rearranges himself to mirror your angle, to cradle your head with his bicep, to make room for your belly with his bent knee. He kisses you—light first, then sure. His tastes like pear

He talks about life because life spills out of him when he’s happy. He describes the last meditation with the young air acolytes, how one asked if babies remember clouds from before they’re born. He paints a plan for toddler gliders that never leave the ground, bright fabric fins catching just enough wind to teach balance. He tells you about the mural he wants to paint on the south wall—blue swirls for laughter, yellow lines for promises kept, green for forgiveness.

I’ve been thinking about naps,” he admits, as if confessing mischief. “Not mine. Ours. Them. The book says routine matters.” He flips the slim manual. “But routine is just rhythm you can trust. I can do rhythm.”

“You live rhythm,” you say, thumbing the edge of his arrow.

He feeds you strawberries, eyes serious about catching any runaway juice. When a drip escapes, he chases it with his thumb

The air answers his mood; breeze gentles, clouds thin, sun warms without glare. He doesn’t do it on purpose. He simply is, and the world often agrees.

The twins kick at the same time—two swift thuds. Your gasp slides into a laugh you can’t hold.

Aang’s hands hover, then land on your belly, then lift, then hover again as if afraid too much touch could snap something vital. “Okay, okay. You okay? Breath? Any back pull? Do you want shade? Water? Snack?” He glances at Appa. “Extraction?”

“They’re saying hello,” you manage, taking his wrists and pressing his palms where tiny heels drum. His eyes go glossy. He lowers until his cheek rests on your stomach.

“Hello,” he says, voice a bell at dusk. “I love you already. Your mom is the bravest person I’ve ever met. I’ll teach you sky etiquette and ground stubbornness. We’ll practice falling and landing and laughing about both.” He kisses left, then right. “You go nowhere near real gliders until you can recite the wind from memory,” he adds, then shoots you a grin, sheepish. “And then… maybe very small ones.”

You raise a brow. “Monk-approved?”

“Monk-tolerated,” he whispers, scandalized by himself, and the babies kick again like a secret handshake. He cackles silently, presses his forehead to your belly, and breathes until the air hums. The grass around you leans in, a green audience sighing in contentment.

He reads from the book in the lull, his voice a soft hill. “It says sleep when the baby sleeps,” he muses, stroking your hairline with the back of a finger. “But you aren’t a baby. You’re… you. We’ll make our own rules and break the ones that don’t fit. We’ll nap when the wind does.”

You drift. He continues not for himself but for you, annotating aloud. “It says prepare for less time with friends. That seems wrong. We’ll make new shapes for friendship. Picnics instead of journeys. Stories instead of battles. We’ll make the temple ring with visitors and tea.”

A cloud slides. You wake to soft rain. Aang has already twitched the blanket’s edge into a fly for shelter. You lie nose to nose under it, breath mingling

He kisses the tip of your nose. “I forgot to tell you,” he whispers, eyes bright in the dim. “Appa hummed in his sleep last night, and I think it harmonized with the wind through the bell tower. It sounded like—” He stops, listening. “Like now.”

The twins roll and settle. He rubs your calf idly, kneading away the ache behind your knee with the exact pressure you like because he notices and files everything under care. The rain fades to memory. He sits up, balances a pear on his forehead, and solemnly asks the babies for notes on his routine. You laugh so hard you curl, and he flutters his hands because laughter plus late pregnancy equals breath management equals his new holy calling.

He has always carried the world like a light thing he could swallow if it begged. Here, with your hand in his, with Appa a warm hill behind, with the twins drumming private percussion, he chooses a smaller, deeper burden.

“We’ll be okay,” he says, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist.

“We will,” you answer, sure because he is and you are and together you make the kind of certainty that doesn’t shout. You fall asleep to his heartbeat and wake to star-pricked sky, his shoulder your pillow,

Sokka x Reader

He kicks the door with his heel because his hands are full of plans. “Angel!” Sokka crows, skidding into the bedchamber with scrolls, a whiteboard, and two bowls that steam like promises. “I have returned from the front lines of Knowledge and Snacks.”

He unloads: The Practical Partner’s Guide; A Water Tribe Midwife’s Almanac, edges worn and loved; Pregnancy by the Numbers; Heartburn and You; a pocket notebook stuffed with tabs labeled Weird But True. He fans them like a deck. “We’re going to get so prepared the concept of Surprise writes an apology letter.”

He builds a command center. Hydration station left: water with a straw, ginger tea, mint tea, coconut water. Snack quadrant right: cut fruit aligned in perfect cubes, salted nuts, dried seaweed, crackers, pickles. Pillow fort at your back: optimal angle tested and retested, annotated. Whiteboard at the foot of the bed: Operation Stork Boomerang. Sub-ops march beneath: Snack Recon; Nap Watch; Heartburn Deterrence; Pillow Fortification; Foot Rub Initiative; Weird but True Pregnancy Facts (peer reviewed by Suki, Katara, and One Alarmed Herbalist Who Is Fine Now).

He taps the board with a flourish. “Item one: feet can go up a shoe size. Counter-op: new boots.” He produces a wrapped parcel. You narrow your eyes. “I measured while you slept,” he admits, unrepentant. “Extremely romantic, very sneaky, flawless execution.”

You lob a pillow. He catches it, bows, deposits it behind you. “Boundaries acknowledged, gracefully violated, lessons learned.”

He spears exactly three fruit cubes on a skewer and holds them up like an offering. “Open.” You do. He feeds you with theatrical care. He reads from the notebook between bites. “Weird but True: relaxin loosens joints—ha! I finally said it right—so we lower shelves and ban ladders. Weird but True: you might get a linea nigra, which is a line on your belly. I choose to view it as a tactical stripe. Weird but True: dreams get wild. If I appear as a sentient cactus, that is a reference to an incident sealed by treaty.”

“You signed that treaty,” you remind him.

“And I doodled a moustache on the cactus,” he confesses, contrite in theory, delighted in practice. He offers soup; you inhale aroma—ginger, scallion, something ocean-clean from home. “Anti-nausea broth. Patent pending.”

A contraction grips like a fist. Your breath hitches, hand flying to his wrist. The comedy drops from him without drama. He becomes presence: breath calm, eyes steady, voice low.

“Okay,” he says, sliding one hand to your low back, the other to your shoulder. “Four in, six out. We’ve got this. In—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four, five, six.” He breathes with you. He doesn’t narrate or problem-solve or turn it into a tactical lecture. He anchors. He waits. He counts time in a notebook without looking away from your face.

He stays exactly where you leaned on him until you shift, then he moves only to tuck a towel at your neck and slide water to your lips.

Suki appears, scans, nods approval. She tosses Sokka a bundle. He drops everything to catch it: a baby sling in deep blue, reinforced stitching, clever loops.

“For later,” he says, trying and failing to contain pride. He straps it on. “Demo?”

He kneels. His thumbs find the ache along your arches with unerring accuracy. He presses, circles, releases, reading micro-frowns like maps, adjusting pressure like tide. He kisses the inside of your ankle with an absentminded tenderness that detonates your heart. He leans and speaks to your belly, voice gone low tide, full moon.

“Hey, kid. I don’t bend. I make plans. I make soup. I make bridges when people say there’s no way across.” He swallows. “If you’re scared, I’ll sit with scared until it gets bored and leaves. Your mom? She’s braver than anyone I’ve met. My job is to make her laugh, keep her fed, and hold the line when she needs to put her sword down. You’ll learn two things from me: how to fix it, and how to admit you can’t, then love anyway.”

He feeds you broth, blowing each spoonful cool because of course he does. He has acquired the exact angle that lets you sip without heartburn, and he guards that angle like a trade secret. He adjusts the pillow by a hair’s breadth and then again, calibrating comfort like an engineer of clouds. He times practice contractions without announcing numbers you don’t want. He jokes when you want jokes, goes quiet when silence speaks truer, listens as if the sound of your breath is a map north depends on.

At dusk, he reads aloud from The Practical Partner’s Guide and annotates margins with SOKKA NOTES: ask Katara about swelling; ask Zuko if palace stairs can be ramped; draft snack schedule; practice humility; practice breathing; practice saying “I was wrong.” He draws a baby that looks like a potato. You wheeze. Tears come from nowhere because hormones have turned your body into weather. He does not flinch. He catches a tear with his thumb and kisses it off.

You doze to the scratch of his pen and his whisper: “Pack bag, pack snacks, pack decorative boomerang, remember to be here.” He underlines be here three times and then stops, looks at you, and writes it on the whiteboard under every other operation.

Later, you wake to the scent of cedar and the quiet of a room that’s learned how to care for you. Sokka has fallen asleep half-sitting, head lolling, pencil still in his hand, sling strapped on like muscle memory practicing future. You take the pencil, slide it away. He startles, then relaxes, eyes finding you first, scanning for distress, then softening into that lopsided grin that put a dent in destiny once and keeps doing it in the small ways now.

“Hey, Angel,” he whispers, as if you’re the secret to a good map he can’t quite explain. “We’re doing it.”

You are. He is. He will. He kisses your hairline, resets the pillow a quarter inch, and resumes standing guard over the gentlest battlefield he’s ever loved. He’s never been more dangerous to trouble, never more ridiculous, never more himself.

[sooph-ee]

Ok guys, I need you to hear me out for a moment while I present to you my own au "teenage MAGICAL ninja turtles" 😏😏

Basically this started as a joke that evolved the more I talked with my friends about it, like at first it was just a "wouldn't it be funny drawing Raph as a magical girl?" And while I was doing that I was watching the first season of 2012, and when finished I was like "if only 2012 was a little more mystical/spiritual inclined like 2003 that would be great" and then I realized that I can do that, with magical girls, just because I can and I think it would be funny

And that's how I ended up with this sort of au, my general idea is that the boys keep being ninjas, but with the plus of also being magical girls at the same time, because I don't want to replace one thing with the other, so the au would loosely follow the canon series but tweak a bit in some parts to balance this new addition

In general I have some lore already planned, but not much apart from that, just some general ideas that I want to maintain, like for example:

1- the boys grew up knowing that they are magical girls, they trained for it alongside their ninja training, just not so much and not as serious so they just know the basics, and they were only able to fully transform by themselves on their 15 birthday

2- splinter and saki were magical girls in their youth, that's how splinter is able to teach the turtles about it, just that in the present they're unable to transform again (because of reasons...)

3- Yk how it's basically established by everyone that Leo is the most talented/focused/centered in their ninja training and Mikey is said to be the one with the most potential? Well in their magical training Raph is the most talented/focused/centered, and Donnie is the one with the most potential

Just to finish I want to say that this is all made because it's fun and I'm having the time of my life with this "au" so if things doesn't really make sense don't pay much attention to that lmao

Doing the designs for the turtles was so damn fun, I loved it, but at the same time it was giving me such a headache, especially Raph lmao, he gave me the most problems

I think it was because he was the first that I drew and I had literally no idea of what I was doing other than "do random shit until I like it" lmao, Donnie also gave me a little of a problem but only on his color pallete, other than that it was fairly easy, Leo and Mikey practically designed themselves lmao

I also want to design their magical weapons, so far the only one I have done is Raph's, but I have an idea of what to do with the others

I'll try to finish it as soon as I can because I also want to put them in my artfight profile, because I saw that some people put their own designs of the turtles there and I want to do that

Having said that, if ur interested in artfight like I am (go team mystery!!!!!!!) I'll leave here my ID card for you guys to check it out

[prettytheyswag]

double fantasy

summary: confident city girl catches everyone’s attention including the hottest guy’s from each side of the island. What starts as a random invite to a party quickly turns into a tug-of-war for your attention. It’s clear that this ‘trio’ is about to get real messy.

warnings: MDNI 18+ , JJ Maybank x newgirl!reader x Rafe Cameron, smut , oral sex (both f and m receiving) , cum tasting (???) , p in v , teasing , unprotected sex (stay safe!!) , slight spanking.

a/n: hey!! In the middle of writing casual 2 and a new chapter of come back I’m cooking, I came up w this. Let me know your thoughts , would you want a part 2?? Likes make me giggly and Re-blogs earn you a kiss on the mouth.

words: 6.3k+

You stood behind the counter, your hands folding a pair of blue board shorts on autopilot while a loose strand of hair kept falling into your face. You tucked it behind your ear for the third time and blinked, already feeling the familiar ache of exhaustion creeping in. Three hours into your shift and this was only the morning half of your double shift day. The thought of the island club waiting for you tonight didn’t help , at all.

The shop around you buzzed quietly. Teenagers were clustered near the racks, their laughter bubbling up as they debated the best waves to catch today, while others were trash talking the tourists. Or better yet, “tourons,” as the locals liked to call them.

The bell above the door jingled, and….

JJ. of course.

He was one of the best surfers in the OBX , at least in the Cut , and even that felt like an understatement when you saw him out on the water, carving through waves like he was born for it.

He showed up every other day, sometimes just to hang out on the porch and talk trash with the locals, sometimes to swap boards and cause trouble , sometimes just because there was nowhere else he needed to be.

You don’t even flinch when his half-empty water bottle landed on the counter with a dramatic thunk.

“You’re getting tan, city girl” he points out ,

“Your tan’s the goal. You’re basically a walking SPF ad.” you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch as well.

“You want something?” you ask, pretending to go back to organizing the surf shorts.

He shrugs. “Thought I’d come annoy you for a minute. Maybe convince you to take a break and come watch the waves with me. Grab some ice cream , maybe”

You give him a look. The kind that said don’t play. “Yeah, well, I still have another six hours here , and then I’m heading straight to the Island Club for another six hour shift.”

He scoffs, sassy , “The island club, seriously?”

“What? Too classy for you?” You smile , nodding at his direction.

He makes a face like he just tasted something sour. “It’s not classy, it’s just full of-” He pauses, twirling his finger in the air like the word would appear. “Full of preppy guys with polos , button-downs and guys like Topper who’ve taken more L’s than their boat’s take gas”

You snort nodding “You’re not wrong on that.”

“So let me get this straight. You're gonna spend all day in here folding board shorts and selling board wax , then go spend all night pouring overpriced drinks for Kooks who’d run over a sea turtle just for the fun of it?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the p. “And then I’m gonna do it all again tomorrow, and the day after that”

He let out a low whistle , clearly sarcastic “Living the dream , city girl.”

You mock-bow. “Thank you for your support, Sherlock”

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out as he stretches his arms over his head, “don’t work too hard. Would be a shame if you showed up to the party this weekend looking like you got hit by a truck full of surf wax and spilled mojitos.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you just subtly ask if I’m going?”

“What? No. I was just… making an observation. A very general, completely hypothetical observation.” He chuckles , scratching the crook of his neck.

“Right,” you stretch out the word holding back a giggle “okay , then. I’ll take it easy.”

JJ smiles, biting the inside of his cheek, but his eyes flickered toward the door, like he didn’t actually want to leave just yet. “So… you coming?”

You shrug,“If I survive the next few shifts without collapsing. And if I feel like dealing with drunk Kooks and backyard beer pong, then maybe”

“There’ll be fireworks,” he says. “And maybe , i’ll make sure I steal a keg stand with your name on it.”

You laugh, for real this time, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re trying to act unbothered. “Oh, a keg stand with my name on it? Trying to impress me?”

“Is it working?” He asks , smiling like a little kid , readjusting his backwards cup a few times.

It is working. And that’s the problem.

You tilt your head, putting your armor back on. “Maybe. But don’t think a stolen keg stand’s gonna win me over that easy.”

The bell jingles again as the door swings open, and JJ gives you one last look , lifting two fingers before stepping out into the sunshine.

You watch him go, a soft smile lingering on your lips as you shake your head.

Fuck.

Were you blushing?

Nope.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky a soft pink as you finished up with your shift at the surf shop. Now, it was time to switch gears. Time to trade sandy boards and wax for the crisp work polo and mini skirt of the Island Club.

Sliding behind the gleaming bar, you took a steadying breath. This was your grind now, the night shift that paid better but came with a different kind of challenge. The surf shop had JJ , but the Island club had Rafe.

Rafe Cameron.

Speaking of the devil , for everyone else at least …

He sat on your section , like always. You had the power to soften him up , just a bit , just enough for him to not want to bite your head off.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice lower than usual, like he was measuring how tired you really were. No smirk, just the ghost of one. “Long shift?”

You nod, tucking your notepad into your apron. “Double. Again.”

“Same drink?” you ask, already reaching for the top shelf.

“Yeah, whiskey” he replies, then hesitating he asks “You eat yet?”

That made you pause. These days it seems he’s on the top of your list of people who care enough to ask something about you. Which was strange.

“Uh..no, no time. Came here straight from the surf shop”

He doesn’t say anything, just gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, a silent ‘noted’ before his gaze drifts away for a moment, disapproving but unspoken.

You slide the whiskey glass to him and he mumbles a ‘thank you’ taking a sip , swirling the golden liquid on his tongue.

The bar buzzed around you as you kept moving between orders and customers , glasses clinking, soft laughter, music humming in the background, you couldn’t help sneaking glances his way every now and then. He watched you, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable, more like someone silently rooting for you to make it through the night without collapsing on the floor.

Once, he caught you staring, a real smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, gentle and unexpected. He shook his head like he was amused by his own soft side.

The rest of the night passed in a blur , orders, tired steps, and phony smiles that made your cheeks hurt. Somewhere along the way, Rafe disappeared, probably slipping out without a word. You found yourself watching the door for a moment longer than usual, disappointment bubbling quietly in your gut.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, stepping out into the humid Carolina night air, finally free from the polished quiet of the club and already daydreaming of the soft bed waiting for you at home. You were halfway to your bike when you heard him behind you, calling your name , a teasing ‘miss’ on the front of it.

“Rafe?” you turn clawing nervously at the strap of your bag, “thought you left”

“Without saying goodnight?” He shakes his head “I would never”

He hesitates, then pulls a brown paper bag from the backseat of his car , closing the door behind him. “Got you something. Couldn’t leave you starving.”

You blink , once again , caught off guard “You got me food?”

He shrugs, easy. “Yeah. Figured you’d want to eat before you crash. Burgers okay?”

