j23r23

[j23r23]

I spat out my water when I saw that you turned this into a series!!!

I sat down and read through all the chapters in one sitting!

Im so in awe!

I don't think i have enough exclamation points for this!!!!

So giddy and intrigued where the whole series will lead to!

Biting my nails now and tapping my foot because I'm too excited for the next piece!!!!

Thank you so much for sharing this and putting in so much hard work and effort!!!!

lessons in lovemaking [masterlist]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, handjobs, fondling, nudity, dry humping, grinding, female masterbation, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, clothed ejaculation,reader has dubious methods of coping, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, use of safe word/motion, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, major arguements, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, injury, bloodr, eader is lowkey depressed, trauma. mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each part

main masterlist

PARTS [4/7] part one part two part three part four

[j23r23]

Thank you for the reblog sweets 💕

Sorry you had to wait that long...

Being pregnant myself is doing a number on my brain 😂

Ooo hiii again!

If it’s okay, can I please request a (Tan lives) Tangerine x fem!civilian!reader where they are married and she’s pregnant with his baby daughter. She knows about Tan and Lem being assassins but she doesn’t love her hubby and brother in law any less💜 They’re both SUPER protective of her and she’s 100% living a life of luxury with the money burning a hole in Tangerine’s pocket. Anyway, she’s really sweet and innocent, and Tangerine and Lemon make sure to keep their job away from her (as much as possible), like Tan doesn’t even share the gory details with her (even if she asks he’s like, “Don’t worry about it, love”❤️) . But she gets caught up in the middle of their most dangerous job (the Bullet Train job) because she (after craving something out in the city) goes on the Bullet Train to travel there? (At the same time the assassins are running amuck). Needless to say, Tangerine about has a heart attack when he sees his very pregnant wife on the train and does everything he can to protect her from danger and to get them all off the train (Tangerine, Lemon, Y/n all get off alive and well!!)

Okey, this took me like ages... im so sorry. I do hope its to your liking...

Strawberry Mochi

Tangerine x Pregnant!Fem!Reader

warnings - none, just fluff

If anyone had told you a few years ago that you’d end up married to a professional assassin — one who dressed like he belonged in a 70s gangster movie and spoke with the kind of thick London accent that made you melt — you would’ve laughed and rolled your eyes.

But here you were. Mrs. Tangerine.

Seven months pregnant. Living in a ridiculous five-star hotel in Tokyo at the moment— a private suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline, a bathtub the size of a swimming pool (so you can submerge that bump finally!), and a closet bursting with designer gifts your husband couldn’t resist buying.

“For my girls,” he always said, big hand smoothing over your growing belly.

You knew what Tangerine and Lemon did for a living. You weren’t naïve. And you didn’t love them any less for it.

In fact, you loved them more — for how fiercely they loved you. How they shielded you from the world’s ugliness. How Tangerine tucked you into his side every night, murmuring.

"You don't have to worry about a thing, love. Never."

He was good at keeping his job separate. No blood on his hands adn always a fresh suit when he came home. He would never talk about his jobs. If you asked, he’d just kiss your forehead and say, "Best you don't know, sweetheart. You’re too precious for all that."

You weren’t reckless. You stayed home like he asked, most days.

But that evening, you’d been hit with the strongest craving for the strawberry mochi you’d seen in a tiny shop downtown. You couldn’t stop thinking about it. It consumed your whole brain. You needed it.

"Just stay in, alright? Wait for me," he’d say with a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. "It’s not a place to wander alone in your condition."

You meant to listen. God, you meant to. But that craving, that tiny bit of hunger, tugged harder than his words ever could.

And the quickest way there? The Shinkansen. The Bullet Train.

You promised yourself you'd be quick. In and out. You even left Tangerine a sweet little note.

"Gone to get a craving! Back soon! Love you xx"

You never — never — could have imagined that your husband’s latest job would also be on that train.

At first, everything seemed fine. You boarded, found a seat, adjusted the flowy dress you wore over your bump, and settled in for a short ride.

Then chaos broke out like a spark catching fire. Shouting. Screams. The unmistakable sound of a gunshot muffled through the walls.

Your stomach dropped.

"Oi! Get the fuck outta my way!"

You knew that voice.

You turned just as a flash of blue and gold — your husband’s suit — barreled down the corridor.

"Tangerine?" you gasped.

His head snapped toward you — and the look on his face was pure, blinding panic. Like he'd seen a ghost.

"Sweetheart?! What the fuck—!"

He sprinted toward you, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, and immediately started checking you over — his hands running over your arms, your face, your belly — frantic, desperate, like he needed to make sure you weren’t hurt.

"What're you doin' here, love?!" he rasped, still holding your face, his large hands smushing your cheeks together.

"I-I just— I wanted some mochi—" you stammered between your puckerd lips.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed out, voice cracking. "You’re bloody pregnant, on a fuckin' train full of assassins!"

You nodded weakly, with big doe eyes.

"It's alright. I'm here now. I've got you." He wrapped one arm around your back, the other bracing protectively over your bump, positioning himself between you and the chaos like a human shield — solid, steady, unmovable.

"Lem!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Lemon appeared seconds later, face wild until he saw you — and then it was full of the same fierce terror. "Oh, bloody hell, what is she doing here? She's pregnant, man!"

"No shit!" Tangerine barked. "Thats why we’re gettin' her off this fuckin' train right now."

You crossed her arms, pouting. "I just wanted Strawberry Mochi."

Lemon froze, eyes wide. "Y- you want… mochi?" He turned to Tangerine, eyes even wider, then back to you, shaking his head.

"In the name of—"

Lemon immediately moved into a defensive position, eyes scanning for threats.

Tangerine shielded you through the chaos, barking threats at anyone who came too close. Lemon covered the rear, pushing through cars and avoiding fights whenever possible.

When a passenger tried to intercept, Lemon floored him without hesitation, knocking him out cold with one brutal hit. "Don't you even think about it, bruv," he growled.

The three of you finally reached the end of the car just as the train began to slow — the next station coming into view. Lemon stood by the doors, looking far too relaxed now.

“Wher is that Mochi place again, love,” he teased, winking at you. “I’m suddenly feelin’ like I need a bite myself. You’ve got me craving strawberry mochi now.”

Tangerine shot him a look, still keeping his arm wrapped around you. “Oi, not the time, Lem. Let’s just get off the bloody train in one piece, yeah?”

Lemon shrugged with a grin. “What? Can’t blame a man for developing cravings too.”

The train finally screeched to a halt at the station, and the three of you stepped off onto the platform, the night air cool and crisp. Tangerine stayed glued to your side, his protective hand still resting gently over your bump, while Lemon casually walked beside you, still humming a little tune like the world hadn’t just nearly torn itself apart around you.

As you walked toward the exit, Tangerine’s grip tightened just a fraction. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You smiled, feeling a wave of comfort wash over you despite the madness. "I’m fine, Tan. I’m fine. But... could we get that mochi on now?" you teased.

Lemon grinned, nudging Tangerine with his elbow. "I knew she’d still be thinkin’ about it."

Tangerine rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the fondness in his gaze. "I swear to God, you two," he muttered, but there was no heat in his voice.

For now, everything was alright.

[j23r23]

And now the Dog tags!!!

And my poor boy Pietro😭😭😭

I am standing here, arms crossed, pouting...

When and especially HOW! will this turn around?!

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 70

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 2.2k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which someone is lost, someone is found, and someone is saved.

Scott turns to Wanda. “Can you reverse what you did to Barnes?” “I don’t know,” says Wanda, slowly, as if she’s not sure of the answer. “I’m not sure what I did, and they haven’t let me see him again since.” “And the kid knows the way out?” “I can get her out,” says Pietro quickly. “And the doctor, too.” “Good.” Scott turns to you. “The team’s on their way. But so’s Strucker. There was a message that went out when we came in. I saw it on the servers when I set the wi-fi transmitters.” Your fingers grip the rough edges of the mattress. “And Bucky…?” Scott swallows. “I don’t think he’s Bucky right now.” Your blood goes cold. “That’s… that’s impossible. Shuri removed the conditioning. The words aren’t supposed to work on him anymore.” Scott holds something out to you. A broken grey chain, with two scraps of metal hanging from it. Bucky’s dog tags.

Oh dear. Find out who is lost, and found, and saved on AO3.

Don't want to read on AO3? Don't worry, I gotcha. Or I will.

Once I'm done posting NAFTK on AO3, I will start cross-posting the chapters here. I'd do it now but trying to track that many chapters will make my head explode. Simultaneous cross-posting of future x Reader and NAFTK stories will be the rule. Let me know if you have questions or concerns; my main goal is to make reading easy, accessible, and not spam the tag. Chapters will use the tag #not a fairy tale kiss verse.

Thanks!

[j23r23]

No, not Bucky 😭

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 69

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 2k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which you meet the witch and her brother face-to-face.

Wanda bites out her words. “I’m not helping you.” She lifts her hands, and the red sparks dance between her fingers. Just looking at them makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. You can’t pull your eyes away from them. “Your baby didn’t ask for this,” hisses Wanda. “And neither did the Soldier.” The breath catches in your throat. “What do you know about what Bucky would want?” “I know he never wanted you here,” she says. Electric fire jumps between her fingers, beautiful and dangerous. “And I know the last person he thought about was you.” The last person. Was. You heart lodges in your throat. It’s not too late. It can’t be too late.

Is it too late? Has the Author been lying about a happy ending this entire time? Or is there a reason she chose that particular gif? Find out what Wanda means on AO3.

Don't want to read on AO3? Don't worry, I gotcha. Or I will.

Once I'm done posting NAFTK on AO3, I will start cross-posting the chapters here. I'd do it now but trying to track that many chapters will make my head explode. Simultaneous cross-posting of future x Reader and NAFTK stories will be the rule. Let me know if you have questions or concerns; my main goal is to make reading easy, accessible, and not spam the tag. Chapters will use the tag #not a fairy tale kiss verse.

Thanks!

[j23r23]

This is pure gold!!!!

Love it! Love it! Love it!

Home Time | Bucky Barnes x Reader | Drabble - 469 words

Spoilers for the ending of Thunderbolts* , not super plot spoilers, but still spoilers. This is you warned.

Seriously.

No other warnings apply (just swears ☺️) just couldn't contain my excitement at home much I loved it! Had to let it out via fanfic!

When the fight is over, how's everyone going to get home?

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

Bucky rubbed dirt from his forehead with the back of his hand and looked around at the assembled group.

Bob was chatting to Yelena while she picked rubble from her suit. Alexei was picking cement from Yelena's hair too and the blonde looked thoroughly overwhelmed.

Walker waved to the cameras while trying to suruptitiously bend his shield back.

Ava looked bored as she scanned the crowd. "Uh, what now? I'd like to go home now, maybe brush my hair."

"Ah, do not worry, I have my —ah — no. It is in the dessert " Alexei looked disappointed.

"I can get you guys to an airport or something," Bucky tapped his phone, "but you have to behave."

He looked around the assembled …mob.

"I am always on best behaviour, Red Guardian was role model—"

"Please shut up." Yelena snapped.

"Whoever your connection is, Bucky, we can behave okay just let's go home." Walker said waving his hand.

"It's not so much a connection…"

A black SUV pulled up among the rubble, tinted windows hiding the interior. It came to a slow stop and the drivers door opened.

"James, what the fuck?"

"James?" Bob whispered.

Bucky's face changed, the scowl gone, eyes wide, hands up in surrendor. "Doll, listen I —"

"Don't you 'doll' me Mr!" You put your hands on your hips. "Just the afternoon, be back soon, see you after the hearing." You raised an eyebrow. "Bullshit, you're in big trouble."

"And we had to behave." Bob whispered, perhaps a touch too loud.

Your head whipped to him, scowling, before returning to Bucky.

"I'm sorry, okay." He approached slowly, then cupped your cheeks in his dusty hands, "I promise it was for a really good reason."

