marcuspikegf

[marcuspikegf]

Fore!!!!

johnny storm x cart girl!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: johnny storm’s favorite way to relax? golf. his favorite part of golfing? the cart girl who pretends not to notice he only ever buys drinks from her wc: 2.5k

masterlist.

It was 7:45 AM, and the clubhouse smelled like sunscreen, lemon cleaner, and gossip.

You stood at your usual prep station behind the bar, loading bottles of water into the cooler on your golf cart. The other cart girls were buzzing around the back room like bees in matching polos, filling chip baskets, adjusting visors, reapplying gloss.

“He’s coming today,” Riley whispered like it was top-secret intel.

You didn’t even look up. “Who?”

“Johnny Storm,” she hissed. “The Human Torch. Hero of New York. Celebrity heartthrob. Walking tan commercial.”

“And my future husband,” Megan added from the other side of the room, tying her ponytail with a pink scrunchie.

You snorted and shook your head, double-checking your cooler inventory. “You guys say that every time he shows up.”

“That’s because it’s true,” Riley said. “He’s hot. Like, literally. And he tips so well.”

“Ten bucks for a soda,” Megan sighed dreamily. “It’s better than what most people tip here and almost romantic.”

“Well,” Riley added, loading up her cart with suspicious speed, “We would know if he ever bought from anyone but you.”

That made you pause.

You turned. “Huh?”

“Come on, don’t play dumb.” Riley leaned on the cart’s edge with a teasing grin. “He only ever buys from you. Every time he comes in. Doesn’t matter if we’re closer, he waits. And then he pretends to be ‘so thirsty’ he needs, like, five drinks at once.”

You blinked. “Maybe he’s just…not thirsty when you drive by?”

They both gave you the flattest look imaginable.

“Girl.”

“I’m serious!” you laughed, pulling on your hat. “He’s nice. He tips generously. That’s it.”

“Sure,” Megan muttered. “And next you’ll tell us the sun rises because it feels like it.”

You climbed into your cart and turned the key, the motor humming to life beneath you.

“You’ll see,” Riley called as you started to drive off. “He’s gonna flirt with you so hard today.”

You waved it off, steering out toward the fairway.

“If he buys anything,” you called back over your shoulder, “it’s because he’s thirsty!”

You didn’t know it yet, but Johnny Storm had already been spotted in the parking lot, hair wind-blown and sunglasses too expensive, asking the front desk what time your shift started.

By the time you hit hole six, the sun was fully up and the course was starting to hum with early morning players. Golfers waved as you passed, some flagging you down for waters or sports drinks, others just offering a nod or a tip of their cap.

And then you spotted him.

Or rather, he spotted you.

Johnny Storm stood at the edge of the green, squinting toward your cart like it was a mirage. He was wearing a baby blue polo that somehow made him look like a country club ad and a celebrity at the same time. His sunglasses were too expensive, his smile too white, and his hair was just…unfair.

He raised both arms in the air like he was greeting a long-lost lover.

You snorted and pulled the cart to a stop beside him. “You act like you haven’t seen me in years.”

“It’s been twelve days,” he said gravely. “I counted. They were dark times.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Did you come here to play golf or flirt with the staff?”

“Yes.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the cooler. “So. What’ll it be? Gatorade? Water? Lemonade? All of them, like last time?”

“Ooh, you remembered. I feel special.”

“You make it very hard to forget.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Say more things like that. I want them printed on a t-shirt.”

You handed him a cold bottle and raised your palm expectantly. “Four dollars.”

He handed you a twenty.

You frowned. “Johnny.”

“Tip included,” he said with a grin. “Plus, emotional damages for how cute you look in that visor.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Also,” he added, grabbing a second drink and holding it up like a prize, “I’ll take a backup hydration bottle. Just in case I pass out from, you know…looking at you too hard.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “Medical emergency. Got it.”

“You’d rescue me, though,” he said, leaning against the cart like he was posing for a calendar. “Right? You’d swoop in and revive me with one of those little pink drinks you keep in the back.”

You gave him a long look. “You’ve never bought the pink drinks.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen you drinking one. And I trust your taste.”

You blinked.

He winked.

Before you could reply, one of his golf buddies called out from down the fairway. “Yo, Romeo! Are you buying drinks or writing sonnets?”

Johnny turned slightly and shouted back, “Both!”

Then he looked at you again, soft, almost sheepish now.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his voice just a touch. “Thanks for always stopping for me.”

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden sincerity. “Of course. It’s literally my job.”

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “But you make it feel like it’s just for me.”

And with that, he grabbed his drink, gave you one last grin, and jogged back toward his group—leaving you stunned, smiling, and not quite sure what just happened.

Back at the clubhouse, Riley and Megan were not going to let this go. You rolled back into the clubhouse around ten, a little sun-dazed and already craving lunch. You parked the cart, unplugged your handheld payment reader, and headed inside with a quiet sigh—only to be met with the sound of whispered chaos.

“Oh my God, look at her. She’s smiling.”

“Did he say something? What did he say?”

“Tell me he finally gave you his number. Please. I need to live through you.”

You paused in the doorway.

Riley and Megan were standing near the ice machine, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, grinning like wolves in visors.

“What?” you asked warily.

“Don’t play innocent,” Megan said, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it your way. “We saw the whole thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We may or may not have started staring from the window when we saw you pull up to hole six,” Riley said sweetly. “You two looked like you were filming a romance movie.”

“He was buying drinks,” you said flatly.

“He bought two drinks and gave you a twenty,” Megan pointed out. “And then lingered. There was leaning. There was eye contact.”

“There was a wink,” Riley added. “Like, a devastatingly flirty one.”

You tried not to smile. Failed.

“He’s just…like that,” you said, cracking open your water. “He flirts with everyone.”

They looked at you like you’d grown three heads.

“He does not flirt with everyone,” Riley said. “He flirts with you. Exclusively.”

“You know how many times I’ve circled past his group?” Megan added. “He doesn’t even blink at us. But the second he sees you, he turns into a lovesick boy with a credit card.”

You walked around the counter, pretending to reorganize the snack bins just to avoid their eyes.

“He’s nice,” you said, shrugging. “And maybe he’s just…really hydrated.”

“Oh my God,” Riley groaned, slumping onto a stool.

“You think he memorized your favorite drink because he’s dehydrated?” Megan asked.

You froze. “Wait, what?”

They both stared. “Oh my god, you didn’t even notice.”

“Notice what?”

“He only buys the pink lemonade ones when you’re drinking them,” Megan said, “Literally. Never before. We started tracking it.”

“There’s tracking?”

“Of course there's tracking.”

You dropped your face into your hands.

“You guys need hobbies.”

“You need to wake up girl,” Riley said. “Or maybe you just need a date with Johnny Storm, who is clearly in love with you.”

You shook your head and muttered, “He’s not.”

But the heat creeping up your neck said maybe, just maybe, you weren’t totally convinced anymore.

The next few days followed a pattern.

A stupid, suspicious pattern.

Johnny kept showing up to the course. Not every day, that’d be too obvious, but often enough that Riley and Megan kept score on the whiteboard in the breakroom. “Storm Watch: Day 3,” complete with tally marks and doodles of flames.

And every time he showed up? Same routine.

He waved at you, not anyone else. Waited for your cart to circle around. Ordered the same exact drink as whatever you were sipping.

Once, you were chewing watermelon gum and he pulled out the same kind from his pocket like it was totally normal.

“Wow,” you’d said, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re in sync,” he’d replied, grinning. “You’re the trendsetter. I’m just trying to keep up.”

You rolled your eyes. But your face had felt warm for the rest of the afternoon.

Today, it was even weirder.

You’d just pulled into hole fourteen when you spotted him, not at his usual tee spot, but loitering by the water cooler, clearly waiting.

You slowed the cart.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on hole fifteen?” you called out.

“Took a shortcut,” he said, stretching his arms overhead in a way that was definitely on purpose. “Was hoping to run into you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You realize we sell drinks at every hole, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But they’re not your drinks.”

You blinked. “…That’s the dumbest line I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re smiling, though.”

You were. Damn him.

He leaned an elbow against the cart roof, getting a little too comfortable.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping just slightly, “you could let me take you out for a drink sometime.”

Your stomach did a weird little flip.

“Is that a line, or…?”

“It’s an invitation,” he said.

“Right,” you muttered, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler.

He took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours.

“Hydration and heartbreak prevention,” he said, grinning. “You saying yes might save me.”

You scoffed. “You’ll survive.”

“Maybe. Barely.”

He lingered for a second too long, then turned and jogged off, turning around twice to wave at you, like he couldn’t help himself.

Back at the clubhouse, you stared at the cooler for a long time.

You didn’t say anything.

But the next morning, you made sure to stock extra of his favorite drink. Just in case.

The course was quiet that morning.

Overcast skies meant fewer players, and the usual buzz of golf carts and distant cheers was replaced by birdsong and the occasional low rumble of thunder somewhere far off.

You were parked under a tree by the edge of hole nine, flipping through your phone and sipping a half-warm coffee, when footsteps approached from the fairway.

You looked up.

“You again,” you said, trying not to smile.

Johnny jogged over, hair pushed back by the wind, no sunglasses today. Just him, his face open, unguarded. His polo sleeves pushed up. A little less “celebrity,” a little more boy next door.

“You’re hiding,” he said, stopping at your cart.

“I’m on break.”

“Break from selling drinks or from being the most popular girl on the course?”

You rolled your eyes. “Still trying to flirt?”

“No,” he said, softer now. “Just…trying to talk to you.”

You paused.

He nodded toward the passenger seat. “Can I sit?”

You motioned for him to hop in.

He did, folding his arms loosely and leaning back. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked out at the trees, the pale gray clouds, the stillness of the course.

“This is my favorite part,” he said eventually. “When it’s quiet. Before it gets loud again.”

You glanced at him. “Didn’t take you as a ‘quiet moment’ type.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah, most people don’t. They think I like the flash, the attention. And I do. I mean…I did. Kind of still do.”

He picked at the label of the water bottle in his hands.

“But this place? It’s the only place I don’t have to be on.”

“You come here to hide?”

“Not hide. Just…breathe.”

You watched him for a second, heart slowing.

He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t trying. He was just being.

You took a sip of your coffee, watching a leaf swirl across the grass. “Why me?”

“What?”

“You could buy drinks from anyone. But you wait for me. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Because you don’t treat me like a headline.”

That caught you off guard.

“You’re funny,” he continued. “You’re smart. You’re not trying to get anything out of me. You see me, and I think… I think I like the version of me you see. It feels better than the one everyone else wants.”

Your chest tightened.

He turned to look at you, eyes warm, a little nervous.

“And okay, yeah, you’re gorgeous, and I like your smile, and you say things that make me spiral in the best way, but it’s more than that. You make this place feel real. You make me feel real.”

The silence after was soft. Not awkward. Just heavy with truth.

You fiddled with the corner of a napkin in your lap.

“You’re not what I expected,” you murmured.

“Is that a good thing?”

You met his gaze.

“Yeah. I think it is.”

It happened at the end of your shift.

The sun was low, casting long shadows across the course. Your cooler was empty, your sleeves smelled like sunscreen and lemon Gatorade, and all you could think about was getting off your feet and into your car.

You were wheeling your cart back to the clubhouse when you saw him.

Johnny was leaning against one of the wooden posts near the exit path, hands in his pockets, still in that slightly rumpled polo like he hadn't moved since his last round.

You slowed the cart.

“You lose something?” you asked, teasing.

“Kinda,” he said, pushing off the post. “I was waiting for you.”

You stepped off the cart, tilting your head. “You already bought four drinks and a granola bar. You can’t possibly be that thirsty.”

He gave you a small smile, but it was different this time, nervous. Real.

“I figured if I waited until you were off-duty, you’d have to talk to me like a person and not a customer.”