He nods at the steps outside the country club and starts walking there , bag in hand , assuming you’ll follow , and you do.

You both settle on the cool concrete steps. He pulls out the burgers, handing you one along with a small paper carton of fries, carefully setting the bag down so the food wouldn’t touch the pavement.

Rafe takes a big bite of his burger , tossing a fry on his mouth , “You’ll come to the party this weekend , right?”

You wipe some ketchup from the corner of your mouth and shrug “What’s the deal with this party ? You’re the second person asking me today”

That makes his eyebrows lift, fry still mid-air. “You saying I’ve got competition?”

You grin around a bite “Depends. You planning on stepping up your game?”

He lets out a laugh, sitting back on his hands, swallowing his bite and titling his head “I brought you dinner, didn’t I? That’s gotta count for something, right?”

You tilt your head, tapping your chin and pretending to think it over “Hmm. You can’t just win me over with a burger”

“So I do gotta step up my game , huh?” He hums , taking another fry.

“You might” you chuckled.

The bonfire was already raging by the time you got there.

Which made complete sense. Around here, this monthly party had earned its own nickname , the three-way burrito , because it was the only place you’d ever find Kooks, Pogues, and Tourons all in one spot without someone throwing a punch, or someone’s head flying off their shoulders.

Well… most of the time.

You’re not even sure who actually convinced you to show up tonight.

Was it the stolen keg stand with your name on it?The late-night burgers on the country club steps?

No idea. Probably both. Probably neither.

You’d spent all day elbow-deep in surf wax and then six more hours serving rich old men. You had no business being out here. But here you were, shoes already full of sand, stepping straight into the chaos. Already half-regretting trading your warm , soft bed for this.

You were still trying to decide if the noise, the heat from the bonfire, and the smell of smoke mixed with salty ocean air were worth it, when the familiar voice cut your attention.

“I was hoping my keg stand would lure you to come” JJ says, grinning like he’d won some private bet.

“I don’t see a personalized keg stand though” you look around , and smirk when your gaze meets his again.

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish but cheeky. “Didn’t want to go to jail and miss you.”

You sigh, playing the drama queen. “I’ll let it slide , this time. But don’t let it happen again.” You point a finger at him, half warning, half teasing.

You were still laughing at JJ’s pouty face when you felt it , that shift. Like someone turned the volume down on everything but your pulse.

It didn’t take long to spot him.

Rafe.

Of course.

Cause this was your life now.

JJ straightens up slightly beside you, jaw ticking just once.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” Rafe finally says.

“Me neither , honestly , but I couldn’t resist” you say , making sure both of them feel included.

“Good thing I brought backup,” JJ adds, gesturing vaguely toward the keg like it was some grand romantic gesture. “She’s got a VIP spot.”

Rafe’s gaze doesn’t waver “Yeah? Funny. I thought she already had one.” He says pointing vaguely at himself.

“You two fighting over VIP privileges now?” You scoff , playfully rolling your eyes.

JJ grins. “What can I say? I know a star when I see one.”

Rafe’s eyes never leave yours, “So do I.” He says like a child fighting for your attention.

You snort, biting back a smile. “Alright. If you keep this up , I might start charging appearance fees.”

JJ dramatically claws at his heart. “Worth every penny.”

Rafe, still calm and collected, takes a slow sip from his cup. “I’d pay in cash.”

The party has thinned out, the fire burning low now. You were seconds away from leaving without saying goodbye to anyone. You’d made your appearance, you’d survived the chaos, and now you wanted your soft sheeted cloud bed more than you wanted air.

You were just brushing sand off your legs when JJ appears again, drink in hand and his hair messier than before.

“Heading out?” he asks, tilting his head like a golden retriever.

You nod. “Yeah. Before I fall asleep standing up.”

JJ grins. “Cool. I’ll walk you, yeah?”

You open your mouth to respond but..

Once again.

Rafe.

He waves a hand , dismissively “I’ll walk her”

JJ scoffs half-joking. “Oh, we’re doing this now? That’s not your call”

“Everything about her is my call” Rafe narrows his eyes.

Your hands go up like you were breaking up a fight in gym class. “Yeah, no. This is not a custody battle. I’m just trying to go home.”

JJ throws his hands up. “I’m just saying I offered first-”

“And I’m just saying she doesn’t need you hovering over her like a golden retriever.” Rafe shoots back

You pinch the bridge of your nose sighing “How about you both walk me , or maybe neither?”

Silence. One heartbeat. Then two.

JJ blinks. “I mean…yeah?”

Rafe looks at you, then at JJ, then back at you again , then grumbled “Fine.”

You give them both a look, unimpressed but secretly amused. “Cool. Great. Let’s go, bodyguards.”

The three of you fall into step, the party noise fading behind. Sand shifts beneath your feet, cool now in the late night air.

JJ was chatting, trying to keep the mood light, but you could tell he was watching you closely, like you were the most important thing in the world.

Rafe walked quietly, his eyes locked on the path ahead but occasionally darting to you, like he was guarding some secret he didn’t want you to see.

“So,” JJ said, breaking the silence, “how’s the double shift treating you? Ready to sign up for another round?” His grin was teasing, but you caught a flicker of genuine concern.

You snort. “Are you kidding? I’m counting down the minutes till I’m horizontal.”

Rafe’s voice cut in, calm but with an edge you couldn’t ignore. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re not invincible.”

“You’re underestimating me” you tease “Maybe I just like having you both worrying,” you add, voice low, almost daring.

JJ grins like he’s won a secret prize. “Told you. VIP treatment all the way.”

You reach your door, keys clinking softly as you dig through your bag. The silence behind you stretches just long enough to feel awkward , and kind of funny.

You glance over your shoulder.

“Well. Since you both insisted on walking me all the way home... might as well come in for a bit.”

They blink. Like you’d just spoken in another language.

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, wha-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe mutters, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

JJ stares at him for a beat, then just grins, shaking his head. “Fine. Cool. No commentary.”

You unlock the door and step inside like it’s no big deal , even though your pulse is tapping annoyingly at your neck and you can practically feel them both thinking way too loudly.

You glance over your shoulder again.

“You gonna come in, or what?”

They follow you in , JJ first, bouncing in like he’s been here a hundred times, even though he definitely hasn’t. His shoes squeak a little against the hardwood. Rafe lingers by the door a second longer. His shirt clung to the curve of his biceps, damp from the heat and salt air . His hand brushing the frame before he finally steps inside, eyes scanning the place like he’s trying to memorize it.

You hang your keys on the brass hook next to your door and take off your shoes. “Don’t touch anything sacred,” you say, half-joking, half-not.

JJ’s already eyeing the vintage record player in the corner. “So this is your cave of mystery, huh?”

You snort, dropping your bag by the couch. The cushions let out a soft sigh as the bag sinks in. A blanket is still draped over one armrest, rumpled from last night.

“Cave of exhaustion,” you correct. “Where I collapse and pretend tomorrow doesn’t exist.”

Rafe leans back against the wall. His arms are crossed, but his fingers twitch restlessly at the edge of his short sleeve. His blue eyes following every move you made, like he was committing each one to memory, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

You raise an eyebrow. “You good?”

He nods once, slowly. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

“Neither did I,” you admit, and for a second, that hangs between you three, honest and weirdly intimate.

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of the way his quiet steadiness pulled at something inside you , like gravity you couldn’t fight. Where JJ was light and easy, Rafe was a steady rhythm you could lean on.

You grab three sodas from the fridge, press the cold tints to your arm to cool yourself down before tossing them one by one. JJ catches his like it’s a game. Rafe barely glances up and still snags his mid-air.

“And a good host” JJ noted chuckling.

You go to catch your last tint, but it slips from your fingers. Time slows for a beat before Rafe’s hand is there, steady and sure, catching it before it hits the floor. Your fingers brush , just for a second , light enough you almost think you imagined it. Still, it makes your pulse jump.

“Got you” he says.

You set your soda down on the coffee table, the clink echoing softly in the quiet room. Both of them follow suit, the three of you now clustered in the small living room. You settle next to JJ on the couch, shooting a glance his way before patting the empty space next to you.

“Come on,” you say, voice casual but with a hint of challenge.

Rafe eyes the spot, then you, and finally slides in next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. JJ shifts just a little, grinning like he’s betting the night’s just getting started.

They both look at you, eyes wide and curious, like they’re waiting for you to drop the secret you haven’t shared yet. You watch them, shifting your gaze between JJ’s confident grin and Rafe’s steady, unreadable expression.

Rafe’s eyes flicker back to you, a flicker of nervous excitement dancing just beneath his calm exterior. For a second, he looks almost caught off guard , like he’s wondering if this is really happening.

You lean in slowly, the air between you charged and electric. His breath catches when your lips meet his, sweet and sure, like you’ve been holding back just as much as he has.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your pulse hammering loud in your ears. Without missing a beat, you turn toward JJ.

He catches the shift instantly, his confident grin widening as you lean in and press your lips to his , sweet and sure all over again.

JJ’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then he’s all in, the spark between you crackling as his hand finds the small of your back, pulling you a little closer.

Rafe clears his throat, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a reluctant smile.

You bite your lip and then without missing a beat , JJ is kissing your shoulder while on the other side Rafe kisses your neck. JJ’s lips are warm and light, a featherlike touch that makes you catch your breath. Your breath catches, uneven and shallow. On the other side, Rafe’s gentle kisses trail along your neck, steady and quiet, like he’s trying to memorize the moment

You lean into the feeling, eyes practically rolling back , savoring the closeness. Your fingers drift to Rafe’s arm, warm fingertips resting there softly, while your other hand tangles JJ’s hair tensing around it and cradling his head close to your skin.

“You’re so beautiful” one of them murmurs. You don’t know which , and somehow, that makes it better. Hotter.

You don’t even answer , not with words. Instead, you let your fingers trail up Rafe’s arm, slow and deliberate, until your hand rests over his chest. You can feel his heartbeat there, quick beneath your palm. It’s a quiet giveaway. He’s always so composed, but not right now. Not with you this close.

JJ’s breath grazes your collarbone, a soft exhale that sends a shiver right through you.

His hand brushes your thigh, grounding, like he’s making sure you’re still here with him too.

You shift slightly, just enough to slide your top off, letting it fall beside the couch in a soft rustle of fabric. The air brushes against your bare shoulders, cooler than expected, goose bumps rising up your skin.

“Holy shit” JJ pants , voice low and ragged, thick with disbelief and something desperate.

You glance over at him through your lashes. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks slightly flushed, chest rising and falling a little faster than before. His fingers twitch against his pants, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know if he’s allowed yet. Like he doesn’t want to ruin it.

Rafe’s gaze is hotter, quieter. He hasn’t moved , hasn’t even blinked. But his eyes are locked on you. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip, slow, almost absentminded. His breathing is shallower now too.

Controlled.

Barely.

You tilt your head slightly, meeting each of their eyes in turn , holding Rafe’s just a second longer, then flicking back to JJ, whose breath visibly catches.

The air between you all is thick now , not just with tension, but with need and expectation.

Then, still wordless, you stand.

They both track your every move, heads tilted upward in awe. You pause, just long enough to let their imaginations go wild, then look over your shoulder with the kind of smile that says I know exactly what I’m doing.

JJ blinks. “Wait—”

Rafe doesn’t wait . He bolts up from his seat and follows you.

You don’t wait for them. You turn and walk down the short hallway, bare shoulders glowing in the dim light.

Behind you, you hear the shuffle of movement, the quiet curse from JJ under his breath, and Rafe telling him to ‘shut his mouth’.

You push open the bedroom door with your fingertips and slip inside.The air is cooler here, shadows stretching long across the floor from the hallway light. But it’s the scent that catches you first , warm, dreamy, and lingering , rose and gardenia, your favorite Maria Novella perfume still hanging heavy on the sheets, even hours after you sprayed it on yourself.

Rafe freezes just inside the doorway, like he’s stepped into a dream again, his breath shallow, eyes drinking in the space and you.

Slowly, he leans in, lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your pulse quicken. His kiss deepens, slow and unhurried, the warmth of him grounding and electrifying all at once, when you feel a warm breath against the skin of your shoulder.

JJ’s mouth follows, pressing soft, fleeting kisses along the tender skin, light enough to send a shiver down your spine, his hands gently palming your breasts. His breath catching and your nipples hardening to the point of pain , straining against the lace of your bra, both from the fire of his palms and the breeze coming from the ceiling fan.

Your body shifts slightly between them, caught in the delicious pull of both their attention. The room hums with quiet energy, charged and full of unspoken promises.

Rafe pulls back, breath coming in slow, measured bursts, his eyes locking with yours. For a moment, he holds your gaze, as if silently asking for permission. The air between you feels charged, heavy with anticipation and aching need.

You nod, the movement small but enough to give him the green light. His hands move deliberately to the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly. As he pulls the fabric over his head, you can’t help but watch the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, the smoothness of his chest catching the light in the room.

Behind you, you feel JJ’s presence even closer now, his chest lightly brushing against your back. His lips find your neck, hot against your skin, sending a ripple of heat pooling in your lower abdomen. The room is filled with a quiet, electric tension. The soft sound of your breaths, the barely-there movements of hands, it all creates a rhythm, a dance of need and quiet longing.

JJ watches Rafe for a beat, then huffs a soft laugh under his breath , like he’s not about to be outdone. He peels his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion, dropping it carelessly beside the bed.

You reach down slowly, fingers finding the zipper at your hip. You don’t rush. You don’t need to , not with their eyes on you like that.

The skirt slides down with a whisper of fabric against skin, pooling at your feet. You step out of it, deliberate, almost teasing, the cool air brushing your now-bare legs and raising goosebumps along your skin.

Neither of them says anything , they don’t have to. It’s written all over their flushed faces.

You walk backwards , until the back of your knees hit the bed. You lay down and their eyes follow your hands as you slowly peel the black lace down your knees. Rafe steps closer , unable to resist he ran his hand up your thigh , raising goosebumps on the skin. You moan softly at his warm fingertips , and he grasps the lace panties lying on your knees jerking it completely off and putting them on his pocket. He looks at you in a way that makes you want to melt , right here and there , next to the pile of clothes on the floor.

The mattress sank , slightly, as JJ crawls next to you , his tongue and teeth dragging along your collarbone and up your neck , breath warm and tickling as he panted , “That okay?” Toying with the strap of your bra.

“Yes” you breathe , more like a gasp as you feel Rafe’s mouth on your legs , kissing behind your knee before draping your leg over his shoulder , his hot lips now trailing up your thigh , the ache between your legs almost unbearable , you have to try and squeeze your legs together.

“Uh uh” he disapproves , breathy , teasing , nudging your legs apart and settling his head between them.

You were about to beg , beg for him to do something , anything to relieve the tension that’s building on your body. But JJ’s mouth on yours shut you up , his touch was electric , the sensation combined with Rafe’s was almost too much. But at the same time , not enough.

Rafe’s hands grip your hips , like they are his lifeline. Kneading the flesh filling his palms. “You’re so soft” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach , trailing hot open-mouthed kisses , throwing a nip here and there , as if trying to taste you fully.

“Rafe” you gasp as he hums , the sound making your already sensitive pussy vibrate , and he groans in response unable to stop himself. He kisses on the mound gently , running a finger up your lips. You moan again , and wanting to make sure JJ feels included you tug at his hair , pulling him in another heated kiss , letting him swallow your moans with his tongue.

You shiver as JJ slides your bra completely off , letting your breasts spill free. Hot and hungry his mouth latches onto a nipple sucking so hard , strings of drool appear. Hands flying on both of the guys heads. One on Rafe’s head , who’s face was buried in between you hips , taking care of the aching need deep inside you , and the other running through JJ’s blonde messy hair , tugging him closer to your breasts. Each demanding attention.

Rafe’s warm fingertips teased your swollen clit , rubbing slow and gentle circles while his tongue was licking flat and slow stripes in between your pussy lips. Moaning like he was the one receiving all the pleasure.

“Oh fuck” your hips stutter against his mouth , back arching off the bed and into JJ’s hot skin. Rafe lifts his head , chin glistering with both his saliva and your juices.

He doesn’t mind.

Not at all.

He savors it.

Panting and slightly trembling, you change positions, making them both lay next to each other , heads resting against the headboard of the bed. Your fingers find their way to both their waistbands , tugging at the fabric , they get the cue , quickly lifting their hips and removing their pants and boxers all at once .

Cause no man could ever deny you anything , least of all JJ and Rafe.

Their cocks swinging free. Both hard and throbbing with want. You engulf Rafe’s in your mouth and down your throat, tasting the saltiness on his pre-cum on your tongue , expertly rolling the foreskin back , while your hand reaches to stroke JJ’s cock , exploring it with you slender fingers and teasing the slick sensitive tip with your thumb.

Rafe’s hips jerk up “fuck” he groans , and it may be the hottest thing you’ve ever heard, and blended with JJ’s strangled noises as you circled the tip of his cock?

Heaven.

You switch between them a few times , taking JJ’s entire length on you mouth , right down to the root, lips parting around him , hollowing your cheeks in a way that made his hips buck. Meanwhile Rafe writhes and pants as he watches you with JJ and feels your fingertips squeezing teasingly his wet heat.

At some point , Rafe positions himself over you, his thighs on either side of your hips, his burning gaze locked with yours. The air is charged with an electric tension that makes you shiver. Your body is humming in anticipation, the proximity of these two men driving you to the brink of insanity. “Just like that,” he murmurs breath hot and burning against the tender skin of your neck “my turn yeah?”.

“And what? I just watch?” JJ pants , a small scoff escaping him.

“Yeah you shut the fuck up and take the backseat” Rafe snaps.

JJ huffs on your side and continues leaving open-mouthed kisses on the skin of your neck and jaw , brushing your hair out of your face , his hand slipping in between you bodies and pinching your nipple, making you gasp so he could swallow it right up.

Your thighs clench into Rafe’s sides as he shifts rubbing the head of his cock against your folds , using your heat as lubricant , blended with his pre-cum. And he makes eye-contact.