You narrowed your eyes, "promise?"

"Of course, forgive me?"

Yelena thought she was going mad, was Bucky giving you puppy dog eyes?

Was it working?

"I've got a few new friends, couldn't give them a lift somewhere could you?" He gave you a charming smile, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying you slowly.

You peeked around his back and scanned over Alexei, Bob, Yelena and Ava before narrowing your eyes at Walker.

"That guy?"

"I know, I promise I'll tell you everything later." Bucky kissed you gently.

"Later?"

"Hmm…" Bucky kissed you again, every reason for fighting through wrapped in his arms, safe, warm. He closed his eyes and soaked you in.

"James," you rubbed your hands down his chest, firm and real and back with you, "if your friends make a mess of my new car, you'll have worse things to worry about. Okay?"

You tapped his chest and he laughed, tucking you under his arm and turning to — he refused to say it, better to say friends than any stupid superhero name.

"You heard Mrs Barnes, don't make a fucking mess."

[j23r23]

Your mind is so great! How do you come up with all the different angles for the different chapters?!? Really am in awe!

Also Scott and Cassie, my favorite duo of all time🫶🏻

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 68

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 1.1k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which Cassie Lang listens to a bedtime story. (What, you weren't waiting for something, were you?)

“Scott.” “Hey, Maggie! I’m telling Cassie a bedtime story.” “Really? Because it sounds an awful lot like you’re telling her about your Avengering.” “No, definitely not.” “We talked about this, Scott.” “I know, and that’s why I would never tell her about my Avengering. Which I don’t do. Because it goes against my parole if it’s not signed off by twenty lawyers and half of Congress.” “Okay.” “Okay.” “Mommy, you’re interrupting the story.” “Sorry, Peanut.” “Go back downstairs.” “I’m going, I’m going.” “Is she gone?” “Yes. Keep telling me.” “Okay. So… the mystic Chinese magical man takes me to the… uh, flying dragon, and I meet with… um… Lieutenant Nationality and the Eagle and… uh… Charlotte the spider and the Princess.” “Princess?” “You’ll figure it out..."

Find out what happens to Lieutenant Nationality, the Eagle, Charlotte, and the Princess in the Evil Snake Castle on AO3!

[j23r23]

Ooo hiii again!

If it’s okay, can I please request a (Tan lives) Tangerine x fem!civilian!reader where they are married and she’s pregnant with his baby daughter. She knows about Tan and Lem being assassins but she doesn’t love her hubby and brother in law any less💜 They’re both SUPER protective of her and she’s 100% living a life of luxury with the money burning a hole in Tangerine’s pocket. Anyway, she’s really sweet and innocent, and Tangerine and Lemon make sure to keep their job away from her (as much as possible), like Tan doesn’t even share the gory details with her (even if she asks he’s like, “Don’t worry about it, love”❤️) . But she gets caught up in the middle of their most dangerous job (the Bullet Train job) because she (after craving something out in the city) goes on the Bullet Train to travel there? (At the same time the assassins are running amuck). Needless to say, Tangerine about has a heart attack when he sees his very pregnant wife on the train and does everything he can to protect her from danger and to get them all off the train (Tangerine, Lemon, Y/n all get off alive and well!!)

Okey, this took me like ages... im so sorry. I do hope its to your liking...

Strawberry Mochi

Tangerine x Pregnant!Fem!Reader

warnings - none, just fluff

If anyone had told you a few years ago that you’d end up married to a professional assassin — one who dressed like he belonged in a 70s gangster movie and spoke with the kind of thick London accent that made you melt — you would’ve laughed and rolled your eyes.

But here you were. Mrs. Tangerine.

Seven months pregnant. Living in a ridiculous five-star hotel in Tokyo at the moment— a private suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline, a bathtub the size of a swimming pool (so you can submerge that bump finally!), and a closet bursting with designer gifts your husband couldn’t resist buying.

“For my girls,” he always said, big hand smoothing over your growing belly.

You knew what Tangerine and Lemon did for a living. You weren’t naïve. And you didn’t love them any less for it.

In fact, you loved them more — for how fiercely they loved you. How they shielded you from the world’s ugliness. How Tangerine tucked you into his side every night, murmuring.

"You don't have to worry about a thing, love. Never."

He was good at keeping his job separate. No blood on his hands adn always a fresh suit when he came home. He would never talk about his jobs. If you asked, he’d just kiss your forehead and say, "Best you don't know, sweetheart. You’re too precious for all that."

You weren’t reckless. You stayed home like he asked, most days.

But that evening, you’d been hit with the strongest craving for the strawberry mochi you’d seen in a tiny shop downtown. You couldn’t stop thinking about it. It consumed your whole brain. You needed it.

"Just stay in, alright? Wait for me," he’d say with a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. "It’s not a place to wander alone in your condition."

You meant to listen. God, you meant to. But that craving, that tiny bit of hunger, tugged harder than his words ever could.

And the quickest way there? The Shinkansen. The Bullet Train.

You promised yourself you'd be quick. In and out. You even left Tangerine a sweet little note.

"Gone to get a craving! Back soon! Love you xx"

You never — never — could have imagined that your husband’s latest job would also be on that train.

At first, everything seemed fine. You boarded, found a seat, adjusted the flowy dress you wore over your bump, and settled in for a short ride.

Then chaos broke out like a spark catching fire. Shouting. Screams. The unmistakable sound of a gunshot muffled through the walls.

Your stomach dropped.

"Oi! Get the fuck outta my way!"

You knew that voice.

You turned just as a flash of blue and gold — your husband’s suit — barreled down the corridor.

"Tangerine?" you gasped.

His head snapped toward you — and the look on his face was pure, blinding panic. Like he'd seen a ghost.

"Sweetheart?! What the fuck—!"

He sprinted toward you, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, and immediately started checking you over — his hands running over your arms, your face, your belly — frantic, desperate, like he needed to make sure you weren’t hurt.

"What're you doin' here, love?!" he rasped, still holding your face, his large hands smushing your cheeks together.

"I-I just— I wanted some mochi—" you stammered between your puckerd lips.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed out, voice cracking. "You’re bloody pregnant, on a fuckin' train full of assassins!"

You nodded weakly, with big doe eyes.

"It's alright. I'm here now. I've got you." He wrapped one arm around your back, the other bracing protectively over your bump, positioning himself between you and the chaos like a human shield — solid, steady, unmovable.

"Lem!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Lemon appeared seconds later, face wild until he saw you — and then it was full of the same fierce terror. "Oh, bloody hell, what is she doing here? She's pregnant, man!"

"No shit!" Tangerine barked. "Thats why we’re gettin' her off this fuckin' train right now."

You crossed her arms, pouting. "I just wanted Strawberry Mochi."

Lemon froze, eyes wide. "Y- you want… mochi?" He turned to Tangerine, eyes even wider, then back to you, shaking his head.

"In the name of—"

Lemon immediately moved into a defensive position, eyes scanning for threats.

Tangerine shielded you through the chaos, barking threats at anyone who came too close. Lemon covered the rear, pushing through cars and avoiding fights whenever possible.

When a passenger tried to intercept, Lemon floored him without hesitation, knocking him out cold with one brutal hit. "Don't you even think about it, bruv," he growled.

The three of you finally reached the end of the car just as the train began to slow — the next station coming into view. Lemon stood by the doors, looking far too relaxed now.

“Wher is that Mochi place again, love,” he teased, winking at you. “I’m suddenly feelin’ like I need a bite myself. You’ve got me craving strawberry mochi now.”

Tangerine shot him a look, still keeping his arm wrapped around you. “Oi, not the time, Lem. Let’s just get off the bloody train in one piece, yeah?”

Lemon shrugged with a grin. “What? Can’t blame a man for developing cravings too.”

The train finally screeched to a halt at the station, and the three of you stepped off onto the platform, the night air cool and crisp. Tangerine stayed glued to your side, his protective hand still resting gently over your bump, while Lemon casually walked beside you, still humming a little tune like the world hadn’t just nearly torn itself apart around you.

As you walked toward the exit, Tangerine’s grip tightened just a fraction. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You smiled, feeling a wave of comfort wash over you despite the madness. "I’m fine, Tan. I’m fine. But... could we get that mochi on now?" you teased.

Lemon grinned, nudging Tangerine with his elbow. "I knew she’d still be thinkin’ about it."

Tangerine rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the fondness in his gaze. "I swear to God, you two," he muttered, but there was no heat in his voice.

For now, everything was alright.

[j23r23]

do you have any carmy fic/writer recs?? luv your work and in my brainrot era, i just started this acc for the bear <3

Well YES I do ahem ahem let’s go

@saltnsugarbear

@andiberzatto

@notsonian

@zorrasucia

@fishfooddude

@l4long-winded

@butchcarmy (not currently active but their stuff EATS)

@lalalieb ( recipe for remember series 🧎🏼‍♀️🧎🏼‍♀️🧎🏼‍♀️)

@wtfsteveharrington (not active rn but the works EAT)

@oscquinn ( ignore that she’s in her hockey era 🙄)

@alisonsfics (more fluffy stuff than smut!)

@bookshelf-dust (more long form stuff that eats)

@juuuulez (I miss them bad)

@emotionoitme ( read their series you won’t regret it)

@writers-hes (tell me you need me is one of my classic favs)

@ohcaptains (I don’t think they write for him anymore but the stuff they have written is too good not to mention)

@dearpyramus (the fluff is chefs kiss)

@blueaprondelight

@carmybrainworms (baby chef my beloved)

@nolita-fairytale (make my heart surrender is my joker)

@etherealising (long form fic that’s still in progress but it’s so chefs kiss)

Okay that’s like. A Fraction of people but a lot of writers aren’t active so I didn’t wanna tag them 😭 also I’m 100% forgetting someone but anyways, HAPPY READING!

[j23r23]

Favorite fruit

I had my Tangarine phase in my corner, and now I'm sharing one of the little things I wrote about this fool and his nice twin. I have so maye Taylor Aaron Johnson things waiting, it's almost indecent.

"She's here, mate."

"Shut up."

"Breathe. Don't make a fool of yourself. Just order a coffee, cool. It's not like you're proposing to her. You wouldn't have the balls anyway."

"Lemon, shut up."

Tangerine didn't try to contradict his brother about being nervous, or that he wasn't at all interested in their pretty waitress, Y/N, whom they went to as soon as they got home from a mission for a well-deserved drink.

It was like a ritual, a sign that they were done with their work. The comfort of a nice hot coffee and the smile of the most beautiful woman in the world.

Okay, Tangerine didn't say the last part out loud, to keep his twin from getting any stupid ideas, but it clearly didn't help.

For some, it might have been weird to celebrate an achievement with just a coffee. But alcohol—beer, whiskey, champagne—was for when the mission had been really tough and they needed to come back down. And, like good Englishmen, it was tea if it went badly. The rest of the time, coffee. With Y/N ​​as a bonus.

"Hi, boys !" said the waitress as she approached their table. "You're okay ? Same as usual ?"

"I don't know. Tang, same as usual ? Or are you finally going to decide to…"

"Thanks luv." replied Tangerine, crushing his brother's foot under the table. "We're fine, and yes, two espressos."

"I'll bring them right away !"

He continued to smile at her until she disappeared behind the counter, turning back to Lemon, staring at him intensely. For his part, his brother wore his eternally impassive and tired expression.

Someone once said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result. Even though he loved that supposedly peaceful post-mission moment, the twins had been having the same conversation over and over again for months.

"You have to tell her."

"You… Really, man… I don't know how to tell you anymore. Stop it."

"You love her, bro. You're completely crazy about this girl. I like her too. She's a Thomas. I can only agree that you love a Thomas, you'll be very happy with her."

"You have to listen to me. Stop with Thomas the Tank Engine or I'll seriously put a bullet in your head. And stop with Y/N. She's nice, yeah. But that's not love, okay ? You're imagining things."

