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dreamwritesimagines · 12 hours ago

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Declassified [8] - Diplomacy

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: The first day of work can be stressful.

Warnings: Explicit language, yearning.

Word Count: 4381

Series Masterlist

Well.

This was exactly what the first day of school used to feel like.

You couldn’t stop the sigh leaving your lips as you stared up at the Capitol Building, trying to ignore the anxiety churning your stomach. You knew you were supposed to go in, but somehow your legs refused to listen to you, so you exhaled slowly the way your therapist had taught you to get at least some sort of—

“It’s not too late to change your mind.”

You jumped out of your skin, then pressed a hand over your chest and glared at Bucky.

“What did I say about sneaking up on people?”

“In my defense, you looked pretty out of it already.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And as I said; not too late to change your mind. We can still leave.”

“Right,” you said with a laugh. “So we just forget about the Congress and everything and go away?”

He grinned. “Mm hm.”

“Where?”

“Brooklyn.”

You tilted your head. “Except that Brooklyn elected you as their representative, I feel like they’d ask what the hell you’re doing there.”

“You make a good point,” he said and thought for a moment. “Okay, new plan.”

“I’m listening.”

“We get new names and identities, move to a small town where no one knows us, and grow old and gray there in peace. We never check the news, ever.”

Your heart skipped a beat but you tried to focus. “Do we have to change Alpine’s name too?”

“I don’t think she’d let us,” he said, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “She missed you, by the way.”

This was not flirting.

This was just friendly. That was it. Two friends talking.

About running away together.

“I missed her too,” you said. “How does she like your new place?”

“She doesn’t,” he murmured before turning to glance at the building. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“Are you talking to me or yourself?”

“Yes.”

You repressed a laugh and bumped your shoulder against his.

“Come on,” you said as you started walking with him next to you. “Today is your day, and you’re gonna be very busy.”

“Yeah, the schedule was pages long,” he said. “I have meetings with people I don’t even know about.”

“Think of it like your debutante ball,” you told him. “They all want to see if you’re the right fit for them, how much dowry you have, and if they can bed you.”

“Please talk to me about something else.”

“Okay. “You shrugged your shoulders. “Onto some heartwarming news; I told Max to go fuck himself last night.”

Bucky frowned. “Hold on, he’s still calling you?”

“I called him,” you said. “He got the apartment after I prepared my boxes and stuff, and I paid the movers extra so that they would move everything without me being there, but apparently Max went through my boxes even if he refuses to admit it, because Blinky is not in any of them.”

“Who’s Blinky?” He paused for a moment. “Or what is Blinky?”

“Blinky is my childhood plushie,” you said. “It’s a fox plushie with one eye, the other eye fell off on the first day, that’s why I named him that. I took him everywhere I moved, and guess what? Max refuses to give him back.”

“Well, that’s interesting information.”

“I know, right?” you asked as you both walked into the building and held up your IDs to go through the security even if Bucky didn’t need to do that. “He claims he hasn’t seen him, but I’m so sure he hides him somewhere in the apartment.”

“You have a toy?”

“It’s a plushie.”

“It’s a toy.”

“It’s a plushie—you know what, I’m not going to stand in the Capitol hallway to argue semantics about my nostalgic childhood plushie with you,” you said while Bucky grinned at you. “You have one thousand things to do and so do I, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That wiped his grin off his face. “Wait, tomorrow? You’re not gonna be around?”

“I’ll be gone all day.”

His eyes widened and he shook his head.

“Birdie, no—”

“I have the orientation, I’ll have to meet everyone and stuff, and apparently there’s this tour… It’ll be chaotic. Kels will be with you though, and Caleb as well.”

“But it wouldn’t take you all day,” Bucky tried to convince you as if you were the one who planned the schedule. “What are they going to do, make you tour the place twice? Just tell them you have stuff to do.”

“This is my stuff to do.”

“So you’re leaving me alone with these people?”

You tried not to laugh at the look of betrayal on his face.

“These people are going to be your colleagues,” you reminded him. “So you need to make friends with them. You don’t need me for that.”

“I do need you for that, actually,” he argued. “I don’t…I don’t make friends.”

“Fine, don’t make friends with them, just be civil. You charmed half of Brooklyn, remember?”

“Because you were there.”

“You’ve been through literally the hardest things anyone can go through—”

“To repeat, none of those things required making friends. Or socializing for that matter.”

“You’ll be fine, and I’ll drop by the office if I can,” you assured him. “But remember. Diplomacy. That’s the currency here.”

Bucky took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah.”

You took a step to leave, then turned around again to look at him.

“I feel like this goes without saying when it comes to diplomacy, but do not glare at or threaten anyone.”

Bucky stared at you as if you had just asked him whether Alpine could fly and you pursed your lips, then rolled your shoulders back.

“It’s gonna go great,” you muttered to yourself as you started walking again. “Diplomacy, here we come.”

Okay, you expected today to be chaotic, but you did not know it would be this chaotic.

It felt like for the whole day you had been running to one place or the other, and by the time you had found some time to yourself, it was way past lunch time. You had about half an hour until the next item on the schedule so you figured you could drop by Bucky’s office to talk to Kelsey and Caleb and see how Bucky was doing so far.

When you entered the office, most of the team was busy with either their phones or laptops, but Caleb and Kelsey were watching Bucky’s closed door, having a discussion in whispers. You tilted your head, then made your way to them.

“Is everything okay?”

“What are you doing here?” Caleb asked. “My orientation lasted all day.”

“Mine will too, I just got a break—what is happening?”

Kelsey licked her lips. “Guess who asked for a last minute meeting with Bucky.”

“Who?”

“Amos Drexel.”

Your stomach dropped and you gawked at her. “Sorry?”

“I think you guys are the only people who know this person.”

“I’ve been memorizing everyone’s faces and names and titles since the election night,” she said. “And trust me, people know who he is. People in high places, if you know what I mean.”

“Kels, he’s just a consultant.”

Kelsey scoffed. “He’s not just a consultant, Caleb.”

“A lobbyist.”

“Lobbyists come and go, this guy has been bribing and extorting the politicians for like, decades. He has half of them in his pocket.”

“I feel like I would’ve heard about him,” Caleb said and Kelsey shook her head.

“He’s too smart for that,” she said. “It’s easier for him if the public thinks he’s just a consultant. But trust me, every single politician here knows about him.”

“What is he doing here?” you asked, your heartbeat getting faster as you stole a look at the closed door. “I checked Bucky’s schedule this morning, he wasn’t there.”

“As I said, last minute meeting,” Kelsey said. “What was I supposed to do when Drexel wanted to see him, ask him to reschedule? I squeezed him in.”

“If he tries to bribe Bucky, I feel like he might kill him.”

“Obviously but that’s not the point,” Kelsey said while you grabbed her penholder so that you could do something with your hands. “The point is, if Drexel is here, it means he wants to—”

You dropped the penholder as soon as the door opened, and you ducked under the desk to gather the pencils as he passed by the desk.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes.” You heard him say as he walked out of the door and you put all the pens into the holder, then got up from under the desk, letting out a breath.

Bucky looked absolutely furious as he glared in the direction he had disappeared into before his eyes found yours, his gaze softening in a second. You gave him a tightlipped smile and put the holder on the desk—

And the rest of the room turned to the door again.

“Almost forgot.” His voice reached your ears, making your whole body tense up. “Honey? Your mom wants to know if you’re free for dinner next weekend.”

Oh.

Oh he had planned this.

Of course he did. He knew every schedule in this goddamn place, and he knew the moment you had a break, you’d come straight to Bucky’s office.

You forced yourself to ignore the whole team and Bucky staring at you, your cheeks burning in humiliation as you turned around to glare at your father who was standing by the door with a calm smile on his face.

“Make sure to text her please,” he told you. “Have a great first day.”

Then he walked away, leaving the whole office in a stunned silence.

You could feel the tears of frustration burning the back of your eyes but this was neither the time nor the place. You blinked a couple of times, clenching your jaw and then made a beeline into Bucky’s office with Caleb and Kelsey rushing after you. Kelsey closed the door behind her and you licked your lips, taking a deep breath.

“I can explain that—”

“He’s your father?” Caleb asked and you cleared your throat.

“Well…”

“Why is your surname different?”

“How is he your father?” Caleb and Kelsey asked at the same time and you cleared your throat.

“I’ve been asking the same question to my mother for ages now.” You tried to joke as you stole a look at Bucky who was just watching you with an unreadable look on his face.

“Your father is Amos Drexel and you still have roommates?” Kelsey asked, motioning at herself and Caleb, and you shook your head fervently.

“I’m broke.”

Caleb scoffed. “Oh come on—”

“No, I am.” You pulled your phone out to open up your bank app, then showed the screen to them. “See? Totally broke.”

That seemed to have snapped Bucky out of the haze he was in. “Wait, you need money?”

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head fervently. “No I don’t.”

Caleb stared at your phone screen. “How is that even possible?”

“I got myself a separate bank account when I was eighteen,” you said. “I wouldn’t touch his money with a gun to my head, I know where it comes from. And before you ask, I won’t touch it when he dies either, it will go straight to charity.”

“And he’s okay with that?”

“Not at all but he ignores it, just like he ignores how I’ve been begging him to disown me for years,” you said and turned to Bucky. “Please say something.”

Bucky just held your gaze for a moment before taking a deep breath.

“Your surname is different?”

“I changed it to my mother’s maiden name the day I turned eighteen,” you said. “You should’ve seen the paperwork.”

Bucky pointed at the door. “Birdie, I just told your father to go to hell.”

“You—” Kelsey’s eyes widened. “You told him to go to hell?”

“With different words.”

“What words?”

Bucky raised his brows, then motioned at her and you. “You two are here, I can’t exactly say what I said.”

“Bucky how many times must we tell you that people can curse around—” Caleb started but Kelsey cut him off, throwing her head back to look up at the ceiling like she was asking for help.

“Jesus, we’re not gonna last a term.”

“Would he assassinate him?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “No one is going to assassinate me, Caleb.”

“Hypothetically, would it even count as assassination if he killed you?”

“No.”

“I was going to say who died and left you in charge of assassinations, but I think everyone in this room knows the answer—”

“Bucky, I don’t think you understand,” Kelsey insisted. “Let’s say you’re Aragorn, this guy is Sauron!”

You made a face.

“He’s not Sauron, his power does have a limit.” You paused for a moment. “He’s Saruman at best.”

“Thanks, that makes it so much better—”

“Can we have the room?” Bucky cut her off and Kelsey and Caleb exchanged glances, then left the office. You could feel the anxiety churning your stomach but you swallowed thickly, keeping your eyes on him.

“Bucky…”

“Why not tell me?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Would you have hired me?”

He frowned. “Of course I would.”

“And how would that go? Here’s my resume, oh by the way, my father bribes and extorts politicians for a living?” you asked. “See, I don’t think you would.”

“So your solution was to keep it a secret? Even after we—” He stopped himself. “Even after we started working together?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I couldn’t just tell you,” you said. “Listen, I wanted to work in politics, and…”

“And you could’ve easily got a job here,” Bucky told you. “You didn’t have to wait until I got elected.”

“Do you think that’s why I’m doing this?” you asked. “Bucky, I don’t want to work for a politician who is only gonna hire me because of my father, he stands for the opposite of everything I believe in—”

“And it’s been like that from the beginning?” he asked, making you pull back. “From the first minute we started working together?”

When the realization crashed down on you, it tightened your throat like a fist.

“You don’t believe me,” you muttered, biting inside your cheek and he let out a breath.

“Birdie, listen—”

“No, you listen,” you cut him off. “The next time you accuse me of working for my father, or—or having anything to do with his corruption, I will walk away, Bucky. I’ll pick one of the many job offers being thrown at me from someone who’s not in my father’s pocket -surprisingly, there are still some of those- and I’ll go and work for them. So I guess the question you should be asking is, do you really want that to happen?”

With that, you stormed out of the office and made your way to the stairs without sparing anyone a glance, your heart still pounding in your chest.

Well needless to say, as far as first days went, that one was not so good.

You had gone straight home after work without dropping by Bucky’s office again. Caleb came home an hour after you, and Kelsey was the last one to arrive, and they had a lot of questions.

At least they had both brought booze and snacks.

And now, way past midnight, all of you were sitting on the floor, still drinking and snacking but the air felt much lighter.

“I just want to say, Birdie,” Caleb said. “Even if your father is a demon sent from hell to bribe politicians, we love you.”

“Aw, thanks Caleb.”

“Can I also point out that,” Kelsey said, reaching for some chips, “it sure is weird that we have a TV, a fucking gramophone—”

“No badmouthing my gramophone, Kels.”

“But we don’t have a couch?”

“We’ll buy a couch,” you said, throwing a piece of chocolate in air to catch it with your mouth. “Like, next month. When we can afford it.”

“Maybe we should let your father know his daughter doesn’t have a couch, so that he can send us a gold one.”

You shot her a look and she grinned.

“These jokes will continue, just so you know.”

“I know, I know…” you muttered and pointed at the TV. “Swipe left.”

“No, swipe right!” Caleb told Kelsey who tilted her head, still holding her thumb over her phone screen. You had connected her phone to the TV and for over an hour you were going over the ‘options’ for her as Caleb had put it, and even though you’d had doubts at first, this turned out to be much more fun than watching political news.

“I mean he does give off fuckboy vibes, Caleb.”

“I don’t give a shit, he has a dog,” Caleb said. “One of us has to find someone with a dog. Birdie already has Bucky, who has an asshole cat—”

“I don’t have Bucky, and Alpine is a pretty princess.”

“And I’m a dog person,” Caleb said, pointing at the picture on the screen. “Maybe he’ll bring over his dog.”

“You make a good point,” Kelsey said as she swiped right, and all of you made a face at the next picture on the screen.

“Left!”

“Do you guys think I’ll have to work for someone else?”

“I think Bucky would rather resign himself than fire you,” Kelsey stated and Caleb nodded, taking a fistful of jellybeans into his palm.

“She’s right,” he said. “Do you want the green ones?”

“Yes please,” you said and held out your hand so that he could put the green jellybeans in your palm, and you popped them in your mouth. “And if he doesn’t trust me anymore?”

“That’s why he looked like a kicked puppy when I told Kels you were already home within his earshot?”

You let out a whine and downed your drink. “It’s gonna be so weird when I see him tomorrow.”

“Just pretend nothing happened,” Kelsey said, making Caleb scoff.

“I’m sure it’s a very healthy approach to disagreements in a relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship,” you said sulkily as the roar of a motorcycle outside reached the apartment. “He’s in a relationship with Hazel fucking—swipe right on this one Kels—Brooks.”

“Who hates your guts because she knows Bucky likes you.”

“Right,” you said with a laugh. “Because Bucky would ever leave his hot, successful, billionaire girlfriend —who is, if I may repeat, super hot— to be with me.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

You flailed your arms. “We don’t even have a damn couch, Kels!”

“Then he fucks you on the floor, who cares?” Caleb exclaimed as he poured more wine into your glass, and your phone buzzed on the floor. You picked it up, sitting up straighter the moment you saw the text.

From: Winter Is Coming

Hey. Are you awake?

“What the…” you muttered and turned the screen to Caleb and Kelsey so that they could read the text. “Is this a ‘you up’ text? Is Bucky sending me a you up text?”

“The man has to google half of the things I text him, but he’s sending you a you up text, sure.” Kelsey scoffed a laugh. “See, told you things would work out. That’s gonna be an apology text, text him back.”

You sent a quick yes, your heartbeat getting faster as Caleb grinned.

“He’s so lying in bed thinking about you, aw!”

“He’s not doing that— ” You started but you were cut off when your phone buzzed in your hand.

Do you mind stepping outside for a minute?

“Holy shit!”

“Caleb, stop shouting!”

“He’s here?!”

“Oh my God, oh my God…” You jumped on your feet, fanning yourself. “What do I do?”

“Well, you calm down,” Kelsey said, getting up as well. “And you go outside.”

“How do I look?”

“You look great.” Kelsey pulled your top down a little and wiggled her brows. “For good luck.”

You took a deep breath, fixed your hair, and rushed out of the apartment to make your way downstairs, then you stepped out of the building to find him leaning against his motorcycle.

Goddamn it.

You were supposed to be angry at him, but somehow the butterflies in your stomach refused to listen to you.

“To repeat,” you said as you walked down the stairs and approached him. “I have a doorbell.”

“It’s 2 a.m.” Bucky replied, his eyes fixed on you, making your heart skip a beat. “I figured Caleb and Kelsey would be asleep.”

“Nope, we’re picking guys for Kelsey,” you said. “So what brings you here?”

Bucky paused for a moment and licked his lips.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “About today…”

“Listen, I know you’re gonna say I should’ve told you but you need to understand—”

“I’m sorry.”

That made you stop talking and your eyes snapped up to his, a confused frown pulling your brows together. Bucky gave you an apologetic smile and cleared his throat as if he was willing to get the words out.

“I don’t like it when people hide things from me, and I…” He rubbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes from yours for a moment. “I trust you a lot, so when you—”

You shook your head fervently. “Bucky, I would never betray your trust.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” you insisted. “Because I need you to know that. I would never go behind your back and do anything to—to hurt you in any way.”

That soft light appeared in his blue eyes. “I know.”

“It’s just not who I am.”

“I know, Birdie.”

You bit inside your cheek.

“And I’m sorry too,” you muttered, pressing your palms on your eyes for a moment before dropping your hands. “I swear, something evil comes out of me whenever someone so much as mentions me being anything like him. Especially when I spent years trying to prove that I’m not.”

“I get that.”

You looked down, shifting your weight from one foot to other, then raised your head to smile up at him.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked. “You can help us pick guys for Kels, and there’s wine and snacks.”

“Tempting offer,” he said. “But I’m actually here to drop something off.”

You frowned as he reached into the box behind his motorcycle. “What? I’m pretty sure I got all the files—”

You stopped talking the moment you saw what he pulled out of the box, a gasp leaving your lips and your hands shooting up to your mouth.

Blinky.

He held out the worn out plushie for you and you gawked at him for a couple of seconds before you reached out to take it.

“Wh—how?”

“It was on my way.”

You pulled your brows together, looking down at the fox plushie before raising your glances again.

“My old apartment, which is in New York,” you said slowly, “was on your way to your home, which is in DC.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a mischievous smile.

“Well okay, it wasn’t,” he admitted. “I just got back to the city, that’s why I texted you at this hour.”

You could feel your heart melting in your chest. “You went all the way to New York to get my childhood plushie back?”

“I still think that counts as a toy,” he pointed out as if it was crucial information. “But you said it was important to you, so…”

Don’t kiss him.

You can’t kiss him. He’s your boss, he has a girlfriend, he does not see you that way, do not kiss him.

“And if anything, I’d been wanting to talk to Max for a while now, so the toy was basically just an excuse.”

“It a plushie—” You changed directions mid-sentence. “What do you mean you talked to Max?”

The look on his face was too innocent. “We just had a conversation, that’s all.”

“About?”

“About him not making anything difficult for you. Or something along those lines.”

The warmth swirled in the pit of your stomach, making you feel lightheaded as you beamed at him, a giggle climbing your chest.

“Bucky.” You breathed out. “I don’t know what to say...”

“Oh it’s nothing, really.”

“It’s not nothing,” you said. “It’s—it’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

That made his head snap up, his eyes searching yours while a proud smile pulled at his lips like your praise meant the world to him. It could’ve been funny if you weren’t trying so hard to control yourself from kissing him; the deadliest assassin in the world, the infamous Bucky Barnes who barely smiled at anyone, who could strike fear in anyone’s hearts with a mere glare, now had the same expression of an excited puppy who was given a treat.

His throat bobbed and he blinked a couple of times like he was trying to pull himself together, then gestured at his motorcycle. “I uh, I should go.”

You were painfully aware that you were pouting. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And hey, I’m sure you’re needed inside too. Can’t have Kelsey choose the wrong guy.”

You huffed out a laugh, hugging a plushie to your stomach and nodded.

“See you tomorrow,” you said quietly and took a couple of steps but then turned around to look at him.

“And…” You cleared your throat, your heart pacing in your chest. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”

His voice was soft: “Good night Birdie.”

He waited until you were in the building to ride away and you pressed a hand over your chest before climbing the stairs to enter your apartment.

“Hey,” Kelsey said. “How did it—is that a plushie?”

“Bucky got you a plushie?” Caleb asked, confusion clear in his tone and you looked down at the plushie, then back at them.

“Guys, we have a problem,” you rasped out, your voice weak even to your own ears. “I think I’m actually falling for him.”

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clockwayswrites · 1 day ago

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More DoMAYn D5 Cont Chapter 2, Part 2

masterpostish just look at day 5. mental abilities iffy, please no con crit or editing <3

Danny, Jason, and Mr. Wayne all pile into the back of a car that Vlad would be jealous off. Neither of the adults even blink at the mud that’s getting on the floor and seats from the graveyard. Still, Danny tries not to fidget too much and make the mess worse.

Jason still has Danny’s sleeve in his grip, even as he’s leaning heavily against his dad. It means that Danny can’t get the seat belt in, but Alfred is driving like he’s got the most precious cargo so it doesn’t really matter.

“We need to go to Leslie’s,” Mr. Wayne says.

Alfred gives a nod. “I’ve already notified her that we’re on the way. She’ll be expecting us at the staff entrance.”

“Danny, are you hurt at all?”

Danny can’t help but start a little at that. “What? Oh, no, I’m okay. I just helped Jason out.”

“Leslie is a doctor and close family friend, we’re going to her clinic. If anything is wrong, they can see to it,” Mr. Wayne explains.

Danny shakes his head. What’s all the concern about? “No, really, I’m okay. Just a little cold and muddy.”

“How long were you out there, dear boy?” Alfred asks from the front.

“Just a few hours.” With his parents were gone ghost hunting, it was easy enough to just leave when he needed to. Sure, he planned in extra time to make sure he got there and find the graveyard and the plot, but he had his phone to entertain him.

Mr. Wayne is watching him with too seeing eyes. “So, you knew to be there?”

Fuck. “Um, the sticky notes.”

Searching around in his backpack one handed is a little hard, since Jason won’t let him lean far, but he manages to grab the slightly crumpled square of bright green paper with the time, plot number, and cemetery name on it.

Mr. Wayne takes the note like it’s something that could explode. “Do you know who these come from?”

“Yeah?” Danny’s nose scrunches up at that. “I’m not going to listen to strange notes from someone I don’t know.”

“Well, that is wise,” Alfre says. He almost sounds amused for some reason that Danny doesn’t get.

