#Jumbo bag use

[shankar2023]

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[thedailypaper]

hadm 6: it's mumbo yumbo! the first hermit i ever watched regularly <3

[cakesexuality]

I've been disabled for almost 29 years. Here's what I've learned.

Tablets sink and capsules float. Separate out your tablets and capsules when you go to take them. Tip your head down when taking capsules and up when taking tablets. Liquigels don't matter, they kinda stay in the middle of whatever liquid is in your mouth.

If your pill tastes bad, coat it with a bit of butter or margarine. I learned this from my mom, who learned it from a pharmacist.

Being in pain every day isn't normal. Average people experience pain during exceptional moments, like when they stub their toe or jam their finger in a door, not when they sit cross-legged.

Make a medical binder. Make multiple medical binders. I have a small one that comes with me to appointments and two big ones that stay at home, one with old stuff and one with more recent stuff.

Find your icons. Some of mine include Daya Betty (drag queen with diabetes), Stef Sanjati (influencer with Waardenburg syndrome and ADHD), and Hank Green (guy with ulcerative colitis who... does a bunch of stuff). They don't have to be disabled in the same way as you. They don't even have to be real people. Put their pictures up somewhere if you want; I've been meaning to decorate my medical binders with pictures of my icons.

Take a bin, box, bag, basket, whatever and fill it with items to cope with. This can be stuff for mentally coping like colouring books or play clay or stuff for physically coping like pain medicine or physio tape.

Decorate your shit! My cane for at home has a plushie backpack clip hanging from the end of the handle and my cane for going places is covered in stickers. All of my medical binders have fun scrapbooking paper on the outside. Sometimes, I put stickers and washi tape on my inhalers and pill bottles. I used my Cricut to decorate my coping bin with quotes from my icons, like "I've seen enough of Ba Sing Se" and "I need you to be angrier with that bell".

If a flare-up is making you unable to eat or keep food down, consider going to the ER. A pharmacist once told me that since my eye flares can make me so nauseous that I cannot eat, then I need to go to the hospital when that happens.

Cola works wonders for nausea. I have mini cans of Diet Pepsi in my coping bin.

Shortbread is one of the only things I can eat when nauseous. Giant Tiger sells individually-wrapped servings of shortbread around Christmas or the British import store sells them year-round. I also keep these in my coping bin.

Unless it violates a pain contract or something, don't be afraid to go behind your doctor's back to get something they are refusing you. I got my cardiologist referral by getting in with a different NP at my primary care clinic than who I usually saw. I switched from Seroquel to Abilify by visiting a walk-in.

If you have a condition affecting your abdomen in some way (GI issues, reproductive problems, y'know) then invest in track pants that are too big. I bought some for my laparoscopy over a year ago and they've been handy for pelvic pain days, too. I've also heard loose pants are good for after colonoscopies.

Do whatever works, even if it's weird. I've sat on the floor of the Eaton Centre to take my pills. I've shoved heating pads down my front waistband to reach my uterus.

High-top Converse are good for weak ankles. I almost exclusively wear them.

You can reuse your pill bottles for stuff. I use my jumbo ones to store makeup sponges and my long skinny ones to hold a travel-size amount of Q-Tips.

Just because your diagnostics come back with nothing, it doesn't mean nothing is wrong. Maybe you were checking the wrong thing, or the diagnostic tool wasn't sensitive enough. I have bradycardia episodes even though multiple cardiac tests caught nothing. I probably have endometriosis even though my gynecologist didn't see anything.

You can bring your comfort item to appointments, and it's generally a green flag when someone talks to you about it. I brought a Squishmallow turkey (named Ulana) to my laparoscopy and they had her wearing my mask when I woke up. I brought a Build-A-Bear cat (named Blinx) to another procedure and a nurse told me that everyone in the hall on the way to the procedure room saw him and were talking about how cute he was. Both of those ended up being positive experiences and every person who talked to me about my plushies was nice to me. If you don't feel comfortable having it visible to your provider during the appointment, you can hide it in your bag and just know it's there, or if you're in a video appointment, you can hold it below frame in your lap.

Get a small bucket, fill it with stuff, and stick it in your bed (if you have room for it). I filled a bucket with Ensure, juice boxes, oatmeal bars, lotion, my rescue inhaler, etc. in October 2023 in anticipation of my laparoscopy and I still have it in my bed as of January 2025.

If your disability impacts your impulse control (e.g. ADHD, bipolar disorder), you should consider setting limits around your spending -- no more than X dollars at a time, nothing online unless it's absolutely necessary, and so on. Or, run these purchases by someone you trust before committing to them; I use my BFF groupchat to help talk sense into myself when I buy stuff.

Feel free to add on what you've learned about disability!

[alygator77]

──little things like this

a/n. just something small i felt like writing 🫶🏻 what i imagine grocery shopping with satoru would be like.

cw. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. and just... satoru being satoru. also, he's missing you (like, a lot).

You should’ve known better than to bring him.

It was supposed to be a quick trip—milk, eggs, veggies, rice, soy sauce. Easy. You had dinner planned and everything. His favorite—the one he always says you make better than anyone. The one he begged you to cook the first night he stayed over, back when you were still figuring each other out in that too-small apartment with the broken stove and mismatched bowls. He used to sit barefoot on the counter, freshly showered, stealing bites before you could plate anything.

But now?

Now you’re married to Satoru Gojo, and he’s pushing your daughter through a grocery store like it’s the highlight of his week—sunglasses shoved into his windblown white hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He’d just come off a string of missions, barely enough time to breathe between them, but when you mentioned needing to grab a few things, he immediately offered to come. Said he missed you. Said he wanted to do “normal stuff.”

Which might’ve sounded sweet, sure—until somewhere between produce and frozen foods, he completely veered off-script. And now, fifteen minutes in, your cart is a sugar bomb. Sour gummies. Five flavors of Pocky. A jumbo bag of marshmallows no one in your household has ever requested.

Though here he is, your husband, pushing your cart with one hand, lighting up in pure joy at every little treat you come across through the aisles.

“Satoru Gojo…” you deadpan as he reaches for a pack of cookies. “That is not on the list.”

Clicking his tongue, he holds them up like a sacred offering.

“Buuut… neither were you,” he hums, batting those ridiculously pretty blue eyes. “And yet—best thing I ever brought home.”

Narrowing your eyes, he smirks.

“’toru…” you sigh. “I really don’t think we need more sugar in this cart.”

Tilting his head, he pretends to ponder. “Need? …nah,” he tosses them in the basket anyway. “But, deserve? Absolutely.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the list on your phone. You have… what—three items checked off? You’re pretty sure Satoru has added at least seven more. And, he seems to be multiplying his haul by the minute.

As you make your way down the next aisle, your daughter’s delighted squeal draws your attention. Glancing over your shoulder, there is Satoru—holding up two bags of candy to her like a game show host.

“Mmkay princess… choose wisely,” he whispers, low and dramatic. “Red or blue. You get one.”

Babbling, her little hands reach forward, grasping for the blue one.

“Ahhh… strong choice,” he nods, handing it over. And then, with zero shame, he drops the red bag into the cart behind her back.

“Ahem…” you squint, and he straightens. “You said one?”

“What? She picked hers,” he says, all innocence, sliding his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose. “This one’s mine.”

You groan, laughing despite yourself, as he resumes pushing the cart—now like it’s a racecar, swerving down the aisle while your daughter giggles.

“Please don’t teach her to shop like you,” you call out.

“Too late~” he sing-songs, vanishing around the corner, muttering under his breath, “Drifting into dairy… snack thrusters engaged…”

You sigh—but there’s no real frustration in it. Just warmth. Familiarity. Love.

Because sometimes you forget—you’re not in that cramped apartment anymore, counting coins and comparing brands. Not since Satoru. You still catch yourself reaching for the cheapest option, still instinctively scan barcodes and double-check price tags. But he never even looks. He just fills the cart like it’s second nature. Like full shelves and soft snacks and mochi picked on a whim are things you deserve.

You’re still learning how to live like this—where love doesn’t feel like a debt, and money isn’t something to fear. And even though he could buy out the entire store without blinking, he still treats picking out snacks with you like it’s the most important thing he’ll do all week.

Shaking your head, you turn back to the list. Soy sauce. You still need soy sauce for his dinner.

But as you round the corner, you don’t find the aisle you’re looking for—you find him instead, crouched in front of the freezer, elbows resting on his knees, two tubs of ice cream in hand.

Why is he studying them like he’s trying to defuse a bomb? He looks… entirely perplexed.

“Satoru…” you step up beside him, brow raised. “You good?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “Just, uh… evaluating options.”

Glancing down at the tubs—matcha and black sesame—you fold your arms.

“Umm… you evaluating them for fun, or is this, like, an actual crisis?”

“Mmm… crisis is a strong word,” he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. “It’s just… strategy. Y’know. Ice cream strategy.”

Crouching down beside him, you rest your hand on his knee.

“Uh-huh…?”

There’s a pause.

Then, he sighs through his nose. “Alright… fine. I… couldn’t remember which one you liked more,” he admits. “I thought it was matcha. But then I remembered that one week you wouldn’t touch it, so now I’m stuck here like a dumbass, spiraling in the frozen aisle…”

You try not to laugh. “You’re spiraling over ice cream?”

“I’m spiraling because it’s you,” he huffs. “I wanted to surprise you… thought maybe we could stay up late and eat it in bed like we used to?”

Your teasing slips away, replaced with something soft.

“Oh… Satoru.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in the way his voice lowers when he speaks again.

“I just… dunno. It feels like it’s been forever. Between missions, work, parenting—you’ve been running around nonstop. I just wanted tonight to feel kinda normal again. After dinner—after the princes goes to bed. Just… us? Even if it’s just ice cream.”

You watch him for a beat—your husband, who can bend reality, stand at the edge of the world, and still get hung up over picking the right tub of ice cream for you.

“I… like them both,” you mumble, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “So why not both?”

He exhales like it physically relieves him. “Oh, thank god.”

You both stand, and without hesitation, he tosses both tubs into the basket.

“But… don’t go picking at mine and then pretending you didn’t like that flavor, okay?”

Grinning, you step ahead of him.

“Oh, I will steal yours. That’s marriage, babe.”

With a quiet laugh, he falls into step behind you.

“Brat.”

By the time you reach checkout, your cart holds three kinds of mochi ice cream, a suspiciously large bag of seaweed snacks, and absolutely no bread. Your daughter’s holding her bag of candy like it’s a stuffed animal, fussing while you try to scan it, and you’re juggling a reusable bag, along with what’s left of your patience while she begins to cry.

Noticing your frustration, Satoru slips in, insisting on scanning everything himself—for you. But when the self-checkout machine beeps loudly, his brows furrow and he pouts.

“The fuck? I did scan the damn carrots…” he mutters, narrowing his eyes, fumbling with the touch screen. “Don’t gaslight me... stupid thing..."

You sigh, somehow his presence makes the monotony feel… warm. And though this ‘quick trip’ has become what feels like an all-day event, you can’t deny how much you have also missed this man.

Outside, the air is soft with the promise of evening. Your daughter’s nodding off in her car seat, still hugging the candy bag like a teddy bear. Satoru loads the bags into the trunk with a proud little huff, dusting off his hands like he’s accomplished something huge.

“See?” he says, flashing a grin as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Told you grocery shopping as a family would be fun.”

You glance at the receipt. Then at him.

“You spent more in the snack aisle than on actual food….”

“I live off sugar and love. You know this.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat. But as you buckle your seatbelt and glance down at the grocery list again, your heart sinks a little.

Did you…? Fuck.

You forgot the soy sauce.

Exhaling slowly, your gaze drifts over to Satoru in the passenger seat—slouched comfortably, eyes closed, perfectly content. The fading sun glows across his face, catching the edges of his smile.

“Y’know… I was gonna make your favorite tonight.”

His eyes open slowly. “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “But… we forgot the soy sauce.”

"...oh." He grimaces, genuinely. “Shit… I really thought I grabbed it,” he scratches the back of his head. “Want me to run back in real quick?”

You pause, then look at your daughter sleeping in the rearview mirror. Her gentle snore. The quiet hum of the car. The warmth in the air.

“No…” you murmur. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You look at him again, and it hits you—not the ice cream, not the dinner. Little things like… this. Him. Her. This whole imperfect evening.

“Yeah… let’s get takeout,” you say, shifting the car into reverse. “We'll cuddle in bed. Split some ice cream.”

He smiles again, slow and warm.

“Deal.”

[honeyslibrary]

Rookie Card | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, little to no knowledge of Costco (I've never been lol), edited once, that's it I think!

Summary; Jack finds out that reader keeps a certain card in her wallet

Word Count; 3.1k

Authors Note: I feel like if this happened IRL he'd be such a little shit about it and would not stop teasing 😭 Also I don't have a Costco membership idk what they sell there and I did not look it up to be accurate 🥴 -Honey

You knew this Costco trip was a mistake the moment Jack grabbed the cart.

"I'm driving," he'd announced with that lopsided grin that still made your stomach flutter after eight months together. That grin had gotten you into this relationship in the first place. The same one he'd flashed at you across the bar the night you met, when your friend had elbowed you and whispered, "Holy shit, that's Jack Hughes," and you'd pretended not to know exactly who he was.

Now that same grin was steering an overloaded shopping cart through the warehouse chaos of Costco on a Sunday afternoon, which felt considerably less charming.

"Slow down," you call out as he narrowly avoids clipping an elderly woman examining a stack of discounted bestsellers. "This isn't the ice, Hughes."

Jack shoots you a look over his shoulder. "I'm being careful! Besides, we need to beat the sample rush. Those little pizza bagel things go fast."

You roll your eyes but can't help cracking a smile. For a professional hockey player who regularly gets body-checked into boards, Jack has an almost childlike enthusiasm for the free samples at Costco. It's endearing, even if his cart navigation skills leave much to be desired.

Two hours later, the cart is piled dangerously high with everything from the mundane essentials you actually came for (paper towels, coffee beans, that specific brand of Greek yogurt Jack insists is the only acceptable post-workout snack) to the impulse purchases that somehow found their way in when you weren't looking (a 2.5lb bag of dried mango slices, a folding camp chair, and what appears to be an industrial-sized container of protein powder).

"Do we really need all this?" you ask, eyeing the mountain of products as you approach the checkout area.

Jack looks genuinely confused. "Which part don't we need?"

"I don't know, maybe the trashcan sized candle?"

"You said your apartment always smells like hockey gear!"

"I meant you should do laundry more often, not turn the place into a Yankee Candle outlet."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Trust me, I'm doing us both a favor."

As you approach the front of the store, Jack steers the cart toward the self-checkout area.

"The regular lines aren't that long." you comment, glancing at the regular checkout lanes where actual employees could help with the small mountain of purchases you've accumulated.

Jack scoffs. "Self-checkout is way faster. Plus, I'm basically a professional at scanning."

"Since when?"

"I did a grocery store commercial last season, remember? Spent like three hours scanning the same box of cereal from different angles."

You bite back a smile. "I'm pretty sure that doesn't translate to actual scanning skills."

"I forgot you were the expert," he rolls his eyes, smiling as he maneuvers the cart into the self-checkout lane.

The Costco self-checkout is already chaos. The cart is overloaded, the scanner next to yours keeps yelling "place item in the bagging area," and Jack is too busy pretending the jumbo box of Goldfish is a dumbbell to be remotely helpful.

"Four pounds of pure cracker power," he announces, curling the box in perfect form. "Could be a new workout trend. Snackercise."

An exasperated mother with twin toddlers shoots him a look that's half annoyance, half recognition. You've gotten used to the double takes, the whispers, the occasional autograph requests. Jack handles them with ease, always friendly, always gracious, never making it weird. It's one of the things you admire about him, even if you're still adjusting to dating someone whose face is plastered around the city.

Today, thankfully, the mother is too focused on keeping her children from dismantling the candy display to approach. Jack sets down the Goldfish box with a mock grunt of exertion and turns his attention back to you.

"Want me to scan stuff?" he offers, reaching for the box of protein bars you're holding.

"I've got it," you say quickly, having witnessed his "scanning skills" on previous shopping trips. The last time you let him take over at Target, you'd ended up with three accidental duplicates and one item that never made it into the system at all.

You're juggling a case of sparkling water and trying to scan your membership barcode from the app when you groan.

"It's not loading," you mutter, tapping frantically at your phone screen where the Costco app has frozen on a loading icon. "Can you just get my wallet? It's in the pink one, middle pocket of my bag."

Jack perks up like you just asked him to defuse a bomb. "On it," he says, already elbow deep in your tote. "Why do you carry so much stuff in here? Are you secretly a suburban mom?"

"Just grab the wallet," you sigh, shifting the sparkling water to your other arm. The self-checkout machine beeps impatiently, its screen flashing a demand for your membership ID.

"I'm exploring uncharted territory here," Jack narrates, rummaging dramatically. "I may need supplies. Possibly a headlamp."

The employee monitoring the area, a tall guy appearing about your age, wearing a faded Yankees cap, glances over with amusement. You feel a flash of self-consciousness, aware of how you and Jack must look: bickering over a shopping cart like you've been married for decades rather than dating for months. It's comfortable, though. That's what surprised you most about being with Jack, how quickly the comfort came, how easily you fell into each other's rhythms.

Jack pulls out a crushed receipt, a Tide pen, and a tampon like he's on Let's Make a Deal. "Is this a snack bar? Why do you have a Canadian penny in here? What year even is this?"

"Jack." Your patience is wearing thin. The case of water is getting heavier by the second, and the lady behind you is starting to make pointed throat-clearing noises.

"Okay, okay," he says, finally fishing out your wallet and flipping it open. "Looking for the ol' Costco membership—" He hands you the card, "wait a sec."

You pause mid-scan, turning slowly at the change in his tone. "What?"

He's gone still. Smirking.

"No way." His voice cracks slightly as he pulls out a small, glossy rectangle. "Is this? Babe, is this my rookie card?"

Your stomach drops. "Oh my God, Jack. Give me that."

The blood rushes to your face so quickly you feel light-headed. Of all the things he could have found: the ancient gum wrapper you keep forgetting to throw away, the fortune cookie paper with the embarrassingly accurate prediction about meeting a handsome stranger, even the crumpled CVS receipt from when you panic bought three different pregnancy tests after a condom mishap last month (all negative, thankfully), he had to find THAT.

"You carry this around?" he laughs, holding it up like he's found hidden treasure. "In your wallet. Next to your license. And your credit card. I’m literally next to your driver’s license.”

You lunge for it, nearly dropping the sparkling water. "I forgot it was even in there!"

It's a lie and you both know it. The card is in pristine condition, carefully tucked into one of the clear plastic sleeves in your wallet where most people would keep photos of loved ones or emergency contact information. You'd bought it four years ago, back when Jack was just starting to make headlines, back when you would never have dreamed you'd one day be sharing takeout on his couch while he complained about his coach's defensive strategy.

He dodges you like a child on a sugar high, rookie card still in hand. "You've been walking around with literal 18-year-old me in your purse this whole time?" He holds it toward you, pointing at his face. "Look at this haircut! I look like I was just let out of a Boy Scout meeting."

"Stop talking," you hiss, your face fully on fire as the self-checkout voice robotically reminds you to please place item in the bagging area.

The employee at the front is now openly watching your exchange, a slow smile of recognition spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who Jack is, and exactly which card Jack is holding. Great. Just what you need: a witness to your humiliation.

"Oh, this is rich," Jack says, shaking his head. "You, giving me crap about being cocky, but meanwhile? You've got a personal Jack Hughes shrine in your wallet."

You glare at him, wishing desperately for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet. "Do you want me to put that card in the trash right now?"

He snorts, finally slipping it back into its slot with fake reverence. "Absolutely not. That thing's probably worth, like, eight bucks."

"Try a couple hundred," the employee chimes in helpfully, then immediately holds up his hands in surrender when you shoot him a death glare. "Sorry. Just saying."

"See?" Jack grins. "You're carrying around, what, Nathaniel's monthly rent in your wallet? That's dedication." He gestures to the Rangers fan, who apparently is named Nathaniel and who apparently needs to mind his own business.

You snatch the wallet out of Jack's hands, cheeks still burning, and you return to scanning items with aggressive efficiency.

"So," Jack says, leaning against the bagging area with his arms crossed, watching you work with infuriating amusement. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you were a fan?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you mutter, scanning a jar of almond butter with unnecessary force. "I told you I watched hockey."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned having a collection of hockey cards. Of me, specifically."

"It's not a collection. It's one card."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm. And are there others at home? Like, do you have a special album or something? Holy shit, do you have posters?"

"No," you say, a beat too quickly.

The truth, which you would rather die than admit right now, is that you do own exactly one poster. It's from a sports magazine spread three years ago, and it's been carefully rolled up and stashed in the back of your closet since your third date with Jack, when things started to feel serious enough that you realized having his face on your wall would be deeply weird.

"You hesitated," Jack says triumphantly. "There are posters."

"There are no posters," you insist, though your traitorous complexion is probably giving you away. You've always been a terrible liar, a fact Jack discovered during your first attempt at playing poker together, when he cleaned you out of chocolate-covered almonds (your chosen betting currency) within twenty minutes.

"You know," he says, taking pity on you and beginning to bag some of the scanned items, "it's kind of cute."

"It's embarrassing," you correct him, focusing intently on scanning a pack of chicken breasts.

"Why? You're a hockey fan who happened to start dating a hockey player. That's not weird."

"It's weird if I was specifically a fan of you before we met."

"Were you?" he asks, and there's a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing now.

You sigh, pausing your scanning marathon. "I watched your games sometimes. I thought you were good." You look up at him, considering how much to reveal. "I liked how you played, like you were actually having fun, not just doing a job. It was... I don't know. It made the game more exciting."

Jack's expression softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer. "That's... actually really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"Too late," he says, tapping his temple. "Already filed under 'Evidence My Girlfriend Thinks I'm Amazing.'"

The self-checkout machine beeps demandingly, reminding you that you've paused too long between scans. You return to the task at hand, but the tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable rhythm as Jack bags while you scan.

"You know," he says after a moment, carefully arranging a tub of laundry detergent next to the candles, "I have some of your work saved on my phone."

You look up, surprised. "What?"

"Those illustrations you did for that children's book about the penguin? I downloaded them. They're in a special album." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the admission. "I show them to the guys sometimes. Demko's kid loves the one with the penguin on the skateboard."

"You... show my work to your teammates?" The thought of Jack's hockey buddies, men whose names appear on jerseys and in ESPN headlines, looking at your penguin drawings is surreal.

"Yeah. I'm a fan." He says it simply, without the teasing edge from before.

You don't know what to say to that, so you just keep scanning, but something warm unfurls in your chest. It's been like this since the beginning, moments of revelation that catch you off guard. Reminders that beneath the public persona and the franchise player status, Jack is just... Jack. A guy who gets excited about Costco samples and saves your artwork on his phone.

Jack leans in, way too pleased with himself, as you scan the last few items. "I'm starting to think you were a fan before you were my girlfriend."

"I hate you," you say, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't."

You glance at him. He's grinning like an idiot, casually bagging your industrial-size trail mix like this isn't the most embarrassing moment of your life.

"Okay, maybe I don't," you mutter, swiping your credit card.

He bumps your shoulder. "It's okay, babe. I'd carry your rookie card around too. If you had one."

"What would a children's book illustrator's rookie card even look like?" you wonder, punching in your PIN.

"First professional doodle," Jack says thoughtfully. "Maybe that red panda you showed me, the one you drew for your niece's birthday card."

"That was awful. I gave him six toes."

"It had character," Jack insists. "Very avant-garde."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in your head. "Let's go before you start reciting your career stats to the family behind us."

"Oh, I would never—" He pauses, then turns to the man waiting in line. "Did you know she keeps my rookie card in her wallet?"

"JACK."

He laughs, loud and unrestrained, as you grab his arm and drag him away from the checkout area, your face flaming all over again.

"You're the worst," you inform him as you navigate toward the exit, receipt clutched in your hand.

"And yet, you keep my rookie card with you at all times," he counters, skillfully steering the cart around a display of seasonal patio furniture. "Makes a guy wonder what else you might be hiding."