"Yeah, yeah. You jump up and down with excitement as soon as you know we're coming here, you're a polite sweetheart with her, and this is the only cafe you haven't stolen anything from yet. We also need to talk about your habit of stealing things, by the way, but that's a problem for later."

Maybe Lemon wasn't imagining things.

Relationships with others, of all kinds, had always been a complicated subject for Tangerine. Aside from his brother, he'd never really been close to anyone. Something to do with his personality, no doubt, trust issues.

Their line of work didn't help either. He had absolutely no time for meeting people, going on dates, all that romantic stuff. Not to mention the fact that it was very dangerous.

He sometimes imagined his life if he were lucky enough to be with Y/N. The coffee ritual would just be what happened before he came home, where she would welcome him tenderly, taking him in her arms and making him forget everything else.

But these dreams often turned into nightmares, in which she ended up a widow, or worse, he would cry over her lifeless body, his hands covered in her blood.

Someone else had said something like if you love them, let them go. If Tangerine loved Y/N, he should be content with seeing her when he ordered his coffee after a mission. At least she was safe.

"You're depressing me," Lemon sighed, shaking his head. "There are lots of contractors with families, partners, and children. No one knows our names or addresses. I don't like leaving you alone in your empty little apartment."

"It's not empty, it's tidy and unadorned."

"Empty, and sad. Just one date at least. Ask for her number."

The other thing that scared Tangerine, even though he refused to admit it even less because he wasn't afraid of anything, was the very strong possibility of rejection. He was handsome, he knew it. He was capable of being charming and funny, not too stupid despite what his twin might say, and he had seduced many women.

But this wasn't just any woman. This was Y/N, who smelled good, who looked at him like he was someone, who remembered his real name and everything he had said to her during his last visit. He felt special when he was around her. Lucky.

He wouldn't be so surprised if she didn't want him after all. She could do better, and it was even more true if you counted his activities.

Because if she agreed to a date, if they ended up together, he'd have to tell her at some point that he was a hitman. He was good at lying, but to his wife, that wasn't a good idea. A very bad basis for a relationship.

She'd want to know where he was, with whom, why he was gone so often. If she accepted the situation, she'd be worried all the time. Tangerine didn't want his sweet Y/N to be worried all the time.

But it was more likely that she didn't like his job very much, that she was scared or disgusted by what he was. He really didn't want Y/N to hate him.

"And here are two espressos for my favorite 'twins'." she crooned, setting the cups in front of them. "Nothing else, sure ?"

"My brother wants something. Which one of us is… Ah ! Stop stepping on my foot !"

"When you stop talking nonsense ! Sorry, luv, it's perfect, as always."

"Really ? Okay. I'm just here if you need anything."

"Coward." Citron muttered.

"Fucker."

They still managed to enjoy their coffees, with another topic of conversation, for at least ten minutes, before Lemon found a way to bring up Thomas and the next mission.

To avoid getting an ulcer, Tangerine finished his cup as quickly as possible so he could get up, pay, and go home where he would collapse in his empty sad bed.

Still with her beautiful smile, Y/N gave him their payment receipt and wished him a good day. A receipt he then gave to his brother, who insisted on recording all their expenses.

"Dude."

"Lemon, I promise you with everything I hold dear, if you ever talk about trains, missions, or my so-called feelings again, I'll…"

"She wrote her number on the ticket. Look. With your name. With your fucking name ! You're her favorite. Damn, I'm the nicer one of the two of us."

He could have argued that he didn't agree, even though most of the people they encountered also claimed that his twin was the nicer one. However, it didn't matter at that moment, as he picked up the ticket to admire the list of numbers Y/N had written down for him. All the problems were still there. His job, the secrets, the danger.

He was forced to order his brother to shut up again when he pulled out his phone to save the number. A date. It couldn't hurt, a little date. And then they'd see.

"I can't wait to plan your wedding, man. I have tons of ideas for your bachelor party, I'm going to be the best man ever."

"I'm out of here. I'll call you about the next job. Maybe, if I don't decide to kill you first."

"Your kids will be beautiful ! Sleep tight, brother !"

For once in a very long time, Tangerine dreamed of Y/N without it ending in a nightmare. He sent her a message the very next day.

[j23r23]

PEOPLE!!!

Give this Series the love it deserves!!!💕

The Recipe for Remembering

The Bear AU (Part Twelve)

Here to my masterlist!

Pairing: Carmen x Fem! Reader

CW: language.. and some tension 👀

Summary: Over strong coffee and fresh pastries, Y/N and Carmen dive into planning a high-stakes event menu—battling nerves, rediscovering their old creative rhythm, and unspoken feelings.

A/N: Well… this one took a little longer than expected to write! I still hope you enjoy it. All the love and feedback is truly appreciated!

Y/N wakes slowly, surfacing from sleep like she’s rising through warm water. 

At first, she doesn’t know where she is. The room is dim, quiet, the smell familiar—laundry detergent, something distinctly Carmen. Her head is on a firm pillow, and something solid is pressed along her back. 

Then she feels it. An arm wrapped around her waist. A hand resting heavy and warm just beneath the hem of the t-shirt—his t-shirt—on her stomach. His chest, bare and steady, rising and falling against her spine. 

Carmen. 

He must’ve shifted closer during the night. Or maybe she did. 

Her eyes flutter open. The window is barely lit with morning, a pale gray glow casting soft lines across the sheets. The world is still, not yet awake. And for once, she feels… calm. Her mind isn’t racing. Her body doesn’t feel tight. 

She stays there, not moving, afraid that any shift might break the fragile peace of this moment. 

But then Carmen stirs. His breath brushes the back of her neck. His hand flexes lightly just beneath the fabric on her stomach, like his body knows before his mind does. She can feel the calluses on his fingers, the slow inhale of his chest against her back, the way his legs have tangled slightly with hers under the sheets. 

She should move. She should. Slip away before he wakes up and sees her wide-eyed and paralyzed in his bed like she’s never done this before. 

But she doesn’t. Not yet. 

Instead, she lets herself settle deeper into the mattress, the weight of his arm grounding her. Her own hand floats over his, hesitating for a second before resting lightly on top of it. Just enough to feel the shape of him. Just enough to pretend this is normal again—something that she never forgot. Something they could keep doing. 

Her eyes fall closed again. Not to sleep, maybe to doze off a bit... but mainly just to feel. 

It’s stupid. She knows that. 

But none of that seems to matter right now. Not with Carmen’s breath soft at the base of her neck, not with his hand on her skin like it belongs there. 

So she lets herself have it—this small, stolen piece of morning. 

She wakes again to a gentler kind of light, stretched warm and golden across the sheets. Blinks at the clock. 

7:54 a.m. 

The bed’s still warm, but the space behind her is empty. No arm around her waist. No quiet breath at her neck. She frowns, almost instinctively. 

Of course he’s gone. And maybe she wouldn’t know how to handle it if he were still curled up against her, like earlier—but still. Maybe it would’ve been nice. Just a little longer. 

She stretches, slow and quiet, then gets up and pads over to the dresser. Opens a drawer and finds what she was half-hoping for: a few of her clothes folded neatly between his. A tank top. A pair of worn-in cotton shorts. Familiar fabric in unfamiliar surroundings. 

She changes quickly, brushes her teeth, and moves into the kitchen with soft footsteps. The place is quiet. No Carmen. But the smell of coffee is strong. 

On the counter, next to the still-warm coffee machine, there’s a note written in his barely legible scrawl: 

be right back. made u some coffee. bringing goods from the bakery soon. 

Her lips twitch. She doesn’t even mean to smile, but there it is. 

She fills one of her mugs and leans against the counter, sipping slowly. The coffee’s strong. Just how she likes it. 

The door clicks open a few minutes later. 

Carmen steps inside, flushed from the heat, carrying two heavy grocery bags. He pushes the door shut with his foot, shoulders tense, arms full. 

She looks over her mug. “You started without me?” 

He glances up, a little surprised, a little sheepish. “You were sleeping. Peacefully. I didn’t wanna wake you up yet.” 

Her smile is small but real. “You left coffee. I’ll allow it.” 

“I got lucky. The bakery wasn’t packed yet.” He sets the bags down on the counter, wiping his forearm against his brow. “Got croissants, bread, some fruit. Also grabbed a few things for the menu. Thought we could mess around with the celeriac idea again. Maybe balance it with something sharp. I was thinking citrus? Or maybe something sweeter, like a date purée? But then I wasn’t sure—” 

She watches him unravel in real time—bags opened, ingredients half-pulled, his brain clearly moving faster than his hands. 

“Carmen.” 

He stops mid-thought. 

She looks at him over the rim of her mug. “You’re talking at full speed and I just woke up. My brain is still booting.” 

“Oh, yeah,” He winces, scratching his eyebrow. “Right. Sorry. I—uh. I do that.” 

“It’s okay.” Her tone softens. “It’s kinda cute.” 

That flusters him more than it should. He ducks his head a little, starts re-arranging groceries for no reason. “You, uh... want a croissant?”  

She nods, setting her mug down. “Yeah. Let’s eat. Then you can talk at me at full speed.” 

That gets a breath of a laugh from him as he starts unpacking the things he brought from the bakery. 

They settle into a soft kind of quiet—mugs clinking, sunlight warming the counters, the scent of butter and coffee mixing in the air. 

Easy. Almost domestic. Almost normal. 

----- 

The first few minutes are all logistics. Sorting and clearing space on the counter that’s already too small for one person, let alone two chefs with full agendas. 

But then Carmen grabs a pot, and she grabs the strainer, and without saying much of anything, they just begin. 

It’s quiet—but not awkward. The kind of quiet that knows its own weight. She tastes the oil. He salts the water. Somewhere between the first sauce and the second failed attempt at a purée, they fall into a rhythm. 

It’s not perfect. But it’s familiar. Easy. Too easy, maybe. 

Carmen watches her from the corner of his eye. She moves with focus—brow furrowed, hair tied back in a way he remembers vividly. Like they never stopped doing this. Like it’s just another prep day. Like she still belongs here. 

She suggests adding acid to the base. He doesn’t even question it—just hands her a lemon. She tastes, nods, adjusts. He notices her smile when it hits just right. 

Then he holds out a spoon of sauce. Doesn’t pass it to her—just lifts it straight to her mouth. And she leans in without thinking. Tastes. Nods again. 

“Better.” 

He doesn’t say anything. But something in his chest feels warm. Solid. 

They’re bumping shoulders as they move. The kitchen's too small, but he doesn’t mind. His hand touches her lower back when he reaches for a bowl. Her arm brushes his when they swap pans. Neither of them pulls away. 

Maybe that’s the part that gets him the most. Not that they’re touching—but that it doesn’t feel like something they have to talk about. 

She laughs once, soft and under her breath, when he forgets to toast the seeds before grinding them. He flips her off with two fingers and a smirk that fades too fast. Because the clock is ticking, and they’re barely halfway through. 

Two courses down. Nothing that feels finished. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s past two. They’ve been at this for hours, and everything still feels… raw. Loose. Like they’re circling something they can’t see yet. 

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “There’s something off.” 

She exhales, leaning on the edge of the sink. “Yeah. It’s not clicking yet.” 

Buzz. His phone lights up on the windowsill. Unknown number—but he knows who it is. His jaw clenches. 

“Fuck.” 

Y/N turns toward him. “Who is it?” 

“The guy from the foundation. Organizer. Probably wants the menu.” He doesn’t move. “I’m not picking up.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t know what to tell him. We’ve got two courses and a loose idea of dessert. That’s not a menu. It’s a disaster.” 

Before he can spiral deeper, Y/N snatches the phone and answers it. 

“Hi, yes—this is Y/N, I’m assisting Chef Berzatto for the event.” 

His eyes go wide. “What the—” he mouths, motioning wildly. 

She waves him off, calm as ever. 