Fuck.

The sensations almost overwhelming. The fire of his blue eyes burning through yours , JJ’s soft lips and tongue trailing kisses along your skin, impossible for you to focus on either.

Rafe’s cock disappears into your body with a long steady thrust, making your head fall on your side , giving more access of your neck to JJ , who takes advantage of the position and devours your neck likes it’s his last meal.

“Fuck, fuck that-“ you gasp out nails digging on Rafe’s back,

“Don’t stop” your hips lifting involuntarily, trying to take Rafe deeper inside you. JJ kisses your mouth as you moan and reaches between your bodies to rub your swollen clit , making your head roll back.

“You’re perfect” Rafe pants in your ear, pushing his cock in and out of your sliding pussy in a way that makes your face grow hotter , that flush making him grunt , burying his face on your chest , sucking and bitting the flesh. “Shit I’m so close”.

JJ’s thumb on your mouth muffles your moans as you lick and suck on it, which turns him on even more , making him grow impatient for his turn to come.

Or cum. Which he already kinda was, by the way.

His rigid cock still untouched but already leaking at the tip , he rubs the cum with his finger and brings it back in your mouth , making you taste the saltiness of him , and you do . Gladly.

“Good, good girl” JJ breathes , voice low and velvety.

You lick your lip and gulp, the groaning sounds Rafe is making are almost your undoing. You try to hold on to something , a muscled arm , the back of a head , anything. Rafe caught up in his own orgasm, wraps your legs tighter around his waist to pull you even closer , heels digging into his ass , enough to emerge your bodies and souls together. He keeps kissing you everywhere , corners of your mouth , cheeks, jaw , ‘his’ side of your neck, while JJ has the other.

Rafe hits the sweet spot dip between your hips and you arch off the bed , a broken moan leaving your mouth as you hit your climax , Rafe already spilling deep inside you painting your walls white with his cum , pulling a bit out , making you both gasp and then sloppily pushing it back in, riding off both of you highs.

“My turn , man. Get off” JJ nudges Rafe’s shoulder , fed up and painfully turned on.

Rafe pulling out left you empty and slightly disappointed , but it doesn’t take long and you’re already stretched out again , now with JJ’s cock , Rafe’s cum making it easier to access and move, your already sensitive body already trembling.

On your side , Rafe is kissing your arm , down your hand and then up your shoulder , before connecting his mouth with yours , his hot tongue tasting all of you. One of your hands cup the crook of his neck as you moan in his mouth and the other digging on JJ’s muscled back , enough to make him his , the pain delicious and oddly erotic.

“Harder” you gasp squeezing your thighs around JJ , eyes rolling back.

“Harder?”

“Yeah” you moaned urging him by nipping at his shoulder.

Rafe pulls his mouth away for a second so JJ could flip you onto your stomach and get back on top of you. He spreads your cheeks and you arch your hips off the bed to give him better access. His callused palms grip your hips and groans as he enters you, “you okay?”

“Yeah” you moan , reaching for Rafe , who’s pressing velvet kisses on your back , pulling your hair to the side.

“Fuck you’re so hot” Rafe grabs your jaw so you could turn your head to the side and look at him as he spoke. Reaching between bodies and connecting his palm with your ass cheek , the red of his handprint painting your skin, making you gasp.

“Shit you like that huh?” JJ asks tauntingly thrusting deeper inside you, balls slapping against your ass cheeks.

“I love it” you moan feeling Rafe’s mouth on your neck again , marking his territory, breath hot and tingly against your skin.

JJ lifts his hand slapping against your ass , so now you’ve got the red of his handprint as well, making you push back against his cock, “you love it?”

“Yes ! Yes!” you hum, nodding vigorously against the sheets.

“Lets try something , get on your sides” Rafe orders , gesturing with his hands.

JJ furrows his eyebrows and reluctantly gets off you so you can turn on your side.

“Like that , get behind her”

JJ does so , spooning you from the back , hand around you waist , confused as fuck. “Now what , man?” He scoffs “you cant just blue-ball me like this”

Rafe says your name to grab your attention “You want us both?”

“Obviously?” You huff breathlessly.

“Wanna try both at the same time?” He asks , crawling to your other side so he was facing you. You paused and JJ went rigid behind you. “Y’know like..double penetration” he says , voice low and hopeful.

“I’m in” JJ blurts out.

“Yeah figured, I’m not asking you” Rafe rolls his eyes , keeping his gaze locked with yours to make sure you’re in on this and not uncomfortable.

“Yes” you nod.

You fucking nod.

Holy. Shit.

Both guys move quickly into position. JJ on your back and Rafe on your front.

JJ spreads your ass cheeks with his hands and slowly slides inside you , careful so you can adjust to the “fullness” of the filling. You reach behind your shoulder and touch his head , bringing his face closer to your neck.

Meanwhile Rafe is making sure your legs are held open as he thrusted from your front , his cock massaging your inner walls, eyes wide.

You want to both melt and tense at the same time. A delicious mix of pain and unbelievable pleasure. Neither of you moved for a while. You stay there , sandwiched between them , split open and absolutely stuffed. Every inch of you staying filled. No part dissatisfied.

Mute with ecstasy you can only breathe as the two men start moving , their thrusts gentle and careful. Their hands are everywhere. Rafe’s gripping your ass , bringing you closer to his body , JJ’s are on your breasts, cupping and squeezing your flesh while his breath tickles your ear.

JJ quickly reaches his climax , since he was already close. Forehead falling on the back of your shoulder , trailing lazy kisses on your back. “Jesus” he rasps and it’s enough to slide a shiver down your spine and bring you over the edge , arching to Rafe’s sweaty chest.

The added contact makes goosebumps run down his skin. With one last roll of his hips he releases his seed deep between your hips, still holding you close, he reaches up with his thumb , pulling your lower lip down and sucking on it with a hum. After a few moments , both of them slide out of you.

Then you slept , still sandwiched between the two guys in a familiar embrace. Even in sleep both men wordlessly competing for your attention and affection.

[mayplekiwi]

now i'm thinking abt it tbh.. your choice of guys in sleepwear (or whatever they would wear to sleep)

Genshin Male Suitors Sleepwear w/ Reader [1.6k]

This is a part 2 to Genshin Suitors [All] cuddle rating ranked [6k+]

Extra Tags - Reader here uses all pronouns and swaps in between different ones at any given time; Characters follow that logic too with nicknames. Written as a large Polycule, Lgbtqia+ relationships

Albedo

He would wear a decent amount of clothes to bed on the basis he has the potential of family coming into his room unannounced. Something more compressed than loose, similar to a turtle necked top and tights seeing as he usually resides at dragonspine though he'd have an easier time with his constitution.

Al-haitham

He would not wear much clothes to bed because of the humidity of Sumeru and how it feels bunched up when he moves in his sleep. So he's sticking to just his underwear and his sheets. Like in the other post dont expect too much.

Baizhu

He has sets of bedwear organised in his cupboard and robes to go with each ready at any moment; If he plans on sitting in bed for a while he'll keep the robe on off the shoulders, then once he's ready for sleep he's braiding back his hair and going to sleep immediately.

Capitano

He actually prefers not to wear clothes to bed if he's to ‘retire’ for the night and relax, wanting to rid himself of the hard exoskeleton of armor and breathe for a while. He'd feel a bit stiff if you're joining him and will keep his outfit on until you manage to convince him you're fine with it. very bashful when you do but enjoys a lot as it makes his ‘sleeping’ enjoyable

Cyno

He would not wear much clothes to bed, if he could he would go naked but if [usually] he's out on a mission meaning he does not have the luxury of comfort or privacy to do so. When he's at home though he takes the first opportunity to get rid of his chest and leg armour to knock out.

Dainsleif

He is likely just wearing what he's had on for the day to bed even if it smells and feels musty. He's too cautious when camping outdoors then too exhausted and grateful for a bed when he's at an inn that he knocks out immediately.Sadly, It's likely not to change for a while if you're spending the night with his pointy clothing.

Dahlia

He wears thin materials to bed, not enough to leave him exposed to the chilly air but definitely not heavy enough to count as a shirt. If he's sharing his bed for the night he will wear something more geared to sharing and taking off

Diluc

He prefers to go to bed shirtless, even pantless. [How scandelous.] during summer. He's bashful about it even if no one sees him in the state of dress. He wont change what he wears when you join him only act a touch shier until he gets used to it.

Dottore - Prime

He's either got nothing on or everything on. Mask not included. If he's currently residing in Snezhnaya or Nod-Krai then it’s the first, any other nation it's the former. He's not embarrassed or bashful about it, and will often wake up and continue onwards not realising that night he did not in fact, go to bed clothed until he hears a segment swear and cuss them out for flashing them.

Dottore Segment - Omega

He's also a naked sleeper but not because of overheating and he remembers to put his clothes back on. He just doesn't own much clothes and the only time he'll get to clean his [because he would put it all off until he has nothing left to wear] would be at night when everyone else should be asleep. He will love it if you brought him something though.

Dottore Segment - Beta

He wears the most delicate looking sumerian silks to bed, clean and pristine- he even has little lacy thigh highs and stockings. All for himself and you, his favourite colours are a prussian blue, a deep magenta with pastel accents or simply just golden jeweled black straps.

Dottore Segment - Gamma

A pair of socks and an ill fitting old shirt he received when he first got segmented. He doesn't really care much for his appearance and it strikes that perfect middle of just enough warmth while letting his balls breathe…

Dottore Segment - Delta

He doesn't typically change out of his clothes unless he's been in an active experiment. He puts it down under the fact he doesn't do much outside of crowd control and he's comfortable with just his coat on to stave off Snezhnayan frost. Tucking you beneath it with him is his dream

Dottore Segment - Trilunar God

He's also a bit flashy like Beta [But don't tell him that] just moreso. He has the abilities to create or fetch whatever he wants so of course he's going to adorn himself in the finest materials and jewels before laying back and soaking in pure relaxation.

Flins

As a Lantern Fae, his sleepwear is rather… non-existent. His resting would be him reverting into his azure flames or into the lantern itself. so his normal outfit. Belts and straps and all are all still there for bed

Ifa

What he wears to bed would be simple, a shirt and shorts. the shirts loose enough for is Cacucu managed to shimmy his way into his bedroom and wants to lay on top of him without the dangers of getting caught up in his blankets

Illuga

He lives in Nod-Krai, and while he has his own home in Piramida he still bunks in communal sleeping quarters during out of town missions often so what he wears is likely some heavy duty tightly strapped furs, socks and gloves to stave off frostbite

Kamisato Ayato

He wears the same thing to bed every single night, it's ironed before he dons it [courtesy of his retainers] hair tied back in a low bun and a smirk waiting for you in your own matching set. if he had it his way it wouldn't stay on long

Kaveh

He has a certain gown he wears to bed and will seek it out every single time, the only times he doesn't wear it to be is if he knows where exactly it is [hanging on the line after Alhaitham sees it still sitting after being washed hours ago]

Kinich

He doesn't take off much, just his jacket, bandana and his gear before settling down for a nap- usually underneath the sky outside his home if it's not night. Sleeping with you he'll be a little more forgiving and make sure he wraps you up in his jacket and falls asleep wherever you find yourself slumbering.

Lyney

Little compression shorts and a singlet really goes a long way for him and keeps his limbs free for stretches. he actually enjoys sleeping in that combo because it also means he can stick closer to you as he sleeps

Neuvillette

The sheet gown and floppy cap combo. A classic Neuvillette sleeping fit most people associate with him. Occasionally he'll wear the gowns the melusines gift him, and even more rarely will he wear the fancy pieces trusted associates gift him during events

Ororon

His sleeveless jumper version of his jacket- he seems to be the type who has numerous variants of the same shirt. Then he'd unfold his scarf and wrap it around his hips before heading to bed.

Pantalone

This bougie ass. fresh clean pyjamas every single night, does not reuse anything for the next night and ensures it's made from Fontainian silks as jts the only types that comes close to dealing with Snezhnayan winters that aren't too sweltering for him.

Pierro

He has his old sleeping gowns from Khaenri’an, being a royal mage must mean he'd have the ability to store some smaller items- they're old and stiff but they still serve him well so long as he pairs it with a coat any time he steps out of his blankets in the frigid zalpoyarny palace.

Rerir

Pre redemption- He is not changing, he's not even really sleeping, He will thug it out in his bandages and scrappy hole filled coat out in the Nod-Krainian weather

Post Redemption- He will be hesitant but thats because all he's known are the scratchy materials they used in Khaenri’ah and while he was considered a higher up, he still didn't spend his scant fund on himself. hes open to anything offered that aren't bandages

Sethos

Shirtless but he has a pair of very loose long pants that he ties tight at the waist and ankles to counter the sand that blows in through the cracks and nooks at the temple of silence.

Shikanoin Heizou

It looks very similar to his detective's uniform only without all the ornaments and he has a bandana to keep his hair from his face. He doesn't care much about his sleeping outfits really.

Tartaglia

Even if he's in Snezhnaya he will be sleeping with his shirt off but at least he will wear a pair of sweatpants for some warmth if he's not syphoning it out of you in a tent.

Tighnari

A simple short gown, it gives his tail enough freedom to move while still giving him good coverage from the bugs and mosquitos that lurk in the lower parts of gandaraville

Varka

If he's at home he's shirtless with just his underwear on, starfished on his stomach. Out on expeditions and even if he knows there's someone on watch he'll always keep half of his usual armor

Venti

He's wearing his normal outfit swaying softly on a branch or it's gonna look like what his archon outfit does in a private space, but the man is as free as can be so it usually defaults to the trees.

Wanderer

It took him a while to get used to Sumerian weather, the moisture in the air affects his joints more than it ever did in Inazuma so he sticks to wearing a wrap draped across his body almost like a toga since he doesn't react to heat much.

Wriothesley

He'd wear a singlet and sweatpants, loosely fit and a compression wrap or two depending on his injuries at the time.

Zhongli

He only has his robe, nothing underneath. He's sleeping in comfort and ditching the rob once he gets beneath the sheets.

[juniebjonesin]

ꜱᴜɴᴅᴀʏꜱ, ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ᴀ ꜱʟᴏᴡ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › with your past finally behind you, you and bucky step into the future you fought so hard to build together.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x mom!reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › fluff, domestic bucky at its finest, found family, brief angst, emotional conflict, mentions of past abandonment, levi being a #toddler, happy and sad tears, mentions of past relationship trauma, kissing & like one makeout scene, fluff with a happy ending, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.6k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › what the eff.... did i actually just finish a series???? someone pinch me im dreaming. this is so crazy to me. when i had this idea so many moons ago i never wouldve thought i would get here, so much has changed between now and then and this story has changed so much with me, theres so much of my heart in this story and i cant believe we're at its end. thank you guys for being here and as always for reading. i love u all.

Morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen window in soft, golden stripes, warming the old wooden table and the clutter scattered across it. A half-empty coffee mug. Crayons without their paper wrappers. A plastic dinosaur missing a leg.

And Levi.

Levi stood in the middle of the living room wearing Bucky’s motorcycle helmet, the thing swallowed his whole head, the glossy black shell wobbling every time he takes a step.

“Momma!” he yelled from inside the helmet, his voice muffled and echoing like he was inside a cave. “Look!”

He looks like a very determined turtle.

“Loook!” he says again, louder this time.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god,” you mutter.

Levi takes two more steps and immediately bumps into the coffee table. Before you can move, another figure steps into the room. Metal fingers curl around the helmet gently, steadying Levi before he can topple. Bucky crouches down behind him, big and broad and careful in that way he’s learned to be around small things.

He lifts the visor just enough for Levi’s face to peek out.

“Well,” Bucky says thoughtfully, like he’s assessing something very serious, “looks like we got ourselves a biker.”

Levi grins so wide his cheeks puff up. “I ride!”

The words come out as a triumphant declaration. You lean against the counter, arms folding loosely across your chest as you watch them.

Somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling surprising.

There was a time—two years ago, almost three now—when mornings like this felt impossible. Back then everything had been smaller and louder and harder. A crying baby, sleepless nights, bottles stacked in the sink. The constant hum of fear that you were doing it all wrong.

Back then it had just been the two of you. Just you and Levi and the quiet weight of figuring everything out alone. Now Levi tugs the helmet off with both hands and shoves it toward Bucky like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Again!”

Bucky laughs under his breath. “Again?”

Levi nods so hard his hair fans out. “Me wan go fast!”

“Oh absolutely not,” you say automatically.

But Bucky is already scooping him up. Levi squeals as he’s lifted, legs kicking wildly while Bucky settles him onto his hip.

“Don’t listen to her,” Bucky whispers loudly, conspiratorially. “We’ll go real slow. Like responsible bikers.”

Levi gasps, delighted. “Vroom!”

You shake your head, turning back to the stove before the pancake burns completely.

“You are not putting my child on that motorcycle.”

Behind you, Bucky snorts. “That motorcycle, huh? You know I seem to recall a time when you liked that motorcycle.”

"Complimenting it and wanting to ride it are two completely different things." Your voice was stern but there was an undeniable smile curving at the corners of your lips.

Levi leans forward suddenly, grabbing Bucky’s face with sticky toddler hands.

“Buck-Buck!”

The nickname lands in the air like it always does.

So simple and easy. You remember the first time Levi said it. How Bucky froze like someone had knocked the wind out of him. How he’d looked at you afterward like he didn’t know what to do with something that soft.

Now he just smiles, but still a little stunned every time.

“Yeah, buddy?” he says.

Levi pats his cheek. “I ride wif you.”

Bucky presses a kiss into Levi’s messy hair without hesitation.

“Someday,” he says gently. “When you’re bigger.”

Levi seems satisfied with that answer and immediately starts climbing him like a jungle gym. You slide a pancake onto a small dinosaur plate and set it on the table.

“Breakfast,” you announce.

Levi scrambles into his chair like it’s a race he absolutely must win. Bucky pours syrup carefully while Levi narrates the process like he’s hosting a cooking show, you sit down across from them with your coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug.

And you watch.