"My deep regret about agreeing to date you?"

"Nah, that's written all over your face." He grins. "I'm thinking more like, do you have a scrapbook? Did you write my name with hearts around it in your diary? Ooh, did you have one of those fathead wall decals?"

You stop walking, fixing him with your most serious expression. "Jack. If you ever want me to sleep over at your place again, you will drop this immediately."

He considers this for a moment, then mimes zipping his lips. "Dropped."

"Thank you."

You resume walking, pushing through the exit doors into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits your face, warm against the crisp autumn air. Jack moves ahead to guide the cart, his shoulders relaxed under his faded blue henley, hair slightly mussed from where he ran his hands through it while deliberating between two different coffee brands for twenty minutes.

"I forgot to ask," he says as you reach the car, "are you coming to the game on Thursday?"

"I have that deadline for the fox book illustrations," you remind him, helping to load bags into the trunk of his SUV. "But I could come to Saturday's game maybe?"

Jack nods, lifting the case of water with ease. "Saturday works. Oh, don't forget, there's that charity thing on Sunday."

"Gala thingy?"

"Yeah." He slams the trunk closed. "Bring your wallet though."

You narrow your eyes, pausing with the shopping cart halfway to the return corral. "Why?"

"In case anyone asks for your autograph," he says with exaggerated seriousness. "After, you can show them my rookie card, tell them you knew me when."

You groan, abandoning the cart to march back to him. "I swear to God, Hughes—"

But before you can finish your threat, he catches you around the waist, pulling you against him. "You're cute when you're mortified," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you, right there in the Costco parking lot, with the orange glow of sunset painting everything gold.

When he pulls back, you keep your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm never taking you shopping again," you inform him.

"Yes you are," he says confidently. "You need someone to reach the top shelves."

"I can bring a stepladder."

"A stepladder won't tell you interesting facts about protein powder or help you pick out deli meat."

"Those are selling points?"

He kisses you again, quickly this time. "Admit it. Shopping with me is an adventure."

"A nightmare," you correct him, but you're smiling. "A recurring nightmare where I'm trapped in Costco forever with a hockey player who thinks jumbo sized everything is a personality trait."

Jack laughs, releasing you to retrieve the abandoned shopping cart. "Come on, nightmare's over for today. Let's go home and figure out where we're going to put that giant candle in your apartment."

"Your apartment," you counter. "You bought it, you store it."

"Fine, but you have to remind me to burn it. And not burn the apartment down."

You watch him return the cart, the easy grace in his movements, the way he nods politely to an older couple walking past. When he returns, he slides into the driver's seat beside you, immediately reaching for your hand across the console.

"So," he says as he starts the engine, "should I be concerned about any other professional athletes you might have rookie cards of? Am I competing with, like, the entire NHL draft class of 2019?"

You squeeze his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought you'd dropped it."

"I'm just saying, I should know if I'm in an open relationship with you and a wallet full of hockey cards."

"Just drive, Hughes."

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[vunblr]

To Mend a Soldier

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ (Masturbation). Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff.

Summary: Pressed by a worried Sam, Bucky reluctantly agrees to try an alternative -and, if you ask him, weird- therapy program: rent-a-mom. What starts as an obligation soon turns into something far more meaningful than he ever expected.

Word Count: About 20k.

note: Yeah… it’s a long one. This has been sitting in my folder for a while, and I couldn’t figure out where to split it, so here we are. Please don’t hate me! 😅 If you enjoy it, I’d really appreciate it if you could share or leave a comment, it means so much.

After everything he’d been through -Hydra, Zemo, Thanos, Steve’s departure, and now therapy with Dr. Raynor- Bucky still couldn’t seem to find peace. The nightmares remained, the guilt festered, and every glance he got on the street reminded him of who he used to be, not who he was trying to become. Trusting people felt impossible, and his defenses were built like steel walls.

Sam, however, refused to let him slip further into isolation. Over the past few months, he’d watched him struggle silently, shrugging off every attempt to help him open up. But The Falcon wasn’t one to give up easily.

One evening, while they were returning from a brief mission on a plane, he finally brought it up again.

“You ever thought about alternative therapy?” he asked casually, pressing a cooling bag over his shoulder.

Bucky didn’t even look up from where he was unlacing his boots. “What, like yoga?” His voice was flat and unimpressed. “I don’t bend that way.”

“No, not yoga.” Sam’s tone was patient like he was explaining something to a stubborn child. “It’s something some veterans are trying. Heard about it from a guy at the VA.”

“Right.” Bucky snorted. “Modern mumbo jumbo. What is it? Journaling? Crystals? Hugging trees?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s called rent-a-mom.”

That got Bucky’s attention. His head snapped up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Rent-a-what?”

“Rent-a-mom,” Sam repeated, biting back a grin at Bucky’s incredulous expression. “It’s this service where someone -usually a nice, older lady- comes to your place for a couple of hours a week. She cooks, chats, and keeps you company. Some guys use it to feel normal again, you know? A little comfort or emotional support, whatever you need, with no judgment.”

Bucky stared at him for a beat before deadpanning, “So you’re telling me to hire a prostitute.”

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. “What is wrong with you man? No! That’s not what this is.”

“You sure? Because whatever I need, with no judgment sounds like you’re telling me to hire someone to-”

“Stop!” Sam cut him off, pointing a finger at him. “It’s not like that, okay? She works with vets all the time. You know, people like you who don’t trust anyone and think the world’s out to get them.

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Sounds like a scam.”

“It’s not a scam. I know a guy who uses her services. He says it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded some weeks. And it’s not just him. A lot of vets partaking on the program swear by it.”

Bucky grumbled under his breath, something about “modern nonsense” and “people these days.”

Sam sighed, leaning forward. “Look, man, I’m not saying it’s gonna fix all your problems. But what’s the harm in trying? One session. Worst-case scenario, you don’t like it, and you never call her again.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t need some stranger poking around in my life.”

“She’s not gonna poke,” Sam insisted. “She’s just there to help. And let’s be real, you could use it. You’ve been holed up in that apartment for weeks. When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t me or that Raynor bitch?”

Bucky didn’t answer, just tightened his jaw.

“Exactly,” Sam said, leaning back with a smirk. “Plus, you owe me for Redwing. That little stunt you pulled last week? Yeah, I’m still mad about that.”

“Cheap shot,” Bucky muttered, glaring at the floor.

“Call it whatever you want. You’re doing this.”

After a long, heavy pause, Bucky sighed. “Fine. One session. But if this is a waste of my time, I’m blaming you.”

Sam grinned, already pulling out his phone. “You’re gonna thank me when it works. Just wait.”

----

Bucky sat on the edge of his couch, glaring at his phone like it had personally wronged him. Sam had texted him the woman’s contact information a few hours ago, with an obnoxious winky face at the end. He couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be reassuring or not but either way, it made his skin crawl.

“Just one session,” he muttered, running his hand down his face. Sam’s words echoed in his head: “It’s not what you think, man. She’s just… good at what she does. People trust her.” Trust. Bucky scoffed. That wasn’t something he handed out easily anymore, but after the Redwing incident, Sam wasn’t going to let him live it down unless he followed through. Grimacing, he tapped out a message.

Hi. This is James Barnes. Sam Wilson gave me your contact information. He said you… help people. I’m interested in setting up a session. Let me know if you’re available.

He stared at the screen for a good minute before hitting send. The second the message left his phone, he regretted it.

What the hell am I doing?

His internal spiral was interrupted by a response. That was fast.

Hi, James! Thanks for reaching out. I’d be happy to help. How does Tuesday at 5 PM sound?

He frowned. No small talk? No questions? Just… straight to the point. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but he appreciated it.

Fine, he replied, then immediately felt like a jerk. Then he added a Thanks.

----

Thursday came too quickly. Bucky paced his apartment, tidying up out of sheer nervous energy. He wasn’t sure what to expect. What was this woman going to do? Make him tea? Lecture him on proper nutrition? Sam had called her a “mom-for-hire,” but the idea still sounded absurd.

At exactly 5 PM, there was a knock at the door. Bucky froze. For a split second, he considered pretending he wasn’t home. But he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and opened the door, noticing two things:

First, this Mom was not an older lady. Either Sam left out that critical detail, or she was some kind of evil witch who sucked the life force out of her victims to stay young.

Second, she was… nice to look at. He quickly chastised himself for the thought.

“Hi,” she said, in a warm but professional tone, like she’d done this a hundred times before. There was no hesitation in her posture, no uncertainty in her eyes. She shifted the bag on her shoulder and offered a small smile. “You must be James.”

“Bucky.” he corrected gruffly, crossing his arms and leaning slightly against the doorframe. “You’re not what I expected.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Let me guess. You were expecting someone older? Maybe with glasses and a knitting basket?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, not confirming but not denying either.

She lets out a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

The silence stretched between them, and then he realized he was just standing there, blocking the doorway like an idiot. He stepped aside, muttering a “Come in.”

She entered the apartment, glancing around the living room as she set her bag down, taking in the stark, utilitarian setup. A couch, a small TV on a stand, and little else. The dining table was non-existent, replaced by a counter with two bar stools. “This is… cozy,” she said diplomatically, gesturing at the space.

Bucky’s lips twitched in a faint smirk. “It works.”

She hummed in response, her gaze falling to the small stack of books on the coffee table. A couple of dog-eared crime novels sat next to a remote. There wasn’t much else to indicate anyone truly lived here. No photos, no clutter, just the bare essentials.

He folded his arms again, hovering near the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to close it or bolt. “Look, I don’t need the whole... whatever it is you do. Sam talked me into this, so don’t feel like you have to stick around for too long.”

She didn’t seem fazed by his awkward brusqueness. Instead, she just nodded and set the bag down on his counter. She began unpacking a few items, ingredients, it looked like.

“So,” she said, turning to him with an easy smile. “What’s on the agenda for today? You tell me what you need, and we’ll go from there.”

What he needed? Hell if he knew.

“Uh…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t… really know how this works.”

“That’s okay,” she reassured, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “We can start small. How about I make us something warm to eat while we talk?”

Talk. Right. He could handle that. Probably. And the food didn’t sound half bad either.

“Sure,” he said, with a softer tone now. He hesitated before adding, “Thanks.”

She smiled at him again and reached into her bag, pulling out a neatly folded apron. Without hesitation, she slipped it over her summer dress, tying the strings behind her back. The casual way she moved threw him off; she already seemed at ease in his space, which was more than he could say for himself.

“Is there anything you don’t like to eat?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen.

Bucky blinked at her like she’d just asked him if he believed in unicorns. “Anything I don’t like?” His eyebrows lifted, clearly baffled by the concept.

“Yes,” she replied with a small laugh, looking back at him as if to say she was serious.

He gave a short huff, leaning against the counter, his lips twitching with faint amusement. “Doll, I grew up in the Depression. You ate what you got and licked the plate clean.”

She froze mid-step, her hands moving to her hips as she turned to face him fully. “Okay, first of all, you don’t ‘doll’ your mother,” she said, her tone firm but with a playful edge. “So let’s make it clear: that won’t be a thing between us.”

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly in mild surprise at her sudden, slightly commanding tone.

“And second,” she continued, crossing her arms as if daring him to argue, “we’re not in the Depression anymore. So, humor me and tell me if there’s anything you don’t like.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smirk appearing as he quirked an eyebrow at her. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not even close.

“Guess I’ll have to think about it,” he muttered with the faintest trace of amusement.

She rolled her eyes, tying the apron snugly around her waist. “Well, then tell me what you do like, so I can see if I can pull it off with what we’ve got.”

He hesitated, darting away his gaze as if the question required more thought than it should. Finally, he mumbled, “Potatoes?”

Her lips twitched with amusement. “Lucky for you, I brought some with me.” She nodded toward another bag she’d left near the door.

Bucky watched as she moved around his kitchen, opening cabinets and peeking into drawers. It was strange seeing someone else handle his things like they belonged there.

She moved to his fridge next, tugging it open, and froze. For a long moment, she just stared, her head tilting slightly. “Huh.”

Bucky frowned, leaning to the side to see what had caught her attention. “What?”

She stepped back, gesturing inside with a wooden spoon she’d plucked from the counter. “The two plums are fine, but that sad, dried-out lemon is holding on by a thread, and…” Her nose wrinkled as she peered at a container shoved in the back. “I don’t even want to guess what’s in that tupperware.”

He shifted as his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s probably still good.”

“Bucky.” She turned to him, one brow arched and her tone matter-of-fact. “We’re going to have to make a shopping list if these visits are going to continue. Unless you’re planning to survive off potatoes and mystery leftovers?”

His lips twitched again, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged.

“I’ll take that as agreement,” she said, grabbing the potatoes she’d brought with her and setting them on the counter. “For now, I’ll work some magic with these and whatever’s actually edible in here.”

He smirked faintly, leaning against the counter as he watched her sort through his kitchen again with an air of efficiency like she’d done this a thousand times before.

At some point, she straightened up and caught his gaze. “You didn’t say anything yet,” she said, leaning a little on the counter. “but I assume you have questions about what I do?”

He shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck as if buying time. “Sam told me something… about cooking and talking,” he muttered hesitantly. Then he glanced away, subtly implying that he didn’t expect much beyond that.

She didn’t rush him, waiting patiently for him to finish. When he fell silent, she let out a soft chuckle and grabbed a cutting board from the counter. “I have a proper job, you know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “At a bookstore. This…” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the room, “is just something I’ve been doing for a couple of years now. It started when a lady from the program came into the shop looking for books to read to her son before nap time.” She paused, her lips curving in a small, amused smile. “The thing is, this lady was, well… let’s just say she was quite old to have a little kid. She must have seen the look on my face because she told me about this initiative she was part of.”

Bucky tilted his head, curiosity tugging at his otherwise guarded expression. “And you signed up?”

“Eventually,” she admitted, peeling one of the potatoes with practiced ease. “I kept running into her, and she’d stop by the store to chat about how the reading sessions were going, how much her ‘kid’ enjoyed them.” She made air quotes with her fingers, smirking. “Turned out, her kid was a Vietnam vet. He was struggling with some things, and she was helping him feel more grounded.”

Bucky arched his brows.

“Exactly,” she said, laughing softly. “I thought it was strange at first, too, but the more I learned, the more I realized how much of a difference it can make for some people.” She paused, setting the peeler down and turning to fully face him, with a softer expression now. “There’s something about the kind of comfort a mother gives, something other roles just… don’t quite reach.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow.

“You’ve probably seen it,” she continued, “Soldiers in their last moments, calling for their moms. Or when they’re delirious with fever or pain, their minds go back to a time when they felt safe, protected, and cared for. It’s not about the specific person, it’s the feeling. That deep-rooted need to know someone’s there for you, no matter what.”

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before flicking back to her. She didn’t miss the shift in his expression, a flicker of recognition, a shadow of memory.

“I’m not saying I’m trying to be anyone’s mother,” she added quickly, offering him a gentle smile to lighten the mood. “But sometimes people just need a little bit of that energy in their life, you know? A chance to feel… safe.”

Bucky’s mouth pressed into a thin line, stiffening briefly before he exhaled, his relaxing his shoulders just a fraction. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of her words lingered in the air between them.

He had to admit it sounded... nice. Having someone to turn to when things got… when you couldn’t breathe. When the world felt too heavy and every corner of your mind was filled with noise you couldn’t escape. But just as that thought settled in, his defenses kicked in, sharp and automatic.

He scoffed, the sound coming out a little too rough, a little too biting. “And then what? You cuddle on the couch, singing a lullaby?”

Her hands stilled, and she turned to look at him, meeting his gaze. There was no annoyance in her expression, no judgment. Just a calmness that made him feel even more off-balance.

“If that’s what you need,” she said simply, “then yes.”

For a moment, he was stunned into silence, caught off guard. There was no sarcasm, no condescension, just a sincerity that felt almost disarming.

His eyes darted away as he shifted his weight, the corners of his mouth twitched in an effort to form a response. But for once, words failed him, leaving only the quiet hum of the kitchen and the soft clatter of her returning to the potatoes.

“There are some info sheets and forms in the bag,” she said, nodding toward her tote. “If you want to read and complete them while I do this.” She gestured as she resumed working on the potatoes.

Bucky hesitated, flicking his gaze between her and the bag. “What’s the payment?” he asked gruffly, trying to keep his voice casual. “In case… in case I might be interested.”

She paused for a beat, then glanced over her shoulder with a small smile. “I don’t charge veterans,” she said simply.

He blinked, clearly taken aback. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Finally, he managed, “Sam didn’t… didn’t tell me that.”

“Well,” she said, setting the knife down for a moment and turning fully to face him, “to be fair, Sam told me a little about you.”

At the slight stiffness that crept into his expression, she quickly added, “Just… basic things.” She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m already working with someone who’s… retired now, and I wasn’t sure about having two ‘sons’ in the same department, so to speak.”

She hesitated, studying his face for a moment before continuing. “But when he told me who you were… I didn’t doubt it for a second. You’re a hero, you know?”

He seemed surprised by the statement, his brows knitting together as if trying to make sense of her words. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. Finally, he grumbled, “Don’t know about that, but thanks.”

She smiled softly, “Don’t thank me, sweetheart. I’m just stating the obvious.” With that, she turned back to the cooking, leaving Bucky standing there, uncomfortably aware of the unexpected swell of gratitude threatening to creep past his defenses.

He then opened the tote bag and pulled out a neatly organized folder. Inside, there were several documents, each clipped together in its own section. He skimmed over the first page, a set of “basic rules” clearly outlined at the top.

His brow furrowed slightly as he read. Boundaries: He would only call her “Mama” or some other variant, never her name, an instruction that immediately made his stomach twist with both unease and an odd sense of reassurance. The point was clear: this wasn’t a friendship or anything else ambiguous. It was meant to define their dynamic firmly.

Further down, he saw a list of do’s and don’ts regarding acceptable forms of touching. The wording was straightforward but gentle, ensuring the rules were understood without feeling restrictive. A clause about privacy caught his attention: Everything discussed during their sessions would remain strictly confidential. Nothing said between them would be disclosed, ever.

He sighed and leaned against the counter, flipping to the next section. The forms included a series of questions: What would you expect from these sessions? What would you prefer not to happen? What are your favorite comforts? Least favorite?

The questions made him uncomfortable. What did he expect? Hell if he knew. What would he even put down for “favorite comforts”? He tapped the pen against the counter, unsure where to start.

When he finally glanced back at her, she was chopping the potatoes with practiced ease. “And what happens after I fill this out?” he asked, trying to sound neutral.

“Once the forms are completed and signed,” she said without turning around, “I’ll be in charge of the dynamic.” She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder with a small smile. “After all, Mama knows best.”

Her tone was light, teasing, but the words landed heavier than she might have realized. Bucky stared at the form again, feeling the faintest flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe trust. Maybe just exhaustion. Either way, the weight of his pen didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” she said, washing her hands and wiping them on a towel. Turning back to him, she added, "Maybe wait and see how this goes first?" then, she walked toward the living room and perched on the edge of the couch patting the spot next to her. “Sit. You can tell me about your week while the potatoes cook… if you want.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, glancing toward the couch like it might be a trap. Finally, he crossed the room, lowering himself onto the seat beside her. The couch dipped under his weight, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. The silence hung between them, save for the faint sound of traffic through the window. After a moment, he started to bounce his knee.

She noticed the motion and glanced at him, her gaze drifting lower. That’s when it hit her, the long-sleeved henley and the glove on his hand. The room wasn’t exactly cold. In fact, with the oven going and the potatoes roasting, it was comfortably warm.

Her brows knitted together. “Bucky,” she started carefully, with a light tone, “you know by now that I knew who you were before I knocked on your door, right?”

He turned his head slightly, not quite meeting her eyes but acknowledging her words with a small grunt.

“So… don’t you want to change into something less... suffocating?” She gestured loosely at his shirt. “I mean, it’s hot in here.”

His knee stopped bouncing. He straightened slightly but didn’t respond right away. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was weighing his next move.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice gruff. He didn’t sound angry, just… uncertain.

“It’s not fine,” she countered gently. “You’ll overheat sitting here like that. Besides, I thought we were working on this whole... trust thing since you know… the mom thing?”

Her words hung in the air, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a deep breath, Bucky pushed himself to his feet, heading toward the hallway. He muttered something under his breath that she didn’t catch, but the slight hunch of his shoulders told her he was uncomfortable. Still, he disappeared into the bedroom, and she heard the sound of a drawer opening.

When he returned a few minutes later, he was wearing a soft, dark gray T-shirt. He paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking to her briefly before he sat back down, this time leaning into the couch instead of perching on the edge.

“Better?” he asked, his tone dry but not harsh.

“Much better,” she replied, a smile tugging at her lips.

Bucky didn’t say anything, but his shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction. The oven timer went off in the kitchen, breaking the moment, and she stood, giving him a reassuring pat on the knee as she passed by.

As she checked the food with her back turned to him, she spoke casually, “Sam said you’ve been having a rough time lately.”

Bucky frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Sam talks too much.”

Her lips quirked in a small smile, though she didn’t turn around. “He’s worried about you.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Bucky muttered.

“Maybe not. But he is. And from what I can tell, he’s the kind of person who acts on that worry.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m not here to pry.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly, and his jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?” The question came out sharper than he intended, his voice low and clipped, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel, and finally faced him.

“Why am I here?” she echoed with a calm tone. “One, because you texted. And two…” She crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet from the couch. Her gaze softened, her head tilting slightly. “Sometimes, it helps to have someone around. Someone who’s not a therapist or a friend who knows too much. Just… someone.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His expression was unreadable, but she could see the gears turning in his head. She approached the couch and sat down beside him, leaving just enough space to avoid crowding him but close enough to offer her quiet support.

Bucky shifted slightly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together tightly. The silence between them stretched, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like an invitation for him to speak if he wanted to, no pressure, no expectations.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he said finally, almost in a grumble.

“I know.” Her reply was soft, almost instinctive. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and for the first time that evening, he glanced at her directly. There was a hint of something vulnerable in his expression. Hesitation, perhaps.

“It’s just…” he started, his voice trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a lot lately. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just where you feel like it, I’ll be here to listen. And if you don’t want to talk, that is fine too, one doesn’t tell everything to their mom, hm?” she assured gently.

The timer beeped from the kitchen again, cutting through the moment. She reached over, giving his forearm a brief, reassuring squeeze before standing. “Let me get that before the potatoes burn.” As she moved toward the kitchen, she glanced back at him with a small smile. “Think about it, Bucky. No rush.”

He watched her retreat, his chest feeling a little lighter, though he couldn’t quite explain why.

When she called from the kitchen, cheerfully announcing that dinner was almost ready, he found himself answering without thinking. “Smells good.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt and crossed the short distance to the kitchen in a few long strides. Without a word, he started opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out a couple of plates and utensils to set up at the counter.

“Oh, such a good boy!” she teased warmly.

He paused, shooting her a look over his shoulder, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and embarrassment. “It’s just the right thing to do,” he muttered gruffly, his ears tinged faintly pink.

She bit back a smile as she pulled the tray of potatoes from the oven, the aroma filling the small kitchen. As she set the tray down, she reached for the fridge and produced a small bowl of creamy dip, placing it on the counter beside the potatoes.

Bucky quirked a brow with evident curiosity.

“What?” she asked playfully. “These aren’t your Depression potatoes. They’ve got a little twist.”

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “A twist, huh?”

“Just a little sour cream, and the spices are courtesy of your kitchen,” she said, ladling the potatoes onto a serving dish with practiced ease. “Trust me, they’ll still taste like home. Just… a little fancier.”

Bucky glanced at the bowl again, his lips twitching in faint amusement. “Fancy potatoes,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Hey,” she countered, setting the dish in the middle of the counter with a flourish. “Even tough guys like you deserve something nice now and then.”

He didn’t respond right away, but as he pulled out a stool at the counter and sat, there was a flicker of something lighter in his eyes. “Guess we’ll see if they live up to the hype.”

She handed him a fork, with a widening smile. “Challenge accepted.”