It seems safest just to be quiet for the rest of the drive. Besides, his silence gives Mr. Wayne tie to focus on his son. Danny listens without trying to as Mr. Wayne checks over Jason’s battered fingertips. Jason’s answers are stilted, but Danny thinks that Jason is already speaking more clearly. When Jason’s voice starts getting rough, Danny offers the thermos.

“It’s just tea,” he explains, looking at Jason rather than Mr. Wayne. “I thought Jason would be cold, you know, being underground all that time, so I brought it with me. He’s had some apple slices too and an oatmeal cookie.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” Alfred comments. “We were in such a rush, we brought nothing with us.”

“Oh, no, yeah, course you were,” Danny says. “I’m sure that was… startling.”

“To say the least, but in the very best way,” Alfred says. He catches Danny’s eye in the rearview mirror for a moment. “In Gotham, you learn to accept the impossible.”

Danny nods as if he understands.

Arriving at the clinic is a flurry of activity. Mr. Wayne helps Jason into a waiting wheelchair. Alfred ushers Danny out of the car. There’s an older woman with kind eyes and a stern voice directing everything. Before Danny can even protest he has a fuzzy fabric hooked up to a tube squeezing his arm. He’s seated next to Jason because Jason wouldn’t stop trying to move until Danny was close enough to touch.

“I’m fine?” Danny tries to tell the nurse.

“Hold out your other hand please,” the nurse says instead of listening and sticks what Danny guesses is some sort of monitoring thing around Danny’s fingertip.

“Bruce,” the older woman says, a firm question in the man’s name. She has Bruce pulled off to the side and her voice low.

“Alfred got a call just after eleven,” Bruce says with a little motion, “from someone named Danny that he was in the cemetery with Jason. Alfred heard Jason over the line, got me, and we as quickly as we could. And… there he was, Leslie, just sitting there.”

The woman, Leslie, Danny guesses, shoots a glance towards them. “He looks like Jason.”

“He knew me,” Bruce agrees.

Clone? With transferred memories?” Leslie asked, as if that was a normal thing to just have to ask.

“We haven’t run any DNA yet,” Bruce says back, unphased.

“No, it’s Jason,” Danny protests. He doesn’t care that he’s not supposed to hear from so far away, he wouldn’t let Jason be doubted like this. “As long as Jason is who was in that grave, then that’s Jason. I helped pull himself out myself!”

“It is simple that the earth was hardly disturbed that brings questions,” Alfred soothes.

“That’s because—it’s just… I’m a—a meta!” Danny says. It’s… enough the truth. He reaches out a hand and waves it through the machine the cuff is connected too. “I heard him screaming in his coffin. I pulled him out!”

Jason grabs Danny’s hand as soon as it’s solid and clings to it. “I’m—I’m me. I don’t—I… I remember dying. Dad, I remember d-dying. There was so much smoke. The door wouldn’t open and-d I t-tried…”

Mr. Wayne is across the room in an instant and has Jason wrapped up in a hug. Danny looks away, as if he can give them any privacy being right there. Leslie at least gives him a distraction by coming over to take off the weird cuff and finger thing.

He doesn’t like the way she crouches down in front of him though.

“It’s Danny, right?” she asks. It’s like she’s using a ‘teacher voice’ but one step to the side. It’s weird.

“Yeah,” Danny answers anyways.

“Danny, how long were you out in the cold?”

“Why does everyone care about that?” Danny asks in what is totally not a whine. “It was only a few hours.”

“Well, Danny, I’m asking because your blood pressure and pulse are both really low,” Leslie explains. “Is that normal for you?”

“Oh, is that what those were measuring?” Danny asks with a little shrug. “I don't know? I don’t feel that different from normal. Like, I’m just a little tired but it’s been a busy day, you know?”

“I’m sure it has,” she agreed in that same patient voice. “When was the last time you were to a doctor?”

When had it been? Was that weird? “Since I was little, I guess? My parents are biologists, and they just take us to the pharmacy for shots and things.”

“Well, Danny, since you’re here and we’re going to be running some tests on Jason anyways, how about we run some tests on you t—”

“No!” Danny is up and out of the chair before she can even visit. He can’t go far because, well, Jason, but he’s not going to stay sitting down for this. “Nope. No tests. I’m not a lab rat.”

Leslie is almost frustratingly calm. “You’re not, and no one is going to try and make you into one. I just would like to make sure you’re healthy. How about this, any test we do on Jason, you can watch. If I think it would be a good one for you to do, I’ll ask and you can decide if you want to or not, okay?”

Danny chews on his lip as he thinks that over. Slowly, he nods. If he can always say no later, it doesn’t hurt to agree for now, he figures.

It makes Leslie smile. “Great. We’re going to start by taking care of Jason’s hands, okay?”

Danny doesn’t really have any say in that, but he nods anyways. Mostly just because one of Jason’s hand is in his. As it is, they take care of one hand before having Danny swap sides, and then take care off the other. They make Danny scrub up in between and change into some clean, if too big, sweats, but he’s fine with that. He doesn’t want to be anything that makes Jason sick.

They take the chance to weight Danny and take his height during that, but those are fine. That’s normal, right?

He tucks himself between the wall and the exam chair thing Jason is one when he gets back in the room. Jason’s bandaged hand finds his sleeve.

“This is just a basic reflex test,” Dr. Leslie explains as she taps on Jason’s knee with a prehistoric looking tool. Jason’s knee jerks forward. “Your reflexes are a little slow right now, Jason, but if you did just… come back, there might be some rigor mortis still in play. Jason, do you feel stiff?”

Jason nods slowly. When he speaks it’s very carefully, as if his tongue doesn’t want to listen. “Everywhere. Like… when had that bad flu. All fuzzy too… it’s hard to… yeah.”

Dr. Leslie breathes deeply and lets it out slowly. “Okay. There’s only so much we can do here, but let’s run through some more tests.”

#dp x dc #dead on main

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alexafaie-asd · 10 hours ago

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It turns out ok for anything we use it for. Great for putting meat/veg on top of in a bowl. It doesn't go mushy, it retains its individual grains nicely. No clumping together. Easy cook here just means its previously been parboiled so that it doesn't take as long to cook. Turns out great every single time. Never had any difficulties ever.

I don't really understand the description of "fluffy" for rice though. Fluffy is like for wool, jumpers and teddy bears lol. I don't want my rice to feel like its covered in fluff or "fluffy".

It would be different if I wanted sticky rice. I'd buy that and then it would stay in the packet because the instructions require way too long for me to ever think of making it in time (same reason I can't use a slow cooker). I keep meaning to use it. It keeps sitting there. I just order it from my local Thai takeaway when I crave sticky rice instead.

Or if doing risotto its different because you want the rice to be a different texture. Its in with the liquid so goes creamy.

I wouldn't want long grain rice to be a creamy texture. It wants a bit of bite to it, grains which don't stick together. That's what I get when boiling it in a large pot of water & then drain it. It doesn't get overcooked and mushy. The grains stay separate.

I've not tried cooking jasmine rice at home as it generally involves tons of rinsing and so if realising 30mins before dinner that its dinner time soon & I should probably make something, it won't be done in time. And it only really works with things which mask the slightly floral kind of taste it has so doesn't make as versatile choice for me anyway. Like its fine if you're going to use a sauce with some sweetness and savoury going on (ok with kecap manis) but with anything else I find the taste overwhelming in combination.

ok I’m curious so put in the tags what country you are from and whether or not you own/use a rice cooker

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maskedbyghost · 1 day ago

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Please do like more bestie simon stuff, where’d he’d do anything and everything for you so discreetly that you don’t even notice, then just casually admits he’s in love like he just told you he got some tea for base. Just like the ”bestie” fix you wrote😋😋

I believe it started with the gloves.

You forget them after training one morning, and it's nothing new; you always forget something, but they’re in your locker before your next session, clean, dry, and folded.

Then it’s the hoodie you left on the range. It shows up two days later, and it's already washed. The same goes for the spare charger you lost, the one that just magically ends up on your bunk with no note. You figure someone’s being nice, but no one says anything. No one takes credit.

Then it’s your boots. You mention that they’re starting to rub, and a week later, they suddenly have your exact size in the model you actually like, even though they’ve been out for months.

It keeps going with little things.

Your favorite protein bars are back in stock. A cracked mug you loved was replaced without a word. Your reports? Suddenly flawless. No red marks, no nitpicks, nothing.

“Do you think I’m, like, haunted?” you ask Soap one night while stretching.

“Haunted,” he repeats. “By what, a ghost?”

“I’m serious. My locker jammed last week—I couldn’t even get it open—and then the next morning it’s fine. Like, not just fixed. Like it was never broken. And my nameplate was polished.”

Soap raises his brows. “You think a ghost did that?”

“I don’t know! I just know I didn’t fix it.”

He snorts. “Oh. That’s not a ghost.”

“…What is it then?”

“Mate. That’s Ghost.”

You stare. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head. “Saw him after you stormed out of the locker room, all pissed off. Waited till no one was around, pulled out a screwdriver like it was nothing. Fixed the hinge and wiped it down like a bloody maintenance guy.”

You go quiet.

—

You start paying attention after that. Really paying attention.

Simon walks behind you when you’re both in crowds. Waits outside rooms without saying why. Walks with you after meals like it’s a coincidence, even though you know your schedules don’t line up.

He lifts the heavy stuff without being asked. And it’s never a big thing. He does it all like it’s just something that happens.

You try to call him out once.

“You’re like my silent guardian angel or something,” you tease, flopping onto the rec room couch next to him. “All these little favors and no credit?”

Simon doesn’t even look up from the file he’s skimming.

Later that night, you find him up on the roof like always, sitting in his usual spot with two mugs of tea. He passes one to you without a word.

You sit next to him. He waits.

You lean back against the concrete, glancing at him. “So. You’re not denying the angel thing?”

He takes a slow sip and shrugs.

“‘m not your angel.” He pauses before he shrugs again. “Just in love with you, is all.”

You blink. “Come again?”

He completely ignores us as he raises his mug. “Also got your favorite blend. The mess hall ran out, so I got it off Price’s stash.”

“No, no, back up.” You shift to face him fully. “Did you just say you’re in love with me just like that?”

He shrugs. “Thought you knew.”

“How would I know?!”

He looks at you, totally deadpan. “Who else am I doin’ paperwork for?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Simon!”

He chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m in shock.”

Another sip. “Same thing, really.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He finally turns toward you, shoulder nudging yours. “So, what now?”

You pretend to think as you sip your tea. “Well. I guess I kiss you. And then maybe I let you keep doing my reports.”

Simon huffs. “So I do get something out of it.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh yeah. All my love and a mountain of paperwork waiting.”

He bumps your shoulder again. “Worth it.”

-------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon riley

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hedwig221b · 2 days ago

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Hi, I'm just wondering if you have any recs, where Peter is really close with Stiles? (but not romantically obv, it'd still be sterek)

Hopefully you have something, if not it's fine. (I love your recs, I discovered some of my new favs through you).

Hi! I'm so glad you found new fics through me! Here you are! Everyone is welcome to add their faves!

Divided We Stand by KouriArashi

Derek is being pressured by his family to pick a mate, and somehow stumbles into a choice that they didn't expect and aren't sure they approve of….

Whatever It Takes by Green

When Derek goes missing, Peter and Stiles have to find him.

What Goes Around by KouriArashi

"Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.” It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential. Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”

Unexpected Results by pixieblade

What do you do when the people you are supposed to trust, betray you in the worst possible way? What would you do if someone offered you a way out?

Don't Fuss Over Me by Delightful_I_Am

Stiles has a pretty big secret. Peter helps him keep it.

Don't Savage The Messenge by exclamation

There is an uneasy truce between the werewolves in the woods and the humans who live in Beacon Hills, protected by a magical boundary that gives warning any time a werewolf crosses it. Then the sheriff is taken by the werewolves and his son offers himself in exchange. Stiles promises to serve the werewolf pack, not knowing what horrible use they might have for him. But it turns out his most useful skill is the ability to cross the boundary line between humans and werewolves. Life with the werewolves is nothing like he feared and the werewolves themselves are nothing like the hunters' stories would have him believe.

Quality Peter Time by lavenderlotion

At first, Peter had really just wanted to check in with the boy. But the more he thought of about the Spark, how he was suddenly part of his pack he couldn't help himself. So he insisted he take the boy shopping, he just wasn't counting on Stiles being so observant.

Eyes on Fire by Myulalie

When a rival pack goes after Scott and his friends, Stiles finds himself caught in the crossfire. With his subsequent turning to haunt him among other nightmares, Stiles has to learn how to control his new abilities and make something of a situation he never wanted for himself, much less with the tensions that linger in Beacon Hills since the awakening of the Nemeton. As he eventually figures out how to be a werewolf, he finally finds common ground with one Derek Hale, catching feelings as he goes. The unexpected alliance might be just what Beacon Hills needs to bring the established werewolf packs together once and for all.

When it Matters by DaisyBeats

Stiles accidentally calls Derek after he leaves the vet parking lot after Scott confronts Stiles about Donovan. Derek comes back for him

Baby, but my body's intact by Lord_potato

Stiles gives a weak shake in response. The protectiveness grows in him again -at this all, at the fact this man thinks he has the right to hurt Stiles, at the fact this man is going to send their bodies to Derek, at the fact he can't take Stiles' pain away- but he can't fight against the chains. or Stiles and Peter are kidnapped together

Let's get this on track by Lerya

Stiles knew that his options were limited when the world went to shit, too much of shit that he couldn't just talk his way out of. So he did the next best thing, use his magic to travel back to a time before any of this happened, hoping to get a move in to make sure that never happened. He should have known he wouldn't be alone in coming back.

Hung The Moon by BurnItAllClean (nrnyx)

Slowly Stiles got control of himself again. His heart calmed. His breathing evened out. The anger was gone. In its place, a bone-deep weariness settled. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t survive this.

[masterlist link]

#sterek #hedwig221b replies #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek fic #stiles x derek #sterek fanfic #sterek fic rec #sterek fanfiction #sterek au #sterek ao3 #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fanfic #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf fic tec #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf derek #teen wolf sterek #peter hale

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godmadeaterribleerror · 13 hours ago

Text

In Uniform

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (thigh riding, handjobs, oral f!receiving, p in v sex), angst, light fluff, no use of y/n, pre-established relationship

Summary: Bucky brings you a surprise, and fulfills a fantasy.

Author's Note: Request from @brtodd! Do I like the American Military. No. But sometimes you gotta literally fuck them, am I right.

Word Count: 3k

He’s home early. Really early.

Worryingly early.

The door closes in the hallway and Bucky calls your name, but the sun hasn’t even set yet. And he said this mission would take three days, but it’s only been two.

Bucky only gets home this early when something’s wrong. When he or Sam got injured, or the mission went south, or they’re on the run from the government again, or-

“You there?” He calls your name again, and you shoot up to your feet. If something wrong, he’ll need you. “Cause if you’re not, you forgot your fucking phone again-“

“I’m in the kitchen, Buck.” He sounds fine. Not bleeding out. Not torn apart with guilt. “And I didn’t forget my phone.”

You can hear his laugh. He’s getting closer. “You’ve done it before, doll-“

“Well, you didn’t call.”

You should hide the second mug that you always keep out when he’s not home. Right next to your mug, empty, but serving as a placeholder. A reminder that Bucky will get home, because you left out his mug, and that’s a binding contract that he’ll need to return for.

It’s a little pathetic.

It still soothes you, and if Bucky’s ever noticed it one of the times you’d forgotten to put it away, he hasn’t said a single thing.

“Wasn’t looking to call.” He hums, and you pretend to do the dishes. They’re clean, but it keeps your hands busy, and from grabbing him for examination at every angle. “And you have done it before.”

“Once.” You mutter. “And if you’re trying to tell me you’ve been tracking my location again, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

He laughs, his arms wrapping around your stomach, and he smells good. Like spice and old books.

That’s a good sign. Means whatever’s wrong isn’t wrong enough for him to smell like blood and oil.

“You said I could when I was away.” He murmurs in your ear. “Gotta make sure you’re safe.”

“I am safe. You’re here.”

“Alright, smartass-“

“And you were tracking my location, weren’t you.”

Bucky sighs in your ear, his grip tightening over your stomach. “Wanted to check you’d be home when I got back.”

He sounds okay. A little tired, but without any heavy pain dripping between his words or any guilt rolling off his words. He’s holding you in the safe, careful way as always—tight, but still careful, as if he’ll flinch and you’ll vanish right before his eyes—and when you lean back with a soft breath, he’s kissing your neck so gently. He’s probably fine. Maybe Sam just let him go early.

But something is different. Bucky kisses down your neck, and his lips feel the same as usual, but-

The stubble. It’s gone.

You whirl around—he’s never fully shaved, ever, not since you’ve met him—and your mouth falls into a gape.

It’s not just the beard.

He’s wearing a uniform. A military uniform, from the 40s, that you’ve seen him wear in old Captain America documentaries and faded photographs, and it fits him perfectly, and he’s even got the stupid hat on-

You feel sort of dizzy, your hands shoot up to grab him by the lapels of the jacket, Bucky catches you right before your knees give out. His eyes are wide on yours, and his arm hooked around your waist, and that’s dangerous.

“What-“ You swallow, unable to break your gaze from his face. Clean-shaven. Not quite bright-eyed—you’ve never really seen Bucky look bright eyed—but hopeful, and nervous, and looking maybe eighty years younger. “Buck-“

“You said this is a fantasy for you,” he mutters, his thumb drawing slow circles on your waist. “I, uh- I had Sam pull some strings. It’s not the original, but I think that one’s all mothballs now.”

You’re just staring at him—this is certainly dizzy, and it’s made of a lot of need that’s pooling in your gut—and Bucky clears his throat, pushing on.

“I probably shoulda warned you, if you’re not in the mood-“

“I’m in the mood.” You whisper, and Bucky blinks.

“Yeah?”

You nod, a little frantically, and Bucky’s mouth curls into a small, teasing smirk.

“You like it, doll?” His fingers reach up to hold your face, his thumb trailing over your lips.” Just how you pictured it?”

“Better,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brows raise.

“How’s that-“

“’S you.” You’re already sort of cockdrunk, and it doesn’t bode well for later, but he’s here and yours and you want to climb him. “And I- Bucky-“

You roll your hips against him in a silent plea, and he chuckles. “You need it, baby?”

You hum, and Bucky lowers down so his lips are just brushing yours.

“Think I can steal a kiss from my best girl?” He says your name, backing you up into the counter, and this is mean. You’d probably be on your knees if he wasn’t keeping you tight against his chest.

A kiss is far from all you’re going to give him.

“C’mon, doll, tell me what you-“

Bucky grunts as your lips slam up into his, and this kiss is all hunger. You’ve kissed him soft and teasing and gentle a million times before, and you’ll do it a million times again, but right now you just need to feel him. Touch him. Taste all the coffee and mint on his lips and feel his tongue push into your mouth as he groans your name.

You move down to kiss and bite at his jaw, his head thrown back as a hand kneads at your ass, and your hand just manages to drift down to his bulge before-

“Nope.” Bucky swats you away with a hiss, the metal hand moving to grab your jaw. “What do you think you’re doin’, doll.”

“Handjob?”

His lips twitch, but his voice remains firm. Low.

Commanding.

That’s the Sargent voice.

Fuck.

“This isn’t about me,” he drawls your name, angling your head back a little further. “I’m gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good babydoll. But I can’t do that if I finish in your hand after five seconds, can I.”

“I think you could.” You mumble, still grinding into him. “You’ve got good recovery.”

He raises his brows, unable to fight his smile this time. “You’re mouthy tonight.”

“You left alone for too long, Barnes, that’s not my fault-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak when Bucky’s knee shoves between your thighs, right as he crashes back down into another rough, bruising kiss. He’s letting you fuck yourself on pants, groaning when your nails dig into the skin of his neck and guiding your movements when the hand on your waist.

“There you go,” Bucky mutters, nipping at your lower lip. “Makin’ such a mess, baby, and we’ve barely even started-“

“Buck- Fuck.” You throw your head back with a moan, your grinding growing frantic and uneven. “I- More-“

“I know,” Bucky chuckles, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, and you let out a high gasp. “Never gonna leave you alone again, doll. To fuckin’ pretty to ever be here, just worrying about me-“

He rips off your shirt, and you’re already too lost to care. Especially when his mouth dips to take one of your nipples in his mouth, groaning and flicking his tongue when you scratch at his back.

“So fucking perfect.” He mutters, his hat starting to fall a little off his head, and your eyes widen.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab for the hat, trying to readjust it, and he draws back with a frown.

“What’s-“

“Your hat.” You mumble, and he blinks at you for only a second before his face is splitting into a wide grin, and you’re being pulled back into a deep, rough kiss.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t care about the hat.” He says against your lips. “But you’re a fuckin’ prize, doll. Still can’t believe you get to be mine.”

“Wouldn’t wanna be anyone else’s,” You sigh, and Bucky grunts.

“That’s not makin’ me any less lucky. Here.” He draws back, taking the hat off and dropping it onto your head with a wide, boyish grin. “Suits you better.”

You blink up at him, trying to adjust it so you can see, and his grin grows.

“Can you keep the rest of the uniform on?” You ask, trying to give him your best, sweetest pout, and there’s really no need for it.

The way Bucky’s looking at you—like you stitched the whole world together with your own two hands, just to give it to him—you’re pretty sure he’d try and grab the moon right out of the sky if you asked him to.

“I’ll keep the uniform,” he moves you back onto your own feet, leaning down until your noses are bumping. “If you wear nothing but the hat.”

Your fingers curl in his hair, your voice barely moves than a breath. “Deal.”

Bucky nods, and this kiss is barely more than a heated press of his lips to yours before he’s pulling away.

You don’t get a lot of time to be mad about it, though. Barely a whine leaves your lips before Bucky’s dropping right to his knees, ripping off your shorts, and shoving your legs apart.

The only warning you get is two fingers dragging over your pussy, pushing just slightly inside as Bucky thumbs at your clit, and raises his brows.

“Please,” You whisper, your hand shooting to his hair, and it’s all he needs.

Bucky dives into your cunt like a man starved. His tongue circles around your clit in slow strokes before falling back down to your aching entrance, tongue fucking you as his nose keeps bumping that sensitive spot, and his groans vibrate against your pussy. His hand keeps a tight, firm grip on your hips—pinning you to the counter and keeping you from collapsing over him as your knees turn to jelly—and rub soothing circles against your skin as you moan his name, grinding down onto his face.