Levi’s hair sticking up in the back, syrup already smeared across his cheek. The quiet patience in Bucky’s movements as he wipes Levi’s chin with a napkin before the mess spreads any further. The way Levi leans into him without thinking.

Without hesitation, without remembering a time when Bucky wasn’t here. Your thumb drifts across your ring finger, the silver band catches the light, simple yet carrying the weight of a thousand words behind it.

A promise. You remember that night like it’s pressed into your bones. Levi asleep, the quiet house, Bucky kneeling in front of you with that careful seriousness in his voice.

I’m all in.

Your chest tightens in that strange, gentle way it still does sometimes. Now Levi is almost three, three, you blinked and somehow two years have passed. Two years of scraped knees and bedtime stories and Sunday mornings at the diner where Levi colors on placemats while Bucky steals fries off your plate.

It still surprises you sometimes, how a life can change shape, how something fragile can become steady.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice pulls you back.

You look up to find him watching you, not casually or distracted. Really watching.

“You okay?”

You smile softly. “Yeah.”

His eyes narrow slightly, unconvinced and you reach across the table and tap his hand with your fingers.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby,” he mutters.

Levi suddenly slams his syrup-covered fork onto the table.

“DINER!”

Both of you jump as Bucky blinks at him.

“The diner?”

Levi nods emphatically. “Sunday!”

You laugh into your coffee. “He’s got you trained.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, folding his arms like this is a very serious matter.

“Sunday breakfast,” he tells Levi gravely, “is a sacred tradition. It also happens to be this weekend, not today.”

Levi doesn’t understand a word of that but claps enthusiastically anyway. You sit there for a moment longer, watching them. Watching the sunlight on the table, sticky syrup, Bucky’s broad shoulders filling the kitchen doorway, Levi’s laughter bouncing off the walls. This small, ordinary life.

This thing you built piece by piece, and for a little while longer, everything feels steady.

You rinse Levi’s plate in the sink while he runs circles around the kitchen island, still buzzing from syrup and the promise of pancakes again next Sunday. The house is loud in the way homes with little kids always are, tiny feet thudding against the floor, toys clattering, Bucky rummaging through a drawer looking for his keys like they might’ve sprouted legs overnight.

And somehow, between all that noise, your mind drifts.

It’s been doing that a lot lately, drifting toward the wedding. The word still feels strange in your head. Not scary exactly, just big. Like something fragile you’re holding carefully in both hands. You lean against the counter for a second, coffee warm between your palms, and your eyes catch the ring again.

You hadn’t said anything about a wedding for months after that.

Neither had he.

Life just… kept happening. Daycare drop-offs. Grocery runs. Levi learning new words every week. Bucky coming home from the shop smelling like grease and motor oil and leaning against the kitchen counter while you told him about your day.

And then one night, out of nowhere—you’d been sitting on the couch after Levi went to bed, your feet in Bucky’s lap while he absentmindedly rubbed slow circles into your ankle.

You remember staring at the TV without actually watching it and saying it before you could overthink it.

“Maybe we should just do it.”

Bucky looked up. “Do what?”

You shrugged, suddenly feeling shy for no reason. “Get married.”

He blinked at you, then smiled slowly, like the idea had been sitting quietly in the back of his mind too.

“Yeah,” he’d said simply.

That was it.

No big speech, no dramatic moment. Just a quiet decision made between two people who already knew. Now the details float through your mind while you wipe syrup off Levi’s face.

Small.

That was the main rule, no big venues, no expensive nonsense. Just something simple, some friends, family. Sami, Ali and nearly the whole employed members from the diner. A few of Bucky's friends from in the city. Sam insisting he was going to give a speech. Natasha already threatening to cry.

Maybe the little park near the diner, or the backyard. Levi in a tiny suit, cake from the diner. You smile to yourself just thinking about it.

“You ready?”

Bucky’s voice pulls you out of it.

You look up. He’s standing by the door now, jacket on, keys spinning around one finger. His hair is still a little messy from Levi grabbing it earlier.

He jerks his head toward the driveway. “Need a ride?”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

“The bike.” He smirks.

You snort immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Levi gasps like this is the most tragic thing he’s ever heard. “Bike!”

Bucky laughs under his breath. “C’mon, babydoll. I drive safe.”

You grab Levi’s little backpack from the hook by the door. “That contraption is a death machine.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is.”

“It’s transportation.”

“It’s two wheels and a bad decision.”

Bucky grins wider. “Live a little.”

You walk past him, nudging his shoulder with yours. “We have a toddler to raise. You cannot die on your midlife crisis machine.”

Bucky reaches out and catches your arm gently before you can pass him completely, then he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

“Dying.”

You stare at him. “James Barnes—”

He flashes you a crooked grin. “I’d find a way back.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth still twitches. Levi, completely unaware of the drama, is now chanting from the doorway.

“Bike! Bike! Bike!”

“Traitor,” you tell him.

Bucky laughs again, scooping Levi up long enough to press a noisy kiss to his cheek. “See you later, buddy.”

“Buck go vroom,” Levi says seriously.

“Always.”

Bucky sets him back down and heads for the door. You watch him walk out toward the driveway, sunlight catching the metal of the motorcycle parked near the curb.

A second later the engine roars to life Levi presses his hands to the window dramatically.

“VROOOOOM!”

You shake your head, grabbing your purse.

“Alright,” you sigh. “Let’s get you to daycare before you start asking for one of those.”

Levi runs to the door immediately. “Bike!”

“Not happening.”

The morning air is cool when you step outside. You buckle Levi into his car seat while he continues narrating imaginary motorcycle adventures in the back and hum in the front seat on your drive, smiling at nothing, for no reason at all.

Afternoons in the house have their own kind of quiet.

Different from mornings.

Mornings are loud, rushed and sticky with syrup and Levi’s endless commentary about dinosaurs and trucks and whatever new thing he’s decided is the most important thing in the world that week.

Afternoons breathe slower. Levi is on the living room floor now, surrounded by plastic animals and wooden blocks, narrating a complicated story about a T-Rex who apparently also drives a fire truck. You’re at the kitchen table with your laptop open, half working, half watching him.

Every now and then he looks up just to make sure you’re still there, every time you are.

Bucky left about twenty minutes ago to grab a few things from the hardware store. Something about fixing the back gate and picking up a new light fixture for the porch. The kind of small domestic errands that still feel a little surreal sometimes.

You can still hear the echo of the motorcycle leaving the driveway in your head, the house settles after he’s gone. A comfortable quiet.

Levi makes a roaring sound as the dinosaur crashes into a block tower.

“Uh oh,” he whispers dramatically.

You smile to yourself, typing another sentence.

Then—a knock.

It’s soft, not frantic, or aggressive. Just three steady taps against the front door. You pause. Most people who come here don’t knock. Sam walks in like he owns the place. Ali lets herself through the back door. The other diner staff usually text first.

Levi looks up. “Door!”

“I know,” you say absently.

You push your chair back and walk toward it, wiping your hands on your jeans, for a split second, your mind runs through possibilities.

Maybe a package, maybe the neighbor.

You open the door, and the world tilts. For a moment you don’t recognize him. Your brain sees a man standing on the porch and tries to file him under stranger, but memory is a stubborn thing, it clicks slowly. The shape of his face, the way he stands, that familiar crooked nose.

And suddenly your stomach drops like you’ve missed a step in the dark.

Brandon.

You haven’t seen him in years, not since Levi was small enough to fit against your chest in one arm, not since the night he walked out the door with a duffel bag and a promise he never kept.

He looks older. Thinner. The cocky looseness he used to carry around his shoulders has been replaced with something… smaller. Uneasy.

But it’s still him.

Your body reacts before your mind does, your hand tightens around the edge of the door, the air feels strange in your lungs. Neither of you speaks at first.

Behind you, Levi makes another dinosaur roar, the sound feels jarringly normal.

Brandon clears his throat. “Hey.”

Your heart is beating hard enough you can hear it in your ears, you swallow the dry rock in the back of your throat.

“…What are you doing here?”

He shifts his weight on the porch, like he’s rehearsed this moment and still doesn’t know where to start.

“I—uh.”

His eyes flick past you briefly, into the house. You step slightly into the doorway without thinking, blocking the view.

His gaze returns to your face. “I’ve been trying to find you for a while,” he says.

Your stomach twists.

“That’s funny,” you say quietly. “I've lived here for years.”

He winces a little. Yeah, that lands.

Behind you, Levi’s voice drifts over again. “Momma look!”

You glance back automatically, he’s stacking blocks now, tongue sticking out in concentration, completely unaware. When you turn back, Brandon’s expression has changed.

His eyes soften. “That him?”

Your chest tightens instantly and you don’t answer.

“Wow.” He exhales slowly, the word comes out quiet. “He’s… big.”

You fold your arms. “What do you want, Brandon?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I just—I wanted to talk.”

“You’re talking.”

He hesitates, then the words come out in a rush.

“I’ve changed.”

You stare at him. People always say that like it’s a magic key, like the past unlocks if you just say it confidently enough.

“I’m serious,” he continues quickly. “I got sober. Been working steady for over a year now. I’ve been trying to get my life together.”

Your mind flashes with memories you haven’t touched in a long time, empty bank accounts, late night arguments, the smell of cheap beer.

A baby crying while you sat alone on the edge of the bed wondering how everything got so heavy so fast.

Brandon gestures vaguely toward the house.

“I've been thinking about him,” he says softly. “About Levi.”

Your jaw tightens. “I figured you would eventually.”

He shifts again. “I just… I want to be part of his life.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and careful, carrying a weight that knocks the air from your chest.

Behind you, Levi crashes his dinosaur into the blocks again. “Boom!”

You don’t turn around this time, your whole body feels like it’s bracing against something invisible.

“You don’t just show up after three years and decide that,” you say.

“I know,” Brandon says quickly. “I missed a lot.”

“You missed everything.”

He nods slowly. “I know.”

Silence stretches again, then he adds, quieter this time. “I thought maybe… we could talk. Really talk.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “What does that mean?”

His gaze drifts down to your hand, the ring, just for a second. Then back up.

“I mean maybe things don’t have to stay the way they ended,” he says carefully.

Your stomach flips and there it is, the thing sitting underneath everything else. Not just Levi, you.

“People change,” he says softly. “Sometimes they deserve another shot.”

Behind you, Levi laughs at something only he understands, the sound cuts straight through the moment, you feel suddenly, sharply aware of everything. The house, your son on the floor, the life you built piece by piece, and the ghost standing on your porch trying to step back into it.

For a moment you just stand there, neither of you moves.

The air between the porch and the doorway feels too thin to breathe. Brandon shifts his weight again, like he’s waiting for something. Waiting for you to soften, waiting for recognition, maybe.

You feel something else instead. A slow, steady tightening in your chest, inside the house, Levi hums to himself as he knocks another tower of blocks over.

You glance back at him for half a second and that’s all it takes, every sleepless night, every spit up stained shirt, overpiled laundry basket and shrieking cry echoing in your ears. When you turn back, your voice is steadier.

“You need to go.”

Brandon blinks. “Look, I know this is a lot—”

“You need to go,” you repeat, firmer this time.

The words land harder and he exhales slowly, rubbing his jaw like he expected resistance but hoped it wouldn’t come this fast.

“I’m not trying to start anything,” he says. “I just wanted to talk.”

“And you did.”

You rest your hand on the edge of the door, the gesture is subtle, but the meaning is clear. Conversation over. For a second, Brandon just looks at you, really looks. Like he’s trying to measure the distance between the woman standing here and the one he remembers leaving behind.

“Can I at least—” he hesitates, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Just take this.”

He pulls out a folded receipt and scribbles something quickly with a pen, you don’t reach for it but he holds it out anyway.

“My number,” he says. “And the hotel I’m staying at. I’m in town for a while.”

You stare at the paper.

He adds quietly, “In case you want to talk.”

You don’t take it, not at first, but after a second you grab it quickly, more to end the moment than anything else.

“Okay,” you say flatly.

Brandon nods once. His eyes drift past you again, toward the living room, toward the sound of Levi’s small voice and he swallows. Then he steps back from the porch.

“I’ll… give you space,” he says.

You don’t respond. He lingers half a second longer, like he wants to say something else, then he turns and walks down the steps.

You close the door.

The click of the lock echoes louder than it should and you just stand there, the folded paper crumpled in your hand, your heart beating too fast.

Behind you, Levi’s little feet pad across the floor. “Momma?”

You turn slowly, he’s standing in the hallway holding the one-legged dinosaur. His brows knit together the way they do when something doesn’t make sense.

“Who at door?”

Your throat tightens and you crouch down in front of him, the world suddenly feels very complicated for a random Tuesday afternoon.

“Just someone from a long time ago,” you say gently.

Levi tilts his head. “Friend?”

You pause, the honest answer sits heavy in your chest and you shake your head softly.

“No, baby.”

He studies your face for a moment, like he’s checking the emotional weather, then he asks the question that lands right in the center of everything.

“Who him?”

You brush his wild hair back from his forehead.

“I… don’t really know him anymore,” you say quietly.

Levi accepts that answer with the casual grace only toddlers have.

“Okay.”

And just like that, he wanders back to the living room to continue his dinosaur apocalypse as you stay kneeling in the hallway for a second longer, the paper in your hand feels heavier than it should.

The motorcycle pulls into the driveway about an hour later, you hear it before you see it, that familiar low rumble that Levi has already started imitating with alarming accuracy, brum-brum-brum-brum.

Your stomach twists. You’re sitting at the kitchen table again, laptop open but untouched. Levi is coloring on a placemat with intense concentration.

The engine cuts and the front door opens, Bucky walks in carrying a small paper bag from the hardware store and a bundle of rope slung over one shoulder.

“Alright,” he calls casually. “I couldn't find the right washer so I got—”

He stops mid-sentence when his eyes land on you, it only takes him about two seconds. Two seconds to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re sitting too still, the untouched coffee beside your elbow.

He sets the bag on the counter slowly. “What happened?”

You try to smile but it comes out crooked. “Nothing.”

Bucky gives you a look, not an angry one, not suspicious. Just patient, the kind of look that says he already knows that answer isn’t true.

He crouches down to Levi first, though. “Hey, buddy.”

Levi holds up his drawing immediately. “Dino!”

“Wow.” Bucky studies it like it belongs in a museum. "That is the best dinosaur I've seen."

Then he kisses the top of Levi’s head and stands again, where his attention comes back to you, softer this time.

“Talk to me.”

Something inside your chest finally gives way and you reach into your pocket and pull out the crumpled receipt, set it on the table.

Bucky glances at it, then back at you. “Who’s Brandon?”

"He's Levi's…" your throat tightens, for a second you can’t even say the words, then they spill out all at once. “He showed up today.”

Bucky doesn’t interrupt.

“He knocked on the door and I— I thought it was a package or something and then I opened it and he was just…”

You shake your head. “Standing there like nothing happened.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens slightly but he stays quiet.

“He says he’s changed,” you whisper. “Says he’s sober now. That he wants to be part of Levi’s life.”

The words sound strange out loud, like they belong to someone else’s story.

“He even—” you laugh weakly. “He even suggested maybe we could reconnect.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker, but he still doesn’t speak, and suddenly all the feelings you shoved down earlier come rushing back.

“I mean how could he even say that? He left, Buck,” you say, voice cracking. “When Levi was a baby. When everything got hard. He just— disappeared.”

Your hands curl into fists on the table. “And now? He shows up like he can just… step back into it. Who does he think he is?”

Bucky moves then, slowly as he pulls out the chair next to you and sits down, close enough that your shoulders touch. His hand settles over yours, warm and steady over your shaking fist.

You blink hard, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do,” you whisper.

Bucky squeezes your hand gently, his voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You look at him, he meets your gaze evenly.

“No decisions today,” he says. “No pressure. No expectations.”

He nods toward the living room where Levi is now singing to his dinosaurs. “That little guy? He’s here because of you.”

His thumb brushes across your knuckles.

“You made this life,” Bucky continues softly. “You.”

Your chest tightens.

“You kept him safe. You built this home. You don’t owe anyone a piece of it.”

Your eyes burn now, Bucky leans his forehead briefly against yours, calm and solid, like the harbor wall standing admist the tidal ocean waves. The kind of presence that steadies everything around it.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs. "No matter what."

You melt into his touch, fists relaxing under his hands and he moves to lace his fingers with yours. For a little while after you finish talking, the kitchen goes quiet again.

Not the easy quiet from before. A different kind. The kind that settles after something heavy gets set down in the middle of the room.

Levi’s voice drifts in from the living room, completely unconcerned with adult problems.

“RAWR,” he announces to no one in particular.

Bucky’s hand is still over yours on the table, his thumb moves slowly across your knuckles, back and forth in a rhythm that feels grounding.

You notice his jaw is tight, not rigid, just ticking in that silent way that you've learned to know as his subtle fury. You don't see it often, rarely even. It's usually saved for when his bike is giving him trouble. He isn’t looking at the receipt anymore. His gaze is somewhere past the wall, like he’s imagining something he’d very much like to punch.

When he finally speaks, his voice is calm and careful. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do.”

You glance up at him, he meets your eyes immediately.

“But I’ll be honest with you,” he continues. “I don’t like him.”

That almost makes you laugh.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose.

“He left you,” he says plainly.

No drama, no raised voice, just the truth out in the open air.

“He left you with a baby and a whole lot of things he should’ve been there for.” His fingers tighten slightly around yours. “And now he shows up years later asking for a seat at the table.”

The anger is there, not loud but steady. Simmering just under the surface, the kind that comes from loyalty more than ego. But then he shakes his head once, like he’s pushing the feeling aside.

“That said,” he adds quietly, “none of that changes the important part.”

You tilt your head slightly. “What’s that?”

He lifts your hand gently, turning it so your palm rests against his. “You hold the cards,” he says.

You blink, and Bucky nods once toward the house.

“This life? Levi? Everything you’ve built?” His eyes soften. “That’s yours.”

He leans back slightly in the chair.

“If you want to tell him to stay gone, that’s your call.” A beat. “If you want to hear him out someday, that’s your call too.”

He shrugs a little.

