#Fluff and Chaos

[gav-san]

The Sundress Incident

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Oneshot: Monkey D. Garp x reader Length: 4 K+ Rating: 16+ (Language)

Vice Admiral Garp is undone by a sundress, strategic sabotage, and one very dangerous woman.

Come get your GILF @thisloserhere

Port Harla simmered beneath the blaze of high noon, a hot and hazy checkpoint nestled along the East Blue trade lane. The air pulsed with the hum of cicadas, thick with heat and the scent of salt, sweat, and something faintly metallic. Stone streets radiated warmth like griddles left too long in the sun, and the harbor shimmered as if the world itself had been thrown into a fever dream.

Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp stood at the edge of the dock, arms crossed, jaw set. He was there to oversee a routine supply transfer. Or at least, it had been routine before everything began going wrong.

The crew dragged their feet like sulky children, slapping lazily at flies and fanning themselves with whatever paper or hat they could find. One man had tucked a fish down his shirt to keep cool. Another had mistaken sugar for salt in the rations. The cannonballs were miscounted. The ink on the manifests was smudged to the point of illegibility. The rice balls he’d brought from town were sad and soggy, warm in the worst way. Everything, in short, was going to hell. Slowly. Inefficiently. With the infuriating calm of a man being bled dry by ants.

And the sun. Gods, the sun. It pressed on him like a weight, baking through his uniform and leaving him sticky and half-feral, a warhound being slow-cooked in navy blue.

He tugged at his collar for the tenth time and roared something unrepeatable at a sailor who dropped a crate of cannon primers. His voice cracked over the water, startling a flock of gulls from the rafters. Bogard winced from a respectful distance. A bead of sweat slid down the side of Garp’s face and disappeared into his collar, right as he bit into a lukewarm rice ball and seriously considered committing violence.

That was when it happened. The moment everything stopped.

A shape stepped out from the haze at the edge of the port. Not a pirate. Not a marine. Not anyone who belonged in this heatstroke of a warzone. A woman.

You.

You walked with the unbothered sway of someone completely unsuited for a place like this, and somehow made it feel like everything else was the one out of place. Your shoulders were bare. Your sandals were delicate. And your sundress—small, yellow, and criminally light—moved with the wind in a way that was not appropriate for wartime. Or peacetime. Or any time that required a man of discipline to remain disciplined.

It was the kind of dress that didn’t hug curves so much as whisper to them. It flirted with your knees. It played with the breeze. It sparkled a little in the sun, as if it knew exactly what it was doing. The color was bright and wicked, like sunshine licked over honey. Or sin.

You had a little bag tucked over one arm. A parasol spun lazily in your hand. And your expression, God help him, was the sort of thing that could get a priest excommunicated just for noticing it.

Garp choked on his rice ball.

Bogard, who had been checking the harbor log, followed the line of his commanding officer’s suddenly stricken gaze. He paused. Blinked. Then looked again.

“…Sir?” he asked cautiously.

Garp said nothing.

He just stared, rice ball half-chewed, one hand still mid-motion at his collar.

You met his gaze as you strolled closer, the picture of afternoon leisure, a summer day in motion. You smiled—easy, lazy, sun-warmed—and it was the kind of smile that promised nothing but mischief and slow, thorough ruin.

From that moment forward, Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp would never know peace again.

“I’m fine,” Garp snapped, wiping his mouth and chest in one frantic motion. “Just—the heat.”

Sure. The heat. Not the way your dress dipped low at the back. Not the flick of your fingers adjusting the hem like it was riding up, which, spoiler alert, it absolutely was. Not the soft, bouncing step you took as you moved toward the harbor, like you didn’t have a damn clue the Hero of the Marines was one breath away from barking on all fours.

He watched the way the light caught your hair. Watched the sundress flutter against your thighs, fabric teasing like it had a personal vendetta. His brain—veteran of a thousand naval battles, siege master of coastal strongholds, slayer of sea kings—emptied.

You weren’t even trying.

You stood with one hand on your hip, the other lifting your parasol with a gentle turn of the wrist. The sun caught the tops of your shoulders. Your smile was bright. Your eyes were all kinds of trouble. You wore yellow. Garp, now and forever, loved yellow.

Awooga.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the sentiment echoed in his soul with the clarity of cannon fire.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t need to be. You vibrated on a frequency only his poor, overheated bones could detect. You were a danger dressed like a daydream, sunshine painted with warning stripes. That little dress clung to you like it had opinions—tied in scandalous bows at the shoulders, swaying well above your knees, moving like it knew exactly how to weaponize a breeze.

Garp stopped walking.

Then he stopped breathing.

And then, like a man struck directly in the spine by divine interference, he grunted, “Huh.”

You caught his gaze and smiled again. Slower this time. Measured. Your sandals whispered over the stone, and the parasol twirled lazily in your hands like you had nowhere to be except exactly where he was.

He hadn’t noticed how long he’d been staring until Bogard leaned over and said, low and dry, “Sir. Your rice ball is leaking.”

Garp didn’t blink. “Don’t care.”

You smiled again and let him look.

Let him take it all in.

And oh, he did.

He devoured you with his eyes—starved, stunned, silent. He took in the curve of your waist, the sunlight on your thighs, the ribbon sliding from your shoulder like it had secrets. You weren’t showy. You weren’t flirting. You were worse. You were possibly interested. Like a dream that walked toward him instead of vanishing. Like an invitation that didn’t need words.

It did something unholy to him.

By the time you reached the ship and tilted your head in a show of gentle confusion, Garp had already imagined bending you over every stable surface of the vessel. Twice.

“Vice Admiral, isn’t it?” you asked, squinting just enough to pass for innocent. “Could you help me? I’m a little turned around.”

He made a noise that might have once been language. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

He cleared his throat. Adjusted his waistband. For stability. No other reason.

“Hi?” he offered, with the helpless tone of a man trying not to drown in thigh-high water.

“Hello,” you replied, voice smooth as honey poured slowly over warm stone. “Quite a day for a stroll, no?”

You let the wind catch the hem of your dress again. Just slightly. Just enough.

His eyes dropped. You felt them settle, hot and unrelenting, like fingertips dragging across skin.

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” he said. His voice came out too low, too rough around the edges.

You stepped closer, your sandals silent, your parasol tilting like punctuation at the end of a flirt.

“Neither do you.”

You smiled like a girl who knew exactly what she was doing. Knew that he knew it. Knew he wouldn’t stop you even if he could. Sweetness bloomed across your face, innocent on the surface, soaked in sin underneath.

“I do wonder,” you murmured, your tone soft and rich, like butter left to melt over rum cake. “Would you happen to know if there’s a ship heading east?”

He was reasonably certain he was headed east now. Spiritually. Mentally. Possibly even physically.

Garp’s jaw twitched. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. His brain had thrown itself overboard.

“Yeah,” he managed, dragging the word out like he was lassoing it from a distance. “Yeah, maybe. Why? Where you headed?”

“Anywhere cooler,” you said, lifting the parasol to your shoulder with a faint sigh. “It’s sweltering.”

Your skin gleamed in the sun. Your lips curved like you knew what they did to a man. And Garp, veteran of wars, scourge of pirates, Hero of the Marines, stood in the middle of a dock in full uniform, sweating like a schoolboy at confession.

“You look a bit warm yourself,” you added, tilting your head. “Are you all right, Vice Admiral?”

He coughed into his fist, loud and aimless. “Peachy.”

Somewhere behind him, Bogard made a strangled noise like he had just swallowed his tongue.

You shifted again, fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt with casual elegance. Garp’s hand jerked, and his rice ball slipped in his grip for the second time that day. He fumbled it back into place with the desperation of a man clinging to the last shred of dignity.

There was a freckle.

One.

Right on the inside of your thigh.

It caught the sunlight like it had been placed there on purpose, and it stole every rational thought he’d ever had.

“You, uh, need an escort?” he asked, chest puffing up with the blind confidence of a man experiencing religious awakening. “Could give you a tour of the flagship.”

Behind him, Bogard made another sound. Garp ignored it. His blood was hot. His vision was hazy. His soul had already fled.

You tilted your head, gaze soft and considering. “Would you?”

Garp grinned. He flexed, just a touch, like a bear trying to impress a butterfly. “Sure. I mean, can’t let someone so delicate wander around alone in pirate waters.”

Your lashes lowered in the kind of blink that should be classified as a controlled substance. When your fingers brushed his arm, light and grateful, something behind his eyes flickered dangerously.

Garp nearly shut down.

He believed it. He wanted to believe it.

Because for three whole seconds, the world slowed to a crawl. No gunfire. No sirens. No orders barking across the harbor. Just you. Just your touch. Just the idea of possibility cracking open in his chest like spring after war.

And in the place where logic once lived, only one thought bloomed: Wife material.

You let him offer the tour.

You accepted.

Bold of him.

Bolder of you.

Around you, the Marines had stopped pretending not to stare. Some watched with awe. Some watched with terror. A few whispered behind their hands, unsure if they were witnessing courtship or an oncoming scandal.

Garp didn’t notice.

He was grinning like a fool and offering you a skewer of grilled fish from a street vendor with the enthusiasm of a man who believed himself blessed.

He was trying to guess your background. Diplomat, maybe. Or royalty. Possibly the daughter of some high-ranking admiral slumming it in disguise. An angel, if angels had wicked smiles and legs for days. A mirage, if mirages could touch.

Definitely wife material.

“I don’t usually escort civilians,” he said, puffing up like a peacock showing off his medals. “Too busy keeping the seas safe.”

“Oh, you seem very safe,” you said, voice sugared and innocent.

He preened like a rooster on parade.

He told himself it was a matter of professional courtesy. Basic good manners. Chivalry, even. You didn’t argue. You just walked beside him, steps light, questions softer still, your laughter slipping into the air like the scent of something addictive.

You let your fingers brush his arm. Once. Just once.

His entire body reacted like he had been struck in the gut.

You paused beside the cannons, leaned forward with the curiosity of someone very new to weaponry. Your dress slid a little higher as you bent to examine the rigging, and your lip caught gently against your teeth. It was unintentional, probably. Maybe.

He stood behind you, fists clenched at his sides, trying to remember what year it was.

“Something wrong, Vice Admiral?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder. Your voice was polite. Your eyes were not.

He looked like a man on trial, guilty of crimes against restraint.

“No,” he said, a little too fast. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

You stepped toward him, slow and unhurried, like the thought of falling into his arms had simply crossed your mind and you were entertaining it for sport. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His whole body had locked into place, spine tense, hands twitching at his sides.

He watched the fabric of your dress shift with each step, soft as smoke and dangerous as gunpowder. Every sway of your hips sent his brain further into emergency shutdown. You walked like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

And then you whispered, “You’ve been watching me since the dock.”

His throat worked around the sudden dryness. He swallowed hard. Too hard.

“You wore that dress on purpose,” he growled, voice cracking at the edges with something between accusation and desperation.

“Of course I did,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to be lethal. “Wouldn’t you, if you knew someone like you was watching?”

That was it. That was the moment. The moment he broke.

Not physically. Garp was still every inch the Marine. Built like a fortress. Steady as war. He didn’t buckle, didn’t tremble, didn’t collapse in any obvious way.

But something cracked. Deep inside. Quietly.

Because you had undone him. With a sundress. With a voice that sounded like heatstroke and sin. With thighs he had been trying, and failing, not to think about since the second you stepped into the sun.

He didn’t know it yet, not fully, but this was the start of his downfall.

Because once you stepped aboard that ship, his brain stayed behind, tangled somewhere in your dress, and never caught up.

You let him lead. Let him think he was in charge.

He pointed out the helm, still trying to sound composed. Showed you the cannons again, now with fewer coherent sentences. Took you to the map room, where he gestured at things with a lot of unnecessary flexing.

You cooed softly at each station he showed you. Nodded in all the right places. Eyes wide. Smile bright. Every inch the sweet, attentive civilian.

And then, when no one was watching, you stepped behind him.

Your fingers moved fast, practiced. Two ropes twisted into a sailor’s knot. A dagger, slipped from your parasol, drove cleanly into the pulley control. The mechanism jammed with a metallic groan. Somewhere deep in the ship’s rigging, tension snapped.

Garp frowned. “Huh. Did you hear—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You stepped in close, reached behind him, and pulled.

His belt came undone with the crisp efficiency of someone who had absolutely done this before.

His trousers hit the deck with a heavy thunk.

Garp spun, half-naked, boots on, pants pooled at his ankles, outrage forming like a stormcloud.