You try to stop yourself a few times, squirming back whenever you jerk against him, but Bucky doesn’t seem to be having it. His hands just tighten, and he shoves your right back down, leaving a light slap on your ass that makes you squeak and your thighs start to squeeze around his head. The sight alone is enough to drive your right up to the edge, but then lips shift up to press a harsh, taunting kiss to your clit, and you can see the stars building behind your eyes.

“Bucky-“ You pull at his hair, a rush of pleasure moving through you when he moans openly into your cunt. “Fuck, I- I’m so close-“

He’s gone. The words have barely left your mouth, but Bucky is moving away, wiping his mouth with a grin and running those two fingers back between your folds.

“Always so wet.” He mutters, and it sounds like it’s mostly to himself. “Taste like a fuckin’ dream, doll, you got no idea-“

“Bucky.” You moan, not quite sure what you’re begging for, and he just shakes his head.

“Soon, babydoll. Just, here.” He rises to his feet, his fingers pressing on your lower lip. “Taste.”

You obey without a thought, and Bucky’s jaw clenches as you take him into your mouth, sucking and swirling your tongue around him, all while holding his gaze.

“Hold on.” He grunts, pulling his fingers away with a pop. “Gotta get you to a bed.”

You nod, your arms wrapping around his neck, and the hat flops a little over your eyes when he picks you up, marching you to the bedroom like a man on a mission.

He is a man on a mission.

One to make you go fucking insane.

Bucky drops down one the edge of the mattress, keeping you steady in his lap, and kissing you until you’re dizzy and yanking at his hair for more. He can’t just do that in the kitchen then only kiss you, you’re dripping down your own thighs, and you need him so bad it hurts, and-

Your mouth falls open with a loud moan as Bucky grabs your hips, yanks you up, then guides you down onto his cock. You’ve taken him a million times before, but it’s never not perfect, how he splits you open and makes you feel so full. Hitting deeper in you than anyone else has ever been able to, all while looking so handsome and groaning your name like it’s a prayer.

“Fuck,” he moans as you clench around him. “Feel so good, look so fuckin’ pretty-“

You start to grind down onto him, and he yanks you forward into a bruising, harsh kiss, the whole world spinning as it all just narrows down to Bucky.

“That’s it, babydoll.” He grunts, his grip tightening to keep you pinned against him. “Fuck yourself on my cock, take what you want-“

“Bucky-“ You moan into his mouth, your release already starting to build back up. “Please-“

He lands another soft slap on your ass, and you squeak. “Wrong name, sweetheart, try again-“

“James.”

“Good girl.” He grunts, moving his thumb to circle around your clit, and your movements speed up. “Shit, doll-“

You only whine, entirely lost in the feeling of him everywhere—his mouth sucking over your tits, his cock deep in your pussy, his thumb starting to tap at your clit until you’re worked into a borderline frenzy—and you shove ay Bucky’s chest pushing him down until he’s flat on his back. The new angle presses him deeper, and you can look down at him under the rim of the hat and see him staring up at you like you’re a work of art. Riding his cock with your hands flat on his chest, letting the lewd sounds fill the room and mixing them with more moans of his name-

“Jesus,” He moans, his head throwing back. “Wish you could see yourself, doll, you’re- Fuck-“

“So good, James.” Your voice is almost a slur. You don’t really care. “You’re so big, feels so good-“

“I know, baby, but you gotta slow down or, goddammit-“

You clench around him, his hips rut up and slam into your cervix, and it flips a switch. Bucky grabs you, flipping you over like you’re made of nothing, and you blink up at him with cockdrunk, dazed eyes.

“Greedy, doll.” He grunts, pulling almost entirely out before slamming back in. “You’re gonna take what I give you, right?”

You nod, grabbing weakly at his uniform. “James, move- I- Please-“

“Always beg so sweet.” He mutters, his pace picking up slightly. “Could die a happy man in you, baby. Never- Fuck-“

Bucky ruts into you, and he falls back down for a rough, hot and messy kiss, and then he’s fucking you. Deeply, properly fucking you, groaning down your throat and keeping you trapped between his arms and the mattress. The room fills with only the sound of him hissing your name when you flutter around him and scratch at his neck, the sight of him—still fully clothed and looking a little like a feral animal—making you lose your fucking mind, and you can’t remember any word that’s not James, but he still understands.

You’re falling over the edge. And you want him to go with you.

His movement grow sloppy, your hand drifting between your bodies to rub at your clit, and he yanks it away. Pins it over your head and replaces it with his metal hand, the cool vibranium sending a little bolt of electrically through your body, and then he starts to rub-

Your eyes roll back in your head as you scream his name, your back arching off the bed as Bucky doesn’t stop, but rather picks up the pace until you’re squeezing around him and wiggling below him, and he slams home with a deep, growling noise that rushes through your body.

You cum one more time as Bucky twitches inside you, his brow dropping to press to yours.

“Did so good, babydoll,” he mutters, and you only hum in a happy, fucked out noise. “Wanna stay here, feel you a little more-“

You cut him off with a deep, gentle kiss, and he gets it. You always want him to stay with you. These sheets needed to be changed later anyway.

You’re not sure how long you just lay there, Bucky’s warmth folded over you better than any blanket, his cock still pressing against your thigh even after he pulls out with a grunt. You play with his hair, and he leaves the occasional kiss on your shoulder, the silence soft, and perfect, and the easiest thing in the world.

“What would have done after this?” You break the silence with a soft voice, and Bucky twists his head to meet your gaze. “If this was the 40s, and this,” you trace your fingers over the collar of his uniform. “Was real.”

He shrugs, his face moving back into that real, bright grin that only you ever really get to see. “I think I woulda needed to marry you.”

You give him a flat look. “Because you fucked me raw.”

“Nah,” he squeezes your ribs, and you squeak, wiggling below him. “Cause I love you, and you’re the best thing I’ve ever damn seen.”

You flush, but still roll your eyes. “Kiss ass.”

“Need to be, if I wanna keep a girl like you.” Bucky leans up, ghost a soft kiss over your lips. “And I’m serious, doll. You’re it. I don’t just wear this thing for anyone.”

You grab his collar, dragging him back into a longer, slower kiss. “Glad I’m special,” you hum, and he chuckles.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“What would you call it-“

“Perfect.”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All right, Buck.”

“I mean it,” He mutters, leaning back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re never gettin’ rid of me.”

“Good.” You smile up at him. “I wouldn't ever want to."

End Note: My personal mission, bring the light back into my man's eyes. Sometimes that's via fluff. Also via just the nastiest smut.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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pandapetals · 3 days ago

Note

okay yay I would love to make a request then :) Could you do Joel coming home to find reader like crying as she’s looking at herself in the mirror because she’s been feeling insecure about her weight lately? (and then Joel ofc reassures her and makes her feel better and also says things like ‘ur healthy and fed now’ .etc.) 🥰🥰

No Fixin' Needed

Pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: established relationship, weight insecurities, comfort, comforting words, learning to self-love, no y/n used

Word Count: 1k

A/N: Thank you for the request. Hope everyone is kind to themselves today. Love yourself.

You muttered a curse under your breath, yanking open one drawer after another, clothes spilling out in careless piles. The room was a mess. Shirts half-folded, a sock dangling from the dresser’s edge. You were already late, and your favorite jeans were nowhere to be found.

With a huff, you swiped a hand down your face, your palm coming away damp with frustration. The clock on the nightstand glared back at you, its numbers a cruel reminder you were running out of time.

Then you spotted them — a crumpled heap of denim peeking out from the top of the laundry basket. You snatched them up, hesitated. They hadn’t been washed. Lifting them to your nose, you gave them a quick sniff. Not terrible.

You stepped into one leg, then the other, tugging them up. Then the real problem started.

The denim clung stubbornly to your thighs, tighter than you remembered. You wriggled, hopping awkwardly on one foot, trying to shimmy them up the rest of the way. When the button refused to meet its hole without a struggle, your stomach sank.

You turned toward the mirror. The overhead light was too harsh, highlighting every curve, every soft edge you’d been trying not to think about. You sucked in your stomach, trying to smooth the fabric with your hands, but the waistband still cut in too deep.

A sour taste filled your mouth. You kept staring, your reflection blurring at the edges as heat prickled behind your eyes. You told yourself it was fine. Maybe it was just a bad angle or a bad day?

Yet, your fingers dug into the soft flesh at your waist, pulling, smoothing, as if you could will it all away. You shifted your stance, tried angling your body, sucking in your stomach, but nothing looked right. The glass caught every unflattering line, every place you swore hadn’t been there before.

Your throat tightened. You blinked hard, but the sting behind your eyes was already there, rising faster than you could swallow it down.

“Darlin’?”

Joel’s voice floated up the stairs, casual at first, but the sound of his boots on the steps quickened when you didn’t answer.

He stopped in the doorway. His gaze landed on you. How your hands gripped your stomach, then your thighs, the hitch in your breath. Then he saw the tears in your eyes.

He was at your side in two strides.

“Hey,” he murmured with concern as his hand curled gently around your wrist, stilling your fingers where they tugged at yourself. “What’s goin’ on?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out—just a shaky breath.

He stepped in closer, his broad frame crowding out the rest of the room. His hands came up, one brushing your hair back behind your ear, the other settling against your waist. The very place you’d been tearing yourself apart over.

“C’mere,” he said softly, turning you toward him, away from the mirror. His thumb brushed the corner of your eye where a tear had slipped free.

“I ain’t gonna pretend to know what’s goin’ through that head of yours right now,” he said, eyes searching yours. “But I do know this. You’re the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Always have been. Nothin’ about you needs fixin’, you hear me?”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked halfway out, your chin trembling as you stared down at yourself.

“But… the jeans,” you managed, voice catching on the words. “They don’t fit like they did a week ago, Joel. They’re my favorite pair.”

Your fingers plucked at the waistband, the denim too tight against your stomach. The tears came faster now, hot and uninvited.

“I’ve gained weight,” you whispered, like it was a confession, a secret you’d been trying to outrun. “My stomach’s soft, and my thighs—” you shook your head, blinking hard, unable to finish.

“Hey now,” he murmured, his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking a slow, steady line along your skin. “Ain’t gonna let you talk about my girl like that. Not in my house.”

“You listen to me,” Joel said, his brow furrowing as he caught your gaze, making sure you heard every word. “I don’t give a damn what them jeans say. Don’t give a damn what a number on a tag says. You’re beautiful, darlin’. Always have been. Nothin’ ‘bout you that ain’t worth lovin’.”

Joel leaned his forehead against yours, his hand still cupping your cheek. “Bodies change. Life gets heavy. We get older, softer in places. Ain’t a thing wrong with that. Means we’re still here. Means you’re still mine.”

The room was quiet but for the sound of your unsteady breathing and the steady beat of his words.

“You could wear a damn paper bag and I’d still look at you like you hung the damn moon,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, trying to coax one from you too.

And somehow, despite yourself, you did.

He felt it, the way your face softened beneath his hand, and he kissed your forehead, a soft press of lips against skin.

“C’mon,” Joel murmured, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. “Forget them jeans. I’ll find you somethin’ else. Or hell — we don’t gotta go anywhere. Could stay right here, just us.”

“Okay.” You softly replied. The storm in your chest hadn’t vanished, but it wasn’t thrashing quite so hard anymore.

His words lingered, wrapping around the parts of you you’d been picking apart.

You pulled in a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his forehead against yours. Then slowly, you turned your head, your eyes flicking back toward the mirror.

The reflection hadn’t changed.

The jeans were still too tight. Your stomach was still soft, thighs still touching, but Joel was there now, too. His broad frame behind you, his hand resting over the place you’d hated a minute ago, his thumb drawing a slow, absent-minded circle against your side. You saw the way he was looking at you, as if nothing about you needed fixing.

You exhaled and let your palm settle over his, holding it there against your waist. Your gaze met your own in the mirror — eyes puffy, hair a little messy, face still flushed from crying.

You looked at yourself.

“I guess…” You started, your voice quiet, but steadier now. “Guess it’s just me. And that’s okay.”

Joel’s grip on you tightened, his mouth brushing against the side of your head. “Damn right it is.”

A faint, wobbly smile tugged at your lips — not because he said it, but because, somehow, you started to feel it.

You straightened your shoulders a little, wiped your face with the back of your hand, and met your reflection again. Still you. A little softer. A little stronger, and you decided you were done being cruel to her.

“You sure you still wanna be seen with me in these jeans?” you teased.

Joel huffed out a soft laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Darlin’, I’d be lucky to.”

taglist: @starmurdock

#joel miller #joel miller fic #tlou joel #joel x reader #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff

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hoovesandfloorpaws · 23 hours ago

Text

"That said, both Styles and his therapist have questioned why he cares quite so much about being likeable. This is one of the things he thought about a lot in his big pandemic reflection. In part, it's a choice, he explained. He recalled moving to London after The X Factor and hearing tales of petulant celebrities screaming because someone got their coffee order wrong and deciding to never be that guy, to never give someone a petty reason to bad-mouth him. But more recently he's come to worry that the drive for approval came from a more complex place, a place of caution, fear, control." "Styles said he often spent interviews terrified about saying the wrong thing until he stopped to question what abhorrent belief or bizarre opinion he was scared he'd accidentally reveal and realized he couldn't think of anything."

"And he thought about the cleanliness clauses in the contracts he used to sign, which would dictate that they would be null and void if he did anything supposedly unsavoury, and about how terrified that used to make him. And about when he signed his solo contract and learned that the ability to make music would not be affected by personal transgressions, he burst into tears, a reaction he still seemed shocked by, retelling it to me now, years later. "I felt free," he explained."

"When Styles began therapy about five years ago [so in 2017], he was reluctant initially, feeling it was a music industry cliché. "I thought it meant that you were broken," he said. "I wanted to be the one who could say I didn't need it." He returned to the home theme that has underpinned our conversation, explaining that therapy has allowed him to "open up rooms in himself" that he didn't know existed, allowed him to feel things more honestly, where before he had tended to"emotionally coast.""

"Recently Styles began to work through issues related to intimacy, dating, love. "For a long time, it felt like the only thing that was mine was my sex life. I felt so ashamed about it, ashamed at the idea of people even knowing that I was having sex, let alone who with," he said."

"You look back, especially now there's all the documentaries, like the Britney documentary, and you watch how people were abused in that way, by that system, especially women. You recall articles from not even five years ago, and you're like, I can't even believe that was written."

He has been thinking a lot recently about autonomy, ownership, privacy. About what he should be able to keep to himself, what he should be able to simply communicate through his music without follow-up questions or prying. Around the time of Fine Line, he faced scrutiny around his sexuality. People became incredulous that he wore dresses, waved Pride flags, and yet hadn't clarified with precision, publicly to a journalist or on social media, the specifics of who he'd slept with, how he defined. This expectation is, to him, bizarre, "outdated." "I've been really open with it with my friends, but that's my personal experience; it's mine," he said.

Despite the acceptance that some things could, should, have been different, he still feels lucky every day, he said, lucky to make music, lucky to do what he loves.

"You can't win music. It's not like Formula One," he said. "I was like, in my lifetime, there will be 10 more people who burst onto the scene in that way, and I'm only going to get further away from being the young thing. So, get comfortable with finding something else that makes you happy. I just found that so liberating."

"I just want to make stuff that is right, that is fun, in terms of the process, that I can be proud of for a long time, that my friends can be proud of, that my family can be proud of, that my kids will be proud of one day," he said.

-- original interview link, Better Homes And Gardens Magazine 26 April 2022 (remake of this post)

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thoughtfulfiction · 1 day ago

Text

Operation: The Hangover (Joe’s Version)

Author’s Note: Freaked out dad to be Joe is kind of my favorite to write if you couldn’t tell.

“Nope. Not happening.”

You hear Joe’s voice float up from the living room, low and firm, the tone he uses when he’s trying not to lose his patience. From your spot halfway down the stairs, you can tell whoever’s on the other end of the line is pushing, but Joe isn’t budging.

“I said no. I’ll pay for the Airbnb, put your names on whatever list you want, hell, I’ll even book the damn dinner reservations. But I’m not leaving this house unless it’s for football.”

The conversation ends abruptly, and you hear his phone hit the couch cushion with a soft thump. You decide not to pry. He seems worked up, and you’re more focused on finding a snack before the next wave of heartburn sets in.

You walk past the living room where Joe’s sitting, heading into the kitchen.

“Okay, what are we feeling today, baby?” you mumble, rubbing your belly like your son might whisper the answer back. After a thorough fridge scan, you reach for some leftover naan and hummus and start snacking at the counter.

Joe joins you a moment later, water bottle in hand, and sets it down in front of you like clockwork.

“How’re you feeling? Little man still jumping around in there?”

You smile, watching him reach out to give your belly a quick rub. “Nope, I think he’s sleeping. He wore himself out last night trying to recreate WrestleMania in my uterus.”

Joe grins and steals a piece of bread. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“You haven’t actually done any WWE moves in a while,” you say with a smirk.

“I know, I need to get back to my roots.” He leans on the counter. “Speaking of roots, Trae’s trying to get everyone to go to Columbus this weekend. Like a pre-bachelor party thing. I told him I’m not going.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why not?”

He looks at you like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Because it kind of is. “Babe…you’re thirty-eight weeks pregnant. I don’t want to be two hours away in a different part of the state when you could sneeze and go into labor.”

“It’s Columbus, honey. Not Australia."

Joe shakes his head but doesn’t argue. You just hum and dip another piece of naan into your hummus.

You don’t bring it up again, but you definitely file it away. Something about how quick he shot it down sticks in your mind.

As the universe would have it, the trip gets brought up the very next day while you’re loading the dishwasher. Your phone buzzes on the counter, and when you glance over, Trae’s name is flashing across the screen.

“Hey! What’s up?”

“I’m calling in a favor,” he says, skipping pleasantries. “I need your help with Joe.”

“Right,” you say knowingly, “the mysterious phone call from yesterday.”

“He told you?”

“Sort of. Said something about not wanting to leave me alone in case I go into labor.”

“Well yeah, I figured he’d tell us all to fuck off,” Trae sighs. “Which is why I’m calling you. Because you might actually get him to listen.”

You sigh, using the dish towel to dry your hands off, “I don’t know Trae, his mind seemed pretty made up when we talked yesterday. You know how he gets.”

“Please,” he whispers. “You know he’s bad at saying no to you. And I’m not above begging.”

You snort. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. We owe you. Big time.”

You know you have to catch Joe at the right moment. He gets home from the facility around 2:30pm, showers, downs a protein shake, then disappears into his office to watch film for a couple hours. While he’s holed up, Morgan returns from the grocery store and starts prepping Joe’s favorite spicy chicken and rice, thanks to a subtle nudge from you.

By the time Joe wanders downstairs, he’s freshly showered and starving. He grabs both your plates and heads for the living room to watch the NBA playoffs.

Go time.

You trail behind him and park yourself on the couch beside him, soft-voiced and smiling.

“Hi baby,” you coo.

“Hey.” He shifts the side table so you can reach your food. “Feels like I haven’t seen you all day. Missed you.”

“Missed you too. How was practice?”

“Good. Offense is clicking already so I feel good about where we’re at. Just hoping that we can put everything together and make a run.”

“Well,” you say between bites, “you’ve got some time before Week One. You know what you need, though?”

He gives you a look, already sensing where this is going. “What do I need?”

“A break. Mental and physical. Away from all this and being my personal bodyguard. Go to Columbus. Please.”

Joe’s expression doesn’t shift much, just that faint squint that means I love you, but I see right through you.

“I just don’t know about this. It’s too close to your due date and I'm just not comfortable leaving.”

“Joe.” You laugh softly and slide your foot under his shin. “You haven’t even let me go to the grocery store alone since I hit thirty-five weeks. What exactly do you think is going to happen in the frozen foods aisle?”

“I just…I don’t know.” He sighs. “I’d rather be here. In case something happens.”

You don’t say anything at first. Joe takes that as a cue to elaborate, like maybe if he explains it better, it’ll sound less neurotic out loud.

“I’ve been around you every single day since the season ended. I want to be around you every day. But we’re getting close and I can’t—I can’t miss it. Not even a second of it.”

You look up at him, and there it is, the barely disguised anxiety sitting under that quarterback calm. Not fear, exactly, but that deep need to not get it wrong. That Joe Burrow sense of responsibility that doesn’t shut off even when he’s off the clock.

So you reach over and take his hand.

“I love how much you want to be here. And if I said I needed you, I know you wouldn’t go. But Nikki’s coming to stay for the weekend. And if that doesn’t make you feel better, I can get my mom on a flight.”

Joe raises an eyebrow. “Trae called you and cried didn’t he.”

“He just gently told me what was going on, and that you’d never say yes unless I pushed you. So now I’m pushing. Go. See your friends. Eat something with zero nutritional value. Pretend you’re not someone’s dad for like 48 hours.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’m serious,” you say gently. “You haven’t stopped in months. And you’ve been on edge about everything. The baby’s okay. I’m okay. You can be one and a half hours away and still close. If anything happens, I promise I’ll call. You’ll be here before I finish putting on the hospital gown.”

Joe runs his free hand down his face and sighs. “If you go into labor and I’m not here—”

“Then you’ll be mad. I’ll be in labor. We’ll both survive.”

Joe looks at you, quiet for a beat. Then he leans over and kisses your forehead.

“And you're sure about this?”

“Positive.” You smirk. “But if you don’t bring me back Buckeyes from that bakery downtown, I will go into labor just out of spite.”

You’d think your husband was being forced to hang out with his best friends against his will.

In truth, as much as you loved Joe, and loved how prepared and excited he was to become a dad, you were relieved he’d be in another city for the weekend. Not because you didn’t adore him. But because you needed a little room to breathe.

Yes, Joe needed a break. But so did you. From the constant reminders to drink more water, to stay off your feet, to not eat too much processed sugar.

He’d been hovering like a worried nurse for weeks. A very handsome, iPad-carrying, perfect spiral throwing, list making nurse.

All you needed was the house back to yourself. Even just for a little while.

You’re propped up with a pillow under your back, your legs stretched out across the ottoman, while Nikki is loudly judging someone’s pan-seared scallop.

“Oh my God, that’s raw,” she groans. “You’re sending raw seafood to Gordon Ramsay? Be serious.”

You laugh, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth, just as footsteps start down the stairs. Heavy ones. Slow and very dramatic.

Joe appears in full panic-dad mode. Duffel slung over one shoulder, hoodie wrinkled, checklist in hand—printed, of course, because no way was he trusting the notes app with this mission.

“Alright.” He holds the paper up like it’s a scroll. “Nikki, this is everything. I printed two copies. One’s on the fridge. The other’s in your room.”

He starts listing off the contents like a man reciting his final will and testament.