For the first time that evening, the atmosphere in the room felt less heavy. The clinking of utensils and the scent of roasted potatoes mingled with the faintest hum of unspoken understanding.

“Not bad,” Bucky admitted after his first bite, begrudging but carrying a hint of approval.

“Not bad?” she echoed, raising a brow. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, it almost looked like he might smile.

They made small talk while they ate, keeping the conversation light. She asked about the crime novels on his side table, and he asked -grudgingly- what kind of twist she had planned for the next meal, implying she might want to poison him. Despite himself, Bucky found the interaction strangely… normal. He wasn’t used to normal, but he didn’t hate it.

When they finished, he stood and began gathering the dishes. She protested at first, but he waved her off. “It’s what my Ma would have expected anyway,” he said matter-of-factly.

He’d just started scrubbing the first plate when her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen, then at the clock, letting out a soft sigh. “Well, Buck, it seems our two hours are up.”

Bucky froze and his hand gripped the plate under the warm water. Then he nodded once. “I see…”

She leaned against the counter next to him, watching him carefully. “So, um… what do you want to do? Will you read the forms and consider starting this little journey together, or would you rather not see my face again?” She smiled softly. “Which I’d totally understand if that’s the case.”

He didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on rinsing the plate and setting it on the drying rack. For a moment, the only sound was the rush of water and the faint hum of the fridge. It was as if he was battling with himself, his tension was visible in the way his shoulders hunched and his jaw clenched. Finally, he let out a long breath and turned to face her. His hand raked through his hair.

“I... I want this, I think,” he stated. Then, almost immediately, he added, “I can step out whenever I want, right?”

Her smile softened as she reached for his vibranium hand, her fingers resting lightly against the cool metal. “Yes, Bucky. You can step out whenever you want. No pressure, no expectations. This is for you, on your terms.”

He nodded slightly, his eyes flicking down to where her hand rested on his before shifting back to meet her gaze.

“Just take your time filling out the questionnaire, think the answers carefully” she continued, warmly but matter-of-fact. “and, whenever you’re ready, snap a picture and send it to me. No rush.”

“Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Also…” She tilted her head. “How many days a week do you want me here?”

Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. He shifted slightly, glancing away as if considering his answer. “Uh… two, I guess?”

“Two it is,” she said with a small nod, releasing his hand and grabbing her bag from the counter. “You’re calling the shots, Buck. You just let me know if that changes.”

He didn’t respond right away, but as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way toward the door, he called out in a low tone. “Thanks.”

She paused, glancing back at him with a smile. “Anytime.”

As the door closed behind her, Bucky stood there for a moment, staring at the now-empty space she’d left behind.

Almost three minutes after she left, his phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with a notification. He didn’t have to check to know who it was. Sure enough, the preview of the text confirmed it: Sam. The string of emojis accompanying the message made Bucky’s scowl deepen as he stared at the screen.

����💪👍👵🍲

“What the hell does that even mean?” he muttered to himself, swiping the phone off the counter and locking it without reading the full message. The last thing he needed was Sam’s smug commentaries right now.

He set the phone down a little harder than necessary and decided to distract himself the only way he knew how: by scrubbing himself clean. Grabbing a towel, he headed to the bathroom, peeling off his T-shirt on the way. The promise of a hot shower sounded like the closest thing to clarity he might find tonight.

But as the water beat down on his skin, his thoughts drifted back to the folder she’d left behind. The questionnaire seemed simple on the surface, but for a man like him, answering those kinds of questions wasn’t easy.

What comforts you?

The question alone made him bristle. Comfort wasn’t something he’d thought about in decades. Comfort was… a luxury, a distraction, a weakness. At least, that’s what they always told him and he still couldn’t shake that feeling.

The thought of filling out that damn paper felt heavier than any mission he’d been assigned. He’d rather face a bullet in his leg than sit down and figure out what he wanted.

He leaned his head against the shower tiles, the warmth of the water doing little to ease the tension coiling in his chest. Maybe he’d give himself a day. Or two. Hell, maybe a week. She’d said no rush, after all.

And if he didn’t send it? Well, it wasn’t like she’d show up uninvited. He could still back out.

He turned off the water with a sharp twist, the sudden silence leaving him alone with his thoughts. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing toward the closed door of his bedroom where the folder waited.

----

It had taken Bucky two weeks to fill out the forms. Two long, painstaking weeks of sitting at his couch, pen in hand, staring at questions that felt more like traps than prompts. He’d forced himself to be thorough, thinking carefully about each subject.

What makes you feel safe? What comforts you? What do you need from me?

How do you want to be called as an endearment?

He’d tried to approach it with an open mind, though the process made him cringe more than once. Admitting what he needed -or even what he was willing to permit- felt like baring himself in a way that left him raw.

But he finished. He signed the papers, scanned them with his phone, and sent the file off with an unceremonious text:

Here. Let me know if it’s fine.

Her reply had been immediate and cheerful: Got it! Looks perfect. See you Tuesday.

----

When Tuesday came, she arrived at his building, juggling a tote bag filled with what she liked to call her “comfort supplies.” A neighbor leaving the building had held the door open for her, a kind but overly trusting gesture.

Not a very safe thing to do, she thought as she stepped inside. But I’m not going to complain.

She reached his door, knuckles rapping lightly against it. “Bucky? It’s me.”

No answer.

She frowned and knocked again, a little louder this time. “Bucky, you there?”

Still nothing.

She pulled out her phone and sent him a quick message: Hey, I’m here! A moment later, her phone buzzed with the dreaded notification: Message failed to deliver.

Her frown deepened. She tried calling, but the call went straight to voicemail. A sinking feeling settled in her chest as she pressed her ear to the door, listening intently.

Nothing. No footsteps. No muffled noises. Just silence.

She sighed, leaning back against the wall. Maybe something had come up. Maybe he’d changed his mind and didn’t know how to tell her.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had passed, and she still hadn’t heard a peep from him. With a reluctant shake of her head, she turned and walked toward the elevator, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet hallway.

-----

A couple of hours later, Bucky dragged his feet through the corridor. His nose throbbed painfully, a reminder of the last few days he’d spent dealing -again- with enhanced assholes who seemed to have gotten their hands on some variant of the serum.

The faint metallic scent of dried blood clung to him, mingling with the sweat and grime of too many hours spent in the open. His brows furrowed, eyes heavy-lidded as he scanned the hallway out of habit. That’s when he spotted it, a small bag made of cloth sitting neatly at his doorstep.

He paused, taking a moment to connect the dots through the haze of exhaustion.

Fuck.

He let out a slow, frustrated exhale, running a hand over his face and wincing as the dried cut on his cheek tugged painfully. Of course, this would happen. Of course, he’d mess this up right out of the gate.

Bending down, he picked up the bag, holding it gingerly in his hands like it might scold him. The fabric was soft and patterned with small flowers, something that felt almost absurdly out of place against his bloodstained hands and the concrete walls of the hallway.

He peeked inside, and his chest tightened. A handful of sugar babies’ packages into view, the bright yellow being a jarring contrast to the dull exhaustion weighing him down.

What were your favorite sweets as a child?

The questionnaire echoed in his head, and his stomach twisted. He hadn’t even realized he’d written those down until now.

Straightening up, he glanced down the hallway toward the elevator, tightening his grip on the bag. What kind of impression was this supposed to leave? Forgetting the session entirely, not answering the door, not even leaving a message…

He groaned, leaning back against his door and glaring down at the bag like it held all the answers to his failures.

After a long moment, he nested the bag into the crook of his arm, fumbled with his keys, and let himself into the apartment.

The silence inside was deafening. He placed the bag of candies on the counter and reached for his phone, dead as expected. He plugged it into the charger with a sigh, running a hand through his hair before peeling off his ruined clothes. The bloodstained shirt landed in a heap on the floor as he pulled his knives and gun from their holsters and set them down on the counter next to the flower-patterned bag.

The juxtaposition was almost laughable. The hard edges of his weapons, worn and familiar, sat starkly against the soft, cheerful fabric of the bag.

It didn’t feel right, to see them in the same space.

But he was too tired to care for the moment.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky leaned against the counter, lingering his gaze on the bag of candies. He reached inside and pulled out one of the packages, turning it over in his fingers like it was something fragile. For a moment, he just stood there, as the weight of the past days pressed down on him.

Finally, he tore the wrapper open, popped one caramel into his mouth, and let the sugary sweetness dissolve on his tongue. It wasn’t much. But somehow, it tasted like a small piece of something he’d forgotten he needed.

-----

It was late afternoon when her phone buzzed with a message. She picked it up from the table, brushing across the screen to read it.

Just one word: Sorry.

She stared at the message for a moment, tightening her grip on the device. Well, at least it didn’t seem like he’d changed his mind entirely. That was something.

Are you okay?

The reply didn’t come right away. The minutes stretched, and she found herself glancing at the screen every few moments. Finally, the phone buzzed again, and she read his response:

I don’t know.

Her chest ached at the honesty of those three words. Biting her lip, she typed her reply carefully.

Do you want me to come over?

The dots indicating he was typing blinked, disappeared, and then reappeared. His answer came back after what felt like an eternity.

You don’t have to.

She frowned, her thumbs flew across the keyboard.

That is not what I asked, Bucky.

Another pause. This one was longer. The late afternoon sun painted her walls in streaks of orange and gold, but she barely noticed, since her attention was fixed on the phone in her hands.

Finally, he replied.

Yes.

Her shoulders relaxed as she exhaled. Without hesitation, she grabbed her bag, slid her phone into her pocket, and headed for the door.

-----

Her gaze widened when she saw Bucky’s face as he opened the door. A nasty cut marred the already purpled skin of his cheek, his nose looked bruised, his lower lip was split, and scrapes littered his flesh arm. His expression and the slump of his shoulders only added to the picture of someone who’d been through a lot.

He must have noticed her stare because the first thing out of his mouth was, “You should see the other guys.”

She clicked her tongue in exasperation, her hand motioning firmly toward him. “Move. Let me in.”

Bucky stepped aside, his expression hovered somewhere between guilt and defiance. She entered without waiting for another invitation, her sharp eyes already scanning the room. “Did you clean the wounds?”

He shrugged nonchalantly as if it weren’t worth mentioning. “I took a shower…”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, deliberate sigh. “That’s not… no. That doesn’t count. Where is your first aid kit?”

He looked at her like she’d grown another head. “Doll, all this is going away in three days, tops. Courtesy of the serum.”

Her gaze snapped to his, sharp enough to freeze hell over. “Where. Is. It. And how did you just call me?”

Bucky’s mouth opened, then shut, and he swallowed audibly. “M-ma,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to the floor like a chastised child.

“That’s what I thought.” She folded her arms, with a tone that brooked no argument. “I assume you have that thing in the bathroom.”

“I told you, it’s not neces-”

That look again. He stopped mid-sentence, his shoulders slumping as he relented. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said briskly, already heading toward the bathroom without waiting for further direction. “Stay put. I’ll handle this.”

Bucky stared after her, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to argue but thought better of it. With a quiet groan, he leaned against the counter, muttering under his breath, “You should really see the other guys…”

But even as he said it, he found himself oddly relieved that she was there.

“Sit on the chair so I can see you better”, her voice came calm but firm from his side as she gestured to the single chair against the wall.

Bucky hesitated for half a second before complying, dragging the chair forward slightly and lowering himself onto it.

She knelt slightly in front of him, brushing her fingers lightly over the bruised and battered skin of his face. “This surely must hurt,” she said softly. “You don’t have to act all rough with me.”

He didn’t answer, clenching his jaw ever so slightly. Not to brush off the pain, not to admit that it hurt. He just stayed silent, with his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder.

With gentle care, she dabbed at his cheek with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. The sharp, chemical smell hit the air immediately, and Bucky flinched, pressing his lips into a thin line.

She paused, knitting her brows in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

Her gaze stayed patient but unyielding. “Bucky.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes flicking away from hers before returning. “I don’t like the smell,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.

She stilled, hovering her hand in midair. “Why?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze grew distant, and his expression went clouded as if he were somewhere else entirely. When he finally spoke, his voice was even quieter, tinged with something raw and broken.

“Spent a lot of years smelling that shit,” he said, with words that carried too much weight. “Couldn’t drink a glass of water without a command. Couldn’t… do anything. And that smell… it was always there. Always.”

Her heart ached at the admission, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Instead, she lowered the cotton ball, letting him see her hands move it out of the way. “Okay,” she said softly. “We’ll rinse the cuts with water instead. No more of this stuff.”

He blinked, his brows furrowing slightly as he looked at her. “You don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t,” she interrupted gently. “But I’m here to help you, honey, not to make things harder.”

He swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing as he nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

By the time she finished tending to his wounds, Bucky was leaning heavily against the chair, with drooping eyelids. The tension in his frame had loosened ever so slightly, his exhaustion was clear in the way he blinked sluggishly at the floor.

She stood and began gathering the supplies, placing them neatly back into his first aid kit. “I’m going to make you something to eat,” she said firmly, already planning a quick meal to get something nutritious in him.

“Not now,” he murmured, barely lifting his head.

She turned toward him with a frown. “Bucky, you’ve probably gone days without eating anything that isn’t complete garbage. You need-”

“I just…” His words came out with difficulty, like they were being dragged out of him. He rubbed his flesh hand over his face “I just want you close.” his voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

Her expression softened instantly. Nodding, she stepped closer, reaching for his vibranium hand. She wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. Let’s sit on the couch.”

She guided him the short distance toward the living room and he followed with slow, dragging steps. Once they reached the couch, she looked at him with patience. “What do you need?”

Bucky hesitated and his throat worked as if he were trying to swallow his pride. His eyes flicked to her, then away again, his mouth opening and closing like he was fighting himself. Finally, he let out a soft, almost defeated sigh.

“I… I want to lean my head on your lap, Mama,” he admitted almost shakily.

She smiled softly, not saying anything that might make him feel more self-conscious. She just nodded and sat at one end of the couch, patting her thighs gently to indicate he should lie down.

Bucky followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as he eased himself onto the couch. He stretched out his long torso, his head tentatively resting on her lap. He stayed tense for a moment, as if bracing for something, though even he wasn’t sure what.

She started running her fingers through his short hair, brushing the strands back in slow, rhythmic motions. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

The tension in his shoulders began to melt, and his breathing slowed as her fingers worked through his hair with careful, deliberate strokes. He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet sigh as his body finally surrendered to a comfort he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

-----

After two months of visits, she was surprised one day to find an old oak dining table in Bucky’s apartment. It was small but sturdy, with matching chairs tucked neatly under it. The single chair he’d once had was nowhere in sight.

She stepped closer, running her hand along the smooth wood. “This is lovely,” she said, her tone genuinely appreciative.

Bucky stood nearby, with his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight slightly. He glanced at her, then at the table, mumbling, “It was time for me to have one.”

She turned to him with a smile. “Well, it makes the place look more like a home now. You know,” she added thoughtfully, “I have a tablecloth about this size at home that I don’t use. I could bring it next time, if you’d like.”

Bucky hesitated, furrowing his brows slightly as if considering her offer. “About that…” he started, a little unsure.

She waited patiently, giving him time to express what he wanted to say.

“I want to start…” He paused, searching for the right words. “making this place more... like someone is living here.”

“Like a home?” she prompted gently.

“Y-yeah.” He looked down, scratching at the back of his neck. “Besides that hut in Wakanda… it’s been a lifetime since I had a place to… a… a home.”

Her heart ached at his admission, but she didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and gently rested her hand on his arm. “That sounds very hard, sweetheart.”

Bucky didn’t deny or confirm her statement, just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“I was wondering…” he began, his voice steadier now. “If next time, we could schedule an earlier time to see each other. And maybe…” He hesitated, glancing at her as if bracing for her reaction. “Maybe you could come with me to help me buy some things?”

Her smile widened, her hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “That sounds great, honey.” Then, she added warmly but firmly, “Just remember, this is your home. You have to choose what you think suits you.”

Her words were a reminder of the boundaries they’d set, of the balance they were working toward. Still, they carried enough warmth to let him know she’d be there for him.

After discussing the table and his plans to make the apartment feel more like a home, she glanced around the space and tilted her head thoughtfully. “You know,” she said lightly, “a good table deserves a little cleanup around it. How about we tidy up a bit?”

Bucky frowned, sweeping his gaze over the room. “It’s not that bad.”

She gave him a pointed look, walking toward a pile of mail and random odds and ends stacked on the counter. “It’s not terrible, but a little organizing wouldn’t hurt. Come on, help me out.”

He followed her reluctantly, muttering something under his breath about bossy moms.

She smirked but didn’t rise to the bait, handing him a small stack of papers. “Sort these, bills, junk, whatever doesn’t need to be here,” she instructed, already reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter.

As they worked, the task settled into an easy rhythm. She asked him about the books he’d been reading, and he surprised her by asking if she had any recommendations. It was small talk, but it felt comfortable and natural like it had been almost since the beginning.

After the living room and kitchen looked noticeably tidier, she wiped her hands on her jeans and glanced toward the hallway leading to his bedroom. Motioning toward the door, she said, “Alright, let’s check out the bedroom next.”

Bucky froze, tightening his shoulders visibly. “Bedroom’s fine,” he said quickly, the edge of reluctance in his voice was unmistakable.

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “I’m already on a roll, Buck. Might as well see the whole place.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he reluctantly trailed behind her. “It’s not much to look at,” he muttered, more resigned than defiant.

“Then it won’t take long,” she quipped, throwing him a reassuring smile before disappearing through the doorway. Her brows furrowed at the sight before her. The bed was buried under a haphazard pile of boxes, and scattered clothes dotted the floor. The mattress didn’t even have sheets on it, and the faint layer of dust on the headboard told her it hadn’t been used in a while.

She turned to him, crossing her arms. “What’s going on here? Where do these boxes go?”

Bucky shifted awkwardly in the doorway, avoiding her gaze. “They’re fine where they are.”

“Bucky…” Her voice softened, concern creeping into her tone. “Where are you sleeping?”

He clenched his jaw, and after a long pause, he mumbled, “On the floor. In the living room.”

Her eyes widened. “The floor?

He nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She stepped closer, keeping her voice calm but firm. “Why?”

His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The bed’s too… soft.” He paused, struggling with the words. “It doesn’t feel safe,” he continued, with a low voice. “When I’m on the floor, I can feel the room. Hear things better. I… know what’s going on and can act in case something happens.” His gaze dropped to the pile of boxes on the bed. “And the bed… it’s just not right. Too soft, too confining. It feels like a trap.”

She nodded slowly, her expression a mix of understanding and quiet sadness. “That makes sense,” she said gently. “But, honey, that’s no way to live. I get why you feel that way, but you deserve to rest somewhere that doesn’t hurt your back.”

He gave her a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth pulling downward. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good for you,” she replied, stepping closer and resting a hand lightly on his arm. “How about we start small? Let’s clear off the bed today. No pressure to use it yet, but maybe we can make it feel a little less… wrong. Less like a trap.”

He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes flicking back toward the cluttered bed. She could see the hesitation in his face, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was fighting an internal battle.

Finally, he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Alright.”

Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “Good. So, where do these boxes go?”

“Closet,” he muttered, stepping forward to help her.

Together, they cleared the bed, tucking the boxes away and folding the stray clothes. She didn’t push or prod, keeping the conversation light as they worked. She mentioned ideas for making the bed more comfortable, maybe firmer pillows or a thinner mattress topper to make it feel less suffocating.

By the time they were done, the room already looked less like a storage space and more like a place where someone could rest.

“There,” she said, dusting her hands off and turning to him. “A step in the right direction.”

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, staring at it like it was something foreign. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess so.”

“You don’t have to use it right away,” she gently. “But when you’re ready, it’ll be here for you.”

He nodded again, loosening his shoulders slightly.

As they returned to the main area, she expected Bucky to suggest starting dinner, but instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Can we… sit for a bit? On the couch?”

“Of course,” she said with an easy smile, leading the way. She settled into her usual spot at one end, patting her thighs lightly.

Bucky sat and shifted, lying down until his head rested on her lap. When her fingers began threading gently through his hair, he let out a quiet exhale. They stayed like that for a while, the stillness of the apartment punctuated only by the soft rhythm of her fingers against his scalp and the occasional hum of traffic outside.

“Anything you want to talk about?” she asked softly, not wanting to break the moment but leaving the door open for him.

Bucky closed his eyes, his voice low and drowsy. “Not yet. Just this. This is… enough.”

After a while of lying on the couch, Bucky's body had grown heavier against her lap. His breathing became slower, and his voice was groggy when he finally spoke. “Hey… can we go shopping on Saturday instead of Friday?”

Her fingers stilled briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. “Saturday?”

“Yeah…” He trailed off, blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling. “I’ve got some stuff to deal with on Friday. Nothing big. Just easier if it’s Saturday.”

She hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at him. “I can’t,” she said gently.

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to meet her gaze.

“I have a date.”

The weight in the room shifted immediately and his body stiffened under her touch. “Like… with your other ‘son’?” he asked, the words tumbling out awkwardly before he could stop himself.

She blinked, then laughed softly. “No, Bucky. Like with a man. A real date.”

Her fingers resumed their lazy rhythm through his hair, but she could feel the way his shoulders tensed further, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t respond right away, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Sensing his unease, she chuckled. “Don’t worry. You won’t meet him, and you definitely won’t have to call him Dad.”

Bucky let out a faint huff, something caught between a snort and a sigh, but he didn’t relax. “Didn’t say I was worried,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

She smiled, brushing her fingers through his hair again with deliberate care. He closed his eyes again, letting her touch ground him as the weight of the day slowly ebbed away.

After a moment of silence, Bucky shifted slightly against her lap. His lips pressed together like he was trying to hold something back, but finally, the question slipped out. “Where… where did you meet this guy?”

Her fingers paused briefly in his hair before resuming their soothing rhythm. “At the bookstore,” she said lightly. “He comes in pretty often. We’ve had a few nice conversations over the past couple of months.”

Bucky frowned, his brows knitting together as he stared at the ceiling. “You’ve gone out with him before?”

She shook her head, smiling softly. “No, this will be the first time.”

He mulled that over, his gaze flickering with something unreadable before he glanced up at her. “So… what do you like about him?”

The question came out gruff, almost begrudging, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity -or maybe hesitation- in his voice.

Her lips twitched with amusement as she considered the question. “Well,” she began, “he’s polite, for once. Always says hello and takes the time to ask how my day is going.”

Bucky huffed lightly, a soft sound of dismissal.

“And he’s thoughtful,” she continued. “One time, he brought me coffee because he noticed I was swamped with a shipment of books. Didn’t even stay to chat, just handed it to me and said he thought I might need it.”

“Sounds like a Boy Scout,” Bucky muttered, his tone laced with faint skepticism.

She chuckled softly, brushing her fingers lightly over his temple. “Maybe. But I like that he pays attention. He’s kind without expecting anything in return.”

Bucky stayed silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on some invisible point far away. Finally, he murmured, “So, you’re serious about him?”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “It’s just one date, Buck,” she said gently. “I’m not planning a wedding.” Her voice carried a reassuring warmth, softening the weight of his question. “I don’t even know if there’s anything there yet.”

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his tone softer now, though the small frown on his face lingered. “Guess you’ll find out.”

“I guess I will,” she replied. After a pause, she added with a playful glint in her eyes, “But no matter what happens, it won’t change anything between us. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

Bucky’s lips twitched faintly, the ghost of a smile breaking through his lingering tension. “Yeah… I remember.”

Her fingers slid through his hair again with deliberate care, and the corners of his mouth relaxed, even if his eyes remained shadowed. Whatever the storm in his mind, her presence was enough to keep it at bay for now.

“Speaking of dates,” she said, lightly but curious, “you didn’t tell me how your date went with the woman from the grocery store. The one you told me about the last time we saw each other.”

Bucky shifted against her lap, suddenly looking a lot less relaxed. “I… kind of left in the middle of it,” he admitted, uncomfortable.

“Oh, you didn’t,” her eyebrows lifted in mock reproach as she tugged softly at his hair, as a playful reprimand.