Before he could speak, you kissed his cheek.

“Thanks for the tour, sweet thing.”

Then you were gone. One smooth dive over the side. A small splash. And there you were, already landing on a waiting raft bobbing just offshore.

You turned and gave a little wave.

Garp remained frozen, stunned, pantsless, red-faced, and unfortunately aroused. Not just with fury, but with something much worse.

Want.

Because you had pantsed the Hero of the Marines. Not figuratively. Not in some lofty, political, metaphorical way.

Literally.

One flick of your parasol, lined on the inside with kairoseki, how very rude—and a quick tug of his belt while he was gesturing gallantly at the horizon. Down went the whites.

The Marines screamed.

You blew him a kiss.

“SHE STOLE MY WALLET!”

Garp’s roar shook the harbor. He was still trying to yank his trousers up when the first explosion rocked through the fleet.

One by one, his ships began to spin in place. Anchors dragged like drunken sea serpents. Sails flapped and tangled. Masts knocked together with splintering groans. Ballasts came loose. Compasses spun like they’d been cursed.

You had sabotaged the rudder controls during the walk. Loosened the anchors. Unclipped sails. Cut half a dozen key lines and trapped the others in knots so clever they’d take a full crew a week to untangle.

It was adorable chaos.

Strategic humiliation.

You waved from the raft as it bobbed into the sea lane, now significantly richer in both beli and the priceless treasure of Garp’s tactical embarrassment.

“Thanks for the tour!” you called, voice warm and bright over the rising sounds of mayhem. “I’ll write!”

Back on the deck, Garp stood trembling, pants halfway secured, hair askew, eyes fixed on the horizon like it had personally betrayed him.

Bogard approached in silence and handed him a report.

“She destroyed the formation, sir.”

Before Garp could respond, a second ship behind them swung hard off course, performed a majestic, slow-motion spin, and slammed into the pier with all the grace of a drunk cow. The sound of crunching wood was deafening.

Both men winced.

“She rewired the helm lines,” Bogard added quietly. “In less than fifteen minutes. Walking with you.”

Silence followed.

Then came the bellow.

“She—she—I had plans for that woman!”

Bogard said nothing.

Garp pressed the note to his chest like a war medal and swore into the ocean with all the fury of a man wronged by fate itself.

Then, much softer, almost reverent, he whispered to no one at all.

“She’s perfect.”

Aboard your raft, you unpinned the parasol. Inside it: his wallet, his compass, and a map of the Marine fleet’s entire formation schedule for the next three weeks.

“Vice Admiral Garp,” you said dreamily, kicking your feet up, “you are not ready for me.”

The raft had long vanished beyond the horizon by the time the full scope of your crimes revealed itself.

One warship had beached itself completely on the western sandbar, its anchor lovingly wrapped around a fishing hut like an ill-mannered embrace. Another had unfurled half its sails upside down, flapping uselessly in protest. That one had you to thank for your “accidental” fiddling during the cannon tour. A third was now on fire. Not from battle. From a lemon cake.

Specifically, a lemon cake strategically placed in the boiler room.

It had combusted with comedic timing and surgical precision.

Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp stood in the center of it all—shirt open, belt crooked, eyes bloodshot—watching his entire command structure collapse like a drunken domino game.

“You see what she did?” he bellowed, voice cracking under the weight of disbelief. “She undid everything! In a sundress!”

Up the mast, halfway tangled in chaos you had left behind, Bogard called down dryly. “She also pickpocketed you mid-stare and rerouted our supply crates to the Revolutionaries, sir.”

That one stung.

This wasn’t just humiliation. This was sabotage delivered with a smile and executed with satin gloves. Tactical carnage in soft yellow cotton.

The image of your bare shoulders lingered behind his eyes like a fever dream. The smirk. The parasol. The way your dress had shifted with the breeze like it was conspiring against him. You moved like you already owned him and had chosen, generously, to leave just enough of his ego intact to let him pretend he still had a chance.

It was the most brutal defeat he had suffered since God Valley.

And he wanted it again.

A few minutes later, a breathless marine officer stumbled across the wreckage with a torn envelope in hand.

“Sir! This was in your boot.”

Bogard took it and passed it over. “Left you this.”

Garp opened the note. The handwriting was elegant. Teasing.

Next time, I’ll take the pants too.

He stared at it.

Read it again.

And again, slower this time.

Then whispered, like a man standing at the edge of something sacred and terrifying, “Damn.”

He folded the note with the care of a man tucking away a medal. Slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat like it was a love letter written in blood.

“…And god damn.”

Bogard climbed down from the rigging, landing beside him with the tired gait of someone emotionally bracing for impact.

“That was no ordinary woman,” Garp said at last, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“No, sir,” Bogard replied. “That was a whole naval disaster in lipstick.”

Garp looked out to sea, haunted and awestruck.

“She’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Bogard raised an eyebrow. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“…Yes.”

Later, Garp’s command office was quiet.

The paperwork hissed at him. He wasn’t sure if it was cursed or if the memory of your thighs had finally driven him over the edge.

Garp sat hunched at the table, staring at reports like they might bite.

Bogard entered like a man delivering a eulogy.

“Sir.”

“Don’t,” Garp muttered. “I’m still recovering. She’s in my dreams now. I hear her voice every time I close my eyes. She pantsed me spiritually.”

Bogard placed a sealed folder in front of him. The wax crest shimmered with the kind of clearance that meant secrets. Dangerous ones.

“You’ll want to see this.”

Garp opened it. He expected the worst.

He did not expect the name.

Gol D.—

He blinked. Stared.

“…Gol D.?”

Bogard nodded.

Garp flipped through the rest. Faster now. His finger trailed down the page as if afraid the words might vanish.

Pirate ties. Sister of Gol D. Roger. Suspected strategist. Operator for the Revolutionary Army. Known saboteur of Marine operations.

The blood drained from his face.

“I flirted with Roger’s sister?”

“You dry-humped her with your eyes for fifteen minutes, sir.”

“I gave her a tour! I let her on board!”

“You tried to carry her parasol.”

“She kissed me!”

“Yes. And stole your wallet.”

Garp groaned and dragged both hands down his face. “She’s a Gol.”

“A certified one.”

“She dismantled my fleet and made me want to propose.”

Bogard, without comment, handed him a bottle of rum.

Garp took it. Chugged half. Slammed it down.

He stared at the wall. Flushed. Ashamed. Aroused. Something in between.

“God damn that family. No business being that smug. That sharp. That—”

He exhaled hard through his nose, like a man approaching grief. Or acceptance.

“…I’d still marry her.”

Bogard blinked. “Sir?”

Garp began pacing, wild and uneven. “She made me look like a fool. Stole classified documents. Sank two ships. Mocked my authority. Humiliated me in front of my entire crew.”

He turned. Locked eyes with Bogard.

“And I’ve never wanted someone more.”

Bogard did not blink. “So that’s your type, huh?”

Garp dropped into his seat with a heavy thud and ran a hand through his hair.

“She’s dangerous, Bogard. Emotionally dangerous. She’d run my life into the ground and leave me thanking her for the experience.”

Bogard nodded slowly. “She’d never let you retire.”

“She’d monogram the word ‘coward’ into my laundry if I forgot our anniversary.”

“She’d seduce you and dismantle your command chain in the same breath.”

Garp’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “And I’d help her.”

They sat in silence.

Outside, another warship finished sinking sideways into the harbor.

Neither man flinched.

The Oro Jackson, a few months later:

Mid-Grand Line, aboard the Oro Jackson, the Rodger crew is enjoying a rare moment of peace. 

Until Garp’s warship appears on the horizon for the fourth time that month. 

Roger groans. Rayleigh makes tea. Shanks and Buggy place bets. And you? You just sit on the railing, swinging your legs and looking like sin in silk.

“There he is again,” said Rayleigh calmly, sipping from a chipped mug.

Shanks leaned over the railing with Buggy clinging to his ankles. “Think he’s after the captain?”

“Think he’s after her,” Buggy muttered, pointing directly at you.

You waved cheerfully at the Marine warship growing larger in the distance. “Twelve minutes before he starts shouting.”

Roger groaned, face already in his hands. “Twelve minutes before I jump overboard.”

“You know,” Rayleigh offered casually, “we could just hand her over. Solve two problems at once.”

You shot him a look.

He amended quickly. “Three problems. He gets a wife. We get a break. The Marines get therapy.”

Roger raised his head. “I would, except he doesn’t chase her like a man in love. He chases her like a man who can’t decide if he wants to put a ring on her or a collar.”

“He wants to die married,” Rayleigh said.

“Same thing,” you muttered.

On Garp’s ship, currently steaming toward the Oro Jackson like a man possessed:

“FULL SPEED!” he bellowed, fist in the air, cape flapping like it owed him money.

A Marine scrambled up the lookout. “Sir, are we engaging Gol D. Roger?”

“I’M GONNA KILL ROGER!”

The crew shouted in unison: “YES, VICE ADMIRAL!”

Garp’s next breath was slightly softer.

“…AND THEN I’M GONNA MARRY HIS SISTER!”

The crew: “…Sir?”

Garp grabbed the rail and stared dead ahead.

“You ever seen a woman destroy your command structure, steal your wallet, and still make you think about naming children?”

Bogard muttered, “Only when I’m dreaming of her, sir.”

“THEN YOU GET IT.”

Back on the Oro Jackson:

“I don’t get it,” Shanks said, clapping as the warship approached. “Is he here to kill us or flirt with her?”

“Both,” Buggy said, hiding behind a barrel. “Probably at the same time. He’s going to punch Roger with one fist and propose with the other.”

Roger braced his foot on the helm. “HEY, MONKEY!”

From the Marine ship: “ROGER, YOU BASTARD!”

“WHAT IS IT THIS TIME?” Roger shouted. “YOU WANT MY HEAD OR MY SISTER’S HAND?”

“I’LL TAKE BOTH!” Garp roared back, fist cocked and sparkling with Haki. “AND I HAVEN’T DECIDED WHICH ORDER!”

You leaned into the shouting as if it were dinner theater. “Sweet of him to ask, though.”

Roger turned and glared. “Do you like this?”

 “I like men stupid.” You grinned. “It’s the only way I get flowers."

[heldbybarnes]

Sexy, Stupid, Mine

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings:mild suggestive content / implied sexual situations, domestic chaos (burnt food, broken appliances, curtain rod zip-ties 😬), strong language (light swearing), bucky being a disaster manchild, but make it adorable, alcohol mention (wine during game night), one discussion of the word "queef" because Bucky is Bucky, pure fluff, humor, and dumbassery, reader fully aware their man is stupid and still rides for him

Inspired by "manchild" - Sabrina Carpenter

----------

You knew exactly what kind of man you were signing up for.

A six-foot-something supersoldier with a metal arm, a brooding complex, and the emotional range of a particularly moody Roomba. Bucky Barnes was chaos in boots—broody, beautiful, and completely incapable of using a microwave without somehow blowing a fuse.

And you loved him for it. Unfortunately.

It all started on a Tuesday.

You walked into your apartment after work, heels off, tote bag slung across your arm, fully expecting to see your boyfriend passed out on the couch, probably mid-rewatch of The Great British Bake Off again (he claimed it “soothed his combat reflexes,” whatever that meant).

Instead, you walked in and were greeted by…smoke.

Actual smoke. Billowing out of the kitchen like some sort of haunted fog machine.

You dropped your bag.

“Oh my god—BUCKY?”

He poked his head out of the kitchen a second later, sheepish, with a dish towel tied around his neck like a cape and…was that your pink "Slut for Snacks" apron?

“Hey, doll,” he said, far too casually for someone who had nearly set your apartment on fire.

“…What the hell are you doing?”

“I was makin’ dinner.”

You blinked. “Making it where? In hell’s kitchen?”

He pouted, stepping out with an oven mitt still on one hand and holding what looked like a tray of...charcoal. “It was chicken nuggets.”

You squinted at the blackened blobs. “Were they cooked in lava?”

“I may have left the oven on broil.”

“For how long?”

“…two hours?”

You looked at him. He looked at you. Then the fire alarm went off.

Fifteen minutes, two windows, one fire extinguisher, and a good cry-laugh later, you sat on the floor of your kitchen with Bucky, eating cereal out of mismatched mugs because the dishwasher had also mysteriously broken.

(You still suspect he tried to put the entire crockpot in there.)

“You know,” you said between bites, “Whole outfit you're wearing, God, I hope it’s ironic.”