“Recent cravings. Thermostat directions. OB’s number. The hospital’s number. Closest ER. Spare keys. Backup charger. Oh, and I already filled your tank in case you need to drive her anywhere.”

You blink. Nikki blinks.

“Joe. I love you. But you do realize I’m still a functioning adult woman, right?”

Nikki smirks, taking the piece of paper out of his hands, “oh my God. She’s not in a coma, bro.”

Joe sighs. “I know, but just humor me. So I don’t have a heart attack and you don’t have to raise Kai on your own.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. You reach out and tug him gently closer, rubbing his back in soft, lazy circles. “You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine.”

Just then, the doorbell rings. Nikki gets up to answer it. Joe lingers in the living room doorway, one foot pointed toward the exit, the other still rooted in place. You can see the internal war happening behind his eyes, the “should I just cancel and stay home” loop spinning for the hundredth time.

“This is our last chance, are you sure you wanna do this?"

You sit up a little, wincing as your belly shifts, and reach for his hand. When he takes it, you guide him down so he’s crouched beside you.

“I’m sure,” you say softly.

You press a kiss to his lips, then rest your forehead against his. Close enough to feel the heat of his worry.

“Go have fun,” you murmur. “Play golf, eat too much, yell about the NBA, roast Trae when he inevitably has his little pre-wedding meltdown. You deserve it.”

He nods slowly, soaking it in. But he still doesn’t let go of your hand.

Then, gently, he shifts his palm down to your belly.

“Alright, little man,” Joe says, voice low and affectionate. “I’m talkin’ to you now.”

His fingers move in slow, calming circles over your bump.

“You just chill, okay? Stay put for like…forty-eight hours. That’s all I ask. Then you can do whatever you want. Deal?”

As if on cue, Kai gives a small kick.

Joe freezes, eyes wide. “Was that a kick? Was that a labor kick?”

“Joseph. It was a normal baby kick. Get out of here before I kick you.”

Joe throws you one last look.

“If anything changes—”

You cut him off with a knowing smile.

“I will tell you. I will.”

He nods. Reluctantly. Like someone preparing to leave his newborn baby with a sitter for the first time…even though said baby is still in the womb.

“Okay. Okay. I love you.”

“Love you more. Now go.”

He finally does, pulled toward the door by a shouting Zacciah who’s already demanding aux privileges for the car ride.

Nikki waits until the door shuts behind them before turning to you with a raised brow.

“Sooo…you think he printed a copy of that list for Kai too? Just in case he comes out early and wants to catch up?”

“Please don’t start,” you warn Nikki as you close the front door behind you.

You both watch through the window as the car pulls out of the driveway—and the second the taillights disappear, you exchange a look.

“Girls’ weekend,” Nikki declares, raising a fist.

“Plus boy fetus,” you remind her, rubbing your belly.

“I would never forget about him, he’s the star of the show.”

She immediately digs through her tote like a woman on a mission, emerging victorious with a stack of takeout menus.

“Go ahead, babe. Pick your poison.”

You shrug, flipping through options. “I did give Morgan the night off…”

An hour later, your coffee table is a crime scene.

Empty cartons of sesame chicken and fried rice, rogue crab rangoons, dumpling sauce everywhere. A two-liter of ginger ale sweats next to an open bag of Haribo gummies. Final Destination plays in the background, and you’re both sprawled on the couch, halfway between food coma and horror-induced paralysis.

“Did I just feel Kai kick because of the death-by-tanning-bed scene?” you mumble.

“He’s already got taste,” Nikki says, tossing a gummy in her mouth.

Meanwhile, in the car…

Joe checks his phone again.

And again.

“Absolutely not,” Trae snaps, snatching it out of his hand. “We are not doing this all weekend.”

“Give it back.”

“You have three seconds to chill, or we turn this car around so you can personally babysit your baby mama.”

“We just want your attention during the day,” Zacciah offers diplomatically. “Morning, lunch, bedtime? Check in all you want. But until then? Pretend we’re not holding you emotionally hostage.”

Joe hesitates. Then thinks about your kiss, your voice in his ear: Go have fun. You deserve it.

Their Airbnb is obnoxiously perfect. There’s a movie theater, pool, game room, every room with blackout curtains and memory foam.

They do a house tour, claim beds, and head straight to Butcher & Rose for dinner. Joe pours Sprite in his wine and lets himself relax. They talk about how wild it is that Trae’s getting married, how old they’re all getting, how much hair Adam has lost.

They finish the night with a few rounds of indoor mini golf. For a few hours, it’s just like old times.

Until Joe checks his phone in the morning.

No missed calls.

No texts.

No you.

He tries once. No answer. Twice. Still nothing. He sends a text and tells himself you’re asleep.

By 9AM, he’s leaving a voicemail:

Hey…just checking in. Wanted to see how you’re feeling, what you were up to last night. Call me when you wake up. Love you.

By 9:30, the pit in his stomach is unbearable. By 10:48, his bag is over his shoulder.

“Joe, where the hell are you going?” Adam asks.

Joe doesn’t look up, typing furiously. “She’s not answering. Nikki’s not answering. What if something happened?”

“They’re probably just asleep,” Trae says, trying to calm him. “Let’s get breakfast. Museum after. If you still haven’t heard by then, fine. You can panic. But not yet.”

Joe doesn’t say it, but the fear is lodged in his throat:

If she needed me and I wasn’t there… I’d never forgive myself.

He lets out a long breath.

“Okay. Okay, yeah.”

Back in Cincinnati…

The screen’s gone dark. Final Destination has ended. You and Nikki are sunk deep in the couch, limbs tangled in blankets and popcorn bowls.

“Ugh,” you groan. “What time is it?”

Nikki squints at her phone. “Almost eleven.”

Panic spikes in your chest. “Wait. My phone. Where’s my phone?”

You launch into a frantic search—couch cushions, under the blankets, the kitchen, the bathroom, the baby bag. Nothing.

“If I don’t find it in five minutes, Joe is gonna be in the car on his way back and this entire weekend will be canceled.”

Nikki grabs her phone and freezes. “Oh…shit.”

“What?”

She holds it up, scrolling:

Joe: Where are you guys?

Joe: Nikki, please call me.

Joe: Is everything okay?

Joe: I’m coming home if you don’t answer.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh no. We’re so—”

“Fucked,” Nikki finishes. “We are so fucked.”

“Jesus,” you mutter, heart pounding. “Just—give me your phone so I can fix this.”

Nikki hands it over without a word. The second you press call, he picks up before it even rings twice.

“Nikki? What’s going on? Is everything okay? Is she—”

“Joe, it’s me,” you cut in quickly. “It’s me. I’m fine.” You swallow hard, feeling the weight of the last few hours settle in your chest. “We just fell asleep. I couldn’t find my phone, so I had to use Nik’s.”

There’s a pause, then a sound, a deep exhale like he’s been holding his breath since yesterday.

“You can’t do that to me,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “I thought you were in labor. Or hurt. Or…”

“I know.” You press your hand to your face, guilt creeping in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—”

“I FOUND IT!” Nikki yells from across the room, holding your phone in the air triumphantly. “It was under the couch. You have…eleven missed calls from your husband. And seventeen texts.”

You wince.

“Okay,” Joe says on the line, “when you say it out loud like that, I sound…insane.”

“That’s because you are,” Nikki chirps.

But there’s a warmth behind her words now. A quiet understanding that yeah, he’s over-the-top. But it’s only because he loves you.

“Insane but sweet,” you murmur, your voice softening. “I love you too. I’m really okay. We’re okay.”

Another breath from Joe, steadier now.

“Alright. I’ll leave you alone. Just…have some fun today, yeah? Laugh a little. Try to forget how much of a psycho I am until at least 7 p.m.”

“I’ll try my best,” you promise, cradling the phone like it’s him.

Joe hits end call, sets his phone down on the counter, and for the first time since they left, doesn’t immediately pick it back up.

The guys are sprawled around the Airbnb living room—Trae scrolling on his iPad, Zacciah face-down on the couch like he lost a fight with the throw pillows, Adam and Ibi arguing about whether or not their breakfast spot is still open.

Joe stands up and stretches.

“Alright,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get burritos.”

That’s all it takes. Within ten minutes, they’re packed into the rental SUV, driving through sleepy Columbus streets with the windows cracked just enough to let in the late spring air. Joe’s still tense, he can feel it in the way his jaw clicks every time he chews a bite of egg. But when Zacciah makes a terrible pun about sausage and Ibi shoots back a groan that could curdle milk, Joe actually laughs.

And it feels like a weight’s been lifted.

They walk the long way to the Columbus Museum of Art afterward, smoothies in hand, no schedule, no hurry. Joe pays for tickets at the front desk even though it was Adam's idea. “My treat,” he shrugs, because something about today feels like a send-off. Not dramatic, not final. Just… symbolic.

In the museum, they lose each other a dozen times—wandering through exhibits, posing in front of sculptures, taking blurry selfies in strange lighting. Joe takes a picture of Ibi pretending to be deeply moved by a Monet and sends it to you with the caption: “High art. Low effort.”

You heart the message.

They stay for hours. They talk about everything and nothing: college memories, worst dates, weirdest DM requests. Joe keeps checking the time less and less, the edge of responsibility melting into long stretch of the day.

That night, they go out.

Zacciah knows not to just throw his best friend's name around but in this case, for privacy reasons Joe's name is mentioned, so they end up in a roped-off VIP section at a club that smells like fog machine and cologne. Joe gets bottle service and he doesn’t even think twice. The owner of the place comes out to greet him and his group, bringing champagne and tequila and vodka and things none of them asked for but are definitely going to drink.

“We’re too old for this,” Adam says as he sips from a plastic flute.

“Speak for yourself,” Trae grins, already on the dance floor.

Girls start hovering. Joe’s used to it. Some are half-curious, most...half-bold. One grabs his arm mid-song and leans in close.

“Aren’t you—”

“Married,” he says, calm but firm.

She laughs like she thinks he’s joking. He’s not. She walks away.

Joe watches the dance floor, sipping a drink he doesn’t really like. For a second, he wonders if he should feel flattered or tempted or something, but all he feels is tired. Not exhausted—just…at peace.

He texts you: “Love you. Hope you’re asleep.”

He barely gets to press send before chaos erupts.

“BROOOOO.”

Zacciah has launched himself off the edge of the VIP section in an attempted crowd surf. Only problem? The crowd didn’t catch him. There’s a thud, a yell, and then the poor guy is sitting on the ground clutching his ankle, looking more offended than injured.

“My fucking leg,” he groans dramatically.

“Nope. You’re done,” Joe says, already motioning for Trae to help him lift him.

Between the two of them, they manage to haul Zacciah out of the club and into an Uber, Ibi and Adam trailing behind and making jokes about Spider-Man: No Crowd Home.

They end up in the ER a few minutes later, sitting under fluorescent lights in cracked leather chairs while Zacciah fills out paperwork and flirts with the nurse despite being in a wheelchair.

The waiting room smells like antiseptic and old vending machine pretzels. It’s 2:08 a.m., and Joe is trying not to have a full-blown anxiety spiral in the middle of the triage area.

Not because Zacciah might have broken his ankle crowd surfing.

But because Joe is...Joe Burrow. And if one blurry cell phone video of his tipsy best friend yelling “I’m immortal!” before face-planting off a VIP platform goes viral? That’s a TMZ headline waiting to happen. During the off-season. While his wife is nine months pregnant.

Nope.

Joe steps into the hallway and calls Brian, his agent, who picks up on the second ring sounding groggy but alert.

“Tell me you’re not in jail.”

“Zacciah tried to crowd surf. We’re in the ER. No press yet, but I need eyes on this now.”

“You want security?”

“Security and a PR seal. If anything leaks, I want NDAs on the whole damn building.”

“Got it. Sit tight. You need me to call Paige?”

Joe hesitates. Paige, his publicist, is ruthless and efficient—exactly the kind of person you want in your corner when your friend makes the dumbest possible choice at a nightclub.

“Yeah,” he says. “Tell her it was a dumb friend injury. Not mine. But I want to stay ahead of it.”

“On it. How’s the dumb friend?”

“Waiting on X-rays. He says he landed like Spider-Man. He did not.”

Brian laughs. “Glad you’re not dead. I’ll handle it.”

Joe hangs up, scrubs a hand down his face, and walks back into the waiting room.

The nurse calls Zacciah back for imaging. Joe, Trae, Adam, and Ibi sprawl in the uncomfortable chairs, cracked vinyl squeaking every time someone shifts. The vending machine eats Trae’s dollar and gives him a bag of plain pretzels instead of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

“This feels like high school,” Ibi mutters.

“If high school had bottle service,” Adam adds.

“And publicists,” Joe says dryly, taking a sip of his very necessary Gatorade.

Trae leans back and smirks. “Think they’ll let Zac keep the X-rays? Like a souvenir?”

Joe just shakes his head and laughs. He can feel the tension melting away again—muted by exhaustion and the kind of delirium that only comes from a full day of doing everything and nothing with the people who’ve known him the longest.

By the time Zacciah hobbles back out in a medical boot and crutches, holding his discharge papers like a proud soldier returning from battle, they all cheer like idiots.

“I survived,” Zac says. “And I got a sticker.”

“No you didn’t,” Trae says.

“Okay, no, I didn’t. But I deserved one.”

They pile into another Uber—Zac spread across the backseat like royalty, boot propped up, scrolling through Instagram like he didn’t just fracture several bones two hours ago.

Back at the Airbnb, the guys settle into the living room, dazed and slouched but happy. It’s quiet for a moment, just the hum of the fridge and someone’s soda fizzing open.

Joe looks around.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low but sincere. “For today. For putting up with me. You guys are the only people in the world that I'm not related to that make me feel like...me. Just a normal guy. And I really appreciate that. I don’t think I say that enough. But I really do.”

The guys glance at each other, then Trae clinks his soda can against Joe’s water.

“You are a normal dude,” he says. “You’re just…a normal dude with a massive contract, an entire city at the palm of his hands, bunch of endorsement deals and a baby on the way.”

They all laugh.

Joe leans back into the couch cushions, feeling something settle deep in his chest. Not nerves, not fear, just…gratitude. Exhausted, grateful peace.

“So, speaking of the baby on the way,” Trae breaks the silence, tossing a pretzel in the air and catching it. “Are we gonna talk about what actually happened this morning, or do we have to keep pretending your near mental breakdown was about a missed text?”

A few chuckles follow, but Joe doesn’t look up.

“I know I overreacted. I do. I usually don’t let it get that far but…I don’t know, man.” He finally lifts his head. “It just really hit me today. There’s gonna be a baby. And he’s gonna need me. Like really need me. For everything. And I don’t know if I know how to do that.”

Adam, quiet until now, shifts forward. “You think any of our dads knew how to do it before they had to?”

Joe gives a short laugh, dry. “I’m good at my job. I know how to lead, how to control a game, how to fix things when they go sideways. If the pocket collapses, I know where to go. I watch. I prepare.” He shakes his head. “But this? There’s no playbook for this. No game tape I can study. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do when he cries.”

“You hold him,” Trae says simply. “You love him. That’s it. That’s the job.”

Joe exhales, slumps back into the couch, running a hand through his hair.

“I want to be good at it,” he admits. “Not just…present. Not just around. I want to be someone he can depend on. Someone she can depend on. And that scares the shit out of me because I don’t know if I’m built for that kind of pressure.”

Ibi tosses a pillow at him. “You’re literally built for pressure. Have you met yourself?”

A few laughs ripple through the room, cutting some of the weight.

“Seriously,” Zacciah adds, “you don’t have to have it all figured out right now. Nobody does. You’ll learn. And that kid’s gonna think you hung the moon, even when you screw up. Hell, especially when you screw up and still show up.”

Joe stares at the ceiling for a long second before blinking fast and nodding.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I just…needed to say it out loud, I think.”

“We got you,” Trae says. “You don’t have to know everything yet. You just have to care. And you clearly do.”

Joe finally smiles, just a little.

“Okay,” Ibi says, grabbing his controller. “Enough feelings. Smash Bros. One Round. Winner gets first pick of cinnamon rolls in the morning.”

“You’re all going down,” Joe mutters, taking the controller with a renewed grip. “I may not know how to be a dad yet, but I do know how to kick your sorry asses with Ness.”

The room erupts in laughter, and Joe’s shoulders have officially dropped and the tension in his jaw is completely gone. Not because he figured it all out, but because he knows he won’t have to do it alone.

Cincy

The night air was soft, humming faintly through the cracked window while your favorite throw blanket cocooned you from the ribs down. Your ankles were elevated, your belly a curved little hill under an old LSU sweatshirt, and Nikki had taken up her usual position at your feet, proclaiming she should quit her dad job to be a masseuse.

She pops a mini Reese’s in her mouth and nudges your leg.

“You know what we should do to wrap up this perfect weekend?”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling already at whatever’s about to come out of her mouth.

“God help me. What now?”

“A baby time capsule.” She sits up straighter, suddenly energized. “Like—a box full of memories. Things we’ll forget about otherwise. And Kai can open it when he’s, I don’t know… seventeen? Like before high school graduation. Something huge.”

You blink.

“Wait…that’s actually the cutest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I know, right?” She grins, already heading toward the kitchen like the idea was something she'd been planning for weeks instead of a random post-candy epiphany.

You end up sitting cross-legged on the rug—well, as close to cross-legged as your body allows—gathering bits of nostalgia like it’s a scavenger hunt. Nikki finds an old shoebox in the coat closet. You dig up a few sonogram photos: the first blurry outline when he was just a peanut, and the most recent one, where you can finally make out the curve of his nose and a hand tucked under his cheek like he’s already napping.

Nikki contributes a stack of Polaroids from the baby shower, including one of you both in matching pink sunglasses, one of you and Joe (because “he’d haunt me if I didn’t include it”), and the invitation from the shower that took Robin three weeks to design. You laugh, seeing the trending baby names list with the dramatic “NO” scribbled next to Braxton and Colt in Nikki’s handwriting.

“We should write him letters,” she says softly, like it’s just occurred to her.

“And when Joe gets back, he can write one too.”

You nod, throat tightening unexpectedly. You hadn’t planned to cry tonight, but here you are—already misty just imagining your son reading these letters one day. What kind of person will he be? What kind of mother will you be?

You write in silence, the only sound the faint pop of a candle and the shuffle of pages. Nikki hands you a pen and a sheet of paper, and you feel the weight of it. Like writing a message to the future, to someone who already has your heart in their tiny hands.

You fold the letter slowly and place it in the box like it’s made of glass.

Then you return to the couch, blinking the sting from your eyes.

“Nik... are you crying?” you ask gently.

“What? No. Absolutely not.” She wipes her eyes aggressively with the sleeve of her hoodie. “There’s, like, dust or something. You’d think with Joe’s neurotic nesting and deep cleaning, every molecule in this place would be sanitized, but apparently not.”

You give her a knowing smile and reach out, resting your hand on hers.

“It’s okay to be emotional. Everything’s about to change. We’re adults now. Like…full blow adults. With storage units.”

She sniffles, managing a laugh.

“It’s not that. I want things to change. I just…I love him already, you know? And I haven’t even met him. He’s just this little person we’ve been talking about for months, but soon he’s gonna be real. He’s gonna exist. And I just…I don’t know what to do with all this love I already have for him.”

You nod, heart swelling. “He’s gonna be everything.”

“Who do you think he’s gonna look like?” she asks, gently resting a hand on your bump like she’s afraid he’ll hear her.

“Joe thinks he’s gonna be my twin. But I think…maybe he’ll have Joe’s eyes. That impossible blue. Or his smile.” You pause, putting a hand on top of hers.

“It’s wild though, right? How someone so tiny already has us wrapped around his finger.”

Nikki grins, wiping her cheeks again.

“He doesn’t even know how obsessed I am with him. He better get used to me being in his face 24/7.”

“He will. He’s going to love you so much.”

She shrugs playfully. “He doesn’t have a choice. I’m already planning sleepovers, I’m gonna be the cool aunt who sneaks him snacks and teaches him how to prank Joe.”

“Oh I don't doubt you have big plans,” you laugh.

But deep down, in the quiet space between heartbeats, you know it’s true.

This little boy is going to be so loved. Not just by you. Not just by Joe. But by every person in your lives who waited for him before he even arrived.

And you can’t wait to introduce him to the people who already call him theirs.

Columbus

Joe only woke up because the morning sun cut low through the blinds and his eyes are sensitive, casting golden stripes across the half-empty pizza box on the coffee table and the mess of crumpled clothes across the living room floor. The house still smelled faintly like tequila, aftershave, and overpriced club cologne. Someone’s shoe was on the kitchen counter. Zacciah’s crutches were tipped over by the fridge. And he felt… good.

Not anxious. Not distracted. Not checking his phone every thirty seconds.

Just good. At ease.

He headed upstairs to shower and pack. He zipped up his duffle bag with one hand while tossing Adam’s hoodie at him with the other. “Is this yours? Or Zacciah’s?”

“Mine. He tried to steal it. It still smells like my laundry detergent and dignity.”

“Couldn’t be me,” Zacciah muttered from the couch, his injured foot now propped up on a throw pillow. He was wearing sunglasses indoors and nursing an iced coffee like it was medicine.

Trae shuffled out of the guest room, hair flattened on one side and his T-shirt backward.

“You know what’s wild?” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Joe actually chilled this weekend. Like didn’t make a color-coded agenda or freak out about logistics or check in with his brain every twenty minutes.”

“We’re witnessing growth,” Ibi added, tying his sneakers. “Actual, emotional growth. Should we clap?”

Joe laughed, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. His back cracked in three places.

“Yeah, yeah laugh it up.”

“Oh, you’re still you. You packed a med kit and four types of protein bars for a 48-hour trip.”

Zacciah pointed lazily from the couch. “But you didn’t answer every email. You danced. You even had a few sips of alcohol. I saw it.”

Joe just grinned as he leaned down to double-knot his sneakers. “I needed this. All of it. The dumb museum selfies, bottle service, Zacciah almost crowd-surfing into a lawsuit—”

“Hey,” Zacciah interrupted, raising a finger. “I committed to the bit.”

Joe shook his head fondly. “You did. And I’m really glad I came. I got to laugh like an idiot. Hang out with people who knew me before all this.” He paused, lifting his eyes to meet theirs. “But I’m also really ready to go home.”

It settled in the room like something sacred—like they all knew what “home” meant now. Not just a city or a house or a bed. But her. His best friend, the love of his life, waiting. And the son he hadn’t met yet but already loved more than he felt comfortable saying out loud.

“You’re about to be a dad, man,” Trae said quietly. “I still can’t believe it. But you’re gonna kill it.”