“Whatever direction you move in… it’s completely your choice.”

You sit there for a moment, letting the words settle, your eyes drift toward the living room. Levi is now lying on his stomach on the floor, carefully lining up his dinosaurs like they’re preparing for some kind of prehistoric parade.His tongue sticks out the side of his mouth when he concentrates.

Your chest tightens, because suddenly the memories come rushing back, not the easy ones. The early ones, late nights when Levi was a baby and the house felt impossibly quiet except for his crying, standing in the kitchen at three in the morning warming a bottle while your eyes burned from exhaustion.

Rocking him in the dark when he wouldn’t sleep.

First smiles.

First steps.

First words.

All the little milestones you clapped and cried over by yourself, every time you told yourself you were doing enough, that you had to be enough even if it didn't feel like.

Your throat tightens and then your mind shifts again.

To a different memory, Bucky standing awkwardly in your doorway, the first time he offered to help carry Levi and the bag from your car, the way you shut that door in his face metaphorically at least three different times.

The walls you built, the way you kept expecting him to disappear like everyone else had. But he didn’t, he just stayed, kept on showing up. Helping without asking for credit, even when you thought it would hurt the most.

Letting Levi climb all over him like a jungle gym, letting you take your time trusting him, and somehow, somewhere in all of that, the three of you built something that felt solid, safe and happy.

You blink hard and look back at him.

“Hey,” Bucky says gently.

You realize you’ve been staring and you shake your head slightly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

You swallow, then you reach for his hand again.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He tilts his head.

“For what?”

“For…” you gesture vaguely around the house. “All of it.”

Your voice softens.

“For being here. For Levi. For me.”

Bucky’s expression shifts in that subtle way it always does when you get sentimental, a little embarrassed and a little soft.

He squeezes your hand. “That’s what I’m here for,” he says simply.

Then he adds, quieter. “For both of you.”

Something warm spreads through your chest, you lean toward him before you can overthink it, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, he responds immediately, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw.

When you pull back, Levi suddenly appears in the doorway like a tiny tornado. “Buck-Buck!”

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky looks over.

Levi holds up a dinosaur triumphantly. “Outside!”

Bucky chuckles. “Outside, huh?”

Levi nods like it’s the best idea anyone’s ever had and Bucky stands, stretching his back slightly.

“Well,” he says, glancing toward the backyard. “I was gonna fix that gate anyway.”

Levi gasps. “Help!”

“You wanna help?”

“Yes!”

Bucky looks back at you, his expression softens again. “You good?”

“I’m good.” You nod.

He studies you for half a second longer just to be sure, then he reaches over and brushes a quick kiss across your cheek.

“Alright,” he says, scooping Levi up. “C’mon, mechanic’s assistant.”

Levi giggles wildly as Bucky carries him toward the back door.

“Tools!” Levi shouts.

“Whoa,” Bucky laughs. “Let’s start small.”

The door opens and sunlight spills into the kitchen as they step outside, Levi's babbling growing quieter with every stride they make.

Dinner that night is simple. Pasta and some garlic bread a little too toasted on the edges. Levi insisting on drinking his milk out of the blue dinosaur cup instead of the normal one because apparently that matters very much today.

The house smells like tomato sauce and warm bread and the faint summer air drifting through the cracked kitchen window.

Normal.

That’s the strange part, everything feels normal. Levi chatters the entire time, legs swinging under the chair while he tells an elaborate story about dinosaurs that somehow also involves firefighters and Bucky’s motorcycle.

You nod in the right places, you smile when he looks at you, but your mind keeps drifting. Back to the porch, back to Brandon’s face when you opened the door, back to the words he said. I’ve changed. I want to be part of his life.

Then Bucky’s voice in the kitchen earlier. You hold the cards.

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

Across the table, Bucky is quietly cutting Levi’s pasta into smaller pieces before he glances up, just once, but it’s enough. He’s always been good at reading you. Better than you’d like sometimes.

“You alright?” he asks casually.

Levi looks up immediately. “Alright!”

“I’m fine.” You force a small smile.

Bucky studies you for another second, then he nods slowly and lets it go. Dinner finishes with Levi dramatically announcing he is full forever before immediately asking for a cookie. Bucky negotiates him down to half. Afterward you gather the plates and carry them to the sink while Levi runs circles around the living room like he just discovered gravity for the first time.

Your thoughts drift again while you rinse a plate.

Levi deserves the truth someday, that thought sits heavy in your chest. He deserves to know where he came from, but then another memory rises up just as quickly. Brandon walking out the door, the silence that followed, the way you stood in the hallway with a crying baby and realized you were on your own.

You scrub a little harder than necessary.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice is low. “Hey.”

You glance over your shoulder as he leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“You wanna take a break?”

You blink. “I’m just doing dishes.”

“I know.” He tilts his head toward the hallway. “I can do bedtime tonight.”

You hesitate, normally Levi insists you read the story, but tonight your head feels heavy with thoughts that won’t settle.

“…You sure?” you ask.

Bucky shrugs with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Pretty sure.”

Levi suddenly barrels into the kitchen holding a toy truck. “Bath!”

Bucky grins. “See? Perfect timing.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Okay.”

Bucky scoops Levi up before he can protest. “Alright, bath monster. Let’s go.”

Levi giggles wildly as Bucky carries him down the hallway. “Splash!”

You listen to their footsteps fade toward the bathroom and the house settles again. You finish the dishes slowly, letting the warm water run over your hands while your thoughts circle the same questions over and over.

What’s the right thing to do? What does Levi deserve?

What does your life look like if Brandon stays gone? What does it look like if he doesn’t?

Eventually you dry your hands on a towel and head down the hallway, you tell yourself you’re just going to help finish bath time, but as you get closer to the bathroom, their voices drift down the hall. The door is half closed as you hear water splashing over the edges.

Levi is giggling.

Then. “Buck?”

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky’s voice answers easily.

A pause, then Levi asks the question you’ve been dreading.

“Man today.”

You stop in the hallway, your hand stills against the wall. Inside the bathroom, the water still sloshes gently. Bucky doesn’t answer right away.

“He someone from a long time ago,” Bucky says finally. “From Momma’s past.”

Levi thinks about that, you can practically hear the gears turning in his little head.

“Why he here?”

Another splash.

Bucky’s voice stays calm.

“Sometimes people leave,” he says carefully. “And later they try to come back.”

A quiet pause, then Levi asks the question that makes your chest tighten. “Momma let him?”

Bucky exhales softly. “That’s her choice.”

Your heart beats harder, Levi plays with the water for a moment. Then Bucky adds quietly.

“But I’ll tell you something.”

“What?”

“Your mom?” A pause. “She’s the strongest woman I know.”

You blink hard in the hallway.

Bucky’s voice stays steady. “There’s nothing in this world she wouldn’t do to keep you happy and safe. She'll make the right choice no matter what.”

Your throat tightens and it seems Levi considers this very seriously, then he says something simple.

“Buck-Buck makes me happy.”

Silence follows and for a second you’re not sure Bucky heard him, after a soft breath you hear his voice softens in a way that makes your heart ache and soar all at once.

“You make me happy too, kid.”

Your vision blurs suddenly and the answer hits you all at once. It's not complicated anymore, not tangled, just clear and true. You wipe quickly at your eyes with the back of your hand.

Of course.

Of course the decision was right in front of you the whole time.

You take a steady breath and push the bathroom door open.

“Need backup in here?” you ask lightly.

Levi gasps. “Momma!”

Water sloshes over the side of the tub and Bucky glances up at you, when your eyes meet something soft passes between you.

Then he smirks slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we’re gonna need a bigger towel.”

Levi goes to bed with ease these days, a book—obviously dinosaur themed—you claim it's just a phase but Bucky insists he's the next world famous palentologist. You tuck him in and read while his eyes flutter shut and his breathing evens out. You leave the night light on as you and Bucky quietly shuffle out of the room, giving Levi one last look before you shut the door.

Now it’s just the two of you again.

You’re standing at the bathroom sink, brushing your teeth while the mirror fogs slightly from the shower you took earlier. The house hums gently around you, the refrigerator in the kitchen, pipes settling somewhere in the walls, Bucky moving around the bedroom behind you.

You spit, rinse, and start taking your jewelry off one piece at a time. Earrings first, then the necklace you almost forgot you were wearing. You set them carefully in the little dish on the counter.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice drifts from the bedroom.

“You know,” he says casually, eyeing the trim along the floor that was lifting up. “I can't believe there was a time when I didn’t live here.”

You smirk faintly at your reflection. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

You twist around the doorway, leaning against the frame. “That must’ve been terrible for you.”

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed pulling off his boots.

“Oh yeah,” he nods seriously. “Unbearable.”

You cross your arms. “You practically moved yourself in.”

“That’s not true.”

“You brought a toolbox the second week.”

“That was because your sink was leaking.”

“You brought a duffel bag the third.”

“You told me to stay the night.”

“You brought the motorcycle helmet inside like it lived here.”

“That’s because Levi tried to steal it.”

You laugh softly and Bucky looks up at you with that crooked little grin that always makes your chest feel warm.

“Face it,” he says. “This house needed me.”

You scoff.

“It absolutely did not.”

“Your back gate fell off the hinges twice.”

“That was unrelated.”

“The porch light flickered for three months.”

“That was character.”

Bucky laughs under his breath. You turn back to the mirror, slipping the last ring off your finger then pause as your thumb brushes over the promise ring. You smile to yourself and twist it straight. A second later, warm arms wrap around you from behind.

Bucky presses close, his chest against your back, his chin settling lightly on your shoulder as his hand rests gently over your stomach.

“You did good today,” he murmurs.

Your reflection meets his in the mirror. “With what?”

“With all of it.” His voice is soft now. “For standing your ground, protecting Levi, protecting yourself.”

You feel something warm tighten in your chest asn you turn in his arms slowly.

“Buck…”

He just shrugs a little.

“I know I wasn't there, but I’m still proud of you.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you. Without thinking, you lean up and kiss him. It starts soft, just lips brushing, but when Bucky’s hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, the kiss deepens almost immediately.

You smile against his mouth, then push him gently backward toward the bed.

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter as he stumbles back a step. “Whoa—”

You keep kissing him, one step, then another. Until the back of his legs hit the mattress. He drops onto it with a soft bounce and you follow, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss, his hands slide up your sides instantly.

“Careful,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re being aggressive.”

“You love it.”

“Not denying that.”

But then he shifts suddenly, one arm hooks around your waist and he rolls, flipping you onto your back with surprising ease.

You gasp out a laugh. “Hey—”

He kisses your neck before you can finish the sentence, slow and warm as his lips litter your skin in kisses. Your fingers slide into his hair automatically, nails scratching lightly at his scalp and he hums softly against your skin.

Your other hand drifts up to his cheek, cupping his jaw gently. Bucky turns his head slightly and pauses, watching your ring catches the bedside lamp light, the way the silver glints between your fingers.

Bucky goes still and you feel it immediately. You brush your thumb across his cheek.

“Hey.”

He looks at you as something thoughtful settles in his expression.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly.

You blink.

“…About having sex?” A small smile pulls at your mouth.“Buck, it’s a little late for that conversation.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

Then his expression softens again.

“No,” he says gently. “About getting married.”

Your smile fades slightly.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this,” he continues. “Or like you have to do anything just to make me happy.”

You push yourself up on your elbows. “What do you mean?”

Your stomach twists unexpectedly.

“Buck… do you feel like you have to do this?”

He shakes his head immediately. “No.”

“Was it because Brandon—”

“No.” He reaches up and takes your hand. “There’s nothing in my life I want more than to spend it with you and Levi.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache.

“But if you wanted something else,” he adds quietly. “If you wanted to let him back into your life somehow—”

“Buck.” Your voice stops him instantly. “I want you.”

The words come out firm and certain. You sit up fully now, twisting the ring slowly around your finger.

“I know we’ve had our tough times,” you continue. “And I know I didn’t make it easy for you.”

“Mama that’s not—”

“No,” you interrupt softly. “It’s okay. I know I didn’t.”

You take a breath.

“I was scared.”

The confession feels heavy but honest.

“For a really long time.”

Your gaze drifts toward the doorway where Levi’s room sits down the hall. “Scared of raising him by myself, scared of messing up his life because of my mistakes. Scared of being hurt again.”

Your voice softens. “And I was stupid.”

Bucky frowns slightly.

“No you weren’t.”

“Yes I was,” you say gently. “Stupid to think Levi would be anything but the ray of sunshine he is.”

A faint smile touches your mouth. “Stupid to think anything could ever rain on his parade.”

“Stupid to think I’d be better off alone for the rest of my life.” Your fingers twist the ring again and your eyes lift back to his.

“That I’d be better off without you.”

Bucky’s throat moves slightly as you reach for his hand.

“I love you, Bucky.” The words come easily now. “I love being with you, I love watching you fix up my falling apart house, I love when you hum while you make coffee.”

You laugh softly under your breath then your voice quiets again. “I love the way Levi looks at you, the way you carry him when he’s sleepy. The way you love him like he’s your own.”

Your eyes shine slightly now.

“I love you,” you say again. “And I want you around for as long as you want to stay. No stumbling oaf from my past is going to change that.”

Bucky’s eyes are glossy when you finish and he pulls you into him without hesitation, his arms wrap around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head as he kisses you again. This time slower, full of something deeper that words can't quite reach.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs against your lips.

You press your forehead against his. “I know.”

He kisses your temple, your cheek, your jaw. Then he pulls the blankets back and nudges you gently toward the pillows.

“C’mon,” he murmurs.

You both settle into bed, limbs tangling naturally under the covers, Bucky’s arm wraps around you from behind, pulling you close against his chest. For once since Brandon showed up, your mind finally feels calm and the house is quiet again as you both drift asleep together.

Sunday mornings have a rhythm now.

You wake up before Levi most days, the quiet house giving you a few soft minutes to yourself while coffee brews in the kitchen. By the time Levi pads down the hallway with sleep-warm cheeks and tangled curls, Bucky is already leaning in the doorway tying his boots.

It’s become tradition. No one ever really said it out loud, but it settled into your life like it had always been there, that Sunday mornings are for the diner.

Levi announces it as soon as he climbs into the car.

“PANCAKES.”

Bucky glances at you over the steering wheel.

“Well,” he says seriously, “the man has spoken.”

The diner is warm and loud when you walk in, full of the usual crowd and your coworkers. The bell above the door jingles and a couple regulars wave at Levi immediately. He waves back like a tiny celebrity as you slide into your usual booth near the window. Levi climbs onto the seat beside Bucky and immediately starts coloring on the placemat with intense concentration.

Pancakes arrive. Coffee arrives. Syrup inevitably ends up everywhere. Bucky steals a bite off your plate when you’re not looking and you pretend not to notice. For a little while, it feels like the world is exactly the right size.

Levi chatters about dinosaurs and motorcycles, Bucky listens like every word matters, you lean back in the booth and watch them, that familiar warmth settling in your chest again.

When you finally stand to leave, Levi insists on being carried.

“Up,” he demands.

Bucky lifts him easily, settling Levi against his hip while you push open the diner door as morning sunlight spills across the sidewalk. You take maybe three steps, then you stop. Because someone is standing beside the parking lot railing.

Brandon.

Your stomach drops instantly. For a moment you consider pretending you didn’t see him, but it’s too late he’s already pushing himself away from the railing.

“Hey,” he says.

The word lands awkwardly in the morning air, Bucky’s posture shifts beside you almost immediately, it's subtle but you feel it. Levi doesn’t notice anything yet, he’s too busy trying to grab the zipper on Bucky’s jacket.

Brandon gestures toward the diner. “I remembered something,” he says.

You don’t respond.

“When we first started dating,” he continues, “you used to talk about working here someday. Said you liked the place.”

Your jaw tightens, that memory feels like it belongs to a completely different life.

“You really came here because of that?” you ask flatly.

Brandon shrugs. “Figured it might be a place you’d still go.”

His eyes finally shift to Bucky, then to Levi and the air changes immediately.

His expression tightens. “So this is him, huh?”

You step slightly closer to Bucky without thinking as Brandon’s gaze lingers on Levi, then he looks at Bucky again.

His voice turns sharp. “What, you his replacement or something?”

Bucky doesn’t respond, he just stands there holding Levi, one hand steady against the little boy’s back solid and present.

You step forward before the tension can grow any heavier. “We are not doing this here,” you say firmly.

Brandon laughs bitterly. “Doing what?”

“In front of Levi.”

Levi finally looks up at the sound of raised voices. “Momma?”

“It’s okay, baby.” You soften immediately.

Brandon runs a hand through his hair.

“You know he deserves to know who I am,” he says suddenly.

Your stomach twists.

“He deserves to know his father.” His voice sharpens, his eyes casting a pointed look at Bucky. “His real father.”

The words land hard and for a second the world goes very still. Your heart lunges up into your throat and you fight the furious prick of tears behind your eyes. You step forward without thinking.

“He did know his father,” you say quietly.

Brandon frowns.

“Before he was even born.” Your voice grows weary yet fierce. “You knew about him when I was pregnant.”

Your chest tightens, but you keep going. “You knew when I was sick and scared and trying to figure out how I was going to raise a baby.”

Brandon opens his mouth but you don’t let him speak.

“And you left anyway.” The words come out sharp now. “You walked out when things got hard.”

You feel Bucky shift behind you, Levi’s small hand gripping his collar.

“I spent nights alone with a newborn who wouldn’t sleep,” you continue, your voice shakes slightly, but you don’t stop. “I was exhausted. I was terrified. And you were gone.”

Brandon looks away.

“You missed his first smile,” you say. “His first steps, his first word.”

The silence stretches between you.

“He grew up without you,” you finish.

Brandon swallows. “But I’m here now,” he says weakly.

You shake your head slowly. “No. You don't get to be here now. You made your decision all those years ago and I lived with it. Now you have to.”

You take in a deep breath and the red begins to fade from your vision as you turn back to glance back at Levi, then at Bucky as he steps beside you.

And the truth feels clearer than it ever has.

“Levi already has a father.”