“Oh, we’re doing great,” she says smoothly. “Just finalizing a couple of small details. You’ll have the full menu by tomorrow morning.” 

Carmen glares at her. His heart’s pounding like she just stepped into fire. 

The guy on the other end seems reassured. Chatting more freely now. Throwing out details. And then—“Just remember the theme—‘Rebirth and Seasonality.’ Can’t wait to see how you two interpret it.” 

Y/N blinks, caught off guard. “Of course,” she lies beautifully. “We’ve been leaning into that since the start. Talk soon.” 

She hangs up. 

Silence. 

Carmen stares at the floor like it personally offended him. “I forgot the fucking theme,” he mutters. 

“It’s not that big of a deal.” 

“It’s the theme, Y/N. It’s what the whole thing is supposed to revolve around. How the fuck do I forget that?” 

Y/N steps closer, slow. “You’ve had a lot on your plate, Carm.” 

“I shouldn’t have. This is important.” 

“And now we know. So let’s use it.” 

He looks at her, eyes heavy with frustration. 

“Seriously. ‘Rebirth and Seasonality’—that’s your entire thing. It’s why you’re even doing this. You live in that idea. We can work with it.” 

He breathes out, finally. Drops his head back. For a second, she sees all the tension leave his shoulders. 

“You always do that,” he says quietly. 

“Do what?” 

“Turn shit around. Cut through the noise. Make it feel like we’re not drowning.” 

She gives him a small smile. 

And he adds, almost like it slips out of him, “I missed this.” 

She goes still. Not shocked. Just quiet. Like she heard it in more ways than one. 

“Yeah,” she says, not looking at him. “I guess, me too.” 

A beat passes. Then she claps her hands once, shaking the air. 

“Alright. ‘Rebirth and Seasonality.’ Let’s tear everything apart and start again.” 

He smiles—small, crooked, grateful. 

“Fuck it. Let’s go.” 

---- 

Time moved differently after that. 

With the theme finally clear, the tension between them eased—at least a little. Knowing where they were headed gave them a rhythm, a shared direction. It didn’t make the work less exhausting, but it made it feel purposeful. Lighter, even when the air was thick with heat and smoke. 

Ideas came faster. Cleaner. Y/N would throw something out—sweet potato miso, duck fat croutons, hibiscus salt—and Carmen would meet her halfway, adjusting textures, correcting acid. They moved like they used to: almost wordless, sometimes messy, always intuitive. They argued, of course. She was bold; he was precise. But it worked. It always worked. 

And Carmen noticed it. All of it. The way her instincts never failed, even now. Even without the full memory of the last few years, she still cooked like someone who knew—who trusted her gut. It shook him a little, how sharp she was, how easily she fit back into this world with him. He let it slip once, a quiet “babe” tossed between a taste test and a sauce fix, and neither of them stopped to acknowledge it. 

By the time the clock showed 8p.m., they hadn’t taken a proper break—just small pauses to send notes and ideas to Nat, who helped coordinate product orders. Carmen had a smear of something on his apron and flour on his forearm. Y/N had twisted her curls up with a pen and forgot it was there. The kitchen was a disaster, but the menu was done. 

They stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning over the counter as she read the final list aloud: 

First course: Spring pea tartlet with whipped goat cheese, pickled shallot, and lemon balm. 

Second: Charred asparagus with cured egg yolk, puffed rice, and green garlic vinaigrette. 

Third: Lamb loin with fermented rhubarb glaze, charred cipollini onions, and black garlic jus. 

Fourth: Aged cheddar risotto with soft herbs, citrus zest, and duck fat croutons. 

Fifth: Buttermilk panna cotta with hibiscus gelee, roasted strawberries, and fennel pollen. 

As she spoke, Carmen watched her—not the paper, not the list. Her. 

Eyes tired, hands ink-stained, her voice rasped and steady. He was wiped out, but something about hearing it from her made it all settle into place. The vision they built together. The pieces. The trust. 

She glanced up when she reached the end. “That’s it. We fucking did it.” 

Carmen looked at her like she’d just told him the sun came back. Like the weight of the whole damn week had been worth it just to hear her say that. 

And before he could speak— She threw her arms around him. 

It was instinct—sudden, full of adrenaline and tenderness all at once. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her body colliding into his with a quiet, shaky laugh caught in her throat. He caught her automatically, his hands slipping to her waist, grounding them both. 

Carmen didn’t say anything at first. He just held her. Held her like he’d been waiting for that exact moment—maybe longer than he realized. One hand slid up to the small of her back, the other cradled the nape of her neck, his breath warm against her hair. 

Her nose brushed the side of his jaw, and for a second, she felt everything hit at once—the exhaustion, the high of finishing, and the sudden awareness of how deeply happy she was for being here with him.  

He murmured into her hair, low and serious, “I’m proud of you.” 

Her arms tightened just slightly around his shoulders. 

But before either of them could say anything else, Carmen’s phone buzzed against the counter. They both flinched. 

He sighed, pulling away just enough to check the screen. “Nat.” 

She stepped back, turning toward the sink as he answered, needing something to do, needing distance that didn’t feel like rejection. 

“Yeah, we’ve got it,” Carmen was saying. “I’ll send you the final version in a minute—can you go ahead and close the order?” 

Pause. “Thanks. I’ll email the organizer too.” 

He hung up and leaned both hands on the counter, tapping the screen off. “I’ll go write it up and send it now. I’ll be back in a second to help finish here, okay?” 

She nodded, not looking up, rinsing the last mixing bowl, the water too hot against her hands, but she barely felt it. Her body was buzzing with exhaustion, her mind still spinning from how smoothly everything had clicked once the theme was clear. The rhythm between them… it had just worked. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. 

She didn’t remember what this part of her life had been like—but today had felt like hers. 

And Carmen—he hadn’t held her back. If anything, he let her lead just as much as he did. She’d watched him listen, really listen. That quiet, intense focus of his? It wasn’t cold. It was respect. Trust. And when she’d thrown out bold suggestions, he hadn’t hesitated to build on them. 

He came back in a few moments later, rubbing his eyes as he moved to dry a few pans. They didn’t say anything for a minute, just worked side by side, the hum of the kitchen settling around them like static finally quieting. 

Y/N glanced at him, her voice low. “Was it like this before? When we worked together.” 

Carmen paused, resting his weight against the counter. “Not really,” he admitted. “I mean… not this messy.” 

She raised an eyebrow, half amused. 

He gave a tired little smile. “We’re usually a lot more organized. You’d have the checklist in your back pocket, timing down to the second. If things were how they used to be, none of this—” he gestured around the half-cleaned space, the empty containers, the mess still lingering in the air—“would’ve spiraled like it did. You wouldn’t have let the suppliers screw us over. And I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten the theme. You’d be on my ass about it.” 

She huffed a small laugh, then lowered her eyes like she wasn’t sure how to take that—like she was still trying to fit into the version of herself he was talking about. 

Carmen’s eyes lingered on her a second longer. “Last time we pulled something like this off… it was that anniversary dinner for the restaurant. It was a huge deal, some regulars were coming, couple investors… and you ran the whole prep like a machine. Everything came out clean. Smooth. I still think it was one of our best nights.” 

Y/N’s expression shifted. “Oh yeah, I saw a photo from that night.” 

He blinked. “Yeah? How?” 

Shit. 

“I mean—I guess it was this event... Someone showed me. I think? Maybe it was on Richie’s phone or something.” 

Carmen raised an eyebrow, subtle but there. “Right... Interesting. Thought it was just me or you who made photos of this day. Never posted anything.” 

She forced a shrug, focused too hard on wiping a spoon. “Really? I, uh — I don’t know, it’s all kinda blurry. Maybe it wasn’t even from this day.” 

He was watching her now—not suspicious, but curious. And something about that look made her skin feel too tight. 

“You get your phone back already?” he asked, voice casual, but the question clipped. 

Y/N shook her head. “No. Still waiting. Haven’t heard from the shop yet.” 

His eyes stayed on her for a beat too long, but he let it go. 

She was trying to play it cool, elbowing his side. “Why? Is it interesting for you that I get it back?” 

Carmen didn’t laugh, but he smirked—just a flicker, barely there. “Yeah. Kinda is.” 

She glanced up at him, her teasing faltering. “Why?” 

Instead of brushing it off, like she hoped he would, he tilted his head and looked at her in that too-honest way he did when he was about to say something that mattered. 

“‘Cause I think you’re gonna find out a lot,” he said simply. “About yourself. How you think. What matters to you. I dunno—maybe it sounds dumb, but… your phone, it was like a little map. You kept notes on everything. Saved stuff you cared about. Voice memos. Reminders. That kind of thing.” 

Her smile was beginning to fade, something tender and nervous building in her chest. 

He leaned against the counter again, arms crossed now, and his tone shifted—still casual, but warmer. “You were kinda obsessive with it. In a good way. Organized. Intentional. I think when you see all that again, it’s gonna click. Like… yeah. This is me.” 

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She swallowed, felt her grip on the spoon tighten a little. 

But Carmen wasn’t finished. 

“And then,” he said, voice lower now, “there’s our stuff.” 

Y/N’s hand froze mid-wipe. 

Carmen didn’t look away. “That might be the thing that triggers the most.” 

She glanced at him—narrow, cautious. “W—why?” 

Instead of brushing it off, he leaned against the counter again, arms crossed. His tone was easy, but there was something deliberate in it, something slower. 

“Because you’ll see how we were. Not just what I tell you. But how you looked at me in pictures. How you talked to me. The things we said when it was just us.” He shrugged, almost like he was trying to downplay it. “You were never shy about how you felt. And neither was I.” 

Her chest tightened. She tried not to react, but he was already watching too closely. 

Then he added, “Might be intense. But maybe it’ll make more sense than anything I could explain.” 

She tried to smile, tried to keep it light. “Sounds dramatic.” 

Carmen tilted his head, eyes still on her. “You think I’m kidding?” 

Before she could come up with something clever, he pushed off the counter and stepped forward—slow, deliberate. She barely had time to register the shift before he was standing just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back. 

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against her hip—not lingering, just steadying himself like it was nothing—as he reached over her for the cabinet above. The touch made her breath stutter. 

But he didn’t grab anything. 

His arm hovered there, half-extended, while his other hand rested briefly at the edge of the counter beside her. A soft cage. Not touching her anymore, but close. Too close. 

“I should probably warn you, though,” he murmured, voice low—like a secret meant only for her, breath grazing the side of her temple. 

Her stomach dropped. “Warn me?” 

“You’ll find other stuff, too.” 

“What—what kind of stuff?” she asked, instantly regretting the crack in her voice. Too curious. Too open. 

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he finally reached into the cabinet, grabbed an empty jar—anything—then set it back down without even looking at it. All of it a cover, she realized. He hadn’t come here for anything but her reaction. 

Then, still behind her, his voice dipped just enough to scrape against something sharp and tender. 

“You’ll see how much I missed you,” he said. “When you were away.” 

Her breath caught in her throat. 

“And when it got hard being apart…” A pause. “We got... creative. You get what I mean, right?” 

The implication landed heavy between them—thick with memory and heat. She could feel her whole face flush, pulse fluttering in her neck. 

He leaned back just slightly, enough for her to turn her head and catch the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. Barely there, but devastating. 

“Photos. Voice notes. Late-night stuff.” 

Y/N blinked. Swallowed hard. “Okay,” she said—barely audible, breathless. 

“Just letting you know,” he added casually. “Could be a lot.” 

She fumbled for the rag on the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Cool. Yeah. Great. Can’t wait to, uh… discover myself.” 

Carmen didn’t laugh. Just watched her, gaze slow, unreadable. “Yeah?” 

She didn’t answer. 

Just turned away—too fast—and muttered something about checking the fridge, praying her legs would work. 

Carmen let her go, quiet and smug, like he hadn’t just made her short-circuit with a few sentences. 