“You’ve never acted like a customer,” you said softly.

“Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was kind of hoping you’d notice.”

He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to you.

A drink.

One of your pink lemonades.

Only this time, written across the label in marker were five simple words:

“Call me if you’re ready.”

And beneath it? His phone number.

You looked at it. Then at him.

“This is cute,” you said, smiling. “A little cheesy. But cute.”

“Yeah, well. I panicked. I was gonna say something cooler, but then I thought maybe you’d like this better.”

You ran your thumb over the writing.

“I do,” you said. “Like it better.”

He brightened.

“Does that mean…?”

“Yeah, Johnny. I think I’m finally thirsty.”

He broke into the biggest grin you’d ever seen, sun-drenched and boyish and so obviously relieved.

“Cool,” he said. “Cool cool cool. So I’ll, uh, be ready whenever you are. No pressure. I can wait. I’ve been waiting. Just didn’t want to keep showing up and not say something because my friend Ben said I was acting like a sap with no game and-”

You leaned up and kissed his cheek, warm and quick.

He froze mid-ramble.

You smirked. “Maybe bring me a drink next time.”

“You got it,” he breathed. “I’ll bring a whole cooler.”

[marcuspikegf]

think i might be offline for a bit, have to type so many emails

[marcuspikegf]

i am not who i was

pairing: Frankie Morales x gn! reader

tags: soft! Frankie, fluff, emotional intimacy, healing, comfort, Frankie deserves good things, mention of addiction

summary: Frankie never thought he deserved softness. You show him otherwise.

word count: ~ 810

Highly inspired by this song, I'd recommend listening to while reading <3

You and Frankie have been a couple for a while now, and somehow, it exceeds every quiet hope you once folded away. 

He’s attentive, loving, funny in that dry, self-deprecating way and everything you didn’t know you needed. He’s the blueprint, the antidote to the ache, the reason you almost forget the mess of every man that came before him.

Tonight you met his friends—faces to the names, voices to the stories. The tequila flowed and the jokes were relentless.

Frankie was a tiny bit tipsy, adorably handsy, fingers brushing your knee beneath the table like he couldn’t help it. You drove the two of you back in his truck, his warmth heavy beside you, his hand in yours like it belonged there.

You only switch on one dim lamp when you get inside, a soft amber glow pooling in the hallway so he doesn’t trip. He still curses under his breath when his boot clips the leg of the coffee table.

You head to the kitchen, prepare a snack and grab water. He takes both from you with a quiet “Gracias,” eyes soft and a little glassy in the light. His smile is faint but grateful.

Later, you tug him into bed, the tequila still whispering through his limbs, regret clinging to him like smoke. He sinks into the mattress beside you with a sigh like the weight of everything is just a little too much tonight.

You curl into him, nuzzle your face into the curve of his neck, your leg slung lazily over his hips. His hand finds your thigh like second nature. The fairy lights above your bed glow golden, your breath synced in a quiet rhythm. The city murmurs outside, but here, it’s still. Still in the way your mind rarely is. Still in the way only he can give you.

The silence stretches long, warm and weightless. You’re almost asleep when his voice breaks through it—low, rough from disuse and liquor.

“Didn’t know it could feel like this…”

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. You feel it too, even if it hasn’t been named yet. Whatever it is—it hums in the quiet. It finds its shape in the way he holds you.

“Mmhmm,” you hum against his temple, lips brushing the skin. “Me neither.”

He exhales, a shaky breath that trembles through your chest too.

“I didn’t think I deserved this.”

Your heart clenches. You lift your head a little, look at him in the soft dark.

“Of course you do, Frankie. You’re a good man.”

He scoffs, soft and bitter. “I killed people.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That was your job.”

He pauses. “Yeah. But the coke wasn’t.”

His grip tightens on your thigh like he’s bracing for the worst. For judgment. For you to flinch away.

But you don’t. You cover his hand with yours, anchor him.

“No,” you say gently. “But it was your way of surviving. You saw awful things, Frankie. You needed a way to keep going.”

He shifts a little, forehead pressing to yours now, his breath mixing with yours. “You don’t treat me like I’m broken,” he whispers. “Everyone else does. Even when they don’t mean to. But you… you just see me.”

You smile, barely there, and kiss the warm spot just beneath his ear where his pulse stutters wildly.

“Because you’re not broken,” you murmur. “You’re still whole. Maybe scarred. Maybe tired. But still whole.”

Your hand rests above his heart. The heart of a man who still sometimes flinches in his sleep. The quiet caretaker with eyes like warm earth, who folds your laundry with military precision but never remembers where he put his keys. The boy he used to be and the man he’s still learning how to become, slow and stumbling, but never stopping.

“I love you.”

Soft. Hoarse. Like it ripped its way out of him without permission.

You freeze and the world tilts.

Your eyes flutter open again, meeting his in the low light. He’s watching you, vulnerable and unguarded in a way he rarely lets himself be. Something in his face cracks open—a glimpse into the deep well of feeling he keeps usually hidden. 

Your voice is steady when you answer. “If you still feel it when you’re sober, tell me again.”

He smiles. A small, crooked thing that reaches his eyes. The kind of smile that makes your heart do somersaults anytime. 

“I will.”

And then he sinks. Into you. Into this. Into the kind of safety he’s never known how to accept. Your hands in his hair, your breath at his jaw, your warmth wrapped around him like a blanket he didn’t believe he was allowed to ask for.

Francisco Morales, all sharp edges and quiet grief, lets the softness hold him tonight.

And for the first time in a long, long time he doesn’t resist it.

thanks for reading 💌

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[marcuspikegf]

harry castillo x single mom! reader

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

wordcount: 3.4k | requests are open | about me + masterlist

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :)

a joel miller x single mom! reader if anyone’s interested here.

summary: it's a rainy day in nyc, a couple of months after the breakup and harry castillo accidentally trips over into the cutest 3 year old and and meets her mother too.

warnings: warning this is so cute your teeth will ROT (no warnings just fluff fluff fluff). in my head there was an age gap of 20 something years reader is a single mother but really it can be any age u want, not rlly specified, reader just knows airdrop better than this old man HAH. i think i used like y/n once like. thrice. afab reader, you have a daughter. your ex husband died like 3 years ago.

authors note: i was stuck in the city in the rain today and this idea POSESSED ME. and i had to write it plz cut me some slack it's 5am when i'm posting this i havent slept a wink just i've been writing this. no capitals, its just a lot of yapping this fic, it's a new style of writing. pls let me know if this is shit so i can go back to my old style, this is much more like. idk. stream of thought. pls let me know if anyone wants a sequel, if not this is just a oneshot. so not my ancient rome posessed ass usual...but thats OK. HARRY IS SUCH A GIRLDAD. reblogs and likes and follows are actually just love. ok brb im going to bed now...! (edit, i just woke up) OMG i am so glad u guys like this. i hope u guys like maya she is so cute and teeny and will be using harry has her new climbing frame. reader is just a frazzled single mom who loves her daughter very much. harry realises that a family is something he can still have. i fear i am in the baby fever trenches.

new york in the rain is always…something else entirely. after the break up with lucy, after everything, the summer comes with patchy spells of rain, like clockwork. manhattan’s large buildings cover him from most of the rain, but the road halfway to his office has been blocked since yesterday night, due to emergency works in the pipeline, and he has to walk the last half a mile. and anyway, he’s given this morning off to his driver. the cab driver’s dropped him off here, and now it’s just him and this stretch of road that he has to walk through, and flag another cab on the other side. 

he would obviously rather not do such a thing, because. well — his suit is silk and well tailored, and he wears freshly polished oxfords on his feet he’d rather not get scuffed. it’s almost 9, and he is so ridiculously far away from the financial district, it’s embarrassing. this was not a good time to be late for work, especially not late for work in drenched clothes and no umbrella. he had a reputation to uphold, in the office at least. 

the rain falls harder, and he starts walking faster, head hunched over his phone on the pavement, he needs to call his assistant, let her know that no he will not be showing up today, and yes he will be there for the meeting by 12. should be anyway. 

a splash, and he feels water coat his trousers. they’re grey, and anyone  can see the damn water stains on them now. it’s muddy water too, splotches against his calves and his ankles. he looks up from his screen, to see the offending person who’s splashed his $700 suit. 

to his surprise, it’s a child in a yellow raincoat. excited as she jumps up and down, her brown hair in plaits as she runs into puddles, a jump, a dart, and then she’s out again, stomping her feet onto every single divot where water has gathered.

he smiles at that, anger being washed away as the rain falls. 

and then his eyes land on you, running behind what could only be your daughter. you share the same eyes, the same face shape, you’ re basically mirroring every movement of hers, haphazardly. long hair tied into a bun, you look frazzled, exhausted. 

“maya!” you shout, chasing after your daughter with the umbrella in one hand; attempting to not have it blow away by the wind. the other hand reaches out for her, but not before she trips over his oxfords, scuffing them, tumbling into a puddle.

it’s right in front of him, and a child’s just fallen down, he doesn’t have any children, but he isn’t heartless. 

he stops his speed walking, and holds out his pointer finger for her to grab, and she does so with her tiny hands, wrapping around his finger, tugging at it. she stands up with a little “oof”, and he can see the scrape on her cheek from when she hit the floor, the muddy water on her face, leaving behind a grubby stain. suddenly, something overwhelms him, and he crouches down to her level, to wipe away a little of the grit that’s pressed against her cheek. 

“oh my god, i am so sorry about that!” you say, out of breath, as you catch up to the two of them. he looks at you, and then your daughter. it’s almost as if you’ve managed to copy and paste yourself, a smaller version of you with the same bright eyes, even if yours have been dulled by��well. he doesn’t know. life? 

“it’s no worries.” he smiles back, still not standing up, his hands linger over the child’s cheek, the scrape bleeding a little, “hey, is she okay?”

you scrub your face with your hands, and crouch down to your daughter, and he realises that you’re short, quite a bit shorter than him, anyway.

“maya, angel, are you okay?” you wipe the blood away off her skin, the red staining your thumb as your eyes mist up. you hate to see her in pain, that much is obvious. 

“otay.” she holds up her thumb in agreement, and nods. harry’s a little surprised kids can be like that, all soft one moment, all solid the next. she scrunches up her nose, and her fringe sticks to her forehead, she can’t be any more than three, a toddler running loose in new york on a wednesday morning. sure, that might as well happen, he think. 

“mumma’s still going to check, okay?” you kiss her cheek, and then straighten up, lifting her up in one swoop. he takes it as a cue to stand up too, shaking his arm, and picking up the umbrella you’ve dropped to pick your daughter up.

“your umbrella..?” is literally all he can manage, because his stomach is doing flip flops right now, looking at you. you, with the pretty eyes, fogged up glasses perched on your head. you’re wearing formal wear, a blouse and a floral skirt, and your daughter smiles looking at him holding out the umbrella.

“umbella.” her small hands try and grab it, but there’s no way she’ll be able to hold it, and so he keeps a grip on it, steady.

“i don’t think i have any room for it.” you huff, “you keep it mister!” you wave at him, with your left hand, “seems like you need it.”

no ring.

so why did he notice that?

you smile at him, and he smiles back, before you start walking towards the nearest open coffee shop.

and then he jogs up to them, “hey! miss!” what’s possessing him to do this? he’s fifty for god’s sake, and he sounds like a nineteen year old with a crush.

you turn back, and see him holding out the umbrella for you, “yeah..?”

“your daughter tripped over my shoes,” he sounds sheepish, “let me buy you a coffee, it’s the least i can do ma’am.”

you frown for a second, and then hear the thunderclap, look at the downpour. “okay…yeah, sure. okay, why not.”

maya curls around your neck at the sound of the thunderclap, and the sight squeezes something in his heart. you soothe her with a kiss to her forehead and a stroke on her hair.

“she can’t stand thunderstorms.” you say, nodding at her, “i’m trying to get her to nursery, but the subway wasn’t working? they’re saying the tracks got flooded?”