The words land quietly, but they carry the weight you hadn't known was resting in your chest until now. Brandon’s gaze flicks toward Bucky again, this time there’s no challenge in it, just admitted defeat. For a split moment it looks like he might argue again.

But then he exhales and his shoulders slump slightly.

“Right,” he mutters.

He steps back toward the railing. “This isn’t over,” he says quietly.

You don’t respond.

And after a second he turns and walks away.

Just like he did years ago.

The parking lot grows quiet again and Levi shifts in Bucky’s arms, growing sleepy from the pancakes .

“Momma?”

You take a breath. “I’m okay, baby.”

Bucky hasn’t said a word the entire time, but when you look at him, his eyes are steady. He adjusts Levi on his hip with one arm and reaches for your hand with the other, lacing his fingers through yours. He lifts your hand gently and presses a soft kiss against the back of it.

No words.

He doesn’t need them, and standing there in the morning sunlight, Levi tucked safely against his shoulder, you realize you don’t need them either.

The days after that Sunday settle back into something familiar.

Not perfectly calm, but close enough. Brandon’s name comes up once or twice in your thoughts the first week. Usually when you’re lying awake beside Bucky, staring at the ceiling and replaying everything that happened in the parking lot outside the diner.

But each time the memory fades a little faster, and life keeps moving.

Levi still wakes up too early on Tuesdays.

Bucky still comes home from the shop smelling like grease and engine oil. The back gate gets fixed. The porch light finally stops flickering. Someone—Bucky—reorganizes the entire junk drawer in the kitchen like it’s a military operation.

And somewhere in between all the little normal things, the wedding keeps getting closer.

Until suddenly it’s here.

The morning arrives softer than you expected. No chaos. No nerves clawing up your throat. Just a quiet hum under your skin like something warm and steady waiting to unfold. Still, while you stand in front of the mirror that morning, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress hanging in front of you, one small thought slips in.

Just for a second.

What if Brandon showing up was some kind of omen?

The idea sits in your chest for a moment longer than you’d like, but then Bucky appears in the doorway behind you. He’s halfway dressed already—button-down shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up slightly. His hair is still damp from the shower.

He catches the look on your face immediately.

“What’s that expression?” he asks.

You glance at him through the mirror. “Nothing.”

Bucky leans against the doorframe. “Not convincing.”

You sigh quietly.

“It’s just… everything that happened last week.”

His brow furrows slightly.

“Brandon.”

You nod once and he doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he pushes off the doorway and walks over, stopping just behind you.

His hands settle lightly on your hips. “You think him showing up means something bad?” he asks gently.

You shrug a little. “Maybe.”

Bucky leans forward and presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Or maybe,” he murmurs, “it means you finally closed the last door that needed closing.”

You look at him in the mirror, his expression is calm and certain.

“You didn’t hesitate,” he adds. “You knew exactly where you stood.”

He squeezes your hip lightly.

“That doesn’t sound like an omen to me.”

You let out a slow breath.

“Okay,” you murmur.

He kisses your shoulder again before stepping away.

“Now,” he says casually, “I’ve got a tiny human to wrangle into a suit.”

You laugh despite yourself.

The living room is chaos twenty minutes later. Levi stands in the middle of the rug wearing the world’s smallest suit jacket. It’s slightly crooked, his tie is barely hanging on, his hair refuses to cooperate. And he is deeply offended by the entire situation.

“NO.”

Bucky crouches in front of him with the patience of a saint. “Buddy, you gotta keep the tie on.”

Levi glares at it like it personally betrayed him. “It’s weird.”

“It’s classy,” Bucky corrects.

Levi considers this, then asks the only question that really matters.

“Cake?”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t even know where the cake is yet.”

Levi gasps like this is the greatest injustice in the world. “Cake after?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, straightening the tiny tie again. “Cake after.”

Levi nods solemnly.

“Okay.”

Bucky smooths down Levi’s jacket and steps back to inspect him, the kid looks like a miniature business executive. Messy hair and all. You’re standing in the hallway watching them when it hits you, the sight of them together, Bucky crouched down, carefully fixing Levi’s tie like it’s the most important job in the world. Levi holding onto his arm like it’s the most natural thing in existence.

Your chest tightens suddenly and you blink fast, trying to will the waterworks away. Almost crying before the wedding even starts would be embarrassing.

“Hey.”

You turn and see Sami standing behind you holding your dress carefully over one arm.

She raises an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You nod quickly.

She follows your gaze into the living room, then smiles softly.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I’d cry too.”

You laugh weakly. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.”

Sami gently nudges you back toward the bedroom.

“C’mon,” she says. “Let’s get you ready.”

The bedroom feels calmer somehow.

Sami lays the dress carefully across the bed to unzip it and help you shrug it on, the fabric settling around you like something meant to be there all along. The ivory fabric soft and airy as it settled around you. The fitted bodice was covered in delicate floral lace, the embroidery trailing down from the deep V-neckline like pressed vines. Sheer flutter sleeves brushed your shoulders, shifting gently whenever you moved.

From the waist down, the skirt fell into soft, flowing layers, lace scattered through the fabric like blooming flowers. The train swept quietly behind you, elegant without feeling heavy.

It was simple and romantic, perfectly soft in a way that made the whole moment feel a little unreal.

She helps zip it up, then moves behind you with a handful of pins for your hair. For a few minutes neither of you speaks, just the quiet rustle of fabric and the occasional soft click of a pin sliding into place.

Finally Sami meets your eyes in the mirror.

“You know,” she says softly, “I’m really proud of you.”

You tilt your head. “For getting married?”

She shakes her head. “For everything.”

“You’ve come a long way.” Her voice is gentle but certain as she gestures vaguely toward the house. “You built a life. A family.”

She smiles slightly. “With Bucky. With Levi.”

Then she nudges your shoulder lightly. “And with yourself.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, Sami’s expression softens.

“You fought for all of this,” she says. “Even when you didn’t think you deserved it.”

You blink hard and laugh quietly. “You’re gonna make me cry before the ceremony.”

“That’s literally my job today.”

She adjusts one last curl, pinning it neatly into place then steps back.

“Alright.”

You turn toward the mirror and for a spilt second you barely recognize the woman staring back. Not because she looks different, because she looks… happy.

Really happy.

Sami grins. “You ready?”

The park looks different at sunset. It's always been beautiful in it's own way, even with creaky benches and a sputtering fountain. But there's something softer about it now.

The trees catch the last of the light, leaves glowing gold and orange as the sun starts to sink behind them. Someone strung up simple strands of lights between two old oak trees, and they flicker on one by one as the sky deepens into evening.

A few rows of wooden chairs. Close friends. A handful of family members. Familiar faces that feel like home. You stand at the edge of the path with Sami beside you, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands.

Not from nerves exactly, just the weight of the moment. Ahead of you, Levi is already halfway down the aisle, he is technically the flower boy, in practice, he is throwing flowers everywhere.

Not gently either. Handfuls. Wild, enthusiastic handfuls. Petals land on the chairs, on the grass, on Sam’s shoes in the front row. Suppresed laughter spreads across the crowd.

Levi spins once in the middle of the aisle like he’s celebrating a personal victory. “FLOWERS!”

Bucky stands at the front beneath the oak trees, his head tilts down as he laughs under his breath, rubbing a hand across his mouth.

Then he looks up.

And sees you.

The laughter fades from your ears, it feels like the whole world feels like it narrows down to the space between you. The light catches in his hair. His suit jacket fits him just right, sleeves slightly tugged up at the wrists like he could never quite stop being the guy who fixes things around the house.

His eyes soften immediately and suddenly every step down the aisle feels easier.

You walk slowly, petals crunch softly under your shoes. Levi runs back toward Bucky halfway through like he forgot where he was supposed to end up. Bucky scoops him up with one arm without breaking eye contact with you. By the time you reach the front, Levi is proudly sitting on Bucky’s hip like he helped plan the entire thing.

You take your place in front of them, handing the bouquet off. Close enough now that you can see the small scar on Bucky’s jaw. The faint crease between his brows when he’s trying not to look emotional.

Your heart feels full, full in a way you didn’t know was possible a few years ago. The officiant says a muddled words you barely hear saying it's time for the vows, because when it’s your turn to speak, all you see is Bucky as he gently sets Levi down.

You take a breath.

“When I met you,” you begin softly, “I didn’t think I had room in my life for someone else.”

A few quiet smiles ripple through the crowd.

“I had Levi. I had a house that was constantly breaking in new and creative ways. I had a life that I thought I needed to protect.”

Your fingers twist slightly around themselves, your thumb twisting the ring on instinct.

“I was scared to let you in.” You glance down briefly, then back up. “But you stayed anyway.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens slightly.

“You stayed when I pushed you away, you stayed when I didn’t trust that someone could actually want this life with me.”

Your voice softens.

“With us.”

Levi shifts in his new spot at the front row next to Ali and the rest of diner crew. Someone in the crowd chuckles and you smile.

“And somewhere along the way,” you continue, “I realized something.”

“You weren’t asking me to give anything up. You were just offering to build something with me.”

Your eyes meet his.

“And I want that.” Your voice steadies. “I choose you, I choose this life we’re building. I choose Sunday mornings and fixing broken fences and raising Levi together.”

Emotion thickens your voice slightly.

“And I promise to keep choosing you. Every day.”

Silence settles warmly around you, then it’s Bucky’s turn. His voice is rougher when he starts.

“I think it's a little obvious to say that I didn’t expect any of this,” he admits.

A quiet ripple of laughter passes through the guests and he shrugs a little.

“But then you came into my life. And suddenly there was this tiny human calling me Buck-Buck and trying to steal my motorcycle helmet.”

Levi gasps and Bucky smiles slightly.

“And there was you.” His expression softens. “You let me into a life that was already full. You trusted me with the most important parts of it.”

He reaches for your hands.

“They say marriage is about promises.” He glances down briefly at Levi. “So here are mine.”

He squeezes your fingers gently.

“I promise to teach Levi how to drive someday.”

Levi looks up immediately. “Drive!”

“And,” Bucky adds, smiling, “how to ride a motorcycle.”

You narrow your eyes playfully.

“Safely,” he amends quickly.

The crowd laughs.

“I promise Sunday mornings at the diner forever. Even when Levi decides pancakes are boring.”

Levi shakes his head violently. “Never!”

More laughter.

Bucky’s gaze returns to you.

“And I promise to keep showing up.” His voice softens. “For both of you. Every day.”

The quiet that follows feels warm and the officiant smiles.

“Well,” they say gently. “I think that about covers it.”

Bucky squeezes your hands, as the next words come, the simple ones, the ones that change everything.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission, he pulls you in and kisses you. His lips are soft and warm and full of everything the two of you built together.

Behind you, Levi claps loudly. “YAY!”

The whole crowd laughs and claps alongside him. Rice is thrown as you both walk down the aisle, commontion starts to stir up as everyone gets ready to head over to the diner for the reception. Sonny was initally wholly against using the diner for it, but after a convincing check and a murderous glare from a certain steel eyed someone, the whole place was yours for the night.

The diner looks different tonight.

Someone pushed the tables back to make space in the middle of the floor, strings of warm lights draped across the ceiling beams. The usual smell of coffee and pancakes has been joined by cake and champagne and something sweet baking in the kitchen.

It’s still the same place just glowing a little more. You’re standing near the counter when the music starts. Not loud. Just a slow, soft song drifting through the speakers.

A few people cheer quietly. Bucky walks toward you through the small crowd, loosening the collar of his shirt like he’s a little embarrassed by the attention.

You smile.

“Mr. Barnes,” you tease.

He huffs out a laugh. “That’s still weird.”

“Better get used to it.”

He reaches you and holds out his hand.

“Well then,” he says, “Mrs. Barnes.”

Your heart flips in your chest as you take his hand. The middle of the diner floor feels strangely quiet when you step onto it together. Everyone else fades into the background, conversations lowering to a murmur while the music fills the space.

Bucky pulls you gently into his arms, one hand settles at your waist and the other holds yours. You start to sway slowly. Nothing fancy. Just the easy rhythm the two of you fall into without thinking.

Your cheek brushes his shoulder.

“Still feel real?” he murmurs.

You smile against him. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He chuckles softly and for a few moments neither of you says anything. You just move together beneath the soft lights while the song drifts around you. And suddenly you feel it again. That quiet awareness that this, this right here, is the life you once thought was impossible.

A house that’s slowly being fixed piece by piece. Sunday mornings at the diner. A man who stayed when you thought everyone would leave. A little boy who changed your entire world. Your chest tightens with something warm.

“This is nice,” you whisper.

Bucky hums. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him and his eyes soften instantly. Before he can respond, a tiny voice interrupts.

“Momma.”

You both glance down as Levi stands at the edge of the little dance floor holding a half-eaten cupcake, frosting is already on his cheek.

He looks between you and Bucky. “Dance?”

You laugh softly.

“Well,” Bucky says, crouching down, “can’t say no to that.”

He scoops Levi up easily and he giggles as Bucky settles him between the two of you. Your son’s small arms wrap loosely around Bucky’s neck while his feet dangle. The three of you sway together in the middle of the diner. Levi humming along to the music like he knows the song.

Bucky presses a kiss to the side of your head ans you rest your hand against his chest. And standing there beneath the warm lights, your family wrapped together in one slow dance, you realize something.

You didn’t just survive the hard years. You built something beautiful out of them.

The reception slowly settles into something warm and loud and happy. People are talking over each other across the diner tables. Someone turns the music up a little. Levi has already managed to convince three separate adults to give him cake.

You’re halfway through a conversation with Sami when it hits. At first it’s just a wave of heat in your stomach. Then the room tilts slightly.

You swallow thickly, thinking maybe you just need water. But the feeling comes again, stronger this time and suddenly your stomach flips hard enough that you clap a hand over your mouth.

Sami notices instantly. “You okay?”

You nod quickly. “Yeah—just—”

The nausea spikes again and your eyes widen.

“Oh—nope.”

You turn and hurry toward the hallway before the sentence even finishes. Behind you the reception continues like nothing happened. Music. Laughter. Levi shouting something about frosting. You push into the diner bathroom and brace both hands against the sink, breathing slowly through the wave of nausea.

The cool porcelain under your palms helps a little. You lean forward, waiting for the dizziness to pass, only for another wave to rush over you, this one carries it's purpose behind it as you retch acid and something that used to be cake into the sink.

The bathroom door creaks open behind you, you don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

“You alright?” Bucky’s voice is low, concerned.

You quickly rinse out the contents rejected from your stomach and glance up at him through the mirror. He’s already halfway across the room.

“I’m fine,” you say weakly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You ran out of the reception like the building was on fire.”

You exhale slowly. “Just… felt sick.”

He steps closer, one hand hovering near your back like he’s not sure if he should touch you yet. “You need water?”

You shake your head. “I think it’s passing.”

For a moment you both stand there in the quiet bathroom, the muffled noise of the reception drifting faintly through the walls. Then something shifts in Bucky’s expression, his brow furrows slightly as he studies you.

Your hand moves unconsciously to your stomach to soothe another wave. And suddenly the same thought lands in both of your minds at once. You freeze. Bucky freezes. There’s a long pause as you slowly lift your eyes to meet his in the mirror.

His mouth opens slightly. “Oh.”

You blink. “…Oh.”

The silence lasts exactly two seconds, then you both start laughing, not delicate laughter either. Full, slightly hysterical disbelief. You cover your face with one hand.

“Oh my god.”

Bucky drags a hand through his hair, still laughing under his breath. “Are you serious right now?”

“I don’t know!”

“You think—?”

“I mean—”

You both stop again as the math runs through your head at the same time. Dates. Weeks. The quiet little signs you brushed off earlier. Your eyes widen.

Bucky exhales slowly.

“Well,” he says weakly, “that explains the pickles at two in the morning last week.”

You groan. “Don’t remind me.”

He steps closer. Gently he cups your face in both hands and the laughter fades into something softer.

Something warmer.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod slowly. “I think so.”

A tiny smile pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Levi just turned three and now we might be doing this again.”

Bucky’s eyes go glossy for a second.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Looks like it.”

You lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet. The kind of kiss that feels like the beginning of something. When you pull back, his forehead rests lightly against yours. From the diner out front, Levi’s laughter rings out loudly, someone cheers about more cake.

Bucky glances toward the hallway, smiling, then he takes your hand. Your fingers lace together automatically. His other hand drifts down, resting gently against your stomach. You stand together in the quiet diner hallway, listening to Levi’s laughter echo through the room.

“Well then,” you say under your breath. “Let’s go, Mr. Barnes.”

“Oh, now you’re gonna milk the name.”

“You started it.”

Bucky glances down at you, smiling.

“After you, Mrs. Barnes.”

And together, you walk back into the life you built.

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Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (1/3)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

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1/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 6k+ Rating: 18+ (This one's not a joke) Warnings:  mature audience, 18+, Mdni,  Strong Language and Sarcasm, Mentions of War, Violence, and Murder (Canon-Consistent), Unstable Personality in a Psychic Bond, Dark Humor and Coping Through Comedy, Existential Crisis in Soup Form, Doflamingo Being... Doflamingo (Ego, Violence, Manipulation)

Having Doflamingo as a soulmate is like being stuck with a narcissistic puppet master who thinks every thread in your life should be his personal chew toy. His thoughts are loud, twisted, and have more flair than a peacock on a caffeine binge. All while wearing designer sunglasses, of course. He’s been rambling in your head since the moment your souls collided, and let’s just say your childhood is now a weird, glittery horror show. “If my soulmate’s a gremlin, I’ll just tie them up. Easier than killing.”

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Growing Up Soulbound to Donquixote Doflamingo: A Tragedy in Several Terrifying Acts

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

You were a regular child, more or less. You liked stuffed animals. You colored inside the lines. You cried when balloons popped and believed broccoli was the worst thing a man could inflict upon you.

And then, sometime between learning the alphabet and losing your second baby tooth, it happened.

You started hearing thoughts.

Not yours. Definitely not yours. Laughter.