He looked down at himself—the apron, the towel-cape, the flour-stained tank top. “You don’t like my cooking ‘fit?”

“Oh, I love it. It really says ‘1950s housewife meets Marvel’s Most Wanted.’”

He smirked. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. The man was a menace. A menace with a jawline so sharp it could cut glass and the attention span of a golden retriever in a squirrel sanctuary.

And God help you—you loved him stupid.

Thursday.

You came home to find him on the couch, wearing your bathrobe, with one AirPod in, completely transfixed by Mamma Mia 2. Again.

“Hey, sweet cheeks,” he said without looking up, “did you know Pierce Brosnan has three solos in this one?”

“I did,” you said, hanging your coat. “You also cried during two of them last week.”

He sniffed. “It’s an emotional journey.”

“You cried when they sang ‘Waterloo,’ Bucky.”

“It was stirring.”

You flopped onto the couch beside him and stole a handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap.

“Tell me something,” you said, chewing thoughtfully.

He glanced at you.

You raised a brow. “How did a highly trained assassin manage to install a curtain rod with zip ties today?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

You pointed to the bent curtain rod currently swinging like a broken swing in a horror movie. “Define ‘worked.’”

“…Creative problem-solving?”

You groaned, leaning into his shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know.”

Friday night.

You hosted game night at your place—just a few friends, some drinks, snacks, and Bucky attempting to understand Cards Against Humanity like it was written in alien code.

“Wait,” he said, frowning at his hand, “what’s a ‘queef’?”

You choked on your wine.

Natasha nearly fell out of her chair laughing.

Steve just buried his face in his hands. “For the love of—don’t explain it.”

But of course, you explained it.

And Bucky’s reaction?

“Oh. Huh.” He paused, then proudly dropped his card. “Well that changes the whole strategy.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He smirked. “Gotta go in filthy now.”

“You’ve literally been playing wholesome cards all night,” you said, waving your hand. “‘A gentle kiss on the forehead’? ‘Loyalty and affection’? You were playing like Captain America’s golden retriever.”

“Well, now I know the rules.”

Five minutes later, he slammed down a card combo that read: “My last shred of dignity” + “getting pegged in a Waffle House.”

Everyone screamed.

And somehow, Bucky Barnes won the whole damn game.

Saturday morning.

You were brushing your teeth when he shuffled into the bathroom with one eye open, bedhead in all directions, and wearing his sleep shirt that said “Don’t Talk to Me Unless You’re a Cat.”

He kissed your shoulder.

You side-eyed him through the mirror. “Did you actually eat the cookies I left in the fridge for brunch today?”

He froze.

Chewed his lip.

“…No?”

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

He smiled. “Okay, maybe.”

You squinted. “How many?”

“Like…a reasonable amount.”

“How many?”

“…all of them.”

You turned, foaming toothbrush in hand. “You ate twelve triple-chocolate espresso cookies for breakfast?!”

“They were small!”

“They were the size of my face!”

He took your toothbrush from your hand, set it down gently, then wrapped his arms around you with a practiced smile that said he knew exactly how to distract you.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “what if I make it up to you in ways that require no clothes and significantly more moaning?”

You paused.

Sighed.

“Ugh. Why so sexy if so dumb.”

“Dumb?” he gasped dramatically. ��Excuse me, I’m brilliant. I beat you at game night.”

“You thought a queef was a person, Bucky.”

“…Aren’t they?”

You meant it when you told your friends: “I like my men all incompetent.”

And you did. Because there was something glorious about watching a man who could tear a building in half with one arm get genuinely bewildered by the concept of dryer sheets.

Something tender about how he left his keys in the freezer again (“It just felt like a safe spot!”), how he once tried to fix a squeaky hinge with a capful of lube (it worked, okay), how he bought a plunger without realizing what it was for.

He was ridiculous.

But he was also yours.

Later that week.

You came home from a long, exhausting day, ready to collapse. But instead of smoke or chaos, you found Bucky in the living room—with candles lit, actual food on the table, and himself…in a suit.

Your mouth dropped. “Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?”

He grinned, stood, and walked over to you like some sort of smoldering god.

“Just thought I’d remind you I’m more than a walking disaster,” he said, sliding a hand around your waist. “Sometimes I’m a sexy walking disaster.”

You kissed him. Hard.

He tasted like red wine and smugness.

“I was gonna roast you,” you whispered, “but honestly? That suit’s doing things.”

He smirked. “Useless in the kitchen. Great in the bedroom.”

You nodded. “We all have our gifts.”

Later still, tangled in bed, limbs a mess of laughter and kisses, you sighed into his neck.

“I love you,” you murmured. “Even when you’re stupid.”

He chuckled. “Is it stupidity, or is it…creative genius misinterpreted by modern society?”

“Mm, it’s definitely stupid.”

“Then I guess there’s a better use for it,” he said, rolling on top of you with a wink. “Like making you scream my name.”

You smacked his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m yours.”

You wrapped your legs around him.

“Damn right you are.”

[noobiestnoober]

👑 The Originals Masterlist

✨ Reblog = support the writer! 💌 Requests Open! #fyp #fandomwriters

Niklaus Mikaelson

A Deal with the Devil – 🔥 Smut

The Beast That Calls You Home

Art of Seduction | PART 1 | PART 2 - 🔥 Smut

King of Nothing

The Bite Between Love and Hate – 🔥 Smut

Ballroom Betreyals

Cursed Cravings – 🔥 Smut

Yours

Old Debts, Dark Hearts (Series - Ongoing)

Kol Mikaelson

Deadly Attraction

Elijah Mikaelson

A Promise Etched in Blood

🌀 Group & Chaos One-Shots

Prank Wars – Mystic Falls Edition – (Reader, Damon, Stefan, Kol)

Babysitting the Hybrid’s Poodle – (Reader and Klaus, feat. Kol)

Truth or Dare Gone Wrong – PART 1 | PART 2 (Mystic Falls Gang & Reader+Mikaelsons)

Haunted House Hunt – (Reader, Kol, Rebekah)

Road Trip from Hell – (Reader, Damon, Caroline, Klaus)

Mystic Falls' First Karaoke Night

Babysitting Hope Mikaelson

[archivewriter1ont]

Echo and the Cadet Batch: Chapter 6 Is Out!

Meeting the Vode (Part One)

art by @shyranno

Summary:

Echo tries to decide how many vode to let in on the secret of the now-cadet Bad Batch. In the meantime, Kix gives checkups, Jesse tries to make friends, and Rex elects to call in the ori’vod big guns.

I don't know if this qualifies for the event page reblog, @kybercrystals94, but your @galactic-gift-gathering wishlist included Cadet Batch and I was definitely thinking of you while writing this chapter! Enjoy ♥️

[barnesonly]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆ Bambi ⊹₊ ⋆｡˚

dad!bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff and humour, established relationship (marriage), parenthood, girl dad bucky, the new avengers (post thunderbolts*), auntie yelena, alexei shenanigans… and bob is an ipad kid.

summary: yours and bucky’s toddler daughter visits avengers tower for the first time and immediately becomes everyone’s favorite. alexei is obsessed. yelena is chaotic aunt. bob is shy. bucky comes back from a mission and goes full soft dad mode. chaos and fluff ensue!!

word count: 2275

A/N: kinda inspired by this fic written by @buckysleftbicep (absolutely loved it) so everyone go check it out right now!! Posting fluff in celebration of reaching 1k followers!

The moment you step into Avengers Tower, your daughter’s tiny hand wrapped in yours and her beloved deer plush tucked under her arm, you brace yourself.

Not for an attack. Not for a mission.

But for them.

Yelena’s the first to spot you from across the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her boots on the coffee table, casually eating pickles out of the jar like it’s an Olympic sport. Her eyes light up instantly.

“You brought the gremlin,” she says, hopping over the back of the couch like it owes her money. “Finally.”

Your daughter perks up at the voice and lets go of your hand, wobble-running straight into Yelena’s legs. “Lena!”

Yelena scoops her up with practiced ease, already spinning her like a pizza. “You’re taller than last time. What are they feeding you, huh? Dinosaur nuggets? Uncrustables?”

You smile, brushing hair from your face. “Babysitter called in sick. Bucky’s off running recon with Ava and John. It was either bring her with me or let Alpine babysit.”

Yelena shrugs. “Cat would’ve done a decent job.”

But before you can respond, a voice bellows from across the room like thunder cracking through a storm.

“OH MY GOD.”

You freeze.

“THERE IS A CHILD.”

Alexei appears like a bear-sized ghost from around the corner, eyes wide, beard fluffed, hands halfway to the sky in pure dramatics.

“She is real! You made her!” he gasps, pointing between you and your daughter like he’s just discovered human biology. “You and Barnes! You spawned!”

Your daughter clutches tighter to Yelena’s neck, blinking slowly. “…Who’s that?”

“That’s Uncle Alexei, baby,” Yelena mutters, clearly second-guessing every life choice.

“Uncle?” Alexei gasps, one hand pressed to his heart. “She called me uncle? Did you hear that? She has taste.”

“She didn’t call you anything, actually,” you say dryly.

He ignores you, kneeling down like he’s approaching a skittish woodland creature. “Little one. What is your name?”

Your daughter snuggles further into Yelena’s shoulder, unsure.

Yelena whispers it to him.

Alexei lights up. “Beautiful. Like tiny ballerina-slash-assassin.”

Then he spots the plushie.

His jaw drops. “Is that… a deer?!”

She nods.

He gasps. “A baby deer,” he glances directly at you. “You brought Bambi to the Tower. Look at this! I will call her Bambi forever now. This is perfect.”

You groan. “Her name is not Bambi.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexei says with utter seriousness. “Her superhero name is Bambi now.” He looks at the plush deer again, as if he needs confirmation. “This is Bambi. Your child… she is Bambi.”

“Why are you like this?”

The elevator dings softly behind you. Bob steps out, hugging a datapad to his chest, eyes flicking up—and stopping cold at the sight of a tiny human standing in the middle of the room surrounded by chaos.

He freezes like he just walked into the wrong universe.

“Oh,” he says, voice soft. “Oh. Um. Hi.”

Alexei scoops your daughter’s plush out of her hands (gently, somehow) and holds it up like a prize. “The deer has arrived.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny, distressed “Nooo!” and Yelena sighs, prying it back and handing it to her. She immediately clutches it to her chest, pouting.

Alexei melts. “She loves it. Look at the loyalty. I respect it. She will be a warrior.”

“She’s three,” you say.

“And already wiser than John,” Bob mutters, sliding onto the couch and giving your daughter a gentle wave. “Hi… I’m Bob.”

Bob offers a cautious smile from his corner of the couch, clearly doing mental math on how to interact with a three-year-old while holding a fragile datapad full of intel. “Is that your deer?” he asks gently.

Your daughter nods, eyes wide but curious.

“What’s your name?”

She hesitates, glances at you, then whispers, “Bambi.”

You sigh. Yelena smirks. Alexei fist-pumps like his soul just ascended.

“Haha! See?! Bambi!”

“She only said that because you pressured her!” you argue.

Alexei ignores you completely, now crouching beside Bob like they’re co-conspirators. “This changes everything. We must get her a cape.”

Bob blinks. “Wait, for the deer or…?”

“Yes.”

Before you can intervene, your daughter climbs out of Yelena’s lap and toddles unsteadily across the rug, her tiny socks making her slide a little on the hardwood. She waddles straight up to Bob and shyly offers him the plush deer for inspection.

Bob stares, caught completely off-guard. Slowly, reverently, he reaches out and pokes it once, like he’s been offered something sacred.

“She trusts you,” Yelena says with a smirk. “You’ve been chosen.”

Alexei claps him on the back. “Welcome to the Uncle Club.”

Bob pales. “I—I didn’t sign up for that—”

“Too late,” Yelena and Alexei say in unison.

You step in before your daughter hands over her entire soul to the team. “Alright, Bambi’s gotta go with me to the debriefing room for a bit. She’s quiet during meetings, I swear.”

“Wait, she’s sitting in?” Bob asks, blinking.

“She can’t stay here,” you whisper. “He’s already planning her costume reveal.” You point at Alexei as you roll your eyes.

Alexei winks. “Tiny leather jacket. I know a guy.”

You hoist your daughter up, her head instantly finding your shoulder, deer tucked between you. She’s calm now, observing the chaos like she’s already used to it—which, to be fair, she probably is.

Yelena holds the elevator door open for you. “Want me to come with?”

You smile gratefully. “Please.”