“they need to fix that, sooner or later.” but he hasn’t used the subway in years, his driver takes him everywhere. 

“mhm.” you agree, and the two of you step into the coffee shop, it’s upscale, the ones that sell the bags of their own brand, artisanal coffee in store too. 

your daughter — maya — with her brown plaits, blinks up when she smells coffee. and then snuggles back into you again. she’s so tiny, with her little hands playing with the loose strands of hair around your neck. is this what he’s missing out on?

“so, what do you want, anything, it’s on me.” he says, putting the umbrella back in it’s case, and putting it in the empty water bottle holder of your bag. 

you frown, and then look down at your daughter. “what do you want baby?” 

he didn’t expect you to ask her what she wanted, he just thought you’d get something expensive and leave, what with him inconveniencing you. instead you ask maya, and she murmurs something in your ear.

“have you been here before?” you ask, frowning as he reads the menu. 

“this is a chain, there’s one near my work place in the financial district.” he says, noncommittally, there’s no reason to tell her what he does, not yet. 

“oh okay,” you say, and then you whisper back to your daughter, “i think if you ask the nice man, he’ll know more than me, okay baby?”

she nods, and then peeks her head out of the crook of her mother’s neck. 

“hi.” she says, her voice oh so delicate.

“hi.” he says, a little awkwardly, he’s not great with kids. never has been, probably never will be. 

“what’s ‘our name.” she asks it so confidently, it throws him off. in the middle of the line for the counter. you laugh at that, and harry thinks he quite likes the sound of your laugh. 

“i’m harry castillo, but you can call me harry.” he holds out his finger again, and she shakes it with her little hand.

“go on, ask mr castillo the question.” you prompt her, gently.

“otay.” she frowns, like she’s remembering. “what’s really sweet here? mumma says i can’t have sweets at home. your teeth get holes. but what’s super sweet here?”

he laughs at that, and you shake your head, “maya! you don’t have to tell mr castillo about home baby.” but he wants to hear about home, he wants to hear about how silly it is raising a child, what your home is like, what maya is like, what you are like.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.” home for him is a huge penthouse with nobody inside. so really, anything is interesting to him.

“otay. can ou tell me what’s sweet here?” she asks, more seriously.

he hums, looking at the menu. “maybe the caramel hot chocolate it’s caramel and chocolate.”

you smile at that and so does maya, matching smiles on your faces, why does it light up the room, why does that light up his morning.

you get to the counter quickly, and he tells the barista what to order, putting his card to the machine before you can even see that he’s picked out two pastries for you two too. is the total $28? yes, but that’s a small price to pay, for everything.

you sit at the couch with your daughter beside you, and the barista calls out “maya!” 

you watch as he picks up the plates and cup from the counter, and brings it to you. your daughters eyes widen, and she starts drinking from the cup with the straw.

“you don’t have to do this!” you push the cinnamon bun towards him, your daughter has unfortunately already got her hands on the glazed cherries, and has them in her fist right now, “please, let me pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine, really.” he still has that awkward smile, “i did trip your daughter up.”

“by accident, and it’s fine, kids fall over all the time.”

“but are you sure she seems okay?” he frowns, and he notices your eyes catch his hands. 

“she’s fine, i promise, it’s nothing more than a little graze, see?” you point to her cheek, and the scrape has scabbed over already. 

“and her head and everything…?” he says, and you smile again, more reassuringly.

“yes,” you take a sharp breath, “kids are meant to survive, i promise, she’s okay.”

“oh.” he says, quietly, “okay.”

“no worries mr castillo, thank you so much, maya will be raving about this for days now.” you smile at him, genuine gratitude, and it’s at this moment where he realises that he would spoil you and maya forever. if he could.

“i didn’t catch your name..?” he asks, gentle smile on his face.

“oh yeah, of course, it’s (y/n).” your focus is on your daughter now, who asks if you can cut up the cherry turnover into smaller pieces for her. it’s clear you have no idea who the hell he is, and he’d rather it stay the way.

it’s cute, how quickly maya smiles at him, how you smile at him. he walks up to the counter to get another paper straw as the one in maya’s cup starts to disintegrate, and the barista there smiles at him.

“lovely family you’ve got there.” she says, handing the straw over, “your daughter looks just like your wife, except she’s got your smile.”

those words make him freeze. daughter, wife. you just met them half an hour ago, and suddenly you do look like you and maya would suit his apartment better, suddenly it looks like maya’s little smile looks a little like his own. 

“oh that’s…” he trails off, just take the win man, you aren’t going to get a wife and child. not at your age, his mind thinks. “thank you.”

“no worries, have a nice day!”

and he walks back to the couch where the two of you sit, sitting across you again. 

“here’s the straw.” he hands it over, and you swap out the straw that’s broken for the other one. 

“thanks.” you smile, and nudge your daughter.

“tanks mr catillo.” she sniffles, and then sips the hot chocolate again.

“it’s harry, and it’s fine, really.”

is it? his heart is melting. 

“do you have anywhere to be later?” he asks, and your smile turns into a frown quickly. that was a silly question.

“yeah, work. maya can’t stay without me too long in weather like this, so i’m just taking her to work with me.” you sigh, “i mostly work from home, but the office says you need to come in on wednesdays.”

“oh, which way are you going?” he asks, and you shrug.

“midtown, i work at a tech company, but i doubt i’ll be anywhere at this time of day.”

he laughs at that, all rich like butter and biscuits. “yeah, fair enough, i’m trying to get to the financial district without looking like a wet rat.”

you smile at him, and he can feel your eyes ghost over his curls. “no, i don’t think you look like a wet rat mr castillo.”

“it’s harry.” he sighs, and leans over the table, maya mimicks him and does the same. they’re content in making silly faces at each other for a bit as you scroll through your inbox. 

“i’ve never seen her take to someone so quick.” there’s a smile on your face, proud. “she’s always very shy, but she loves jumping up in the rain.”

he hasn’t thought of lucy, or matchmaking, or anything right now. just the woman in front of him, with the child currently blowing a raspberry at him. 

“maybe i just have a trustworthy aura.” he smiles, all charm.

“or maybe it’s because you gave her three sources of sugar.” but there’s no bite to your words, not really, “thanks, i can’t wait for the sugar crash that’s going to come next.”

maya has a fringe that sticks to her face with the rain, and your glasses that are fogged up sit on your hair, and you smile at him like he’s the only man alive.

oh god. he’s sunk in so deep, it’s ridiculous.

and he doesn’t even know if you’re single, available, whatever. no ring doesn’t mean, no father.

“can’t you give her to her father?” he blurts out, and your vision darkens.

“no, um, maya’s dad died two months after she was born.” you shake your head. “daddy’s with the stars now, isn’t he?” you say, in hushed tones to your daughter, but it’s like you’re saying it for yourself.

“oh.” he gets quiet again, “sorry about that.” 

“no it’s fine, really.” you say, with some resolution in your voice. the sun is finally peeking out of the clouds, and this magical moment has to come to an end, soon anyway. 

maya burrows into your chest again as you coax her to stand up, she doesn’t want to walk any longer, and harry doesn’t know how long you’ve been walking for anyway. without a single thought, he picks up your daughter like she weighs nothing.

maya shrieks with laughter, this is higher up than she’s used to.

you just stare at him with narrowed eyes, but he just sort of stands there, six feet tall with a child perched in his arms, waiting for you to say something.

you huff, and then close your eyes, as if to say “i’m trusting you with this.” and then your eyes harden, “if you hurt her..”

his face blanches, but he still holds onto her like she’s precious, and she is precious, with freckles on her face and bright eyes like she’s the sun incarnate. 

she sits on his shoulders once you leave the coffee shop, the water is drying quickly and there aren’t too many people on the streets. your eyes still linger on your daughter, but also trail over his broad shoulders and broad back. 

tugging at his hair with her small hands, squishing his face, “don’t pull mr castillo’s hair.” you scold.

“it’s fine really.” 

“are you sure?” you ask, worried.

“i’m sure.” he nods, and maya is folding over his face now, dangling her face against his. 

“do ‘ou like cheese? stars make noises? can ‘ou read?” rapid fire questions that come out of her mouth. you smile as he painstakingly answers them “yes i like cheese, i don’t know about stars sorry, and yes i can read.”

she hums thoughtfully, and then sits back up, playing with his hair. the blocked off road is coming to an end now, and you reach at her feet, in little wellington booties. 

“cmon now, time to say goodbye to mr castillo.” he’s given up correcting you.

“arry.” she says, sadly, hand still in his hair.

“careful now maya-bear, mumma has to go to office, you need to come with me okay?” you reach out for her? and harry tries to pass her down, but her hands pull at his shirt.

“come on now.” you coax her again, “you can see mr castillo later on, okay?” and she clambers off him, and onto you. 

“thank you for that.” you whisper, gratefully. 

“no worries miss.” he smiles, a blush on his cheeks. god what he wouldn’t do to have a family like this, a wife and his own child, running around. then he wouldn’t even have to tell them to go. 

“it’s (y/n),” you clear your throat, “it’s fine, call me that and i’ll call you harry.”

“(y/n) it is then.”

“right—“ you put maya down, and let her walk beside you, holding onto your hand. “this is where we say goodbye, right?”

a feeling in his chest. would this be his last chance?

“are you free tomorrow evening?” he asks, far too quickly. 

“tomorrow..evening..?” you stutter, “um, maybe? i dunno, i’ll have to check, probably not though, mayasitting .”

“oh, i was just wondering if you wanted to get some dinner.”

“oh, OH.” you blush, “right, like. that. and this is dinner dinner, and not just, dinner.”

“…what?” he knits his brows.

“no, i mean, never mind.” you shake your head, maya pulling at your hand to turn right. “like, dinner as in. like feeling bad for a single mom sort of dinner or-“

“no, date dinner.” he likes when you stumble over your words, it’s cute.

“ah, date dinner.” you hum, “yeah okay, if you’re okay with maya coming.” a protective hand on her head. “i’m not going anywhere without her, or your house.”

“no, of course.” he glances down at maya, “of course she can come. there’s a nice pizza joint in downtown manhattan that you should come visit. it’s near my office.”

your lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile, “okay, yeah, sure, i’d like that. would you like it maya?”

maya grabs onto his trouser clad leg with her grabby little hands (sticky with sugar from the pastries) “PIZZA!”

“okay, so that’s decided then.” your mouth is dry as you watch him smile down at her and shake her hand again. he’s so good with your girl, it makes your heart thud, “can i get your number?”

he nods, and then passes over a business card, and you laugh as you read over it. “i meant maybe airdropping my contact over? but this works fine too.”

greying hair, wrinkles around his eyes, sure he’s not your usual type, a a bit older, but you haven’t dated since your husband died anyway. 

you ring the number you’ve just inputted, and his phone rings. “save me right now, so you can find me faster.”

“okay, okay.” he puts your name down, “see you six pm? i’ll send the location over?”

( maya doesn’t let go of his leg until she’s promised she’ll see him tomorrow, 200%, and somewhere in his shattered broken heart, a seed of hope grows. )

thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! any comments are very appreciates. lots of loveeee angie

[marcuspikegf]

PEDRO PASCAL as CLINT FLOOD Freaky Tales (2024) | dir. Anna Boden & Ryan Fleck

[marcuspikegf]

ted garcia x mayor’s assistant! reader

falling in love over outlook, or something like that.

this honestly came to me after rotating ted garcia in my brain and watching parks and rec.

ted garcia answers his own emails, but the mayor of the sister city decidedly does not.

or, the one where there’s sister cities, outlook and zoom calls. you are mayor edmund’s assistant in florence, california , a small beach town that had a thriving fishing business in the 70s, that could use some help from it’s sister town now. you do all the busy work for her, organise files and reply to emails (as her of course.) when the mayor of eddington actually emails back quickly, you start an email chain, and it gets long, fast. and somewhere im the notifications you fall in love.

sneak peeks idk, there’s still 30 minutes of wip wednesday left for me!

as always let me know if you wanna be tagged!!! okthankyoubyeeee (i have to send….soo many emails)

[marcuspikegf]

wip wednesday!