“Fufufufufufu-”

Low and feral, like someone had tied a candelabra to a hyena and let it loose in a cathedral. It echoed in the back of your skull with far too much glee for a school day. You remember it clearly because you were coloring a turtle. He was, apparently, winning a fight.

Soulmates, as it turns out, don’t come with manuals. Or names. Or helpful pop-ups from the universe saying, “Hey, heads up! He’s a bloodthirsty egomaniac with a God complex and a deeply questionable fashion sense.” 

 No. You just get his thoughts. Silken, smug, and utterly convinced the world was his to stage a monologue on.

“They should worship me. Why don’t they worship me? I could fix the economy if they'd just give me all the money…I miss murder.”

That voice became your unwanted childhood companion. Sharp as broken glass and twice as charming. The kind of presence that always sounded like it had just burned down a country club and would do it again if someone so much as breathed wrong.

He gave himself titles: The King. The Joker. Their Salvation.

You gave him one too: Birdman of the Opera.

At first, you thought he might be a noble. He ranted about “peasants” often enough, and once spent twenty uninterrupted minutes mentally waxing poetic about people not bowing low enough anymore.

But then came the tangents.

Unhinged ones.

“What if I dropped a city from the sky?” or “I wonder how hard it is to replace a spine.”

At one point, he got stuck on the phrase “puppets dancing on strings”.

He repeated that last one 213 times in a row. You were twelve. You kept count because it was either that or scream into your math homework.

Over the years, you pieced together a profile. Unwillingly. Accidentally. With all the enthusiasm of someone forced to cohabitate with a sentient peacock.

Whoever he is, he’s:

– Rich. – Dangerous. – Emotionally allergic to empathy. – Deeply enamored with the sound of his own voice.

You once told a friend—drunkenly, at a sleepover, while clinging to a bag of frozen peas you’d mistaken for a pillow—that your soulmate was probably a narcissistic noble with a tragic backstory and enough wealth to build a tower of solid gold just to push people off it.  She stared for a moment, then nodded solemnly and said,

“Sounds like a Celestial Dragon.”

You laughed until you cried. Then you cried until you laughed again. But no. It couldn’t be. 

Celestial Dragons sever their soulbonds young. Everyone knows that. They have ways. Methods. Entire departments are dedicated to cutting the cord before it forms.

Which means, if he’s still there, still talking, still hissing “Mine” through your dreams when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, He isn’t exactly one of them.

He’s something else. Worse, probably.

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut (Aka, Nine feet of sunglasses, feathers, trauma, and felony)

Age 5: 

You were five when the voice arrived. Not yours. Yours were soft things: juice boxes, sparkly rocks, the moral dilemma of stepping on a line of ants. Thoughts that bounced around like marbles in a shoebox. You liked colors. Songs. You wanted to be a cloud.

His were about puppet governments and the economic benefits of murder.

“Kill the old man. Take the port. Easy.”

You dropped your crayon.

It rolled across the floor and under the couch, and you didn’t go after it. You just sat there, small knees crossed, staring at your turtle drawing while some distant pirate plotted a hostile takeover inside your skull.

At first, you assumed it was your imaginary friend. That made sense. Other kids had tea parties with theirs. Yours muttered things like:

"I’ll hang that bastard by his spine."

You didn’t know what a bastard was. Or how spines worked, really. But your toy rabbit got tied up in thread and hurled off the top bunk that night. Because science.

Your teacher gave you a gold star for your drawing of a smiling man standing on a hill of bodies. 

You titled it: My Friend’s Thoughts. 

She stapled it to the bulletin board, but looked concerned.

Your parents started whispering at night.

At family dinners, you began to speak with strange conviction. Echoing ideas you didn’t understand. Once, while chewing on a dinner roll, you declared:

“Entrails could be elegant, if arranged properly.”

There was a silence. Your father blinked. Your mother passed the peas.

Later, you heard it. He’d admitted it. Casually, like one might mention a favorite sandwich.

“I’m a pirate, obviously. What did they think I was? A baker?” 

You had never met a baker who spoke in snarling baritones and discussed political assassinations before breakfast, so no. No, you hadn’t.

You coped the way children do. With crayons and misplaced confidence. Your art became dramatic. Guillotines. Fire. A disproportionate number of people falling off cliffs. Your teachers expressed concern. You smiled and drew another sword.

He got louder when angry. The rants came in waves. Names you didn’t know. Betrayals you didn’t understand. Battles you couldn’t picture.

But sometimes… You hummed. A little song, soft under your breath, as you hugged your stuffed animals to your chest and waited for sleep. You thought he didn’t hear.

Until he did.

…What the hell was that? Was that… singing? Is that—you?”

You froze. Sir Beartington fell off the pillow.

“Oi. Who are you? Why are you quiet? Wait—oh. You’re real, aren’t you? A soul tether. Talk, brat.”

You didn’t want to. You’d seen enough after-school specials to know this counted as Stranger Danger, even if it was psychic and possibly extradimensional.

Still, you said:

“That’s not kind.”

A pause. 

“Hah. You’re a kid? Figures. This bond is defective. Don’t worry. I’ll wait.”

You scowled into your blanket.

“I’m not supposed to talk to homicidal strangers.”

Another pause. Then something strange. Something new. A sound like teeth bared in delight.

“Huh. Smart parents.”

You didn't know it then, but that was the first time he sounded entertained. Not furious. Not murderous. Just… intrigued.

You didn't like that.

And you really didn't like how quiet he went afterward.

Like a tiger in tall grass.

Age 6: 

You are just trying to live your normal, legally-sanctioned, cookie-filled, frog-drawing life.

You have two cookies, one juice box, and a plush frog named Pancake. You are safe. Curled up in your blanket fort. The world is soft. Silent. Blessedly free of intrusive monologues, cape rustling, or declarations of war.

And then, like the worst kind of divine punishment:

“…Doflamingo Donquixote.”

You blink.

“What?”

He says it again. Proudly, smoothly, like a velvet rope being slowly pulled across a trapdoor.

“My name,” the voice says again, slow and smug, like a velvet rope being pulled across a trapdoor. “Doflamingo Donquixote. You should know the name of the man who’ll be—”

You sit bolt upright. Pancake the frog plummets to the floor in horror. Sir Beartington looks concerned.

“…FLAMINGO? Like. A bird???”

There’s a pause. He tries to recover.

“It’s Doflamingo, brat. It’s a powerful name. Feared. Remembered.”

You stare at the ceiling of your blanket fort with the fury of a child betrayed by nomenclature.

“It sounds like a salsa dancer with bird issues.”

Silence. He does not respond. 

You are absolutely lit with the fury of a seven-year-old who just found out her soulmate is named after a lawn ornament.

“Doflamingo Donquixote sounds like the name of a magician who performs at birthday parties and then vanishes with your wallet. It sounds like you’re the evil twin of a fancy vacuum. It sounds like you were cursed by a swamp witch who said, ‘You will be powerful, but your NAME will be STUPID.’”

He is silent. You can feel his ego crumpling like tinfoil in the microwave.

“Do people call you Doffles? Is that your pirate name? Captain Doffles?” You clutch your sides, wheezing. “Oh no. I can’t be soulmates with a man named after a piñata with a superiority complex. Is your crew called the Party City Pirates?? Do you shoot glitter out of your fingers??”

He finally snaps.

“My name strikes fear into the hearts of men.”

You cackle like a gremlin child in a bouncy castle of chaos.

“It strikes confusion into zoo workers.”

You throw yourself back into your pillow fort, laughing so hard you spill juice on Pancake. 

Across the sea, in a room made of velvet, mirrors, and questionable taste, Doflamingo Donquixote lies flat on a gilded chaise and stares at the ceiling.

“I should’ve gotten their name first,” he mutters aloud.

“Too late, Featherboa,” you whisper into the bond. “I’m naming my next pet after you. It’s gonna be a bird with a bad attitude.”

You assume he’s the ugliest flamingo ever born. 

Doflamingo Donquixote stares at the ceiling, velvet robes askew, soulbond still ringing with the sound of your laughter. And in that moment, he knows two things with absolute, bone-deep certainty: You are going to be a menace. And he is going to be very annoyed.

Age 7: 

You are seven years old, simply trying to live your normal, legally-sanctioned, cookie-filled, frog-drawing life. You want peace. You want stickers. You want to eat animal crackers in the shape of justice.

Unfortunately, somewhere in the world, your soulmate is plotting evil and thinking way too loudly.

Most kids have imaginary friends. Yours critiques your coping mechanisms and gives monologues about bloodshed between dessert courses.

“Why are you crying? You skinned your knee, not lost your empire. Get up. Pathetic.”

You had tripped. It was a perfectly reasonable fall. There was blood. There were tears. And there was him, calmly narrating the assassination of a rival arms dealer like it was a bedtime story, complete with sound effects.

You tried telling your mom that you didn’t like your “inside voice” anymore.

She gave you warm milk.

He gave you trauma.

“Milk? You’re drinking milk? Oh my god, you would.”

You stared into your cup, deeply offended on behalf of calcium. Pancake the frog looks on in dismay.

“You’re seventeen. Get a diary.”

There was a pause. Then, he laughed.

Not politely. Not even evilly. He laughed like someone who’d just ordered an airstrike and was now enjoying espresso about it.

“You’re surprisingly aggressive for a seven-year-old.”

“You built a ship that looks like a bird. I rest my case, Featherduster.”

The silence turned sharp.

You could feel the bristle. Like his sunglasses fogged over from indignation. You knew he had them because he telepathically took you shopping to brag.

“You little shit. Do you know what I can do?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Gonna ruffle my feelings, Count Cranky Feathers?”

A beat.

You sipped your milk like it was victory itself.  He mentally shrieked like a diva denied a mirror.

You survived months of his inner drama; monologues about conquest, rants about peasants, a deeply unhinged tangent about velvet and vengeance. You’d endured his commentary on politics, posture, betrayal, and which flavor of cake best paired with murder.

And now, for some reason known only to the gods of bad decisions and flamboyant pirates, he’d decided to share something personal. Probably to scare you.

His Devil Fruit.

He said it like a god unveiling the cosmos, like he was parting the veil of destiny with a single manicured hand.

“It’s called the String-String Fruit.”

You were silent.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three.

You stared blankly at the wall. Pancake the frog slipped out of your lap in slow, stunned horror.

Four. Five.

“You ate a string?”

A pause.

You could feel it—the shift in posture, the inhaled ego. He cleared his throat in your mind like he was about to give a talk titled “Why I’m Better Than God and Everyone Else.”

“It’s a Paramecia. I control threads. Fine, razor-sharp threads that can manipulate the battlefield. Puppeteer my enemies. Stitch the sky itself.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you slowly looked down at your juice box. It did not deserve to be part of this moment. And yet, here you were. Being forced to parent a man who is your senior.

You took a sip, just to fortify your soul.

“Why would you eat string?”

“It’s not an actual string—”

“Did it taste like string?”

“Yes, but—”

“Was it crunchy?”

“…Yes.”

“Then that’s worse.” 

You stared off into the middle distance like a tiny war veteran watching your hopes crumble into yarn. Pancake the frog flopped gently against your side, the only witness to your suffering.

“You saw a weird glowing spaghetti fruit and said, ‘Yeah, this seems edible.’”

“It was a Devil Fruit. They’re rare. Powerful.”

“So are batteries, but I don’t eat those.”

He audibly choked in your mind, like someone who’d just been spiritually tackled by a toddler.

“I’m not going to explain Devil Fruits to a child.”

You clutched Pancake like he was your government-assigned trauma counselor.

“No. You should explain why you ate an evil fruit and now walk around talking about world domination like a sleep-deprived sewing machine.”

You paused..

“And why are you a meanie? You’re a feral knitting kit with legs.”

You could feel his offense.

His ego flared like bad cologne. Somewhere across the sea, Doflamingo Donquixote, Warlord of the Sea, probably slammed a table in a room filled with velvet furniture and poor life choices.

And you, seven years old and full of cookies and righteous judgment, took another sip of juice.

“I could cut the world in half.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“And I could cut your fruit into slices and serve it to toddlers as a cautionary tale.”

Silence. Not the good kind. The kind that vibrates with wounded ego and the realization that your telepathic soulmate might one day weaponize glitter and pipe cleaners against you.

He didn’t respond. You could hear him breathing through his nose like a man who just lost an argument to a juice-box-wielding child.

You took a calm sip, eyes locked on your juice like it was your personal anchor to sanity.

“Don’t eat weird things. That’s how you get possessed by fruit ghosts.”

“I am the future Pirate King!”

“You need a friend. And a nap.”

He muttered something dark about fate. Something about destiny being cruel and humiliating.

You, with the grace of a smug seven-year-old who had already named your future pigeon “Flamingo the String Destroyer,” leaned sweetly into the bond; voice soft, syrupy, and sharpened like a crayon you weren’t supposed to use on the walls.

“Do you ever… regret biting the cursed yarn?”

Across the sea, in a room filled with velvet, mirrors, and unresolved trauma, Doflamingo Donquixote screeched. Not yelled. Not roared. Screeched. Like an expensive parrot being denied its emotional support chandelier.

Age 8:

By age eight, you had developed a recurring stomach ulcer and an unsettlingly robust vocabulary for describing war crimes.

Your parents thought you were just creative. You knew better. Like a drunk god yelling into your brain with a cigar in one hand and blood on the other, your soulmate was fucking loud.

He once spent forty-two minutes thinking about himself, shirtless in a fur coat, while plotting the downfall of a mid-sized kingdom.

"If I puppet this idiot just right, he’ll walk straight into the cannon fire. Oh look, another orphan. Add it to the pile."

You were in math class. You blinked at long division and considered faking your own death. You lost some friends that year. Mostly after you turned to one mid-recess and said:

“Hey guys, sorry if I space out sometimes. I’m just… tethered to a delusional, murderous sunglasses model who talks in third person and once mentally narrated his own evil laugh for six minutes straight.”

There was silence. Then Maya said she was going to play on the other side of the playground.

You started making escape plans after that.

“Trap him in a room full of mirrors?” you mused into your notebook. “No, he’d enjoy it. Too much ego. Too many angles. He’d probably flirt with his reflection and forget I was trying to kill him.”

You drew a tiny diagram labeled “Plan B: Yarn Guillotine.” It had sparkles.

Pancake the frog judged you from the corner of your backpack, one plush arm hanging out like he, too, had seen things.

Age 9: 

By age nine, you know words no child should know. Not curse words—those are for amateurs. No, you’ve leveled up.

You know words like decapitate, asset stripping, fragging, and “useful idiot.” You use “fragile masculinity” correctly in a sentence. In front of adults. On purpose.

Your teacher sends a letter home.

“Your child seems unusually… sophisticated in language. Also, they referred to Fleet Admiral Sengoku as ‘a morally-challenged imperialist meat sock.’”

You are grounded for three days. Your soulmate? He’s delighted.

“She sounds like a mushroom and teaches like a corpse. You’re dumber for listening to her.”

He mocks her voice for fifteen straight minutes. At one point, he invents a short musical about her inability to inspire a room full of staplers.

You stare at your multiplication table and wonder how much damage a paperclip can legally do.

You begin to suspect, with growing clarity, that this man—who once narrated the toppling of a minor warlord while you were eating dinosaur-shaped nuggets—might not be a good influence.

Possibly.

Probably.

Maybe.

But it’s hard to prove psychological corruption when no one else hears the smug, baritone sociopath in your brain. Your mother thinks your sarcasm phase is just “advanced.” Your dad starts hiding the newspaper.

You begin writing vocabulary words on sticky notes and hiding them in a shoebox under your bed, labeled “Evidence.”

Age 10: 

Other kids are learning spelling. You’re learning mass manipulation, psychological warfare, and the exact emotional flavor of betrayal.

You know what a coup d’état is. You can spell it. Use it in a sentence. Even diagram the political aftermath with color-coded highlighters.

Why?

Because Doflamingo doesn’t have an off switch.

He doesn’t speak to you directly that often, but you hear things. Thoughts not meant for you, leaking across the soul-thread like an open sewer pipe running through a couture crime scene. He is a nightmare in sequins.

"They begged so nicely. I said no, obviously. But points for style. I hate silence. It's like listening to your own breathing in a coffin."

You cover your ears. It doesn’t help.

“That’s not normal,” you mutter to no one. “Did he just narrate his own smirk? I think I can hear him posing.”

Your parents think you’re just dramatic. Maybe going through a “weird phase.”

You try to explain what it’s like—what it feels like—to have a chaos muppet in your head with a God complex and a boa made of the souls of his enemies. Instead, they give you a very nice school counselor. She offers breathing exercises.

Breathing doesn’t help when your soulmate is casually committing tax fraud and genocide in the same afternoon.

He once thought for six minutes straight about whether gold leaf would look good on artillery.

He once called you a “mental parasite” because you asked if his shirt had shoulder feathers or if they were those just emotional support tassels.

He once considered naming a puppet after you. You made peace with that one disturbingly fast.

You’re ten. You’ve started writing your own will. And drawing up basic escape plans.

Just in case.

Age 11:

At eleven, your tolerance for nonsense is critically low.

You've endured years of velvet-draped war crimes, unsolicited mental fashion shows, and the emotional strain of sharing psychic space with a man who owns more feathered accessories than a Sabaody drag revue.

And then, on a perfectly average Tuesday afternoon, it happens.

You’re doing your homework. Long division. Peaceful. Normal. And there it is, echoing across the bond like a cursed kazoo from hell:

“Fufufufufufufu—”

You pause.

You blink.

And then, without thinking, you say aloud—calm, pointed, utterly done:

“Why is your laugh like a vacuum cleaner being murdered?” 

And he heard you.

“Excuse me? You little parasite. You think you’re funny?”

Yes. Yes, you did. 

You snickered.

He screamed.

For six hours. Straight.

Not words. Not yelling. Just one long, internalized psychic shriek of wounded flamboyant pride.

It felt like being haunted by a glam rock banshee.

You folded your worksheet. Ate a cracker. Wrote “feathered tyrant meltdown” in your notebook and underlined it twice.