Bob waves. “Bye, Bambi.”

Alexei bows. “We will train in the art of war when you return.”

Your daughter yawns.

“Yeah,” Yelena mutters, smirking. “She’s terrified.”

As the elevator doors slide shut, you glance down at the sleepy toddler in your arms and murmur, “She kind of is ruling the tower right now.”

Yelena chuckles beside you, hands in her pockets. “Please. Alexei is probably already imagining her leading The New New Avengers.”

———

The common room is unusually quiet.

Which, considering who lives here, means there are only three simultaneous conversations instead of seven, and no one’s actively throwing knives at the wall.

You’re curled up on the far couch with a warm mug of coffee tucked in your hands, your legs folded under you, eyes tracking the scene in front of you with the kind of resigned affection that only comes from parenting amidst chaos.

Your daughter is sitting cross-legged on the rug, her beloved deer plush nestled in her lap, while Bob sits beside her like he’s attending a high-stakes diplomatic summit. His tablet is open, and he’s very seriously showing her a game where she gets to decorate cupcakes.

“Okay,” Bob says, voice calm and precise, “this one has rainbow sprinkles. That means it’s the most powerful one.”

Your daughter giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one’s Bucky’s!”

Bob raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Excellent choice. Very dangerous cupcake.”

Across the room, Alexei is sitting backward in an armchair—knees up, arms draped over the backrest like a golden retriever in a human body—just watching the entire interaction with rapt fascination.

“Look at her. Tactical decisions. Cupcake strategy. She is genius,” he murmurs, eyes wide. “You see this? She will rule us all.”

“Alexei, she decorates cupcakes,” you say tiredly.

“Exactly!” he says, like you’ve proved his point. “That is unpredictable. That is art.”

Bob glances up, sheepish but undeniably soft. “She’s really good at this. Like… scary good. She beat my high score.”

“She’s three,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Exactly,” Bob echoes, completely serious.

Your daughter turns and beams at you, holding the tablet up in victory. “I made a cat cupcake!”

“You’re a creative genius, sweetheart,” you say with a smile, setting your mug down. “Now let Bob breathe before he has a full-blown cupcake identity crisis.”

“She beat me twice,” Bob mutters, looking at the screen with quiet betrayal.

Alexei grins. “You have been defeated. Welcome to the Bambi Era.”

That makes your daughter puff up with pride, hugging her deer closer. “I’m Bambi.”

You blink at her.

“Okay, okay. You’re Bambi.” you murmur, already accepting defeat.

Alexei makes a dramatic gasp and holds his hand to his heart. “The prophecy is fulfilled.”

And that’s when the elevator dings. The doors slide open with a mechanical hum, and your husband, Bucky steps out—followed closely by Ava, already pulling off her gloves, and John, still mid-complaint about something Ava definitely tuned out five floors ago.

All three look a little winded, mission dust still clinging to them, that sharp post-field energy still buzzing in their shoulders.

Bucky’s the first to clock you.

Then—his eyes land on the small deer-plush-carrying toddler sitting in the middle of the Avengers’ common room rug like she owns the place.

He stops cold.

“What is she doing here?” he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion.

Your daughter hears his voice—and immediately bolts to her feet, deer plush bouncing from her arms as she runs.

“Daddy!”

And just like that—everything about Bucky shifts.

The steel in his posture melts in real time. That hard edge in his jaw softens. His arms open like it’s instinct, like they were made just for this exact moment.

He drops his bag without looking. Drops everything.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he breathes, catching her in a sweeping hug and lifting her off the ground like she weighs nothing. “Hi, my girl. Did you miss me?”

She nods furiously, burying her face in his neck. “You were so gone.”

Bucky presses a kiss to her hair, eyes fluttering shut for a second, like the entire day fades away the second she touches him. “I’m here now, baby. I’m here.”

There’s a stunned silence behind him.

John looks like someone just hit him with a frying pan. Ava raises an eyebrow and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “holy shit.”

Yelena grins, arms crossed. “Aww. The Winter Soldier has emotions. Someone write that down.”

Alexei is squinting, hand raised like he’s observing wildlife through binoculars.

“She called him Daddy and he went from Terminator to teddy bear in 0.2 seconds,” Bob whispers, genuinely fascinated.

You’re already walking over, arms crossed and smile threatening the edges of your mouth. “Glad to see she’s got you wrapped around her finger, too.”

“She owns me,” Bucky says simply, pressing one more kiss to her cheek. “You should know that by now.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, the rest of the team just found out.”

Bucky turns slightly, finally looking over at the stunned group of adult superheroes who just watched him transform into Dad of the Year.

“She get into any trouble while I was gone?”

“She beat me at tablet games and claimed her superhero name is Bambi,” Bob says numbly.

“She made Alexei cry,” Yelena adds.

“I did not cry,” Alexei huffs, wiping suspicious moisture from his eye. “I was emotionally impacted.”

Your daughter leans back in Bucky’s arms and holds up her deer plush proudly.

“Did you bring me a snack?”

“Your priorities are incredible,” Bucky mutters fondly, already walking toward the kitchen with her still on his hip. “Let’s go find you something good, huh, Bambi?”

She gasps. “You called me Bambi!”

You sigh.

———

Later that evening, the common room has finally quieted. Most of the team has dispersed, save for the ones still floating nearby with post-mission snacks or paperwork. The lights are dimmed, your coffee’s been reheated twice, and you’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, finally off your feet.

Across the room, Bucky is sitting on the couch with your daughter perched on his lap, her deer plush tucked snugly under one arm, the other animatedly waving in the air as she recounts—in painstaking detail—every single moment of her day.

“And then Lena spun me so fast, and Uncle Lexi said I was a ballerina, and Bob showed me a cupcake game but I BEAT HIM, and there were pickles but I didn’t want any ’cause they smell bad—Daddy, are you listening?”

Bucky, absolutely smitten, nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Of course I’m listening, Bambi. Pickles smell bad. Got it.”

She nods proudly. “And the couch is really squishy but not as squishy as ours. But this place has better snacks. And Lena let me jump on the beanbag on purpose. Can I come here always? Please?”

Bucky leans in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll talk to Mama about it. Maybe not always. But often? I think we can arrange that.”

She beams. “Okay. Also I drew a picture of Bob. He looks like a jellybean.”

You stifle a laugh into your mug.

Yelena slides into the chair beside yours with a quiet flop, arms crossed and an amused glint in her eye as she watches your daughter still rattling off to Bucky like it’s a press conference.

“She is so her father’s daughter,” Yelena says.

You sigh, but you’re smiling. “Yup.”

“Talks like him. Bossy like him. Stubborn as hell.”

You raise your mug. “And weirdly good at knives for a toddler. We’re doomed.”

Yelena snorts. “And you love it.”

You look over at Bucky again—his eyes soft, his fingers gently braiding a bit of your daughter’s hair as she chatters on about Alexei’s beard and how “Lena said I could have a jet one day.”

Your chest swells with something warm and weightless. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I really, really do.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

tags: @iamthatonefangirl (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list)

[ijustwannabecool]

Vogue Beauty Secrets

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

Summary… Vogue invites Y/N Leclerc to film her beauty routine, but between breastfeeding, toddlers barging in, and a very attentive husband named Charles, it becomes the internet’s favorite accidental family vlog.

A/N: This was so much fun to write. Thank you for the support.

Comment to be added to the tag list 🫶 Reblog if Charles in lip gloss healed you 💋 Requests open!

Donate a matcha?!

Like, Comment, Reblog, Enjoy!! - 💋

⋆｡˚☁︎˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Sophie was not emotionally prepared for what awaited her in the new Vogue Beauty Secrets video.

She had expected skincare tips and light glam. Maybe a glimpse of the Leclerc home in Monaco. What she got instead? Full-blown domestic intimacy and the softest glimpse into Charles Leclerc’s family life that had her immediately texting her group chat in all caps.

The video starts with a soft click of a camera. Then, a yawn.

“Hi, Vogue,” Y/N greets, bleary-eyed but smiling, her voice raspy from sleep. “I’m Y/N Leclerc. It’s 6:42 a.m., I haven’t had coffee, and I have approximately six minutes before someone needs me, so let’s go.”

She’s in a silky ivory robe, hair loosely twisted up, bare-faced but still radiant. The Monaco morning light spills in through tall windows, and behind her, their bathroom is sleek and softly lit, complete with pampas grass, glowy wall sconces, and a tiny pink toothbrush on the counter.

“So, I start my routine with cold water to fake looking awake,” she says, splashing her face. “This cleanser is my holy grail. Saved me from pregnancy acne, postpartum dry skin, and whatever hormonal situation is happening now.”

Just as she starts patting her face dry, a high-pitched wail breaks through the audio.

Y/N sighs, already smiling. “Hold on.”

The camera stays rolling as she walks out of frame. A minute later, she returns with a sleepy, whimpering baby girl snuggled into her chest and latched under her robe, suckling quietly.

“This is Amélie,” Y/N explains with a gentle bounce. “She woke up from a nightmare. Or gas. Or because the moon shifted slightly. Who knows.”

She reaches for her toner with one hand. “We multitask in this house.”

From the hallway, there’s the unmistakable sound of tiny feet running and then,

“MAMAN! Maxime threw the car in the toilet!”

Y/N freezes mid-serum. “Of course he did.”

Seconds later, Charles appears in the doorway in a plain white tee and black boxers, holding their son Maxime upside down like a sack of potatoes while their other son, Luca, trails behind looking scandalized.

“We’re resolving a Formula 1 incident in the bathroom,” Charles says, grinning at the camera. “Luca’s the steward. Maxime is currently being investigated for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

“Did you retrieve the car?” Y/N asks.

Charles shrugs. “No comment.”

He presses a kiss to her temple, checks on Amélie with soft eyes, then scoops up both boys with ease. “We’ll be back. Maybe.”

As he disappears, Y/N turns back to the camera with a laugh. “As you can tell, I live with four Leclercs. And none of them understand volume control.”

She continues her routine: moisturizer, under-eye cream, a little face oil, occasionally pausing to adjust Amélie’s head or sip coffee that mysteriously appears beside her.

Y/N narrows her eyes toward the door. “He always does this. Drops off coffee like a skincare fairy.”

There’s a beat.

Then Charles reappears with Leo, their dog, trailing behind him and immediately curling up at Y/N’s feet.

Charles grins, now shirtless and balancing Luca on one hip, Maxime hanging from his back like a little koala.

“Thought you needed a refill.”

Y/N lifts her brows. “You mean a refill of chaos?”

He kisses her cheek again. “Always.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “I’m going to try to do mascara. Let’s see how this goes with a baby attached to me and a toddler kicking a soccer ball off the bidet.”

The camera captures her reflection in the mirror, her swiping mascara with practiced precision while Amélie dozes, Charles wrangling twins in the background, Leo curled up protectively beneath her. Somehow it feels… cinematic. Like watching a memory unfold.

She reaches for her blush and hears,

“Maman, I want the pink lips too!” Maxime shouts, bolting into the room again with one of her glosses in hand.

Charles walks in, sheepish. “He stole it. I tried.”

Y/N gestures to the camera. “Well. Raw and real, right Vogue?”

She lifts Maxime onto the counter, dabs a bit of gloss on his lips, and hands the wand to Charles with a teasing smirk. “Your turn.”

Charles blinks. “I thought this was your video.”

“Your lips are dry. Don’t embarrass the family.”

The camera catches Charles puckering obediently, Y/N laughing as she applies the gloss while holding Amélie in place.

Sophie can’t believe she’s witnessing this. Charles Leclerc in a lip gloss application tutorial. Shirtless. Surrounded by three kids and a dog. Whispering something soft in French to his daughter, whose little fist is tangled in his necklace.

“I swear by this nipple cream,” Y/N adds, completely unbothered. “For any of you breastfeeding, it’s a life saver. Charles applies it for me when I’m too tired.”

“I do?” he calls from the hallway.

“You do now,” she calls back.

She finishes her makeup with one hand, blush, a bit of highlighter, tinted lip oil.

“And that’s it,” she smiles. “That’s my five-minute face for school drop-offs, F1 events, or just chasing the dog through the garden while holding a crying baby.”

Charles reappears once more, now with Amélie peacefully burping over his shoulder, the twins playing with Lego on the rug behind him.

He leans into the frame. “She forgot the most important product.”

Y/N blinks. “I did?”

Charles kisses her cheek. “Confidence. And a little gloss.”

Sophie feels like her heart’s going to explode.