(is it a wip if it’s a published chapter of an ongoing work?….leave me aloooooone 😭 i wanted to join in)

from my joel miller x single mom! reader fic :) check it out if you liked these snippets!!

[marcuspikegf]

joel miller x single mom! reader (pt 2)

𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐯����𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞

wordcount 3k | requests are open | part one here | about me + masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....| find me on ao3 here

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :) everyone who reblogs i love you so VERY much

summary: sometimes, living with the grief of sarah and her mother's death haunts him. and one aimless drive leads to meeting a single mother who ran away with her eleven month old baby. no outbreak au.

warnings: MENTIONS but no actual scenes of spousal abuse (from reader’s husband NOT joel joel is a sweetheart) mentions of death and grief (sarah and tess)  apart from that? so much fluff. tooth rotting, dentist calling fluff. oldman joel swandiving in love. age gap? joel is 40ish and reader is 25/30? afab reader. reader's husband is an abusive asshole. lots of sweetness and domesticity. joel is such a girl dad and has all the fatherly instincts!!!

authors note: so it’s 4:30am….OOPS. i don’t think i can ever sleep at a normal time. my phone also broke so i have to do this on my old phone now, but i will always continue writing silly goofy stuff 5ever. i'm not just in the baby fever trenches, i've become a lieutenant in the baby fever trench. idk what to tell you i’m actually possessed, hiding behind my hands etc. i think i just want a baby and a big strong man to save me.  i don’t know what to tell you. i give up i’m not strong enough to resist baby fever. i am also not american, i actually do not know anything about america. tbf. reader could be read as an immigrant who is new to the country, if you wish, because that's how it is in my mind. again this is a new style of writing...no capitals just vibes. this might have a continuation...idk pls tell me if this is bad so we can just scrap it. this is so self indulgent.... reblogs and likes and comments and follows are actually just love. LET JOEL HAVE CHILDREN AND A FAMILY AND BE HAPPY MAN. Wtf. where is the harry castillo fic??? guys it’s coming trust me. where is the johnny storm fic?? guyyssss its coming truuust me. god i love reader and violet so much, they’ve been through so much and just want happiness and deserve a hug. why shouldn’t they. be happy. let everyone be happy. this is just fluff. and angst. fluff and angst and romance and schmoop. reader loves her daughter very very very much….why do i only post in random hours of the night???guys omg i formatted it so BADLY and forgot a few key things the first time round and its not letting me edit it iM going insane (this is me with 10:45am awake girl brain speaking) a prince rupert's drop is a glass bead created when dropping glass into water and it created a teardrop shaped piece of glass. they can withstand high levels of stress (like a hammer being smashed on the drop end) but if the tail is even slightly damaged the whole thing explodes..

the road stretches on for what feels like hours, and he’s almost afraid to look at you. you look so fragile as you hold on tightly to your daughter, as if you could break. but your eyes, there is something in your eyes, determination. 

you remind him of something he picked up when he was doing glasswork, all those years ago. a prince rupert’s drop is what his boss had called it, a teardrop shaped piece of glass. the tear could every stress pressed upon it, but the tail would cause the whole thing to explode every time you hit it too hard. 

he doesn’t have to pick up hammers anymore, everything he does is pencil on paper. planning. but his hands remember, calluses and pieces of glass that had to be picked out by tess with tweezers.

he blinks away the memory. this is not tess, this is not sarah. this is you, with your eyes that look like crystals in the night sky, holding your daughter. 

“ma’am?” he says, gently as he can in his rough voice. it doesn't look like she’s paying attention, eyes simply open, gazing at the world as it whips past.

it’s dark, the navy of night has taken over now. stars in the sky, and he misses sitting up with sarah watching the night sky. a twang in his gut, and he hasn’t managed to let go of it yet. ten years since he’s sat out in the field, looked up at the night sky to spot the stars. 

you blink as he nudges you, sleepily. tears are crusted over, tracks running down your cheeks. you’re as exhausted as your daughter, but she’s not the one who has to stay awake. you do. for her. 

“mummy loves you bubba.” you say, instinctively, kissing the top of her soft little head, curls that are wild and pinned back with a little pink ribbon clip. the same one that had caught his eye in the car window. he takes it as a cue to move back, and so he settles back down on his seat, pulling into a gas station. 

he steps out of the car, and the door closes with a heavy thud. something’s possessed him between when he set off on this drive and now. something in him that rises up in heat and pain when he sees you two curled up in his front seat. the bruise on your jaw, your daughter curled up in your arms.

he picks up some formula milk, remembers not being able to afford boxes of it with sarah and tess, but this is not sarah and tess. he has to remind himself firmly. you are not tess, that is not sarah. and he takes two cans of 6-12 months. 

gatorade, a loaf of bread, a pack of diapers, dried fruit snacks. all the best a gas station can give, and he taps his card quickly to return back to the car. to you. violet still curled up on you. you’re still half asleep ( fatigued more like, his mind supplies helpfully. ) and your eyes slip closed. your hands are wrapped around your daughter, and so he nudges you again with his shoulder.

“hey, ma’am, i got you something.” he offers, holding out the gatorade. it’s blue and sloshes in the bottle. 

you blink, and tilt your head, before looking down pointedly at your daughter, and shushing. he laughs, in that silly, warm way. you run a tight ship. 

he doesn’t really think about the next step. he just twists the cap off, and tilts it to your mouth. it’s terribly intimate, in a way that makes his heart fall out of his stomach. or would have, if you don’t accept it. instead you just take it, and drink from the bottle.

the flavour is salty and sweet, and you frown, but drink a few sips anyway. he half leans over you, and he is so much bigger than you. you don’t know why you trust him, so much so, perhaps you have run for too long.

you close your mouth after a few sips, and he takes it as a sign to move it away. moment lost between the two of you, the snap of a stick before the deer runs away. 

“thank you.” you say, softly. 

“don’t worry about it.” is all he gives back. 

don’t worry about it is how things go, and he keeps on driving for a little while longer. the suburbs in austin, the cushy house with three floors. it’s too empty, and he hates it. he’s managed to convince himself this is the best way, even if you would insist on motels. you don’t look like you ran with much with you, the bag almost half empty. and he would never let the kid sit in a motel room where the sheets got washed once a month. 

violet. pretty, big eyes that now lie shut. hands that batted against her mothers chest in curled fists, untamed hair that looked far too much like his for his own comfort. so unlike sarah, and yet he still feels the urge to protect her, keep her safe. 

he’s already pulled up to his driveway, and the car’s come to a stop. there’s still no place with a motel for hours, and this, this would be better for the both of you. you’ve fallen asleep too, eyes finally slipping shut half an hour ago. your hands still hold onto your daughter, like you’re worried she’d be pulled away from you.

what are you running from?

he takes your daughter gently, lifting her up from your arms. a small whine escapes you as she’s slipped away, but you don’t wake, eyelids just fluttering before sleep and exhaustion pull you down again. 

it’s terribly intimate, in a way that he never thought he would have again. terribly intimate in a way he never thought he would have when he left this evening to drive to nowhere, and get back for nobody. 

it’s almost been fifteen years since he’s taken care of a baby, sarah would have been fifteen this year. old enough to drive cars and two years away from college. he’d be picking out a new car with her and tess, or whatever it is people do. but he is not with tess, he is with you and your “bubba” as you call her.

his hands are steady as he lays her down onto the guest bed, barely touched in the years he’s been here. nobody visits often anyway. 

his hands shake as he picks you up in a bridal carry, in the moonlight you look even more malnourished. paler than what you’re supposed to look like, dark circles sunken into your face, your hair is recently washed and tangled, tied into ponytail that didn’t really hold all your hair back. pieces of it falling everywhere.

so he carries you over the threshold. and doesn’t think about it. because if he did, he’ll have to realise that he’s already a tiny bit (a huge bit) in love with you. 

you blink up at him, with your bleary eyes as he lays you down on the bed next to your daughter, bag by your feet. 

“hope it’s comfortable ma’am.” he bites his lip, unsure. and you just nod, so tired. your eyes are tired, and your head pounds with exhaustion, and you wonder how lucky you are that this man had shown up when he did. 

he steps back, and walks out. life takes and takes and you have nothing left to give. and yet you give him your trust. 

a yawn, and then on autopilot you start changing your daughter, before you curl up and go to bed beside her. outside, he dares to look at a picture of tess and sarah, and closes his eyes. 

you wake up in the morning, without the ache of fingertips gripping your arms. you wake up in the morning without the heavy weight of your daughter’s father’s arm on your waist, caging you in. you wake up in the morning and the sunlight flows through the half open blinds, the sway of the trees is loud through the windows, and you wake up in the morning, and there is peace.

you can hear the birds singing (there is nobody shouting at you), the sound of the cars passing by (there is nobody shouting at you), and even the sound of something sizzling

your hands are empty, and suddenly your peace turns into panic. where is your daughter?!

you stand up, legs still wobbly from not eating in over 30 hours, from driving for at least 20 of those hours. fuck, fuck. and the bedroom is unfamiliar and the bed is strange, the room is dark and warm with mahogany furniture and a corkboard with random dates on it that you don’t quite understand. 

“bubba!” you shout out, but your legs are faster than your brain, and you stumble out of the bedroom. the stairs are looming, but you rush down them, one step behind the other, and it doesn’t seem like enough.

then, you hear it. your daughter babbling. saying something in absolute gibberish, and a laugh following it. rugged, gravelly, and he whispers something softly in reply.

you take the last few steps quietly, socked feet against the hardwood floor. your’re still wearing your summer dress, and at this point it’s on you for too long. 

“i think your mom is looking for you.” he says, gently, and walks to the foyer, your daughter in his arms. he balances her on his hip with one hand, a frying pan in the other. she doesn’t look sleepy, she looks bright, awake. she isn’t cowering in fear, eyes so wide and so curious as she takes in the sights around her.

and her hands slowly bat against the man’s — joel’s — cheek, rubbing up and down at the scruff. 

“oou?” she asks, poking at his face, squishing his face with her tiny hand. he just lets her pull at it, like she’s kneading dough, like the smallest baker in the world. 

he’s a morning person, clearly, hair tousled yet no sleep in his eyes, flannel pyjamas and a tshirt from a football team you can’t recognise. eyes that are now focused on your daughter, tugging at his scruff. she runs a hand over his chin, and then gurgles.

“ooh yeah, that’s spikey.” he laughs, pulling her hand away, and she mimics him. 

“pikeyyyy!” 

your heart nearly breaks into a thousand pieces, explodes. this sweet man who found you in your totalled car on the side of the road, this sweet man who has taken care of your daughter and you. years of having no luck in your life, trapped, and then the universe has gifted you this. a respite. 

there’s a trust you have for this man, implicit, maybe in the way he smiles at your daughter with such care. he looks at her as if she could break any second, and the photos on the wall from the 2010s of  him with a woman and young girl with a bright smile tells you the story immediately.

he’s lost someone. 

“bubba, come to mummy?” you hold out your hands, and call out to your daughter. she immediately grins, and starts making hand motions towards you. in an incredibly handsome move, the man leans over and deposits your daughter in your arms. your daughter curls around you, and brushes the hair from your face. 

“is ‘mile?” she asks, tilting her head, and you mirror her. she’s always been asking you if you feel okay with those simple words. is there a smile on your face? 

a year old and she’s already so smart. 

you smile, not just for her like you’d been doing for months. but you smile. teeth showing, lips turned up, and she pushes your mouth up further to make your smile bigger. god but you don’t need it anyway. 