He huffed, pressing his lips into a thin line. “She was… noisy,” he started, his voice tinged with frustration as he struggled to explain. “Talked too much, and it wasn’t even about anything interesting. Kept asking questions, but…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “She didn’t actually care about the answers. Just wanted to fill the silence.”

Her fingers paused briefly, then resumed their soothing rhythm through his hair. “That sounds exhausting,” she said softly, her tone full of understanding. “But that’s not the whole reason, is it?”

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked away. “She was touchy,” he said finally. “Kept leaning in, grabbing my arm, laughing like… like it was supposed to make me feel good or something.”

“Did it?” she asked gently.

“No.” His response was firm, and his hands flexed at his sides as though the memory left him uneasy. “I wasn’t comfortable with her being so close. I don’t even think she noticed. Or cared.”

She sighed softly, her touch steady as she brushed her fingers through his hair again. “You’ll find someone who gets you. Someone who’ll respect your pace and what you need.”

His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to smile but wasn’t quite sure how. “What if there’s not?” he muttered, his voice so quiet she almost didn’t catch it.

“There will be,” she reassured him. “You just have to be patient. And picky. Nothing wrong with that.”

For a moment, he was silent, the tension in his body softening just a little under her touch. Then, almost shyly, he murmured, “Thanks… Mama.”

She smiled warmly, leaning back into the couch as her hand continued to comb gently through his hair. “Anytime, honey.”

-----

Time had a way of slipping by, and before he knew it, Bucky found himself sitting across from another date. This one wasn’t noisy or overly touchy, and the small brewery they’d chosen wasn’t bad, either. He nursed a beer in one hand, his vibranium arm hidden beneath the sleeve of his Henley, as the woman across from him laughed at something he’d said, a low, cautious laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

Her eyes drifted to his wrist, where the dark leather bracelet he always wore peeked out from his sleeve. “I like that,” she said, nodding toward it. “The bracelet. It’s nice.”

He glanced at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks. My mom gave it to me.”

Her expression faltered slightly, the smile on her lips growing a bit stiff. “Oh, that’s… sweet,” she said, tilting her head. “Do you, uh, live with your mom?”

Bucky furrowed his brows, looking at her like she’d just asked if the sky was purple. “No. Why?”

She shifted in her seat, her fingers toying with the edge of her glass. “Well, then you must be very… close to her. Are you the youngest son?”

“No.” His tone was sharper now, though he didn’t mean it to be. “Why?”

The woman hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her drink. Finally, she gestured vaguely toward him, her voice dropping as though she were trying to be delicate. “Well… you’ve brought her up a lot. And, no offense, but it’s kind of… weird for a man your age. On a date, I mean.”

Bucky froze, his beer halfway to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing, his blue gaze narrowing slightly as he processed what she’d just said. Then, slowly, he set the bottle down, and his fingers tightened slightly around the glass. A familiar sense of unease churned in his chest, accompanied by the ache of frustration.

“Right,” he said finally with an even voice, though there was a subtle edge to it. “I guess that is weird.”

The woman shifted uncomfortably, her awkward smile faltering completely. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupted, leaning back in his chair. His expression was blank, his tone cool, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Thanks for pointing that out.”

For the rest of the date, the conversation limped along, each attempt at salvaging it falling flat. Bucky found himself withdrawing, offering short, polite responses but little else. The spark of curiosity or connection -if there had ever been one- had fizzled out entirely.

When the check came, he paid for their drinks, refusing her offer to split it with a quiet but firm “Don’t worry about it.”

As they stepped outside, he offered a polite goodbye, but his tone was distant, and he didn’t wait for her to respond before walking off into the night.

He didn’t bring her up that much, did he? The thought came gruffly as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment, but deep down, he already knew the answer. Should’ve just stayed home.

His gaze fell to the leather bracelet again, and he sighed, slowing his footsteps.

‘Mom’ wouldn’t have made me feel like that.

He shook his head as he entered, the faint metallic clink of keys landing in the small ceramic bowl echoed through the quiet space. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze lingered on it. The damn bowl she picked because I couldn’t decide. He let out a low, frustrated growl, kicking off his boots near the door and running a hand through his hair.

His nose wrinkled as a faint scent clung to him, cigarettes, from his date. She must have smoked earlier, and now it lingered in his jacket, his shirt, even his hair. His brows furrowed. He didn’t like it. The realization was sharp, irritating, and only added to his foul mood as he stripped off his clothes while walking toward the bathroom.

The shower hissed to life, steam filling the room as he stepped under the hot spray, letting the water cascade over his shoulders. He rested his palms against the tile wall, hanging his head forward, dampening his hair.

The date replayed in his head in vivid detail: her awkward comments, the tight smile when she’d tried to backpedal, the judgment laced in her words. Weird for a man your age. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening against the slick tiles.

She wasn’t wrong, he did bring up Mama more than he realized. But was that a crime? She was one of the few constants in his life that didn’t feel… hollow.

The thought only made the pit in his stomach grow heavier. The way she’d looked at him like he was some awkward, broken man who couldn’t function properly… it stung.

Before he knew it, his thoughts wandered to her instead. Not the woman from the date, but the one helping him put his life back together piece by piece. The one who’d picked out that damn bowl. The one who had sat on his couch, combing her fingers through his hair when he’d been too exhausted to speak.

His breathing hitched slightly as he remembered her touch, soft and unhurried, calming him in a way no one else ever had. He could almost feel the ghost of her fingers brushing through his hair, skimming over his temple with a care he didn’t deserve.

His hand slid down his chest, trailing over the wet planes of his torso, and he exhaled shakily, furrowing his brow. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like this. It was wrong -so wrong- but his body didn’t seem to care.

His grip tightened on himself, and his head thunked lightly against the tile as a groan slipped past his lips. The hot water beat against his back, but it couldn’t drown out the traitorous images flooding his mind. Her smile, the warmth of her voice, the way she’d called him “honey” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his strokes becoming sharper, more desperate as if he could exorcise the feelings clawing their way to the surface. He shouldn’t be doing this, he admonished himself again. Not with Mama. Not the one person who made him feel safe.

And yet, the warmth of her imagined touch, the thought of her fingers tracing the scars on his skin or resting lightly against his jaw, was enough to push him over the edge. His release came with a choked groan, and his forehead pressed harder against the tile as his body shuddered.

For a moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the water and his ragged breathing.

And then the guilt hit him.

His hands clenched into fists, as his chest tightened. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered harshly, his voice cracking under the weight of his self-reproach.

He braced himself against the wall, shaking his head slightly. He felt disgusting, his stomach twisted as shame crept in his mind. She trusted him -cared for him- and this was how he repaid that?

With a low, bitter laugh, he reached for the soap, scrubbing furiously at his skin as if he could wash away the evidence of what he’d just done. But no amount of scrubbing could cleanse the storm of emotions raging inside him.

It was wrong. He was wrong. And yet, deep down, a part of him couldn’t stop wanting.

Goddammit.

-----

When Sam hinted that week about needing him for a little thing in Kuala Lumpur, Bucky didn’t hesitate. It didn’t seem like something Wilson could handle solo, and besides, a mission was the perfect way to blow off some steam. Anything to quiet the thoughts that had been clawing at the back of his mind since the date -and especially- since that shower.

He sent a quick text to Mama, keeping it short and simple, their usual code for missions.

Taking a vacation this week. Won’t make Friday.

Her reply came quickly: Take care of yourself. Don’t engage in crazy fun.

Bucky huffed softly, shaking his head as he stared at the screen. Ok, Mom, he typed back, his lips twitching faintly despite himself.

Her response came almost immediately: I mean it, Jamie.

Fuck. His jaw tightened, and he locked the phone without answering. She always had a way of cutting through him, even with a couple of words. He shoved the phone into his pocket and headed to pack, grumbling under his breath.

When Sam picked him up a day later, Bucky was already in mission mode: focused, stoic, and bracing himself for whatever chaos Wilson was about to drag him into. But despite his best efforts to push her words aside, they echoed faintly in his mind.

Take care of yourself.

He’d try. For her.

-----

Things went slightly fine the first day, if you ignored the shooting, falling from a 15-story building into a trash container, and the broken shower in the safehouse. Bucky stood shirtless in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, grimacing as he splashed cold water over his chest and shoulders. The sink barely worked, sputtering like it might give up entirely, and the dingy tiles on the walls didn’t do much to make him feel clean.

“Man, this place is a dump,” Sam said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Better than the street,” Bucky grunted, grabbing a threadbare towel to dry off.

Sam hummed noncommittally, watching as Bucky fumbled with the faucet. “So, how’s it going with her?”

Bucky froze briefly before answering. “Things are good.”

“Glad you finally listened to me.” Sam’s voice carried just a hint of smugness. “I mean, you’re still a pain in the ass, but at least your mood’s improved a lot these past months.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. You want me to thank you or something?”

“Nah,” Sam replied, grinning. “But I’ll take it as a win anyway.”

Bucky muttered something unintelligible under his breath and pushed past him, heading to the small, creaky bed in the corner of the cramped space.

That night, like most nights, sleep evaded him. He lay on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the safehouse, while his mind spun with too many thoughts. Missions were supposed to clear his head, burn off the restlessness that kept him awake. But tonight, even exhaustion didn’t help.

With a frustrated sigh, he sat up and grabbed the disposable phone Sam had handed him earlier. He knew it was a bad idea, knew he should just put it away and try to rest, but his fingers moved on their own, pulling up her profile.

Her social media was usually quiet: cozy book displays from her job, pictures of the plants she was trying to keep alive, and the occasional funny meme. It was soothing, like a peek into a normal life that he could never fully touch.

But tonight, it wasn’t soothing.

His stomach dropped as he stared at the most recent photo, uploaded just a few hours ago. It was a close-up of two hands holding Sharpies, coloring a detailed mandala. One of the hands was hers, he recognized the delicate curve of her fingers, and the faint scar near her thumb. The other one was clearly male, broader and rougher.

The tags hit him like a punch to the gut:

#SoProudOfYou #AlmostAllByYourself

Bucky stared at the screen, and his chest tightened as the meaning sank in his brain.

Her other son.

It had to be him, the other veteran she worked with, the one she’d mentioned months ago. The one responsible for her being “unsure” about taking him in when Sam first approached her.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the floor. He could still picture the hands, the caption, the pride in her words. And it twisted in his chest, an uncomfortable, raw feeling he couldn’t shake.

He rubbed his hand over his face, groaning softly. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

It shouldn’t matter. She wasn’t his. She’d never been his, not in that way. He told himself that over and over, but the ache in his chest didn’t care. The idea of her giving someone else that same care, that same warmth, felt like a betrayal, even though he had no right to feel that way.

With a frustrated growl, Bucky tossed the phone onto the nightstand and dropped his head into his hands. For all the chaos of the mission, for all the bullets and explosions and pain, nothing had hit him harder than that damn photo.

And he hated himself for how much it hurt.

-----

The mission wrapped up in a flurry of controlled chaos. The intel had been secured, the enhanced assholes neutralized, and while Sam emerged with only a few scratches, Bucky sported a fresh bruise on his jaw and a deep gash on his forearm, not that he cared.

The flight back was quiet, the hum of the jet’s engines filling the cabin as Bucky sat slumped in one of the seats, staring a blank point in front of him. His vibranium fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, the only outward sign of the storm brewing in his head.

Across the aisle, Sam noticed. He always noticed.

At first, he let it be, figuring Bucky’s mood would even out once they hit the ground. But as the hours dragged on, and the Winter Sulker stayed silent, Sam couldn’t help himself.

“You’re quiet,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat.

Bucky didn’t respond, his gaze kept fixed on the clouds outside.

Sam tried again, his tone a little sharper this time. “You gonna sit there brooding the whole way, or are you gonna tell me what’s eating you?”

Still, nothing.

Sam let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Alright, fine. But let me guess: You’re pissed off because someone scratched your arm? Or wait, maybe you’re mad because someone didn’t say ‘thank you sir’ after you saved their life?”

Bucky’s fingers stilled on the armrest, tightening his jaw.

That was all the opening Sam needed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, man, I’m not blind. You’ve been sulking since day one of this mission. You want to talk about it, or do I have to guess some more?”

Bucky’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. “Just drop it, Wilson.”

“See, now you’ve got me curious,” Sam said, grinning in a way that only made Bucky’s irritation spike. “What’s got the great James Buchanan Barnes in such a mood? Did Mama scold you over text?”

That did it. Bucky shot out of his seat, towering over Sam with a scowl. “I said drop it!” he barked, his voice echoed in the small cabin.

Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He just stared up at Bucky. “So it is about her.”

Bucky froze, clenching his fists at his sides.

“Man, you’ve been walking around like someone kicked your dog,” Sam continued, with a softer tone. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, you’ve got to get it out before it eats you alive.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before sitting back down with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and muttered, “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Sam pointed out.

“It’s fine,” Bucky snapped tiredly.

Sam watched him for a moment before sighing and leaning back. “Alright. Keep it to yourself if you want. But I’m telling you now, whatever’s got you in this mood, you better work it out before it gets worse.

Bucky didn’t answer, turning his gaze back to the blank point. The rest of the flight passed in tense silence, as the weight of Sam’s words pressed down on him more than he wanted to admit.

----

He entered his apartment, dragging his feet like every step took more effort than it should. The mission had taken more out of him than he cared to admit, though it wasn’t the physical strain, it was the weight in his chest that seemed to grow heavier every time he returned to this quiet, empty space.

He grabbed his dead phone from the counter and plugged into the charger, barely glancing at the notifications, and made his way to the bed. The mattress was thin, and the pillows hard, as she’d suggested. “A good way to transition from the floor,” she’d said, and damned if she hadn’t been right. He’d hated it at first, but now… now it felt like his.

He dropped onto it without bothering to change, his eyes closing almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was so tired. So fucking tired.

That night, the nightmares came back.

And the next night.

And the next.

-----

Several days later, she was pacing her living room, phone in hand, staring at the screen with her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Whatever Bucky was into, it must have been over by now. She was sure of it, or at least, she hoped so. The radio silence was starting to worry her.

He wasn’t one to check in often -God knew that- but after all these months, she’d learned his rhythms. This wasn’t like him, not entirely. Not answering her, staying quiet this long? That wasn’t just distance. That was something else.

Finally, she typed a quick, casual message:

Still at the resort, hun?

His reply came faster than she’d expected, but it was curt.

No.

Her brows furrowed. Oh, okay, she thought, frowning at the screen. Something felt off. She typed again.

Everything alright? Did you have more fun than intended?

The dots in the chat appeared, blinked, and then disappeared.

Okay, she thought, waiting. Then they blinked again. And disappeared.

Bucky, are you hurt? she finally wrote with concern.

This time, the message was read almost instantly, but no reply came.

She sighed, deepening her frown. She knew this pattern all too well. When Bucky didn’t answer, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it was because he didn’t know how.

“Alright, Buck,” she muttered to herself, grabbing her bag. “Time for a visit.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, dropping everything to pull him out of whatever dark place he’d retreated to. He’d let her in, little by little, trusting her with parts of himself no one else saw. She’d told herself it was about helping him, being there for him in the way he needed.

But it was more than that.

The truth, the one she kept swallowing down, was that her care for him didn’t fit neatly into the boundaries of their arrangement. It wasn’t maternal, not entirely. It was something more, something deeper. She shoved the thought aside, tightening her grip on her bag. Principles, she reminded herself firmly. Getting involved with him like that would be wrong. He deserved better.

But she couldn’t stop herself from caring.

She grabbed the key off the hook by her door and headed out. Not answering the door wasn’t going to be an option this time.

Not for her.

As expected, her knocks were met with silence. She sighed with resignation and slipped the key into the lock.

The door creaked open, and she wrinkled her nose as the stale, charged air of the apartment hit her. It wasn’t the worst she’d seen it, but it was far from the neat, semi-organized space they’d worked on together. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor and a small pile of takeout containers on the counter.

At least he’s been eating, she thought, a small relief in the face of the mess.

The faint sound of water running led her to the source: the bathroom. The shower.

She turned her focus back to the living room, her lips pressing into a line as she slid the window open to let in some fresh air. The cool breeze offered a small reprieve from the heaviness of the space.

Spotting a roll of garbage bags near the counter, she grabbed one and started tidying up. The crumpled clothes went into a hamper, the empty takeout boxes into the bag. She wiped at the counter absently, and her mind drifted to the last time he’d gone radio silent like this.

Whatever this is, we’ll get through it, she told herself.

She was so focused on her task, that she didn’t notice when the sound of the shower stopped, or when Bucky emerged from the hallway.

He stood there, quiet and guarded, with a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to his skin, rolling down the faint scars on his flesh arm and chest. His stare was intense and unreadable as he watched her move around his apartment as if she belonged there.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice startled her, low and edged with exhaustion. She turned sharply, the garbage bag crinkling in her hands as her eyes met his.

“Oh,” she said, recovering quickly. Her gaze flicked briefly over him before landing firmly on his face. “I knocked. You didn’t answer.” She gestured toward the bag in her hands. “Figured I’d help you out a little.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” she replied evenly, setting the bag down and crossing her arms. “But I wasn’t about to leave you stewing in here like this.”

His jaw worked as he shifted his weight. “I’m fine.”

She raised an skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah? Because this,” she gestured to the room, “doesn’t exactly scream ‘fine,�� Buck.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“Good,” she shot back, her tone soft but firm. “Because I’m not giving you one. I’m here because I care about you, and you clearly need someone right now. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, and his guarded expression wavered slightly. Then, with a tired sigh, he stepped further into the room, slumping his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Maybe not,” she admitted with a soft gaze. “But I’m here now. So let me help.”

He didn’t respond, but the fight seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders loosened, and he dropped into a chair near the counter, fixing his gaze somewhere on the floor.

She picked up the garbage bag again, resuming her quiet cleanup. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to coax him out of his own head, and she suspected it wouldn’t be the last. But as she moved around the room, she noticed the faintest crack in his armor, proof that he was letting her in, even if he didn’t have the words to say it yet.

“So… what’s going on?” she asked, as she picked up a wrinkled pair of boxers from one of the chairs.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the offending garment, then back to her face. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. He was tired, tired of pretending, tired of holding back.

“I’m… jealous.” he admitted reluctantly.

She paused, her fingers tightened around the fabric before dropping it into the laundry pile. “Jealous?” she echoed, her brows furrowing. “Of who?”

His jaw tensed, and his gaze darted away before he muttered, “I saw it. The Sharpies picture.”

Her lips parted slightly in understanding. “Oh,” she said softly. “And?”

“And…” He sighed again, the frustration etched into every line of his face. “You never did that with me.”

“Coloring?” she asked, tilting her head. “I didn’t think you’d be into it, babe.”

“Not coloring,” he said sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again. Then his voice softened, but his words carried a heavy weight. “The… the picture.”

Oh.

“Well,” she started gently, “you’re not exactly a fan of social media. And you always grump when I try to take one of us.”

“It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. His blue eyes finally met hers, raw and vulnerable in a way that made her chest tighten. “It’s… I forget sometimes that I’m not your only son.”

Oh.

He leaned back in the chair, running his hand over his face as if to hide the emotions flickering across it. “I don’t like the idea of sharing you,” he admitted, in a low, almost bitter tone.

She swallowed hard. “Well, it happens all the time,” she said cautiously, trying to keep her tone light. “Brothers usually don’t like-”

“He’s not my brother,” Bucky interrupted firmly, snapping his gaze to hers.

The air in the room shifted. His next words came softer, but they hit like a thunderclap.

“And you… you’re not my ma.”

The room seemed to still, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge in the background.

She stared at him, her pulse thrumming in her ears. “Bucky…”

“I hate it,” he said, dropping his hands to his lap as he looked at her with a mix of anger and desperation. “I hate that I look forward to seeing you more than I’ve looked forward to anything in years. I hate that I can’t stand the thought of anyone else getting what I get. And I hate that I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

Her heart felt like it was being squeezed as she searched for the right words. “Bucky,” she said softly, leaning toward him, “this… this doesn’t have to be something you hate.”

“I know,” he said, his voice was raw and strained. “But I can’t manage my feelings toward you.”

Her breath caught, and her heart twisted painfully as she absorbed the weight of his confession. She leaned back slightly, clenching her hands together in her lap and sighed.

“Bucky,” she started softly, “this bond we’ve built… it’s compromised. It’s not what it’s supposed to be anymore. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to continue mothering you.”

His head snapped up, his blue eyes went wide and glassy with panic. The look on his face made her chest ache. He looked utterly wrecked, his lips parted as if to argue, but no words came at first.

“No,” he finally stammered, his voice shaky and uneven. “No, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I’ll stop. I’ll never bring it up again, I swear.” His breath hitched, and he shook his head as if trying to find the right words. “Just… don’t leave me, Mama.”

He reached for her hand, firmly but also trembling. His vibranium fingers brushed against her wrist, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth of his touch. “I need you,” he said, his voice breaking.

Her heart shattered at the sheer desperation in his voice, in the way his thumb nervously rubbed over the back of her hand like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

With her free hand, she reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek, softly brushing her thumb over a scar near his jawline. His breath hitched again, and his eyes fluttered shut momentarily, as though her touch was calming him.

“This ordeal isn’t right, sweetheart,” she murmured. “It’s not fair to you. Or to me.”

“But-” His hand tightened around hers, his body leaned closer to her as though proximity alone could keep her from slipping away. “I’ll do better. I’ll keep it together. Just… please, don’t go. Don’t give up on me.”

“Bucky,” she whispered, tracing soothing circles on his cheek. “It’s not about giving up on you. It’s about what’s right. What’s healthy.”

“I don’t care about right,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I just… I can’t lose you too.”

Her hand trembled slightly where it rested against his cheek, but she steadied herself with a deep breath.

“Bucky,” she began softly, tentative but growing steadier as she continued, “I also have feelings for you. I’ve been having them for a while now.”

His breath hitched, his wide eyes searching hers desperately, but before he could speak, she pushed forward.

“I was never going to act on it,” she said firmly. “Because it would mean taking advantage of you.”

His brows furrowed deeply, and he shook his head, rising his voice with frustration and disbelief. “I’m a grown man. You can’t take advantage of me.”

“You know that’s not true,” she countered gently but unyieldingly.“You trust me, Bucky. You let me in, more than anyone else. And that’s why we can’t do this dynamic anymore.”

Her words hit him like a physical blow. His grip on her hand tightened, and his shoulders hunched as his head dipped forward slightly. For a moment, he was silent, breathing heavily as he tried to process her words.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head, his voice broke as he looked back up at her with unshed tears brightening his eyes. “No… Ma… you can’t just-”

“Bucky,” she said softly, cutting him off with a tenderness that nearly undid him. Her fingers brushed his cheek again, tracing soothing circles as her heart ached at the devastation written across his face. “The contract we made, the boundaries we agreed on, it doesn’t fit us anymore. I can’t keep pretending to be something I’m not.”

His breath hitched, the knot in his throat tightened as he struggled to find words. “But you’re not-” he started, voice trembling.

She shook her head gently, stopping him again. “I’m not your mom, Bucky. You said it yourself.” Her voice wavered just enough to betray the conflict she felt.

His lips parted, but no sound came as he searched her face, desperate for something -anything-that might keep her close.

“That being said…” she murmured after a beat, her thumb still brushing gently against his cheek. Her eyes softened as they searched for his. “We can try… dating. To see how and where this might go, because that’s something completely different.”

His mind blanked for a moment, as her words hit him. Dating?

The word echoed in his head, feeling too big and too small all at once. He blinked, his mouth opening slightly as he struggled to process what she’d just said. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out, his breath caught somewhere between confusion and longing.

Dating… her?

His heart twisted, caught in the crossfire of disbelief and a yearning he’d buried for so long it felt foreign. She wasn’t pulling back. She wasn’t brushing this off or deflecting like he’d feared. Instead, she was offering something he hadn’t dared to hope for.

Does she mean it?

For so long, he’d kept his feelings locked away, hidden in the shadows of his mind where they couldn’t hurt him -or anyone else-. But now, here she was, standing in front of him, dragging those feelings into the light with words that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

“…What?” he finally managed, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His voice was rough, strained, tangled somewhere between confusion and desperation.