The screen fades just as Maxime announces, “Papa tooted,” and chaos erupts behind them.

Y/N blows a kiss to the camera.

“Thanks, Vogue. Come back when we’ve slept for more than three hours.”

Fade to black.

—

The end...

Taglist:

@devilacot @angelluv16 @angstynasty @hisashifrey @mynameisangeloflife @evalynkillgrave @lorena-mv33 @frenchtwistedd @baechugff

inspired by @erodasfishtaco post

[p1girlfriend]

how the grid takes care of reader during pregnancy

lando norris

– "you good, baby?" every five seconds

– he googles everything. literally reads parenting books before bed while cuddling you

– touches your belly like it’s a good luck charm — during interviews, during races, whenever

– talks to your belly like the baby can hear: “hey little me. if you’re anything like your mum, you’re gonna be beautiful and terrifying.”

– randomly gets emotional while looking at you sleep. cries at the first ultrasound.

– makes the worst cravings runs, but does it so proudly.

– “i just bought five types of pickles. don’t ask questions.”

✦

oscar piastri

– calm, collected and a total softie in private

– becomes a pro at foot massages and always checks if you’ve eaten

– does the “hand on lower back” thing when you walk together, protective af

– “we’re doing this together, okay?” when you get overwhelmed

– holds you when you cry for no reason and says, “feel what you need, I’ve got you.”

– quietly excited, shows it by researching strollers at 1am

– will absolutely cry when he hears the heartbeat, but denies it forever

✦

charles leclerc

– so dramatic about it in the cutest way

– “you are carrying mon bébé, let me do everything”

– holds your hand constantly like he’s scared you’ll float away

– won’t let you lift a single thing, ever — even your phone sometimes

– sings lullabies in french to the bump

– tells the baby secrets like: "mamma is being difficult today but we still love her, okay?”

– has baby-sized ferrari merch ready by month 2

✦

lewis hamilton

– he’s the most emotionally present version of himself with you

– starts meditating with you every morning and night

– “you’re creating life, baby. that’s magic.”

– rubs your back without you asking, puts his hand on your belly during sleep

– talks to the bump like “you better love your mama more than anything in this world, okay?”

– writes a song about you and the baby, but doesn’t tell anyone. it’s just yours.

– takes you on “pre-baby moon” trips just so you feel spoiled and adored

✦

daniel ricciardo

– calls you mama all the time and it’s hot and adorable

– “mama needs snacks? daddy’s gotchu”

– loves watching your belly grow like it’s the most fascinating thing

– 100% does voices for the baby

– refuses to miss a single appointment, even if it means flying in overnight

– rubs lotion on your belly every night “for bonding purposes” (and bc he just wants to touch you)

– takes weekly pics of you like you’re a goddess: “the mother of my child?? radiant.”

✦

carlos sainz

– silently obsessed with your belly

– kisses it every morning like it’s routine

– does that “serious dad” thing and triple-checks the house safety

– makes sure your cravings are fulfilled immediately

– always has a hand on your thigh, belly, back, anything—like he needs to keep contact to stay grounded

✦

gabriel bortoleto

– surprisingly prepared?? like, he studied??

– “i’ve been watching videos, amor. we’re going to ace this.”

– turns your appointments into cute dates

– dances with you when you’re feeling down, even if it’s 8am

– buys a little onesie with “daddy’s biggest fan” on it and melts when you cry

– kisses your belly before every race

– and tells you, “everything I do now, I do for both of you.”

✦

lance stroll

– ultra soft, like your personal pillow

– loves when you rest your head on him

– gets all blushy and shy when he feels a kick for the first time

– makes playlists for the baby, which is honestly just an excuse to include love songs that remind him of you

– rubs your belly and says stuff like “hey, you comfy in there?”

– lays with his head on your lap for hours, listening to you talk about what kind of parents you’ll be

✦

liam lawson

– okay he panics a little at first

– but then becomes the most attentive man alive

– looks at your belly like it’s holy

– "you're so hot right now, it’s actually unfair"

– runs errands, reads books, becomes a prenatal yoga fanboy just for you

– always asks if you need anything. water? snack? kiss? cuddle? back rub?

– gives the best post-nap forehead kisses

– freaks out over every kick like “OH MY GOD IT’S ALIVE”

✦

max verstappen

– becomes a walking security system — doesn’t let you carry groceries, doesn’t let you sneeze without checking on you

– watches you nap like you’re made of glass, hand on your belly like he’s claiming it

– drives extra slow, even though he’s max verstappen.

– grumbles “my baby” under his breath every time someone touches your bump

– doesn’t want to post about it but has the softest pic of you as his lockscreen: wearing one of his hoodies, belly peeking out, looking at him like he hung the moon

– when the baby kicks, he melts — instantly on his knees, both hands on your bump, forehead pressed to your stomach

– “do it again,” he whispers, “kick again for papa.”

©p1girlfriend

[mindie-arts]

Vice captain wanted quiet time~ 🤭

[hayweerc]

[formulafanfics13]

Could you please write how each driver would react to an unplanned/surprise pregnancy?

Masterlist

a surprise pregnancy 🔥

⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆

Current Grid

Lando Norris Goes completely silent. Like, silent-silent. The air shifts. He stares at you, blinking slowly, then mutters, “You’re joking.” You shake your head. He stands up. Walks in a tiny, panicked circle. Then stops. “Are you sure it’s mine?” You glare. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just-fuck.” His eyes start glazing over like he’s seeing the ghost of his former freedom. Then, without warning, he laughs. Hysterically. Collapses on the sofa like someone just told him he won’t live past 25. Ten minutes later he looks up and whispers, “We’re gonna have to tell Zak.” You have no idea why that’s his first priority. Neither does he.

OScar Piastri “…Right.” Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just processes it like he’s running fuel strategy. Then, softly: “How far along?” You tell him. He nods once. Leaves the room. You panic. But five minutes later he returns with a planner, a fresh pack of Post-it notes, and a mechanical pencil. He doesn’t say congratulations. He says, “Okay, so what’s the plan? Public or private? Australia or Monaco? Do you want me in the room?” You: “You’re taking this well.” Oscar: “I’m not. I’m dissociating at an elite level.”

Charles Leclerc Goes wide-eyed and immediately starts praying in French. “Non, non, non… oh mon Dieu.” Wanders the room like a man searching for divine intervention. Stops. Turns to you. “You’re serious?” You show him the test. He sits down like his knees gave out. Then? Tears. Not like sobbing, but slow, stunned ones. “I didn’t think I’d be… I didn’t think this would happen to me. Not now.” You try to comfort him. He takes your hand. Kisses it. “I’ll be there. I’ll do everything. I swear.” Then pauses. “But if it’s a girl… she can’t date until she’s 30.”

Lewis Hamilton Closes his eyes. Breathes in deep. Breathes out like he’s levelling his soul. “Okay. That’s okay.” He opens his eyes again and takes your hands in his. “You’re okay?” You nod. “Then we’re okay.” No panic. No spiralling. But later that night, when you think he’s asleep, he’s actually sitting on the balcony googling baby monitors, eco-friendly cribs, and how to co-parent without losing your mind. Writes an entire note in his phone titled A Promise. Won’t show it to you yet. But one line says: Whatever happens, I’ll never leave you alone in this.

Max Verstappen The second you tell him, he sits back in the chair and just stares at you. Doesn’t even blink. “Okay.” You: “…That’s it?” Max: “Okay.” You: “Max, what the fuck does ‘okay’ mean?” Max: “It means I’m processing.” Then he disappears for two hours and comes back with five printed folders: one with financial plans, one with logistics, one with citizenship and passport options (he’s already picked Dutch-Monagasque just in case), and two with pre-approved names. You: “How did you do all this already?” Max: “I have people.” He kisses your temple. Doesn’t freak out. Just handles it like it’s a pit stop on fire.

Yuki Tsunoda Screams. Like, full-body shriek. “YOU’RE WHAT?!” Starts pacing. Hair wild. Shirtless. Dramatic as hell. “WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE CAREFUL! I TOLD YOU I’M FERTILE AS FUCK.” You: “I didn’t know you were serious.” Yuki: “I WAS DEADASS.” After the panic storm passes, he slumps to the floor. Sits cross-legged. Big brown eyes staring up at you. “...Are you okay?” You nod. He sighs. “Then… I guess I’ll learn how to change diapers.” Mutters, “I’m gonna be a dad. Me. A dad. Holy fuck.” Then immediately orders sushi and a stroller in the same breath.

Carlos Sainz “Madre mía…” He looks like you just told him you crashed his Ferrari. Rakes a hand through his hair. Sits down slowly. Then goes completely quiet for a full five minutes. Finally speaks: “I’ll do it right. I’ll do everything right. I swear.” You: “You’re not mad?” Carlos: “No. I’m scared. But not mad. This is… this is life.” Texts his sister. Then texts his mum. Then texts a friend who’s a pediatrician. Books a doctor’s appointment for you, him, the baby, and possibly the future nanny before you’ve even decided what you’re doing.

Alex Albon Goes completely blank. “…I-holy shit.” Walks around the kitchen, barefoot, mumbling, “I’m not ready. I’m literally a child. I can’t even do my taxes.” Looks at you. “But I like you. And if it’s happening, it’s happening, right?” Five minutes later he’s drawing what he thinks the baby might look like. Gives it purple hair and a nose ring. “You’d be such a hot parent,” he says, wide-eyed. Then: “We need to find a cool name. Something that screams ‘accident but iconic.’” You tell him to stop talking. He doesn’t. He’s already texting Logan for name suggestions.

George Russell Looks like his soul just left his body. Static noise. He stares for a long moment. Then says, “But I had a five-year plan.” You: “Plans change.” He stands up. Straightens his already straight shirt. “I need to call Toto.” You: “WHY?” George: “He needs to know I might have to start investing in child seats.” Over the next 24 hours he creates a Google Calendar invite called Parenthood Prep - Phase 1. Sends you spreadsheets. Budget projections. Prenatal vitamin recommendations. Signs off one email with “Love, Dad (maybe)”. You delete it immediately.

Kimi Antonelli Freezes. Like, full-blown crash-level stillness. You say it again. “I’m pregnant.” He blinks. Once. Then nods. “Okay.” You: “Okay?” Kimi: “Okay.” Doesn’t freak out. Doesn’t run. Just... accepts it. The next morning he shows you a folder he made titled Operation Baby. It has zero words. Just a checklist.

Diapers. Crib. Patience. Learn how to hold one

You add “emotional support” to the list. He nods solemnly and writes it down like it’s a fucking mission.

Lance Stroll “Wait. Wait. Like… pregnant pregnant?” You nod. He slumps onto the couch and stares at the ceiling like a rich man who just got his credit card declined. “Well... I guess I can buy a stroller now.” Sits there thinking for ten minutes. Then stands up and says, “Do you want a villa? Like… now?” You: “Lance, that’s not what I meant.” Him: “Too late. I’m calling my mum. She knows a midwife. And a chef. And someone who does astrology for babies.” You can’t tell if he’s panicking or vibing. Possibly both.

Fernando Alonso Smiles. You: “I’m serious.” Him: “So am I.” He’s either secretly thrilled or planning to fake his own death. You can’t tell. Then he walks to the window, arms folded, staring out like a dramatic soap opera character. “Maybe it’s fate.” You throw a pillow at his head. “This isn’t fate. It’s cum.” He shrugs. “Same thing.” An hour later he’s made a list of names and is calling you mamá in a tone that should be illegal. You’re not sure if you hate it or if it’s making you ovulate all over again.

Liam Lawson Eyes go huge. “You’re-wait. Seriously?” Then immediately blurts, “I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you need. I’ll get a second job. I’ll move countries. I’ll-do I need to learn how to make formula?” You’re not even showing yet and he’s trying to carry your bags. “Do you want me to go to the store? Are you craving weird stuff? Am I allowed to touch you? Should I stop talking?” He absolutely does not stop talking. You cry once. He cries twice. Eventually you fall asleep on his chest while he mutters, “This baby’s gonna have the softest life ever, I swear.”

Isack Hadjar “…Huh.” Then: “Wait-are you serious? Like, really?” You nod. He just stares. Then starts laughing. “This is insane. This is fucking insane.” Then his hands start shaking. “I’m not ready. I’m not ready but I’ll do it. I’ll try. I promise. But I don’t know what I’m doing.” He spirals. You hug him. He cries. Later he lies next to you in the dark whispering things like, “What if it has my hair?” and “What if it hates me?” You kiss his forehead. He exhales slowly. “I’ll be better than mine. That’s the only goal.”