“And remember, you’ve got a team for this too,” Ibi reminded him. “Just not one wearing helmets.”

“Speak for yourself,” Zacciah muttered. “I’m fully prepared to wear a baby-proof helmet when I babysit.”

Joe laughed again, this time softer. He’s definitely not letting any of them hold his son without a full security screening, let alone babysit.

He zipped up the last of his stuff, grabbed his keys, and took one final look around the room. The guys were still buzzing with jokes, tossing pillows, making plans for the next trip that might not come for another year.

But he felt full. Rested. Ready.

“Alright, boys. Let’s hit the road.”

As they filed out, Zacciah limping behind like a wounded soldier, Joe glanced at his phone for the first time that morning. No texts from you yet. But he knew you were still sleeping.

He couldn’t wait to wake you up.

To crawl into bed, bury his face in you shoulder, give you a kiss and say:

I’m home.

It’s late afternoon when he walks through the door, duffle slung over his shoulder, sneakers thudding softly against the hardwood.

You’re still in your robe, legs tucked under you on the couch, half-watching a reality show you don’t care about when you hear the lock click.

“Hey, baby,” Joe calls, voice lower and lighter than it’s been in weeks.

You stand slowly, belly leading the way, and meet him halfway in the entry. His arms go around you instantly—tight and sure—and he presses his lips to yours like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Hi,” you whisper, giving him a squeeze.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes, and you can feel it: the weight of his relief, his presence, his peace.

You pull back just enough to look at him. There’s something different in his eyes—clearer. Softer. His jaw’s relaxed, shoulders loose, like he’s let go of something he didn’t even realize he’d been clenching.

“How was it?” you ask, hand smoothing down the front of his sweatshirt.

Joe grins. “Honestly? It was good. Really good. We ate our body weight in breakfast burritos, Zacciah almost died crowd surfing, and I think Trae and Ibi got mistaken for a married couple at the museum.”

You laugh, pressing a hand to your belly as the baby kicks. “Sounds about right.”

He lifts your hand, kisses your knuckles, then pulls you back in for a slower, more purposeful hug. “But I missed you. Every second. Even when I was laughing, even when I was fine—I was still thinking about you. About him.” He presses a hand gently to your bump. “I’m really glad I went, but damn, it’s good to be home.”

“I’m glad you went too,” you tell him honestly. “You needed that. You’ve been carrying so much…”

Joe lets out a little laugh, the kind that sounds like it surprised even him. “Yeah. I didn’t realize how tightly wound I was until I wasn’t anymore.”

“You’re different,” you say, leaning into his chest again. “In a good way.”

“You strongly encouraged me to breathe,” he murmurs. “And now I can do this next part better. For all of us.”

After a little while, he notices the box on the coffee table. You follow his gaze and smile.

“Oh. That’s the time capsule,” you explain, suddenly bashful. “Nikki had the idea. We’re saving it for Kai to open when he’s seventeen. There’s a letter in there for him. From me. She wrote one too.”

Joe’s brows rise as he drops his bag and kneels beside the box. His hands move gently over the items inside—his fingers pausing over the sonogram photo, the baby shower invite, the playlist scribbled on a napkin. His eyes catch on the picture of the two of you, beaming and glowing under a balloon arch, and his throat bobs when he swallows.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, not speaking for a moment. Just soaking it in. Letting it land.

Then he reaches for a pen and a blank sheet of paper from the stack Nikki left behind.

You smile. “Take your time.”

Slipping into the backyard, you curl up on the lounge chair with a blanket and your phone, flicking the outdoor TV on low. The late spring sun is warm, breeze soft, and everything feels still in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

A buzz on your phone interrupts your thoughts.

Trae:

Thanks again for convincing him to come. We got our brother back this weekend.

You blink, surprised by the lump that forms in your throat.

Your thumbs move quickly.

Thank you for getting me to ask him. He needed it more than he knew. I think he’s gonna be an even better dad because of it. I’m really glad you all got to spend time together.

A few minutes later, the door creaks open behind you.

Joe appears, barefoot now, paper folded in his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he walks over and settles beside you, curling his big frame into the chair until your legs are tangled, his head resting lightly against your shoulder.

You glance down at the folded letter in his hand. He doesn’t let go of it.

“Did you cry?” you whisper.

He nods, brushing his nose against your arm. “Twice.”

You smile, tipping your head to kiss the crown of his hair.

“If you tell anyone how emotional I’ve been this entire pregnancy, I will lie.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, his arm draping lazily around your waist. “I would never.”

You arch a brow, unconvinced. “Not even to Nikki?”

“Especially not to Nikki. She’d frame it and hang it in our foyer.”

You snort. “Honestly…she probably would.”

Joe shifts to look at you, blue eyes soft in the glow of the backyard string lights. “I think Kai’s gonna be just fine.”

You nod, emotion bubbling just under the surface again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s gonna have me. And apparently three uncles with no sense of self-preservation and one with a very busted ankle. Plus a mom who keeps sneaking sour candy and pretending it’s for the baby.”

You gasp. “That was one time.”

“It was four times. I counted.”

You swat at his chest, but he just laughs and pulls you closer, folding the letter carefully and slipping it into the blanket between you.

“Seriously though,” he murmurs, “thank you. For letting me go this weekend. For holding it down. For making space for me to freak out a little and figure it out.”

You rest your forehead against his. “You didn’t need to figure it out. You just needed to remember that you’re allowed to breathe.”

Joe closes his eyes like he’s taking that in—like he really believes you now.

Then he leans back and grins.

“Okay, but seriously. Did we save any of the free takeout or did Nikki eat it all?”

You blink. “Define ‘save.’”

“Jesus.” He drops his head back on the cushion and groans. “This kid is gonna be born with a sweet tooth.”

“This kid’s gonna be born with taste, thank you very much.”

He laughs again, pulling you in until your head rests on his chest, his hand still curled protectively over your belly.

And maybe, just maybe…Joe Cool was back.

#joe burrow #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fic

218 notes · View notes

writingsbytee · 17 hours ago

Text

Rivalry & Romance

Enemies to Lovers workplace romance

*Remember you are in charge of your own consumption. 18+ up audiences only; minors please don’t interact!* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION

*Please do not plagiarize, repost, or steal my work. This doesn’t count for re-blogs!*

*the book excerpt above is from ‘The Cruel Prince’ by Holly Black

SUMMARY: I think I’m obsessed with the early 2000s. But this is set in the era of MapQuest and Motorola Razrs. You and Terry have been at each other’s throats for months. Putting the term “Workplace rivalry” to shame.

PAIRINGS: Terry x Tatum (black, fem, reader)

WARNINGS: Terry being an asshole

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is going to be a slow burn, So there won’t be any smut in this fic. Just simple character building.

TAGLIST

@nayaesworld @keehendrixx @theereinawrites @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @megamindsecretlair @episodes-ff @blackgurlnhermoods @dxddykenn @pinkkycherrish @pinkkycherrishh @uzumaki-rebellion @urfavblackbimbo @kianaleani @shallipii @mymindisneverhere @onherereading @skyesthebomb @gg-trini @blyffe @melalsworld @mogul93 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @sweettea-and-honeybutter @notapradagurl7 @miyuhpapayuh @simplyzeeka @playgurlxoxo @yassbishimvintage @dbaileyblog @jimmybutlrr @versaceslutz @ruewritesoccasionally @kaylalb @noir-lullaby @jadatingz @madamedantes @charmedthoughts @daughterofapollo-7 @cardi-bre91 @thabiddie23 @mama200195-blog @venusincleo @slvt4her @skvrpion @constanthavok @dutifulliythoughtfulenthusiast @massivenightdreamer @astasteofmir @callingallbaddies @nubiawrites @nubiagurllll @theglamclosetsl @alicewonderringland @kumkaniudaku @zunibugsiren @secrettawolfpanda @fakxmbj @zunibugsiren

If I missed anybody, please comment and let me know!

“I told you to make a left three miles back!” you exclaimed, crossing your arms in frustration.

“I swear to god if you say that one more time, I’ll pull this car over. I’m literally an ex-marine, I know my way around a map,” Terry said, his voice taking on a rumbling growl. You roll your eyes, huffing as you turn away from him to look out the window. Your cybersecurity company planned a business retreat for you and your coworkers as a way to celebrate the huge account they just obtained and boost morale. Pairing you with your ‘least compatible match’, your boss thought it’d be a great way for you and Terry to try and get along.

FLASHBACK

“Nora please! Pair me with anyone but him,” you begged your boss. You knew it was a strong possibility that she’d pair you with Terry, that doesn’t mean that you weren’t going to fight it.

“Tatum, try and look at it from my perspective. I’ve got two team leads who don’t get along, which is making it really hard for me to conduct meetings. You two can’t be in the same room for more than 5 minutes without world war three happening.”Nora says, closing her laptop.

“Look at it like this, if my top two performers of my team are constantly butting heads, what kind of example do you think that’s going to set for your subordinates? You and Terry either find a way to deal with each other or both of you will have to think of a change in departments.” She finishes, her tone signifying that there’s no room for discussion.

With a sigh you say, “Fine, I’ll do my best. Just make sure you tell that meathead the same thing.”

END FLASHBACK

With a huff you say, “I can’t believe Nora actually though pairing us together would work. We still have 3 hours left on the road.”

“It’ll go by quicker if you shut up,”Terry grumbles, reaching forward to turn his playlist up.

“Ugh! And do we have to listen to classic rock the whole way? Nobody wants their eardrums to bleed 24/7 like you do” You add, positioning your body to stare Terry down. Despite hating his guts, Terry was fucking hot, and boy did he know it too.

“Well, it’s better than listening to your voice all day, or at all for that matter,” Terry glances over at you, a teasing half smirk on his face. He reaches for the volume switch on his steering wheel, turning the volume up yet again.

He wasn't exactly sure how your rivalry started but Terry knew that he couldn’t stand you. How you were always so warm and glowy. Flashing your grossly attractive smile around the office like those knuckleheads deserved to be graced by the sun each morning. Walking around in your stupid clothes that seemed to cling to every curve, his eyes would always be drawn to your annoyingly plump ass. Terry hated your guts, but he could appreciate a fine woman.

You roll your eyes at Terry’s comments, not wanting to further this verbal sparring session. Sliding your eye mask over your eyes, “Just wake me up when we get there,” you said, reclining your chair back.

Terry lets out a defensive snort, clearly unimpressed with your dismissive attitude. “Fine, princess. Don’t let me disturb your beauty sleep.”

You roll your eyes, sitting in silence at Terry’s harsh words. “You’re insufferable,”you mumble under your breath.

Terry just smirks, he laughs,a deep mocking sound that echoes throughout the car. “Insufferable? That’s rich coming from you Tatum. At least I’m honest about who I am and what I want.”

You snatched the eye mask off your face, a gentle rage brewing under the surface. “Don’t pretend that you know anything about me, Terry.”

Another chuckle leaves his mouth, a cold and mirthless sound. “Oh, I know plenty about you, Tatum. More than you like probably. After all, it's not hard to figure out what makes you tick when you’re so transparent.” He reaches forward, turning down the volume slightly, “You’re a puzzle, sure, but not a particularly complex one. Jealous, insecure, and secretly craving validation from those you despise.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes, “Please remind me when I asked for your lackluster input. You know nothing about me Terry.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, a teasing smirk adorning his infuriatingly handsome face,”You didn’t have to ask, it’s written all over you. I figured since we’re stuck on this drive together, I might as well entertain myself by analyzing your pathetic attempts at independence.”

“Why are you like this?” you ask with a shake of your head.

Terry pins you with his piercing green eyes, “We don’t have enough time to go through all of that, princess.”

“Well whether we like it or not we’re stuck together for the weekend. Obviously it seems like we’re not going to make any progress so how about we don’t speak to one another unless it’s absolutely necessary,”you say your hands wringing together. All of this hostility was triggering you, and you didn’t want to have a full fledged episode in front of Terry.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “If that’s what you want, then so be it.” He adjusts his hands on the steering wheel focusing on the road. Terry looked seemingly lost in thought, but the set of his jaw and the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed his true state. You got under his skin, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Terry just knew he had to get you out of his system one way or another.

You however, were fuming inside. How dare Terry pretend to even know a thing about you. It pissed you off even more to know that he was right.

“You’ve been avoiding me around the office,” you start. “Whenever we need to come up with a proposal together, you send someone else in your place. You always leave the room when I enter it. What did I do to you to make you dislike me so much?”, you ask, your eyes burning holes in the side of his head.

Terry sighs, “Avoiding you implies that I care more than I should. That is not the case.” His words are dismissive, but the way he keeps glancing at you could indicate otherwise.

You huff in frustration, you’re not getting through to him, “So if you’re not avoiding me, what would you call it?”you press, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Because it feels like you’ve been going out of your way to avoid me these past few weeks.”

Terry flicks on the blinker before exiting the highway, within the next six minutes you’re parked at a ‘Buc-ee’s’. You watch as Terry takes a deep breath, seemingly composing himself before saying, “I’m focused on my work, performing well and efficiently. I don’t understand why you can’t get that through your thick fucking skull.”

The deflection pisses you off, “So why me then? You’re perfectly pleasant with everyone else in the office, but when I’m involved it’s different.”

Terry’s eyes drift over you, a mask of indifference painting his face. “Is this conversation going anywhere? Or are you going to keep whining about not being liked?”

You sigh with defeat, turning to face forward you decide to keep your mouth shut, this conversation doing more harm than good.

“I’m just going to fill up and grab something to eat, do you want anything from inside?” Terry asks, grabbing his keys and wallet. You shake your head, ready for a few minutes alone to screw your head on straight.

“Suit yourself, just don’t bother me if you’re hungry in an hour,” and with that, Terry gets out of the car. Halfway into the store, Terry turns back and spots you wiping your eyes. Something in his chest tightens at the fact that he made you cry. Your verbal sparring sessions would always be the highlight of his day, you always had a witty comeback, giving him a run for his money. He’s so lost in his thoughts about you, he doesn’t even realize that he’s next up in line. Terry places his order, getting something additional for you, then heads out.

Back in the car, you call your mom, needing a pep talk from her. “Baby, sometimes two people just don’t get along. Just keep being you, that’s all you can do. I’m sure he’ll come around, what’s not to like?”

You sigh, “But mama, you don’t get it! He’s so frustrating, nobody’s ever gotten under my skin like this. It’s like he knows where and how to press my buttons. It’s getting tiring, Nora said we need to get along or she’ll transfer both of us.”

Your mother stays silent on her side of the phone. She knows her daughter, and her daughter just might have a crush on her work rival. “Are you sure there’s no other reason why you two don’t get along?”

Her statement stuns you, your train of thought coming to a complete halt. “Mama be serious, he’s told me time and time again that I’m not his cup of tea,”you say, wrapping your cardigan tighter around midsection. Looking up you see Terry come out of the Buc-ee’s, bags in hand, making his way to the car.

“Look mama, I have to go but I’ll call you once we get settled in. I love you , bye” you say ending your call. Terry watches as you hang up the phone and pull down the sun visor to wipe away any moisture gathered under your eyes. Guilt heavy like a rock sat uncomfortably in his gut. He never wanted to make you cry, or feel bad about yourself. The truth is, he admires you, how you never seem to let the pressures of the day get to you. How you had a smile for everyone in the office, including Greg, who obviously wanted to fuck you. Always smiling your perfect smile at these people who didn’t deserve it, him included.

Walking to the passenger side window, Terry taps twice to grab your attention. With a start, you meet Terry’s gaze through the tempered glass. Rolling your window down, you look at Terry over your librarian-esque glasses, something he finds oddly cute.

Passing the bags of food through the open window. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got chicken, beef and tofu in case that’s your thing,” Terry said, his eyes refusing to meet yours. This was uncharted territory for him, he wasn’t the ‘thinking about others feelings’ type. He liked to avoid attachments, they slow him down. Terry didn’t need another person he cared about being ripped from his life, he couldn’t take that pain again.

“Terry? Are you good?” you ask when you notice Terry’s eyes went unfocused and he was lost inside his head.

Terry nods his head, handing you the food, “Yeah sweet girl, hold these for me. I’m going to fill up so we can hit the road.” You barely have time to respond before Terry’s on the other side of the car filling up.

Where the fuck did that come from? You thought. Reaching into the back you pull out a chicken sandwich. Reaching for your drink, you notice Terry bought your favorite. His thoughtfulness sends a shiver down your spine. Terry might not think you’re a puzzle, but he definitely is, infuriating and alluring in equal measure.

Once the tank is full, Terry slides back into the driver’s seat. You can feel the energy shift as he settled in. You glance over at him and you’re startled to find he’s already looking at you.

“Look, I don’t want to spend the rest of this retreat biting each other’s heads off. Believe it or not Tatum, I don’t want to fight with you. It’s clear we both are passionate and have strong viewpoints. For the sake of our jobs, and a cohesive work environment, I think we should just pretend to get along for the duration of the trip.” Terry looks over at you apprehensively, hoping what he just said didn’t piss you off.

You sighed before turning your body to face Terry, “I don’t want to argue with you either, but pretending isn’t going to help anything when we have to go back to the office next week. I’ll do my best to not piss you off, all I ask is that you do the same.” You state, finally meeting Terry’s eyes. He’s looking at you with apprehension, sizing you up.

“You’ve got a deal,” he says, outstretching his hand. You place your hand in his, the familiar spark shooting up your arm. Terry quickly slides his hand out of yours, starting the vehicle, you both head back out on the road.

3 HOURS LATER

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” Nora exclaims, as Terry rolls both your suitcases into the hotel lobby. Despite being a complete asshole at least Terry was raised as a gentleman.

“Ha Ha, very funny Nora. Those directions you sent sucked,” Terry grumbled, taking his room key from Nora’s outstretched hand, not noticing the devious smirk her face held. You follow behind Terry outstretching your hand as well.

Nora’s face pinches with nervousness, “So, umm, little mix-up with the rooms.” Terry stops abruptly. You watch his head hang, shoulders sag, and you hear a deep sigh come from him.

“Does this mean what I think it does?” Terry asks, turning to face Nora.

“Well somewhere during the registration process, the amount of rooms needed got mixed up. And since you two were the last to make it in, you guys have to room together. And before you ask, the hotel is fully booked for some medical conference.” Nora finished. This was obviously an uncomfortable conversation for her to have. Her face was red as hell.

The last thing you wanted right now is to be rooming with Terry. But, being the people pleaser you are, you give Nora a small smile. “It’s only a few days Nora, I’m sure we won’t burn the hotel down.”

You hear Terry scoff behind you, “Speak for yourself.” You roll your eyes at his comment before patting Nora on the shoulder. With the deepest sigh you can muster, you head toward the elevator.

“Tatum, wait,” Terry says. You turn and Terry takes in your exhausted expression. “I don’t think anyone should be subjected to my snoring. That’s all I meant,” Terry said, with a shrug of his shoulders. A sheepish smile forms on his lips.

Another heavy sigh leaves your lips, “This isn’t ideal for me either, Terry. Do you think I want to be trapped in a room with someone who would rather be anywhere else?” Your enthusiasm meter had finally reached E. All you wanted was a hot shower, a face mask, and a glass or three of wine. Now you’d be spending your evening undoubtably bickering with Terry over what to watch.

Terry’s smile fades, replaced by a grimace of discomfort. “Look, Tatum, I didn’t ask for this anymore than you did.” He rakes his hand down his face, the action oddly attractive to you.

“But let’s get something straight: this isn’t personal. It’s complicated.” Your gaze flickers away from him, unable to hold his stare for long. “We can figure out a way to coexist, can’t we?” he asked, the smirk returning.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s about fifty other things I’d rather be doing.” Terry turns, clearly dismissing you.

An unamused chuckle leaves your lips as you stride past Terry toward the elevators. You may or may not have called him an asshole along the way. Terry scoffed, following behind you. A dark smirk rose on his face as he watched your ass move in the leggings you wore. Not that you needed it, but Terry could really see the difference the pilates classes were making.

You two ride up the elevator in tense, annoyed silence. Terry insists on carrying both your luggage all the way to the room. “You can have the shower first, I’ll run out and grab us something to eat. So you can have privacy. Just text me when you’re decent.” Terry says, placing our luggage in a corner then heading to the bathroom.

“Terry?” you ask, nervousness creeping its way up your spine. To your left there was one king bed. The indication is clear that you’d either be sharing a bed with Terry, or sleeping on a very unappealing loveseat.

A small sigh leaves Terry’s lips. He needed to put some distance between you two if he was going to keep his head in straight for the rest of this trip. “Yeah, Tatum?” he asks, you can hear the tiredness seep through the edges of his voice.

With a deep breath you say, “I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for either of us. But, I appreciate you being a gentleman about everything. I think we’re both adult enough to manage sleeping next to each other for a few days. And don’t try to be coy about it, you can’t sleep on the floor for 3 nights. I won’t let you.”

Terry opens his mouth to argue with you, but he sees the determination settled into your features and concedes. Usually, with anyone else he’d put up a fight,” Fine, fine, I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

A triumphant smile blooms on your face, and Terry looks away. Your brows crease in confusion, until you see the tips of his ears begin to turn red.

“Well, I’ll just go take a shower now. You don’t have to wait, I should be done in like an hour and a half.” You say, bending over to open your suitcase. You smirk deviously when you hear Terry’s sharp intake of breath behind you.

“Right. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.” Terry says, and then he’s out the door. Before you have time to dwell on Terry’s abrupt exit, your phone rings. A small smile erupts when you see your sister’s contact appear on the tiny screen. Flipping open your phone, you press the green button, and put the phone up to your ear.

“Taryn, you always call when I’m about to do something,” you teased. You can practically hear your sister’s eyes roll through the phone.

“My timing is perfect then. I’m with mama we’re calling to check in on you,” your sister replies.

You smile and shake your head, “We just got in. Apparently there was a mix-up with the reservation so Terry and I are going to be sharing a room for the next three days.” You say, pulling out everything you need for your shower routine. On the other side of the line your mom and sister are staring at each other, mouths hanging open.

“Wait, you're going to share a room with someone you once called ‘green goblin’. And I don’t think you meant it in a nice way,” your sister said.

You sighed and rolled your eyes, “When is calling someone a goblin ever a term of endearment? Terry and I came to an agreement while we’re here, we’ll do our best to try and get along. Or we’ll fake it.” You finish with a shrug.

“Riiight, an agreement. That hotel is going to burn down,” your sister finished with a cackle.

You rolled your eyes, a dry chuckle leaving your lips. You’re sitting on the bathroom sink yapping with your sister and mom. Before you knew it you glanced at the clock and 30 minutes had passed. “Taryn I appreciate you and mama calling to check on me, but I need to shower before Terry gets back with the food. I’ll talk to y’all later. I love you.” Your sister, mother, and you all exchange goodbye’s and you hang up.