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a faint glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes, just enough to make his chest ache. “Dating, Bucky,” she repeated. “Not as your mom. Not as anyone else. Just… as us.”

Us.

His throat tightened, and his hands flexed against hers. The knot in his chest twisted painfully, caught between fear and something that felt dangerously close to relief.

Could there even be an us?

“Bucky, you’re doing the staring thing,” she said softly, her voice tinged with amusement, though her eyes remained serious as if willing him to believe her.

The corner of his mouth twitched, a faint huff of air escaped his nose as he ducked his head slightly. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I thought it was just me. You’re… sure about me?

Her thumb brushed gently along his jaw, and a small, reassuring smile tugged at her lips. “I wouldn’t be here saying this if I wasn’t sure, Buck.”

He glanced at her lips, the desire to close the space between them was almost overwhelming, but he hesitated. “You’re not… scared?”

“Of you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Never.” Her smile grew just a bit, as she added, “You’re not as intimidating as you think, you know.”

That earned a faint chuckle, though it was weighed down by the uncertainty still lingering in his chest. “I just… I’m not exactly easy, you know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m complicated. Messed up.”

She shook her head, squeezing his hand gently. “Bucky, all these months I’ve been coming here to be with you, you’ve opened up to me in ways I don’t think you’ve done with anyone else. You’ve trusted me with parts of yourself that I know aren’t easy to share.”

Her voice softened, her thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. “I know what I’m dealing with. And I can promise you, you’re not a mess. Not to me.”

His chest tightened at her words. He exhaled slowly, his blue eyes flicking between hers as if searching for any trace of doubt but all he saw was warmth. “Then,” he began, his tone was low but went higher as he steadied himself. “Let’s-let’s go. On a date.”

Her lips twitched, and she glanced down briefly, with a playful glint dancing in her eyes. “Well, to go right now, you should probably put some clothes on first, don’t you think?”

For a moment, he blinked, caught off guard by the shift, until her words sank in. His gaze darted down to the towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and the faintest flush crept up his neck.

“I didn’t mean right now, Ma-” He caught himself, his jaw tightened as he quickly corrected, “Doll.” The word came out gruff, almost embarrassed, as he scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away for a second.

Her brow arched at the slip, but she didn’t comment, though the faint smile tugging at her lips didn’t go unnoticed.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders, and for once, the knowledge that she wanted this too -wanted him- settled something inside him. The usual discomfort of being caught off guard wasn’t there. Instead, he felt a spark of confidence, small but growing.

She leaned back in her chair, deciding to give him the space to take the lead. Considering his old-fashioned upbringing, it felt right to let him set the tone, not just to give him control, but to help him feel steady.

“So,” she said lightly, playful but encouraging, “pick a place and a time, and we’ll see.”

He nodded slowly, flexing his fingers against his knee before leaning back slightly in his seat. The movement shifted the towel around his hips just enough to make her painfully aware of the fact that he was still half-naked.

Her eyes traced the line of his shoulders, and the slight curve of his jaw as he glanced down in thought. Then her wandering gaze dipped against her better judgment, tracing the line of his chest, the faint curve of muscle at his stomach, and the scars she’d never quite let herself linger on before.

When her eyes flicked back up to his face, his sharp blue gaze was already on her, a flicker of amusement sparking in his expression. His lips twitched into a faint smirk, “Okay,” he said, more confident now. “I’ll… figure it out.”

Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she quickly forced a smile, hoping it would cover her flustering. “Take your time, Bucky. Just not too long.”

He tipped his head slightly, and his smirk deepened with an easy confidence in his posture that was now unmistakable. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

----

True to his word, her phone buzzed with a message a couple of days later.

Dinner? Friday at 7. That place you mentioned once, Marcellino’s.

She blinked at the screen, parting her lips in surprise. Marcellino’s? The Italian place she’d mentioned months ago, almost offhandedly, as a “bucket list” spot she’d love to visit someday? How had he even remembered?

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard before she typed back.

Seriously? I’ve been dying to go there. How’d you manage reservations so fast?

On the other side of town, Bucky stared at her message, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he reclined on his couch. It had been a pain finding a reservation on such short notice; apparently, Marcellino’s had been booked solid for weeks. But hacking into their system had been child’s play, a few keystrokes, some backdoor access, and voilà: table for two, Friday at 7.

She would never know, of course.

He typed back simply.

I’ve got my ways.

Her reply came quickly, punctuated with a laughing emoji.

Mysterious, huh? Alright, Bucky. I’ll see you on Friday.

Bucky exhaled slowly, setting his phone down and leaning back against the couch. A small, quiet sense of satisfaction settled in his chest. It wasn’t just the date, it was the effort, the planning, and the decision to put himself out there in a way he hadn’t in decades.

Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

----

When the cab pulled up to the curb, she spotted him immediately. He was standing just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark suit pants. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was distracted, fixed on something across the street.

She rarely saw him out of his usual Henleys and jeans, but God help her, he cleaned up well. The suit was perfectly tailored, the dark fabric accentuating his broad shoulders and tapering at his waist. His hair, usually left to its own devices, was slicked back neatly, the sharp lines of his jawline even more striking under the glow of the streetlights.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

Bucky, oblivious to her arrival, shifted his weight slightly, his vibranium fingers flexing in his pocket as his flesh hand adjusted his tie. She smiled to herself, taking the opportunity to appreciate him while his guard was down. He was so effortlessly striking, yet she knew he’d put thought into it. He really wanted this to go right.

Finally, she stepped out of the cab, and her heels clicked softly against the pavement. “Hey, handsome,” she called out.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, his distracted expression melting into something softer. His lips parted slightly, raking his gaze over her from head to toe. “Wow,” he murmured, low and rough. “You look…” He trailed off, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t find the right word.

“Good?” she offered with a smirk, stepping closer.

“Better than good,” he corrected, “Way better.”

Her cheeks warmed under his gaze, but she managed to keep her tone casual. “You’re not looking so bad yourself, Buck. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you do this sort of thing all the time.”

He huffed a small laugh, scratching the back of his neck, though the faint pink dusting his ears didn’t go unnoticed. “Guess I clean up okay.”

“Okay?” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Try amazing.”

He ducked his head slightly, a rare but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks,” he muttered, holding out his arm. “You ready?”

She looped her hand through his, letting him lead her toward the entrance. As they stepped inside, she couldn’t help but think this was already shaping up to be the best first date she’d ever had.

The table was in a prime spot near a window overlooking the city lights. Bucky pulled out her chair smoothly, motioning for her to sit confidently, making her heart flutter.

He settled across her with fluid movements. Despite the nerves buzzing in his chest, they were the good kind of nerves, normal ones. The kind that came with wanting to impress someone without feeling like he had to prove his worth.

He already knew her.

That made everything easier. There was no need to rack his brain for icebreakers, no awkward pauses to fill, no second-guessing every little thing he said. Instead, he could focus entirely on her: the soft curve of her smile, the way her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, the way she twisted her hands together on the table when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And, maybe, on seducing her. Not aggressively, but in the easy, intentional way he remembered from a lifetime ago. A brush of his fingers here, a lingering glance there, the kind of thing that built tension without needing words.

If he was rusty, it didn’t show.

She, on the other hand, was a wreck.

Her posture was perfect, her smile warm, but underneath the table, her knees bounced faintly, betraying the swirl of emotions coursing through her. This was -and wasn’t- her Bucky.

The man sitting across from her wasn’t the grumpy, guarded man she’d coaxed out of his shell with patience and care. This Bucky was confident, deliberate. The way his piercing gaze lingered just a second too long, the faint smirk tugging at his lips when he caught her fidgeting, he wasn’t shy about letting her know she had his full attention.

And it was overwhelming. Not in a bad way -it was thrilling- but it left her feeling completely off balance.

She wasn’t in charge anymore.

The realization sent a wave of warmth through her body, leaving her acutely aware of every little detail: the way he leaned forward slightly when she spoke, the way his hand rested on the table, close enough to brush hers if she dared to reach out.

God help her, she thought faintly, swallowing hard. If this was Bucky now, she couldn’t imagine what Sergeant Barnes of the 1940s must have been like. A menace, no doubt. A walking, talking heartbreaker wrapped in charm and good manners.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his again, and he gave her a slow, knowing smile, one that sent her pulse skittering.

She tightened her grip on the edge of her napkin, trying to will herself to relax. This was Bucky. And yet, sitting across from him like this, with the weight of his attention focused entirely on her, it felt like seeing him for the first time all over again.

When the food arrived, Bucky’s face was a masterclass of self-control. His expression remained completely neutral as the waiter arranged the plates with what could only be described as an air of reverence. He nodded politely when the man finished, even offering a quiet “thank you,” though inside he was already questioning his life choices.

Once the waiter walked away, he let his eyes shift to her, raising a brow to see if she was thinking the same thing he was.

Her lips twitched, struggling to suppress a laugh as she glanced down at her plate. The elegant presentation might have fooled someone else, but all she could see was what appeared to be a tiny portion of gnocchi, barely enough to feed a toddler.

Bucky’s plate wasn’t much better: three perfectly arranged sorrentinos, sitting proudly in the center of an artfully swirled sauce. It was the most stylish and inviting minimalist plate he’d ever seen.

He glanced back up at her, his lips twitching as her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“This…” she started, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle a giggle, “…this is it?”

Bucky huffed, leaning back in his chair as he gave his plate a long, scrutinizing look. “Guess we’re supposed to savor it,” he said dryly.

She bit her lip, trying and failing to stifle another laugh. “It seems they’re encouraging portion control.”

He scowled. “Didn’t know I’d be eating an appetizer disguised as dinner, goddammit.”

“I’m… I’m sorry! I didn’t know… they have such great feedback!” she groaned still chuckling.

“It’s my fault,” he muttered, spearing one of the sorrentinos with his fork and eyeing it as if it had personally insulted him. “For not checking the place out better.”

He couldn’t believe he’d hacked their system for this. He’d spent nearly an hour working around firewalls and reservations, all to secure a table at this supposedly renowned spot. It hadn’t even occurred to him to scout the menu or check the portion sizes.

This wouldn’t have happened to the old me, he thought bitterly, chewing slowly on his second overpriced sorrentino. His jaw tightened as the familiar ache of inadequacy crept into his chest.

She must have noticed the subtle shift in his expression because, without a word, she reached across the table and rested her hand over his.

“Bucky,” she said softly, her voice laced with gentle authority. “Don’t you dare take a ride on the self-deprecation train.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers with surprise, before relaxing his features.

“This,” she continued, squeezing his hand lightly, “is just an anecdote. Something to laugh about later, hm? It doesn’t mean anything except that we picked a fancy place with tiny portions. That’s it.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, flexing his fingers slightly under hers. Then, reluctantly, his lips twitched into a faint smirk. “An anecdote, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling now, her thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. “Something to tell people one day, how you bravely faced off against a plate of minimalist pasta. Now finish your last bite so we can leave and find something less fancy but more substantial,” she stated with amusement.

Bucky poked at the last piece of pasta with his fork, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Even the breadbasket was sad,” he grumbled, as he signaled for the waiter to bring the bill.

The waiter approached, and with a politely confused expression, he noted their early departure. “Would you like to see the dessert menu, perhaps?” he offered, his tone gracious but hoping to redeem the situation.

“No, thank you,” Bucky replied smoothly, his voice polite but final. He slid his card across the table before she could even think about reaching for her wallet.

“Bucky-” she started, but he cut her off with a quick shake of his head.

“Don’t even try,” he said firmly but light enough to soften the refusal.

She huffed but didn’t argue further, leaning back in her chair as he settled the bill. Once it was taken care of, Bucky stood and offered her his hand, helping her up with ease.

As they made their way toward the exit, he placed a gentle hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the door he opened for her.

“Such a gentleman,” she teased, as she stepped outside into the cool night air.

“Only for you, doll” he murmured, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk as he shifted slightly to shield her from a passing breeze.

She stepped beside him, automatically taking the inner spot on the sidewalk as he steered her toward it and slipped her hand easily onto his offered arm

“So,” he said after a moment, “Any ideas where we’re finding this substantial food? Or am I winging it?”

She laughed softly, squeezing his arm. “Let’s see what’s nearby. Maybe we’ll find a place with a breadbasket that doesn’t make you sad.”

“That’s a low bar,” he muttered, earning another laugh that made his chest feel lighter than it had all night.

They ended up at a small, no-frills pizza place, tucked into the corner of a quiet street. The neon sign in the window flickered faintly, and the smell of melted cheese and fresh dough hit them the moment they stepped inside.

Sliding onto the high bar stools at a tiny plastic table, they both seemed keenly aware of how out of place they looked. Her dress shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights, and his perfectly tailored suit drew more than a few curious glances from the other patrons, who were clad in hoodies and jeans.

Bucky sat a little stiffly at first, as he glanced around. The contrast between this place and the upscale restaurant they’d just left wasn’t lost on him, but the casual atmosphere somehow felt more... right. Still, the attention made him uneasy, and he shifted slightly, brushing his vibranium hand on the edge of the table.

But then he looked at her.

She had a slice in her hand, the cheese stretching almost comically as she took a bite. Her shoulders relaxed as she chewed, and then she closed her eyes, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, locking his gaze on her as a faint flush crept up his neck. He watched her savor the bite, her fingers tapping lightly on the table to emphasize her approval.

In that moment, every awkward glance from the other patrons, every thought about his appearance or how ridiculous they looked, melted away.

All he could think about was her.

“Good?” he asked, unable to stop staring.

She opened her eyes, blinking like she’d momentarily forgotten where she was. “So good,” she said, curling her lips into a satisfied smile. “I needed this.”

“Glad I could deliver,” he teased, taking a bite of his slice after winking at her.

She shook her head with a small laugh, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “You know… I don’t get it. How did all your last dates go so bad, Bucky?”

He paused mid-bite, chewing slower as the thought crossed his mind. Maybe because I couldn’t stop bringing up my ‘mom’ in conversations like some kind of creep.

“Because they weren’t you.”

The answer came easily, effortlessly, but the way her eyes widened told him she hadn’t expected it.

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in his voice. For once, she was the one scrambling for words, the usual balance between them tipping in a way that made her pulse quicken. “Bucky…”

He held her gaze. “I mean it.”

She blinked, the teasing light in her eyes dimming as something warmer and softer, replaced it. Slowly, her lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, fiddling her fingers with the edge of her napkin as she tried to gather herself.

“Well,” she murmured playfully, “I guess they didn’t stand a chance, huh?”

“Not even close,” he agreed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back slightly on the barstool. The suit jacket he wore pulled just enough to highlight the sharp lines of his shoulders, and for a brief moment, she found herself really looking at him. The paper napkin in his hand felt absurdly out of place against the polished, confident image he presented, but somehow, it only made him more endearing.

She reached for another slice of pizza as if that would help her steady herself. She didn’t say anything, couldn’t, because what could she possibly say to that? Instead, she glanced down quickly, busying herself with her plate and hoping he didn’t notice the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

When her eyes flicked back up, he was still watching her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. It wasn’t teasing or overconfident, just… him.

As they finished their meal, the buzz of the restaurant began to fade into the background, leaving just the two of them in their little corner of the world. Bucky leaned back, draining the last of his drink before standing and adjusting his jacket. He offered her his hand, his vibranium fingers catching the soft light. “Come on,” he said in an inviting voice.

“Where?” she asked, slipping her hand into his.

“Just… a walk,” he replied, almost tentative “Unless you’re in a hurry to call it a night.”

“Not at all.” She promptly answered as she rose to meet him.

They wandered down the sidewalk unhurriedly as the night wrapped around them. The streetlights cast long shadows, and their conversation flowed easily, punctuated by the occasional laugh or lingering glance. For a while, neither seemed to notice the passing of time. But then a cool breeze rolled in, and he felt her shiver slightly beside him.

He stopped, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Alright,” he murmured reluctantly, “I’m calling you a cab.”

She blinked, furrowing her brow . “What? Why?”

“You’re cold,” he said simply, his tone firm despite the regret in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she argued, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her words.

“Doll,” he said, shaking his head with a faint smile, “you’re shivering. I’m not letting you walk around all night freezing.”

Her lips curved into a teasing smirk. “You could just lend me your jacket, you know. Like they do in the movies. Then I’d nuzzle into it because it smells like you, the usual cliché.”

He quirked an eyebrow, and his smirk widened into something distinctly playful. “You know, if you want to smell me, you can do it whenever you want.”

Her mouth fell open slightly, her cheeks burning as her witty comeback disappeared from her brain.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with her reaction, but his expression softened as he continued. “You’re shivering,” he repeated. “I’m not about to let you freeze out here.”

She folded her arms, attempting to regain her composure. “I’m really fine.”

“Trust me,” he said, pulling out his phone, “if I gave you my jacket, I’d have to carry you home. You’d drown in it.”

She let out a small huff, quirking her lips into a reluctant smile. “Fine,” she relented. “But only because I don’t want you giving me that sad, guilty look all night.”

“Guilty?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow as he tapped at his screen.

“Yeah,” she teased, nudging him lightly. “Like you’re already blaming yourself for the weather.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished ordering the cab. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

-----

As they waited, he guided her toward the side of the building, resting his hand instinctively on her lower back as he steered her out of the breeze.

“Thanks for tonight, Bucky,” she said softly, leaning slightly into him, guided by the warmth of his hand.

Bucky froze for half a second, as the closeness of her body sent his heart into overdrive. She tilted her head to look up at him, and she smiled, not quite shy but not entirely bold either.

For a moment, he struggled. His old-fashioned nature tugged at him, warning him to hold back, to wait. He wasn’t sure how these things worked anymore, not when it came to her. Did he ask? Did he wait for her to make the first move?

But then her gaze dipped just for a second, to his lips.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned down, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t, parting her lips ever so slightly, and it was all the reassurance he needed.

Their lips met, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was soft, tentative, but filled with all the emotions he hadn’t known how to put into words. His vibranium hand slid gently up her upper back, steadying her, while his flesh fingers brushed the curve of her jaw.

She leaned into him, resting her hands lightly on the lapels of his suit jacket and the kiss deepened, just enough to send a pleasant warmth humming through them both before they slowly pulled back.

Her eyes fluttered open, and a small smile played at her lips as she whispered, “Took you long enough.”

He huffed out a low laugh as his hand lingered at her back. “Guess I’m a little rusty.”

“Not bad for rusty,” she teased, curling her fingers slightly against his jacket.

He sighed as he raked a hand through his hair. “You’re good for me, you know that?”

Her smile widened, and she nudged him gently. “I try.”

He bit his lip, glancing down briefly before meeting her gaze again. “Even without trying, these past months, they’ve been…” He paused, the words catching in his throat as he searched for the right way to say it.

“Good… in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Because of you.” He managed to finish the best he could.

Her heart swelled at the raw honesty of his voice. She leaned closer, brushing her hand lightly against his chest. “You’ve done a lot of that yourself, you know,” she said softly. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“Maybe,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost shy smile. “But you were there. That made all the difference.”

She smiled, her thumb brushing over the lapel of his jacket. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he murmured, “Because I’m not letting you.”

They just stood there, the hum of the city fading into the background. The night was cool, but the warmth between them was enough to keep the chill at bay. Finally, he tilted his head. “Ready to go?”

“No,” she pouted softly, looping her arm through his with a playful glint in her eyes.

Bucky hesitated for a fraction of a second, dipping his gaze to her lips again before he acted on impulse. His hand slid around her waist, gently pulling her closer as he leaned in.

This kiss was different, more sure, deliberate. His lips pressed against hers with a tenderness that made her knees feel weak, and she melted into him without hesitation.

When he finally pulled back, he let his lips brush against her cheek, trailing softly upward until they rested near her temple.

“Don’t make it difficult, Ma,” he teased lowly against her skin.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, as she leaned into him. “Not my fault you’re irresistible, sweetheart.”

His lips curved into a small, lopsided smile against her temple before he sighed softly, resting his hand lightly on her lower back. With an easy motion, he guided her toward the waiting cab at the curb.

When they reached it, he opened the door for her without a word. She stepped in, pausing briefly to glance back at him. Her lips were still curved, and her warm smile made his chest ache in the best way.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” she said softly.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, a little rough around the edges. His gaze lingered on her, flexing his fingers slightly as if reluctant to let go of the door. Finally, he shut it gently, stepping back as the cab pulled away.

For a long moment, he stood there with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as the car merged into the traffic and disappeared into the city lights. Finally, he turned slowly heading home, the faintest trace of a smile still tugging at his lips. For once, the night didn’t weigh so heavily on him, as he carried the lingering warmth of her smile and the memory of her kiss.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

[mywritersmind]

SAVIOR - LN4

pt.2

summary : Y/n’s favorite place has quickly become her and Lando’s shared hallway. They grow closer and finally make it to the fresh air.

OG SUMMARY (When y/n’s absent neighbor shows up, causing her great annoyance with smoke and repetitive beeping, she marches over to tell the man off but is met with a handsome face and strong hands that are in distress.)

listen up : no warnings!! y/n is clueless abt f1. lando is silly. i’m craving strawberries now.

word count : 1878

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I haul my five grocery bags into the elevator, struggling to keep them all off the ground. I sigh when I finally still in the metal box, i’ve carried these at least two blocks and one had broken on the way.

The doors are about to close but a hand slides in between them, making them automatically open for him.

Hello my hot mysterious neighbor.

He looks relieved he made it, “Y/n!” He says cheerfully, like we’ve known each other for ages. It’s been a couple weeks since I slammed on his door and stomped through his kitchen.

The other side of the hallway had been quiet until last night when I heard keys rattling and the door opening. I can’t help but wonder what he does that keeps him from home so often.

“Lando, Hi!” I smile back as he slides beside me and presses our floor.

“You need help?” He eyes the bags as I bite my lip, not wanting to bother him. I don’t have the time to respond because he takes three bags out of my hands like it’s nothing.

“Thank you.” I sigh, “I’ve been struggling for like two blocks.” He laughs a bit with me as the numbers get higher and higher.

“I’m happy to help.” We finally reach our floor, Lando watches me go first and walk to my door, unlocking it and walking in.

Lando follows hesitantly, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“Thank you again! I put myself in a bit of a bind when I decided that my friends need fifteen types of salami and cheese.” I place the bags on the counter, Lando following.

I push back my hair and suddenly wish I had cleaned up a bit more. My friends are coming over tonight and I had decided to push back my cleaning. Looking around at the clothes and old popcorn bowls scattered around makes me want to slap myself.

“Really, I like to lend a hand! I never get to be neighborly.” He shrugs.

“What do you do for work? If you don’t mind me asking?” I start placing the cold items in the freezer.

He leans against the counter, his arms holding him up and looking alarmingly fit, “Uh… You ever follow Formula 1?”

I nod, “Kinda? I used to love it!” My mom and I would watch every sunday but I stopped in college so I don’t know any of the current grid, “So you work in the sport! That’s cool, pretty hands on?” I ask as he laughs a bit, looking awkward.

“Yeah, I work with the cars.” He looks around my place a bit, “So, why does one need this much food? I’m judging or anything it’s just… You don’t seem like the type to need a jumbo sized pretzel bag.”

I smile and snatch the bag from him, “I could definitely eat all of this by the way! But I'm having a bit of a party tonight. If anything’s too loud just let me know! It’s just old friends from college- actually.” I look up at him, a boost of confidence appearing in me, “You could join us. If you’re not busy.”

It suddenly sounds like a ridiculously stupid idea. I turn back to the fridge, placing a bottle of lemonade in it and cringing.

“I would love to.” I let out a sigh of relief, “But I've got plans…” I frown and turn back to him, finally putting away the last of my groceries.

“Aw.”

“It’s really nice of you to invite me.” I smile, a bit sad and confused why I'm disappointed. I mean I barely know the man. “What do you do for work?”

I lean against the counter so I'm across from him, “I’m a writer. Journalism right now but I really want to take a more bookish route…”

He genuinely looks so intrigued, more interested than anyone else who I've told I write articles about neighborhood drama.

He checks his watch, which I'm now realizing is incredibly expensive, and swears, “I gotta go. Have fun with your party tonight.”