Ollie Bearman Full-body freeze. “…What?” You: “I’m pregnant.” His voice breaks. “You’re sure?” You nod. He sits down like his knees gave out. Hands over his face. Breathing deep. Then finally, “Okay. Okay. This is big. This is huge. I-I think I’m gonna throw up.” But five minutes later he’s rubbing your back and asking if you’re okay. Fifteen minutes after that, he’s bought every baby book on Amazon. And by the next morning, he’s learned how to say “it’s my first time being a dad” in three languages.

Esteban Ocon Stands completely still like someone just yelled "red flag" in his soul. “…Pardon?” You repeat it. “Pregnant.” He turns around, walks to the sink, washes his hands for no reason, then turns back around with wild eyes. “Okay. Okay. We’re going to handle this rationally.” Immediately pulls out his phone. Opens Notes. Types: Baby situation 2025. Starts listing questions like a psychotic secretary. “Are you keeping it? Do you want me involved? Do I get to be involved? I want to be involved. Do you need money? Are you okay? Wait-should I be crying? Why aren’t you crying?” You blink. He says, “Right. I’ll cry later. I’m too busy panicking now.”

Pierre Gasly “Prego what?” “Pregnant.” He sits back, drags a hand over his face, exhales so loud it could qualify as a storm warning. “…Okay. Alright. So, I have one important question.” You nod. He leans forward, dead serious: “Is it going to be hot?” You throw something at him. He catches it. “Hey, it’s a fair question! I’m just trying to manifest good genetics.” Then? Absolute silence. For a beat too long. Then? “I’m scared.” He admits it in a whisper. “But I’m not running. Not from you.” You say nothing. He holds your hand and mutters, “Just promise me I won’t be the only idiot crying in the delivery room.”

Franco Colapinto “Qué carajo…” You don’t even finish the sentence. He’s already pacing. Fully clothed but somehow still feels naked. “You’re pregnant? Like… with my baby?” You nod. He clutches his chest. “You’re telling me my sperm worked?” You: “What the fuck kind of question is that?” Franco: “I don’t know! I just didn’t think this would happen until I was 30 and married and living in Patagonia with a dog named Bruno.” Freaks out. Panics. Almost cries. Then goes quiet. “Shit. If you’re really doing this… I want to be the one who builds the crib. I want it to be me.” You try to hold it together. He says, “You know it’s going to have curls, right?”

Nico Hülkenberg Raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” You show him the test. He nods once. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “Okay.” You: “Just okay?” He gets up, opens the fridge, takes out sparkling water, cracks it open. “I’m 37. This doesn’t scare me.” You: “It doesn’t?” Nico: “No. You do. But this? No.” Sits back down. Crosses his legs like you’re about to start a business meeting. “We can do this. If you want it, I want it.” You sit there speechless. He says, “We’ll name it something classic. Strong. Like Gerhard. Or Turbo.” You blink. He adds, “Okay, not Turbo.”

Gabriel Bortoletto Chokes. Like literally chokes. You say “pregnant” and he swallows air wrong. “Wait wait wait. You’re not joking? This isn’t a TikTok thing?” You shake your head. He sits down. Grabs a pillow. Screams into it. Then emerges with wild curls sticking up like a mushroom cloud. “I’m gonna die. I’m too hot to be a dad. I’m too young. I don’t even know how to drive stick properly.” You: “That’s a lie.” Him: “Yeah okay but the parenting part isn’t.” He freaks out, paces, panics, and then suddenly stops. “If we do this… the kid has to have a sick wardrobe. Like cooler than mine. Little Borto can’t be outdressed.” You: “Little Borto?” Him: “Or Big Borto. Depending on the vibe.”

Others

Toto Wolff Freezes mid-email. “What did you just say?” You: “I’m pregnant.” He sets the laptop down. Very gently. Like if he moves too fast he’ll rupture reality. Then, calmly: “We used protection.” You: “Not well enough.” He stares. Eyes cold. Calculating. Then softer. “Okay. That’s okay.” Walks away. You think he’s leaving. He returns five minutes later with an untouched bottle of 50-year-old whisky and an overnight DHL package labeled “Private Medical.” Within an hour he’s booked six appointments, hired a lawyer, emailed three CEOs for child-rearing advice, and ordered prenatal supplements from Switzerland. Also: starts touching your stomach like it’s already a tiny Austrian legacy.

James Vowels Absolutely malfunctions. You: “I’m pregnant.” James: “Right. Well. That wasn’t on the schedule.” He pulls up his phone and immediately opens his calendar. “Okay. So. Week 12 scan… week 20 anatomy… due date projection…” You: “James, breathe.” James: “No time. I have to prepare.” Spends the next six hours making a spreadsheet titled Unplanned But Brilliant: Baby Timeline. Includes tabs for stroller reviews, estimated baby growth, contingency financial scenarios, and a list of names organized by syllable count. Cries once when he realizes he has to buy a car seat. Later tells you, “If I’m going to be a father… I’m going to be the best one. So help me God.”

Paul Aron “You’re-wait. What? You’re joking. You’re fucking with me.” You shake your head. He’s suddenly white as a sheet. “Oh my god. I thought pre-cum was a myth.” He’s spiraling. Absolute baby giraffe energy. “Are we gonna keep it? Are you gonna keep it? Do I have to tell my mum? She’ll kill me. I’m too hot to die like this.” You reassure him. He looks genuinely about to vomit. Then, very softly: “Would you let me be there? For the scans? For the whole thing?” You nod. He sits on the floor, stares into space, and mumbles, “I guess I need to learn how to boil water.”

Arthur Leclerc Freezes. Blushes like he just got caught with porn. “You’re pregnant?” You nod. He runs both hands through his hair. Then covers his mouth. Then starts walking like he’s forgetting how legs work. “I… I think I need to lie down.” You: “Arthur.” Him: “No no, I’m okay, I just-OH MY GOD.” He sits on the floor. Fully. Like a cartoon character short-circuiting. Then: “Okay. Okay. Okay. I’m not ready. But I will be. If you are.” Then he holds out his hand from the floor like a sad prince and says, “Do you think it’ll have your eyes? I hope it has your eyes.”

Pato O'Ward Sits up straight. “You’re serious?” You nod. He pauses. Then breaks into a grin. “Oh shit. I did that. I did that.” You: “Pato, what the fuck.” Pato: “I’m just saying, my swimmers are elite.” Immediately spins into excited-chaos-mode. “Okay okay okay. I can do this. I just need… baby books. And a truck. And maybe like three different jobs.” You blink. He’s already on Amazon ordering a onesie that says Made In Chaos. Looks at you seriously. “If you want this, I’m all in. But just know-I’m going to be the loudest, most chaotic, most funbaby daddy this world has ever seen.”

Sebastian Vettel You: “I’m pregnant.” Him: slow inhale. Then he starts talking. Calmly. Carefully. Like someone explaining composting to a toddler. “This is a surprise. But not a disaster. Life is unpredictable. Like qualifying in Canada.” You: “What the fuck kind of metaphor is that?” Him: “A useful one.” He gets thoughtful. Gets emotional. Touches your cheek gently. “We didn’t plan this. But maybe it’s not the worst thing to happen. Maybe it’s the beginning of something beautiful.” You: “Are you crying?” Seb: “No. Yes. Shut up.”

Kimi Räikkönen You: “I’m pregnant.” Kimi: “Okay.” You: “That’s it?” He lights a cigarette. Doesn’t blink. “What do you want me to say?” You: “I don’t know… react?” He takes a drag. “I don’t hate kids.” Later that day he shows up with a box of diapers and a case of vodka. Says, “One’s for you. One’s for me. We’ll both need it.” You still don’t know if he’s happy. You may never know. But he books you a doctor's appointment, tells his team he’s "on personal leave," and starts researching Finnish baby names that mean “unstoppable.”

Jack Doohan His jaw literally drops. Like cartoon-level shock. “You’re WHAT?” You repeat it. He runs his hands down his face. “Shit. Shitshitshit.” Then he pauses. “Wait… are you okay? Like, seriously. Are you okay?” You nod. He exhales so hard his whole chest deflates. “Okay. Okay. We can figure this out. We’ll be fine.” Pulls out his phone. Googles: how to be a good dad when you’re hot, young, and terrified. Sends a text to Fernando that just says “help.” Starts practicing lullabies under his breath. They’re awful. But he means it.

David Coulthard Raises an eyebrow. “Are you fucking with me?” You: “No.” DC leans back, arms crossed, sighs like a man remembering Vietnam. “Alright. Well. I always assumed I’d knock someone up eventually.” You: “Excuse me?” DC: “I mean it in a sexy way.” Later hands you a glass of wine, forgets you’re pregnant, panics, takes it back, and gives you sparkling water like it’s a gift from the gods. Sits beside you, legs spread, balls out, and goes: “You know, I actually do want to be good at this. For once.” You: “At parenting?” Him: “At not fucking it up.”

Jenson Button Smiles like you just told him it’s Christmas. Then freezes. “Oh… wait. Pregnant. Like… with child?” You nod. He spins around and starts laughing nervously. “I’m sorry. I laugh when I’m about to have a heart attack.” Paces the room. Opens a window. Closes it. Opens it again. Then turns to you, face soft: “Listen. I’m scared. But I’m also… kind of excited? Terrified. But excited.” Pulls you into his arms and whispers, “Fuck it. Let’s raise a little legend.” You whisper back, “If it has your hair, I’m naming it Shampoo.” He laughs. Then cries.

[neonbonded]

Fatherhood Is a Full-Contact Sport

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: dad!headcanons, domestic chaos, tag-team toddler warfare, sticker abuse, ego injuries, public humiliation (soft), wife-led mischief ♡ a/n: you didn’t mean to start a war… but once your kid picked a target, you had to support them. teamwork makes the dream (dad meltdown) work.

Caleb

It starts with the socks.

You and your kid exchange a look over breakfast—just a slight twitch of the eyebrow, a smirk over toast—and Caleb should have known. He should have.

But he’s got stars in his eyes and jam on his fingers, and he’s too busy cutting your kid’s pancakes into perfect little hexagons to notice you’ve already swapped his socks.

They’re pink. With glitter hearts. And the words “#1 Trophy Husband” stitched in sparkly thread.

He puts them on without looking.

And then?

Operation: Bully Dad begins.

—

Phase One: Language Manipulation. You teach your kid to call him “Captain Cranky.”

Every time he sighs? “Okay, Captain Cranky.”

When he says no to dessert? “Ugh, classic Captain Cranky.”

He stares at you like you betrayed him. You just sip your coffee.

“I am not cranky,” he mutters.

From under the table: “You’re literally pouting right now, Cap.”

—

Phase Two: The Snack Swap. He reaches for his favorite protein bar in the pantry.

Finds a note instead.

"Too slow, Captain Cranky. We needed it more. For… missions"

He spins around.

You and your kid are already on the couch. Sharing it. Making dramatic yum noises.

“I swear to god, you two are a menace.”

You both say it at the same time: “A menace to CRANKY.”

—

Phase Three: The Betrayal. He finally gets a break. He’s lying on the floor with your kid on his chest, playing spaceship noises.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Then your kid leans down and whispers: “Mommy says you talk in your sleep. About kissing her toes.”

His eyes FLY OPEN.

You’re across the room, hiding a smile behind a throw pillow. “I said what I said.”

He groans and drags both of you onto the floor with him. “Unbelievable. My own family.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He kisses your temple, then your kid’s forehead. “You have no idea.”

Xavier

It starts with a whisper war in the hallway.

You and your kid peek around the corner like spies on a stakeout—clipboard in hand, checklist ready.

Mission Objective: Tease Daddy Until He Short Circuits.

Xavier is at the kitchen counter, pouring cereal into the mug he always insists is “just more ergonomic than a bowl.” He’s wearing socks with swords on them. A gift from you. He takes them very seriously.

You circle “Target Acquired.”

—

Phase One: The Wrong Name Game. Your kid walks in casually.

“Hey, Xylophone.”

Xavier glances up. “Hello.”

No reaction.

Not even confusion.

So your kid tries again, louder. “I said Xylophone.”

Xavier frowns faintly. “Yes. I heard. Are we experimenting with sound-based naming systems today?”

You lose it from the hallway.

—

Phase Two: Sticker Warfare. This one’s your idea.

While Xavier’s reading on the couch, your kid climbs into his lap with all the innocence in the world—and slowly starts covering him in dinosaur stickers.