They finished organizing in a kind of loaded silence. Not awkward—just thick with everything unsaid. Y/N kept her head down, folding cloths, stacking pans, anything to look busy. She made some comments here and there about the menu, kept her voice light, like she wasn’t still buzzing from what Carmen had just said. Like she wasn’t thinking about the way his breath had ghosted over her skin. Like she hadn’t spent the last few nights obsessively going through her phone, heart pounding as she reread everything they’d once sent each other. 

She thought she had it under control. That after the initial rush of rediscovering their relationship—of hearing his voice notes, seeing the photos, the messages—she’d calmed down. That she was fine now. That she could be around him without her heart doing that thing. But now… after that little performance? After his smirk and the way he looked at her like he knew? 

He did know. She was sure of it. That smirk from earlier hadn’t just been teasing—it had been confirmation. 

He knew she had her phone. Knew she’d seen it all. And now, he was testing her. 

And the thing was—if she did tell him? If she said, yeah, I read it all… would that change everything? Would he get bolder, less restrained, knowing she’d seen their photos, their messages, their late-night confessions? That she’d seen the way he wanted her, the way he missed her? The way she had responded? 

Could she handle that? Could she stop herself if he got too close again? 

She didn’t think so. Not right now. Not with her body still reacting to the heat in his voice. Not with the memory of those photos—the photos—flashing behind her eyes. 

No. Better to wait. 

Just two more days, she told herself. After the event’s done. Then she could deal with all of it—what she knew, what she felt, and what she might still want. 

But as Carmen passed behind her, his hands brushing her waist for the briefest second, she had a sinking suspicion— Two days might be a long time. 

Tags: @coffeemin, @huh01011, @mryuyux, @nojamsonmytoast, @just-mj-or-not, @ravenouswild, @hipothetical-introvert, @yousigned-upforthis, @dayluxe, @hello-therree, @you-sunshine, @iloveramensm, @lazygirljulia, @ariiireads, @carmenberzattosgf, @nerawrites, @johnmurphys-sass, @zorrasucia, @j23r23, @sithdaya, @bexxs, @toowastelandtale, @gflrs, @bumb-lesy, @justbecause6, @juulifandom, @daisy-the-quake, @itsmadamehydra, @pfudorqueen, @asuperconfusedgirl, @jingjingyi, @sewerrat7984, @6-noir, @criesinlies, @beingalive1, @sydapril15, @cannonindeez, @smthgsmthgidk, @nommingonfood, @drowsyhobiiiidddd, @ssopeworld, @crazygirlinthisworld, @leminjelly, @carmysprincess, @zoenighshade555, @lostgirl219, @daydream-believer19, @longlivedelusion, @itskybabes-blog, @amioony, @uwuuuuooo, @reengard, @homossapo

[j23r23]

I enjoy chapters like this very much because it gives me a fresh perspective on the character... But im a little confused, did i miss something? Did she have a younger sibling? Whats going on?

I need more info!!!

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 67

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 1.2k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which you have lived an entire life up to this moment. (The Author sincerely apologizes.)

You’re five years old and you’re at the beach... You’re eleven and you get a job walking dogs... You’re sixteen and you're driving on 93 at 2am... You’re seven, and you take his hand... You're seven... You're seven... You're seven...

You're seven, and you teach him how to climb a tree.

[j23r23]

How do you do it? Writing humor into tense situations, you have an enormous gift, you know that?

Its like you're holding my hand when walking through a haunted house...

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 66

(Oh trust me, I meant to use that gif. You'll see. I mean, you'll hate me, but you'll see.)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 2k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which you arrive at the Siberian HYDRA underground bunker.

You’re not super surprised that there’s already a welcoming committee at the bunker’s entrance, about a dozen HYDRA goons all dressed in white snowsuits with black straps at various places, and carrying some seriously scary weaponry that probably wouldn’t get through the Iron Man armor. No matter; the fact that they didn’t blow you out of the sky is proof the guns are only for show. “Please remove your face plate,” says one of the goons. He’s at least wearing a different uniform, it looks more military and less stormtroopery. “We’d like to verify your identity.” Friday moves the face plate back. The cold is bitter on your cheeks, but you flash a smile at them anyway. “Wow, tight security at the OBGYN these days. You guys double as Planned Parenthood or something?” The Goon motions with his head, and the next thing you know, you’ve got an honor guard of stormtroopers. “We’re so pleased you could join us,” continues the Goon. “Allow us to show you where you can leave your coat.” “Sure,” you say, “gotta warn you though, it’s kinda keyed into my biometrics. If anyone other than me gets into it, they aren’t gonna like what happens next.” You’re not sure if the Goon believes you. Well. That’s his problem. Or whoever he orders to try it. “Baron von Strucker will be very pleased you’ve joined us,” says the Goon. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard about him,” you say. “Don’t worry, all terrible things. Do I get to meet him soon or—?”

What? No, I'm not using that Elsa gif for any particular reason. It's just what pops up when you type "Winter Soldier" and "Frozen" in the search bar. Don't worry about it. Everything's fine. I'm fine, you're fine, it's all fine. Go read on AO3 how fine it all is.

[j23r23]

This screams part II.

My imagination is going wild.

Im trying to act nonchalant here in public...

Taste Test

Carmy wants some no bullshit opinions on new menu items. He calls in you, the one person he can rely on for those no bullshit opinion.

Carmen Berzatto x reader

The buzzing of your phone pulled you away from your laptop. A breath left your lips as you looked down at the screen, the picture of him. Rolling your chair away from your desk, you swiped your finger across the screen and held your phone up to your ears.

"Hey, Carm," you said and leaned your head against the back of your leather chair.

"Can you-can you get here, please?"

The stress was evident in his voice. You could picture him as you stood from your chair. Hand on his forehead, blue eyes shut.

"Yeah, I'm on my way," you said and hung up. No goodbye needed, you would be there before you knew it.

It was easy to think about the early days as you made your way to The Bear. When it was The Beef, when you moved with Carmy from New York. It had been such a massive decision, but you hadn't hesitated. You packed up your little apartment and moved to Chicago with him.

In New York, you and Carmy hadn't tried living together. It was on the cards, a question you had to pop. You were so sure about him, it was a no brainer. Just like the move to Chicago had been a no brainer.

Carmy had big dream for The Beef. He wanted something that would make his brother proud. Late nights spent going through his notebooks, looking at his drawings. That had been a weird time. The Beef wasn't pulling in enough money to bring it up to the level Carmy wanted it at; he was doing what he could with what he had.

And then the construction on The Bear started. Carmy was stressed, so damn stressed. All of the construction, the safety checks, the fucking toilet. Each time he got closer to his vision, something pulled him further away.

And then, The Bear.

You weren't there for opening night, giving Carmy the space he needed to just work. In the middle of the service, your phone rang. Carmy, stuck in the walk-in. After several, long minutes of screaming, he called you.

For a good minute, you didn't know he was stuck in the walk-in. That was a bit of information he didn't divulge for a good minute. As soon as you knew, you were pissed.

As soon as Carmy got out, as soon as he was home, he popped the question. He had no ring, nothing of the sort. It wasn't said with him down on one knee. It was simple, you ignoring him on the couch, him climbing on top of you and asking the question.

You couldn't stay mad at him. You couldn't say no.

As much as it didn't seem like it at first, the move to Chicago was a good thing.

You walked into The Bear, your steps quick. "Hey," Richie called, glancing up from his notebook.

"Hey, Richie," you said through a breath. "Where's Carm?"

He pointed towards the kitchen with a flourishing click of his fingers.

You walked away from him, pushed your way through the kitchen door.

At the stove top, Tina and Sydney were working, Syd taking Tina through a recipe for that night. The rest of the chefs were doing prep for the night ahead and Carmy? Carmy was looking right at you. On the counter behind him sat three dishes.

"Carmen," you said as you looked around. You expected him stressed, pulling out his hair, insistently chewing his nicotine gum. Not this level of calm. "What's going on?"

He looked a dream in his white shirt, blue apron over the top. Tattoos on display, a mouth watering sight. "You're always honest with me," he said and reached out for your hands. "If it tastes like shit, you're gonna tell me it tastes like shit. You're not gonna bullshit me because of who I am," he said and pulled you towards the counter top.

You'd been in this kitchen so many times with him. When it was The Beef, when it was becoming The Bear. While Carmy kept things professional while you were in the kitchen, but he couldn't help the way he looked at you. His eyes might as well have been hearts when it came to you.

"Holy fuck." You looked at the dishes in front of you. Carmy's drawings, come to life. Each one was more beautiful than the last. "Carmy, they're gorgeous," you told him, looking between him and the dishes. "I don't want to ruin them."

Carmy pulled a fork from his apron. "Just try them."

You didn't have to be told twice.

You didn't know what any of it was. Carmy listed off the ingredients, but you weren't exactly listening. How could you, when there was something this good in your mouth?

"Carmy, you're fantastic."

He leaned against the counter, his forearms flexing. "Seriously?" He asked, looking up at you with his blue eyes. "You seriously like it?"

"I seriously like it."

"You seriously like it?"

"Carmen, Carmy, Bear! I really like it. People are gonna go nuts if you put it on the menu."

Carmy let himself smile (a rare sight in the kitchen). "Next one," he said and pointed to the next. It was equally as beautiful, similar in style. But it was a salmon dish, beautifully presented.

You took a bite and moaned.

As soon as the noise left your mouth, you covered it with your hands. The setting was too professional for that. But, Jesus, these were dick sucking recipes. The sort of thing that, if Carmy made it at home, you'd be on your knees in an instant. "Fuck, Berzatto," you whispered and went in for another bite.

Maybe your reaction was a little over the top, but it didn't feel it. No, it felt right for how good the food was. You looked at him, hoped that look conveyed everything you were feeling.

As soon as you get home, you're getting your dick sucked.

Carmy's expression gave nothing away, so you moved onto the next one.

"This was me and Syd," he explained. He told you what it was, what was in it. It was the best of the lot.

Your knees could have buckled. You couldn't describe it, just how incredible it was. You knew Carmy was talented, knew he was incredibly talented, but this was something else.

Fuck, maybe you couldn't wait for him to get home.

"Good?" He asked.

"Better than good, Carm."

You reached out, took a risk in lacing your fingers through his. "These were in the notebook, right?" You asked, pointing to the first two dishes. Carmy gave a slight nod. "Show me."

Home was too far away. The office would do.

I hyperfixed too close to the sun so now I write for Carmy and I have restaurant daggers in the works

[j23r23]

So so so in love with this!

You hit the spot Every. Damn. Time!!!! 💕💕💕💕💕💕

The Recipe for Remembering

The Bear AU (Part Eleven)

Part one / Part two / Part three / Part four / Part five / Part six / Part seven / Part eight / Part nine /Part ten

Pairing: Carmen x Fem! Reader

CW: language.. and a lot of fluff!

Summary: Haunted by glimpses of a lost past with Carmen, Y/N returns to the kitchen. As buried feelings resurface through old messages and charged encounters, a restaurant crisis forces them to reconnect, leading to a late night where the lines between past and present blur, hinting at a rekindled connection.

A/N: You guys are absolutely incredible! Seeing your amazing reactions to the last chapter has made my day! 😊 I'm so excited for you to dive into this one – hoping it brings you all the happy and hopeful feels! 😉 Don't worry, I won't leave you hanging for too long… the next chapter is coming soon! 😉

She should’ve stopped hours ago. 

The screen is hot against her hand, her eyes sore from staring at it for too long in the dark, but she still can’t look away. She’s spent hours scrolling. Not aimlessly—no, this was a deep dive. Message after message. Old photos. Voice notes. The last years compressed into an intimate archive of someone else's life. Except it isn’t someone else. It’s hers. And Carmen’s. 