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I definitely do have fun. My friends and I eat, drink, and play board games just like we’re back in dorms. I’m seeing my last and closest friend off when Lando comes up the hallway, As my friend's eyes go wide when she sees him, I shake my head.

“Goodbye!” I push her out of my apartment, “Love you!”

“Yeah love you too! Text me!” She walks past Lando, nodding at him before she turns behind his back and mouths ‘he’s hot’.

I roll my eyes at her, a smile still on my face as Lando looks at me. He’s in a full suit, holding his blazer in his hand.

“Fun time then?” God he’s hot!

“Absolutely!” I giggle, a bit tipsy, “How about you then?” I eye his suit.

“As good as I could make it.”

I slap my hand over my mouth, “God you aren’t coming from a funeral then, are you?”

He laughs at this, “No! No. A work banquet thing.”

I giggle a bit as he turns to his door, “Hey!” I say without thinking, “Would you want to come in? I have wine.”

He’s sitting on my couch thirty minutes later, a glass deep and talking about where he’s traveled too.

“That’s my dream!” I say, my feet tucked under myself as I tilt my head on the couch cushions, “Traveling. I mean- You’ve been everywhere!”

He shrugs, sipping his wine, his tie undone and shoes off, “It’s amazing but I'm not there for long so I don’t usually get to sightsee much. Honestly the most interesting thing that’s happened to me recently is this pretty girl came to save my baking disaster.”

I hum to his words, blushing a bit, “Sounds like a hero if i’ve ever heard one.” We both go silent, taking pieces of my leftover charcuterie board. “Should I start watching F1?”

“No!” He says it so quick that i’m taken aback.

“No?”

He laughs a bit, shaking it off, “It’s boring. I can’t have someone else in my life talk about it.”

I spin my wine around in the glass, “So I'm someone in your life now?”

He smirks, “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

I pretend to contemplate this, “I’ve never had a friend who hasn’t gone to the strawberry market with me.”

He makes an odd face, “So we must go then.”

I sigh, “If you want to be my friend…”

The corner of his mouth pulls, “Tomorrow at 9?”

⋆｡‧˚⋆

He’s at my door at 9:12. Thank god he’s late because I hop over to the door, pulling on my shoe and pulling down my jean skirt.

I open the door and stand up straight, smiling breathlessly. He, of course, looks perfect in jeans and an olive green shirt, “Morning.”

“Ready to taste the best strawberries you’ve ever had?” I grab my bag and keys.

“So ready.”

We make it to the market just on time. It’s my favorite neighborhood gem. Every Sunday people gather with strawberries. There are big and small, some covered in chocolate and some in honey.

I buy a box of chocolate ones, well Lando does. He insists that he still owes me. Handing one to Lando with an extra fork, he bites into it, his eyes roll, “Fucking hell.” I nod, excited that he likes them as much as I do.

“My favorite treat! Something you can’t burn your house down with.” I eye him and he eyes me right back. Being with Lando is like a breath of fresh air. I’ve never been so confident in my social skills.

He laughs with a shop owner as he buys his pack of plain strawberries. He's so nice and just listens politely as the woman goes on and on about her childhood on a strawberry farm.

He gives her a bigger bill than necessary and as she insists it’s too much, he just shakes his head and continues walking.

We settle at a park bench nearby, tasting all the pieces we’ve bought, “This is genuinely phenomenal.” He says while eating another, “How’d you find this place?”

“Had to write about something local and had total writers block… I was walking around one day and just sort of stumbled upon it.”

He smiles, I really like this smile. “You seem like the type to just stumble upon a strawberry market.”

I laugh, covering my mouth, “What does that even mean?”

“You’re just so…” His hands make these weird gestures, his fingers moving around as he laughs and gives up, “It just fits.”

I smile, meeting his eyes. They're so nice, a mix of blue and green. His gaze washes over me and I feel the need to smile even more.

“You’ve got nice eyes.” My stomach twists as he says it so calmly, “Real pretty.” I feel a blush on my cheeks and I turn away from him, looking at the park near us and being startled by the child looking up at us.

Lando follows my gaze, mumbling softly, “Shit.”

“Hi.” The kid says awestruck, I look to Lando who’s smiling and sitting up straighter. “Um- Are you Lando Norris?”

Lando scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah I am! What's your name?”

“W-William!” He says, swallowing and pulling a pen from behind his back, “Could you sign this?” I glance to what looks like his mother, she’s watching him with a smile.

Lando simply nods and takes the cap from his head, its bright orange. He signs his name and messes up the kid's hair, “Thanks a lot! My friends’ll never believe it!” The boy squeals and runs back to his mom who waves slightly and takes the boy's hand.

I raise a brow at Lando, still confused, “I’m sorry…” He looks embarrassed but I don’t even know what for.

“I’m going to assume you didn’t tell me the whole truth in what your job is?”

His cheeks get a bit red, “I do work with the cars… Just really close. Like I’m in them. One specifically.”

I nod, “Yours?”

“Mine.” He crosses his arms, his lips in a thin line, “I drive for McLaren.” I breathe out.

“Oh.” I can’t help but think I have a type because I grew up with Jenson Button posters on my wall.

He runs a hand through his curls, “I don’t usually get recognized around here- Thought we would be okay.”

“We are okay!” I reassure him, realizing he’s actually embarrassed, “That was sweet.”

He looks up hopefully, “You think? I’m sorry for lying- I just really liked that you didn’t know who I am or what I do.”

“Well, I sort of still don't. I know your full name now, that’s about it.” He smiles at this, I bite into another strawberry.

“Do you want to go out with me?”

He is yet to say something I'm not shocked at.

“Yeah.” I nod, smiling at him as he grins, “I’d really like that. Don’t you have to race soon though…? Singapore, isn’t it?”

The smirk that pulls at his lips is just plain mischievous, “I never said the date would be here.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

depression meals for AGSZC(+K)?

Sephiroth: The "fuck it" kind of depressed person, meaning he's either forgoing food altogether or having meals like a gallon of chocolate milk and 10lbs of steak eaten at 3 AM on his kitchen floor.

Zack: He's all about filling the void with junk—deep-fried butter, cheese-fries dipped in energy drink, bacon-wrapped donuts, and a burger but instead of the bun it's 2 slices of cold pizza that's been marinating in his fridge for three days.

Genesis: He's a "can't be bothered to cook or eat full meals so I'll eat ingredients" kind of person. Cans of corn, heads of lettuce, spoonfuls of peanut butter, entire bags of shredded cheese. Angeal once walked in on him sobbing while using an instant ramen flavor packet as fun dip.

Angeal: There's nothing like beating depression by cooking an elaborate meal using expensive ingredients just because he can—and then crying on his kitchen floor because he now has a truffle lobster lasagna in a Le Creuset he can’t emotionally justify. Too sad to eat it. Too broke not to.

Cloud: He gets super home-sick, so he reverts to Nibelheim comfort food. If you walk into the common room in the barracks and hear quiet sobs followed by a suspicious *crunch crunch crunch* it's just Cloud huddled with a jumbo jar of pickled onions. Sometimes it's a cold, raw potato because he can't be bothered to microwave it.

Kunsel: Dumps all his regular meals into a blender and turns it into a smoothie. Calls it his "coping cocktail." Zack thinks it's badass the way he drinks his mashed potato, peas and roast chicken.

[meganx]

Just One Weekend // Lando Norris x OFC // Part Two

Summary: Alice has been a Formula One fan all her life. When the opportunity came up to enter a competition that could mean attending an actual race, she pounced on it. When the news finally came that she had won, she was cautiously optimistic about what the experience would hold. Lando, on the other hand, would rather eat fish than spend an entire weekend entertaining a stranger.

All My Works

Series Master List

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Part Two

Alice paced the space between her bed and cupboard, anxiously deciding what needed to go in and what didn't. Her two helpers weren't being entirely helpful either.

Her mother sat with a printed checklist on her lap. Nora had always loved checklists and created one for Alice's trip the day after she told her she had won the competition. Although at first Alice found it helpful, all too soon she realised it would take at least three suitcases to pack everything her mother wanted her to.

Rory, on the other hand, sat next to the suitcase and snickered at everything Alice packed. "You can't pack that jacket. You've had it since you were twelve."

"It's my warmest jacket. What if it rains?"

Rory just rolled her eyes and flopped onto her back on the bed. "Do whatever you want, Alice."

Alice took that to heart. She did, of course, pack in everything that she had bought on her shopping spree with Rory. But she also packed her favourite pair of skinny jeans, the most comfortable hoodie she owned, and her bright orange cap - much to Rory's dismay.

"Here." Alice was handed a makeup bag. Rory explained, "It's all my extra makeup. Figured you could use it. Just in case."

"Did you pack the sunscreen?" her mother asked from where she sat at the desk.

"Yes. Sunscreen is in. So is the aloe vera gel, the jumbo pack of plasters, and the knee guard that I definitely won't need."

Rory snorted a suppressed chuckle. Alice just smiled at Nora. Taking care of others like this has always been her love language.

Just one more night and she would be on her way to Silverstone. Alice fell asleep that night watching old interviews of the drivers and the team.

__________

The next morning, she woke up still exhausted. She had been restless all night with thoughts running around her head so quickly she couldn't stay on one for long. The sun hadn't even started rising yet when she climbed out of bed.

She immediately opened the email app on her phone and reread the thread with the McLaren PR team. Just to get even a little bit of reassurance that this was really happening. She also decided to finally go through all the screenshots Rory had sent her of what she was supposed to wear.

Her confidence flickered as she scrolled through the photos. All she had been thinking of was seeing the cars and the drivers in person. She hadn't truly stopped to consider the unspoken expectations that she would have to live up to when she entered the paddock.

Of course, she was still excited. Her only bucket list item was about to be ticked off. But as she sat now, in the sheltered darkness of her room, she allowed herself to feel terrified.

This wasn't just about how she would dress. Although she knew she would need to video call Rory more than once while she was getting ready, and probably YouTube a few makeup tutorials. This was also about behavior.

Growing up, Rory always lived in the spotlight. Which was good because it meant Alice could avoid it with very little effort. But she would probably have to do interviews where she could say a hundred different things to embarrass herself. She'd be meeting people she truly, deeply admired. And again, there were so many scenarios running through her head of her saying something that would leave her embarrassed and on the first flight home.

She quietly opened Instagram and went to the post that was made to announce her as the winner of the helmet design competition. She hated the photo they had used, but it was all she had. Her hair was frizzy, and her smile was something she had always felt insecure about. It wasn't symmetrical enough. Not photogenic.

She looked through the comments. There weren't many. Just a few congratulations. But then she saw the latest comment. 'I'm dying. Lando's interview about this whole thing makes me feel sorry for this girl.'

Lando did an interview? Almost without a thought, she opened YouTube immediately searching for the latest interviews Lando had done. She watched two and found nothing where he spoke about her joining the team for the weekend. But then, she watched the third video and it felt like her heart sank through her body and onto the floor.

"Honestly, I think it's a waste of time. Right now, the team has more important things to focus on. We're competing for a championship, and somehow I'm supposed to prioritize entertaining a fangirl for a weekend? Yeah, I'm just not looking forward to it."

__________

Six hours later and Alice and her family were standing in the airport saying their goodbyes. Nervous energy still flowed through her bones and she used all her focus to mask her anxiety.

Her dad stepped forward and handed her what looked like headphones. "They're an old pair of ear defenders I found in my closet. Should help dull some of the noise." He placed a tender kiss on her forehead and took a step back.

Her mother also stepped forward and gave her a tight hug. "Call us if you need anything. We love you."

"Love you too, Mom." Alice smiled as she turned to face Rory and Mia.

Mia smirked. "Take lots of pictures. Of you, of the car -"

"Of Lando's face," Rory interrupted.

Alice blushed so deeply she felt sunburnt.

"Definitely take pictures of Lando's face," Mia agreed.

Alice laughed and pulled them both in for a hug. There hadn't been a moment of her life that she hadn't shared with either Mia or Rory. The thought of spending an entire weekend without either one of them just fueled her anxiety.

Rory whispered, "You'll be fine. Just breathe."

__________

Alice had finally made it through security and check-in when her phone rang. The Formula 1 theme song echoing around her.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Alice. This is Imogene from McLaren's PR team?"

"Oh. Hi, Imogene." Alice walked towards a nearby bench and plopped herself down. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes. Everything is in order. I actually wanted to talk with you about a slightly sensitive mater."

Alice's eyebrows furrowed. "Okay?"

"You'll be shadowing Lando for the weekend, as I already explained in our call a few days ago. But we just wanted to give you a polite reminder to keep to yourself and allow the team to do what they do best."

"You want me to make myself invisible?"

"In simple terms, yes. Enjoy your flight, Alice, we'll see you on the track in a few hours."

Alice sighed as the familiar click indicated the call had been ended. First the interview, and now this? More and more, she was wishing she hadn't entered the competition in the first place. It wasn't being invisible that bothered her. She had always enjoyed that. It was not being wanted that really got under her skin.

__________

Her carry-on bag thudded into the overhead compartment with far more force than necessary, but it felt like all her emotions were on overdrive. She didn't know what to do with all the anxiety and frustration.

"Sorry," she mumbled. The man in the next seat had looked up at her, startled as she shoved her bag into the tight space. She offered him a small smile, which felt incredibly awkward, and slid into her seat by the window. She gripped the strings from her hoodie so tightly that her fingers were starting to feel numb.

She still couldn't believe that this was happening - that she was actually flying to see a Grand Prix. But still, she couldn't find the excitement and joy she had first felt when she opened the email.

The thought of shadowing Lando all weekend after he had made it clear he didn't want her there made her stomach twist in a way that not even the turbulence of the flight could accomplish.

Running low on sleep after being up all night, worried about embarrassing herself, did not make calming down any easier. Even the advice she had googled on how to behave in the F1 paddock didn't give her any confidence. All the advice was the same. Advice like 'don't ask for selfies' and 'don't trip'.

Which was valid advice, she supposed, but she wasn't planning on doing any of that anyway. None of the advice she had read covered the intricacies of looking like a complete and utter idiot in front of Lando Norris, who would probably hate her from the moment he saw her.

As she walked out of the plane and into the airport she received a text from Mia.

Mia: Send me a pic the second you see him. Preferably of him shirtless.

Alice just smiled at Mia's antics. She was always an agent of chaos, and Alice loved her for it. She locked her phone and put it in her pocket while she waited to collect her suitcase at the baggage claim.

The carousel beeped and groaned as it moved. The conveyor belt was a mass of luggage that the people around her were lunging forward to grab. Her nerves were still electric as she took a step closer. People's necks, including her own, were craned to spot their bags as they slid out with a heavy thud.

As the carousel moved, she spotted a luminous green hard-shell case. Another suitcase was covered in Barbie stickers. A black bag with plastic wrapped around it.

But not hers.

Ten minutes passed. Everything is fine, she tried to convince herself. Then fifteen minutes.

She watched the same black bag circle by for the fourth time when her stomach finally twisted.

This is impossible. This cannot be happening.

She double-checked that the baggage tag info was correct. Everything matched up perfectly. So where was it?

Her backpack was still slung over her left shoulder. That meant she at least had her wallet, her phone, and some bare essentials. But everything else was in her suitcase.

Her clothes. Her shoes. Her toiletries. Every outfit that Rory had carefully picked for her. All the outfits she had packed because they were familiar.

Gone.

She quickly walked to the airline's lost luggage desk, nerves bubbling through the surface now. She was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

The woman behind the counter looked exhausted, and entirely over the day, as she smiled a careful, practiced smile and asked, "Lost bag?'

She nodded. "Pink suitcase. Hard-shell. White tag with my name on it, Alice Richards."

The woman nodded and typed on her very loud keyboard with the speed of someone who does this far too often. "Okay, so it looks like your bag is still at the airport of departure. It never made it onto the flight."

Alice just blinked at the woman.

"It happens more often than you think." She handed Alice a crinkled form and a pen. "Fill this form out and we'll have it on the next flight. Should be delivered to your hotel by tomorrow afternoon."

Alice forced a tight, polite smile. "Of course. Thank you."

By the time she stepped outside, looking for the driver who was supposed to be here for her, the panic had officially set in. She had no clothes with her except for what she wore. No makeup. No shoes other than her well-worn sneakers. Even her comfort hoodie, gone.

This would be the perfect first impression.

She yanked her phone out her pocket and quickly typed out a message to Mia.

Alice: My bag didn't make it onto the flight. Mia: Is this a joke to get back at me for the chocolate prank? Alice: Do I seem like I'm kidding? Mia: Not ideal. Can they still send it to you? Alice: Yeah but not before tomorrow. Mia: Okay. This is fine. Channel some main character energy. Go buy some expensive clothes and act like this was all planned.

Alice just groaned and slipped her phone back in her pocket. She barely had the money for the clothes she had already bought. Never mind buying another entire outfit.

She saw a man in a black suit holding up a sign with her name on it, and she dragged her feet towards him.

"Miss Richards?" the man asked. Alice nodded, and he continued, "There's been a change of plans. Imogene has said I am to take you straight to the hotel for a team dinner."

Great. She was about to walk into the most high-profile weekend of her life in nothing but worn jeans, battered sneakers, and a severely crinkled hoodie. Was there an award for worst outfit in the paddock?

If this was the universe testing her, it was doing a phenomenal job.

__________

The hotel lobby was sleek and modern. And Alice felt wildly out of place standing under a chandelier that probably cost more than her family's house.

She adjusted the strap of her backpack and tried to breath through the anxiety coursing through her veins.

"Alice Richards?" a voice called.

She lifted her head up and came face-to-face with Oscar Piastri. He strode towards her in a McLaren polo and a warm smile on his face.

"That's me," she said. Her voice came out a lot softer than she intended. Could he tell she had just been panic texting Rory about needing to find a toothbrush?

"I'm Oscar," he held his hand out for her to shake. "Imogene asked me to greet you. She told me about the whole luggage dilemma. I thought I'd make sure you didn't completely combust."

"I'm holding it together," she said. Oscar gave her a look that said he didn't really believe her. "Okay, I'm barely holding on. As long as the new trend is 'lazily-dressed and sweaty from a long flight', I'll be the best-dressed person in the paddock."

"I've seen worse," Oscar said. "One of our mechanics wore crocs to a race once."

"Was it a dare?"

"Nope. A personal fashion choice. The images still haunt me to this day."

Alice huffed out a small chuckle. This was the most relaxed she had felt in days.

Oscar handed her a McLaren-branded duffel bag that had been slung over his shoulder. "Actually, I brought you something. Emergency merch drop and some clothes courtesy of my girlfriend Lily. She said she put some toiletries in there as well."

"You brought me clothes?" she blinked up at him.

"I thought you might prefer some team gear and second-hand dresses to walking around in airplane mode. At least until your suitcase decides to grace us with its presence."

She took the bag from his hands, her heart feeling unexpectedly full and warm. "Thank you. Seriously. I was terrified of becoming a meme."

"Anytime," he smiled. "Apparently, you're joining us for a PR dinner tonight. It's not too formal, but Lily says there's a dress in there you can wear."

"I'll take whatever I can get. What exactly is this PR dinner going to be about?"

"It's mostly just introducing you to a few key people you'll be working with over the next few days," he explained. "We're only meeting in an hour, so you can go to your room and get ready. Your key should be at the front desk."

"Thanks Oscar."

He nodded and turned to walk away. "Oh! I almost forgot." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lanyard covered in McLaren's logo. It had a paddock pass attached to it.

Alice took a deep breath and took it from his hand. Her fingers carefully brushed over the plastic.

Alice Richards. McLaren. All Access.

It felt heavier than she expected. Though she wasn't sure if it was the weight of expectations that she was feeling.

"You okay?" Oscar asked, head tilted slightly.

"Yeah," she took another deep breath. "It's feeling properly real now."

"It is. Make sure you enjoy every moment. See you at dinner."

He turned once again and walked to the lift. Her stomach did a flip.

She clutched the lanyard close to her chest and walked up to the receptionist, ready to wash the flight and anxious sweat off her skin.

_________

Lando sat at the table in the rented restaurant. He stared at his drink and wondered why he had even agreed to this dinner in the first place. He wanted to be back in his room and preparing.

Instead, he was surrounded by the buzz of soft conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. The PR team was sitting on one side of the table with the engineers and drivers on the other. Oscar and Lily sat across from him quietly talking between themselves.

Lando just wanted to get through the weekend. He wanted to win. Do his job. Go home. But, he was sat in this restaurant waiting for the contest-winner to actually show up.

A fan. A girl. A distraction.

He rubbed his hand along his jaw, the muscles tense.

"You're brooding," Oscar said.

"No, I'm not," Lando replied and shot Oscar a venomous glare.

"You absolutely are. And before you say anything, yes, I know you hate this whole arrangement. But she's already had a bad day. Please try not to make it worse."

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, "If she's not happy to be here, she shouldn't be."

Oscar just rolled his eyes, but it was Lily who spoke. "It's not like she's joining the pit crew. She's a guest. And she's also just a person."

Before Lando could reply, the restaurant door opened.

Heads turned as a woman stepped inside, flanked by two PR reps. She was smallish, definitely shorter than Lando. And she looked absolutely exhausted, wearing a white dress that looked suspiciously similar to one Lily had worn at the previous race.

That must be her.

Lando watched as she scanned the room, rubbing her hands on her skirt from what he assumed to be nerves. She held her head high, though. She didn't fidget more than that one action, and she didn't shrink under all the gazes turned towards her.

"She lost her luggage and still showed up," one of the PR reps at the table muttered. "That scored her bonus points."

Alice stepped up to the table, smiled in a way that showed her uncertainty and said, "Hi. Sorry, I'm late. There was a small ... travel disaster."

Her voice was softer than Lando expected. Something in it tugged at his heart. One thing was clear to him. She had a presence without even trying.

Oscar stood to greet her. Lando did not.

"Alice, this is Lando," the PR rep said cheerfully. Like they were introducing her to a friendly coworker and not a man who lately had the emotional range of a rock.

Alice extended her hand towards him, "Nice to meet you."

He shook her hand and noted the slight tremble she was trying to hide. "You made it."

"Barely. But yeah."

She took the empty seat next to him, and the table launched into light chatter about the next day's schedule. But Lando only half-listened.

He watched her instead. Quietly. Discreetly.

Some voice in the back of his mind said that maybe this wouldn't be a complete disaster. He ignored that voice and steeled himself.

[kuroshitsuji-wiki]

Snake's birthday (March 15)

It is Snake's birthday in the year of the snake! Happy birthday, says Wordsworth, Emily, Goethe, Oscar, Wilde, Webster, Brontë, Donne, Keats, and Jonathan!

Celebrate by eating some good food surrounded by friends, cuddling (?) sheep, and reading a little bit of trivia^^

He has a forked tongue like a snake. This was first mentioned in the Character Guide (2009) but never shown until Chapter 208 (2024), 15 years later!

(Please excuse the bad scan^^')

He doesn't have a birth name, so Joker gave him the name "Snake"!

(From Chapter 208)

His mother was Sarah Kemble, an actress. (Chapter 209) Interestingly, "Kemble" is the name of a real-life British family of actors. One of its most famous members was Sarah Siddons (née Kemble) who lived from 1755 to 1831. (Yana once stated that she does not put much value on names when creating characters, but she also said she sometimes names them after historical people. [Translation] Maybe she picked the name deliberately?)

While Snake's snakes are all named after famous authors, he himself cannot read. Finnian used to teach him though (source). Jumbo named all his snakes because he was a reader (Chapter 208).

Snake is the only one of the Phantomhive servants whose birthday is known so far *stares into the distance* He and the others will get their time to shine in Season 5 which will start airing on April 5, 2025!

He gets to inaugurate his new bag too! (*acquired it in Episode 57/Chapter 85)

With friends inside :)

[shankar2023]

Can FIBC Bulk Bags be Used Across Diverse Sectors?

Shankar Packaging Ltd. is a leading FIBC manufacturing company in India. We offer Benefits of FIBC Bags in Different Industries, Uses of FIBC Bulk Containers Across Different Industries, etc. & It is widely used in different industries for storing, packaging, and transportation applications. For more information read our blog!