One on his cheek.

One on his temple.

A brontosaurus on his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Finally, he blinks over his book. “Is there a… theme?”

“Jurassic Daddy,” you say sweetly, passing by.

He nods thoughtfully. “Very well.”

Doesn’t even take them off.

—

Phase Three: The Hidden Alarm. Your kid sneaks your phone into Xavier’s jacket pocket.

Sets a timer.

In two minutes, it’ll go off. Loud. In the middle of him doing birdwatching on the balcony.

He’s squinting into the trees, focused and serene—until a digital duck quack blares from his coat.

He freezes.

Then calmly pulls out your phone, stares at it like it’s a new lifeform.

“...Is this my punishment for using your mug?”

You and your kid high-five from the doorway.

—

That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile at his reflection. “Even when we bully you?”

He hums. “Especially when you work as a team.”

He’s got a triceratops still stuck to his sleeve.

You leave it.

Rafayel

It starts because Rafayel wouldn’t let your kid put googly eyes on the blender.

A crime, truly.

So now?

You’re at war.

You and your mini-me form an unholy alliance before breakfast. The mission is clear: mess with Rafayel all day. Confuse him. Fluster him. Bring him to his knees (with love, obviously).

—

Phase One: The Sketch Swap He leaves his current canvas in the studio—half-finished, ethereal, probably titled Longing for Lemuria II: A Study in Violet Silence.

You and your kid sneak in.

When he returns, the dreamy mermaid now has a mustache. And laser eyes. And a speech bubble that says “My dad has stinky feet.”

He gasps like you physically struck him.

“You defiled my muse?!”

You shrug. “Consider it a collaboration.”

Your kid adds: “We made it better.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You’re both going to artist jail.”

—

Phase Two: The Fashion Sabotage He goes to pull on his favorite pants—the flowy, artsy ones with the embroidered moons—and finds they’ve been replaced with hot pink yoga leggings from your drawer.

You: “I think you could rock them.”

Your kid: “Slay, bestie.”

He stares at the pants.

Then stares at you.

Then changes into them like a man on a catwalk.

But he’s muttering the entire time. “This is emotional abuse. I’m filing a glitter-based complaint.”

—

Phase Three: The Cookie Theft He opens the cabinet for his secret stash of lavender shortbread.

Finds an empty tin and a note inside:

“Stolen in the name of justice. Your blender crimes have consequences. —The Chaos Coalition”

He screams. Loudly. Then walks dramatically into the living room and collapses across the couch like a Victorian woman fainting on a chaise.

You toss him a goldfish cracker.

He glares.

Then eats it.

—

That night, he pulls you close in bed, head on your chest.

“I hope you both know,” he whispers, “that I am keeping a list.”

You run your fingers through his hair. “Of what?”

“Every emotional injury I sustained today.”

Your kid peeks in the doorway. “You forgot we replaced your shampoo with whipped cream.”

He gasps.

But honestly?

He’s never felt more loved.

Zayne

It begins when he finds his stethoscope floating in a bowl of cereal.

“Do you have a reason,” Zayne asks slowly, very calmly, “why my hospital equipment is now... infused with oat milk?”

Your child blinks up at him. “It was cold and needed a bath.”

You, from across the kitchen: “Honestly? Sound logic.”

He closes his eyes. Sets the stethoscope on the counter. Says nothing.

That was your warning shot.

—

Phase One: Renaming the Routine

You and your kid refuse to call anything by its normal name.

Zayne walks into the room, setting his laptop down with surgical precision.

You: “Look out. The Ice Cube Cometh.”

Your kid: “All hail Frost Daddy.”

Zayne: “I am literally holding your dental insurance forms.”

You both clap like he told a joke.

He blinks. Once.

“...What’s happening right now?”

—

Phase Two: The Hospital File Swap

He opens his neatly labeled folder before work.

Finds a glittery drawing titled “ME + MOMMY + FROST DAD = BESTIES FOREVER 💖”

Also, you’ve replaced his bio with:

“Zayne: World’s Coldest Softie. Will cry at piano music and is afraid of butterflies.”

He reads it. Stares at the paper.

Puts it back.

And takes it to work anyway.

—

Phase Three: Sticker Surgery

He showers. He gets dressed. He puts on his favorite button-down.

Then glances in the mirror—and freezes.

There’s a little cartoon Band-Aid sticker on his jawline.

Purple. With a smiley face.

You don’t even try to hide your laugh.

His jaw tics.

“I’ve conducted heart transplants with less sabotage than I face in this household.”

You pat his cheek. “And yet, you’re still so lovable.”

“Debatable.”

—

At bedtime, he’s halfway through folding laundry (into immaculate rectangles, obviously), when your kid leans against his side.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We bullied you good today.”

He pauses.

Then quietly nods.

“You did.”

You sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“But you liked it.”

“…No comment.”

You kiss the spot beneath his ear. “Tomorrow we’re calling you Doctor Cuddles.”

He exhales. Resigned. But soft.

“…Fine. But only inside this house.”

(You do not respect that boundary.)

Sylus

It starts before 9 a.m.

Sylus—warlord, tactician, red-eyed nightmare of the underground—walks into the living room fully dressed for a meeting with a black-market arms dealer.

Hair slicked. Suit sharp. Brooch in place.

You and your kid are waiting for him.

He stops. Narrow eyes. Tilt of the head. Suspicion.

You smile sweetly.

Your kid lunges forward.

And slaps a bright pink unicorn sticker onto his briefcase.

Dead center.

Sylus just… stands there.

“…Is this meant to be intimidation?”

You: “We’re marking our territory.”

Your kid: “Now the bad guys will know you have backup.”

He looks down at the sticker.

Then at you.

And says absolutely nothing.

But he takes the damn briefcase.

—

Phase One: Name Disrespect

He’s mid-hologram conference when your kid walks in, climbs into his lap, and announces to the entire Onychinus leadership:

“This is Mr. Grumpy Fangs. He doesn’t like it when I boop his nose.”

Sylus doesn’t even flinch.

Keeps talking about supply routes like there isn’t a giggling toddler poking his cheek on live cam.

Later?

He finds out you recorded it.

You send him the clip labeled:

“POV: You’re a villain and your child is your boss.”

He replies with one word:

“Traitor.”

Phase Two: Crow Brooch Chaos

You’re in the middle of folding laundry when your kid comes sprinting in, giggling with something clenched in one hand.

Minutes later, you hear Sylus’s voice—flat, deadly.

“Why… are there googly eyes on my crow?”

You don’t even look up. “Balance. Every villain needs a little whimsy.”

He turns to your kid. “Did you do this?”

“Team effort,” they chirp.

Sylus glares at the glittery-eyed brooch sitting on his chest.

Then sighs.

And doesn’t take it off.

Until hours later.

(He leaves it on his desk. Keeps looking at it.)

Phase Three: Tactical Sabotage

He walks into the war room.

Finds the giant wall map—his map—covered in crayon scribbles.

He blinks.

“Did someone… add butterflies to the Northern quadrant?”

Your kid: “It needed joy.”

You: “And balance.”

He stands there in silence.

Then mutters: “You’ve both become a security threat.”

You blow him a kiss.

That night, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, tie loose.

You crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. “Did we push you too far today?”

He grumbles something unintelligible.

Then rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him slow. “We know.”

He exhales.

“…You’re not going to stop, are you?”

“Nope.”

Your kid shouts from the hallway: “TOMORROW YOU’RE GETTING GLITTER STICKERS!”

He closes his eyes. Bends his head to your shoulder.

And mutters:

“I should’ve stayed in the shadows.”

(He never means it.)

[yourauthorjen]

| YOURS | — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | a family was something you never thought could be a possible, but after joaquin torres you seemed to think differently.

| includes: | husband!joaquin x reader, a bunch of fluff, children, and chaos

| word count: | 1.6k

| a/n: | this was from this lovely request! thank you so much for your idea! the main headcanons i focused on were morning chaos and supportive husband and dad. also i feel like joaquin would be such a girl dad.

THE IDEA OF having a family always made you shiver.

Whether it was because of the stress from the children or the bone chilling possibility of not being good enough, you never wanted to consider that idea.

That was until Joaquin walked into your life, bright eyed and charming, stubborn but absolutely heart aching in a way that you could never forget. And ever since you two had been together, every night was spent with him mapping out the possibilities of the future. He'd lace his fingers with yours and he'd ramble on about all the different lives you could have together.

He'd tell you about the a house with a picket fence or maybe an apartment filled with toys and two small children with your eyes and his crooked grin.

The first time he had brought it up you listened to him in silence, heart thundering, and slightly terrified. You didn't know if you deserved all that but he made sure he believed enough for both of you. Joaquin never pressured you, he just smiled and held your hand tighter every time you wavered.

It took another three, four years before you agreed, and somewhere along the way — between sleepy kisses in the kitchen and long car rides where he sang off-key just to make you laugh — you stopped being afraid.

When you first felt your oldest stirring inside of you, you were consumed with cold terror and sleepless nights. It was always a string of "what-ifs" and "am I making the wrong choice?"

But Joaquin was always there, to kiss your knuckles when you couldn't sleep, or doing your share of chores when you were too exhausted to keep yourself awake.

Sam was there to help you as well, dropping by ever so often with Sarah who had made frozen dishes or to take you out shopping while Sam just teased you, joking about how you better hope that the baby didn't snore like Joaquin did.

Obviously, Joaquin's family came over too. The crowd of aunts and uncles as well as his mom all came over to gush about your new child while also bringing in enough diapers and baby food to last an entire apocalypse. They offered home cooked meals, clothing and obviously a long string of baby names, which was a whole other story.

It was bittersweet seeing his family squished into your apartment when your own deadbeat father couldn't even bother shooting you a text, but still, it was heartwarming having such a loving family in a way you always longed for.

And now, your life was different.

Shoes and toys littered the house, lying in every unoccupied corner of the house. Drawings full of crayoned scribbled were plastered across the fridge, taped to the wall and piled atop the coffee counters, all with stick figured drawings of the four of you, standing beside a house with a triangle for the roof.

This morning was no different than other mornings, you woke up to the soft scent of soap and cinnamon as soft kisses brushed your cheek then up to your forehead, before a chorus of sleepy giggles and hushed whispers barged into your room scrambling onto your bed as Joaquin groaned into your hair, his arm tightening lazily around your waist like he thought he could shield you from the onslaught.

But your oldest was determined, climbing right up onto the bed and tugging insistently at the blanket. Your youngest followed, less coordinated but no less enthusiastic, tripping over her own feet and landing in a heap at the foot of the bed, giggling uncontrollably.

"Get up," they both sang in sync as they bounced on the mattress eagerly.

Without loosening his grip on you, Joaquin turned slightly, catching your mouth in a slow, unhurried kiss. You could feel him smiling against your lips, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hip, completely unbothered by the chaos swirling around you.

"Your breath stinks," you snickered pulling away from him as the kids continued dancing around the bed— one trying to climb onto Joaquin’s back, the other flopping dramatically onto the pillows, narrowly missing your head.

He let out a chuckle as he rubbed his eyes, "I haven't brushed my teeth yet."

You rolled your eyes, "Really, Sherlock?"

"Who's Sherlock?" your youngest asked wriggling between the two of you, eyes wide and dark hair a mess. She was like a copy and paste of Joaquin, unrelentless energy and big innocent eyes with a headful of curls. Meanwhile your oldest had your eyes, but less energetic than your second, still she piled on top of her younger sister trying to squish between the three of you, determined to snuggle into your arms.

"Sherlock," Joaquin said, "Is my only chance for a few more minutes of sleep." He shifted slightly, trying to nestle back against you, but the kids were having none of it.

"Noooo!" your oldest protested, her hands pushing against his chest as she wriggled closer. "We want pancakes!"

"Pancakes!" echoed your youngest, her little face lighting up at the mention of food, her hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, demanding your attention.

Joaquin looked at you for help, but you just shrugged as if to say this is on you.

"You three have no mercy," Joaquin muttered. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to wrangle them back into some semblance of order.

You laughed, head tipping backwards as you hoisted yourself out of bed. "Okay then, I guess we're making pancakes today."

Joaquin groaned as you gently pulled yourself out of his grasp, his lips forming a pout as you picked up your youngest, placing her on your hip. "Traitor," he muttered under his breath, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead as you shifted your daughter higher on your hip. "Suck it up, soldier. You're on kitchen duty."

Joaquin groaned even louder as your oldest tried to pull him up. "C'mon dad, we can do them together."