“you hungry?” he asks, and you catch his brown eyes. your lips press together, and you nod gently. 

“c’mhere then.” he turns towards the kitchen, and you can smell something cooking. a pan with eggs sizzling away, he stirs them with a wooden spoon. the frying pan he’s been holding has a pancake in it, cooked on one side, flipped onto the other. 

there’s a blush on your cheeks, and you carry your daughter to the kitchen. she’s talking to you, in her own little language, no proper words yet but you can make out “car” and “joel”.

“ooouel.” she calls out again, and he turns back to look as he slides the pancake off the pan and onto the plate. 

“yes peanut?” he waves the frying pan at her, sticking his tongue out, and she laughs at that. a silly laugh, face all red and splotchy once she finishes. he’s given her a nickname, her own father didn’t do that, and you squeeze your eyes shut, and imagine this was your life every day. 

he looks at you when she hides back into your hair, and he looks at you with question. his eyes linger on the bruise on your cheek, now that the shawl is not around you, he can see the bruises on your arms as well. 

a pause. then he looks away, diligently working on the breakfast again.

he plates the eggs in front of you, half for him and half for you, like you don’t quite trust him yet. how you would a scared deer in the forest. 

you frown, but don’t correcr him. you had once given trust freely before, and it had you there. and you have given trust freely now, and you are here. 

you take a bite from the eggs, and then offer a bite to your daughter. she, like always, turns her head away.

“oh,” you frown, placing the fork back down, “does bubba not wanna eat?”

“oh i got her some formula.” he tilts his head to the box of formula milk, and you know your daughter looks a little too small to be a year old. but you’re touched he did it anyway. 

“she should be eating solid foods nowadays, look at all her teeth.” you bring the fork to her again, but she doesn’t bother to eat it, “okay so, bubba doesn’t like eggs.”

joel’s lips quirk, “does she like sweet stuff?” 

“well, of course she does.” you reply back, and suddenly, there is a pancake in front of you. 

“i got syrup here somewhere,” he says, pushing off the chair and looking in the cabinets, “haven’t made in pancakes since…”

a pause.

he scratches his hair, “um. years.”

five years to be exact. that’s when everything had gone wrong. 

“sugar and lemon will do too.” you break his thoughts, “anything sweet really, joel.”

it’s the way you say his name, which makes him feel all soft inside. like he’s got cotton wool in his chest. 

he slices the lemon and sprinkles the sugar on the pancake, and your daughter already reaches for the lemon.

“dont-“ but it’s too late, she’s already bitten into it. her face turns into such an expression of disgust, that you can’t help but laugh. he does the same too, letting out a huff of laughter as he sits back down on his chair. 

“bad.” she simply states, and well, that’s that. it’s bad. 

she pushes it towards joel, and he sort of just tosses the offending piece in the sink. your heart skips a beat, and you focus on cutting the pancake into smaller pieces for her. 

you can see that he looks at the bruises, no concealer to cover them up now. but he decides on not saying anything, and instead sprinkles some more sugar on the pancakes.

“m’re sugar?” he asks, on his third pinch, but she’s got a huge smile on her face, black messy hair going everywhere. 

“m’or!” she claps her hands, and you have to pull them away. 

“noo violet, not too much sugar, it’ll make your teeth hurt.” your voice is soft, but firm. she pouts, and he sprinkles just once more, because how can he say no?

you start feeding her the pancake, she eats in relative silence, but every few bites she starts tugging at her feet, or his keys, or whatever is on the table. 

“her dad isn’t…” you frown, trying to put it in the best way, “the nicest person.”

“ ‘can tell.” he grunts, eyes flicking to the bruises, then to your face.

“it was an arranged marriage.” you put simply, before your daughter teeters, and you make sure to have her not topple over, “i mean, i said sure, but he really didn’t let his true colours out until after.”

“oh.” but he can see the tears in your eyes again.

 “after violet it just.” a swallow. “got worse.” 

he sees something flash in you as you regain your strength, eating some food and catching up on sleep, maternal and terrifying. he hasn’t felt protective over anything and anyone in years, but you and her? this? this makes something bubble in his chest.

“ ‘s fine, dont have to talk about it.” he says, voice all gritty. but there’s a part of him that wants to listen.

he could tell you used to talk a lot. before. by the way your eyes sort of light up you mull over his words. he’s given you space to run, space to build, and space to just not talk about things.

hell he hates talking about things, fuck that feelings shit, hates listening too. but here with you? he’ll listen. 

“not much to say.” you reply back, a little too quickly. tight lipped again, “he got drunk a lot, and his parents blamed me.”

“then you ran.” and you nod in agreement.

“everyone’s running from something.” but you’d run physically. grabbed your daughter in her car seat and her baby bag and you had run like your whole life depended on it. it probably did.  

he just grunts in reply, and god help him your daughter startles at that. your laugh at that, and he thinks your laugh might be the nicest thing he’s heard. all silly and musical. 

he likes it a lot, and wonders what else would make you laugh like that. there are the hollows of stars in your eyes, and you wish for them to return. 

“thank you though.” you mutter, after a few moments. filed with pride and yet here, having slept in his guest room, sitting on his chair, eating his eggs, “for stopping.”

for everything, you hope he can hear in your words, bursting with earnestness.

“no worries.” he hums, and then his own breath stutters. “been nice to have the house loud again.” 

loud again, like it once was loud before it fell silent. 

“everyone is running from something, joel miller.” you say something so poignant, yet your hands are doing “here comes the aeroplane” to your daughter. 

she bites down on your finger with her two front teeth, and then shrieks in delight as you pull your hands away. 

“ow!” and the moment ends again, him not having to answer, to address the unhealed wound. 

“attagirl!” he laughs, patting her on her back, and it feels so wonderfully domestic. ridiculous. something he could not imagine his life to be. a smile on her face, a tilt of her head.

“a-agagir.” she repeats, and god if she didn’t have joel wrapped around her little finger, she has him now. she’s so tiny, and so full of determination. his eyes drift to you, and he smiles. 

thank you so much for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 as ALWAYS. any comments on this are very much appreciated! this is written with both joel from the game and from the show in mind!!! idk i love both so dearly. my requests and inbox and everything is so open please talk to me about this fic, or any of my other fics!! the harry castillo fic is being made!!!! that one is going to be long af ok i am going to BED NOW. I CAN SEE THE SUN RISING BYEEEEE. u know something is Incorrwvt when u can see the SUN rise. PLEASE COMMENT <3 I LOVE COMMENTS THANKSSSSA ok actually thank you bye now. shoutout to @katssecretdiary for writing the LOVELIEST comments on the first post im actually so WEAK IN THE KNEES for the comments thank you SOOO much i will get back to you 100% i must fix this post so bAD. this is what happens when you post on an ancient phone that is broken...

ok yes replying to comments noW; THANK YOU FOR THE COMMENTS....im actually weak :-; joel having to remind himself that this is not tess and sarah is truly....the everything of all time. he really does suffer knowing that his past is haunting every step he takes, but i think they would want him to be happy, yk? joel waking up and going to them...i was thinking about writing this but idk. shock factor and being sleepy won and so i skipped that scene, but EXACTLY EXACTLY he'd see violet's mom all asleep but violet would just be there smiling away at something or pulling at her foot and joel is like OH MY GOD i have to hold her now. HAH peanut is so cute because like yeah...that is his little peanut. idk what to tlel you. he's always giving nicknames (probably has a nickname for reader) anyway thanks for commenting :)

[marcuspikegf]

150 FOLLOWERS?!!!!!!!!!!!!1111 OH MY GOD. OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD BIG WINS.

[marcuspikegf]

the stars chase the moon, or something like that ☾ ꒰🍵🪽꒱𝐚𝐧𝐣 (𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐚𝐥𝐢 ) 𝑠𝘩𝑒 · 𝘩𝑒𝑟 · 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 | 19✧ ｡‧₊˚ ⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾   writer gone wild on summer holiday  ೀ a girl from the coast  ೀ  asexual ೀ brown ೀ physics and maths ೀ in the lab trenches half the time ೀ down bad for pedro pascal ++ fred hechinger ++ joseph quinn ++ sebastian stan .ᐟ ₊˚⊹ ⋅♡☁️ ‧₊˚ ♡🪐༘⋆ all interactions (follows back, likes, reblogs, messages and what ever) from @marsbarcat .ᐟ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ ⋆˚✿˖° silly and whimsical FAQ/ more about me here ask me more questions to put on there, i'm funny i promise.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ a preface ;

⋆˚꩜｡ english is not my first language ! i’m trying a lot of writing styles, and i just write to improve… hopefully i am improving :>. i write daily/most days i guess because its the summer holidays (but my works are SHORT 2-3k!) .ᐟ  SEND ME COMMENTS I DONT BITE I PROMISE i have never bit a person in my life. any feedback is also very welcome. i mostly write fluff ᰔ but any work with 18+ content will be clearly labelled as so, minors do not interact with those works. i am not responsible for your consumption of media, engage mindfully. ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ find me on ao3 at castillosdarling

⋆. 𐙚 ̊🍋‍🟩♪⋆.✮  requests are open — if you send me a request i will probably write it! give me a while tho i’m slooooowww. current guidelines are: no smut, no dark fics

ok preface out of the way, now the works, yay (＠＾◡＾)　　

⋆. 𐙚 ̊🥂♪⋆.✮  harry castillo

۫ ꣑ৎ  this little light of mine (let it shine) (series) | part 1 | started 1.08.25 | harry castillo x single mom! reader 

description: it's a rainy day in nyc, a couple of months after the breakup and harry castillo accidentally trips over into the cutest 3 year old and and meets her mother too.  cw: fluff, mentions of past spouse death. 

۫ ꣑ৎ harry castillo x baker!reader (oneshot) | 4.08.25

description: you’re a baker, who gets pissed because for two years straight you’ve been doing bulk orders for a man who keeps ordering chocolate cupcakes, and your lungs can’t take all the cocoa anymore. cw: none, fluff 

۫ ꣑ৎ the art of being infallible (series) | part 1, part 2 | started 17.06.25 |  harry castillo x bodyguard!reader (started during exam szn too…)

description: oh you are harry castillo’s bodyguard, no nonsense and ex military…. and you got it bad for him. BAD. now the issue is he also got it bad for you. 

⋆. 𐙚 ̊⚒️♪⋆.✮  joel miller

۫ ꣑ৎ roses are red, violets are blue (series) | part 1, part 2  | started 2.08.25 | joel miller x single mom!reader 

description: sometimes, living with the grief of sarah and her mother's death haunts him. and one aimless drive leads to meeting a single mother who ran away with her six month old baby. no outbreak au. cw: mentions, but no direct scenes, of spousal abuse, NOT FROM JOEL. from reader’s husband, whom she has run away from. grief and death (sarah, tess) 

۫ ꣑ৎ joel x neighbour!reader (oneshot) | 3.08.25

description: no outbreak au! you and joel are neighbours and are dating and are in love and joel is raking leaves and you dumped your garden's leaves onto his. cw: mention of death and grief (sarah), a kiss.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊🏺♪⋆.✮  emperor geta 

۫ ꣑ৎ senatus autem mala bestia (but the senate is an evil beast) (series) | part 1  | started 28.07.25 | 18+

description: you are the daughter of a diplomat, living in a coastal state, now being sieged by rome. and your father is brought to rome to negotiate better terms for your state as rome engulfs it. sharp tongued, short tempered, you are a valuable advisor, sitting in the senate beside your father, having studied politics and policies all your life. you catch the quieter emperor's eye, and he flirts as usual. you are unimpressed. but then he proposes marriage, not for convention, but there is no better way to have an advisor who will always listen to you and think in your best interests than if you tie them to you, geta’s fate is tied to yours now, you harm him, and he catches? you die. you harm him and he falls? you fall too. you just don’t account on falling in love with the man. (there’s a lot of lore to this one…) cw: ancient rome, ANCIENT ROME IS A WARNING. mentions of slavery, mentions of war, misogyny, future smut.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊🗡️♪⋆.✮  marcus acacius

۫ ꣑ৎ minerva (series) | series masterlist + blurb | started 30.07.25 | 18+

description: you are a commander in your kingdom's army. small, provincial, and home. good with a blade, better with a bow, and you are utterly devoted to your friend, the king. he promises to make you his queen, but kings never marry for love - you learn this the hard way. now, out of options, you ride to the roman camp for death, instead general acacius throws your sword down at you. he wishes for you to fight instead, and offers you a deal you will not, can not, refuse. (there’s a lot of lore with this one too…) cw: ancient rome, ANCIENT ROME IS A WARNING BROOO. mentions of lsavery, mentions of war, misogyny, battle, blood, stabbing, like one fight scene, future smut. 