[kawaiiblossoms04]

NeXT on A Day in a Life—Dating Nanami Kento: A Love Story in Financial Planning Pt. 8| Nanami x Reader

THE WEDDING WAR ROOM

It's been two months since you and Nanami moved into the new house.

You invited your girls over for a casual housewarming hangout to check out your new house—or so you told Nanami.

But.

In reality?

It's a wedding war room.

The living room looks innocent enough—candles flickering, a charcuterie board on the table, wine glasses in hand. But at the center of the coffee table?

A full spread of bridal magazines, Pinterest boards, and wedding venue brochures.

Nanami has no idea what he's walking into.

The house was supposed to be peaceful today.

That was Nanami's one expectation.

But as he steps to the front door, loosening his tie, there's an unmistakable vibe in the air.

A bad vibe.

The kind of vibe that says:

"You have no control over your life anymore."

And then he hears it.

💬 The Wedding Discussion That Should Not Exist

"Okay, but listen, a Bora Bora wedding would be gorgeous," Mei Mei muses, sipping a glass of Nanami's expensive wine like she owns the house.

"I'm just saying, if this man can afford a whole mortgage, he can afford an overseas ceremony," Nobara adds, lounging on the couch like she paid for it.

"Exactly," Mei Mei agrees, tipping her glass. "Bora Bora. Exclusive. Luxury. Minimal guests, maximum budget."

Maki sighs, arms crossed. "You're all unserious. Just rent out a high-end venue here and be done with it. No one wants to fly 14 hours to see Nanami in another beige suit."

Shoko, half-drunk with a half-empty glass of wine, lifts a lazy hand. "Second that: I think it's hilarious that this man doesn't even know y'all are planning his wedding without him."

You, sitting in the middle of the chaos, sipping tea like this isn't absolutely insane, just shrugs.

"I mean... Nanami did just moved to a higher performing firm as their new CFO three months ago and with the move to the new house...I just want us to celebrate us, you know? And not stress him out."

Shoko swirls her wine, unimpressed. "You're such a sugar baby, Y/N."

"I am NOT a sugar baby." You clutch your imaginary pearls in offense.

You—luxury robe, imported tea, nails and hair freshly done, skin glowing, sitting in a house you didn't pay for, with a man funding your entire existence—blink.

Nobara leans forward, squinting. "Girl. You're a sugar baby."

Maki says flatly: "You don't have a job, Y/N."

A beat of silence.

You blink.

Nobara, squinting: "Girl. What do you do all day?"

You scramble. "I—I contribute!"

Maki deadpans. "To what? The economy?"

Shoko exhales. "This is getting sad."

"I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS LIFE."

Mei Mei smirks, tipping her glass. "And the crazy part? She's not even some beginner-level sugar baby running around in Shein. No, no. Y/N has ascended. She's in her Final Form. The Housewife Era."

Shoko nods approvingly. "Honestly? I respect it. If I could scam a man into loving me this hard, I'd do it too."

"IT'S NOT A SCAM, IT'S LOVE."

Mei Mei swirls her wine, unbothered. "Love with direct deposits and an 850 credit score, babe."

Nobara starts counting on her fingers. "House? Paid for. Bills? Paid. Our last girls' trip? Fully funded. Your closet? Probably filled with designer brands you can't even pronounce." She pauses, then smirks. "Actually—I'll prove it. Go get your purse."

You frown but grab your bag anyway.

With zero hesitation, Nobara snatches it from you.

"Exhibit A—" she holds up the bag. "Chanel. And not just basic ass Chanel—this is high-tier, 'my man funds my existence' Chanel. Right, Mei Mei?"

Mei Mei barely glances up. "Mhm. Chanel Pink Iridescent Quilted Caviar Jumbo Classic Double Flap, Light Gold Hardware, 2019 release... $8,900, give or take."

"Hey, that was for... uh..."

Before you can even finish, Nobara dives inside—"Exhibit B—"And pulls out the sleek, black Amex card Nanami gave you.

Silence.

Then, you double down.

"That's... that's just my emergency card—" you stammer.

Maki crosses her arms, deadpan. "Emergency for what? Running out of Dior?"

"It's not what it looks like! I'm still cheap!" you insist, reaching for the card.

Shoko tilts her glass, smirking. "Oh? So if I open your banking app right now, it won't show a fully comped five-star spa day?"

Your soul leaves your body. "I... I coupon sometimes! I HAVE THE TARGET CIRCLE APP! I can explain."

Nobara squinted. "Oh, what'd you save, five bucks on candles? While you shop at Restoration Hardware and Erewhon for the rest of your life. I saw a Jar of Sea Moss in your influencer-life stocked fridge."

"NANAMI TOOK ME...TIK TOK MADE ME DO IT...I SAID I CAN EXPLAIN...,"

Mei Mei grins, sipping her wine. "No, you can't."

"He just loves spoiling me, okay?"

Maki, unimpressed. "And you didn't even have to pop out a single kid for it. That's efficiency."

She side-eyes you, tilting her head.

"But let me get this straight."

"You went from making lattes to corporate executives baby doll overnight...AND YOU DIDN'T NEGOTIATE A SALARY?!

Nobara gasps, slamming her drink down. "WAIT. IS THIS VOLUNTEER WORK?!"

Shoko, deadpan, takes a sip. "Charity case, actually."

Maki, shaking her head, disappointed: "A non-profit wife. Couldn't be me. But Honestly? I should be taking notes. What coffee shop were you working at when you met him?"

Nobara snaps her fingers. "He could be paying you a salary for just existing, girl. What are you even doing?"

Flustered, you scramble. "Im not a corporate executives baby doll...I clean, and cook... and—"

Maki, flat: "So do maids, Y/N. And they get paid."

"But I take care of him. I handle that and all the little details! His dry cleaning, his lunch—"

Nobara sips her drink, unfazed. "Baby girl. It's three things: coochie, comedy, and cuteness. That's it. You're getting a whole CFO salary off that."

You stare into the void, gripping your tea, voice soft, haunted. "...Shit."

You inhale sharply. Eyes wide.

"WAIT."

"Does this mean... I've NEVER actually had to budget in my life??"

Your hand shakes. Your tea spills slightly.

"Have I...Have I been a PRINCESS this whole time??"

A hush falls over the group.

Maki blinks. "Jesus Christ."

Mei Mei smirks. "Go on, babe. Keep connecting the dots."

You grip the coffee table for support.

"Oh my god. I was never meant to struggle."

More gasping.

"I was put on this earth... to be pampered. To be spoiled. To THRIVE."

You clutch your chest, taking a dramatic inhale, and your eyes sparkled.

"Have I... been a kept woman this whole time??"

Mei Mei actually chokes on her wine. Shoko wheezes.

Mei Mei clinks her glass with Shoko, grinning. "Ah, she finally gets it."

Maki shakes her head, unimpressed. "This is the worst character development arc I've ever witnessed."

And just as Nobara opens her mouth to continue the previous topic and justify financially devastating your husband-to-be—

The front door clicks open .

😨 The Collective Realization

Silence.

The worst kind of silence.

The kind where every single woman in the room realizes at the exact same time—

💀 Nanami is home.

💀 Nanami has walked into the trap.

💀 Nanami, already exhausted from work, is about to experience the worst conversation of his life.

For exactly three seconds, no one moves.

Then—

"HE'S HERE, EVERYBODY ACT NATURAL," Nobara whispers.

Mei Mei exhales. "Too late."

Shoko snorts into her glass and cackles.

Maki shakes her head. "Own your crimes."

Then, in perfect unison, every woman in the room turns toward the door, smiles, and sings—

"Hi, Mr. Nanami."

You grin brightly. "Hi, honey!"

And then—

Nanami stares at all of you, his face unreadable.

"What. Is. Happening."

Nanami Walks In Like a Condemned Man

His honey-whiskey gaze slowly sweeps across the room, assessing the scene of the crime.

Five women. Wine glasses. An iPad open to a Pinterest wedding board. A mini whiteboard with "Operation Nanami's Wedding Fund" written in calligraphy.

Nobara with a calculator, talking about "Ring ROI" and "Guest List ROI."

A printed-out Pinterest board labeled "Mr. & Mrs. Nanami - EST. (TBD). Fabric samples spread and a catering menu from Ruth's Chris Steak House across the coffee table.

His jaw ticks.

Nanami exhales. Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Nice house, Nanami. Marble floors, high ceilings, big pool...." Mei Mei adds coolly.

Nobara throws an arm around you. "Ooohh yea... What a happy couple. In their cute little mini mansion... which just so happened to have TWO MASSIVE WALK-IN CLOSETS. I'm jealous of how in love and monogamous you must be to decide to make this purchase for Y/N."

"Completely," Mei Mei says smugly, lifting a glass. "They are the definition of 'marital bliss.' In fact, I'd assume the purchase of this house was also an attempt by you to conceal the true meaning that you've gotten an expensive engagement ring for our dear sweet friend?"

"Should I even ask?" Nanami sighs.

You set your tea down slowly, eyes wide, innocent. Too innocent.

"Well, honey, we were just having a casual discussion—"

"Your wedding," Nobara cuts in bluntly.

😩 Nanami's Soul Leaves His Body

His jaw tightens. His shoulders tense.

His entire existence flashes before his eyes.

"My what," he says slowly, as if he misheard.

Mei Mei hums, swirling her wine glass. "You know. The one you're already financially obligated to."

Nanami blinks. "...Obligated?"

"Mm-hmm," Mei Mei nods. "Would be a shame if a certain someone wasted their youthful beauty waiting for a proper proposal, don't you think?"

Nobara leans forward. "And considering the whole 'wife' slip-up, the mortgage situation, and the fact that she's already running your household..." She shrugs. "Might as well just do it."

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Shoko, lifting her glass lazily, "It's inevitable. Might as well let us plan it so you don't have to think about it."

Nanami's eyes snap open.

"I don't have to think about it?" His voice dropped so dangerously even though you know he's seconds from snapping.

Mei Mei just smiles.

"Exactly. Just sign the checks and show up, darling."

"Sign the checks...?" he echoes faintly.

Your girls nod.

"Yes," they agree in perfect unison.

He stares, processing.

😂 Nanami's Immediate Regret

His entire future flashes before his eyes—a wedding he did not plan, a Bora Bora bill he did not approve, a lifetime of being outnumbered by you and your friends.

Nanami glances at you.

The only person in this room whose opinion actually matters to him.

And the worst part is—

You're not even disagreeing.

You're just smiling at him sipping your tea. Innocently.

Like you knew this was going to happen.

Like you let it happen.

"Ah. Betrayal." You act like you're not part of the chaos, but you're actually their ringleader.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

‘YEAH, WELP, YOU'RE GETTING DUMPED IN THE WOODS.’ You thought.

Mei Mei is cackling. Nobara is mildly entertained. Shoko is drunk. Maki looks not impressed.

And you? You are going to be an accessory to Nanami's manslaughter charges if this goes any further.

Time to play the 'stop torturing my fiancé' card, besties.

"Okay, ladies," you cut in casually, "maybe that's enough. Let's get you more wine—we wouldn't wanna overexcite the big guy here," you laugh, rising up off the couch.

Then—without a word—turns on his heel and walks directly into the kitchen.

From the kitchen, Nanami can still hear:

"SIR, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!" Nobara cackles.

Maki sighs. "He's going through the five stages of grief."

Shoko toasts. "To Nanami. May his suffering be brief."

Mei Mei smirks. "Oh, no. It won't be."

You slide off the couch, padding toward the kitchen as your girls continue debating floral arrangements. Leaning against the counter, you watch Nanami pour himself a generous drink. He downs it in one go before finally turning to face you. "You okay, honey,"

He levels you with a long, exhausted stare.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

You bat your lashes. "Baby, I had no idea they were gonna ambush you like that."

A long, quiet pause. Liar. A Beautiful, infuriatingly sweet liar.

"...You're a menace."

You grin. "Mmm, but I'm your menace."

Nanami exhales deeply, setting his glass down. "Unfortunately." He should've stayed at the office. Overtime sounds peaceful right now. But no he has a life sentence with no parole.

You step into his space, smiling up at him like you're the perfect, doting fiancée and rest a hand on his chest. "I'll make it up to you. You know I hate seeing my hubby stressed."

His brow lifts slightly. "How?" Oh, here we go. The part where I lose.

You motion him to lean down, to which he complied and you whisper something in his ear.

Nanami freezes.

Slowly—he straightens back up, looking down at you. His gaze is intense, boring directly into your soul.

"...Don't start. Not right now." His baritone has shifted—low and a bit rough, controlled and steady, even though you know how affected he actually is.

You reach down, gently rubbing him over his pants. "It's something new and different. I think you'll love it, sir."

Nanami mutters something under his breath.

You tilt your head, blinking up at him, your voice all soft and syrupy. "What's wrong, honey?" you purr, pressing your palm firmer against him, feeling the way his cock twitches beneath his slacks.

"Y/N," he warns. His voice is low, strained, but you can hear it—the hesitation, the unraveling.

You lean in, pressing soft, lazy kisses along his jaw. "Yes, sir?"

He exhales sharply, his fingers digging into your waist, grip tightening like he's grounding himself.

You smirk. "So... what if have a local wedding can I have an overseas honeymoon?"

"Bora Bora," you murmur, nipping at his earlobe.

"Not happening."

"Paris?"

He groans, tipping his head back against the counter. "Y/N—"

You press your lips to his throat, voice smooth as silk. "Let me convince you, sir." You hum, tracing slow circles on his chest. "Hmm. It could somewhere exclusive, luxurious, and—"

"You mean expensive."

Your grin widens. "Doesn't have to be..."

Nanami exhales sharply, staring at the ceiling. He knows he's already lost. Hell, he lost the moment he walked through the front door.

He grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away from his growing erection before you ruin him completely. His breath is harsh, labored.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" he rasps.

You tilt your head, blinking sweetly. "Just helping my hardworking fiancé relax."

"Y/N." His tone is slow, firm—a warning. "This is really not the time."

But you just bat your lashes, fingers grazing his belt buckle like you're innocent.

His hands slide down, gripping your hips, pulling you closer. His body relaxes, tension slipping away, melting into your warmth, the steady pulse of his own life and beating.

Then—he moves.

With one deliberate step forward, he guides you back—until your spine meets the cold steel of the refrigerator.

Trapped.

The air shifts, thick with something unspoken as his body presses against yours, solid and immovable. The cool metal at your back is a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him.

Then—he tilts his head down, whiskey eyes locking onto yours.

"Behave." His whisper is a growl, dark and dangerously low.

A slow grin curls at your lips before you press a quick, teasing kiss to his.

Then he exhales. A deep, heavy sigh. "...I'll think about it."

Victory.

From the living room, Nobara shouts, "WE ALL KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. START BOOKING THE SUITE Y/N."

Mei Mei clinks her glass. "To the future Mrs. Nanami."

Shoko chuckles. "Rest in peace, my guy."

Nanami shuts his eyes.

His life is no longer his own.

And yet...

He wouldn't have it any other way, because he knows life without you would be dull, colorless.

—

Next on Dating Nanami Kento: The Revenge Proposal

All rights reserved © 2025 KawaiiBlossoms. Do not copy, translate, or modify my works on any platform.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Flour Power - 2

Character: Amnesia!Bucky x Baker!Female Character

Summary: A baker helps a stranger, only to discover that this individual not only aids the bakery but also brings trouble along with him

A/N: Because Bucky got amnesia, his name was temporarily changed to Bob.

Chap 1, Chap 2 , End

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

With each passing day, Bob's strength began to return. He wasted no time putting his newfound energy to good use, eagerly diving into his tasks at the bakery. Rising early, he matched your dedication, lending a hand wherever needed.

In the kitchen, Bob proved himself a quick learner, diligently tackling each task. Whether he was cleaning, lifting heavy bags of flour, or manually whisking dough, his commitment never wavered.

His presence brought a renewed sense of energy to the bakery. Bob's help made the workload lighter, and the atmosphere buzzed with productivity.

As you watched him work, you couldn't help but feel grateful for his assistance, realizing that having Bob around was a valuable asset to the bakery.

As the day progressed, the usual hustle and bustle of the bakery continued. Bob, wiping the counter with a thoughtful expression, broke the silence with a question, "Why is it so quiet here?"

With a hint of bitterness in her tone, Tammy pointed her fingers towards the bustling bakery across the street. "That's because our loyal customers got stolen by them," she lamented, her frustration evident.

Bob's gaze followed Tammy's gesture, his expression a mix of curiosity and disbelief as he saw the crowded shopfront.

"The ungrateful not only stole the family recipe but also put this bakery into debt," Tammy continued, her voice tinged with resentment.

Bob's sense of justice was stirred. "Not fair. This bread is more delicious," he remarked, his loyalty to the bakery evident in his words.

You couldn't help but feel gratitude towards Bob for his unwavering support. "Thanks, Bob," you interjected, a sense of appreciation coloring your voice.

"You want to learn how to make croissants?" you asked, noticing that each time you prepared the flaky pastries, Bob's gaze would inevitably drift towards you, silently observing your technique.

As you spoke, you could see a flicker of curiosity in Bob's eyes, his interest piqued by the prospect of learning something new. His shoulders straightened slightly, and he nodded in response, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Bob's face lit up with childlike excitement as you extended the offer, his eyes shining eagerly. "Can I?" he asked, his enthusiasm palpable.

You nodded with a smile, touched by his genuine interest. Your family had always believed in sharing their knowledge with others, and Bob was no exception. Teaching him how to make croissants would strengthen his bond with the bakery and equip him with valuable skills for the future.

"Of course," you replied warmly. "My family has always believed in passing on our baking expertise to anyone who's eager to learn. You're no exception, Bob."

You gestured towards the work surface, inviting him to join you. "Come on, I'll show you," you said warmly, your voice filled with encouragement.

As Bob diligently worked on crafting the croissants, you couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation, eager to see the results of his efforts. But as the baking process unfolded, it became apparent that things weren't going as expected.

🥐

"This isn't what I expected," you remarked, disappointment coloring your tone as you examined the misshapen and oversized croissants that emerged from the oven.

Bob's attempts at normal-sized croissants had ended in failure, but to your surprise, he had inadvertently succeeded in creating jumbo-sized croissants. The sheer scale of the pastries was impressive, a testament to Bob's determination and creativity in the face of adversity.

Tammy's arrival only added to the excitement, her eyes widening in amazement as she beheld the oversized croissants. "Whoa... This is incredible," she exclaimed, reaching for her phone to capture the moment and then upload the photo to her Instagram.

"How did you upload it so fast?" you asked, surprised by Tammy's quick actions.

Tammy shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "You know me," she replied coyly, her fingers flying across her phone as she shared the extraordinary sight with her followers on social media.

The 'Ping' of notifications continued incessantly, and you couldn't help but grow curious. "What's that?" you asked, glancing at Tammy as she retrieved her phone.

Tammy's eyes widened in astonishment as she scrolled through her notifications, her expression a mix of disbelief and excitement. "I've never received this many notifications this quickly," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with awe.

One comment: "Omg, is that real?"

Another comment: "Can I try? I think it's perfect for brunch with my girls."

"Oh, I know this bakery. It's called Sunrise Bakery. I used to go there with my mom. I should go there."

Another comment: "Eating and coffee time with friends? Sign me in."

You and Tammy exchanged a glance, realization dawning upon you. Could Bob's oversized croissants be attracting attention on social media?

With a shared nod, you turned your gaze towards Bob and the jumbo croissant behind him. "Alright," you said with a newfound sense of determination. "I think we could do this."

🥐

The jumbo croissant and coffee craze continued to sweep through the neighborhood, and your bakery became a bustling hub of activity, filled to the brim with eager customers clamoring to get a taste of the viral sensation.

Jumbo coffee, expertly crafted by Tammy, only added to the allure, drawing in even more patrons eager to savor the perfect pairing of freshly baked bread and aromatic brews.

But amidst the excitement and flurry of activity, a new phenomenon emerged – the presence of Bob, the enigmatic baker behind the scenes. His silent demeanor and skillful craftsmanship had captured the imaginations of many, particularly the female customers who flocked to the bakery in droves, hoping for a glimpse of the mysterious baker.

Because of your best efforts to maintain privacy and respect Bob's wishes, the allure of the elusive baker only seemed to intensify. You banned taking photos of the employees, hoping to preserve their privacy and dignity.

But rather than deter them, the ban seemed to fuel the customers' curiosity, sparking a fervor that only drew more attention to the bakery.

You felt a surge of gratitude as you served the bustling crowd, the familiar hum of activity reminiscent of the days when your grandparents had run the bakery.

As you delivered a loaf of bread to an elderly couple, you noticed they were foreigners, likely Japanese.

The elderly man nodded at you and spoke in Japanese, his request catching you off guard. "Sumimasen, koko de keitai o juuden shite mo ii desu ka? Watashi no keitai no battery ga shinde shimatte, hon'yaku appu o tsukau koto ga dekimasen." ("Excuse me, can I charge my phone here? My phone battery died, and I couldn't use the translation app.")

Feeling momentarily lost, you quickly excused yourself and approached Tammy. "Can I use your phone?" you asked urgently.

Tammy shook her head. "My phone is live right now, showing it to my followers," she explained.

Realizing your phone was also out of reach, you returned to the elderly man at the table, feeling helpless.

"Sumimasen," he said, following you to the cashier.

Confused, Bob suddenly appeared and approached the grandpa, asking in Japanese, "Doushite? Nani ga okotte iru no?" (What's going on?")

You explained the situation, amazed to hear Bob conversing fluently in Japanese. "Dekinai desu ka?" ("Is it not possible?") the elderly man asked, his expression crestfallen.

Suddenly, Bob's revelation left you and Tammy stunned. "Nanika o tasukeru koto ga dekimasu ka?" Bob asked in Japanese. ("Is there something we could help with?")

The elderly man's face brightened as he explained his predicament. "Watashi no keitai no battery ga shinde shimatte, koko de juuden dekimasu ka? Watashi no teburu no chikaku ni denki no soketsuto ga mienai node, keitai ga nai to hon'yaku appu o tsukau koto ga dekimasen." ("My phone battery is dead. Can I charge my phone here? I don't see any power sockets near my table. Without my phone, we couldn't use the translation app.")

Bob extended his hand. "Wakarimashita. Anata no keitai o kudasai. Koko de juuden shite kudasai," he offered in Japanese. ("I understand. Could you give me your phone? You can charge it here.")

Grateful, the elderly man bowed his head. "Arigatou gozaimasu," he said sincerely. ("Thank you very much.")

The Japanese grandpa told Bob "Arigatou. Mae no pan'ya wa koko mitaina basho ni wa tetsudatte kurenakatta yo." ("Thank you. The bake shop in front were not helpful like this place.")

Bob replied "Maa, bokutachi wa kanojo-ra yori umaku iu." ("Well, we're better than them.")

The grandpa laughed and went back to his table.

You and Tammy approached Bob with a mixture of surprise and curiosity evident on your faces. "Wait? You could speak Japanese?" you asked, incredulous.

Bob seemed equally surprised by the revelation, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I did?" he echoed with a hint of disbelief.

"How come you didn't realize? It was you who was speaking?" you asked, your brow furrowing in confusion as you tried to make sense of the situation.

"Wow, Bob. You're amazing," you exclaimed, unable to hide your admiration.

Hearing your compliment made Bob's ears turn slightly red, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Without a word, he turned on his heel and dashed back to the kitchen, leaving you and Tammy to exchange bemused glances.

"What was that?" you asked, still trying to process the unexpected turn of events.

"Hmm..." Tammy mused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she watched Bob disappear into the depths of the bakery.

🥐

Luck seemed to be on your side with the Japanese grandpa's glowing 5-star review, praising the bakery's hospitality towards foreigners and the elderly.

This drew in a wave of foreign customers eager to experience the warm welcome for themselves.

Equipped with a translator app, you managed to communicate with foreign customers, though sometimes the language barrier proved challenging, especially with fast speech or colloquial expressions. In those moments, Bob became your secret weapon.

To everyone's surprise, Bob displayed an unexpected talent for understanding and speaking various foreign languages like Mandarin, French, Spanish, and Turkish. His proficiency was impressive, though he couldn't explain how he acquired it.