Turning on the radio nestled on your nightstand, you start to gather everything for your extensive night routine. Landing on a random station, the sensual voice of Dru Hill floods your suite. Humming the melody, you begin to undress. Your body taking on an autopilot, the regular routine of cleansing yourself putting your stimulated mind at ease. It was nice to shut your brain off after spending all day at war with your emotions about your current predicament.

You always admired Terry, his calm but loud presence, how self assured he was, and how he always seemed to know the answer before the question was asked. Searching through memories, you tried to find one that could pinpoint when the animosity started to take root, but you came up empty. Shaking your head, you try to ignore thoughts of Terry and focus on your shower.

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

TERRY

“So, how was the drive up?” Maurice (co-worker) snickered, passing Terry a beer.

Terry’s eyes were going to get stuck as much as he rolled them today. “Don’t even start that shit man, I came down here for a minute of peace.” Terry says, grabbing the beer and taking a large gulp.

“So I take it you two didn’t solve your issues,” Maurice teases as he watches his usually calm, cool, and collected co-worker break a sweat.

Terry scoffed, setting his beer down with a little more force than necessary, “No, Mo, we didn’t. In fact, she suggested that we just fake getting along for appearances.” Maurice studies his friend, the former marine usually never let anything get to him. Yet, here he was about to blow a gasket over their fine ass co-worker. His knee bouncing in irritation, the subtle but constant tick of his jaw.

“Aye, T, are you sure you’re good man? You just don’t usually get this rattled. Did Nora say something?” Maurice asked.

Terry shook his head, a grimace turning his face down. “Basically she told us if we can’t find a way to get along, then we’re both out.” Terry sighs, running his hand over his face in exasperation.

”I don’t know what it is, man. It’s like she found her way under my skin and is stuck there. Everything she does annoys me, c’mon man, you’ve seen how she is around the office.”Terry said, motioning the bartender to bring him another beer.

“C’mon what? She’s a nice girl, cool to work with, really pretty, and has a great ass. What’s not to like?” Mo teases, hoping to get Terry riled up.

Terry could feel his chest tighten at his friend’s obvious approval of your appearance. It was the same chest tightness he got when Greg would hold open doors for you and bring you your favorite Starbucks order.

“Aye, T, I’m going to say something. When I say this, just think, don't give me an answer. But have you ever thought that maybe you’re attracted to her?”

The question hits Terry like a ton of bricks, his beer frozen mid-air as Maurice looks at him with a knowing smile on his face. Was Terry attracted to you? ‘He couldn’t be’, he thought. But, deep down he knew the answer to Maurice’s question. Of course he was attracted to you.

A knowing smile appears on Maurice’s face at Terry’s lack of answer,”You have three days to change her mind and think you aren’t the asshole you pretend to be. Look man, I get it, some people really just don’t like each other. But, I don’t think that’s the case here. Give Tatum a chance, she isn’t all bad. Figure it the fuck out, for everyone’s sake,” Maurice finishes. With two slaps to the back, Maurice leaves Terry in the hotel bar with his thoughts.

Was he attracted to you? Terry scoffed to himself, you were beautiful obviously. Intelligent, charming, funny as hell, and as much as he hated to admit it he loved working with you. The bickering arguments were the highlight of his day. Terry always made his coffee at 7:42am, because he knew 3-5 minutes later you would come strolling in, and he’d have the perfect view of your early morning strut, beaming smile, and a figure to kill for.

The waiter comes out with a huge to-go bag full of foods that Terry thought you would like. With a deep sigh, Terry grabs his beer and the food, heading back up to your room.

The seductive sounds of Dru Hill filters through the bathroom door as Terry enters the suite. He tenses, muscles in his jaw ticking as he can hear you singing softly.

He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart. The image of you, naked and wet under the cascading water, flashes through his mind like abrupt bursts of light. He shakes his head, trying to banish his sinful thoughts of you.

Walking over to the small kitchenette , Terry placed down the bag of food. Plating it, and setting out a glass of wine for you and beer for him. In the bathroom, you’re completely unaware of Terry’s presence. The cherry blossom scent of your shampoo fills your nose, its familiarity bringing you a sense of calm.

Not to mention the radio station you picked was playing all your favorites. Detangling through your curls, you sang Mariah Carey’s ‘Obsessed’ damn near at the top of your lungs. Terry sat on the other side of the door with a small smile on his face at your carefree singing. Unable to sit any longer, Terry rises from the bed and begins to pace the room. His thoughts waging a war in his head. He stops in front of the window in your room, staring out at the city lights below without truly seeing them.

Whether he liked it or not, somehow you’d managed to worm your way under Terry’s skin. He had yet to decide if this was a good or bad thing for him.

The bathroom door creaks open and Terry hears the startled gasp you let out behind him. “Oh, did I take too long? You set all the food up, thank you Terry!” You cooed, patting your hair dry with an oversized t-shirt.

You watch Terry’s tense shoulder as he turns to face you. You had forgone your contacts, black cat eye frames sat on your nose giving you an innocence that made Terry clench his fist. You looked so soft, not the office siren that strutted around and ruled her team with an iron fist. Just Tatum.

You watch as Terry scratches the back of his neck, “Yeah, no problem. Think of it as phase one of my apology.”

Your eyes widen as you take in Terry's words, “Wait, did I transport to a parallel universe in the shower? You’ve never apologized to me before,” you say, skeptically. Your mind was reeling, there’s no way this is the same guy you arrived with.

A bashful grin spreads across Terry’s face at your acceptance, “I’m turning over a new leaf here, now come please sit down,” he gestures to the sofa. “C’mon, sit with me,” Terry says, as he pats the spot next to him.

You eye the food, then back up to Terry before saying, “Sure, just give me a minute, I don’t want my hair dripping all over you.”

Terry nods, shooting you a small smile, “If your food gets cold, it’s on you,” he finishes, with a teasing tilt in his voice. You playfully roll your eyes as you try your best to soak up your damp hair with a t-shirt.

“So what are we watching?” You ask, sitting next to Terry. The gentle brush of your bare thigh against his, causing goosebumps to bloom across your skin.

Terry clears his throat before mumbling, “sports highlights.” He turns up the TV signaling that he wants silence.

A dry chuckle leaves your lips, “I see the asshole is back.” Reaching for your kindle and your food you settle into the couch completely prepare to tune Terry out for the rest of dinner, this was going to be a long 3 days.

Okay y’all! Please Tell me what you guys think! I think this could be a 4 -5 part series. I hope you guys like it! I just wanted to get this out before I start flooding y’all with sinners/ MBJ fics.

UNTIL NEXT TIME <3

TEE

#aaron pierre #aaronpierre #rebel ridge fanfiction #terry richmond fanfiction #terry richmond #terry richmond x reader #terry richmond x black reader #terry richmond smut #enemies to lovers #workplace romance #writingsbytee #tee writes

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discodinosaur · 3 days ago

Text

➳ Talk So Sweet (Doin' Bad Things)

↳ the last of us | explicit | manny alvarez/reader | 10.1k | complete

Summary: It was common knowledge that you and Manny did not get on. But, after a run goes awry, you're the one patching him, and if disliked you that much, how come he's told his dad all about you?

--Or-- A slow descent into falling in love with the person you hate the most.

A lot of people knew that you and Manny did not gel well. It didn’t take a lot to work out between the icy glares, the cold shoulders and, sometimes, going as far as pretending the other didn’t exist.

Which ideally wasn’t the best for the rest of your little group. You hadn’t been part of the Firefly’s when they fell but you had known of Marlene, whisperings about her initiative and what would happen if she set foot in Seattle or even came across the WLF. Yet when the ex-Firefly’s arrived, you had taken them under your wing and in return, you became one with their group, though you figured that sharing a room with Leah had something to do with it.

Which brings you to now, sat in the corner of the mess hall with a greasy rag, absently wiping it over your pistol while Nora and Manny are at each other’s throats for what must be the third time this week.

“—You’re not going to tell Isaac shit,” Nora spits at him, spoon clenched tightly in her fist as she glares daggers at Manny.

Manny leans over the table, leering at her, “Sure, that his senior medic is shirking her duties to what? Bunk off with the armourer?”

Ohh, of course. It would be you that Manny has a problem with. If this was Abby or Mel, you can guarantee he wouldn’t have an issue with it. But you? That man has had it out for you the moment you spoke to him. Besides, you’d had this job cleared for days, a simple supply run and one that would be beneficial to the med-bay too. It’s just Manny being typical Manny that he needs Nora’s help now of all times.

“But it’s fine when you do it to get a piece of skirt, right? Besides, I’m not shirking off any duties.” Nora swings back easily, leaning back on the bench. “Never thought you of all people would be one to tattle to Isaac. Like even has time for you if it’s not Scar related.”

Manny’s jaw ticks and you can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, most of it directed straight at you.

“Nora, it’s fine. I can ask Owen to come with me,” you try, attempting to placate both of them, but Nora holds up a hand to stop you.

“No, no. You did get it cleared, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she turns back to Manny with a sickly sweet smile, “so take Mel with you.”

Manny jumps up from the table, jolting it so the cutlery rattles and he swears in Spanish. You glance up as he shoves his hands in his pockets and storms out of the mess hall.

“He really has it out for you, huh?” Nora asks with a shake of her head.

“Yup, something like that. I’ll meet you down the armoury in ten.”

You wait for Nora down in the armoury, leaning against the wall with the guns already signed out, while Olive, another armourer who trained under you, talks your ear off about the guy she’s seeing. Eric, you think his name is.

And then in comes Manny, closely followed by a hesitant looking Mel. She gives you a half smile as Manny struts over towards Olive. He doesn’t even glance in your direction, not when Olive asks you about Manny’s usual, nor when you slip back behind the desk to collect his shotgun and extra ammo. He clenches his jaw, white-knuckling the shotgun and nods his head to Olive in thanks.

Mel, ever the peacekeeper, apologises when Manny’s out of earshot, taking her pistol and rifle with a grateful thanks to you both and hurries after him with Bear in tow, barking excitedly at her heels.

“You should’ve given him an empty box of ammo,” Olive says quietly to you, eyes on the two of them heading towards a truck.

You snort, “Because that would go down so well when he gets back.”

“He can be so awful sometimes.”

“Dude probably just needs to get laid,” you shrug and then spot Nora making her way towards you and bid Olive a hasty goodbye.

It was late. Later than you usually stayed down in the armoury. But with Danny, Owen and Manny coming back later than predicted from their run, all three looking pissed, you silently took their weapons from them, cleaning them down and letting the three of them cool off in their own way. Owen had tried to help; lingering back and making small talk but you had taken the box of ammo from his hands and sent him on his way towards Abby knowing she’d appreciate his presence more.

You swung the keys to armoury on the keyring around your finger, waiting for whoever was in the shooting range to finish up and leave. But the minutes ticked by, the shots still fired and your eyes were heavy with tiredness.

Six more shots sounded and you gripped the keys tight in your hand, quietly going inside and let out a sigh at the sight of Manny in the end stall. Ear protection forgone and muttering to himself in Spanish as he reloads the pistol. You winced as he emptied it one by one into the target without hesitation.

“Manny.”

He either ignores you or doesn’t hear you as the gun clicks empty and he mutters again, throwing in another twelve rounds into the pistol and firing them off one by one, you count them as you hear the cartridges clink to the floor.

“¡Déjame en paz!”

You lean against the door, exasperated as he fumbles and picks up the ammo shells on the floor.

“Manny. I need to lock up,” you tell him firmly. The last thing you want is to get into an argument with him now. Both of you obviously exhausted, words would sting a little more and no holds would be barred for the slew of curses that could leave you.

“Need me to fucking translate for you?”

The frustration rolls off the two of you in waves and you chew on your lip, strutting over and collecting up the pistol and the handful of unused ammo. As you pull back, Manny’s hand wraps around your wrist and your eyes find the smear of dried blood on his knuckles, over his sleeves and up onto his neck. Your lips parting in surprise when you see the slice over his cheek, the split in his lip and the purple undertones of a bruise blossoming on his jaw.

“The fuck happened to you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Nothing,” he snaps, turning away from you.

“Bullshit, Manny, look at your face! You should’ve gone to the med—”

“No. I don’t need to go to the med-bay. It’s just a small cut, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He hasn’t let go of your wrist and the longer you stare at him, the more he starts to wilt under your hard gaze. He turns back to you, meeting your eyes and his grip loosens around your wrist. He lets out another sigh, and runs his other hands through his already rumpled hair. “I’m not going to the med-bay because Mel and Nora will just ask questions. I’ve had worse, now stop fussing over me.”

You wretch your wrist out of his grasp. “Suit yourself. But you’re in my shooting range.”

His throat bobs, jaw ticking as he glares at you with unspoken curses. But Manny turns away without so much as a jab, clearing up the mess of ammo spilling onto the bench. He’s silent, and when he speaks you almost miss it.

“Scars.”

You stop, turning on your heel, keys clenched tightly in your fist. “What about ‘em?”

Manny continues to hastily put away the ammo, fingers scurrying over the stray bullets, jaw set as he stares at the box. “They jumped us just past the park. We didn’t see them until they had the upper and then you can put together what happened after.”

“The park? Isn’t that supposed to be–”

“Exactly,” he nods, eyes flicking to you, dark under the fluorescent lighting. “Which is another reason I can’t go to the med bay. It was Isaac’s idea. If anyone else finds out they’ll be an uproar.”

“Of course it was Isaac,” you mutter under your breath and you clip the keyring onto your belt loop, stepping forwards towards him. “I have a med-kit down here that Nora restocked the other day. I’m not a doctor but I know how to treat a cut.”

Manny seems torn, an internal back and forth going on in his head and in the end he shakes his head with a swear in Spanish. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Wouldn’t want to drag this out, Alvarez,” you sigh and fetch the small first aid kit. Your hand reaches out tentatively, cupping his cheek to turn his head towards you to get a better look at the cut. With an alcohol soaked cloth, you dab at it and Manny hisses at the initial sting.

“Did you kill them?”

“Course. I’m not Isaac’s top Scar killer for nothing.”

You thin your lips and say nothing as you clean up the mess of dried blood on his skin, feeling his quickening pulse as you wipe his neck, thinking nothing more than it being the adrenaline. You take a half step back and assess him quickly for any other injuries, turning him by his shoulders and noticing the wince as he turns to his left. His jacket, half open, does nothing to hide the creeping stain of blood that’s blossoming on his grey shirt.

“What happened there?”

He looks down, following where you’re looking and has the decency to shrug.

“Knife wound maybe?”

You roll your eyes at his unhelpful replies and pull his shirt where the wound is, scrunching it up just below his ribs. If he would just let you help him without being a pain in the ass then this would go over a lot smoother.

“I have some gauze…”

He says nothing but holds his shirt up as you gather the gauze and medical tape, your hands skating over his warm body as you take your time to make sure he’s not in any pain.

“If that doesn’t heal overnight, go to Mel or Nora, you might need stitches.”

“It’s not a stab would,” he says, smoothing over the gauze. “You’re just stubborn.”

“I’m stubborn?” you ask, clicking the kit shut and wiping your hands on your cargos.

“Si.”

You almost smile at him but you remember where you are and who you’re with and the urge to get out overwhelms you so you pick up his discarded gun and med-kit then hurry out of the shooting range.

“Turn the light off when you’re done.”

After that night in the shooting range, Manny starts to avoid you. To begin with, you hadn’t even noticed it, not with how the two of you skirt around each other, always trying to dodge the other if you can and with Manny spending a lot of mealtimes with his dad, and you down in the workshop, it didn’t even cross your mind.

It was Owen that noticed it first, the second week in while you were sat in the usual corner of the mess hall, Mel on his left and Leah sandwiched between you.

“You ever see much of Manny nowadays? He’s not joined us as much since we came back from that run the other week.”

Your head snapped up and you followed Owen’s gaze to the other side of the hall where Manny was sat with his dad, turned towards and gesturing with his hands as he spoke. You kept your mouth shut, let the other three speculate as you turned it over in your head.

But the more you dwell on it, the more it ate you up. You had been with him last that day, patching him up and he had retaliated with what? Avoiding you? Did he really dislike you that much that he would start ignoring his friends?

So what you do instead is grab one of the breakfast burritos in the early morning, when barely anyone is around and head to the gym, seeking out Abby. Because if anyone understands him, it’s her.

To your surprise, she’s not there and you chew your lip as you remember the few spots she has tucked away that she goes to that’s not her room. Finally, you check the library, and on first glance it looks empty. If it weren’t for the collection of ottomans pushed together, you would call it a morning and leave it.

But you know Abby better than that and beeline for ottoman’s where sure enough she’s sat hunched over, reading one of the old battered books on the shelf.

“Morning,” you greet her quietly, waving the burrito in her direction. “I thought I’d find you in the gym this morning.”

She shrugs with one shoulder and marks her page, dog earring the corner and takes the burrito. “Eh, I could do with a rest and Manny asked for the room last night. These ottomans do nothing for your neck.”

You try not to think about Manny asking for the room to be alone with someone else. You really do, but lately your mind is on him a lot more than usual – probably just something to do with that he’s been avoiding you.

“Does he seem like he’s avoiding you?”

Abby chews thoughtfully and then shakes her head. “No, he seems the same to me. But Owen did mention it too the other day. He has asked for the room a lot more than usual though.”

“It was Owen that made me notice it,” you admit, and sit cross legged on the ottoman next to her. “I saw him when he came back from that run with Owen. He spent some time in the shooting range, taking it out on one of the targets.”

The corner’s of Abby’s lips turn up into a small smile, “Yeah, he did mention that. We haven’t talked a whole lot about it if I’m honest. Owen hasn’t even let up about what the hell happened out there.”

You don’t bother to let on about patching him up. Both of you keeping it to yourselves but she does ease your mind and you manage not to think about him. You move on to other things, asking her about her workouts are going, being careful to pry too much into the details.

You leave Abby, heading back down to the mess hall to grab something for yourself before a long day down in the armoury. The amount of people going out on runs today was insane compared to usual, you figure that Isaac must be planning something soon with the amount of intel he’s gathering.

Just as you find a table for yourself, your eye catches on the shaky wave of José and your expression softens. Manny might be intolerable, but his dad is a sweetheart and always makes an effort with you. You slip into the chair next to him and you can’t help but worry your lip at how bad his hands seem today.

“How have you been? I haven’t seen much of you recently, I think you’ve been hiding from me,” he asks you, a warm smile on his face and you can’t help but smile back at him.

“Not hiding from you,” you say softly, “just… busy, you know? You seem well, though, how are you hands?”

“Oh, you know, some days are better than others. I’ve been meaning to thank you, by the way. For patching Manny up the other week.”

You splutter around your bite of food and blink at José, “huh?” you say, rather stupidly. Manny told his dad about you, but not Abby.

José smiles at you and pats your hand. “He told me about the run in he had and said that you were the one to find him down in the shooting range.”

“Oh… yeah I did but–”

“I know he’s not the best with words and can be a stubborn mule sometimes. But thank you, I appreciate you looking out for him.”

“It was nothing, mister Alvarez,” you say sincerely. “He just looked in a bad way and it was getting late. If I’m honest I just wanted to lock up.”

He smiles warmly at you again and grasps the top of your hand. “I know my son, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry he can be such a brat around you.”

You thin your mouth into what you hope passes for a smile, unsure of what to say because Manny can be so much more than a brat to you.

“Dad, have you—”

Manny cuts himself off as soon as he sees you and easily ignores you as he passes to sit on the other side of his dad. José gives you a good-natured eye-roll and turns to his son, saying something in quiet Spanish. Manny glances at you, replies back to his dad and turns his body to him. You feel like you’re intruding as Manny takes José’s hands in his own, turning them over and gently massaging his palms.

“I should go,” you say quietly to José and scrunch the foil from your burrito into a ball.

“Don’t be a stranger. You should come sit with me more often.”

You look between him and Manny, who’s not paying you any attention and nod slowly, “Promise, sir.”

And you meant it. But the whole way down to the armoury, José’s words about that night in the shooting range bounce around in your mind.

Being out in the field was a nice reprieve from being in the armoury. It gave the time to work on your aim and what modifications were working and which one weren’t. Today just happened to be the day that Manny, of all the people, was assigned partner on the run. You had tried to swap with Leah, even Abby but both of them were on higher priority jobs than you.

Just your luck.

When you got a glance at him in the mess hall that morning. He didn’t look particularly thrilled at the idea either and when he caught your eye, he bowed his head to talk with his dad. You had loaded your pistol forcefully and shoved it into your holster, not even giving Manny a second glance while he collected his own weapons later. You signed out a truck and started the ignition, letting it idle while you waited.

“You’ll waste the gas if you keep doing that,” Manny snipes, climbing in beside you and shutting his door with more force than strictly necessary.

You ignore him, rolling your eyes and the wheels spin as you overdo it on the pull away. Good, let him know he’s already pissed you off. You stop briefly at the gates and then put your foot to the floor on the Seattle roads. Neither of you say a word to each other on the way to the old garment factory, both of you too stubborn to acknowledge the other. Manny is stiff as a board when you glance over, head turned to stare out the window.

Getting in was easy. Both of you agreeing, without so many words, that stealth was the better option here. It had only just been scouted out earlier in the week – supplies that you could use but also a number of infected roaming the narrow hallways. This had to be a silent in and out job.

You took down two runners right away, approaching them from behind and forcing your knife into their throat, cutting at the muscle and sinew, letting them fall with a thud to the floor as Manny took out another. His method wasn’t as practised as yours, getting its attention and then jumping it. Even in stealth, he’s attracted to the violence and threat of getting caught.

Both of you keep your steps light and your flashlights pointing down as you make your way through the hallways, avoiding the factory floor as much as possible. Manny covers you as you pick the lock, crouching down, ear straining to hear the telltale click.

It’s when you open the door that everything seems to go wrong. The door swings open, knocking into an old, beat up filing cabinet that echoes around the room. Both you and Manny freeze. The second thing you notice is the ear-splitting screech of a clicker that looms out of the darkness.

Manny grabs your arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you out of your stunned silence. “Run, fucking run!” he calls to you and you become aware of your feet, dragging them to a sprint down a different corridor.

You turn, unloading a clip from your rifle into the nearest oncoming onslaught of infected. Runners fall like dominoes, and a clicker halts, head drooping as you shoot the fungus clean off, giving you both a few seconds to make distance.