Meanwhile:

Across the sea, somewhere in a gilded death palace soaked in ego and crime, Doflamingo Donquixote swore vengeance. He paced the length of his throne room, muttering insults and murder plots under his breath like a man personally wronged by a juice box and a third-grade education.

“She thinks she’s funny. She thinks she’s smarter than me. I’m going to find her and hang her brain on the wall like art.”

Rosinante looked very alarmed, but fell face-first as he tried to mime his worry. Vergo, halfway through a cup of black coffee and regretting all his life choices, didn’t even look up.

“She’s a child, Captain. Leave her alone.”

“She’s a little shit. A little shit with jokes.”

Vergo sipped his coffee slowly.  Law, age unknown but already deeply jaded, was sitting nearby with a book and far too much sarcasm for his size.

“She should think she’s smarter than you,” Law muttered without looking up. “I like her already.”

Doflamingo whipped around like a bird of prey wearing designer boots.

“Shut up. Both of you. She insulted my laugh. She compared it to a dying vacuum.”

Trebol, lounging in the corner like a blob of emotional damage, shrugged without lifting his head. “Perhaps, young master… You could just go destroy an island until you feel better.”

Doflamingo rubbed his temples with murder in his eyes.

“Don’t tempt me.”

There was a long pause. Vergo sighed and flipped a page in his newspaper.

“She’s, like, eleven, right?” 

“She’s a war criminal.”

Age 12: 

At twelve, you decide this isn’t fate. It isn’t destiny. It’s a curse.

You are clearly cursed.

So you take action.

You attend a séance. You chant with a local priest. You eat an entire packet of salt like it’s communion for the spiritually exhausted.

You light a candle and whisper into your pillow: “Begone, chaos bird.”

Later that week, you inform him solemnly that you have attempted an exorcism.

“Salt? What is this, ghost therapy? I’m not haunting you. I’m tethered to you. There’s a difference.”

You try to cope.

You visualize him as something harmless. Something small. Something incapable of masterminding war.

“If you don’t stop picturing me as a Pomeranian, I will set an orphanage on fire and scream ‘FLUFFY’ while I do it.”

You snicker.

“You’re very fluffy when you’re angry.”

Doflamingo's aura flares like a disco ball, and a perfectly innocent vase explodes.

Your thoughts weren’t accidental. They were performed. Curated.

And they had been for seven goddamn years.

Seven years of intrusive commentary. Seven years of glitter-based emotional terrorism. Seven years of someone comparing him to a sentient curtain rod with fragile masculinity issues.

You were supposed to be a weapon. A partner. A tactical advantage in soulbond form. Instead, you were a disaster.

An untraceable, psychic comedy club that lived in his skull and refused to pay rent.

He was in the middle of a weapons deal when it started again. That subtle shift. The low, static pressure was building just behind his left eye.

Not silence. No, he would kill for silence.

This was worse.

This was the soulbond fog. Not a voice. Not a scream. Just the unmistakable, creeping feeling that his tether, the chaos goblin on the other end of this cursed string, was thinking.

And sure enough, it came.

“What if clouds are just sky potatoes?”

He froze. A vein pulsed in his temple.

Vergo, seated across from him with a sheaf of documents and the kind of blank expression that only meant something was about to explode, paused mid-sentence.

Doflamingo slowly raised one hand.

“Give me a moment,” he said, in a voice so calm it made everyone in the room slightly nauseous.

Age 13: 

You have braces, anxiety, and exactly zero interest in being soulbound to a furious, couture-wearing maniac in designer pants.

He’s in his twenties now. Which, for someone like Donquixote Doflamingo, is objectively the worst possible age to be mentally connected to a real, live person with thoughts. And preferences. And boundaries.

He has a lot of sex and no chill. 

You, unfortunately, have all the chill, and sex is a vague concept, unfortunately made more clear by the occasional mental peepshow.

Asshole.

Frankly, he deserves all the nonsense. Every recorder blast. Every glitter-fueled psychic migraine. Every frog-themed intrusive thought. Because you? You’ve endured years of his monologues. Not just the evil ones—the self-pitying ones. 

“My father gave up our divine rights. We were royalty.”

Wow. Stunning. So tragic. You also wished he had stayed in Mariejois and gotten emotionally snipped. 

Every time he says, “The world shall know my pain,” you mentally respond with:

“You know what pain is, feather boy? College debt. The housing market. You, when you get drunk, and I hear your singing.”

And when your thoughts get particularly spicy, when you start comparing him to cult leaders, reality Den Den radio villains, or emotionally repressed robots, he responds. Whiny. Wounded. Like you’d kicked him directly in the ego.

“You bully me like I owe you lunch money.”

His tone is offended.

Not outraged. Just personally injured, like a man who expected worship and got therapy notes.

“I bully you like your cult leader with abandonment issues,” you reply flatly, eyes on your math homework.

“You’re mean.”

“You monologue over poor orphans. With joy.”

“I didn’t ask to be psychically tethered to a mouthy gremlin child.”

“I didn’t ask to share headspace with a discount god complex in crime couture.”

“You don’t appreciate me.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy reading about “how to psychically block flamingo-themed pirates with wounded narcissism. Then, as a precaution, you duct tape your frog plush to your forehead like it’s divine armor.

You like soup. He takes that personally.

Like: 

"Soup again? You’re going to die bland and under-seasoned. But sure, mock my coat while stirring boiled sadness. 

Sometimes it’s stupid shit:

"You know, cariño, it’s fascinating. You say you hate me, yet your brain thinks about me more than oxygen. That’s not loathing. That’s courtship."

And sometimes it’s deeply unfair:

"You call me ‘birdbrain,’ but I’m not the one who mistook powdered sugar for snow and tried to catch it with their mouth. Who’s the national security threat now?"

You’ve figured it out by now: If you keep your head boring—like mind-numbingly boring—he loses interest. You’re smart. You adapt. You become…become an accidental psychic saboteur, a mental landmine of pure, relentless, soul-bound nonsense. You build an internal fortress not out of steel or fire.

No, no. You build it out of garbage thoughts. Of deliberate, brain-rotting trivia. It is one of the most aggressively mundane inner monologues in recorded human history.

“Capybaras can’t jump.”

“Tupperware is technically a pyramid scheme.”

“The inventor of chips is buried in a chip can.”

“Soup.”

Just constant, slow-motion, inner monologue soup. Potato leek. Miso. Lentil. You compose emotional haikus about broth.

“Bean soup is humble. Warm in the belly, not loud. Unlike some people.”

And Donquixote Doflamingo? The world’s most volatile, fashionably dressed war criminal with abandonment issues? He goes absolutely bananas over it.

“You think you’re clever?”

“I’ve been mentally filibustering your evil plans with daydreams about laundry detergent and legal reform for years,” you reply, serenely. “At this point, I am your Shadow Cabinet. So—yes.”

You are, in effect, giving this man psychic tinnitus in the form of chicken stock. And it is driving him insane.

He’s currently:

Plotting the takedown of Dressrosa,

Manipulating underworld crime syndicates,

Babysitting a vengeance-fueled Law who keeps pulling knives,

And silently failing to connect with a brother who communicates exclusively in soul-crushing stares.

He is—to put it mildly—under pressure.

And somewhere—deep in the velvet-curtained, trauma-scented center of his murderous little heart he knows that the voice currently wondering whether soup can be carbonated is his greatest threat.

Not the Marines. Not the Yonko. Not Cipher Pol.

You.

And in the middle of a violent strategy meeting with Vergo and Trebol—charts spread, cities marked, lives priced in blood—he zones out.

Because suddenly, again:

“I wonder if broccoli works in soup. Probably, but only if you blend it.”

The table shakes.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!” he roars aloud.

Vergo blinks. Trebol wheezes quietly in the corner.

“…Sir?”

Doflamingo inhales through his nose. He clenches a fist full of velvet. Smiles too widely.

“Nothing. Continue. Also, kill that merchant.”

You don’t have a tragic past. You don’t have powers. You don’t even really know who he is. You’re just out there in the world, somewhere, living a bland life and refusing to acknowledge him, which is new, and which is offensive. Because everyone wants Doflamingo, or fears him, or dies for him.

And here you are, tempting fate.

“Can rice noodles go in miso, or is that cultural betrayal?”

He twitches.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?”

You’re thinking about whether soup counts as a meal or a drink. You’re fighting off a cold with garlic, lemon, and passive aggression. You are wrapped in a blanket, sipping broth like it’s a tactical maneuver.

And somewhere, across the Grand Line, Donquixote Doflamingo is staring into space like a man on the verge of violence.

“Your taste in food is as questionable as your survival instincts. Do you think they’ll put it on your gravestone? Here lies the girl who thought ‘soupy’ was a personality trait.”

You blink. Offended on every level. Oh my god, he is such a bitch.

Far, far away, he laughs. Low. Amused. Unhinged in the way only a soulbonded warlord with a god complex and emotional glitter damage can be.

And you—mildly congested, wrapped in a blanket, sipping broth and contemplating fate—you sit back and sigh. You are sick and still cosmically tethered to something that sounds like a sparkly bird-flavored drink they stopped serving in Alabasta because it caused hallucinations.

Age 14: 

You’d been mid-rant. A particularly good one, too.

You were mentally listing, in alphabetical order, all the reasons Donquixote Doflamingo should never be trusted with state secrets, firearms, or upholstery.

“A—Arson enthusiast. B—Birdbrained. C—Couture crimes. D—Dictator energy. E—Ego so large it requires structural support—”

That’s when the bond surged.

Not the usual buzz of static. Not his smug psychic lounge act. 

But something different. 

Something hot. 

Sharp. 

And wrong.

It hit like an elbow to the ribs. Fast, jarring, close.

Your words dropped off. Your breath stuttered. You sat up, blinking hard, hands curling in your lap like you could claw your way back into reality.

But you weren’t in your room anymore. Not exactly. You weren’t anywhere, really. Not physically..

The world around you was white and wind-bitten, blurring at the edges with snow. Cold. Too cold.

And in front of you, a man stood. Shoulders hunched. Bleeding. Shaking. Pointing a gun. At Doflamingo.

The snow beneath him was red. His lip was split. One eye was nearly swollen shut. His coat hung from one shoulder, torn and smoking, like something that had once been elegant and had since been through hell.

Your first thought wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even confusion.

Who would dare? Who would stand like that, half-broken, half-frozen, and still point a weapon at him?

Corazón. 

Rosinante Doflamingo.

The mute brother.

You never heard his voice in your head. Never saw the world through his eyes. But still, you knew him.

Because Doflamingo knew him. 

And Doflamingo never shut up. 

Even when he didn’t mean to share it, you saw him; that tall, awkward man with the cigarette always tucked between two fingers and a coat two sizes too big, with laughter like broken glass and kindness that crept into places it wasn’t welcome.

Corazón lived in the silent corners of Doflamingo’s mind. The places he avoided. Where grief crusted like old blood around memories of shared bread and bunk-bed whispers. Where a tall, clumsy man with a martyr’s smile had once offered his brother hope and never asked anything in return.

You used to call him “Side Character Number One.” The quiet one. The gentler man in the chaos. The wayward brother with the cigarette always half-lit, thoughts that barely bled through the bond. For some reason, his voice was never in any memory.

But he didn’t need to.

You could see how much he worried. How much he watched Doflamingo spiral. How often he thought about that boy.. You mocked him once, years ago. Called him ‘the chain-smoking nursemaid with a martyr complex’. 

Doflamingo had actually laughed aloud, much to his crew’s confusion. Not a cruel laugh. A real one. A rare one. You held onto that sound longer than you meant to.

No, you’ve never met Rosinante.

But you knew him.

Knew the way Doflamingo’s rage thinned when he entered a room. The flicker of guilt he refused to name. The absence that filled the Doflamingo whenever Corazon left to find medicine, food, and safety. 

The one person your soulmate actually cared about.

He was your quiet background character in the ridiculous mental telenovela you and Doflamingo were constantly acting out; mental daggers, petty color wars, soup rants, and psychic ceasefires.

And now he was pointing a gun at Doflamingo.

Brother. Traitor. Soft. Still hoping.

Not your thoughts.

The snow muted everything. Sound, breath, mercy. It swallowed the world in white, as if trying to make this moment make sense, when nothing about it did.

Your chest was tight. Ribs braced as if struck. Fingers curled unconsciously into the sleeves of your coat, heart stuttering beneath layers that could not keep out the cold pressing in through the bond.

You weren’t there.

Not really.

But you could feel the frost biting at his skin. The dull throb of bruises on borrowed lungs. The sting of betrayal settles like ash behind the teeth. You stood just behind Doflamingo’s eyes, trapped in the hollow space where thoughts become action and action becomes irreversible.

Rosinante did not beg. He did not cry.

He only looked up, eyes shadowed beneath the fall of a too-large coat, cigarette long forgotten in the snow. His shoulders were hunched. And still, there was no fear in him.

Only sorrow.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Doflamingo raised the gun.

You moved without thinking, a whisper inside him, a breathless panic in the marrow of your thoughts.

“No. Don’t. Don’t do this—”

But he didn’t pause. He didn’t flinch.

There was no speech. No cruel flourish of ego. Just the press of a finger. The inevitability of gravity.

The gunshot cracked through the bond.

Sharp and final.

No ceremony. No flourish. No desperate villainy to cushion the horror.

Just collapse.

Like a marionette with strings severed, his body struck the snow with a wet, unholy finality. There was no poetry to it. No last gasp. No divine moment. Just the thud of something beloved reduced to ruin. Red spilled beneath him in widening arcs, staining the white as if the earth itself had been caught off guard. As if it, too, couldn’t quite believe what had happened.

The coat he wore bunched beneath him; too big, too black, too soft for a world like this. Blood darkened the whiteness around him, soaking through like spilled ink on a blank page.

And Doflamingo just stood there. Silent.

No smirk. No speech. No vicious gloating to fill the void.

Only stillness.

And the soulmate bond seized.

Collapsed inward, low and quiet, like a lung emptied of air. Like a cathedral after the choir stops. You hadn’t even realized how much of your life had been shaped by his background noise; by the thrum of ambition, of anger, of biting arrogance and relentless presence always simmering somewhere in your head.

But now?

Now it was still. Not just gone.

Just absent.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because Rosinante wasn’t background noise for Doflamingo, he had been everything to him. The boy in the bunk bed. The man in the corner of the room. The brother who still haunted every corridor of Doflamingo’s mind like a light too painful to look at. He had been the softness buried in cruelty. The coat wrapped around something feral. The last goddamn tether to grace.

And now he was gone.

There was no joke for this. No roast. No commentary.

Just silence.

Grieving.

And for once, you didn’t say a thing either.

No gloating. No mocking satisfaction. Just a long, raw quiet.

You felt his thoughts coil inward, tight and wrong. Cold. Wet. Heavy. Like chains sinking in water. 

Donquixote Doflamingo, objectively speaking, is the worst person you’ve ever met. Egotistical. Violent. A man who speaks in threats and dresses in war crimes.

And this?

This was his fault.

He didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to pull the trigger. But knowing that—rationalizing it, dissecting it—didn’t stop your sympathy.

You still feel bad for him.

The grief wasn’t yours. But it was in you now. The way his memory clung to Corazón like smoke in silk. The way the bond had gone hollow around the edges, not broken but scorched.

Doflamingo’s voice comes low. 

It’s rough, like a thread pulled too tight, frayed and cold at the edges.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for me.”

It doesn’t stab.

It sinks.

Soft, sharp, and slow. Like poison in the bloodstream. Like something said through gritted teeth to stop from breaking, words spoken by someone who knows what he did, knows what he lost, knows how this will echo in the dark of his skull long after the blood fades from the snow. 

Wounded. Like grief opened his mouth, and something too human slipped through.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for me,” he repeats, voice more and more uneven. “You don’t get to weep for my brother, who I shot. You hate me, remember?”

You do. 

You do.

You hate his ego. His violence. The way he smiles like a god and bleeds like a man. You hate how he invaded your life, your head. 

But something’s changed.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not compassion. It’s not some redemptive hope that he’ll be better now.

It’s just... quiet.

The grief sits in your chest like frost behind ribs. It aches. Not for him, maybe. But for the boy he used to be. The one who once shared bread. The one who had a brother.

And Doflamingo, somewhere behind the thorns and silence, feels it. He doesn’t lash out again. He just... withdraws. Like an animal nursing a wound too deep to show. 

And the bond, for the first time since you were a child, feels lonely.

.

.

.

After Corazon dies, there are no more flashes of his sad childhood.

No stray memories drifting in like smoke. No laughter caught in the corners of his thoughts, no soft colors, no cigarettes and coat sleeves, and flickers of humanity slipping past his walls.

Just silence. Heavy and hollow.

Doflamingo hadn’t just lost someone he cared about. He’d lost the best part of him. The last flicker of light still flickering in that rotted, ruined cathedral he called a soul.

And the worst part? He knew it.

You felt the knowledge ooze through the bond like a fever, slow and inescapable. He had done it. He had killed the only man who could’ve softened him.

And now? It was just you and Donquixote Doflamingo. 

Alone in a godless bond. No more buffer. No more brakes.

His voice came through the silence like a knife wrapped in silk. Poisonous, but somehow deflated. Ragged, in a way he didn’t know how to hide.

“So,” he says, poisonous but somehow small beneath it all, “Are you going to run from me too?”

The silence stretched.

Because your first thought—your immediate, unfiltered brain reaction—was:

“I can’t even run a mile without wheezing. You think I’m emotionally or physically equipped for fleeing a war criminal?”

It slipped through the bond before you could catch it.

A pause.

A stunned, dead silence.

Then a sound. Low. Choked. Was that—?

“Did you just—” he started, voice caught between disbelief and something that might’ve been laughter. “I am baring my soul, and you respond with asthma jokes?”

You swallowed, wiping your nose on your sleeve. Your voice came out hoarse.

“You started it. With the whole ‘I shot my brother, don’t pity me’ death soliloquy.”

“It wasn’t a soliloquy,” he snapped, half-heartedly.“It had staging.”

He didn’t respond. But the bond shifted. The grief was still there. Raw. Bleeding.

But something in him exhaled.

-X- End Part One -X-