Speculating that his past self might have been bilingual, Bob's newfound linguistic skills proved invaluable in connecting with foreign customers, enhancing the bakery's reputation for hospitality and service.

As business flourished, you couldn't help but marvel at the mystery of Bob's talents and how they'd unexpectedly contributed to the bakery's success.

With the influx of customers to your bakery, the business's overall income increased significantly. This allowed you to pay off your debts on time and provided the means to give bonuses to both Tammy and Bob for their hard work and dedication.

However, when Bob received his bonus, he seemed unsure what to do with the money. "I don't deserve this."

He hesitantly handed it back to you, expressing his belief that he didn't deserve to be paid since you had provided everything for him.

You stopped him in his tracks, shaking your head. "You deserve it, Bob. The success of the bakery is in large part because of you. Your hard work and dedication have made all the difference."

Despite Bob's initial reluctance, you insisted on him keeping the bonus as a token of appreciation for his invaluable contribution to the bakery's success.

Grateful and touched by your words, Bob accepted the bonus with a humble smile, understanding that his efforts had truly made a difference.

As you stepped outside to take out the trash, you were unexpectedly blocked by someone. You let out a sigh of annoyance when you realized it was Rick, the former employee who had stolen your family recipe.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, your tone laced with frustration.

Rick wore a smug expression on his face as he replied, "Oh, nothing. Just checking on you, who stole my customers."

You rolled your eyes at his audacity. "Funny you should say 'stole,' considering it was you who stole in the first place."

Rick laughed dismissively. "I was just putting it to good use. I knew I could do it better."

You scoffed at his arrogance. "Even though you stole it, it still tastes flavorless."

Rick snorted in disdain before turning on his heel and walking away.

As Rick left, you couldn't help but feel a surge of indignation at his brazen attitude. Despite his attempts to undermine you, you remained steadfast in your commitment to your bakery and its loyal customers.

Tammy's eyes narrowed with disdain as she watched Rick's retreating figure. "Was it him? Next time, call me. I'll hit him with my Louis Vuitton heels."

You winced at the mental image. "Ouch."

Bob, sensing the tension, interjected with concern. "Is he bothering you?"

You shrugged, trying to downplay the encounter. "Just my mortal enemy. Forget it. He always stops by to throw an insult."

Despite your attempt to brush it off, Bob could see the frustration etched on your face. With a sympathetic nod, he silently vowed to watch for Rick in the future.

🥐

As you lay sleeping, a loud crash shattered the stillness of the night, jolting you awake. Instantly alert, you noticed Bob also opening his door simultaneously, both of you exchanging a concerned glance.

"A burglar? Or a cat?" you mused aloud, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"I don't think a cat could destroy a window," Bob replied, his tone serious.

Your eyes widened in alarm, and without hesitation, you reached for your phone, fingers trembling as you dialed 911.

Intent on investigating, you moved to go downstairs, but Bob's firm grip on your arm stopped you in your tracks. "Stay here," he commanded softly but firmly.

"But—" you protested, the urgency of the situation driving you to action.

"I don't want you to get hurt," Bob insisted, his voice laced with concern for your safety.

Reluctantly, you acquiesced, remaining on the second floor as Bob descended to confront the intruders. For a tense moment, the house was eerily quiet, broken only by the muffled sounds of a struggle downstairs.

Unable to resist the urge to see what was happening, you cautiously approached the railing, peering down to the first floor. Your heart skipped a beat as you witnessed Bob engaging in a fierce battle with the masked intruders, his movements swift and calculated as he fought them off one by one.

Despite being outnumbered, Bob displayed remarkable skill and determination, his body language exuding confidence and strength as he defended your home against the would-be burglars.

With each precise strike and well-timed block, he gradually gained the upper hand, ultimately emerging victorious in the intense confrontation.

As the last intruder fled into the night, Bob stood tall and triumphant, his chest heaving with exertion but his gaze steady and unwavering. With a sense of awe and gratitude, you realized how fortunate you were to have someone like Bob by your side in peril.

"I'm here. Oh my god. Who would want to steal from this bakery?" Tammy exclaimed, rushing over from her apartment in a daze. She had been deep in slumber when you called her.

Surveying the damage, her eyes widened in shock. The bakery window lay shattered, tables and chairs lay broken, and the bread display case lay toppled on the ground. It was a heartbreaking sight, a stark contrast to the care and effort you had invested in preserving the legacy of the bakery.

As Tammy took in the devastation, a mixture of anger and disbelief crossed her face. "This is terrible. How could someone do this?" she muttered, her voice trembling with emotion.

Just then, the police arrived on the scene, their presence adding a sense of urgency to the situation. As they began their investigation, one of the officers turned to you with a questioning gaze.

"So, it was your employee who beat up all four of these burglars?" he inquired, his tone incredulous.

You nodded firmly at the officer's question. "Yes, officer. He saved me and this place."

The mention of saving the bakery seemed to catch the officer's attention, and he glanced around at the damage with a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "Do you have insurance?" he inquired, his voice softening slightly.

You nodded again, a sense of relief washing over you. "Yes," you confirmed, grateful for the reassurance that you would not face the financial burden of repairing the damage alone.

"Good, I will give you a letter from us as soon as possible, then you can send it to the insurance," said the police, offering you a reassuring nod.

"Thank you," you replied gratefully as the officers began to depart, their presence comforting in the wake of the chaos.

You approached Bob, who stood with his head bowed low, his expression weighed down by guilt and regret.

"I ruined the bakery," Bob muttered, his voice heavy with self-blame.

As you drew nearer, you could see the turmoil etched on his face, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Approaching Bob, who stood with a troubled expression, you offered a gentle smile. "You didn't ruin the bakery, Bob. You saved it. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't stopped them. Thank you," you said sincerely, your gratitude evident in your voice.

Glancing at the tools the burglars had brought – gasoline and a lighter – you couldn't help but shudder at the thought of the destruction they had intended to unleash upon your cherished bakery.

Tammy's voice broke the silence, her tone filled with awe and admiration. "Did Bob really fight all of them?" she asked incredulously.

You nodded emphatically. "Yes. He's amazing," you affirmed, your pride in Bob's actions evident.

Bob blushed at the praise, his humility shining through even in the midst of the chaos.

Tammy smirked mischievously. "He can bake, speak foreign languages, and fight. I think his old self was a Jack of All Trades," she remarked, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

You considered her words thoughtfully. "That means your brain and muscles still remember. Do you start remembering something?" you asked, hoping for a breakthrough.

Bob was quiet for a moment. He shook his head sadly. "No," he replied, his expression filled with frustration at his continued lack of memory.

Tammy's eyes lit up with excitement as she proposed a new idea. "How about we enroll him in acting classes, poetry classes, singing lessons? Perhaps he's good at those too, and it could trigger his old memories," she suggested eagerly, her enthusiasm infectious.

As you considered Tammy's suggestion, a sense of hope stirred within you. Perhaps there was still a chance to unlock the secrets of Bob's past and help him reclaim his lost memories. With determination, you resolved to explore every avenue in the quest to uncover the truth.

🥐

As the bakery underwent renovations, you decided to accompany Bob to try new activities in the hopes of triggering his old memories. Despite your efforts, there was still no progress in unlocking his past, but you couldn't deny that his instincts and strength seemed to be growing stronger by the day.

"Perhaps you were an MMA fighter? Or a boxing player?" you suggested one day, pondering the possibilities.

"Really?" Bob asked, his interest piqued by the idea.

Determined to explore this further, you took Bob to a boxing trial class. As you watched him don boxing shorts, you couldn't help but gulp nervously, realizing you had never seen him shirtless. His well-defined six-pack muscles and faded scars on his back hinted at a past filled with physical prowess and strength.

The trainer eyed Bob skeptically from the ring and asked, "Are you sure he's a newbie?"

You nodded, though the trainer seemed unconvinced. From a glance, he could read the muscles rippling beneath Bob's skin, indicating a level of proficiency that belied the term "newbie."

"Let's start," the trainer announced, motioning for Bob to step into the ring.

In the blink of an eye, the trainer let out a pained cry as Bob delivered a powerful punch, catching him off guard.

"Ouch!" the trainer exclaimed, clutching his stomach in agony. "Get out of here. I'm banning you both from this place," he declared, his voice strained with discomfort as he struggled to recover from the unexpected blow.

As you walked home together, laughter bubbled between you and Bob, the sound echoing through the quiet streets. Despite the challenges you faced with the bakery being closed for renovations, you couldn't help but feel a sense of lightness and joy in Bob's company.

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that you would be able to laugh during such a difficult time. Yet, with Bob by your side, everything seemed to fall into place, and the day's worries melted away in the warmth of his laughter.

🥐

After two weeks of renovations, the day finally arrived for the reopening of the bakery. As you unlocked the doors and stepped inside, a wave of apprehension washed over you. Would anyone still remember your bakery? Would the customers return after the temporary closure?

To your surprise and delight, as the day progressed, a steady stream of people began to trickle in through the doors. The familiar aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air, and the sound of chatter and laughter once again filled the cozy space.

You couldn't believe your eyes as you watched the tables fill up with eager customers, each one eagerly sampling the delicious treats on offer. It was as if the temporary closure had only heightened the anticipation, drawing even more people to your bakery than before.

As you busied yourself behind the counter, serving up delectable treats to the eager crowd, you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction in the resilience of your beloved bakery.

Many familiar faces returned, offering their condolences for the recent ordeal the store had faced. Their gestures of support were deeply appreciated as a reminder of the strong community surrounding the bakery.

Amidst the familiar flow of customers, however, a sense of unease settled over the bakery as a tall man with blonde hair rushed in, commanding attention from all who watched.

His hurried movements and searching gaze drew curious glances from the patrons, their eyes following him as he made his way through the crowd.

His attractiveness is on the same level as Bob's. That made female eyes at the bakery follow him.

Suddenly, the man stopped beside Bob, arranging a new batch of bread on the counter. With a relieved sigh, he enveloped Bob in a tight embrace, causing gasps of surprise to echo through the bakery.

"Huh?!" you exclaimed, along with Tammy and Bob, as the unexpected display of affection unfolded before you.

The blonde man spoke, his voice filled with emotion. "Bucky, I finally found you," he declared, his words hanging in the air.

The implications of his statement dawned on you, and a sense of confusion and apprehension washed over you. It was clear that this man knew Bob, but the nature of their relationship remained unclear.

Bob, visibly uncomfortable, pushed the man away and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't know him," he stated firmly, his expression betraying a mix of confusion and disgust.

You couldn't help but wonder about the connection between Bob and the blonde man. Was he a friend? A relative? Or perhaps something more?

Sensing your silent question, Bob moved closer to you, his gaze meeting yours with a silent plea for understanding. "Don't look at me like that," he murmured, his tone filled with unease.

Before you could respond, the blonde man approached, his eyes fixed on Bob as he repeated the name again. "Bucky."

Bob's voice cut through the tense atmosphere, his tone devoid of emotion as he addressed the customer directly. "Who the heck is Bucky?" he demanded, his words sharp and pointed.

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⋆｡「 Affection Prompt 3 」⋆˚

◉ Sinopsis; Buying them something unrequested because it made you think of them

◉ Feat; poly Stolitz, M&M, Fizzarolli

── ˙•˚∘✮🌙ᯓ🪐˙•˚∘ ──

Busy days for you were always the worst. Work, chores, errands- it all just meant you had to decline the invitation to the mall your partner(s) extended to you. Fortunately, while they're out, they find something that will hopefully cheer you up- and be a nice reward for your hard work.

Of course, it was Stolas' idea to take you and Blitzø to go out shopping. To their dismay, you had housework and errands to catch up on. Stolas insisted you join them and worry about the work later, but you assured him that you had no problem with the two going to the mall without you.

For a couple hours, the two navigated the labyrinth of stores and although Stolas and Blitzø were having fun together, your presence was missed very much. Throughout the day, they would catch sight of little things that reminded them of you. A plush here, some wall art there... and as much as Stolas wants to, he knows buying everything that reminded him of you maybe wasn’t the most viable option. Blitzø, on the other hand, is way more eager to spend. Instead of extravagant gifts, Blitzø settles on little knick-knacks that make him think of you. Maybe a few buttons or keychains, a cheap figurine- something along those lines. Stolas eventually settles on a jumbo-sized version of a plush you’d pointed out to him a while back.

Back at your apartment, you hear the screeching of tires coming into the lot. Ah. Must be Blitzø. Not long after, a loud, rapid succession of knocks paired with an annoyed “let us in” (and a quieter “Patience, darling”) at the other side of your door.

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

As disappointed Moxxie and Millie were that you couldn’t join them in going to the mall, they knew it was important to give you space to finish work and have some quality time for yourself. Of course, if you hadn’t insisted you needed the alone time to focus on your assignments, they wouldve just stayed with you.

While Moxxie and Millie were at the mall, they agreed to find a gift or two- seeing as you were working so hard, it only made sense you deserved a little something. Most of their time was spent at the food court, where they shared milkshakes. As is customary, Moxxie serenades Millie with a love song. Afterwards, as they’re wandering, Millie spots something- a blanket, hanging in one of the store windows. But it wasn’t just any blanket, no. It had a beautiful design with your favorite colors, and, Millie noted, it was quite large… perfect for all three of you to snuggle under.

When they arrived back at your shared space, Millie ran in, jumping onto you, while Moxxie hung back to close the door before joining in on a group hug. Safe to say, y’all made good use of that new blanket.

┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

Fizzarolli had meant to surprise you with a fun date… unfortunately, his timing wasn’t the best- he’d unknowingly picked a day where you had to prepare a presentation for work. Because of Fizz’s… talent (of being a major distraction), you’d said you’d prefer if he gave you a few hours to yourself.

While somewhat dejected, Fizz understood- he was just so amazing, how could you not look at him? No big deal, he reasoned. He would take this time to treat you (and himself). While he’s at the mall, Fizz takes advantage of the massage chairs and pop-up boutiques. With freshly manicured nails and rejuvenated muscles, Fizz went off to your pay a visit to your favorite stores. It doesn't take him long to find something- well, multiple things. He decided on a new bag for you, and of course you have to put something in the bag. So he got self care supplies; face masks, nail polish, and a new spa headband.

Knowing you've had a busy day, Fizzarolli was hoping you'd be receptive to a self-care night. The relieved sigh and eager hug from you served as a pretty clear "yes."

After a long day, a surprise gift from your partner(s) was just what you needed.

── ˙•˚∘✮ 🔭๋࣭ᯓ🌙˙•˚∘ ──

[narrators-journal]

Grass is greener

Okay! So, I only did the barest of skims on Feitan’s wiki as a refresher for this, and then just wung the rest off of memory. So, this might be a bit hit or miss on characterization, but I hope it’s still a good read. It came a lot easier than I thought it would, probably just because I think it’s funny to imagine someone as cruel and blood thirsty as Feitan being domestic, and maybe a little bitter about how, deep down, he’s okay with that, or enjoys it. Either way! I knocked it out p quick, and I hope you have fun reading it like I did writing it.

It felt like only a few years back, Feitan Portor had been a name that was feared across the country. His sadism had been a nightmare for just about everybody, good or bad, acquaintance, friend, or enemy. There had only been one other person who seemed to have the spine to challenge his reputation, and he’d ended up marrying that person. Together, the two had became a whole new source of fear for people.

In reality, though, that had been at least sixteen years ago now. Nowadays, the most blood the ravenette saw came from the steaks he’d order rare on date nights. The most torture he got to inflict came whenever he got the chance to teach his sixteen-year-old daughter his tactics, or on those few, rare times the two of you were able to get a full night completely free of your trio of children. Most of his day-to-day, though, was packed with far less exciting things. Parent-teacher meetings, cleaning, debates on whether or not his second youngest would be a headache or not.

God, I miss the spiders… He thought as he plucked the mushrooms out of his toddler son’s chubby hands before he could ‘stealthily’ swap it for more marshmallows. I’d even welcome Uvogin into my life again. Or, maybe I can talk Phinks into letting me torment him. Lord knows he makes enough jokes to deserve it. “Papa, papa, papa!” His hyperactive daughter chanted at the same time with a jumbo-sized box of colorful, sugary cereal held up to try and distract him from her baby brother. “Put it back, you don’t need it.” He sighed with barely a glance offered to the girl as he put his hand protectively back on the mushrooms in the cart. “But I want it!” “No.” “But I want it.” “No.” “But I want it.” She insisted stubbornly, and Feitan took a moment to ‘think’ before he responded to that one with a flat, “No.” Which, got him a very pissed off look from the little girl and a snort from his eldest daughter.

Thankfully, you returned from the depths of the store at that point, quick to snatch away the cereal and plop it back onto the store shelf. “Leave your father, and the mushrooms, alone. You guys already have sweets and cereal in the cart.” You reminded, and shut the conversation down with a swiftness. Which, made the ravenette glare at you while he watched you unclip the toddler’s child harness from his belt so that you could pick the little boy up an ease that made him smile slightly behind his face mask.

After all, of course a squirmy, mushroom-hating tot was nothing for you. If you were able to pin and go toe-to-toe with Feitan, a miniature version of you surely weighed less than a ten pound bag of rice. Maybe that’s why you have such an easier time at this than I do. He thought at you with a hint of bitterness in his own internal voice. Though, whether that came from his restlessness, or the bit of jealousy that seemed to permanently linger, even after your marriage. Though, at the same time that Feitan wished ill upon you for the sheer enjoyment of it, his attraction to you grew stronger.

How could it not? He knew how strong you were, and it was a thrill to see you use that strength to carry one of his children so easily. It proved to the ravenette that you could still fight him if you wanted, and he very much wanted to fight. “-tan? Hey, hun.” Your words abruptly flopped onto the train tracks of his thoughts to drag the pale man back to reality. Back to the commercially scented aisles of the shop and the cookies that you held out to him. “Can you go put this back and retrieve the mushrooms?” “Right.” He muttered, his mood curbed by the triumphant giggle of his second oldest child as he went back to find the mushrooms once again and return the cookies.

On the bright side, He told himself as he passed chips, dips, and bread loaves, When the spiders do finally reconvene, I’ll have at least one daughter trained in my ways. Maybe both of them if it takes long enough. I’m sure Chrollo would be very happy with that. As if Feitan would actually let his children follow the morbid life path you and him went down. Despite being a sadist, he wasn’t a Zoldyck. He wasn’t so morally bankrupt to wish his children the same difficulties he has had to deal with.

Feitan was a bit restless and unaccustomed to the domesticity of family life, yes. But, it still brought him joy to find his family in the maze of shop aisles and hear his younger daughter lisp indignantly, “But you don’t thtop her from buying candy!” “That’s because your sister’s buying that stuff with her own money, and she’s not fighting me on mushrooms.” You pointed out, before the teenage copy of himself stage whispered, “I’m also the favorite.” to relish in yours and her sister’s denial of that fact.

It wasn’t as good as the fear Feitan used to induce in people, but at least he could find joy in the knowledge that his children could be just as mean as him.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 25: love letters

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

A small disclaimer: I tried my best to proofread the letters but I hope you can forgive any mistakes, if there are. I had a lot of fun planning this one, I hope you like it!

“Why do we have so much trash, Mom?” your teenage daughter asked, watching you close the third jumbo-sized black bag filled with things you clearly no longer needed.

You two were putting away the necessary things for the move the following week and, taking advantage of the occasion, you were getting rid of things you no longer needed and putting some others in boxes to donate to some institution. Michelle wasn't too excited about the idea of cleaning, like any teenager, but at that point she wasn't even helping you anymore and was just sitting near you, playing with anything interesting she found and keeping you entertained with her chatter.

“Over the years you accumulate things because you think they will be useful for later, but in reality they aren’t and they just become a pile of useless things” you laughed “And when they can be you forget that you have them saved and you buy a new one”

“Do you think Dad will buy me that closet I want for my birthday?”

“It will depend on your grades and how well you behave,” you murmured, as you always responded whenever she asked both of you for something. She knew it was easier to bend her father to her whims, but you made sure to remind Spencer that discipline was necessary too.

“What does that box have inside?” she asked and you had to lift your head from where she was standing to look at which box she was referring to.

A smile escaped you when you noticed that she had found your old, unpainted metal box that had once stored sweets but now fulfilled other functions, the one that you kept in a dresser drawer but that with so much movement had ended up on one of your husband's stacks of books.

“Open it and find out”

Your daughter did as you asked, removing the lid with some trepidation as if a poisonous animal was going to jump out.

“Letters?”

“These are all the letters your father has written to me,” you responded proudly. The package was quite sizeable and had everything from envelopes to poorly cut pieces of paper that Spencer would slip into your pocket from time to time.

“Letters?” she repeated, sounding quite confused. “That's like the Middle Ages. Did you guys not have cell phones or what?”

“Letters are still used today, miss Tech,” you scolded her, pointing an accusing finger at her. “But your dad has never been a fan of text messages, and when we met I was working as a clerk in a library that your dad frequented. We would talk from time to time and he would leave me pieces of paper among the books he handed out so that I could read them. Almost all of them were his opinion of the books, but at some point it was his way of flirting with me. This one, for example, was for our first date… see?”

You gave your daughter a folded brown sheet of paper, from which she read the following:

“How cheesy!” she complained, after reading the words of the man who would later become your husband, although you knew she probably didn't mean it. “And what did you say to him?”

“Well, I told him yes, it's obvious. "It seemed very sweet to me, at our age no one did that kind of thing anymore."

“But there are many letters here.”

“Oh, yes, your dad traveled a lot when he still worked at the BAU and although we talked on the phone he made sure to write me a letter every time he missed me, which was almost every time” you laughed, remembering with nostalgia your courtship “He says that writing helps him think about things better. There are several good ones, to tell the truth”

You searched through the box for a letter that was decent enough for the teenager to read, feeling her gaze at all times. Finally you extended it to her, one made of beige paper and the same crooked handwriting that the two of you knew perfectly well.

“And it didn't scare you?” she asked, frowning slightly “You know, that it was so… that he sounded so in love.”

“Oh, I was too, daughter,” you answered honestly. “Although not all of them were equally romantic, there are some that are sillier. Like that one here, look at this”

“Was my dad always as nerdy as he is now? With that curious data and statistics”

“He was much more so,” you laughed. Your daughter opened her eyes wide, as if she didn't believe it.

“And you still married him?”

“Are you guys talking about me?” a voice spoke from the door, making both of you jump. Spencer had just finished his class hours and you didn't know why you hadn't even heard him open the door, but there he was now.

“I was showing Mich the letters you gave me,” you explained and he nodded softly, realizing this from the box resting on your daughter's lap.

“Do you still have them?” he asked, an almost imperceptible blush on his cheeks, as he sat on the bed next to you.

“Of course, why would I get rid of them?”

With care and love you reached up to the back of your husband's neck and then pulled him to you in a soft kiss that took him by surprise, but which he didn’t refuse.

“Ugh! You are disgusting!” Michelle squealed from the other side, forcing you to break away from the laughter that had overcome you.

“You won't say that when you have a boyfriend.”

"What are you talking about? She'll never have a boyfriend," Spencer added, as he always responded at the mention of it. "We're going to put her in a nunnery, don't you remember?"

"Daddy!" she complained, pretending to be upset, but with a smile giving away that she wasn't.

The man left his place to walk over to your daughter and lean towards her, trying to place a kiss on her forehead while he struggled with all her complaints and kicks. But in the end she always gave in, just like he did with her. They were each other's weakness.

“Go and take a shower and if you have homework, finish it. We’re going to order a pizza."

Your daughter gave a celebratory expression and left the room in a hurry, to fulfill what he had told her and also to get rid of the possibility of you asking her to do the cleaning that she hadn’t done during the afternoon.

"How was your day?"

“Everything normal,” he smiled, reaching out to take one of the old envelopes you had in the box, and with that you two seemed to be remembering the same time: the passionate and youthful love you had. “I hope she hasn't read the more inappropriate”

“No, I keep those just for myself,” you replied, winking at him playfully.

The next morning Spencer had classes early, so he left almost after breakfast. You didn't realize that he had left a note on the table until much later and when you found it you couldn't help but smile like a fool.

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