⋆. 𐙚 ̊🧪♪⋆.✮  marcus pike (my BABY)

۫ ꣑ৎ technical difficulties (series) (this fic is ALSO MY BABY) | series masterlist + blurb | started 13.05.25 (during exam szn, sorry about that)

description: you’re a techie working in the fbi labs, marcus shows up a lot for gadgets! cw: lowkey just fluff, mention of death on the field because FBI. non stylised, with proper grammar lol….days when i worried about that..

©marcuspikegf 2025 please do not repost my works, or plagiarise.

[marcuspikegf]

new masterlist post…grrr

hueopl

[marcuspikegf]

joel miller x single mom! reader (pt 2)

𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞

wordcount 3k | requests are open | part one here | about me + masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....| find me on ao3 here

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :) everyone who reblogs i love you so VERY much

summary: sometimes, living with the grief of sarah and her mother's death haunts him. and one aimless drive leads to meeting a single mother who ran away with her eleven month old baby. no outbreak au.

warnings: MENTIONS but no actual scenes of spousal abuse (from reader’s husband NOT joel joel is a sweetheart) mentions of death and grief (sarah and tess)  apart from that? so much fluff. tooth rotting, dentist calling fluff. oldman joel swandiving in love. age gap? joel is 40ish and reader is 25/30? afab reader. reader's husband is an abusive asshole. lots of sweetness and domesticity. joel is such a girl dad and has all the fatherly instincts!!!

authors note: so it’s 4:30am….OOPS. i don’t think i can ever sleep at a normal time. my phone also broke so i have to do this on my old phone now, but i will always continue writing silly goofy stuff 5ever. i'm not just in the baby fever trenches, i've become a lieutenant in the baby fever trench. idk what to tell you i’m actually possessed, hiding behind my hands etc. i think i just want a baby and a big strong man to save me.  i don’t know what to tell you. i give up i’m not strong enough to resist baby fever. i am also not american, i actually do not know anything about america. tbf. reader could be read as an immigrant who is new to the country, if you wish, because that's how it is in my mind. again this is a new style of writing...no capitals just vibes. this might have a continuation...idk pls tell me if this is bad so we can just scrap it. this is so self indulgent.... reblogs and likes and comments and follows are actually just love. LET JOEL HAVE CHILDREN AND A FAMILY AND BE HAPPY MAN. Wtf. where is the harry castillo fic??? guys it’s coming trust me. where is the johnny storm fic?? guyyssss its coming truuust me. god i love reader and violet so much, they’ve been through so much and just want happiness and deserve a hug. why shouldn’t they. be happy. let everyone be happy. this is just fluff. and angst. fluff and angst and romance and schmoop. reader loves her daughter very very very much….why do i only post in random hours of the night???guys omg i formatted it so BADLY and forgot a few key things the first time round and its not letting me edit it iM going insane (this is me with 10:45am awake girl brain speaking) a prince rupert's drop is a glass bead created when dropping glass into water and it created a teardrop shaped piece of glass. they can withstand high levels of stress (like a hammer being smashed on the drop end) but if the tail is even slightly damaged the whole thing explodes..

the road stretches on for what feels like hours, and he’s almost afraid to look at you. you look so fragile as you hold on tightly to your daughter, as if you could break. but your eyes, there is something in your eyes, determination. 

you remind him of something he picked up when he was doing glasswork, all those years ago. a prince rupert’s drop is what his boss had called it, a teardrop shaped piece of glass. the tear could every stress pressed upon it, but the tail would cause the whole thing to explode every time you hit it too hard. 

he doesn’t have to pick up hammers anymore, everything he does is pencil on paper. planning. but his hands remember, calluses and pieces of glass that had to be picked out by tess with tweezers.

he blinks away the memory. this is not tess, this is not sarah. this is you, with your eyes that look like crystals in the night sky, holding your daughter. 

“ma’am?” he says, gently as he can in his rough voice. it doesn't look like she’s paying attention, eyes simply open, gazing at the world as it whips past.

it’s dark, the navy of night has taken over now. stars in the sky, and he misses sitting up with sarah watching the night sky. a twang in his gut, and he hasn’t managed to let go of it yet. ten years since he’s sat out in the field, looked up at the night sky to spot the stars. 

you blink as he nudges you, sleepily. tears are crusted over, tracks running down your cheeks. you’re as exhausted as your daughter, but she’s not the one who has to stay awake. you do. for her. 

“mummy loves you bubba.” you say, instinctively, kissing the top of her soft little head, curls that are wild and pinned back with a little pink ribbon clip. the same one that had caught his eye in the car window. he takes it as a cue to move back, and so he settles back down on his seat, pulling into a gas station. 

he steps out of the car, and the door closes with a heavy thud. something’s possessed him between when he set off on this drive and now. something in him that rises up in heat and pain when he sees you two curled up in his front seat. the bruise on your jaw, your daughter curled up in your arms.

he picks up some formula milk, remembers not being able to afford boxes of it with sarah and tess, but this is not sarah and tess. he has to remind himself firmly. you are not tess, that is not sarah. and he takes two cans of 6-12 months. 

gatorade, a loaf of bread, a pack of diapers, dried fruit snacks. all the best a gas station can give, and he taps his card quickly to return back to the car. to you. violet still curled up on you. you’re still half asleep ( fatigued more like, his mind supplies helpfully. ) and your eyes slip closed. your hands are wrapped around your daughter, and so he nudges you again with his shoulder.

“hey, ma’am, i got you something.” he offers, holding out the gatorade. it’s blue and sloshes in the bottle. 

you blink, and tilt your head, before looking down pointedly at your daughter, and shushing. he laughs, in that silly, warm way. you run a tight ship. 

he doesn’t really think about the next step. he just twists the cap off, and tilts it to your mouth. it’s terribly intimate, in a way that makes his heart fall out of his stomach. or would have, if you don’t accept it. instead you just take it, and drink from the bottle.

the flavour is salty and sweet, and you frown, but drink a few sips anyway. he half leans over you, and he is so much bigger than you. you don’t know why you trust him, so much so, perhaps you have run for too long.

you close your mouth after a few sips, and he takes it as a sign to move it away. moment lost between the two of you, the snap of a stick before the deer runs away. 

“thank you.” you say, softly. 

“don’t worry about it.” is all he gives back. 

don’t worry about it is how things go, and he keeps on driving for a little while longer. the suburbs in austin, the cushy house with three floors. it’s too empty, and he hates it. he’s managed to convince himself this is the best way, even if you would insist on motels. you don’t look like you ran with much with you, the bag almost half empty. and he would never let the kid sit in a motel room where the sheets got washed once a month. 

violet. pretty, big eyes that now lie shut. hands that batted against her mothers chest in curled fists, untamed hair that looked far too much like his for his own comfort. so unlike sarah, and yet he still feels the urge to protect her, keep her safe. 

he’s already pulled up to his driveway, and the car’s come to a stop. there’s still no place with a motel for hours, and this, this would be better for the both of you. you’ve fallen asleep too, eyes finally slipping shut half an hour ago. your hands still hold onto your daughter, like you’re worried she’d be pulled away from you.

what are you running from?

he takes your daughter gently, lifting her up from your arms. a small whine escapes you as she’s slipped away, but you don’t wake, eyelids just fluttering before sleep and exhaustion pull you down again. 

it’s terribly intimate, in a way that he never thought he would have again. terribly intimate in a way he never thought he would have when he left this evening to drive to nowhere, and get back for nobody. 

it’s almost been fifteen years since he’s taken care of a baby, sarah would have been fifteen this year. old enough to drive cars and two years away from college. he’d be picking out a new car with her and tess, or whatever it is people do. but he is not with tess, he is with you and your “bubba” as you call her.

his hands are steady as he lays her down onto the guest bed, barely touched in the years he’s been here. nobody visits often anyway. 

his hands shake as he picks you up in a bridal carry, in the moonlight you look even more malnourished. paler than what you’re supposed to look like, dark circles sunken into your face, your hair is recently washed and tangled, tied into ponytail that didn’t really hold all your hair back. pieces of it falling everywhere.

so he carries you over the threshold. and doesn’t think about it. because if he did, he’ll have to realise that he’s already a tiny bit (a huge bit) in love with you. 

you blink up at him, with your bleary eyes as he lays you down on the bed next to your daughter, bag by your feet. 

“hope it’s comfortable ma’am.” he bites his lip, unsure. and you just nod, so tired. your eyes are tired, and your head pounds with exhaustion, and you wonder how lucky you are that this man had shown up when he did. 

he steps back, and walks out. life takes and takes and you have nothing left to give. and yet you give him your trust. 

a yawn, and then on autopilot you start changing your daughter, before you curl up and go to bed beside her. outside, he dares to look at a picture of tess and sarah, and closes his eyes. 

you wake up in the morning, without the ache of fingertips gripping your arms. you wake up in the morning without the heavy weight of your daughter’s father’s arm on your waist, caging you in. you wake up in the morning and the sunlight flows through the half open blinds, the sway of the trees is loud through the windows, and you wake up in the morning, and there is peace.

you can hear the birds singing (there is nobody shouting at you), the sound of the cars passing by (there is nobody shouting at you), and even the sound of something sizzling

your hands are empty, and suddenly your peace turns into panic. where is your daughter?!

you stand up, legs still wobbly from not eating in over 30 hours, from driving for at least 20 of those hours. fuck, fuck. and the bedroom is unfamiliar and the bed is strange, the room is dark and warm with mahogany furniture and a corkboard with random dates on it that you don’t quite understand. 

“bubba!” you shout out, but your legs are faster than your brain, and you stumble out of the bedroom. the stairs are looming, but you rush down them, one step behind the other, and it doesn’t seem like enough.

then, you hear it. your daughter babbling. saying something in absolute gibberish, and a laugh following it. rugged, gravelly, and he whispers something softly in reply.

you take the last few steps quietly, socked feet against the hardwood floor. your’re still wearing your summer dress, and at this point it’s on you for too long. 

“i think your mom is looking for you.” he says, gently, and walks to the foyer, your daughter in his arms. he balances her on his hip with one hand, a frying pan in the other. she doesn’t look sleepy, she looks bright, awake. she isn’t cowering in fear, eyes so wide and so curious as she takes in the sights around her.

and her hands slowly bat against the man’s — joel’s — cheek, rubbing up and down at the scruff. 

“oou?” she asks, poking at his face, squishing his face with her tiny hand. he just lets her pull at it, like she’s kneading dough, like the smallest baker in the world. 

he’s a morning person, clearly, hair tousled yet no sleep in his eyes, flannel pyjamas and a tshirt from a football team you can’t recognise. eyes that are now focused on your daughter, tugging at his scruff. she runs a hand over his chin, and then gurgles.

“ooh yeah, that’s spikey.” he laughs, pulling her hand away, and she mimics him. 