The rifle clicks, out of ammo and you turn, sprinting with all you have down the rest of the corridor towards the bolted door. Manny is just two steps ahead, and rams his shoulder against the lock, forcing it open and grunting as he squeezes through the small gap. You see his hands on the door, fingers tense as he tries to hold it open but it’s too heavy and it shuts on you, slamming into place.

You reach for your handgun, popping two bullets into the stalker that’s crept up on you and you watch as it convulses on the floor before throwing yourself against the door, hand pushing on the handle. But it doesn’t budge.

“No, no,” you mutter, shouldering it again and clinging onto the handle. “Manny? Manny!”

“The mechanism is busted,” his voice sounds from the other side, just as panic stricken. “I’m trying.”

“Manny, open the door. Open the fucking door right now!”

Fear seizes you. Your hands trembling as you check the clip in your hand gun and you let out a whimper as you count the measly seven bullets you have left. That’s hardly enough to take out the whole corridor. Maybe this is how it ends for you, at the hands of infected all because a fucking door won’t open.

“Fuck… fuck!” you mutter, blood rushing in your ears and tears spilling down your cheeks. This is not how it was supposed to go. Not here, not a run with Manny of all people. You flatten yourself against the door and grip your gun with both hands, though it does nothing to stop the sway of the pistol. You count each bullet, chest heaving as you face death head on.

One. A runner hit in the shoulder, dropping to the floor and using its hands to crawl towards you, gurgling and thrashing on the floor.

Two. The runner goes silent, one final yelp and it stills. The door up head bursts open with the noise only a shambler could make, lolloping to one side from the weight of the pustules.

Three and four – both miss. The bloodcurdling, throaty hisses from a clicker and whines from stalkers join the shambler as they barrel down the corridor straight for you.

Five. Hits one of the stalkers and it lets out a scream, crawling up into the vents out of your sight.

Six. Another miss and tears blur your vision, your heart hammering in your chest. There’s nothing that can help you now.

Seven. You close your eyes, not seeing where the bullet lands and slide down the door, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your back gives out, and you fall backwards into nothing. There’s the sound of a slam somewhere in the room and then something is grabbing you under your arms. You thrash, trying to fight it.

“No!” you sob, pushing yourself against the wall.

“It’s me, it’s Manny.”

You breath catches in your throat and you use your sleeve to wipe at your eyes, blinking through the tears. His eyes are wide, cheeks drained of any colour as he raises his hands, palms up.

“Manny?”

“It’s me. I’ve got you. I need you to breathe.”

You keep your eyes on his hands as he slowly and carefully brings them down to hold your shoulders. He gives you a pointed look and you follow his lead, a deep breath in and then out. He repeats this until you’ve got it under control.

Feud, rivalry, some unspoken third thing between you be damned. You breathing catches in your throat and he steps into your space, one arm wrapping around you, placing his palm on the small of your back and you let your head fall into the crook his neck.

He’s murmuring in Spanish, other hand cupping the nape of your neck and his body swaying gently. You fit against him like he’s been waiting for this moment.

You want to be embarrassed, and maybe sometime in the future you’ll start to avoid him. But if he had been seconds later, you would’ve died. Right now, all you want is to be held. And Manny does, without any complaint or any offhand comment. He wraps you in his arms and lets you cry.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs in English. “You’re safe. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Infected throw themselves against the sealed door, muffled screeches and bang echoing around the room but all you can feel right now is Manny. His solid frame, his voice soft as he repeats over and over how sorry he is. You inhale deeply, getting gunpowder and citrus from his jacket and open your eyes and stepping back from him.

His hands cover yours, his eyes searching your face as you take a few deep, controlled breaths on your own. You’re alive. You weren’t savagely ripped apart and you’ve had much worse than this. You pull one of your hands free from his to wipe over your face.

“Why are you sorry?” you ask him eventually, your voice croaky and rough from all the tears.

“Because if I had wasted another minute trying to open that fucking door you wouldn’t be standing right in front of me.”

“But I’m here,” you tell him and squeeze his hand. “I’m right here.”

The door bangs again, louder this time and you pull on Manny’s hand. “We need to get to the supply cupboard,” you say, as if the past five minutes didn’t happen.

He looks at you wildly and shakes his head. “Are you insane? Fuck the supply cupboard!”

“We came here for a supply run.”

Manny’s not listening to you, he pushes aside one of the cabinets covering the exit and peers down the short hallway. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Manny–”

“No.”

He grabs your hand again, leading the way down the hallway. You have no idea where you even are, it’s too easy to get turned around in a place like this.

“We’ll go out one of the fire exits, should be easier to find the truck,” he says, walking slightly ahead of you. You nod numbly and follow him. You mind is buzzing with what just happened, between the infected almost getting to you to Manny holding you like you were something precious.

The sunlight attacks your eyes as soon as you step outside and you use your hand to shield your eyes while Manny barricades the door. You sweep the overgrown parking lot and don’t notice anything out of the ordinary then Manny taps your shoulder, pointing down the side of the building. You nod, and the two of you scurry through the weeds and fallen debris until you see the truck and your heart eases at the sight of it.

“Keys?” you hear him ask and you fumble the ring on your belt loop, unclipping it and handing it to him, silently getting into the passenger side.

Just like the drive there, neither of you say a word to each other, except the roles seem to have been reversed, and now it’s your turn to stare out the window. You know that you should be keeping an eye out but there’s still a tremor to your hands that you can’t quite shake and you want nothing more than to be back at the stadium, curled up in your bed. You just hope that luck is on your side and Leah doesn’t ask questions or, even better, she’s staying with Jordan for the night.

Fortunately for you, she’s not there when you get back. You’d dropped off your weapons, feigning a smile and a humourless laugh as Steve tries to joke with you, making a quick getaway with the excuse of needing a shower. But the walk up to your room, the seemingly endless flights of stairs to your level feels never-ending. You’ve never been so glad for the silence that greets you when your door swings open.

In a daze, you drop your pack off in the small kitchenette and grab your wash bag. You don’t remember the walk to the showers, or the hot water pelting down on your back. Getting back to your room is a blur, but when you crawl under the comforter and your head hits the pillow, you’re out like a light.

The knocking does not stop, and it worms it’s way into your dream – an incessant rap against wood that sounds like a timer, counting down the amount of ammo you had left in your pistol as the memory plays over and over in your unconsciousness. You wake with a start, sitting up and squeezing your eyes shut, hoping that whoever is on the other side of the door just gets the hint already.

When they don’t stop, you groan and swing your legs over the side of the bed and pad barefoot over the worn carpet. You grab the key, forcing it into the lock and the door swings open.

Abby, maybe, you expected. Nora, even Mel. But you certainly did not expect Manny to be on the other side of the door. Especially not holding a foil-wrapped dish and with his hair sticking up in disarray as though he’s ran his hand through it one too many times.

“Manny?” you ask, blinking at him to make sure that you’re definitely not seeing things.

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” he shrugs, looking way out of his depth and avoiding your eyes. “Least I could do is bring you some after today.”

“Oh, um, sure,” you say, opening the door wider to let him in. “Come in, I guess.”

Manny hesitates only for a second and then sidesteps past you without another word. He fills the tiny room with his presence alone. You know that it’s not the first time he’s been in here – not when you share with one of your friend group, but he’s not even glancing in the direction of her things. Instead he’s staring at the wall behind you, reading over the posters and prints tacked up haphazardly on the wall.

You take a seat on your bed, legs hanging off the side as your back hits the wall and Manny steps forward, looming over you, holding out the dish.

“It’s chilli. Muy picante.”

Your lips twitch as you take it – steam rising as soon as you lift the foil life and your stomach groans, you don’t remember if you even ate breakfast, today has been nothing but a rush then a blur for you.

You notice that Manny moves around the small kitchenette in a familiar way, it’s just a little jarring to see in your room. But you give the faintest of smiles in thanks when he hands you the spoon. What surprises you even more is that he unlaces his boots and sits the other side of your bed, being sure to keep some distance between you.

You take your first bite of chilli, thinking that the silence between you would be uncomfortable and awkward. But it’s not, though it might have something to do with Manny not speaking, it’s easy. It’s different than being around Owen or Jordan, even Nick.

He lets you eat in silence but something gnaws at you and you feel the need to break the quiet.

“I don’t… these things don’t usually affect me so bad. I’ve killed infected before and been in worse situations,” you tell him, your spoon clinking against the dish.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle yourself.”

“I know. I just, I feel like I overreacted.”

“Overreacted? You were seconds away from being ripped apart from infected. The door wasn’t supposed to get jammed, I don’t know what happened but I wouldn’t live with myself if you died on a run like that because of me.”

“Is that why you brought me food? Because you felt bad?” you bite out, pushing the dish onto your nightstand, suddenly no longer feeling hungry.

“No… no. It’s– it doesn’t matter. ” he snaps abruptly, running a hand through his hair and you let out a long breath through your nose.

“How’s your dad getting on?” you ask instead, figuring that the best thing to do right now is change the subject. It works, taking Manny by surprise that his frown wilts away, replaced by a softer expression only reserved for Jose.

“Bien, though his hands are still seizing up a lot,” he pauses for a moment and then adds, “he asked about you earlier.”

You give him a quizzical look, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes. Manny shrugs, not quite meeting your gaze. “He knew we were out on a run today. Guess he just wondered how we got on when he didn’t see you in the mess hall.”

Though his words sound honest enough, you can tell that Manny’s hiding something from you. So you wait him out and he shifts, crossing and uncrossing his ankles before he finally caves. “I told him –just him – that it didn’t go well.”

“Why? You barely say two words to me any other time so why are you now going to your dad about me?”

“Papá, he cares about you.”

“Right, right. But you? You can’t fucking stand me.”

Manny stiffens, even with the distance between you you can feel how he tenses up. Given the circumstance, you probably should back down, put it one side and curl back up in your comforter. Except, no. You’ve not wronged him, yet he continues to treat you like some nobody.

“Why is that?” you ask, “What have I ever done to you to make you dislike me so much when the others are so fucking friendly towards me and treat me like an actual human being.”

He clears his throat, and for a second you think he’s going to answer. But the silence just lingers, heavy in the air. You shake your head and get up, taking the dish towards the small kitchenette that Manny had to fit so well into. You run the tap, too many thoughts running through your head and a too heavy silence over the room.

Then he’s behind you, reaching past you to turn the tap off, so close that he’s almost pressing against your back.

“I don’t hate you.”

He says it too quietly and he sounds too honest for you to doubt him. You turn in the little gap between you and lean back against the sink.

“Then why—”

“Mierda,” he curses, voice strained and brows pinched together. “Because you’re so fucking radiant. You’re lighting up every damn room you’re in and I don’t want to snuff out that light with my past. And today? Fuck, today I could’ve lost you and it would have been my fault.”

“Your past? Manny, you think my past isn’t as fucked up? But I’ll be damned if it stops me from living.”

You meet his stare, eyes black in the low lighting of your room and so close to you. Just looking at you, his eyes flicking over each inch of your face, your neck and your shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring you. Up close for the first time.”

You don’t know which one of you moves first, but your hands curl into his jacket and his lips are so fucking soft and they’re on yours and you want to drown in this feeling. His hands cup your jaw, tongue running over the seam of your lips desperately seeking more and more of you.

You let him in. Opening your mouth and hands moving up to twist in the curls at the nape of his neck that has him panting into your mouth. This shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but there’s a small nagging part of you that feels like you’re making up for wasted time.

You pull back, catching the sight of his wet lips and drooping eyes. He leans in, chasing you for another taste and you move your head to the side, his lips catching your cheek.

“Manny,” you murmur, breath fanning into his ear.

“Si, el sol?”

“You couldn’t have done this earlier?”

He chuckles, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your hips and you tilt back to look at him.

“Maybe. But my dad taught me that good things are worth waiting for.”

You pull him in for another kiss and this don’t time, you don’t pull away.

That’s how it goes with you and Manny. Like you two could play this game forever, the dancing back and forth, the hate with no heat behind it – it makes sense to you, unravelling since the first kiss you shared. It was always inevitable.

You share stolen moments – when Leah stays out overnight with Jordan, when Abby’s too focused in the gym, straining and overworking herself. Other times are when Manny sneaks into the armoury, pocket full of tin foil wrapped food, perched on the edge of your workbench while you finish up.

Somehow, god only knows how, you manage to keep it quiet. None of your friends seem to catch on. Mainly because Manny still goes out of his way to not be around you or you around him.

But as the days turn into weeks, you feel like Manny starts to know you, really know you. Little things that you didn’t even know about yourself and letting him in to see the deepest parts of you. He eventually tells you about the real reason José kept asking about you, that he could see right through his son, seeing it for what it was.

Manny, in a surprising turn of events, opened up to you. Outside of his bravado and arrogance, he could be incredibly sweet, spending every night he could with you, if not in your room, he would spend hours down in the armoury with you or up on the roof, out of sight from the patrolling watchmen.

“Abby’s asking questions.”

You adjust the focus on your binoculars and follow the movements of the Scar you’ve been tracking for the last couple of minutes. You’re laying on your front under the canopy of some ferns, damp dirt clinging to your clothes as you and Manny are on lookout. He lays next you, one hand on the small of your back, the other scribbling over a map in red marker.

“I’m surprised it took her this long,’ you reply, lowering the binoculars. “We’ve been together for what? Just over a month now?”

Saying it out loud still sends butterflies straight to your gut. Together. You and Manny weren’t just fucking around, he wanted to actually be with you. Though you two of you kept it under wraps, Manny couldn’t keep something like this from his dad. Who knew that José already had an inkling about how Manny really felt about you.

“You might not be keeping track, but my dad sure is,” he says with a huff of laughter right by your ear. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing, if Abby knew.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise and you turn your head to look at him, “Won’t she tell Owen?”

Manny shakes his head, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Honestly, she has so much on her mind right now I don’t think she’d even bat an eye to it.”

The radio clipped to Manny’s vest crackles and he yanks it off and you take the moment to look at him – damp from ever-rainy Seattle, unruly curls sticking to his forehead and the wiry beard that’s starting to get just a little too long. He catches you looking and smirks as answers the radio.

“Alright,” he says and tosses the radio into the grass. “We’ll watch them, take note of their paths and then I’ll write up the report once we’re done.”

“Ain’t you a gentleman.”

“Only the best for my girl.”

His girl. That gets a smile out of you and you raise the binoculars back to your eyes to hide your expression, biting down on your lip.

“You hiding from me, baby?” he asks, and you can just hear the smug smirk in his tone.

When you say nothing, feeling the heat creep higher into your cheeks, Manny plucks the binoculars from you, and takes your chin to turn your head towards him, pressing his lips to yours. You chase his lips with your own and Manny moves to roll you onto your back hidden with the greenery, letting out a soft gasp as your back hits the dirt.

“Manny!” you exclaim in a hushed tone, grinning at him.

“Shh, cariño, you want them to hear us?” he whispers against your lips, trailing a hot path of open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He props himself up on his forearm, hovering over you and the other hand caresses over your shoulder, to your jacket zipper.

Another gasp leaves you as you feel his warm palm on your stomach, pushing your shirt up and lowering his head to run his tongue on your heated skin.

“Here?” you whisper to him, pushing a piece of damp curl of hair from his face. “You’re doing this here?”

“Why not? Not like anything interesting is going on over there,” he replies, deft fingers already working at the button of your pants. “Besides, my girl looks cute when she’s all flustered.”

You tug on his hair, urgently wanting to feel his lips on yours again. He grins and pulls back with heat in eyes and then delicately kisses, you slow and languid, the complete opposite of what you were aiming for. It keeps you distracted enough to not notice his wandering hand, and you sigh when his fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear, trailing along your wet seam.

“Your hands, Manny,” you groan, “God, I’m obsessed with what your hands can do.”

“Just my hands, huh?” he teases you, dragging his middle finger down through your folds, gathering your arousal. He keeps his movements slow, deliberate, watching your every move. “And there was me thinking you liked me.”

He drags his finger, torturously slow, up to your clit and rubs cruel, teasing circles that leave you breathless. His smile widens, and leans down to whisper in your ear. “You do like more than just my fingers, right cariño?”

You nod, squirming beneath him as he moves his fingers in a tantalising pattern. “Say it,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you gasp, “Course I fucking do.”

Manny smirks, seemingly satisfied with your answer. He pulls his finger back, over your wetness and then slowly pushes the digit inside of you, feeling how your tightness envelopes him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, stroking your walls and pulling all the way out and back in, stretching you open.

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, opening your legs wider and arching your back as he curls his finger in just the right way that has you wanting more.

“God, I wish I could taste you,” he murmurs, pressing you hard against the grass and attaching his lips to your neck. He pulls his finger out, dragging it through your wet folds, teasing and playing with you. Then a second digit joins and your eyes flutter, mouth hanging open as he fucks you open with his fingers.

“Manny,” you moan as your eyes flutter at the sensation. He knows just how to touch you, what makes you shiver and cry out his name. You curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, the other hand cupping his hard length through his pants and he lets out a raspy groan, hips rocking into your palm.

“This is about you, baby,” he tells you, though his voice is rough and breathy. “Let me do this for you.”

You realise very quickly that you’re helpless in his hands. His teeth nipping at your neck, sure to leave marks, his eye on you. Every step of the way he keeps fixated on you. His fingers move rhythmically, finding a brutal pace that has you crying out for more.

It’s his thumb that does you in. Pulling his hand back slightly to get the angle, thumb moving in tight circles on your clit, all the while praising you in whispered Spanish.

Pressure, hot, tight, coiling pressure builds in your stomach, a feeling that you want to chase and chase as it gets hotter, burning through you and Manny catches on quickly to what’s about to happen as his fingers move faster, with more urgency and his thumb rubs deliciously on your clit – finally letting your bathe in that high as it hits you.

Manny works you through, his dark eyes sparkling in wonder as you come on his fingers, hips rolling to chase the feeling for as long as you can.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he grunts out as you pant and keen, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Look at you.”

He’s beaming down at you, and you smile, eyes half lidded and breaths coming in heavy. He leans down, softly kissing you while pulling his fingers out of you and buttoning up your pants.

“Alvarez,” the radio thrown in the grass crackles and Manny starts, reaching for it to turn down the crackling static. “Alvarez, this is Boyle, come in.”

“Yeah, I’m here, give me a fucking second,” he mutters, using his clean hand to find the radio. “What?”

“Scars sighted coming your way. Both of you, get out of there while you can. Regroup at the old FEDRA checkpoint.”

“Copy that.”

He tucks the radio back into his belt and gives you an apologetic kiss to your cheek, “Guess the afterglow was kinda ruined, huh?” he jokes, getting to his feet and wiping his hand on his pants, leaving a glistening trail over his thigh.

He helps you up as you stare at the patch, and you would kiss him again. If only it weren’t for the whistle of a Scar and the whizz of an arrow that barely misses your left arm.

Getting called up to the FOB was never high up on your to-do list, and lucky for you it was only a rare occurrence that Isaac personally asked for you. You could count the amount of times you’d walked through the door to the once high-rise apartment block, echoes of screams and the smell of rot invading your senses. At least this time you were given some warning, quickly scribbling out a note and passing by Manny’s room, slotting the piece of paper underneath.

Right now, up high in the room that Isaac had relented and given you for the few days, all of that was drowned out – window cracked open to air out the room and a thick layer of dust coating the counter-tops. The only high point was that you weren’t here for long. The FOB was intense, a certain hum in the air of impending doom, so when you got back to your room – three days in, feeling like you couldn’t breathe you almost missed the crumpled slip of paper under your door.

Wiping your hands on an old rag for what must be the hundredth time you picked it up, oil stained fingerprints instantly smearing the paper as you unfold it, turning it right way up.

Hideout at sundown.

Firstly, when the fuck did Manny get called up to the FOB? And Secondly, how haven’t you managed to spot him yet?

You read over the note again, following the loop of his messy handwriting and shove it deep into your pocket. You’ve never been to his hideout before, but he’d told you enough to work out the route to get there – if you weren’t spotted first.

Time ticked by, even slower than usual until the sun started to set. You slipped out of the apartment window, being careful to not let it close all the way and sneaking around to the back of the FOB building. The path was overgrown, but that only meant that you were going in the right direction. You hop, almost losing your balance as the stairs give out under you. Three doors in front of you, and your best guess is the one directly ahead.

Inside, the whole place is aglow with the setting sun and the if the manga on the counter is anything to go by, you’re definitely in the right place. The space he’s created for himself is untidy, just how you pictured it but not messy. Stacks of old comics and card games litter the battered coffee table, mismatched blankets strewn over the couch and empty bottles sit nestled by the door. It’s almost too much pre-outbreak to you, the casual-ness of it all.

“Manny?” you call out softly, running your hand along the old dresser on the side. “You here?”

“Right here, cariño,” he replies, coming out of what must be a bedroom, given that his hair is all mussed and clothes rumpled. He takes your hand, lips against your knuckles. “You find the place okay?”

“Yeah, you breathe, letting out a long exhale, your eyes on him as he kisses up your wrist. “What are you doing here, at the FOB?”

“Isaac called us up. Jordan, Abby and me. We’re being sent out on a recon scout tomorrow morning.”

“A recon scout?”

“He wants us to get into a scar camp, take what intel we can, and report back. He thinks they are plotting some big attack on us soon.”

“The guns,” you say softly, “he’s tasked me with upgrading them with silencers and better capacity in the clips.”

Manny nods, expression sombre and then he swoops in, finally pressing his lips to yours, hands settling on your hips to bring you flush against him. The kiss is consuming, his tongue mapping out your mouth, memorising you in wake of tomorrow.

“This way,” he murmurs, walking you backwards into the room he came from, hands easily flipping the hem of your shirt up, making you shiver as he caresses over your bare hips. “I missed you.”

“Such a sap,” you chide, kicking the door closed with your heel.

“Maybe. Maybe I just can’t get enough of you.”

You paw at his shirt, pulling it over his head and run your hands over his defined chest. His answer to this is to pull off your own shirt, unhooking your bra and throwing it carelessly to the side while he gets a good look at you. His mouth finds your breast, taking the hardened nipple into his mouth and lavishing it with attention.

You let out a string of soft, breathy noises, cupping the back of his head to keep him close and the other hand unbuckling his belt, pulling the coarse canvas away and letting it join the growing pile of clothes.

“Been thinking about you ever since you left me that note,” he murmurs, string of saliva between his lips and your nipple before paying attention to the other, the more sensitive of the two.

A gasp leaves you, head tilting back and you grasp the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping him in place as he lavishes attention on your nipple. His hand skates down your leg, gripping it and moving it to hook around his hip.