What she thought would be a simple look-through has turned into a slow unraveling. Somewhere between the awkward “How’s Paris?” and the blurry photo of a half-eaten sandwich he said reminded him of her, she started to feel it. A warmth. A flicker. Something soft and sticky taking root in her chest. 

A crush. On him. On Carmen. 

It sounds stupid in her head. Juvenile, even. But what else would you call this? The fluttering. The tightness. The way her cheeks burned when she listened to that voice note after their encounter in Milan—his voice low and tired, telling her how he couldn't wait to see her again. How he’d thought about her all day. How he hoped she was sleeping well but secretly wanted her awake, just so he could hear her voice. 

It's all there—messages, photos, voice notes. A love story. Their love story. 

And Carmen. Sweet, awkward, gentle Carmen. 

Then a little bolder. Then… completely unhinged in the best way. 

Y/N swallows hard, her thumb hovering over one of the older voice notes, sent almost a year ago. The caption under it says simply, you’re insane for sending me that 

She hesitates, then taps it.  

You can’t send me shit like that before service, babe. Fuck… that picture— His voice cuts with a breathy laugh. Low. Rough.  

I’m literally trying not to picture you wet in that towel—shit.  

A beat. A muffled sigh.  

Okay. You want me to be honest? I’m hard. In the walk-in. Thinking about your legs, your— Just... don’t send me stuff like that if you don’t want me to fly over and take care of it properly. 

She yelps and slaps the phone face-down on the mattress like it burned her. That… was definitely about that kind of photo. 

She sits up. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. 

The apartment is still quiet, but she’s too warm now. Flustered. Restless 

She doesn’t remember this.  She doesn’t remember him like this. 

But her body does. Something in her knows. That message shouldn't feel familiar. It shouldn't make her stomach flip. But it does. 

She gets up. Padding across the apartment, she turns the shower on and strips in front of the mirror like she’s not looking at herself—because she’s not. Not really. She’s still in that bed, in that voice memo, with him. 

The water is too hot. It scalds her back and she lets it, hoping it'll chase away the thoughts. It doesn’t. She’s still blushing when she turns the water off and climbs back into bed with wet hair and a towel wrapped tight around her body like armor. 

It’s past 4 a.m. She should sleep. 

But instead, she stares at the ceiling, Carmen’s voice echoing in her ears, mingling with every message she’s just reread. All the pictures. The inside jokes. The slow slide from professional to personal. The I miss yous. The I wish you were heres. The I love yous. 

She drags the covers over her face. 

How the fuck is she supposed to see him tomorrow? Look him in the eyes? Pretend she didn’t just spend the whole night falling for him all over again? 

And the worst part—the part that freaks her out the most—is that it doesn’t feel fake. It doesn’t feel like she’s playing pretend, like she is just feeling like this because she wants to remember it. 

It feels real. Too real. 

So no, she’s not telling him. Not yet. 

If there’s more to find, more to remember—she’s going to take her time. 

------ 

The kitchen is quieter than she expected the next morning. The clock on the wall shows it’s 9 a.m. No Richie. No Fak. No Nat. Just the low hum of the fridge, the clink of metal, the faint hiss from one of the stoves already running. 

She exhales as she steps inside. No welcome party, no interrogation—just space. And thank God for that, because she has no idea what she would’ve said. 

She was almost a whole week gone. No messages. No updates. Nothing. Just Carmen knew why. 

Her apron is still folded inside her locker like it was waiting. Like he was waiting. She doesn’t let herself linger on that thought. 

Y/N slings her bag onto the hook and smooths a hand over her hair. She’s barely slept, barely eaten, and still—somehow—she looks fine. Normal. Like she hasn’t spent the last twenty hours going through messages from a man who clearly loved her. Who still does. 

And worse—who she might be falling for all over again. 

The hallway’s quiet as she walks back toward the kitchen, heart doing that fast, dumb thing it always does when she knows she’s about to see him. She tells herself to breathe. 

And then—“Hey.” 

She freezes for a second. 

Carmen’s just outside his office, sleeves pushed up, hair already messy. His smile isn’t big, but it’s real. A little nervous, a little relieved. His eyes settle on hers like he’d been waiting for this. 

“You made it,” he says, soft and warm. 

She nods. “Yeah. I… thought I should.” 

His smile widens, just a bit. “I’m glad you did.” 

God. He has no idea what those words do to her. I’m glad you did. Like she matters. Like this means something. 

He steps closer, hands on his hips. “You look tired.” 

She lets out a dry breath. “Yeah... Didn’t sleep well.” 

“You okay?” he asks, gently. 

She shrugs, and her voice comes out thinner than she wants. “I will be.” 

There’s a beat. And then, like he knows she doesn’t want to be coddled, he switches. 

“Later—when you have a sec—I wanna go over some stuff with you. Menu for the weekend. Couple things with ordering. To, uh—put you back on track, y’know?” 

She nods too fast. “Sure.” 

But her stomach turns. Because that means alone time. Just the two of them. In his office, probably. Close enough to smell his cologne again. Close enough to hear that voice. Close enough to— 

God, she needs to stop. 

Because all she can think about is the curve of his hip beneath his abs in that shirtless photo. The deep rasp of his voice in that one audio, low and filthy, describing exactly what he wanted to do to her. 

Her face burns. 

She swallows hard. “Okay. Yeah. Just let me know.” 

He gives her a light nod, eyes still on hers like he doesn’t really want to leave. But eventually, he turns back to the kitchen, calling out some instructions to Tina on the way. 

Y/N doesn’t move for a moment. Doesn’t breathe. 

Those hands. That voice. That mouth. He’s touched her—loved her—and her body knows it even if her memory doesn’t. And now, she’s stuck in this limbo where she’s trying to act normal around someone who has already seen every part of her. 

She steels herself. Heads to her station. Tries to focus. Knife in hand, herbs lined up neatly in front of her. The kind of task that usually calms her. 

But she feels him before she sees him. 

Carmen walks by, murmuring something to Ebra at garde manger, and Y/N’s fingers falter just slightly on the cutting board. Her breath catches. She keeps her head down, pretending to concentrate, but her whole body tenses as he nears. 

When he passes behind her, she shifts to give him space—too quickly—and he definitely notices. A tiny pause in his step. A look. 

She doesn’t meet his eyes. 

But he keeps walking. Says nothing. Just... notes it. 

The next time he passes by, it’s even closer. She’s checking the stock pots when she feels the soft brush of fingers at her waist—barely there, almost accidental. 

Almost. 

Her breath stutters in her chest. She straightens up too quickly, drops the spoon, mutters “shit” under her breath and Carmen—of course—pretends not to notice. 

Except she knows he did. He lingers nearby just a little longer than he needs to. Says something to Tina but glances at her out of the corner of his eye. 

Y/N swallows hard. What the hell is happening to me? 

This wasn’t like before. Before, she was just confused. Trying to piece things together. Now... now it’s different. Now her skin reacts to him. Now her pulse picks up every time he says her name. Now her thoughts—God, those thoughts—won’t leave her alone. 

And Carmen, without realizing why, is watching her more. Sensing something has shifted. He can’t place it, but she’s different today. More reactive. Like she’s seeing him all over again. 

He leans on the counter near her at one point, asking about the prep for the weekend, and she answers too fast, too breathless. His brows lift just slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is. Close. Testing the air between them. 

She doesn't even realize she’s staring until he glances down at her, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. 

“You good, chef?” he asks. 

She nods too fast again. “Yeah. Fine.” 

But he doesn’t believe her. And for the first time, she thinks maybe he shouldn’t. 

Before anything else can happen— 

“Look who finally decided to show up!” 

Richie’s voice booms from the entrance, cutting through the kitchen like a slap of cold air. He walks in, arms wide, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. 

Y/N practically jumps. 

“Damn, you alive?” he grins, walking straight over. “You ghosted us, dude. What, Carmy say something weird again and scared you off?” 

Carmen freezes. Y/N goes still. 

“No,” she says quickly, laughing awkwardly. “I just needed a few days.” 

“Mmhmm,” Richie says, eyes narrowing playfully. “You sure? ‘Cause this one,” he points a thumb at Carmen, “was brooding around like some sad puppy. Even Nat said it.” 

Carmen sighs. “Okay, thanks, Richie.” 

“Oh, you’re welcome, cousin. Just saying. Shit was tense.” 

“Still is,” Tina mutters from across the room. 

And that’s when Natalie appears, bless her. 

“Richie,” she calls out. “Come help me with the deliveries or I’m gonna fire you.” 

“From what, being hot?” Richie winks but follows her out with a grumble. 

Y/N releases the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

Nat circles back a few minutes later, cornering her by the sink while everyone’s distracted. She speaks low, gentle. 

“Hey.” 

Y/N turns. “Hey.” 

“I’m really glad you’re back,” Nat says softly. “I mean that.” 

Y/N nods, but there’s tension behind her eyes. Nat notices. 

“Luca came by the other day,” Nat says, then pauses. “While you were gone. He and Carmen… they had a pretty heavy conversation. That’s when I found out.” 

Y/N frowns. “Found out?” 

Nat gives a little smile. “About you.” 

Her stomach drops. 

“I didn’t know. I mean—I think I could’ve figured it out, but I didn’t want to assume. I guess… I just want you to know it’s okay. I don’t think any less of either of you.” 

Y/N looks away, throat tight. “I don’t even know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Nat replies. “Just… whatever happened between you two, I hope it’s okay now. Or it will be.” 

Y/N wants to say something—me too, maybe—but the words don’t come. 

So she nods again, a little slower this time. “Thanks.” 

Nat smiles. “You’ve got people here who care about you. That’s all.” 

And with that, she heads back toward the front. 

Carmen. Luca. Nat. The voice messages. The photos. His hand on her waist. That look in his eyes. Y/N turns back to her station, but her mind is spinning. 

------- 

By late afternoon, she finds her rhythm again. 

With Carmen mostly out of sight, the kitchen becomes easier to breathe in. Her hands fall into familiar motions. Chop. Fold. Taste. Check. She leads the team through prep, feeling that slow but certain fire return to her belly—the kind that reminds her this is what she loves. The rush. The focus. The instinct. 

She still has gaps. Still stumbles, forgets certain processes. But the foundation is there, steady beneath her. 

Tina gives her a quiet nod after she walks her through one of the new dishes. Marcus throws her a thumbs up after she catches a mistake before it happens. There’s no grand gesture of support—just those little things. The kind of solidarity you only get from people who’ve worked side by side in the heat. 

For a moment, she forgets the photos. The voice notes. Even Carmen. 

She’s just Y/N. Chef de cuisine. 

Until Nat walks up to her, hands holding what looked like the notes for the menu. 

“Hey,” she says, tone light. “Carmen asked if you could go over the evening menu with him—but he got pulled out back for something. Mind doing it with me instead?” 

Y/N blinks. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” 

Disappointment flashes in her chest before she can help it. She nods again, quicker this time, tries to hide it. 

They review everything together at the counter—new additions, substitutions, expected covers. Nat’s efficient and patient, even when Y/N stumbles over a detail or two. 

By the time they’re done, she feels steadier. Grounded. 

She helps with family meal, ladling soup into bowls, adding a quick garnish with a smile. The tension in her shoulders starts to fade. She sits at the end of the long table, laughing softly at one of Fak’s stories—even if he’s not here to tell it himself—and enjoys the food for what it is: warm, familiar, shared. 

Then Carmen reappears. 

He moves through the kitchen like he’s late for something. Shoulders tight. Face unreadable. He doesn’t stop to say anything. Just grabs a plate, loads it with barely enough, and walks straight to his office. 

She watches him go, something twisting in her gut. 

It’s not like she doesn’t want the space—God knows she needs it—but seeing him like that... it pulls at her. The invisible thread still tied between them. 

She tries to ignore it. Eats another bite. Fails. 

She gets up quietly, murmurs something vague to Tina about needing to check something and slips away down the hall. 

The office door is nearly shut. 