“pikeyyyy!” 

your heart nearly breaks into a thousand pieces, explodes. this sweet man who found you in your totalled car on the side of the road, this sweet man who has taken care of your daughter and you. years of having no luck in your life, trapped, and then the universe has gifted you this. a respite. 

there’s a trust you have for this man, implicit, maybe in the way he smiles at your daughter with such care. he looks at her as if she could break any second, and the photos on the wall from the 2010s of  him with a woman and young girl with a bright smile tells you the story immediately.

he’s lost someone. 

“bubba, come to mummy?” you hold out your hands, and call out to your daughter. she immediately grins, and starts making hand motions towards you. in an incredibly handsome move, the man leans over and deposits your daughter in your arms. your daughter curls around you, and brushes the hair from your face. 

“is ‘mile?” she asks, tilting her head, and you mirror her. she’s always been asking you if you feel okay with those simple words. is there a smile on your face? 

a year old and she’s already so smart. 

you smile, not just for her like you’d been doing for months. but you smile. teeth showing, lips turned up, and she pushes your mouth up further to make your smile bigger. god but you don’t need it anyway. 

“you hungry?” he asks, and you catch his brown eyes. your lips press together, and you nod gently. 

“c’mhere then.” he turns towards the kitchen, and you can smell something cooking. a pan with eggs sizzling away, he stirs them with a wooden spoon. the frying pan he’s been holding has a pancake in it, cooked on one side, flipped onto the other. 

there’s a blush on your cheeks, and you carry your daughter to the kitchen. she’s talking to you, in her own little language, no proper words yet but you can make out “car” and “joel”.

“ooouel.” she calls out again, and he turns back to look as he slides the pancake off the pan and onto the plate. 

“yes peanut?” he waves the frying pan at her, sticking his tongue out, and she laughs at that. a silly laugh, face all red and splotchy once she finishes. he’s given her a nickname, her own father didn’t do that, and you squeeze your eyes shut, and imagine this was your life every day. 

he looks at you when she hides back into your hair, and he looks at you with question. his eyes linger on the bruise on your cheek, now that the shawl is not around you, he can see the bruises on your arms as well. 

a pause. then he looks away, diligently working on the breakfast again.

he plates the eggs in front of you, half for him and half for you, like you don’t quite trust him yet. how you would a scared deer in the forest. 

you frown, but don’t correcr him. you had once given trust freely before, and it had you there. and you have given trust freely now, and you are here. 

you take a bite from the eggs, and then offer a bite to your daughter. she, like always, turns her head away.

“oh,” you frown, placing the fork back down, “does bubba not wanna eat?”

“oh i got her some formula.” he tilts his head to the box of formula milk, and you know your daughter looks a little too small to be a year old. but you’re touched he did it anyway. 

“she should be eating solid foods nowadays, look at all her teeth.” you bring the fork to her again, but she doesn’t bother to eat it, “okay so, bubba doesn’t like eggs.”

joel’s lips quirk, “does she like sweet stuff?” 

“well, of course she does.” you reply back, and suddenly, there is a pancake in front of you. 

“i got syrup here somewhere,” he says, pushing off the chair and looking in the cabinets, “haven’t made in pancakes since…”

a pause.

he scratches his hair, “um. years.”

five years to be exact. that’s when everything had gone wrong. 

“sugar and lemon will do too.” you break his thoughts, “anything sweet really, joel.”

it’s the way you say his name, which makes him feel all soft inside. like he’s got cotton wool in his chest. 

he slices the lemon and sprinkles the sugar on the pancake, and your daughter already reaches for the lemon.

“dont-“ but it’s too late, she’s already bitten into it. her face turns into such an expression of disgust, that you can’t help but laugh. he does the same too, letting out a huff of laughter as he sits back down on his chair. 

“bad.” she simply states, and well, that’s that. it’s bad. 

she pushes it towards joel, and he sort of just tosses the offending piece in the sink. your heart skips a beat, and you focus on cutting the pancake into smaller pieces for her. 

you can see that he looks at the bruises, no concealer to cover them up now. but he decides on not saying anything, and instead sprinkles some more sugar on the pancakes.

“m’re sugar?” he asks, on his third pinch, but she’s got a huge smile on her face, black messy hair going everywhere. 

“m’or!” she claps her hands, and you have to pull them away. 

“noo violet, not too much sugar, it’ll make your teeth hurt.” your voice is soft, but firm. she pouts, and he sprinkles just once more, because how can he say no?

you start feeding her the pancake, she eats in relative silence, but every few bites she starts tugging at her feet, or his keys, or whatever is on the table. 

“her dad isn’t…” you frown, trying to put it in the best way, “the nicest person.”

“ ‘can tell.” he grunts, eyes flicking to the bruises, then to your face.

“it was an arranged marriage.” you put simply, before your daughter teeters, and you make sure to have her not topple over, “i mean, i said sure, but he really didn’t let his true colours out until after.”

“oh.” but he can see the tears in your eyes again.

 “after violet it just.” a swallow. “got worse.” 

he sees something flash in you as you regain your strength, eating some food and catching up on sleep, maternal and terrifying. he hasn’t felt protective over anything and anyone in years, but you and her? this? this makes something bubble in his chest.

“ ‘s fine, dont have to talk about it.” he says, voice all gritty. but there’s a part of him that wants to listen.

he could tell you used to talk a lot. before. by the way your eyes sort of light up you mull over his words. he’s given you space to run, space to build, and space to just not talk about things.

hell he hates talking about things, fuck that feelings shit, hates listening too. but here with you? he’ll listen. 

“not much to say.” you reply back, a little too quickly. tight lipped again, “he got drunk a lot, and his parents blamed me.”

“then you ran.” and you nod in agreement.

“everyone’s running from something.” but you’d run physically. grabbed your daughter in her car seat and her baby bag and you had run like your whole life depended on it. it probably did.  

he just grunts in reply, and god help him your daughter startles at that. your laugh at that, and he thinks your laugh might be the nicest thing he’s heard. all silly and musical. 

he likes it a lot, and wonders what else would make you laugh like that. there are the hollows of stars in your eyes, and you wish for them to return. 

“thank you though.” you mutter, after a few moments. filed with pride and yet here, having slept in his guest room, sitting on his chair, eating his eggs, “for stopping.”

for everything, you hope he can hear in your words, bursting with earnestness.

“no worries.” he hums, and then his own breath stutters. “been nice to have the house loud again.” 

loud again, like it once was loud before it fell silent. 

“everyone is running from something, joel miller.” you say something so poignant, yet your hands are doing “here comes the aeroplane” to your daughter. 

she bites down on your finger with her two front teeth, and then shrieks in delight as you pull your hands away. 

“ow!” and the moment ends again, him not having to answer, to address the unhealed wound. 

“attagirl!” he laughs, patting her on her back, and it feels so wonderfully domestic. ridiculous. something he could not imagine his life to be. a smile on her face, a tilt of her head.

“a-agagir.” she repeats, and god if she didn’t have joel wrapped around her little finger, she has him now. she’s so tiny, and so full of determination. his eyes drift to you, and he smiles. 

thank you so much for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 as ALWAYS. any comments on this are very much appreciated! this is written with both joel from the game and from the show in mind!!! idk i love both so dearly. my requests and inbox and everything is so open please talk to me about this fic, or any of my other fics!! the harry castillo fic is being made!!!! that one is going to be long af ok i am going to BED NOW. I CAN SEE THE SUN RISING BYEEEEE. u know something is Incorrwvt when u can see the SUN rise. PLEASE COMMENT <3 I LOVE COMMENTS THANKSSSSA ok actually thank you bye now. shoutout to @katssecretdiary for writing the LOVELIEST comments on the first post im actually so WEAK IN THE KNEES for the comments thank you SOOO much i will get back to you 100% i must fix this post so bAD. this is what happens when you post on an ancient phone that is broken...

ok yes replying to comments noW; THANK YOU FOR THE COMMENTS....im actually weak :-; joel having to remind himself that this is not tess and sarah is truly....the everything of all time. he really does suffer knowing that his past is haunting every step he takes, but i think they would want him to be happy, yk? joel waking up and going to them...i was thinking about writing this but idk. shock factor and being sleepy won and so i skipped that scene, but EXACTLY EXACTLY he'd see violet's mom all asleep but violet would just be there smiling away at something or pulling at her foot and joel is like OH MY GOD i have to hold her now. HAH peanut is so cute because like yeah...that is his little peanut. idk what to tlel you. he's always giving nicknames (probably has a nickname for reader) anyway thanks for commenting :)

[marcuspikegf]

old man game joel is so nomnom nom nomnomnom

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joel miller headcannons!

⋆˚✿˖°⋆♡ self indulgent idea  but joel miller with explicitly non-us reader.... missing home so terribly after the outbreak that trapped you in the us. it's so scary being in a place you don't understand at all, not just because of the virus, but also because it's a whole new country you barely know.

⋆˚࿔ meeting joel, having him sit next to you and tell you what state comes next. what each state was like. only knowing the concept of texas, but not really...knowing it because you've never been there. contrasting his memories of the world before with the world that you see here.

⋆˚࿔ joel raiding stores, but making sure to look for a food from your homeland. he even tries stuff from time to time, the flavours unfamiliar on his tongue.

⋆˚࿔ and in jackson, sharing recipes with ellie but you don't remember joel leaning on the door, looking at you like you fell out of heaven when you rattle off recipes from a place he's never visited, never will have the chance to visit, but he has you and he has this.

⋆˚࿔ learning how to make recipes from home for you in secret when you miss the flavours of a place you once called home. he's cooking something you didn't even know was possible to make in this broken shell of a world, but him and ellie have been collecting spices and ingredients for a long while, just because he loves you so very much.

off the bat, i am not from the us!!! when this is self indulgent i mean this is a shameless self insert where joel rlly just is down bad for an ethnic girl. i just imagined him raiding a store, finding some aachaar (pickle) and then loosing his mind when he realises its both sour and spicy. and then slowly slipping it into his bag because he knows his girl misses home (its so far away, there's no way to get there again) and this will make her feel better. okthankyouforlisteningbyeeee scheduled castillo x singlemom reader coming to you soon!

[marcuspikegf]

joel miller headcannons!

⋆˚✿˖°⋆♡ self indulgent idea  but joel miller with explicitly non-us reader.... missing home so terribly after the outbreak that trapped you in the us. it's so scary being in a place you don't understand at all, not just because of the virus, but also because it's a whole new country you barely know.

⋆˚࿔ meeting joel, having him sit next to you and tell you what state comes next. what each state was like. only knowing the concept of texas, but not really...knowing it because you've never been there. contrasting his memories of the world before with the world that you see here.

⋆˚࿔ joel raiding stores, but making sure to look for a food from your homeland. he even tries stuff from time to time, the flavours unfamiliar on his tongue.

⋆˚࿔ and in jackson, sharing recipes with ellie but you don't remember joel leaning on the door, looking at you like you fell out of heaven when you rattle off recipes from a place he's never visited, never will have the chance to visit, but he has you and he has this.

⋆˚࿔ learning how to make recipes from home for you in secret when you miss the flavours of a place you once called home. he's cooking something you didn't even know was possible to make in this broken shell of a world, but him and ellie have been collecting spices and ingredients for a long while, just because he loves you so very much.

off the bat, i am not from the us!!! when this is self indulgent i mean this is a shameless self insert where joel rlly just is down bad for an ethnic girl. i just imagined him raiding a store, finding some aachaar (pickle) and then loosing his mind when he realises its both sour and spicy. and then slowly slipping it into his bag because he knows his girl misses home (its so far away, there's no way to get there again) and this will make her feel better. okthankyouforlisteningbyeeee scheduled castillo x singlemom reader coming to you soon!

[marcuspikegf]

harry castillo x baker!reader

wordcount: 2k words | johnny storm fic being WRITTEN as we SPEAK and also so is my harry castillo fic | about me+ masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....| a joel miller x single mom! reader if anyone’s interested here.