You can’t help but grind yourself against him and he pulls away from your breast to grin at you and then sink his teeth into the heated skin of your neck, hands grabbing whatever they can of you and holding you as close as possible.

He maneuvers you down onto the bed, pulling off your shirt as you lay back and while you unbutton your pants he pauses for a moment, lips slick and hair mussed just watching you.

“Fuck me, I’m so lucky,” he murmurs and he unbuckles his belt, shucking off his cargos, revealing the impressive bulge of him tented against his boxers, a dark spot of precum seeping into the fabric.

The sight of him sends a wave of desire through you and you reach out for him, scratching your nails over his hip and he leans down, claiming your lips with your own once more. You both get caught up in the kiss, both wanting this after days being apart and the impending question mark that hangs over tomorrow.

He moves you so you’re now on top of him, guiding your knees to either side of his hips and letting you rock down against him. The pull of his clothed cock against your heat is a delicious friction that you can’t seem to get enough of.

“That’s it,” he grunts, squeezing your hips and trailing his fingers down to the waistband of your panties. You quickly get with the picture, moving away from Manny to take them off, throwing them to join your pile of clothes.

“Like what you see?” you ask, fully naked in front of him.

“Very much so.”

Manny lifts his hips and you pull off his boxers, hard length springing free, precum smearing over his stomach. You bite your lip and climb back over him, taking his length in your hand.

“Mierda,” he sighs, lifting his hips to fuck your fist. You grin at him, gathering the precum at his tip and coating it over the rest of his cock. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Mhm, that’s the plan.” you whisper and Manny moans, rasping and low, in the back of his throat.

Manny breathes heavily through his nose, his hands can’t seem to stop touching you. Running over your thighs, your hips and your waist, thumbing circles on your skin that have you shivering with arousal.

You swing your leg over his hip, back in the same position you were originally in. Manny’s hand drops from your waist to touch himself, jaw slack and eyes stuck on you. He’s beautiful like this, so openly devoted to you and waiting for your next move.

He lines himself up with you, breathing hard and you duck your head down to kiss him sweetly as you ever so slowly sink down onto his cock. Normally, you’d want to drag this out and he’d get you to least two orgasms before fucking you.

But you’re pent up and oh so fucking wet and you can’t help yourself. It’s not like Manny seems to mind, guiding your hips down onto him, teeth biting into his bottom lip and his long eyelashes fluttering as you fully seat yourself onto his cock.

“Take me so well, baby-girl,” he mutters, because Manny does not know when to stop, running his mouth with praise and sweet nothings.

God, you feel so full when you take him like this. Heat creeping up your spine as you give an experimental rock of your hips.

“Fuck, Manny,” you moan, finding purchase with your hands on his shoulder. He starts to thrust up into you, changing the pace to something desperate.

“Again. Say my name again.”

“Manny.”

He leans up, cupping the back of your neck and kissing you fervently, tongue diving into your mouth, mapping out every inch of you, committing it to memory. It makes you roll your hips slower and he pulls back, dark eyes meeting yours.

“Tan hermosa,” he mumbles to himself. “Tan buena para mi.”

He pulls out, brows pinched in concentration and grabs your hips, throwing you down onto the bed, switching your position. He puts one of your ankles over his shoulder and fucks into you faster, hips snapping brutally against your own, filling the room with the lewd slap of skin on skin.

The new angle does something for you. Every thrust of his cock hitting you perfectly, making your eyes roll back and your whimpers become high and raspy in your throat.

“Oh my– fuck!” you cry out, feeling your orgasm approaching, the familiar pooling in your stomach. “Fuck, keep going.”

“Yeah, you’re close aren’t you?” he moans, lips against your ankle as he thrusts his hips harder, driving into you with a renewed intensity. “Yeah, you’re fucking close.”

You let yourself go, pleasure tingling through your veins as you spasm around his cock. A whine leaves your throat, eyes screwed up as he fucks you through it, unrelenting pace and lips on your leg, murmuring how good you are.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby, so fucking pretty when you come.”

He slows, dropping your ankle from his shoulder and he swiftly pulls out once more. You whimper at the loss, reaching out for him and he links your fingers with one hand while the other strokes himself rapidly, hand flying over his cock.

Manny throws his head back, hand faltering and you feel him climax, splattering onto your thighs and you let out a breath, watching him reverently.

“You’re so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, guiding you to lay next to him, eyes heavy and a dopey smile plastered on his face. He rests his head on your shoulder, lips soft against your skin.

You huff, leaning over him to grab an old shirt of his and as you move to wipe it over him, he takes it from you, hands on yours.

“Let me,” he says and wipes at your inner thighs, over your stomach and then himself. He tosses it into the corner of the room and presses a faint kiss to your forehead. “Did I tell you that I missed you?”

“You might’ve mentioned it,” you whisper, smiling at him and settling down, hand playing with his curls, his hand on your thigh and bringing the threadbare blanket up to cover you both.

You found when you first spent the night with him that Manny’s a cuddler in his sleep. It was cute, finding yourself wrapped around each other, both of you getting as close as you can even unconsciously. This morning was no different – limbs tangled together, an arm slung around your waist, legs entwined with your own and his head in the crook of your neck, soft breaths against your shoulder.

You move your hand over his back, fingertips dancing up over divots in his muscles and you lace your fingers in his hair, letting the curls free in the pale morning light. Sunlight streams in through the gap in the blinds, soft yellow rays catching on the dust and coating the bed in warm haze. You smile against his hair, closing your eyes at how content you feel.

Manny stirs, the watch on his wrist beeping incessantly. The sound too loud and too jarring in the fresh morning peace. He fumbles, hands moving away from you as he struggles to turn it off then he slumps back down onto you, warm hands wrapping back around your waist, pressing against you.

His lips are soft as they place absent kisses along your shoulder, over the dip in your collarbones and to the sensitive juncture of your neck.

“Morning, querida,” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy with sleep. A sound that you’re more than used too but doesn’t stop the swoop in your stomach.

“Hi,” you grin at him, tilting your head to meet his lips in a soft, lazy kiss. His eyes flutter and he grins into your mouth.

“God, I wish I didn’t have to go out on this recon run. Not now when I know what you sound like.”

You chuckle quietly, his thumb resting on your cheek as he looks at you reverently, like you held the sun for him.

“I can be here when you get back. I’m supposed to be heading back to the stadium later tonight.”

Manny groans and leans in, lips pressing to yours as his eyes close and sighs, breath fanning against your cheek.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Always.”

#my fics #discodinosaur #fic: talk so sweet #manny x reader #manny alvarez x reader #manny alvarez x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us manny #the last of us fanfiction

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synity · 13 hours ago

Note

Thoughts on 14th member reader being the "daughter" of the families of each member?

Like, whenever a member comes home to their family, their family always asks about reader?

Each members family is fond of 14th member reader (in short)

(if you're fine w it, maybe make the reader have a horrible past of her own family, and the members know about it–and they also tell their families, and thats where the fam-fond-of-reader branched out)

Thanks! Please always take care of yourself💓

Love Speaks for Itself

(OT13 x 14th member!Reader)

*platonic, found family, comfort, angst-to-healing, slice of life, fluff, found family, warmth*

Content warning: mentions of past emotional abuse, family trauma, neglect (no graphic depictions, mostly comfort)*

Before SEVENTEEN, there was silence.

Silence when you cried yourself to sleep. Silence when you whispered apologies for things you didn’t do. Silence when your parents forgot your birthday, again. Silence when the bruises weren’t physical, but they still bloomed inside your chest.

You didn’t know what love looked like. Not the kind that stays. Not the kind that listens. Not the kind that doesn't hurt.

And then, you became a trainee.

And then after years of dancing until your body begged to stop, singing through hoarseness, and pretending you weren’t lonely something happened.

They debuted you.

As SEVENTEEN’s 14th member.

A risk. An experiment. A maybe. But for the first time in your life you were chosen.

And SEVENTEEN? They didn’t just welcome you.

They adopted you.

From the beginning, you were their sister. The youngest. The softest. The one who made even Jeonghan act like a responsible older brother, who made Seungcheol keep a mini first aid kit in his bag “just in case Y/N trips again,” who made Mingyu remember to pack snacks because “Y/N always forgets to eat.”

You thought it would fade.

That maybe it was just debut excitement. A honeymoon phase.

But three years later, you still had Jeonghan texting you to go to bed. Still had DK braiding your hair before music shows. Still had Joshua bringing you lavender tea backstage when he noticed you biting your nails. Still had Woozi pretending he “accidentally” left songs in the studio for you to listen to first.

And more than all of that…

You had their families.

The First Time You Knew

You remember the first time it happened.

You were in the car with Seungkwan after a long filming day. He was driving you both to his hometown in Jeju for a small holiday.

“I promise, it’s just a dinner,” he said. “My mom wanted to see you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

He glanced at you. “Yeah? She said and I quote ‘Bring Y/N or don’t come at all.’”

You laughed it off, thinking it was a joke. But the moment you stepped through the door and smelled home-cooked food, you froze.

His mother’s arms were already around you.

“Y/N-ah,” she whispered. “You’re thinner. Are you eating enough, sweetheart?”

You froze. Your throat closed. It had been years since anyone asked that like they meant it.

When she set a bowl of stew in front of you and said, “I made this for you, not him,” you almost cried.

Later that night, Seungkwan tucked a blanket around your shoulders while you sat on his family’s couch.

“Kwannie,” you whispered, “Did you… tell her? About my family?”

He nodded, softly. “Only what you let us know.”

You stared at him.

“She said… you’re her daughter too, now.”

He didn’t answer. But his hand found yours and squeezed.

And in that moment, something you thought was broken inside you flickered.

And Then It Became Normal

It wasn’t just Seungkwan’s family.

Jeonghan’s mom started mailing you vitamin packets.

DK’s family invited you to every meal. “Even if Dokyeom can’t come, Y/N should,” they’d say.

Mingyu’s sister called you by your nickname and asked for dance advice.

Jun’s mom in China mailed you mooncakes, wrapped carefully with a handwritten card: “You’re as much my child as Junhui.”

Hoshi’s dad took one look at you during Chuseok and said, “So this is the kid they’ve been talking about.”

You blinked. “Talking?”

He smiled. “Of course. You’re the family’s pride, Y/N. Every single one of them talks about you like you hung the moon.”

And Then It Became Healing

Your birthday came.

You expected a cake. Maybe a surprise dance video. You’d been trained not to hope for more.

But instead

Thirteen boys walked you into a room filled with photos.

Photos of you.

From debut. From your trainee days. From random moments you didn’t even know they took.

Joshua stepped forward with a soft smile. “We didn’t want to celebrate you just because it’s your birthday.”

Woozi added, “We wanted you to see what we see. Every day.”

The wall said:

“To Our Youngest: The One We’re Proud To Call Family.”

You cried.

Ugly, messy tears.

And each of them held you like your pain was theirs, like your story mattered, like they would never let anyone forget your worth again.

Their Families, Too

It was funny how natural it became.

Dino’s mom texted you about your favorite café before you even told her. Seungcheol’s dad saved you a seat at every barbeque. Joshua’s mom sent you devotionals and herbal candies in the same care package. The8’s grandmother told you over the phone that she considered you a granddaughter now.

And sometimes, when you had nightmares of your past, you’d wake up to a text:

[Mom] Y/N-ah, I had a dream you looked sad. Are you okay? It would always be one of their moms.

One Day, You Asked

You sat beside Woozi in the practice room, both of you working on a song.

It was quiet, golden hour painting the floor in honeyed light.

And then you asked:

“Why do they all… care so much? Your families. You guys. I’m not even blood.”

Woozi looked at you, then turned back to his guitar.

“You know,” he said, “my mom once told me something.”

“What?”

He strummed a soft chord.

“She said family isn’t made of blood. It’s made of kindness that shows up even when it doesn’t have to.”

You stared at him.

He met your eyes.

“You showed up for us. For years. You gave us laughter, support, songs, warmth. You made this group better not because we asked you to, but because you chose to.”

His voice went quieter.

“And we all saw what you lost. What you never got. So we decided, as quietly as we could… to give it to you.”

You looked away, eyes burning.

“And our families,” he added, “They just followed our lead. They see the light you bring to us. How could they not love you too?”

Now

It’s been nearly five years since your debut.

You’re no longer “just the 14th member.” You’re Y/N. The moodmaker. The heart of the team. The glue.

Carats adore you.

You write lyrics now. Direct stages. Mentor rookies. You're adored in interviews. You’ve grown.

And still

When Seungcheol visits home, his mom says, “Did Y/N eat? She looked pale in the last live.”

When Joshua goes to church, the aunties say, “Tell that sweet girl to come next time.”

When Vernon visits LA, his sisters ask, “How’s our favorite?”

And when you win an award, you get thirteen texts that night from different moms and siblings and cousins and grandparents — all saying the same thing:

“We’re proud of you.”

“You’re family.”

Because you are.

They made sure of it. And they always will.

Even if you never got it from the people who brought you into this world you found it, here.

In thirteen brothers. In a sea of parents who chose you. In love that doesn’t walk away.

And every time someone asks, “Whose daughter is Y/N, anyway?”

The answer is simple.

“Ours.”

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earthsparked · 2 days ago

Text

So you want to join the coterie, huh? And you want to know what you're getting yourself into.

You know I can’t take sides in command arguments, captain, you gently remind Rodimus for the fifth time this week. I have to honor my obligation to the entire crew.

Rodimus shoots you his best look that says “I’m very sad and betrayed despite having been the one to sign your contract in which this is stated,” and goes back to arguing with Megatron and Ultra Magnus.

Privately you think Megatron is in the right on this issue. Tragic realization: the mech who tried to murder your entire species on several occasions, actually has good leadership skills and knows what he’s doing. But when Rodimus manages to wheedle Magnus into seeing things his way, you can only sigh and double check that your little bag of tricks stored in your utility scraplet, Scrappy, is fully stocked.

It’s going to be one of those days.

It’s not all roaming the galaxy having fun. Sure, there’s plenty of that. You're going to see wonders that human eyes have never seen before. But it’s a lot more, too.

You wriggle backwards out of Brainstorm and Perceptor's mystery machine. You're covered in thick, black grease that’s making your skin itch; they didn't think to check for skin-safety before asking you to crawl into it and fix some finicky little part. You scramble to your feet, a stained shop towel in one hand and a half-used can of solvent in the other. The fumes in the enclosed space are making you a little high.

You kick the access hatch shut and stand back. Go on, Percy, try it now.

Perceptor frowns as the machine whirrs to life, but the screen still throws off an error message. You sigh and shake your head. Your sensitive ears that always made you hate the hum of ceiling lights and refrigerators, are telling you something still isn’t right.

Kill it, I can hear the pitch is still off. Fine, I’ll just take the whole damn gear assembly apart!

Don't touch any of the exposed wires! You'll undo all my work! Brainstorm demands. And adds, belatedly, Also it'll kill you. Why don't you humans have any decent insulation? Terrible design. I could do better if I created a species in my recharge.

You don't think you want to hear where this is going. Grabbing your tools, you crawl back in the mystery machine.

Don't worry about learning mechanical stuff, earth's systems are completely different to their engineering anyway. Besides, it doesn’t matter if you’ve never held a blowtorch in your life, you’ll pick the skills up along the way. A flexible mind and willingness to learn are the only real criteria for any potential coterie member.

You spring out in front of the big blue mech, making him very nearly step on you with one of his birdlike feet. You know he won’t - for all his jokes, there’s not a mech on this ship that would knowingly hurt you. (Knowingly being the operative word.)

I know what I smelled, Whirl. There’s no disguising it. You have a coolant leak. You got some of that guy’s windshield stuck under your plating when you threw him across the bar, didn’t you? And it’s punctured a line.

His single optic narrows in an expressive glare. So what, Crunchy? Why do you care? Move or I’m gonna have more than glass stuck in my mesh.

He slowly and pointedly brings his foot down toward you, humming the Jeopardy! theme music. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow higher and higher the closer his foot gets, not moving. When it’s just within reach, you make a wild leap, grab for a safe handhold, and hang on for dear life. Whirl shrills an arpeggio of startled mech curses and tries to shake you off, but you cling like a burr.

If you don’t treat it, it’s going to get worse! It’s either me or Ratchet, Whirlybird, and I don’t throw things! I don't care that you got in a fight, I don't - whoa, watch the wall! - I just want you to not be in pain!

He decides after a few attempts that this is a fun game. You’re dizzy as hell by the time he announces Eight seconds! Fine, cowboy, if you want to be inside me THAT badly.

You roll your eyes and somehow manage not to lose your lunch as he sets his foot down and lets you climb off. Scrappy opens his mouth, letting you pull out your gloves and pliers from one of his compartments. You dig out the shards of glass and patch up his coolant line, feeling relieved as you wrap the punctures and clean away the dried coolant. Having one of your mechs hurt always bothers you.

Yeah, you’re gonna make the best friends you’ve ever had. The kind you’d do anything for. And I do mean, anything. They really overplay the whole "humans will pack bond with anything" stuff a little too much, because they don't quite get how our relationships work. But eventually you will find yourself pulling on wells of strength you didn't even know you had, doing things you never thought yourself capable of. Not for yourself, but for them.

You spit a mouthful of blood onto alien ground and try not to let the glowering mech see you shake. Adrenaline or fear, does it matter which? What matters is Tailgate’s down, hurt and in stasis. You got banged up, too, and stayed behind to guard him while the rest of the landing team pushed through the fighting. They wouldn't have left you or him if they'd thought any of the enemy mechs were still in this quadrant. But this one stomped out of the swirling fog, a hulking shape bristling with combat readiness.

He’s big, but so fucking what? You’ve been passed in the halls by mechs much scarier than this guy.

You flip the safety off your weapon - almost too big for you, but barely a pea shooter to a full-sized mech. At your side, Scrappy hisses and snarls, clacking his sharp metal teeth in threat. Just because he's been altered not to eat metal at random, doesn't mean he can't when given permission.

You're supposed to be a non-combatant, untouchable and marked as such by the coterie patch on your shoulder. At worst, you can be held hostage until your ship pays a ransom. But playing by those rules means standing aside and letting this guy do whatever the hell he wants to one of your mechs.

You glance at Tailgate and your heart hurts. When did this ten-foot-tall alien robot start to look so small and vulnerable to you?

Your eyes blur with furious, worried tears, before fixing on the approaching enemy. You step forward, as if your tiny body can shield the wounded mech lying behind you.

Whatever you came here for, you spit as more blood drips down your chin, you’re leaving without it. Go conjunx a belt sander, you torqueless wonder.

But it gets real when you get to the point where you understand, they’d do anything for you, too.

You’ve been cold forever. Can’t remember ever being warm. The endless white snows of the polar icecap of this godforsaken planet you’d come to investigate, was going to be the last thing you saw. One wrong step and the snowbank had collapsed, dumping you into a subterranean cavern. You’re trapped, alone, hypothermic. Your emergency transponder broken. You'd left your pet scraplet behind out of fear his thin armor wouldn't protect him against the cold. You're never going to see the little guy again.

Without him or the transponder, your mechs are never going to find you here. You’re never going to see earth again. They'll just add your name to the coterie's wall of remembrance, and some other human will be on your ship, caring for your mechs. You hope they'll understand how special they all are. That they'll learn Rung needs a listening ear sometimes, and Roddy's boasting often hides his insecurities, and Ratchet's got a soft spark under all that grumbling...

You think you’re hallucinating when you hear the voice. Wait. Is that a heat signature - it is! Hey, captains! We found them! Over here!

A few minutes or hours or ages later and Brainstorm, upside-down, lowers through the hole in the crust above. You blink muzzily. ‘m on the ceiling…?

Powerful hands pick you up, and you’re ascending. You don’t remember much after that, except the feel of being surrounded by titans that cared enough to come back. You came back for me.

Rodimus, warmest of them all, carries you to the ship himself. Tucked inside his armor, out of the wind and ice. Nestled right by his spark chamber. You dream of being pure energy, or of being wrapped in pure energy, or that you're one of two waves of energy dancing together with the joy of being alive. In a place where size doesn't matter, and metal and flesh don't matter, because deep down you're more alike than dissimilar.

You're as much theirs, as they are yours.

I wish I could tell you what to expect, but no one has the exact same experience. Not even within the same cohort. It’s going to be unlike anything you imagine it could be. Every day's going to bring new discoveries, new dreams. Sometimes, new nightmares. It's a big universe, and humans haven't even scratched the surface of what's out there. For better, or for worse.

The crate rattles again. Your breathing is loud inside your exo-suit. This bay is kept pressurized, but barely climate-controlled, and close to the ship's heat sinks so it's scorching hot in here.

Scrappy's cameras are transmitting every move you make to the mechs crowded around the monitors on the bridge. You've turned off audio, because between the scientists' incessant arguing and Swerve's fretting over you going into Cargo Hold 3 alone, you weren't able to pay proper attention to your surroundings.

Rattle-rattle. Shake. That container weighs several tons. It's bouncing around like it's a bouncy castle full of elementary schoolers.

No oxygen. Movement. It could be a scraplet infestation. Easily dealt with, for you. Which is why you're here and the mechs are on the bridge, or in lockdown in their quarters.

It could be scraplets. Intuition tells you it's not.

You touch the side of your helmet to activate your mic. Where did you say we picked this up from, again?

The arguing in the background dims as Ultra Magnus answers, disapprovingly, The records for the cargo manifest have been...misfiled. Ergo, we don't know.

You can see him in your mind's eye, glaring at Rodimus. Misfiled? More like Roddy lost them in the skyscraper stack of datapads in his office. If he didn't just set it down somewhere and forget where he put it. Can mechs have ADHD? Would some strategies that work for humans, be helpful for him? A thought to pursue at another time, when you're not maybe about to be eaten by a monster.

You click the mic back off before you can get drawn into the new argument that's starting over the co-captain's lack of organizational skills. And step closer to the shaking crate. No markings that you can read. No packing list on the outside. Does it look a little banged up? Rusted? Or is it the shaky light from Scrappy's headlamp as he hides behind your legs, making it look like that?

Every horror movie you've ever watched at Swerve's on movie night, comes back to haunt you. The aliens out in the dark have their own legends and myths. Some of them, you've learned the hard way, aren't only legends or myths.

Sweat drips into your eyes. Fuck it.

Are you going to play nice, or am I going to kick your ass off my ship?

You slam the augmented crowbar home and pry the lid off –

That's all I can say, really. The rest is up to you. Good luck. Maybe I'll see you out here in the stars. Lost Light ship's human, signing off.

#transformers x human #transformers x reader #human distribution system #humans are space (ship) cats #Scrappy the scraplet #humans are space cats #GET PACK BONDED IDIOT

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