She nudges it gently with her fingers, pushing it open just enough to peek inside. 

Carmen’s sitting in the chair, head tilted back, eyes closed. His hands rest on his thighs, fists loosely clenched like he’s trying not to let go of something. His whole body is taut—shoulders drawn, jaw tight. Like he’s holding himself together with whatever thread he has left. 

She steps in softly, leaving the door almost closed behind her. 

“Hey,” she says, barely above a whisper. 

His eyes open slowly. He blinks like he hadn’t realized anyone was there. Like she pulled him out of something deep. 

“I, uh… Just wanna say that I went over the menu with Nat,” she continues, voice gentle. “We’re good to go. I was gonna start organizing station four unless you need me somewhere else.” 

He doesn’t respond right away. Just looks up at her. Like he forgot she was even part of this world until now. 

She shifts a little closer. 

“Carmen,” she says, quieter now, “are you okay?” 

That’s when he reaches for her. There’s no warning. No words. 

He just leans forward, arms circling around her waist, pulling her into him. His face presses into her stomach like it’s the only safe place left. He exhales hard, the kind that feels like it’s been stuck in his lungs for hours. 

Her hands hover in surprise, then slowly settle—one sliding into his hair, the other bracing his shoulder. She doesn’t speak. Just holds him. 

His grip tightens around her hips, desperate but not panicked. Needing, not asking. 

She cradles him there, letting the moment stretch. Letting the weight fall. 

And something clicks inside her—quiet and sure. Not in her head, but somewhere deeper. 

She knows this. The way his body leans into hers. The shape of him folded in. The way her hand fits so naturally at the nape of his neck. 

Maybe she lost memories. But this—this feeling? She never forgot. 

He pulls back first—just slightly. Not because he wants to. But because voices echo faintly down the hall. Footsteps. Laughter. Someone heading toward the office. 

His arms don’t fully leave her. One hand lingers at her hip, the other brushing her thigh as he looks up at her, eyes softer than they’ve been in days. There's something vulnerable in them—something that almost says don’t go. 

But he doesn’t say anything. 

She takes the hint, steps back gently, smoothing her hands down the front of her apron like she’s trying to compose herself. 

Her voice is low. “I should get back.” 

He nods once, eyes dropping, jaw tightening just slightly. “Yeah.” 

The noise outside fades again, but the air between them doesn’t ease. It just hums with everything unspoken. 

Just before she reaches the door, he speaks again. 

“I didn’t mean to leave you hanging today,” he says. “I wanted to go over everything myself but—something came up. It’s... been a lot.” 

She glances back. “It’s alright, chef. I noticed.” A pause. Then, quieter: “Is everything alright?” 

Carmen drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight, eyes on the floor. “It’s the fucking suppliers.” His voice is low, fraying at the edges. “Seafood order fell through. Quality was shit. Half of it’s unusable.” 

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding it in too long. “That event on Monday? We’re screwed if we don’t change everything by Saturday.” 

Y/N watches him, brows pinched. “Is that why you were out all day?” 

He nods, barely. “Yeah. Tried calling around, tried to fix it—nothing’s working. I was supposed to go over everything, but I couldn’t even think straight.” 

His hand presses to the back of his neck. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing right now. Everything just feels like—.” 

There’s a silence that settles between them. Not heavy, just full. Y/N takes a step closer. “Then let me help.” 

He looks at her, blinking like he didn’t hear right. “You don’t have to—” 

“I want to.” Her tone is firmer this time. “I know I’m not as sharp as I used to be, but I’m getting there. I’m learning. And I want to be there for you. Like I used to be.” 

She meets his eyes, grounding him. “You’re not alone in this. I know I can help.” 

Something shifts in him—slow, almost invisible—but she sees it. The way his shoulders drop just a little. The way his mouth parts like he’s about to argue, but doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out before he can second-guess it, takes her hand gently in his. Lifts it. Kisses her knuckles like it’s instinct. Like maybe he’s done it before. 

“Thank you, babe” he says, softer now. “Really. I—I’m glad you’re back.” 

Babe. 

She stills, lips parting slightly—but she doesn’t pull away. Just lets him hold her like that for a beat longer than necessary. Her chest tightens, something tugging at the edge of her memory, but it slips away before she can hold onto it. 

She clears her throat gently. “Okay,” she says, voice soft but steady. “Then after service, we stay. We figure it out together.” A small smile tugs at her lips. “I’ll start thinking of something now. Buy us a little time.” 

Carmen nods slowly, like the weight hasn’t vanished, but it feels a little easier to carry. His hand lingers for just a second more before letting hers go. 

---- 

The kitchen is quieter now. The clang of pans, the bark of orders, the steady hum of chaos—all of it has dulled to a low, flickering memory. Most of the staff has already left, laughter echoing faintly as the back door swings shut behind them. 

Y/N wipes her hands on a towel and glances toward the office. No sign of Carmen. 

She sets the towel down, steels herself, and heads toward the walk-in where they agreed to meet. She finds him there, leaning against a metal shelf, clipboard in hand. He looks… better. Still tired, still tense, but not hollowed out like before. There’s a tiny smudge of something on his sleeve—maybe sauce, maybe ink. His curls are slightly damp from a rinse-off. Like he tried to wash the day off his skin. 

“Hey,” she says gently. 

He looks up, and this time, he’s already reaching for a pen. “So... You still good to do this?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “You?” 

A small nod. “Yeah.” 

They stand in silence for a second—just breathing in the same space. 

Then Carmen clears his throat, lifts the clipboard. “Right, I’ve been thinking… maybe we shift Monday’s menu toward a cold preparation focus. Crudos, maybe some preserved stuff—get around the seafood issue without looking like we’re avoiding it.” 

Y/N hums thoughtfully, stepping in closer. “Do we still have those heirloom tomatoes Nat got from the local guy?” 

Carmen glances at her, surprised. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Make a tomato-water broth,” she says. “Serve it with poached lobster if we can get the good kind tomorrow. If not… compressed melon, pickled shallots. Summer crudo vibe.” 

Carmen stares at her a second. Then — “That’s really fucking good.” 

She shrugs, pretending her heart didn’t flip. “It’s just a placeholder.” 

“No,” he says, more sure now. “It’s a start.” 

They move out of the walk-in after that, settle into the office for a bit, then drift back into the kitchen—spreading out the notes on the prep counter, switching between scribbled sheets and ingredient lists on Carmen’s phone. The time slips by almost unnoticed. At some point, Y/N brews a fresh pot of coffee. Carmen doesn’t touch his cup until it’s cold. 

For nearly two hours, they toss out dish concepts, shoot down half of them, argue lightly about flavor balance, get distracted researching suppliers, then circle back to where they started. It’s messy and meandering, but it feels good—familiar in a way that makes both move a little easier. 

Still, the tension never fully leaves Carmen’s shoulders. His frustration lingers under the surface, simmering in the way he rubs his jaw, how his pen scratches harder on the paper the later it gets. The clock hits 3 a.m., and the weight of it all finally settles in. 

Y/N leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Carm… we should go home.” 

He doesn’t look up. “I can’t. I need to figure this out.” 

“You will,” she says. “But not tonight. We’re fried. It’s pointless to keep pushing when you can barely think straight.” 

He lets out a quiet breath, still staring at the clipboard like it personally offended him. 

“Let’s take tomorrow off,” she adds. “Just one day. We let the staff handle service. You and me—we’ll focus on the event, on new dishes, new suppliers, all of it.” 

He glances at her then, unsure. “What if it’s not enough time?” 

“It will be,” she says, calm and certain. “Especially after a shower and a few hours of sleep.” 

Carmen exhales again, slower this time. He knows she’s right. His body is screaming for rest. And something in her tone makes it feel less like giving up, more like regrouping. 

She moves to grab her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “8 a.m., at your place?” 

He pauses. Then, lightly — “Wanna just come with me now?” 

It sounds casual. Easy. Like no big deal. But when she turns back to look at him, she catches it—the flicker of hope in his blue eyes. A quiet plea disguised as an afterthought. 

Her breath catches. Just the thought of being in that apartment again—his bed, his space, the leftover comfort it holds—makes her pulse spike. A flash of those photos from her phone rolls through her mind like a reel. His voice, his arms, the way he once held her like it meant something. 

Before she can second-guess herself, she nods. “Yeah. Okay.” 

He doesn’t smile, not really. But she sees the tension ease in his jaw, the softness creep back into his features. 

They don’t speak as they leave the restaurant. But when she falls into step beside him, her bag slung low, and his hand hovers close to hers, something unspoken passes between them—quiet, tentative, and maybe a little bit inevitable. 

The apartment is quieter than usual when they step inside, the low hum of the city outside their only company. Y/N slips off her shoes and glances around, immediately catching the difference. The surfaces are wiped down, the clutter gone, even the throw blanket on the couch folded neatly. 

“You cleaned,” she murmurs, more amused than surprised. 

Carmen closes the door behind her and shrugs, a little self-conscious. “Yeah. Thought… if you came back, maybe it should feel like a place you’d want to be.” 

She meets his eyes, something warm flickering in her chest. “That’s really thoughtful.” 

He doesn’t respond, just ducks his head and disappears into the bedroom. When he returns, he hands her a towel and a folded white t-shirt of his. “Don’t think you left any pajamas,” he says, voice casual. “But, uh… these should be fine.” 

She takes them, fingers brushing his for half a second. “Thanks.” 

The bathroom smells like soap and fabric softener. Familiar. She undresses slowly, her eyes catching on small things: a hair tie on the counter that isn’t his. A bottle of her face cleanser tucked behind the mirror. Her toothbrush in the cup. 

Her breath catches. He kept it all. 

The shower is brief but grounding, washing away the tension clinging to her skin. When she comes out, damp hair clinging to her neck, Carmen is in the kitchen shirtless, sipping water and clearly waiting to shower next. The soft glow from under the cabinets lights the curve of his shoulders, the ink on his arm. 

His eyes flick downward—just for a second—taking in the sight of her bare legs beneath his oversized t-shirt. He swallows, then quickly looks back up, trying to play it cool, though the heat in his gaze betrays him. 

“You can have the bed again,” he says, voice a little rough. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

Y/N hesitates, fingers grazing the edge of the shirt as if she suddenly feels the air on her skin. Her pulse stutters, and she shifts her weight. 

“It’s… it’s kind of stupid for you to sleep on the couch,” she says, voice quieter than she means it to be. 

Carmen’s brow lifts slightly, waiting. 

“I mean,” she continues, fidgeting with the hem again, “it’s your bed. And it’s late. And we’re adults. It’s just sleeping.” 

He takes a slow step closer, eyes never leaving hers. “You sure?” 

Y/N nods, even as her breath catches. “Yeah. Unless it makes you uncomfortable.” 

He huffs a small laugh, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “No. It doesn’t.” 

Her face heats immediately. “Cool. I just figured—yeah. Less weird than pretending we don’t want to.” 

Carmen pauses. “Don’t want to?” 

“To sleep,” she blurts. “I meant sleep. Like—sleep-sleep.” 

Now it’s his turn to go a little pink, and it somehow makes everything worse and better at the same time. 

“Right,” he murmurs, a little hoarse. “Of course.” 

A pause stretches between them, thick with everything unspoken. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll be quick. Five-minute shower.” 

He brushes past her, and she swears the heat from his skin lingers as he disappears into the bathroom. 

While he’s gone, Y/N sits on the edge of the bed. Her nerves crawl under her skin. For a second, she thinks about grabbing a pillow and heading for the couch after all. But then she sees the way the blanket is turned down, the faint indent of where she slept just two nights ago. The same scent, the same warmth. 

When he returns, bare-chested, towel slung loosely over one shoulder, curls still damp from the shower, every uncertain thought vanishes. 

He flicks off the lights and slips into bed beside her. The space between them hums with something quiet but present. 

Carmen turns onto his side to face her. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “For helping tonight.” 