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :) summary: you’re a baker, who gets pissed because for two years straight you’ve been doing bulk orders for a man who keeps ordering chocolate cupcakes, and your lungs can’t take all the cocoa anymore.

warning: no warnings, this is silly. its fluffy but it's just silly. DO NOT YELL AT YOUR EMPLOYER 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭reader does it but that’s because she is silly. one mention of reader being hot to harry. one mention of harry being hot to reader. but that’s it. oh vague but undefined age gap. reader calls him an old man once but he could be five years older and reader could just be mean. reader is just mean i fear.

authors notes: “saturday shorts?” you ask, “but it’s monday” STOPPPP don’t talk to me 😭 turns out if you get a collective of like 12 hours of sleep between 3 days you sort of slow down functioning.  “saturday SHORTS?” you ask, again “but it’s two thousand words long.” STOPPPP don’t talk to me. i ran away with this idea. we’ve all heard of sunshine baker x grumpy millionaire, now get ready for grumpy baker x sunshine millionaire. harry castillo is a ray of sunshine and reader chases men with hammers. reader is a little bit of an asshole...and thats okay. i'm actually untalented in baking, so once i did actually rip a bag of cocoa so hard it broke everywhere and i had an asthama attack. i'm not doing that again.

chocolate cake.

that’s what he orders, every time there’s a event at the private equity firm. it’s always a huge batch order of chocolate cupcakes, with white chocolate chips. you know he’s older, and you know he comes from old money, and that means, so clearly, that he is set in his ways. 

the batch of chocolate cupcakes leaves your kitchen with brown cocoa powder floating in the air for days, coating each surface. you’ve had an asthma attack every time it’s happened, and you don’t think your lungs are ready to be coughed out again. 

you prefer more fruity flavours, strawberry, pineapple, mint choc chip in your cakes. anything that lets you experiment around with the flavour and recipe, this most recent weekend you’d perfected the pina colada cake, with coconut cream and pineapple shavings.  

and then there was this man, with his stupid chocolate cupcake order. 

“is he on the phone?” you ask your colleague, bea, as she writes down his order, “or is it his assistant.”

she shushes you, finger on her lips, phone against her ear and shoulder (but you can hear him anyway) as she writes down the order for the next party. 2500 to be finished by wednesday.

“are you fucking serious?” you say, hearing his voice from the phone, at least it’s not his assistant this time. there’s no fun in yelling at some poor woman over the phone for her boss’ poor choices, you aren’t a cartoon villain.   

“give me the phone, right now.” and bea is shushing you again, but you could not care less, and you grab the phone from her shoulder.

“hello, mister?” you hold the phone in front of your mouth, enunciating very clearly, “ever thought of getting another flavour?”

“…what..?” he says, after a moment. 

“the cakes! they’re always chocolate!” your hands are already stained with cocoa powder, and it’s so bitter that you’ll sneeze if you taste it, “why don’t you try something new for a change.”

another pause, the phone line crackles, bea’s looking at you like you’ve lost the order. 

2500 cupcakes at $4.50 a cupcake equals to a lot of money, oh you’re sure of it. 

but surely it doesn’t cost you another minute of being stuck in a room full of cocoa powder, an asthma attack incoming. 

“what do you have against chocolate?” he sounds ticked off.

“everything?” you snipe back, “it’s basic, there’s nothing to play around with, and it’s so sickeningly sweet.”

“but it’s also a classic , it’s got so many variations, and it’s a perfectly good amount of sweetness, thank you.” he sounds all condescending, and you don’t like that tone in his voice.

but he sounds…nice. he sounds nice, and you don’t know why your mind’s gone there.

his voice rich and smooth like thick chocolate, even through the tinny speaker.

“can’t you just try changing it up, for once, old man?” you say, whilst your flour-covered hands swipe up against your chin to itch a scratch. “your company can take it. vanilla cupcakes, red velvet, have a tropical theme with coconut instead.”

he doesn’t say anything, but you assume he’s up in his office. you can hear him swallow, and then the phone cuts.

“he hung up on me?” you say, in shock, placing the phone down onto the counter. “all i did was give him a suggestion, and he hung up on me.”

bea just sighs, but she’s looking at you in a way that’s beyond the usual ‘well done, you lost us another order!’ 

the phone buzzes, and you see a notification popup. 

h. castillo (client): keep 2500 cupcakes at current rate of $4.50/piece 

can work around flavour issue. 

you smile, your hands jerk towards the phone and you text back.

 you:👍

you end up being the one delivering the cupcakes. bea told you very nicely that since you were the one who yelled at him, you were the one who was going to end up giving the cupcakes. 

which was fair enough. but you didn’t want to be around him, you’d yelled at him. you’d come out here and shouted in his face over the phone, when he hadn’t done anything really. just nicely asked you to make chocolate cupcakes for his event, and you’d just exploded on him. all the rage pent up in you exploding on some guy who didn’t even deserve it.

thank god he hadn’t blacklisted your bakery from catering events, you and bea couldn’t take it. he’d even kept the order. 

the boxes in the cart were full of different flavours of cupcakes, your favourite pina colada inspired ones, but also some others - red velvet, strawberry, vanilla, blueberry. you’d done your best to get a whole range of flavours, but the one box you carried in your hands was the dearest to you. 

you’ve him a batch of chocolate and fudge cupcakes. six of them, five with a letter on them, spelling out “SORRY”, and the other with a sad face on it. 

you’ve just started arranging the cupcakes in the central table of the ballroom, when you feel fingertips on your shoulder, and you turn around to see a man. tall, older, with greying curly black hair combed back. fashionable scruff on his jaw, mustache on his face. 

he’s tall, and fucking broad. your mind just, reboots, and all you can think was how wide his chest is, and how good it looks in that shirt.

you blink, “…hello?”

“you’re not bea.” is all he says, frowning. it’s a two person bakery, apart from bea’s mom who helps from time to time. and you’r obviously not bea’s mom.

“who’s asking..?” you turn back to arranging the cupcakes, you’re doing them in colour order, a gradient from light to dark. the colours pastel, and cute, even in this gala. not the boring chocolate you’ve always seen bea take in. 

“oh i’m just part of the castillo company.” he says, very carefully. 

you’re turned away from him, but harry castillo can recognise your voice anywhere. nobody’s yelled at him on the phone like that, nobody’s given him a run for his money or his choices, he’s always called the shots for god knows how many years, and here this baker was, complaining to his face about something which was so minuscule to him. 

he’d never even realised he always put chocolate down as a flavour almost consistently, until you’d told him on the phone. you’d been so passionate, so intense. it was…hot. 

it was hot, and he just had to meet you. to fuck with you, just a little bit. 

so he doesn’t give you his name, just a flick of the wrist. 

his eyes land on the cardboard box, and he goes to open it, but you slam it shut. 

“it says mr castillo on the box?” you keep your hands over the lid, “is your name mr castillo?”

it is, actually. but that’s not the point.

“that’s what i thought.” you say, clicking your tongue as you go back to arranging the cupcakes. you’ll get it to mr castillo after, maybe before the gala starts. you want to get it to him any way, you felt awful about yelling at him on the phone. 

the gala preparations take another few hours, and by the end of it, you’re sweating. you’d spent a good three hours decorating each cupcake on site, it would be easier to pipe them once you got there,with the frosting being buttercream and all.

once you’re finally (finally) done, you sigh, leaning back over the table. the ballroom still looks majestic, high ceilings, painted and beautiful. 

you need to get out of here, wearing your ditzy print dress, marching the pastels of your cupcakes. it’s not what one would wear to a black tie event. 

one of the event planners points you to the 47th floor of the building, that’s where his office is. you clutch the box of cupcakes to your chest, and step into the lift. the mirror is cool against your skin, and you sigh, screw this job, you were too much of a perfectionist for this. spending too many hours fixing and adjusting recipes and designs. 

you buzz into the office, and the assistant is there, she looks nice. you’re happy you didn’t end up yelling at her, she looked far too nice. 

you’re expecting some greying old man, stuck in his ways, stuck in his family’s wealth.

you aren’t expect the same man with the scruff and the moustache, slipping on a suit jacket. 

oh fuck.

you turn to leave, but he catches you through the window, a small smile on his face.

“you’re not bea.” he says again, you’d hoped that he’d forgotten you, probably meeting a hundred people working on the party that day, but there is buttercream frosting on your face. clearly you were the one bringing the cakes.

“mr castillo!” you squeak, placing the box of cupcakes down onto the desk, wooden and mahogany. the whole room was wooden, filled with shades of browns. amber paperweights and maroon bound books. “i just wanted to say how truly sorry i am about this.”

“you don’t sound like the same woman who yelled at me through the phone two days ago.” he smiles, and there’s a twinkle to his eye.

“i’m sorry about that,” you make a face that’s closer to a grimace than a smile, “you know, just got a little mad…i wouldn’t call it yelling, per say.”

“raising your voice then?”

“…making a loud and clear statement?” you counter.

“it was loud alright.” he huffs a laugh out, and he’s clearly not being serious with you now. if he was serious with you, he’d have called security or something.

“i’m sorry, you caught me at a bad time.” you say, pushing the box towards him on the other side of the table. 

“i think you might have been planning that one.” 

you just laugh, and he thinks your laugh is the most beautiful thing in the world. hand coming over to cover your mouth, eyes squeezing shut. 

“how are you so short, and so full of anger.” he looks down at you, and he’s taller than you by quite a bit. he doesn’t mean it, that much is obvious.

“i’m also full of baking talent, here.” you open the box, and he sees your apology piped onto the cupcakes. you’re a perfectionist, and it looks good. 

“chocolate.” he frowns, and you shrug. 

“it’s fudge actually, but you seem to like chocolate a lot.”

“it’s a safe flavour,” he says after humming in thought, “like vanilla, but it tastes a bit nicer. can’t go wrong with chocolate.”

and he gets hit with the vision of you coughing your lungs out in the kitchen after a bag of cocoa explodes, and he laughs again, “i mean, except for you.”

“gee thanks.” you nod, “but the cupcakes are pretty good.”

he gives you a thumbs up, and eats one right there, in front of you. yoh. notice some frosting sticking to his mustache, and your thumb comes up to wipe it off. 

he lets you, he doesn’t push your hand away or anything. it’s so soft, you’re like a gumball, all hard on the outside, but soft and gooey inside. 

“so,” he says, as nonchalantly as possible, 47 floors up in the sky, the whole city below them, “do this for every boss you yell at?”

your mouth twitches, “only the pretty ones, who let me yell at them.” 

posting this just before i go eatdinner because i am SO hungry. i was like lol i'll be offline and then was eating a chocolate muffin and then got possessed with this idea. posting at 9pm and not 4am when the birds sing :] is angie's sleep schedule getting better? who knows. okthankyoubyeeeee. is harry into strong women? yes actually. he is and he discovered it that day when reader yelled into his phone.

[marcuspikegf]

this is very funny because. i tagged it with johnny storm x reader, which means i’ve already weighted the outcome. evil me >:)

just collecting some data okaybyethankyouuu 😭🙂‍↕️

the blurb btw;

the baxter building is full of invention, of gadgets and wonder. there’s always something for the teams of scientists to do. gadgets change with each foe fought, power developed, change each time the world is saved, just like the seasons.

it’s a fascinating workplace, but one too turbulent to grow your career the way most scientists want it to go. they want to create things of their own, research. this creating gadgets, fixing things, it’s not the most glamour filled profession. there is, however, a doctoral student who hasn’t left the job in two years.

you, stars in your eyes, reflected in the flames of johnny storm. you have sat behind the workbench, falling for him as he burns, day by day. a global heartthrob, and you hide behind your big glasses and lab coat. the lab gets hotter when he walks in, and it’s not because of his powers, it’s because of the blood rushing to your cheeks.

or

the reader is a doctoral student in electrical engineering, works with the four behind the scenes, and has a hopeless(?) little crush on johnny storm ❤️

in conclusion;

for joseph quinn as johnny storm