"That's the spirit," you cheered making your way into the kitchen. The morning light had spilled onto the wooden tile of the floor casting a soft glow as you set your daughter down onto one of the stools, Joaquin and your oldest trailing behind you. Both looked as sleepy as the other but a wide smile was still stretched across their faces.

"Okay team," Joaquin yawned, "You're gonna get the pancake mix—" he pointed to your youngest then to your oldest, "You go get the eggs and you—" he paused staring at you his eyes entranced as you leaned against the counter, sunlight kissing your face as you tossed your hair into a bun.

"What do I do?" you teased, cinching your apron tighter around your waist as his jaw went slack.

He cleared his throat, "You," he said, pointing the spatula at you like a sword, "are on official supervision duty. And looking way too good while doing it."

You snorted, reaching over to flick a little bit of flour from the counter at him, laughing when he pretended to stagger back in pain.

Your youngest clapped her hands in glee, while your oldest rolled her eyes like she was already ten years older than she really was. "Dad's being weird again," she whispered loudly to her sister, who giggled into her hands.

"Hey, weird is a Torres family tradition," Joaquin defended, setting a bowl down on the counter with a clatter. "You're just lucky you inherited it, too."

Weird was correct, because not even ten minutes later the kitchen was already a mess. Your youngest insisted on stirring the batter, which mostly resulted in flour puffing up into a cloud around her and your oldest took her self-assigned job of "egg cracker" very seriously— which meant you fished out a few too many shells from the mixing bowl.

"Okay," you said briskly, "Now that that's done, Dad’s in charge of flipping, but he’s banned from stepping a foot away from the stove."

"It was one time," he whined, "I didn't mean it."

"Joaquin, you burned an entire batch of pancakes," you deadpanned, "In front of your own mother."

"It was an accident," he sputtered.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face, "Hey, eyes on the stove soldier, we are not setting the fire alarm off again."

He laughed while your youngest sang a made-up pancake song under her breath, swinging her legs from the stool, while your oldest stood proudly at Joaquin’s side, offering enthusiastic and very loud coaching advice on when to flip the pancake.

You didn't even realize you were smiling until Joaquin caught your eye across the stove, flipping a perfect pancake with a flourish just to make you laugh. His smile— soft but full of so much love it ached was aimed right at you, like it always had been.

This was the future Joaquin had spent his nights rambling on about, and somehow, against all odds, it was yours too. You wrapped your arms around Joaquin's waist, hugging him tightly as he hummed under his breath, then leaned down to press a kiss to your hair.

"See," he murmured, voice warm and low just for you. "Told you you'd make something good."

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing him in— sweet and clean and that unmistakable feeling of home you never thought you'd have. His arms tightened around you briefly before he pulled away just enough to resume flipping pancakes, your oldest still enthusiastically coaching him from the sidelines.

Your youngest started singing her song even louder, and off-key, leading Joaquin to joining in with a off-tune harmony that made both kids dissolve into giggles.

You leaned back against the counter, watching the the three people you cherished so much bubbling around the kitchen. You had made something good. It was painstakingly beautiful, and you loved it. It was something that you would do everything to protect, and it was something you wouldn't trade for the world.

[aventurineswife]

Hihiii !!

may i request a Phainon x reader where as hes using his ult form whilst in battle, the reader gets injured (it can be anything !! like a broken ankle or they sprained their wrist handling their weapon) and Phainon insists on carrying them either still in battle even still in his ult form or after he finished obliterating the opponents that caused the injury in the first place? I dunno, but surprise me ! !(^o^)!

Feel free to ignore this if you don't want to write it, and take care of yourself!!! 🫶

A Sovereign’s Vow

Summary: During a fierce battle in the Okhema Wastes, you suffer a sudden injury that leaves you vulnerable on the battlefield. As chaos erupts around you, Phainon unleashes his ultimate form—Demiurge—becoming a celestial embodiment of light and shadow. After obliterating the enemies responsible, he finds you and insists on carrying you to safety, revealing the quiet, unwavering depth of his devotion beneath his godlike power. Between divinity and vulnerability, a bond between you shines through.

Tags: Phainon x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Battle Scene, Injured Reader, Protective Phainon, Demiurge/Ult Form, Soft!Phainon, Carrying Scene, Divine Imagery, Mutual Care, Romantic Tension, Fluff Amidst Chaos.

Warnings: Battle violence (non-graphic but intense atmosphere), Injury (sprained/broken ankle, mild pain described), Supernatural combat themes, Mild language, Emotional intensity / power imbalance themes.

A/N: HE'S BARELY OUT Y'ALL!!! 😭🙏

The air cracked with celestial energy.

Swords clashed with shadow as Phainon's Demiurge form illuminated the battlefield. One half of him burned like the heart of a star—golden and searing—while the other whispered with the void, wings of shadow curling like smoke around his form. Every movement he made carved silence into the chaos, obliterating the Titanspawn that had broken through the city walls.

And then you screamed.

You hadn't meant to—gods, you never wanted to be a distraction—but the wrong pivot, the weight of your blade, and a cruelly placed fragment of rubble wrenched your ankle at a sickening angle. You hit the ground hard, dust clouding your vision, fingers scrabbling at the uneven stone. Pain radiated up your leg, white-hot and pulsing.

Your weapon skittered a few feet away. Useless.

But they were coming. The ones who had flanked you—the Strife-bound, writhing with corrupted energy—were closing in, their snarls a cruel melody above the thunder of war.

And then everything stopped.

A wave of divine pressure swept the field. The enemies froze—not from fear, but from raw, oppressive awe.

Phainon landed between you and them in a shock of light and shadow, the impact fracturing the ground in a radiant burst. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

The next instant was a blur of annihilation.

Golden strikes that flared like sunfire tore through flesh and metal, while sweeping arcs of indigo carved silence where once stood fury. He moved like a deity who had forgotten mercy—a perfect storm of power and purpose.

And then, only the wind remained.

You winced, trying to rise.

“Don’t,” came his voice—ethereal and layered now, like it echoed from both heavens and abyss.

You blinked up through the dust. Phainon stood before you in his Demiurge form, radiant and terrifying. Yet when his eyes met yours, they softened. Still piercing, but grounding. Still divine, but real.

“I told you not to push yourself alone,” he murmured, kneeling.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” you stammered, guilt washing over you.

He silenced you with a look. “You’re hurt. That’s all that matters right now.”

You tried again to stand, but he reached out—carefully, reverently—and scooped you into his arms. Even in this form, his touch was gentle, warm where the golden armor brushed your skin, cool and comforting where the indigo embraced you like dusk.

“You’re still glowing,” you said softly, half-laughing through the pain. “You’re going to blind me.”

“And yet, you still manage to tease me.”

You rested your head against his shoulder as he rose into the sky, wings of shadow fanning out, the halo above him casting ripples across the clouds. His long coattails flowed like a royal banner, divine and defiant.

“You came for me,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

“I always will,” he replied, voice a harmony of solemn vow and unspoken ache. “Even if I have to burn the stars and shadow the sun.”

As he carried you beyond the broken field, his power receded slowly—but he never let you go.

Not through the pain.

Not through the silence.

Not even when the battle ended.

[lecl1ercswif7ie]

I Care Buck

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ! The New Avengers x Reader

Summary: After your first mission you tell Bucky to blowout his hair with your Dyson - The rest of The Avengers are shocked he doesn't oppose.

Author's Note: This is my first fic, i'm sorry if it's a bit weird, english is not my first languange and i'm kind of nervous of writing here 🙈 Enjoy the fic!!

-

Mission complete.

If you could call “barely surviving a shootout, a crumbling building, and Walker setting off the wrong grenade” a mission success. Still, somehow, no one was dead. That was a win for the New Avengers.

Back at HQ, the vibe was what you’d expect from a barely-functional team of chaos gremlins.

Ava and John were already at it again, arguing over tactical choices like they hadn’t just spent the last six hours screaming into comms.

“I’m telling you,” John said, arms waving, “you rushed the flank too early!”

Ava raised her eyebrows and bit out, “I rushed the flank because you set off the charge early, you toddler in a bulletproof vest!”

“Idiots,” Yelena muttered, flopping on the worn-out couch and covering her eyes with her arm, “please shut up. Some of us are trying to disassociate in peace.”

Bob sat nearby, legs crossed, calmly reading a thick novel. He was somehow the calmest man in the building — maybe in the world. “Let them bicker,” he murmured, not looking up. “It’s almost rhythmic now. Like jazz.”

You snorted from your corner. Bucky was standing silently nearby, arms crossed, leaning against the far wall like he didn’t want to admit he was tired. His dark hair was tousled, sticking out from where it had been flattened by his mask and ruffled by wind and debris. He looked… adorable.

But he also looked like he’d walked through a wind tunnel.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling and walked over, Dyson Supersonic in hand.

“Okay, soldier,” you said, pointing to the stool near the table. “Sit.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your hair,” you said. “It looks like a bird tried to nest in it. I’m fixing it.”

“You’re gonna use… that thing?” he said warily, eyeing the Dyson like it might explode.

You grinned. “Relax. You’ve fought alien warlords. You can survive a blow dryer.”

A snort escaped him. And then — miraculously — he sat. You plugged the Dyson in, brushed your fingers through his damp hair, and got to work.

—

About five minutes in, Bob looked up from his book and said, “He’s letting her do his hair. It’s happening.”

Yelena didn’t even open her eyes. “What’s happening?”

“The slow-burn,” Bob replied, turning the page. “They’re finally getting there.”

Alexei popped his head in from the kitchen. “What are we betting? I say they kiss before next mission.”

“No way,” Ava said, arms crossed. “Barnes is emotionally repressed and Y/N’s too polite.”

John laughed. “$10 says it happens by the end of the week.”

“$20,” Bob added, “if they don’t even notice they’re basically dating already.”

You ignored them all. Mostly. Your fingers were threading through Bucky’s hair, drying and smoothing it as you guided the Dyson gently. He looked… relaxed. Kind of. Except when his metal hand kept twitching every time you got a little too close to his ear.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He grunted, “Yeah. Just… not used to people touching me like this.”

“Like how?”

“Like they care.”

You looked at him, your hand still in his hair. “I care, Buck.”

His eyes met yours then — and you swore your heart skipped.

From the couch, Yelena groaned loudly. “Oh my god, would you two just kiss already?!”

You flushed. Bucky cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “I feel like a stray puppy right now.”

“Yeah, well,” you smirked, “you’re a cute one.”

—

Later that night, the HQ was quieter. Ava and John had gone off somewhere to probably yell at each other in private. Yelena was asleep on the couch, Bob was still reading, and Alexei was snoring in the recliner.

You were in the bathroom with Bucky, showing him how to use the Dyson properly. He watched you with that same intense stare he always had — like he was memorizing everything.

“Okay, see the cool shot button?” you explained. “Locks the style in place.”

He pressed it. A little too hard. The blast of cold air surprised him and he jumped slightly.

You giggled. “Scary, huh?”

“Not scared,” he grumbled. “Just… surprised.”

“Mmhm.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Thanks for doing this.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Anytime.”

His hand caught yours as you went to pull away — metal fingers warm from the dryer, his grip gentle but steady.

“You know,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “I don’t let just anyone near my hair.”

Your breath hitched. “Good thing I’m not just anyone, then.”

There was a beat.

You both leaned in slightly—

And from the hallway: “If you’re not kissing, then at least make popcorn!” Alexei yelled. “Some of us are invested in the subplot!”

You and Bucky broke apart, laughing quietly.

“Stray puppy, huh?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile on his lips.

“Only if you’re the one taking me home.”

-

kinda nervous to post this haha, i tried my best okay? but i think i made justice to the whole new team with unstable people trying to live togethere

[archivewriter1ont]

Echo and the Cadet Batch: Chapters 4 & 5 Are Out!

Destination: Kamino (Parts One and Two)

art by @secretly-a-trekkie

Summary:

While Rex and Echo wrangle four little 99s and manage the fallout among the rest of the GAR, another part of the galaxy is also feeling the repercussions of the relic malfunction. Hunter wakes up in a very different place than he was two seconds ago and realizes they're missing someone. The 99s investigate their old barracks while they’re stuck on Kamino and try to make sense of their strange situation. They run into an interesting character along the way.

[bucket-of-amethyst]

Cub is another pup that I had ready for months but never posted! So today is another brand new dog introduction to the AU!

HADM Day 11! Cub is a Chow Chow!

Get Doggified AU Masterpost