She smiles softly. “Of course.” 

His hand finds hers under the blanket without thinking, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. Then, gently, he lifts her hand and presses a kiss to it—careful, reverent. He holds it there against his chest, where she can feel the slow, tired beat of his heart. 

Her whole body aches to curl into him. To rest her cheek against his shoulder and stay there. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t risk breaking the spell. 

Instead, she lies still, watching him. 

And a few minutes later, his breathing evens out. 

He’s asleep—still holding her hand. 

Tags: @coffeemin, @huh01011, @mryuyux, @nojamsonmytoast, @just-mj-or-not, @ravenouswild, @hipothetical-introvert, @yousigned-upforthis, @dayluxe, @hello-therree, @you-sunshine, @iloveramensm, @lazygirljulia, @ariiireads, @carmenberzattosgf, @nerawrites, @johnmurphys-sass, @zorrasucia, @j23r23, @sithdaya, @bexxs, @toowastelandtale, @gflrs, @bumb-lesy, @justbecause6, @juulifandom, @daisy-the-quake, @itsmadamehydra, @pfudorqueen, @asuperconfusedgirl, @jingjingyi, @sewerrat7984, @6-noir, @criesinlies, @beingalive1, @sydapril15, @cannonindeez, @smthgsmthgidk, @nommingonfood, @drowsyhobiiiidddd, @ssopeworld, @crazygirlinthisworld, @leminjelly, @carmysprincess, @zoenighshade555, @lostgirl219, @daydream-believer19, @longlivedelusion, @itskybabes-blog

[j23r23]

I was wheezing at the pregnant Iron Man part and then Scott chimes in with the Omegaverse?!? Like 😂😂😂

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 65

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 2.1k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which you are discovered, and a plan is made.

“I take it back,” Nat says. “I really don’t want to deliver this kid of yours in the field.” “Ugh, me neither,” you assure her. “Which is why it’s a really good thing I’m not due for another five weeks.” “Not as reassuring as you think,” says Natasha, but she helps unbend you and then walks you to the front of the Quinjet. “Nat, did you find those—” starts Steve, and then sees you. “Hi,” you say. Because sure, you had three hours to think of a good opening line, but really, simplicity is best. Steve can yell really loud. For a really long time. Without even taking a breath. And when he’s done yelling, and he’s out of breath, and he finally says, “Well, explain yourself!” you just look back at him calmly, as if he wants to know where the ketchup is. “Because I’m an Avenger, and this is where I belong.” Captain America can curse.

You do love it when Steve curses. Though maybe not at you. Find out what happens after he's done cursing on AO3.

[j23r23]

Me reading the last bit...

Grilled Cheese

Part 8 of the Neighbor! Reader series: Table of contents

Summary: You and Carmy have dinner together.

Pairing: Carmy x Reader

Tags: Slow burn, Awkward

Word Count: 1592

Wanna be added to the tag list? Comment/ MSG me!

Tag List: 

@criesinlies @marchsfreakshow @leminjelly @amberpanda99 @johnmurphys-sass @j23r23 @areyoutheregoditsmecelia @nicksolemnlyswears @saik-k

It happened once.

And then, it happened again. 

And again, and again. 

Before you knew it, Carmy was coming over once a week for dinner. He usually took the lead, bringing fancy ingredients from the farmer’s market and doing preparation methods that involved equipment that looked like it belonged in a lab rather than a kitchen. Tonight, however, was your night. Tonight’s menu: Salmon, rice, and mixed veggies, simple enough. 

Carmy arrived early, a bottle of red wine in hand. He goes to help, but you quickly usher him to the table in the center of your small kitchen. 

He uncorks the wine while the food cooks. You sit next to Carmy, he presents the label to you before pouring a small amount into your glasses. 

“You know how to taste it?” Carmy asks. You try not to be insulted. 

“You swallow it…?” You ask back, inspecting the glass. He rolls his eyes.

“Har, har, you’re hilarious. There’s like- a process to it.” He picks up his glass and tilts it forward.

“First, you have to look at it. Make sure there’s nothing in it.” He explains. 

You copy the motion and look into your glass. He didn’t pour a lot, a small spot of red swirls at the bottom as you tilt the glass forward. The red liquid pools at the sides, a deep crimson in the center that becomes more translucent as it radiates towards the edges. It looks brighter than other wines you’ve had. 

“What, like poison?” 

“Like cork, Jesus Christ.” He laughs, lips quirked up into a smile. “Next step, swirl.” 

He gently swirls his glass, you do the same. 

“What does this do?” 

“Aerates it- wakes everything up. Then you smell…” He explains, bringing the glass to his nose. 

You copy, making a face at him from across the table. The kitchen is filled with the scent of lemon and garlic from the salmon, you tilt the glass forward and inhale. The wine smells sweeter than you expected, notes of cherry and raspberry sit at the top. You breathe in deeply as the warm undertones of clove shine through. 

“Finally, you sip and swish.” Carmy finishes, taking a small sip and swishing the wine in his mouth. 

You take a moment before humoring him, taking a small sip and sloshing it around your mouth. You squint your eyes and nod. The wine feels thick between your teeth as you swish. It doesn’t taste as sweet as it smells. Instead, it leads with a pleasant, earthy kick. Not too dry but not too sweet, the perfect wine to pair with a meal. 

“Yeah, that’s wine.” You say, finally. 

“You just don’t appreciate fine dining.” He smiles. 

“I just don’t appreciate bullshit.” You quip back before taking another sip. “What is this anyway?”

“Pinot noir, 2020, from France- none of that California shit.” He rattles off. You hum, nodding along. 

“I thought you drank white wine with fish.” You ask, topping off your glass. He shrugs. 

“You can. Salmon is a little different, though. It works with red or white.” He flicks the bottle, and the glass dings. “This is a really good one, though.” 

You hum in agreement, tracing your finger around the rim of the glass. You dip your finger down the side before settling onto the stem in a loose grasp. 

“You just have this sitting around?” You ask tentatively, bringing the glass to your lips.

“Like I’m gonna tell you.” He scoffs, leaning forward and picking up the bottle to refill his glass.

Your cheeks go pink at the idea of him buying wine specifically for tonight, something he thought would go with the food you made. 

“You really didn’t have to. It’s my night, you know.” You bite back a smile, tracing your index up and down the stem of the glass. 

“I can’t just show up empty-handed.” He smiles back. 

The wine warms your cheeks, or maybe it’s him- no, definitely the wine. A smile spreads across your face as your eyes roam up his arms. You look at the tattoos on his knuckles, you know he has more, you’ve seen them on his arms but you can’t help but wonder… nope not going there. Look somewhere else. Your eyes flick to his neck, then his face before you give up and decide to just look at your wine glass. 

“Still…” You trail off, pressing your lip into the rim of the glass.

He’s leaning closer now, forearms sprawled across the table. His eyes bore into yours as his fingers fiddle with the edge of the placemats in front of your seats. It’s quiet, you rack your brain for something else to say but draw a blank. His eyes bounce around your face and you feel the panic bubbling into your chest, you gulp down more wine to bide some time. The air suddenly feels thick and you take a deep breath to calm yourself. The smell of burning assaults your senses- shit, wait, burning? 

You stand suddenly, spinning around and opening the oven in one move. A plume of smoke billows out and the fire alarm follows behind. 

“Fuck-” You wince, fanning away some of the smoke and pulling out the trays. 

Carmy is on his feet, hands on your waist as he pulls you away from the oven and quickly shuts the door before turning it off. He moves through your apartment, opening the windows and fanning the alarm while you stay frozen in place. You lean over the food to inspect the damage. The veggies are burnt to a crisp and beyond unsalvageable. The salmon isn’t much better, a thick, black layer coats the top of each fillet and the inside is completely dried out. You attempt a bite, your shoulders slump at the chalky taste. Your rice cooker beeps- at least that’s okay. 

“Maybe we can still eat it?” He asks over your shoulder, picking the fork out of your hand. 

“No, no you don’t have to.” You shake your head as he pokes at the overcooked fish. 

He takes a bite and his face scrunches. You watch as he chews, brows tightly knit together as he forces it down. “It’s… good. Nice.” Carmy clears his throat before looking over to you. You smile at the gesture, shaking your head.

“Carmy, you really don’t have to. I know it tastes bad.” You sigh, slumping your shoulders and opening your fridge. 

“I don’t have a lot…” You click your tongue, scanning your fridge. He comes up behind you and peeks into the appliance. 

“Yeesh- I thought I was bad.” He sighs.

You make a face at him, and he holds up his hands. You roll your eyes and pull out a packet of Kraft singles.

—

Twenty minutes and half a bottle of wine later, dinner is finally ready. The two of you had retired to the living room, tucked into the couch as you finished your grilled cheese sandwiches. 

“I’m so sorry.” You frown, picking at the crust. 

Carmy rolls his eyes as he pours you another drink. “Stop apologizing, it happens.” 

“It was gonna be so good too.” You sigh, gulping down more wine. “I had this planned for like- a week. I grocery-shopped specifically for this.” 

“It smelled good.” He smiles, cheeks full of food. “Maybe we can give it another try next week.” 

You smile at that, electing to take another bite of your sandwich instead of talking. His knee presses into yours, and you don’t move away. It’s quiet. Things are usually quiet with Carmy. You usually hate that. 

“Maybe I’ll leave the cooking to you.” You say with your mouth full. 

You lean forward, set your empty plate onto the coffee table, and scoot closer on your way down. Carmy doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Once, when I was uh- staging, I was in charge of making family.” He starts, “The meal before service for all the staff, so the pressure was on, you know?”

You nod along, leaning into the plush of the couch. Heat radiates in the space between you, your body feels slack as the wine buzzes through your head. Carmy’s eyes bounce around as he speaks, only maintaining eye contact for a few moments before looking away. 

“And I wanted to impress these people so bad. So, I decided to do this roast thing, totally messed it up. The seasoning was bland, it was dry, texture wasn’t great- horrible first impression.” He laughs softly, shaking his head as he recounts the memory. 

Carmy’s body slots next to yours as he slings his arm over the back of the couch, an invitation to move closer. You take it. 

“What’d you do?” 

“Made an au jus, cut up some bread, and called them sandwiches.” 

His palm closes over your shoulder. He’s warm, you feel his heat seep into your arm through his chest. You hum in acknowledgement, head pressing into his shoulder. 

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” You whisper. 

“Maybe. Do you feel better?” He whispers back. 

“Eh.” 

He smiles at your flat remark. Your eyes dart to his lips as they quirk up. 

“What would make you feel better?” 

He’s so close you can feel his words against your skin. You take a beat, pulling back to look at him. Despite your heart pounding in your ears, your body is calm as your hand trails up his chest. You close the gap, lips grazing against his. Maybe it’s the wine, but you swear you feel him kiss you back. 

[j23r23]

Me using said paper bag...

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 64

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 2.1k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which there are no good options.

“We’re going in circles, Steve. Lang can’t use his ants, we can’t use the Quinjet, there’s not a single one of us who can approach that bunker and not immediately be shot out of the sky.” There’s only way in that isn’t likely to get anyone killed. And you hate it. “Me,” you say quietly. A whisper. “Then we keep thinking until we find a way,” snaps Steve. “Me,” you repeat, a little louder now. You open your eyes and look at your hands on your bump. They’re so small, in comparison. When did your bump get so big? You look up. “Steve. I can get in.” “No,” says Steve. “We can be wheels up in—” “Steve—” “No,” repeats Steve. “What’s the fastest route to Siberia, east or west? Lang can meet us there, maybe if we drop him from a high enough altitude—” “I’m the one you drop, Steve. I can get in,” you say. “They were after me, right? If I’m the one who shows up—” Steve slams a hand down on the table. The table cracks. “I am not letting a pregnant Avenger walk straight into the Winter Soldier’s arms!” says Steve through gritted teeth.

Read the rest of the chapter on AO3.